Bertie's magic had never been very strong. Each tentative to transform a wooden match into a shiny, pointy needle had proved unsuccessful. He had never been able to fly on a broom until his fourteenth birthday.

Bertie was a long and scrawny teenager, who always seemed to walk hunched forwards. He would forget his wand in his back pocket – he had once had to go to the nursery for it had catched fire. He had not been sorted to join the braves, nor the cunnings, nor the know-it-alls. The Sorting Hat had deemed him to be a Hufflepuff, and he was quite alright with that. The boys in his dormitory let him alone, and he'd never ask for more.

The only subject at Hogwarts that he could reckon being his forte – although he had caused quite a few explosions- was Potions. Seating in front of a bubbling cauldron, he would feel calm and at peace. And who knew what could come out of it?

Anyway, you probably got the picture by now. Bertie didn't feel like he quite belonged to Hogwarts. And like every teenager suffering from boredom, Bertie would eat. Oh, no, he wouldn't get bigger, but you would always find him with a piece of cake or some sweet in his hands. Like a taste scientist, he would savour each mouthful, would analyse every flavour.

This is what drove Bertie, after working hard to pass his NEWT, to devote himself to the making of sweets. But the poor boy wasn't successful at all, even though he would work day and night to try and improve texture and flavour! He would work so hard that he would regularly fall asleep in front of a bubbling cauldron.

I must here bring up a piece of information of the uttermost importance: did I mention that Bertie was a sleepwalker? Regularly, our friend would wake up in odd places or bizarre situations. He had even once been found by his uncle, a broom in his hand, shouting 'I'm going to catch the Snitch, I'm going to catch the Snitch!'. Poor Bertie didn't even know how to take off.

Anyway, Bertie was exhausted by his attempts at creating a new kind of sweets.

And this is what nearly cost him everything. On a cold November evening, one identical to all those that had come before, he had worked on a potion which should have, theoretically, produced small jelly beans. The texture was alright, that he knew. But the vanilla taste he was looking for was plain disgusting. He had ended up bob heading, his ladle still in his hand, and before long he was sleeping for good.

He had gotten woken up by the sound of a door opening loudly. 'Uncle Bertie, breakfast is… Uncle Bertie, what are you doing?'

Bertie, indeed, was in a strange posture. Standing on his stool, one foot with a shoe, the other one bare, he had a sock in his right hand, just above the cauldron. Surprised into awakening, he opened eyes and hand. The sock – dirty, of course – fell right in the potion. The concoction began bubbling more and more and turned yellow. Bertie launched himself on his nephew and both rolled on the floor, hoping to come out unscathed from the explosion that would undoubtedly happen…

Nothing exploded. Bertie, carefully, looked into his cauldron. Inside were a dozen of small jelly beans. His nephew, knowing nothing of all the failed attempts, reached to take one and ate it before Bertie had time to prevent it. He spit it out with a face, then burst out laughing.

'Sock-flavoured jelly beans? Why not bogey or turf, while you're at it? Really, Uncle Bertie, you really are odd!'

Bertie Botts' Every Flavour Beans were born.