Olymbos Avery had assumed the floor tile beneath him was an elevator, like the ones in the British Ministry of Magic. Instead, it turned out to be something else entirely—a teleportation device, more akin to a Portkey.
As he stood upon the tile, the dark-skinned wizard beside him murmured an incantation in a language Avery didn't understand. A sudden wave of dizziness overcame him, and a powerful sense of weightlessness made his stomach drop. Before he could regain his bearings, his feet were already back on solid ground.
A cacophony of sound struck his ears. He blinked, disoriented, and found himself facing a bustling crowd. The underground chamber before him shimmered like a golden dream—the floor gleamed, the walls glowed, and the air itself seemed heavy with wealth. For a man born into the old European wizarding aristocracy, Avery found this place irresistible. The gold fever that ran in his blood flared instantly.
He loved this place.
"Sir?"
A clear, sweet voice called out to him. A blonde woman approached, her figure accentuated by a form-fitting bunny-girl outfit. Avery froze, momentarily startled. The outfit was strange by his standards—but undeniably charming.
"Sir?" she repeated with a polite smile.
"Mmm," Avery finally replied, clearing his throat.
"Is this your first time here with us?"
"Yes," he said curtly.
"Then please allow me to explain the rules of our Luck Auction," she said.
Avery scoffed inwardly at the name. "Luck Auction" sounded like a cheap gimmick—but he still nodded for her to continue.
"All the items and equipment in our auction," the bunny girl explained with professional poise, "are made from mentorei metal, a material that completely prevents magical interference. That's why this place is called a realm of true luck. Here, you can freely wager both your Galleons and your fortune. If you're blessed by luck, you can win treasures you'd never find anywhere else."
She paused, lowering her voice slightly. "However, sir, allow me one final reminder: if you believe your luck isn't with you, please don't act rashly. Many guests have lost everything because they let impulse overtake reason."
Avery was mildly surprised. He hadn't expected a casino employee to warn him not to gamble recklessly. Still, he smiled faintly.
He wasn't here to indulge in gambling, after all. His purpose was far more practical—to mingle with the wealthy and powerful, to seek allies for the revival of the Avery family.
So, after a brief thought, he exchanged two hundred Galleons for "luck chips."
The woman behind the exchange counter maintained a perfectly polite expression, but Avery didn't miss the subtle hint of disdain in her eyes.
Two hundred Galleons—a small amount? Certainly not! In the British wizarding world, that was more than many families earned in a year.
He clenched the chips and strode confidently into the casino.
For a wizard who had lived his entire life far removed from the Muggle world, the sights that greeted him were astounding. Dice, roulette, baccarat, blackjack, spinning wheels, numbers flashing in midair—it was all new to him, strange yet thrilling.
Avery wandered slowly, observing the gamblers. Despite the splendor, he found no one worth knowing. As patriarch of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, he prided himself on recognizing true power and wealth—and he saw none here.
"Excuse me," he said, flagging down a passing waiter.
"I was told that many prominent figures frequent this establishment. Yet I haven't seen any. Do you know where they might be?"
The waiter's gaze flicked briefly to the modest pile of chips in Avery's hand—a glance so subtle it was almost imperceptible, yet insulting all the same. Avery's jaw tightened, but before he could rebuke him, the waiter answered respectfully:
"Sir, the distinguished guests you're referring to usually play in our premium hall."
He pointed toward a cascading water curtain behind the chip exchange counter.
"Only players holding at least ten thousand Galleons in chips may enter that area."
Avery blinked in surprise.
Ten thousand Galleons.
He could afford it—his total assets were around two hundred thousand—but wagering one-twentieth of his fortune in a single night felt reckless. Of course, he could simply exchange the chips back afterward without gambling. But doing so would make him appear timid and insignificant in front of the wealthy crowd he hoped to impress.
Yet gambling without understanding these games was equally foolish. What if he lost it all in minutes?
Better to test the waters first.
With that thought, Avery weighed the chips in his palm and joined a roulette table.
He won fifty Galleons.
Then dice—another hundred.
