The weekend was bathed in the crisp, golden light of late September. The sun, low in the sky, streamed across the Hogwarts grounds, its warmth a welcome contrast to the sharpening chill of the autumn air.
From the high windows of the Gryffindor Tower, the view was one of vibrant, unbridled freedom: specks of students dashed across the perfectly manicured lawn, chasing a wayward Quaffle or simply enjoying the break from lessons.
The common room, however, held a more localized buzz. The massive, circular room, usually a haven of quiet contemplation on a Saturday morning, was currently humming with intense, hushed gossip—all of it focused on the slight, black-haired figure standing by the fireplace.
The portrait hole scraped open, and Lee Jordan squeezed through, having just hurried up the winding staircase. He looked around wildly, his eyes finally landing on Albert, who was meticulously polishing a piece of rough wood with an almost surgical focus. Lee strode quickly across the rug.
"Albert! You won't believe what I just heard in the corridor," Lee said, leaning in conspiratorially, though his voice was loud enough to draw more attention. "Everyone's talking. Did you really knock a Slytherin student senseless?"
As those words were uttered, the low-level chatter in the common room practically seized up. Dozens of heads swiveled, eager to witness the confrontation or, better yet, the triumphant confession.
"Oh?" Albert paused his work, looking up slowly. He blinked once, his expression a perfect mixture of mild curiosity and genuine bewilderment. "What exactly do you mean by that, Lee? 'Knocked senseless'? I'm afraid the meaning isn't very clear."
"Literally, mate! I mean, you beat him up," Lee insisted, throwing his hands up in confusion.
The timing couldn't have been better. The portrait hole swung open again, admitting the familiar, lanky figures of Fred and George Weasley, who scrambled into the room, their faces alight with mischievous glee.
"There he is! We heard the glorious news!" Fred shouted, marching over.
"You really flattened a Slytherin?" George finished, circling Albert and scrutinizing him with an exaggerated look of approval. "Excellent work, old boy. Truly magnificent. Next time, remember to send us a quick note. We'd love to provide crowd control."
Albert leaned back against the mantle, crossing his arms and surveying the three boys with a look of utter, innocent confusion. "I have no idea what any of you are talking about. What is going on?"
Fred and George exchanged a baffled look. "You don't know?" George asked, gesturing to the entire common room, where students were now openly staring.
"I genuinely do not," Albert confirmed, shaking his head. "I had breakfast, and then I came back here to continue practicing the Cutting Spell before lunch. My entire morning has been dedicated to this piece of wood."
"But the rumors! They're all over the castle!" Fred insisted, glancing at his friend's genuinely puzzled expression and realizing, with a sudden pang of doubt, that the story might be more complex than the grapevine suggested. "Just now, they were saying that you—"
"Stop right there," Albert interrupted, cutting him off with a firm gesture. "I don't recall laying a single finger on anyone, much less hitting them. Furthermore, look at my skinny arms and legs." He extended one arm, patting his own biceps with an air of mock injury. "Do I look like the kind of person who is physically good at fighting? No, honestly. I'm lucky if the other party doesn't actively come after me."
On the surface, Albert was convincing. He was neither overly frail nor powerfully built; he was simply average for his age, an ideal form for an Idle Wizard who preferred to let his intellect and magic do the heavy lifting.
"It's good enough that I can manage to hold my own against a stiff breeze," Albert concluded dryly. He eyed their stunned faces.
"So, you cast a spell on them, then?" George tried, the idea fitting Albert's formidable magical reputation better than brute force. After all, Albert's proficiency often surpassed that of students years ahead of him. "If anyone could knock a Slytherin flat with a discreet charm, it'd be you."
"Be careful, George, or I'll sue you for defamation of character," Albert quipped, a dangerous glint in his eye. He pointed to a comfortable armchair. "Sit down, all of you. Listen to what actually happened before you condemn your friend based on third-hand, over-dramatized nonsense."
The three settled quickly, eager to hear the 'real' story.
"Then what is going on? Why is the entire student body claiming you..." Lee began.
"Hush, Lee! You believe in rumors?" Albert chided him with a frown. "Believe it or not, I'll find a dozen people to spread a rumor that you like to hum and dance in your pyjamas in the middle of the night."
"Is that true, Lee?" Fred asked, his eyes immediately lighting up with curiosity.
"Shut up! Albert just said it was a rumor!" Lee retorted, looking genuinely defensive.
"Go on, Albert, ignore them," George instructed, settling the matter. "Rumors always have some seed of truth, even if it's buried deep. Tell us what happened on the second floor."
"It's simple, really," Albert began, adopting a tone of injured innocence. "On weekend mornings, after breakfast, I often go for a quiet walk with my camera. I was passing along the corridor on the second floor—you know, the one near the Charms classroom—when I encountered several Slytherin students marching toward me, side by side, taking up the whole width of the hall."
Albert paused, allowing his story to settle. "Naturally, I stepped aside to make way for them, because I am a gentleman. But one of them—I don't know which one, I wasn't really looking—decided to walk right into me. Instead of merely brushing past, he actually bumped shoulders with a bit of force. And then, the strangest thing happened."
