Wand-making was one of those legendary crafts that made Albert realize that even with a system, there were some things you just didn't mess with unless you were ready to commit decades to the grind.
Sure, he could probably figure out the basics of core-and-wood harmony if he really set his mind to it, but would his DIY project ever match an Ollivander original? Probably not. The Ollivanders had been in the business since 382 B.C. They had generational data, muscle memory, and a sixth sense for wood grain that Albert wasn't prepared to compete with. For seven to ten Galleons, you got a precision instrument guaranteed to channel your magic without blowing your hand off. In Albert's book, that was a bargain.
"Investing thousands of skill points into wand-making just to save a few Galleons? I'm a genius, not an idiot," he mused, leaning back in his chair.
If he couldn't easily dual-wield high-end wands yet, he needed to focus on what he could control: passive defense. Most wizards were hilariously vulnerable the moment their wand was knocked out of their hand. They relied entirely on active casting. If someone caught them off guard with a silent Expelliarmus or a quick stunner, the fight was over before it began.
Albert reached into his trunk and pulled out a small, velvet-lined box. Inside lay a wooden bracelet, smooth and pale, carved from the root of a Mandrake. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, but it lacked its soul. The surface was blank, waiting for the Ancient Runes that would turn it from a piece of jewelry into a life-saver.
He had been holding off on this for a while. He'd been trying to push his Ancient Runes skill to Level 3 through sheer study and practice, but the progress was agonizingly slow. It was the classic "high-level grind" problem. The more he knew, the more complex the nuances became, and the less "experience" he gained from basic translation work. He was still two thousand points short, and with the shadow of Professor Smith looming over him, he didn't have the luxury of another six months of library sessions.
"Time waits for no one," Albert sighed, a small smile playing on his lips. "But then again, why grind when you can just... skip the line?"
He opened his system panel. The blue interface hovered in the dim light of the dormitory, reflecting in his eyes. He didn't hesitate. He poured the accumulated experience from his recent tasks into the [Ancient Runes] skill.
[Ancient Runes: Level 2 -> Level 3]
The effect was instantaneous. It wasn't like reading a book; it was like a floodgate opening inside his skull. A massive surge of information, historical context, and linguistic intuition washed over him. He felt his brain remapping itself, connecting dots he hadn't even realized were on the same map.
Level 3 was a threshold. He knew this from his [Occlumency]—at Level 3, it transitioned from a simple mental shield into a complex psychological fortress. He could now manufacture false memory layers to bait Legilimens, creating a "hall of mirrors" for anyone trying to peek into his head.
With Ancient Runes reaching the same level, the revelation was even more profound. It wasn't just about reading dead languages anymore. It was about Runic Magic.
This was a fundamentally different system than the wand-based magic taught at Hogwarts. It was ancient, earthy, and required a medium. It was more akin to the innate magic of Goblins or House-elves—independent, stubborn, and incredibly potent when applied correctly. It was why Gubraithian Fire was so difficult to master. Most wizards treated it like a standard charm, but it was actually a runic ritual disguised as a spell.
Albert looked back at the notes he had prepared for the protection bracelet just yesterday. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of embarrassment.
"Good lord," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "I was basically writing in crayon."
The "defensive runes" he had meticulously designed looked childish now. They were clunky, inefficient, and likely would have burned out after a single hit. He picked up his quill and began to slash through his previous work with a focused intensity.
He redesigned the sequence from scratch. He used a ceremonial carving knife, his movements fluid and precise, etching the intricate symbols into the Mandrake root. Each stroke felt intentional, humming with a faint, static-like energy.
Then came the part he hated. He picked up a small, sharp blade and pricked the tip of his finger. A single, dark red drop of blood welled up. He smeared it across the runes, feeling the wood drink it in. In Runic magic, blood wasn't just a liquid; it was a biological signature. It bound the magic to the user, ensuring the bracelet would only activate to protect him.
He chanted the activation sequence—low, guttural syllables that didn't sound like modern Latin-based spells. Finally, he pointed his wand at the bracelet and cast a modified Shield Charm.
The wood glowed with a soft, amber light for a split second before returning to its natural state.
"Protection Bracelet Version 2.0," Albert whispered, sliding it onto his wrist.
He didn't feel different, but he could sense the weight of the magic now. It wasn't a passive constant; it was a stored charge. It had a "cooldown" logic to it. If it took a heavy hit, the runes would dim as they exhausted their stored energy, requiring time—or a fresh infusion of magic—to recharge. It was essentially a piece of enchanted gear with a limited number of uses per "session."
To test his work, he checked his finger. The cut was still there, a tiny red slit.
"Vulnera Sanentur," he murmured.
The wand moved in a rhythmic, sewing motion, and the skin knit itself back together instantly. Modern wizardry was certainly more convenient for quick fixes, but for raw, enduring power, the ancient ways were king.
He thought back to the Gubraithian Fire. It stayed lit because of the synergy between the materials—sycamore wood and Phoenix feathers—and the circular nature of the runes. It was a self-sustaining loop. Fire and the Phoenix, an eternal cycle.
"If Gubraithian Fire is a skill, does this bracelet count as one?"
He checked the panel again. He didn't find "Protection Bracelet," but a new entry had appeared under his active skills: [Amulet Making (Level 1)].
"Amulet, huh? Fair enough."
He immediately spent more experience to bump [Amulet Making] to Level 2. Again, the knowledge arrived—standard patterns for health amulets, luck charms (mostly placebo, but some were real), and warding stones.
He looked at the small Unicorn statue he had carved for Isabelle. It was supposed to be a gift, a gesture of goodwill, but now that he had the Level 3 Runic knowledge, he couldn't leave it as just a pretty rock. He carved a set of protective runes into the base of the unicorn.
He hesitated again with the knife. His thumb was starting to look like a pincushion.
"I'm going to end up anemic if I keep this up," he grumbled, but he steeled himself and drew blood once more.
The Unicorn statue absorbed the offering, the stone turning a shade warmer. It was a solid piece of work—not as powerful as his own bracelet, but enough to turn aside a minor jinx or alert the wearer to malicious intent.
Albert leaned back, feeling the drain on his mental energy. Level 3 was a massive step up, but it made him realize how terrifying the higher levels must be. If Level 3 changed his entire perception of magic, what would Level 4 do?
He checked his remaining Skill Points and Experience. He had enough to push one skill—maybe—to Level 4. But which one?
His only Level 4 trait currently was [Wizard Bloodline], which was a passive buff to his overall magical capacity. Raising a technical skill like [Ancient Runes] or [Charms] to Level 4 felt like it might be too much of a gamble right now. He needed versatility, not just one super-powered move.
Besides, the cost was astronomical. It was like the difference between buying a car and buying a private jet.
"Experience is never enough," he sighed, closing the system panel. "The more I learn, the more I realize how much of a 'noob' I still am in the grand scheme of things."