The backyard of the Burrow was less of a garden and more of a glorious, overgrown wilderness. A few fat, rust-colored chickens were pecking industriously at the dirt, dodging the occasional rogue gnome that popped its head out of the grass. The pond at the edge of the property was a vibrant, murky green, vibrating with the collective chorus of hundreds of frogs. It was a far cry from the manicured lawns of the Muggle suburbs, and Albert found it utterly charming in its chaos.
"Right," Fred said, rolling up his sleeves. "Time for a volunteer."
He marched over to a cluster of peonies, reached into the roots, and yanked out a struggling, leathery creature. It looked like a cross between a potato and a grumpy old man.
"Gerroff! Leggo, you big oaf!" the gnome shrieked, flailing its stubby limbs and trying to sink its teeth into Fred's thumb.
"Fascinating," Albert said, leaning down to get a closer look. "It actually has a vocabulary. I thought they just grunted."
"Oh, they talk alright," Fred said, holding the creature by its ankles and swinging it in a slow circle. "But they've got about as much brainpower as a boiled turnip. If you spin 'em enough, they lose their sense of direction and can't find their holes. It's the only way to keep 'em from coming back and eating the lily bulbs."
He looked over his shoulder nervously. "Let's head behind the shed. If Mum catches us using the gnomes for 'R&D,' she'll have us de-gnoming the entire paddock by hand. She's still obsessed with us getting 'proper' Ministry jobs. Honestly, I'd rather spend a week in Azkaban than sit in an office filing cauldron-bottom reports."
Albert laughed. "The Ministry does seem to have a talent for draining the soul out of magic."
"What are you guys doing?"
The three of them jumped. Ginny had appeared behind them, her hands on her hips, watching Fred dingle the dizzy gnome with a look of intense curiosity.
"Scientific research, Ginny," George said, giving her a conspiratorial wink. "Highly confidential. Don't go running to Mum, or we'll tell her you were the one who let the ghoul into the attic last night."
"I wouldn't tell!" Ginny said, her eyes bright. "Can I watch?"
The group moved to a secluded spot behind a stack of old cauldron parts. George pulled a bright blue candy from his pocket—the latest 'Expansion' prototype. After a brief struggle that involved George nearly losing a finger, he managed to shove the sweet into the gnome's mouth.
The gnome chewed tentatively, its little eyes narrowing.
"Is... is it supposed to just sit there?" Ginny asked after a minute of silence.
"Maybe it's a dud," Albert suggested, poking the gnome with a twig. "You might want to try the liquid form. Dilute a couple of drops of the base solution directly on its tongue. Candies take too long to digest in a metabolism this small."
"Blimey, Albert, you sound like a mad scientist," Fred muttered, but he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial of clear liquid.
George pried the gnome's mouth open again, and Fred carefully squeezed a single drop inside. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. The gnome just blinked, looking slightly insulted.
Then, with a sound like a bicycle pump being worked at high speed, the gnome began to swell. Its round head turned into a beach ball, its stubby arms thickened into sausages, and within seconds, it was three times its original size, looking like a very angry, very bald balloon.
"It worked!" George cheered, but Albert shook his head.
"Only partially," Albert noted, stepping forward to examine the creature's skin. "The expansion is uneven. Look at the left shoulder—it's lagging behind. And the duration is already tapering off. I suspect either your potency is too low, or gnomes have a natural magical resistance to physiological changes. They are earth-dwelling creatures, after all; they're grounded."
"We spent three weeks on that batch," Fred groaned, leaning against the shed. "And all we've made is an oversized potato."
"Revert it," Albert said. "I assume we're clear to use wands here?"
"Clear as a bell," George said. "In a house this full of magic, the Trace is useless. The Ministry knows magic is happening at the Burrow, but they can't tell if it's Arthur fixing a toaster or a student practicing charms."
"A luxury I don't have at home," Albert sighed. He drew his wand—the new walnut one—and gave it a sharp flick. "Finite Incantatem."
The gnome deflated with a long, whistling hiss, looking dazed and somewhat nauseated.
"How do you do that?" Fred asked, watching the gnome scramble back into the bushes. "The Fat-Lip blend last year, this... you handle magic like you've been doing it for fifty years."
