The calendar had flipped deep into late September, and with the change came the true bite of the Scottish autumn. The air was perpetually damp, the wind howled around the castle towers, and the relentless, chill drizzle had settled in for what felt like the entire season. On days such as these, the only logical place to be was nestled near a source of heat.
Albert, having secured one of the prime, soft armchairs nearest the roaring Gryffindor common room fireplace, was perfectly situated. He was wrapped in the soothing orange glow, nursing a scalding cup of spiced milk tea, and engrossed in the ancient text, The Book of Abraham the Jew, the notorious tome Professor Smith had casually loaned him a few days prior.
The book's reputation preceded it. Every student of magical history knew the legend: it was the cryptic, illustrated volume that had fallen into the hands of Nicolas Flamel, providing the secret, step-by-step instructions to forge the legendary Philosopher's Stone.
Albert had been genuinely taken aback when Smith handed it over. For a text linked to the secret of immortality and boundless wealth, it was surprisingly accessible—though still deeply confusing.
What truly astonished him, however, was that he had indeed found, within the layers of esoteric alchemical metaphor, the actual process for creating the Stone. But the fact remained: centuries later, only Flamel had ever pulled it off.
If the recipe was truly in circulation, how could the secret remain so tightly held?
Alchemical formulas are meant to be fiercely guarded secrets. The widespread printing and (relative) public availability of this text suggested only one thing: people no longer believed the process as described was viable.
Smith lending it to him was less an insider tip and more like handing a first-year a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages—useful context, but no practical advantage.
Still, it was an excellent way to deepen his theoretical knowledge of alchemy.
The original core of the text, allegedly penned by Abraham the Jew, spanned just twenty-one pages, adorned with bizarre, dense illustrations: suns, moons, gold coins, priests, strange beasts, and cryptic symbols. The copy Albert held, thankfully, included extensive—and necessary—translations and explanations. Even with those aids, deciphering the jargon still demanded a solid foundation in alchemical metaphor.
He turned to the page currently resting on his lap:
With the precision of the philosopher, one must give all attention to the operations of the Sun, the Moon, and Mercury… for within the base metal is concealed a sulfurous spirit, sometimes called 'the internal, burning illumination of the element.'
Without knowing that the Sun meant Gold, the Moon Silver, and Mercury the element, the line was pure gibberish. The accompanying notes further complicated matters, speaking of the spiritual power of 'sulfur' to transmute the 'cold, watery Moon' into the 'pure, solar Gold,' but only through the intervention of a 'spiritual intermediary.'
Albert finally closed the heavy book with a soft sigh and set it down. He had already read it multiple times, even mentally translating the fabled process into a simple, three-step formula based on his growing comprehension.
Yet, disappointingly, the Panel remained stubbornly blank. No new [Skill] or [Quest] related to the Philosopher's Stone had materialized. It was just knowledge, not progress. He'd half-hoped for a secret treasure hunt, but this was clearly a theoretical dead-end.
"Still poring over your latest scheme, Albert?" Lee Jordan's voice cut through the ambient crackle of the fire. Lee was gesturing with a piece of crumpled parchment. He remembered Albert laboring over this book in the library days ago, claiming to be translating the ultimate alchemical secret.
The twins and Lee had initially been thrilled, believing Albert had found a roadmap to untold riches. The idea of the Philosopher's Stone had sent them into fits of giddy excitement. But their practical, skeptical minds soon caught up.
"Look, we all know you're a genius, but you can't keep fooling us with the same trick, mate," Lee continued, shaking his head. "It's a printed book. If the real recipe for immortality was in here, we'd have more than one Nicolas Flamel in five centuries. You had us for a moment, though, I'll grant you that."
Albert gave an infuriatingly sincere nod. "This is the genuine alchemical method for the Philosopher's Stone, translated directly from Abraham's original text."
"Yes, yes, and we are the King of England," Lee drawled, rolling his eyes. "We know the description is authentic. We just don't believe the process is actually functional."
