The best way to bury a collection of unpleasant memories is to drown them in the sheer noise of busywork. If you don't have a spare second to breathe, you certainly don't have the luxury of dwelling on the cold, calculated end of a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
For the rest of Gryffindor, the sting of three consecutive Quidditch losses didn't linger as long as one might expect. It wasn't because they were particularly resilient, but because a much larger, more terrifying shadow had finally eclipsed the sports field: final exams.
The atmosphere in the castle shifted overnight. The lighthearted spring air was replaced by a heavy, static tension that made your hair stand on end. Fifth and seventh-year students were the worst; they moved through the corridors like caffeinated zombies, clutching their O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. revision guides as if they were life preservers in a stormy sea. Even the younger years caught the "exam fever," their usual chatter replaced by the desperate murmuring of historical dates and potion ingredients.
Charlie Weasley was no exception. As the current Quidditch Captain, he had plenty of reasons to be dejected about the season, but he simply didn't have the time. He needed top-tier N.E.W.T. results to secure his future career—dragonology wasn't a field that accepted mediocre grades. He spent his evenings hunched over ancient maps, oblivious to the fact that his team was effectively rudderless for the moment.
Even the twins, Fred and George, had been forced into a tactical retreat. They had abandoned their prank-planning sessions to pore over Albert's "condensed" revision notes. Albert had a knack for identifying exactly which three sentences in a ten-page chapter were actually going to be on the test, and the twins were treating those notes like sacred scripture.
Lee Jordan was slightly better off. Since he didn't have the grueling Quidditch practice schedule, he'd managed to keep his notes organized. However, he lacked the twins' raw, intuitive spark for magic, which meant he had to spend twice as long practicing the practical wand movements.
The three of them, however, shared one common emotion: a burning, righteous indignation at Albert's behavior. There is no greater insult to a struggling student than a friend who isn't struggling at all.
While they were pulling their hair out over Transfiguration theory, Albert was often spotted lounging under a beech tree near the lake. He'd have a chilled butterbeer in one hand and a book that clearly had nothing to do with the curriculum in the other. He took long, leisurely walks to Hagrid's hut, where the two of them would sit on oversized wooden chairs and play round after round of the Wizarding Card Game. Fang, Hagrid's boarhound, had recently been immortalized on a "Rare Beast" card, much to Hagrid's tearful delight.
But Albert wasn't just being lazy. He was an architect of opportunity.
Knowing that the exam stress was reaching a breaking point, Albert "accidentally" let slip that he was in possession of a perfect bottle of Babbling Beverage. In the desperate, ethics-free zone of pre-exam Hogwarts, this news was like dropping a steak into a shark tank.
A Babbling Beverage was a notorious "cheat" potion. It didn't make you smarter, but it allowed you to speak with such rapid-fire confidence and linguistic flair that examiners often missed the fact that you didn't actually know the answer. It was a high-risk, high-reward shortcut.
A fifth-year Ravenclaw, looking like he hadn't slept since the 1970s, cornered Albert in a corridor. "I'll give you five Galleons for it," he whispered, his eyes darting around. "Ten. Just give me the bottle."
Albert gave him a polite, practiced smile. "I'm sorry, but that bottle is the grand prize for the upcoming Wizarding Card Game Tournament. If you want it, you'll have to win it. Or, perhaps, talk to the person who does."
The Ravenclaw was stunned. "Why? You could have the money right now! Why involve a card game?"
To Albert, a few Galleons were pocket change compared to the system rewards for completing the [Little Competition] task. The Babbling Beverage was the ultimate "gimmick." It turned a simple hobbyist tournament into a high-stakes event. Students who didn't even like card games were suddenly intensely interested in who was likely to win, hoping to strike a private deal with the champion before the ink on the certificates was dry.
The Ministry of Magic hadn't checked for Babbling Beverages in years; they were too focused on "nootropics" and "wit-sharpening" potions. Albert had played the market perfectly.
The day of the finals arrived, and the Great Hall was packed. Nearly half the school had turned out to watch, creating an atmosphere that rivaled a Quidditch final. Curiosity is a contagious disease at Hogwarts; once a crowd forms, everyone else joins in just to see what the fuss is about.
Lee Jordan, acting as the commentator, was so nervous he nearly tripped over his own tongue. Even the professors had caught wind of it. However, since Albert had secured Dumbledore's vague permission weeks ago, even Snape stayed his hand—though he looked like he wanted to vanish the entire room out of sheer spite.
The matches were a display of ruthless strategy. Angelina Johnson, usually the luckiest of the group, saw her streak end in the quarterfinals when she ran into Truman, the Hufflepuff prefect. She took it with a shrug, though she looked disappointed to miss out on the "prize."
Sanna, however, was a force of nature. She played with a cold, calculating logic that would have made a goblin proud. She carved her way to the finals to face off against Truman.
"Look," a seventh-year Ravenclaw student said, stepping forward as the final match began. He slammed fifteen Galleons onto the table, the gold coins ringing loudly. "Whoever wins, I'm buying that potion. Right here, right now."
The silence that followed was heavy. Fifteen Galleons was an astronomical sum for a student—enough to buy a decent used broom or a whole wardrobe of high-end robes. The message was clear: I am going to cheat, and I am going to pay you for the privilege.
Sanna and Truman both looked at Albert. They were worried he'd reclaim the prize to take the gold for himself.
"The prize belongs to the winner," Albert said, shrugging with nonchalant indifference. "What you do with your property is your business. My word is my bond."
That was the spark they needed. The final match stretched for over an hour, both players agonizing over every move. In the end, Sanna's deck-cycling strategy overwhelmed Truman's defensive wall.
The room erupted. Sanna took the bottle of Babbling Beverage, and within thirty seconds, the gold was in her pocket and the potion was in the Ravenclaw senior's bag.
As the tournament concluded, Albert made sure the other finalists didn't leave empty-handed. He produced several large mugs of chilled butterbeer, distributing them to the top eight. Truman, despite being the runner-up, looked dejected as he accepted a high-quality leather-bound notebook and a self-inking quill.
The third-place winner, Eddie Carmichael, was far more cheerful. He'd won a small barrel of butterbeer and immediately tapped it, sharing it with the spectators. The tournament ended in a blur of laughter and foam, a brief, bright respite from the impending doom of exams.
However, the "cheater's" victory was short-lived. Later that evening, word reached Albert that the Ravenclaw senior had been intercepted by Snape. Apparently, someone had tipped off the Potions Master.
Snape didn't need to be told why a student was carrying a Babbling Beverage a week before N.E.W.T.s. He'd confiscated the potion and given the boy a week of detentions scrubbing cauldrons without magic.