The endless gray veil that had smothered Scotland for the last few weeks finally tore open, revealing a brilliant, sharp October sky. The sudden burst of crisp autumn sunshine left the castle buzzing, but Fred, George, and Lee Jordan couldn't enjoy a single second of it. They were currently buried alive under a mountain of backlogged assignments in the library, desperately trying to make up for a month of slacking.
Albert, however, had already finished his coursework weeks in advance, thanks to his highly efficient study habits. With a rare afternoon of absolute freedom ahead of him, he decided it was the perfect time to give his roommate—the increasingly spherical gray cat, Tom—some mandatory outdoor exercise.
Now, most people would tell you that taking a cat for a walk through a massive, drafty magical castle is a terrible idea. Cats are independent, easily startled, and prone to vanishing into hidden wall cavities. But Albert had a system. In the early days, whenever Tom tried to bolt down a random corridor, Albert wouldn't even bother chasing him. He'd just lazily draw his wand and mutter a quiet Accio Tom.
Having a twelve-pound ball of gray fluff violently yanked backward through the air at high velocity, landing with a soft, thoroughly confused thud right at his owner's feet, had a remarkable effect on the feline's behavior. After about four or five instances of cosmic reverse-propulsion, Tom learned a valuable lesson: stay within a tight, five-foot radius of Albert's boots, or the universe would personally slide him backward.
Their casual stroll took them through the quiet corridors of the fourth floor, where the air suddenly grew heavy with the faint, metallic stench of stale garlic.
Albert slowed his pace as a familiar, twitching figure emerged from a nearby classroom. It was Professor Quirrell. The Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher looked significantly worse than he had at the start of the term. His skin had taken on a sickly, translucent pallor, and dark, purple bruises sat heavy under his bloodshot eyes. It was clear the man was under immense pressure—either the proximity of the dark entity hitched to the back of his head was slowly draining his life force, or the Dark Lord was violently punishing him for his complete lack of progress regarding the third-floor corridor.
"Good day, Professor," Albert said, his voice smooth and entirely polite.
Quirrell flinched, his entire body jumping a clear inch off the stone floor. He looked down, his eyes darting frantically from Albert to the fat cat sitting patiently at his heels. If there was one thing Quirrell hated more than the suspicious looks from Snape, it was running into Albert Anderson. Every single encounter with this particular student felt like an unscripted exam. Albert never just said hello; he always had a question—the kind of terrifyingly specific, highly advanced theoretical question that a stuttering front-man for Voldemort really didn't have the mental bandwidth to handle.
"A-Ah, M-Mr. Anderson," Quirrell stammered, his hand clutching nervously at his turban. "G-Good morning to you."
"I was actually hoping to get your expert opinion on an alchemical anomaly regarding banshees," Albert said, stepping into Quirrell's path with an innocent smile. "With the Halloween feast approaching, I was reading about the legendary banshee choir of 1782. Given that a banshee's vocalization carries an inherent, lethal auditory curse, how do modern composers structure a harmonic arrangement without triggering the localized mortality rate of the audience? Is it a matter of tonal dampening, or are the lyrics themselves written in a defensive runic dialect?"
Quirrell's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. His brain, already split between maintaining his stuttering facade and managing the dark consciousness murmuring in his skull, completely short-circuited. He didn't want to deal with this. He wanted to go back to his office, lock the door, and nurse his raging headache.
"T-The curse..." Quirrell muttered, his eyes rolling slightly as he struggled to find an answer that sounded remotely academic. "It is... a matter of intentional focus, Mr. Anderson. The scream must carry malice to kill. In a c-chorus, the harmony... it dilutes the lethal intent. Yes. As for the technical layout, I... I have not reviewed those specific texts recently. I shall have to l-look into it and inform you when I am less pressed for time!"
Without waiting for Albert to reply, Quirrell practically hoisted his robes and bolted down the hallway, his boots clicking frantically against the stone until he vanished around the corner.
Albert watched him go, a faint, cold amusement in his eyes. He reached down, scooped Tom up into his arms, and scratched the cat behind the ears. "You see that, Tom? The man is a nervous wreck. Dumbledore's defenses must be giving him a massive headache."
In truth, Albert found Quirrell's lack of efficiency almost frustrating. The man was a Ravenclaw by birth, which meant he was plagued by an overabundance of caution. He was spending months gathering intel, mapping out the security measures, and trying to decipher the protections placed by each professor. If Quirrell had been a Gryffindor, he probably would have charged through the trapdoor on week one, triggered every alarm in the castle, and ended the plot before October even hit. But because he was playing it safe, the entire timeline was dragging out.
