The "Gourmet Seasoning" incident in the dormitory had been a calculated warning, but as January drew to a close, Albert realized he had underestimated one thing: the twins' inability to keep a good weapon to themselves.
The weather remained stubbornly miserable. The Scottish Highlands were locked in a cycle of gray skies and biting winds that made every trip to the Great Hall feel like an expedition. Inside the castle, the atmosphere wasn't much warmer.
Albert was sitting at the Gryffindor table, poking at a bowl of corn chowder and discussing the logistics of the upcoming Wizarding Card Game registration with Lee Jordan. Across from them, Fred and George were trying to look inconspicuous—a task they were fundamentally unsuited for.
"You've missed three sessions this week alone," a stern voice interrupted.
Charlie Weasley dropped onto the bench, his face flushed from the cold of the Quidditch pitch. He glared at his younger brothers with the kind of parental disappointment that usually came from their mother. "The Ravenclaw match is in three weeks. We've already dropped one game this season. If we lose again because our Beaters are too busy scrubbing cauldrons for Snape to learn the new defensive patterns, we're out of the Cup. Completely."
"Charlie, have a heart," George said, leaning back and trying to look pathetic. "It's not like we're skipping practice to go on picnics. We're being held hostage by the faculty."
"It's a matter of academic survival," Fred added, nodding solemnly. "If we had the choice between dodging Bludgers in a blizzard or spending two hours in a room that smells like pickled goat gall, we'd be on our brooms in a heartbeat."
The logic was actually sound. No sane person preferred Snape's company to sport. Charlie's expression softened, though only slightly. "Fine. But if I see another detention slip with your names on it before the match, I'm telling Mom to cancel your subscription to Which Broomstick."
The twins winced. "We'll be there, Captain. Rain, snow, or hexes," they promised in unison.
Charlie seemed satisfied for the moment, but the peace was short-lived. Oliver Wood came sprinting into the Hall, sliding into the seat next to them while gasping for air. He looked like he'd just witnessed a miracle.
"You lot... you won't believe it," Wood wheezed, clutching his sides. "I just passed Marcus Flint in the corridor. He was trying to hide behind a tapestry, but he wasn't fast enough."
"What happened to the troll?" Fred asked, his interest piqued.
"His lips!" Wood burst out into a fresh fit of laughter. "They were huge! Like two giant, overcooked sausages stuck to his face. He was trying to cover his mouth with his hand, but his fingers weren't long enough to hide the swelling. He looked like he'd tried to kiss a Blast-Ended Skrewt!"
"Where is he now?" Charlie asked, a predatory grin forming on his face. There was nothing a Quidditch captain enjoyed more than seeing the opposing team's star Chaser rendered physically incapable of calling out plays.
"Heading for the Hospital Wing," Wood managed to say through his chuckles. "Covering his face and running like the castle was on fire."
The Great Hall was suddenly filled with a ripple of laughter, but it died down as quickly as it started. A Hufflepuff girl at the neighboring table suddenly let out a muffled shriek, dropped her fork, and bolted toward the doors with her hand clamped over her mouth.
Albert watched her go, then slowly turned his gaze toward George. George remained perfectly still, his face a mask of neutral boredom, but he didn't miss Albert's scrutiny. He gave a tiny, subtle shrug that screamed, It wasn't us.
"You actually did it, didn't you?" Albert whispered once the crowd had returned to their own conversations. "How did you get close enough to Flint's plate? He's surrounded by a wall of Slytherins."
"We didn't do a thing," Fred whispered back, his eyes dancing with mischief. "We're reformed characters, remember? We realized that if we want to stay out of detention, we need an agent. Someone who's already a professional at causing chaos."
"Peeves," Albert realized, rubbing his temples. "You gave the seasoning to Peeves."
"We didn't give it to him," George corrected. "We made a trade. A bottle of 'special seasoning' in exchange for a few choice items from his collection of confiscated trinkets. We told him it was a flavor enhancer that reveals a person's 'true inner sausage'."
