While Albert was basking in the golden afterglow of a successful heist, the dungeon corridors were far from peaceful. Argus Filch, the castle's perennial shadow, was prowling the lower levels with his oil lamp held high. The heavy rain outside usually muffled the sounds of the castle, but the cry that had ripped through the dungeons moments ago was different. It wasn't a ghost's wail or a student's prank; it was a visceral, piercing shriek that had made Filch's teeth ache.
"I know you're here," Filch hissed, his lamp casting long, distorted shadows against the damp stone. "Mrs. Norris can smell your fear, you little delinquent."
He rounded a corner near the Slytherin Common Room and spotted a blur of movement. With a speed born of years of spite, Filch lunged.
"Caught you! Stop right there!"
The student he cornered was a second-year Slytherin named Terrence Higgs, who looked like he'd just seen a Dementor. The boy was trembling, his hands jammed into the pockets of his silk pajamas. Curiosity is a dangerous trait in a castle like Hogwarts, especially after midnight. Higgs had heard the scream and, thinking a fellow housemate might be in trouble—or perhaps hoping to see something scandalous—he had poked his head out just as Filch arrived.
"I—I didn't do anything!" Higgs stammered, squinting against the harsh light of the oil lamp. "I just heard the noise and came to check..."
"A likely story," Filch sneered, his face twisting into a mask of pure malice. "That eerie, soul-sucking cry was your doing, wasn't it? Testing out some Dark Arts trinket your father sent you from home?"
"No! I swear!"
"Save it for your Head of House. Let's see what Professor Snape has to say about his precious snakes wandering the halls."
Filch grabbed the boy by the elbow and dragged him toward Snape's office. He hammered on the oak door with enough force to wake the dead—or so he thought. Inside, Severus Snape lay sprawled across his bed in a state of profound, Mandrake-induced neurological shutdown. To Snape's brain, the external world had ceased to exist. Filch's pounding was nothing more than a faint pulse in a dreamless void.
After five minutes of futile knocking, Filch's frustration boiled over. "Fine. If he's a heavy sleeper tonight, we'll go to the Deputy Headmistress. She's less likely to be 'lenient' with your lot."
Professor McGonagall was not a woman who enjoyed being woken at two in the morning. When she opened her door, wrapped in a tartan dressing gown with her hair in a tight braid, her expression was enough to freeze the Black Lake.
"Argus? What on earth is this commotion?"
"Found this one skulking near the dungeons right after that... that noise," Filch reported, pushing Higgs forward. "A scream like a banshee, it was. Nearly took my ears off."
McGonagall's sharp eyes fixed on the boy. "Mr. Higgs? Is this true? Did you produce a sound that shook the foundations of the castle?"
"It wasn't me, Professor! It came from inside the corridors, near the Potion rooms. I just went to see if someone was hurt!"
McGonagall's lips thinned into a line so narrow it was practically invisible. "Being 'curious' is not an excuse for breaking curfew, Mr. Higgs. And since Professor Snape is apparently unavailable to discipline his own, I shall take the liberty. Fifty points from Slytherin. And you will serve a week of detentions with Mr. Filch—scrubbing the trophy room without magic."
As Higgs was led away, looking utterly defeated, he couldn't possibly have known that the real culprit was currently sitting in Gryffindor Tower, laughing.
In the boys' dormitory, the atmosphere was electric. Albert had just finished shedding his Disillusionment Charm, standing before his roommates with an almost predatory grin. He had just finished explaining the Mandrake maneuver—how he'd used a literal botanical scream to knock out the most feared teacher in the school.
"You absolute madman," Fred whispered, his eyes wide with a mix of terror and reverence. "You didn't just rob him. You assassinated his consciousness with a vegetable."
"It was the most efficient route," Albert said, stifling a yawn. The Felix Felicis was starting to leave his system, replaced by a deep, satisfying exhaustion. "I've got the Runespoor eggs. The African Tree Snake skin is stashed. As for the dragon claw powder, I'll just order that through the post tomorrow. It's expensive, but it doesn't come with the risk of a life sentence in Azkaban."
"But Snape... what happens when he wakes up?" George asked, his voice shaking with suppressed laughter. "He's going to know something happened."
"He'll wake up with a massive headache and a foggy memory," Albert said confidently. "Mandrake screams don't leave bruises. He'll think he had a particularly vivid nightmare brought on by too much spicy food at the feast. By the time he checks his safe and notices a few missing scales, I'll have already moved the evidence."
The twins and Lee were too wired to sleep, whispering about the sheer audacity of the heist. But Albert's mind was already elsewhere. He had closed his eyes, navigating the flood of information that had just been dumped into his brain by the system.
[Task: First Encounter with Mandragora — Completed][Reward: Basic Knowledge of Mandragora (Unlocked)]
It was a misnomer. The system called it "Basic Knowledge," but to Albert, it felt like the entire secret history of the plant had been etched into his gray matter. If he were to write down everything he now knew, he'd produce a tome that would make Moste Potente Potions look like a children's picture book.
The Mandrake wasn't just a restorative; it was a pillar of ancient Alchemy.
The Elixir of Life... Albert's heart hammered against his ribs. The knowledge contained a derivation of the Mandrake root that could act as a stabilizer for the Philosopher's Stone's essence.
He found recipes for Mandrake Wine—a potent brew that could cure infertility or act as a devastatingly effective aphrodisiac. He saw methods for carving the dried roots into "Alraunes"—living talismans that could protect a home from Dark Arts or act as a focus for high-level Divination.
But the most dangerous bit of knowledge involved salt.
If a Mandrake is pickled in sanctified salt for ninety days... Albert shivered. The plant wouldn't just die; its scream would be preserved in its fibers, turning the root into a localized curse. It was a "Dark Grenade." Throwing it would release a pulse of hatred so strong it could stop a heart.
"This is insane," Albert murmured, his eyes snapping open. He realized now that he could never return that pot to the greenhouse. He needed his own nursery. He needed to cultivate these things with the "Perfect Growth" method the system had just taught him—a technique involving moon-cycles and dragon blood fertilizer that Professor Sprout probably didn't even know existed.
"What's insane?" Fred asked, leaning over from his bed.
"Felix Felicis," Albert replied, a tired but triumphant smile on his face. "The potion's effect... it's not just luck. It's like the world opens up its secrets to you because it wants you to succeed. I'm definitely going to learn how to brew this stuff."
"Are you going to be a luck-addict now?" Lee joked. "Drinking it every morning before breakfast?"
"No," Albert said, pulling his blankets up. "Drinking too much makes you a reckless idiot. But for those moments when the world feels like it's stacked against you... a little bit of liquid gold makes everything perfect."
As he drifted off to sleep, Albert's last thought was of Snape waking up in a few hours. He hoped the Professor enjoyed the "nightmare." After all, it had been a very productive night for Gryffindor.