The first of their scheduled Herbology classes that morning was held in the steamy, earth-scented confines of Greenhouse Three. The perpetual warmth and humidity within provided a stark contrast to the miserable downpour outside. The class itself involved basic care and maintenance for common medicinal plants.
"So, when is this particular pot of common garlic likely to be ready for harvest, Albert?" George asked, carefully dribbling fertilizer into the soil around a thriving, healthy-looking bulb. He handled the small, silver watering can with an air of immense concentration, treating the mundane plant like a rare Mandrake.
"If you're meticulous about the watering and light spells, I'd estimate the end of May, perhaps the first week of June at the latest," Albert replied, his attention only partially on the potted plant. He was meticulously cleaning a delicate wooden bracelet, gently blowing away fine wood shavings before holding it up to the light. He then compared the runes carved into its surface against a complex diagram laid out on a sheet of parchment.
"Are you planning a grand feast of raw, pungent garlic, then?" Lee Jordan teased, his cheek bulging slightly as he crunched on a handful of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans.
"Your priorities are entirely misplaced, Lee!" George immediately shot back, setting down his miniature watering can. He cast a suspicious glance at the handful of beans. "You should be asking how Albert knows the harvest date off the top of his head. Secondly, based on that suspicious, yellowish sheen, the one you're currently chewing is assuredly a booger flavor."
Lee, mid-crunch, froze, his eyes narrowing dangerously at George. "This is a delightful Soybean flavor, thank you very much," he lied, though his hand instinctively moved to deposit the offending bean back into the colorful box. He had no intention of finishing it now.
"If you insist on eating it raw, I've heard Muggles soak garlic in soy sauce to marinate and mellow the heat," Albert offered, without looking up.
"Enough with the culinary tips!" George groaned impatiently. "Back to the important matter: is it absolutely certain that the garlic won't be ready until the end of May?"
"Hagrid is my source for all things gardening," Albert said, finally looking up at George. "He keeps the vegetable patch, and his schedule is reliable. But honestly, if the only reason you want this garlic is to make those little protective crosses you were talking about, surely the garlic you brought from home is perfectly sufficient?"
"You fundamentally misunderstand the artistic process, Albert," George said, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. "The sense of creative accomplishment, the satisfaction, only comes from using materials that we have nurtured and grown with our own hands! A true artist uses homegrown supplies!"
Albert simply returned to his wood carving, sighing internally at the theatrical proclamation. "Fine. Whatever narrative justifies the effort, George."
"And speaking of useless effort," George continued, pointing to a small, neglected pot nearby, "aren't you going to toss that one out? That dried-up branch looks completely dead; the white hibiscus in it won't survive, that's for sure."
"It's being retained for now," Albert replied, glancing briefly at the withered cutting. "I plan to attempt to replant and revive it once the milder weather returns. There's no harm in keeping the pot."
"Why are you bothering with white hibiscus? Is it just to tick a box for some obscure field of knowledge?" Lee Jordan asked, genuinely perplexed by Albert's seemingly chaotic range of pursuits. Albert was proficient in almost everything he touched, yet he approached life with a calm, unhurried ease that often made Lee wildly jealous.
"The Dictamnus dasycarpus—or White Dittany—possesses excellent therapeutic properties, Lee," Albert explained patiently. . "It has high medicinal value. One day, when I have my own property, I intend to cultivate a proper garden dedicated to it. This current effort is merely about accumulating planting experience."
He didn't elaborate that he suspected the powerful healing effects of Dittany—which could instantly seal small cuts and prevent scarring—would be immensely popular and valuable outside the Wizarding World, a thought that frequently occurred to him now that he was studying economics and resource scarcity. He saw it as a uniquely marketable commodity.
"Your thought process is truly on another plane entirely, Albert," George conceded. "I've never met anyone whose 'hobbies' are all centred around future wealth generation."
"Really?" Albert asked, slightly unconvinced, but returned to his meticulous rune-carving.
This new project was a wooden wristband, etched with an entire circuit of self-designed runes. He was attempting to create an intricate chain of passive protective enchantments. He hadn't felt any particular magical resonance or surge of power yet, which left him doubting its efficacy. He briefly wondered if the choice of yew wood, a wood typically associated with the death rune Ehwaz, was the correct material. "Next time," he thought, "I'll make a note to acquire some ash wood; it might be a more appropriate conductor."
