The air inside the compartment had grown thick with the scent of ozone and the faint, lingering heat of George's cayenne-pepper bean. But the atmosphere was charged with something else now—pure, unadulterated curiosity.
"Come on, Albert. Don't tell us you haven't cracked it yet," Fred pushed, his eyes gleaming with the light of a man who was about to win a very disgusting bet. "We've seen you pull off spells that seventh-years struggle with. A Patronus? That's just another Tuesday for you, isn't it?"
Albert looked at the three of them, feeling a rare bit of pressure. It wasn't that he couldn't do it; it was that the magic felt... unformed. Like a song he knew the words to but couldn't quite find the melody for. "It's not as simple as a Levitation Charm, Fred. It's ancient magic. It's fickle. Currently, I'm lucky if I get a silver cloud that doesn't vanish the moment I blink."
"I'm telling you, it's going to be an eagle," George insisted, leaning so far forward he was nearly in Albert's lap. "You've got that sharp, calculating look. Very predatory. Very Ravenclaw-adjacent."
"Lion," Lee Jordan countered, crossing his arms. "He's a Gryffindor through and through. Look at the way he handled those Slytherins last month. That's lion energy. I'm betting my afternoon snack on a mane and claws."
"Can we please stop categorizing my soul by House mascots?" Albert asked, though he was already reaching for his wand. The walnut wood felt warm against his palm. "Fine. If only to stop you three from vibrating out of your seats. But don't expect a masterpiece."
He stood up, clearing a bit of space in the narrow cabin. He closed his eyes and reached for a memory. He tried the feeling of receiving his Hogwarts letter—the validation that the world of magic was real. He drew a sharp, reverse circle in the air and spoke the incantation.
"Expecto Patronum!"
A burst of silver light erupted from the tip of his wand, but it behaved more like a fire extinguisher than a guardian. A thick, billowing cloud of pearlescent smoke filled the upper half of the compartment, swirling aimlessly.
"See!" Lee shouted, pointing at the amorphous blob of silver. "Look at the bulk of that! That's a shoulder! That's a lion's shoulder if I ever saw one!"
"That's a cloud, Lee. You're hallucinating," George retorted. "It looks more like a very fat pigeon at this stage."
Albert frowned, looking at the dissipating mist. It felt hollow. The memory of the letter was good, but it was a memory of relief, not pure, radiant joy. He realized he had been holding back, perhaps afraid of what the spell would reveal about his own nature.
He took a deep breath, resetting his stance. This time, he went deeper. He thought back to the very moment he had opened his eyes in this life and realized he had the System. It wasn't just about the power; it was the realization that he was no longer a passenger in his own life. He was the architect. That surge of absolute, boundless possibility—that was his true happiness.
"Expecto Patronum!" he whispered, his voice steady and low.
This time, there was no smoke. There was a roar of light—silent but intense. A blindingly bright silver shape shot from his wand, too fast for the eye to follow. It circled the compartment twice, its wings brushing against the ceiling with a sound like rustling silk.
The three boys fell back into their seats, their mouths hanging open.
Floating in the center of the cabin was a majestic Hippogriff. It was smaller than a real one, perhaps the size of a large pony, but its detail was exquisite. The front half was a fierce eagle with sharp, intelligent eyes and a curved beak; the hindquarters were those of a powerful horse. It looked at the four of them, its silver feathers shimmering with an internal light, before performing a graceful mid-air bow.
"Bloody hell," Fred whispered. "It's beautiful."
"Eagle head!" George suddenly screeched, breaking the spell. "I saw it! It's got an eagle head! Pay up, Lee! Hand over the Misery Box!"
"Are you mental?" Lee screamed back, standing on his seat to point at the silver creature's horse-tail. "That's half a horse! You said an eagle! You didn't say a 'half-eagle, half-horse hybrid that technically counts as a mythical beast'! I'm not eating a single earwax bean!"
"It's an eagle-derivative!" Fred argued, trying to grab Lee by the collar. "The beak is the most prominent part! We won on a technicality!"
The compartment dissolved into a riot of shouting and wrestling as Lee tried to protect his dignity while the twins tried to force-feed him a brownish-gray bean.
