The nascent Wizard Card Club was quickly becoming the latest source of quiet buzz in the Hogwarts corridors. Since Albert's initial demonstrations, word had spread—mostly through the Gryffindor Quidditch team—that there was a new, genuinely strategic game in the castle, one that didn't involve chess pieces or exploding snap.
More notably, a handful of ambitious students from other Houses—Ravenclaws eager for complexity and Hufflepuffs interested in balance—had begun approaching Albert, not just to play, but to volunteer for design work.
"We need cards tailored to Slytherin's strengths—Subterfuge and Potion effects," one student had eagerly suggested. "And Hufflepuff needs Herbology and Loyalty synergies!"
This organic enthusiasm was exactly what Albert had been aiming for. The biggest hurdle for any new game wasn't quality; it was critical mass. Once enough students were invested, the game would promote itself, driven by the simple, inescapable force of peer pressure and competitive spirit.
Albert was confident that the game's inherent depth—its "easy to learn, impossible to master" philosophy—would secure its longevity, ensuring it could spread, eventually, beyond Hogwarts and into the wider wizarding world.
However, the rapid growth also magnified Albert's personal logistical nightmare: card design and production. He was the only one who could apply the necessary foundational Transfiguration Charms to create the high-quality, animated Primitive Cards. While Fred, George, and Lee Jordan were invaluable for playtesting and brainstorming effects, the meticulous crafting fell squarely on Albert's already overburdened shoulders.
And those shoulders were carrying a lot.
Albert's typical week was less a schedule and more a frantic, multi-threaded coding sequence. He was juggling the ongoing design and production of new spell cards, maintaining near-perfect grades in all his core classes, continuing the frequent correspondence with Harris and others, and religiously making his weekly borrowing trips to the library.
Beyond the baseline academic grind, he had several high-priority research projects. The most frustrating was the Protective Bracelet—his attempt to miniaturize and passively sustain defensive Charms, demanding constant revision and theoretical application of Ancient Runes.
The Runes themselves were another major focus: his dedicated attempt to break through the theoretical barrier of using runic scripts to cast spells, rather than just enhance them.
Then there was the constant, low-level drain of writing analytical articles for Transfiguration Today magazine, keeping the Magic Club's scholarly reputation afloat, snatching moments to practice the non-verbal Patronus Charm, and the stealth operation—a recurring failure—to find advanced Mind Locking texts in the Forbidden Section.
That last task was particularly fraught. Arthur Filch, still smarting from the previous term's chaos, had cranked up his nocturnal patrols to an almost military level. And worse, he now had an occasional, terrifying wingman: Severus Snape.
The combination of Filch's maniacal obsession and Snape's silent, pervasive malice was enough to deter even the most foolhardy student. Albert valued his house points too much to risk being caught by that pair. Gryffindor had already suffered enough point losses—mostly unrelated to him—and sat miserably at the bottom of the House standings.
Amidst this relentless, self-imposed workload, there was, thankfully, a sliver of genuine progress, a small beacon of light in his research: a noticeable breakthrough in the field of Advanced Ancient Runes.
This success was almost entirely thanks to Professor Bathsheda Babbling. She wasn't just a Hogwarts academic; she was a genuine expert, possessing a quiet, unassuming mastery of runic script and history.
Albert had been auditing Professor Babbling's Advanced Ancient Runes lecture every Tuesday afternoon, diligently absorbing the curriculum intended for sixth and seventh years. Crucially, he always stayed afterward, engaging in private, intensive discussions that ranged far beyond the class syllabus.
Together, they'd dissected foundational texts like McDougal's Explanation of Basic Runes and Advanced Rune Study, an experience that had accelerated Albert's comprehension dramatically.
He felt the familiar ping of system progress: his personal proficiency in runic knowledge had crossed the halfway mark toward the Second Level. It was a sweet reward for the hours of dedication.
Professor Babbling's class was small and elite. The Advanced course consisted of just four official N.E.W.T. students—two from Ravenclaw, one Slytherin, and one Hufflepuff—plus Albert, the unofficial fifth.
Ancient Runes, being purely academic and lacking the flashy appeal of Charms or Transfiguration, never attracted the masses. Most third-years dropped it, and few of those who passed their O.W.L.s with high marks actually elected to continue.
It was a far better situation, however, than Muggle Studies, which had so few students taking the subject seriously that it couldn't even justify offering an advanced course.
Most students chose subjects like Divination, Arithmancy, or Care of Magical Creatures simply to fill a schedule slot, often resulting in graduates finding careers utterly disconnected from their academic specialties.
