The unexpected triumph on the Quidditch pitch had galvanized the Gryffindor House into an almost fanatical unity. The sheer joy of breaking Slytherin's seemingly endless hold on the Quidditch Cup was amplified by the realization that the House Cup was now within their grasp.
Students who had previously been lax about rules were now operating with military precision, not just striving to earn points, but obsessively guarding against any infraction that might result in a loss.
A palpable tension settled over the castle. Every time a Gryffindor passed the massive, glittering hourglasses recording the House points, they would pause, eyes fixed on the rubies that now held a precarious lead over the emeralds.
Even members of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, tired of the Slytherin arrogance, were discreetly rooting for the Lion's victory. The atmosphere was less academic and more like the calm before a magically charged thunderstorm.
The shift was most keenly felt in the classrooms, particularly in Professor Snape's Potions class, which immediately devolved into a sustained act of psychological warfare.
Snape, whose face was perpetually set in a mask of sour displeasure, now prowled the dungeon like a predator, his stern, oily gaze sweeping the room. His objective was not instruction, but attrition. He sought any minute deviation, any frayed nerve, or any lapse in concentration that would justify the sharp, slicing sound of point deduction.
The Gryffindor strategy to counter this psychological assault was simple, effective, and profoundly tedious: absolute, unwavering compliance.
When confronted, students were to admit fault with immediate, sincere deference, offer no justification, and avoid further conversation. This robotic submission robbed Snape of the emotional reaction he craved, limiting his ability to escalate the punishment.
The unspoken conflict between the two houses became so intense that Albert fully expected a full-scale, spontaneous magical brawl to erupt in the hallways any day. Yet, the students held their breath. Every single Gryffindor understood the stakes: one unthinking skirmish, one moment of hot-headed pride, and their hard-won, minuscule lead would vanish into the hourglass.
The Gryffindor prefects had been clear, their message delivered with chilling solemnity in the Common Room: "Slytherin's tactic is always to provoke. They have successfully stripped both Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff of their lead using petty conflicts in the past. If you have a grievance, you swallow it. The time for retaliation is after the House Cup is secured."
The simmering hostility persisted for weeks, occasionally punctured by aggressive shoulder bumps or silent, searing glares exchanged across the Great Hall. Only the impending arrival of the final exams provided a much-needed distraction, forcing everyone to temporarily redirect their nervous energy into frantic, last-minute study.
The library, in particular, became a literal pressure cooker. As the calendar turned towards June, the weather became relentlessly hot, and the ancient stone of the castle seemed to trap the heat. Every seat was occupied, every table heaped with parchment, and the air was thick with the scent of old ink, cheap sweat, and desperate ambition.
Albert, however, was rarely seen there.
The intense heat was deeply, profoundly unpleasant for Albert, who had grown up used to the modern, climate-controlled comfort of the Muggle world. The absence of air conditioning, cold soda, and proper refrigeration was, to him, a barbaric inconvenience. The scorching environment made focused study indoors a miserable prospect.
"I should be studying, shouldn't I, Albert?" Hagrid greeted him one sweltering afternoon, noticing Albert casually leaning against the shade of his pumpkin patch instead of being hunched over books.
"My exams are well in hand, Hagrid," Albert replied, waving a small, leather-bound notebook. "This contains all the conceptual flashpoints the professors emphasized in class. A quick review is all that's needed to recall the associated knowledge." Albert's perfect, eidetic memory eliminated the need for rote rehearsal, making the desperate study habits of his peers seem tragically inefficient.
"Exam notes, eh?" Hagrid chuckled, wiping a sheen of perspiration from his brow.
"Hagrid, I have a more pressing issue than ancient history," Albert said, tucking the notebook away. "Do you know of any spells—simple ones—that could create ice, or even just rapidly chill a liquid? This oppressive heat is draining."
Hagrid shook his massive head, his expression regretful. "Nah, boy. Simple, utility charms like that are rare outside of specialized domestic magic. What's the plan?"
"The plan," Albert said, adopting a tone of utter seriousness, "is to secure a properly cold beverage. This heat is unbearable."
Hagrid beamed, his eyes twinkling. "A man after my own heart! Come inside, Albert! I'll get you a butterbeer. I've found a way to make it cold, just like you predicted we'd win the Cup!"
The "Hagrid Cold Butterbeer" ritual was exactly as basic and charmingly effective as Albert had imagined. Hagrid had placed a small, oak-bound cask deep into his garden well, where the ground water kept it surprisingly cool. When retrieved, the resulting drink, while not ice-cold, offered a remarkable respite from the summer air.
"That's… quite effective, Hagrid," Albert conceded, taking a long, refreshing draft.
"I'm glad you think so," Hagrid said, then paused, his eyes drifting towards a small, pungent patch of green behind his cabin. "Say, I remember you planted a whole crop of garlic earlier this year. Are those still growing?"
