The Herbology lesson concluded with the students looking less like wizards and more like they had spent the last hour wrestling in a muddy ditch. Everyone was absolutely caked in damp compost and soil, flushed from the sheer physical effort of manhandling the screaming Mandrake seedlings.
They raced back to the castle, a frantic scramble to ditch their dragon-hide gloves, shower off the gri, change into fresh robes, and make it to the Transfiguration classroom on ti. Predictably, despite their efforts, the Gryffindors only just managed to stumble into Professor McGonagall's room a full three minutes after the bell had stopped ringing.
Professor McGonagall's expression, as they trooped in, was classically severe—a tightly compressed frown and a slight tightening around the lips that promised doom. She listened to their breathless, semi-coherent explanation about the difficult nature of repotting Mandrakes, and while the reasoning was sound, her professorial standards remained non-negotiable.
"Herbology is no excuse for tardiness, Gryffindor," she announced, her voice precise and clipped. "Five points will be deducted for showing a lack of scheduling managent."
She swept to the front of the classroom. For the day's lesson, she required everyone to transform a simple beetle into a tin button. It was a step down from the more complex mouse-to-ashtray task of the last term's final exam, but the ntal rust of the long sumr break was evident. Most students struggled, producing lopsided squares or half-transford insects that scuttled away.
Lee Jordan, in a mont of supre clumsiness, accidentally flicked his tiny beetle off the table in a misplaced flourish. The poor creature imdiately hit the floor and, with a sickening crunch, was inadvertently squashed under Albert's foot as he moved to retrieve his wand.
Lee Jordan had to sheepishly request a new, undamaged beetle, earning a look of profound disappointnt from Professor McGonagall.
Albert, however, found the task trivially easy. With a smooth flick of his redwood wand and the precise, familiar sensation of the magical energy locking onto the intended object, the black insect on his desk shimred and was replaced by an exquisitely detailed silver coin. It wasn't just a button; it was a perfect Galleon, complete with intricate griffins and a portrait of a surprisingly realistic face.
Professor McGonagall paused by his desk, inspecting the coin. A montary, almost undetectable flicker of pride crossed her face. "A superb piece of Transfiguration, Anderson. A button was the objective, but complexity is always rewarded. Five points to Gryffindor."
She then turned her stern gaze onto Fred, who was currently trying to use the point of his wand to tickle his beetle into submission.
"Mr. Weasley, I highly recomnd you stop antagonizing that unfortunate creature and focus on the task. If you cannot produce a button by the end of this lesson, you will be serving a detention with Mr. Filch."
"But Professor," Fred protested, holding his hands up defensively, "we're not allowed to use magic over the holidays! It all just leaks out of my head by September."
"I was hardly expecting a productive suggestion from you, Mr. Weasley," Professor McGonagall retorted with dry wit, though she didn't look at him. She addressed the room. "Students, Transfiguration is perhaps the most difficult and temperantal branch of magic. It requires constant review and dedication. If you wish to excel, you must put in the effort, even outside of term ti."
The collective "Understood, Professor" lacked any real commitnt, and McGonagall seed to know it.
As the bell rang, signaling the end of the class, Professor McGonagall stopped Albert just as he was gathering his books.
"Mr. Anderson, a mont. There is a eting for the Transfiguration Club this evening, at seven o'clock sharp."
"Ah, I see," Albert said, his mind already spinning through the evening schedule. "I assud there would be an invite."
"You are also to ensure that Miss Katrina McDougal knows the location. She, too, has been invited, based on the exceptional performance you both displayed last term." McGonagall glanced over at the aforentioned Ravenclaw, who was currently arguing with her classmate about the superiority of the European Niffler over the North Arican version. "If she is unsure of the precise location of classroom number twenty-one, I trust you can guide her."
After McGonagall swept out, Albert walked over to Katrina. "Congratulations, McDougal. You made the cut."
Katrina flipped her chin up, a challenging smirk playing on her lips. "As expected. The question is, are you ready? When can we finally finish the bet we were forced to postpone at the end of last term?"
"No last-minute study or preparation needed, then?" Albert asked, a casual hint of provocation in his voice.
Katrina narrowed her eyes, instantly suspicious. "Don't tell you've forgotten the stakes. Are you trying to pull so sort of delaying tactic?"
