"So... how's it hitting you?"
Fred, George, and Lee Jordan were practically vibrating with anticipation. They stood in a tight circle around Albert, watching him with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious icons. Albert had just tipped the vial back, and a tiny, shimmering golden drop of Felix Felicis had disappeared down his throat.
The trio swallowed in unison. Every one of them desperately wanted a taste of that legendary "Liquid Luck"—to feel the cosmic gears of the universe suddenly shifting in their favor, to feel like every choice they made was the absolute right one. But Felix Felicis was rarer than dragon teeth, and Albert only had enough for a "functional" dose.
Albert stood still for a moment, his eyes glazed. Then, suddenly, his posture shifted. The tension in his shoulders vanished, replaced by an effortless, fluid grace. He looked at the dark, dripping canopy of the Forbidden Forest not as a place of danger, but as a friendly neighborhood park.
"It feels... right," Albert said, his voice light and melodic. He adjusted his cloak with a flourish. "Everything is exactly where it needs to be. Follow me, gentlemen. The forest is waiting to give us what we need."
"Where are we headed?" George asked, scurrying to keep up as Albert set a brisk pace down a trail that looked entirely overgrown. "The mushroom patches we saw were further east, weren't they?"
"Trust the luck, George," Lee Jordan whispered, tripping over a root but recovering with a grin. "If Albert says the forest is waiting, we don't ask for directions."
"We're taking a slight detour," Albert hummed, stepping over a puddle without even looking down, yet somehow his boots remained perfectly dry. "Going to visit the area around Professor Kettleburn's secondary cabin. The one deep in the woods."
"Kettleburn?" Fred's face scrunched up. "The Care of Magical Creatures guy? Isn't he a bit... hands-on? I heard he's lost more limbs than most people have fingers. If he catches us trespassing this deep, we won't just get detention; we might get fed to something with too many teeth."
"Relax, Fred," Albert said, flashing a blindingly confident smile. "The Professor isn't the problem. The opportunity is. Think about the season."
"Winter is coming?" Lee asked, confused.
"Exactly. And when the frost starts to bite, the young Thestrals struggle to find forage. Hagrid and Kettleburn have a specific feeding spot near that cabin. They bring in carcasses—animal skeletons to keep the herd strong through the cold."
Albert didn't mention the most important detail: Kettleburn was an eccentric who kept a rotating menagerie of creatures. The biological runoff from those pens, combined with the discarded bones of the Thestral feed, created a hyper-saturated nutrient zone. For a Flutterby Bush—a magical fungus that thrived on calcified remains and ambient magic—it was the equivalent of a five-star buffet.
As they hiked, the forest seemed to peel itself back for them. Brambles that usually snagged on robes seemed to bend away. The group spotted several strange, glowing mushrooms along the path, but Albert didn't even pause. He moved with a singular, guided purpose.
Finally, they broke into a small clearing. In the center sat a lopsided wooden cabin that looked like it was being held together by nothing but moss and stubbornness. Just past the porch, a sprawling mound of sun-bleached bones lay scattered in the mud. And growing out of every crack and crevice of those bones were the Flutterby Bushes—pulsing, vibrant mushrooms that shimmered with a rhythmic, bioluminescent light.
"Jackpot," Lee breathed, reaching for his gear.
"Wait," Albert cautioned, his brow furrowing slightly. "Something's off. Does it strike anyone else as... too perfect? Look at the density. These aren't just growing; they're thriving in a way that looks almost cultivated."
"Who cares if they're cultivated?" George said, pulling out a pair of thick dragon-hide gloves. "There's enough here to fill three baskets. We'll be rich!"
The catch, however, was in the name. Flutterby Bushes weren't stationary. When they felt the vibration of an approaching predator, they "fluttered"—launching themselves into the air and scattering spores that acted as a potent, mind-numbing sedative. If they just rushed in, they'd be unconscious on a pile of bones within seconds.
"On my mark," Albert directed. "George, the stone."
George picked up a heavy rock and hurled it into the center of the bone pile. CRACK.
The reaction was instantaneous. The clearing erupted in a cloud of shimmering, silver dust. The mushrooms didn't just jump; they flew, their caps vibrating with a hum that sounded like a thousand tiny wings.