The bell chimed sharply, signaling the end of the formal session. The four N.E.W.T. students gathered their scrolls and bags, offering brief farewells as they headed out of the old, sixth-floor classroom.
Albert, however, remained seated, already re-opening his notes. This was the real class.
"So, Mr. Anderson, how's the intellectual landscape looking this week?" Professor Babbling asked gently, settling back against her worn leather armchair. A perk of being a genuinely brilliant student was the shift from formal instruction to a collaborative, conversational dynamic.
"Honestly, Professor, the N.E.W.T. material feels like a casual review," Albert admitted, flipping through his pages to a section on advanced cipher substitution. "The actual challenge is in the historical applications and theoretical expansion we discuss after class."
Professor Babbling smiled, a genuine expression of pride warming her features. "You truly are operating at N.E.W.T. level, Albert. It's remarkable. Most students, even the brightest, struggle to apply the conceptual language of runes. You seem to grasp it intuitively."
"It was easier than I anticipated," Albert acknowledged, meaning that the foundational logic of the runic system aligned perfectly with his understanding of coded languages and mathematical structures.
"That's because the N.E.W.T. level isn't truly difficult," Professor Babbling elaborated, setting down her quill. "The difficulty begins after Hogwarts. We've only scratched the surface, my dear. The likes of McDougal went truly deep, and few since have dared to follow." She gestured around the aging, book-lined room. "The path to true mastery is long and lonely."
Albert nodded, recognizing the truth in her statement. The sheer obscurity and lack of subsequent scholarship on a work like Advanced Rune Studies proved her point implicitly.
Just as they were settling into a more involved discussion, light footsteps sounded in the hallway and a precise, soft knock came at the door.
Isabel, a highly skilled Ravenclaw who excelled in Ancient Runes, entered. She was, thanks to a prior connection with McDougal's work, allowed to join this informal, advanced study group.
Professor Babbling gave a casual flick of her wand. Instantly, a low table materialized between the armchairs, bearing a silver teapot, a selection of buttery biscuits, and a delicate plate of shortbread cookies. The conversation was less lecture, more cozy afternoon salon.
Babbling, relaxing visibly after her two consecutive classes, poured the first round of tea. It wasn't until the three of them had settled and finished their initial cups that the Professor steered the conversation toward a new topic.
"Today, I wanted to shift gears slightly. We're going to discuss the intersection of our field with something a little… less grounded," she announced, sipping her tea. "Runic Divination."
"Ah, I remember that," Albert said, turning to Isabel with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Third-year elective, right? They covered how to use the Elder Futhark alphabet for predictions?"
Isabel took a measured, lengthy sip of her tea. Her expression was a subtle but eloquent critique of the entire subject, a look of profound, elegant disdain that would have made Professor McGonagall proud.
"I didn't waste my time, no," Isabel replied calmly, her tone implying that she viewed Divination as a form of intellectual quicksand. "Perhaps you have the temperament for it, Anderson."
"I've never had a prophetic bone in my body, sadly," Albert said, though he quickly realized Professor Babbling had something specific in mind.
"Well, someone I know does," Babbling interjected. "Runic divination is one of the oldest forms of prophecy in the British Isles. It's rumored to be intensely accurate, but the interpretive knowledge required has largely been lost. Fortunately, I have a friend who possesses at least some specialized knowledge of the craft."
Albert couldn't help but internally roll his eyes. He knew exactly where this was going.
"I've always heard that true prophecy is an inborn talent, Professor," Albert commented politely, doing his best to stifle any obvious sarcasm. "Most people who take the class are just… filling time."
He knew the truth: a Seer who couldn't actually see the future was just an eccentric, earning no respect and even less gold. Sybill Trelawney possessed the gift, but it was uncontrollable, erupting only in true, world-altering crises, not in daily crystal-ball gazing.
"My friend, Sybill, certainly possesses that talent," Babbling said, though even she sounded slightly less certain, a flicker of doubt passing through her eyes. "She is, after all, the great-granddaughter of the famous Cassandra Trelawney, and these things often run in the bloodline."
As they discussed the academic history of runic inscriptions and the esoteric language of the ancient Futhark, a second knock, hesitant and almost ghostly, sounded at the door.
The person they had been discussing then appeared.
It was the first time Albert had seen Professor Sybill Trelawney up close and outside the exaggerated shadows of her classroom. She was excessively thin, her large, slightly magnified eyes peering through lenses the size of dinner plates.
She was draped in a dizzying cascade of fringed shawls, beaded necklaces, and jangling chains—a bizarre, theatrical mess that seemed designed to obscure her body and enhance her perceived mystical aura.
