The morning light was grey and sluggish, struggling to pierce through the thick layer of clouds pressing down on the Scottish Highlands. Albert opened his eyes to the rhythmic drumming of rain against the stone casement of the dormitory window. It wasn't the gentle, romantic drizzle of a poetry book; it was a heavy, relentless Highland downpour that promised soaked robes and muddy boots.
"Raining again," he muttered, the sound muffled by his pillow. He felt a profound sense of lethargy, a byproduct of staying up late to study the Marauder's Map. He considered pulling the duvet back over his head and pretending the world didn't exist for another hour, but the internal clock of a perfectionist was a cruel master.
Eventually, Albert sat up, stretching until his joints popped. He glanced at the other beds where the curtains were still tightly drawn. With a flick of his wand, he sent a minor stinging jinx toward Fred's bed and a loud, artificial bird chirp toward George's.
"Up, you lot. If I have to suffer the humidity of the greenhouses, you're coming with me."
By the time they reached the Great Hall, the castle was already shedding its everyday skin for its holiday attire. Halloween at Hogwarts was never a subtle affair. Thousands of live bats fluttered in the rafters like shifting soot, and hundreds of hollowed-out pumpkins, some as large as small sheds, hovered above the long tables. Each pumpkin had been carved with a unique, flickering grin, casting a warm, slightly eerie orange glow over the breakfast spread.
Albert took his usual spot, pouring himself a cup of milk tea and snagging a slice of pumpkin pie. He cracked open the Daily Prophet, his eyes scanning the headlines for anything that might affect his long-term investments.
A large advertisement on the third page caught his eye: THE NIMBUS 2000 – SPEED REDEFINED.
"They're really pushing the marketing for next year's model," Albert remarked, showing the page to Angelina, who was sitting nearby. "The Nimbus Racing Broomstick Company claims this will be the fastest production broom in history. Do you feel a bit of buyer's remorse for getting yours so early?"
Angelina glanced at the sleek, hand-carved wood in the illustration and then back at her own tea. She gave a small, confident smirk. "Not a chance. A broom is only as good as the seeker sitting on it, Albert. Besides, by the time the 2000 hits the shelves, I'll have already won a few more matches."
"Spoken like a true athlete," Albert chuckled.
Their conversation was suddenly drowned out by a series of high-pitched squeaks and frantic splashing. Lee Jordan had accidentally insulted a nearby swarm of magical bats—or perhaps his cologne was just particularly offensive to them—and now a dozen of them were dive-bombing his afro.
"Get—off! You—leathery—little—vermin!" Lee shouted, swatting at the air while trying to protect his breakfast. In a fit of desperation, he hurled a piece of buttered toast at the lead bat.
The swarm followed the toast like a heat-seeking missile, spiraling away toward the Hufflepuff table.
Albert watched the chaos with the detached interest of a biologist. He let out a long, slow yawn. "Well, that was certainly a lively start to the morning. Are you quite finished being a target, Lee?"
Lee sat back down, smoothing his hair and looking thoroughly disgruntled. "They've got it out for me, I swear. It's a conspiracy."
The first lesson of the day was Herbology, and as Albert had feared, it was a damp nightmare. Professor Sprout had them working in the medicinal plant gardens just outside the main greenhouses. The rain turned the soil into a thick, clinging sludge that seemed determined to swallow their boots.
"Today, we are repotting the Mandragora," Sprout announced, her voice carrying over the roar of the rain. "They've outgrown their current containers and are starting to get... let's say, restless."
Mandrake, or Mandragora, was a fascinating specimen. To the uninitiated, it looked like a hideous, muddy baby with leaves growing out of its head. But to a Potion Master, it was pure gold. Its restorative properties were the backbone of most high-level healing draughts. It was the only thing capable of reversing powerful transfiguration accidents or petrification.
Albert moved through the process with practiced ease. He donned his earmuffs, firmly gripped the tuft of leaves, and yanked. The Mandrake's muffled scream vibrated through his hands—a sound that could be fatal if the plant were mature. He quickly plunged it into a larger pot, smothered it in fresh, nutrient-rich soil, and patted it down.
As he finished the last one, he surreptitiously checked his internal panel.
[Task: First Encounter with Mandragora — Progress: 90%]Status: Incomplete. Direct ownership or independent study required.
He sighed inwardly. Simply handling them in class wasn't enough to satisfy the system. It wanted him to possess one, to be responsible for its growth outside the curriculum. The disappointment was a dull ache; he had hoped the school's resources would count as his own.
