The ancient volume, "The Complete Guide to Magic" (or Grimoire), was immediately and frustratingly peculiar. Its opening chapters did not delve into the mechanics of spells or incantations, but instead focused on the fundamental origins of magical systems.
The text discussed three primary forms of magic: House-Elf Magic, Fairy Magic, and Wizard Magic. The author meticulously detailed his belief that these three systems were entirely distinct—separate evolutionary branches, fundamentally incompatible, and non-interchangeable.
The anonymous author also espoused the theory that a wizard's magical power was almost entirely inherited through their bloodline, emphasizing lineage and inherent gifts over training.
To Albert's analytical mind, however, the author of the Grimoire seemed profoundly confused. The text was a frustrating blend of profound insights and archaic dogma. It lacked the modern clarity necessary to distinguish fact from inherited superstition.
Much of the vague, dry, and often tasteless prose was, Albert suspected, simply filler—long-winded, veiled explanations that no longer held any significant meaning outside of the author's personal biases.
Why record something so vaguely? Albert pondered. It provides no functional benefit, even if generations of scholars mistakenly interpret it as some profound truth.
Did he believe any of it? Could he believe it?
No. At least, Albert did not.
To him, the true wonder of magic lay not in the complex formulas of spells, but in its absolute reliance on willpower—a fundamentally idealistic principle. The spell, the wand, the gesture—these were all merely enhancements; tools that focused a wizard's will, enabling them to cast magic with greater precision and power.
As Albert knew, powerful ancient wizards like Voldemort (or Tom Riddle, before his decline) could perform magic—sometimes brutally potent, raw magic—even before attending school. Like many ancient practitioners, they relied almost solely on force of will to warp reality, creating crude yet undeniably powerful effects.
While these ancient wizards understood that tools like wands and gestures increased their potential for greater destructive power, more specific effects, or other terrifying possibilities, their conceptual approach was often brutal and direct.
This brutal approach had an undeniable drawback: such spells were often difficult to control and inherently volatile.
Fiendfyre was the quintessential example. This ancient Dark spell, capable of producing colossal, self-aware enchanted flames, remained a favorite among Dark Wizards, even if they rarely dared to cast it.
An ancient, morbid warning echoed in the Grimoire's marginalia: "Use it with caution, or you shall never be a mage consumed by your own raging fire…" These were the last known words of a Dark Wizard who had tragically succumbed to his own creation.
Fiendfyre earned its name, the Devil's Flame, precisely because its volatile, sentient nature meant the caster was often the first victim.
Compared to these ancient, high-risk, high-power spells, modern magic was noticeably refined, yet its power had been commensurately diminished. You could chart this evolution by looking at simple utility spells: the progression from violently ripping off and kicking down doors with raw magical force to the gentle, precise Opening Charm (Alohomora). Magic had become technically more elegant, but less fundamentally powerful.
A case in point was light. The modern Lumos Charm was invented by Levina Monks Stanley in the 18th century. Before then, wizards often relied on the Eternal Flame, or the Ancient Flame—a far more advanced form of light magic, mastered by only a handful of expert wizards.
Albert discovered records confirming this. The Ancient Flame spell, documented in the Grimoire, was considered a deep, primal form of magic for a clear reason: its casting method required the use of runic inscription.
Before the spell could be cast, a handle or conduit had to be crafted and engraved with specific Ancient Runic sequences. The runes, in this case, were used to amplify and sustain the spell's power, allowing the flame to burn forever without further input.
Seeing this, Albert felt a palpable surge of insight—the missing link. His gaze immediately fell on his own wooden bracelet. The runes aren't just for decoration; they are the conduit!
The Grimoire never explicitly mentioned the word "rune," which made sense if, as Albert suspected, the ancient wizards simply considered runic script to be the default, unspoken language of magic itself.
However, the sheer generational gap in magical perspective left Albert thoroughly baffled. He could translate every word, but he could only truly understand a small portion. He felt a vast cultural distance between himself and the author.
Albert pushed through the text for weeks. By the time he reached the final, crumbling page, it was well into April.
During this time, McDougal's second manuscript was nearing completion, progressing faster than Albert had expected.
"Who would possibly buy a book like this?" Albert had once asked McDougal, genuinely puzzled. He knew that even Professor Brod struggled with the dense, conceptual work.
McDougal's answer was delivered with a dismissive wave of his hand: Obscurus Books had agreed to publish it, entirely underwritten by McDougal himself.
Professor Brod later confirmed to Albert that the famous wizard was paying all printing costs—the high price of the book was simply a measure taken to ensure it only fell into the hands of the most serious (and wealthy) scholars, not that McDougal needed the money.
Albert was momentarily speechless at the casual display of academic wealth and obsession.
"What are your thoughts on the manuscript for Part Three?" Professor Brod asked, handing Albert a fresh stack of parchment during one of their revision sessions.
"It is immensely difficult—far more so than Parts One and Two," Albert replied, managing a wry laugh. "The third part is entirely dedicated to the practical casting of spells using runic sequences. Unfortunately, I doubt there are five students at Hogwarts who could successfully interpret it."
The starting point for Part Three was astronomical. Even an exceptional student, having achieved an Outstanding grade in Ancient Runes, would likely need a dedicated runic dictionary and painfully slow, sentence-by-sentence translation just to begin to comprehend the material.
However, Albert noticed a critical detail: McDougal used several well-known spells as case studies for his runic analyses.
The Patronus Charm was one of these. It was rightly revered as one of the most famous and powerful defensive spells. Records of protective charms existed in ancient woodblock prints and scrolls, confirming that early wizards utilized versions of the spell. In the past, wizards who could summon a corporeal Patronus were often nominated for the Wizengamot.
Albert knew the modern Patronus Charm had been slightly modified and translated into a language accessible to contemporary wizards, but he dismissed the common belief that its power had been reduced as nonsense.
The key to the modern Patronus was the caster's ability to focus on the strongest, happiest memory they could recall. The intensity of that memory directly correlated to the spell's power.
The difficulty for ancient wizards lay not in the spell itself, but in their environment. The Dark Ages were notoriously miserable times. Without sufficient joyful memories to draw upon, the resulting Patronus would be weak, often formless (non-corporeal), and insufficient for true defense. Furthermore, the pervasive practice of Dark Magic at the time likely left many wizards' minds scarred, making the emotional purity required for the Patronus nearly impossible to achieve.
Albert decided to test his own theories. He retreated to a secluded spot and attempted the Patronus Charm. This time, it did not fail entirely, but his wand produced only a thin, fleeting wisp of silver mist.
Next, he attempted to cast a simple spell using the ancient runic sequences he had copied onto his parchment, focusing his will and channeling his magical power through his wooden bracelet.
His wand remained obstinately silent, the wood showing no reaction whatsoever.
Later, Professor Brod explained the failure gently. "You mispronounced the spell, Albert. Or, more accurately, you failed to execute the correct tonal synchronization between the spoken word and the runic geometry. The ancient language is less about phonetics and more about resonance."