Albert leaned forward, his eyes wide and earnest. "I have no idea what caused it, but the boy who bumped me lost his footing and fell straight to the floor, clutching his shoulder and looking genuinely pained."
The three listeners exchanged deeply perplexed glances.
"Later," Albert continued, maintaining his perfectly bewildered expression, "I reached out, as a good Samaritan should, and pulled him up from the ground. And then he started screaming, absolutely screaming, and this time he was clutching his hand. I didn't even touch his hand firmly. It was all utterly baffling."
"That's it?" Lee, Fred, and George asked in unison, completely deflated.
"That's it," Albert confirmed, looking aggrieved.
"But why would people say you beat the Slytherin student so badly he was admitted to the Hospital Wing?" George asked, his face a roadmap of confusion.
"How would I possibly know?" Albert said, feigning an exasperated sigh. He pondered for a moment, then added with mock solemnity, "Perhaps I was so persuasive in asking his friends if he was truly alright that I convinced them he needed a professional check-up at the Hospital Wing immediately."
Listening to Albert, one would truly believe that he was the most put-upon, misunderstood victim of a sudden, freak, spontaneous Slytherin fainting spell.
The twins and Lee looked at each other, stunned into silence. If they didn't know Albert's true nature—his cold, analytical approach to problem-solving and his mastery of passive, efficient damage—they would have fully believed him.
Yet, knowing his manipulative genius, it was highly probable that the events occurred exactly as he described them on the surface, while the intent was far darker.
The unvarnished truth, which Albert was unlikely to share, was a perfect example of his "idle" wizardry. The encounter was not accidental; the Slytherins, seeking an easy target, had intended to initiate a fight with the shoulder bump.
Albert's magic was not used to attack but to optimize the Slytherin's own kinetic energy. At the moment of impact, Albert slightly shifted his center of gravity and applied a minuscule, focused counter-force using a trick he'd learned about physical redirection from a book on Muggle martial arts.
The Slytherin's momentum, which was intended to knock Albert off balance, was instead perfectly channeled back into his own body. In the eyes of an observer, it simply looked like the aggressor clumsily lost his balance due to the slight contact.
The second part—the screaming—was even more refined. When the boy reached out to pull Albert down or perhaps feign a worse injury, Albert's grip, though appearing friendly and concerned, immediately exerted a precise, paralyzing pressure on the median nerve cluster of the Slytherin's palm.
It was a crippling, non-magical pain that caused immediate, theatrical agony, yet left absolutely no lasting mark or bruise—perfect for an immediate trip to the Hospital Wing, and impossible to prove as a deliberate attack.
"Anyway, I'm the victim here," Albert stated seriously, drawing the attention of his friends back. "Who knew that fellow would be so fragile? He must be made of porcelain that shatters at the slightest touch."
A few students who had been openly eavesdropping on the conversation couldn't hold back their snorts of laughter. Slytherin students being described as delicate, fragile porcelain was an insult too delicious for Gryffindors to resist.
"And now he's in the Hospital Wing," George chuckled, finally realizing the humor. "Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant, Albert."
"And I also have an injury, by the way," Albert added gravely, dramatically rubbing his shoulder.
The three boys simultaneously rolled their eyes, thoroughly used to Albert's theatrics.
"Enough about the delicate Slytherin," Lee Jordan said, his attention caught by the object Albert was working on. "What exactly are you doing now?"
Albert picked up a piece of wood, crudely shaped like a small, smooth cross, and set it down next to a few small, circular, polished wooden discs. He then picked up his wand and began practicing the fine movements of the Cutting Spell (Diffindo), aiming to engrave minute, complex patterns onto the surface of the cross.
"Didn't I just say I was practicing the Cutting Spell?" Albert replied.
Fred reached out, taking the small wooden cross into his hand. "Wait a minute," he murmured, feeling the smooth, yet surprisingly durable texture. "This looks like the wood from the Guardian Tree! The one near Hagrid's hut!"
"Well observed," Albert confirmed, nodding casually. "Hagrid was kind enough to give me a piece a while ago. It's excellent for practicing fine wand movements like the Diffindo."
"The workmanship is really crude, though," George commented, joining Fred in examining the piece. "It looks like something you'd find in a second-hand shop. Are you planning on making this into some kind of talisman?"
"If I were to make it into an amulet to gift to someone," Albert replied, a hint of genuine pride entering his voice, "I would certainly make it much more exquisite than this. This is just for practice."
"But are you sure items made from the Guardian Tree can actually protect people from Dark Creatures?" Lee asked, suddenly serious, echoing a widely held but unverified student belief.
"Who knows?" Albert shrugged, placing his wand back into his pocket. He was not one to rely on rumor or superstition, even if it was magically themed.
"It's not hard to find out, though. A few quick questions to the right people, and we'll have an answer." He looked at the three of them, a plan already formulating in his mind. "Perhaps that's our next project for the weekend."
The three boys exchanged excited, knowing glances. A project involving ancient wood, unverified protective magic, and an opportunity for some clever information gathering was exactly the kind of "idle" fun they lived for.
The porcelain Slytherin is out of commission, and now we're onto ancient wood and talismans. What are your first thoughts on what kind of magic the Guardian Tree wood is best suited for?