"Where'd he go?" Lee muttered, spinning around to check the corridor behind them. "He was right there, I swear. I could hear him complaining about the stairs three seconds ago."
"Albert!" Fred shouted, his voice echoing off the stone walls. Nothing but the scuff of their own boots answered him.
"He does this on purpose," George said, his eyes narrowing. "He just… snaps out of reality. It's like watching a magic trick where the performer forgets to show you the hidden compartment."
Lee looked at the empty air where Albert had stood. "I'm telling you, it's that twin-creation thing he mentioned. I've checked the library, I've checked with Flitwick, and not a single soul has heard of a spell that can split a wizard into two autonomous versions. It's insane."
"It's not a spell, you donut," Fred snapped, though he looked just as frustrated. "It's an invention. Albert doesn't learn magic; he hacks it. But the real question is how he manages to attend twelve different classes without melting down. Percy's been dodging the topic for weeks, which only makes me more certain that there's a massive, school-wide conspiracy he's in on."
Before Lee could respond, a familiar, calm voice drifted from the shadow of an alcove behind them. "You three realize you're loud enough to wake the portraits on the seventh floor, don't you?"
They spun around. Albert was leaning against the wall, looking entirely unbothered, as if he'd been standing there for the last twenty minutes.
"Where the hell were you?" Fred demanded, his eyes darting from Albert to the empty space behind him. "One minute you're there, the next—poof."
"Don't ask," Albert said, his tone final. "It's a secret, and it's a boring one. Let's just say I have a very efficient commute."
"And your Muggle Studies class?" Lee asked, still wary. "Are you telling me you just skipped it?"
Albert gave a wry smile. "My 'twin' is covering it. Now, stop worrying about my schedule and start worrying about Trelawney's predictions. If we're late, she'll probably decide we're all doomed by lunchtime."
Meanwhile, in a parallel timeline—or at least, a different space-time arrangement—the other Albert stepped out of the third-floor men's restroom, smoothing his robes. He walked with a steady, relaxed stride toward the Muggle Studies classroom. He wasn't the tired, overworked student the others saw; he was the one who had just spent an hour resetting his own clock.
He caught sight of Katrina Vance waiting near the classroom entrance. She looked like she'd been vibrating with nerves, her book Muggle Life and Social Customs in Britain clutched to her chest like a shield.
"Still puzzling over the batteries?" Albert asked, strolling up beside her.
Katrina looked up, her expression a mix of relief and intense frustration. "It's ridiculous, Albert! How am I supposed to understand a society that relies on 'plugs' and 'stamps'? It sounds like a primitive survivalist culture, yet they have airplanes. The book explains the what, but it misses the why. It's like trying to understand a ritual by looking at the burnt remains of the sacrifice."
Albert chuckled as they walked into the classroom. "That's the beauty of it. You're trying to apply logic to a world that isn't governed by intent, but by utility. And don't give me that look—I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing at the book. It's written by someone who views Muggles as an exotic, slightly malfunctioning species."
Katrina pouted, taking her seat and pointedly ignoring him for a moment. "And you? Why are you even here? You lived in that world. You know how the 'plugs' work. Is it just for the extra credit? Does the high-achieving Mr. Anderson need to pad his report card?"
"I chose this because I wanted to see the perspective of purebloods who try to study Muggles," Albert said, his voice lowering as Professor Charity Burbage began to busy herself with the chalkboard. "It's fascinating. It's like watching an anthropologist try to study a space station while wearing a blindfold. And besides, I want to see if Dumbledore ever figures out that he could just hire a Muggle-born assistant to teach this properly."
"You're cynical," Katrina whispered.
"I'm realistic."
Professor Burbage, a woman with a kind but hopelessly confused face, clapped her hands together. "Welcome, everyone! Today, we shall explore the mysterious world of electricity. Mr. Anderson, perhaps you could enlighten the class on why these strange, lightning-in-a-wire devices are so crucial to Muggle survival?"
Albert stood up, feeling the eyes of the entire room on him. This was part of his "Score Mania" mission—a long-game quest that promised massive legendary status points. He'd already figured out that the best way to hack the system was to become the unofficial, unpaid TA.
"Think of electricity as a non-sentient form of raw, constant magic," Albert explained, his voice projecting clearly. "It's a form of energy that flows through wires, allowing Muggles to achieve in seconds what would take us minutes with a wand. Light bulbs are just small, glass-encased fires that don't burn; telephones are essentially two-way mirrors that rely on sound waves rather than visual intent."
The room was silent. Students were scribbling frantically. Burbage was nodding, her face glowing with pride as if she'd personally invented the circuit breaker.
"And how, Mr. Anderson," Burbage pressed, "do they manage without the aid of a magical core to direct this energy?"
"Logic, Professor," Albert said. "Rigorous, repetitive, unyielding logic. They don't cast; they construct."
As the lesson progressed, Albert found himself answering every question with a blend of historical context and technical accuracy. He wasn't just answering; he was editing the class curriculum in real-time. By the time the bell rang, Burbage was beaming, and the Gryffindor tally on the wall had climbed by a dozen points.
Walking out of the room, Katrina looked like she'd just survived an interrogation. "You make it sound so easy. You know, most people think this class is just a joke, but you treat it like it's a high-stakes debate."
"It is high stakes," Albert said. "If you don't understand how they function, you can't coexist with them. And if you can't coexist, you end up hiding in the shadows, terrified of their technology. That's the real tragedy of the Wizarding World."
Katrina looked at him, her eyes tracing the lines of his face, looking for the mask. She knew, somewhere beneath the surface, there was a man who lived two lives, carrying a secret that was slowly distancing him from everyone around him.
"I envy you, you know," she said quietly. "You're three years ahead of everyone else. Divination, Arithmetic, Runes… and yet you still find time to be the class genius. Why?"
Albert stopped. He didn't tell her about the Time-Turner. He didn't tell her about the looming shadows in the Forbidden Forest or the way he could see the future not because of 'Insight,' but because he had the statistics to back it up.
"I like the look of a perfect report card," he said, offering a small, sad smile. "And besides, once you start winning, it's hard to stop."
Katrina shook her head, her frustration turning into a grudging respect. "You're leaving us all behind, Albert. You're like a star that's drifting further and further into the horizon. I can still see you, but I'm not sure I can reach you."
"Don't give up," Albert said, turning to walk toward the stairs.
"I never do," she replied, her voice filled with a sharp, iron-willed defiance. She watched him go, a solitary figure moving through the bustling halls, and she knew one thing for certain: she wouldn't let him be the only one to reach the top. Defeat wasn't in her vocabulary, and as she headed toward her next class, she realized she had a lot of catching up to do.