The meeting with Professor Smith had left Albert with more questions than answers, particularly regarding the strange, lingering resonance of the Macdougall bloodline in the school's hidden architecture. But as he climbed the stairs toward the Gryffindor tower, he shifted his focus. Practicality always trumped mystery in the short term, and he had a very practical lesson to deliver to three certain roommates.
"This is officially the worst week in the history of magic!"
Fred, George, and Lee Jordan were currently huddled in the common room, looking like they had been dragged through a hedge backward—and then set on fire. The post-holiday slump had hit them with the force of a runaway Centaur. Between the mountain of neglected homework and the double-detention whammy from McGonagall and Snape, they were physically and mentally spent.
To make matters worse, the detentions had forced them to miss the regular dinner service in the Great Hall. By the time they were released from the dungeons, smelling of pickled slugs and failure, the house-elves had already cleared the tables. Charlie Weasley, acting in his capacity as both a prefect and a Quidditch captain, had spent thirty minutes screaming at them about "discipline" and "team commitment" before casually mentioning he'd sent an owl home.
A Howler from Mrs. Weasley was almost certainly on the horizon. The twins' meager savings—mostly consisting of copper Knuts and hope—were already under threat of total confiscation.
"I can't feel my fingers," Lee Jordan muttered as they pushed open the dormitory door. "I think the damp in the dungeons has permanently fused my joints."
"Stop complaining and start sniffing," Fred said, his nose twitching like a bloodhound's. "Do you smell that? It's... it's glorious."
An aroma, rich and savory, was drifting from the small table in the center of the room. On it sat a stack of steaming egg and potato pancakes, golden-brown and glistening with a hint of oil. Beside them were a few meat pies, still warm enough to puff out little wisps of steam.
The trio moved with a synchronized hunger that would have impressed a pack of wolves.
"Where's Albert?" George asked, his hand already hovering over the largest pancake.
"Probably in the showers," Fred guessed, his eyes glazed with greed. "He's been obsessed with hygiene ever since that incident with the Swelling Solution in Potions."
"Is this for us? A peace offering?" Lee asked, picking up a meat pie and comparing its lackluster appearance to the magnificent pancakes. He didn't wait for an answer. He tossed the pie back onto the plate and grabbed a pancake instead.
They didn't speak. There was no need. A silent agreement passed between them: Eat everything before the owner returns to claim his share.
They fell upon the food with reckless abandon. The pancakes were delicious—perfectly seasoned with a strange, zesty kick that seemed to linger on the tongue. It was the best thing they'd tasted all week.
Ten minutes later, the bathroom door creaked open. Albert walked out, drying his hair with a towel, looking refreshed and entirely too calm. He stopped at the sight of his roommates, his eyes widening in a mask of pure, unadulterated shock.
"What... what happened to your faces?" Albert asked, his voice trembling. He bit his lip hard, his shoulders shaking as if he were fighting back a sneeze.
"The food..." Fred tried to say, but the words came out as a muffled honk. He reached up to touch his face and jumped back in horror. His lips had tripled in size, stretching out into thick, pink tubes that looked remarkably like bratwurst sausages.
"We ate the pancakes," George added, though it sounded more like "We ay duh pankakes." He looked into the mirror and let out a strangled yelp. He looked like he was wearing a permanent, swollen pout.
"I think I'm having a stroke," Lee Jordan whimpered, his sausage-lips flapping uselessly. "Everything is puffy. Why is everything puffy?"
"You're not having a stroke, Lee," Albert said, finally letting out a snort of laughter that he quickly disguised as a cough. "But you might want to avoid any mirrors for the next hour. Or any girls. Especially Ravenclaw girls."
"Madam Pomfrey," George wheezed, pointing toward the door.
"Right. Hospital Wing. Now," Albert said, ushering them out.
The walk through the castle was a masterclass in stealth. They stayed in the shadows, avoiding the Prefect patrols, as the three "sausage-men" tried to hide their faces behind their hands. Madam Pomfrey was, as expected, less than thrilled to have her evening tea interrupted by three idiots with food-based injuries.
"Swelling Solution," she sighed, waving a wand over Fred's face. "Diluted, but effective. Who gave you this? Never mind, I don't want to know. Drink this."
The cure was instantaneous. In less than thirty seconds, their faces deflated with a soft pfft sound, leaving them looking normal but feeling incredibly foolish. She ushered them out with a stern warning about "experimental snacks" and slammed the door.
Back in the dormitory, the interrogation began.
"Alright, Anderson. Spill it," Fred demanded, crossing his arms. "What did you put in those pancakes? I know that look. That's the look you get when a plan comes together."
"Me?" Albert asked, leaning against his bedpost with an air of wounded innocence. "I just went down to the kitchens to get some supper for all of us. I was planning on sharing, but I come back and find the plates licked clean. Who told you to be so greedy?"
"Don't give us that," George said, pointing a finger. "You knew we'd sneak a bite. You baited the trap."
"Greed is a dangerous vice, George," Albert replied, finally letting a genuine grin break through. "Consider it a localized lesson in ethics. Besides, the reaction was purely scientific."
"Scientific?" Lee asked. "You turned my face into a balloon for science?"
"Exactly." Albert reached into his pocket and pulled out a small glass vial filled with a fine, reddish powder. "This is my 'Gourmet Seasoning.' I developed it during Snape's last lecture. Since we were already working with Swelling Solutions, I wondered if I could stabilize a micro-dose in a salt-based carrier."
"You seasoned our dinner with a Potion?" Fred asked, his eyes widening with a mix of horror and admiration.
"I diluted it by a factor of fifty," Albert explained. "If I'd used the full strength, your heads would have actually exploded. This was just a 'sensory enhancer.' It makes the food taste zesty and leaves a... lasting impression on the consumer."
"It did taste really good," George admitted, looking at the empty plate with a trace of longing. "Wait, did you make this while we were in detention?"
"Precisely," Albert said. "I found myself with quite a bit of free time since I didn't have to worry about rumors or gossip-mongering roommates. It's amazing how much you can accomplish when people aren't whispering behind your back about unicorns and secret girlfriends."
The three of them flushed crimson. The "Unicorn Rumor" had been their masterpiece, and they knew exactly why Albert had chosen tonight to strike.
"That was Fred's idea!" George blurted out, pointing at his twin.
"Traitor!" Fred shouted. "I swear on my future inheritance—which is nothing—that Lee was the one who added the 'countless sleepless nights' part!"
"I was just adding color to the narrative!" Lee protested.
Albert held up a hand, silencing the bickering. He tucked the seasoning vial back into his cabinet and locked it with a deliberate click. "I don't care who wrote the script. I just care about the finale. Consider us even. For now."
"Wait, give it back!" Fred wailed, realizing the potential of such a weapon. "Think of the possibilities, Albert! We could give some to Peeves. He'd have the whole Slytherin table looking like a bunch of prize-winning hams by breakfast!"
"No," Albert said firmly. "If the whole school ends up in the Hospital Wing with sausage-lips, Snape will start testing every salt shaker in the Great Hall. I'm not interested in a life sentence in Azkaban because you wanted to prank a poltergeist."
"You're such a hypocrite," George muttered. "You use it on us, but you won't let us use it on the people who actually deserve it."
"That's because I know how to cover my tracks," Albert said, pulling out a piece of parchment and scribbling down the diluted formula. He tossed it to Fred. "If you want to play with fire, learn how to make the matches yourselves. Just remember: if you get caught, I've never seen that recipe in my life."