In his previous life, Albert had never been the paranoid type. He was the kind of guy who lived in a world governed by logic, predictability, and a relatively stable social safety net. But the Wizarding World? This place was a different beast entirely. Here, the line between a mentor and a monster was often as thin as a wand's core, and history was written in the blood of "unfortunate accidents."
As he sat in the corner of the Gryffindor common room, the warmth of the fireplace barely reaching the chill in his thoughts, Albert had to face a grim reality: Professor Rowena Smith was officially on his "watch list."
Was he being biased? Perhaps. As a transmigrator, he carried a certain prejudice. He knew the track record of the Defense Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts. Before Harry Potter eventually put a stop to Voldemort, that desk was practically a revolving door for cursed souls, lunatics, and double agents. In Albert's mind, every DADA professor was guilty until proven innocent.
But even putting his meta-knowledge aside, the evidence was piling up like a stack of forbidden books.
The Boggart. That was the smoking gun.
A Boggart is a mirror of the soul's deepest, darkest anxieties. When Rowena Smith faced it, the creature didn't turn into a giant spider or a failure in front of a crowd. It turned into the corpse of Isabelle Macdougall's father.
Albert gripped his quill tighter, the ink staining the parchment as he scribbled down a flowchart of death. According to Isabelle, her father had perished in a "magical experiment gone wrong." It was a classic excuse—the wizarding version of "he fell down the stairs."
"If you connect the dots," Albert muttered to himself, his voice lost in the crackle of the logs, "you get a very ugly picture."
There were four key players in this generational drama: Isabelle's father, Professor Smith, and the two silent observers, Professor Broad and Morg Macdougall. All four shared a common thread—they were "candidates." They had all been groomed, tested, and vetted for an inheritance that apparently required the genius of a century and the ruthlessness of a Borgia.
Albert's mind, sharpened by years of detective novels and the analytical coldness of his system skills, began to construct a bold, ugly theory. What if Isabelle's father hadn't died due to a mistake? What if the "accident" was a precision strike?
If the Smith inheritance was a winner-takes-all scenario, then Rowena Smith had every motive in the world to ensure her primary rival didn't make it to the finish line. Whether it was a direct curse or a subtle sabotage of his ritual, the result was the same. Her fear wasn't just the sight of a dead friend; it was the manifestation of a guilty conscience. She was haunted by the man she had stepped over to reach the prize.
He recorded these thoughts in a small, enchanted notebook, his handwriting cramped and urgent. This was the stuff of penny dreadfuls, but in a world where you could change your face with a potion and wipe a memory with a word, the most "ridiculous" speculation was often the closest to the truth.
Vast wealth—Galleons, ancient artifacts, lost knowledge—was a hell of a drug. It drove people to madness. If the benefit was high enough, backstabbing a friend wasn't just a possibility; it was a tactical necessity.
Then there was the matter of Ravenclaw's Chamber.
Why was Smith so obsessed with it? If the "treasure" inside was truly just knowledge, why did she look like she'd been struck by a Killing Curse when Albert explained the truth?
"Option A," Albert wrote, "The chamber is a requirement for the inheritance. You can't be the 'Heir' without passing Ravenclaw's test."
"Option B," he added, "She's broke. She needs the gold, and the realization that she spent a year chasing a 'lesson' instead of a vault has destroyed her financial planning."
Given the "Heir" context, Option A felt far more likely. Isabelle's father probably entered that chamber. He probably succeeded where Smith was currently failing. He became the "Heir," and in doing so, he signed his own death warrant.
But the timeline didn't quite add up. If Smith was a candidate in the previous generation, why was she still looking for the chamber now? And why was the search suddenly focused on Albert?
He thought back to last Halloween, to that quiet lake house and the gathering of the "old guard." There was a clear generational gap. Professor Broad and the others looked like the judges of a very long, very slow game. They weren't just mentors; they were the architects.
"Professor Broad... what was your real reason for coming to Hogwarts last year?" Albert wondered.
Was it to find the chamber? Or was it to find the next candidate? Broad had been nothing but kind to him, treating him with a warmth that felt almost paternal. But was that kindness genuine, or was it the same "investment" Isabelle had warned him about? Were they just fattening him up for a slaughter he didn't even know he was participating in?
And then there was Isabelle.
She was the wild card. The girl who knew too much and said too little. Was she an avenger, hiding behind a facade of Ravenclaw logic while she sharpened a knife for her father's killer? Or was she just another candidate, desperately trying to survive a game that had already claimed her family?
"So, what's my role in this play?" Albert stared at the parchment. "Am I the talented understudy? The unlucky fellow dragged into the crossfire? Or am I the secret weapon they've been waiting for?"
He looked at the name 'Smith.' Rowena Smith. Isabelle's father. The inheritance. The judges.
It was possible—just possible—that Rowena Smith had already been disqualified. Maybe her failure to open the chamber years ago had cost her the title, and her return to Hogwarts was a desperate, unsanctioned "hail mary" to reclaim her status. If she could open the chamber, she could prove the judges wrong.
But the more Albert thought about it, the more he realized that reality was often more absurd than fiction. In a novel, the DADA professor is always the villain. In reality, she might just be a pathetic, broken woman chasing a ghost. But in this reality—a world that was both a story and a physical place—she could be both.
"Isabelle knows more than she's letting on," Albert concluded. "She's closer to the truth than anyone, but she's playing it close to the chest. I can't blame her. If I were in her shoes, I'd keep my mouth shut too."
He watched the ink dry. The world felt smaller suddenly. Less like a magical adventure and more like a trap.
"Somehow, I always feel that this world is incredibly unsafe," he whispered.
He didn't want this notebook to be found. He didn't want anyone—not even Hermione or his roommates—to see the dark web he was weaving. With a flick of his wrist, he tore the pages from the binding. He watched them flutter into the heart of the Gryffindor fire. The flames turned a brief, bright green as they consumed the ink and parchment, turning his dark suspicions into harmless ash.
He needed to be ready. He needed to be more than just a "talented student." He needed to be a survivor.
"I need a second wand," he muttered, his mind turning to logistics.
It was a classic trope for a reason. Most wizards were one-trick ponies. They relied on a single piece of wood to channel their entire existence. If you disarmed them, they were finished. And villains—well, villains always loved to talk. They'd stand over you, pointing your own wand at your throat, and give a ten-minute monologue about their motivations.
"Who told the villains to die from talking too much?" Albert smirked to himself, though there was no humor in it. "If I have a second wand hidden up my sleeve, I can let them talk all they want. I'll even provide the applause."