"Of course not," Albert said, feigning offense. "I'm rely busy. How about this weekend? I need to set aside sufficient ti for the appropriate research. Ten questions on obscure Magical History is no small feat, even for ."
"You expect to believe you need 'research' ti?" Katrina scoffed, her tone dripping with disbelief. "I've heard the rumors, Anderson. They say five out of ten things you say are flat-out lies, three are utter nonsense, and the remaining two are rely sarcastic truths."
"What a vicious and unfair slander!" Albert protested, sounding genuinely wounded. "I am a beacon of integrity! Who, pray tell, is spreading this libel?"
"Who knows? But they certainly seem to know you well," Katrina countered smoothly, turning the focus back to him. "Just make sure you have your Ten Galleons prepared. And don't dare show up pretending you've been pickpocketed by a Hinkypunk."
"Rest assured, my financial portfolio is exceptionally robust," Albert said, smiling broadly. "Speaking of which, do you know the location for the Transfiguration Club? Number twenty-one?"
"Of course I know," she lied, puffing out her chest.
"And the rules? The club tradition?"
"Tradition? What tradition?" she asked, losing her footing.
Albert leaned in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "The tradition is that you must Transfigure your own chair for the eting. If you fail, you stand. If you create a substandard piece of furniture, you are subject to ridicule." He delivered the warning with a friendly, casual tone. "Better practice. Turning a simple scroll into a comfortable, structurally sound armchair takes finesse."
"That is simple," Katrina repeated, though her eyes betrayed a newfound anxiety.
"Good. If you need any advice, look up your sister, Izabel. She's in the Charms Club, but she's well-versed in Transfiguration." Albert then began to walk away.
"Wait!" Katrina called after him. "If Izabel is in the Charms Club, and you're supposedly a Charms prodigy… why hasn't Professor Flitwick already drafted you into the Charms Club?"
"A very astute question," Albert paused, looking back with a perfectly innocent expression. "Perhaps… we haven't actually had our first Charms class yet."
"You… Ugh, I knew you were being deliberately evasive!" Katrina grumbled, crossing her arms as he hurried off. She genuinely hadn't considered the class schedule; she'd just assud Albert's brilliance would bypass such petty rules.
Albert quickened his pace, eting his roommates en route to the Great Hall for lunch. Fred and George were already deep in discussion, and Lee Jordan handed Albert a small, stiff piece of parchnt.
"This is for you," Lee Jordan said, his voice hushed with awe. "The Headmaster's owl dropped it off personally just now."
"The Headmaster?" Albert took the note, surprised, and quickly opened it.
Dear Albert:
You are cordially invited to tea in the Headmaster's Office this evening at 7:00 PM.
Your loyal friend, Albus Dumbledore
P.S. I am particularly fond of Fizzing Whizzbees and Pear Drops.
"What does Dumbledore want?" Fred asked, craning his neck to read the note over Albert's shoulder.
"Tea," Albert summarized, handing the note over.
The three roommates exchanged glances of profound confusion. "Tea? Dumbledore is inviting you for a chat over tea?" George asked, utterly bewildered.
"I suppose it's less strange for than for you," Albert conceded. Professor Brod often extended similar invitations last year for chess and conversation. But this was Dumbledore. And the timing was highly suggestive.
Albert already had a strong suspicion as to the content of the eting. He had little doubt this was connected to Hector Dagworth and the stolen Golden mbership Card. It seed the esteed Potion Master had indeed gone over the Director of Magical Law Enforcent and sought assistance from the highest authority at Hogwarts.
Dagworth must be truly desperate, Albert thought, feeling a wave of detached amusent. He failed at the Ministry, he couldn't find Brod, and now he thinks the Headmaster of Hogwarts will simply command to hand over the leverage.
"Well, this throws a wrench in the works," Fred noted, looking at Albert with sympathy. "What about the Quidditch tryouts, then?"
"That is the more pressing issue," Albert admitted, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of genuine disappointnt. "I have to apologize to Charlie."
"The Headmaster's invitation conflicts with the Transfiguration Club and Quidditch tryouts? Talk about a social calendar nightmare," Lee Jordan lanted, shaking his head. "You have truly hit the big ti, my friend."