Lady Luck seemed to favor him tonight. By the time he reached the blackjack table, his two hundred Galleons had grown to a thousand. His cheeks flushed with excitement. The steady rhythm of winning felt intoxicating.
If this continued, he thought, he could multiply his wealth several times over.
Other gamblers began to notice him. Magic was forbidden here—mentorei metal blocked any form of spellwork—so consistent winners drew attention. Some began following Avery's bets, mimicking his moves as if he were a lucky charm.
And, remarkably, they too began to win.
The dealer, wearing gloves embedded with shimmering metal threads, dealt a card framed with Mantle of Turin metal. It was a King. Avery smiled faintly; his face-down card was an Ace.
He declined another card, calmly observing the others at the table as they either busted or fell short. Only the dealer remained a threat—if the dealer hit twenty-one, the round would end in a draw.
The cards were revealed.
The dealer held a Queen and a King—twenty points.
Avery had twenty-one.
He won again.
That single round earned him three thousand Galleons. His wagers had grown bolder—what began as ten-Galleon bets had become thousand-Galleon gambles.
The thrill was indescribable.
For a man whose family business once earned eight or nine thousand Galleons in a month, to make two thousand in mere seconds felt almost divine.
Something within him shifted. His logic blurred, replaced by the euphoric conviction that he was blessed by fortune itself.
He verified once more that magic was truly useless here; everything was governed by chance. That meant his success could only come from his natural luck—a belief that fueled his growing arrogance.
He now held nine thousand seven hundred Galleons. Just one more winning hand, and he would cross the ten-thousand threshold and earn entry to the premium hall—the domain of the elite.
But then, his luck turned.
A string of losses struck him like cold rain. His pile of chips dwindled—nine thousand, then eight, then seven. When the streak finally ended, only six thousand remained.
He stared blankly at the table.
The bunny girl's earlier warning echoed faintly in his ears.
This place couldn't be cheated with magic, yes—but Avery never considered another possibility. Mantle of Turin metal was an excellent conductor of electricity, and the mechanics of Muggle casinos—sleight of hand, rigged devices, and hidden signals—were alive and well here.
The wizards, naive and unfamiliar with Muggle engineering, never stood a chance.
And so, Old Avery would not be entering the premium hall tonight.
Elsewhere, another man raised his glass in satisfaction.
Barty Crouch Sr. smiled, the lines of ambition etched deep across his face.
At last, his path to power was clear. His only remaining rival for the Minister of Magic's seat was Rufus Scrimgeour.
Amelia Bones had publicly withdrawn from the race, and as for Wang Shujing, that man served the Earl faithfully. Since the Earl had pledged support to Crouch, Wang would not oppose him.
Which left only Scrimgeour.
Crouch's smile widened.
When Scrimgeour had served under him in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he'd been known for his rigidity and ruthlessness. He'd condemned the guilty, yes—but also many innocents. His uncompromising nature had led to countless tragedies and bitter enemies.
If Crouch exposed those skeletons, Scrimgeour's reputation would collapse overnight.
The Minister's chair would be his.
Humming cheerfully, Barty Crouch uncorked a bottle of Firewhisky. He was convinced he had made two of the wisest decisions of his career.
First, aligning himself early with Earl Dantes, the most influential man in wizarding politics.
Second, forming an alliance with Leonard Vanber, the leader of the Fire Serpent Party.
Both moves had elevated his power, placing him in the perfect position to seize control of the Ministry.
"Winky!" he called out, his voice echoing through the manor.
The house-elf appeared with a pop, bowing low.
"Yes, Master?"
"Bring that rebellious son of mine outside," Crouch ordered. "Let him see some sunlight."
The elf trembled slightly, glancing toward the basement stairs, but nodded obediently and vanished again.
Barty Crouch Sr. raised his glass to his lips, savoring the burn of Firewhisky as it slid down his throat.
Everything was falling into place.
He had no idea that the world he thought he controlled was already shifting beneath his feet.
End of Chapter 164
For more chapters
patreon.com/Liamlivingstone