The weight of the Restricted Section pass in Albert's pocket felt like a key to a vault he had been eyeing since he first stepped onto the Hogwarts Express. On his internal interface, the "Restricted Section" quest shimmered, needing only one more official withdrawal to be completed. He had initially planned to manipulate the vain Gilderoy Lockhart into signing a slip—whenever that peacock eventually showed up in the future—but Professor McGonagall's favor had accelerated his timeline significantly.
As Albert stepped out of the library, the atmosphere in the hallway was notably less academic and significantly more hostile. Fred, George, and Lee Jordan were leaning against the stone wall, looking like three prisoners awaiting the gallows. The moment they spotted him, they swarmed.
"Tell us it was a prank, Albert," Fred pleaded, his face pale. "The note. The detention. You're just practicing your 'deadpan humor' for the Ravenclaw girls, right?"
Albert stopped, his expression a mask of serene innocence that hid a mounting urge to laugh. "The detention? Oh, that's very real. I was just in McGonagall's office discussing advanced Transfiguration theory, and as I was leaving, she handed me that slip. She seemed... let's say, 'inspired' by the lack of effort in your essays."
The trio's faces dropped in unison. They had spent hours over the break perfecting the art of "creative copying," assuming that as long as the parchment was long enough, the Professor wouldn't notice the lack of original thought. They were wrong.
"I've been telling you for months," Albert said, shaking his head with a mock-pitying sigh. "Efficiency doesn't mean skipping the work; it means doing it right the first time so you don't have to do it twice. Now you've managed to turn a holiday into a prison sentence."
"Merlin's beard, this isn't funny," Lee Jordan groaned, rubbing his temples. "I think my brain is actually starting to leak out of my ears."
"Well, keep a bucket handy," Albert replied, his tone turning cautionary. "Because we have Potions tomorrow. If I were you, I'd spend tonight re-reading the properties of Swelling Solutions. Snape is looking for any excuse to prune the student population, and your names are at the top of his list."
"Shut it, Albert!" George snapped, though there was no real heat in it—only terror. "Every time you open that 'broken mouth' of yours and predict something bad, it happens. You're like a walking omen of doom."
As it turned out, Albert wasn't just a walking omen; he was a precision instrument of prophecy.
The following day in the dungeons, the atmosphere was as cold and damp as a tomb. Snape had spent the first ten minutes of class shredding the pride of several students, and when he reached the end of the lesson, he dropped the hammer. He announced detention for five students whose holiday work was "substandard even by the abysmal metrics of this year group." Naturally, the three roommates were featured prominently on the list.
The news hit George like a physical blow. His hand jerked, and the glass vial he was holding—filled with a volatile, unfinished Swelling Solution—shattered against the stone floor. A geyser of purple liquid erupted, drenching Fred's robes and boots.
"Look out!" Fred yelled, but it was too late.
Wherever the solution touched skin, the flesh ballooned instantly. Within seconds, Fred's hands looked like overinflated rubber gloves, and George's face was puffing up until his eyes were mere slits.
Snape didn't move to help. He simply stood over them, his cloak billowing like a giant bat. "Five points from Gryffindor for your clumsiness, Weasley. And since you're clearly incapable of handling basic equipment, you may escort your brother to the Hospital Wing. The rest of you—get out."
He could have fixed it in seconds with a drop of Shrinking Solution from the cabinet behind him, but Snape clearly preferred the "educational value" of prolonged discomfort.
"One inch of parchment on the interaction between Swelling and Shrinking solutions," Snape called out as the class scrambled to leave. "To be handed in next lesson. Or don't—I'm sure Filch has plenty of chains that need polishing."
Outside the Hospital Wing, the sound of Lee Jordan's wailing was attracting unwanted attention. "Homework! It's a mountain! I'm going to collapse under the weight of it! Albert, help us!"
"Keep your voice down," Albert hissed, checking the corridor. "If Madam Pomfrey comes out and thinks you're making fun of the patients, she'll give you a dose of something that'll make your tongue swell up to match George's face."
As if on cue, the heavy doors creaked open. Fred and George shuffled out, their skin back to its normal size but their spirits utterly crushed. They looked like they'd just aged ten years in twenty minutes.
"I can't do it, Albert," Fred whispered, looking at him piteously. "The essay. The detention. The shame. Just... give us a hand? A few paragraphs? A bulleted list?"
