The Halloween feast at Hogwarts is an institution that transcends mere dining; it is a sensory assault of magic, tradition, and pure, unadulterated gluttony. For the students, it represents a brief sanctuary of warmth and light before the winter chill truly settles into the castle's stone bones. At least, this was the golden age of the feast—the quiet years before a certain famous scar-headed boy arrived and turned every holiday into a life-or-death struggle against trolls or ancient basilisks.
Because the rain continued to lash against the castle throughout the afternoon, the Gryffindor common room had transformed into a bustling hub of indoor recreation. Albert sat at a central table, his hands moving with fluid precision as he shuffled a deck of Wizard Cards.
The game had evolved significantly since its inception. What started as a crude hobby had blossomed into a full-blown phenomenon. Albert had spent dozens of hours optimizing the card stock and refining the enchantments so the figures on the cards didn't just move, but reacted to the state of the game. However, success brought its own set of logistics.
"The demand is outstripping the supply, Albert," Shanna noted, watching as a group of second-years looked on with envious eyes. "We have over twenty active members in the club now, including those two Ravenclaws who take it far too seriously. But the cost of a starter deck is still too high for most. We're becoming an elite club by accident."
Albert nodded, placing a 'Mountain Troll' card onto the felt surface. "I'm looking into mass-production charms, but it's a delicate balance. If I make them too cheap, the magic won't hold. If I keep them as they are, we remain a niche. We'll discuss the distribution model at the next meeting."
The notable absence in the player base, of course, was Slytherin. It wasn't that Albert had explicitly banned them; it was simply that the current social climate of the school made a mixed-house card game involving Slytherins about as likely as Hagrid adopting a house cat. Nobody wanted to play with them, and the feeling was largely mutual.
As evening fell, the four roommates made their way down to the Great Hall. The transformation was complete. The ceiling was a swirling vortex of dark clouds, and the air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced pumpkin.
Professor Dumbledore stood at the high table, his silver beard shimmering in the candlelight. He didn't offer a long-winded lecture on house points or safety. He simply spread his arms, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"To all our students, I have only two things to say: Happy Halloween, and tuck in!"
The hall erupted in cheers. Albert joined the applause, genuinely appreciative of a headmaster who knew when to get out of the way of a hungry teenager.
Almost instantly, the gold plates groaned under the weight of the feast. Roast pork with crackling, honey-glazed carrots, thick gravy, and towers of mashed potatoes appeared in a blur of steam.
"God, I love this place," Lee Jordan said, his voice muffled by a mouthful of prime rib.
Fred, who was tearing into a turkey leg with the enthusiasm of a Viking, suddenly looked up and pointed frantically. "Lee! Behind you! A rogue bat!"
Lee jumped nearly a foot into the air, spinning around with his fork held like a dagger. There was nothing there.
"You're a child, Fred. A literal infant," Lee grumbled, sitting back down as Fred and George dissolved into snickering.
"Look over there," George whispered, nudging Albert's arm. He pointed to a large platter of golden-brown potato and egg pancakes.
Shanna reached over and took one, taking a thoughtful bite. "These are incredible. Are they a new addition?"
"Albert's special contribution to the Hogwarts menu," George explained with a wink. "He spent an hour in the kitchens last week convincing the house-elves that the British palate needed a bit of variety."
Shanna looked at Albert with genuine surprise. "Is there anything you don't do? Between the cards, the dueling, and the grades, I didn't realize you were also a Michelin-star consultant."
Before Albert could respond, a clatter of forks drew everyone's attention to the center of the hall. The Hogwarts choir had taken the stage. It was a bizarre sight—students from all houses standing together, but the visual was ruined by the costumes. The Slytherin representatives were particularly unfortunate, forced into emerald green robes and tall, peaked caps that made them look like disgruntled garden gnomes.
The music, however, was surprisingly haunting. They sang a deep, rhythmic arrangement accompanied by the rhythmic croaking of giant frogs they held in their arms. The bass notes vibrated through the floorboards, lending the feast a truly magical, eerie atmosphere.
