Albert leaned against the stone pillar near the notice board, his eyes scanning a fresh, handwritten advertisement tacked onto the cork—a piece of promotion so masterfully crafted that it would have made a professional merchant blush.
"Bridging the Gap: Your Words, Instantly Delivered."
Below the catchy header, the Weasley twins had penned a persuasive blurb detailing the sheer convenience of their new venture. They hadn't just listed the product; they'd sold the dream of instantaneous, private connection. Albert allowed a faint, satisfied smirk to grace his lips. It was a solid start. The pricing strategy was aggressive, certainly, but it was aimed squarely at the right demographic: students with disposable income and hearts full of secrets.
"They're getting dangerously good at this," a voice said beside him. Shanna tilted her head, her gaze lingering on the parchment. She looked up at Albert, her expression a mix of amusement and genuine bewilderment. "I saw them stalking the corridors yesterday, cornering third-years in the alcoves. They've been practically buzzing with energy. Was this your idea from the start?"
"A push in the right direction, nothing more," Albert replied, his voice calm, almost detached. He wasn't lying; he had provided the core technology, but the twins' relentless, chaotic energy was the engine behind the movement.
"It's genuinely wild," Shanna breathed, crossing her arms. "I read your earlier notes on communication theory, but actually seeing it turned into a marketable good? That's something else entirely."
"Don't read too much into it," Albert said, turning away from the board and heading toward the fireplace. He bent down, scooped up Tom, who greeted him with a sleepy, rhythmic purr, and began absently scratching behind the cat's ears. "It's a niche product. Truth be told, it's a luxury. Most students will be perfectly content with parchment and owl post. These cards are for a very specific type of customer—the kind who values discretion over convenience."
"Even so, most people can't bridge that gap between theory and product," Shanna remarked, watching him closely. "You make it look like a casual Tuesday afternoon."
Before Albert could answer, the common room door swung open with a dramatic flourish. Fred and George Weasley marched in, looking like they had just conquered a small kingdom. They were practically radiating electricity, their chests puffed out, their smiles wide enough to touch their ears. They strode across the rug as if the very air moved to accommodate them.
"Eight," Fred announced, his voice ringing with triumph.
"Three days," George added, finishing the thought with an identical grin.
Without a word, Fred reached into his robes, pulled out a heavy, clinking pouch of Galleons, and dropped it onto the table in front of Albert with a satisfying thud. It was the sound of progress.
"And you, Lee?" Albert asked, not looking up from the money pouch as he started to count the coins. "How did the solitary sales campaign go?"
Lee Jordan, who had been lagging a few steps behind the twins, let out a long, deflated sigh. "One. Just one."
Albert chuckled, pulling a few coins from the pile and flicking them toward Lee. "You clearly need a crash course in consumer psychology, Lee. You're approaching it like you're begging for change, not selling a premium service."
Shanna, standing at the edge of the circle, let out a soft exclamation of shock as she watched Albert stack the gold. "Nine pairs? People actually paid that much for them?"
"Eighteen, actually," Fred corrected, his eyes dancing as he scooped up his share of the loot. "Five Galleons each. It's a steep price for a Hogwarts student, but when you break it down into a split payment between a couple, it's the price of a few dozen chocolate frogs for the luxury of never having to wait for an owl again. It practically sells itself."
Albert nodded, his eyes scanning the coins. "Fifteen was always going to be the upper threshold for the first run. The market here is limited, and honestly, I expected exactly this level of interest."
The clinking of gold caught the attention of several nearby students, but the sound was particularly jarring for two figures sitting in the corner: Ron and Harry. Ron had been nursing a cold cup of tea, but as the gold hit the table, he froze. His eyes were glued to the pile of Galleons—a sight he rarely saw in his own pockets. The sight of his older brothers, who were usually struggling just as much as he was, suddenly flushing with cash sent a sharp, painful jolt of jealousy through him. His jaw tightened, and he looked down at his own empty, worn robes with a sudden, bitter intensity.
George seemed to notice the shift in atmosphere. He walked over to where his younger brother sat, reached into his pocket, and tossed a handful of sweets into Ron's lap. He patted him on the shoulder—a quick, brotherly gesture—before turning back to Fred. The two of them were already plotting their next move, their heads low, voices murmuring about where to find the next set of potential buyers.
Ron stared at the candy. His face turned a deep, blotchy red. He had hoped for something else, maybe a conversation or some kind of validation, but the sweets were a reminder of the gap between them.
"Those two," Lee Jordan laughed, shaking his head. "They never stop."
Harry reached over, gave Ron a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, and handed him a single Sickle, taking one of the sweets for himself. Ron hesitated, his eyes lingering on the coin, before pushing it back toward Harry. He didn't want the charity. He ripped open the sweet wrapper and popped it into his mouth, his expression moody. "Always playing the big brothers," he muttered to Harry.
"Forget it," Harry said, leaning in. "Come on, let's go check out that map we found in the library earlier. If the legends are true, we might have something of our own to look at."
Lee Jordan and Albert exchanged a sharp, knowing look. The "treasure map." They both knew exactly what it was—the Marauder's Map. A slow, cryptic smile spread across Albert's face.
"Your smiles are becoming genuinely unnerving," Shanna noted, crossing her arms and looking between the two of them. "What are you two plotting?"
"Just enjoying the show," Albert said smoothly, waving a hand. "But tell me, Lee—since you were out there on the front lines—did anyone try to copy the design?"
Lee's eyes twinkled. "Oh, absolutely. I had at least three people corner me to ask how the enchantment was woven. One Ravenclaw senior practically tried to dismantle the card right in front of me, complaining about the cost the entire time."
"And?" Shanna leaned in, intrigued.
"And he failed," Lee laughed, a harsh, triumphant sound. "He spent an hour trying to reverse-engineer it, got nowhere, and eventually had to slink back to me, gritting his teeth, and pay full price."
Albert wasn't even slightly surprised. The card didn't just rely on basic charm work; it was built on a series of nested Transfiguration matrices that required a level of magical precision most students hadn't even scratched the surface of. You couldn't just "take it apart." To mess with the internal logic of the card without the proper foundation was a quick way to turn your own fingers into lead weights.