"And I'm telling you, there's something dodgy about him," Albus said, stabbing his breakfast sausage with unnecessary vigor. "No one's that perfect."
Tim barely looked up from his Charms textbook. "Man, you've said that about eight times this morning alone."
"Well it's true, innit? I mean, who volunteers to tutor First Years in their spare time?"
"Someone trying to get into the Teaching Programme to become a teacher?" Tim suggested reasonably. "You know, like his dad?"
"No one wears their tie that straight unless they're hiding something," Albus continued as if Tim hadn't spoken. He watched Geoff helping a tiny Hufflepuff first-year pick up her dropped books. "And look at that! Who actually stops to help people anymore? It's suspicious."
"Yeah, what a bastard," Tim deadpanned. "Helping a kid. Clearly evil."
"Exactly!" Albus slammed his hand on the table, causing several nearby Ravenclaws to jump. "Since when does Creevey tutor Charms?"
"Since McGonagall expanded the Peer Tutoring Programme," Tim said.
"But why is he tutoring Scorpius?"
"Because Scorpius needs help with Charms? Because Geoff’s one of the best at it? Because that's literally what tutors do?"
But Albus wasn't listening. He was too busy thinking about Geoff's perfect smile and Scorpius's perfect laugh and the perfectly horrible way they seemed to fit together.
"Oh no," Tim groaned. "I know that look."
"What look?"
"That 'I'm about to massively overthink something completely innocent and totally do something stupid' look."
"I am not," Albus said, offended.
But he was.
"And I won't."
But he did.
It started with ink.
After his third attempt at the Splatter Jinx left him looking like he'd wrestled with a particularly vengeful squid (again), Albus opted for Plan B: one of Uncle George's latest inventions. The Rogue Inkwell, guaranteed to create maximum mess with minimum traceability—or your Galleons back.
"This is a terrible idea," Tim said, watching Albus wind up the miniature bronze inkwell, its delicate gears clicking softly. "Spectacularly terrible. Like that time you tried to jinx Flint Junior's broom and ended up in the lake with the Giant Squid."
"That was different," Albus muttered, giving the inkwell one final twist. Tiny brass feet popped out from its base with a SPROING. "And I maintain the Squid started it."
Geoff stood at the front of the classroom, demonstrating the intricate wand movements for a Duplicating Charm. Everyone in class seemed to hang on his every word. Perfect timing. Albus released the inkwell.
The inkwell pattered across the desk with surprising stealth, then leapt gracefully to the floor. It wove between chair legs, occasionally pausing to let passing shoes clear its path, before finally positioning itself at Geoff’s feet. Then the inkwell reared up and spat a magnificent arc of ink that hit him square on the chest. Albus thought it was the most glorious splatter of black across a white shirt that he’s ever seen.
"Oh no!" gasped one classmate. "Geoff, your shirt!" said another. Scorpius shook his head in despair and said, "That poor shirt."
Then the worst possible thing happened: Geoff shrugged off his tie, his shirt, then—Merlin's pants!—his undershirt, which, Albus noted, was stain-free and thus hadn't needed to be removed. The room fell into a stunned, reverent silence.
Geoff’s physique was enviable, especially for someone who never played Quidditch a day in his life. But there he stood, shirtless as the day he was born. Wide, round shoulders. Long arms that seemed to stretch to the sky. A torso—that torso!—smooth and lean, tapered down to surprisingly angular hips, marked only by a thin trail of sandy-blonde hair disappearing tantalizingly beneath his waistband.
Someone (probably a Hufflepuff) let out a low whistle.
Geoff looked up wearing a playful expression as if to say, "Now, now, behave." He reached behind his chair, grabbed his dinner jacket, and slid it on over his bare shoulders with the ease of someone used to dressing for a gala.
Then, with an artist's flair, he picked up the ink-stained tie, looped it loosely around his neck, and grinned. "There we are. A bit of character, don't you think?"
The room erupted in applause. Even Professor Flitwick looked vaguely impressed.
"Well done," Tim said, slow-clapping. "Really showed him. I especially like how you helped him demonstrate proper fashion innovation to the entire class. Brilliant strategy."
Albus slumped in his chair, scowling at his textbook. The inkwell had backfired spectacularly. Instead of humiliation, Geoff Creevey was now officially Hogwarts' most fashionable heartthrob.
"Ruddy, blooming, bloody hell," Albus muttered, frantically trying to siphon ink from his Advanced Charms for Dummies textbook. Somehow the splatter had ricocheted, leaving an impressive black stain across Chapter Seven: Precision in Projectile Spells. "A bit on the nose there, universe. Stupid, Creevey."
"Forty-four," Tim said, not looking up from his own pristine textbook.
"What?"
"Number of times you've mentioned Geoff today. Though I suppose technically that last one was just a grunt."
Albus wasn't about to give up after one failed attempt. No, this called for something a little more physical.
"Oh goodie," Tim said, recognizing the gleam in Albus's eye. "We're going for round two of 'Let's Accidentally Make Geoff Look Purposefully Brilliant.' My favorite game."
