Gryffindor was still soaring high, buoyed by the thrilling success of having defeated Hufflepuff in the recent Quidditch match. The entire common room was buzzing with the exhilarating prospect of winning the Quidditch Cup this year—a triumph that felt long overdue.
The path to victory seemed surprisingly clear, resting on two possible scenarios: either the formidable Slytherin team managed to defeat Ravenclaw in their upcoming match, or, more reliably, Gryffindor themselves managed to decisively defeat Ravenclaw when their match came around.
Either way, the lion's chance of seizing the trophy was the strongest it had been in years, and the excitement was infectious.
That morning at the Great Hall, the jubilant atmosphere had, for a brief period, been hijacked. Charlie Weasley, the Gryffindor Captain, had managed to corner Albert and his friends at the breakfast table, turning the early meal into an intense, tactical briefing.
He had sat opposite them, entirely consumed by complex Quidditch strategy, waving his fork dramatically as he explained various manoeuvres he planned to deploy against the highly disciplined Ravenclaw team.
Fortunately, Charlie eventually finished his fourth plate of scrambled eggs and, with a final, booming pronouncement about the importance of 'aggressive Wronski feints,' finally departed. Had he stayed any longer, Albert and the others might have been forced to endure a full analysis of the entire team's upcoming practice schedule.
Albert sighed contentedly, spearing the last of the fried sausages on his plate. He turned to Lee Jordan, who looked slightly shell-shocked by the barrage of Quidditch jargon. "Next time, Lee, you might want to establish a firm perimeter around yourself before breakfast begins. Those Quidditch captains are truly terrifying when they get caught up in their professional passions."
"What did you just… cough cough… say?" Lee Jordan replied distractedly, but his casual response was immediately followed by a sound like dry wood catching fire, and a thick column of acrid, black smoke began to pour from the plate directly in front of him.
"Cough! Cough! By the beard of Merlin, what are you doing?" Albert demanded, reflexively clutching his napkin over his nose and mouth, his eyes watering.
The smoke wasn't light or misty; it was dense, oily black smoke, the kind associated with a serious electrical fire or a magical disaster. He looked over, expecting to find a badly burnt tablecloth, but the plume was emanating specifically from a piece of fruit on Lee's plate—a perfectly healthy, ripe plum.
"I only… cough… I only meant to…" Lee Jordan stammered, his face quickly turning a sooty shade of red as he was choked by his own magical fumes.
The plum was still smouldering fiercely, pumping out smoke at an alarming rate. In a panic, Lee snatched up an empty pumpkin juice bowl and slammed it upside down over the smoking fruit, but the thick, noxious smoke immediately began to billow out from beneath the rim, spreading a faint haze across the entire Gryffindor table and drawing a host of curious, concerned stares.
"Wow, that's intense! That's an industrial amount of smoke!" George exclaimed, completely fascinated. Ignoring the thick cloud, he tentatively lifted the upside-down bowl. The resulting mushroom cloud of black smoke attracted the attention of half the hall.
"What exactly was the intent there?" George asked, utterly intrigued.
"I was trying to see if I could use a basic charm to restore a piece of fruit that I had taken a small bite out of earlier," Lee Jordan confessed sheepishly, scratching his head. "But I completely lost my focus halfway through the incantation and, well, that happened." He gestured helplessly at the burning fruit.
"Can you please make it stop, Albert?" Lee pleaded, his eyes streaming. "I think I might have accidentally invented a permanent smoke signal."
Albert, having recovered enough to draw his wand, tapped the still-smoking plum with the tip. "Finite Incantatem," he intoned, casting the universal counter-charm. The dense, billowing black smoke instantly ceased, leaving behind a profound silence and an almost unnatural air clarity.
The plum, however, was now utterly transformed. It was a flawless, brittle sphere of charcoal, blackened and petrified into a perfect orb. Albert gingerly poked it with a fork; the moment the tines made contact, the plum disintegrated into a fine, powdery pile of ash that dusted the china plate.
"Lee, what exact incantation did you use?" Albert asked, genuinely bewildered by the destructive power achieved by such a simple error.
"I honestly don't know," Lee insisted, still looking utterly mystified. "It was supposed to be Reparo, the Repairing Charm. I must have mixed up the wand movements with some kind of primitive combustion spell."
