Albert had barely navigated his way to the Gryffindor table, a half-read text on obscure runic theory tucked under his arm, when his path was abruptly obstructed by a wall of Hufflepuff robes.
It was Truman, looking remarkably stressed for a Saturday. Behind him, a small cohort of Hufflepuff students stood with expectant, slightly agitated expressions.
"Anderson," Truman started, cutting straight to the point. "We need to talk about the Wizard Cards. The demand is creating a bottleneck. The current duplication process is agonizingly slow, and the club members are starting to get restless. They're paying their fees, but the backlog is becoming a real issue."
Albert didn't blink. He pulled out a seat, sat down, and reached for a bowl of porridge with calm deliberation. "I'm not interested in mass-producing them right now. I don't have the specialized equipment, and frankly, I have no intention of burning through my own time to act as a factory floor for the entire school."
Truman looked taken aback. "So what's the solution? People are frustrated."
"It's simple," Albert said, taking a measured spoonful of porridge. "Don't look to me for the labor. If the club members want cards faster, incentivize the upperclassmen who actually have the skill to replicate them. Assign a modest bounty—a few Knuts per successful duplication. It turns the production into a freelance job. The older students get some pocket money, and your club members get their collections updated."
Truman blinked, his brow furrowing as he processed the logic. It was cleaner, decentralized, and took the burden off the club's leadership. After a moment of contemplation, he gave a slow, thoughtful nod. "That… that might actually work."
As the Hufflepuffs retreated to discuss this new logistics model, Fred Weasley, who had been listening with his mouth stuffed with sausage, scowled. "Hold on, Albert. If we're the ones designing the templates and providing the creative backbone for these cards, doesn't it feel a bit like we're getting the short end of the stick? We've put in all the work."
"You're working to build your own infrastructure, Fred," Albert reminded him, keeping his voice low. "You're not an employee; you're the founders. Do you expect to pay yourself a salary for building your own future business? That's not how this works."
Fred and George exchanged a glance, their expressions caught somewhere between stubborn frustration and the slow, begrudging realization that Albert was right. It felt wrong to work for free, but it felt even worse to argue with the person who clearly saw the board twenty moves ahead of them.
"We're selling the promise of the cards before they're even fully finished," George muttered, crossing his arms. "Isn't that a bit… dishonest?"
Albert leaned in, his voice dropping into that cool, focused tone that always made the twins stop and listen. "Listen to me clearly: reputation is the only currency that actually matters in this school. If you start charging for half-baked, glitchy prototypes, you'll burn through your credibility before the first term is even over. You want the club to survive? Focus on the quality of the ecosystem. The money—real, substantial money—comes later. When the packs are official, when the decks are balanced, when the premium editions hit the market. That's where the Galleons are. Don't chase pennies and lose the pound."
George looked at the floor, grumbling. "Pennies add up, though. We're practically living on air, Albert."
"And you'll stay that way if you keep trying to harvest the crop before it's even sprouted," Albert countered. He took another bite of breakfast, watching them with a calm, unimpressed look. "Look at the bigger picture. After we finish our time at Hogwarts, we need this set to be the gold standard of the Wizarding World. We need the following, we need the prestige, and we need the rules to be so rock-solid that everyone else is forced to play by our design."
Lee Jordan, who had been hovering nearby, didn't fully grasp the long-term economics of the franchise Albert was building, but he possessed the unshakable wisdom of knowing when to follow a winner. He had never seen Albert lose a gamble. If Albert was betting on the long game, Lee was putting his chips on the table.
"He's right," Lee declared, shooting a challenging look at the twins. "If Albert says we play the long game, we play the long game. Has he ever steered us wrong?"
Fred and George went silent, staring at the table. They were desperate for cash, yes, but they were also desperate for a way out of their current poverty, and Albert's vision was the only thing that felt like a real, tangible plan rather than a series of impulsive pranks.
"Look," Albert continued, sensing their resolve wavering, "even if people start complaining about the duplication fees, they won't point their wands at us. We are simply the providers of the free, official template. Everything else is a transaction between students. Keep your hands clean, keep the brand protected, and let the demand do the heavy lifting."
He reached into his lizard-skin pouch and pulled out a notebook, sliding it across the table. "I've mapped out the expansion strategy for the next three years. Read it when you have a moment, and don't lose it."
The three boys huddled over the notebook like it was a sacred text. As they flipped through the pages, their eyes went wide. Albert's plan didn't just stop at a card game; it laid out a roadmap for a complete takeover of the niche, starting with pop-up events at the Leaky Cauldron, moving into sponsored tournaments with advertising revenue, and eventually establishing physical hobby hubs across the country. It was methodical, ambitious, and terrifyingly well-structured.
"You've been planning all this?" Fred whispered, looking at Albert with newfound reverence.
"I've been thinking about the logistics," Albert said modestly. "But a dream is just a dream without the execution. You three provide the energy and the market testing; I provide the structure. That's the partnership."
"So," George said, taking a breath and looking at the notebook with a different kind of hunger. "What about the joke shop? We've got plans for that, too, but we haven't figured out the path to scaling it."
Albert tapped the table thoughtfully. "The joke shop is your bread and butter, but if you want to scale it into a real empire, you have to branch out. Novelty items are finite; they sell once and the joke is over. You need utility. You need products that offer a solution, something people will pay for repeatedly because they need it."
"Like what?" Lee asked.
"Defense," Albert said, tapping his own protective wrist-cuff. "True magical utility. When the world gets colder—and it will—people will pay for protection, not just for a laugh. When we open that shop, I'll feed you the formulas for more advanced, practical items. Stop selling just jokes; start selling security."
To prove his point, Albert reached into his pouch and produced two of the metallic communication cards he'd shown Isabelle earlier. He tossed them onto the table.
"What are these?" Fred asked, picking one up and turning it over in the light.
"Communication cards. Think of them as a two-way, magical text messaging system," Albert explained. "Write a note on one, and it manifests on the other instantly. Anywhere in the world."
The three of them stared at the simple metal cards as if they were made of solid gold. "And the price?" George asked, his voice cracking slightly.
"Ten Galleons per pair."
"Ten?!" Lee nearly choked on his tea. "Who in their right mind would pay that?"
"Anyone who has a secret to keep," Albert said, his smile thin and knowing. "Couples, business partners, people who don't want the Ministry eavesdropping on their correspondence. It's not just a toy; it's an encrypted line. It's high-end, it's exclusive, and it's a luxury. You take two Galleons for every pair sold, and we'll start small. You'll be surprised how quickly ten Galleons disappears when you're desperate for privacy."
Fred and George held the cards tightly, their minds already running the numbers. They had gone from being penniless pranksters to potentially holding the keys to the most exclusive communication network in the school. The "awfulness" of the price point was exactly what made it brilliant; it created a barrier to entry that only the desperate or the wealthy would cross.
"It's genius," George murmured, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face.