"I'm busy, what can I say?" Albert shrugged, a small, helpless smile on his face. He walked over to the Ravenclaw table and sat down next to a still-grumbling Katrina.
"Could you possibly pass a ssage to Professor McGonagall for ?" he asked her.
Katrina gave him a strange, cold look. "You are possibly the most unreliable person I have ever t, Anderson."
"You're the first to tell that," Albert countered lightly. "But since you clearly know where classroom twenty-one is, I can walk you there after lunch, and you can give her the ssage personally. I'm afraid I have a prior engagent with the Headmaster."
"Fine!" Katrina agreed, mollified by the guided tour to the secret classroom.
When Albert returned to his table, Fred was already talking to Charlie, explaining the unfortunate scheduling disaster.
"Dumbledore wants tea with Albert?" Charlie's face registered surprise, followed by a slight wince of annoyance.
"I'm truly sorry, Charlie, but I have to prioritize," Albert said, joining the conversation and genuinely regretting the missed opportunity. "The Headmaster's summons trumps a trial run. Besides, I might soon be joining the Charms Club with Flitwick. Between that and the Transfiguration Club, I simply can't commit to the Seeker position. It wouldn't be fair to the team."
Charlie paused, understanding the implied gravity of Dumbledore's summons and the weight of Albert's other commitnts. He sighed, the competitive edge leaving his eyes. "Okay, I get it. We need a flexible reserve anyway. I'll keep the Reserve Seeker spot open for you, just in case." He gave Albert a light, resigned pat on the shoulder and walked off.
"I can't believe you actually turned down the Seeker position," Lee Jordan said, astonished. "You're the best flyer we have! You'd be perfect."
"I can't play favorites and abuse the privilege," Albert said with a helpless gesture. "It would hurt team unity, and Charlie needs reliable players. Besides, if the Charms Club and the Transfiguration Club clash, that's another problem entirely."
"Which one will you choose?" Fred asked, fascinated by the impending scheduling war.
"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Charms Club sounds more engaging, frankly, because I like magic that is, shall we say, more efficient."
"That makes sense, given you're not even officially in the Charms Club yet," George muttered. "Wait, do these clubs even exist, or are you just making them up as you go?"
"Yes, they exist," Albert confird. "In fact, Hogwarts even has a Wizard Card Club."
Lee Jordan froze, fork halfway to his mouth. "It does? How have I never heard of this?"
Fred slapped his forehead dramatically. "Idiot! It's us! The four of us! We started it just this morning, rember?"
"I don't recall formally agreeing to the formation of any such club," Lee Jordan mumbled defensively.
"You don't want to be a founding mber?" Albert asked, feigning deep offense. "No problem, we'll move the headquarters to the Ravenclaw common room. Katrina can be the new Vice-President."
"Who said I didn't want to be in the club? When was the charter signed? I need a copy of the minutes!" Lee Jordan rapidly backpedaled, then quickly changed the subject. "What classes do we have this afternoon?"
"Defence Against the Dark Arts, and then that snooze-fest, History of Magic," George instantly replied, not letting the club matter drop. "We'll need to be wide awake for Lockhart, especially since the Boggart challenge is today."
"Fighting the Boggart, you an," Lee Jordan corrected himself.
"Fighting?" Albert shook his head, finishing his sandwich. "That's too dramatic. At most, we'll be taught how to repel them, to turn them into sothing funny. You don't fight a Boggart; you simply make it feel foolish."
"You definitely know the proper counter-charm for the Boggart, don't you?" George asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"I do, it's in the book," Albert replied honestly. "It's a charm that uses laughter as its magical conduit. It's actually quite simple."
"So you did devour the entire 'Dark Forces: A Self-Defense Guide' before term even started?" Fred asked, leaning in.
"You actually caught on," Albert said, looking at Fred with mock surprise. "I was beginning to think I'd have to write you an instruction manual."
"Let's try it with butter and salt, shall we?" Lee Jordan said, his expression flat, trying to imitate Albert's own favorite sarcastic line.
"Don't steal my material," Albert complained, and the group burst into laughter, the anxieties of Professors and Headmasters temporarily forgotten in the pleasant warmth of the Great Hall. The afternoon, however, promised to be anything but relaxing.
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