By the time November rolled around, the Scottish Highlands had decided to stop being picturesque and start being hostile. The mountains surrounding Hogwarts had traded their autumn gold for a jagged, pristine white, and the air had a bite that could freeze the marrow in your bones.
Inside the Gryffindor dormitories, the morning sun was little more than a pale, frozen smudge on the frost-patterned windows. Albert was currently engaged in a high-stakes battle with his duvet, convinced that leaving the warmth of his bed was a crime against humanity.
"Damn it! Why is the sky so clear today?"
A frustrated roar shattered the morning silence. George Weasley was standing by the window, glaring at the bright, cloudless sky as if he could intimidate the weather into raining.
"George, for the love of Merlin, put a sock in it," Lee Jordan groaned, pulling his pillow over his head to muffle the noise. "It's too early for your weather reports. Some of us are trying to hibernate."
"It's bloody freezing," Albert muttered from deep within his fortress of blankets. "Close the window before we all wake up as ice sculptures."
Fred poked his head out, his hair looking like an explosion in a ginger factory. He glanced toward the window with a frown. "Are we still doing the Forest run? Can we even find a Flutterby Bush in this frost? They aren't exactly known for being winter hardy."
"The Forest is a bust for today," Albert said, finally sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "But we have an alternative. Today is a Hogsmeade day for the upper years. We're going to the Hog's Head."
"The Hog's Head?" Lee asked, his interest piqued. "Isn't that the place you said was basically a front for the black market?"
"Exactly," Albert replied, his brain finally clicking into gear. "It's the kind of place where people go when they don't want to be seen, and where things are sold that aren't on the shelves of Flourish and Blotts. Since the village will be crawling with students, four more 'third years' wandering around won't even register on the radar. I've grown enough over the summer to pass for fourteen, and with the right confidence, nobody questions you."
The prospect of a "black market" was enough to get the trio moving. The allure of forbidden trade was far more exciting than a cold morning in the castle.
After a quick breakfast where they watched the third years vibrating with excitement, the four of them slipped away. They didn't head for the main gates; instead, they took the long, dusty crawl through the secret passage. By the time they emerged on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, their breath was coming out in thick plumes of white vapor.
"First stop: The Three Broomsticks," Albert suggested, his teeth chattering. "If we don't get some internal heating, I'm going to lose a toe."
The Three Broomsticks was already humming with life. Madam Rosmerta, looking as radiant as ever, blinked in surprise as the four boys walked in. She glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at them. "You lot are early. The carriages haven't even left the school gates yet."
Albert leaned against the bar, flashing a tired but charming smile. "We're overachievers, Madam. And we're freezing. Four Butterbeers, please—extra hot."
"A secret, then?" she chuckled, tapping her nose. "I'll get your drinks. I suppose I should start prepping the kegs; this place is going to be a madhouse in an hour."
As they sat by the roaring fire, the heat of the Butterbeer slowly brought the feeling back to their fingers.
"I could live in this mug," Lee sighed, watching the foam swirl. "We should take a barrel back. Imagine having this on tap in the common room during study sessions."
"Good luck with that," Albert laughed. "Rosmerta won't sell a whole barrel to students. She doesn't want McGonagall breathing down her neck about a dormitory full of tipsy second years."
"Then where do we get the supply?" Fred asked.
Albert glanced toward the door, his eyes narrowing. "The Hog's Head. They don't have 'policies' there. They just have prices."
They finished their drinks and headed back out into the cold, navigating away from the main thoroughfare. Hogsmeade was small, but the Hog's Head was tucked away in an alley that seemed to actively repel sunlight. The sign outside—a severed pig's head dripping blood onto a white cloth—creaked ominously in the wind.
"This is it?" George whispered, staring at the dilapidated building. "It looks like it's being held together by cobwebs and spite."
"It's perfect," Albert said, pushing the door open.
The interior was a shock to the system. If the Three Broomsticks was a warm hug, the Hog's Head was a cold slap in the face. The floor was covered in centuries of what looked like dirt but was probably just unwashed history. The windows were so thick with grime that the light inside was a sickly, jaundiced yellow, provided by half-melted candles. The air didn't smell like cinnamon and hops; it smelled like wet goats and old secrets.
A tall, thin man with a wild mane of gray hair and a beard that looked like it hadn't seen a comb since the 1970s shuffled out from the back. He looked at them with eyes that were unnervingly sharp—vibrant blue eyes that seemed to pierce right through Albert's Occlumency layers.
"What?" the man grunted. His voice was like grinding stones.
"Is this still a functioning pub?" Albert asked, keeping his tone neutral. He didn't let the filth of the counter bother him.
"If you have gold, it's whatever you want it to be," the man replied.
"We want a small keg of Butterbeer. To go," Albert said, placing a Galleon on the wood.
The man didn't say a word. He reached under the counter and produced a small oak barrel that looked like it had been salvaged from a shipwreck. It was covered in dust and sticky residue. He thudded it onto the bar, the weight of it shaking the candles.
"Is it always this heavy?" George asked, trying to lift it.
The barman just watched them, a faint, cynical glint in his eyes, as if waiting for the children to realize they couldn't carry it back to school.