Albert, however, wasn't laughing. He stared at the silver Hippogriff as it slowly faded into stardust. His face was pale, his brow furrowed in deep thought.
"Albert?" George noticed the shift in mood first. He let go of Lee's arm and sat back down. "What's wrong? That was the most impressive bit of magic I've ever seen a second-year do. You should be doing a victory lap."
"It's a magical creature," Albert said, his voice unusually grim.
"Yeah, we noticed. It's way cooler than a regular dog or a cat," Fred said, still trying to catch his breath.
"You don't understand," Albert said, sitting down and rubbing his temples. "There's a direct link between a Patronus and a wizard's Animagus form. If I ever decide to pursue that level of Transfiguration, my body would likely attempt to become a Hippogriff."
"And?" Lee asked, wiping a bit of bean-dust off his shirt. "Flying around as a Hippogriff sounds like the ultimate upgrade. You'd be the king of the Forbidden Forest."
"It's a death sentence, Lee," Albert replied bluntly. The three boys went quiet immediately. "Animagus transformation is almost exclusively limited to mundane animals. Dogs, cats, stags, beetles. It works because those creatures exist within a certain biological frequency that human magic can mimic."
He leaned forward, his expression intense. "Magical creatures like Hippogriffs, Phoenixes, or Dragons are different. They have their own internal magic systems—Goblins have their crafts, House-elves have their untraceable Apparition. When a wizard tries to force their human magic into a shape that already possesses its own innate, conflicting magical essence... the result is usually a total collapse. You don't become a Hippogriff; you become a pile of splinched meat and feathers that can't be put back together."
"Is that why Professor McGonagall is just a tabby?" Fred asked, his voice small.
"Exactly. Even Dumbledore," Albert continued, "is rumored to have a Phoenix as a Patronus. Have you ever seen him transform? No. Because even he wouldn't risk it. If your soul's shape is a magical creature, the path of the Animagus is effectively closed to you."
The twins and Lee exchanged worried glances. They knew how much Albert valued mastery over all forms of magic. To him, a "closed path" wasn't just a disappointment; it was a personal challenge from the universe.
"But surely there's a workaround?" George suggested hopefully. "I mean, you're Albert. You find the loopholes."
"Maybe," Albert sighed. "There are records of Patronuses changing. If a wizard undergoes a massive emotional shock—loss, heartbreak, a total shift in worldview—the soul re-aligns. But I'm not exactly keen on traumatizing myself just to get a 'boring' animal form."
He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from his bag and unscrewed his inkpot. The motion was mechanical, a way to channel his frustration.
"What are you doing?" Lee asked.
"Writing to Professor McGonagall," Albert said, the quill scratching aggressively against the paper. "She's the leading authority on Transfiguration in Britain. If there's a way to bypass the 'magical creature' restriction, or if there's a way to influence the soul's shape before the final transformation, she'll know. I'm not giving up on that quest just because my Patronus decided to be fancy."
"You're actually going to ask her about illegal-level Transfiguration during the Christmas holidays?" Fred grinned, his spirits lifting as Albert's competitive streak flared up.
"I'll frame it as a theoretical inquiry," Albert muttered, though they all knew better.
He finished the letter with a flourish and looked toward the window. The train was passing through a tunnel of tall, frosted pines. He knew his owl, Shera, wasn't in the compartment, but she was never far.
"Open the window," Albert commanded.
"It's freezing out there!" Lee protested.
"Just do it."
As Fred slid the glass down, letting in a blast of icy Highland wind, a streak of white lightning dived from the gray sky. Shera landed on the small table with a sharp, commanding hoot, shaking the snow from her feathers. She looked at the boys with a disdainful air, as if judging their choice of snacks.
Albert tied the letter to her leg. "To Professor McGonagall. Get it to her before she settles in for her holiday tea."
With a nip at Albert's finger and a final, haughty glance at the box of Every Flavor Beans, the owl took flight, vanishing back into the winter mist.
"Well," George said, breaking the silence as the window was shut. "Since we're not sure if the Hippogriff counts as an eagle, I propose a new bet. Three beans each for everyone, and Albert chooses the flavors."
Albert looked at the box, then at his friends. A slow, slightly wicked grin spread across his face. "Now that is a gamble I can get behind."