The Great Hall was filled with the rhythmic sound of rain drumming against the high windows, a stark contrast to the enchanted ceiling above, which mirrored the gloomy, leaden sky of the Scottish Highlands.
"I've got a bad feeling it's going to pour all through the Quidditch trials," Fred remarked, poking at his plate. He looked up at the grey expanse above as if expecting the ceiling to actually leak.
"If I were you, I'd focus on the food while it's actually steaming," Albert said, expertly dissecting a potato and egg pancake. The House-elves had outdone themselves with the savory breakfast; the pancakes were golden, crispy at the edges, and perfectly seasoned. "Cold eggs are a tragedy no wizard should have to endure."
Angelina, who was currently wrestling with a particularly stubborn piece of thick-cut bacon, looked at Fred with a raised eyebrow. "Why are you so obsessed with the weather? Usually, you're the first one suggesting we go out and slide around in the mud."
"It's not the mud, it's the visibility," George added, leaning into the conversation. "Hard to spot a Snitch when you're squinting through a literal waterfall."
The rainy season had felt eternal this year, turning the grounds into a marsh and making the stone corridors of Hogwarts feel damper than usual. Just as Fred was about to launch into a technical debate about broomstick traction in high humidity, a younger student—a Hufflepuff by the look of his tie—approached their section of the table. He looked a bit nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"You're Albert, right? The one everyone talks about?" the boy asked. When Albert nodded with a polite smile, the boy handed over a folded piece of parchment. "Professor Smith asked me to make sure you got this. Personally."
"Much appreciated," Albert said, taking the note. He offered a small nod of thanks, and the boy scurried away as if he'd just delivered a message to a celebrity.
"What's the verdict?" Angelina asked, her curiosity piqued. "Is the Defense Professor finally giving you detention for being smarter than him?"
"An invitation, actually," Albert murmured, his eyes scanning the elegant, slightly cramped handwriting on the parchment. "Professor Smith wants me to drop by for tea this afternoon. Apparently, he wants to discuss some 'nuances' of Ancient Runes."
The group went silent for a beat. In the world of Hogwarts, being invited to a professor's private quarters for tea was a rare mark of distinction. For most, it was a terrifying prospect—an extension of the classroom where you couldn't hide in the back row. But for Albert, it was just another Saturday. Last year, he'd spent so much time in professors' offices that people had joked he was secretly on the payroll.
"Must be nice," Alicia Spinnet sighed, leaning her chin on her hand. "The rest of us get extra homework and a lecture on 'focus.' You get tea and biscuits."
"It's not just about the grades, Alicia," George whispered loudly. "Our Albert here has what the Muggles call 'connections.' He's a regular social butterfly with the staff."
Before the teasing could continue, a tawny owl swooped low over the Gryffindor table, dropping a heavy, rectangular package directly into Albert's lap. He didn't even flinch, catching it with a practiced hand. He checked the sender's mark—a discreet apothecary seal from Diagon Alley—and felt a surge of satisfaction.
Dragon claw powder.
He'd dropped ten Galleons on a single pint of the stuff. It was an astronomical price for a student, but for someone looking to brew a high-grade Babbling Beverage, it was a non-negotiable expense. Between the salt he'd stashed yesterday and this powder, he now held the two most volatile ingredients for his current project.
"You're getting more mail than the Daily Prophet," Alicia noted, her tone shifting to something more inquisitive. As if on cue, two more owls descended, dropping thick envelopes in front of him.
"Pen pals?" Sanna asked, glancing at the varied postmarks.
"Old friends," Albert replied, tucking the letters into his robe pocket.
"And when he says 'old,' he means it literally," George interjected with a grin. "Most of Albert's buddies remember when the Ministry of Magic was just a single room and a very stressed-out clerk."
The girls at the table blinked, trying to figure out if George was joking. Albert just stood up, smoothing his robes.
"I have to head out. I've got some prep work to do before tea. If the rain picks up, stay in the common room. And for heaven's sake, try to finish that Transfiguration essay before I get back. I'm tired of correcting your wand movements in my sleep."
