After packing everything up, the three of them headed down the wide secret passage. A creaky old lift rattled and groaned as it carried them deep underground, finally spitting them out onto a cracked stone path.
The tunnel twisted like a drunk snake. Even moving at a brisk pace, it took them nearly an hour to reach Hogsmeade. If they'd taken the main road above ground, it would've been about thirty minutes.
The public Floo Network hut was deserted. They crawled out of the cellar, climbed a rickety wooden staircase, and slipped behind a wall of rotting barrels. The twins flicked their wands (Levitation Charm) and shifted the barrels just enough to squeeze through.
"Let's go," Fred muttered, pulling up his hood and dropping his voice low.
The twins were already tall enough to pass for adults (around five-foot-nine), but Lynn was a bit shorter. He wouldn't turn twelve for a few more months and was only about five5'3". Still, with the raspy, old-man voice he was putting on and the gloves hiding his kid-sized hands, he didn't look too suspicious.
The Hog's Head sign hung crookedly, casting a long, creepy shadow in the dim light. A severed boar's head dangled above the door. Whoever owned this place clearly had… interesting taste.
The second they pushed the door open, a wave of dust, stale air, cheap booze, and unwashed bodies hit them like a slap.
Fred tossed a handful of silver Sickles onto the grimy bar and ordered three bottles of the cheapest butterbeer. It was basically the "don't ask questions" fee. You paid whether you drank or not.
The filthy bottles killed any desire to actually taste the stuff. None of them touched a drop.
What really caught Lynn's eye was the barman himself: those piercing blue eyes looked eerily familiar. Aberforth Dumbledore (Albus Dumbledore's younger brother). The two hadn't spoken in decades, not since their sister Ariana died. Aberforth didn't have his brother's dazzling genius. He was short-tempered, impulsive, the stereotypical hot-headed Gryffindor.
"Hey, Dung," Fred rasped.
"Shh!" Mundungus Fletcher, nursing a glass of something green and glowing in the corner, shot upright and put a finger to his lips. "Don't use my bloody name! I've got people watching me. Last thing I need is getting sold to a goblin brothel."
"Sounds like you owe somebody a lot this time," George snickered. "Lucky they didn't break your legs."
"I don't owe nobody nothing! Those idiots picked the cauldrons themselves. If the bottom's scraped too thin and it explodes and scalds someone, that's on them for being blind. Pfft."
Mundungus had been fencing dodgy second-hand cauldrons for years. In potion-making, cauldrons were basically disposable. Even if you babied one, it only lasted a couple of years before the metal got contaminated and started ruining brews. You either scraped the inside (risking explosions) or retired it for a few years. Guess which method shady dealers like Dung preferred?
"What've you got for me?" he asked, rubbing his hands together, shifty eyes darting between the three hooded figures.
"Top-quality potions. Invigoration Draught and Wideye Potion. You know these fly off the shelves."
"Four hundred twenty-two bottles. Six Sickles each. Fair price."
Mundungus spat out his drink. "You off your rocker? Six Sickles? I'd be lucky to make one Sickle profit per bottle, and I'm the one taking all the risk! Four Sickles each, take it or leave it. I'll buy the lot."
"Four Sickles? That's below cost, you thieving git. You think we're running a charity?"
"Final offer: six Sickles. Not a Knut less. Fresh stock every week. Plenty of buyers lining up, zero risk for you. We're only cutting you in because you've hooked us up before. Otherwise you wouldn't even be in the room."
The twins were brutal hagglers. Even Mundungus (veteran of every black market from here to Knockturn Alley) started sweating. But they weren't wrong. These two potions were everyday essentials. Overworked employees, sick people, students cramming for exams; everyone needed them, and they worked instantly.
"Fine, fine! You two are bleeding me dry. Six Sickles it is. For old times' sake, I'll eat the loss. But I'm checking the quality first. If it's rubbish, no deal."
"Fine. But anything you drink comes out of your cut."
"You're seriously charging me for a sip? I've never met anyone tighter than you two."
Mundungus grumbled the whole way to one of the private back booths (grimy wooden door, perfect for shady deals). As soon as it shut, he hissed, "Where's the goods?"
Lynn reached under his cloak and started pulling out crate after crate of simple wooden boxes, each stuffed to the brim with glowing vials.
"Still warm?" Mundungus picked one up in shock. The potions hadn't even fully cooled yet.
"We just brought on a new partner," Fred said proudly. "Kid's a genius."
"Looks like your operation's bigger than I thought."
Mundungus sampled one of each potion, eyes widening.
"Top-notch. Bloody brilliant."
He was grinning now. He'd been expecting maybe half a Sickle profit per bottle. Now he was looking at a full Sickle, easy sale.
"Money's here—"
He dragged out a filthy moneybag and started counting out piles of coins. Hardly any Galleons, mostly heavy stacks of Sickles and Knuts. Over a hundred Galleons in total, and he paid it all in pocket-destroying small change.
"Next time, bring Galleons," Lynn growled.
"I've got some ingredients I need. Same time next week."
"No problem at all, boss. Dung's your man."
They counted the cash, gave him the shopping list, and slipped back into the Hogsmeade night.
"How about I buy you two a drink?" Lynn offered as they passed the Three Broomsticks.
"Nobody says no to butterbeer," George laughed. "Especially not the stuff from the Hog's Head. I'd be on the toilet for a week."
A hot, foamy butterbeer after that freezing tunnel? Yeah. That sounded perfect.