Albert didn't hesitate. He drew his wand in a smooth, practiced motion. "Engorgio may be for the classroom, but Reducio is for the road." With a precise flick, the barrel shrank until it was the size of a large paperweight. Albert scooped it up and slid it into his pocket.
The barman's eyebrows twitched upward. "Clever brat."
"Wait a second," Lee whispered as they turned to leave. "Doesn't he look... familiar? Like, really familiar?"
"He looks like a grumpier, dirtier version of the Headmaster," Fred whispered back.
Albert caught the barman's gaze. "Probably a relative of Professor Dumbledore's," he said, loud enough for the old man to hear. "The eyes are a dead giveaway. Must run in the family."
"Relative of the Great Albus?" George gasped. "Working in a place like this?"
"Everyone has a black sheep," Albert shrugged, but before they could reach the door, a massive shadow blocked their exit.
"What in the name of Merlin are you four doing here?"
Hagrid was standing in the doorway, looking like a mountain in a moleskin coat. He looked down at them, his face a mix of confusion and fatherly concern.
"Morning, Hagrid," Albert said brightly. "Beautiful weather for a stroll, isn't it?"
"You shouldn't be here," Hagrid grumbled, ushering them further back into the pub so they weren't standing in the freezing wind. "This isn't a place for kids. And wait—you're second years! You aren't even supposed to be in Hogsmeade!"
"Hagrid, we were just discussing family trees," Albert interrupted, gesturing toward the barman. "I was just telling the guys that Mr. Aberforth here has the exact same eyes as the Headmaster. Remarkable resemblance, don't you think?"
Hagrid froze, his giant beard twitching. "Er... well... family matters are family matters, Albert. Don't go poking your nose where it don't belong." He looked at Aberforth, who was glaring at him. "I see you've met. Aberforth, don't mind them, they're just... inquisitive."
"They're rule-breakers," Aberforth grunted, but he didn't sound particularly offended. "I like them better than the usual sheep Albus herds around."
"Speaking of herding," Albert turned to Hagrid. "Are you here for Fluffy's supplies?"
"Fluffy?" Fred's ears perked up. "What's a Fluffy?"
"Hagrid's new pet," Albert explained. "A real sweetheart, if you like things that can swallow a sofa whole."
"He's a puppy!" Hagrid defended, though he looked flustered. "And he's very sensitive to the rain. I was just... checking in on some things."
"Hagrid, we came here for the black market," Albert said, dropping the pleasantries. "We wanted to see if the rumors were true. Honestly? A bit underwhelmed. It's mostly just dust and goat hair."
"The black market?" Hagrid's eyes widened. "What could you possibly need from the black market?"
"Runespoor eggs," Albert said calmly.
The silence that followed was heavy. Even Aberforth stopped wiping his glass.
"You want to eat a three-headed snake's eggs?" Hagrid asked, sounding horrified. "Why? To see if they'll hatch?"
"No, to see if they'll make me smarter," Albert said. "Legend says they're the ultimate brain food. And while I'm doing okay in classes, I wouldn't mind an extra edge."
"You're already the smartest kid in your year, Anderson," Hagrid sighed. "If you get any smarter, you'll start growing a second head yourself."
"How much do they go for, Mr. Aberforth?" Albert asked, ignoring Hagrid's protest.
Aberforth leaned over the bar. "Rare. Illegal to trade without a permit. You're looking at ten Galleons an egg, if you find someone who isn't trying to sell you painted stones."
"Ten Galleons? I'll take two," Albert said, reaching into his pouch. "If they're authentic. I know the magical signature of a Runespoor; don't try to pass off a basilisk egg or a common adder."
Aberforth stared at Albert for a long time. He wasn't looking at a student anymore; he was looking at a customer. "Decisive. I like that. But I don't keep that kind of heat in the cellar."
"Aberforth, don't encourage him!" Hagrid pleaded.
"Relax, Hagrid," Albert said. "It's a business transaction. Mr. Aberforth, do you know someone?"
The barman reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold coin. "One Galleon for the name of a man who can get you anything—provided you don't mind the smell of tobacco and stolen goods."
Albert tossed the coin. Aberforth caught it mid-air with a practiced snap.
"Mundungus Fletcher," Aberforth said. "He's a scavenger. A thief. But if it exists and it's illegal, Dung can find it."
"Mundungus?" Hagrid made a face of pure disgust. "That man would sell his own mother for a pint of bad ale."
"Which makes him the perfect business partner," Albert noted.
Aberforth suddenly raised his wand. A burst of silver light erupted from the tip, forming a wispy shape that vanished through the wall.
"A Patronus?" Fred gasped. "I thought those were only for Dementors!"
"It's for messages," Albert explained, though he kept his eyes on Aberforth. "Very clever. I assume you're calling Mr. Fletcher?"
"He's nearby," Aberforth said, his eyes lingering on Albert. "How does a second-year know about the messaging properties of a Patronus? That's a trick Albus keeps close to his chest."
"I read a lot," Albert lied smoothly. "And I have a feeling the Headmaster isn't the only Dumbledore with a few tricks up his sleeve."
The tension in the room was electric. Albert knew he was playing a dangerous game, rubbing elbows with the darker side of the wizarding world, but as he felt the weight of the shrunken beer barrel in his pocket and waited for a professional thief to arrive, he knew one thing for sure: Hogwarts was only the beginning of his education.