"But think of the potential, Lads!" George interjected, rubbing his hands together with a gleam in his eye, ignoring the question of authenticity entirely. "Forget the Stone. We should use this as a new treasure map. We'll write the 'recipe' on some cursed parchment, bury it deep in the grounds, and let some poor, ambitious Ravenclaw suffer trying to decipher it for the next five years!"
"An excellent application of esoteric knowledge, George," Fred agreed enthusiastically, peering out the curtain at the miserable weather. "We'll translate Albert's simplified formula back into the most ridiculously flowery French possible, then add the 'English translation' with a few deliberate, fatal errors."
"When do we start the forgery?" Lee Jordan asked, already pulling out his favorite quill. "We should do it now, before anyone else starts trying to decipher the real one."
"Hold your horses, boys," Albert said, finishing the last of his milk tea. "Not today. I've got other things on my schedule that don't involve medieval cartography and psychological warfare. Besides, it's far too miserable outside to be burying things."
He was, naturally, referring to their impending Quidditch practice. The thought of George and Fred—and the entire Gryffindor team—heading out into the cold, driving rain and whipping wind made him shudder. It was a required suffering for Quidditch players, but one he happily avoided.
"You won't join us?" George asked, turning towards the exit with a dramatic slump of his shoulders.
"My apologies, but Professor Smith expects me shortly," Albert declined politely. He made no effort to conceal his relief at escaping the muddy, freezing ordeal that awaited them on the pitch.
"Lucky sod," Fred muttered good-naturedly, pulling his collar higher.
"Work hard, Lads," Albert offered a cheerful salute as they walked toward the portrait hole. "We'll be there in force for the next match. The effort today will make the win all the sweeter." He knew Charlie's training regimen this year was brutal, especially with several new, inexperienced players joining the line-up. Quidditch demanded a relentless commitment that Albert simply couldn't afford to divert from his skill development.
A few minutes later, Albert was knocking briskly on the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom door.
Professor Smith's classroom, thankfully, was warm and dry. Smith was standing with another boy—tall, slightly older, with a look of intense, rather fragile self-importance. Albert recognized him as Smith's nephew, possibly a fifth or sixth-year Hufflepuff.
The boy frowned deeply at Albert's entrance, clearly annoyed that his private audience had been interrupted. He stood abruptly, muttered a hasty goodbye to his uncle, and left with a curt, dismissive nod in Albert's direction.
As Professor Smith busied himself preparing a new batch of milk tea—unlike Dumbledore, the Head of Gryffindor preferred to handle his own simple comforts—he spoke without turning around. "My nephew, talented young man. But he is a little… bristly."
Albert simply maintained a neutral silence. Commenting on the personalities of one's relatives was generally a bad idea.
After a moment, Albert placed the heavy volume gently on the desk. "Thank you, Professor. I have finished reading this. It is a truly fascinating piece of history and theory."
"Excellent," Smith said, picking up the book and placing it casually near a stack of papers, as if it were a simple textbook. He then handed Albert the steaming cup of freshly brewed milk tea.
"Thank you, sir."
They chatted briefly about the general state of the term, but Smith's eyes, usually twinkling with amusement, soon focused with a scholar's intensity. Smith picked up a different, smaller book, a genuine manual, and began to discuss basic alchemical principles.
The lesson quickly stalled. Albert didn't lack the basics; he had read widely and thoroughly understood the theoretical frameworks of transmutation and purification. What he lacked was the essential, codified, practical formulae—the closely guarded secrets that turn abstract knowledge into actual magic.
Smith quickly realized the issue. Albert had built a massive, meticulously structured edifice of knowledge, but it was empty inside. He had all the vocabulary and grammar of alchemy, but none of the actual stories.
"I understand your predicament now, Albert," Professor Smith said, leaning back and scrutinizing the young wizard from behind his half-moon spectacles. "You are constrained. You have imposed limits on yourself."
