THE ALCHEMIST OF HARRY POTTER

Late at night, at No. 19, Tibe Street, the glow of candlelight flickered in the second-floor window.

Albert skimmed through The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) with practiced ease, his quick comprehension allowing him to breeze through its contents. His photographic memory—enhanced through determined practice—felt sharper than ever, almost like a Remembrall ensuring he never forgot a detail.

Just now, he had noticed a peculiar new skill on his system panel: Wizard Bloodline (Level 0).

Unlike his usual spells, he couldn't improve this skill through normal practice—it required skill points. This was a first. Albert hesitated but decided to invest in it.

The moment he upgraded Wizard Bloodline to Level 1, he felt a strange shift, as though his magical core had solidified. His wand felt more responsive, his understanding of incantations sharper. Experimenting, he attempted Lumos, and within minutes, the spell became second nature.

Should he invest all his remaining skill points?

Albert wavered. Skill points were rare. He needed to be strategic. But curiosity won, and he allocated another point—only to realize the upgrade barely made a difference.

Cheated.

Despite his frustration, he moved on. If his magical potential had increased, he would test it. With his wand in one hand and The Standard Book of Spells in the other, he turned to Alohomora—the Unlocking Charm.

The wand movement resembled a reversed 'S'—awkward, but familiar. He locked his door intentionally, then traced the shape in the air.

Nothing.

Albert frowned. He repeated the gesture, this time concentrating harder. The tip of his wand sparked, but the lock remained sealed.

Failure.

Expected, but disappointing. Still, his system panel registered Alohomora as a learned spell—though without experience points.

"Albert, what are you doing?"

Niya's voice startled him. His younger sister, wrapped in her oversized pajamas, appeared at the corridor's end, squinting suspiciously.

"You're practicing magic, aren't you?"

Albert turned, feeling caught.

"You should be asleep," he said.

"I can't sleep." Niya pouted. "And it's not fair! You're sneaking around with magic while I have to wait years for my letter."

Albert sighed. "Magic isn't a toy, Niya."

She huffed. "But you're playing with it."

"This isn't playing. It's controlled practice."

"Oh, so you can 'practice' but I can't even try?" She crossed her arms.

Albert shook his head. He understood her frustration, but magic wasn't something to experiment with recklessly. Besides, there was no guarantee she was a witch. Their grandfather had been born to a magical family but never displayed any abilities. What if Niya was the same?

"I want to learn," she insisted.

"Not tonight. Now go back to bed."

"No! Tell me a story instead."

Albert sighed in defeat, reopening his door. "Fine. But just one."

Grinning in triumph, Niya scooped up Tom, their British Shorthair, and padded into the room.

Tom prowled restlessly, sniffing at the owl cage by the window, his tail flicking in irritation. The cage was empty—Snowy, Albert's new owl, was out hunting.

"Alright, settle down," Albert said, lifting Tom onto the bed. Before starting, he made sure to stash his wand in a drawer, lock it, and pocket the key. He knew his sister too well.

"You don't trust me," she accused, watching his every move.

"I trust you to cause trouble."

She stuck out her tongue.

"Remember how you got that scratch on your arm?" Albert reminded her. "That was just from mishandling Tom. Magic is a lot more dangerous."

Niya muttered something unintelligible, but her gaze dropped. She did remember. When Tom was a kitten, she had grabbed him too roughly, earning a deep scratch and a rare scolding from Albert.

That had been the first time she'd seen him truly angry.

"Do you still want a story?" Albert prompted.

"…Yes."

He smirked. "Then listen."

Leaning back, he launched into a tale—a mix of Beedle the Bard's stories and his own embellishments. It was a skill he had honed, using bedtime stories as an excuse to practice English after being thrust into this world. As a result, he had not only improved his storytelling but also mastered an additional language—French—purely for the challenge. His abilities had always set him apart.

"Albert, do you think I'll be able to use magic?" Niya suddenly asked.

Albert hesitated. "You might."

"You're a genius," she said, unconvinced. "I'm not like you."

"This has nothing to do with being a genius," he corrected. "We're siblings. If I have magic, there's a good chance you do too."

"But Grandpa didn't," she countered. "And Dad can't."

That was true. Their grandfather had been a Squib—the only non-magical member of his otherwise magical family. Their father was entirely Muggle.

"In that case, you'll find another way to be extraordinary," Albert assured her.

Niya huffed. "Easy for you to say. You already have magic! Tom, attack him!" She grabbed the cat's paw and pressed it against Albert's face.

As the night deepened, Niya finally dozed off, snuggled against Tom.

The door creaked open, and their parents stepped in, clad in pajamas.

"She's asleep?" Herb whispered.

Albert nodded.

Daisy sighed in relief. "Finally." Herb gently lifted his daughter and carried her back to her room.

"Good night, Albert." Daisy kissed his forehead. "Don't stay up too late reading."

Albert yawned. "Good night."

Tom, as usual, refused to budge. Albert nudged him, but the cat merely stretched and rolled over.

"Fine, stay there. Good night, Tom."

With that, Albert adjusted his pillow, closed his eyes, and let sleep claim him.

Magic was real. And that was still the most incredible thing of all.