"If you're attempting to practice the Repairing Charm, try practicing on something disposable, like torn newspaper," Albert advised, shaking his head. "That's the traditional method. I've never seen anyone try to use fruit before."
Albert suddenly realized he hadn't checked the news. "Has anyone seen my copy of the Daily Prophet today?" he asked.
"It's right here," Fred said, folding the paper. He was reading a detailed analysis of the Quidditch match.
"What's the main story?" Albert asked, taking the paper and unfolding it.
"The front page confirms it: Cornelius Fudge has officially taken the title of Minister for Magic," Fred said, looking up. "The article claims the new Minister is sending an entire flock of owls to Dumbledore every morning, ostensibly to 'discuss matters of the Ministry' and seek his counsel."
Albert scanned the headline and the accompanying article, a thin smile playing on his lips. "That is a surprisingly shrewd move," he commented.
"Shrewd? Why?" George asked, genuinely puzzled. "He's the Minister now, why lean so heavily on Dumbledore?"
"Because, initially, Fudge likely has very little confidence, or political capital, of his own," Albert explained, leaning forward, his tone shifting into that of a seasoned political observer. "Dumbledore's popularity and authority are absolute in the wizarding world. By ensuring everyone knows that his major decisions are, if not dictated, at least vetted by Dumbledore, Fudge instantly reduces the natural skepticism and political opposition he would otherwise face."
He paused, gathering his thoughts. "This strategy serves several purposes: it stabilizes the initial post-election chaos; it buys him time to quietly learn the job and gradually adapt to the immense pressures of being Minister; and it allows the wizarding world to perceive him as a sensible, diligent servant who is doing his best for the country by collaborating with its greatest wizard. In fact, if you read closely, Fudge's reputation has been quite positive since he assumed office—precisely because he tied himself to Dumbledore's credibility."
"It's a transitional tactic," Albert concluded. "In a few years, when he feels secure, that daily owl delivery will slow down, and then stop entirely. He's buying trust now so he can exercise independent power later. Nobody is instantly good at being the Minister of Magic, and Fudge is smart enough to know it."
Fred nodded slowly, deeply impressed by the breakdown. "That makes terrifying sense. I never thought about it like a strategy."
Albert let out a soft sigh, turning to the op-ed section. "Unfortunately, knowing what I know now about Fudge, he will likely become blinded by the power and prestige of the office eventually. A fixed, four-year electoral system would actually be far more reasonable for keeping the Minister humble and accountable."
He folded the paper thoughtfully. "If Fudge were to diligently serve his term and then simply step down, I believe he would be highly regarded, and could secure any number of prestigious, high-paying posts within the Ministry. But the Minister of Magic position is essentially a lifetime appointment in our world, unless you're thrown out. And the lure of that kind of power is almost impossible to resist."
"Ahem," a polite cough broke the political discussion.
Albert turned and saw a fourth-year student from Ravenclaw, Izebel, standing patiently behind him. "What is it?" he asked.
"The next Transfiguration Club event has been moved," Izebel informed him, consulting a small, elegant piece of parchment. "It will now be held next Saturday at 3:30 PM. Don't mistake the time."
"A time change? Why the sudden shift?" Albert asked, slightly annoyed.
"It was necessary because the latest issue of Transformation Today is going on sale that same morning, and Professor McGonagall plans to use the usual club time to… acquire and review it," Izebel explained, though she cut herself off, not wanting to share too many details about the Professor's schedule. "In any case, ensure you are there at the new time."
"Oh, I understand," Albert nodded.
Just then, Shanna leaned over, eager to know more about the exclusive club. "What exactly does Professor McGonagall's club cover? Is it all just advanced homework?"
"It's quite demanding," Albert admitted, after giving it a moment's thought. "It's less about simple homework and more about expanding our theoretical knowledge into the field's most advanced research. Professor McGonagall even encourages us to write to experts in the field—practitioners, researchers, and influential editors—and maintain friendly, professional contact with them."
"You actually wrote to those famous wizards?" Lee Jordan asked, wide-eyed.
"Don't ask," George interjected suddenly, a conspiratorial glance passing between the twins.
