The crisp morning air of Hogsmeade smelled of woodsmoke and old magic, but Mundungus Fletcher only smelled profit. He was currently riding a streak of luck that would make a Felix Felicis brewer jealous. Between moving a shipment of "displaced" cauldrons and clearing out the attic of a particularly forgetful widow, his pockets were heavy and his conscience—as usual—was non-existent.
When the owl had dropped Albert's note into his lap, Mundungus had nearly danced a jig. He remembered the kid from the last transaction. Wealthy, polite, and seemingly green behind the ears. The perfect mark. He didn't care why a schoolboy wanted a mountain of Swamp Digger fur; he just cared about how many Galleons he could squeeze out of the request.
"Demand creates the price," Mundungus muttered to himself as he shuffled through the snow toward the outskirts of the village. "And that boy's got plenty of demand."
By 9:30 AM, Mundungus was positioned outside the Hog's Head Pub. He steered clear of the door, knowing the barman had a standing policy of "Accio Boot-to-Rear" for people of his particular profession. He flicked open a battered leather suitcase—an item that, despite its outward appearance, was a masterpiece of the Undetectable Extension Charm. Within its depths lay a chaotic bazaar of silver trinkets, antique oddities, and the requested bundles of matted, pungent fur.
He didn't have to wait long. A figure detached itself from the crowd of students near the Three Broomsticks. It was the "rich kid," walking with a stride that was far too confident for a second-year.
Mundungus plastered a yellowish grin across his face, rubbing his hands together to ward off the chill. "Right on time, lad! Looking for something special to brighten up the winter?" He gestured toward a corner of the suitcase. "The fur you asked for. High quality. Freshly... harvested."
Albert didn't look at the fur. He didn't even look at the suitcase. He looked directly into Mundungus's eyes.
Mundungus felt a sudden, icy shiver that had nothing to do with the Scottish winter. It was the look of a man who was counting the cards in your hand before you'd even dealt them. The Level 4 Occlumency wasn't just a shield; it gave Albert an unnerving stillness, a lack of the usual "tells" that Mundungus relied on to fleece his customers.
"Four Galleons and ten Sickles," Albert said. His voice was flat, devoid of any room for negotiation.
Mundungus blinked, his smile faltering. The price was exact. It was precisely double what he'd paid his "suppliers" in the Knockturn back-alleys. He'd been planning to ask for fifteen.
"Now see here, that's a bit... lean, isn't it?" Mundungus stammered, his eyes darting toward Fred, who was standing a few paces behind Albert, looking significantly more menacing than a twelve-year-old had any right to be. "Risk, transport, the smell—"
"It's a 100% profit margin, Mundungus," Albert interrupted calmly. "I think that's more than reasonable for acting as a middleman. Don't mistake my age for a lack of arithmetic."
Mundungus swallowed hard. He'd dealt with Aurors, dark wizards, and goblin debt collectors, but there was something about this boy's cold logic that was far more intimidating. He realized he wasn't dealing with a "rich kid"; he was dealing with a predator in a school tie.
"Five Galleons," Mundungus whispered, leaning in. "That's my bottom line. I've got overheads, kid."
"A steady stream of business is worth more than a one-time kill," Albert reminded him, his eyes never wavering. "Six Galleons. But you throw in that Silver Arrow."
Mundungus looked at the antique broomstick tucked into the side of his trunk. It was a collector's item—old, handmade, and arguably more of a wall-ornament than a flyer. "Now, wait a minute, that's a classic—"
"Six Galleons for the lot. And tell me," Albert's voice dropped, turning sharp. "Have you found any leads on that Occamy egg? I'm losing my patience with 'black market delays'."
Mundungus winced. "Those things don't grow on trees, lad! Even the shadiest blokes in London are hesitant to move 'em this early in the season." He caught Albert's expression and quickly added, "But I'm looking! I'm looking!"
He took the six Galleons, the gold heavy and satisfying in his palm, and handed over the bundle of fur and the Silver Arrow. Without a word, he prepared to Apparate.
"You're just going to let him slide?" Fred's voice drifted over, sounding genuinely disappointed that a fight hadn't broken out.
Mundungus didn't wait to hear the answer. With a sharp crack, he vanished into the thin winter air.
"He knows when to fold," Albert said, pulling the Moke-skin pouch from his pocket. He fed the Silver Arrow and the bundles of fur into the small opening; the bag swallowed the items whole, barely bulging.
"I honestly thought we were going to have to tackle him," a gruff voice grumbled from the doorway of the Hog's Head.
The Disillusionment Charms on the two boys rippled and faded. Standing there was the owner of the pub, a tall, thin man with a long beard that looked like it hadn't seen a comb since the 1970s. He was looking at the spot where Mundungus had been with a look of profound loathing.
"You look disappointed, Albus," Albert noted, tucking his pouch away. "Did you want me to rob him? I thought you two were 'associates'."
"That scoundrel owes me back rent from 1982," the barman—Albus—snorted. "Seeing him get fleeced by a schoolboy would have been the highlight of my month. Come inside. The village is full of Ministry busybodies today, but nobody comes in here if they value their reputation."
It was a known rule in Hogsmeade: on student weekends, the "shady" elements of the village stayed in the shadows to avoid drawing the attention of the accompanying Professors. The Hog's Head was the unofficial sanctuary for those who didn't want to be seen.
"You really use this place as a black market hub?" Lee Jordan asked, looking around the dim, grimy interior of the pub with wide eyes.
"I'm a pub owner, boy. I sell drinks. What people talk about over those drinks is none of my business," Albus replied, though he didn't deny it. He turned his attention back to Albert. "Now, I want to see it. I've heard rumors from certain 'friends' that you've managed a feat most grown wizards fail at."
"You want the show, you get the show," Albert said. He didn't need to be told twice. He drew his wand, the wood feeling warm in his hand.
He didn't just think of a happy memory; he pulled a specific thread of joy from his mind—the feeling of the first time he'd successfully navigated the system's interface to save a friend.
"Expecto Patronum!"
The pub was suddenly flooded with a blinding, silvery-white light. The shadows that seemed permanently etched into the corners of the Hog's Head fled as a magnificent, corporeal Hippogriff erupted from the tip of Albert's wand. It didn't just float; it prowled. The creature circled the room, its feathered wings shimmering, its beak clicking in a silent, protective challenge.
"Bloody hell," Fred whispered, the light of the Patronus reflecting in his eyes. "Every time I see it, it gets more impressive. I bet that thing could take a Dementor's head clean off."
"I'm more interested in what mine will be," Lee Jordan said, reaching out a hand as if to touch the silver mist. "Do you think mine will be a lion? Or maybe a giant tarantula to scare Ron?"
"If you're curious, stop talking and start practicing," Albert said, dismissing the spell. The light faded, and the gloom of the pub felt twice as heavy by comparison. "I suspect yours and George's will be identical. You two share too many of the same brain cells for them to be different."
"Hey!" George protested, though he was grinning. "I'll have you know my brain cells are much higher quality than Fred's."
"In your dreams," Fred countered.