Albert also had a sneaking suspicion that the entire setup was a carefully constructed stage play. Dumbledore had designed a labyrinth that practically screamed for a specific, eleven-year-old savior to solve it. If Harry didn't show up at the end of the year, Quirrell would probably spend eternity staring blankly at the Mirror of Erised, utterly incapable of pulling the stone out of the glass on his own.
As Albert continued his descent toward the ground floor, a sudden hiss echoed through the corridor.
Standing in the center of the path was Mrs. Norris. The contrast between the two felines was almost comical. Mrs. Norris was skeletal, dust-colored, and looked like she survived entirely on spite and loose carpet fibers. Tom, on the other hand, was a glorious, overfed orb of sleek gray fur.
The two cats locked eyes. Mrs. Norris bared her teeth, her tail lashing like a whip as she claimed ownership of the hallway. Tom, clearly feeling brave due to his recent outdoor excursions, puffed out his chest, raised a massive, heavy paw, and took a wild, theatrical swipe at her nose.
Mrs. Norris slipped the punch with ease, hissing violently. The moment she hissed, Tom's bravado shattered like glass. He let out a pathetic mewl, spun on his heel, and scrambled to hide directly behind Albert's ankles, peering out from between his boots as if to say, 'Get her, boss.'
"Unbelievable," Albert muttered, shaking his head at his cat's utter lack of dignity.
He didn't want to start a feud with Filch's familiar, so he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of premium dried fish—the good stuff he usually reserved for Tom's high-level training. He tossed them onto the floor in front of Mrs. Norris. The scrawny cat paused, sniffed the treat warily, and then immediately snatched them up, her hostile posture melting away into silent chewing.
"Let's move before she asks for seconds," Albert whispered, nudging Tom forward.
Tom, however, was furious. He spent the entire walk down the grand staircase letting out low, rhythmic grumbles, completely outraged that his personal stash of snacks had been used as diplomatic bribery for a rival street cat. But Albert had to admit, the exercise was doing him good. At least the cat wasn't collapsing into a panting puddle of fur after descending two flights of stairs anymore.
When they finally reached the heavy oak front doors, Albert paused. The grounds were beautiful, but yesterday's torrential downpour had left the grass looking like a literal swamp. The path to Hagrid's hut was a treacherous lane of thick, black mud.
"I am not washing you today," Albert told the cat. "Last time, you nearly took my skin off."
With a elegant flick of his wand, Albert cast a modified levitation charm. Tom gently lifted off the stone floor, suspending himself perfectly at Albert's waist height. Unlike his first experience with the spell—where he had panicked and flapped his paws wildly like a stranded astronaut—Tom was now completely desensitized to the laws of physics. He simply drifted along through the air beside Albert, looking like a very smug, furry gray hovercraft as they navigated the muddy slope toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
Albert reached the wooden hut and knocked firmly on the heavy door. Within seconds, a massive scratching sound erupted from the other side, accompanied by Fang's deep, booming barks.
The door swung open, revealing Hagrid. He was wearing a colossal, grease-stained apron and humming a rough sea shanty, a giant wooden spoon clutched in his hand.
"Ah, Albert!" Hagrid roared, his face splitting into a wide grin. "Come on in, quick, before the chill gets into the house."
The moment Tom drifted into the warm room, he let out a sharp mew of protest. Hagrid's massive frame was intimidating enough, but Fang was already skittering across the floor. The great boarhound reared up, planting his massive paws on the edge of the table where Albert had safely deposited his cat, and began to intensely sniff Tom's tail. Tom immediately shrank into a tight ball, his eyes wide with feline terror as he pressed himself against Albert's sleeve.
"Blimey, that's a hefty creature," Hagrid observed, chuckling as he walked back to a massive iron pot bubbling over the hearth. "He looks like he's been living off the house-elf leftovers."
"He's on a strict regimen," Albert said, pulling Fang away with a light pat on the head and offering the dog a handful of specialized kibble from his pocket. "Though he's currently staging a silent protest. What's that you're brewing, Hagrid? The scent is remarkably strong."
"Mushroom soup!" Hagrid said proudly, giving the pot a vigorous stir. "Nothing beats a hot bowl of forest broth after a heavy rain. I went out into the treeline this morning and found a massive patch of fresh ones. Absolutely gorgeous they are. Want a bowl?"
"Fresh forest mushrooms?" Albert's inner botanist immediately flared with caution. He walked away from the hearth, his eyes scanning the cluttered room until they landed on a large wicker basket tucked into a damp corner.
