Aberforth Dumbledore was, for the first time in a very long time, genuinely speechless. He looked at the boy across from him, whose calm demeanor felt like a heavy weight pressing down on the dingy room. To most wizards, the black market was a place of desperation—a last resort for the disgraced or the dangerous. But Albert Anderson spoke about it like it was just another supply chain that needed optimizing.
Creating magical artifacts or brewing high-level potions required not just rare ingredients, but a level of craftsmanship that usually took decades to master. Yet, here was a teenager talking about sourcing restricted materials with the casual confidence of a master craftsman ordering stationery.
Fred, George, and Lee Jordan, however, didn't share Aberforth's skepticism. To them, Albert was simply being Albert. If he said he needed a dragon's heartstring or a barrel of salt to make something work, they assumed the laws of magic would eventually bend to his will.
Albert didn't care about the shock he was causing. He had bigger goals in mind. He turned his gaze back to the old barman, his eyes sharp. "Let's move on to more intellectual pursuits, shall we? Mr. Aberforth, how does one make a Patronus talk?"
Aberforth snorted, wiping a glass with a rag that looked like it hadn't seen soap since the turn of the century. "You're putting the cart before the horse, kid. Most grown men can't even produce a puff of silver vapor, let alone a corporeal form. You're asking for the secret to a Master's level technique before you've even graduated from your training wheels."
"I expect to have a corporeal Patronus mastered by the end of the month," Albert said softly. His tone wasn't arrogant; it was a simple statement of fact, like predicting the sun would rise. "The Library at Hogwarts is extensive, but it's remarkably thin on the communication aspect of the charm. It's an Order... or rather, a very specific type of old magic, isn't it? I'd hate to miss the chance to learn from someone who clearly knows the shortcut."
Aberforth's eyes narrowed into slits. In any other circumstance, he would have tossed a brat like this out onto the cobblestones. But there was something about Albert—a gravity that demanded respect. He wanted to see how far this "genius" could actually go.
"Knowledge is the only currency that doesn't devalue," Aberforth said, his voice dropping into a low, merchant-like rasp. "And secrets like that aren't cheap."
"I'm not looking for charity," Albert replied, a ghost of a smile appearing. "Reliability is my brand. How does this sound for a price?" He held up his hand, fingers splayed to indicate a number.
Aberforth blinked, his internal calculator whirring. He quickly masked his surprise with a grunt. "Fair enough."
"Ten Galleons total," Albert stated, laying out the terms. "One now as a gesture of good faith. The remaining nine once I've successfully sent my first message. I'll give myself a year. If I haven't mastered it by this time next year, I'll pay you the balance anyway. Hagrid here can act as the guarantor of the deal."
Hagrid looked between the two, his large head swinging back and forth. "Wha—? Ten Galleons? Albert, that's a fortune! And I don't even know if you're allowed to be making deals like this!"
"It's an investment in communication infrastructure, Hagrid," Albert said, patting the giant's arm. "Think of it as a very expensive owl."
Aberforth chuckled, a dry, wheezing sound. "Many wizards spend their whole lives chasing a corporeal Patronus and fail. You're betting a lot on your own talent, boy."
"Most wizards fail because they treat magic like a chore or a mystery," Albert said indifferently. "I treat it like a language. If you understand the grammar, the prose comes naturally."
Fred and George exchanged a look. They knew Albert was rich, but watching him drop ten Galleons on a single spell-hint felt like watching someone use a Masterwork wand to stir a pot of tea. It was decadent, brilliant, and slightly insane.
The door creaked open, and Mundungus Fletcher shuffled back in, smelling even worse than before. He was lugging a small, dented bucket. He slammed it down on the floor in front of Albert, salt spilling over the rim.
"There. Your salt. Now give me my gold," Mundungus growled, wiping sweat from his brow.
Albert didn't move. He didn't even look at the bucket. He kept his eyes on Mundungus. "Mr. Fletcher, we discussed a 'barrel'. This is a bucket. There is a distinct lack of sincerity in this transaction."
