While Albert was busy deconstructing the man standing in front of him, Aberforth Dumbledore was doing exactly the same to Albert.
In the eyes of a man who had survived over a century of wizarding wars, family tragedies, and the general madness of the magical world, Albert Anderson was an anomaly. Most children his age were busy worrying about Quidditch scores or the proper wand flick for a Levitation Charm. But this boy? This boy sat in the filthiest pub in Britain with the poise of a seasoned diplomat.
Everything about Albert—the way he phrased his questions, his lack of revulsion at the grime-coated walls, the measured weight of his silences—screamed maturity. It wasn't just that he was smart; it was that he had a purpose. Aberforth had seen that look before. He'd seen it in his brother's eyes decades ago. It was the look of someone who didn't just live in the world, but intended to rewrite its rules.
He's wasted in Gryffindor, Aberforth thought, leaning back and crossing his thin arms. The hat should have dumped him in Ravenclaw, or perhaps somewhere even more ambitious. Outside, the first trickle of Hogwarts students began to appear on the Hogsmeade High Street. Their laughter and chatter drifted through the cracks in the walls, sounding like a transmission from a different planet. None of them looked toward the side road. The Hog's Head had a way of being invisible to those who didn't already have darkness in their hearts.
Hagrid didn't leave. He sat there like a massive, hairy guardian, occupying nearly half of a rough wooden table near the door. He was clearly vibrating with anxiety, his large hands twisting a dirty napkin into a rope. He didn't trust Albert to be left alone with Aberforth, and he certainly didn't trust the "business partner" who was about to arrive.
To pass the time, Albert pulled out his deck of Wizard Cards.
"Interested in a game, Hagrid? It's a great way to settle the nerves," Albert offered, sliding a card across the table.
Hagrid glanced at the card—a hand-drawn depiction of a Norwegian Ridgeback—and sighed. "Not now, Albert. I'm too busy worrying about what Professor McGonagall will say if she finds out I let you sit in a den of thieves."
Aberforth, however, reached out and snatched a card. It was the Albus Dumbledore card. He stared at his brother's moving image for a long time, his expression unreadable.
"It's a clever bit of magic," Aberforth admitted, flicking the card with a calloused fingernail. "But if you want people to actually pay for this, stop making them look like school projects. They're rough. Raw. If you're going to sell a dream, you have to polish the edges so the buyer doesn't see the seams."
"We're on a five-year development plan," Albert replied, unfazed by the critique. "Phase one is mechanics. Phase two is aesthetics. We're currently in the 'make it work' stage."
Before Aberforth could respond, a sharp, violent CRACK echoed from the alleyway outside. It was the sound of someone Apparating with more haste than grace.
"Aberforth!" a wheezy, raspy voice called from the doorway.
"Why doesn't he come in?" Lee Jordan whispered, leaning toward Fred. "Is he allergic to the indoors?"
"Aberforth doesn't allow him inside," Hagrid grunted, his voice dropping an octave. "Mundungus Fletcher has sticky fingers. Last time he was in here, half the copper pots went missing, and Aberforth doesn't take kindly to people stealing from the bar. Especially when there's so little worth stealing."
Mundungus Fletcher stood in the threshold, framed by the pale November light. He was a short, squat man with bow legs and a complexion that suggested he spent most of his life underground. He smelled of stale pipe smoke, unwashed wool, and something vaguely chemical. His eyes were bloodshot and baggy, darting around with the frantic energy of a cornered rat.
"Aberforth, Merlin's beard, man! You nearly gave me a heart attack with that Patronus," Mundungus panted. "I was in the middle of... a very delicate negotiation."
"Negotiating the price of a stolen cauldron, no doubt," Aberforth retorted. He jerked a thumb toward Albert. "Here's the customer I told you about."
Mundungus stopped mid-pant. He looked at Albert, then at the twins, then back at Aberforth. A slow, mocking grin spread across his face, revealing a row of yellowing teeth. "You're joking. Tell me you're joking, Abe. I Apparated all the way from London for a bunch of schoolboys? This isn't funny."
"I assure you, nobody here is laughing," Albert said. He didn't stand up. He just sat there, looking at Mundungus with a gaze so cold it seemed to drop the room's temperature by another five degrees.
