Saturday morning arrived with the subtlety of a mountain troll. Albert woke up to the sound of a relentless gale hammering against the stone walls of the dormitory. It wasn't just rain; it was the kind of sideways, freezing Scottish downpour that felt like it was trying to drown the castle itself.
Inside the room, the temperature had plummeted. Albert pulled the heavy duvet tighter around his chin, eyeing the faint, misty breath forming in front of his face. He had every intention of hibernating until at least noon. It was Saturday, after all, and the rest of the school was probably still dreaming.
His plan for a peaceful morning lasted until approximately 8:30 AM.
The silence was shattered by the distinct sounds of Fred and George scrambling out of bed, their boots thumping against the floorboards and their muffled groans echoing his own sentiments about the weather. Albert peered through a gap in his hangings. The sky outside was a bruised, heavy grey, and the rain showed absolutely no sign of letting up.
In any sane world, a Quidditch match would be postponed under such conditions. But this was Hogwarts, where "safety" was a relative term and "tradition" was ironclad. As Charlie Weasley was fond of reminding everyone during training: "The snitch doesn't care if you're wet, so neither do I."
"Better them than me," Albert whispered to himself, feeling a surge of secret triumph. He didn't mind the sport, but the prospect of being lashed by icy winds while hovering five hundred feet in the air sounded less like fun and more like a recipe for a week in the hospital wing. His love for Gryffindor pride had its limits, and those limits stopped right at the edge of a pneumonia-inducing storm.
Walking through the castle toward the Great Hall felt like navigating a tomb. Because of the heavy cloud cover, the windows were useless. Torches and candles flickered in the drafts, casting long, jittery shadows across the tapestries. Despite the gloom, the atmosphere was electric. The impending clash between Gryffindor and Slytherin had turned the student body into a buzzing hive of anticipation.
Albert found his usual spot at the Gryffindor table. He focused on a plate of thick-cut roasted sausages and a bowl of steaming corn chowder. The heat from the soup radiated through his chest, providing a much-needed buffer against the damp air.
Around him, however, the mood was considerably more somber. The players looked like they were attending a funeral.
"You lot look like you're about to face a Dementor," Albert noted, taking a hearty bite of a sausage sandwich. "If you don't eat, you're going to faint before the first Bludger even leaves the box. Nervousness is just wasted energy."
Angelina Johnson, usually the most spirited person on the team, shot him a look that could have curdled the milk. "It's easy for the spectator to lecture the gladiator, Albert. Try saying that when you're the one trying to catch a ball while your goggles are fogging up and the wind is trying to blow you into the Forbidden Forest."
"I'm just saying, stamina is a resource," Albert replied calmly, wiping his mouth. "Playing in this rain is a physical grind. If your blood sugar drops, your reflexes go with it."
"I can't even look at food," Fred muttered, poking a piece of toast as if it were an enemy.
"My stomach feels like it's full of live Mandrakes," George added, leaning his head on his hand.
Lee Jordan sat beside them, though he seemed remarkably more composed. He was currently drowning a sausage in an alarming amount of ketchup. "Albert's right, you two. If you don't eat, you won't have the muscle to swing those bats. You'll be hitting like a pair of Hufflepuff third-years."
"Cheers for the vote of confidence, Lee," Fred snapped.
"Anytime," Lee grinned.
Albert watched Lee for a moment, a thought crossing his mind. "So, Lee, I heard you've been doing some vocal warm-ups lately. Getting ready for the big commentary debut?"
Lee froze. A piece of sausage was halfway to his mouth, and his eyes went wide with genuine shock. He stared at Albert for a full five seconds before finding his voice. "How—how on earth do you know about that? Seriously, how?"
This had been Lee's "Master Plan." He'd spent weeks pestering Professor McGonagall and practicing his play-by-play in the privacy of the owlery. He wanted it to be the ultimate reveal when his voice boomed over the magical megaphones during the match.
