Professor Brod, the reigning International Wizard Chess Champion, was known around the school as a witty and deceptively sharp old man, traits that only deepened Albert's anticipation for their meeting.
Albert found himself outside the door of the Defence Against the Dark Arts office, his hand poised to knock, when the heavy oak door creaked inward automatically, a subtle invitation that betrayed the presence of magic.
Albert paused, his hand hanging in the air. He knew this was Professor Brod's polite welcome. He gave a gentle push and stepped into the office, which was warm and unexpectedly tidy for a professor who taught Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Professor Brod had prepared the setting with care: a small table was arranged with thick slices of lemon cake, a selection of steaming drinks, and, center stage, a magnificent, heavy set of Wizard Chess pieces that were already stirring impatiently.
The Professor, however, was seated at his large mahogany desk, his concentration fixed on several sheets of ancient-looking parchment covered in flowing, angular script.
"One moment, Mr. Anderson," Professor Brod murmured without looking up, his voice soft. "Just concluding some minor academic notes."
Albert took the opportunity to settle onto the plush, comfortable sofa. He quietly poured himself a cup of surprisingly rich, hot milk tea and helped himself to a generous slice of cake, deciding that being a silent, well-mannered guest was far better than interrupting a professor's work.
After perhaps ten minutes, Professor Brod finally set down his quill, stacked the parchment neatly, and rose. He moved gracefully to the table, taking the seat opposite Albert.
"Forgive the delay," he said, his eyes twinkling. "Professor McGonagall has been filling me in on your recent academic achievements. She's rather spectacularly proud of you."
"Regarding Transfiguration Today?" Albert inquired, slightly perplexed.
"Yes, indeed," Professor Brod confirmed with a nod. "To publish a paper of that caliber at your age is utterly remarkable. It sets a new benchmark for first-years, I believe."
Albert merely took another bite of cake, a flicker of awkward silence passing over his features. He genuinely wasn't sure how to respond. The fame was fleeting and abstract; the Galleons that would have come from the prize for "Best Newcomer" were significantly more valuable to him than the empty title.
Professor Brod, astute as any chess master, picked up on the boy's subtle lack of enthusiasm. "You seem… remarkably indifferent to this fame?"
"Uh, well," Albert began, a slight, honest shrug escaping him. "The school environment doesn't exactly offer a bonus for publication, Professor. It's more of a mutually beneficial arrangement for the journal and the club."
He left unsaid that while the publication opened doors for correspondence with people like Mr. Fusco, the material reward was zero—a fact that, to Albert, weighted the academic victory rather lightly.
Professor Brod chuckled softly, a sound like dry parchment rustling. "A very pragmatic view, Mr. Anderson. I like that. Now, shall we move on to the battle of wits?"
"White moves first," Professor Brod declared, gesturing for Albert to make the opening move.
Albert immediately shifted his focus, his inner calculator whirring. He knew his situation perfectly: his Wizard Chess Skill was merely Level 1, a basic competence that allowed him to win against most of his housemates but was laughably insufficient against a recognized Grandmaster. He began cautiously, employing a solid, if slightly defensive, opening.
It was useless.
Professor Brod wasn't just good; he moved with the brutal efficiency of a well-oiled machine. His pieces—a collection of stoic, miniature stone warriors—didn't just advance; they executed a pre-planned, devastating surgical strike. Despite the Professor clearly holding back his most advanced tactics, Albert could not withstand the focused, crushing offensive.
Less than seven minutes into the match, Albert's Queen was cornered, and the Professor's formidable Knight—a piece of granite cavalry that looked far too eager—executed the final checkmate.
"Checkmate," the Knight announced with a dull, final thud against the board.
"A swift lesson," Albert conceded, the loss barely registering as a disappointment but rather as a wealth of new tactical data.
In the second game, Albert slowed his pace considerably, abandoning any aggressive posturing and focusing purely on defense and damage control, avoiding the obvious tactical blunders of the first round. The game stretched to a grueling twenty minutes before Professor Brod, with a graceful, inevitable move of his Queen, cornered the King and ended the match.
"And we fall again," Albert sighed, leaning back. "Professor, if this is you holding back, the true level of the International Wizard Chess Tournament must be staggering. Are you all employing complex time-and-space manipulations to predict future moves?"
Professor Brod took a slow, deliberate sip of his milk tea, a wry smile playing on his lips. "You are completely wrong, Mr. Anderson. Quite the opposite, in fact."
Albert looked genuinely taken aback. "You mean… the level of competition is not staggeringly high?"
"Not in the way you mean," Professor Brod explained, his voice gentle. "The wizards who participate in the International Wizard Chess Tournament are all, by Muggle standards, amateurs. They are simply the best of the disinterested. Very few witches and wizards dedicate the sheer, focused effort required to truly master this game. They might have a basic skill set, but they lack the passion and the mental discipline for true Grandmastery."
Albert blinked slowly. "You mean to tell me that the entire International circuit is essentially comprised of talented hobbyists?"