He approached the basket casually, peering inside. The moment he saw the contents, his eyebrows shot toward his hairline. Resting inside the wicker weave were several specimens of a deeply wrinkled, brown fungus that looked explicitly like a miniature human brain—the False Morel. Right next to them sat a cluster of beautiful, vibrant crimson caps covered in perfectly symmetrical white spots, looking like they had been plucked straight out of a children's fairy tale book.
Fly Agaric. And highly concentrated False Morels, Albert thought, his mind racing through his Herbology encyclopedia. Raw consumption causes acute neurological failure, violent hallucinations, and liver destruction within six hours.
"Hagrid," Albert said carefully, picking up a piece of wood to poke at the crimson caps. "Where exactly did you say you harvested these?"
"Just past the clearing, near the old roots," Hagrid called out, completely unbothered. "They pop up like magic after a storm. I call 'em the Drunken Mushrooms. A little bit of 'em gives you a lovely, warm buzz, like you've had three pints of firewhisky in five minutes."
Albert stared at the half-giant. It suddenly clicked. Hagrid's maternal lineage gave him a physical constitution that was practically impervious to standard magical and mundane toxins. The man could probably drink a vial of liquid mercury and just complain about a slight aftertaste. To Hagrid, a lethal dose of neurotoxic fungi was just a fun alternative to a tavern beverage.
Before Albert could explain the catastrophic biological discrepancy to the giant, a frantic knock rattled the front door.
Albert stepped over and pulled it open, revealing Harry and Ron. Both boys looked completely drained from their morning, their cloaks damp and their faces pale with hunger. They froze when they saw Albert standing inside.
"Albert? What are you doing here?" Harry asked, blinking in surprise.
"Saving lives, apparently," Albert murmured under his breath.
"Harry! Ron!" Hagrid boomed, gesturing wildly with his ladle. "Perfect timing! Sit down, sit down. I've just finished a fresh batch of mushroom soup. It'll clear the damp right out of your bones."
"Soup?" Ron's eyes lit up instantly. The smell filling the hut was incredibly rich, a deep, earthy aroma that made his stomach let out a loud, demanding growl. "Blimey, Hagrid, that smells incredible. I'm starving."
Harry walked over to the table, looking at the steaming pot with a rare look of genuine appetite.
Albert's mouth twitched slightly. The sheer absurdity of the situation hit him. If the great Harry Potter—the chosen savior of the wizarding world, the boy who survived a killing curse from the most powerful dark sorcerer in history—ended up meeting his demise because he ate a bad bowl of wild mushroom soup in a gamekeeper's hut, the historical irony would be too much to bear.
Hagrid was already ladling a massive, thick portion of the broth into a wooden bowl, handing it directly to Ron, who eagerly picked up a large spoon.
Before the spoon could even reach Ron's mouth, Albert stepped forward, his hand coming down with absolute, unyielding pressure onto Harry's shoulder, effectively pinning the boy to his seat. At the same time, he pointed his wand at Ron's bowl.
"Weasley," Albert said, his voice dropping into a tone of such sharp, icy seriousness that both first-years instantly went stiff. "If you value the continued functionality of your internal organs, you will drop that spoon right now."
Ron froze, his mouth half-open, the spoon trembling a mere inch from his lips. He looked at Albert, then at Harry, his face turning a shade of pale that matched the rainy sky outside. "What? What's wrong with it?"
"Don't be daft, Albert!" Hagrid said, looking thoroughly offended as he took a massive spoonful of the soup, shoved it into his own mouth, and chewed happily. "It's brilliant! See? Nothing wrong with it at all. Delicious."
"Hagrid, your mother was a mountain giant," Albert said, turning to look at the big man with an exhausted sigh. "Your liver can process dragon venom. Theirs cannot. Look at the basket in the corner. Eight out of ten of those specimens are highly concentrated neurotoxins. If a normal human eats a single bowl of that broth, they aren't getting a 'warm buzz'—they're getting a one-way escort to the restricted ward of St. Mungo's in a body bag."
Harry looked from Albert to the wicker basket, his stomach instantly doing a violent flip. He trusted Albert's knowledge implicitly; the older boy was never wrong about these things.
"Is... is he serious?" Ron whispered, slowly lowering the spoon back into the bowl as if it were filled with liquid explosives.
"Brightly colored things in the forest are designed to kill you, Ron," Albert said, pulling his hand back from Harry's shoulder and picking up Tom, who was still trying to look small.