The middle of February arrived with a biting wind that rattled the windowpanes of the Gryffindor dormitory, but inside the Room of Requirement, the air was still and smelled faintly of ozone and old parchment.
Albert stood in the center of the vast, vaulted space, his wand held high. Over the last week, he had dedicated every spare hour to the "Silver Messenger." The theory Aberforth had provided was sound, but the execution was like trying to sculpt smoke with your bare hands. Every time he tried to imbue the Patronus with a specific phrase, the silvery Hippogriff would either dissolve into a puddle of light or simply stare at him with hollow, glowing eyes, mute as a statue.
"Progress is slow," Albert murmured, wiping sweat from his brow.
His internal system showed his Patronus Charm skill creeping toward Level 3, but the "Advanced" sub-menu remained locked. It was a frustrating bottleneck. He realized that the system wasn't going to hand him the shortcut this time; he needed to reach a certain threshold of raw magical stability before the "Messenger" variant would even register as a learnable skill.
On the bright side, his work with the Undetectable Extension Charm was going significantly better. After dumping a significant chunk of his accumulated experience points into the skill, it had hit Level 2. To test his limits, he had taken a small, palm-sized wooden box and spent an entire evening layering the enchantments.
The result was a masterpiece of spatial manipulation. The box was now deep enough to hold his entire leather suitcase, several stacks of rare books, and a year's supply of potion ingredients. He tucked the box into the bezoar pouch Hagrid had given him—the lizard-skin material was naturally resistant to magical interference, meaning the Ministry's sensors wouldn't pick up the illegal spatial folding unless they literally held the bag under a magnifying glass.
"Portable, discreet, and highly illegal," Albert noted with a smirk. "The perfect wizarding toolkit."
However, his attempts at tailoring were proving to be his greatest challenge. Madam Malkin had sent a polite but firm rejection letter from Diagon Alley. She claimed her schedule was "excessively full with the spring robe rush," but Albert knew the truth: nobody wanted to work with Swamp Digger fur. It was greasy, smelled like a stagnant pond, and had a tendency to "bite back" if the needle wasn't enchanted correctly.
Left to his own devices, Albert had been forced to learn the Tailoring skill the hard way. He'd spent hours cutting up old, discarded robes he found in the Room of Requirement, his fingers pricked and bleeding until the system finally chimed.
[Skill Learned: Tailoring (Level 1)]
Even at Level 1, his work was... questionable. He'd managed to produce a dozen "gloves" that looked more like lumpy wool socks for a three-fingered giant before he finally created a template that actually fit his hand. The Swamp Digger fur sat in a corner, waiting. He wasn't ready to ruin the expensive material just yet; he needed at least Level 2 before he trusted himself with a pair of shears.
As February wore on, the academic hush of the castle was replaced by the roar of Quidditch fever. The Gryffindor versus Slytherin match was looming, and the tension in the common room was thick enough to trip over.
Charlie Weasley had turned into a man possessed. He was dragging the team out for practice in freezing rain, sleet, and gale-force winds. Albert, having already negotiated a "consultant" role that kept him off the pitch, spent his evenings in the library while Fred and George returned to the dormitory looking like drowned rats.
"You're a traitor to the lion, Albert," Fred groaned one evening, collapsing into a chair near the fire. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and he smelled of wet mud. "Charlie had us doing laps until my broom started shivering."
"I told you, I'm much more useful as a cheerleader," Albert said, not looking up from his Arithmancy charts. "Besides, I've seen the Slytherin roster. They've upgraded their brooms to Cleansweep Sevens. Your hardware is falling behind."
"Don't say that," George pleaded, wringing out his cloak. "If you say we're going to lose, the universe listens. You've got that... vibe."
"I'm just being a realist," Albert said. "Gryffindor's spirit is high, but Slytherin's flying is clinical this year. Unless the Seeker catches the Snitch in the first ten minutes, the point gap will be too wide to close."
"Is anyone running a book on this?" Lee Jordan suddenly asked, sliding into the seat next to them. His black eye had finally faded, replaced by a look of pure avarice.
"Lee! We're players!" Fred shouted, though his voice lacked conviction.
"Exactly," Lee whispered. "We know the internal state of the team. If failure is inevitable, shouldn't we at least make enough Galleons to buy a round of Butterbeers to drown our sorrows?"
"Where's your integrity?" Albert asked, though he was mostly amused.
"Our integrity is currently shivering in the rain," George countered. "If we're going to get beat, I want to get paid for the bruise."
