"You've actually crossed paths with these scripts before?"
Inside the Defense Against the Dark Arts office on the second floor, the air was thick with the scent of old parchment and a faint, sharp metallic tang that seemed to linger around Rowena Smith. The Professor was currently staring at a sheet of parchment, her gaze flickering between the complex runes drawn there and the boy sitting calmly across from her.
Albert didn't blink. He had just provided a fluid, contextually accurate translation of a string of ancient magical runes that would have taken a Ministry specialist weeks to decode.
Professor Smith was a woman who prided herself on being several steps ahead of everyone else in the room. She was well aware that Albert Anderson was a prodigy—Professor Brood had practically sung his praises from the rooftops—but seeing his proficiency firsthand was a different matter entirely. Instant translation wasn't just 'talent'; it was a sign of deep familiarity.
"I've seen them," Albert admitted, his tone casual, as if they were discussing the weather rather than a potentially ancient and powerful script. "Professor Brood shared a few similar fragments with me last term. He was stuck on the secondary phonetic shifts, so we spent a few afternoons breaking them down. These ones you've shown me... well, the root syntax is almost identical."
A flicker of annoyance—or perhaps it was embarrassment—crossed Smith's face. She had carefully extracted those specific runes from a much larger, more cohesive text, hoping to test Albert's limits without giving away the source material. She hadn't realized he'd already seen the 'original' or at least something so close to it that her precautions were useless.
With someone as sharp as Albert, her attempt at secrecy was practically an admission of guilt. He knew she was hiding the full text.
"If you actually want a translation that holds up under scrutiny," Albert continued, leaning forward slightly, "I'd suggest showing me the entire passage. Runes are contextual. If you only give me the verbs, I'm guessing at the subject." He paused, offering a small, polite smile. "Of course, if the full text is confidential, I understand. I wouldn't want to overstep."
Albert wasn't actually desperate. He had a strong hunch these runes were linked to the legendary Ravenclaw Knowledge Vault. If he was right, he'd see the full versions eventually anyway, whether Smith showed them to him or not.
Smith remained silent for a long moment, her fingers drumming rhythmically against the desk. She was weighing the risks. On one hand, she hated relying on a student. On the other, she had spent hours staring at the carvings in that hidden chamber, and they remained as stubborn and silent as the stone they were etched into.
"I'll need a few days to organize the transcriptions," Smith finally said, her voice tight. "Once they're in a readable format, I might... request your assistance."
"It would be my pleasure, Professor," Albert said, standing up. He nodded respectfully and made his way to the door.
As he stepped out into the hallway, the sound of the rain intensified. He stood by a tall, arched window at the end of the corridor, watching the grey sheets of water turn the Quidditch pitch into a distant, blurry smudge.
Is she here for the vault, or is the vault just a means to an end? he wondered. The system task was still active in the back of his mind, a constant reminder that Rowena Smith wasn't just here to teach students how to disarm a Red Cap.
"So, do you reckon this deluge is ever going to let up, or should we start building an ark?"
Fred's voice broke his train of thought. He and George, along with Lee Jordan, had materialized from a nearby staircase, looking thoroughly bored.
"The clouds look heavy," Albert noted. "It might be a long afternoon."
"If it doesn't stop soon, we're going to miss the window for the Flutterby Bush mushrooms," Lee Jordan complained, looking toward the Forbidden Forest with a pained expression. "They only sprout properly after a heavy soak, but if we wait until tomorrow, the slugs will have cleared them out."
The three of them were staring at Albert with that specific, pleading look they used when they wanted him to do something dangerous or expensive.
"Don't even think about it," Albert said, popping a lemon drop into his mouth. "I am not trekking into the forest in a literal monsoon just to find some glowing fungi. I value my dry socks far more than a few mushrooms."
"But Albert, think of the profit margins!" Fred urged. "The apothecary in Diagon Alley is paying top Galleon for fresh Flutterby caps. We could fund our entire winter inventory!"
"Get them from Greenhouse 3 if you're that desperate," Albert suggested. "Or just buy them. Going into the forest right now is a recipe for a cold and a lecture from Pomfrey."
"The common room is a madhouse," George reminded him. "Percy is practicing his Prefect glare, and the first years are playing Exploding Snap right next to the fireplace. It's impossible to think in there."
Albert sighed. He knew his friends well. For them, Quidditch players who were used to being pelted by hail at fifty feet, a bit of rain was a minor inconvenience. But for Albert, a rainy day was meant for a comfortable armchair, a roaring fire, and a book on advanced spellcraft.
"Fine," Albert conceded, looking at the grey sky. "Maybe it's just a passing shower. If it stops, we can consider a quick trip. But until then, we're going to the Great Hall to finish our homework. No arguments."
As it turned out, Albert's luck—or perhaps his intuition—was as sharp as ever. By two o'clock, the heavy downpour slowed to a drizzle and then stopped entirely. The clouds broke, revealing patches of pale, watery blue.
He hadn't even finished the second foot of his Charms essay before Fred was already tugging at his sleeve.
The four of them changed into sturdy boots. Albert, meticulous as always, pulled on a waterproof cloak and flipped the hood up. The forest would be a dripping, muddy mess, and he had no intention of letting a stray branch ruin his robes.
"We've got a two-and-a-half-hour window," Albert said, checking his pocket watch. "If we're not heading back by five, we're staying in the dark. And I don't fancy meeting a hungry Acromantula in the moonlight."
"Plenty of time," George said confidently. "Especially since we're not going in blind."
"We're circling around the side, near the old elm grove," Fred explained. "It's far enough from Hagrid's hut that he won't hear us, but it's exactly where the mushrooms like to grow. We spotted the patches during our last... unauthorized excursion."
"You mean the one where I had to bail you out of a thicket of Devil's Snare?" Albert asked dryly.
"Details, details," Fred waved a hand dismissively.
As they reached the edge of the forest, the smell of damp earth and decaying leaves hit them. It was a heavy, primal scent. The trees were still weeping from the recent rain, and every step resulted in a wet squelch.
"You brought the liquid confidence, didn't you?" Fred whispered as they ducked under a low-hanging branch.
He was referring to Felix Felicis. Luck was a tangible resource for Albert, and the twins knew that with him on their side, a search for rare mushrooms became a guaranteed success.
"I have a small vial," Albert admitted, though he felt a pang of reluctance. Brewing Felix Felicis was a nightmare of a process, and he hadn't yet perfected his own batch. Using his remaining stock felt like spending gold on breadcrumbs. "But we're only using a sip. This isn't a life-or-death mission; it's a mushroom hunt."
"A sip is all it takes!" Lee Jordan chirped. "With your luck, the mushrooms will probably just jump into our baskets to avoid the mud."
Albert rolled his eyes. He carefully uncorked the tiny vial, the golden liquid shimmering even in the dim light of the forest canopy. He took the tiniest of sips—just enough to feel that familiar, golden warmth spread through his chest, a sensation that the world was suddenly aligning in his favor.