After a long holiday, Hogwarts always saw a predictable, desperate surge of students rushing to finish their neglected homework. The Christmas break was no exception. In the first few days back, the library was so packed it felt less like a sanctuary of learning and more like a crowded Muggle train station.
Albert's three roommates were currently buried under a mountain of parchment at a corner table, their quills scratching away with a feverish intensity that bordered on the manic.
"I'll never understand it. Why do they do this to themselves?"
Sanna was packing her bag, watching a third-year Ravenclaw nearby who looked like he was on the verge of tears over a Herbology chart. She wasn't asking for the first time; the holiday had provided nearly twenty days of freedom. Why cram it all into the final forty-eight hours?
As she walked out of the library with Albert, Sanna finally let out a long, frustrated hoot of annoyance. "Is it a tradition? Is there some secret points-bonus for doing your work while sleep-deprived?"
"It's just human nature, Sanna," Albert said, his voice level and entirely unbothered. "Most people have a natural inclination toward laziness. It's a chronic condition that's remarkably hard to cure. They don't see it as 'losing time' during the break; they see it as 'borrowing time' from their future selves. Unfortunately, their future selves are now standing in the library with a massive debt to pay."
"It seems so... inefficient," Sanna said, shaking her head.
"That's because it is," Albert agreed. He adjusted his bag, his mind drifting to the mess he'd seen Fred and George producing earlier. "It's an educational issue, really."
He didn't elaborate further. He wasn't about to start a lecture on the pedagogical failings of the wizarding world. If he pointed out that the lack of primary education for wizarding children led to a massive deficit in critical thinking and study habits, he'd probably have a dozen Pure-blood students trying to hex him for 'Muggle arrogance.'
But to Albert's eyes, the lack of systematic schooling before age eleven was a glaring problem. He'd seen the twins' essays; they were essentially stream-of-consciousness ramblings held together by a prayer and a few spilled ink drops. He often wondered if the Professors actually read the middle three paragraphs of most assignments, or if they just checked the length and the conclusion before scrawling a 'P' or a 'D' on the top. Sometimes, the difference between passing and failing in this school was simply a matter of how confident your handwriting looked.
"Education?" Sanna repeated, catching onto his drift. She decided to pivot before they got too deep into social theory. "Speaking of learning... I'm stuck, Albert. I've been trying to turn this old boot into a rabbit for three hours, and all I get is a leathery lump with ears that twitches occasionally. It's gruesome."
"You're jumping the gun," Albert suggested, stopping near a window overlooking the frost-covered courtyard. "The difficulty of Transfiguration is directly proportional to the mass and complexity of the target. A boot is heavy, and a rabbit is a complex mammal with a nervous system. If you want to master the flow, start smaller. Try a teapot into a turtle, or even a slipper into a mouse. Get the 'feel' of the change before you try to create something that breathes."
"But that takes so much time," Sanna grumbled. "I was hoping there was a trick. You know, a specific flick of the wrist or a mental shortcut?"
"The shortcut is practice," Albert said, his tone softening but remaining firm. "Every time you cast, you aren't just training the spell; you're training your magical pathways. It's like a muscle. I spent the whole break practicing, and even I hit walls. There's no substitute for the grind, Sanna."
He didn't mention that his "grind" was supplemented by a system that awarded him experience points and bloodline upgrades, but the principle remained the same. Even with the system, he had to put in the hours.
As they moved through the corridor toward the Great Hall, Albert noticed a familiar pattern. Groups of girls were huddled in alcoves, their heads close together, whispering with an intensity usually reserved for the discovery of a secret passage.
One sixth-year girl was so distracted by her conversation that she walked straight into a suit of armor with a loud clink.
"Are you alright? That looked like it hurt," Albert said, pausing to check on her.
The girl turned bright red, squeaked out something that sounded like "N-nothing, sorry!" and scrambled away to join her friends, who were all giggling uncontrollably.