By the time the chocolate cake was served, Albert was feeling the heavy, comfortable weight of overindulgence. He leaned back, watching the candles flicker. "Eating this much is practically a sleeping draught," he muttered, stifling a yawn.
Back in the dormitory, the atmosphere shifted from festive to focused. A flash of lightning illuminated the room, followed by a low rumble of thunder that made the floor vibrate.
"Alright," Albert said, his voice suddenly sharp. "Tonight's the night. I'm paying a visit to Snape's private stores."
The room went silent. Fred stopped mid-stride, a frown creasing his forehead. "Wait, now? It's pouring outside, the castle is crawling with Filch's holiday patrols, and we haven't even finished the scouting for the lower corridor. This isn't like you, Albert. You're usually the one preaching about 'calculated risks.'"
Albert reached into his trunk and pulled out a small, unassuming glass bottle. The golden liquid inside swirled with an inner light, looking like captured sunshine.
"I'm not leaving this to chance," Albert said, a confident smile spreading across his face. "I'm using the Felix Felicis. With three hours of luck, the 'calculated' part of the risk becomes irrelevant."
The three boys crowded around him, their eyes wide. Liquid Luck was the kind of thing you read about in legendary tales, not something you actually saw sitting on a bedside table in Gryffindor Tower.
"Are you sure?" Lee Jordan whispered. "That stuff is worth more than this entire room. You're using it for a potion-ingredient heist?"
"I'm using it to ensure the future of our 'projects,'" Albert replied. "We'll rest for a few hours. I'll set the alarm for midnight. That's when the luck begins."
At one in the morning, the world felt different. Albert sat on the edge of his bed, the small vial in his hand. He measured out a precise dose—enough for a few hours of perfection—and tipped it back.
The sensation was instantaneous. It wasn't like being drunk or high; it was a sudden, overwhelming clarity. Every doubt he'd ever had felt like a distant, silly memory. He felt like the protagonist of a story where the author was his best friend. Everything in the room seemed to glow with a hidden purpose. The path through the castle wasn't a maze anymore; it was a straight line.
"How is it?" George asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Albert didn't answer immediately. He closed his eyes, feeling the golden hum in his veins. "It's... perfect. I can see exactly where Mrs. Norris is. I know which floorboards are going to creak." He stood up, his movements possessing a grace he hadn't known he was capable of. "I'm going alone."
"What?" Fred stood up, looking hurt. "The plan was for us to be the lookouts! You can't just cut us out of the fun because you've got a lucky stomach."
"No," Albert said, his voice ringing with a calm, terrifying authority. "My instincts are screaming that extra people will only create variables I don't need. Trust me. I know exactly what I'm doing."
He raised his wand and performed a Disillusionment Charm on himself. Usually, the spell created a slight shimmer, like heat haze. But under the influence of the Felix, the magic was flawless. He didn't just blend into the background; he became the background.
"Perfect," he murmured, his voice sounding like it was coming from everywhere and nowhere.
George leaned in, trying to see where Albert's face should be. "This is... weird. You've never been this arrogant, Albert. Are you sure that's luck and not just a massive ego boost?"
Albert laughed—a rich, confident sound that echoed strangely in the quiet room. "Don't worry about me. Just be at the portrait hole in exactly one hour to let me back in. Everything is going to go exactly as I intend."
The three roommates watched the door swing open and shut, seemingly on its own. They stood in the dark, feeling a strange mix of awe and unease. Albert was usually the anchor of their group, the one who kept them grounded. But tonight, powered by liquid gold and sheer ambition, he felt like a storm that had finally been let off its leash.
"Is it just me," Lee whispered, "or did he just become the scariest person in this school?"
"He's not scary," Fred muttered, though he didn't sound convinced. "He's just lucky. Let's hope that bottle was as good as he thinks it is."
Meanwhile, invisible and untouchable, Albert moved through the corridors. He didn't skulk; he walked with the steady pace of a man who owned the castle. Every turn he took was the right one; every shadow he stepped into was deeper than it should have been. The luck was flowing, and Snape's office was waiting.