With a resounding "puff," a projectile of sticky, dark mud soared through the air, executing a tricky curve around a surprised group of first-years. It splattered harmlessly against the polished marble floor of the corridor, precisely an inch in front of where Argus Filch was standing.
Filch froze, his face a sudden mask of contained, ugly rage as he stared down at the offending patch of sludge. An almost palpable aura of furious, oppressive silence descended around him, causing students to instinctively steer clear.
Albert and Lee Jordan, who had been walking together, paused immediately, their eyes following the trajectory of the mud ball toward the corner.
Filch turned his head with a stiff, unnatural motion, locating the direction the projectile had come from. Just then, a second mud ball, roughly the size of a large thumb, zipped past his ear.
Filch reacted instantly, dodging to the side with surprising agility for his age. His eyes lingered on the spot he had just vacated, his jaw set with grim determination before he abruptly shoved his way through the gathering crowd and sprinted around the corner, pursuing the unseen culprit with a furious, scraping gait.
A small crowd of students, recognizing the caretaker's singular obsession, immediately began to trail him, eager to witness the inevitable confrontation. The air was thick with questions: Who had the audacity to target Filch?
In the opposite direction of the chase, the figures of Fred and George Weasley materialized from behind a suit of armor, having just emerged from a concealed secret passage. They were beaming with satisfied, mischievous grins.
"How was the reception?" Fred whispered, though his happiness was radiating like heat.
Albert lifted an index finger to his lips—a gesture for quiet—and nodded at them, his eyes twinkling. He knew the source of the attack was the Winged Slingshot found in the Room of Requirement, now weaponized with a truly heinous mixture: common mud laced with the foul-smelling Luna-dung they had "acquired" during Herbology class.
The twins hadn't aimed at Filch, merely at the marble floor by him. But the psychological effect was the same. The furious caretaker now pursued a phantom menace, having no idea that the real culprits were now safely walking away, leaving him to rage alone down a deserted corridor.
After using a nearby unused bathroom to undergo a rapid, intense clean-up process—the Luna-dung was truly offensive—the trio joined Albert and Lee in the Great Hall. Throughout lunch and the subsequent afternoon classes, the primary topic of conversation remained Filch's frantic, fruitless hunt for the anonymous offender.
"Flawless execution! Absolutely flawless!" Fred declared, leaning back in his chair with a smug satisfaction that could curdle milk. "Watching him steam like a forgotten cauldron, while knowing he was hunting in the wrong county—that, my friends, is true art."
"Keep it down," Albert warned, subtly tilting his head toward the corner of the Hall where Filch, still red-faced and bristling with resentment, was periodically checking students' belts for suspicious bulges. "Enjoy the humiliation, but don't volunteer to be the next victim."
The sheer audacity of the prank had cast a pervasive sense of levity over the entire afternoon. Even the normally dry Professor Broad, who taught Defense Against the Dark Arts, recognized the atmosphere of distraction. Instead of attempting a serious lecture, he entertained the class with legendary tales of magical retaliation.
He recounted the story of a minor fifteenth-century Earl, who, preparing to execute a suspected young witch, charged her on his warhorse with a lance. The witch, the professor explained, cast a simple Armor Charm, causing the Earl to run headfirst into an invisible, iron-hard barrier. The result: multiple fractures and severe brain damage, turning the arrogant noble into a harmless imbecile for life.
The story immediately electrified the classroom, sparking intense interest in the Armor Charm. To the collective groan of the students, the professor informed them that such defensive magic was reserved for the senior years.
"Surely it can't be that difficult?" Lee Jordan muttered, forgetting his volume for a moment. He looked sideways at Albert. "Doesn't Albert already know that spell?"
The question drew dozens of suspicious, curious eyes toward Albert.
Albert merely smiled, a slight, knowing curve of his lips. He neither confirmed nor denied the accusation, maintaining an aura of quiet competence. Let them guess. Ambiguity is always more entertaining than fact.