"Why not?" Shanna and Lee Jordan asked in unison, confused by the sudden secrecy.
"Because," George started, leaning in, "I don't want to…"
Albert smoothly interrupted him before he could finish the teasing sentence. "Don't worry, they're not replying to me. Nobody's replying to my letters," Albert said with a serene calm that was unsettling. He wasn't hiding a secret; he was stating an obvious fact.
"Wait, you're not angry? You don't care that the world's leading Transfiguration experts are ignoring a letter from a Hogwarts first-year?" Lee Jordan asked.
"Why should I mind?" Albert said, his expression placid. "It's entirely understandable. They have no reason to take me seriously right now. They will write back to me later, when I'm no longer an unknown quantity—perhaps when I inevitably win the Most Promising Newcomer Award from Transformation Today in a few years."
"You do have an unsettlingly long view of things," Fred muttered, shaking his head.
"Have you mastered the technique of turning rats into snuffboxes yet, Albert?" Shanna abruptly interjected, her concern returning to the immediate threat of academics. "I heard that specific piece of non-living Transfiguration is going to be the major question on the final practical exam."
"There are still four months until the final examinations," Fred said, folding the newspaper and giving Shanna a casual glance. "Don't fret unnecessarily. As long as you put in the effort, you won't fail."
"But I heard that if you do too badly on the test, you'll be held back a year!" Shanna warned, her anxiety palpable.
"I've honestly never heard of a student being held back a grade here," Fred countered, shaking his head. "As long as you show basic competence before the exam, you'll pass."
"Are there genuinely students who have to repeat a year?" George asked, suddenly fascinated by this dark corner of academic failure.
"Who was it?" Lee Jordan demanded, his curiosity instantly piqued.
"It's a rare occurrence, if it happens at all," Albert mused, frowning slightly. He vaguely remembered a story about a particular Slytherin student who had been held back, but the details were too hazy to confirm. His main goal, regardless of the truth, was to ensure he was never in a position to find out.
"I truly envy Albert's effortless magical talent," Lee Jordan sighed, a hint of genuine resentment in his voice. He still couldn't reliably turn a rat into a wobbly box, let alone a snuffbox.
"We truly envy Albert's effortless magical talent," the Weasley brothers repeated in a flat, monotone chorus, thoroughly practiced at teasing him.
"Well, you've all made your point," Albert snapped, though his mouth curved in a faint smile. "Now, please, all of you, get out of here before I charm your remaining food into charcoal."
"Ahem. Have you… left yet?" Albert turned his head and saw Izebel still seated behind him, having silently observed the entire exchange with a small, knowing smirk.
"Come on, we have two back-to-back Herbology classes this morning; let's not be late for Professor Sprout," George said, rising quickly, pulling the others up with him.
The four first-years stood briefly at the heavy oak doors, looking out at the grounds. The beautiful, crisp sunny day of the Quidditch match was long gone, replaced by a dreary, persistent heavy rain that lashed against the windows and turned the lawns into glistening, muddy puddles.
"Did anyone actually remember to bring an umbrella this morning?" Fred asked, groaning at the downpour.
"I certainly didn't," Lee Jordan admitted, shivering at the thought of the cold, soaking walk to the greenhouses.
The group, resigned to their fate, all looked instantly, hopefully, at Albert.
"I've already mastered the Summoning Charm," Albert said with a hint of superiority, taking out his wand. "It is utterly irrelevant whether I remembered to bring one." He gave his wand a sharp, decisive flick and called out the incantation with perfect clarity.
Instantly, a large, sturdy, midnight-blue umbrella, with a curved wooden handle and silver ribbing, materialised with a loud snap at the tip of his wand.
"Right then," Albert said, opening the umbrella and walking confidently towards the doors. "Let's walk through the rain."
Fred and George exchanged a quick, knowing look, realizing their temporary problem was solved. The three of them simultaneously bolted toward Albert, forming a tight, undignified clump of first-years. They huddled shoulder-to-shoulder beneath the single, magically summoned umbrella, attempting to shield their bags and heads from the deluge.
The four of them—Albert, Fred, George, and Lee Jordan—proceeded in this comical, crowded formation toward the distant greenhouses, battling the sudden downpour as one extraordinarily, and magically, dry unit.