The mandatory History of Magic lesson that afternoon was, as always, a perfect antidote to any lingering excitement from the Boggart class. Professor Binns, a dusty ghost of a man, droned on about the intricacies of the Goblin Rebellions with the monotone zeal of a broken record.
The entire class succumbed to a post-lunch stupor, heads nodding like a field of corn in a light breeze. Only the jarring clang of the dismissal bell jolted them back to consciousness, leaving everyone with the distinct feeling that they had somehow aged a decade in sixty minutes.
For Albert, the afternoon's intellectual stagnation was a stark contrast to his post-dinner activities. While Fred and George charged off towards the Quidditch pitch—one last desperate attempt to impress Charlie at the tryouts—and Lee Jordan followed for moral support and commentary, Albert retreated to a quiet table in the Great Hall. His task: responding to his voluminous magical correspondence.
This wasn't just pen-palling; it was high-level intellectual sparring. The network of distinguished witches and wizards Albert maintained contact with—a list that included renowned Runologists, prominent Curse-Breakers, and even retired Ministry officials—ensured that his academic pursuits never stalled. The sheer density of information exchanged via owl post was staggering.
One letter from a Curse-Breaker in Egypt detailed a complex runic sequence found in a newly discovered tomb, posing a question about its theoretical energy yield. Another, from a retired Unspeakable, sought Albert's insight into the possible practical applications of a variant of the Self-Reversal Charm he'd published an article on.
Responding to these letters required more concentration than writing an essay. It demanded precision, clarity, and, often, the invention of entirely new perspectives on established magical theory.
The rapid, high-quality feedback loop he'd created was the primary reason his experience bar had been accelerating so swiftly. The price, however, was significant chunks of his free time. For him, a quick "hello" was a paragraph of theoretical physics, and "how are you" was a detailed critique of an obscure seventeenth-century Transfiguration manuscript.
"If you can't explain it simply, you don't understand it well enough." Albert murmured to himself, channeling the spirit of a forgotten Muggle philosopher as he carefully detailed the flaws in the Egyptian tomb's runic design.
After securing his bag in the Gryffindor common room—he wouldn't want to bring potentially volatile notes into the Headmaster's presence—Albert made his way to the seventh floor, arriving before the stone gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's office precisely at 6:58 PM.
"Fizzy-Whizzbee Drops," Albert commanded the stone beast. He had deduced that Dumbledore, with his penchant for sweet treats, would be likely to use the names of his favorites as the ever-changing password.
The stone sentinel instantly sprang to life, hopping aside with surprising alacrity, revealing a dark, spiraling staircase hidden behind its bulk.
"An archaic, self-winding stone lift," Albert muttered, stepping onto the rotating steps. The spiral staircase slowly began its ascent, carrying him towards the polished oak door that bore a gleaming brass knocker. It felt less like a functional elevator and more like a deliberate delay, a piece of theatrics designed to give visitors a moment to contemplate their audience with the Chief Warlock.
Punctually at 7:00 PM, Albert rapped once. The heavy wooden door immediately swung open.
"Good evening, Headmaster Dumbledore," Albert said, giving a polite, respectful nod.
"Ah, Mr. Anderson, punctuality itself," Dumbledore returned, his eyes twinkling merrily behind his half-moon spectacles. He gestured Albert into the circular room.
The Headmaster's office was a spectacle of organized eccentricity. Walls were lined with portraits of previous, dozing headmasters and headmistresses, all snoozing away in their frames. Whirring silver instruments that puffed smoke and whizzed quietly stood on slender-legged tables, creating a gentle, humming symphony of magic. And, conspicuously, Albert was not Dumbledore's only guest.
Hertok Dagworth, the renowned Potions Master, sat rigidly in an armchair, looking deeply uncomfortable, his usually immaculate robes slightly rumpled—a clear sign of stress.
"Mr. Anderson, please come in," Dumbledore said, the warmth in his voice contrasting sharply with the palpable hostility between the other two occupants. "Hertok informs me that there has been a… minor misunderstanding between you two. He was hoping we could resolve the matter calmly and amicably."
"A misunderstanding, indeed," Albert agreed, his voice smooth and utterly devoid of emotion. He took a seat Dumbledore offered him, far enough away from Dagworth to feel safe from any sudden Potion Master shenanigans. "I am always in favor of peaceful resolutions."
Dagworth bristled. "I merely wish to sit down and discuss the return of my Golden Membership Card."