Mundungus flinched slightly. He'd expected a wide-eyed kid looking for a thrill. Instead, he found himself being dissected by a boy who looked like he knew exactly how much Mundungus's coat was worth on the secondary market.
"He wants Runespoor eggs," Aberforth said.
"Runespoor eggs?" Mundungus barked a laugh. "Kid, do you even know what those are? They're Grade A Non-Tradeable Goods. They're hot. They're expensive. And I highly doubt you've got the Galleons to even look at one, let alone buy two."
Mundungus turned to leave, his coat tail flapping. "Waste of my bloody time."
"Maybe we should establish a baseline of trust first," Albert called out. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a weight that made Mundungus stop in his tracks.
The thief turned back slowly. "Trust? In this business? You've been reading too many adventure books, lad."
"I'm not talking about friendship," Albert clarified, a thin, dangerous smile touching his lips. "I'm talking about a track record. You provide, I pay. We do that a few times, and suddenly, you realize I'm a more reliable source of income than the fences you usually deal with."
Mundungus narrowed his eyes. "And what does a 'reliable' customer want as a starter?"
"A barrel of salt," Albert said.
The room went silent. Fred and George looked at each other, utterly bewildered. Hagrid blinked. Even Mundungus looked like he'd been hit with a Confundus Charm.
"A barrel of salt?" Mundungus repeated. "You want me to risk my reputation for... seasoning?"
"A specific grade of industrial sea salt," Albert corrected. "And I'll pay a Galleon for the delivery. Straight to the point, no questions asked."
Mundungus felt an itch at the back of his neck. He looked into Albert's eyes and felt a strange sensation—like the boy was reading his thoughts before he even had them. It was unnerving. He'd dealt with Aurors, Dark Wizards, and goblins, but this child felt... different. Calculated.
"What do you want a barrel of salt for?" Mundungus asked, his voice losing some of its bravado.
"To pickle my enemies," Albert joked, though his expression remained deadpan. "Or maybe just to preserve some ingredients. Does it matter? A Galleon for fifteen minutes of work. Do you want the money or should I ask Aberforth for a different name?"
Albert reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of gold. The coins clinked together—a bright, heavy sound that acted like a magnet for Mundungus's eyes.
"Fifteen minutes," Mundungus grunted. "If this is a prank, kid, you'll find out why they call me 'Dung'." He disappeared with a loud POP.
"Salt, Albert?" Hagrid asked, leaning in with a heavy frown. "What's the real game here? You don't need a thief for salt. You can buy that in the village for a few Sickles."
"It's not about the salt, Hagrid," Albert explained, watching the spot where Mundungus had vanished. "It's about the delivery. If he can get me something as mundane as salt without trying to overcharge me or steal my wand, then I know he can handle the eggs. It's a test of his professionalism."
"He's a thief, Albert! He doesn't have professionalism!" Hagrid groaned. "He'll probably just steal it from a local butcher and charge you a 1000% markup."
"As long as I get the salt, I don't care where it comes from," Albert said.
"You also said thieves aren't to be trusted," Fred reminded him, grinning. "I remember you gave us a whole lecture on it when we were looking at those 'guaranteed' prank kits in the back of the Prophet."
"Did I?" Albert raised an eyebrow. "I must have been having a slow day. Besides, I don't need to trust him. I just need him to be afraid of losing a high-paying customer. And I hold grudges very, very well."
"Since when?" George asked. "You're the most laid-back guy in the tower."
"Since I realized that in the wizarding world, being 'nice' is a luxury, but being 'useful' is a shield," Albert replied.
Lee Jordan shook his head. "Truly worthy of our resident genius. Using a black market smuggler as a personal grocery delivery service. What's next? Asking a Dark Wizard to help with your Potions homework?"
"If his brewing skills are up to par, I wouldn't rule it out," Albert said, his eyes scanning the door.
He knew Mundungus would be back. The scent of gold was too strong for a man like that to ignore. And once the salt was delivered, Albert would have his foot in the door of a world that Hogwarts' curriculum didn't even acknowledge existed. Between the brewing of restricted potions and the creation of advanced magic items, some things simply couldn't be sourced through official channels. Mundungus Fletcher wasn't just a thief; to Albert, he was a supply chain.
And in this world, whoever controlled the supply chain controlled the game.