The Easter holidays dissolved into the persistent, slightly damp chill of the late British spring. Before Albert Anderson could dedicate himself entirely to the complex intellectual marathon of answering the Eagle Ring riddles, the school calendar dictated a return to routine.
And with the return came the full, undeniable reality of Professor Brood's sudden departure.
News of the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's early resignation had spread through the castle like a magical contagion, leaving a pervasive sense of disappointment in its wake. Brood's classes had been invigorating—a welcome shift from the typical dull, rote memorization of hexes and counter-jinxes.
He was quick-witted, possessed a dry, intellectual humor, and, crucially, had managed to make a subject notoriously dry under previous tenure feel genuinely relevant and exciting. Now, his office was empty, and a profound void was left in the third-floor curriculum.
"Who in the name of the Founders are they going to assign to teach us now?" Lee Jordan asked, staring miserably at the remaining half of his holiday essay, a dense treatise on Werewolf Protection Charms. "Should I even bother finishing this, Albert? If the new professor is a maniac, they might just scrap the whole syllabus."
Lee was trying to finish his assignment while mentally avoiding the memory of the early lessons, a coping mechanism for his perpetual state of being behind. He had already forgotten the stark warnings Brood had delivered in that first class.
"Did Brood even say why he left so soon?" Angelina Johnson asked, her brow furrowed with confusion as she looked across the library table at Albert.
Albert glanced up from his own perfectly structured, seven-roll treatise on Theoretical Transfiguration, which he was merely reviewing for structural integrity. "He already told us, Angelina, in the very first class," Albert stated, his tone matter-of-fact and slightly clinical. "He simply accelerated the timetable. It was a move of pure, calculated pragmatism."
"Is that so?" Lee muttered skeptically, stuffing a spinach-flavored Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Bean into his mouth, grimacing at the flavor. "I'm pretty sure the first class covered the Banishing Charm, not a formal resignation notice."
"It was implied," Albert countered, tapping a pen rhythm on the table. "Defense Against the Dark Arts is said to be cursed—a rumor so persistent it has passed into folklore."
"And you actually believe the rumors, Albert?" Shanna asked, surprised, recalling his recent, masterful performance of dismissing the Forbidden Forest tale.
"Belief is irrelevant; data is conclusive," Albert corrected, organizing his parchments with crisp movements. "If the professor of a specific subject is forced to resign, is severely injured, or even dies at the end of every academic year, year after year, then the pattern is established. Whether the cause is a malevolent curse or a series of improbable coincidences, the result is the same: instability and danger."
He looked directly at Angelina and Lee. "Professor Brood's early resignation was a strategically sound retreat. It guarantees his safety and prevents him from becoming another victim added to the pattern. It ensures he doesn't spend the rest of his career confined to St. Mungo's or worse."
"Is it truly that severe?" Angelina's skepticism remained, but the conviction in Albert's voice planted a seed of doubt. The calmness with which he discussed potential fatalities was unsettling.
"I suggest you spend an hour researching the tenure history of the post in the Restricted Section archives, Angelina," Albert advised, standing up as the library bell chimed the closure warning. "It's far more reliable than anything I could tell you."
As the group gathered their things and left the quiet, enormous hall, Lee Jordan sighed dramatically. "Brood's gone. So now what? Are we left to simply review on our own? Are we just going to start flinging hexes at each other in the common room?"
"Someone will inevitably be assigned to supervise the remaining class time," Albert said with a dismissive wave. "And yes, that someone is most likely to be Snape."
Lee and Angelina exchanged horrified glances. "No. Please, Merlin, no," Lee groaned.
"It's the logical choice," Albert persisted, ignoring their distress. "He is the school's most accomplished expert on Dark Magic and its countermeasures. However, since he already holds the Potions post, the arrangement will be temporary. We will likely be left with a highly structured, self-study review—Snape's presence will be purely to administer fear and monitor our compliance, not to actively teach."
"Why can't you ever just say what we want to hear, Albert?" Lee complained, already picturing Snape's oily hair and his deep-seated loathing for Gryffindors filling the DADA classroom.
Later that night, long after the eleven o'clock curfew, the dormitory door opened, and the Weasley twins finally dragged their exhausted bodies back into the room. They looked utterly defeated—not merely tired, but psychologically worn down.
Filch's punishment for their transgression into the Forbidden Forest was a masterpiece of pettiness and sustained misery. He had refused to allow them to serve their time concurrently, opting instead for staggered, overlapping detention schedules that ensured at least one of them was suffering at any given time, stretching their cumulative punishment out over what felt like an eternity. They had been trapped in the caretaker's office two nights a week, for over a month now.
"I think my dominant wrist is about to snap off," Fred groaned, collapsing onto his bed and immediately beginning to rub his aching forearm with a wince. The constant, repetitive motion had left his muscles screaming in protest.
"What fresh hell did the old goat demand this time?" Lee Jordan asked, trying to stifle a yawn as he tossed a handful of Pepper Imps into his mouth to wake himself up.
