"You... you really took that gamble, Albert?" George Weasley swallowed hard, the sound audible over the rhythmic click-clack of the Hogwarts Express wheels. He looked physically ill just contemplating the risk. "That's twenty-five Galleons! What if… what if you were completely wrong about the result? That's nearly half a year's savings for some families!"
Fred leaned forward, his usual grin subdued by the sheer amount of money involved. "You were completely calm about it, too. We would have been sweating buckets, thinking about losing that fortune."
"I believe in my own luck and intuition," Albert said, completely unruffled. He had the detached air of someone discussing the weather. He flipped the page of his newspaper—a Muggle one he'd brought—and lowered it slightly. "And I don't gamble carelessly. There was a high chance of a correct guess, and the payoff was substantial. Why don't you try it next time? If you guess correctly, you could make enough money to fund one of your... extracurricular ventures."
"We don't have any money to waste," Fred admitted bluntly, exchanging a rueful look with his twin. The Weasley family's financial strain was a well-known, if unspoken, reality, and twenty-five Galleons was a monumental sum, not a casual wager. "We save every Knut for vital supplies."
Lee Jordan shook his head emphatically. "Don't look at me, either. I'm saving up for a really powerful telescope and some new Quidditch binoculars. Albert, your behavior is insane. I wouldn't use that kind of money on a long shot if you paid me to."
Albert simply smiled, allowing them their judgment. He knew his 'luck' was a calculated asset, and he wasn't about to explain the intricacies of his system.
As the train sped along, past meadows and quaint little Muggle villages, Albert listened passively as the three boys quickly transitioned back to the comfortable topic of Quidditch. He had to maintain the façade of Muggle ignorance, so he pretended to be deeply engrossed in his paper while absorbing every detail of their animated conversation—the formation tactics, the speed of various brooms, and the genius of their older brother, Charlie.
"By the way, did you hear anything more about that big incident with Gabriel Truman?" George suddenly asked, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
"Old Nutley from the Ministry of Magic was nearly sacked," Fred whispered, confirming the gossip. "He had to personally visit Truman and grovel to make the whole thing go away. Apparently, the apology was extremely dramatic."
"I heard the story too," Lee Jordan chimed in, "but my mother says all of Rita Skeeter's articles are completely unreliable. That woman twists everything. She loves to exaggerate a simple mishap into a crisis."
Albert folded his newspaper, the sudden shift in focus catching his attention. "It's true that most newspapers thrive on sensationalism, but even the wildest gossip has to be built on a kernel of truth somewhere," he commented, keeping his expression neutral. As the architect of the entire crisis—using the Ministry's own rules to gain leverage—he had the fullest perspective.
"Truman must be an absolute blabbermouth," George muttered, annoyed. "Percy said he was in his cubicle earlier, and Truman was loudly recounting the entire episode. How he met some bratty Hogwarts first-year practicing magic over the summer holidays, and then received an inexplicable expulsion letter. And then Dumbledore himself, along with a high-up Ministry official, came to visit. Truman claimed they were incredibly rude, didn't offer a proper apology, and he made them sweat it out before he finally signed the retraction."
Albert raised a slight eyebrow at the details. Westerners truly lack the concept of subtlety. He had explicitly advised Truman to keep the nature of their deal a secret, but the man had clearly prioritized the thrill of being a victimized hero.
It was an excellent reminder: Never trust the self-interest of others to protect your anonymity. Albert's inherent Oriental modesty and reserve kept him from ever contemplating revealing the full story. Why boast about manipulating two monolithic institutions when the outcome was already secured?
"That's quite a tale," Albert said, steering the conversation away from dangerous ground. "Speaking of things no one tells you about: how exactly does the school sort you into houses? Is it a competitive test?"
"No one tells us anything," Lee Jordan complained.
"Percy said there was a difficult written examination that we have to pass," George said, rolling his eyes. "But he just grins at us whenever we ask for details. They treat it like some ancient, hilarious family secret."
"What is wizard life truly like?" Albert asked, adopting a tone of genuine, wide-eyed curiosity, a calculated move to elicit more information. "When I got the letter, my parents were completely shocked. My mother was frankly hostile to Professor McGonagall and the whole thing. She was mostly worried about my future—she thought I wouldn't be able to find a decent job after graduation."
The twins and Lee Jordan looked horrified.
"That won't happen!" they declared in unison. "Magic is everything! Our eldest brother, Bill, graduated and went straight to Africa to work for Gringotts as a curse-breaker! He makes loads of money!"
"And our father works for the Ministry of Magic," Fred and George added proudly.
"But... look at the world I came from," Albert argued, leaning in seriously. "I think, after I graduate and fulfill the minimum requirements, I'll probably return to the Muggle world permanently."
The reaction was exactly what he wanted: three pairs of eyes wide with utter confusion and disbelief.
"Why, though?" Lee Jordan asked, genuinely hurt by the idea. "Why would you choose not to use magic? It's the most incredible thing in the world!"
Albert's explanation was simple, logical, and deeply unsettling to them. "I came to Hogwarts to master magic and gain control over it, just as Professor McGonagall warned—to prevent it from going wild in the future. But in the Muggle world, we can't use magic freely. We can't let the Muggles know it exists. The wizarding laws—the Statute of Secrecy—are too restrictive. In the Muggle world, I have far more avenues for growth, innovation, and wealth."