"Self-limited?" Albert repeated, genuinely surprised. The idea that his own vast intelligence could be the source of his current block was counter-intuitive.
Professor Smith took a thoughtful sip of his tea, warming his hands on the mug. "You possess a truly remarkable breadth of general knowledge. Alchemy, however, is not a general subject; it is the ultimate intersection of Charms, Herbology, Astronomy, and Potion-making. The sheer volume of material you've mastered is fantastic, but you've only learned the alphabet of the language. You lack the vocabulary and the phrases that masters have spent centuries compiling."
"You've learned how to describe what transformation is, but not the specific, non-negotiable steps to make it happen. You are unable to think outside the theoretical box because you haven't been shown how to build a practical box. This deficiency—the lack of exposure to the truly guarded, high-level formulae—is crippling your ability to conceptualize the process."
"And you cannot teach me those formulae, sir?" Albert asked directly.
Smith shook his head. "The secrets are not mine to share, even if I knew them all. My specialty lies in defense, not deep transmutation. However, I believe I can solve the issue of your self-imposed stagnation."
He paused, a wry smile forming. "I recall you mentioned corresponding with Professor Brod? Nicholas Brod, the alchemist?"
"Ah, yes, we've exchanged letters occasionally on the topic of rare elemental stability," Albert confirmed.
"Brod is a close acquaintance of mine," Smith stated. "Alchemy requires patronage and immersion. I think your biggest problem is simply that your knowledge has hit a wall, and no textbook can push you over it. You need real-world tutelage. I could write to Brod, certainly, but I think a better path might be an introduction to one of my elders."
An elder? Albert's mind raced, a familiar name flashing in his memory.
"Perhaps you remember an acquaintance of mine, Gerbersmith?" Smith suggested, raising an eyebrow. "We met him, briefly, at the lakeside cabin last term."
Albert's heart gave a slight thud. "The gentleman with the impressive beard, yes, I recall him."
Professor Smith clapped his hands together lightly. "Excellent. And there is also Sera Harris—a highly talented alchemist, very reclusive, but connected. I could arrange letters of introduction to both."
Albert's composure finally cracked, a genuine look of utter astonishment crossing his face. To be suddenly offered mentorship from two such illustrious, high-level figures—this was the kind of external push he needed.
"This…" Albert began, completely overwhelmed.
Professor Smith smiled warmly. "I will draft the letters of introduction for you. Your part in this, Albert, is to prepare a detailed, concise report summarizing the specific conceptual problems and technical deficiencies you've encountered in your private alchemical studies—a proper diagnostic, if you will. This will show them you are serious and prepared."
"I understand completely, Professor. Thank you," Albert said, his voice imbued with sincere gratitude.
"You're welcome, my boy. Now, off you go. I have a feeling we will have news very soon."
Albert rose, collected his cup, and offered a final, respectful nod before departing, leaving the warmth of the office for the gloom of the castle corridors, his mind buzzing with possibilities.
Behind him, Professor Smith watched the door close. His smile faded, replaced by an expression of subtle surprise and deep, professional confusion.
Gerbersmith?
The idea of introducing Albert to such formidable masters hadn't been Smith's at all. In fact, Gerbersmith himself had written to Smith two days ago, specifically requesting an introduction to the young Gryffindor.
He's a genius, certainly. And prodigiously talented in alchemy. That much was clear. But still, the speed and urgency of the request felt wrong. Why such haste for a first-year, and a Muggle-born at that? Is he truly only interested in the talent? Or is there something else at play?
Smith leaned forward, rubbing his temples. The Wizarding World was rarely kind to those who showed too much promise, too soon.
And while Albert was extraordinary, Smith had a nagging, uncomfortable feeling that his young protégé was about to be invited into a game far larger, and perhaps far more dangerous, than he realized.
The introduction was coming from a place of intense interest, not mere academic courtesy.