"I appreciate the sentiment, Mr. Dagworth," Albert said, using the formal surname deliberately, mirroring the Potions Master's own coldness. "However, I must decline any food or beverages in this room. With a Potions Master of your caliber present, one must always exercise caution. Who knows what subtle additions might be made to the Pear Drops or the tea? Perhaps a drop of Veritaserum for transparency, or a little Forgetfulness Potion to clear up those 'misunderstandings'."
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow in amusement, a small, knowing smile on his face. "Ah, a prudent young man. A sad necessity in this day and age, Hertok." The Headmaster's expression confirmed the implicit accusation: the trust between the two was utterly broken.
Dagworth, his face tightening, finally spoke, his voice strained. "Mr. Anderson, I have been attempting to retrieve that card for two days now. I even visited the Ministry—the Department of Misuse of Magic—and that squat, foul-tempered little woman who runs the office there refused to offer a single apology or admit any wrongdoing."
"I'm afraid I didn't quite hear that description, Hertok," Dumbledore interjected innocently, his eyes twinkling over his spectacles.
"What a pity," Albert echoed, the sarcasm perfectly pitched. There was no sympathy in his voice, only dry observation.
Dagworth ignored Dumbledore and focused on Albert. He cut straight to the chase. "Look, I will offer a monetary settlement. One hundred, no, five hundred Galleons for the card. I cannot fight the Ministry's bureaucracy, they are a plague unto themselves. Take the money, and we can both put this behind us."
"Why not simply bribe the Ministry official, Mr. Dagworth?" Albert asked, genuinely curious about the political maneuverings of the magical world.
Dagworth's face twisted in revulsion. "I would rather feed that money to a Basilisk than give it to that miserable woman. She deserves nothing. I'll make it one thousand Galleons, Anderson. Give me back my card, and take the money."
Albert nodded slowly. "I understand your offer, Mr. Dagworth. But I must respectfully decline. I will return the card for ten thousand Galleons."
Dagworth shot bolt upright in his chair, his face instantly turning a deep, alarming crimson. "Ten thousand Galleons? Are you insane, boy?! That's not a negotiation, that's outright extortion! That is daylight robbery!"
"Yes," Albert confirmed simply, folding his hands in his lap. "I am, in fact, currently extorting you."
The directness of the admission was stunning. Even Dumbledore, who had been watching the exchange with detached fascination, had to cough slightly to cover his surprise.
"Mr. Anderson," Dumbledore intervened, his tone serious now. "Let us discuss the core issue. What are the non-monetary requirements for the return of Hertok's Gold Membership Card?"
Albert turned his gaze to Dumbledore, his expression calm and reasonable. "It's quite straightforward, Headmaster. First: Mr. Dagworth must correct the error he initiated which caused my trouble. Second: The Director of the Department for the Misuse of Magic must provide me with a formal, handwritten letter of apology, acknowledging the Ministry's mistake and the undue distress it caused my family. That is all I have ever required." He spread his hands in a gesture of utter simplicity. "I don't believe my request is even slightly unreasonable."
Dumbledore nodded slowly, stroking his long silver beard. "On the contrary, Mr. Anderson. Your initial demands are utterly faultless and entirely reasonable. It seems the impediment is on the Ministry's end, not yours."
"But sometimes, being right doesn't solve the problem!" Dagworth exploded, slamming his fist onto the armrest of the chair.
"I know," Albert agreed, his gaze boring into the Potions Master. "That's precisely why I have moved past the realm of 'reason' and entered the realm of 'threat.' I am no longer asking; I am dictating terms."
"Mr. Anderson…" Dumbledore began, clearly searching for a diplomatic way forward.
"Headmaster, with all respect, I see zero sincerity from Mr. Dagworth," Albert interrupted smoothly. "Respect is a reciprocal transaction. Dagworth showed me contempt by thinking he could bulldoze me, so why should I offer him courtesy now? If he wants his card back, he needs to show me he understands the severity of his error."
"I told you I went to the Director! She refuses, and there's nothing I can do to force her!" Dagworth insisted, desperation creeping into his voice.
"Then we shall simply use a more specialized method," Albert said, his voice dropping slightly, becoming unnervingly calm.
"A specialized method?" Dagworth repeated, confused.
Albert leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and revealed the chilling logic that underpinned his power move. "If the current Director of the Department for the Misuse of Magic refuses to apologize for the gross dereliction of duty, then we ensure that the new Director is the one who delivers the apology."
Dagworth and Dumbledore both stared at him, stunned.
"You, Mr. Dagworth," Albert continued, delivering the words like a precise surgical strike, "must publish a highly visible, public apology in The Daily Prophet. In that apology, you will not only detail your own regrettable mistake in judgment but place the entirety of the blame for the subsequent harassment squarely upon the shoulders of the Director for the Misuse of Magic. You can accuse them of incompetence, indifference, and a shocking failure to correct a known departmental error, essentially making them the scapegoat for your own legal predicament."
