The evening air inside Hogwarts had finally lost its winter bite, replaced by the scent of rain-washed grass and the distant, rhythmic thrum of the forest. As night fell, Albert made his way back from the kitchens, dodging a particularly moody Filch. He was carrying a greaseproof paper bag that radiated a comforting, buttery warmth, the heat seeping into his palms.
He stopped before the portrait of the Fat Lady, who was currently trying to hit a high note that sounded suspiciously like a dying mandrake.
"Password?" she asked, smoothing her silk dress with a theatrical sigh.
"Pumpkin pie," Albert replied.
The portrait swung forward, and the chaotic energy of the Gryffindor common room hit him like a physical wave. The "Smith Mystery" had already begun to evaporate from the collective consciousness of the house. In its place was the far more pressing matter of tomorrow's Quidditch match against Hufflepuff. Students were draped over armchairs, shouting over one another about Broomstick maintenance and Seeker tactics. To them, a missing professor was a headline; a Quidditch loss was a tragedy.
Albert scanned the room. Lee Jordan was buried under a mountain of parchment at a corner table, his quill scratching frantically as he tried to finish a Charms essay. Albert walked over and dropped the steaming bag right on top of Lee's notes.
"Supper's here," Albert said, pulling out a chair.
Lee's head snapped up, his eyes widening as the scent of spiced pumpkin and flaky pastry hit him. "You're a saint, Albert. Truly. I thought you were still out on your 'date' and wouldn't be back until the ghosts started their midnight patrol."
Across the room, several girls—including a few second-years who had been nursing crushes on Albert since the dueling tournament—suddenly went very still, their ears virtually twitching. The rumor that Albert had finally picked a side in the great Hogwarts romance war was the only thing more popular than Quidditch right now.
"Date?" Albert laughed, leaning back. "I was just running an errand for Professor Broad. Don't let your imagination run away with you, Lee. It's a dangerous neighborhood."
He pulled the bag back just as Lee's hand darted toward it like a striking cobra. Albert turned to Sanna, who was sitting across from them, her brow furrowed over a complex Arithmancy chart.
"Hungry?" he offered.
"Starving," Sanna admitted, her face lighting up as she took the offered pie. She bit into it, the steam rising in the cool air of the room. "Wait, this is still hot. Like, oven-hot. Did you sprint from the kitchens?"
"Magic, Sanna. It's what we're here for," Albert joked. He pulled out his wand and gave it a lazy flick. Two empty mugs on the table suddenly filled with milk tea powder from his personal stash, followed by a stream of boiling water that appeared from thin air. The spoons began to stir themselves with a rhythmic clink-clink-clink.
"Household charms?" Sanna asked, impressed. "I didn't think you'd bother with the domestic stuff. Usually, you're busy trying to figure out how to dismantle ancient curses."
"Convenience is the mother of invention," Albert said, catching his mug as it drifted toward him.
"Look, Albert, I'm sorry about the date comment," Lee blurted out, his eyes locked onto the remaining pies in the bag. "I was under a Babbling Curse. Temporary insanity. Total lapse in judgment. Can I have a pie now?"
"I've never heard of a Babbling Curse that targets someone's lunch," Fred said, appearing out of nowhere and leaning over Lee's shoulder with a grin.
"And besides," George added, appearing on the other side, "I don't think there's enough left for a traitor." He deftly snatched the bag from Albert's hand. There were exactly two pies left. He tossed one to Fred and took a massive bite out of the other.
Lee let out a pathetic groan, slumping onto his parchment. Sanna gave him a sympathetic look but didn't offer to share hers.
"So, is Charlie finally done with the war room?" Albert asked, nodding toward the center of the common room.
Charlie Weasley was hunched over a miniature model of the Quidditch pitch, moving tiny wooden figures with his wand. He looked like a general preparing for a last stand. Oliver Wood was standing next to him, looking even more stressed than usual, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
"He's done," Fred sighed, wiping a crumb from his chin. "But it feels like we're just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. Hufflepuff isn't exactly a powerhouse, but we've been playing like we've got Confusion Hexes on our brooms all season."
"If we lose tomorrow, we're officially the basement dwellers of the league," George added grimly.
The Gryffindor team had struggled. Despite having talent, their coordination was off, and the pressure from the rest of the house was becoming toxic. People were starting to whisper about "legacy picks" and "favoritism," which only made Wood more obsessive about training.
"Next year will be different," George said, casting a pointed look at Albert. "Charlie's graduating. Wood is going to be the new captain, and he's already got a list. You're at the top of it, Albert. He wants a Seeker who can actually track a Snitch without getting distracted by a passing bird."
Albert felt the weight of Wood's gaze from across the room. The future captain looked like he was ready to tackle Albert into a tryout right then and there.
"I've told you guys, I'm busy," Albert said firmly. "I'm taking twelve subjects next year. I won't have time to sleep, let alone spend six hours a week getting pelted by Bludgers."
"Twelve classes?" Wood's voice cut through the noise of the room. He walked over, looking horrified. "Are you trying to kill yourself? Give up Divination or something. We need a Seeker."
"I have a better idea," Albert said, a mysterious glint in his eye. He enjoyed dropping "spoilers" like this; it felt like a private game he played with the timeline. "Why don't you look at the incoming first-years? There's an exception for everything if the talent is high enough."
"First-years aren't allowed to play. It's in the rulebook," Fred reminded him.
"Rules are for people without names on their foreheads," Albert countered. "Next year, a very famous student is enrolling. Surely you've heard of him?"
The table went quiet. Even Sanna stopped chewing.
"You mean... Harry Potter?" George asked tentatively.
"Exactly. The Boy Who Lived," Albert said. "I was reading some old records in the trophy room—James Potter was an incredible player. Won more trophies for Gryffindor than almost anyone in his decade. Magic runs in the blood, especially flying talent."
"You think Potter is going to be a Quidditch prodigy?" Lee asked, skeptical. "The kid has been living with Muggles. He probably doesn't even know which end of a broom is which."
"James was a Gryffindor," Albert said, ignoring the skepticism. "Harry will be a Gryffindor. And if Wood is half the captain he thinks he is, he'll have the kid on a broom before the first week is out. Heredity is a powerful thing in our world."
"He's just trying to dodge the team," Lee muttered, though he looked thoughtful.
Wood groaned, rubbing his temples. "Potter or no Potter, we have to win tomorrow. If we lose to Hufflepuff, I'm going to spend the summer living in the locker room out of pure shame."
"Go to bed, Oliver," Charlie called out, finally packing up his models. "We've done the work. Now we just have to play. And for Merlin's sake, don't lose your head if the Snitch takes more than ten minutes to show up."
As the common room began to clear, Albert followed the twins up to the dormitory. The mood was heavy. The pressure to win wasn't just about a trophy anymore; it was about pride. The house was restless, and a loss tomorrow would make the end of the term very unpleasant.
"Do you really think Potter will be that good?" George asked as they climbed the stairs.
Albert paused at the door to their room. "I think the world has a way of revolving around certain people, George. Harry Potter is one of them. But until then, you lot better focus on Hufflepuff. If you lose tomorrow, even a savior won't be able to stop the teasing you'll get from the Slytherins."
"Thanks for the encouragement, Albert," Fred muttered, though he was smiling.
Albert lay in bed that night, the 'Book of Bronze' tucked safely beneath his floorboard. He had the future in his head and the past in his pocket. Tomorrow was just a game, but for Albert, the real match had only just begun. 🏰🧹⚡