"Precisely," Professor Brod affirmed. "There is no professional class, no massive prize money to incentivize lifelong dedication, no real prestige beyond the title itself. You see, the majority of the magical world finds other pursuits—Charms, Potions, Quidditch—far more appealing than sitting silently for hours calculating probabilities. In fact, if you maintained your current focus, I have little doubt that you would reach the level of many international players within two years."
He continued, his gaze direct. "In the wizarding world, fame—even a title like International Champion—rarely translates to fortune or power. It's a curiosity, not a career."
Albert hummed in acknowledgement. This confirmed his earlier cynicism. Fame was a poor substitute for the cold, hard currency of Galleons.
"Being famous can still be quite useful sometimes, though," Professor Brod added, his smile becoming deeply meaningful, hinting at the subtle leverage and access that minor celebrity provided in the tightly woven magical society.
"That sounds… slightly cryptic," Albert remarked, deciding to pivot before the Professor could delve into the advantages of minor renown. "Professor, you were busy with those old parchments when I came in. If it's not too inconvenient, what exactly were you studying?"
"Ah, those," Professor Brod said, nodding toward the stack. "I was reviewing some texts on Ancient Runes. A colleague, Basildia, kindly helped me organize some old research notes. It's proving challenging, though; I haven't seriously delved into this particular field in decades."
"Ancient Runes?" Albert raised an eyebrow, his interest immediately spiking. "I understand that's an elective course for third-year students."
"Indeed, it is a fascinating, if somewhat dusty, academic pursuit," Professor Brod confirmed.
Albert then leaned forward slightly, his tone lowering, revealing the focus of his recent, secret research—the Ironclad Amulet.
"Professor," Albert said softly. "Is it true, as some texts suggest, that in the era of the Four Founders, they utilized these magical runes—this ancient script—to cast and, more importantly, maintain their spells?"
Professor Brod looked Albert up and down, a thoughtful expression on his face, as if seeing him in a new light. "Yes, that is a dominant theory in magical history. Some historians and rune-masters speculate that the unique, enduring power of the ancient wizards was intrinsically tied to their mastery of Ancient Runes."
"It is undeniably powerful," Albert conceded, his eyes distant. "The fact that Hogwarts' ancient magic has been able to persist and function for thousands of years, self-sustaining and inviolable, is nothing short of a miracle of magical engineering. Although it may be impolite to say this, I seriously doubt whether even Headmaster Dumbledore could replicate that feat of magical permanence."
"Ah, Dumbledore," Professor Brod chuckled, setting down his teacup. "He is universally recognized as the most powerful wizard of this century, a master of Transfiguration, Charms, and a wizard skilled enough to lead the Wizengamot. He is a phenomenal man, feared even by the—well, by the one who shall not be named."
He paused, then added: "But you touch on a crucial point, Mr. Anderson. While Dumbledore is an expert in many fields, including Runes—yes, he is also a highly accomplished rune-master—the precise method used by the Founders to achieve absolute, multi-millennial permanence remains a lost, or at least undiscovered, art. It is plausible that even he could not replicate the original sustaining enchantments of the castle."
Albert felt a jolt of vindication. His hunch about the limits of modern magic, even Dumbledore's, was correct. The key, he was sure, lay in the runes.
"Professor," Albert confessed, his voice earnest. "I have also tried to teach myself a little of the runic alphabet. I started during the Christmas holidays this year, and I can now recognize and translate the basics. But… I cannot sense the mysterious, intrinsic power of this ancient script that you and the legends describe."
Professor Brod leaned back, his expression turning empathetic. "You've taught yourself the basics of Runes, a third-year course, in a single holiday?" He shook his head, a genuine smile replacing his professional demeanor. "You certainly are full of surprises, Mr. Anderson."
"Surprises that lead to dead ends," Albert countered, frowning. "They feel like merely an antiquated alphabet, nothing more magical than Latin."
"And that," Professor Brod said softly, "is the common conclusion of most modern wizards." He sighed, gathering the scattered Wizard Chess pieces.
"It's often said that using the ancient script to chant spells could dramatically enhance a wizard's magical power, but that remains a legend because, for the vast majority of us, the time and effort required to master the subtle nuances of runic casting is simply not worth the marginal gain."
"Nobody is digging deeper," Albert concluded, disappointment evident in his voice.
"Digging deeper requires years of frustrating, solitary research into texts that may hold no practical answer," Professor Brod said, shaking his head.
"For most wizards, basic recognition and translation are enough to pass the subject. Why would they waste precious time digging into the secrets of a system that has been functionally replaced by the simpler, faster, and equally effective wand-based magic we use today? The magic world is about efficiency."
He paused, stacking the pieces and closing the lid of the chess box. "Hogwarts offers Ancient Runes simply to ensure that the ancient script doesn't become completely extinct, a forgotten curiosity."
Albert remained silent, the truth of the Professor's words settling over him. He was a seeker of efficiency, yet here was an entire field of profound power that had been abandoned because it failed the efficiency test. He understood the problem, but he also knew the reward—true magical permanence—was worth the inefficiency.