The sun had set, and the excitement surrounding Filch's failure was swiftly overshadowed by the glamour of the Halloween Feast. When the students poured into the Great Hall, they were met by a breathtaking sight.
From Hagrid's patch, twelve enormous pumpkins had been hollowed out and carved into majestic lanterns, large enough to seat several students inside. The enchanted ceiling was alive with a swirling black cloud of bats, darting back and forth, their movement occasionally causing the flame within the pumpkin lanterns to flicker dramatically.
The evening began with a performance from the renowned witch singer, Celestina Warbeck. Dumbledore, radiating his customary benign enthusiasm, introduced her as "The Singing Sorceress."
Albert sat at the Gryffindor table, utterly bewildered. He had a strong, innate resistance to the music of this era. While he could appreciate the singer's powerful voice and unique stage presence, he found himself entirely disconnected from the wave of passion engulfing the Hall.
"You're not reacting at all," observed Angelina Johnson, sitting across from him, a spark of mischievous curiosity in her eyes. "Don't tell me you don't like Celestina Warbeck?"
"Her performance is certainly very… infectious," Albert replied vaguely, delicately slicing a piece of roast beef. He had nearly asked Angelina if she had momentarily lost her mind from the emotional response, but the fear of drawing the collective ire of a fandom was too great. "How about you, Shanna?"
Shanna (a student Albert knew to also be from a Muggle background) forced a strained smile. "Yes, truly… wonderful music. A unique style."
Angelina coughed dryly, covering her mouth as she laughed into her plate. "I actually thought you might be one of her more reserved fans, Albert, but I see you're merely practicing subtle appreciation."
"Hardly. I simply don't listen to much music," Albert confessed, swallowing the beef. "But I'm surprised you aren't fully immersed, Angelina. I thought everyone here was completely captivated."
Angelina quickly buried her head, clearly trying to hide her own lack of genuine appreciation for the performance, while Alicia Spinnet next to her shook her head slightly.
"Oh, my whole family are massive Warbeck devotees," Fred offered, his mouth full of mashed pumpkin. "We play her songs constantly during the holidays."
"Absolutely," George chimed in, equally enthusiastic. "I heard a rumor that she performs with a female ghost in her troupe. I wonder if she'll make an appearance here tonight."
"A female ghost?" This possibility immediately arrested the attention of everyone around the table.
"Are you certain it's a ghost?" Albert asked, raising an eyebrow. "Ghosts are Dark Creatures. Hearing their shriek is rumored to be lethal, or at least incapacitating." He was genuinely intrigued, recalling the precise, chilling description from his reading of Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Defense.
Lee Jordan, who was nodding along, elaborated. "It's true. My mum loves the duet they recorded. And Celestina Warbeck is a Hogwarts graduate, after all. She's the most popular singer in Britain."
"Still, Dumbledore would never permit a full Banshee on school grounds; it would terrorize the younger students," Albert insisted, narrowing his eyes in concentration. He then described the mythological creature: "They are said to have long, floor-sweeping black hair, a face like a skull, and eyes that glow green."
"Like that?" a startled student whispered, pointing dramatically toward the stage.
Albert whipped his head around, and the piece of roasted potato he was about to place in his mouth slipped from his fingers, clattering onto his plate.
There, emerging from the dark backstage, was a figure exactly as he had described: an elongated, spectral woman with hair that pooled on the floor, a skull-like face, and eerie, glowing green eyes.
She opened her mouth in a silent, widening O, and then, a bizarre, amplified scream echoed through the Hall. Simultaneously, the musical accompaniment surged, the ghostly wail expertly woven into the melody. Celestina Warbeck, the aging star, seized a long golden microphone and began to belt out the song with frenzied, ecstatic passion.
The sight was astounding. The ghost's cry, instead of being sharp and deadly, had been engineered—perhaps with a powerful Sonorous Charm and damping spells—to become a key, haunting part of the musical texture. Even more admirable was the male dancer who was performing a complicated, close-quarters waltz with the ghost, somehow overcoming the psychological horror of the spectral partner.
