The Hogwarts Express, a majestic, cherry-red leviathan, was already beginning to rumble and hiss, signalling its imminent departure. Albert, having successfully dispatched his diplomatic and personal luggage issues, moved swiftly down the narrow corridor, his gaze scanning the cabin doors for an empty compartnt. The second-year students would likely congregate soon, but for the mont, the train was still relatively quiet.
"No sign of the old roommates yet," he thought, referring to his forr cabin mates. "They probably cut it closer than I did, but they'll turn up."
Just as he reached an unoccupied cabin door, ready to stake his claim on the window seat, a voice sliced through the corridor din.
"Albert! Over here!"
He looked up and saw Lee Jordan, leaning out of a nearby compartnt, waving enthusiastically. Lee's face, usually animated by so prank or comntary on the world, was currently alight with simple, genuine pleasure.
"Lee," Albert greeted him, smoothly changing direction. "How did the endless sumr go for you?"
"Brilliant! Though slightly less adventurous than yours, I gather." Lee stood aside, holding the door open. "Co on, get in. We've got space."
Albert maneuvered his trolley into the compartnt, but before he could push his trunk further, Lee's curiosity got the better of him.
"Seriously, though, who was that man? I saw you talking—well, arguing—with him through the window. He looked like one of those Ministry bigwigs, all stiff robes and permanent frowns."
Albert paused, his hand resting on the handle of his trunk. "That, my friend, was Hector Dagworth. A famous Potions Master, apparently, and a Wizengamot mber."
Lee Jordan's jaw dropped slightly. "A Wizengamot mber? You were haggling with a Ministry councilman? What on earth for?"
Albert then concisely narrated the events: the careless Accio in France, the subsequent, faulty trace record, and the humiliating letter from the Ministry of Magic's Office for the Prevention of Misuse of Magic landing squarely in his lap.
Lee listened, his earlier amusent hardening into genuine concern. "Another mistake? Are you serious? The Ministry is completely unreliable! It's bad enough they ss up their own laws, but to wrongly accuse a Muggle-born kid of an unauthorized spell they haven't even learned yet… it's a terrifying thought. What if that had been a more serious charge? They could have ruined your whole school year on a technicality caused by soone else's idiocy!"
Lee's empathy wasn't purely abstract; as a half-blood with strong ties to the Muggle world, he understood the vulnerability Albert felt towards the opaque, often prejudiced bureaucracy of the magical governnt.
"Exactly," Albert said, his voice flat with contempt. He shoved his trunk completely inside the compartnt. "I never expected the Ministry to be competent, much less trustworthy. This just confirms they are a collective of careless, self-important fools."
Lee imdiately jumped to help, grasping the trunk. "Here, let help you lift this onto the rack."
"No need to strain yourself, Lee." Albert smoothly produced his own wand. With a precise, almost imperceptible flick, he cast a silent, non-verbal charm. The heavy trunk, along with his smaller valise, lifted gently into the air, floating up as if guided by invisible hands, and settled perfectly onto the tal luggage rack above.
Lee Jordan froze mid-reach, staring at the magically assisted placent. "That… that was slick, Albert. Seriously impressive. Silent, non-verbal, and complex enough to lift that beast. I've been practicing Wingardium Leviosa for two years and still mutter the words half the ti."
"It's just efficient practice," Albert dismissed, pocketing his wand. "Anyway, back to Dagworth. You noticed he looked like he wanted sothing from , right?"
"Wanted sothing? He looked desperate! So, he's after that gold mbership card you found?" Lee asked, finally settling onto the bench opposite Albert.
"He is," Albert confird, a strange, triumphant smirk playing on his lips. "But he ca ard only with an offer of twenty Galleons and a complete refusal to acknowledge the damage he caused. He wanted his property back, full stop."
Lee Jordan looked genuinely outraged. "The nerve of that man! Causing you official trouble, nearly getting you expelled, and then trying to buy his way out with a paltry reward? You didn't give it to him, did you?"
"Absolutely not. I gave him the ultimatum," Albert stated, leaning back against the plush velvet seat. "I told him that until the Ministry of Magic officially retracts the warning letter, issues a signed apology from the Director of the Office for the Prevention of Misuse of Magic, and restores my pristine legal standing, his gold card remains collateral."
Lee gaped. "And… did he accept that?"
