"Well, there's another explanation, a purely Muggle one, that solves the paradox," Albert said with a strange, slightly mischievous expression.
Katrina, along with Fred, George, and Lee, leaned in, momentarily forgetting the impending doom of Professor Binns' lecture.
"Among Muggle scientists," Albert began, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "a group of specialists discovered a specific substance—a protein called ovocleidin-17 (OC-17). This protein is essential because it catalyzes the formation of the calcified eggshell. Now, here is the crucial fact: this protein is only found in the chicken's ovaries."
He paused, letting the information sink in. Even the young wizards from the Muggle world, who weren't necessarily science-minded, absorbed the core logic.
"In other words," Albert continued, "if there were no chicken to possess the ovaries, there would be no OC-17. And without that protein, the hard, protective eggshell, designed to allow the chick to hatch successfully, cannot form. The shell defines the egg as a chicken egg."
Albert spread his hands. "Therefore, the conclusion reached by this specific group of scientists is that the chicken came first, and then the egg. The shell, which defines the egg, requires the chicken to exist."
A stunned silence fell over the small group. Lee Jordan's jaw hung slightly ajar.
"I know it's technical, but the answer that the chicken came first has been verified by the Muggle scientific method," Albert explained, recognizing their confusion.
"So..." Katrina asked tentatively, trying to apply the logic to the magical world. "You think, then, that the phoenix came first, and then the fire?"
"No. The magical world is fundamentally different from the Muggle world's scientific framework," Albert refuted, shaking his head. "The phoenix and the flame, in this context, must represent a cycle. A phoenix dies, is reborn from the ashes, and its life and death are intrinsically linked. It's a closed loop, an endless cycle of creation and destruction."
He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "In a cycle, there is no true starting point; there is only continuity. I believe it is meaningless to explore the origin of the phoenix, because its very existence represents the absence of a beginning and an end. The phoenix is the cycle."
Katrina's eyebrow arched in impressed acknowledgment. "An answer that embraces the paradox rather than attempts to solve it. Amazing! Even among the second and third-year Ravenclaws, few can articulate that question with such insight on their first try."
The Ravenclaw boy sitting behind Albert, who had been listening intently to the whole debate, leaned forward. "No way, I have to admit it. That was a brilliant answer. By the way, my name is Roger Davis. Nice to meet you."
Roger Davis was nodding, clearly identifying with the struggles of the bronze knocker. He had faced its riddles and failed numerous times as a freshman. He knew firsthand how inconvenient it was to be stuck outside the common room, waiting for a compassionate senior to enter.
"I'm curious, Albert," Roger asked, voicing the question everyone was thinking. "Given your quick logic and thirst for knowledge, why were you sorted into Gryffindor? You clearly possess the qualities of Ravenclaw."
"Who knows?" Albert replied, offering a dismissive shrug that was entirely sincere. He remembered the Hat's internal debate, and the strong pull toward both houses. His heart—or perhaps his appetite for adventure and challenge—had clearly settled the matter.
The conversation ended abruptly as a translucent, wispy figure—Professor Cuthbert Binns—floated effortlessly through the classroom blackboard and settled at the head of the class. The air temperature dropped noticeably, but no one flinched. They were accustomed to his chilling entrance.
Binns cleared his throat, a dry, papery sound, and began to speak.
Ten minutes later, the entire classroom was locked in a battle against sleep.
The reason History of Magic was considered the most boring course was simple: Professor Binns was a ghost who possessed zero passion, zero inflection, and zero awareness of his living audience. He simply read aloud the contents of a brittle, ancient scroll in a monotonous drone, detailing the nuances of the seventh-century goblin rebellions.
The goal of every student quickly devolved from learning to merely staying awake and scribbling down the essential names and dates that might appear on an exam. Even the meticulous Ravenclaws, including Roger Davis and Katrina MacDougal, fought to keep their heads from hitting the desk, their eyes glazed over with academic fatigue.
Albert, however, remained unnaturally alert. He was quietly sucking on a lemon drop, the sharp, acidic tang doing more to keep him awake than a dozen Reviving Potions.
He sat with two pieces of parchment on his desk, subtly overlapping. He was doing two things at once: in one notebook, he was dutifully taking notes on the Goblin Uprisings; on the other, hidden under his textbook, he was reviewing and consolidating his Charms Theory notes from the morning.
He had upgraded his Multitasking ability to Level 2 specifically for this class, allowing him to split his focus with greater ease. It was the only way to justify five years of this relentless, soporific torture.
As the bell mercifully rang, signaling the end of the lesson, the students sprang to life like puppets whose strings had been abruptly pulled.
"It's unbelievable that you could resist Professor Binns' hypnosis!" The Weasley twins, who looked like they'd just woken from a twelve-hour coma, clapped Albert on the back with admiration. "Please, lend us a copy of your History of Magic notes, Albert. I think I dreamt about King Radulf and missed the part about the treaty of…" Fred trailed off, unable to recall the specifics.