Albert was speechless. Using Peeves was brilliant, but it was also like using a forest fire to light a candle. You couldn't control the spread.
Over the next few days, the "Sausage-Lip Curse" became a school-wide epidemic. It wasn't just the people Fred and George disliked; it was everyone. A Ravenclaw prefect, a third-year Slytherin, even a few unsuspecting Hufflepuffs—nobody was safe. The Great Hall became a place of high tension. Students began inspecting every bite of food with the intensity of an Auror looking for Dark Magic.
Professor Sprout went as far as to conduct a full inspection of the kitchens, suspecting a rogue ingredient or a confused House-elf, but the elves were devastated by the accusation. They took great pride in their work and insisted the food left the kitchens in perfect condition.
The mystery was finally solved during a Tuesday lunch.
Peeves was spotted hovering near the enchanted ceiling, humming a discordant, tuneless song. He was darting between the tables like a giant, invisible mosquito, flicking a small glass vial. Every time he made a "fwip" sound with his fingers, a fine red powder drifted down onto someone's plate.
A Gryffindor fourth-year bit into his steak, and thirty seconds later, his lips began to expand with a soft, audible pop.
"It's him! It's the poltergeist!" someone yelled.
The Hall erupted into chaos. Peeves let out a cackle that rattled the windowpanes. "Sausage mouths for sausage boys! Plump and pink and full of noise!" he shrieked, diving through a plate of mashed potatoes and sending them flying toward the high table.
The condemnation was universal, but Peeves didn't care. He thrived on the attention. Argus Filch tried to corner him with a net, screaming about expulsion and 'the good old days of chains,' but Peeves just blew a loud raspberry and disappeared through a wall, leaving behind the faint scent of Albert's "Gourmet Seasoning."
"Just how much did you give him?" Albert asked Fred in a low voice. They were currently sitting in the library, trying to look busy while half the school was lining up outside the Hospital Wing.
"Just the one bottle," Fred said, looking a bit green. "We didn't think he'd be so... efficient with it."
"He's been rationing it," George added gloomily. "He only uses a tiny bit at a time. It's going to last for weeks at this rate."
The twins weren't laughing anymore. They had both fallen victim to their own creation twice already. Peeves didn't believe in "house loyalty"; if you had a mouth, you were a target.
"And don't forget the payment," Lee Jordan reminded them, his own lips looking a bit tender from a previous swelling. "You promised him a bag of dungbombs for 'services rendered.' If you don't deliver, he'll probably dump the rest of that seasoning directly into your beds."
"We're working on it," Fred muttered.
The staff was at their wits' end. Professor Snape was forced to brew gallons of Detumescent Potion to keep up with the demand. Madam Pomfrey eventually got so tired of the constant stream of swollen students that she set up a self-service station outside the Hospital Wing: a large cauldron of potion and a stack of small cups.
"If you've been 'Peevesed,' take a sip and move on!" she would bark whenever a new victim arrived.
This changed the dynamic of the prank entirely. Once the cure became easily accessible, the "sausage lips" became less of a tragedy and more of an annoying fashion faux pas. If you felt your lips tingling, you simply went to the Hospital Wing, took a shot of the potion, and you were back to normal in seconds.
However, many students didn't want to make the trek to the Hospital Wing three times a day. They wanted a more immediate solution.
"The Potion skill of the average student is... well, it's pathetic," Albert noted, watching a group of second-years try to brew their own detumescent draught in a bathroom. The resulting sludge looked like it might actually be sentient.
"They're too lazy to learn the recipe, but they're too embarrassed to walk around looking like a blowfish," George observed.
A new market emerged. The "Hogwarts Black Market" suddenly pivoted toward Detumescent Potion. Students who were decent at Potions—or those who had managed to "acquire" some from Snape's stores—were selling small vials for a Sickle a piece.