"Go! Get the perimeter ones!" Albert shouted.
The twins and Lee dived into action. It was a chaotic, high-stakes game of tag. The Flutterby Bushes were significantly faster and more aggressive than the domesticated ones in the Hogwarts greenhouses. They zig-zagged through the air, trailing clouds of "idiot-dust."
After five minutes of frantic sprinting and diving, the boys reconvened at the edge of the clearing, panting and covered in mud, but clutching three prime specimens.
"The rest are gone," George sighed, watching a few stray silver glints disappear into the dark undergrowth. "What a waste. We could have had dozens."
"Three is the perfect number for a stable brew," Albert said, carefully sliding the mushrooms into a lead-lined cloth bag to suppress the spores. "Any more and we'd attract too much attention from the Ministry's trade monitors."
"And speaking of attention..." a dry, gravelly voice echoed from behind them. "You boys are a long way from the Gryffindor fire."
The four of them spun around. Standing by the corner of the cabin was a man who looked like he had been assembled from spare parts. He had a prosthetic arm, a notched ear, and an aura of immense academic authority.
"Mr. Dagworth-Livers," Albert said, recovering his composure instantly. "I didn't expect to find a Potions Master of your standing in a muddy clearing on a Saturday."
Hector Dagworth-Livers raised an eyebrow, his one good eye scanning the boys. "I'm here to secure Occamy eggshells from Silvanus Kettleburn. He's one of the few men brave—or stupid—enough to harvest them without a death warrant. But you... you're glowing, Albert. Felix Felicis?"
Albert nodded. "A small dose. For research purposes."
"Research, he says," Dagworth-Livers grumbled, walking over to inspect the bag in Albert's hand. "And you're harvesting my Flutterby Bushes for this research? I suggested this bone-pile method to Kettleburn years ago to ensure a steady supply for my own labs."
The twins looked at each other, faces turning bright red. They hadn't just trespassed; they'd essentially robbed one of the most famous potioneers in Europe.
"We meant no disrespect, sir," Albert said smoothly. "We were looking for ingredients for a Babbling Beverage. High-purity mushrooms are hard to come by."
"Babbling Beverage?" Dagworth-Livers' expression darkened. The casual curiosity in his eyes vanished, replaced by a stern, clinical coldness. "Do you have any idea what you're playing with, boy?"
"I've read the theory—" Albert started.
"Theory is for books! Reality is for the Longbottoms!" Dagworth-Livers barked. "Babbling Beverage is nicknamed the 'Idiot-Making Agent' for a reason. If your temperature is off by two degrees, or if your dragon claw powder is slightly oxidized, you don't get a mental boost. You get a permanent dissolution of the prefrontal cortex."
Fred and George paled. They'd seen the "funny" side of potions before, but hearing a Master call it an "Idiot-Making Agent" made the humor evaporate.
"I've seen students—geniuses, even—think they could skip the steps," the Master continued, pointing a gnarled finger at Albert. "They end up staring at walls for the rest of their lives, unable to remember their own names. The Ministry bans private brewing of this stuff because the black market is flooded with 'defective' batches that are essentially liquid lobotomies."
He sighed, his gaze softening just a fraction as he looked at Albert. He clearly saw the potential in the boy and didn't want to see it snuffed out by a hubristic accident.
"Look, Albert. You have talent. More than I've seen in a generation. But if you're dead-set on brewing this, you aren't doing it alone in some damp corner of the castle. If you promise me—on your word as a wizard—that you won't drink a drop of anything you brew without my oversight, I will walk you through the process myself."
Albert was stunned. Having a Potions Master offer one-on-one tutelage for a restricted brew was like a Muggle being offered private flying lessons by an ace pilot.
"I accept, Mr. Dagworth," Albert said, bowing his head slightly. "Your guidance would be invaluable."
"Good," Dagworth-Livers grunted. "Now get out of this forest. The Felix is wearing off, and Kettleburn's Chimaera crossbreed is due for its feeding in ten minutes. You don't want to be the dessert."
The four boys didn't need to be told twice. They scrambled back toward the castle, the weight of the mushrooms in the bag feeling much heavier than before. Albert's luck was fading, but he felt a different kind of confidence now—the kind that came from knowing he wouldn't have to face the 'Idiot-Maker' alone.