Lee Jordan, already smiling, didn't even ask. He simply plucked Albert's History of Magic notebook from the desk.
"What do you think?" Albert teased, rubbing his shoulder. Surviving the class was one thing; surviving the note-copying frenzy was another.
"You know what's even crazier?" George suddenly whispered, his eyes wide. "The rumors about Professor Binns."
"What rumor?" The three—Fred, Lee, and Roger Davis, who had edged closer—were instantly attentive.
"According to one of the older, unverified records in Hogwarts history," Albert whispered back, leaning in close, "Professor Binns didn't even realize he was dead. Not at first."
He recounted the ghostly origin story he had read about. "One morning, he was very old, and he simply got up to go to class, leaving his body sitting in an armchair in front of the staff room fire. He walked right out of his body and continued teaching. He only became an official, permanent ghost-professor when he arrived at class and realized he'd forgotten his tea mug."
"Wow!" The three boys and Roger Davis were genuinely surprised and amused. It was an ironically mundane and absent-minded way for a wizard to gain eternal employment.
After copying Albert's meticulously neat notes, the four Gryffindors headed down to the Great Hall for lunch.
"Do we have any more classes this afternoon?" George asked, already pacing with anticipation. He couldn't wait to grab a broom and meet Charlie at the Quidditch pitch.
"Just one," Lee Jordan said regretfully. "It's Transfiguration."
Albert muttered, "I bet that will be the easiest class ever, at least for staying awake. McGonagall won't tolerate napping."
With only three classes a day, the schedule felt remarkably light compared to the Muggle world's academic grind. True to British tradition, lunch was a casual affair. Albert abandoned the idea of making another sandwich; he detested eating the same thing repeatedly. He quickly finished his meal with a glass of cool pumpkin juice and a few helpings of savoury, stewed potatoes.
The twins, eager for action, planned to wander the castle, but Albert suggested they conserve their energy. The time between lunch and the afternoon class was best spent resting. Albert headed for the castle courtyard, a popular spot for relaxation and reading.
The courtyard was a vibrant social hub. Students were scattered everywhere, chatting in small groups, or eating packed lunches on the benches. It was a perfect early September day. The air, cool from the previous day's rain, carried the fresh, earthy scent of autumn.
Albert sat down on the soft, manicured lawn near a stone fountain.
"It would be great if I could conjure up a simple cushion," Albert sighed, adjusting his position. "I suddenly feel that learning Transfiguration well is quite important, just for personal comfort."
"No, no, Albert, that's definitely not the reason to study the complexities of molecular rearrangement," Lee Jordan complained good-naturedly, sitting cross-legged nearby.
"Look at that," Fred said, gazing out over the castle grounds toward the dense, dark boundary of trees. "What exactly is in that forest?"
"It's called the Forbidden Forest for a reason," Albert said, following their gaze. "Dumbledore's warning mentioned werewolves. Hagrid confirmed centaurs. I've also read that it's home to more creatures."
"Maybe there are other magical, dangerous creatures," George mused, a sparkle of excitement in his eyes. "The gamekeeper definitely keeps some strange pets in there, like those giant spiders or maybe even a small giant."
"By the way," George changed the subject, turning his full attention to Albert. "How's your progress on the Disillusionment Charm going? Did you manage to make your feet disappear yet?"
Albert smiled, amused by their persistent interest in the charm. "It's not easy to master the Disillusionment Charm. It's not about simple invisibility; it's about making the object seamlessly blend into its background. The magical intention required is complex."
He took out his wand and performed the Charm on a large, freshly fallen oak leaf. He recited the incantation—a low whisper—and tapped the leaf gently.
The color of the leaf's surface began to ripple and change with astonishing speed. Its rich brown and yellow mottling faded, replaced by the greens and browns of the lawn, then it shimmered with the grey-green of the mossy stone fountain. It was as if the leaf's surface was a fluid mirror, taking on the protective colors of whatever lay beneath it.
"Whoa! That looks completely different from what I imagined," Lee Jordan scratched his head.
"It feels more like a chameleon's skin than an invisibility cloak," Fred observed, mesmerized.
"That's exactly the principle," Albert confirmed, picking up the shimmering leaf. "It's similar to the protective camouflage of a chameleon in the Muggle world. The magical illusion is a defense mechanism." He held the leaf up to the sun.
"You may not be able to see it from a distance, but up close, if you look carefully, you'll notice the shifting distortion in the air where the light bends around it. It's an effective illusion, but not true invisibility."
Albert put his wand away. He had the option to simply use the experience pool to instantly master the Disillusionment Charm, but he resisted. The feeling of figuring out the wand movements and the precise intention himself was too rewarding. He had spent his pre-Hogwarts life seeking knowledge; now that he was here, he was determined to enjoy the process of magical study.
He was prepared to devote a good two months of focused self-study and practice to truly master the Disillusionment Charm. After all, what was the rush? He had a whole seven years—and a world of magic—to explore.