The weather outside was a miserable cocktail of freezing sleet and biting winds that rattled the ancient windowpanes of Hogwarts. A sudden cold snap had descended upon the Highlands, turning the stone corridors into wind tunnels and sending half the student body to the Hospital Wing with runny noses and hacking coughs.
Albert, however, wasn't shivering in a drafty classroom.
Deep within the castle, three figures huddled together, glancing nervously over their shoulders. They navigated a specific stretch of hallway on the seventh floor, waited for the faint shimmering of a wooden door to manifest against the stone, and slipped inside.
The transition was instantaneous. They stepped out of the damp, bone-chilling cold and into a sanctuary that smelled faintly of vanilla, toasted oak, and expensive tea. The Room of Requirement had outdone itself, providing a space filled with plush armchairs, a thick Persian rug, and a fireplace that roared with a heat so comforting it felt like a physical embrace.
Albert was sprawled in the largest armchair, a cup of steaming milk tea balanced on the armrest. He looked suspiciously healthy for someone who had claimed to be "incapacitated" only two hours prior.
"You're a fraud, Anderson," Fred gasped, shaking the ice from his hair. "I spent forty minutes listening to Professor Binns drone on about the Goblin Rebellion of 1612 while my toes were turning into icicles, and here you are, living like a Malfoy on vacation."
"I wasn't faking," Albert said calmly, not looking up from a complex Arithmancy diagram. "I simply had a very efficient recovery. Madam Pomfrey's Pepperup Potion is a miracle of modern alchemy. Once the steam stopped coming out of my ears, I decided that a drafty History of Magic classroom was the last place a recovering patient should be."
"I want to be a recovering patient," George groaned, collapsing onto the rug. "Binns' voice is actually a form of Dark Magic. It's a sonic sedative. I woke up three times and I'm pretty sure I missed an entire century of history."
"If you want to skip class legitimately, you have to be smarter about it," Albert said. "You can't just not show up. You need a narrative. A medical necessity."
"We tried the 'stomach ache' thing last week," Fred grunted. "Percy didn't buy it. Said our faces were too rosy for people who were supposedly about to vomit."
"That's because you're amateurs," Albert said, finally setting down his quill. "You're relying on acting. In a world of magic, acting is for Muggles. You need physiological proof."
"Like what?" George asked, his interest piqued. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of moving photographs. One of them clearly showed Marcus McLaggen looking green around the gills as he scrambled toward a toilet. "We saw how well the laxatives worked on McLaggen. We could just take a small dose?"
"Don't be stupid," Albert chided. "I've seen the state of McLaggen's 'dark history' in those photos. Do you really want to experience that for a forty-minute break from Binns? There's a line between skipping class and self-flagellation."
"Next time, I'm framing that one," Fred said, pointing to a particularly desperate shot of McLaggen. "But seriously, Albert. If we don't want to use laxatives, what's left? Nausea? Fever? How do you fake a fever without actually getting sick?"
"You don't fake it," Albert said, his eyes gleaming with a familiar, dangerous light. "You induce it. And then, more importantly, you have the cure ready in your other hand. If you can create a potion that causes a nosebleed on command, and a second one that stops it instantly, you don't just have a way to skip class. You have a business model."
Lee Jordan, who had been quiet until now, leaned forward. "A 'Skiving Snackbox.' That's what you're talking about, isn't it? Something that makes you look dying for ten minutes and perfectly fine five minutes later."
"Exactly," Albert said. "But it requires a deep understanding of toxicology. You'd need to find substances that trigger specific symptoms—fainting, vomiting, fever—but in a controlled, non-permanent way. You'd have to be harder on yourselves than your enemies. You'd have to be your own test subjects."
The twins exchanged a look. The prospect of poisoning themselves for profit was surprisingly appealing to them.
"For the Galleons," Fred whispered. "A little sacrifice is necessary."
"By the way," George said, changing the subject with a grin. "Speaking of people who deserve to be sick... did you hear about Kenneth Towler?"
"I heard Filch caught him," Albert said, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Caught him red-handed!" Fred laughed. "He was 'mysteriously' surrounded by a dozen active Dungbombs in the third-floor corridor. Filch didn't even ask questions. He just handed him a mop and told him he wasn't allowed to leave until the stone smelled like lavender again. Kenneth is currently scrubbing the floor with tears in his eyes."
"I assume the Disillusionment Charm training is going well then?" Albert asked.
"Better than well," George said proudly. "We walked right past him. He didn't see a thing. Just heard the pop of the fuses and the smell of a thousand wet socks."
"Be careful," Albert warned. "Kenneth isn't a genius, but he's observant. If he notices the two of you are always nearby when his life falls apart, he'll connect the dots."
"He can connect whatever he wants," Fred said. "He can't prove a thing."
Lee Jordan, meanwhile, had wandered over to Albert's workbench. He was staring at a collection of silver components and a small, honeycomb-shaped cylinder that looked like it belonged in a Muggle timepiece.
"What is this?" Lee asked, pointing to the device. "It looks like a lighter, but the internal geometry is all wrong."
"That," Albert said, picking up the silver casing, "is the prototype for the Banshee's Wail."
"A self-defense item?" George asked, leaning in.
"A crowd-control device," Albert corrected. "The cylinder is enchanted with a high-level Undetectable Extension Charm. I'm going to fill it with salt-pickled Mandrake root. When you flick the switch, the device activates the root's vocal cords for a split second. It's a focused, high-frequency sonic burst."
"You're putting a Mandrake in a box?" Fred asked, looking horrified. "Albert, those things are lethal. If that thing goes off in your pocket, you're a dead man."
"That's why the casing is triple-shielded," Albert explained, his fingers nimbly reassembling the silver parts. "And why the user has to wear specialized earplugs. It's an indiscriminate attack. Anyone within ten feet who isn't protected will be knocked unconscious instantly. It's the perfect way to end a fight before it even begins."
"Can I try it?" George asked immediately.
Albert paused, the silver casing glinting in the firelight. He looked at George with an expression that was almost pitying. "Are you sure? I was going to test it on a suit of armor first, but if you're volunteering to be the 'biological baseline,' I won't stop you."
"Wait... how long would I be out?" George asked, his bravado wavering.
"A few hours. Maybe a day if the Mandrake is particularly moody," Albert said casually. "But think of the data we'd get! We'd know exactly how much recovery time is needed."
"Maybe later," George said, stepping back. "I think I've had enough 'excitement' for one day."
"Your caution is noted," Albert teased. "But back to your 'Class-Skipping' project. If you're serious about this, don't look for 'Potions.' Look for 'Ingredients.' Go to the Greenhouses. Find the plants that cause the symptoms you want. Study the antidotes. If you can master the poison and the cure, you'll never have to sit through another History of Magic lecture again."
The twins looked at each other, the gears of their shared mind turning. They realized that Albert wasn't just giving them a suggestion; he was giving them a challenge. To succeed, they would have to become better at Herbology and Potions than they ever thought possible.
"Dream big, boys," Albert said, patting Fred on the shoulder. "Imagine the market. Every student in Hogwarts, from first year to seventh, would pay five Sickles for a 'Get Out of Class Free' card. You'd be richer than the Malfoys by Christmas."
"For the Galleons," Fred repeated, a look of religious fervor in his eyes.
"For the dreams," George added.
As they sat by the fire, planning their descent into the world of self-induced illness and chemical engineering, the storm continued to howl outside. But inside the Room of Requirement, the future was looking very bright, very profitable, and—thanks to Albert's "harder" philosophy—just a little bit dangerous. 🏰🧪💰