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"Right," Albus said, unrolling a length of parchment across the breakfast table, narrowly missing Tim's porridge. "This is what we know."
Tim stared at what appeared to be an elaborate flowchart, complete with color-coding and animated arrows that changed direction every few seconds. "That's... certainly something."
"See here?" Albus pointed to a sketch of Geoff's face, surrounded by question marks and what looked suspiciously like little hearts. "Subject exhibits classic signs of strategic social positioning."
"You mean... being friendly?"
"Exactly! And look—" Albus jabbed his finger at another drawing, this one showing a stick figure with a photo-cutout of Geoff’s head helping a first-year with homework. "Establishing himself as a mentor figure. Building influence. Very Slytherin."
"He's a Hufflepuff prefect. That's literally his job."
"That's what makes it so brilliant!" Albus lowered his voice to a whisper. "No one suspects the Hufflepuff!" Albus dug around in his rucksack more, then added: "And the French thing?"
Tim took a long sip of his pumpkin juice—then nearly choked on it. He coughed, wiping his mouth. "That," he wheezed, "was entirely your fault."
"Aha!" Albus pulled out another scroll. "According to 'Medieval Magical Matchmaking: A History of Pure-blood Courtship Rituals'—"
"You actually found that book?"
"No. Wrote it myself. Last night."
"Of course you did."
"The evidence must be documented!"
"Of course it does."
"But wait, there's more!"
"Is there?"
Albus whipped out yet another scroll, this one covered in what appeared to be a complex star chart. "Look at the pattern of Geoff's movements through the castle."
"You've been tracking his movements?" Tim asked, voice flat.
"Obviously. And what do you notice?"
Tim squinted at the parchment. "That you have too much free time on your hands and you’ll likely be repeating Fifth Year?"
"No! Well, yes, but look—" Albus traced a line with his finger. "Every Tuesday and Thursday, he just so happens to take the long way to Transfiguration, past the Ancient Runes classroom, where Scorpius has independent study."
"Because that's where Professor Creevey's office is? His dad? The teacher?"
"That's what he wants you to think! And have you noticed how Geoff always just so happens to tutor every class Scorpius is interested in?"
"You mean the ones Creevey is good at?"
“Except Potions?”
“The one he’s bad at?”
"And he's suddenly speaking French—"
"Your fault."
"—which everyone knows is Scorpius's favorite language—"
"Do they? Is it?"
"Well, it will be now! And did you see how Geoff pretended to be rubbish at Potions last week?"
"Again, the class he’s bad at. He melted his cauldron."
"Exactly! Making Scorpius feel better about his own Potions marks! The cunning of it all!”
"Or maybe," Tim suggested, poking at his now-cold porridge, "he's just bad at Potions. Like how you're bad at reasonable conclusions."
“And then there was that manic Quidditch commentary—?”
“Again, your fault.”
"And look at this! "I've mapped out all the possible social connections between the Creeveys and the Malfoys going back three generations!" He thrust forward a piece of parchment that showed the extensive, sprawling Malfoy family tree on one side—its branches actively inching to the edge of the parchment, recoiling from the tiny sapling where Dennis and Geoff Creevey took root in isolation.
Tim examined Albus's work, wide-eyed and nonplussed. "This... looks suspiciously like a hate crime."
Albus shrugged. "Well, you know... Malfoys and Blacks, pre-21st century."
"Okay, so aside from “all the possible social connections”—which is a whopping zero, I might add... You did this all last night?"
Albus rolled up the parchment with a flourish. "Sleep is for people who aren't uncovering elaborate Slytherin courtship conspiracies!"
"Which this isn't."
"And here—" Albus brandished yet another scroll.
"How many of those do you have?"
"That’s not the issue at hand. A lot (I had to expand my robes with an Extension Charm.) But look! I've documented every time Geoff has walked past the Ravenclaw table during meals. The pattern is clear!"
"That he... eats food? In the Great Hall? Where the food is served?"
After Albus and Tim finished their breakfast—and Albus had thoroughly mapped the elaborate conspiracy that very clearly does exist, thankyouverymuch— Tim gathered his books and begged, “Maybe we could—oh, I dunno— focus on our Charms marks? I’m sure whatever devious plot that isn’t afoot will still not be afoot after our OWLS prep?"
