The gray, relentless rain of mid-September had turned Hogwarts into a damp, echoing cage. While most of the student body was busy grumbling about the chill or the pervasive smell of wet wool, Albert was perfectly content. He was settled into a high-backed armchair by the common room window, the rhythmic patter of rain against the glass serving as a soothing backdrop to his correspondence.
Tom was curled into a furry crescent on the table, his eyes locked on Albert's quill with the intensity of a predator watching a beetle. Occasionally, he'd glance at the cooling milk tea, his whiskers twitching, but he kept his distance. He hadn't forgotten the "incident"—a botched attempt to taste the contents of a teacup that had landed him in a three-day moratorium on dried fish.
Albert wasn't writing to the usual suspects. He was finishing a letter to Adolf Fournier, his favorite Parisian alchemist, with whom he'd been trading technical secrets like two kids swapping rare cards. It was a symbiotic rivalry. Albert wanted Fournier's expertise on magical energy storage; Fournier was obsessed with Albert's, um, "creative" modifications to the two-way mirror enchantments. It was a game of wits, with both men carefully peeling back just enough of their own knowledge to keep the other engaged, all while keeping the real breakthroughs locked away.
Their owls were probably half-dead from the constant flights across the Channel, but the exchange was worth it. Albert had successfully decoded the mechanics of the "Reminder"—that milky, smoke-filled sphere that turned red when you forgot your socks—and he was currently looking for ways to adapt that logic into a more advanced perimeter alarm.
His concentration was broken by a soft, hesitant rustle near his chair. He looked up to find two girls shifting nervously, their faces a mixture of teenage curiosity and sheer embarrassment. They were clearly younger years, the kind who treated the upper floors like a foreign country.
"Yes?" Albert asked, putting his quill down.
"Um," one of the girls—Lavender Brown, he recognized—let out a squeak. "Is it true? About the... you know. Can you see things?"
"See things?" Albert repeated, arching an eyebrow. "Are you asking if I can predict the future, or if I'm just observant enough to tell you that you've been standing there for five minutes trying to work up the courage to ask?"
The girls giggled, their nerves momentarily shattered.
"Everyone says you're good at it," the other one, Parvati Patil, whispered. "Can you... can you do one for us? Just a little one?"
Albert looked at them, then at the small crowd that had started to gather in the periphery. It was a dangerous game, this "prophecy" business. He didn't have the Sight, not really, but he had a terrifyingly accurate grasp of human patterns, social dynamics, and the sort of basic statistics that most wizards ignored in favor of tea leaves.
"Alright," Albert said, a smirk playing on his lips. "But keep in mind, prophecies are like mirror reflections—they only show you what you're already looking for."
He pointed to Lavender. "You. You're looking for a narrative, aren't you? A bit of drama to break up the monotony of homework. Fine. You'll find your own romantic arc this term—but remember, Lavender, the story only lasts as long as you're willing to keep turning the pages. Don't confuse a chapter for the whole book."
She blinked, clearly expecting something more concrete, like a name or a date. She looked a little disappointed, but Parvati stepped forward, eyes shining.
"What about me?"
Albert looked at her, thinking of the upcoming social calendar, the Triwizard implications that were already whispering through the halls of older years, and the inevitable vanity of the school's social hierarchy. "You'll dance with your champion at the ball, Parvati. But try not to spend the whole time wondering if you're the leading lady or just the guest star."
Neville Longbottom, who had been lingering nearby, shuffled his feet, his cheeks going the color of a ripe tomato. He didn't say a word, but his expression was a silent plea.
Albert sighed, recalling Neville's steady, quiet growth in Herbology—the way the plants seemed to lean toward him, trusting him with their health. "Neville. You don't need a crystal ball to tell you where your strength lies. The earth speaks back to those who listen. You'll find your place here, and it won't be because of a prophecy. It'll be because you actually did the work."
The small group hovered, waiting for more, but Albert simply picked up his tea. "That's it. Prophecy is a retail business; I'm not doing wholesale tonight."
As they drifted away, disappointed, he caught sight of Hermione Granger standing near the edge of the common room. She looked annoyed, her arms crossed, but there was a flicker of genuine curiosity in her eyes. She clearly thought the whole thing was nonsense, yet she was still standing there.
"You want one too?" Albert asked.
She hesitated, then walked over, her voice crisp. "It's all just psychological projection, isn't it? You're just telling them what they want to hear, and they're filling in the gaps with their own hopes."
"Exactly," Albert agreed. "But that doesn't make it any less true for them, does it?"
She bit her lip, then nodded. "Fine. What do you have for me?"
Albert looked at her—the girl who lived in the library, who was drowning in a dozen subjects, who was brilliant but utterly isolated by the sheer weight of her own intellect. "Before the frost hits the ground, you won't be alone anymore. But that's entirely up to you, Hermione. If you keep hiding behind a stack of books, you'll never see the people trying to pull you out from behind them."
She seemed struck, her brow furrowing as she processed the blunt advice. She opened her mouth to argue, but the sound of wet boots interrupted them.
Fred and George burst through the common room portrait, looking like they'd just been dragged through a swamp. They were soaked, shivering, and radiating the kind of manic energy that only came from a long, disastrous Quidditch practice.
"That," George panted, wiping rain from his eyes, "was not practice. That was a test of faith in the integrity of a broomstick."
"If I never see a Bludger again, it'll be too soon," Fred grumbled.
"Quidditch over, then?" Albert asked, leaning back. "You two look like you went a few rounds with a grindylow."
"It was a challenging process," Fred said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "But Harry—he's an absolute freak on a broom. We're going to win the Cup this year, I can feel it. Our names will be etched into that silver."
Albert shrugged, taking a slow sip of tea. "The wind shifts, Fred. Unexpected things have a way of happening when people get too comfortable."
"Oh, shut your mouth!" George barked, looking ready to fling a soggy sock at him. "You're always doing that—casting a shadow over the fun."
"I'm just talking about the curve," Albert said, not blinking.
"Bastard," Fred muttered, though he laughed despite himself.
Albert waved his wand, and a gentle, warm vapor erupted from the twins' robes, steam rising into the air. With a follow-up flick, he summoned a breeze that sucked the dampness right out of the common room, leaving the air crisp and dry.
Hermione was watching him, her eyes wide. She looked at the twins, who were still glaring at Albert, and then back at Albert, who was already returning to his letter.
"Is it really true?" she murmured, barely audible.