The remnants of breakfast were still being cleared in the Great Hall, but the mood around the Gryffindor table had already shifted from morning chatter to the anxieties of overdue assignments.
"I still can't believe you two are voluntarily heading to the library," Percy Weasley commented, his voice steeped in academic skepticism as he watched his younger brothers gather their bags. He raised a skeptical eyebrow. "What intellectual disaster has forced this sudden, unnatural diligence?"
"We've always been very studious, Percy," Fred protested, though his eyes darted nervously toward the exit. He held a hefty Transfiguration textbook, which he handled with the reverence of a prisoner handling his shackles.
"We're simply going to look up some crucial reference materials for our research," George supplied smoothly, his tone sounding almost academically proper. He instinctively looked at Albert, who was sipping the last of his milk tea, seeking his approval for the lie.
"Reference materials," Lee Jordan snorted, rolling his eyes. "You two are going to spend three hours trying to find a counter-spell to reverse the curse that ruined Uric's Biography. You bastards have the nerve to say I have a bad memory, and yet you forget a simple Reparo when it comes to saving your necks from Pince."
"We stand corrected, Lee," the twins mumbled in grudging unison, having been successfully called out by their friend.
"Hmph. It's good that you acknowledge your deficiencies," Lee Jordan declared, puffing out his chest before dissolving back into his playful skirmishes with the twins.
Angelina Johnson stood up, tossing her long braid over her shoulder. She turned to the twins. "Don't forget Quidditch practice this afternoon, you two. We've got to run drills." She then looked pointedly at Albert. "And you, Mr. Anderson? Are you going to skip out again?"
"I'm afraid I have an unavoidable engagement," Albert said, shaking his head. He was finding it increasingly difficult to balance the commitments expected of a star student—academic clubs, Quidditch, social life—with the hidden, intense workload required by his new secret apprenticeship.
"What exactly are you doing at Professor Brod's office that's more important than defending the House Cup?" Alicia Spinnet asked curiously. She had noticed Albert's frequent, mysterious disappearances over the last few weeks.
"Hmm, it's a secret," Albert replied, offering a quick, tired wink. "One that currently involves a truly immense amount of parchment."
"Are you particularly close to Professor Brod?" Percy asked, genuine respect entering his voice. "As far as I know, he is considered quite a brilliant mind in practical Defensive Magic, though he keeps a low profile."
"I'm not sure 'close' is the right word. 'Coerced into a collaborative effort' might be more accurate," Albert muttered under his breath, then checked his pocket watch. "Alright, I have to leave now. The parchment awaits."
Albert departed quickly, leaving a trail of curious and slightly frustrated teammates.
"That guy is always so mysterious," Angelina muttered, watching him go. "He's skipped mandatory Quidditch practice three times already, and Charlie isn't thrilled. You know, ever since Albert miraculously snatched the Golden Snitch in that mudslide game, he's been Charlie's designated successor for Seeker."
"Imperial designation?" Shanna asked, finding the terminology pompous.
"Charlie graduates this year. He wants Albert to take over the crucial Seeker role after our current Captain, Wood," Angelina explained, shaking her head. "But Albert simply doesn't seem enthusiastic about Quidditch at all. He treats it like a brief diversion." To her, a talented athlete, this nonchalance was baffling.
"He has too much on his mind," Shanna reminded her. "Don't forget the Transformation Club and whatever theoretical club he's secretly running."
Just then, a tall, impeccably dressed older male student approached the table. His voice, though calm, cut clearly through the residual noise. "Where is Anderson? Has anyone seen him?"
"Baker," Percy greeted him instantly, his voice snapping to attention, betraying deep respect. "What do you require of Anderson?"
"I heard he was eating here," Baker, the Head Boy of Gryffindor, said with a sigh of professional weariness. "He hasn't been to the Advanced Transfiguration Theory Club in ages. I wanted to ask him what the status is on the Paper on Animagus Morphology he promised. His section is holding up the entire club's submission to Transfiguration Today."
"Albert just left; Professor Brod sent for him," Shanna explained.
"Professor Brod?" Baker frowned, a shadow of genuine disappointment crossing his face. "You must tell him—no, remind him—that the paper for the Transfiguration Club's main project is due tonight. It is an unacceptable oversight for a contributing member to neglect their deadline." He offered a curt nod and left, exuding an aura of focused academic purpose.
"That's the kind of man I aspire to be," Percy whispered reverently. "Baker is the Gryffindor Head Boy, and he's published multiple articles in Transfiguration Today. He just won their 'Most Promising Newcomer Award.' He's brighter than even my brother Bill."
"I feel like I'm looking at Albert a few years from now," Alicia suddenly observed, watching Baker's retreating form.
"I feel the same way," Shanna agreed, her expression thoughtful. The trajectory of their friend was undeniable—a path toward becoming a celebrated, burdened, and highly competitive academic leader.