"Knowledge and patience," Albert said, tucking his wand away. "Most people try to force the magic. You have to understand the chemistry behind it. If you want to invent something new, you have to be prepared to fail a hundred times before you get one 'maybe.' Now, show me the rest of the house. I want to see what a real wizarding life looks like."
The Burrow was a masterclass in magical architecture. To Albert's eyes, it was a beautiful mess—a tower of rooms held together by hope and charms, with chimneys that seemed to sprout at random. It was the polar opposite of Professor Broad's sterile, high-end estate. Here, magic wasn't a tool for elegance; it was a tool for survival and comfort.
"It's mostly boring stuff," Fred said, though he looked proud of the house. "Chopping wood with spells, de-gnoming, and Quidditch in the paddock. We're actually thinking of launching the Wizarding Card Game officially this year. We need a distraction from Percy's prefect speeches."
"What's the Card Game?" Ginny asked, following them back toward the house.
"The greatest invention since the Levitation Charm," Fred boasted. "Albert designed it. We held a tournament at school last year that nearly shut down the Great Hall. It's got portraits, stats, strategy—everything."
Lunch at the Burrow was a legendary affair. Mrs. Weasley had gone all out, piling the table with roasted chickens, mountains of mashed potatoes, and thick gravy. Arthur sat Albert right next to him, peppering him with questions about Muggle telecommunications.
"Radios!" Arthur exclaimed, waving a fork. "I understand we've modified them to work on magic, but the Muggle ones... how do they catch the voices out of the air without a spell? Is it a type of invisible thread?"
"It's waves, Mr. Weasley," Albert explained, trying to find a gap in the conversation to eat. "Like ripples in a pond, but invisible. They use electricity to push the sound through the atmosphere."
"Electricity," Arthur whispered, his eyes distant. "Such a subtle, beautiful power."
After lunch, as the table was cleared by a set of self-dancing sponges, Albert brought up a more sensitive topic. "Mr. Weasley, I was hoping to practice a bit of Divination while I'm here. Will the Ministry flag that?"
"Divination?" Percy piped up from the end of the table, not looking up from his copy of Prefects Who Gained Power. "Hardly worth the effort. It's a woolly subject. Most wizards go their whole lives without a single true vision. It's more about guesswork and dramatic pauses than actual magic."
"The professor is a bit of a fraud," George added with a grin. "She spends most of her time predicting Harry Potter's death. He's supposed to have died about six times by now."
"I'm interested in the theory," Albert said mildly. He wasn't about to tell them that his 'Skill Panel' made the woolly nature of the subject irrelevant. If he put points into it, the universe would have to give him answers.
The afternoon was spent in the paddock playing a disorganized game of Quidditch. Ron and Ginny joined in, and Albert was surprised to see how well Ginny flew on Charlie's old broom. She had a natural, aggressive grace that the twins clearly hadn't noticed yet.
"Wood is going to kill us this year," Fred said, panting as he landed next to Albert. "After that loss to Ravenclaw, he's been dreaming up training schedules that involve flying through thunderstorms."
"I might be a bit busy for Quidditch this term," Albert said, watching Ginny dive after a rogue tennis ball. "I've taken on a heavy course load."
"You're turning into Percy," George groaned. "Why do you need twelve O.W.L.s? You're already smarter than half the Ministry."
"Information is power, George. I'd rather have the knowledge and not need it than be standing in a duel wishing I'd read Chapter Four of a textbook."
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and gold, a tawny owl swooped down toward them. It landed on a fence post, hooting softly.
"You're like a magnetic pole for owls," Fred complained. "Who is it this time? Another secret alchemist?"
Albert opened the letter. It was from Professor Broad. He scanned the lines, his brow furrowing. I will send someone to collect you before dinner tonight. There is a matter regarding your 'inheritance' that cannot wait.
"I have to head out," Albert said, folding the parchment. "Broad is sending someone for me."
"Before dinner?" Fred looked genuinely offended. "Mum's making her special meat pies. She'll think we bullied you into leaving."
"I'll write her a note," Albert promised. "Tell her it's a family matter. I'm curious about what Broad has planned. Isabelle mentioned a 'surprise' in her last letter, and I have a feeling my quiet summer is about to get very complicated."