"Ah, Bathsheda, my dear. I pray I am not too tardy." Trelawney's voice was a breathy, dramatic murmur as she poked her head into the room, her gaze sweeping over Albert and Isabel with an air of theatrical pity.
"Nonsense, Sybill. Come in, come in," Professor Babbling urged, her smile warm despite Trelawney's dramatics. "We are delving into runic divination, and I told them you are exactly the expert we need."
"Ah, Runic Divination—a venerable, if nearly forgotten, art," Trelawney sighed dramatically, sweeping into the room and collapsing onto the sofa next to Babbling. From the depths of her voluminous sleeve, she produced a beautifully embroidered, silken pouch.
"I only touch upon this briefly in my third-year curriculum. You see, predicting the future from tea leaves or crystal balls is far easier for the masses of students—at least they can pretend to see the signs in a textbook. But for those poor, untalented souls who lack the 'Celestial Eye'… well, that's all they can do, isn't it?"
Trelawney's words, though delivered with a mournful pathos, struck Albert as surprisingly accurate. Divination was a talent-based subject; without the talent, you were just a fraud, and she, at least, was a self-aware one.
Trelawney opened the pouch, spilling about twenty small, highly polished wooden tokens onto the table. Each was carved with a symbol of the Elder Futhark. She delicately caressed the symbols, then accepted the cup of tea Babbling offered.
"The symbols on each rune… they speak the language of ancient wisdom and reveal the mysteries of the writing system itself," she murmured, her voice rising to a mystical register. "But they can also be coerced to reveal the threads of fate."
Albert took a bite of a biscuit—deliciously buttery—and watched the proceedings. He exchanged a knowing, slightly amused glance with Isabel, who was nursing her red tea with a look of profound, suffering patience.
Trelawney placed the runes back into the pouch, holding it out. "Hold the pouch in your hand, child. Quietly formulate your question, but keep your mind a clear channel. Do not attempt to force the outcome. Feel the subtle pull of natural forces, follow your deepest instincts, and draw just one rune into your palm."
Albert and Isabel shared another quick, slightly mocking look, their lips twitching, but they kept silent.
"Well, who shall offer their future to the mystery?" Professor Babbling prompted playfully.
"Ladies first, Professor," Albert said, gesturing graciously toward Isabel.
"No, you," Isabel retorted, not even trying to hide her skepticism. "I think your particular brand of luck should precede mine."
"Fine. I accept the burden of going first," Albert agreed. He took the soft, weighty pouch, closing his eyes. He asked a question that was intensely personal, actionable, and entirely measurable, ensuring that if any prediction occurred, it would be impossible to dismiss: "What can I expect regarding my future financial endeavors?"
He meditated for a moment, not channeling any spiritual nonsense, but simply focusing his intent, and then reached in and pulled out a token, placing it face-up on his palm.
As Trelawney glided towards Albert, her eyes suddenly widened behind the massive lenses. "Young man," she breathed, her voice taking on a new, unnerving resonance. "I sense… a powerful, natural connection. You have the Midas touch, I believe. A genuine aptitude for this ancient, sacred craft."
"Thank you," Albert replied, his polite tone contrasting sharply with the drama of the moment.
Trelawney peered down at the token, her long, bony finger tracing the symbol. "Ah, Fehu. And it is perfectly upright—positive. Fehu represents wealth, material gains, and the harvest of success. It means you possess an unusually good fortune, and a definite form of success is already in motion. You must simply maintain a tight grip on what you have already accumulated, and you will not only overcome any challenges but achieve an unparalleled abundance."
"I'm always lucky with money," Albert repeated, his words a light, self-deprecating joke. He put the rune back and passed the bag to Isabel.
Isabel took the bag with the reverence of someone handling an oddly shaped potato. She didn't close her eyes, simply staring at the ceiling for a second before formulating her question.
"My question is less grand," she stated, her tone cool and detached. "I simply wonder if I am likely to encounter any unpleasantness or significant trouble in the near future."
She reached in and, with a swift, decisive motion, pulled out a rune and slapped it down onto her open palm.
Trelawney's reaction this time was immediate and far more chilling. Her hand flew to her mouth, her chains jingling violently. Her exaggerated spectacles seemed to magnify the look of genuine, theatrical horror on her face.
"An Inverted Ehwaz!" she gasped, her voice barely a whisper, yet it echoed in the silence of the old classroom. "That… that is a grave, unmistakable warning, child. A sign of disruption and sudden, forced change. It bodes ill. Very ill indeed. We must tread carefully, for a difficult, unforeseen journey approaches, and the conditions are unfavorable…"