The mention of Mario, Danny, and Jack's circus plans hung in the air, a sobering reality check for the twins. Fred and George went uncharacteristically quiet, the boisterous energy that usually defined them settling into a contemplative silence.
"They're actually doing it," Fred whispered, poking at his roasted potatoes with a fork. "Actually going out there and trying to make a living off their own magic."
"Without a pile of gold to fall back on, too," George added, his brow furrowed. "Do you realize how much it takes to rent space, handle permits, get materials for the acts... it's a fortune. Most people go their entire lives without seeing that much money."
Their dream—the joke shop—suddenly felt a lot more like a pipe dream than a plan. They had the ideas, sure, but they were broke. The realization that they weren't even close to a hundred Galleons, let alone the thousands they'd eventually need, hit them with the weight of a Bludger. It was a cruel, blunt reality check: money wasn't just metal; it was the difference between a dream and a delusion.
They both looked toward Albert, who was busy holding court with Wood about Quidditch tactics. It was weird, the shift in their perspective. A few months ago, they'd been jealous of his talent. Now, they were just grateful for his existence. If Albert said he could help them, he would. He had this knack for turning effort into results, and for the first time, the twins felt a genuine, grounding sense of security.
"It's good to have someone like him in our corner," Fred muttered.
"Yeah," George agreed, leaning back. "Makes the future feel a lot less terrifying."
Albert, completely oblivious to his friends' internal monologue, was busy deflecting Wood's relentless optimism. The Gryffindor Quidditch captain was convinced that this was the year for the Cup, and he was using Harry as his primary argument for why they were unbeatable.
Harry, sitting nearby, looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Being the center of Wood's attention was grueling enough, but when the talk turned to his position—a spot that everyone knew should have been Albert's—the embarrassment was palpable.
Albert didn't miss a beat. "I'm honored, Wood, really. But Quidditch is a team sport, and I'm a man with far too little time for the pitch. I enjoy the view from the stands, truly." He turned his gaze to Harry, his expression turning uncharacteristically grave. "But Harry, keep your wits about you. Don't let your obsession with the game blind you to the field. I'm giving you a warning—things are about to get complicated. Make sure you're still on your broom when the real trouble starts."
The table went quiet. Fred looked at Harry, his playful smirk gone. "He's not joking, Harry. When Anderson talks about caution, you listen. He's usually seeing things ten steps before anyone else does."
"He's right," Wood added, his voice dropping. "Those Slytherins play dirty. They don't just want to win; they want to make sure you lose."
"They're not just 'dirty'," Lee Jordan interjected, cleaning his glasses. "They're calculating. If I were you, I'd learn a bit of Marc's deception. It's a trick that lets you frame a situation to your advantage—like making it look like they hit you, when you're really the one in control."
Harry looked between them, bewildered. "You're talking about punching people?"
George shrugged, entirely nonchalant. "It's not about the hit, it's about the optics. If you're going to get hit anyway, you might as well ensure they take the blame for it."
The conversation felt surreal. Harry just blinked, processing the fact that his friends were essentially tutoring him in magical street fighting. Before he could ask for clarification, Albert pushed his chair back, his meal finished with efficiency.
"Where are you off to?" Lee asked, squinting.
"Places to be," Albert said, not breaking stride as he walked out of the hall.
"Library, bet you a Galleon," George whispered.
"No way," Lee countered, his eyes lighting up with mischief. "He's got that 'I'm going to meet a girl' look. I haven't seen that look on him all term."
"Think so?" Fred grinned. "Let's find out."
The three of them scrambled to finish their meals, bolting out of the Hall just as the doors swung shut. But when they reached the corridor, Albert had vanished into the labyrinth of moving staircases. They tracked him for twenty minutes, only for him to double back and slip into the Gryffindor Common Room with infuriating ease.
Defeated, they turned toward the Room of Requirement. If they couldn't stalk Albert, they might as well get back to the lab. They needed to test the new line of firecrackers they'd been tinkering with. But when George went to step into the hidden entrance, he slammed face-first into the wall.
"What the—?"
Fred helped him up, eyeing the wall suspiciously. "It's locked. We've never had it lock on us before."
"Someone's in there," George said, rubbing his nose.
Fred's eyes widened. "Wait. If Albert isn't in the common room... and the Room is occupied... do you think...?"
"The secret meeting!" Lee whispered, his voice pitching up. "He's teaching her how to access it! And he's using Clone Magic to make it look like he's in the common room while he's actually in here!"
It was the perfect crime. They stood there, awestruck by the sheer audacity of it. Of course, Albert wouldn't just date; he'd pull a masterstroke of magical deception to keep it secret.
Meanwhile, inside the Gryffindor Common Room, Albert stood by the fireplace, staring in complete disbelief at the scene unfolding near his favorite armchair.
Hermione Granger was there, crouching on the rug, waving a piece of dried fish back and forth like a toy. And there, batting at it with all the grace of a bowling ball with fur, was Tom.
The cat looked enormous. He was clearly enjoying the hell out of the attention, his belly swaying with every lazy swat.
"Ms. Granger," Albert said, his voice dropping into a tone that would have been intimidating if not for the absurd image of a girl and an overfed cat. "I think you've accidentally found yourself a new hobby."
Hermione spun around, looking guilty, holding the fish like a murder weapon. "I... I just wanted to say hello. He seemed hungry."
"Tom doesn't know the meaning of the word 'hungry'," Albert said, walking over and gently taking the fish away. "He knows 'bored' and 'greedy'. You're fueling a gluttony problem, Hermione. Look at him! He's going to turn into a sphere."
Hermione looked at the cat, then at Albert, her face flushing crimson. "I'm sorry, I just thought..."
Albert felt his irritation evaporate. She was so earnest, it was impossible to be annoyed. He sat down and scratched Tom behind the ears, the cat purring with a sound like a small engine. "It's fine. My grandparents spoiled him rotten. It's hard to blame you when he gives that look."
"He is a very good listener," Hermione offered softly.
"He's a very good sponge for affection," Albert corrected. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, cat-wand toy—the kind he'd been meaning to use to get Tom moving. "If you really want to be his friend, stop feeding him and start making him run. He's going to be the healthiest cat in the castle by the end of the term, and I'm going to need help to get him there."
Hermione took the wand, her fingers brushing his. She looked at the cat, who was now eyeing the wand with intense, predatory focus.
"I have a lot of free time," she whispered, a small, bright smile breaking across her face. "I'd like that."