The new school year brought with it a renewed focus on routine, a structure Albert Anderson always appreciated. He was back to his carefully calibrated schedule: lights out promptly, rising at seven, regardless of the weather.
Though, if he were honest, the persistent, soft patter of rain against the windowpanes this morning did make the idea of lingering under the warm duvet especially appealing. But procrastination was a tax on productivity, even if the productivity was just making money, and the smell of breakfast was too potent to ignore.
By eight, Albert and his roommates descended into the Great Hall. The Gryffindor table was a feast of hearty fare: steaming bowls of creamy oatmeal, plates piled high with pickled herring—lightly pan-fried, not fermented, thankfully—alongside thick slices of bread, golden fried eggs, and crisp bacon.
"Morning, everyone. Did you all hear the buzz about our first Defence Against the Dark Arts class?" Angelina Johnson slid into the seat opposite Albert, spooning oatmeal into her bowl.
The question immediately snagged the attention of everyone nearby. Defence Against the Dark Arts was always the most intriguing, if also the most volatile, subject at Hogwarts, given its rotating door of, shall we say, colorful instructors.
"About what?" Albert asked, buttering a piece of toast.
Angelina sprinkled a generous amount of sugar into her oatmeal, stirring lazily. "Apparently, the Ravenclaws had their lesson yesterday. It's about Boggarts."
"Ah, I heard Roger Davies practically shouting about it outside the common room," George Weasley said, scooping pickled herring onto his plate. "He was boasting about how he dispatched the Boggart, turning it into a dancing badger in a tutu. As if Boggarts are even a real threat. They're just glorified smoke and mirrors, at most giving you a minor fright."
Albert took a bite of his custom-made, slightly-too-salty-but-perfectly-crunchy fried fish sandwich.
"Boggarts are tricky because they morph into the one thing you fear most. The challenge, especially in a crowd, is defining that single fear. And given Lockhart's general inability to use anything but his own face as a teaching tool, it's not surprising he's covering Boggarts. It's one of the few things he can't truly mess up, assuming he doesn't try to fight it himself." He paused, grinning. "I'm genuinely curious what the Boggart would turn into for me."
Shanna Heywood, sitting beside him, raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Curious? You mean worried about failing the challenge?"
"I don't think Albert ever worries about problems like that," Lee Jordan chimed in, chewing thoughtfully on his bread. "He only worries about losing leverage, or running out of things to read. His ultimate fear is probably financial destitution. Nothing more material than that, right?"
"It's true, I love money," Albert conceded, mildly amused. "But I've never been afraid of being poor. Being a systematic magician makes poverty a rather distant concept. If the system works, the Galleons follow."
"Right. I'd bet a Nat that Albert's Boggart turns into a terrifying vision of him being forced to work a demanding, non-magical, nine-to-five job," Fred declared confidently.
Albert smiled, holding out his hand towards Fred. "You've already lost, my friend. A Nat, please."
Fred shoved Albert's hand away playfully. "No, I haven't lost yet."
"Oh, you're doomed," Albert laughed, wiggling his fingers for the coin. "How could I not know what my worst fear is? I study myself more than I study Potions."
"You're telling me you cheated on your own deepest subconscious fear?" Fred feigned a massive, scandalized gasp, causing a small eruption of laughter at their end of the table.
"I bet the Boggart didn't even appear for Albert," George said, changing the subject with a loud cough. "It probably took one look at his smug face and decided the sheer effort wasn't worth the pay."
"Very likely," Albert agreed, pocketing the Nat Fred reluctantly flipped to him. "But since we're on the subject of DADA, when exactly is our first class?"
"Today, straight after Herbology," Angelina confirmed, pulling her timetable from her bag. She sighed, her cheerfulness fading slightly. "But I'm already getting that familiar, nagging worry. This professor won't last the year, will he?"
"That's almost a certainty. The intelligent ones resign before the curse takes hold," Albert stated matter-of-factly. "No one wants to risk the misfortune that comes with that position. It's a job designed for a high turnover rate."
Shanna leaned in, her eyes wide with genuine curiosity. "So, the curse—what is it, precisely? Do you actually know the story, or are you just speculating?"
Albert adopted his best mischievous, slightly conspiratorial grin. "Do you really want to know? It involves deep, dark secrets, the kind that Headmasters hate being discussed in the Great Hall."
"Spill it, Albert, don't keep us hanging," Angelina insisted.
