The psychological fallout from the Hogwarts letter was a slow, agonizing process. Nia hadn't just been rejected by a school; she felt as though she had been rejected by a fundamental part of the world she lived in. The humid August heat only made her lethargy worse. She spent her afternoons draped over the sofa, staring at nothing, a silent ghost in a house that was suddenly too quiet.
Albert, recognizing that his presence was occasionally a reminder of what she lacked, decided to call in reinforcements. After a hushed tactical meeting with Herbert, they reached out to Grandpa Luke on Charles Street. It was a calculated move. Grandpa Luke possessed a brand of elderly wisdom and dry humor that even Albert couldn't emulate. When the old man arrived, the atmosphere in the house shifted from funereal to merely somber. Luke knew how to listen without offering hollow platitudes, and more importantly, he knew how to distract Nia with stories of the "good old days" that had absolutely nothing to do with wands.
The other unsung hero of the recovery effort was Tom. The cat, in his infinite, fat wisdom, seemed to sense Nia's distress. He abandoned his usual spots in the sun to drape his considerable weight across her lap, vibrating with a purr that sounded like a low-grade engine. There is a specific kind of therapy that only a ten-kilogram feline can provide.
By the first week of August, life began to force its way back into a routine. Nia was dragged out by Daisy to get measured for her new uniform at Casterton Middle School. It was a milestone, albeit a bittersweet one.
Albert stayed behind, the house finally quiet enough for him to tackle the mountain of holiday homework he'd been ignoring. He was sitting at his desk, his quill scratching rhythmically against parchment, when he heard a familiar thud-scrape against the door.
"Enter, oh great one," Albert muttered, not looking up.
Tom trotted in, looking immensely pleased with himself. With the grace of a falling sack of flour, he leaped onto the desk, landing squarely on Albert's Transfiguration essay. He settled down immediately, his fluffy tail rhythmically slapping the ink bottle.
Albert sighed, leaning back in his chair. He reached for the discarded Daily Prophet that had arrived a few days ago. The headline was still screaming in bold black ink: INTRUSION AT GRINGOTTS: VAULT 713 BREACHED.
The Goblins were doing a masterful job of damage control, insisting that nothing had been stolen because the vault had been emptied earlier that day. They played it off as a pathetic attempt by a low-level thief, but Albert knew better. He knew exactly who had been behind that burning door.
Quirrell failed, Albert thought, a small, satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a leather-bound notebook. It was filled with columns of dense Chinese characters—a script no one in this house, or even in the wizarding world, was likely to decipher. It was his map of the future, a collection of half-remembered plot points from a life he'd lived before this one.
He found the entry for 1991 and drew a neat line through the Gringotts robbery.
"One down," he murmured. "The inertia of history is a powerful thing, Tom. Even with me poking at the edges, the big pieces are falling into place right on schedule."
The Philosopher's Stone was now at Hogwarts. For most wizards, the Stone represented the pinnacle of achievement—the power to turn lead to gold and, more importantly, the Elixir of Life. Immortality was the ultimate carrot for the desperate, but Albert found the idea strangely exhausting. Living forever seemed like a lot of paperwork. Besides, his own alchemical research into Mandrake roots had already yielded a theoretical recipe for an anti-aging tonic. He didn't need Nicolas Flamel's rock; he just needed a high enough Potions level and a bit of time to "cheat" the system.
He looked at the notes on the upcoming school year and felt a familiar prickle of unease. Hogwarts was about to transform from a school into a battlefield. Between the Dark Lord's shadow and the "Boy Who Lived," the casualty rate for bystanders was about to skyrocket.
Potter, I really hope you're as lucky as the stories say, Albert thought, absentmindedly scratching Tom behind the ears. I have no intention of being the tragic sacrifice in your hero's journey. I'd much rather be the guy who sells you the map and hides in the bushes.
He looked down at Tom's bulging midsection. "Hogwarts is going to be a death trap this year, buddy. Do you really want to come? You're so slow a snail could outrun you. If we have to flee from a troll, I'm not sure I can carry you."
