Albert sat up slowly, his joints popping as he shook off the lingering lethargy of his nap. The sky visible through the laboratory windows had transitioned into a bruised, heavy grey, threatening a fresh bout of snow. A soft, warm blanket had been tucked around him at some point—likely the work of Gerald, the house-elf—and the smell of cedar wood and simmering herbs hung pleasantly in the air.
Fred and the others were probably halfway through their dinner by now, Albert mused, stifling a massive yawn. He felt a bit like a clock that had been overwound and then left to run down; his mind was still sharp, but his body was demanding a truce.
Thinking back on the afternoon, Albert couldn't help but feel a surge of respect for Hertok Dagworth. In the Wizarding World, where pedigree and age often dictated how much respect one was afforded, Dagworth was a refreshing anomaly. He had treated Albert not as a precocious student or a curiosity to be studied, but as a peer—a fellow traveler on the lonely road of high-level alchemy.
It was the ultimate academic pursuit: a dialogue where borders, age, and ego simply dissolved in the face of a shared obsession.
Of course, Albert was humble enough to realize he'd had to earn that seat at the table. If he hadn't managed to corner Dagworth with logic and raw talent earlier in their correspondence, the man would likely have treated him with the same polite dismissiveness he showed everyone else. Dagworth was a genius who had reached the summit of his field; he didn't need fame or money. What he needed was someone who could speak his language—someone to challenge his theories and push the boundaries of what a cauldron could produce. Innovation, after all, was rarely a solitary sport.
"Even so, that Babbling Beverage is a terrifying bit of kit," Albert muttered to himself as he stood up, pulling his heavy cloak back over his shoulders.
His eyes drifted to the long, polished wooden box resting on the nearby workbench. Inside lay a dried Mandrake root, thick as a man's forearm and preserved with such care that you could still see the twisted, humanoid features of the plant. It had cost him twenty Galleons—a small fortune for most students, but a necessary investment for Albert.
"The physical materials are sorted," he whispered, glancing at his internal interface.
He navigated to the 'Ancient Runes' skill. The progress bar was mocking him, still over eighteen hundred experience points away from Level 3. He had originally intended to let this one grow organically, through study and practice, but after the clarity he'd experienced earlier, the 'slow and steady' approach felt like wading through molasses.
The door to the hallway creaked open.
"Mr. Anderson? Are you returning to the waking world, sir?" Gerald's high-pitched, slightly anxious voice echoed through the room.
"I'm awake, Gerald," Albert said, offering the elf a tired but genuine smile. "I think it's time I headed back to the castle before the Professors start wondering if I've been kidnapped by hags."
"It would be Gerald's greatest honor to assist!" The elf bowed so low his nose brushed the floorboards. He reached out a spindly, trembling hand. "Is the young master ready for the journey?"
"Ready as I'll ever be." Albert tucked the Mandrake box under his arm and took the elf's hand.
The sensation of House-elf Apparition was distinct from the wizarding version. While wizarding travel felt like being squeezed through a very thin straw, the elf's magic felt more like being folded into the fabric of the air itself. It was a subtle, ancient branch of magic—one that bypassed the heavy-duty anti-apparition wards of Hogwarts as if they didn't even exist.
They landed with a soft pop in a shadowed alcove near the West Tower, a spot Albert knew was rarely patrolled. The cold hit him immediately, a biting wind carrying heavy flakes of snow that swirled into the corridor.
"Go on, Gerald. Get back to the warmth before your ears freeze off," Albert said, noticing the elf's slight shiver.
"Goodnight, Mr. Anderson. Be safe!" With another pop, the elf vanished, leaving Albert alone in the freezing draft.
Tightening his cloak, Albert made his way toward the Great Hall. The castle felt alive tonight, humming with the low-frequency energy of hundreds of students cooped up indoors by the storm. When he pushed open the heavy oak doors of the Hall, the warmth and the smell of roasted meats hit him like a physical wall.
It didn't take long to spot the red-headed trio. Fred, George, and Lee Jordan were huddled at the end of the Gryffindor table, surrounded by parchment and arguing animatedly.
"I bring tidings of success," Albert announced, sliding into the seat next to George.
Fred looked up, his eyes bright. "About time! We've got some news for you too. We've officially crossed the threshold—thirty-two sign-ups for the inaugural tournament tomorrow."
"Thirty-two?" Albert raised an eyebrow, genuinely impressed. "That's a full bracket. How did you manage to drag that many people away from their homework?"
Fred shared a mischievous look with George. "Well, word got around. Someone—and we aren't naming names—started a rumor that you're a bit of a 'rich sucker.' The general consensus is that a tournament sponsored by Albert Anderson will have a prize pool deep enough to drown in."
"A rich sucker?" Albert repeated the phrase, a wry smile spreading across his face. He didn't even have to think hard to guess the source. Only a few people knew exactly how much gold he moved around, and the MacDougall sisters certainly had a flair for dramatic nicknames. "I suppose that's one way to put it."
"It fits, honestly," George chuckled, leaning over to inspect the box Albert was carrying. "I've never met someone so willing to throw gold at a problem. Speaking of which, what's in the mysterious crate? Another illegal dragon egg?"
"Mandrake root," Albert said, flipping the latch to show them.
Fred whistled low. "Where'd you find a specimen that size? Most of the ones in the apothecary look like shriveled ginger."
"Bought it from Dagworth. Cost me twenty Galleons," Albert said casually, as if he were talking about the price of a chocolate frog. "I'm using it for the core of the Protective Bracelet 2.1. The current version is fine for minor jinxes, but I want something that can handle a focused hex."
Lee Jordan buried his face in his hands. "Twenty Galleons? On a bracelet? Albert, they're right. You are a rich sucker. You're the king of suckers."
"It's an investment, Lee," Albert countered, unfazed. "The leftovers from the carving process can be distilled into restorative tonics. I'll make back half the cost just in medicinal scrap. I never go into a deal expecting to lose money."
"If you say so," Fred said, though he still looked skeptical. "Anyway, back to business. Are we doing prizes for the runners-up? People are asking."
"And consolation prizes for the losers?" Lee added hopefully.
Albert shook his head. "No consolation prizes. We want people to play to win, not play for a participation ribbon. Here's the breakdown: First place gets a choice—ten cold, hard Galleons or a Master-tier set of Wizard Cards. Second place gets a small barrel of Butterbeer. Third place gets a top-of-the-line eagle-feather quill. Simple and effective."
The three of them blinked. They had expected Albert to just shower the winners in gold.
"Wait, a 'set of Wizard Cards'?" George asked, his interest piqued. "We already have cards. What's the difference?"
"Everything," Albert said, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned in. "Tomorrow isn't just a tournament; it's a launch. We're moving away from the handmade prototypes. Moving forward, we'll be selling 'Starter Decks.' If players want better cards, they'll have to buy 'Booster Packs.' The contents will be randomized."
"Randomized?" Fred asked. "Isn't that just gambling?"
"It's collection," Albert corrected. "And here's the kicker: Rarity. Take the Albus Dumbledore card, for instance. I'm only going to produce a limited run—maybe one thousand official copies for the entire school and beyond. Each one will have a unique, holographic serial number etched into the corner to prevent counterfeiting. Just like a Galleon."
The twins exchanged a long, silent look. They were starting to see the scale of what Albert was building. It wasn't just a game; it was a self-sustaining economy.
"You're going to make a fortune, aren't you?" Lee whispered.
Albert just smiled, picking up a piece of toast. "I prefer the term 'well-compensated enthusiast.' Now, let's go over the bracket. We have a tournament to run."