The corridors of Hogwarts were currently buzzing with a story so entertaining it had even managed to distract the fifth-years from their impending O.W.L. anxiety. It wasn't about a Quidditch foul or a forbidden romance, but rather the tale of a certain Ravenclaw who had successfully managed to outmaneuver the most feared man in the dungeons.
Albert Anderson, the student in question, had recently become the subject of intense scrutiny from Severus Snape. The Potions Master, whose nose for trouble was as keen as his nose for rare ingredients, had caught wind of the "Babbling Beverage" craze. Naturally, his first instinct wasn't curiosity, but a desire to shut it down with the clinical efficiency of a guillotine.
The confrontation had taken place during a particularly chilly afternoon tea—a "request" that was more of a summons. Snape had loomed over Albert, his voice a low, dangerous silk, claiming that most Babbling Beverages brewed by amateur wizards were little more than bottled neurotoxins. He argued that consuming such a concoction was an express ticket to permanent cognitive impairment and demanded that Albert hand over his remaining supply for "safety inspections."
Albert, however, had met that dark gaze with a calm that bordered on the infuriating. He politely explained that his supply was sourced directly from the legendary Potions Master, Hertok Dagworth. It was safe, reliable, and—most importantly—already gone. He had finished the last drop that morning and, as far as he could tell, his mental faculties were still firing on all cylinders.
Witnesses to the aftermath claimed Snape's face had turned a shade of mottled parchment. He had docked points for "reckless endangerment" and assigned a week's worth of detention, but the victory was hollow. The school rules, archaic as they were, didn't actually forbid the consumption of Babbling Beverage. It was only mentioned in the fine print of the examination guidelines as a prohibited substance for cheating—much like Felix Felicis.
The comparison alone was enough to set the student body on fire. Felix Felicis and Babbling Beverage occupied the same tier of alchemical myth; they were the "Holy Grails" of the cauldron. They weren't just difficult to brew; they were temperamental, requiring ingredients that cost a small fortune and a level of precision that made even veteran brewers break out in a cold sweat. One degree too hot, one stir too many, and you weren't looking at a masterpiece—you were looking at a puddle of expensive, toxic sludge.
In the shadowy corners of the British wizarding black market, these potions were ghosts. You could find Dragon Blood or powdered Bicorn horn if you had the right connections, but Babbling Beverage? That was something people only talked about in hushed tones over firewhisky. And yet, here was a fourteen-year-old Ravenclaw casually sipping it between Charms and Transfiguration.
The realization hit the student body like a Bludger: Albert wasn't just a brilliant student; he had a direct line to the elite world of international Potioneers.
Predictably, the "entrepreneurs" of Hogwarts were the first to circle. Kenneth Towler, a boy whose ambition for gold far outstripped his talent for Herbology, had been tracking the price fluctuations with the intensity of a Gringotts goblin.
"Twenty Galleons," Kenneth hissed, catching up with Albert in the stone-paved corridor leading toward the Great Hall. "That's the floor, Albert. The Slytherins are practically throwing their inheritance at me for a single vial. They want those Ministry internships, and they're willing to pay for the 'mental edge' to get the grades."
Albert adjusted his bag, his expression unreadable. "It's a lot of money for something that wears off after a few hours."
"It's not just money, it's a future!" Kenneth countered, his eyes wide. "The pureblood families don't care about a few dozen Galleons if it means their kid isn't a laughingstock in the Daily Prophet. But I'm tapped out. I've checked every contact from Knockturn Alley to Hogsmeade. No one has it. Is there really no way to squeeze out a few more bottles?"
Albert sighed, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "You're looking at this the wrong way, Kenneth. If you want to make a quick buck without the risk of an explosion, sell dragon claw powder. It's the standard for a reason. It sharpens the mind, clears the fog, and most importantly, it won't turn your internal organs into jelly if it's a week old."
Kenneth pulled a face, looking like he'd swallowed a flobberworm. "Dragon claw powder is a nightmare right now. Didn't you hear? Last year, some idiot got caught using it mid-exam because he started glowing faintly green. And just last week, some bottom-feeder tried to pass off dried Fubbles' dung as the real deal. A Slytherin third-year bought it, ate it, and spent three days in the Hospital Wing having his stomach pumped."
