The feast was a blur of silver platters, golden goblets, and the frantic, hungry energy of students who had spent all day cooped up on a train. Harry Potter was sitting at the Gryffindor table, and the surrounding students were practically vibrating with the urge to stare. Albert, however, kept his eyes on his plate, methodically dismantling a slice of roast beef. He knew that if the professors weren't patrolling the high table with eyes like hawks, the boy would have been mobbed by autograph seekers within seconds.
"So," Fred said, leaning over his pile of mashed potatoes, "McGonagall. Side room. What was the deal? You get scolded for something you didn't do?"
"It's about the schedule," Albert said, not looking up. "Turns out, taking advanced coursework in three different departments leads to a logistical nightmare. I've got some... special accommodations to make sure I don't miss anything."
Lee Jordan, mouth full of buttered roll, tilted his head. "What, you mean like, you're splitting yourself in two? Cloning?"
Albert gave a slow, dry smile. "You've always been good at guessing, Lee. It's practically a talent."
"Wait, seriously?" George looked genuinely floored. He shot a glance at Percy, who was currently trying to explain the finer points of Transfiguration to a very overwhelmed Hermione Granger. "Percy! You heard him—is Albert actually using a clone?"
Percy blinked, looking up from his discussion. He looked tired, the kind of exhaustion that only comes from staring at too many textbooks for too long. He gave a vague, non-committal nod. "It's... a technicality. In a sense, yes. It helps."
The table went silent for a heartbeat. The idea of a clone—a double that could do the heavy lifting—was the holy grail for a student. George looked at Albert with sudden, intense hope. "So, when do we get to learn it? Imagine the homework we could finish if we had doubles."
Albert chuckled, a dark, amused sound. "You don't want this, believe me. If you're not prepared to attend every single second of every single class, you aren't prepared for the cost of having a double. And don't even think about using one to do your holiday essays; trust me, the results would be catastrophic."
The conversation shifted, the weight of the new school year finally settling in. Everyone started debating the upcoming trip to Hogsmeade in October, the first true taste of freedom for the third-years and above.
"You got your form signed, right?" Lee asked, nudging Albert. "Don't tell me you forgot to send it home."
"I'm not that disorganized," Albert said, pulling his pocket notebook out. He flipped through a few pages of dense, scribbled notes and groaned. "Blast. I still haven't mastered the Patronus communication spell. I thought I'd have it down before we came back, but it's still just flickering light."
"The Patronus message spell?" Fred said, his brow furrowing. "I thought you were already leagues ahead of us on that."
"It's not just a Patronus," Albert muttered, stabbing a potato with his fork. "It's the transfer of the intent. It's like trying to carve a letter into a soap bubble while it's floating in a gale. I even paid for extra instruction, and I'm still hitting a wall."
The Great Hall hummed with the clatter of silverware and the low roar of hundreds of conversations. It was the peak of the feast, the moment where the exhaustion of the journey finally gave way to the comfort of the familiar. Eventually, the plates cleared themselves, the golden goblets polished to a shine, and Dumbledore stood up.
The Hall went quiet.
"A few points before we retire," Dumbledore began, his voice echoing with that familiar, calm gravitas. He went through the usual list: no forest, no magic in the corridors, and the standard warning about the third-floor corridor.
When Dumbledore mentioned the fourth floor, Albert noticed his gaze flicker toward the Gryffindor table—specifically, toward their group. It was almost imperceptible, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it gesture, but Albert caught it.
"The corridor on the right-hand side of the fourth floor is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death," Dumbledore said, a faint twinkle in his eye that suggested he was daring them to check it out.
Fred and George exchanged a look. "The fourth floor? We've been there a dozen times. There's nothing but old tapestries and a leaky ceiling."
"He's hiding something," Albert murmured, leaning back. "He isn't trying to keep us out; he's trying to see which one of us is curious enough to look. It's a lure, disguised as a warning."
"So, we're going to check it out?" Lee asked, his eyes wide.
"When we have time," Albert said, yawning. He wasn't entirely wrong—the forbidden nature of it was a magnet for every student in the school—but he had a nagging suspicion that whatever was behind that door wasn't meant for students. It felt too big, too dangerous, and far too personal to Dumbledore to be a mere prank.
As the feast broke up, the first-years were herded away by the prefects. Albert, Fred, George, and Lee took a shortcut through a tapestry-hidden passage they'd mapped out the year prior, arriving at the portrait of the Fat Lady long before the rest of the pack.
"I heard Potter was sorted into Gryffindor," the Fat Lady said, her portrait swinging open slightly. "I suppose you'll be the ones showing him the ropes?"
"He's already in the common room," Albert said, stepping forward. "We're just here to get some sleep. What's the password?"
"Dragon Dross," she muttered, clearly annoyed that they'd arrived before she could finish her nap.
"See? I told you it was something ridiculous," Lee whispered to the others as the portrait swung wide.
They stepped into the common room. It was warm, vibrant with red and gold, and the fire in the hearth was roaring. And there, near the center of the crowd, was Harry Potter, looking absolutely shell-shocked.
"Well," Albert said, looking at the boy who was currently the center of the world. "Here we are again. Another year, another mystery, and another savior to keep an eye on. Let's see how long he lasts before he ends up in the hospital wing."
Fred and George didn't answer; they were already pushing through the crowd, desperate to introduce themselves. Albert lingered by the door, his hand still resting on the pouch containing the Time-Turner. He knew the secrets of this castle were only just starting to wake up, and this time, he had the one tool that could give him the edge he needed to survive them all.