"But what do you actually want to do, then?" George asked, trying to reconcile the Muggle concept of 'job' with the wizard concept of 'vocation.'
"I don't want to work at the Ministry of Magic," Fred stated immediately.
"Me neither," George echoed, and the twins exchanged a knowing look that hinted at future plans far grander than bureaucratic paperwork.
"I haven't thought it out yet," Lee Jordan admitted.
"Me?" Albert smiled, a genuine flicker of his true ambition showing through. "My ideal job is simple: I want a low-stress, easy job that pays exceptionally well."
The three stared at him, then at each other, and then back at Albert, unable to process the combination of words.
"Does... does such a thing even exist?" Lee Jordan sputtered. "If it does, we want it too!"
"It should exist. I'm currently looking for it," Albert said. He wondered if this was the precise moment the twins' idea for a joke shop was beginning to germinate—the ultimate low-stress, high-pay job built entirely on fun and innovation.
"If you ever find it," Lee Jordan patted Albert's shoulder with exaggerated seriousness, "you have to promise us you'll share the secret. You owe us that much for the Bowtruckle distraction!"
"Speaking of the Muggle world," Albert said, changing the subject and reaching into his backpack. "You don't mind if I take your picture? My family wants to see proof that I've made friends, and they're incredibly curious about the magical world."
"Photographing?" Fred asked, intrigued.
"Yes. It's a Muggle invention." Albert arranged the three of them—a pile of gangly limbs and mischievous grins—and raised the small, compact camera. He clicked the shutter, the flash a startling, white burst in the compartment. He quickly developed the small print using an included chemical packet.
Lee Jordan immediately snatched the finished photo, poking the image of Fred's face. "Why won't it move?"
"Muggle photos don't move," Albert explained, taking the stiff print back. He held it up, inspecting the clear, unblinking image. "It captures a single, frozen moment in time. My skills are improving, I think."
"But what's the point of a photo that doesn't move?" George asked, wrinkling his nose in distaste. The three quickly lost interest in the static image, instantly dismissing the Muggle technology as inferior. Albert quietly put the photo away, knowing its true value lay in its ability to pass through the Muggle postal system undetected.
Just as the midday pangs of hunger hit, a welcome sound echoed in the corridor: the rattle of the trolley. The Trolley Witch, a kindly looking woman with rosy cheeks, slid open their compartment door. "Dears, would you like anything from the trolley? We have Cauldron Cakes, Pumpkin Pasties, and Every Flavour Beans!"
"I've got my own, thanks," Lee Jordan said, pulling out a sack of homemade sandwiches, but he bought a small packet of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans.
The twins, though visibly salivating, politely declined, clutching their own meager sandwiches.
"I'll take one of everything, please," Albert said to the witch, pulling out a Galleon—a gold coin that seemed impossibly large and bright compared to the meager copper of a Knut.
The witch smiled warmly, loading the table with a truly extravagant assortment: Cauldron Cakes, several boxes of Chocoballs, a dozen Pumpkin Pasties, Fizzy Whizzbees, and a towering pile of Chocolate Frogs.
Albert paid the Galleon and received a significant amount of silver change, which he barely glanced at. Having just witnessed the casual gambling of a fortune and the even more casual purchase of an entire trolley section, the three roommates stared at the feast, completely resigned to Albert's baffling wealth.
"I'm betting your family is ridiculously rich," Lee Jordan muttered, his eyes glued to the Chocolate Frogs.
"They're comfortable, but not 'ridiculously rich'," Albert corrected, popping a bean into his mouth. He grimaced slightly. "Bean Sprout flavor. Not ideal." He gestured to the pile of sweets. "My parents are both Lawyers."
"What's that, then?" George asked, puzzled. "What exactly does a 'lawyer' do?"
"You can think of them as people who represent others in lawsuits," Albert explained, savoring the moment. "They are masters of the law, people who are skilled at finding and legally exploiting legal loopholes."
The three wizards stopped eating, utterly confused.
"Legally exploiting... legal loopholes?" Fred repeated slowly. "What kind of trickery is that? How can exploiting a flaw in the rules be legal?"
Albert chuckled. "It's a Muggle system. The law isn't always about what's fair or right; it's about what the documents say. If you can prove, using the established rules, that a particular action is technically permissible—even if it seems wrong to the average person—then it's legal. Lawyers are paid extremely well to be clever with the written rules, to manipulate the system for their client's advantage. That's why they earn so much. They don't make the rules; they just find the optimal path through them."
The twins and Lee Jordan stared at the pile of food, the sudden realization dawning that Albert's entire life was governed by a system far more complex and arguably more chaotic than the Ministry of Magic. The concept of legalized trickery was simultaneously horrifying and deeply fascinating to their mischievous minds.
"Right," George finally said, shaking his head to clear it. "That's... a lot to unpack. Anyway, enough Muggle talk. Tell us what all this food is. We don't want to accidentally eat something weird like a fish-eye tart."
Albert smiled, waving his hand toward the bounty. "An excellent idea. Tell me, which of these strange, delicious, potentially deadly wizarding treats should we sample first? It's only polite for the locals to introduce the foreigner to the local cuisine." The offer to share was not just about food; it was about cultivating and maintaining the friendships that would be essential to his future at Hogwarts.