"He did not. First, he tried to bargain—poorly. Then, he tried to simply take it back with a Summoning Charm," Albert replied with a theatrical sneer. "Fortunately for , he is predictable and entirely inept at anticipating a strategic retreat. The card is currently several hundred miles away in a safe, Muggle-handled environnt, completely immune to his simple, powerful magic."
"A complete scoundrel! An irresponsible bully!" Lee Jordan fud, pounding his fist lightly on the cushion. "But… you're confident he'll actually do it? Compel the Ministry to apologize? That sounds like the kind of thing that could take years, even for a Wizengamot mber."
Albert gave a confident, decisive shrug. "Dagworth doesn't have years. He needs that card for his research—it's his license to operate. He is a man driven by ego and reputation. He will choose the path that restores his status fastest. And the fastest path now runs directly through the Ministry's bureaucratic halls, forcing him to clean up his own dirt."
They spent the next few minutes discussing the sheer genius of using the Ministry's warning letter as leverage, before the platform outside began to swell once more as the final, frantic students and their families arrived.
The frantic last monts of departure were always the most entertaining. Albert and Lee watched the chaos through the window, spotting families with their trunks and cages. Around 10:45 AM, just as the train gave a final, mournful toot—a signal that the doors were about to lock—they saw the familiar shock of red hair.
Fred and George Weasley and the rest of the Weasley clan burst onto the platform in a flurry of movent and loud goodbyes.
"I'm going to grab them before they spend twenty minutes circling the train and annoying every Prefect in sight," Lee declared, popping a lemon drop from a box of Every-Flavour Beans into his mouth.
Lee slipped out of the compartnt just as the twins finished their final, long hug with Mrs. Weasley. A mont later, the distinct, loud roar of excitent echoed down the corridor, followed by Lee's enthusiastic shout.
"Wow! You actually bought the Seven Stars!"
The commotion grew, and a minute later, Fred and George were crowding the compartnt entrance, their faces radiating pure, unadulterated joy.
"Not just the Seven Stars," Fred bead, eyes sparkling. "The Seven Stars No. 5! Charlie finally managed to get Mum to agree. We now have our own personal, high-performance brooms!"
"We were aiming for the Seven Stars No. 6, actually. The new model," George admitted, a touch wistfully. "But two new No. 6 models at once? That would have bankrupted our yearly budget and required us to sell Percy as a house-elf. So, the No. 5 it is! They're still lightning fast!"
Buying two racing brooms simultaneously was a significant financial stretch even for their family, but the pure excitent on the twins' faces was infectious.
Albert opened the door wider and stepped out into the corridor to et them. "Congratulations, you two. That's a ga-changer for your Quidditch chances."
"Cheers!" Fred clapped him on the shoulder, his grin imnse. He then leaned in conspiratorially. "So, what did you get, Albert? Did you finally break down and spring for the Cot 300? Or did you go straight for the new Nimbus?"
Albert's answer, delivered with complete nonchalance, montarily deflated the energy in the corridor. "I didn't buy a flying broom."
The ensuing silence was deafening. Fred and George stared, mouths agape. Lee Jordan, leaning against the doorfra, looked equally bewildered.
"Didn't… believe you?" Fred finally stamred, thinking Albert must be joking.
"No, I didn't buy one," Albert repeated, shrugging slightly. "I still have my old, slightly battered school broom from last year, if I absolutely must fly."
"But… the tryouts! The competition!" George exclaid, recovering from the shock. "You're the best Seeker we've got, Albert! You're guaranteed a spot on the Gryffindor team, and Charlie is counting on you! You need a proper broom!"
"I might not even try out for the team," Albert said, his tone turning serious, asured. "As you know, my academic load is heavy. I'm already committed to Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration Club. I simply don't have the free ti for Quidditch practice."
Not only did his explanation leave the twins wide-eyed, but Lee Jordan looked genuinely speechless, montarily forgetting to chew his lemon drop. Everyone dreamt of joining the team; Albert, who could instantly secure the coveted Seeker spot, was actively turning it down.
"And more importantly," Albert added, lowering his voice so only the three of them could hear, "If all four of us—Fred, George, Lee, and —join the team and we beco the core of the starting line-up, the Gryffindor team will instantly beco the most hated team in the whole league. If we ever lose a single ga, Charlie will beco the target of every single piece of bla and resentnt. I told you this last year. I'm not keen on putting that kind of pressure on him, and frankly, I don't enjoy being universally despised unless it's entirely on my own terms."