"If you're looking for action," a voice murmured from the shadows of a nearby pillar, "I might be able to help."
A tall, thin fifth-year named Kenneth Towler stepped into the light. Kenneth was well-known as one of the castle's premier "fixers." If you wanted smuggled sweets, pre-written essays, or a vial of something the Professors wouldn't approve of, Kenneth was your man. Albert had used him as a distributor for his Healing Potions back in his first year.
"Towler," Albert greeted him. "I thought you were strictly in the pharmaceutical business these days."
"Diversification is the key to a healthy portfolio, Anderson," Kenneth said, leaning against the table. He looked at the twins. "I'm running a pool. Odds are currently three-to-one in favor of Slytherin. If you want to bet against yourselves, I won't tell Charlie. It's practically a tradition."
"We're in," Fred said immediately. "Five Sickles on Slytherin by a sixty-point margin."
"Traitors," a sharp voice barked from the other side of the room.
Percy Weasley strode over, his Prefect badge gleaming in the firelight. He looked scandalized. "I will not have gambling in the common room! And betting against your own house? That's a violation of the school charter, Section four, Paragraph—"
"Oh, stuff it, Percy," George groaned. "It's a hedge bet. If we win, we're happy. If we lose, we're rich. It's basic economics."
"It's disgraceful," Percy snapped. "If Mum finds out you're using your pocket money to bet on Slytherin, she'll howl until the roof comes off. And Charlie? He'll have you cleaning the Quidditch changing rooms with your toothbrushes."
Kenneth Towler waited for Percy to storm off toward the stairs—presumably to find someone to complain to—before turning back to Albert. He ignored the twins entirely now, his eyes fixed on the "Gryffindor Genius."
"The Healing Potions you gave me last semester," Kenneth whispered. "Top tier. I've got a group of seventh-years who swear they're the only thing getting them through their N.E.W.T. prep without collapsing."
"Glad to hear the quality control is holding up," Albert said.
"I heard a rumor you have something even better," Kenneth said, licking his lips. "A bottle of Babbling Beverage. I've got a client who's willing to go high. Twelve Galleons. Straight up."
"Not for sale," Albert said.
"Twelve Galleons is a lot of money for a second-year, Anderson. Why hold onto it?"
"Because it's the grand prize for the Wizarding Card tournament," Albert explained calmly. "And honestly, the market value is closer to fifteen if you find someone desperate enough to cheat on their History of Magic exam."
Kenneth paused, his eyes widening. "Wait... where did you even get a batch that pure? That's not a student-level brew."
"A gift from an old friend. Barnabus Dagworth," Albert said casually.
"The Potions Master?" Kenneth nearly choked. "You know Dagworth? The man hasn't taken an apprentice in twenty years and barely leaves his estate unless there's a convention in Cairo."
"We met at the opera in France last summer," Albert said. It wasn't a lie; they had indeed shared a box. "He found my theories on ingredient stabilization 'quaint' but effective."
The twins and Lee Jordan were staring at Albert. They knew he was well-connected, but hearing him casually drop names of world-renowned Potions Masters was a different level of 'impressive.'
"If you can get more," Kenneth whispered, leaning in closer, "I can move it. You know how it is. Dragon claw powder and Nootropics are easily flagged by the exam proctors. They check for the magical signatures. But Babbling Beverage and Runespoor Eggs? Those are subtle. They don't boost your brain; they just unlock what's already there. The Professors don't even look for them."
"I'll think about it," Albert said, though he already knew he wouldn't. He didn't need the money, and getting caught in an exam-cheating scandal was a fast track to losing his "Model Student" status.
"What's the matter, Lee?" Fred asked, noticing their friend had suddenly gone pale and was gesturing wildly toward the entrance of the common room.
"Over there..." Lee hissed.
Fred and George turned around. Their faces went from 'greedy' to 'terrified' in less than a second.
Charlie Weasley was standing five feet away. He wasn't wearing his Quidditch robes; he was wearing an expression of pure, unadulterated fury. Percy was standing behind him, looking smugly satisfied.
"I heard a very interesting story from Percy," Charlie said, his voice dangerously low. He stepped forward, his massive, calloused hands coming down on Fred and George's shoulders like iron clamps. "Something about my two best Beaters betting on us to lose?"
The twins looked like they wanted to Apparate through the floor.
"Now, Charlie, listen," Fred stammered, his voice up an octave. "It's not what it looks like! We were just... assessing the market!"
"Yeah!" George added quickly. "We don't even have any money! We were betting with... imaginary Galleons! For practice!"