"Not a chance," Albert said, turning the corner with his robes fluttering. "Snape and McGonagall have their eyes on you now. If I help you and the writing style suddenly jumps from 'struggling toddler' to 'published researcher,' we're all going to be scrubbing cauldrons until June. You're on your own for this one."
"Then what are we supposed to do?" George asked, sounding desperate.
"We'll do it together," Albert suggested, softening slightly. "During the breaks. We'll meet in the Great Hall, find the materials as a group, and I'll explain the concepts while you write. It'll be faster, and you might actually learn something for once."
"Fine," Lee sighed. "It's better than nothing."
"I have to go," Albert said, handing his heavy bag to Fred. "I have a meeting with Professor Smith. Go to the Great Hall and start on the bibliography. I'll catch up."
As Albert navigated the moving staircases toward the Defense Against the Dark Arts office, he ran into a familiar face. Katrina Macdougall was leaning against a pillar, her expression unreadable.
"Is something wrong, Katrina?" Albert asked, slowing his pace. "You look like you're trying to solve a particularly difficult Arithmancy problem in your head."
Katrina hesitated, her gaze flicking over him with a strange intensity. "Are the rumors true, then? Are you and Isabelle... you know? Actually together?"
Albert felt a familiar twinge of annoyance. "Katrina, if you spend your life listening to the whispers in the hallways, your intelligence will eventually rot away. It's a waste of a good mind."
"People are talking about that unicorn pendant you gave her," Katrina said, her voice dropping. "They say it's a 'token'."
"It was a return gift," Albert explained, rolling his eyes. "She helped me refine a particularly stubborn bit of Runic theory. I don't believe in being a free rider. I gave her an amulet I'd been working on. It's practical, not romantic." He paused, looking at her. "You seem awfully invested in this. Should I be concerned?"
"I'm just curious," Katrina said quickly, her cheeks flushing.
Tsundere, Albert thought. Classic. She reminded him of his sister, Nia—always hiding her genuine interest behind a wall of prickly defensiveness.
"Tell you what," Albert said, a mischievous spark in his eyes. "I'll give you a birthday gift too, when the time comes. What would you like? A wooden dragon? A phoenix? Or maybe a tiny owl?"
"I'm not a child, Albert," Katrina snapped, though she didn't look nearly as angry as she sounded. "And I don't need you 'coaxing' me."
"I thought we were friends," Albert teased, relishing the way she bristled.
"We are classmates," she reminded him sharply.
"There's a hierarchy to these things," Albert said, adopting a mock-solemn tone. "Classmates are just strangers who sit in the same room. Friends are people who exchange gifts and secrets. And 'good friends' are the ones who help each other hide the bodies after a prank goes wrong. Which one are we?"
Katrina snorted, turning away to hide a smile. "You really do enjoy messing with people, don't you? You and Isabelle are far too similar in that regard."
She reached out and knocked on Professor Smith's door. A moment later, it opened, and Smith's welcoming face appeared. He beckoned them both inside.
"Albert! How was the gathering? I hear the Alchemists were quite impressed with our youngest attendee."
"It was enlightening, Professor," Albert said, taking a seat. "I think I've found the missing link regarding that 'hidden door' we discussed last term."
Smith's eyes widened. He looked at Katrina for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Katrina, dear, would you mind waiting outside for a moment? Mr. Anderson and I have a few private matters of scholarship to settle."
Katrina gave Albert a long, searching look before nodding and stepping back out into the hall.
Once the door was shut, Albert lowered his voice. "The runes on the next chamber aren't standard. They're a dialect used by the Macdougall line—specifically for locking away research. I met a master at the gathering who hinted at the key. It requires a specific resonance."
Smith sighed, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face. "I had a feeling it would come back to the Macdougalls. I've tried to reach out to Mog, but our history is... complicated. I was hoping your fresh perspective would bypass the family requirement."
"I have talent, Professor, but I lack the years of exposure," Albert said, looking appropriately humble. "I'm getting there, but I'm still a student. Give me a few years to master the ancient scripts, and I'll be able to open that door without needing to ask anyone for permission."
Smith looked at Albert, and for a second, he seemed to be measuring the boy's ambition. He smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Very well, Albert. I've waited this long; I can wait a few more years for a genius to come of age."