The final days of the summer holidays felt like a precious, fleeting anomaly—a period of serene, structured normalcy before Albert was once again plunged into the delightful chaos of the magical world. This break, apart from the annoying bureaucratic entanglement with the Ministry of Magic, had been nothing short of perfect.
Albert had capitalized on the quiet hours, not just to relax, but to immerse himself in reading materials he couldn't access at Hogwarts. He devoured complex Muggle philosophy, dense historical analyses, and advanced physics texts.
This was always a double reward: satisfying his insatiable intellectual curiosity while simultaneously accumulating subtle, invaluable experience points. Why abandon a habit that offered both pleasure and quantifiable benefit?
On the last night, the Anderson family celebrated the close of the break with a tradition that Albert had come to genuinely appreciate: a slow, luxurious dinner at a local Italian bistro. The authentic seafood linguine was a rich, savory send-off. Later, back in the comforting, low light of their living room, they settled onto the plush sofa, sharing crisps and laughing over the sharp wit of the latest television comedy series.
Just before ten o'clock, Daisy brought out the ceremonial mugs of thick, steaming hot cocoa, each topped with a dollop of whipped cream. It was a domestic ritual of warmth and connection, an essential closure before the departure. After the mugs were emptied, they wished each other sweet dreams, the house settling into peaceful silence.
The next morning, it was Tom who initiated the awakening, the ginger cat employing his signature technique: gently dragging his thick, furry tail across Albert's face until resistance was futile. Albert rose, dressed in a crisp, smart ensemble that spoke of London's polished sensibility, and walked to his desk.
He unlocked the reinforced desk drawer and took out the infamous Gold Membership Card. Beside it lay a letter from Professor Brod. The text, ostensibly about complex Runes translation techniques, contained a carefully veiled paragraph confirming Hector Dagworth's recent, frantic visit.
Albert knew that the game was officially afoot. Hector knew who had the card, and Hector was coming for it.
But Albert was fully prepared. He carefully sealed the gold card, not in his luggage, but in a separate, plain envelope, which he intended to entrust to Shera, his personal owl. Shera would fly it directly to Grandpa Luke, who would then mail the innocuous-looking package to Albert's care-of address at Hogwarts.
This intricate, deliberately circuitous route served a purpose. It placed the card physically out of Albert's immediate possession, yet still under his control. If Hector Dagworth wanted the card back, he wouldn't find it on the platform, and he certainly couldn't Summon it from a Muggle postal system controlled by an elderly, highly confused man.
Albert's terms were immutable: no retraction of the Ministry's warning, no card. He viewed the matter with cold, objective logic.
You initiated a powerful, careless spell that caused an inaccurate trace on my name, thereby creating a legal vulnerability. I hold the asset you desperately need. Therefore, you must use your influence to erase the damage you caused. The resolution was Hector's problem alone.
The family breakfast was a festive, slightly melancholy affair. Daisy had prepared all of Albert's favorites, packing a perfect ham sandwich for the train ride. By 8:30 a.m., they were on their way to King's Cross.
However, fate—or perhaps Hector's terrible luck—intervened. A multi-car pileup had snarled the motorway into London, turning the last ten miles into an agonizing crawl. They arrived at King's Cross Station fifteen minutes past the eleventh-hour deadline: 10:15 AM. The delay, though frustrating, only heightened the sense of urgency for Albert.
Herb quickly secured a trolley and helped unload Albert's heavy, magically expanded trunk.
"You're not taking Tom, are you?" Nia asked, her arms wrapped tightly around the purring ginger beast.
"No, Tom will stay with you, to guard the castle," Albert said, reaching out to stroke his sister's hair, a gesture she usually swatted away, but tolerated today. "You are the Queen of the castle now, and I trust you implicitly to look after yourself and the royal guard."
"Don't muss the hair," Nia muttered, frowning in practiced annoyance, yet leaning into the touch. "Don't you dare forget to write. Detailed letters, and you'd better send those photos if you ever figure out a way around the Ministry's ridiculous no-tech rules."
"I won't forget, little tyrant." Albert affectionately rubbed Tom's head. "And you, fat cat, maintain your figure. I refuse to carry a cat that requires a trolley."
Tom let out an indignant, protesting "Meow!", earning soft laughter from the entire family.
Herb produced a velvet bag, heavy with gold. "If you join the team, and only if you join the team, buy the best broom available, son. No excuses. I look forward to seeing the reports of your first game."
"I'll do my best to locate a wizard with rudimentary photography skills, Dad," Albert replied, shaking his head with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "But keep your expectations grounded. The wizarding world moves at a snail's pace."
