The meeting of the Transfiguration Club stretched past the usual hour, consuming the last dregs of twilight. The high-level theoretical discussion—which had jumped from Animagi to the intricate energy dynamics of the Summoning Charm—had left Albert feeling mentally drained.
When he finally returned to the seventh floor, accompanied by the seniors Field and Baker, the Great Hall's dinner was long over, and the Common Room was settling into a late-night quiet.
It was almost nine o'clock. The dormitory was shrouded in deep, reassuring darkness. Fred and George were nowhere to be found, still serving their sentence under the watchful eye of the meticulous caretaker. Lee Jordan was also absent. Albert was, for the moment, completely alone.
He lit the tall iron candlesticks on the central table, casting dancing shadows across the room, and decided a reward was in order. The night's rigorous mental activity had depleted his reserves, and only a warm, comforting beverage would suffice. He grabbed the empty teapot and descended to the Common Room fireplace.
Gryffindor, recognizing the students' penchant for late-night cocoa and tea, always maintained two massive copper kettles near the fire, providing lukewarm water year-round. However, for a truly satisfying brew, one needed boiling heat, achievable either by the manual labor of a warming charm over the low-burning fire or, for the older students, the precise heat control of a wand-flick. Albert, preferring efficiency, used a quiet, focused warming charm, quickly bringing the teapot to a steady boil.
A few minutes later, he was back in the dormitory. He retrieved a tightly sealed iron tin from the bottom of his trunk—containing a fine, store-bought milk tea powder. The flavor was decent, if slightly artificial, but it was a vast improvement over the weak, stewed offerings of the Common Room kettles.
Now for a mug.
He glanced around. His eyes settled on a chipped teacup resting conspicuously on the top shelf of the storage cabinet. He pulled it down, rinsed it quickly in the basin, and began assembling his drink: a generous scoop of powder, a cube of rock sugar, and a cascade of steaming water from the freshly boiled pot. He stirred it slowly, the fragrant steam rising to warm his face.
"It smells perfect," he murmured, lifting the cup toward his lips.
Then, he paused. His hand froze in mid-air.
He lowered the cup slowly, his gaze narrowed with suspicion. The cup looked perfectly ordinary—a simple white ceramic with a faint, faded gold rim. But this dormitory was the epicenter of Weasley ingenuity, a constant laboratory for pranks and mischief.
Having been exposed to their mindset for weeks, Albert now carried a low-grade, persistent paranoia. He had seen their sketches for trick products, heard their hushed plans, and knew they constantly sought new victims. If I drink this, and it foams, explodes, or gives me a purple tongue, it's my own fault.
"Absolutely not. Caution is the price of sleeping safely with the Weasley twins," he muttered to himself, abandoning the teacup on the table.
He picked up his wand, tapped the small piece of chocolate he'd retrieved from his pocket on the way upstairs, and intoned the familiar charm: "Vera Verto."
The chocolate instantly warped, hardening and expanding into a clean, unblemished ceramic mug. Magic was, indeed, the ultimate convenience.
Albert poured a fresh cup of milk tea, savored a deliberate, cautious sip, and nodded in satisfaction. "The taste is exquisite. A shame there are no biscuits to accompany it."
He set the mug down and pulled out the borrowed text, 'Magical Potions and Medications.' He had no intention of letting Professor Snape corner him unprepared during the next class.
Not long after, the silence was shattered. The heavy dormitory door burst open, and Fred and George staggered in, moving like jointed wooden dolls. The air immediately filled with the harsh, sterile smell of silver polish and strong cleaning solution. They looked utterly defeated.
"It was an absolute nightmare," George groaned, collapsing onto his bed and rubbing his right arm as if it were carved from granite. "Filch is a tyrant! An absolute tyrant! He made us polish the same Great Hall shield until we could see our reflections in the brass three separate times before he even squinted in satisfaction."
Fred staggered to his own chair, his face a mask of theatrical suffering. "My arm muscles are rigid with cleaning agents. He kept pointing out 'imperfections' with a magnifying glass. That wasn't detention; it was a psychological endurance test designed by a sadist."
