The transition into February brought a shift in the castle's rhythm. For the upper years, the thrill of the upcoming Hogsmeade trip was the only thing keeping them from collapsing under the weight of their mid-term essays. For the Quidditch fanatics, the mid-month clash between Gryffindor and Slytherin was all that mattered. And for the strategic elite, the end-of-month Wizard Card bracket was the main event.
But for Albert, time had become a rare commodity—one he was starting to hoard like a miser.
He sat in a quiet corner of the common room, tapping a quill against his chin. I really need a Time-Turner, he thought, though he knew the risks. Playing with time wasn't just about extra hours; it was about trading your future health for present productivity. He'd seen the toll it took on those who pushed it too far.
Maybe I should just drop the dead weight, he mused, looking at his overflowing notebook. Between the card club, his potion business, constant correspondence with half the famous wizards in Europe, and his self-imposed research into thermal magic, he was redlining. Isabelle had been right—he was greedy. If he didn't have the system panel to act as a cognitive stabilizer, he'd probably be institutionalized at St. Mungo's by now.
"A few more years of this grind," Albert whispered to himself, "and I'll have enough capital to retire at twenty."
He wasn't worried about the looming threat of Voldemort. Why should he be? Harry Potter was currently the Wizarding World's designated meat-shield. As long as the "Boy Who Lived" was taking the hits, Albert just had to figure out how to turn the inevitable chaos into profit. In a world of war and uncertainty, the man with the resources and the information was the one who truly held the power.
He pulled out his small, battered notebook—the one that acted as his external brain—and flipped through the pages. It was almost full. He sighed, tucked it away, and turned his attention to a fresh piece of parchment. It was time to write to Mundungus Fletcher.
The meeting was set for the next Hogsmeade trip at the Three Broomsticks. Albert needed Swamp Digger fur. His salted Mandrake project was reaching a critical phase; the root had been fermenting in its briny solution for months, slowly twisting into a potent Dark Arts artifact. Without the neutralizing properties of the fur, processing the root further would be like trying to defuse a bomb with a hammer.
Mundungus's reply came back with suspicious speed. The man was a bottom-feeder, a petty thief who smelled a "fat sheep" from a mile away. His letter was filled with flowery language about the "rarity" and "difficulty" of obtaining the fur—a clear setup for a massive overcharge.
Does he really think I'm just some naive schoolboy? Albert thought, a cold, thin smile spreading across his face. He tossed the letter into the fireplace, watching the green-tinged flames lick the ink until the parchment curled into gray ash.
"Albert's doing that creepy smile again," George whispered, nudging Fred. They were ostensibly working on their Transfiguration homework, but mostly they were just watching their friend.
"I don't know who he's thinking about, but I wouldn't want to be them," Fred muttered. "That's his 'I'm about to ruin someone's life' face."
Albert leaned in closer to them, his voice dropping to a low, steady hum. "The next Hogsmeade trip. Are you guys in?"
"Is the sky gray?" Lee Jordan replied, finally putting down his quill. "Of course we're going. I've got some Christmas money burning a hole in my pocket."
"Is this about that thief friend of yours?" Fred asked, his eyes narrowing with interest.
"Mundungus Fletcher," Albert confirmed. "He thinks he's going to fleece me. He thinks because I'm a student, I don't know the market value of Swamp Digger hide. If he tries to push his luck during the negotiation..."
"Then what?" Lee asked, sounding a bit worried.
"Then I'll rob him," Albert said matter-of-factly. "Or I'll apply some 'aggressive negotiation' tactics. A Disillusionment Charm to get close, a Stupefy to end the conversation, and a Memory Charm to ensure he forgets he ever met me."
Lee blinked, looking stunned. "Isn't that... a bit much? I mean, we're Gryffindors, Albert. Morality and all that?"
Albert leaned back, his expression unreadable. "Morality is a luxury for those who don't have to deal with professional con artists, Lee. Mundungus is a black-market bottom-feeder who'd sell his own mother for a sack of Sickles. He's done things far worse than a simple memory wipe. If he wants to play fair, I'll be the perfect customer. If he wants to play dirty, I'll show him that a decade of living under the influence of modern capitalism has left my moral compass a bit... flexible."
The twins exchanged a look of pure delight. They didn't care about the ethics; they cared about the execution. "We're in," they said in unison.
"We'll decide the final plan based on how he behaves," Albert concluded, closing the subject as Sanna approached their table.
"What are you four plotting now?" she asked, dropping a stack of library books onto the table. "You look like you're planning a bank heist."
"Just discussing the Wizard Card tournament," Albert lied effortlessly. The twins and Lee nodded along, their faces masks of innocence. "The logistics are a nightmare."
"Well, forget the cards for a second," Sanna whispered, leaning in. "Have you heard the news from the Forbidden Forest? It's all anyone's talking about."
"The Forest?" Fred asked, his ears perking up. "What, did Hagrid lose another pet?"
"Worse," Sanna said, her voice trembling slightly. "The third-years were out for Care of Magical Creatures this afternoon, and they heard it. A roar. But not just a beast roar—it sounded like the earth itself was screaming. They say something huge and dangerous has moved into the outskirts of the forest."
Fluffy, Albert thought immediately. Hagrid's three-headed dog was likely getting restless.
"Maybe Hagrid's finally found that dragon he's always wanted," George joked, but his eyes were gleaming with that dangerous curiosity that usually led to detention. "We should go check it out."
"Inside the Forest? Are you mad?" Lee asked.
"We don't go alone," George said, grinning. "We go with Hagrid. It's his job to keep the 'monsters' in check, right? We just offer to help him with his rounds."
By dinner, the rumors had mutated into something much more terrifying. By the time the stories reached the Slytherin table, the "roar" had become a sighting of a Manticore. By the time they hit the Hufflepuffs, it was a rogue giant.
Professor Kettleburn seemed to take the threat seriously enough. He'd already announced that future classes would be held on the manicured lawns closer to the castle, far away from the dark tree-line of the Forbidden Forest.
Albert watched the edge of the woods from the Great Hall window, the dark silhouettes of the trees swaying in the winter wind. He knew the history of this place better than most, but even he felt a prickle of unease. The "morality" he'd kicked into the corner earlier was being replaced by a much more primal instinct: survival.
"February is going to be a long month," Albert murmured, turning back to his steak. He had a thief to outwit, a card game to run, and now, apparently, a monster to avoid. It was exactly the kind of chaos he excelled at. 🌲🐾