The train's momentum finally died, replaced by the jarring, metallic shriek of brakes. The journey from London, with its endless chatter and frantic energy, had reached its inevitable end. Albert stood up, his movements fluid and efficient as he retrieved Tom from his perch. The cat, sensing the shift in atmosphere, let out a long, annoyed yawn before being safely deposited back into his travel cage.
"Finally," Lee grumbled, stretching his limbs. "I was beginning to think we'd be stuck in that compartment until graduation."
Fred and George were already halfway to the door, vibrating with that specific brand of manic anticipation that only the first night at Hogwarts could produce. The four of them spilled out onto the platform, greeted by the biting, damp chill of the Scottish night. It wasn't pouring, but the air held a heavy, clinging frost that forced Albert to pull his robes tight against his chest.
Above the murmurs of hundreds of students, a booming, familiar voice cut through the dark. Hagrid was in his element, a lantern swinging like a beacon in the gloom, herding the wide-eyed first-years toward the lake.
"Come on, move it!" Fred called, darting into the flow of students heading toward the waiting carriages.
They snagged an empty one, the Thestrals—invisible to most, though Albert couldn't help but notice the ghostly outline of the creatures—pulling them smoothly toward the castle. The carriage rattled and swayed, joining a long, silent procession of others winding along the track. Through the window, the castle loomed ahead, a jagged silhouette of stone and light, glittering like a diamond dropped in a bowl of ink.
The twins and Lee were already back on the topic of Harry Potter, theorizing about what house he'd end up in and whether he'd be as arrogant as the papers claimed. Albert leaned his head against the cold glass, tuning them out. He watched the castle grow larger, each turret and bridge sparking memories that felt both ancient and immediate.
As they disembarked at the stone steps of the Great Hall, the heavy oak doors loomed. Just as Albert started toward the entrance, a voice stopped him cold.
"Anderson."
Professor McGonagall was standing in the shadows of the doorway, her expression as stern and unyielding as a marble statue. Beside her, Katrina stood with a look of practiced neutrality.
"Follow me," she commanded, ushering them into a small side room. The door shut with a heavy thud, cutting off the chaotic roar of the student body.
McGonagall didn't waste time on pleasantries. She reached into her pocket and pulled out two delicate, gold-chained devices. She handed one to Albert and one to Katrina. "Time-turners," she said, her voice dropping to a low, intense whisper. "Keep them beneath your robes at all times. One turn is an hour. Do not—under any circumstances—exceed five rotations. The physical toll is not a suggestion; it is a warning."
Albert weighed the cold metal in his hand. He knew the mechanics better than she did, but he offered a respectful nod. "Understood, Professor. One at a time, strictly for academic purposes."
Katrina echoed the sentiment, her eyes darting to Albert's with a silent question he didn't care to answer right now.
"Go," McGonagall said, ushering them out. "And silence is your best protection."
By the time they reached the Great Hall, the feast was already in the early stages of setup. Fred, George, and Lee had managed to save him a spot in the front row, a prime location for those hoping to get a look at the "chosen" boy.
Albert sat down, his gaze immediately drifting to the head table. Next to Snape, who looked as if he'd rather be literally anywhere else, sat a young, trembling man with a turban that looked like it had been wrapped by someone having a seizure.
"Professor Quirrell," Percy Weasley whispered, leaning in from his seat. "Just started this term."
Albert studied the man's profile. Quirrell looked like a man who was holding back a scream. "He looks like he's about to collapse," Albert murmured. "And the turban? It's a bit much, isn't it? Is he hiding a stash of sweets or just a lack of fashion sense?"
"Don't be rude," Percy hissed, though his own eyes were filled with doubt.
"Any word on Smith?" Albert asked, switching subjects.
Percy's expression soured. "Still gone. They've turned the country upside down, but there's not a trace. It's like he vanished into thin air."
"Or was murdered," Lee chimed in, his voice barely audible over the clatter of silver plates.
"Let's hope this one lasts the year," Albert said, though he knew better. He looked at Quirrell's back, at the strange, slight lump beneath the turban, and felt a cold prickle of intuition. If Voldemort was already hitching a ride, the man's tenure was likely to be short, catastrophic, and probably ended in a puff of smoke.
The Hall went deathly quiet. The massive doors swung open, and the sea of first-years flooded in, a parade of terrified children. Albert didn't need a map. He saw the black-haired, bespectacled boy immediately—Harry Potter, looking like he was trying to shrink into his own robes.
Then, the hat. The worn, patched artifact sat on its stool and began to sing. It was a new song, a strange, rhythmic warning about the unity of the houses. When it finished, it gave a dramatic little bow to the four tables.
"I think the hat's lost its mind," Fred muttered, though he clapped along.
The sorting began. Hannah Abbott to Hufflepuff. Then the girl from the train, Hermione Granger. Albert watched her walk up with that rigid, determined posture. Gryffindor, the hat shouted.
"I really thought she was a Ravenclaw," Lee murmured. "She has that look about her, you know? Like she's already read the entire syllabus."
"Gryffindor," Fred whispered, stunned, as Neville Longbottom was called. "That makes two of them."
Then came Draco Malfoy. He didn't even wait for the hat to settle; it barely brushed his scalp before it roared, "Slytherin!"
"Arrogant little git," George sneered. "Bet he thinks he's royalty."
"He's a spoiled brat," Albert said, his voice flat. "He's been taught that his name is a shield, and he's going to be very disappointed when he finds out that, here, everyone is equally vulnerable."
"Harry Potter!"
The silence that followed was heavy, almost suffocating. Every head in the room swivelled, necks craned, students rising from their seats to catch a glimpse. It was the wizarding world's version of a circus, and Potter was the main attraction. Albert watched the boy walk up, the weight of a thousand expectations pressing down on his small shoulders.
A minute passed. Two. The hat seemed to be having a long, complicated debate. Finally, it yelled: "Gryffindor!"
The table erupted. Percy was on his feet in an instant, shaking hands, playing the role of the proud prefect. Albert watched Dumbledore, who sat at the head table with a look of serene, almost calculated, satisfaction. The savior was home.
"We got him," Fred and George were shouting, entirely oblivious to the darker undercurrents of the situation. "We actually got Potter!"
Albert remained seated, his fingers tracing the time-turner hidden beneath his shirt. The cycle had begun again, the pieces were moving into place, and for all the cheering, he couldn't shake the feeling that they were all just actors on a stage that was slowly being set on fire. He picked up his fork, turning his attention to the banquet appearing on the tables. Whatever was coming, it wouldn't happen on an empty stomach.