Albert lowered his voice dramatically. "Alright, but this is strictly between us. Loose lips sink ships… or rather, get detention."
"Rumor has it that a mysterious person cursed the position to prevent anyone from holding it for more than a year." Everyone stared, a mixture of fascination and disbelief on their faces. "But that's just the tip of the iceberg."
Lee Jordan was hooked. "How did you even hear about this? Is this from your network of shady informants?"
"They're just whispers, old legends, you know," Albert said mysteriously, his eyes twinkling. "There are far juicier rumors about this mysterious person. Are you ready for the deep dive?"
"Hit us with it!" Fred and George urged, leaning their elbows on the table.
"Alright. Listen closely." Albert began his escalating list of fabricated, yet strangely plausible, Hogwarts legends:
"Rumor says a mysterious person once stole Ravenclaw's lost crown… just to prove a point."
"Rumor has it this mysterious man could speak to snakes and was the actual, legitimate great-great-great-grandson of Slytherin."
"Rumor has it that this mysterious person is immortal, existing only to torment the teaching staff."
"Rumor has it that a mysterious person was responsible for opening the Chamber of Secrets… and then locking it again because they were bored."
"Rumor has it that this mysterious man was once the Head Boy of Slytherin, but was so terrifying that Dumbledore had to erase the records."
"Rumor has it that this mysterious person once had the chance to become Minister of Magic, but turned it down because the office was too cramped."
"Rumor has it…"
"Okay, you're going completely overboard now," Shanna laughed, standing up and pulling her bag onto her shoulder. "We need to move. Herbology is with the Hufflepuffs, and you know Professor Sprout hates tardiness. And we are not missing an opportunity to play Exploding Snap first."
"Fifteen minutes is more than enough travel time," Fred declared, already shuffling his deck of Wizard Cards. "Time for one more round of 'Albert the Predictor.'"
Albert watched the twins and Lee Jordan quickly dive into a chaotic, rapid-fire game of cards. Charlie Weasley, the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, strode past their table and paused.
"Just a reminder for you lot," Charlie said, looking directly at the three pranksters. "Quidditch tryouts are this afternoon. Don't forget, and don't be late. I need a new Beater, badly."
"Got it, Charlie. We'll be there," they chorused.
Charlie nodded, waved a quick farewell, and hurried out.
"You still haven't secured a broom yet, have you, Albert?" George asked, looking up from his hand of cards.
"Even if I had, the delivery time for a high-end broom this early in the year is abysmal," Albert shrugged, throwing up his hands in mock helplessness. "Besides, I'm waiting for the Nimbus 2001 to come out. Why buy last year's model?"
After one final, explosive round of Exploding Snap—which ended with Fred covered in a thin layer of soot—the group hurried out. They arrived at the Herbology greenhouses just as Professor Sprout was unlocking the heavy wooden door. The Hufflepuff students, who had been patiently waiting outside in the damp drizzle, shuffled in ahead of them.
The humid air of Greenhouse Three immediately enveloped them, thick with the scent of wet earth and strange, pungent plants.
"Welcome, everyone! Today, we are repotting Mandrakes," Professor Sprout announced cheerfully, holding up a large cardboard box filled with mismatched, colorful ear defenders. She looked around at the assembled students. "Now, does anyone know why we require this rather fashionable safety gear?"
When the class fell silent, Albert, knowing the answer was required for points, stepped forward slightly. "Because the scream of a mature Mandrake is instantly fatal, Professor. Though young Mandrakes like these will only cause unconsciousness for several hours."
"Excellent, Mr. Anderson! Five points to Gryffindor," Professor Sprout beamed with satisfaction. "Now, for a bit more detail: who can tell me about the properties of the Mandrake, also known as Mandragora?"
Her gaze settled squarely on Albert again.
Albert took a breath, recalling the properties he'd studied extensively. "Mandragora is a potent restorative. It's used to return people who have been Transfigured or cursed back to their original state. It's a crucial ingredient in many complicated antidotes and restorative draughts. However, it is fundamentally dangerous. There's a rumor—perhaps exaggerated—that a very foolish Dark Wizard once attacked a cottage, and the resident witch simply grabbed a fully ripe Mandrake root and threw it at him. The Dark Wizard was instantly killed by the shock of the scream."
A ripple of nervous energy ran through the greenhouse.
"Absolutely right, Mr. Anderson. Ten points for that comprehensive answer and the colorful anecdote," Professor Sprout declared, nodding approvingly. "As Mr. Anderson says, it is dangerous. But rest assured, the Mandrakes here are only seedlings. Their cries will, at most, only render you unconscious for a few hours. Nothing a quick Doxy-cide won't cure."
