The aftermath of the Hogsmeade trip always left the castle feeling a bit like a discarded candy wrapper—sticky, slightly chaotic, and smelling vaguely of damp wool. Albert, however, didn't have time to indulge in the post-trip lethargy. After his brief session in the Room of Requirement, he made a beeline for the Defense Against the Dark Arts office.
He needed to see if Professor Smith would double down on her "omissions."
"Oh, Albert! Back so soon?" Smith said, her voice dripping with a warmth that didn't quite reach her eyes. She was sitting at her desk, grading papers with a flamboyant purple quill. "I take it the practice didn't go as smoothly as you hoped?"
Albert offered a polite, shallow smile—the kind he usually reserved for people he was planning to outmaneuver. "I had some trouble with the stability of the interior walls, Professor. It felt like the space was... fighting back."
"Ah, the anchoring problem," Smith said, clicking her tongue as if she had simply forgotten to mention the most critical part of the spell. She spent the next five minutes explaining the visualization techniques he had already discovered in the library.
To anyone else, she looked like a helpful mentor. To Albert, she looked like someone who had been caught trying to sabotage a student and was now covering her tracks with a 'helpful' lecture. He didn't call her out. Instead, he took his wand, performed the charm on a nearby teacup with practiced ease, and watched as it swallowed an entire pitcher of water.
"Perfect," Smith whispered, though her expression shifted for a fraction of a second. It wasn't pride; it was a flicker of something that looked dangerously like calculation.
Albert didn't linger. He caught sight of Katrina Miller sitting in the corner of the office, looking like she wanted to melt into the floorboards. Katrina was a brilliant student by any standard, but being in the same room as Albert while he mastered "N.E.W.T.-level" charms was clearly taking a toll on her sanity.
"Don't let it get to you, Katrina," Smith said as Albert walked out. "He's a bit of an anomaly. Even your sister struggles to keep up with that kind of raw intuition."
If you're trying to comfort her, you're doing a rubbish job, Albert thought, closing the door behind him. He knew Isabelle had told her sister to stop comparing herself to others, but in a school like Hogwarts, that was easier said than done.
Albert headed to the library on the fifth floor. It was the only place in the castle where the noise of the weekend couldn't penetrate. He found his usual table—the one near the back where the light was best—and saw that his roommates had already occupied it.
"Saved you a seat," Fred whispered, barely looking up from a parchment he was scribbling on. "But if Pince catches you with that ink-stick of yours again, I'm not bailing you out."
"I'll take my chances," Albert replied, pulling out his fountain pen and a stack of fresh envelopes.
He had three letters to send. The first was to his parents—mostly to assure them he hadn't been expelled or turned into a ferret. The second was to a high-end tailor shop in Diagon Alley, detailing his requirements for the Swamp Digger fur. The third, and most important, was to Adolf, the French wizard he'd met at the alchemy gathering.
Adolf had promised to share the secrets of the "Two-Way Mirror" months ago, but the post had been suspiciously empty. Albert wasn't naive; he knew that in the world of high-level magic, knowledge was guarded more fiercely than gold. No one gave away a "Two-Way Mirror" blueprint for free.
If you won't give it to me, I'll just have to trick you into teaching me the prerequisites, Albert thought.
He began to write, phrasing his questions with a careful blend of flattery and academic curiosity. He didn't ask about the mirrors directly. Instead, he asked about "Advanced Transfiguration and its application to reflective surfaces." If Adolf was as arrogant as most French masters, he wouldn't be able to resist showing off his expertise by correcting Albert's "primitive" theories.
As he wrote, he checked his internal panel. The "Advanced" versions of his spells—the light-orb Lumos and the messenger Patronus—still hadn't appeared as separate skills. It was a minor annoyance. He suspected the system didn't view them as new spells, but rather as Level-dependent variations. He'd probably need his base skills to hit Level 4 or 5 before the "Advanced" tags unlocked.
"Here's the schedule for the Wizarding Card tournament," Lee Jordan said, sliding a parchment over. He was still wearing a patch over his eye, but he seemed to have regained his energy. "I've checked the Quidditch practices and the Hogsmeade dates. We're all clear."
