The blizzard outside Hogwarts had transitioned from a mere storm into a full-blown assault. The wind didn't just howl; it screamed, lashing against the dormitory windows with enough force to make the heavy glass panes rattle in their stone frames.
A biting chill tried its best to seep through the seams, but the thick, enchanted velvet curtains held the line. Inside the Gryffindor boys' dormitory, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the frozen wasteland outside.
A massive fireplace dominated the center of the room, crackling with vivid blue flames that threw long, dancing shadows across the four-poster beds. The air smelled of woodsmoke, old parchment, and the faint, sharp tang of ozone.
Albert sat on a low stool by the hearth, a set of fine silver carving tools laid out on a cloth beside him. Around him, Fred, George, and Lee Jordan were sprawled on the rug, their faces flushed from the heat of the fire.
"So, let me get this straight," Fred said, holding up a small glass vial filled with a shimmering, viscous green liquid. He swirled it, watching the way the light caught the suspended particles inside. "One swig of this 'Babbling Beverage' and I'm basically Rowena Ravenclaw in a sweater?"
Albert didn't look up from the piece of Mandrake root he was currently shaving with surgical precision. "Not quite, Fred. It doesn't give you knowledge you don't have. It's more like... clearing the fog. It sharpens your cognitive processing and accelerates recall. If you haven't studied, it'll just help you realize exactly how much you don't know with terrifying clarity. But if you have the notes in your head, it organizes them. It's the difference between a messy pile of books and a well-indexed library."
"I'll take the library," George chimed in, snatching the vial from his brother. "With Albert's touch, this stuff is basically liquid 'Outstanding.' Can you imagine the look on Snape's face if the entire Gryffindor house suddenly turned into academic overachievers?"
Albert chuckled, finally setting his knife down to stretch his fingers. "Don't get ahead of yourself. This specific batch was a gift from a Master. Brewing it to this level of purity is a nightmare. It requires a delicate hand with the heat and a very specific stirring rhythm that would make your arms fall off. Even with my experience, I'd expect a few failed batches before I get a sellable product."
"Failures? Please," Lee Jordan scoffed, leaning back against his bedpost. "Your 'failures' are usually better than most people's best work. Even if it's a bit diluted, the fifth and seventh years would sell their broomsticks for a sip of this before their O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s."
"Exactly!" Fred's eyes were practically glowing with the reflected blue light of the fire. "Think about the marketing, Albert. We don't just sell a potion; we sell success. We could offer this bottle as the top prize for the Wizard Card tournament. Let the winner choose: ten Galleons or a shortcut to academic glory. If they take the potion, we value it at ten Galleons. It sets the market price right there."
Albert looked at Fred with a mixture of amusement and genuine respect. "You've got a real streak of the predatory capitalist in you, haven't you, Fred?"
"I prefer 'shrewd entrepreneur,'" Fred grinned. "Think about it. The raw materials are expensive, sure, but if we price it right, we aren't just selling to the rich kids. We're selling to the desperate ones. And at Hogwarts, desperation is a very renewable resource."
"It's a slippery slope," Albert warned, though his tone was light. "Relying on potions to think for you is a one-way ticket to becoming a vegetable once the supply runs out. It's a supplement, not a replacement for a brain."
"We'll put a warning label on it," George promised, though he looked like he was already calculating his commission. "In very, very small print."
The conversation shifted, as it often did when the four of them were together, toward the future. The warmth of the fire and the isolation of the snow-covered castle made graduation feel both impossibly far away and right around the corner.
"I've been thinking," Albert said, his voice turning more serious as he picked up a fresh carving tool. "After the holidays, I'll start a production run. If we manage to sell a consistent supply, I'm happy to offer a commission. One Galleon for every bottle you three move."
The room went silent for a heartbeat. In the student economy, one Galleon was a staggering amount for a single sale.
"One Galleon?" Lee breathed. "Albert, we could buy out Honeydukes by February."
"Or," Albert countered, "we save it. Treat it as seed money. I'm planning to open a specialty shop after we leave this place. A hub for Wizard Cards, certainly, but also a place for high-end Defense Against the Dark Arts equipment. Protective gear, rare texts, counter-curse amulets. I'd want you three in on it."
The twins looked at each other. The idea of a shop had always been a daydream—a 'Joke Shop' where they could sell their pranks. But Albert was talking about a real business empire.
"A Defense shop?" Fred mused. "That's a bit more serious than Skiving Snackboxes, isn't it?"
"We can do both," Albert suggested. "Diagon Alley is a big street. We could have adjacent storefronts or a multi-level emporium. The 'Defense' side brings in the serious gold from worried parents, and the 'Joke' side brings in the soul of the place. And Lee, you'd handle the cards and the tournaments. We'd be the Four Founders of the new age."
"The Four Founders?" George wrinkled his nose. "Sounds a bit arrogant, doesn't it? People will think we've got heads the size of pumpkins."
"It's a working title," Albert said, waving a hand dismissively. "The point is, the capital starts now. If you want to live according to your own whims and not under the thumb of the Ministry, you need a mountain of gold to stand on."
Fred nodded slowly, his usual playfulness replaced by a rare moment of focus. "I'm in. Better than being a paper-pusher in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, anyway."
Albert returned his attention to the Mandrake root. He was no longer carving the rough shape; he was working on the fine details of a Unicorn. The wood of a mature, dried Mandrake was surprisingly dense and held detail beautifully, but it was also temperamental. One wrong move and the wood would splinter along the grain.
"Is that for the shop too?" George asked, watching Albert's steady hand.
"No," Albert murmured. "This is a birthday present. A custom amulet. I've integrated a series of runic sequences into the anatomy of the carving. The horn acts as a focal point for a minor displacement charm—it should nudge away low-level hexes before they even make contact."
"A Unicorn?" Lee asked, leaning in to get a better look at the miniature creature. "Looks like a horse to me."
"Check the forehead, Lee," Albert pointed out. "And the proportions. A Unicorn isn't just a horse with a spike; the bone structure is more refined, more ethereal."
"Is it for your sister?" Fred asked. "I remember that Hippogriff you made last year. You're becoming quite the woodworker."
"It's for a friend," Albert replied noncommittally. In his mind, he was already calculating the theoretical value. A hand-carved Mandrake amulet, infused with protective runes and crafted by a wizard with his level of precision?
In a shop like Borgin and Burkes, it would easily fetch fifty Galleons. But as a gift for Isabelle? It was priceless—or at least, a very effective way to ensure she stayed safe during her own academic pursuits.