Aside from his terrifyingly natural talent on a broomstick during Gryffindor's early practices, Harry Potter was slowly being allowed to just be an eleven-year-old boy. The constant whispering in the corridors had thinned out, and the students no longer stood in clusters just to catch a glimpse of the lightning bolt hidden beneath his messy hair.
For Albert, this shift in the castle's social climate was entirely predictable. Human beings, even magical ones, had a notoriously short attention span for spectacles that didn't directly affect their daily lives. What did affect their daily lives, however, was entertainment—or rather, the lack thereof during the bleak, rain-soaked weekends of a Scottish autumn.
On a particularly dreary morning, when the rain lashed against the high windows of the Great Hall, Harry and Ron wandered inside after a hurried breakfast, drawn by an unusual, deafening roar of chatter near the long tables. The space had been completely transformed. It looked less like a dining hall and more like a chaotic marketplace.
"Blimey, it's packed," Harry muttered, leaning slightly to look over the shoulder of a third-year Hufflepuff who was intensely inspecting a piece of thick, laminated cardstock.
"It's the Wizarding Card Club," Ron said, his eyes scanning the tables with a mix of awe and burning curiosity. "Fred and George wouldn't shut up about it in the dorm last night. They said the whole school's turning up for it."
The atmosphere was electric. Dozens of students were huddled over customized mats, some gesturing wildly as they debated rules, others using a highly specific duplication charm to create fresh copies of specific deck pieces. A cluster of wide-eyed first-years stood on their tip-toes at the periphery, trying to decipher the complex economy of trades happening right under their noses.
"Morning, Harry! Ron!"
Fred's cheerful face suddenly appeared out of the crowd, a massive stack of blank cards tucked under his arm. He looked slightly worn out but completely energized by the chaos. "Brilliant turnout, isn't it? It's hard to believe we only launched this thing a few weeks ago."
"It's massive," Harry admitted, watching a pair of Ravenclaws intensely calculate their point totals. "How did you get this many people to show up for a card game?"
George slid into the space next to his brother, a broad grin on his face. "Simple, mate. People get bored of Wizard's Chess because it takes too long to learn how to not get your pieces smashed to bits. But this? It's fast, it's competitive, and the best part is, you actually end up picking up a lot of practical magic theory while you play."
Ron blinked, looking thoroughly unconvinced. "Practical magic? From a piece of cardboard? Come off it, George."
"Dead serious, little brother," Fred said, pulling a specific card from his pocket and dropping it into Harry's hand.
Harry looked down at it. The card was titled Tactical Foul. The animated image on the front showed a tiny, beautifully detailed wizard on a Cleansweep broom, reaching out with a wicked grin to yank the robes of a rival player from behind.
"A tactical foul?" Harry asked, his inner Seeker immediately responding to the term.
"Exactly," George explained, leaning in with a wink. "Say the other team's Chaser is about to drop the Quaffle through your hoop. You play this card, accept the penalty shot, and save the major point deficit. It's a bit dirty, sure, but in a tight match, a strategic penalty is a hell of a lot better than a loss. Even if you don't use it in real life, Harry, you need to know how to spot when someone's about to pull it on you."
Harry stared at the moving image, a small smirk forming on his face. It was an incredibly accurate breakdown of high-stakes Quidditch strategy, wrapped in a game mechanic.
"And check this one out," Fred said, sliding another card over. This one featured the word Expelliarmus written in clean, silver script. "This is a spell card. It doesn't just look pretty; it actually teaches you the fundamentals."
Ron leaned over Harry's shoulder, his eyes instantly fixing on a strange, faint geometric pattern drawn along the bottom edge of the cardboard. "What are those lines supposed to be? Some kind of code?"
"That, my dear brother, is the exact path your hand needs to take when you're casting," George said, mimicking the swift, looping motion with his index finger. "If you trace that pattern while practicing the incantation, your form will be flawless. Albert designed it that way."
Lee Jordan, who was standing a few feet away managing a small box of deck counters, looked up with a knowing expression. "Mark my words, give it a term or two, and these won't just be considered a game anymore. They're going to be the ultimate study aids. You get the thrill of crushing your friends in a duel, and you accidentally pass your exams in the process. Albert's a bloody genius, I swear."
"If you three are quite finished singing my praises, I can think of a dozen boxes of blank stock that still need to be sorted," a calm, dry voice interrupted from behind them.
Albert appeared seemingly out of nowhere, his robes perfectly neat, a heavy ledger tucked under one arm. He looked at his three roommates with an expression that was half-amused and half-stern. "Go help the second-years with their duplication charms. We have a queue forming at the main table, and if anyone starts hoarding the rare prints, we're going to have a riot on our hands."
The twins and Lee groaned in unison, but the sheer authority in Albert's tone left very little room for argument. They shuffled off toward the back of the hall, muttering under their breaths about the distinct lack of financial compensation for their grueling internships.
Albert watched them go, a small, calculating smile touching his lips. He knew exactly what they were thinking. To them, working for free was a drag, but Albert was playing the long game. The fruit wasn't ripe yet. If he started charging a fee right now—even a single Knut per card—he would choke out the grassroots player base before the game could fully embed itself into the school's culture. He needed the entire castle to become completely dependent on the game first. Once the cards became a permanent fixture of wizarding life, the monetization would happen naturally, and the profits would be astronomical.
