"You... you really just did that?" George finally managed to squeeze the words out. "Twenty-five Galleons. Gone. Into the rain. Poof. What if... what if..." He trailed off, unable to even voice the possibility of failure. To a Weasley, losing twenty-five Galleons was akin to a national tragedy.
Albert leaned back, looking entirely too relaxed for someone who had just staked a significant portion of his liquid assets on a hunch. "Intuition is a powerful thing, George. And luck? Well, luck is like a muscle—you have to exercise it if you want it to grow. Besides, think of the payout. If I'm right, I'm not just making a bit of pocket change; I'm starting a foundation. Fortune favors the bold, or so they say."
"Easy for you to say," Fred muttered, though his eyes were still fixed on the window where the owl had vanished. He exchanged a look with George—a silent conversation they'd perfected over eleven years. They shook their heads in unison. The Weasley vault at Gringotts was famous for its spaciousness—mostly because there was so little in it. Even if they pooled every birthday Knut they'd ever received, they couldn't afford to "exercise their luck" like this.
"Don't look at me either," Lee Jordan added, raising his hands in a defensive gesture. "I've got plans for my savings, and they don't involve betting on Ministry bureaucrats. I thought you were the smart one, Albert, but this is bordering on madness."
Albert just chuckled, shifting his attention back to the scenery. The urban sprawl of London had long since melted away, replaced by rolling hills of vibrant green and dense patches of forest that looked like something out of a fairy tale. As the train rattled along, the conversation naturally drifted toward the one thing that seemed to consume every wizarding child's mind: Quidditch.
For the next hour, Albert played the role of the attentive listener. He knew the rules, of course—who hadn't heard of the Golden Snitch?—but he had to be careful. As a "Muggle-born" who had only discovered magic in the summer, knowing the stats of the Chudley Cannons or the history of the Wronski Feint would be a massive red flag. He nodded at the right times, asked "innocent" questions about how the brooms didn't just drop out of the sky, and watched the three of them debate the merits of various seeker strategies with the passion of religious zealots.
"Speaking of scandals," George said, leaning in as if about to share a state secret, "did you hear about what happened with Gabriel Truman?"
"The Hufflepuff?" Lee asked, perking up.
"The very same," Fred whispered, his voice dropping an octave for dramatic effect. "Word is, some Ministry official named Nataly almost got him expelled over the summer. Apparently, there was some rogue magic going on, and they tried to pin it on him. It nearly went to a full hearing until someone higher up stepped in and forced an apology."
"I read about that in the Prophet," Lee said, sounding skeptical. "But my Mum says you shouldn't trust anything Rita Skeeter writes. She says that woman could find a scandal in a bowl of porridge and would probably interview the spoon for more dirt."
Albert closed his newspaper, a faint, internal smirk playing at the corners of his mind. He was, quite literally, the hidden hand behind that particular mess. He'd been the one practicing the spells that triggered the Ministry's detection system, and poor Truman had just been the nearest magical signature.
"Most papers are just looking for a reaction," Albert offered casually. "But a lie works best when it's wrapped around a kernel of truth. If Truman was actually being threatened with expulsion, there had to be a reason, even if the Ministry got the wrong guy."
"I actually caught Truman in the corridor earlier," Fred said, grinning. "He was telling a group of fifth-years about it. Said some kid he met over the summer was practicing magic right under the Ministry's nose, and he ended up getting the blame. He said Dumbledore himself showed up at his house with a Ministry official who looked like he'd swallowed a lemon. Apparently, the official wouldn't even apologize properly until Dumbledore gave him 'the look.'"
Albert raised an eyebrow. So Truman didn't keep his mouth shut after all, he thought. It was typical—western culture valued the "cool story" over the quiet secret. Still, Truman hadn't named him, likely because he didn't even know Albert's full name at the time. Albert's soul remained rooted in a more reserved philosophy; he preferred to be the person who knew everything while appearing to know nothing. Being the center of attention was a chore; being the puppet master was a hobby.
"Anyway," Albert said, steering the conversation away from his own clandestine summer activities. "What about the Sorting? Everyone keeps dodging the question. Is it a written exam? Some kind of duel?"
"My brother Percy said there's a test," George said, looking genuinely annoyed. "But he's being a right prat about it. Keeps saying it's 'traditional' and that we'll find out when we get there. I bet it involves wrestling a troll or something equally stupid."
"I doubt they'd kill off the fresh batch of students before the first meal," Albert reasoned.
"My parents wouldn't tell me either," Lee sighed. "It's like a secret society. Everyone goes through it, but nobody talks about it. It's a bit psychological, isn't it?"
