The Gryffindor dorm was a whirlwind of frantic energy, a sharp contrast to the gentle, rhythmic breathing of the castle itself. Albert cracked one eye open, the morning light filtering through the heavy curtains, only to be greeted by the sight of his three roommates acting as if they were preparing for an invasion rather than a trip to Hogsmeade.
"What in Merlin's name are you doing?" Albert muttered, his voice thick with sleep. He reached out, his hand blindly searching the bedside table until his fingers met the cool, familiar metal of his silver pocket watch.
"It's seven-thirty, mate! The day's half-gone!" Lee Jordan chirped, practically vibrating with excitement. "Don't tell me you're actually going to stay behind?"
Albert sat up, the duvet falling away, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling the cool stone floor against his bare feet. "Hogsmeade isn't going to vanish into thin air, and neither is the headache you lot are giving me. And for the last time, I am not going. I have other plans."
Fred, who was busy stuffing his robes with a staggering amount of Galleons, glanced over. "Oh? Someone finally caught the elusive Mr. Anderson's eye? Does she know she's dating a man who treats social outings like tactical missions?"
"Keep guessing, Fred," Albert said, grabbing his wash kit. He cast a sharp look toward the corner where Tom, his massive, round cat, was currently occupying a reinforced climbing frame that looked suspiciously like a piece of architectural engineering. "And don't you dare wake him. He's had a stressful week of being pampered, and he's not in the mood for your brand of idiocy. If he scratches you, consider it a lesson in humility."
As Albert disappeared into the bathroom, he heard a sharp, indignant yowl followed by Lee Jordan's startled yelp. Apparently, Lee had decided to test Albert's warning.
"You lot are absolute gluttons for punishment," Albert called out, suppressing a grin as he splashed freezing water onto his face. The shock of the cold acted like a reset button, snapping his senses into sharp focus.
When he emerged, Lee was nursing a fresh set of scratches on his forearm, looking both annoyed and terrified, while the twins stood by, howling with laughter. Tom, ever the picture of feline indifference, didn't even bother to open his eyes; he just let out a low, rumbling purr that sounded suspiciously like mockery.
"How does a cat that size move that fast?" Lee grumbled, holding his arm.
Albert ignored them, walking to the window and throwing it open. A gust of crisp, biting autumn air rushed into the room, smelling of distant rain and damp earth. He looked up at the slate-grey sky. "It's going to pour. You should take cloaks, or you'll be soaked before you even reach the Three Broomsticks."
"Oh, don't start with the gloom and doom," Fred complained, though he nervously grabbed his cloak. "If it rains, it's going to be your fault for putting the idea into the atmosphere."
Albert simply turned his back on them and began the precise, measured task of weighing out Tom's breakfast on a small brass scale. The sight of the cat's rations being measured to the milligram never failed to draw giggles from the roommates, but Albert was unmoved. Tom had developed a taste for luxury, and the only thing standing between him and becoming a literal bowling ball was Albert's strict, mathematical discipline.
"I'm leaving in an hour," Albert announced, his tone leaving no room for argument. "If I find so much as a single crumb out of place or evidence that you've been letting the girls feed him treats, there will be consequences. I'm talking a month of strictly dried fish for the lot of you—and yes, I know who's been sneaking him the sausages."
Tom let out a defiant 'Mew!' and glared at the scale with deep, ancestral hatred.
The descent to the common room was a processional. Tom trotted alongside them, his tail held high, behaving less like a pet and more like a pampered lord inspecting his fiefdom. It was no secret that the Gryffindor girls found the cat irresistible, and Albert was fairly certain that at least half of Tom's caloric intake was being supplied by secret bribes of ham and cheese from admirers.
As they crossed the Great Hall, they ran into Professor Quirrell. The man was hovering near the fourth-floor staircase again, his posture hunched, his gaze darting around as if he were trying to avoid being perceived by the very architecture of the building.
"Always lurking," Fred whispered, nudging Albert. "Like he's guarding the door to the abyss."
"Let him lurk," Albert murmured, steering them around the professor. He knew exactly what Quirrell was doing there, and he had absolutely no desire to engage in another conversation that involved stuttering and nervous sweating. Quirrell seemed to sense Albert's arrival, spinning on his heel with surprising agility to put as much distance between them as possible.
"He's terrified of you," George said, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "It's brilliant. He knows if he stays in your line of sight for more than five seconds, you'll have deduced his entire history and his grocery shopping list."
"He just values his peace of mind," Albert replied, keeping his pace steady.
The mood shifted the moment they stepped into the entrance hall. Filch was there, standing by the oak doors like a gargoyle of misery, his cat, Mrs. Norris, weaving between his legs with predatory intent. Filch loathed these days. To him, Hogsmeade trips were nothing more than an organized effort to smuggle chaos back into his pristine corridors.
As the students filed out, a fine, steady drizzle began to mist over the grounds. The sky, which had been threatening all morning, finally broke.
"Perfect," Lee muttered. "The 'great' Hogsmeade adventure is going to be a damp slog."
"Just take the shortcut," Albert advised, not looking back. He stood at the edge of the crowd, watching his friends exit, his eyes scanning the space until they landed on a familiar figure approaching from the courtyard.
Isabelle stood near the statue, her hair arranged in an intricate, elegant style that caught the dim light, her robes looking tailored to perfection. She looked, in every sense of the word, like she had intended to make an impression.
"You're late," Albert said, though there was no heat in his voice. He checked his watch. "Actually, scratch that. You're exactly on time."
"It would be unbecoming of me to be otherwise," Isabelle replied, a small, knowing smile touching her lips.
"Fair point." Albert gestured toward the door. "Shall we? The rain isn't going to get any lighter, and I'm told the butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks is the only thing capable of keeping one warm in this weather."
They walked toward the heavy oak doors together, ignoring the suspicious, lingering gaze of Filch. As they crossed the threshold into the damp, gray morning, the noise of the school faded away.