The prophecy buzz died down almost as quickly as it had ignited. Hogwarts, after all, was a place where students were more concerned with their looming Transfiguration essays than with the questionable fortune-telling of a fourth-year roommate. Albert was perfectly happy to let the "seer" reputation fade into the background. It was a nuisance, honestly—like having a spotlight follow you around when you were trying to do something as mundane as reading a book in the common room.
His real focus, however, had shifted to something that was actually worth the hype.
It started with a paper he'd dropped at the last Transformation Club meeting: Advanced Applications of Transformation Talismans. It wasn't just a dry academic exercise. He'd laid out the architecture for a "video and text" communication platform that functioned on the same logic as a Muggle phone, but bridged by Transfiguration charms. When Professor McGonagall had reviewed it, she hadn't just nodded; she'd practically sprinted to get it into the hands of Transfiguration Today.
The reaction had been, in a word, chaotic.
Wizards, for all their brilliance, were notoriously stuck in their ways. The idea of a student—a fourth-year, mind you—proposing an architectural framework for magical communication had sent shockwaves through the more stuffy corners of the academic community. He was the "New Writer of the Year," the boy who was ostensibly surpassing NEWT-level theory before he'd even hit his fifth year. But as the accolades rolled in, Albert remained largely detached. It wasn't about the fame; it was about the prototype. He wanted a communication notebook. Something you could open to an index, tap an entry, and have a real-time, visual conversation. It beat sending owls across the Highlands, and it definitely beat waiting days for a reply.
The rainy season in Scotland had officially set in, turning the grounds into a mud-caked, freezing obstacle course. Botany class was a slog, and Care of Magical Creatures was worse. Kettleburn, ever the enthusiast, had tried to keep the lesson going through a literal deluge, eventually ushering everyone into the dense, shivering woods to talk about Bowtruckles while they huddled under the trees. It was miserable, but for Albert, the damp gloom was the perfect backdrop for his latest project.
His mission log pinged with a new objective: Equivalent Exchange.
It was a beautiful little feedback loop with Adolf Fournier, the French alchemist who had become his unintentional mentor. Fournier wanted the secret to two-way mirrors—a technique Albert had meticulously decoded from the golden book—and Albert wanted Fournier's deep, secret-filled vaults of alchemical knowledge.
It was a high-stakes trade. A few days ago, Albert had sent over the final, missing pieces of the two-way mirror schematics. In return, the French mail system had been practically groaning under the weight of Fournier's reply. Albert spent his evenings pouring over the formulas for Sneakoscopes and advanced light-refraction charms.
"Intellectual property is a myth in this world," Albert mused one evening as he watched Tom the cat batting at a piece of parchment. "If you don't share, the knowledge dies with you. But if you share the right pieces, you can basically force the world to build the prototype for you."
He'd reached the pinnacle of his current ambition: the "Magic Lamp."
It wasn't a standard, boring oil lantern. Based on the theory he'd refined from Fournier's notes, it was a specialized container that acted as a focal point. A wizard would cast Lumos, the container would catch the energy, and it would hold it—amplifying it into a steady, clean light for as long as the internal alchemical seal could maintain the charge.
Albert held the first prototype in his hand. He flicked his wand. "Lumos."
The device hummed, a soft, golden warmth flooding the room, casting clear, crisp shadows against the stone walls. It was brilliant. It was efficient. And it lasted exactly ten seconds before the internal seal collapsed, causing the lamp to sputter and go dead.
Tom, who had been watching from the desk with a look of extreme skepticism, was so startled by the sudden flare of light that he swiped at it, knocking the lamp off the table. It clattered to the floor, where it sat, utterly useless.
"Don't look at me like that," Albert said, picking up the discarded device and tossing it into the bin. "Ten seconds is a success. Dumbledore probably has a version that lasts a lifetime, but I'm not exactly at the 'Sorcerer Supreme' level of alchemy yet."
Still, the skill panel was humming with activity. The "Magic Lamp" skill had been successfully etched into his repertoire, and the quest reward experience points had poured into his pool like a fountain. He felt the familiar, addictive surge of progress—the sensation of his own magical ceiling raising just a fraction higher.
A few days later, a package arrived from France. It was a mirror, encased in an ornate, silver-filigree frame. It was a two-way mirror, hand-crafted by Fournier himself. It was a flex, a showy display of skill, but Albert just turned it over in his hands, feeling the cold, smooth surface. It was more than just a mirror; it was a physical manifestation of a successful trade.
"You know," he told the cat, who was currently busy grooming a paw, "the best part of the Wizarding World isn't the magic itself. It's the fact that everyone is so obsessed with tradition that they completely forget to look at the math behind the curtain."
He sat down at his desk, pulled out a fresh piece of parchment, and started planning his next project. He was already thinking about how to integrate the two-way mirror tech into his communication notebook idea. If he could bridge the mirror's visual feed with the notebook's index system, he'd have the closest thing to a cell phone the Wizarding World had ever seen.
The rain hammered against the glass, but inside the dorm, Albert was in his element. He felt the weight of his progress—the new alchemy skills, the completed quest, the growing stash of experience points. He wasn't just surviving at Hogwarts; he was rewriting the rules of the game from the inside out.
"You're right, Tom," he said, tapping his quill against his chin. "We don't need a prophecy to know where this is going. We just need to build the right tools."
He looked at the empty spot on his desk where the mirror now sat, reflecting the room back at him. He caught his own gaze—calm, calculating, and entirely driven. He wasn't interested in being a hero, or a victim of fate, or a pawn in some grand prophecy. He was interested in the craft. And for now, that was more than enough.