The transition from grueling combat drills to the logistics of a school-wide tournament was jarring, but for Albert, it was just another plate to spin. As the final weekend of the month arrived, the atmosphere in the Gryffindor dormitory shifted from the smell of ozone and sweat to the scent of fresh parchment and magical ink.
Fred, George, and Lee Jordan had been effectively conscripted. Over the last few nights, while other students were tucked away in their four-posters, the trio had been hunched over a worktable in the Room of Requirement, helping Albert finalize the "Tournament Edition" of the Wizarding Cards. Their fingers were stained with various pigments, and their eyes were bloodshot, but the excitement was palpable. They weren't just playing a game anymore; they were middle-men in a burgeoning empire.
On Saturday morning, Albert was dragged from the blissful depths of sleep by a pair of overly enthusiastic twins.
"Wake up, O Great Creator!" Fred shouted, shaking Albert's shoulder with enough force to rattle his teeth. "The dawn of a new era is upon us! Or at least, the dawn of a very long Saturday."
Albert groaned, burying his face in his pillow and pulling the duvet tighter. "I really don't understand how you two have this much energy at 6:00 AM. And aren't you freezing? It's practically a blizzard outside."
The castle was still locked in winter's icy grip. Even though the calendar promised spring, the frost on the windowpanes told a different story. Yet Fred and George were bouncing around in thin cotton pajamas as if they were on a tropical beach.
"Adrenaline, Albert! Pure, unadulterated hype!" George exclaimed, tugging the blankets off his roommate. "What if people forget? What if they decide it's too cold to walk down to the Great Hall? We need to be there early to set the mood!"
"If they forget, we keep their money," Albert muttered, finally sitting up and squinting at the dim light. "Now give me back my blanket before I turn your hair into tinsel."
By the time they made it down to the Great Hall for breakfast, the nerves were starting to fray. Lee Jordan, usually the most talkative of the bunch, was chewing his fingernails. This was the third time he'd asked the same question since they left the common room.
"You really think they'll show up? I mean, really?" Lee whispered, looking at the sparsely populated tables. "I've seen the numbers for the Club meetings. They've been dropping. What if we're the only ones there? We'll look like complete idiots, standing there with our little cardboard squares."
"Think of the profit margins, Lee," George said, though his voice lacked its usual swagger. "If no one shows, we just made sixty-four Sickles for doing absolutely nothing. That's enough for a very respectable pile of Zonko's products."
Albert sighed, pouring himself a glass of orange juice and watching the steam rise from his porridge. "Failures are just data points, guys. If it bombs, we analyze why and pivot. But honestly? Have a little faith in human nature. Or rather, have faith in human greed."
"I hate it when you get all philosophical before I've had my coffee," Fred grumbled. "Explain the 'greed' part again for the slow people in the back."
Albert twirled a silver Sickle between his knuckles, the coin dancing across his fingers with practiced ease. "It's simple psychology. If I offered this game for free, people would treat it as a hobby. They'd show up if they felt like it, and stay in bed if they didn't. But we charged a registration fee. Two Sickles isn't a fortune, but it's enough that nobody wants to see it go to waste. They've invested. They'll show up just to make sure they get their 'money's worth,' even if they've lost interest in the game itself."
"The Sunk Cost Fallacy," Lee muttered. "You're a devious man, Albert."
"And don't forget the grand prize," Albert added, his eyes sparkling. "Ten Galleons. To a second-year, that's enough to buy out Honeydukes and still have change for a new broom kit. Greed is a much more reliable motivator than 'fun.'"
"He's got a point," a voice said from behind them. Sanna had approached the table, having overheard the tail end of the lecture. She leaned over with a smirk. "So, when does the carnage begin? I want to see if my deck stands a chance against the Ravenclaws."
"Ten o'clock sharp," Albert replied. "We're running a thirty-two-man bracket. Single elimination for the first round. It shouldn't take more than a couple of hours if we keep things moving."
"And the finals?" Angelina asked, joining them with Alicia in tow. The two Chasers looked ready for a fight, their competitive streaks bleeding over from Quidditch into the card game.
"We'll narrow it down to the Top 16 by lunch," Albert explained, gesturing to his three roommates. "Each of us will act as a judge for a table. Four matches running simultaneously. If we have the momentum, we might push for the Top 8 before the afternoon is out. The actual champion will be crowned next month."
"I heard a rumor," Alicia whispered, leaning in. "Fred said you've been holding out on us. He said the cards we've been using are 'garbage' compared to the new ones."
Albert shot a pointed look at Fred, who suddenly became very interested in his toast. "Fred has a big mouth. But... he's not entirely wrong. These were meant to be a surprise for the participants."
He reached into his satchel and pulled out an exquisite, dark-wood box lined with velvet. Inside were stacks of cards that looked nothing like the hand-drawn, rough-edged prototypes the school had been playing with. These cards were standardized, printed on heavy cardstock with a magical sheen. The borders were ornate, and the text was written in a crisp, flowing cursive that didn't smudge under a sweaty thumb.
Sanna picked up a 'Levitation Spell' card. On it, a small animated diagram showed the precise wand movement—the 'swish and flick'—alongside the spell's tactical effect in the game.
"Merlin, Albert," she breathed. "These are beautiful. They look... professional."
"Standardization is key for any serious competition," Albert said. He noticed a small crowd beginning to gather around the table as students from other houses spotted the new hardware.
Truman, a Hufflepuff who was one of the game's most dedicated players, pushed his way through. "When can we buy these? I'll trade you my entire collection of Chocolate Frog cards for a set of these 'Master Editions.'"
"Not for sale yet," Albert said, gently taking the card back from Sanna and closing the box. "These are prototypes for the tournament only. I need to see how they hold up under heavy play before I think about mass-producing them. Besides, I haven't quite perfected the ink for the animated portraits yet."
"I was worried the game was dying out," Truman admitted, staring at the closed box with longing. "But if this is what the future looks like? I'm in for life."
"Will we have to pay for every set?" a younger Ravenclaw asked, looking a bit concerned about her pocket money.
"Eventually, there will be a formal way to acquire them," Albert said diplomatically. He wasn't about to give away his business plan for free. "But for today, everyone will be using the house decks provided to ensure a level playing field."
The news of the 'Professional Edition' cards spread through the hall like a wildfire. By 9:50 AM, the end of the Gryffindor table was swamped with people. The skepticism that had plagued Lee Jordan and the twins earlier that morning was gone, replaced by the chaotic energy of a crowd that sensed they were part of something big.
Albert checked his pocket watch. It was exactly ten o'clock. He stood up on the bench, catching the attention of the assembled players.
"Alright, everyone! Settle down!" he called out.
He pulled out his registration list. "First things first. We have thirty-two slots. If I call your name and you aren't here, you forfeit. No refunds, no exceptions. We're here to play, not wait."
He began reading the names. Surprisingly, nearly everyone was present—even the two who didn't show up were quickly replaced by eager alternates who had been hovering nearby, hoping for a spot. Albert declared the bracket locked.
"Now," Albert said, his voice carrying through the hall. He raised his wand high into the air. "I officially declare the first Hogwarts Wizarding Card Championship... open!"
With a sharp flick of his wrist, he cast a localized firework charm. It wasn't loud enough to disturb the teachers at the High Table, but it sent a shower of gold and crimson sparks cascading over the players, forming the words GOOD LUCK in the air for a brief, shimmering moment.