“This is an Anger Potion, sir.”

Inside a potions shop in Diagon Alley, Jiggs placed a bottle of fiery red liquid on the counter, introducing it to the customer who had just made a strange request.

“It’s brewed from belladonna extract, dried beetle eyes, and Billywig stingers. The effect keeps the drinker in a state of extreme rage for twenty-four hours. It can be taken repeatedly to intensify the effect.”

As the customer lifted the bottle, Jiggs showed his usual professional smile, though his mind was puzzled.

Honestly…

He had inherited this shop and sold potions for nearly thirty years, but this was the first time anyone had ever asked for this one.

The Anger Potion.

Although it had a proper official name, it was essentially a failed batch of Calming Draught—born from a mishandled brewing step. Its effect was bizarre and practically useless.

Who in the world would actually want to buy this?

Jiggs muttered inwardly, discreetly studying the customer.

The man was hunched, plainly dressed, exhausted in appearance, and severely balding—he looked exactly like an overworked office drone squeezed dry of all hope.

“How much?”

The sandpaper-rough voice snapped Jiggs out of his thoughts.

“What?” he replied reflexively, then immediately corrected himself, “Oh! One Galleon, sir.”

A clear clatter rang out as coins hit the wooden counter.

The middle-aged man pulled a handful of gold from his pocket and tossed it down. “Give me ten bottles to start.”

“Er…”

Jiggs’ face froze into a polite but awkward smile.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but we only have four bottles in stock at the moment.”

He bowed apologetically.

But then straightened, puffing out his plump chest. “However! We can start brewing immediately. I guarantee we can prepare the rest for you within three days!”

The man frowned, clearly displeased.

But he had already visited several other shops and knew how rare this potion was. He extended his hand. “Give me the four bottles you have.”

“Right away!”

Jiggs squeezed his round belly past the narrow shelves, stretching on his toes to reach the high-placed bottles.

Behind the man’s back, he discreetly rubbed dust off the glass with his sleeve.

He had no idea whether these four were still within their shelf life. They had only been sitting there for twenty years or so. Surely they wouldn’t kill anyone… probably?

He swirled a bottle. The liquid was clear, without residue. Good enough.

With a wide smile, he handed the potions to the man.

The middle-aged customer pocketed them but didn’t leave. Instead, he asked:

“Shopkeeper, do you have any other potions that can stir up emotions or strengthen resolve?”

“Well…”

Jiggs hesitated, leaning closer to whisper:

“There’s also the Love Potion, sir. That one certainly heightens emotional response. But as you know, the Ministry’s restrictions make it difficult to sell openly.”

The man snorted softly.

Love Potions—infamous across the wizarding world, capable of making the drinker obsessively enamored with whoever administered it.

Useless for his current purpose.

The man thought for a moment. “I heard you also take orders for high-tier potions?”

“That’s correct, sir!”

Jiggs straightened, sensing a big sale approaching. His enthusiasm tripled.

“Whatever potion you desire, we can obtain it! The price may be a bit high, but no matter how rare it is, I guarantee I can get it for you!”

“Then I want a bottle of Felix Felicis.”

“…What?”

Jiggs blinked.

Felix Felicis?

He stared at the man, the conversation feeling eerily familiar.

For a moment he was transported back—remembering that red-eyed brat he had once met. Because of that shameless kid, he had nearly bankrupted his store buying a single bottle of Felix Felicis. He’d even been forced to fire his best employee just to keep the place afloat.

A nightmare.

Jiggs sighed, staring around at his now-empty shop. Sunlight warmed the folds of his triple chin.

Funny… the day the nightmare began had weather just like this.

His eyes stung.

When Dawn Richter became a wanted fugitive… who in Britain was the saddest person?

Dumbledore? Professor McGonagall?

Professor Flitwick?

Maybe.

But whether or not he ranked first, Jiggs was confident his sorrow was among the highest.

That day, clutching the Felix Felicis he’d paid a fortune for, he had locked himself in a room and sobbed for ages like some abandoned pregnant mistress.

Truthfully…

Felix Felicis was always sellable. No wizard in their right mind would turn down such a powerful potion.

But wanting to buy it normally and being willing to pay an inflated price were very different things.

Its high cost meant only influential people could afford it—people who would never pay above market value.

“I need Felix Felicis.”

The middle-aged man repeated himself, watching the shopkeeper’s deranged expressions with growing suspicion.

“N-Not difficult!” Jiggs choked out, collapsing into a chair and clutching his chest.

Just two days ago.

Two days ago!

He had finally sold his last bottle—at only ten Galleons above average.

Counting what he’d paid to acquire it, he had lost three hundred Galleons.

Three hundred Galleons.

Dawn Richter, you wretched troublemaker!

Jiggs muttered the name bitterly, earning a puzzled stare from the customer.

“Apologies, sir. Just a sudden emotional episode. Please ignore it.”

After wiping the corner of his eye, he forced a steady tone.

“If you wish to purchase Felix Felicis, you may place an order. I guarantee results within three months. But…”

He paused, gritting his teeth.