The Babbling Beveragehad been expensive—apparently Uncle George's "special batch" cost extra—but Albus reckoned it would be worth every Knut to hear Geoff Creevey spouting gibberish in front of the entire Charms Club.
"For the record," Tim said, watching Albus eye Geoff's water goblet, "this is significantly worse than the ink plan."
"Shush." Albus held up the small vial. “This is foolproof."
“Yes, you’re the fool. This is the proof."
"You’ll see. This will be different," Albus whispered.
Albus managed to carefully tip three drops into Geoff's drink when he wasn't looking before returning to his seat next to Tim. "In about thirty seconds, Mr. Perfect won't be able to string two words together."
What happened instead was worse. Much worse.
"Je ne comprends pas ce qui se passe," Geoff said, looking puzzled at his own words. Then his eyes widened. "Oh mon dieu, Je parle français à présent?"
The entire room erupted in delighted gasps.
"Oh, that’s brilliant!" Scorpius breathed.
"What? No, not brilliant—" Albus grumbled. "Je peux aussi parler français, you know."
"Ugh, gross, Potter!" said a Gryffindor who had just walked past. "You sound dumb!"
"Parlez-vous français?" called a familiar voice from the doorway. James Potter stood there, grinning.
Geoff went scarlet. "Oh non, c'est James Potter. Je deviens toujours stupide quand il est là—" He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide.
The next few days were torture. Everywhere Albus went, someone was asking Geoff to "say something else in French!" And Geoff, being Geoff, would oblige with things like "Où est la bibliothèque" or "Je dois nourrir mon choulette" while everyone swooned.
"He just said he needs to feed his owl!" Albus exploded at dinner. "And it’s chouette—"
“Give it up, Potter," a lanky third-year hissed, “you sound stupid!"
"Le poulet... les pommes de terre... le petit pois... une fourchette..." Geoff's voice drifted over from the Hufflepuff table.
"Oh, come on! Now he’s just naming the things on his plate!"
"I should probably give up," Albus announced as they trudged back from the greenhouses, still picking bits of Screechsnap leaves from their robes.
Tim flicked a particularly stubborn leaf off his shoulder. "That's probably for the best."
"Everything I try just makes him look better."
"That seems to be the case, yes."
They rounded the corner to find Penny Zhang looking absolutely distraught, her friend, Charlotte Boot, trying her best to console her.
"What's the matter with her?" Albus asked, watching Penny dramatically fan her face with what appeared to be a stack of commentary notes.
"I heard Malcolm's got laryngitis," Tim said. "Won't be able to commentate the match."
"Poor Penny," Albus said. "She hates doing play-by-play."
"Everyone hates her play-by-play," Tim corrected. "Remember that last match with Hufflepuff?"
Albus shook his head. "So boring."
They watched as Geoff approached the pair, his prefect badge catching the morning light. Of course he'd show up now. Perfect, wonderful Geoff Creevey, probably about to save the day again—
Later, in Potions, Scorpius bounced into his seat behind Albus and Tim with barely contained excitement. "Did you hear?" he asked breathlessly. "Geoff’s standing in for Malcolm at the match! Isn’t he brilliant? Always so helpful—"
"Brilliant," Albus muttered through gritted teeth, violently hacking at his dandelion roots as though they’d personally wronged him.
Tim poured salamander blood with the precision of a surgeon. "You know, I bet Malcolm lost his voice because of that dodgy megaphone last match. Had to shout his lungs out over the noise."
The sharp clatter of Albus’s silver knife against the desk made Tim and Scorpius jump, nearly sending a jar of armadillo bile careening to the floor.
Tim eyed Albus warily and whispered so that Scorpius couldn’t hear: "Oh no. No, no, no. I know that look. Al? Don’t—"
But Albus wasn’t listening. He was planning. His potion, forgotten, slowly turned an ominous shade of chartreuse.
Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch, Late Friday Night:
The moon cast long shadows across the Quidditch pitch as Albus crept up the spiral staircase to the commentator's box. Every creak of the ancient wooden steps made him wince. He'd waited until well after curfew, when even Filch had retired for the night, before sneaking out under James's borrowed Invisibility Cloak.
The commentator's box door was locked—of course it was—but a quick "Alohomora" took care of that. Inside, two microphones sat on the announcer's desk: one covered in Hufflepuff-colored stickers and what looked suspiciously like glitter (clearly Penny's), and one pristine and professional-looking (obviously Malcolm's).
Albus pulled out his wand, remembering all the hours he'd spent practicing this particular combination of charms in an empty classroom. The Confundus was tricky enough on its own, but layering it with a Discomfitus Hex? That had taken real work.
"Confundo Maxima," he whispered, tapping Geoff's microphone. The metal vibrated under his touch, almost like it was purring. "Discomfitus Personalium."
The microphone gave one final shudder before settling back into innocuous silence.
Albus allowed himself a small smile.
Tomorrow would be interesting.