Tom responded by lightly nipping Albert's finger and letting out a defiant meow. The cat had no intention of missing out on the kitchen scraps of the Great Hall. Albert sighed, glancing at his quest log. The "Weight Loss for Tom" task was still sitting there, mocking him with its 0% progress. Some miracles were beyond even magic.
The quiet of the afternoon was broken by the sharp snap of wings. Sheila, Albert's owl, soared through the window and dropped a thick envelope onto the desk before landing on her perch with an indignant hoot.
"Good girl, Sheila," Albert said, reaching for a tin of owl nuts.
Before he could offer a reward, Tom lunged. The cat pinned Albert's hand to the desk with surprising speed, snatching the treats directly from his fingers. A chaotic blur of feathers and fur ensued as Sheila defended her honor, flapping her wings and snapping her beak at the thieving feline.
"Enough! Both of you!" Albert shouted, eventually herding a ruffled Sheila back into her cage and nudging Tom off the table.
He picked up the fallen letter. It was from the Weasley twins.
Albert, Save us. Percy has been made a Prefect and he's currently insufferable. He's spent the last three days practicing his "authoritative walk" in the hallway and nagging us about the 'sanctity of school rules.' Come to the Burrow soon. We need a voice of reason, or at least someone to help us test the new batches of Dungbombs. Mum says you're always welcome. — F & G
Albert smiled. The twins were the perfect antidote to the encroaching gloom. He was about to check his calendar when a second owl, a sleek Ministry-looking bird, swooped in, dropped a letter, and vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
This one was from Professor Broad. It was short and cryptic, mentioning that the "explanation" he had promised was ready and inviting Albert for a meeting.
"Three invitations in one day," Albert muttered. "My social life is becoming a full-time job."
As if the universe heard him, a third owl—this one a ragged, exhausted-looking thing—crashed onto the windowsill.
Tom's fur stood on end. He let out a low, territorial growl. One owl was a nuisance; three was an invasion. He prepared to pounce, but Albert caught him by the scruff of the neck just in time.
"Easy, tiger. I think the post office is just having a clearance sale."
The owl didn't care about the cat. It stared Tom down with unblinking, orange eyes, let out a sharp kraw, and waited for Albert to take the letter from Cella Harris.
Cella was a prominent alchemist Albert had been corresponding with for months. Her letter was unexpected. She wanted to introduce him to a "circle of colleagues" during his next visit to London. Albert frowned. Cella was connected to Professor Broad, and Broad was connected to a lot of people Albert hadn't quite mapped out yet. The web was tightening.
Later that afternoon, the front door opened, and Nia walked in, looking like a miniature, modern-day nun.
Daisy had insisted she wear the full Casterton uniform. It was dark, structured, and surprisingly elegant. It made Nia look older, sharper—less like a grieving child and more like a young woman ready to take on the world.
"Well?" Nia asked, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed. "Do I look like a 'normal' student?"
"You look fantastic, Nia," Albert said sincerely. He picked up his camera and began snapping photos. "The uniform suits you. It's got that 'I'm secretly in charge of everything' vibe."
Nia managed a small, genuine smile. For a moment, the heavy clouds of the past week seemed to part. Albert moved to position her for a group shot with Tom, but Nia suddenly stiffened, her gaze darting to the window.
"Another one," she said, her voice turning flat.
She walked over to the sill and picked up a small, cream-colored envelope that had just been dropped. She handed it to Albert, her smile gone.
"Your fan mail."
Albert glanced at the sender: Isabelle Macdougall.
"Who's Isabelle?" Nia asked, her voice tinged with a suspicion that only a younger sister could manage.
"A pen pal," Albert said, slipping the letter into his pocket. "We discuss Ancient Runes. It's purely academic, Nia. She's helping me with a translation of a tenth-century text."
"Sure she is," Nia grumbled, turning away. "I can't read those squiggles, so for all I know, she's sending you love poems in code."
Albert didn't correct her. He had lied, of course. The letter from Isabelle wasn't just about runes. It was about the things she had seen at the Ministry—the whispers of a break-in at Gringotts that the newspapers were downplaying.