Albert, the object of all this conjecture and aspiration, was now standing outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts office on the second floor. He took a moment to mentally steel himself for the density of the work ahead.
As he reached the door, he was surprised to find an acquaintance already there: Izabel McDougal, Mog's fiercely intelligent niece, from Ravenclaw. She looked tense, tapping her foot impatiently.
"Albert? You're here for Brod, too?" Izabel asked, her competitive hackles instantly raised.
"Indeed. Though I suspect your reason and mine are entirely different," Albert replied. "Speaking of reasons, Izabel, I just ran into Baker. I was reminded that I owe the Transfiguration Club a very late paper. You wouldn't happen to know the exact deadline, would you?"
"You were absent the week before last," Izabel reminded him curtly, her gaze sharp.
"Oh, right. When is it due?"
"The Transformation Club meeting is tonight," she confirmed. "It's already past the informal deadline. You really forgot?" Izabel looked at him with unconcealed suspicion, trying to gauge if this was a deliberate tactic to throw her off balance. "What is so important that Brod demands your attention and you neglect Baker's project?"
"Something critical has come up," Albert said simply, raising his hand and knocking on the office door.
Professor Brod opened the door, greeting Albert with a large, immediate, and genuinely gentle smile—a smile so rarely seen that it startled Izabel, who was standing beside Albert. She stared at Albert suspiciously, wondering what special leverage he held over the Defence Professor.
"Izabel, come in too!" Brod instructed, ushering them both inside.
Izabel stepped into the Defence Against the Dark Arts office, and her jaw nearly dropped.
The room was a breathtaking scene of academic chaos. The desks, chairs, and even the floor were engulfed by piles of ancient texts, brittle scrolls, and reams of parchment covered in meticulously drawn runic schematics.
The walls were plastered with diagrams—not of defensive spells, but of complex runic matrices and alchemical equations, the results of Albert, Brod, and McDougal's recent, frantic research.
Was this still the Defence Against the Dark Arts Office? In Izabel's memory, Professor Brod's quarters were austere and focused. Now, it looked like the cramped, brilliant workspace of a research fanatic.
"What is going on in here?" Izabel whispered, utterly aghast.
"It's nothing that concerns your current curriculum," Professor Brod said cheerfully. "But, Izabel, since you're here, could you take these few books to Madam Pince? And ensure you borrow the books listed on this note as well. They are critical for our next phase."
He then picked up a rolled-up parchment from his desk and handed it to Albert. "Mog asked me to give this to you. He'll be arriving shortly. Take a look and offer your critique."
"Is this the finished draft?" Albert asked, taking the parchment and quickly scanning its contents.
"No, this is only a semi-finished product; Mog has only completed the foundational theory—about one-third of the total work," Professor Brod clarified, waving his wand to conjure the aforementioned milk tea. "What would you like to drink?"
"Milk tea, thank you. I just finished breakfast not long ago." Albert settled onto the sofa, unrolling the parchment. His eyes flew across the complex sequences of runes and accompanying theoretical explanations. He nodded slowly. "It's faster than I expected."
His focus and speed immediately doubled Izabel's confusion. She was stunned by the news: "Uncle Mog is coming to the school? He's always so busy!"
"Mog is writing a revolutionary new book, and Albert and I are providing supportive research and critical analysis," Professor Brod explained, simplifying the situation. "You can join us later and lend a hand if you finish your errands quickly. Your work in Ancient Runes would be very helpful to the final draft."
Izabel gave Albert a deep, calculating look, struggling to reconcile her rival's first-year status with his involvement in a project led by her world-famous Uncle. She took the list of books and left, her curiosity piqued and her competitive spirit silently roaring.
"How is it?" Professor Brod asked, once they were alone.
Albert slowly rolled the parchment back up, his face etched with intellectual exhaustion. "I don't think many people will ever be able to understand this, Professor. This is not a book written for ordinary students. Without an advanced, structural knowledge of runic geometry—beyond what any textbook currently teaches—even someone who knows the meaning of every word will be unable to grasp the functional magic described."
He paused, contemplating the impenetrability of the text. "What is the significance of writing a book that effectively locks out the vast majority of its potential readers?"
Seemingly guessing Albert's philosophical query, Professor Brod smiled sadly.
"I, too, struggle to understand the deepest levels of this text. But in Mog's words, this book is designed to raise the entire ceiling of the Ancient Runes field. It doesn't matter if ordinary minds can't comprehend it now. The goal is to preserve and formalize the knowledge of the Founders, ensuring that when the next Mog McDougal, or the next Albert Anderson, arrives, the profound secrets of runic geometry are preserved for them to discover. There will always be a few—a special few—who are ready."
Albert realized that this wasn't about teaching; it was about legacy preservation and setting an impossible standard. The book itself was a massive, magical filter, designed to be understood only by the intellectually worthy.
This explanation, while flattering, only increased the daunting pressure on Albert to maintain his position at the forefront of this monumental effort.