"Wait, you're commentating?" George asked, his eyebrows shooting up.
"I passed McGonagall's audition last week," Lee admitted, still glaring at Albert with a mix of awe and resentment. "Since Bagnold made the Ravenclaw team, they needed someone who could keep up with the pace without swearing. I didn't tell a soul. Not even you two. So, Albert, spill it. Who talked?"
Albert just gave a mysterious, infuriating smile. He couldn't exactly tell Lee that in his "memory," Lee Jordan was the definitive voice of Hogwarts Quidditch. It was a fixed point in his mind—the twins' best friend was the commentator. It was so ingrained in his understanding of the world that he'd assumed everyone already knew.
"A magician never reveals his sources," Albert teased. "Let's just say I have a knack for predicting where people belong."
By 10:30 AM, the Great Hall began to empty as the teams headed down to the locker rooms to suit up. The roar of the wind outside seemed to grow louder as the doors opened and closed.
"Coming to the stands?" Alicia Spinnet asked, pausing as she passed Albert. She was bundled in a heavy Gryffindor scarf, looking like she was prepared for an Arctic expedition.
"You go ahead. I forgot something back in the dorms," Albert lied smoothly. He watched her head out into the rain before turning toward the grand staircase. He had a much more intellectual engagement on his schedule—one that didn't involve getting soaked to the bone.
The halls were nearly empty now. Most of the school was already huddled in the Quidditch stands under umbrellas and charms. Albert waited near a window, watching the colorful stream of students trudging across the muddy lawns.
"I must be losing my mind," a voice grumbled from behind him.
Albert turned to see Katrina MacDougal approaching. She looked annoyed, her arms crossed over her chest. "I'm skipping the biggest game of the season for a wager. My housemates think I'm ill, but really, I'm just being held hostage by a bet."
"Nonsense," Albert said, falling into step beside her. "You should be thanking me. While everyone else is getting their boots ruined in the mud, you get to stay in the driest, most comfortable part of the castle. I'm doing you a service."
"A service that costs ten Galleons if I lose," Katrina reminded him tartly.
"Consider it an entrance fee for a once-in-a-lifetime experience," Albert replied. "By the way, where's Isabelle? I thought she'd be leading the way."
"She's already up there. She went back to the common room to clear out some space. Most of the Ravenclaws have gone to the match, so it should be quiet," Katrina explained as they began the long climb up the Ravenclaw Tower.
The ascent was a workout in itself. They spiraled up the high, narrow stairs until Albert's legs began to protest. He'd explored most of the castle, but the upper reaches of the air element house were new territory.
Finally, they reached a landing with a single, unremarkable door. There was no handle, no lock, and no visible means of entry. Instead, a bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle was mounted on the aged wood.
Albert stepped closer, examining the door. "Is this original? The wood grain looks like it's seen at least nine centuries."
"Why do you always focus on the architecture instead of the mystery?" Katrina sighed. She reached out and knocked once.
The eagle's beak didn't just clatter; it moved. Its eyes seemed to flash with a sudden, intelligent light, and a gentle, melodic voice filled the corridor.
"What question can you never answer 'yes' to?"
Albert leaned in, fascinated. "A riddle-based security system. It's elegant, if a bit inconvenient for a student who's had a long day and just wants to nap."
Katrina didn't even hesitate. "Are you asleep?"
"Logic is the path to wisdom," the voice replied, and the door swung inward without a sound.
"I would have gone with 'Are you dead?'" Albert muttered as he followed Katrina across the threshold. "Or perhaps 'Are you lying right now?' though that gets into a paradox loop that might break the door."
Inside, the common room was a breathtaking expanse of blue and silver. Circular and airy, with arched windows that offered a panoramic—if currently blurry—view of the grounds.
Isabelle was standing near the center of the room, her hand still raised as if she'd been about to open the door from the inside. She looked at Albert, hearing his remark about the riddle.