"It's salt! It's what you asked for!" Mundungus barked, his hand drifting toward his pocket.
The air in the room suddenly sharpened. Before Mundungus's fingers could even touch the wood of his wand, Albert's own wand was out—a blur of motion that left the tip pointed directly at the thief's throat. At the same time, Fred, George, and Lee had their wands leveled at Mundungus's chest. The twins looked positively delighted at the prospect of a skirmish.
"Transactions require integrity," Albert said, his voice cold and smooth. "Even in the gutter, if you lose your word, you lose your life. I asked for a barrel. This is a five-gallon bucket. You're about four buckets short, Mundungus."
Mundungus froze. He looked at the four wands pointed at him, then at the expression on Albert's face. The boy wasn't scared. He wasn't even angry. He was disappointed.
"I... I thought you just wanted a sample," Mundungus stammered, his bravado evaporating.
"I want what I paid for," Albert said, flicking his wand. Mundungus's own wand flew out of his pocket and landed neatly in Albert's left hand. "I'll hold onto this for safekeeping. Go find a larger bucket. I'll be here."
He tossed the thief back his wand only after Mundungus had backed out the door.
"You're quite the hard-ass, aren't you?" Lee Jordan whispered, impressed.
"If you give a man like Mundungus an inch, he'll take your shoes while you're still wearing them," Albert replied, pocketing his wand.
A few minutes later, Mundungus returned, huffing and puffing with a much larger industrial-sized barrel. He looked like he'd run a marathon. He slammed it down and stepped back, breathing hard. "There. A whole bloody barrel. Happy?"
Albert walked over, reached into the barrel, and let the white grains slip through his fingers. He pulled out his wand again, murmuring a few low-frequency detection spells.
"What are you doing now?" Mundungus grumbled.
"Checking for Duplication Charms," Albert said without looking up. "A common trick. You sell a barrel of salt that's actually one cup of salt multiplied a thousand times. In an hour, the spell wears off, and the customer is left with an empty barrel and a missing Galleon."
The room went silent. Mundungus looked like he wanted to sink into the floorboards.
"It seems you were honest this time," Albert said, standing up and tossing a gold Galleon to the thief. Mundungus caught it with a practiced snap of his wrist. "See? Integrity pays. You didn't even have to use magic—just a little manual labor at the expense of some unsuspecting Muggle shopkeeper."
Mundungus looked at the gold coin, his anger instantly replaced by the familiar glow of greed. "You're a strange one, Albert. Sneaky. I like that."
"Don't get too comfortable," Albert warned. "I've written your name in my ledger. I have a very long memory for people who try to short-change me. If the Runespoor eggs you mentioned are anything less than perfect, I'll make sure you understand exactly why the sun rises in the East and why you should never, ever cross a Gryffindor with a grudge."
Aberforth let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. "I like him. He's got the tongue of a diplomat and the heart of a shark."
"We should really be going," Hagrid interrupted, his face pale. The talk of black markets and threats was clearly pushing his tolerance for rule-breaking to the limit. "If McGonagall finds out you've been 'negotiating' with the likes of Mundungus, she'll have my head! And yours! Back to the castle. Now!"
"Oh, come on Hagrid, we were just getting to the good part," George complained, though he started backing toward the door.
"No more 'good parts'!" Hagrid insisted, ushering them out with his massive arms like a mother hen. "You've got salt, you've got a shady deal for a Patronus, and you've managed not to get stabbed. That's a successful Hogsmeade trip in my book. Move it!"
As they stepped back out into the chilly November air, Albert looked back at the Hog's Head one last time. He had a supplier, a new lead on a rare spell, and the respect of a man who hated almost everyone.
"So," Fred said, nudging Albert as they trudged up the path toward the school. "What are we actually doing with a hundred pounds of salt?"
Albert smiled, a mysterious glint in his eye. "We're going to make some people very, very uncomfortable. But first, I have a Patronus to master."