All three boys fell silent. They knew Albert's logic was sound. Their combined, almost-too-perfect talent would breed resentnt, and Charlie, as Captain, would bear the brunt of it.
"Okay, don't block the hallway," Albert said, sensing the silence was turning lancholic. He stepped past them and waved his wand again, magically levitating Fred and George's new, shiny brooms and the accompanying trunks into the compartnt.
"Your magic really is getting ridiculously strong," Fred mumbled, clearly still reeling from the broom situation. "At least you saved us a backache."
Just as they were all settling in, the compartnt door slid open again and Charlie Weasley entered, looking slightly crestfallen but composed. He sat next to George.
"George told ," Charlie said, looking directly at Albert, a flicker of disappointnt in his eyes. "You won't try out?"
"I'm not sure I'll have any extra ti, Charlie," Albert explained, keeping his tone light and apologetic. "Besides the Transfiguration Club, I'm hoping to shadow the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. The word is the post might be filled by soone I know—Rowena Smith. She's an incredibly powerful witch, and if I can get her attention, that's a learning opportunity I can't pass up. Far more valuable than Quidditch, I'm afraid."
Charlie remained quiet for a long mont, processing. He knew Albert often used genuine commitnts as convenient excuses, but the logic about his schedule, and the ntion of Rowena Smith—a renowned na even among older students—was solid.
"Alright, Albert. I respect your priorities," Charlie sighed, conceding the point. "But if the team can't find a suitable Seeker, I expect you to reconsider, even if only for the matches themselves. We need to win the Cup this year."
"If you truly need , I'll step up," Albert promised, nodding once.
"And your broom?" Charlie frowned slightly.
"I have the Galleon bag my father gave ," Albert reassured him, tapping his pocket. "If I need one, I can order a Cot 300 from the catalogue today. Don't worry about the equipnt. Worry about the tactics."
The line, while ant to be reassuring, sounded startlingly like a wealthy, casual dismissal of financial woes.
"Good," Charlie said, letting out a final, heavy breath. "Well, I'm going to go brief the third-years. Think about the Seven Sweep series if you do order one. They're excellent value, and the No. 6 is currently the fastest." He rose, offered a weary nod, and disappeared.
"He is entirely too kind-hearted," George muttered as the door slid shut. "He backed down imdiately. He doesn't want to pressure you, even though he needs you desperately to win."
"He is ambitious, yes," Albert agreed. "But he understands that if he wants to win, he needs committed players, not reluctant ones. And he also knows that if he wins the Cup, no one will dare to criticize him, regardless of how despised the rest of the team is."
Fred, still stuck on the reward, abruptly changed the subject back to the pressing matter of finance. "Wait, wait, wait. You said Dagworth offered you twenty Galleons to hand over the card, but you refused?"
"I did," Albert confird.
"Twenty Galleons!" George repeated, his eyes wide with disbelief. "That's enough to buy a dozen new wands! Why on earth would you refuse that much gold? You could buy two second-hand brooms for that!"
"Neither of you thought to ask the obvious question," Albert said, leaning forward, an analytical edge entering his voice. "Why is Hector Dagworth, a man who clearly has enough money to throw twenty Galleons at a schoolboy, willing to pay that money, but utterly unwilling to spend an hour at the Ministry clearing up a tiny, administrative error? Think about the trade-off."
Lee Jordan, who had been chewing thoughtfully, instantly caught the scent of the argunt. "He's right! That twenty Galleons proves the difficulty isn't the price of the card, but the price of the apology! It's easy for Dagworth to write a cheque. It's nearly impossible for him to force the Ministry to admit they made a mistake. That's why he tried to bribe you instead of simply doing the easy paperwork!"
"Precisely," Albert confird, sharing a nod with Lee. "He revealed the true cost of my request when he tried to pay off. The Ministry's apology is worth far more than twenty Galleons because it requires him to sacrifice his pride and leverage his political weight in a way he clearly detests."
Fred and George exchanged a look of pure, unadulterated awe. They were excellent pranksters and good businessn, but Albert operated on an entirely different level: that of strategic, psychological warfare. He had leveraged a bureaucratic blunder into a political ultimatum, all over a mbership card.
"So you're saying that little warning letter is worth more than twenty Galleons, because getting rid of it proves you can force a Wizengamot mber to move mountains?" George summarized slowly.
"In short: yes," Albert smiled faintly. "I want to see the letter of apology. Until then, Dagworth can stew in his own bad luck."
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