The question hung in the damp, mist-filled air of the Hogsmeade lane like a physical weight. Are you two on a date?
Albert's instincts immediately pivoted toward the classic, deflective truth, but before he could utter a word, he caught Isabelle's gaze. She wasn't looking at him with anxiety; she was looking at Katrina with the serene, slightly dangerous composure of a predator watching a clumsy cub stumble into a trap.
"We're heading to the Three Broomsticks," Isabelle said, her voice smooth as velvet. She smiled at Katrina and her bewildered friend, her tone perfectly hospitable. "It's a bit of a walk, but if you're interested in a practical demonstration of some rather tricky Ancient Runes translation techniques, you're welcome to join us."
Katrina froze. Her friend, a freckled girl who looked like she'd expected a scandalous confession, was left utterly baffled by the shift in topic. Ancient Runes? The look on their faces said it all: What could dating possibly have to do with dead languages?
"We… we can really come?" Katrina finally managed, glancing at Albert as if checking for a hidden punchline.
"Certainly," Albert said, though internally he was running a dozen simulations. He caught the subtle shift in Isabelle's expression—she was enjoying this. She wasn't hiding their relationship because she was ashamed; she was hiding it because she enjoyed the control. She liked the idea of being the "tutor," the mentor, the one who held the key to the conversation while everyone else was left scrambling to keep up.
As they walked, Albert kept his hand firmly interlaced with hers under the protection of the umbrella. He felt the slight tension in her fingers. He wasn't a fool—he knew she was testing the waters. She wanted to see how he handled the scrutiny, and more importantly, she wanted to see how Katrina would react when presented with the unreachable, elevated version of their relationship.
The Three Broomsticks was a sensory overload—a roaring fire, the clatter of tankards, and the muffled roar of a hundred conversations competing for space. They secured a table near the hearth just as a group of Hufflepuffs vacated it, the air smelling of wet cloaks and butterbeer.
"I'll get the drinks," Albert said, turning toward the counter. "Five butterbeers, Madam Rosmerta."
As he leaned against the counter, his eyes drifted toward the bartender herself. She was undeniably striking, with a grace that most of the Hogwarts students—caught in the awkward transition of adolescence—had yet to achieve. He caught sight of a man chatting quietly with her near the back, his posture radiating a certain kind of proprietary confidence. So that's the 'secret lover' everyone whispers about.
He returned with the mugs, the froth still settling. He slid one toward Katrina. "You seem quiet today," he noted, his tone casual.
"Oh! No, I'm… I'm fine," Katrina stammered, clearly shaken by the earlier encounter. She took a quick, desperate gulp of the butterbeer to hide her confusion.
Isabelle, however, was already leaning in, and in less than two minutes, she had effectively turned the table into a lecture hall. The girls had come for gossip; they had come to dig for the juicy details of a romance. Instead, they were being subjected to a high-level breakdown of the syntax differences between the Elder Futhark and the Anglo-Saxon variants of runic structures.
Albert watched, mesmerized. He didn't have to say a word. He just occasionally stepped in to provide the finishing touch on a particularly difficult grammatical point, watching with a suppressed grin as Katrina's friend's eyes glazed over with sheer, intellectual fatigue. It was a masterclass in social redirection.
"Why are you both so… good at this?" the girl with the braided hair finally sighed, pushing her half-empty butterbeer away as if the very liquid was too dense for her to process. "We came for a Saturday afternoon out, not a remedial exam."
"To master a language, you have to live in it," Isabelle said, her eyes turning into soft, crescent moons as she looked at Albert. "When you find someone who challenges your pace, you use the language constantly. It's the only way to move from 'beginner' to 'fluent'."
"Exactly," Albert added, his voice low and steady. "If you're not using it in your downtime, you're just memorizing dead symbols. You have to make the language part of your environment."
Katrina sat there, her expression caught between irritation and grudging respect. She was smart enough to know they were playing a game, and she was smart enough to realize she was losing. About thirty minutes later, the group finally dragged themselves up, exhausted by the sheer intellectual velocity of the conversation.
"What do you think they'll say when they get back to the common room?" Isabelle mused, watching them navigate through the crowded tavern toward the door.
"They'll say we're obsessed," Albert said. "They'll say we're 'insufferable geniuses' who can't talk about anything other than schoolwork."
"Good," she whispered, her eyes dark and amused. "Let them say it. It's better than them knowing the truth."
Albert turned to her, his tone shifting. "Why the cloak-and-dagger routine, though? If you're worried about Katrina, wouldn't it be easier to just be honest?"
Isabelle tilted her head, her gaze sharp. "You're an optimist, Albert. If we make it public, the 'trap' begins. The teachers will analyze it, the students will dissect it, and suddenly our relationship becomes a school-wide project. I'd rather keep the narrative under my own control, thank you very much."
Albert accepted this. It was a cold logic, but one he couldn't help but admire. "Where to next? Honeydukes?"
Isabelle shuddered, a look of genuine horror crossing her face. "Sugar? In this weather? It's a fast track to feeling sluggish. I'd rather keep my figure, thank you."
Albert let out a dry laugh. "You're in luck. I hear the air is excellent for walking, and I've been told you need to exercise to burn off all that 'theoretical' energy you spent in the pub."
"You're insufferable," she said, though she stood up and took his arm.
"I'm just observing the facts. Most Europeans hit twenty-five and suddenly decide that aging is a lifestyle choice. If you want to keep that youthful spark, you have to be disciplined."
Isabelle paused, looking up at him with a mix of curiosity and annoyance. "Is that another one of your 'Asian' theories? That diet and lifestyle are the secret to eternal youth?"
"It's not a theory, it's a demographic observation. Look at how people live here. Everything is heavy, fried, and sedentary. It catches up to everyone eventually."
Isabelle paused, a flash of genuine concern crossing her features. "You're obsessed with the concept of longevity, aren't you?"
"I'm obsessed with the concept of quality," Albert replied. "I want to be able to enjoy the world when I'm fifty, not just complain about the weather."
"Well," Isabelle said, playfully punching his shoulder. "If you're so concerned about my aging process, you'll just have to ensure our honeymoon is spent in the East, won't you? If it's as miraculous as you claim, you can prove it to me yourself."
Albert stopped mid-stride, caught off guard by the ease with which she had accepted his bizarre, future-looking proposition. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face.
"Is that a promise?"
She laughed, the sound bright and clear, and pulled him toward the door. "Keep dreaming, Anderson. But for now, you're holding the umbrella."
They pushed open the door to Honeydukes, and the scent of warm caramel, chocolate frogs, and fizzing whizbees hit them in a sensory wave, warm and sweet, completely erasing the biting chill of the rain outside.