Daisy hugged him fiercely, kissing his cheek. "Be safe. And remember, whatever trouble you run into—and you will run into trouble—your mother and father are always here to listen and advise."
"I know." Albert gave Nia one last look, and she set Tom down for a proper, tearless embrace. "See you at Christmas."
Albert pushed the heavy trolley, running towards the solid brick archway between platforms 9 and 10. The station was almost deserted. The last of the wizards had already disappeared, and the Muggle platform was quiet. He didn't bother to feign confusion. He simply pushed through the barrier and emerged onto Platform 9¾, the red Hogwarts Express billowing smoke like a majestic, mechanical dragon.
The small, wistful ache of leaving his family was instantly replaced by the thrill of returning to a place where his mind could fully engage. He was home.
Albert was halfway to the nearest train door, maneuvering his unwieldy trunk, when a figure materialized directly in his path. The man was impeccably dressed in a sharp, somewhat anachronistic suit—a classic Muggle uniform for a professional, utterly out of place on the wizarding platform.
Albert stopped, his eyes narrowing slightly as he instantly accessed the memory file. Dagworth. The man whose foolish Accio had triggered this entire bureaucratic headache.
It was unexpected, yet entirely predictable that Hector would wait here. Albert's internal alarm bells rang, but his external expression remained one of bored, slightly impatient indifference. He pretended not to recognize the man and began to edge his trolley around him.
But Hector, driven by the desperation of a man whose reputation was hanging by a thread, was faster.
"Albert Anderson!" Hector's voice cut through the platform air, thick with relief and proprietary excitement. He stared at the boy—the boy who possessed his critical, hard-to-replace license.
Albert stopped, turning his head slowly, feigning a look of complete blankness. "I'm sorry, but do I know you?" he asked, his tone flat. "My name is Albert Anderson, but I don't believe we've been introduced."
"I am Hector Dagworth," the Potions Master announced, clearly expecting the name to carry the weight of celebrity.
Albert simply gave a polite, shallow nod. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure. What exactly do you want? I am running late for my train, so if you don't have a specific purpose, please don't block the carriage door."
Hector's facial muscles tightened imperceptibly. He was unaccustomed to such disregard. Most people in the magical world treated him with deference, bordering on reverence. This boy, barely in his second year, was treating him like an annoying ticket inspector. But Hector reminded himself: Muggle-raised. Ignorant of the importance of my name.
"We met once, in Paris. At the Opera Garnier," Hector reminded him, attempting to inject warmth into his voice. "The performance of Romeo and Juliet."
"Ah, yes. I recall a great many people were there." Albert assessed Hector with a deliberate, slow inspection. "And? What is your purpose here, Mr. Dagworth? Say what you have to say. My schedule is far more rigid than yours, I assure you."
Hector felt a surge of unholy premonition, the same anxiety that had plagued him for days. The boy was too composed, too precise.
"I am aware that you came into possession of a small item of mine—a gold card," Hector stated, skipping the theatrics.
"Yes, that is correct," Albert affirmed instantly, his candor throwing Hector completely off balance.
"I require its return," Hector said, regaining his footing. "Naturally, I will compensate you handsomely for the trouble of its safekeeping."
"A reward, you mean?" Albert's eyes gleamed with an unnerving, calculating curiosity. "And what precisely does 'handsomely' translate to in hard currency?"
"Twenty Galleons," Hector stated, feeling a prickle of awkwardness at the paltry sum, but knowing it was ten times what an ordinary student would earn for such a deed. "I trust that amount will allow you to purchase whatever gift you desire."
"No," Albert said, shaking his head.
Hector was momentarily confused. "No? You refuse the money?" He hastily reached into his pouch, ready to offer double.
"No, I don't refuse the money," Albert clarified, a faint, disarming smile playing on his lips. "I just meant I will return the card even if you don't offer a reward. Honestly is its own reward, after all. But since you offered, money is always helpful. However, there is a small condition."
Hector's carefully constructed composure fractured. "But… what?"
Albert leaned in slightly, his voice dropping but remaining clear and utterly devoid of emotion. "When I left that opera house, the moment before I secured your card, it was shimmering faintly. You cast a rather powerful, unauthorized Summoning Charm from a great distance, didn't you, Mr. Dagworth?"
Hector remained speechless, his silence a definite admission of guilt.
"Shortly after my return to London, the British Ministry of Magic sent me this." Albert reached into an inner pocket and pulled out the crisp, official warning letter, handing it to Hector. **** "This letter states that I performed the Summoning Charm in France—a spell I have not yet been taught. I am, in their records, now a two-time offender for the unauthorized use of magic, thanks entirely to the residual trace of your reckless spell."
