For most students, the rhythm of academic life was comforting in its predictability. Homework was an unavoidable chore, but the workload at Hogwarts was mercifully light. Assignments in core subjects typically rolled in once every fortnight, granting students a substantial margin to procrastinate.
This meant that the vast majority of the student body—including Fred, George, and Lee—could safely leave the entire pile of parchment until Saturday night, or, if they were truly desperate, shamelessly secure a hastily copied version an hour before the deadline.
In this regard, Hogwarts was, ironically, the best magical school in Britain not because of its demanding curriculum, but because it was the only one. Academic excellence was measured less by rigorous scholarship and more by sheer, innate magical talent.
None of this applied to Albert Anderson.
Albert was an inherently selfish, singularly focused individual. To him, the school was simply a resource pool, a repository of knowledge and an environment where he could reliably acquire the most crucial currency: experience.
If you were to ask Albert what drove him—what provided the greatest, most intoxicating rush—he wouldn't point to political influence, the seductive thrill of wealth, or any base pleasure. He would answer: the pursuit of power.
There was an addictive, unparalleled satisfaction in watching the jagged line of his personal power curve ascend daily, in seeing his numerical capabilities rise, and his potential widen. He found the common belief that the pursuit of power inevitably corrupted to be the dull, self-soothing delusion of the weak-willed. For Albert, power was the tool, the goal, and the reward all rolled into one.
And thanks to the mysterious Panel, becoming powerful wasn't a philosophical struggle; it was a simple, measurable process: learn new skills, level them up, and assign points to core attributes.
One of the great secrets to Albert's constant rise lay in the most mundane activity imaginable: homework.
For others, the homework was just that—a chore. For Albert, every assigned essay was a meticulously calculated opportunity for experience gain. But simply completing the assignment yielded only base XP. The real trick, the true art, was maximizing the return.
Albert had developed a subtle, three-pronged mental routine while working:
Content Analysis: What is the fundamental magical principle this assignment is meant to reinforce?
Contextual Review: Why is this section written this way, and what historical precedents govern this charm?
Future Purpose: How can this knowledge be directly applied to a skill I currently possess, or one I intend to acquire?
Asking these three questions consecutively forced his brain into hyper-active engagement, vastly deepening his cognitive retention and, crucially, consistently boosting the experience earned from the task by a factor of one to three times. It required more mental effort and time, certainly, but the return in skill points and XP was incalculable.
"What's the long face for, lads?" Albert asked, pausing his focus. He looked up to see Fred and George slump into the cushioned chairs opposite him, their expressions a study in exaggerated, theatrical misery.
"It's Filch," George grumbled, his voice laced with venom. "The old bat is exacting his petty, garlicky revenge on us! We came back from Quidditch practice—in the rain, mind you—and, of course, left a few tiny muddy prints on the stone floor."
"He's demanding we clean up the sludge and watermarks manually," Fred finished, kicking his heels against the chair leg. "He insists we use a filthy, ancient mop and bucket. He's tormenting us!"
"Use a charm," Albert suggested simply, picking up his quill again.
Fred threw his hands up in mock exasperation. "What is wrong with your default setting, Albert? It's not about cleaning; it's about revenge! He knows we can use a Scouring Charm; he wants us to suffer like Muggles!"
"I'm aware," Albert said without hesitation, his tone utterly flat. "If he insists on the mop and bucket, then the logical solution is to wait until a later date and detonate his office with a well-placed Stink Bomb. Simple escalation."
The twins' expressions instantly brightened. "That is beautiful," George whispered, Fred nodding in fervent agreement.
"It seems we'll need to put in a bulk order for more of those patented Dungbombs," Fred mused, a dangerous sparkle in his eyes.
"I'm running low on my own stock, but I can certainly sponsor your initial retaliatory strike, comrades," Lee Jordan chimed in, grinning wickedly.
"So, what are you actually doing there, Albert?" Fred asked, his attention turning from Filch to the strange, focused way Albert was holding his wand.
"Practicing how to cleanly separate the sphere of light from the wand tip," Albert explained, flipping through a dense page of notes he'd taken that morning. "I had a detailed discussion with Professor Smith about the theoretical limits of sustained Transfiguration this morning. This technique falls under a similar principle of magical decoupling."
"You mean, make the light float away?" George's curiosity was piqued, forgetting the immediate need for vengeance.
"Precisely. And no, I cannot do it consistently. At least, not yet."