Turning away from the main tables, Albert scanned the crowd, his eyes eventually landing on a solitary figure sitting in the far corner of the hall. Hermione Granger was buried in a thick parchment booklet, her brow furrowed as she practically tried to commit the entire ruleset to memory through sheer willpower. She looked incredibly out of place amidst the raucous shouting of the players, a small island of intense academic focus in a sea of recreation.
Albert began to walk toward her, but before he could take three steps, a sharp, familiar voice cut through the din behind him.
"There you are. I've been looking for you everywhere, and honestly, you need to fix this."
Albert turned to find Katrina Vance standing there, holding out a single, customized wizard card with an expression of pure, unadulterated annoyance. Behind her stood a small entourage of her friends, all looking equally disgruntled.
"Is there a problem with the card, Katrina?" Albert asked, maintaining his calm, patient demeanor.
"A problem? Look at it!" she demanded, thrusting the card closer to his face. "The enchantment caught me right mid-blink, and the lighting makes me look like I've spent a week in the dungeons with the Slytherins. It's hideous, Albert. Everyone is going to see this. You have to change the photo."
Albert looked at the card, then at the group of girls who were all nodding fervently in agreement. It was a classic display of teenage vanity, but he knew better than to dismiss it. In a social eco-system like Hogwarts, appearance was everything, especially when your personal profile card was bound to be traded across four houses.
"Alright, I see your point," Albert said smoothly, using his standard customer-service approach to de-escalate the tension. "The flash from the camera enchantment can be a bit harsh. Tell you what—if you think the current image doesn't do you justice, take a snapshot that you actually like, hand it over to me, and I'll personally update the master template for your deck."
The girls exchanged glances, momentarily silenced by how easily he had accommodated them. They had clearly come prepared for a debate, not an immediate surrender.
"Well... I've already got one," Katrina said, her tone shifting from accusatory to slightly self-conscious. She pulled a small, moving photograph from her pocket and handed it to him. "Just make sure it looks like this one, okay?"
Albert took the photo and looked down at it. In the image, Katrina was sitting in a high-backed wooden chair in what appeared to be a quiet library setting. She was reading a book, her expression soft and intensely focused, before she suddenly caught the camera's eye, lifted her chin, and offered a cool, composed look directly at the viewer.
Albert looked up from the print, his eyes traveling to Katrina's face, comparing the two. The structural similarity was uncanny. "You know, for a second there, I thought you'd handed me a photo of Isabelle."
Katrina's jaw tightened slightly, her eyes narrowing. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing bad," Albert said with an easy smile. "You look incredibly alike. The only real difference is the vibe. Isabelle always looks like she's about to give a lecture on advanced Arithmancy, whereas you look like you're about to win a duel."
The slight tension in Katrina's shoulders vanished instantly, replaced by a look of profound satisfaction. She took her card back, her expression thoroughly brightened, and led her friends away with a noticeable extra bounce in her step.
Albert watched them go for a brief second before slipping the new photograph into his pocket. He turned back toward the corner where Hermione had been sitting, only to realize the young girl had already gathered her things and was walking past him toward the exit of the hall.
"Thanks for letting me sit in on the meeting," Hermione said softly as she drew level with him, her voice hesitant but genuine.
"Of course," Albert replied, slowing his pace to match hers. "How are you finding the rules? I noticed you were practically trying to memorize the entire handbook."
"It's fascinating," Hermione admitted, looking down at the parchment in her hands. "The logic behind the card interactions is incredibly dense. I didn't think a game could have that much structural depth. But... um, Albert? Could I actually get one of those master cards made? The ones with the personal profiles?"
Albert looked at her, seeing the slight nervousness in her eyes—the quiet desire to be included in something that the rest of the school was obsessing over. "Naturally. But you'll have to get in line for the camera enchantment like everyone else. And just a warning, if you don't like the photo I take, you'll have to follow Katrina's example and bring me a replacement."
Hermione offered a small, rare smile. "I think I can handle that. Oh, and before I forget—congratulations on the Transfiguration class paper this morning. The theory you presented about the talisman matrices... even though I couldn't quite follow all the advanced calculus, it was absolutely brilliant."
"Go enjoy the rest of your weekend, Hermione," Albert said gently, deflecting the praise with an easy wave of his hand. "Don't spend the whole time in the library."
As she walked out of the Great Hall, a sudden weight dropped onto Albert's shoulder, and a low, mocking voice whispered right into his ear.
"Are you really spending your precious weekend mentoring a first-year, Anderson? I thought you were above that sort of thing."
Albert didn't even have to look to know it was Truman. He adjusted his ledger and looked at the older boy, who was leaning against the table with a highly skeptical expression. "She's a genius, Truman. If you actually paid attention to her class performance instead of just her house points, you'd see it too."
Truman frowned, his brow furrowing as he looked toward the doors where Hermione had vanished. "A genius? Come off it, Albert. She's eleven. Don't start giving me that bizarre, hyper-analytical theory of yours again."
"It's not a theory," Albert said softly, his voice laced with that calm, untouchable certainty that always made his roommates crazy. "Geniuses just have a way of finding common ground with other geniuses. It saves time."
Truman stared at him for three long seconds, completely speechless, before his eyes rolled so hard it looked painful. "You are completely insufferable, you know that?" He shook his head, pushed himself off the table, and walked away into the crowd.
Albert watched him leave, entirely unbothered. He pulled the ledger open, checked his notes for the next batch of card prints, and allowed himself a quiet moment of satisfaction. The rain was still drumming against the roof, but inside, the gears were turning exactly the way he had designed them to.