"Good man," Albert said, scanning the list. He made a few quick adjustments to the bracket—ensuring that Fred and George wouldn't knock each other out in the first round—and handed it back. "If we pull this off, the 'Albert-Standard' cards will be the only currency that matters in Gryffindor."
"If you're so grateful, help me with this Freezing Charm essay," Lee pleaded. "Flitwick wants three feet on the thermal properties of magical ice. I haven't even written three inches."
"I haven't started mine yet," Albert lied smoothly. He actually had a rough draft in his bag, but he knew if he gave it to Lee now, the boy would never learn to do the research himself. "Ask Sanna. She's been in the stacks since breakfast."
"Sanna's busy," Angelina Johnson whispered from across the table. "She's helping me figure out why my wand keeps sparks every time I try the freezing motion."
"It's your wrist," Albert noted without looking up. "You're snapping it like a Protego. Keep it fluid."
He finished sealing his letters with a quick Sticking Charm and stood up. "I'm heading to the Owlery. See you lot at dinner."
The castle was eerily quiet. With most of the upper years still in Hogsmeade, the corridors belonged to the ghosts and the shadows. Albert took a shortcut through the second-floor tapestry, only to come face-to-face with a very disgruntled Argus Filch.
The caretaker looked like he had been dragged through a swamp and then set on fire. His hair was wilder than usual, and there was a distinct smell of sulfur and rotten eggs clinging to his coat.
"And where are you going, Anderson?" Filch hissed, his hand tightening on his lamp.
"Owlery, Mr. Filch. Sending letters home," Albert said, fanning the three envelopes like a deck of cards.
Filch narrowed his eyes, searching for a reason to snap. "Don't think I don't know what's going on. Peeves... that overgrown poltergeist... he didn't get those Dungbombs from nowhere. Someone's supplying him. Someone's making my life a misery."
"That's a shame, sir. I'll keep an ear out," Albert said, stepping around him with a polite nod.
A few yards down the hall, he ran into Nearly Headless Nick, who was floating serenely through a suit of armor.
"I'd avoid the East Wing if I were you, Albert," Nick warned. "Peeves has set a trap near the trophy room. Filch has been scrubbing the floors for three hours and is currently looking for a scapegoat."
"I gathered," Albert said. "I'm surprised Filch hasn't figured out the source yet. Zonko's had a sale on 'Super-Stink' pellets today."
"Ah, youth," Nick sighed. "So much energy, so little regard for the janitorial arts."
Albert reached the West Tower ten minutes later. The Owlery was cold, filled with the soft rustle of feathers and the occasional hoot of a sleeping bird. He sent Shera off with the letter home, then chose a particularly sturdy-looking Great Horned Owl for the international flight to France.
As he turned to leave, the door creaked open, and Isabelle walked in. She was carrying a small, rectangular package wrapped in brown paper.
She looked tired. Her usual "perfect" facade was slightly frayed at the edges, and she seemed surprised to see him.
"Albert," she said, her voice neutral.
"Isabelle. Just getting back from Hogsmeade?"
"Something like that," she replied. She didn't offer any more information, and her body language suggested she was in a hurry. She moved toward the window, her focus entirely on the owl she was calling.
Albert watched her for a moment. He knew she was working on something—something that involved secret packages and quick trips to the village. But he also knew that Isabelle wasn't someone you poked with a "Truth Detector" unless you wanted to get burned.
"I'll leave you to it," he said.
She nodded once, a brief acknowledgement of his presence, and turned back to her task.
As Albert walked down the spiral stairs, he saw Isabelle's friends waiting for her at the bottom of the tower. They were laughing and clutching bags of Honeydukes sweets, looking every bit like normal students.
Everyone has a secret in this castle, Albert thought, feeling the weight of his own hidden knowledge. Some people hide Dungbombs. Some hide forbidden research. And some... well, some of us are just waiting for the world to catch up.
The sun was beginning to set, casting long, bloody streaks of light across the Highlands. Tomorrow, the fur would arrive at the tailor's. Tomorrow, he would begin the real work on the protective gear. And soon, Smith would be gone, and the real game would begin. 🏰🦉🖋️