"You literally ate the textbook, didn't you?" Lee Jordan whispered incredulously to Albert.
"Have you only just figured that out?" Albert whispered back, a malicious smile touching his lips. "Why don't you try eating the textbook next? Might be tastier with a little bit of pepper sauce."
Lee Jordan made a disgusted face. "No thanks. I don't have your… literary appetite." The Weasley twins stifled their laughter.
Professor Sprout clapped her hands together. "All right, everyone! Come forward and grab a pair of ear defenders. They need to cover your ears completely. I will signal when it is safe to remove them by giving a double thumbs-up, like this." She demonstrated the gesture with gusto.
Everyone rushed forward. Lee Jordan, ever mindful, grabbed a sturdy, grey pair and tossed them to Albert.
Albert thanked him and slipped the thick, padded defenders over his ears. The world immediately went silent, muffled and distant.
An invisible weapon, Albert mused, looking at the Mandrake seedlings in their pots. If only there were a reliable magical way to record and amplify sound. A preserved Mandrake scream would be the perfect counter-Wand strategy—a weapon of mass incapacitation that no one would ever suspect. Who would think a simple, muggle-looking tape recorder held the power of a deadly curse?
He shook the thought away; such technology didn't exist in the wizarding world, or at least, not yet.
Professor Sprout was already demonstrating the procedure. She put on her own massive, floral-patterned defenders, rolled up her sleeves, and grasped the leaves of a Mandrake seedling. She pulled hard.
A silent, visual explosion of sound hit the room.
The Mandrake, which was not a root like a parsnip but a shockingly pale, green-skinned infant, was yanked free from the soil. It screamed with silent, open-mouthed fury, its tiny, fleshy limbs flailing.
It was an unnerving sight. Now they all understood what Albert meant by the plant weeping. The miniature human figure, with a tuft of leaves for hair, was terrifyingly real.
Professor Sprout swiftly placed the struggling, screeching plant into a new, larger pot, quickly shoveling moist compost around it until only the crown of leaves remained visible. She wiped her hands clean, gave a loud, double thumbs-up, and removed her defenders.
"I must emphasize again, do not remove your ear protection until you see my signal," Professor Sprout shouted, her voice booming after the silence. "The roots must be handled with care, and you must cover them with soil immediately. You are working in groups of four. Large pots and compost bags are arranged in your working bays."
Albert's group—himself, Lee Jordan, Fred, and George—moved to their station. Following Sprout's instructions, they put their defenders back on.
The task proved far more difficult than the Professor had made it look. Pulling the Mandrake free of the soil was like trying to extract a stubborn, fleshy turnip that actively resisted.
Lee Jordan strained, grunting behind his ear defenders, but the Mandrake wouldn't budge. Fred eventually had to help, and between the two of them, they managed to wrestle the creature free. Once out, the Mandrake wailed and thrashed, its small, fat legs kicking violently, resisting its re-entry into the new pot as if it were fighting against being buried alive.
"Hilarious!" Fred yelled silently, gesturing wildly through the defenders, reaching out to tap the Mandrake's pale cheek.
The Mandrake reacted instantly, snapping its tiny, needle-sharp teeth—a surprisingly strong bite—right onto Fred's finger. Luckily, Fred was wearing thick Dragon-Hide Gloves, standard issue for dangerous Herbology work, so the bite didn't break the skin, but the sheer shock made him jerk his hand back.
George, witnessing the silent, comical violence, doubled over in silent laughter.
Lee Jordan, meanwhile, was struggling desperately with his own Mandrake, which had managed to wedge one of its fleshy, kicking feet against the edge of the large repotting saucer, refusing to be pushed down into the soil.
Albert, having watched their chaotic struggle, simply used brute, calculated force. He grabbed the leaves firmly with one hand, braced the edge of the pot, and used his other gloved hand to push the Mandrake's lower body down into the pot with a decisive shove.
He then swiftly covered it with heavy, moist compost and soil, completing his first repotting with clinical efficiency before the Mandrake could even adjust its footing.
He gave a small, private thumbs-up to himself. One down, several more to go. Herbology might be messy, but it was certainly never dull. The prospect of what Lockhart might conjure up in their next class, however, was already much more amusing. At least the Mandrakes were predictable; the DADA professor was the real, recurring curse on Hogwarts.