Leaving the Burrow was a much noisier affair than Albert had anticipated. When he mentioned that he would be departing that evening to meet Professor Broad, Mrs. Weasley didn't just look surprised; she looked personally slighted by the universe. Her response to his impending departure was to treat him like a soldier heading for the front lines, piling five additional portions of meat pie onto his plate with a maternal ferocity that Brooking no argument.
"Bard Broad?" Mr. Weasley asked, his eyebrows inching toward his receding hairline.
"The very same," Albert replied, expertly navigating a mountain of mashed potatoes. "We've kept up a correspondence since he left his post as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. He's been a bit of a mentor."
Arthur's expression shifted to one of profound respect. In the wizarding world, Broad wasn't just an ex-teacher; he was a heavyweight, a member of the Wizengamot, and a man whose reputation for kindness was matched only by his formidable intellect.
"Well," Arthur said, a hint of genuine disappointment in his voice. "If Broad has summoned you, I suppose I can't complain. Though I was rather hoping we could get into the specifics of how a telephone exchange handles ten thousand simultaneous conversations."
"Next time, Mr. Weasley. I promise," Albert said, feeling a slight pang of guilt.
At exactly seven-thirty, the sharp crack of Apparition echoed in the yard. Noel, Broad's house-elf, stood at the door in his pristine tea-towel uniform. With a polite bow to the Weasleys and a firm grip on Albert's trunk, he led the way back to the familiar, sprawling mansion that Albert had visited the year before.
The transition from the cramped, warm chaos of the Burrow to the silent, marble-floored elegance of Broad's estate was jarring. But the real surprise was waiting in the drawing-room.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Isabelle MacDougal said, looking up from a thick tome on the sofa. She brushed a strand of dark red hair from her face and gave him a knowing smirk. "Or perhaps just a very well-rested classmate."
Albert blinked, adjusting his glasses. "It's been a while, Isabelle. Though, I have to ask... why are you currently occupying the furniture?"
"I've been a permanent fixture here for nearly three weeks," she replied, closing her book. "St. Mungo's is overrun with a localized outbreak of Spattergroit, and since Mum can't leave the ward, Uncle Mog invited us here to avoid the contagion. How was your summer? Did you manage to break any international laws?"
"Only the laws of physics," Albert said, about to take the seat opposite her when a sharp gasp echoed from the doorway.
"You? Here? Why?"
Albert turned to see Katrina MacDougal standing frozen, a tray of iced tea clutched in her hands. Her eyes were wide, darting between Albert and her sister as if she'd walked into a secret meeting of a revolutionary cell.
"Hello, Katrina. Lovely to see you too," Albert said dryly.
"Did Uncle Mog invite you?" Katrina asked, her voice tight with a mixture of confusion and a prickle of annoyance. She set the glasses down with a bit more force than necessary. "I thought this was supposed to be a family retreat."
The air in the room grew thick with a sudden, awkward tension. Isabelle, ever the diplomat, smoothly explained that Mog MacDougal—the legal guardian of the Wildsmith estate—had extended the invitation to Albert weeks ago. What she didn't mention, and what Katrina clearly hadn't grasped, was that this mansion was technically Wildsmith property. Isabelle was the guest of honor; Katrina was simply the "plus one."
"I won't be in your hair for long," Albert said, trying to defuse Katrina's glare. "Just a few days to settle some academic business with the Professor."
"Is this about the Ancient Runes?" Katrina pressed, her eyes narrowing. "Is that why you two have been whispering in letters all summer?"
Albert didn't answer directly. He reached for the book Isabelle had been reading—a slim, leather-bound volume without a title on the spine. He flipped through the first few pages, and his eyebrows shot up. The ink was old, the script archaic, but the underlying theory was hauntingly familiar.
"I didn't see this in the library last time," Albert murmured, his mind racing to connect the dots.
"Mog gave it to me," Isabelle said quietly, her eyes searching his face. "He thought I was... ready."
"Ready for what?" Katrina snapped, looking back and forth between them. "What is that book? Why are you both acting like you're in a cult?"
"It's a foundational text on Chadwick's Charms," Albert said, closing the book with a soft thud. "Or at least, the theory that preceded them."
"Chadwick's what? Is that some American thing?" Katrina asked, her frustration bubbling over.
"Chadwick's Spells," Albert explained, trying to keep his tone patient. "It's the standard Defense text for Ilvermorny in the States. It uses a very specific method of talismanic casting—basically, embedding the spell structure into an object to bypass the need for complex wand movements. It's a bit outdated by British standards, but for high-speed dueling, it's still incredibly potent. You wouldn't have come across it in the Hogwarts curriculum yet."
Katrina's face reddened. She hated being left out of a technical discussion, and Albert's casual "you wouldn't know this" was like salt in a wound.
"I see," she said, her voice dripping with ice. "So you two are just too advanced for the rest of us. I'll leave you to your secret societies, then."
She turned on her heel and marched out of the room. Albert sighed, looking at Isabelle. "She's going to be a delight in Ancient Runes this year, isn't she?"
"She'll get over it," Isabelle said, though she looked concerned. "She's just realized that the gap between 'good' and 'exceptional' is wider than she thought. We spent the afternoon talking about the third-year load. Twelve courses is going to break her, Albert. She isn't like you."
"I have a skill panel, Isabelle. I'm cheating," Albert thought, though he just nodded. "I'll try to be gentler. But right now, I think the Professor is waiting."
He left the drawing-room and made his way to the study. Professor Broad was seated behind a massive oak desk, a single candle illuminating the map of the stars on the ceiling. He looked up as Albert entered, a faint, weary smile touching his lips.
"I noticed you didn't ask Noel for a snack on the way in," Broad remarked. "A sure sign of a troubled mind, or perhaps just a full stomach from the Weasleys."
"Mrs. Weasley believes in caloric dominance," Albert said, taking the chair opposite the old man. "But I'm more interested in why the MacDougal sisters are currently under your roof. This mansion is starting to feel like a training ground."
Broad leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach. "You've already deduced much of it, I suspect. The Wildsmith legacy is not a simple matter of gold and land. We are a family of... curators. We select those who have the capacity to carry the name."
"So it is an inheritance," Albert said. "But not a biological one."
"Correct. We inherit a surname, and with that surname, a responsibility to the craft. Normally, we wouldn't even have this conversation until you'd sat your N.E.W.T.s. But the world is changing, Albert. The inertia you mentioned... it's accelerating."
"Isabelle and I," Albert said, his voice flat. "We're the candidates?"
"The only ones in a generation who meet the criteria," Broad admitted. "The Wildsmith name requires more than just power; it requires a certain... vision. A way of seeing the threads of magic before they are even spun. You and Isabelle possess that."
"And if we refuse?"
Broad smiled. "Then the name fades. We don't force the legacy. But Isabelle is already leaning toward it. She sees the value in the resources it provides. You, however... you have the pride of a true genius. You feel you don't need a dead man's name to make your mark on history."
"I don't," Albert said simply.
"I know. I felt the same at your age. But consider this: the name is a shield as much as it is a brand. If you agree to take on the mantle, I will show you the deeper secrets of this house. Not just books on American charms, but the core of the Wildsmith research."
"You've been watching me," Albert said, his eyes narrowing. "Carefully selected? There aren't that many wizards in Britain. How many 'suitable' candidates can there possibly be?"