The aftermath of the Transfiguration lecture felt like the air in the castle had suddenly grown a few degrees thinner. Fred's mood was a strange cocktail of relief and lingering unease. Having been warned by Professor McGonagall—the most level-headed witch in the building—that Trelawney's "death omens" were little more than a seasonal tradition for the Divination department, he finally felt the knot in his chest loosen. Still, the memory of that tea-leaf Grim was something he wouldn't be shaking off for a while.
"McGonagall didn't exactly mince words, did she?" George muttered, his eyes darting to the nearby corridors to ensure they were flying solo. "The way she dodged the question about whether Trelawney was a complete fraud? It was practically a ringing endorsement of her being exactly that."
"A fraud, eh?" Fred mused, his brow furrowing. "Sounds like the sort of thing Albert would say."
George didn't skip a beat. "He did say it. Didn't you catch it? He's been drop-feeding us that line since we climbed down from the tower."
Albert, trailing a few steps behind with his hands buried deep in his pockets, offered no defense. He wasn't bothered by the attribution, mostly because his mind was currently occupied by the logistical nightmare of the Animagus transformation. He kept playing back McGonagall's lecture on the subject. Several years. It sounded like a death sentence for his patience. He had already poured over the dusty manuals in the Restricted Section—he'd even spent a small fortune in time-dilated study sessions—but the system prompt remained stubbornly unresponsive. No "Animagus" skill entry. No progress bar. Just silence.
"You're going to figure it out, aren't you?" Fred asked, bumping Albert's shoulder. "I bet you'll be turning into a cat or a dog by Christmas. Don't look at me like that, Albert. I've seen you pull off things that shouldn't be possible for a fourth-year."
"It's not just a matter of 'figuring it out,' Fred," Albert retorted, finally breaking his silence. "You're talking about fundamentally altering your biological architecture. McGonagall makes it look like a party trick, but the sheer mental stamina required to keep your own consciousness tethered to your human core while your body becomes something else? It's not a hobby. It's a career."
Lee Jordan chimed in, throwing his hands up. "And then you have to deal with the Ministry. You know how they get. They treat Animagi like they're potential terrorists. 'Registration' is just a fancy word for 'we're watching you 24/7.'"
Albert snorted, a sharp, dismissive sound. "Registration? Please. You think they want to protect you from being harmed? If you're an unregistered beetle or a stray cat, you can slip through any ward, eavesdrop on any meeting, and vanish before they even notice you're missing. The Ministry hates that. They hate things they can't track on a piece of parchment. If I actually pulled it off, the last thing on this earth I'd do is tell them."
The trio shared a knowing look. It was the "Albert perspective"—the unsettling ability to peel back the layers of the wizarding world and reveal the clockwork mechanisms underneath. They spent the remainder of the walk to the Great Hall discussing the futility of the upcoming Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Lee had spent the morning interviewing older students, and the consensus was grim.
"It's a joke," Lee said, his voice dripping with frustration. "They say Quirrell spends more time stuttering at the ghosts than actually teaching. And the smell? People say he's got the whole room reeking of garlic and something... metallic. Like old blood or copper."
Albert nodded, his expression neutral. "If he's hiding something, he's doing a poor job of it. But don't expect him to teach you anything useful. You're on your own there."
As they crossed the threshold into the Great Hall, the usual roar of chatter hit them. It was crowded, and in the center of the fray sat Harry Potter, looking harried and exhausted. Beside him, Ron was practically vibrating with indignation, recounting the morning's run-in with Filch.
George slipped into the seat next to them, wearing a wicked grin. "Filch? You're worried about him? Mate, he's just a sad man with a cat and too much time on his hands. As long as you aren't doing something blatantly stupid, he's just background noise."
"Wait until you meet Snape," Fred added, his tone turning serious. "Filch just wants to catch you out of bed. Snape wants to dismantle your entire sense of self, one point at a time."
Ron looked horrified. "He's that bad?"
Albert, who was busy dissecting a potato with a surgeon's precision, looked up. "He's a man who values predictability over competence. If you go into his class acting like a lost puppy, he'll spend the next hour making sure you never do it again. It's not personal, Harry. You're just the most visible target."
"Potter," Albert continued, catching the boy's eye. "If you want to survive the afternoon, read A Thousand Magical Herbs and Mushrooms. Don't skim it. Memorize the properties of the infusion ingredients. He will ask you, and he will make you look like a fool if you don't know the answer."
Harry looked like he'd been hit by a Bludger. "Why me? I've never even met the man."
"Because you're 'The Boy Who Lived,'" Albert replied, his voice flat. "And he's a man who has spent the last decade resenting the world. You're the perfect punching bag."
Percy Weasley sat down on the other side of Albert, clearly having overheard the last bit of the conversation. He shook his head, his face a mask of disapproval. "You're really trying to terrify them, aren't you? Snape is a professor, not a villain. Keep your voices down before you get us all a week's worth of detention."
"Relax, Perce," George chirped. "We're just preparing the fresh meat."
Albert stood up, signaling the end of his lunch. "I'm heading back to the common room. My cat is likely going to start a fire if I leave him alone much longer, and I have a backlog of Transfiguration work that won't write itself."
"You're really going to start the assignment now?" Percy asked, genuinely surprised.
"I'd rather do it now and enjoy my Thursday than spend my weekend scrambling for ideas while everyone else is in Hogsmeade," Albert said, gathering his things. He looked back at Harry, who was still staring at his plate as if it held the secrets to his impending doom. "And Potter? Listen to George. Snape isn't a force of nature. He's just a man with a grudge. Don't give him the satisfaction of seeing you panic."
As Albert walked away, his stride was rhythmic and unhurried. He could hear the low, frantic murmur of the table behind him. He didn't look back. He had a cat to feed, a timeline to manage, and a very difficult, very secret project to finish.