Gold, as it turned out, was the ultimate social lubricant.
The allure of a Galleon was a universal constant at Hogwarts, transcending house rivalries and academic indifference. When Truman had first whispered the possibility of a ten-Galleon prize pool, it was like dropping a lit match into a crate of Filch's confiscated fireworks. The rumor hadn't just spread; it had mutated, evolved, and become the singular topic of conversation in the Great Hall by the next morning.
Suddenly, the Wizard Card Club wasn't just a group of "nerds playing with parchment." It was a high-stakes arena. Doubts about the prize money's legitimacy vanished the moment people realized Albert Anderson was the one behind it. In the eyes of the average student, Albert was a walking vault—a genius who won international prizes, received mysterious royalties, and was likely sitting on a mountain of gold that would make a Niffler weep with joy. If Albert said there was ten Galleons on the table, then the gold might as well already be in the winner's pocket.
The ripple effect was immediate. Students who hadn't even known the club existed were suddenly experts on its membership. To their shock, they discovered that the "loose organization" already boasted forty-five members—a significant chunk of the school's active social circle.
"I can't believe the sheer audacity of these people," Lee Jordan muttered, staring down at a signup sheet that was now overflowing onto the back of the parchment. "Last week, I was begging people to just look at a deck. Today, I've had three fifth-years try to bribe me with Chocolate Frogs just to get a guaranteed spot in the brackets."
They were currently sitting in their usual spot in the Gryffindor common room, which had become a makeshift registration office. Albert was calmly sipping juice, watching the chaos with the detached interest of a scientist observing a successful experiment.
"Greed is a powerful motivator, Lee. Don't let it get to your head," Albert said, though he was clearly pleased.
As per Albert's strict instructions, Lee was maintaining a preliminary list. He was also making sure everyone understood the new "Golden Rule": once the ten-Galleon prize was officially locked in, a registration fee of two Sickles would be mandatory. This wasn't just to cover costs; it was a psychological barrier. It turned the game from a free pastime into a serious commitment.
"We're capping the tournament at thirty-two players," Lee announced to a small crowd of lingering second-years. "And those of you already in the club get priority—provided you can cough up the two Sickles when the time comes."
"The charm of the Galleon is truly terrifying," Albert remarked, watching a group of Ravenclaws huddled in the corner, already attempting to reverse-engineer the "meta" strategies of the starter decks. "I haven't seen this much focus in the library all term."
"Is the gathering tomorrow still happening in the Great Hall?" George asked, looking up from a pile of "character cards" he was sorting.
"Yes. We'll take over the tables at the far end," Albert replied.
"I thought you'd try to find something a bit more... private? Like a Potions classroom or an empty tower?" Fred suggested. "The Great Hall feels a bit like we're on display."
Albert chuckled. "That's exactly the point, Fred. If we hide in a basement, we're a secret society. If we play in the Great Hall, we're a phenomenon. I want every person walking in for a late snack to see thirty people laughing, shouting, and slamming cards down. Visibility is the best advertisement."
He wanted to reach a point where the monthly gathering wasn't just a meeting, but a festival—a day when the school's usual pressures were replaced by the clatter of cards and the thrill of the draw.
"Games are only fun when the world is watching," Albert added with a smirk. "Hogwarts is just our testing ground."
The discussion was cut short as they finished their breakfast. Today was a Hogsmeade day, and the four of them intended to make the most of it. They set off early, hoping to beat the inevitable crush of students that would descend on the village later that morning.
As they trudged through the crisp November air toward the village, Fred seemed a bit hesitant. He cleared his throat and scratched his forehead. "Hey, Albert... is it actually alright if we tag along to 'next door' today?"
"We're genuinely curious about the Babbling Beverage," George added quickly, not wanting to be left behind. "And we promise to be on our best behavior. No Dungbombs. No jokes. We'll be like statues."
Albert considered this for a moment. He hadn't planned on an audience, but Mr. Dagworth hadn't explicitly forbidden guests in his last owl. "I suppose it's fine. But don't say I didn't warn you. Potion-making at this level isn't like Snape's class. It's tedious, smelly, and mostly involves watching a cauldron not explode. Given your current academic records, you might find the whole thing a bit over your heads."
