The internal logic of Felix Felicis is a strange, intoxicating beast. It doesn't just make you lucky; it rewires your brain to perceive the path of least resistance as the only path worth taking. Albert's original plan—a calculated, multi-stage distraction involving the Weasley twins and a series of well-timed firecrackers—now felt laughably primitive. Why bother with a loud distraction when the universe itself was willing to hold your hand through the front door?
Snape's office was more than just a room; it was a fortress within a dungeon. The Professor's bedroom was situated directly adjacent to his workspace, separated only by a thin stone wall. Even in the deepest sleep, Severus Snape was a man who lived with his wand practically fused to his palm. A single misplaced footstep would usually be enough to bring a curse down on a student's head before they could even stutter an apology.
However, as Albert moved through the castle, his mind wasn't on Snape's temper. It was on Greenhouse Three.
Intuition is a powerful thing when it's gold-plated by a potion. As he descended toward the grounds, a sudden, inexplicable urge took hold of him. He didn't just want to steal ingredients; he felt a magnetic pull toward the herbology greenhouses.
A Mandrake, the potion whispered in the back of his mind. You need a Mandrake.
Albert didn't argue. He didn't even wonder why. He simply diverted his course, exiting the castle through a narrow secret passage on the third floor that dumped him out near the edge of the dark, rain-slicked grounds.
The torrential downpour from the feast had tapered off into a miserable, freezing mist. The air was heavy with the smell of wet earth and ancient stone. Albert paused at the exit of the tunnel, his eyes scanning the darkness. With a flick of his wand, he Transfigured a pair of discarded rags into thin, waterproof boot covers. He wasn't about to let a bit of mud on the dungeon floor be the evidence that sent him to detention until graduation.
The trek to the greenhouses was eerily silent. The boathouse sat like a hunched shadow in the distance, and the Giant Squid occasionally broke the surface of the Black Lake with a wet thwack. Albert reached Greenhouse Three in record time. The door was reinforced with an Anti-Alohomora enchantment—a standard security measure that assumed most thieves were lazy with their spellwork.
Albert wasn't lazy; he was prepared. He pulled a thin, enchanted wire from his pocket. Under the influence of the Felix, his fingers moved with the dexterity of a master clockmaker. He didn't even have to think about the tumblers; he just felt them. With a satisfying click, the heavy lock yielded.
Inside, the greenhouse was a jungle of dangerous silhouettes. Fanged Geraniums snapped at the air, and Venomous Tentacula vines twitched in their sleep. Albert ignored them all, walking straight to the corner rack where the young Mandrakes were kept. These were the ones he had helped repot just that morning.
He selected a particularly healthy specimen and cast a localized Hover Charm. The pot rose into the air, bobbing gently behind him like a loyal pet. Next to the potting station, he spotted a pair of heavy, dragon-hide earmuffs. His hand moved toward them automatically.
Why the earmuffs? a small part of his logical brain asked. Because the plan is about to get loud, the luck replied.
Returning to the castle was just as effortless. He vanished his boot covers at the secret entrance, ensuring not a single speck of dirt remained. He checked his pocket watch. The golden glow in his chest was still burning bright. There was time.
"I'll just drop this in the Room of Requirement for now," Albert muttered to himself. But as he turned toward the seventh floor, the "crazy" idea hit him. It was a flash of pure, inspired madness. He could almost feel the Felix Felicis cheering in his bloodstream.
He didn't go to the seventh floor. He went down. Deep down.
The dungeons were a labyrinth of cold drafts and flickering green torches. Finding Snape's office without a map would be a nightmare for most, but Albert moved with the confidence of someone walking through his own living room. A few minutes of silent trekking brought him to the heavy oak door of the Potions Master's inner sanctum.
The wire came out again. Three seconds. Click.
The door creaked open, a sound that felt like a scream in the dead of night. Albert slipped inside, the floating Mandrake pot following him. The room smelled of dried herbs, cold ash, and something sharp and chemical. He didn't go for the safe first. Instead, he pulled the dragon-hide earmuffs over his head, sealing out the silence of the room.
