Life at Hogwarts has a way of blurring the edges of time. Between the mountain of homework, the constant revisions to the Wizard Card club, and the rhythmic cycle of classes, weeks can disappear in the blink of an eye.
Suddenly, the calendar had flipped to the end of October.
The relentless Scottish rainy season was in full swing. It was the kind of weather that made the castle feel like it was sinking into the loch—a gray, damp, bone-chilling mist that clung to the windows like a shroud. The Great Hall's ceiling was a reflection of the misery outside, swirling with dark, thunderous clouds that mirrored the general mood of the student body.
"Honestly, this weather is a crime against productivity," Albert muttered, stifling a massive yawn. He stared up at the gloomy rafters, leaning his chin on his hand. He was usually the most disciplined student in Gryffindor, but even he found it hard to be motivated when the world looked like a wet wool sweater.
"Morning, sunshine," Fred chirped as he and George slid onto the bench opposite Albert.
Without missing a beat, the twins leaned over and gave their brother, Percy, a simultaneous, heavy-handed "friendly" slap on the shoulders. Percy, who was mid-chew on a piece of kipper, jolted violently. He began to choke, his face turning an alarming shade of beetroot as he hacked into his napkin.
Albert, hiding a smirk, pushed a glass of pumpkin juice toward him. "Easy there, Percy. Death by breakfast is a terrible way for a future Minister of Magic to go."
Percy grabbed the glass, drained half of it in one go, and finally managed to swallow. He glared at the twins with enough heat to dry his damp robes. "You—you total buffoons! I could have suffocated!"
Fred and George didn't even look guilty. They had already used Albert as a human shield, leaning back so Percy couldn't reach them. Their lips moved in a perfect, silent synchronization: 'If you're too weak to handle a hello, that's on you, Perce.'
Before the fraternal war could escalate, the morning post arrived. Hundreds of owls swept into the hall, their wings heavy with rainwater. They brought with them a spray of cold droplets that splattered onto the breakfast plates, much to the annoyance of everyone trying to enjoy their porridge.
A large, sturdy gray owl plummeted toward Albert, dropping a square, heavy package with a dull thud next to his eggs.
"I swear, you get more mail than the Daily Prophet's editor," Fred said, looking enviously at the parcel. "What is it this time? More fan mail from the Alchemical Society?"
Albert ignored the teasing and tore into the brown paper. Inside was a crisp, new volume that still carried the sharp, intoxicating scent of fresh printer's ink. The title was embossed in silver: Advanced Rune Translation.
"Is that Babbles' new one?" Percy asked, his irritation momentarily forgotten as he leaned in to see. "I heard she was working on a reference guide for the NEWT students, but that's not supposed to be out for another month."
"Flourish and Blotts sent me an early copy," Albert explained casually, flipping through the pages. The publication was even faster than he'd anticipated. He'd spent most of his summer corresponding with Professor Babbles on the nuances of the 'Third Epoch' translations, and seeing his labor in print felt remarkably fulfilling.
Percy took the book from Albert, his eyes widening as he opened the front cover. His jaw practically hit the table. "Albert... look at this."
He pointed to the dedication page. In elegant, looping script, it read: This work is dedicated to Albert Anderson, whose insights and corrections were indispensable to its completion.
"You helped write a textbook?" George asked, his voice actually hitting a note of genuine awe.
"I reviewed the proofs," Albert corrected modestly, though a small smile played on his lips. "The Professor was kind enough to acknowledge the feedback."
"Kind enough? You're in the dedication of a NEWT-level textbook in your second year," Percy whispered, looking at Albert as if he were a different species entirely. "That's... that's actually incredible."
While the Gryffindors were busy marveling at Albert's academic prowess, a sudden commotion broke out at the Slytherin table. A massive formation of six owls was struggling to carry a long, thin package toward a student.
"Broomstick," Lee Jordan whispered, his eyes following the package like a hawk. "A big one."
Albert didn't wait for the owls to reach the table. He stood up and caught the end of the package before it could knock over a pitcher of juice. It was surprisingly light for its length.
"Can I? Please?" Lee Jordan was practically vibrating with excitement.
Albert waved a hand. "Go ahead. It's for the club anyway."
Lee ripped the packaging away to reveal a sleek, polished handle of dark oak with silver-wrapped twigs. The logo was embossed in gold: Nimbus 6.
"A Nimbus Six!" George gasped, leaning over to touch the bristles. "This thing hasn't even hit the shelves in Hogsmeade yet. It's faster than the Five, more stable in high winds... Albert, this is fifty Galleons of pure speed."
"Fifty-five, actually," Albert murmured, remembering the invoice he'd authorized through his various investments.
He felt a pair of eyes on him and looked across the hall. Isabelle was watching him from the Ravenclaw table. When their eyes met, she gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod before turning back to her own meal.
Since their intense "mental duel" in Classroom 17, their relationship had settled into a comfortable, intellectual rhythm. They didn't hang out in the corridors or sit together, but they exchanged a constant stream of letters. They were 'pen pals' who lived in the same castle, discussing the philology of runes and the ethics of Legilimency with a clinical detachment that Albert found refreshing.
"You're going to test it, right?" Lee Jordan asked, looking out at the pouring rain with a manic grin. "We have to see if the turning radius is as tight as they claim."
"If you want to get pneumonia, be my guest," Albert said, sliding the broom toward Lee. "I have no desire to be a lightning rod today. Take it out if you want, just don't crash it."
Lee let out a jubilant shout, grabbed the broom, and headed for the doors, trailing half of the Gryffindor Quidditch fans behind him.
Albert turned back to his breakfast, but his mind wasn't on Quidditch. He pulled out his notebook, flipping past his Transfiguration notes to a page labeled Acoustic Alchemy.
He had successfully managed to "trap" the sound of a Mandrake's cry in one of his silver cylinders. He'd used a young Mandrake—not lethal enough to kill a man, but certainly enough to knock one unconscious. The problem was, he had no way of knowing if the recording actually worked. Was the Mandrake's power tied to its physical presence, or was it purely the frequency of the sound?
"Hey, do any of you know where I can find some live mice?" Albert asked, his tone as casual as if he were asking for the time.
The table went quiet. Fred and George looked at him with suspicious glints in their eyes.
"Mice? Why? Planning on starting a circus?" George asked.
"I'm running a magic experiment," Albert said, tapping his quill against his chin. "I've developed a variation of the Stunning Spell that works on a specific frequency. I need a test subject to see if it actually triggers a loss of consciousness or if it's just... loud noise."
He'd tried to get his owl, Shera, to bring him a live specimen, but Shera was a bit too efficient. She had brought him a pile of three very dead, very mangled rats, which didn't help his data collection at all.
"In the warehouse? Or maybe the dungeons?" Lee Jordan suggested (having returned momentarily because he forgot his cloak).
"Too much trouble," Fred said, his eyes sliding toward Percy. "Perce has a pet mouse. Scabbers. He's been in the family for years. Probably wouldn't even notice if he was stunned; he spends eighteen hours a day looking like he's already dead."