"He made us copy the disciplinary records," Fred spat out, his voice raw with suppressed rage. "Every single minute mistake, every infraction, every pathetic punishment ever meted out to a student in the last century. Pages and pages of pointless, dense script detailing every student who sneezed too loud or tracked mud into the hall."
"It's worse than pointless—it's soul-crushing," George agreed, his voice low and tight with barely contained fury. He was peeling the wrapper off a chocolate frog, desperate for a surge of energy to counter the exhaustion. "He does it on purpose. Every time he leans over us, that smug, yellow face of his, you can practically hear him breathing in our misery. I want to replace his entire office furniture with Dungbombs."
"You're lucky you didn't get yourselves expelled, frankly," Lee Jordan shrugged, though his voice lacked conviction. He understood the psychological warfare Filch was waging. "You broke one of the few genuinely serious school rules."
"Where were you, Albert? Did you finally make a raid on the kitchens?" George asked, looking for a distraction.
"No, I was bathing," Albert replied, entering the room from the wash area, a towel wrapped around his hair and wearing immaculate blue and silver striped pajamas. He looked entirely unaffected by the cares of the world, a stark contrast to the twins' disheveled appearance. "So, what grand vengeance are you planning for Mr. Filch this time? He sounds like he's running a highly effective campaign of emotional attrition."
"Horrible!" Fred wailed. "Albert, you have to help us. We need a weapon that can truly ruin his day. We've been forced to write so much, I think I've copied a thousand historical instances of detention."
"Sixth time this week," George confirmed, sinking his teeth into the chocolate.
"I'll get my revenge on that ghoul!" Fred muttered, swinging a weak, angry punch into the air. "Help us find the perfect retribution!"
"Shouldn't we just fill his office with Fanged Frisbees?" Lee suggested, eyes sparkling mischievously. "Something that causes chaos without being easily traceable."
"We're running low on our specialized materials," Fred said sullenly. "We need something impactful and discreet."
"I can certainly contribute a complimentary batch of Fertilizer Bombs to the cause," Albert offered suddenly, dropping into his armchair, his expression entirely neutral, despite the implied malice. "Consider it a proactive investment in future pranks."
"I can match that contribution," Lee Jordan immediately agreed, his eyes shining.
The twins looked at each other, the offer of industrial-grade prank material immediately tempting, but their faces still showed hesitation. They needed a catalyst—a final outrage to justify such extreme retaliation.
The final outrage arrived swiftly, confirming the twins' deepest suspicions about Filch's pure hatred.
The highly anticipated Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw was scheduled for the first Saturday after the Easter holidays—the decisive match that would determine the winner of the House Quidditch Cup for the year. The castle was buzzing with electric, competitive energy.
That Saturday morning, however, Fred and George received identical, thin slips of parchment—official detention notices from Filch. The punishment stipulated that they were confined to the castle's cellar for the entire day, washing and polishing chamber pots until sunset, ensuring they would miss every second of the game.
"He did this absolutely on purpose! Absolutely, categorically on purpose!" Fred roared, tearing the note into tiny, desperate pieces. His rage was now incandescent, hotter than any Dragon Fire. "He is purposefully inflicting maximum emotional damage! He knew we wouldn't miss this match for anything!"
"The punishment for sneaking into the Forest was already served, and then extended by his own scheduling malice," George said, his voice quiet, almost dangerously flat. "He used the last remaining hours of our sentence to steal this from us."
"A truly masterful strategic move," Albert commented, leaning against the dormitory door frame, his arms crossed. He wasn't mocking them; he was analyzing Filch's effectiveness. "It seems Mr. Filch holds a deeper, more profound hatred for the two of you than I previously calculated."
"Masterful? You mean disgusting!" Lee Jordan corrected, unable to believe Albert's clinical analysis. "Who deliberately locks two blokes up to scrub urinals while the biggest game of the year is on? That's pure evil, Albert!"
"Is that fund you mentioned last time still valid, Albert?" Fred asked, his eyes gleaming with a manic determination that had been absent before. The anger had finally hardened into a clear, unified intent for revenge.
"It is, of course, valid," Albert confirmed, pushing off the doorframe. "I will prepare the necessary material. However, I suggest you execute the plan on the final night before we all leave for the summer—the maximum time delay will make the retribution feel almost karmic, and it will give you the most time to plan the perfect, untraceable deployment."
"We'll tell you every single goal, every amazing maneuver, the minute we see you back in the Common Room!" Lee Jordan consoled, though his tone was already swelling with the excitement of an imminent Quidditch victory.
"Oh, don't bother," George muttered darkly. "Who knows, maybe by the time our miserable scrubbing is done, the match will have been so tedious the Keeper is still asleep on his post!"
"You should be saying that Gryffindor is going to crush Ravenclaw and finally win this year's Quidditch Cup!" Fred corrected George fiercely, the house pride momentarily overcoming the bitterness of his looming detention.
"We'll win, we always win," the two chorused, their united hope for victory a small, fragile solace against the monumental injustice of their punishment. Their detention started in thirty minutes. The revenge was now locked in, a shared, simmering promise against the school's most miserable caretaker.