The reminder had hit Albus like a bucket of cold water. Autumnal holidays were fast approaching, and with them, the annual Potter family tradition of Comparing Academic Achievement. Rose would inevitably produce perfect marks in everything. James would swagger through with his usual mix of brilliant practical work and barely-passable theory. And Albus... well.
"Tim's staying with us instead of going back to America for Christmas," he muttered to himself in the library that evening, flipping through Advanced Charm Theory. "Can't have him witness another 'not living up to your potential' talk from Dad. Or worse: Mum's disappointed sighing." Not to mention he promised Scorp that he would join that stupid Broomboard for Beginners Club with him after break. So that gives him little more than a fortnight to finally expose Geoff Creevey for the prat he is!
Albus had found a quiet corner, away from Madam Pince's suspicious glares. The last thing he needed was another letter home about "disturbing other students with conspiracy theories." His mother still brought up the Great Owl Incident of Third Year at family dinners.
Somewhere between Cheering Charms and Confundus Theory, his eyes grew heavy. Just a quick rest, he thought and let his head drop onto his textbook...
§
"... but I can't keep pretending—"
Albus jerked awake. The library was darker now, most of the students gone, but voices carried from behind the Restricted Section.
"I don’t understand why you suddenly don’t want to... "
Professor Creevey? Albus straightened, suddenly alert. That was definitely Dennis Creevey's voice, but it lacked its usual cheerful tone.It sounded heavy, tired. Almost defeated. Slowly, Albus slipped out of his chair, careful not to make a noise. On hands and knees—Bollocks, I hope Tim doesn’t see me—Albus army-crawled closer to the stacks by the Restricted Section.
“. . . but you used to... ”
“... pretend to like... when we have... “
Keeping low to the ground, Albus crept between the stacks. Classic investigative technique, he thought proudly, before immediately banging his knee on a lower shelf. He froze—did they hear?—but the conspirators continued.
"You don't have to pretend anything," Professor Creevey's voice was uncharacteristically sharp. "This is about family."
"Is it? Because it feels more like—"
"Geoff." A warning.
Through gaps in the books, Albus could make out fragments of the scene: Professor Creevey's pacing feet, Geoff's hands twisting the end of his tie. That was a nervous gesture Albus recognized all too well from his own encounters with parental disappointment. Not that this was anything like that. Albus wasn’t plotting dastardly boyfriend thievery. This was different! This was surveillance. Important detective work.
"I just don't see why I have to—" Geoff's voice caught. "Why can't I just stay... "
"Because some things are more important than what you want right now."
"More important than—?" Geoff's voice had that same tight quality that James's got whenever their father started in about "living up to your potential." Not that Albus was thinking about that. He was thinking about conspiracies. Definitely conspiracies. "You don't understand. This isn't like when you were—"
Professor Creevey interrupted Geoff, but it was drowned out by Geoff’s frustration. “I’m not Colin!”
"Don't." Professor Creevey's voice hitched. It was barely audible when he added. "We're not discussing this here."
Geoff's hands clenched into fists. That perfect Creevey composure was completely gone now, replaced by something raw and familiar that Albus absolutely wasn't going to analyze. His shoulders—those wide, bare shoulders Albus definitely hadn't been thinking about since the ink incident—hunched forward like they were carrying an invisible weight. For a moment, something twisted in Albus's chest. He knew that posture. Knew exactly how it felt when your father's expectations pressed down until your shoulders buckled under the weight of them. Not that he was comparing; this was totally different. This was...
"Fine. But I won't—"
"You absolutely will—exactly as we planned. To the letter. End of discussion."
Silence. Then footsteps. Slow at first. Growing faster. From a distance, Albus heard Madam Pinch belt, “Mr Creevey! No running in the library, young man.”
Through the gap, Albus watched Professor Creevey run a hand through his hair. A familiar gesture. His father did the same when asked about “the war.” Albus tried to force his mind back on track, back on to conspiracies and plots and perfectly reasonable theories about boyfriend-stealing. But he kept circling back to that defeated slump of Professor Creevey's shoulders, the way his usually cheerful voice had hitched. Focus. This is about Geoff's plot, not... other things.
Albus waited until he heard the library door close, counted to twenty, then made his way back to Ravenclaw Tower. His scrolls of evidence suddenly felt heavy in his pockets, weighted down by something that had nothing to do with Extension Charms.
A lot of things had been revealed tonight.
Albus could only remember one.
Colin.