Three days had crawled by since the high-stakes mushroom hunt in the Forbidden Forest, and Albert was currently knee-deep in a flurry of parchment. His correspondence with Hector Dagworth-Livers hadn't just continued; it had intensified. The Potions Master was a man of meticulous detail, and every letter was a mini-lecture on molecular stability and the ethical weight of one's cauldron.
That morning's owl had brought a particularly interesting development. Dagworth-Livers had written to suggest their next meeting take place in Hogsmeade. He apparently kept a private residence there—a "quiet secondary lab," as he called it—where he intended to personally supervise Albert's first attempt at the Babbling Beverage.
Albert leaned back, tapping the quill against his chin. There was just one glaring problem: the Potions Master seemed to have completely blanked on the fact that Albert was only a second-year. Thirteen-year-olds didn't get Hogsmeade weekends. The school rules were ironclad on that front.
"Guess I'm breaking out the secret passages again," Albert muttered to himself. To most students, sneaking out of the castle was a terrifying prospect that could lead to expulsion. To Albert, it was just a logistical hurdle, a bit like navigating a slightly annoying maze.
In a way, having a world-class mentor was a massive relief. It saved Albert the headache of trial-and-error. While his system-assisted learning meant he could technically "level up" his potion-making skills with experience points, the Babbling Beverage was a different beast entirely. It was a high-risk, low-tolerance concoction. In the world of potions, "experience" often came at the cost of your eyebrows or, in this case, your sanity. Even with a high skill level, the first time you handled ingredients that could turn your brain into mush, you wanted a safety net.
"What a total disaster."
The dormitory door swung open with a bang, interrupting Albert's thoughts. Fred and George marched in, looking like they'd just been through a war zone, followed closely by Lee Jordan, who was clutching a grease-stained paper bag like it was his last possession on earth.
"Whoa, what's the blue glow?" Lee asked, pausing mid-step.
In the center of the floor sat a large, heavy glass jar. Inside, a cluster of bright blue flames danced rhythmically, casting long, flickering shadows against the stone walls.
"Found the charm in a restricted section volume a few nights back," Albert said, not looking up from his reply to Dagworth. "It's a specialized magical fire. Perfect for the Scottish winter—it puts out intense heat but doesn't produce smoke. Quite handy for drying out socks."
"Handy? It's genius," Fred said, immediately crouching down and spreading his hands toward the glass. "It's actually warm. Not just 'room temperature' warm, but like... fireplace warm. And you put it in a jar?"
"It's waterproof too," Albert added, taking a sip of his lukewarm milk tea. "You could drop that in the Great Lake and it'd keep burning. Now, what's this about a disaster? Did the Quidditch pitch burn down?"
"Worse," George groaned, flopping onto his bed. "Charlie. He's gone into 'Captain Mode.' He's convinced that because we lost a few veterans, the rest of us are going to single-handedly destroy the Gryffindor legacy. He spent two hours shouting about tactical positioning until my ears went numb."
"You guys just need reps," Albert said, finally setting his quill down. "Gryffindor is in a transition phase. Unless you've got a team full of once-in-a-century prodigies, you're going to hit some bumps. The game is going to come down to the Seeker anyway. It usually does."
"Prodigies? You mean like a certain someone who refuses to try out?" Fred grumbled, shooting Albert a pointed look.
"I'm a scholar, Fred. I don't do 'sweaty and airborne' unless it's strictly necessary," Albert replied with a smirk.
"Is this the stuff Hermione mentioned? That Gubaraysian Fire?" Lee Jordan asked, poking the glass jar with his shoe.
"If I could make Gubaraysian Fire in my second year, I'd be the Head of the Wizengamot by Christmas," Albert laughed. "No, this is just a high-level Bluebell Flame variation. It's stable and portable."
"So why the sudden interest in portable heat?" Fred asked, his eyes narrowing. He knew Albert didn't do anything without a hidden motive.
"A gift," Albert said, reaching over to his bedside table and picking up a sleek, silver metal cylinder. He tossed it to Fred.
Fred caught it and nearly dropped it in surprise. "It's toasty! What is this? A portable radiator?"
"A hand warmer. I've been tinkering with the enchantment inside. It's like a thermos, but instead of holding heat, it generates it. It should stay at a constant temperature for at least a month before needing a recharge. Safe, reliable, and won't explode in your pocket—mostly."
The twins exchanged a look of pure, unadulterated greed. They were already calculating the galleons they could make selling these to shivering first-years during the January frost.
"Where'd the chair come from, by the way?" Lee Jordan asked, ignoring the hand warmer and collapsing into a plush, velvet armchair that definitely wasn't there this morning. He pulled a thick wool blanket over his legs and let out a long, contented sigh. "I might never leave this spot. I think I'm merging with the fabric."
