The morning sun struggled to pierce through the heavy mist surrounding the Great Hall, but the atmosphere inside was already electric. George Weasley was hunched over a copy of the Daily Prophet, his eyes scanning the columns with a frantic intensity that suggested he'd either found a winning lottery number or a death warrant.
"Look at this! Just look at it!" George suddenly yelled, slamming his hand onto the table. The noise echoed off the enchanted ceiling, causing several younger students to jump and spilling a fair amount of pumpkin juice.
"Keep it down, you lunatic!" Lee Jordan snapped, glaring at the soggy slice of toast he'd just dropped. "Some of us are trying to enjoy a peaceful breakfast before a double dose of History of Magic. What's got your wand in a knot?"
Albert, meanwhile, was the picture of composure. He stifled a yawn, lazily spreading a thick layer of strawberry jam onto a piece of bread. He took a slow, deliberate bite before leaning over to see what had George so riled up.
The headline was bold and uncompromising: MINISTRY ISSUES EMERGENCY WARNING ON COGNITIVE ENHANCERS.
The article was a scathing report on the "Baruffio's Brain Elixir" craze. It cited the recent poisoning at Hogwarts as a prime example of why students should stay far away from black-market potions. The Ministry's stance was clear: every bottle currently in circulation was toxic, a failed byproduct of incompetent brewing, and anyone caught with it would face severe disciplinary action.
"I thought it was going to be actual news," Albert said, yawning again. "It's just a scare tactic. Classic Ministry of Magic."
"A scare tactic?" Lee reached for the paper, squinting at the text. "They're calling it 'deadly venom,' Albert. That doesn't sound like a light warning. You think they're lying?"
"Not lying, exactly," Albert muttered, finishing his sandwich. "But they're definitely leaning into the drama. It's a clever move, really. It's far more effective than passing a new law. Laws have loopholes, and teenagers love finding them. But fear? Fear is universal. If you tell a kid that a potion will help them pass, they'll take the risk. If you tell them it'll turn their brain into mush and make them the laughingstock of the Daily Prophet, they'll think twice."
He pursed his lips, looking at the accompanying photo of the violet-skinned Slytherin student being wheeled into St. Mungo's. "It's a bit rough on that guy, though. He's basically become the national poster child for 'Don't be an Idiot.'"
"Well, if nobody's buying, your little side project is dead in the water, isn't it?" Fred asked, closing the paper and looking at Albert with a sympathetic tilt of his head. "Tough break, mate."
Albert shot them a mysterious look. "Don't you three know anything about brand management?"
"Brand what?" the three of them asked in unison, looking entirely lost.
"Think about Floo Powder," Albert explained, grabbing another fried egg. "Would you buy your Floo Powder from a mysterious man in Knockturn Alley, or would you go to the Floo-Poom Company? There are always rumors of fake powder that can blow your fireplace halfway across the county, but that only makes the reputable brands more valuable. By declaring everything else on the market as poison, the Ministry has accidentally created a monopoly for anyone who can actually produce the real thing."
The twins and Lee shared a long look. The cogs were turning, but they weren't quite at Albert's level yet. "I think I get it," George whispered. "But becoming a 'reputable brand' while still in third year... that's a tall order even for you."
"I just gave an example," Albert said with a shrug.
At that moment, the morning mail arrived. The Great Hall was suddenly filled with the rush of hundreds of wings as owls descended. It was a chaotic symphony of hoots and flapping feathers, and Albert made sure to pull his plate closer to avoid any unwanted "additions" from the sky.
He received two letters and a surprisingly heavy package wrapped in plain brown paper.
"No return address," George noted, leaning in. "Secret admirer?"
"Not exactly."
Albert carefully opened the package under the table. Inside was a small velvet bag. When he shifted it, the distinct, heavy clink of metal against metal echoed softly. He quickly pulled it into his lap, catching the glint of gold through the drawstring. He'd made a killing on the recent "refund" and the subsequent private sales of his legitimate focus potions.
"You've struck gold!" Fred hissed, his eyes wide. "How much is in there?"
Albert raised three fingers and gave them a quick shake.
"Three hundred?" Lee whispered, his jaw dropping.
"I didn't say that," Albert replied, slipping the bag into his pocket.
