The gargoyle guarding the entrance to the Headmaster's office stepped aside at the password: "Cockroach Pile." The wall behind it split, revealing a spiral staircase.
Dumbledore gestured for Hall to enter first.
The office was round and high-ceilinged, with a large domed window. Portraits of past headmasters lined the walls, pretending to be asleep but sneaking glances at the visitor.
"Please, sit."
The gargoyle stepped aside at the password.
"I'll still call you Henry," Dumbledore said, placing two cups of tea on the table and gesturing for Hall to sit. "Unless you'd prefer a different name."
Hall took the cup. "Henry is fine." He took a large gulp. "Thank you, Headmaster."
Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled. "If I'm not mistaken, this potion is designed for Squibs."
"Yes."
"Would you be willing to tell an old man how you came to develop it?"
Hall met his gaze directly. "Because I was a Squib. Originally."
The portraits on the walls stopped pretending to sleep. Several leaned in so close their frames creaked.
"I'm sorry — I took the liberty of having Severus fetch Mr. Filch. If you'd rather not—"
"No. I intended to ask for Filch anyway." Hall set down his cup. "I've recovered my magic fully. I can't test the potion on myself anymore."
Dumbledore's expression grew serious. "Then I thank you on their behalf."
He didn't ask how Hall had regained his magic. Hall appreciated that.
"Henry," Dumbledore said, "with young people like you, I see a brighter future for the wizarding world. You have ideas. Creativity. Execution. The future belongs to you."
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He dabbed at the corner of his eye.
"Perhaps we can truly achieve peaceful coexistence with the Muggle world."
Hall's internal alarm bells rang.
He's getting ahead of himself. Way ahead. Grand speeches lead to grand responsibilities. I'm not signing up for a crusade.
"Headmaster — you misunderstand. I'm not doing this for free."
Something flickered behind Dumbledore's eyes. A shadow of wariness, quickly masked. Too many people in his life had tried to take something from him. Young Tom Riddle. Gellert Grindelwald. They'd all wanted power, influence, immortality.
"What do you want?"
"Money."
Dumbledore blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
Hall pulled a golden Galleon from his pocket and held it up. "This. Lots of them. Yellow. Even better when they're stacked."
Dumbledore stared at him. Then he laughed — a short, surprised laugh. "A good young man. A very good young man."
He removed his spectacles and polished them. "If this potion works as we expect, I will pay you five hundred Galleons."
"Five hundred is a bit low, isn't it? This is a life-changing potion."
"From what I understand, you're operating with virtually no capital. The materials are from the school."
"The school's materials are free, but the invention is mine. Without the formula, those ingredients remain just ingredients."
"Child, you have many ideas. But can you tell me — who is more capable? You, or Henry William?"
The question was direct. Dumbledore was asking whether Hall wanted credit or anonymity.
"I'm a student of Hogwarts," Hall said carefully. "Certified by the school."
"I see. And you'd prefer Henry William to remain the face of this?"
"I'd prefer no face at all. The potion speaks for itself."
Dumbledore studied him for a long moment. "Let me make you an offer. Sell this potion to the school. I give you my word — no one besides Severus and I will know who created it, without your permission."
Hall considered. Then he placed the second vial on the table.
"One thousand Galleons. It's worth the price. And we can discuss long-term arrangements after you've seen the effects."
He met Dumbledore's eyes. "I want Hogwarts to guarantee the agreement. It's not that I don't trust you, Headmaster — but I trust the institution more. It's protecting me, after all."
Dumbledore was silent for a moment. Using Hogwarts as a business guarantor was unusual. But there was a first time for everything.
"Deal."
He placed a heavy cloth bag on the table. The sound of clinking gold was unmistakable.
Hall opened his coin purse with great satisfaction and watched the Galleons fly in.
The ingredients were simple. The method was what mattered. If this potion could be mass-produced, it would cause the upheaval Dumbledore had predicted — and that was more than an eleven-year-old could handle alone.
He wanted to stay in the background. No responsibilities. No obligations. Just family, friends, and enough Galleons to keep the system happy.
The old man and the young boy exchanged a knowing smile.
They shared Honeydukes sweets from Dumbledore's personal collection — creamy marzipan, pink coconut ice, honey-coloured toffee, and a whole tin of sizzling sherbet lemons.
By the time they'd finished, Snape arrived with Filch.