"My sympathies," Albert replied smoothly, suppressing a smile. "You look as though you've been battling a greasy troll." He picked up his own steaming mug. "Would either of you care for some hot milk tea? I just made a fresh pot."
"You didn't wait for us? Unbelievable!"
Before they could accept, the door opened a third time, and Lee Jordan slipped in, a wide, guilty grin splitting his face. He immediately began distributing the contraband he'd rescued, handing over several slightly crushed, savory meat pies he'd secured from the kitchen.
"Here. Eat these and cheer up, you two. You need the calories to regenerate those aching arms." Lee stuffed a pie into George's hand. "How was the Transfiguration Club, Albert? Did McGonagall have you turning your wand into a quill?"
"Hardly," Albert replied, taking a generous bite of the excellent pie. "It was intellectually grueling. We were discussing Animagi theory—complex, fifth-year level material that honestly left me disoriented. Then, McGonagall gave me Summoning to practice."
The three boys stopped chewing instantly. "You're learning Accio?" Fred asked, astounded.
Albert nodded. "Accio, fully bloomed chrysanthemums!" he whispered, giving his wand a gentle but focused flourish.
The result was pathetic. Instead of the radiant cluster of flowers he had visualized, a tiny scattering of dry, brown petals—and one brittle, naked stem—fluttered down onto the floor, instantly dying upon impact.
"That's the best I could manage," Albert admitted with a wry grin. "It confirms the intent, but the power required to summon a complex, living object across distance is phenomenal. That's fifth-year knowledge for a reason." He then pointed his wand at the pathetic floral debris. "Scourgify." The petals vanished.
"I'd say you have an exceptional start, Albert. That's a huge step toward mastery," Lee Jordan conceded, impressed despite the meager result.
George, meanwhile, was focused solely on hydration and sugar. His arm ached, his eyes were gritty, and his patience was non-existent.
"Are there any other clean cups available in this chaotic mess?" he grumbled, looking at the mess of their shared space. He spotted the unused, abandoned white cup on the table next to Albert. "Whose milk tea is this? If it's been sitting, I'll claim it."
"Wait, George! Don't—" Lee Jordan began, his voice suddenly thick with suppressed panic and amusement.
Lee's warning was too late. George, desperate for the hot, sweet liquid, grabbed the cup and tilted it toward his lips.
Before he could take a sip, the cup—a deceptively ordinary white ceramic—lurched violently. The rim snapped shut like a set of tiny, porcelain teeth.
"YOW!" George roared, dropping the cup. Hot milk tea exploded outward, splashing across his face and the front of his already chemical-soaked robes.
The teacup, which had been Transfigured and enchanted with a joke spell from a mail-order catalogue, had successfully bitten its victim. George clapped a hand to his face.
"What in Merlin's name was that supposed to be?!" he shrieked, yanking the cup away from his face. The ceramic rim actually tried to snap at his fingers again.
Fred, who had just taken a massive, satisfying bite of a savory pie, saw George's horrified, red nose—now instantly red and swollen from the forceful pinch—and erupted in hysterical laughter. He bent over double, tears streaming down his face, only to seize up immediately. The huge chunk of pie became lodged in his throat. He clawed at his neck, turning a alarming shade of purple.
"Shut up, Fred, you idiot!" George yelled, momentarily forgetting his injured nose to stare at his choking twin.
Albert, already prepared for disaster, wordlessly conjured a tall glass of water and thrust it into Fred's convulsing hand. Fred snatched it, gulped frantically, and eventually coughed the obstruction free, gasping painfully for air.
"Ahem! I nearly choked to death! You absolute maniac!" Fred gasped, wiping pie crumbs and tears from his face. He pointed a trembling finger at the still-chortling Lee Jordan. "That was the Nose-Biting Teacup, wasn't it, you menace? You bought it!"
"Don't even think about running, Jordan! I'm going to make you pay for this!" George thundered, slamming the biting teacup onto the table. His nose was now a bright, aggrieved scarlet.
"It's your own greedy fault!" Lee retorted, dodging behind the bedpost and laughing wildly. "I clearly left that cup on my cabinet shelf! I don't know who pilfered it and used it!"