Albert lowered his voice and whispered the incantation, but the sound was barely audible—a practiced, almost silent"Lumos." The tip of his wand immediately flared with a brighter, steadier luminescence than usual. Then, as if flicking away a drop of water, Albert gave the wand a near-imperceptible, gentle shudder.
His Glowing Charm was now at Level 2, he wasn't sure exactly when it had crossed the threshold, but the proficiency was undeniable. He was already approaching the boundary of silent casting for simple, non-verbal magic.
The reason for this surge in ability wasn't arbitrary. It was the direct result of a calculated expenditure of accumulated power.
During the previous term's break, Albert had finally completed the demanding Gryffindor Fame Quest, which awarded him a valuable Skill Point. Combining this with the two points he earned from the highly rewarding Rescue Quest (saving the students from the troll), Albert had immediately assigned all three points to his most crucial core attribute: Wizard Lineage.
This upgrade successfully propelled his Wizard Lineage to Level 3.
The change was immediate and profound: a significant increase in his raw magical power capacity and an acute acceleration in his learning speed. He felt the internal shift and instantly took the next step, accepting and completing the quest known only as The Wizard's Path, which, upon completion, allowed him to elevate his Wizard Lineage to the even more formidable Level 4.
Albert felt a knot of anxiety loosen in his chest. He had been immensely worried about the exponential scaling of the XP requirements.
Since Level 1 to Level 2 required only 100 XP, and Level 2 to Level 3 jumped to 10,000 XP, he had theorized that Level 3 to Level 4 might require around 50,000 XP, and Level 4 to Level 5, a staggering 250,000 XP—a figure that would be almost impossible to amass without years of grind, even with his efficient methods.
His fear was that his personal cap might be limited to Level 4, leaving a monumental gap in potential power. Now, with Level 4 secured, he was much closer to his goal.
The timing of the upgrade was deliberate: power was the source of confidence, and he had needed absolute self-assurance for the confrontation with Hertok Dagworth. That raw, overwhelming magical capacity had been the silent, invisible weapon that allowed him to stand firm and dictate terms to an arrogant Ministry official.
It was why he felt disappointment, not fear, when Dagworth hadn't provided a few extra side quests during their tense meeting.
With the strength of Level 4 magic coursing through him, his existing charms and skills were amplified. His learning speed was hyper-charged, and, thrillingly, the Forbidden Forest Search quest—the one linked to the mysterious Gryffindor treasure—was now flagged as potentially accessible.
"Stop wobbling! You're going to poke someone's eye out with that light," Shanna commented dryly from her position beside Lee, though her eyes were fixed intently on his wand tip.
As if responding to her comment, a faint, pearl-sized orb of light detached itself from Albert's wand. It floated slowly upward, like a captive firefly set free, before it abruptly sputtered and vanished, leaving a tiny, residual spark hanging in the air.
"Did I just hallucinate that?" Shanna murmured, rubbing her eyes and frowning.
"No! I saw that too!" Lee Jordan practically shouted, staring at Albert as if he had just transformed into a giant squid. "How did you do that, Albert? I've never seen a Lumos charm separated from the wand before!"
Albert recalled the faint, internal feedback he'd just received—the feeling of magical inertia being overcome. "Hmm, it feels like… a momentary disconnect, a pushing force that requires extreme focus to sustain the light's integrity once it leaves the channel of the wand."
As he spoke, he attempted the maneuver again. This time, a larger ball of light, slightly unstable, separated cleanly from the wood, shimmering for a full second before dissolving into nothingness.
"I want it to detach and stay detached," Albert said softly, his focus still on the empty air where the light had been. "Professor Smith claims once the sphere is fully separated, it becomes surprisingly docile and controllable. I'm only managing the detachment; the control is still escaping me."
He knew he needed raw repetition now, just as Smith had advised. He needed to practice until the technique became an extension of his will.
"I had no idea the simple Glowing Charm had such advanced applications," Shanna murmured, her analytical mind already whirring. She pulled out her own wand and attempted to replicate Albert's near-silent flick and push, but the light remained stubbornly fixed to the tip of the holly wood.
She looked up, unable to contain her curiosity. "Is there a specific wand movement? Or a… a trick to the incantation?"
All four of his companions leaned in immediately, desperate to seize the secret of this advanced technique. They were ready for a complex set of directions, a hidden word, or a precise flick-and-swish that had somehow eluded them.
Little did they know, the trick was not in the execution, but in the four silent levels of magical power Albert had painstakingly accrued.