The morning sun didn't stand a chance against the heavy velvet curtains of the Gryffindor dormitory, but Albert was awake long before the light hit his eyes. He felt a soft, rhythmic pressure against his neck—a furry, breathing weight. He cracked one eye open to find Tom, the ginger menace, staring back at him with unblinking, vertical-slit pupils.
"Tom," Albert whispered, his voice raspy with sleep. "Back to the basket. You're not a scarf, and you're certainly not a pillow."
The cat offered a slow, deliberate blink, clearly offended that his comfort had been interrupted, before slinking off toward his custom-made bed. Albert sat up, sighing as the cold air hit his skin. He was going to have to be careful with Tom; the castle was full of traps, secret passages, and older students who liked to hex anything that moved.
By the time he had finished his morning routine and opened his enchanted trunk to double-check his supplies, Fred, George, and Lee were stirring. They watched him fuss over the cat with suppressed grins.
"You know," Fred said, pulling on his robes, "if you keep coddling him like that, he's going to start expecting a seat at the table. Are you planning on bringing him to Transfiguration? I'm sure McGonagall would love a cat that's clearly more interested in breakfast than the lecture."
"Baby steps," Albert said, grabbing his wand and his bag. "He's got to learn the layout of the castle before I let him roam. I'm not spending my entire third year hunting him down in the Forbidden Forest because he smelled a squirrel."
The trek to the Great Hall was an exercise in dodging the Harry Potter Effect. It was barely eight in the morning, and the hallway was already thick with students, their necks craned and heads turning. It was like walking through a gallery where the main attraction was a scrawny, black-haired boy trying desperately to eat his porridge in peace.
"Look at them," Lee Jordan muttered, frowning as he watched a group of second-years backtrack just to get another look at Potter. "They're acting like he's a mountain troll in a silk suit. Don't they have classes?"
"It's curiosity, Lee," Albert said, steering them toward the doors. "Or at least, that's the polite word for it. They want to see the scar. They want to see the legend. If you were lost, you'd be the first to ask an upper-classman for directions, wouldn't you? Some of these kids are just looking for a reason to say they've been in the same room as him."
Several of their housemates glanced at them, expecting Albert to join the gawking, but he simply kept his gaze forward, his expression unreadable.
Inside the Great Hall, the atmosphere was chaotic. Professor McGonagall moved through the rows with a stack of parchment, her movements sharp and efficient. When she reached Albert, she handed him his schedule without a word, though her eyes lingered on him for a heartbeat—a silent reminder of the secret they shared.
George leaned over, squinting at Albert's parchment. "Hold on. Divination and Arithmancy? Both at nine? Albert, that's impossible. Unless you've mastered the art of being in two places at once, you've got a massive scheduling error here."
"I have my ways," Albert said, sliding the schedule into his bag with a grin.
"Is this the 'clone' thing again?" Angelina Johnson asked, hovering nearby. "Are you actually splitting yourself in two? Because if you have a trick like that, you're obligated to share it with the rest of the class."
Albert put a finger to his lips, his eyes twinkling with mock-gravity. "It's a secret, Angelina. I promised McGonagall. If I tell you, I'll have to Memory Charm every single one of you, and that sounds like far too much effort for a Tuesday morning."
The conversation was cut short by a fresh wave of whispers that rippled through the Hall. Harry Potter had just walked in. The boy looked exhausted, his hair a nest of black tangles, and he walked with a slight hunch, as if trying to shrink away from the hundreds of eyes tracking his every move.
"Poor kid," Alicia Spinnet said, dropping her voice. "Do you think he even remembers the night it happened? You know, when the, uh... when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named showed up?"
The name—or the lack of it—sent a visible tremor through the group. Lee dropped his fork with a loud clatter; Fred and George went rigid. Even Shanna, who had grown up in the Muggle world and didn't have the same ingrained, bone-deep terror of the name, looked confused by their sudden, collective panic.
"Why is everyone acting like you just summoned a demon?" Shanna asked, looking at Albert. "It's just a name, isn't it? Voldemort. People say it, the world keeps spinning."
The silence was absolute. You could hear the scratching of quills at the staff table. Angelina looked like she wanted to crawl under the floorboards.
"Shanna, stop!" Angelina hissed, her voice trembling. "You don't say that!"
Albert looked at Shanna, who was staring at him, genuinely bewildered. He saw the disconnect—the difference between a Muggle-born who looked at history as a set of events, and a Wizarding-born who looked at history as a collection of nightmares.
"It's not just a label, Shanna," Albert said, his voice quiet but steady, cutting through the tension. "It's a beacon. For a long time, that name was associated with the absolute collapse of order. It wasn't just a murderer on the loose; it was a shadow that could walk into your home, take your family, and leave nothing behind. When people refuse to say the name, it's not just cowardice. It's a habit born from a time when saying that name meant you were inviting death to your doorstep."
He leaned in, his expression turning sharp. "Think of it like this: if there were a serial killer who could walk through walls and catch you anywhere you went, and you knew that saying his name acted like a magical tracking charm that brought him right to you... would you say it? Or would you call him 'You-Know-Who' and pray that he didn't hear you?"
Shanna sat back, her mouth slightly open. The fear in the others' eyes wasn't just superstition; it was a trauma-response passed down through generations.
"That's why Potter is a legend," Albert concluded, casting a glance toward the Gryffindor table where Harry sat, oblivious. "He didn't just beat a man. He stopped the panic. He took the name that everyone was afraid of and turned it into something that can finally be spoken aloud, even if most people aren't ready to do it yet."
Fred and George let out long, shaky breaths, looking at Albert as if he'd just explained the secret to the universe.
"I still think it's ridiculous," Shanna whispered, though her voice lacked its earlier defiance.
"It is," Albert agreed, picking up his toast. "But in the Wizarding World, reality is dictated by belief. And as long as they believe the name has power, it does."