The Great Hall was already bustling with the cacophony of dinner when Fred and George finally slid onto the Gryffindor bench, arriving conspicuously late.
"Where in the name of the Headless Hunt were the two of you?" Albert asked, pausing mid-bite of a particularly crispy golden fried egg. He chewed thoughtfully, his gaze sweeping over the twins' slightly disheveled robes and the tell-tale streaks of forest grime on their knees.
"I assumed after your embarrassing defeat on the ice, you'd be nursing your bruises in the common room. Where's Lee Jordan, for that matter?"
"Lee Jordan is currently in the infirmary, being tended to by a very frustrated Madam Pomfrey," Fred supplied, snatching a piece of toast and buttering it with excessive zeal.
"And he's nursing more than bruises," George added, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "He had a spectacular, genuinely jaw-dropping fall that involved him attempting to use Mario as a human brake. He's suffering from a few painful scrapes, a bruised ego, and a profound sense of abandonment."
Just as George finished speaking, a voice tinged with deep resentment cut through the mild chatter of their table. "You two actually ran away on your own," Lee Jordan stated flatly, gingerly taking the empty seat next to Albert and carefully placing his weight. He smelled faintly of dittany and antiseptic.
"We distinctly recall informing you of our departure," George countered, placing a hand on Lee's shoulder with insincere affection. "How's the skating practice progressing, old boy? Have you managed to conquer the frictionless terror yet?"
"If I had conquered it, do you think I would currently be smelling like a potion shelf and wincing every time I move?" Lee snapped irritably. "It's difficult! That's why you two quit instantly, and that's why Albert must have been lying about his abilities."
"Precisely," George nodded in mock seriousness. "That kind of sport is simply not designed for the natural brilliance and physical requirements of the wizarding world. It's too primitive."
Albert took a slow sip of pumpkin juice, choosing his words carefully. "It's true, falling down is an unavoidable part of the process, Lee," he said seriously.
"See! He's trying to placate you!" Fred laughed, elbowing his brother. "With Albert's terrifying speed of learning, he probably only fell over three times before he was circling the Black Lake like an Olympic figure skater. He's trying to make you feel better about your crippling inadequacy."
"What do you think learning a physical skill is, a theoretical exam?" Albert countered with a deadpan expression. The irony wasn't lost on him: George was essentially right, but Albert had used a digital shortcut, not magical genius, to bypass the arduous physical labor. "It takes coordination and muscular memory, which take time to develop."
Lee Jordan narrowed his eyes at Albert, a suspicious look crossing his face.
George continued, completely unaware of Albert's internal justification. "I'm starting to understand Albert's teaching philosophy. Think about it: you're clearly incapable of mastering the basics; you blame the teacher; the teacher stops teaching you to avoid further accusations of inadequacy! It's self-preservation, Albert!"
Albert's hand, which had been delicately slicing a sausage, froze. He couldn't help but sigh softly. They genuinely think I plan my friendships around minimizing blame. He shook his head slowly.
"You two really should consider writing conspiracy theories for a living. Your ability to fabricate complex motivations is truly alarming." He quickly steered the conversation away from his suspiciously perfect skating. "So, tell me, what mysterious woodland activity kept you so long? Did you stumble upon a secret dragon nest?"
"In the woods, actually," Fred admitted, his eyes glinting with excitement. "We spent the afternoon in the parts of the Forbidden Forest that Hagrid is usually guarding—or at least, the parts nearest the edge. It's remarkably peaceful, not dangerous at all."
"You two actually ditched me to run into a forbidden area by yourselves," Lee Jordan said, his voice still thick with annoyance.
"We gave you directions before we left; why didn't you follow us?" George asked, completely failing to grasp the concept of social exclusion. "How's the ice healing? We were chasing a particularly fast rabbit, and we nearly had it."
"A rabbit in the Forbidden Forest?" Albert asked, genuinely surprised. "What exactly were you planning on doing with a captured rabbit? You weren't planning a wilderness cookout, were you? Roast rabbit sounds quite rustic, I must admit."
Shanna, who had been quietly eating across the table, immediately looked up, her expression sharp and disapproving. "Roast rabbit? Albert! How could you even suggest such a cruel thing? They are gentle creatures!"
"It was purely a theoretical suggestion, Shanna, don't take it to heart," Albert retorted with a smirk. "Are you implying you have a sentimental connection to the local rabbit population?"
"Yes, I know of a very small, harmless one," Shanna nodded firmly.
"Well, we were only chasing it for sport anyway," Fred interjected quickly, sensing the shift in tone. "We also saw some much more interesting tracks. And we found this." Fred pulled a few strands of shimmering, silver-white hair from his robe pocket, carefully holding them between his thumb and forefinger. "These are genuine unicorn tail hairs."
The small bundle of radiant hair drew immediate attention. Angelina Johnson, sitting next to Shanna, leaned in and examined the strands closely. "You weren't caught by the gamekeeper? Students who wander that deep into the Forest usually end up serving detention with Hagrid."
"We've developed a sixth sense for avoiding the Hagrid-patrol," George boasted, trading a significant look with his twin. "He tends to stick to a predictable routine. As long as he doesn't physically spot us, we're entirely in the clear. And we're far too swift to be caught by a gentle giant."