Albert blinked, genuinely confused. "What was that about? Is there something on my face?"
Sanna was biting her lip, her shoulders shaking. "Oh, Albert. You really are oblivious sometimes, aren't you?"
"Enlighten me," he said, waiting.
"The rumor mill has been working overtime since the train arrived," Sanna said, her expression a mix of amusement and curiosity. "The word in the corridors is that you've finally made your move. Apparently, you've 'claimed' the most beautiful girl in Ravenclaw."
Albert's eyebrows shot up. "Ravenclaw's most beautiful girl? Who are we talking about? Does she have a name, or is this just an abstract title?"
Sanna laughed, covering her mouth. "You're acting like you don't know! Everyone says it's Isabelle Macdougall. They say the two of you were inseparable over the break—metaphorically speaking, of course."
"Isabelle?" Albert nodded slowly. "Well, they aren't wrong about her being beautiful. She's brilliant, too. But 'claimed'? That's a bit medieval, isn't it?"
"So it's true?" Sanna pressed, her eyes wide. "You're a couple?"
"We're friends who share an interest in advanced magic," Albert corrected. "I suspect some bored soul saw us talking in the library one too many times and decided to write a romance novel in their head. Who started this? I'd like to send them a dictionary so they can look up the word 'platonic'."
Sanna shook her head. "I don't think a dictionary will help. You're famous, Albert. Isabelle is famous. When two people like that stand in the same room, everyone else fills in the blanks with wedding bells."
Albert let out a tired sigh. He should have expected this. Between his academic standing and Isabelle's reputation, they were the perfect target for the school's gossip-mongers.
"But that's not the best part," Sanna teased. "The Ravenclaw girls are saying Isabelle has a new treasure. A wooden unicorn pendant, carved with such detail it looks like it might gallop off her neck. Fred and George were very vocal in the common room about how you spent 'countless sleepless nights' pouring your soul into that carving."
Albert froze. The pieces clicked into place with the precision of a master-crafted lock.
"Those scoundrels," Albert muttered, his eyes narrowing. "Fred, George, and Lee. They took my joke about Percy having a girlfriend and decided to turn the spotlight on me as revenge."
"Wait, so you did make the pendant?" Sanna asked.
"I made a set of protective amulets for a few friends," Albert admitted. "Isabelle helped me with the Runic theory, so it was only fair she got one of the prototypes. It wasn't a 'token of my undying affection'; it was a lab result."
"Try telling that to the rest of the school," Sanna said. "And here I was thinking you were going to end up with Katrina."
Albert stopped dead in his tracks. "Katrina? Why on earth would you think—no, don't answer that. I don't want to know what the rumors are saying about her either. My life is starting to sound like a soap opera I never auditioned for."
"It's because you're a mystery, Albert," Sanna said, her tone becoming a bit more serious. "You're a Muggle-born who out-performs the Pure-bloods, you have 'old friends' all over Europe, and you treat magic like a science rather than a miracle. People want to humanize you. They want to believe you're just a boy who likes a girl."
"I'd rather they believe I'm a boy who likes his privacy," Albert retorted. He looked at the group of girls peering around the corner at them and felt a sudden urge to use a Disillusionment Charm. "I need to teach the twins a lesson. Something subtle. Something that involves their hair changing color every time they try to say my name."
"Focus, Albert," Sanna laughed, pulling him along. "Ignore the idiots. Tell me more about that 'Intermediate Transfiguration' book you mentioned. You think I'm ready for it?"
"If you want to pass this year with anything higher than an 'Acceptable,' you need to stop thinking like a student and start thinking like a practitioner," Albert said, forcing the conversation back to a topic he could control. "The textbooks provided by the school are designed for the lowest common denominator. They teach you the 'what,' but never the 'why.' If you want to get invited to Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration Club, you need to show her you aren't just mimicking her movements—you're understanding the molecular shift."
"The Transfiguration Club?" Sanna's eyes lit up. "You think I have a chance?"