The announcement of the inaugural Wizarding Card Tournament was pinned to the corkboards of every house common room with a certain level of flair. Albert had even added a small, shimmering charm to the border of the parchment to catch the light. However, the initial response from the Hogwarts student body was, to put it mildly, underwhelming.
In a school where life-sized wizard chess, dangerous Quidditch matches, and avoiding the moving staircases took up most of the students' mental energy, a "card game" felt a bit like bringing a spoon to a wand-fight. Most people glanced at the notice, shrugged, and went back to discussing the upcoming Hogsmeade trip. For the third-years and above, the prospect of Butterbeer and Honeydukes was far more intoxicating than a club-level competition.
"It's a ghost town, Albert," Lee Jordan sighed, slapping a nearly empty signup sheet onto the table in the Gryffindor common room. "Look at this. Four names. Four. And three of them are sitting at this table right now."
George leaned over, squinting at the parchment. "Wait, who's the fourth?"
"Neville Longbottom," Lee said flatly. "I think he signed up because he thought it was a club for people who lose their toads. He looked very confused when I handed him a starter deck."
"What if we don't even hit sixteen players?" George asked, turning his gaze toward Albert, who was currently cross-referencing a potion ingredient list with a Transfiguration textbook. "We'll look like right idiots if the 'Grand Tournament' consists of us playing against ourselves in a corner."
Albert didn't look up from his notes. His quill scratched rhythmically against the parchment. "It's a club event, George. If only five people show up, then those five people get a very high statistical chance of winning. I'm not losing sleep over it."
Actually, Albert had already run the numbers. He was playing the long game. The "Wizard Card" was a product, and every product had a slow adoption curve. If he had to act as the organizer, the referee, and the primary spectator for the first few rounds, he was fine with that. As long as he didn't participate himself—since his understanding of the game's mechanics was essentially 'God-tier' compared to the average student—the integrity of the competition would remain intact.
"And if zero people sign up?" Fred asked, leaning back so far his chair groaned in protest.
"Then the four of us will have a very intense, very private championship," Albert replied with a faint smile. "I'll even throw in a 'Best Effort' consolation prize. Maybe a box of Bertie Bott's Beans that only contains the earwax flavors."
"That's definitely going to George," Lee joked. "He's the only one of us who still thinks 'Fire Crab' is a viable opening move against a 'Dementor' card."
"Hey! It's about the psychological pressure!" George defended himself, though his grin suggested he knew he was the weakest link in their quartet.
The conversation shifted as Fred began tidying his own deck, his movements careful and practiced. He glanced sideways at Albert and lowered his voice. "So, are we still heading 'next door' at the end of the month? Or is the tournament going to take up all your time?"
Albert knew 'next door' was code for their clandestine trips to see the advanced brewers or the secret spots they used for experimentation. "The appointment with Mr. Dagworth still stands. He's promised to walk me through the stabilization phase of the Babbling Beverage. It's a nightmare to brew—one degree too hot and the whole thing turns into literal gibberish."
"If you nail the recipe, I'm first in line for a sample," Fred said. "I've got a History of Magic essay due that requires more brain cells than I currently possess."
"You're admitting you're a bit of a dunce then?" Lee teased.
Fred gave him a look of mock offense. "I'm saying my genius is focused on practical applications. If Albert can brew a liquid shortcut to brilliance, I'd be an idiot not to drink it. Right, Albert?"
"The effect won't be as dramatic as you're hoping," Albert warned. "It's an aid, not a miracle. And that's assuming I don't accidentally turn your tongue into a vibrating tuning fork during the process."
Suddenly, Fred's foot shot out under the table, kicking Albert's shin. At the same time, he shut his mouth and looked intensely interested in his cards.
"Ow! Which one of you idiots just—" Lee started to yell, but he followed Fred's gaze and quickly went quiet.
A tall, somewhat lanky student was approaching their table. It was Truman, the Hufflepuff prefect who had taken a shine to the card game early on. He looked like he had just finished a marathon, but instead of sweat, he was covered in a thick layer of gloom.
"Bad news?" Albert asked, closing his book.
Truman slumped into a chair across from them. "It's a disaster, Albert. I've been pitching the game to every Hufflepuff from first to seventh year. I even offered to teach the House Elves if it would drum up interest."
"And?"
"And I've got one person. One," Truman said, his voice dropping to a dejected whisper. "And that person is me. I'm the only Hufflepuff on the list."