“Deposits first. Small business rules.”

“Of course.”

The man pulled out a small sack heavy with gold.

“I also heard your Felix Felicis originally came from Horace Slughorn?”

“That’s right!” Jiggs puffed up, eyes gleaming at the jingling pouch. “Guaranteed quality!”

“Excellent.”

The man tossed the bag onto the counter, gold glinting from the open top.

“But don’t worry,” he added, blocking Jiggs’ reaching hand, “the money is yours eventually. I’d simply like to meet Professor Slughorn myself. Can you introduce me? Or give me his address?”

Jiggs shrugged.

“Afraid not. The Felix Felicis I purchased went through many, many hands. I’ve never dealt with Slughorn directly.”

He told the truth.

That endless chain of intermediaries was the very reason he had lost so much on the deal.

But then Jiggs leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin.

“However, I’ve heard Avery Manor is hosting a grand gathering soon. Slughorn is on their guest list. If you can sneak in, you’ll meet him for sure.”

“Avery Manor?” the man asked, intrigued.

Jiggs nodded proudly.

“Yes. Two days from now. Only people of status were invited.”

The man raised an eyebrow at Jiggs. “So that means… you received an invitation?”

“Haha! How did you know?”

Jiggs opened a drawer and triumphantly displayed a rigid black invitation edged in gold thread.

Although he despised pure-blood supremacists, he hid it well. He had flattered enough people in pursuit of rare potions to earn a place on the guest list.

He waved the invitation eagerly, waiting to see envy on the man’s face.

But the man simply gave him an unreadable look.

“Thank you, shopkeeper. In that case, I’ll take my leave.”

He nodded politely. “The money stays here. I’ll return in two days for the rest of the Anger Potions.”

Huh?

“The money stays here”?

Jiggs found the phrasing odd.

But after muttering, “Strange customer,” he happily gathered the coins.

Sunlight glared off the snow outside. Dawn—no longer disguised as a worn-out office worker—stepped from the shop and narrowed his eyes.

He walked into a quieter corner of Diagon Alley and pulled out an Anger Potion.

The red liquid churned within the glass bottle.

Dawn frowned, then drew out a Calming Draught as well. After a moment’s thought, he uncorked the first bottle and drank.

“Gah—cough—!”

The liquid scorched like magma, clawing up his throat.

He hadn’t anticipated the intensity and doubled over coughing.

Then a surge of raw fury erupted from deep inside.

Dawn’s fingers tightened. Red veins crept across his vision. For a moment, he wanted to smash the bottle against the ground.

“Strong stuff…”

He forced the rest down, wiped his mouth, and closed his eyes as anger swelled like a furnace.

Thoughts of Dumbledore’s pressure flared violently, igniting dark impulses—an image of storming Hogwarts and cutting loose.

But he exhaled and centered himself.

This wasn’t the time.

Dawn forced his attention onto the swirling mist of power within him—the tension between his innate magic and the invasive natural magic.

Even with the emotional amplification, his own magic only barely outweighed the natural magic. Nowhere near enough to drive it out.

He frowned.

There were only two ways he knew: increase his magical reserves, or heighten his emotional state.

He could grow his reserves with the Flesh-Severing Curse, but the spell’s cycle was long, dangerous, and ultimately fatal unless he used End-All Curses to halt the magic—

Which in turn weakened his reserves and worsened the long-term balance problem.

Which meant emotional amplification was the only feasible path.

Blood-curse carriers could revert to their true form because of overwhelming fear and desperation—but Dawn couldn’t reliably produce that level of emotion on command.

So he turned to potions.

And he had to admit—Britain’s potions masters and brewing system were unmatched. He had visited Egypt, France, and other countries while avoiding Dumbledore, but found nothing useful.

Only here, in a tiny shop in Diagon Alley, had he found a temporary solution.

But that was all it was: temporary.

Anger Potions couldn’t solve the problem at its core.

Which meant…

He would have to rely on the Fountain of Fair Fortune. If the fountain had once cured a blood curse, perhaps it could help his condition as well.

But there was no evidence it truly existed. Where to even begin looking?

Every legend and every story from the Carter family hinted at one thing: the fountain was tied closely to Felix Felicis.

So he would start there.

Where could he get large quantities of Felix Felicis?

Shops? Pure-blood families?

No.

His first choice was the legendary potions masters.

Especially Slughorn—long-lived, highly skilled, not under Dumbledore’s direct watch, and famously generous with Felix Felicis in his classes.

He was said to enjoy befriending promising young wizards.

Dawn considered himself extremely promising—and undeniably famous.

Slughorn would surely be delighted to invest in a “bright future” like his.

He licked his lips, checked the time, and took a sip of Polyjuice from his flask before returning to the shop area.

The crowds in Diagon Alley made it impossible to act now. He needed a chance to replace Jiggs without being seen, then attend the Avery gathering in disguise.

“Avery,” Dawn muttered, buying an ice cream to wash away the sticky, fish-smelling aftertaste of the Polyjuice.

His eyes glinted with cold intention as he walked away.

___________

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