"It was me, actually," Albert confessed, taking a cautious sip from his own newly Transfigured mug. "I was looking for a cup and grabbed that one, but then my paranoia kicked in. I thought it felt strangely light and put it down. You were lucky, George, it only nipped you once."
"See? Albert recognized the danger! Why couldn't you, Mr. Master Prankster?" Fred said, recovering enough to rally against his twin.
"I'll punch you, George! Just one good, friendly one!" George roared, ignoring the defense and lunging at Lee.
"No chance!"
A chaotic wrestling match ensued in the center of the dormitory. Albert and Fred watched the skirmish with the detached amusement of professional analysts.
Once the fighting ended—with both George and Lee returning, their noses equally red and swollen from mutual, friendly retaliation—Fred finished his milk tea and returned to the earlier topic.
"Now that the emotional chaos is over, let's talk about the Transfiguration Club," Fred said, massaging his sore jaw. "It sounds intensely exclusive. Only Eleven members?"
"Twelve, now with Albert," Field corrected. "And they are all exceptional. The level of understanding required for Animagus and the Summoning Charm is staggering. It sounds like McGonagall only selects the truly gifted," Fred sighed.
Albert nodded. "Everyone there is outstanding. The conversation wasn't about grades; it was about genuine, deep magical aptitude."
"Speaking of exceptional talent," Lee Jordan chimed in, suddenly remembering his afternoon adventure. "I went down to the Quidditch pitch earlier with that girl, Angie... Angelina."
"Angelina Johnson," Albert supplied.
"Yes! Angelina. She flies like a demon. She's got raw, natural talent. Charlie was seriously impressed, even just with her handling of a training broom. She's definitely going to push for a Chaser spot next year, maybe even this year if he lets her try out."
"That's fantastic news for Gryffindor," Albert said instantly, setting down his cup with a deliberate clink.
Lee, Fred, and George all looked at him with wide, confused eyes. "Fantastic?" George asked. "Doesn't that just mean more competition for us next year?"
"Not competition, George. Strategy," Albert said, leaning forward. "You need to think about the political calculus of this situation, not just the score. You have Charlie as Captain. You have the two of you, the Weasley twins, who are already known for causing trouble and losing House Points."
He held up a hand to stop their automatic protest. "Listen. If the three of you and Lee Jordan, your best friend, all make the Quidditch team next year, what will the other Houses—and more importantly, the majority of Gryffindor—whisper?"
"That we're the best players?" Fred offered innocently.
"No. They'll whisper nepotism. They'll say that the Weasleys are turning the team into a family affair. They'll say that Charlie, as Captain, is stacking the team with his brothers and friends regardless of objective skill. This perception creates division," Albert explained calmly, laying out the argument like a complex chess problem.
"But we are good!" George insisted, feeling genuinely wronged.
"That doesn't matter. What matters is the perception of dominance. If the team fails—and Gryffindor hasn't won the House Cup in years, remember—the entire blame will be placed on Charlie for his 'Weasley-centric' selection process. He risks his reputation, and more importantly, he risks creating internal resentment within the House."
Albert pointed toward the door. "But if a non-Weasley, like Angelina Johnson, is undeniably talented and earns her place—and helps secure a victory—that shifts the narrative. She becomes the 'objective proof' that Charlie chose players purely on merit. Gryffindor needs diversified, proven talent like hers to balance the optics and maintain morale. People are always looking for a reason to find fault, especially when a dominant family is involved."
He gave them a final, firm glance. "Besides, I seriously doubt I'll have the calendar space for Seeker training, no matter how much I might want it."
The three boys stared at Albert, their anger over the detention and the biting teacup momentarily forgotten, replaced by a deep understanding of the subtle, cynical politics he had just outlined. They hadn't thought about the team in terms of House loyalty and reputation; only in terms of skill and fun.
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Albert's strategic analysis makes perfect sense for protecting Charlie and the House's reputation. Do you think the twins will actually follow his advice and hold back, or will their enthusiasm for Quidditch be too strong to resist?