"Mr. Weasley, I need to remind both of you that receiving nearly identical holiday assignments, save for a few cosmetic differences in handwriting flourishes, is utterly unacceptable."
Professor McGonagall stood like a rigid statue of disapproval, her eyes narrowed to severe slits as she returned the twins' two suspiciously similar Transfiguration essays. They had waited until after class, thinking the delay might soften her disciplinary blow. It hadn't.
"Take this parchment back and complete the assignment individually. If I find a similar situation arising, be it this term or any future term, the consequence will be a week of solitary, monitored detention. You are expected to produce your own work, not a near-perfect duplicate of your brother's."
"But Professor," Fred began, leaning on the podium with a disarming earnestness, "we didn't copy. We were discussing the core principles together, and we just found that our perspectives were simply… harmonized. We're twins, Professor. We share a mental wavelength, a great understanding of each other's thoughts!"
The twins exchanged a look of synchronized defiance that was genuinely uncanny. Professor McGonagall paused, a flicker of something—perhaps grudging amazement at their gall—crossing her face. She adjusted her spectacles, her stern demeanor barely faltering. "A harmonized perspective is one thing, Mr. Weasley. A transcribed identical argument is quite another. I will overlook this specific instance. Now, take your essays. Do not test my patience further."
Watching the retreating Head of Gryffindor, the twins happily slapped hands, beaming, before exchanging a celebratory wink with Lee Jordan and Albert, who had been observing from the corridor. They had escaped McGonagall.
"You won that round purely on the novelty of your synchronized excuses," Albert warned, adjusting the strap of his bag. "But don't get comfortable. That line won't work on everyone. Specifically, it won't work on Snape."
Albert's prediction proved chillingly accurate during the next Potions lesson. The Weasley twins' attempts at an excuse were barely half-formed before Snape, standing like a dark storm cloud at the front of the dungeon classroom, interrupted them.
Snape didn't raise his voice, nor did he offer a logical rebuttal. He merely tilted his head slightly, his oily black eyes focusing on them with a chilling intensity that seemed to penetrate their skulls and freeze their thoughts mid-sentence.
"Take it back," Snape said, his voice a low, silky menace. "And re-submit the assignment tomorrow. No excuses. No, 'harmonized perspectives.' If I see another attempt at this deception, Mr. Weasley, I will ensure your detention is administered not by Filch, but by myself, for an entire month."
The twins, suddenly pale, snatched their papers and retreated quickly, the usual bounce completely gone from their steps.
"I told you," Albert said later, watching them sulk in the Common Room.
"At least Snape gave you a chance to redo it," Lee Jordan pointed out, trying to sound helpful but failing miserably, a wide, slightly gleeful smile splitting his face. "That's Snape we're talking about! You're exceptionally lucky you weren't already serving that month-long sentence in the dungeons."
"I'm telling you, Albert, he can read our minds," George whispered, looking genuinely unnerved.
"Don't look the man directly in the eye, ever," Albert advised, speaking with an unusual level of seriousness. "He doesn't need to read your mind; he just needs to know what you're thinking before you say it.
It's certainly some form of advanced magic, though I can't yet put a name to the specific discipline. It's definitely not a simple charm." He suspected it was Legilimency, the dark art of mind-reading, a skill far beyond the typical curriculum.
Albert leaned back, changing the heavy atmosphere. "I've been making preparations during the break. I plan to put the Disillusionment Charm to its most practical use soon." He then raised his hand and made a precise gesture, as if stepping over an invisible obstacle. "I need to cross the rope on the fifth floor of the castle."
Fred's eyes immediately lit up with eager anticipation. They knew exactly what Albert meant. The rope wasn't a physical barrier; it was the unspoken, magical line that cordoned off the Restricted Section of the library, situated on the fifth floor of the building and reserved for the most sensitive and dangerous books.
"The Restricted Section!" Fred exclaimed, lowering his voice quickly when Albert shot him a warning glance. "I've always wanted to get in there. We've heard the legends—books that bite, spells that vanish on contact, truly dangerous texts."
Lee Jordan, however, looked confused. "What are you talking about? What rope?"
"The library, Lee," George reminded him impatiently. "The Restricted Section. The place where you need Professor's permission to look at the books."
Lee Jordan's eyes widened with sudden understanding, but before he could blurt out the name of the section, Albert, Fred, and George all glared at him simultaneously. He clamped his mouth shut, swallowing his realization.
"It's enough that you know the location," Albert said, patting his shoulder gently.
"I wouldn't bother going in there myself," Lee Jordan admitted, displaying a rare moment of humility. "The material there is far too advanced for us. I'd just get hopelessly confused and probably cursed."
"That's precisely the point," Albert countered, his tone thoughtful. "The magic of the past is dangerous, often because it is unruly. In ancient times, wizards operated with few restraints; the spells they created were raw products of pure intent and unbridled power.
Today, many of those spells look like a disorganized mess in a book, poorly standardized, often lacking precise incantations, and difficult to parse without a comprehensive magical background."
He went on to explain that Hogwarts placed these books in the Restricted Section specifically to prevent students from inadvertently stumbling upon an ancient ritual or a crudely phrased curse and causing disaster.
But for Albert—a man with a Skill Panel—that chaos was an opportunity. Once he fully read a book and the resulting skill manifested on the panel, he could instantly bypass the tedious, dangerous process of trial-and-error mastery by simply deploying experience points. The Restricted Section was a shortcut to magical diversity and arcane power.
"Your words remind me of the spell you used on Professor McGonagall's office door back when we thought you were crazy," Fred recalled, a grin spreading across his face. "'Open Sesame.' It sounded ridiculous, but it worked."
