The walk back from the Great Hall was punctuated by the rhythmic clinking of the ten Galleons in Albert's pocket, a sound that seemed to physically agitate Fred, George, and Lee Jordan. It wasn't just the money—though ten Galleons was a small fortune for a third-year—it was the effortless, almost casual way Albert had extracted it from a shark like Kenneth Towler.
"You didn't even have to lift a quill," George muttered, his voice a mix of awe and a slightly wounded sense of entrepreneurial pride. "He handed over the gold for a recipe you probably have memorized anyway. No transcription, no sourcing, no risk. It's... it's beautiful, Albert. Evil, but beautiful."
They ducked into a quiet alcove near the moving staircases. George leaned in, checking over his shoulder for any lingering Prefects or particularly nosy portraits. "But seriously, why sell the map when you could own the gold mine? We know how good you are at Potions. Even Snape, as much as it pains him, can't find a flaw in your work. Why not just brew a batch of the real stuff? We could split the profits. A bottle is going for fifty Galleons on the black market now. Fifty! We'd be richer than the Malfoys by the end of term."
Albert stopped and looked at the three of them. The sunlight filtering through the high, arched windows caught the silver Ravenclaw crest on his robes. He didn't look like a black-market mogul; he looked like a student who found the entire conversation mildly exhausting.
"Listen to yourselves," Albert said, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. "You're talking about Babbling Beverage like it's a simple batch of Cure for Boils. Do you honestly think a Potion that mimics the effects of high-level cognitive enhancement is just a matter of following a checklist?"
He gestured vaguely toward the direction of the dungeons. "Think back to our last Potions practical. Remember what happened to Bulstrode's cauldron? It didn't just turn the wrong color; it started eating through the floorboards. Now imagine that level of volatility applied to something as delicate as the human brain. Most 'Potions Masters'—and I use that term loosely for the average shopkeeper—wouldn't touch this recipe with a ten-foot pole. It requires a level of intuition and magical stability that you can't teach. If I brewed it, I'd have to spend weeks perfecting the environment, and even then, I'd be sweating until the final drop was bottled."
He looked at George. "Would you drink a potion brewed by someone who was just 'trying their best' in a school bathroom? Because that's what most people are buying on the market right now: liquid Russian roulette."
The twins and Lee shared a look. The memory of various "accidents" in the Hospital Wing—ranging from sprouted feathers to temporary liquefaction of the skeletal structure—cooled their excitement considerably.
"And Kenneth?" Fred asked, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He looked like he was ready to start a fire in his dormitory tonight."
"Kenneth is a true warrior of capitalism," Albert said, though his tone suggested 'warrior' was a synonym for 'idiot.' "I gave him every warning. I told him the costs would bankrupt him. If he proceeds, he's gambling his life savings on a skill set he doesn't possess. And if he tries to sell some diluted, botched failure to the Slytherins? Well, Snape won't just dock points. He'll make sure Kenneth spends the rest of his Hogwarts career scrubbing bedpans without magic."
A ripple of schadenfreude passed through the group. They knew Kenneth's greed, and the thought of it leading him directly into Snape's crosshairs was an entertainment prospect worth more than ten Galleons.
However, Albert's own "talk" with the authorities came much sooner than expected.
He was intercepted by Terence Higgs, the Slytherin Seeker, while crossing the courtyard. Higgs looked around nervously, his usual arrogance replaced by a hurried, business-like focus.
"Anderson," Higgs grunted. "Snape's in a foul mood. Worse than usual. He wants to see you in his office immediately. I'd advise you to leave the attitude at the door."
"Thanks for the heads-up, Terence," Albert replied easily.
Higgs lingered for a moment. "And look... some people in my house—people with very deep pockets—asked me to mention that if you happen to find another bottle of that... specific vintage... they're willing to go high. Very high. Triple what Towler is asking."
Albert shrugged, looking genuinely apologetic. "I wish I could help, but that bottle was a one-off. A personal gift from a friend. I don't have a secret stash, and I'm not looking to start a manufacturing plant."
Higgs looked disappointed but nodded. "Shame. I'd have liked to see what a whole team of us on that stuff could do against Gryffindor. Oh, and by the way, I'm still waiting for a rematch on the Wizarding Cards. I've refined my deck."
"I look forward to it," Albert said.
As Higgs walked away, the twins popped out from behind a suit of armor like they'd been spring-loaded.