"I suppose," Albert replied. He leaned back, looking thoughtful. "My mother wasn't exactly thrilled when Professor McGonagall showed up. She's convinced that by the time I graduate, I'll be completely unemployable in the 'real' world. She thinks magic is a neat trick, but she's worried about my pension."
The twins looked at him as if he'd just suggested that gravity was optional.
"Unemployable?" Fred asked. "Our oldest brother Bill graduated a few years back. He's a Curse-Breaker for Gringotts. Spends his days in Egypt and Africa breaking into ancient tombs. It's brilliant work."
"And Charlie's in Romania working with dragons," George added. "There's plenty to do if you've got the guts for it."
"And your father?" Albert asked, though he knew the answer.
"Ministry of Magic," they said in perfect unison. "Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office," Fred clarified. "He spends a lot of time de-cursing tea sets and biting kettles."
"I think I might end up back in the Muggle world eventually," Albert said, watching their reactions.
"Why on earth would you do that?" Lee asked, sounding genuinely confused. "You can do magic! Why go back to living like... well, like a Muggle?"
"Balance," Albert said simply. "Magic is a tool, not a cage. McGonagall said that if I didn't learn to control it, I'd be a danger to myself. So, I'm here to master the craft. But the Muggle world has things the wizarding world doesn't—technology, global markets, and a lot more people who don't know how to protect their money from a 'lucky' investor."
"He's back to the money again," George whispered to Fred.
"What do you guys want to do?" Albert asked.
"Not the Ministry," both twins said instantly, sharing a laugh.
"I want to play Quidditch professionally," George said, his eyes gleaming. "Charlie is the Gryffindor Captain this year. He says the scouts are always watching the school games. It's just a shame first-years aren't allowed to play."
"I haven't really thought that far ahead," Lee admitted. "Maybe something with magical creatures. Or just something that pays well."
They all turned to Albert. "What about you? Since you're so focused on the Galleons."
"Me? I'm looking for a job that's low-effort, high-reward, and preferably involves sitting in a comfortable chair while other people do the heavy lifting," Albert said with a serene smile.
"If you find that job, let us know," Lee laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "We'll all sign up."
"Actually," Albert said, reaching into his trunk, "I have a small favor. My family wants to see what my new world looks like. Do you mind if I take a quick photo?"
He pulled out his camera—a high-end Muggle model. He had the three of them huddle together. Lee was grinning, Fred was making a silly face, and George was trying to look stoic. Click. The flash went off, momentarily blinding them.
Albert pulled the developing photo out. "Not bad."
Lee leaned over, poking the still-wet image. "Wait... why aren't they moving? Fred, look, your face is stuck like that! It's creepy."
"It's a Muggle camera," Albert explained. "The images are frozen in time. It captures the moment exactly as it was, without the loops."
"That's... kind of depressing," George said, losing interest immediately. "It's like a dead memory. Wizarding photos are alive. They have personality. This is just... ink on paper."
Albert chuckled. To a wizard, the stillness of a Muggle photograph was a defect; to Albert, it was a precise record. The difference in perspective was fascinating.
Around noon, the heavy aroma of sweets and fried dough began to waft through the corridors. The sliding door of the compartment opened to reveal a plump, smiling witch pushing a trolley piled high with colorful packages.
"Anything from the trolley, dears?" she asked.
Lee jumped up. "A pack of Bertie Bott's, please!" He'd brought a lumpy sandwich from home, but no train ride was complete without the risk of eating a vomit-flavored bean. The twins looked at the trolley with longing, then at their own modest snacks, and stayed silent.
"I'll take some of everything," Albert said, standing up and pulling out a gold Galleon.
The witch's eyes widened slightly, but she quickly began bagging up Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, and stacks of Licorice Wands. The three boys watched the pile grow on the table until it looked like a candy shop had exploded in their compartment.
"One Galleon," the witch said, beaming. Albert handed it over without a second thought.
"You really are a walking vault, aren't you?" Lee muttered, eyeing a Cauldron Cake.
"My parents are lawyers," Albert said, unwrapping a Chocolate Frog. "It's a profession that pays well."
"A what?" Fred asked, mouth already full of a pasty.
"Lawyers," Albert repeated. "They're people who study the rules of the Muggle world so they can help others navigate them—or, more accurately, find the gaps in those rules that allow people to do what they want legally. You could call them professional loophole-exploiters."
"Legal loophole-exploiters," George mused, his eyes narrowing with a new kind of respect. "That sounds like a brilliant way to make a living. Does it work with magic?"
"I intend to find out," Albert replied. He gestured to the mountain of food. "Help yourselves. I'm new to this, so you'll have to be my guides. Tell me what I'm looking at. I'd rather not accidentally eat a bean that tastes like old socks without some fair warning."