"But will they even use it now?" Fred asked. "With the Ministry being so aggressive about 'cheating checks' this year?"
Albert let out a soft, disdainful snort. "If the Ministry could actually detect high-quality cognitive enhancers, half the Wizengamot would be in Azkaban. They check for dragon's claw powder and basic stimulants because those leave a trace in the breath or the skin. But a perfectly balanced potion like Baruffio's? It integrates with the brain's natural chemistry. Detecting it is like trying to find a specific drop of water in the ocean. It's a waste of resources, and they know it."
He took a sip of juice. "The danger isn't being caught; it's being poisoned. And since I'm the only one in the castle who isn't selling toxic sludge, my 'brand' is doing just fine."
"Mr. Anderson," a sharp, familiar voice called out behind him.
Albert didn't jump. He calmly set his fork down and turned to see Professor McGonagall standing there, her expression as stern as ever.
"Good morning, Professor," Albert said.
"Professor Dumbledore would like a word with you in his office," she said, her eyes flickering toward the twins. "Immediately, if you please."
"I have Charms in ten minutes, Professor," Albert noted politely.
"Mr. Weasley," McGonagall said, looking directly at George. "Please inform Professor Flitwick that Mr. Anderson has been detained by the Headmaster. He will be excused from his first lesson."
"Good luck," George mouthed as Albert stood up. He tossed his bag to George, gave a quick wave to the table, and followed the Deputy Headmistress out of the Hall.
Albert wasn't worried. He knew exactly what this was about. The letter he'd sent to Dumbledore—the one with the photograph of the "dangerous object"—was a hook, and the Headmaster had bitten. Albert had spent the previous evening refining the narrative in his head, blending just enough truth with plausible mystery to ensure he came out of this looking like a concerned student rather than a meddling genius.
They walked in silence through the corridors, eventually stopping before the stone gargoyle.
"Chocolate Frog," McGonagall said clearly.
The gargoyle leapt aside, and the wall split to reveal the spiral stone staircase. Albert stepped onto the moving stairs, riding them up to the heavy oak doors of the Headmaster's office. McGonagall knocked once, ushered him inside, and then turned to leave, leaving Albert alone in the circular room.
Dumbledore wasn't there. Albert took the opportunity to look around, his eyes tracing the delicate silver instruments whirring on spindle-legged tables and the sleeping portraits of past leaders. He didn't have to wait long. Dumbledore entered from a side door, looking as though he'd just come from a brisk morning walk.
"Mr. Anderson," Dumbledore said, a warm, grandfatherly smile on his face. "I received your letter. Quite an intriguing discovery you've made."
"If you're interested in the crown from the photo, sir, I can show you the way right now," Albert said directly. He knew Dumbledore appreciated efficiency over long-winded introductions.
"Then let us not dally," Dumbledore agreed, gesturing back toward the door.
As they walked down the stairs, Dumbledore kept a brisk pace. "Tell me, Albert, what is your personal assessment of this object? You mentioned 'whispers.'"
"It's hard to put into words, sir," Albert said softly. "It felt... old. And hungry. Not like a beast, but like a memory that wants to be heard. I've read enough about Dark Arts artifacts to know that when an object starts talking back, it's best to call in an expert."
"A very wise decision," Dumbledore said. "Most students would have tried to clean it up or, worse, wear it."
They reached the seventh-floor corridor, stopping in front of the blank stretch of wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.
"Here we are," Albert said. "I call it the Room of Requirement. It's a bit of a hidden gem."
"The Room of Requirement?" Dumbledore looked at the wall with genuine interest. "A fitting name. You know, I believe I stumbled upon this place once when I was in desperate need of a bathroom. It provided a spectacular collection of chamber pots. I've never been able to find it again."
"It requires a very specific intent," Albert explained.
He walked past the wall three times, concentrating on the need for the place where everything is hidden. When the ornate door materialized, he stepped back to let Dumbledore enter first.
The Headmaster stepped into the cavernous space, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the mountains of broken furniture, thousands of forbidden books, and the general debris of a millennium.
"Remarkable," Dumbledore whispered. "I suspected Hogwarts held such a reservoir, but to see it..."
"I wasn't the one who found it first," Albert admitted, briefly explaining how he, Fred, and George had stumbled upon the room's basics during their late-night adventures.