"Developing a Slytherin contact?" George asked, eyebrows raised. "That's bold, even for you."
"Terence is alright," Albert said, pocketing a small note Higgs had slipped him. "He's competitive, which makes him the perfect person to run the Slytherin branch of the Card Game league. He wants to win, and he knows I'm the one who can provide the platform for it."
He checked his pocket watch. "But duty calls. I have a date with a dungeon bat."
Walking into Snape's office was like stepping into a cold, damp tomb that smelled of pickled intestines and bitter resentment. Snape was sitting behind his desk, his hands steepled, his eyes fixed on the door with a predatory stillness.
"Mr. Anderson," Snape began, his voice barely a whisper. "Do you enjoy being the center of attention? Does it please you to be the subject of every puerile rumor in this castle?"
Albert remained standing, his posture relaxed but respectful. "Not particularly, Professor. I find the attention rather distracting from my studies."
"Then perhaps you can explain," Snape hissed, leaning forward until the candlelight caught the oily sheen of his hair, "why you are effectively running a black-market operation for Class B restricted substances within my school. Babbling Beverage is not a toy. It is a controlled trade item, restricted by the Ministry for a reason."
"I haven't broken any laws, sir," Albert replied calmly. "Neither the Ministry's nor the school's. I didn't sell the potion. I didn't trade it. It was my personal property, given to me by a friend, and I used it as I saw fit."
Snape's lip curled. "A friend? You expect me to believe that a third-year student has 'friends' who hand out potions that cost more than a Ministry official's monthly salary? Every drop of that potion currently circulating in Britain is toxic trash. It is poison, Anderson. Plain and simple."
"I am well aware of the market's quality control issues," Albert said. He didn't blink. "Which is why I only trust sources I know. The bottle I had was brewed by Hertok Dagworth. I believe you're familiar with his work? We've been corresponding for some time now."
The mention of Dagworth's name acted like a physical blow. Snape's expression shifted from cold fury to a flicker of genuine surprise. Dagworth was a titan in the field, a man whose reputation was beyond reproach.
"You... correspond with Dagworth?" Snape repeated, his voice laced with suspicion.
"Yes, sir. He was kind enough to send me a sample of his latest batch as a gesture of... academic appreciation. I can assure you, with my hand on my heart, that it was perfectly balanced and entirely non-toxic."
Snape slammed a hand onto the desk. "And yet you drank it! Undiluted! Do you have any idea how reckless that is? One minor impurity, one slight imbalance in your own magical core at the moment of ingestion, and your brain would have been reduced to the consistency of overcooked porridge. Are you truly this arrogant, or has your head simply been caught in a door one too many times?"
Albert didn't flinch at the insult. "I trusted the brewer, and I trusted my own assessment of the liquid's stability. The results, I think, speak for themselves. I feel quite sharp."
Snape stared at him for a long, silent minute. The fury was still there, but it was being tempered by a realization. He couldn't punish Albert for having famous friends, and he couldn't prove the potion was dangerous because the evidence had been swallowed. He knew about the Ministry apology incident—everyone did. Pushing Anderson too hard usually resulted in a headache for the person doing the pushing.
"Get out," Snape said, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "And if I hear so much as a whisper of you distributing anything else—recipe or otherwise—I will see you expelled before the sun sets."
"Thank you for the advice, Professor," Albert said politely. He turned and walked out, the heavy door thudding shut behind him.
He hadn't even made it to the end of the corridor before Fred and George intercepted him again.
"He sounded like he was trying to scream without opening his mouth," Fred noted, impressed. "How many weeks of detention?"
"None," Albert said, adjusting his robes. "I just corrected a few of his assumptions regarding my social circle. It's hard to give detention for being well-connected."
"You're a true brave one, Albert," George said, giving him a thumbs-up. "Staring down the bat and walking away without a scratch. You're practically a legend at this point."
"I wouldn't go that far," Albert said. "I just want things to get back to normal. This whole potion craze is getting out of hand."
But as they reached the Entrance Hall, they saw a crowd gathered around the notice board. Lee Jordan came running toward them, his face a mask of disbelief and excitement.
"You won't believe it!" Lee gasped. "Kenneth! He's done it! Somehow, he's got his hands on three more bottles. He's selling them right now in the common room—thirty-five Galleons each, and people are actually lining up!"