A sudden, sharp cry of pure, unadulterated shock ripped through the common room, momentarily halting all conversation.
"AHH!"
Fred, who had been quietly engrossed in a book near the fireplace, suddenly catapulted out of his armchair, scrambling backward. He reacted with such visceral terror that he instinctively threw the heavy, thick volume he was holding across the room.
The sudden, loud outburst had immediate, chaotic consequences.
Albert's hand, which had been carving a particularly complex and flowing Sigel rune, slipped violently. The blade instantly went off track, scoring a deep, jagged, and crooked line right through the delicate pattern. He swore silently.
Lee Jordan, who had finally summoned the courage to taste the yellow Every Flavor Bean, was startled so badly that he gasped and swallowed the unidentified sweet whole. He sat there, eyes wide, struggling to suppress a gag reflex while battling unknown flavors.
George, meanwhile, was nearly knocked clean off his stool by the book Fred threw, which whizzed past his head. The surprise caused him to jump up and slam his knee violently into the corner of the heavy wooden table. He immediately began hopping around, clutching his bruised leg and hissing in pain.
"What in the name of the Nifflers is wrong with you, Fred?" the three victims snapped in irritated unison, glaring at the source of the chaos.
"I… I felt it… my chest!" Fred stammered, clutching his heart with a look of theatrical, utter despair, as if suffering a sudden, fatal heart attack.
"What happened to him?" Lee Jordan muttered under his breath, still unsure if he'd just eaten lemon sherbet or earwax. "Did he suddenly realize he has a massive Potions essay due? Or perhaps he just realized he's broke?"
"Should we actually transport him to the Hospital Wing?" Albert suggested, setting down his now-marred wooden bracelet and carving knife. "Madam Pomfrey might still be awake."
"My leg hurts infinitely worse than my heart!" George groaned, massaging his knee.
"The book! That cursed book!" Fred finally managed, pointing a trembling, dramatic finger at the volume lying abandoned on the floor.
"What in the hell is wrong with the book?" George limped over, grabbed the volume, and glanced at the cover. It was A Thousand Amazing Herbs and Mushrooms. "I didn't expect you to be reading academic botanical reference texts in your spare time, Fred. You're truly full of surprises."
"Page ninety-eight! Turn to page ninety-eight! The Snow Mushroom entry is there!" Fred demanded, his tone now one of desperate financial agony rather than physical ailment.
George suspiciously flipped to page 98, scanning the text. He saw the title, "Snow Mushroom..."
A few seconds passed. Then, George suddenly clutched his own chest, let out a short, anguished sound of betrayal, and collapsed onto his bed, his face pale with utter defeat. "Ah, my heart! My life savings! My future!"
Albert and Lee Jordan exchanged a deeply worried look. Whatever was on page 98, it was clearly more terrifying than any Boggart.
Lee Jordan, driven by morbid curiosity and a strange dread, gingerly picked up the book. He glanced at the illustration, then read the description, his eyes moving back and forth across the page. He slowly closed the book, his expression a mixture of profound self-pity and muted horror. He didn't say a word, simply pushing the book into Albert's hands.
Albert, now completely intrigued, took the reference text. He opened it to the page, and his gaze immediately fell on the detailed, hand-drawn illustration.
Ah.
The painting depicted a fungus strikingly similar to the matsutake mushrooms Hagrid had dug up for them and which they had so enthusiastically—and carelessly—grilled the previous day.
"Snow Mushroom, also correctly known as Winter Pine Truffle or Tuber nivalis…" Albert read quickly, his face twitching slightly as he processed the next few lines of text.
The entry went on to detail the fungus's rarity, its necessity for specific microclimates beneath old yew and pine trees, and, most damningly, its extremely high medicinal value. It was a potent restorative used in complex healing poultices. The text explicitly stated: "One single ounce of dried, powdered Snow Mushroom is conservatively valued at fifty Galleons on the open market."
No wonder the three of them looked like they had just learned they were penniless orphans. Fifty Galleons for an ounce! They hadn't eaten one ounce; they had eaten several whole fungi, simply roasted with olive oil like common fare.
"That was undeniably the single most expensive meal we have ever consumed," Fred lamented, still clutching his chest dramatically, though now his distress was entirely economic. "Albert, you utterly reckless spendthrift! You just casually grilled priceless Snow Mushrooms as if they were common Bratwurst."