"Transfiguration," Albert said simply, opening the paper bag Lee had brought. It was filled with fresh cream biscuits from the kitchens. He took a bite, the crunch satisfyingly loud in the quiet room. "Professor McGonagall's first rule for the Transfiguration Club: if you want a seat at the table, you have to literally make the seat. It's the unofficial admission ticket."
"Typical," George muttered, trying to shove Lee out of the chair so he could have a turn. "Only you would spend your free time turning a desk into a luxury recliner just because the dormitory stools are 'insufficiently ergonomic'."
"I value my spine, George. You should try it sometime," Albert joked. He took the hand warmer back, tucking it away. "And before you ask to 'borrow' it for a week, forget it. It's a birthday present for my sister, Nia. I still need to polish the casing."
"Nia? Sure, sure," Fred winked, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Is that what we're calling Isabelle nowadays?"
Albert nearly choked on a crumb. He coughed, his face turning a light shade of pink as he stared at the twins in genuine confusion. "What? Where did that even come from?"
"Come on, mate," George chuckled. "The rumor mill is working overtime. Half the school thinks you and Isabelle are the next great power couple of Hogwarts."
"I am twelve," Albert said, his voice flat. "Isabelle is... well, she's older, and more importantly, we are friends who happen to share an interest in Ancient Runes and winning bets. Where is this coming from?"
"People saw you two whispering in the hallway last night," Lee piped up from under the blanket. "Very close. Very secretive. Very suspicious."
Albert rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. "We were discussing a wager. Her sister, Katrina, was standing three feet away. People tend to edit out the third wheel when they're trying to build a juicy story."
"So it's not true?" Lee sounded almost disappointed.
"It's a total fabrication. I don't have time for dating. I barely have time to keep you three from getting expelled," Albert said irritably. "Besides, do any of you even know what 'dating' actually entails? We're kids. Twelve-year-olds know as much about romance as a Blast-Ended Skrewt knows about etiquette."
"Hey! Speak for yourself," Lee complained, though his protest was weak. "I know things. I've read magazines."
"Magazines don't count, Lee," Albert countered. "The level of gossip in this castle is reaching 'Rita Skeeter' levels of absurdity. Is it because it's cold? Is everyone just bored because they can't go outside?"
"Well, things are different for Muggles, aren't they?" Fred asked, his tone shifting to something slightly more serious. "Percy mentioned it. He's got that Muggle pen-pal friend he's obsessed with. He says sixteen is the big age for them."
Albert raised an eyebrow. "You've been listening to Percy talk about his feelings? That sounds like a form of self-torture."
"We didn't listen," George said with a wicked grin. "We read."
"You did what?"
"We took a peek at his diary," Fred said, raising his hand as if he were in court. "Purely out of concern for his mental well-being, of course. He's been moping around for months. Turns out his Muggle friend hit her sixteenth birthday, did the 'coming of age' thing, and promptly found a boyfriend. Percy's been depressed all summer because he realizes he's stuck in a castle while the rest of the world is moving on."
Albert felt a sudden, deep wave of sympathy for Percy Weasley. Being the older brother to these two was a nightmare, but having them violate his privacy like that was a bridge too far.
"That's actually awful," Albert said, his tone turning stern. "Peeking at a diary isn't a prank, guys. It's a massive breach of trust. It's not funny, and it's definitely not 'concern for the family'."
"We only did it once!" Fred insisted, looking slightly stung by Albert's disapproval. "And we didn't even understand the half of it. It's not like we're snooping through your stuff."
"Because you can't," Albert pointed out. "I write half my notes in Ancient Runes and the other half in French. Even if you stole my journals, you'd just see a bunch of symbols and grammar exercises."
"True," George admitted, looking at the stack of letters on Albert's desk. Some were written in a flowing, archaic script that looked more like art than language. "You're the only person I know who uses dead languages to hide his grocery list."
Albert shook his head, the annoyance fading into a weary sort of amusement. He looked at his three roommates—three boys who thought they were grown-up because they could cast a few charms, yet still thought a diary was fair game for a laugh. He realized that while he was worried about Potions Masters and secret passages, they were still caught up in the small, chaotic dramas of adolescence.
"Just... stay out of Percy's business," Albert sighed. "And stop telling people I'm dating Isabelle. If that reaches the teachers, I'll never hear the end of it from McGonagall."
"No promises," Fred chirped, reaching for another biscuit.
Albert looked back at his letter to Dagworth. He had a Hogsmeade trip to plan, a lethal potion to brew, and a sister's birthday gift to finish. Love? He barely had time for lunch.