He walked to the door leading to Snape's bedroom, cracked it open just an inch, and reached into the floating pot.
With a brutal, decisive tug, he yanked the Mandrake out of the soil.
Even through the heavy padding of the earmuffs, Albert felt the vibration of the plant's scream. It was a soul-shredding, ultrasonic shriek that could knock a grown man senseless. In the adjacent room, the figure on the bed didn't even have time to reach for a wand. Snape, caught in the deepest part of his sleep cycle, was hit by a physical wall of sound. His eyes flew open for a fraction of a second before his brain simply shut down to protect itself. He went limp, falling back into a forced, magical unconsciousness.
Albert waited a beat, then shoved the thrashing, ugly root back into its pot. Silence crashed back into the room.
"Sweet dreams, Professor," Albert whispered, his voice sounding distant to his own muffled ears. "You'll wake up tomorrow convinced you had the most vivid nightmare of your life."
He moved with professional efficiency now. He gently re-covered the Mandrake with soil, ensuring no traces were left on the floor. He even took a moment to walk into the bedroom and pull the duvet back over Snape's shoulders. It was a touch of "lucky" irony he couldn't resist.
The private safe was his final stop. As his wire hit the lock, a silent alarm triggered—a spell designed to alert the owner immediately. Somewhere, a charm pulsed, trying to wake a man who was currently in a Mandrake-induced coma. The alarm was screaming into a void.
Albert opened the safe and let out a low whistle. It was a treasure trove. He didn't get greedy, though. Greed was for people without luck. He took exactly what he needed: the iridescent Niven-snake eggs, the shriveled strips of African Tree Snake skin, and a single, polished Diricawl horn.
"Dragon claw powder? No, too easy to track," he murmured, leaving the jars of shimmering dust behind. "I can buy that in London without starting a war."
He knew Snape would realize things were missing eventually. But by then, Albert would have already planted the seeds of a different story. He wanted Snape to think he was dealing with someone brewing Polyjuice Potion—a common enough occurrence among rule-breaking students—rather than the much more sophisticated project Albert was actually working on.
He checked his map one last time. The Mandrake's muffled scream hadn't alerted the whole castle, but it had certainly piqued the interest of Argus Filch. The caretaker's dot was moving rapidly toward the dungeon levels, his lantern swinging in his hand.
Albert closed the safe, relocked the office door, and stepped into the corridor. He felt like a ghost. He and Filch passed each other in a wide hallway, separated by nothing but ten feet of air and a perfect Disillusionment Charm. Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris, paused for a second, her yellow eyes narrowing as she sniffed the air, but Albert simply held his breath and kept walking. The luck held.
Ten minutes later, he was on the eighth floor. He ducked into the Room of Requirement, which had manifested as a small, secure storage vault. He deposited the stolen ingredients and the Mandrake, feeling the weight lift from his shoulders.
By the time he reached the Gryffindor Common Room, the hour was up. The Fat Lady was nowhere to be seen—likely off visiting another portrait for a late-night drink—which meant he didn't even have to worry about her judging his late-night excursions.
The portrait hole swung open. Fred stood there, his hair messy and his eyes wide with anxiety. He pulled Albert inside and slammed the portrait shut.
"You're back! Bloody hell, Albert, we heard a noise... like a ghost dying in the pipes," Fred hissed. "The whole castle is waking up. Filch is throwing a fit and the Prefects are being called out of bed. Did you do it?"
Albert pulled off his invisible cloak, his face flushed with the lingering heat of the Felix Felicis. He looked at his friends—their worried faces, their nervous energy—and he just smiled.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Albert said, patting Fred on the shoulder. "I've been for a very pleasant walk. And as for the chaos? Well, that sounds like someone else's problem."
He headed toward the stairs, the golden luck finally beginning to fade into a warm, comfortable glow of success. Tomorrow would be a day of investigations and snarling professors, but tonight, Albert felt like the king of the castle.