"Magnificently," Albert confirmed, his mind quickly shifting to his side project. "They are nearly ready for harvest."
The garlic plot was the result of the ill-fated scheme to make an anti-vampire cross—a naive childhood project that the group had wisely abandoned, but Albert had continued the cultivation for his own purposes.
"Hagrid, I need a favor related to that garlic," Albert began, lowering his voice. "Do you think you could acquire some high-proof Muggle alcohol for me? Something strong, like Everclear or pure ethanol."
Hagrid's bushy eyebrows shot up. "Alcohol? For a schoolboy? Why in the name of Dumbledore's beard would you need that?"
"It's for purification," Albert explained, leaning closer. "We decided that the whole 'garlic cross' idea was a bit too silly. My new plan is to extract the allicin—that's the potent chemical compound—from the garlic cloves using the alcohol as a solvent. Then, we mix that concentrated extract with beeswax to create a highly pungent, garlic-scented wax amulet."
Hagrid was completely dumbfounded. "A garlic-flavored amulet? You're making little wax garlic balls?"
"A protective charm, Hagrid," Albert corrected gently. "Vampires despise garlic, but so do many other Dark Creatures, particularly those sensitive to potent natural compounds. By sealing the allicin into the wax of the Guardian Tree amulet, we create a passive repellent. It's a hypothesis I want to test. It requires industrial-grade extraction."
Hagrid slowly processed the idea, finally nodding with reluctant awe. "Well… it's a bizarre plan, Albert, but inventive. If you need the alcohol, I might be able to find a supplier. If you can't get it at Diagon Alley—which I doubt you can—you'd have to try Knockturn Alley."
The mention of the dark, nefarious street brought a sudden sternness to Hagrid's eyes. "Don't go to Knockturn Alley, Albert! It's no place for a Hogwarts student. I'll make a trip to town myself and see what I can manage."
"I appreciate that, Hagrid. And don't worry, I was aware of Knockturn Alley long before I arrived at Hogwarts," Albert reassured him, a faint smirk playing on his lips. He started to pull out a handful of Galleons, but Hagrid waved them away firmly.
"Keep your money, lad. I've plenty of gold from my research duties." Hagrid scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Beeswax is no problem. I'll have both things for you next week."
Leaving Hagrid, Albert decided against returning to the crowded, stuffy castle. He walked down to the edge of the Black Lake and settled under a massive, ancient oak tree, letting the cool, damp breeze coming off the water wash over him. A giant squid, a vast, indolent shape, was visible basking in the shallows far out on the surface.
This is the only way to endure summer at Hogwarts, Albert thought, allowing the soft sounds of the lake to lull him toward a pleasant, shallow nap.
He was jolted awake by a shadow falling over his face. He blinked, the sun spots fading, and saw a girl leaning over him, her expression a mix of annoyance and curiosity: Katrina Carrow.
"Did you require something?" Albert asked, his voice thick with sleep.
"You appear to be having an incredibly easy time," Katrina noted, her tone laced with characteristic sarcasm as she glanced at his relaxed posture. "One might almost assume you're the brilliant genius everyone whispers about."
"There's no issue," Albert replied, completely unfazed. "Worrying about an exam does not improve one's memory, only one's stress levels. The logical approach is to ensure knowledge acquisition is complete, then relax the mind for optimal retrieval during the test. Worrying is the refuge of the unprepared."
"Everyone in the library is nearly weeping from stress, and you have the audacity to make these condescending observations," Katrina huffed, pulling up a root near the base of the tree and sitting down with an abrupt motion. She also appreciated the cool air coming off the lake. "If the students preparing for their History of Magic exam heard you, they'd probably challenge you to a duel."
"I took karate lessons as a child. They are welcome to try," Albert countered, yawning slightly.
Katrina changed tactics, her curiosity winning over her irritation. "I heard you possess the 'exam secrets'—a legendary document of study points."
"Exam secrets?" Albert couldn't suppress a genuine chuckle, recalling Hagrid's reaction. "You mean this?" He pulled the thin, compact notebook from his pocket and waved it.
Katrina snatched it, flipping through the pages. Her frown deepened. The notebook contained no detailed notes, no essays, and no textbook excerpts—only a precise list of questions. Questions phrased exactly as the professors had spoken them in class: "What is the critical failure point of the Untransfigure Charm?""List the three primary uses of the Blood-Replenishing Potion.""Describe the difference between a Class 3 and a Class 4 banishing spell."
"Is that… all it is?" Katrina asked, feeling profoundly let down, like she'd been promised a treasure and received a filing cabinet.
"What else would it be?" Albert asked simply. "The only secret to passing an exam is knowing the questions the professors will ask. If you can answer every question the professor highlighted for review, you are guaranteed a high score."
"I thought you were aiming for the highest score possible—a clean sweep of 'Outstanding's," Katrina challenged, throwing the notebook back at him. She couldn't understand his apparent lack of interest in maximizing his performance.