"We'll manage," Fred insisted, though his bravado was tempered by a bit of genuine interest.
Hertok Dagworth's Hogsmeade residence was a far cry from the bustling shops of the High Street. It was tucked away in a quiet, overgrown corner of the village, a stone cottage that looked like it hadn't seen a visitor since the turn of the century. The windows were dark, and the garden was a wild tangle of magical flora that looked like it might bite if you stepped too close.
When Albert knocked, the door didn't creak open; it was pulled back by a tiny, impeccably dressed House-elf wearing a miniature waistcoat.
"Master Anderson! And your... companions," the Elf squeaked, bowing so low its nose touched the floorboards. "Please, enter. The Hall is prepared."
The boys were led into a surprisingly warm and cozy drawing room. A roaring fire was crackling in the grate, and the Elf moved with blur-like speed to set down a tray of steaming milk tea and a plate of Honeydukes' finest cakes.
"Where is the Master?" Albert asked, taking a seat and appreciating the professional hospitality.
"Master Dagworth is finishing a delicate extraction. He will join you momentarily. Please, help yourselves," the Elf said before vanishing with a soft pop.
Lee Jordan took a bite of a cake and looked around the room with a mixture of envy and awe. "I'm starting to see why you spend so much time with the 'old guard,' Albert. This beats the Gryffindor common room any day. No one's trying to hex my shoes here."
"If you were a world-class genius, Lee, maybe people would serve you tea instead of giving you detention," George quipped.
"Rich, coming from the guy who spends more time in Filch's office than in the library," Lee shot back.
The banter was interrupted by the fireplace. The orange flames suddenly turned a vibrant, toxic green, and a figure stepped out of the Floo. Hertok Dagworth brushed a bit of ash from his dark green robes and offered Albert a wide, toothy grin. He didn't seem at all bothered by the extra teenagers in his living room.
"I hope the tea is to your liking," Dagworth said, his voice echoing in the stone room.
"It's excellent, thank you," Albert replied.
"Follow me, then. The lab is through here," Dagworth gestured toward a heavy oak door. "I haven't used this particular facility in quite some time—not since I moved my primary operations out of Hogsmeade—but it's still perfectly functional for a small demonstration."
As they reached the door, Dagworth paused, his expression turning uncharacteristically grim. He looked Fred, George, and Lee in the eye, one by one.
"A word of warning, boys. There is nothing inherently 'deadly' in the lab today, but a laboratory is a place of precision. Do not touch the equipment. Do not breathe over the cauldrons. And for the love of Merlin, do not speak unless I ask you a question. If I'm in the middle of a brew and you distract me, I will have the Elf escort you out by your ears. Clear?"
The three boys nodded vigorously, their playful attitudes evaporating instantly.
The lab itself was a disappointment to those expecting bubbling vats of neon liquid. It was a sterile, cold room lined with empty mahogany cabinets and stone worktables. It looked more like an apothecary's storage room than a mad scientist's lair.
Dagworth began fiddling with a silver cauldron, his movements economical and precise. "I'll be honest with you, Albert. I still think you're a bit of a madman for wanting to brew Babbling Beverage. It's a Potion the Ministry keeps a very close eye on—for good reason. Most people who try to make it privately are, quite frankly, idiots."
"Why do you say that?" Fred asked, unable to keep his curiosity in check despite the earlier warning.
Dagworth didn't look up, but he gave a sharp, cold sneer. "Because the gap between a 'success' and a 'catastrophe' in this recipe is about the width of a Kneazle's whisker. Those who think they can wing it always end up with a defective product. They think they've made a brain-booster, but they've actually brewed a neurotoxin."
He gestured vaguely toward the window. "There are rooms in St. Mungo's specifically for 'Potion Enthusiasts.' I've seen them. Young men, just like you, who thought they were clever. They drank an inferior Babbling Beverage and now they spend their days trying to explain the color of Tuesday to a wall. They didn't just fail a potion; they unraveled their own minds."