"I refuse to believe it. It's statistically impossible. You actually spent the entire Christmas break with your nose buried in those dusty old tomes?"
On the Hogwarts Express, the air was thick with the scent of pumpkin pasties and damp wool. Fred and George Weasley were looming over Albert like two investigators who had just discovered a particularly disturbing crime scene. Beside them, Lee Jordan had his face buried in his palms, his shoulders shaking in a theatrical display of secondhand embarrassment.
"Honestly, Albert, we thought better of you," George said, clicking his tongue. "We thought there might be hope. A little holiday mischief? A few prototype explosions? But no. Just... ink and parchment."
Albert didn't even look up from his current page. He adjusted his position on the cushioned seat, leaning back comfortably. "And here I thought the three of you would be more concerned with your own academic failures. Or did the holiday spirit magically finish those three-foot essays for Professor McGonagall while you were busy eating turkey?"
The atmosphere in the compartment shifted instantly. Lee Jordan let out a pained wail, his "shock" turning into very real despair as he remembered the blank scrolls stuffed at the bottom of his trunk.
"Don't go there, mate. That's low," Lee groaned.
"Oh, glorious and brilliant Albert," Fred said, his voice dropping an octave into a smooth, buttery tone. He slid into the seat next to Albert, flashing a grin that was entirely too wide to be sincere. "I don't think a future Head Boy would want to see his dearest friends—his loyal business partners—getting served a week's worth of detention before the first feast even starts, would he?"
Albert finally closed his book with a soft thud. "If you're looking for my homework to 'reference,' you're out of luck. I didn't do it."
The three of them stared at him. The silence lasted for three full seconds before George broke it. "You... you didn't do it? You, Albert Anderson, the human encyclopedia, didn't do the homework? Is the world ending? Should we jump off the train now?"
"I didn't do the standard assignments because I don't have to," Albert said, enjoying the look of pure confusion on their faces. "Transfiguration, Charms, Potions... I've been granted an exemption for the term's basic worksheets."
"That is the most unfair thing I have ever heard in my entire life," Fred cried out, throwing his hands up. "How did you trick Snape? Did you brew him a 'Be Less of a Bat' potion? How could that greasy git let anyone off the hook?"
"He didn't 'let me off,'" Albert clarified, shaking the thick volume on advanced alchemical theory in his hand. "I'm writing specialized research papers instead. Apparently, the Professors decided that asking me to write about the basic properties of Moonstone for the tenth time was a waste of their grading time. They'd rather I produce something they can actually use for their own journals."
"Is that even allowed?" Lee Jordan asked, reaching for a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans to soothe his nerves. He popped one in, his face immediately twisting as if he'd just swallowed a spoonful of earwax. "Ugh... sprout flavor. But seriously, Albert, that's just showing off."
"It's efficient," Albert countered. "Why spend three hours on something I mastered in October when I could be researching how to actually make our future products work?"
"Speaking of people who show off," George grumbled, his mood souring. "Percy is reaching peak annoyance. He's spent the whole holiday acting like he's already been crowned King of Gryffindor. He's convinced he's getting the Prefect badge next year."
"He probably will," Albert said calmly. "Percy is organized, follows the rules to a fault, and has the kind of academic record that makes teachers weep with joy. Why wouldn't he get it?"
"Because he's Percy!" Fred exploded. "He's a walking rulebook with a haircut! Can you imagine having to live in the same dorm as a Prefect who thinks 'fun' is a violation of Decree Number Twenty-Four?"
"He's ambitious," Albert said, ignoring the twins' exaggerated shudders. "I've spent some time talking to him lately. He's not just a stick-in-the-mud; he's someone who knows exactly where he wants to be ten years from now. He wants a career in the Ministry, and he knows that the path to the top is paved with badges and high grades."
The twins looked at Albert as if he'd just admitted to being a secret fan of the Chudley Cannons. "You're actually defending him? Traitor! We've lost him, George. The books have rotted his brain."
Lee Jordan, caught in the middle of the verbal crossfire, accidentally swallowed a bean whole and started coughing violently. Albert reached over and gave him a sharp, practiced thwack on the back.
"I'm not defending his personality, I'm acknowledging his strategy," Albert said, waiting for Lee to stop gasping for air. "Think about it. Our situations aren't that different. Your family—and mine, for that matter—can't exactly hand us a thousand Galleons the day we graduate. If we want to build something, like that joke shop you keep dreaming about, we have to build our own foundations. Percy is just doing it the Ministry way. He's accumulating 'capital' in the form of reputation and connections."
There was a long silence in the compartment. The rhythmic clack-clack of the train on the tracks seemed louder. Fred and George exchanged a look that wasn't their usual mischievous smirk; it was something closer to realization.