"Next week, we'll be moving on to the wrinkled fig," Sprout shouted as the bell rang. "Wear your dragon-hide gloves! They bite!"
"Brilliant," Fred muttered, shaking a glob of mud off his sleeve. He cast a quick Scourgify on his robes, though it only managed to turn the mud into a damp smear. "From screaming babies to biting fruit. I love this school."
"Clean yourself up, Fred," Albert said, heading toward the castle. "We have Transfiguration next. McGonagall won't appreciate you bringing the garden into her classroom."
Transfiguration was usually a rigorous, high-pressure environment, but today, Professor McGonagall seemed to recognize the festive lethargy in the air. She opted for a theoretical review, her stern gaze sweeping across the room as she lectured on the dangers of "incomplete transformation."
"Magic is not a toy, and Transfiguration is its most unforgiving branch," she said, her voice dropping into a chilling tone. "Consider the legend of the Quintaped—the Five-Legged MacBoon. A family feud that resulted in an entire clan being permanently transformed into monstrous, bloodthirsty creatures."
The class went silent. Albert leaned forward, his interest piqued. The story of the Quintapeds was often dismissed as a cautionary tale for children, but in a world where Peter Pettigrew could live as a rat for twelve years, the "impossible" was usually just a lack of documentation.
"Professor," Katrina McDougal raised her hand, her expression one of genuine concern. "The Ministry... surely they tried to reverse it? Even a Mandrake Restorative Draught should have worked if the transformation was external."
McGonagall shook her head sadly. "The tragedy of the Quintaped is not that they couldn't be changed back, Miss McDougal. It is that they refused. The legend says they resisted every attempt at reversal, their minds having become as monstrous as their bodies. They chose to remain as they were."
Albert felt a cold shiver. That was the real horror of Transfiguration—not the change of the flesh, but the erosion of the soul.
"Professor," Albert spoke up, his voice calm but sharp. "Do these transformations persist after death? If a Quintaped dies, does it revert to a human corpse, or does the magic hold?"
McGonagall looked at him for a long moment. "The magic holds, Mr. Anderson. The transformation becomes the new biological reality. Death does not break the seal of a permanent transfiguration."
Albert nodded slowly. He had seen the sketches of Quintaped skeletons in the Restricted Section. They were definitely not human. This confirmed his theory: the longer one stayed in a transformed state, the more the magic "calcified."
As the class dismissed, Albert found himself walking down the corridor alongside Katrina. The atmosphere between them was still colored by their ongoing intellectual rivalry—and the bet they had placed months ago.
"The first Quidditch match is coming up in mid-November," Albert said, adjusting his bag. "I trust you haven't forgotten our little wager? The deadline for your 'secret project' is fast approaching."
Katrina looked at him with an unreadable expression. "I haven't forgotten, Albert. But to be honest, winning or losing that bet doesn't seem as important as it used to. I've found... other interests."
Albert raised an eyebrow. "Really? That sounds suspiciously like an admission of defeat. I was planning on putting ten Galleons on the line this time."
"Ten Galleons?" Katrina's voice spiked with a hint of disbelief. "You're either very confident or very rich. Or perhaps you're just trying to impress me? I heard Isabelle taught you a very 'expensive' lesson recently. Ten Galleons, wasn't it?"
Albert's heart skipped a beat. His face darkened. "Did Isabelle tell you that?"
Katrina gave a small, triumphant smirk. "So it was ten Galleons. No wonder she's been so generous lately. She bought me a rather lovely birthday gift—far more expensive than anything she usually gets me. I suppose I have you to thank for that."
Albert felt the familiar sting of being outmaneuvered. Isabelle had played him, and now her sister was using the information to needle him. It was a classic McDougal pincer movement.
"What exactly did she teach you for that price?" Katrina asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.
"If you're so interested in her curriculum, go ask her yourself," Albert snapped, his annoyance bubbling over.
"Oh, I did," Katrina laughed, stepping ahead of him. "But she said she's sworn to secrecy. She told me if I wanted to know the details, I'd have to get them from you."
Albert tightened his grip on his books. He realized he was being played again. Katrina was fishing for the details of his private lessons with Isabelle, trying to find out exactly what kind of advanced magic he was dabbling in.
"Nice try, Katrina," Albert said, regaining his composure. "But if you want to know my secrets, it's going to cost you a lot more than ten Galleons."
He stepped past her, heading toward the library. He had a lot to do before the Halloween feast, and he wasn't about to let a pair of clever sisters distract him from his goals.