Albert gestured casually. "If you need assistance drafting the most career-ending, legally damaging exposé, I can recommend a journalist—Rita Skeeter is excellent at this sort of malicious character assassination—provided you pay her a hefty Galleon fee, of course."
A profound, sickening chill ran down Hertok Dagworth's spine. The boy wasn't just smart; he was terrifying. He was outlining a political maneuver that would not only cost the Director her job but potentially throw the entire Department into chaos, just to secure a piece of parchment. It was a brutal, elegant solution to a bureaucratic stalemate, and it proved that Albert had considered every single one of Dagworth's escape routes.
"Don't look at me like that," Albert said, raising an innocent palm. "I'm merely stating a terrifying truth. You brought this to me, and that is the only guaranteed way to force the Ministry's hand. Of course, I would expect ironclad assurances that no Ministry personnel will ever darken the doorstep of my home again afterward. I have little faith in their professionalism."
Dagworth stared at Albert, slowly realizing that if he chose to fight this child, he would not only lose his card and his money but would face a catastrophic public relations nightmare engineered by a ruthless strategic genius.
"I… I understand what needs to be done," Dagworth finally said, the fight utterly gone from him. He slumped back into the chair. "You will soon receive a personal, handwritten letter of apology from the Director of the Department for the Misuse of Magic. I will personally ensure it."
"Do you wish to know why I value that piece of paper more than a thousand Galleons?" Albert asked, turning to the now subdued Dagworth. Dumbledore leaned forward again, clearly intrigued.
"Yes, I truly do not understand your motives."
"It's very simple," Albert stated. "This entire affair was not my fault. It was the Ministry's error, initiated by your lack of judgment. Why, then, must I suffer the consequences? Why should I pay the price for bureaucratic failure?"
Dagworth remained speechless, unable to find a counter-argument.
"If you make a mistake, you apologize politely. That is the cheapest, easiest, and most peaceful path to resolution," Albert continued, a hint of disdain crossing his lips. "My family always taught me that if someone refuses to resolve a problem peacefully, you stop talking and you start hitting—metaphorically, of course—until they agree to the peaceful path on your terms."
The silence in the office was thick. Both Dumbledore and Dagworth processed the implications of that philosophy. The young man's initial willingness to resolve the issue without compensation had been genuine, but his escalation into an unfeeling tactical threat was shocking. Dagworth realized, with a dreadful clarity, that he was the one who had taken the first punch.
"Why not the Galleons, though? Ten thousand is an unprecedented amount of wealth for a student," Dagworth asked, genuinely curious now, having given up his hasty exit in favor of understanding the anomaly before him.
"Wealth is a mutable commodity," Albert replied, without hesitation. "Knowledge is mankind's greatest wealth."
He met Dagworth's confused look. "What I mean is, knowledge is the root currency. As long as you possess enough knowledge, and possess the ability to recognize opportunities, you can rapidly transform that knowledge into any amount of wealth you desire."
Dagworth was left momentarily breathless. The claim was certainly arrogant, but coming from the boy who had mastered Runes, Charms, and Transfiguration to the point where he was now extorting a high-ranking Potions Master and threatening the Ministry, the words carried the weight of undeniable truth.
"Now I understand why Brod praises you so highly," Dagworth said, a genuine, if grudging, admiration in his voice. He offered his hand. "I will handle this matter. If you ever have questions regarding advanced potions, or if you require an ally against the Ministry, feel free to write to me."
"I may take you up on that, Mr. Dagworth," Albert said, accepting the handshake.
Before stepping into the fireplace, Dagworth turned back one last time. "You dislike the Ministry's internal politics. But Mr. Anderson, with your capacity for strategy, you could be the Minister for Magic within three decades. Consider the power."
"My interests lie elsewhere," Albert dismissed, the thought of a life spent in political bureaucracy clearly unappealing.
"A terrible waste," Dagworth sighed, and vanished in a flash of green flames.
"It seems the matter is resolved to everyone's eventual satisfaction," Dumbledore said, a warm smile returning. "I think Felix will be quite disappointed that Gryffindor snatched you away from Ravenclaw."
"I believe all the houses, save perhaps Slytherin, hold some appeal for me, Headmaster," Albert said. He bowed slightly. "Good evening."
He turned, walked to the door, and left, the humming silver instruments the only witnesses to the exchange that had just subtly shifted the political landscape of the Ministry of Magic.