"What is the utility of a perfect score?" Albert mused aloud. "Hogwarts grades on an Acceptable/Exceeds Expectations/Outstanding curve. An 'Outstanding' is already perfect for the requirements of any career. I am not interested in pointless optimization. I pursue efficient results, not arbitrary labels of perfection."
Katrina felt a sudden, profound surge of competitive fury. She hated his casual dismissal; she hated that he didn't view her as a rival worthy of even a moment's concern.
"What if we held a contest?" she proposed, her voice suddenly serious. "A proper competition—based purely on our final academic results. The winner is the person who achieves the better overall average grade."
"No," Albert refused instantly, without hesitation.
"Why?" Katrina pressed, her face coloring slightly. "Are you afraid that someone else might surpass your effortless facade?"
"There is no reason, except that the very idea sounds immensely tiring," Albert said, sighing dramatically. "I find that kind of prolonged, academic comparison to be utterly draining. I prefer challenges that are swift, decisive, and intellectually novel."
"Tiring? You reject a challenge because it might be too much effort?" Katrina couldn't hide her exasperation.
"If you are set on a wager," Albert said, his eyes now open and bright, the casual languor replaced by a keen, calculating gleam, "then let's make it more interesting, and far more definitive."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low conspiratorial murmur. "You are a Ravenclaw, so you face the riddles at your Common Room door daily, correct? Here is the proposition: If you can successfully solve one hundred unique Ravenclaw Eagle Ring riddles in immediate succession, without error, you win. I will immediately concede that you are the superior intellect, and I will pay you a reward of ten Galleons."
Katrina stared, her jaw slightly agape. "One hundred riddles? In a row? Are you deliberately mocking me? Even some of the senior Ravenclaw prefects haven't managed a streak like that!"
"Indeed," Albert confirmed, his smile now wide and entirely disingenuous. "But if you win, you get the Galleons and my public, sincere concession. That is the price of true intellectual superiority."
Katrina was silent, doing the quick mental math, then she narrowed her eyes, detecting a subtle shift in his tone. "And what are the stakes if I fail? A bag of your infernal fertilizer bombs?"
"Nothing. If you fail, you merely try again. However, I have one non-negotiable condition," Albert stated, holding up a finger. "You must not engage me in any other academic or competitive challenge for the remainder of the term. The wager must be singular."
Katrina's competitive spirit, combined with the lure of the substantial ten Galleon prize (a significant sum for a student), was a powerful magnet. She couldn't stand failure, and the difficulty of the challenge only fueled her determination.
"Fine. But I demand a counter-wager," Katrina said, her eyes flashing. "I don't think you can solve a hundred riddles, either. I bet you couldn't solve ten in a row, with a time limit, even with your 'genius.' If you manage ten consecutive, correct answers faster than I can, I will give you a rare, personally commissioned magical item—not Galleons, but something far more valuable. You must attempt it once, and you must be faster than me."
"Agreed. I accept. Ten riddles it is," Albert said, nodding instantly, a flicker of pure, satisfied calculation in his eyes. "However, I feel I must be realistic: I shall almost certainly fail to answer even one question. It is an impossible challenge for a non-Ravenclaw."
"No, you will try," Katrina insisted seriously, entirely missing the subtle mockery. "I won't believe you can't answer a single one."
"Very well, if you insist," Albert said carelessly. "Now, before any money or rare magical items change hands, we require a notary."
Katrina jumped up, excited. "I know exactly who! Come on, we'll find the Grey Lady."
They walked swiftly to the western side of the castle. In the upper corridor, they found the ethereal figure of the Helena Ravenclaw, the Grey Lady, floating silently. Katrina explained the complicated, asymmetrical terms of their bet—the 100-riddle, 10-Galleon prize for her, and the 10-riddle, speed challenge for him.
The Grey Lady, ever aloof but intrigued by displays of intellectual prowess, agreed to officiate. "A fascinating proposition, particularly for a pair of non-Ravenclaws," she commented, her voice a faint, cool whisper.
"Few students—even those of my own house—can achieve a century-long streak of correct answers. And for a Gryffindor to manage ten… that is an amusing spectacle I would not wish to miss."
"Do you wish to begin immediately?" the ghostly woman inquired.
"No, I think we should afford Miss Carrow ample time for preparation," Albert interjected smoothly, leaning against the cold stone of the wall. "The challenge is monumental. I suggest we commence the wager after the final exams, or early next term. This will give her the proper window to gather and collate the necessary intellectual data to meet such an extreme standard."
Katrina, utterly focused on the prestige of winning the ten Galleons and proving her superiority, saw this as an act of sportsmanlike generosity. She would need weeks to study old riddle solutions, common Ravenclaw puzzles, and mnemonic techniques.
"Agreed," Katrina said quickly. "After the exams. I will be ready."
Albert watched the determined Ravenclaw girl practically sprint away, already deep in thought about how to approach the one-hundred-riddle challenge.