The chill of December seeped through the ancient stone walls of Hogwarts, but inside the castle, the warmth of festivity made the air almost stifling. Towering fireplaces blazed brighter than usual, magical flames crackling as waves of heat rolled into every corner of the common rooms. In the Great Hall, several massive Christmas trees rose skyward, their branches laden with twinkling magical orbs and golden streamers. The rich aromas of roast turkey and mince pies mingled with the crisp scent of pine needles, weaving a heady net of scents that was impossible to resist.
It was early morning, the mist outside still clinging to the windows.
At the Gryffindor table, Lee Jordan was performing his unshakable breakfast ritual. With a silver knife, he carved off a generous slab of butter, spreading it evenly across a perfectly toasted slice of bread. His other hand deftly unfolded the freshly delivered copy of The Daily Prophet.
Then—his movements froze.
The buttering knife halted midair, a lump of butter wobbling before it dropped onto the plate. The bite of toast he'd been about to eat slipped from his mouth and landed back on the plate with a soft plop.
A moment later, a sharp scream sliced through the morning din of chatter and clinking cutlery.
"Ahhh!"
The sound cut through the hall like a blade, silencing conversations and drawing every pair of eyes at the Gryffindor table toward him.
"What's wrong with you, Lee?"
Fred Weasley peered out from behind his own newspaper, eyebrows knitted in annoyance.
Lee didn't answer. His body trembled, his face pale as parchment. He raised a shaking hand, finger pointing at the paper. His voice came out dry, rasping, edged with disbelief.
"Look! Look at the headline!"
Fred and George exchanged a curious glance before reluctantly leaning in.
The financial section was usually the last thing they'd bother with. But today, the headline screamed in bold black letters so thick they seemed to stab into the reader's eyes like frozen iron.
"Gringotts Goblin Stock Index Plummets—Dragon's Blood Industry Collapses!"
The smaller print beneath unraveled the details of the financial catastrophe. A renowned Norwegian supplier of dragon's blood had been exposed by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for a massive years-long fraud. They had disguised ordinary, cheap fire-dragon blood through alchemical trickery, passing it off as the far rarer and precious Norwegian Ridgeback blood—and sold it across the entire downstream potion-making industry.
The scandal detonated like a bomb, toppling the whole sector in an instant. Credibility was the foundation of magical potion trade, and once that foundation cracked, the entire edifice collapsed. Overnight, dragon's blood–related stocks turned worthless, and countless wizards and institutions who had bet their fortunes on them were ruined.
"Dragon's… blood…"
George whispered the words, pupils narrowing as if struck by a lightning bolt deep in his memory.
Fred snapped his head up too, all irritation gone, replaced with stunned disbelief. He met his twin's eyes—and saw there the exact same shock staring back at him.
Their heads turned, stiff and mechanical, like wound-up dolls. Inch by inch, their gaze moved past plates, over jam jars, until at last it locked onto a single figure calmly sipping pumpkin juice.
Alan Scott.
He sat upright, composed, utterly unbothered by the commotion. The golden liquid shimmered in his glass, reflecting the calm clarity in his eyes.
Yet that serene image only whipped a storm in the twins' minds.
The scene resurfaced in vivid detail—every nuance etched sharp in memory. On the Hogwarts Express before term began, in that sweltering carriage, Alan had introduced them to Gringotts' new speculative game. They had laughed at the absurdity of it, but Alan—speaking with all the plainness of stating a fact—had made his choice.
The only wager he placed was to short sell the dragon's blood industry. The very industry that had seemed unshakable, as solid as stone, worth its weight in gold.
"Alan…"
Fred's throat was dry, his voice ragged like sandpaper.
"That… that bet you made back then… what were the odds again?"
Alan set his glass down, the base clinking softly against the table. He picked up his napkin, dabbing at his lips with unhurried grace—his composure a jarring contrast to the twins' growing panic.
"I don't remember exactly," he said, tilting his head as though recalling some trivial detail. "Something like fifteen-to-one, I think. After all, it was considered a high-risk, low-probability event."
Fifteen-to-one odds!
That number was like an invisible giant hand stretching out from the void, seizing the twins' and Lee Jordan's hearts in its grip, leaving them gasping for breath.
Lee Jordan's lips trembled. He summoned every ounce of strength in his body just to force a few words out of his dry throat.
"Th-then… how much did you wager?"
"Not much."
Alan's gaze lingered on the enchanted ceiling for a moment, as if running a simple calculation in his head.
"To make it a neat round number, I staked thirty Galleons. That's my entire allowance for this term."
Thirty Galleons. Multiplied by fifteen…
"Four hundred and fifty Galleons!"
George practically roared the figure, his voice cracking under the weight of his excitement.
At that moment, not just the Gryffindor table, but even the nearby tables fell utterly silent.
Every student present had been stunned senseless by this astronomical figure.
Four hundred and fifty Galleons!
To a group of schoolchildren, that wasn't money—it was legend. A mythical treasure that only appeared in fairy tales. That fortune was enough to buy out the entire Honeydukes sweetshop and still have change left for a year's worth of tea at the Leaky Cauldron.
Dozens of shocked, jealous, fevered stares bore down on Alan. He only nodded calmly, confirming the result with unshakable composure.
"My Galleons!"
Fred let out a wail of agony. The usual carefree air deserted him entirely. Clutching his head with both hands, he slammed his forehead against the oak table with a resounding thud.
"Why didn't we put in just a little bit back then?" George pounded his chest in regret, his heart bleeding. "Even one Galleon! Just one would've become fifteen!"
Lee Jordan was utterly broken. He collapsed onto the bench, eyes vacant, mumbling the same line over and over again like a man possessed.
"Alan's rich… Alan's rich… rich…"
What they felt in that moment had already surpassed simple envy. It was something deeper, more complicated—a swirling mix of earth-shaking shock, the gut-wrenching pain of missed fortune, and a faint, inexplicable awe for Alan himself, rising straight from the depths of their souls.
For the first time, with both their hearts and wallets, they understood that abstract phrase Alan had once tossed out so casually—the greatness of a probability distribution.
At Hogwarts, rumors spread faster than any communication charm ever could.
By the next morning, Alan Scott's name had been permanently welded to a new epithet: the boy who made four hundred and fifty Galleons.
Walking down the corridor toward the Great Hall, Alan could clearly feel the gazes following him—curiosity, envy, speculation, and even a faint strand of respect that was harder to name. Whispers would hush as he passed, then surge back louder once he'd gone by.
"…Four hundred and fifty Galleons, it's true! My aunt works in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, she heard the goblins confirm it herself—"
"He must've taken Felix Felicis! A Hufflepuff upperclassman swore that potion makes you unstoppable for a whole day!"
"No, it's divination, obviously. Haven't you noticed? He's always so confident in Trelawney's class…"
Alan heard the speculation but never let it touch his mind. Fame born of luck wasn't what he sought. What he wanted was something sturdier, something with real deterrent power.
The opportunity arrived a few days later, on a crisp morning.
At breakfast in the Great Hall, the enchanted ceiling shone a clear, endless blue. Hundreds of owls swooped down through the rafters, dropping letters and parcels onto the tables below.
And among them was one owl—conspicuously different from the rest.