"A tragic end for a shitty product," Albert remarked dryly.
"It gets worse," Kenneth whispered, leaning in. "The guy who sold it ended up in the bed next to him. Apparently, he decided to 'sample the inventory' to prove it was safe and got hit with severe food poisoning. Now the whole market is spooked. Nobody trusts the powders. They want the liquid gold. They want the potion."
Albert stopped walking and looked Kenneth in the eye. "You want to know why I'm not brewing more? It's not just the skill. It's the Runespoor eggs. They are restricted, expensive, and nearly impossible to import without the Ministry breathing down your neck. Unless..." He paused, a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes. "Well, I suppose Snape keeps a jar of them in his private stores. But I don't think he'd appreciate a midnight raid."
Kenneth's jaw dropped. For a second, Albert thought the boy might actually consider breaking into the dungeons. "Are you mental? I'm looking to get rich, not get expelled and then probably murdered."
"Good," Albert said, patting him on the shoulder. "Then you understand the difficulty. Forget the potion, Kenneth. It's a dead end for anyone who isn't a Master."
But Kenneth wasn't deterred. The scent of gold was too strong. "But if you have the knowledge... if you have the notes... surely there's a middle ground?"
Albert feigned a moment of deep thought. "Tell you what. I won't brew it for you. But I do have a copy of the refined formula—the one Hertok Dagworth himself uses, complete with my own annotations on heat stabilization. I'll sell you the parchment for ten Galleons. That's a steal considering it's a trade secret."
Kenneth looked at him as if he had just offered to sell him the deed to the Forbidden Forest. "Ten Galleons for a piece of paper? Are you out of your mind? Or am I the one who's losing it?"
"You're definitely the one losing it if you think you can brew this without those notes," Albert replied smoothly. "Think of it as an investment. If you manage to get the ingredients and follow the instructions to the letter, you could sell a single batch for five hundred Galleons. But fair warning: if you mess up the lunar-timed stirring, you'll lose everything—including your eyebrows."
Kenneth stood frozen, his brain clearly doing the math. The risk was astronomical, but the reward was the kind of money that changed lives. "Ten Galleons... alright. Fine. But I want the original draft. I want to see the Dagworth seal."
"You're truly obsessed," Albert muttered, though he couldn't help but admire the sheer greed driving the boy. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a rolled scroll, tied with a thin silver ribbon. "I'm telling you now, Kenneth: don't do it. You'll end up bankrupt and smelling like sulfur for a month."
"We'll see," Kenneth said, grabbing the scroll with trembling hands. He didn't even look back as he hurried away, likely heading for the owlery to contact his family's suppliers.
As soon as Kenneth vanished around the corner, three shadows detached themselves from the stone pillars nearby. Fred, George, and Lee Jordan stepped into the light, their expressions a mix of awe and pity.
"You really just sold him a death warrant, didn't you?" Fred asked, shaking his head.
"He's going to spend his entire summer over a cauldron and end up with nothing but a hole in his floor," George added, grinning.
"Do you really think he has zero chance?" Lee Jordan asked, looking at the spot where Kenneth had disappeared. "I mean, he's a bit of a prat, but he's determined."
Albert watched the empty corridor for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. "Determination doesn't stop a potion from becoming volatile. Even Dagworth says the failure rate is nearly forty percent for experts. For a student? It's closer to ninety. The ingredients are so reactive that even a change in humidity can ruin the batch."
He started walking again, the twins and Lee falling into step beside him.
"So the ten Galleons was basically a 'stupid tax'?" Lee chuckled.
"Think of it as a very expensive lesson in economics," Albert corrected. "He wanted a shortcut to a fortune. I gave him the map, but I never told him the bridge was out. Besides, even if he manages to produce a 'failed' version, it's often toxic. I'd rather he waste his money on a formula than waste his life drinking a botched brew."
"You're a cold one, Anderson," Fred laughed, throwing an arm over Albert's shoulder. "A cold, rich one."
"Just practical," Albert replied as they entered the Great Hall, the warmth of the floating candles and the scent of roast beef greeting them. "In this world, people either pay for the product or they pay for the experience. Kenneth just chose the latter."