"I looked up the history of the spell later," Albert confirmed. "Before Alohomora was universally adopted, the common unlocking charms involved phrases like 'Open the Door' or, yes, 'Open Sesame.' It functions like a crude, forceful command, an almost rude imposition of magical will—like kicking down someone's door with magic to achieve the desired result."
"The current Alohomora is far more refined and targeted, which is the hallmark of modern, standardized spells," Albert concluded. "It sacrifices the raw, chaotic power of the old command for reliable, repeatable efficacy. I want to see the old chaos."
"This is unbelievable," Lee Jordan murmured, astonished.
"It's just so… cool," the twins breathed in unison, their eyes gleaming with the anticipation of potential magical mayhem.
Following lunch, the twins were forced to trudge off to the library. Their Potions homework was a genuine threat now, and the fear of Snape's extended solitary confinement provided all the motivation they needed.
While the others scattered, Albert settled into a quiet corner of the Common Room to continue his deep dive into the Magic Runes. Lee Jordan eventually joined him, exhausted from his own last-minute essay correction.
"What strange symbols are you still deciphering?" Lee Jordan asked, peering at the parchment Albert was writing on. It was covered not with Latin, but with complex, intersecting lines and archaic markings.
"The runes," Albert replied, pointing to a specific symbol he had just drawn—a vertical line crossed by two downward-sloping diagonal lines. "This specific symbol, for example, is called the Fehu Rune. It symbolizes wealth, property, and, magically, it's often used in amulets to increase a person's overall material fortune."
"I think you've already cornered the market on luck, Albert," Lee Jordan muttered, referencing the recent 100-Galleon win.
"No one would ever refuse the chance to be luckier," Albert countered casually, not looking up. "If the magical foundation is sound, why not build upon it?"
The twins, having returned from their grueling session with ancient historical texts, leaned in, their interest instantly piqued.
"Is this thing actually effective?" Fred asked, resting his chin on Albert's shoulder. "Because we seem to be in need of a serious influx of fortune, lately. McGonagall's glare and Snape's intent seem to have created a localized low-luck zone around us."
"If you are looking for pure, unadulterated fortune, you need something far more potent than a simple rune," Albert informed them. "You need Felix Felicis."
"What is that, a new kind of firework?" George asked, intrigued.
"No, it's a potion," Albert explained, setting down his quill. "Liquid Luck. It is said that by drinking it, you will experience a period of phenomenal, absolute good fortune, where everything you attempt will succeed."
The twins exchanged a look of utter disbelief and sudden, profound desire. "There is such a thing?!"
"It exists, yes. But it is one of the most complex, most difficult, and most time-consuming potions in the world," Albert added, keen to dampen their instant enthusiasm. "It takes many, many months of continuous, perfect brewing to complete. And the margin for error is nonexistent. The slightest mistake during its preparation, they say, will turn the entire batch into a powerful, lethal poison."
"Months!" George exclaimed, his voice soaring slightly high with despair. After receiving a heavy, immediate glare from a nearby Ravenclaw prefect, he quickly shrank down, pretending to be nothing more than an invisible, silent sack of skin.
"Felix Felicis is a masterpiece of advanced Potions," Albert continued softly, using his voice to keep the twins riveted. "The ingredients are sensitive, the stirring times are precise to the second, and the temperature must be kept flawless for weeks on end. I only know this because I came across a reference to it while I was researching an antidote for a particularly nasty poison for one of Snape's previous assignments. I looked it up out of intellectual curiosity, but sadly, the full formula for Felix Felicis is closely guarded—even the advanced texts only hint at the ingredients and method."
"I'm more curious about the things you are working on," Fred said, nudging the parchment. "The real, practical applications. You know, like an amulet for a bit of extra magnetism."
"You mean for increasing one's attractiveness?" Albert glanced at the rune Fred was pointing at, a highly complex, layered symbol associated with magnetism and charm.
"Hypothetically, yes," Fred said, trying to be casual.
"Well, that specific rune—the one you are looking at—is for increasing the wearer's personal attractiveness," Albert confirmed. "The rune next to it, the one that looks like a trident, is a complex charm against theft and misfortune."
Angelina Johnson, who had been sitting quietly nearby, ostensibly reading but clearly eavesdropping, looked over with a sudden, sharp interest. She herself had taken Ancient Runes the previous year, and while she'd only managed an Acceptable on the exam, she could still recognize the symbols—and knew how difficult it was to combine them into effective charms. Albert's meticulous, confident drawings were staggering.
"It's unbelievable how you acquired all this specialized knowledge during a break," Angelina said, abandoning her book entirely. "Those complex runes are not easy to draw, let alone apply. I spent weeks trying to decipher that exact magnetism symbol, and only managed it by referring to the specific annotations."
"And are these things you've made actually effective, Albert?" Angelina pressed, her question genuine. "Theoretically effective, or actually effective in the world?"
"Oh, I daresay they won't work yet," Albert admitted, giving a casual shrug. "That rune you're looking at, for example, is merely one component of a much larger, more complex charm sequence. For an amulet to work, you don't just need the correct rune; you need the correct material, the correct magical sealant, and the correct intention channeled into the etching. And, after all," he concluded, giving her a pointed, dry look, "I am a man. If these complex attractiveness runes were fully working, I would certainly be testing them on myself first, wouldn't I?"
Angelina chuckled, a genuine laugh of surprise, before returning to her book, leaving Albert to his fascinating, chaotic world of ancient linguistic and magical design.