"If we had sold them, we could have purchased a large quantity of high-grade Dungbombs!" George chimed in, managing to sound both anguished and entrepreneurial at the same time.
"So, what are we waiting for?" Lee Jordan exclaimed, suddenly jumping up, his earlier discomfort forgotten, his eyes gleaming with the light of pure gold. "We should go back right now and start digging! We could make a fortune!"
"That is the worst idea I have heard all day," Albert replied, crossing his arms and fixing the three hopeful faces with a severe look.
He was, of course, tempted. The sheer value was staggering. But he was also a realist. He quickly set about pouring cold water on their sudden gold rush.
"First, stop dreaming," Albert insisted. "We scoured that specific area with Hagrid—a man whose job it is to know the forest—and that's all we found. They are rare for a reason. Second, and more importantly, Snow Mushrooms are not easy to preserve. Unless you immediately know how to process them into a stable powdered form, they will lose their medicinal potency and value within a few days. The spoiled fungi is utterly worthless."
"But… we could learn! We could figure it out!" Fred pleaded.
"There is no 'but'," Albert said, his voice firm and unwavering. "Undeniably, the Forbidden Forest is a repository of valuable resources. It remains an untouched primeval forest, brimming with potential. But you must understand the economics of the situation, and more importantly, the extreme danger of the black market."
He leaned in, his tone dropping to a serious whisper. "Even if we managed to dig up a dozen pounds of it right now, we would have nowhere to sell it. Who do you imagine you would trade with? The Ministry of Magic? No. Potions suppliers? They only deal with licensed professionals. That leaves the black market, and that is where you meet the true danger."
"Do you honestly believe a rogue apothecary or a shady dealer in Knockturn Alley would trade fairly with three wide-eyed, desperate first-years? They are not your generous fathers. They are predators. Any assurances they give you are merely tricks to fool children and steal your product, or worse, put you in danger of being arrested for illegal trade."
"Aren't you even slightly tempted?" George couldn't help but ask, the gold Galleon imagery still shimmering in his mind.
"Of course, I am tempted. The immediate profit is undeniable," Albert admitted honestly. "But I know exactly what I need to do to succeed, and it's not recklessly digging up non-tradable goods. I also happen to know there aren't enough Snow Mushrooms there to risk a trip to Azkaban."
He emphasized his final point, his voice taking on the clarity of a lecture:
"Understand this: there are two major types of prohibited items in the Wizarding economy: those of extremely high danger, and those of extremely high value. The Ministry strictly regulates and forbids the unlicensed trade of both. This Snow Mushroom falls into the latter category."
"If you seek to trade it, you must use the black market. And children who think they can outsmart the cutthroats and profiteers of the black market are children who should go straight back to sleep."
The sheer clarity of Albert's financial and safety argument—delivered with none of the usual moralizing—finally extinguished the golden light in their eyes. The fantasy of instant wealth vanished, replaced by the sober realization of risk.
"You've completely ruined our lucrative five-year plan, Albert," Fred sighed, but he couldn't hide his relief at being talked out of a spectacularly bad idea.
"You haven't… left yet, Izebel?" Albert asked, turning his head in surprise to see the Ravenclaw fourth-year still sitting a short distance away, having listened intently to the entire economic-criminal analysis.
"Let's go, we have two hours of Herbology this morning, and you're going to be late," George wisely interjected, deciding to abandon the subject before any more secrets were revealed.
The four of them stood on the castle steps. The rain, which had briefly become a drizzle, was now returning with punishing intensity.
"Did you, by some miracle, find an extra umbrella?" Lee Jordan asked hopefully, shivering despite the heavy cloak.
"I still only have the one," Albert said, taking out his elegant, magically summoned umbrella.
"Then what is the plan?" Fred asked, already bracing for the cold.
"The plan is to stop dawdling," Albert replied, opening the shield over his head. "We're making a run for it."
After exchanging one final, resigned look, George, Fred, and Lee Jordan ran simultaneously toward Albert. The four of them immediately crammed themselves into a tight, struggling huddle under the single, sturdy midnight-blue umbrella.
Shoulders bumped, elbows jabbed, and they shuffled forward, a ridiculous, highly compressed group, determined to remain dry despite the weather and the lingering, shared memory of the fifty-Galleon-per-ounce fungi they had casually barbequed.
The Forbidden Forest might be the source of untold magical wealth, but for now, they would settle for the simpler victory of reaching the greenhouse without being soaked through.