As Albert walked back toward the Gryffindor common room, his footsteps echoed against the stone floor, but his mind was miles away. The conversation with Professor Smith hadn't left him with a sense of enlightenment; instead, it felt like he had just been handed a puzzle box that was ticking.
That "weird feeling" he had wasn't just intuition—it was backed by hard data.
In his mind's eye, Albert pulled up the transparent task panel that only he could see. There it was, sitting near the top of the list: [Task: Ulterior Motive].
The description was vague, as it often was with higher-tier missions, but the core objective was clear—uncover the true reason behind Professor Smith's arrival at Hogwarts. If Smith had just told him the truth—that she was here to raid Ravenclaw's intellectual tomb—the task should have flashed "Complete." The experience points should have rolled in.
But the task remained stubbornly gray, mockingly unfinished.
She's lying, Albert thought, his eyes narrowing as he navigated a moving staircase. Or, at the very least, she's giving me the 'official' truth to hide the dangerous one. If the knowledge vault was her only goal, the system would have recognized it. There's a deeper layer to this woman, and she's using the legend of Ravenclaw as a smokescreen.
The name of the task itself was a warning. "Ulterior Motive" didn't suggest a scholarly pursuit; it suggested a hidden, perhaps even sinister, agenda. And Albert knew better than anyone that the Defense Against the Dark Arts position was practically a revolving door for people with skeletons in their closets. Quirrell, Lockhart, Moody... Smith was just the latest in a long line of professors who arrived with a smile and a secret.
His thoughts then drifted to Isabelle. She was the missing link. Smith claimed they were family friends, and that Isabelle had pointed her toward Albert. But was Isabelle a willing accomplice, or was she being manipulated too? He remembered their shared Runestone Divination from weeks ago. Both had seen "imminent danger" and "unavoidable conflict."
At the time, he'd thought it was just a vague warning about the future. Now, it felt like a countdown. Was the danger the vault itself, or the person leading him to it?
"Anyone who hasn't signed the Christmas list yet, today is your final warning!"
Professor McGonagall's sharp, authoritative voice cut through the fog of his thoughts. Albert blinked, realizing he was standing near the entrance to the Great Hall. The Deputy Headmistress was hovering by a notice board, her quill scratching irritably against a piece of parchment.
Early December had brought the usual chill to the castle, and with it, the mass exodus of students wanting to escape the drafty corridors for the warmth of their family living rooms.
During lunch, the Great Hall was a cacophony of scraping plates and excited chatter. Albert sat down across from the twins and Lee Jordan, who were currently engaged in a heated debate over the merits of staying at the castle.
"I'm telling you, it's a wasted opportunity," George grumbled, stabbing a sausage with his fork. "Imagine it. No Percy breathing down our necks, no crowds in the library... we could map out the entire third floor without dodging a single prefect."
"Then why'd you put your name on the 'Going Home' list ten minutes ago?" Lee Jordan shot back, rolling his eyes. "You're all talk, George. You just want Mum's roast turkey and the pile of sweaters she's been knitting since October."
George winked, not at all embarrassed. "Correction: I want the turkey and I want to see the look on Ron's face when we tell him the truth about Hogwarts."
"The 'truth'?" Albert asked, joining the conversation as he reached for the pumpkin juice.
"Yeah," Fred leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "He's coming here next year. Little Ronniekins is already nervous. We've decided to let him know that the Sorting Ceremony involves a wrestling match with a mountain troll. Or maybe a series of increasingly lethal traps."
"That's cruel," Albert laughed, though he knew exactly how the twins operated. "Didn't you guys once give him a prank candy that burned a hole in his tongue? Give the kid a break."
"He survived, didn't he?" Fred waved a hand dismissively. "It builds character. Besides, next year isn't just about Ron. The whole school is going to be different."
"Because of the Savior?" Albert asked, testing the waters.
The three of them stopped eating and looked at him. "You think he's really coming?" Lee asked. "Harry Potter? I mean, he's a legend. Some people say he's living in a palace, being trained by secret masters."
Albert tapped the side of his head. "I've read the books, Lee. He's mentioned in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts. But he won't be in a palace. He'll be a eleven-year-old kid who probably has no idea how famous he is."
"Dad says Dumbledore keeps him hidden for a reason," Fred said, his tone unusually serious. "There are still people out there—old supporters of You-Know-Who—who would love to get their hands on the Boy Who Lived."
"Is he really dead, though?" George asked, looking at Albert as if he might have the answer. "The Dark Lord, I mean."
Albert hesitated. He knew the truth—that Voldemort was a wraith clinging to life in the forests of Albania—but he couldn't say that. "In the wizarding world, 'dead' is a flexible term. If you're powerful enough and dark enough, you find ways to linger. But for now? He's a ghost. A shadow."
"I just hope Potter ends up in Gryffindor," Lee Jordan said, shifting the mood back to something lighter. "Can you imagine the prestige? We'd have the Savior and the Wizard Card King in the same house."
"I'd bet my last Sickle on it," Albert said confidently.
"Whoa!" Fred barked a laugh. "Is that a prophecy, Albert? Because whenever you get that look in your eye, things usually happen exactly how you say they will."
"It's not a prophecy, it's logic," Albert explained, trying to sound less like a seer and more like an analyst. "His father, James Potter, was a Gryffindor through and through. His name is on the Quidditch trophies in the display case. In our world, blood and spirit usually follow the same path. He'll be one of us."
"I heard he lives with Muggles," Lee added. "Must be weird. Being a god to us and a nobody to them."
"If he's thin and scrawny, they're treating him like rubbish," Albert mused aloud. "If he's well-fed, they're decent people. We'll know the moment he walks through those doors next September."
The conversation eventually shifted toward the Wizard Card Club. The game had exploded in popularity over the last few months. You couldn't walk through the common room without seeing two students hunched over a deck, arguing about the "Dumbledore" card's attack power or the "Gringotts" defensive buff.
"We need more cards, Albert," Lee said, his eyes gleaming with entrepreneurial fire. "And we need to up the registration fee for the next tournament. We could use the extra gold to fund better prizes—maybe some rare charms or even customized card sleeves."
"If we raise the fees, we raise the expectations," Albert countered. "Right now, it's fun. If it becomes too expensive, people will start getting nasty. They'll want 'fairness' and 'proctoring'."
"Fairness?" Fred snorted. "In a school that hosts the Triwizard Tournament? The wizarding world doesn't care about fair, Albert. It cares about who's standing at the end. We just need to make sure the game is addictive enough that they don't care if the odds are stacked."
Albert looked at his friend and realized that, in a way, Fred was right. The wizarding world was inherently lopsided. Power, lineage, and luck governed everything from the Ministry to the classroom. Even his "weird feeling" about Professor Smith was a reminder of that.