Gryffindor was still basking in the joy of defeating Hufflepuff. If they could overcome Ravenclaw, the Quidditch Champion Trophy would almost certainly be theirs. With Slytherin also poised to challenge Ravenclaw, Gryffindor's chances looked strong.
At breakfast, Charlie sat opposite Albert, poring over Quidditch tactics. Fortunately, he left after finishing his meal—otherwise Albert and the others might have endured endless nagging.
After polishing off the sausage on his plate, Albert muttered to Lee Jordan, "Next time, sit far away from Charlie. Quidditch captains are terrifying when they go mad."
"What did you say…?" Lee replied casually—and then the fruit in front of him began to emit thick black smoke.
"Cough, cough—what in Merlin's name are you doing!" Albert spluttered, choking on the smoke. He covered his mouth and nose, scanning for fire, only to realize the smoke was pouring from Lee's fruit.
"I just… cough, cough…" Lee wheezed, his dark face growing darker under the haze.
The fruit continued to belch smoke. Desperate, Lee clapped an empty bowl over it, but the fumes still seeped out.
"Wow, that's thick smoke. What did you do?" George lifted the bowl, releasing another plume that drew curious stares.
"I was trying to restore a bitten fruit," Lee admitted sheepishly. "I got distracted, and… well, this happened."
"Any way to stop it?" Lee pleaded with Albert.
"Finite Incantatem." Albert tapped the fruit with his wand. The smoke ceased, but the fruit was now a lump of charcoal.
"What spell did you use?" Albert poked it with a fork. It crumbled into ash.
"I don't know," Lee said, bewildered.
"What spell were you practicing?" George asked, rubbing the ashes between his fingers.
"Reparo," Lee confessed.
"You could just tear up a newspaper and practice," Albert sighed. He had never seen anyone use fruit for Reparo.
That reminded him—he hadn't read the paper yet. "Has anyone seen my Daily Prophet?"
"Here." Fred handed him the front page, still reading the Quidditch column.
"What's the headline?" Albert asked.
"Cornelius Fudge is Minister of Magic now," Fred said. "Apparently he sends owls to Dumbledore every morning for advice."
Albert scanned the article. "He's clever."
"Why?" George asked.
"At first, Fudge probably lacked confidence. Dumbledore's popularity is unmatched, so Fudge ties his decisions to him. That reduces prejudice, buys time to adapt, and shows he's working hard. His reputation's already improving."
"In a few years, he'll grow more confident. No one masters the Minister's role instantly."
"That makes sense," Fred agreed.
Albert, however, knew what a mess Fudge would eventually become—blinded by power and wealth. If the position were limited to four years, Fudge might have been praised for his service. But with the post essentially lifelong unless forced out, disaster loomed.
"Turning a mouse into a snuffbox—have you mastered it?" Sanna asked suddenly. "I heard it'll be on the Transfiguration exam."
"There are still four months," Fred said, folding the paper. "Don't fuss—we've got time."
"I heard failing badly means being held back!" Sanna warned.
"I've never heard of that," Fred scoffed. "Put in effort before exams and you'll be fine."
"Has anyone ever been held back?" George asked curiously.
"Who?" Lee Jordan leaned in.
"Probably not."
Albert frowned. He vaguely recalled a Slytherin being held back, but didn't want to dwell on it. As long as it wasn't him, it didn't matter.
"I envy Albert. He'll ace the exams without trying," Lee grumbled.
"I envy Albert," the twins echoed in unison.
"Shut up," Albert snapped.
"Cough, cough." Someone cleared their throat.
Albert turned. "Something wrong?"
"The next club meeting is moved to Saturday at 3:30," Isabelle reminded.
"Why the change?" Albert asked.
"The new issue of Transfiguration Today is out, and Professor McGonagall wants to use it. Just don't forget."
"Oh, I know." Albert nodded.
"How's McGonagall's club?" Sanna asked.
"Difficult," Albert admitted. "It's advanced knowledge. She encourages us to write to experts and build contacts."
"Did you write?" Lee asked.
"Don't ask," George muttered.
"Why?"
"I don't want to…" George began, but Albert cut him off.
"Don't worry. No one replied to me," Albert said calmly.
"No way."
"Who takes a first-year's letter seriously?"
"Aren't you angry?"
"I don't mind. Someday, when I win Transfiguration Today's Most Promising Newcomer Award, they'll reply."
"You certainly see things clearly."
"You haven't left yet?" Albert asked, noticing Isabelle still behind him. He sighed.
"Let's go. Two Herbology classes this morning. Don't be late," George reminded.
The four headed toward the Greenhouse, staring at the heavy rain. "Did you bring an umbrella?"
"No."
They all looked at Albert.
"I've mastered the Summoning Charm. Doesn't matter." He waved his wand, conjuring an umbrella.
"So what do we do?" Fred asked.
"Walk through the rain." Albert strode off with his umbrella.
The others exchanged glances, then dashed after him. The four huddled together under one umbrella, crowded but determined, making their way to Herbology.