The brief discussion wrapped up, the twins having successfully deflected the danger inherent in their outing with their characteristic bravado. Albert, already sated with dinner, decided it was time to tackle the unsettling mystery presented by Isabel McDougal.
"So, you're looking up Professor Bardbrod now?" Lee Jordan asked, stacking his homework parchment neatly. He picked up the heavy library book Albert had placed beside him, squinting at the worn leather cover: The Great Wizard of the Twentieth Century.
"I'm told he's quite a renowned wizard," Albert said softly, keeping his voice low in the vast, echoing library. "If Isabel McDougal felt the need to caution me about befriending him, there must be something more to his reputation than just being a temporary Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher."
"Professor Bardbrod?" George set down his own essay, blowing on the ink to dry it. "What possible trouble could you get into with a professor?"
"Hold on a second, George, I'm only three lines from the end of this blasted Potions essay," Fred complained, reaching out to snag George's completed parchment.
"Do it yourself, lazybones," George retorted, slapping Fred's hand away and hiding the parchment under his elbow.
Albert had already scanned the alphabetized index and found the entry. He carefully spread the heavy book, now identified as the authoritative Directory of Famous Contemporary Wizards, open before them and began to read aloud, keeping his voice at a near-whisper:
"Bardbrod, Professor Eiric. Pure-blood wizard. Current member of the Wizengamot Council—a political body, I believe. He is a recipient of the Order of Merlin, Third Class, awarded for his exceptional civil service. He is also the former winner of the Barnabas-Finclination Award for Outstanding Spellcasting." Albert paused, his eyebrows rising slightly as he reread the next section.
"He was once the International Wizarding Chess Champion and, more importantly, won the European Wizarding Duel Championship approximately five years ago. His victory was achieved by successfully deploying a staffless, completely silent Full-Body Binding Charm in the final round."
Fred and George exchanged stunned glances. To perform such a demanding, complex spell without a wand and without speaking was a mark of extraordinary magical power and discipline.
"He also rescued several Muggle climbers from a particularly vicious troll attack during an expedition in the Himalayas, earning him the Order of Merlin, Third Class. His known personal interests include theoretical applications of Dark Arts defence and advanced adventure travel."
Albert's finger moved to the final, most revealing sentence: "He maintains friendly relations with many prominent figures in the Ministry and is a close, personal friend of contemporary magic masters Adber Wolflin and Mog McDoug."
Albert lifted his head, his gaze distant.
Mog McDoug.
The coincidence was too glaring to dismiss. Isabel, the girl with the striking red hair, was Isabel McDougal. Was this 'Mog McDoug' a direct family relation—an older sibling, perhaps, or a parent? And if so, Isabel's pointed advice—that he should cultivate the connection with Bardbrod—was not merely social advice; it was an insider's encouragement, or perhaps a veiled warning.
If Isabel, a bright but relatively unknown student, has a 'contemporary magic master' in her family circle who is friends with Bardbrod, she knows the Professor's status is far above a temporary Defense teacher, Albert thought internally.
She wasn't trying to flatter me; she was telling me this man is politically and magically powerful, and if I have his attention, I should be extremely cautious or extremely opportunistic.
He ran through the implications: a full member of the Wizengamot, a renowned duelist capable of silent, non-verbal magic, and a friend of powerful, "contemporary masters." This was not merely a visiting academic. This was a man of immense influence and possibly secretive motives.
"I did not expect Professor Bardbrod to be so… decorated," Fred admitted, taking the book from Albert and staring at the entry. "A dueling champion! That explains why his classes are so much better than Quirrell's."
"A dueling champion capable of non-verbal, staffless magic. That's something else entirely," George breathed, impressed. "It's no wonder he secured the Defence Against the Dark Arts position. Who else would they pick?"
Albert, however, still felt a profound sense of unease. Bardbrod's qualifications were overwhelming, almost too much for a routine post. The Defence Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts was notoriously cursed; brilliant people tended not to last long.
Is the purpose of his stay here truly to teach, or is he using the school as a base for something else?
Albert closed the heavy book, the silence of the library a stark contrast to the political gravity of the entry he had just read. He would have to seek out Isabel McDougal and pursue the connection to Mog McDoug.
"By the way," Lee Jordan suddenly interjected, having been patiently waiting for the scholarly discussion to conclude. He leaned in eagerly, his face betraying a mixture of excitement and suspicion. "I overheard some of the upperclassmen in the common room. They're organizing a betting pool for the upcoming Quidditch match this weekend. It's Gryffindor versus Slytherin."
Lee's eyes fixed squarely on Albert. "Given your uncanny ability to predict outcomes—even exam questions—the word is out. Who are you planning to bet on to win?"
"Oh, I completely forgot the season had started!" Fred exclaimed, instantly forgetting about dueling champions and the Wizengamot. He looked at Albert expectantly, joined by George. "Yes, Albert, who are you going to put your money on?"
The sudden shift back to the triviality of school life—the fierce rivalry, the prospect of easy money—was jarring after the deep dive into political wizardry. Albert smiled faintly, a mix of genuine excitement for the game and calculated opportunism flashing in his eyes. He had more pressing things to investigate than a Quidditch match, but a well-placed bet could certainly fund future, perhaps more dangerous, projects.
He looked at the three expectant faces. "Gryffindor is favored, but Slytherin has a new Seeker this year, don't they?" Albert mused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "A good Seeker can change everything in minutes. I'll need to do some more... research."