Albert's gaze was unwavering. "My request is not for money, Mr. Dagworth. My request is for the official clearance of my name. I know the Ministry's process. I sent a detailed, legally precise letter of explanation and denial—it was, I'm sure, tossed directly into a refuse bin at the Office for the Prevention of Misuse of Magic."
Hector felt a sickening lurch in his stomach, realizing the truth of Brod's warning. The boy wasn't asking for compensation; he was demanding leverage.
"You, as a high-ranking member of the Wizengamot and a man of considerable influence within that Ministry, are the only one who can resolve this," Albert continued, his voice taking on the tone of a judge.
"You must march into the Ministry, explain your mistake, and compel the Director of the Office for the Prevention of Misuse of Magic to personally write me a formal, signed letter of apology and retraction. This document must explicitly state that the Ministry acknowledges their error and clears my name of all suspicion. This document is my price."
Albert began pushing his trolley toward the train door again. "I will forward your gold card to you via owl the moment that letter of apology is in my possession. As for your Galleons, keep them. Honesty is indeed a good quality, but official documentation is better."
He paused at the carriage steps, turning to deliver the final blow. "And Mr. Dagworth? Make sure the Director signs it themselves. A simple administrative stamp or a junior clerk's signature will be insufficient to prove sincerity. Only the Director's signature counts."
Hector stood frozen, the Ministry letter shaking in his grip, his mind a whirlwind of fury and humiliation. The boy had him cornered. The request was, by any rational standard, reasonable: you caused the problem, you fix it. But the political reality was monstrous. The Ministry of Magic never apologized. It would be an admission of systemic failure, a terrifying precedent.
Driven by panic, Hector made the foolish choice. He decided to bypass the negotiation entirely.
Drawing his wand, he pointed it rapidly towards the front of the train where Albert was about to board. "Accio Gold Membership Card!" he shouted, the urgency overriding his better judgment.
Nothing happened.
The air remained still. Albert continued his measured ascent onto the train. Hector stared, slack-jawed, at the empty space where the card should have appeared. The boy did not have it on him.
Albert, now standing on the steps of the carriage, turned back, a look of sublime, almost bored condescension on his face. "Stop trying, Mr. Dagworth. Did you truly believe I wouldn't anticipate such a childish trick? I've studied the theory of object placement relative to magical retrieval limits. Your Gold Card is secured by measures you cannot bypass with a simple Summoning Charm. It is in my possession, but it is not on me."
Albert's eyes hardened, and his next words were a direct, chilling threat that went beyond simple wizarding etiquette.
"Do not resort to such underhanded methods again, Mr. Dagworth. Or I will cease this game entirely, take your precious, untraceable gold card, walk straight into the nearest Muggle high-street jeweler, melt it down, and sell it as raw, unregulated material. I guarantee it will fetch far more than your twenty Galleons, and you will never see it again. Now, fix the mess, or face the consequences."
With that, Albert turned and vanished into the crowd of students aboard the Hogwarts Express.
Hector Dagworth stood alone on the platform, the crimson locomotive beginning its slow, magnificent slide out of the station. He was utterly defeated.
He was a man who thrived on precision, and this Muggle-born child had just executed a masterful strategic play against him, leveraging a simple administrative error into a powerful chokehold.
A wry, bitter smile touched his lips. "A mind valued by Brod is certainly not a simple one," he muttered, the humiliation finally giving way to a grudging respect. Brod hadn's just provided him with information; he had provided a tutorial in negotiation that Hector had failed to heed.
The boy was too young to be this calculating. He gave off an inexplicable sense of focused calm that was usually only found in seasoned, powerful wizards. This was not a student; this was a future rival, perhaps even a future peer.
As he stared at the departing train, a terrible realization formed. Did Albert know about the traffic? Did he know about the Ministry's tendency to discard letters of appeal? Was this whole encounter—from the discovery of the card to the timing of the letter—a meticulously planned operation?
He didn't want to harm me, Hector mused, clutching the warning letter. The absence of malevolence is the greatest evil. Albert's goal wasn't revenge; it was strategic advantage. He was building a wall of verifiable innocence, and he was using the most famous Potions Master in the world as his unwitting bricklayer.
The sheer difficulty of the task weighed on him. Getting the Ministry to apologize? It was nearly impossible. There was no precedent. Yet, the alternative was the complete loss of his Gold Membership Card, a vital tool for his highly secretive research. Without it, the flow of rare components would dry up, and his reputation would be irreparably damaged.