When the song concluded, Albert found himself applauding as vigorously as everyone else. It was less for the song itself and more for the sheer technical and magical audacity of the performance.
The feast continued, and Celestina Warbeck returned for her third and final piece. Its title, announced to the roaring crowd, was "You Stole My Pot, But You Can't Have My Heart."
"Is this song truly famous?" Albert asked Fred, genuinely puzzled by the magnitude of the reaction.
"Famous? It's legendary," Fred affirmed, wide-eyed. "My mother says when it first came out, fans were so desperate for tickets they caused a three-broom collision over Hogsmeade. It's a classic tale of betrayal and defiance."
Albert nodded lightly, more curious than appreciative, and listened closely as the powerful, dramatic vocals began:
You thought you were the clever one, you took my trust and used my spell,But guess what, Mr. Wizard, you don't really know me well!You think you're sharp, but you're a liar......You stole my pot,And the toad in the pond,My crystal bottle of memory…...You stole my pot, but you can't have my heart!
When the song finished, Albert was still baffled. Without the strange, haunting counter-melody of the ghost, the song seemed melodramatic and frankly, a bit thin.
He felt a profound cultural disconnect, realizing he would never fully understand the aesthetic standards of the Wizarding World. He clapped politely as the Hall erupted, eventually falling silent only when Dumbledore stood to signal the end of the feast.
As the students filed out toward their respective towers, Albert found himself walking with Mark Evans and, moments later, Charlie Weasley joined them.
"How many people do you think will suffer nightmares tonight after that performance?" Mark joked, slinging an arm around Albert's shoulder.
"I can only hope it inspires someone," Albert quipped, waving a quick goodbye to the other students. "They should invite Peeves to join the troupe; that would be a truly unforgettable spectacle."
"That's a brilliant idea," Mark laughed. "But seriously, Albert, you haven't been to training in weeks."
"I have endless homework, and the Transfiguration Club is mandatory," Albert said, surprised by the directness of the shift in conversation.
"Charlie wants you to take over his Seeker position," Mark stated bluntly. "No one else in Gryffindor has the required speed and eye. We're going to lose the Cup again without a dedicated Seeker."
Albert was sandwiched between them as Charlie clapped him heavily on the back. "He's right. You caught the Snitch before I did in that friendly game last month. You have a natural talent."
"You know, I play Quidditch purely for amusement," Albert replied, feeling cornered.
"Amusement is how you win!" Charlie countered, his voice earnest. "Professor McGonagall was an excellent Seeker in her youth, and look at her: she's the most proficient Transfigurer in the world. You're her favorite student; you should follow her example! Don't let your studies stop you."
Albert knew they were desperate. Gryffindor hadn't won the Quidditch Cup in ages, and they saw him as their only hope. He also knew that his involvement was unnecessary, as a far more natural, magically-imbued Seeker named Harry Potter would arrive in two years.
"Look, I appreciate the confidence," Albert said, trying to compromise. "If, by the time the season truly ramps up next year, you still genuinely cannot find anyone else... then we can discuss it." He knew this was a temporary deferral, an empty promise he wouldn't have to keep. Potter will take the field soon enough.
Back in the dormitory, the Weasley twins were already in high spirits, performing an off-key, drunken-sounding tap-dance and singing a garbled, improvised version of Celestina Warbeck's latest hit.
"Merlin's Beard," Albert yawned, sinking onto the edge of his bed and covering his face. "Is this the post-concert adrenaline rush?" He picked up a pillow. "Throw me one of those, please."
Fred tossed a pillow. Albert caught it, stifled another massive yawn—the sheer weight of the day, from the Horcrux discovery to the strange music, suddenly hitting him—and lay back.
"Night tour?" George suggested eagerly, still slightly out of breath from the tap-dancing.
"Next time," Albert mumbled, already pulling his comforter up. "Throw me the pillow, Fred... wait, you already did. I'm too tired. I need to sleep off that sensory overload."