"You just don't like his bedside manner," Albert finished with a shrug. "Which is fair. He's about as charming as a wet blast-ended skrewt. But don't underestimate him. Ambition is a powerful engine."
"Whatever," Fred muttered, though the fire had gone out of his protest. "He's still a bore."
Suddenly, a rhythmic tapping at the window interrupted them. A cluster of owls was struggling to keep pace with the moving train, their wings flapping furiously against the glass.
"Talk about a delivery service," Lee said, his eyes widening. "Is that a whole flock?"
George stood up and slid the window open, letting in a rush of cold air and a very exhausted-looking owl. It dropped a thick envelope onto Albert's lap before fluttering over to Lee's half-eaten box of crackers.
"Who's it from? Another world-renowned alchemist asking for your autograph?" Fred asked, trying to peek at the parchment.
"Mundungus Fletcher," Albert read, tearing the seal. He scanned the lines quickly, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips. "He's smarter than he looks. Or at least, he knows when a mark isn't actually a mark."
"Mundungus?" George frowned. "The guy who smells like a pub basement? What are you doing with him?"
"Buying raw materials. He tried to charge me twenty Galleons for Swamp Digger fur. I told him to reconsider his life choices." Albert tossed the letter onto the small table. "He's dropped the price significantly and wants to meet to 'finalize the terms' once we're back at school."
"Twenty Galleons!" Lee choked. "What even is a Swamp Digger? Is it made of gold?"
"It's a giant, ugly tadpole with teeth," Albert said. "And no, it's not made of gold. Mundungus was just testing the waters."
"Dad says Fletcher would sell his own grandmother if he thought he could get a decent price for the teeth," Fred warned. "Don't trust him, Albert. He's shifty."
"I don't trust him. I use him," Albert said simply. He reached into his pocket and pulled out four rectangular pieces of stiff card, handing one to each of his friends. "But speaking of things that are actually worth money... look at these."
The three boys leaned in, examining the cards. They were beautifully crafted, with intricate borders that seemed to shimmer when they caught the light. In the center was a stylized illustration of a wizard holding a wand.
"What is it? A new Chocolate Frog card?" George asked.
"Better. It's a prototype for 'Wizard Cards,'" Albert explained. "Watch."
He pulled out his own card and tapped it with his finger. " Incendio."
The illustration on Albert's card suddenly flared with a miniature, harmless orange glow. Simultaneously, the cards in the others' hands vibrated, and the text at the bottom changed from a simple greeting to a flaming red font.
"Whoa!" Fred nearly dropped his. "It's linked? Like the Protean Charm?"
"A simplified version of it," Albert said. "I've layered a basic Transformative Charm onto the ink. If the user knows the trigger, they can change the card's display. It's a way to send silent messages or even play a tactical game. I call it the 'Duelist's Deck' concept."
"You did this over the break?" Lee asked, rubbing his thumb over the smooth surface. "While we were eating mince pies, you were inventing a new way to communicate?"
"It's just a hobby," Albert teased. "And consider those your late Christmas presents. Sorry for the delay."
Fred and George suddenly looked sheepish. They fumbled with their trunks, eventually pulling out a large, slightly squashed box of cream-filled biscuits and a massive container of Bertie Bott's.
"We were going to send them via Errol," George explained, "but Percy hijacked the poor bird. He was sending letters every single day. Errol looked like he was ready to retire permanently by the time we left."
"He was being very 'hush-hush' about it too," Fred added, his eyes lighting up with a new theory. "Writing long, flowery scrolls and hiding them whenever we walked into the room."
"Maybe he's got a girlfriend," Albert suggested, popping one of the cream biscuits into his mouth.
The compartment went deathly silent. Fred and George stared at Albert, their mouths hanging open in identical expressions of horror and delight.
"Percy? A girlfriend?" Fred whispered, as if speaking a forbidden curse. "That's... that's impossible. Who would date a dictionary? Who would want to spend an evening discussing the thickness of cauldron bottoms?"
"I was just a thought," Albert said, shrugging. "Why else would he be so secretive? Unless he's secretly joined a revolutionary underground movement, a girlfriend is the most logical explanation for frequent, private correspondence."
"George... do you realize what this means?" Fred's voice was trembling with excitement. "If Percy has a girlfriend, we have leverage. We have content."
"We need to find out who she is," George agreed, a manic glint in his eyes. "We need to know everything."
Lee Jordan laughed, leaning back. "Good luck with that. Percy's harder to crack than a Gringotts vault." He then turned a suspicious eye toward Albert. "You seem to know an awful lot about how people act when they're in love, Albert. You didn't spend the whole holiday reading, did you? You haven't got a secret pen pal too, have you?"
Albert just winked, refusing to give them a straight answer as the train sped toward the castle, carrying them back to a world of magic, mystery, and the inevitable chaos of the new term.