"Yes, Professor!" Fred saluted, though he was already eyeing George's leftover toast.
As Albert walked away, his mind was already miles ahead, calculating the steps for his next experiment. Back at the table, the atmosphere shifted into pure gossip.
"He's so... guarded," Sanna whispered, watching him disappear through the double doors. "I bet he's hiding half a dozen secrets under that calm face."
"I heard he's actually seeing someone," Alicia dropped the bombshell with a knowing look. "A Ravenclaw. A real genius type."
"Wait, what?" Fred's head snapped up. "We live with the guy and we didn't hear a peep about this. Who?"
"That girl from the year above," Alicia said, nodding vaguely toward the Ravenclaw table. "They're always together in the library, heads bent over some dusty old book. People have seen them chatting in the corridors for hours."
"A genius power couple," Sanna mused, sounding almost impressed. "It makes sense, honestly. Who else could keep up with him?"
Albert was oblivious to the rumors. He wasn't heading to a romantic tryst; he was heading to the Room of Requirement.
Once inside, the room shifted into a well-equipped, if somewhat sterile, laboratory. He immediately donned a pair of heavy dragon-hide earmuffs—a safety precaution that was absolutely mandatory when dealing with his current subject.
On the workbench sat a Mandrake root. It looked like a particularly ugly, screaming infant made of wood and dirt. Albert had already neutralized its cry for the moment, but the plant still twitched irritably.
"Why does this feel like I'm just pickling radishes for a winter stash?" Albert muttered to himself, his voice muffled by the earmuffs.
He began the process of burying the washed Mandrake root in a large vat of the salt he'd acquired. This wasn't standard herbology; this was the beginning of a Dark Arts infusion. By salt-curing the root under specific lunar conditions, he could create a localized sonic weapon—something that functioned like a magical flashbang.
If the wizarding world stayed peaceful, Albert wouldn't bother with such hazardous hobbies. Dark Arts items were notoriously temperamental. The manufacturing process alone could curse the air in the room, and long-term exposure was said to warp a wizard's personality, making them short-tempered and paranoid.
But Albert knew what was coming. He knew that when Dumbledore eventually fell, the world wouldn't care about his grades—it would care about his blood status. As a Muggle-born, he was a target. And targets needed teeth.
"Wealth is a sin if you can't defend it," he whispered, tightening the lid on the salt vat. "And power is only a threat if you don't know how to use it."
He needed more materials. The skin of a Swamp Digger was next on his list. Those creatures were the natural predators of Mandrakes; their hide had the unique property of dampening the root's lethal frequency. If he could craft a container from Digger-hide, he could carry his 'pickled roots' safely in his pocket without worrying about an accidental ear-splitting death.
He pulled out his alchemy notebook and scribbled a few notes:
Acquire Swamp Digger hide (check black market or Hagrid?).
Master the Undetectable Extension Charm (Library Restricted Section?).
Design a modular deployment canister.
He closed the book, but his hand lingered on his other journal—the one that tracked his "missions." A new notification was glowing on the mental interface he'd grown accustomed to.
[New Task: Ulterior Motives]The Defense Against the Dark Arts position is famously cursed. Every professor who takes the job has a hidden agenda. You have sensed something off about Rowena Smith. Discover the true reason behind her arrival at Hogwarts.Reward: 2000 Experience, 1 Skill Point, Randomly acquire one of Rowena Smith's skills.
Albert stared at the prompt. Two thousand experience points was a massive haul, and a skill point was even rarer. But the real prize was the random skill. If Smith was as talented as Professor Brood suggested, her repertoire could be game-changing.
"Tea and Ancient Runes," Albert mused, checking his watch. "Or a fishing expedition for secrets?"
He straightened his collar. Smith was clever, but Albert had the advantage of knowing that everyone in this school had a ghost in their closet. He just had to find the right key to open the door. He exited the Room of Requirement, the heavy thud of the salt-vat lid still echoing in his mind like a countdown.