"Well, that makes five of us total," Lee said, trying to sound encouraging while counting on his fingers. "Six if you count Neville, though I suspect he might forget to show up."
Albert watched Truman's sagging shoulders. The Hufflepuff was a good guy, but he lacked the 'predatory marketing' instinct required to move a new product.
"Patience, Truman," Albert said, his voice taking on that calm, authoritative tone that usually meant he was about to move a chess piece no one else saw. "We've opened the door. If they don't want to walk through it, that's their loss. But people are funny creatures—they don't care about a 'game' until they care about what they can get from it."
"What do you mean?" Truman asked. "You already mentioned prizes."
"I mentioned symbolic prizes," Albert corrected. He felt a familiar itch in his mind. A new notification had appeared on his internal panel.
[Side Quest: The Founder's Gambit]You are attempting to launch a cultural phenomenon. A small-scale club meeting will not suffice.
Objective: Secure at least 32 active participants and attract a crowd of over 100 spectators for the finals.
Reward: 5,000 XP, 1 Skill Point, [Transfiguration Charm Mastery] (Passive), +300 Reputation, and the Title: [Founder of the Wizarding Card Game].
The reward was too good to pass up. Five thousand experience points and a skill point? That was the equivalent of months of hard study or several high-level duels. If he wanted to trigger this reward, he couldn't play it safe. He had to burn the ships.
"Truman," Albert said, leaning forward. "Forget the notebooks. Forget the sugar quills. We're changing the champion's prize."
"To what?" Fred asked, sensing a shift in the atmosphere.
"Ten Galleons," Albert stated.
The silence that followed was absolute. Ten Galleons was a fortune for a student. It was enough to buy a high-end broom cleaning kit, a mountain of sweets, or even several sets of premium robes. For some of the poorer students, it was more money than they saw in a year.
"Ten... Galleons?" Truman stammered. "Albert, that's... that's a lot of gold. Are you planning to rob Gringotts? Or are you just that rich?"
"I have my ways," Albert said vaguely. "But here's the catch: we're going to introduce a registration fee. One Sickle per entry. It keeps the 'tourists' out and ensures that everyone playing actually wants to be there. The pool from the fees will help offset the cost, though I'll cover the rest."
"One Sickle to win ten Galleons?" Lee's eyes were as wide as saucers. "Albert, you're going to have a riot on your hands. Every Slytherin in the dungeons is going to come crawling out for a chance at that much gold."
"Let them come," Albert said, his eyes flashing with a cold sort of ambition. "In fact, I want you to spread the word. Don't make it official yet. Just let the rumor leak. 'Did you hear? The weird card club is giving away ten Galleons to the winner.' By tomorrow morning, the signup sheet won't have enough room for the names."
Truman looked at Albert with a mixture of awe and genuine concern. "You're really going to do it? You're going to put up ten Galleons of your own money just to make a card game popular?"
"It's not just a game, Truman. It's an investment," Albert said. "If the first tournament is a 'Grand Event,' the cards become valuable. If the cards are valuable, people will pay for the next set. This isn't a loss; it's a down payment on a monopoly."
Truman gave a slow, respectful nod. He stood up, his previous dejection replaced by a frantic sort of energy. "I'll get the word out. Ten Galleons... Merlin's beard, Albert. You're either a genius or a lunatic. I'll see you tomorrow."
As Truman scurried off, Fred turned to Albert. "Are you sure about this? Ten Galleons is a lot of gold to lose if some lucky first-year trips into a win."
"Nobody 'trips' into a win in my game, Fred," Albert said, reopening his book. "The mechanics are balanced. The strategy is deep. And besides... even if I lose the gold, I gain the 'Founder' status. You can't put a price on being the architect of a school tradition."
"Spoken like a true Slytherin," George laughed.
"I'm a Gryffindor," Albert reminded him with a wink. "I just happen to have a very healthy appreciation for gold."
As the evening wore on, Albert watched the common room. He knew that within hours, the 'Ten Galleon' rumor would spread like Fiendfyre through the corridors. He needed to prepare.
The first batch of cards was hand-drawn and magically duplicated, but if this took off, he'd need a more permanent solution. He'd need a printer, better charms, and perhaps a partnership with someone like Garlon or a professional shop in Diagon Alley.
But for now, he just had to wait for the greed to set in.