The Quidditch match at the end of November was a devastating spectacle for the Hufflepuff team, who were not merely defeated but completely overwhelmed amidst a relentless snowstorm. With one rival eliminated, the competition for the House Cup narrowed down sharply, leaving only Gryffindor and Ravenclaw in a tense, head-to-head battle.
This increased rivalry had transformed Gryffindor's Captain, Charlie Weasley, into a man obsessed. His goal was simple: secure the trophy before his final year ended.
This commitment translated into brutal, thrice-weekly training sessions, often held under the most miserable conditions imaginable. The regular team members trudged back to the Common Room, chilled to the bone, mud-spattered, and bruised from aggressive drills in the biting wind and sleet.
"He must be clinically insane," Fred muttered, pressing his nose against the icy glass of the Common Room window, watching gusts of snow swirl violently outside. The sight of the whipping branches and the wind-battered Quidditch pitch filled him with profound relief that he and his twin were merely substitutes.
"He just wants to win the Quidditch trophy too much," Albert replied, tracing a finger across the condensation on the pane. He understood the drive; it was Charlie's final responsibility. "If he let up now, the team would lose their edge, and the cup would be Ravenclaw's by default."
Fortunately for the reserves—Albert, Fred, and George—their strategic genius extended to avoidance. They had developed a rotating repertoire of excuses, from "critical homework assignment deadlines" to "an unexplained, violent case of dragon pox symptoms" (Fred's favourite), ensuring they were always safely ensconced by the roaring fire during the worst of the weather.
"So, with all that going on, what's the plan for the holidays?" Lee Jordan asked, folding a letter from home and looking up at his friends. "We're all heading back, right?"
"Absolutely," Fred and George chorused instantly. Home meant their mother's cooking, the freedom of the Burrow, and access to their secret testing shed.
"I'll be back as well," Albert confirmed, glancing toward the large clay pots sitting on the windowsill. The pots contained their ongoing secret projects: a batch of hardy garlic bulbs and a small, newly sprouted branch of Dittany.
He brought up the inevitable question: "Since we're all going, what about the contents of the pots? The amulet production needs to continue, and the Dittany needs nurturing."
George eyed the lush, green garlic shoots with a distinct lack of the enthusiasm they had shown months ago. The initial spark of excitement over creating a powerful magical repellent, the so-called 'garlic cross,' had long since sputtered out. "It'll probably be fine if we just leave the garlic here for a month without watering it, won't it?" His tone was far from convincing.
Albert knew this was a polite way of saying the project had become a tedious chore. "The garlic will survive, but the full process needs to be finished," he nudged gently. "We can focus the effort during the Christmas break. We can make the crosses at home."
"Oh, that," Fred said, suddenly remembering the intricate, time-consuming steps involved. "We're actually not entirely clear on the final stage. Do we really just smash garlic and soak the wooden crosses in the pulp? Mum will definitely skin us if we ruin a whole bag of cooking garlic."
"You could modify the procedure slightly," Albert suggested, thinking through the principles of extraction. "Mashing the garlic and soaking the pulp in alcohol—a high-proof spirit, if you can acquire it—will extract the active compounds more effectively. Then, you soak the crosses in the potent liquid. It's a cleaner process, but more complicated."
"Alcohol…" George repeated, his eyes glazing over with yearning. "That's the sticking point, isn't it? We can't even get ordinary beer easily, let alone distilled spirits. Where would we find that kind of concentrated essence?" The practical hurdle of procuring illicit Muggle liquor was perhaps a greater obstacle than any magical challenge they had faced.
Lee Jordan, thankfully, interrupted. "Forget the fermented beverages. What about the other pot? The Dictamnus?" The small branch of the powerful healing herb, which Albert had coaxed from Hagrid, was far more delicate.
Albert looked at the plant. Dittany was highly sensitive to cold. "If it stays here, it will almost certainly wither. It needs to be transplanted into a greenhouse or a warmer environment. If it dies, there's little we can do about it now," Albert admitted, his tone pragmatic.
He had gained the necessary experience from cultivating it; losing the physical plant now would simply be a minor setback in his pursuit of Herbology mastery.
As the calendar pages flipped inexorably toward December, a deep chill settled over the Scottish Highlands. The castle, for all its magnificent magic, could not entirely ward off the icy grip of winter.
Though the Gryffindor Common Room was a haven of warmth, radiating heat from the constantly roaring fireplace, the stone corridors outside were windswept and freezing. The windows constantly rattled in the fierce, biting wind, forcing everyone to bundle up in thick scarves and extra layers of robes.
The anticipation for the Christmas holidays was palpable. Students dreamt of home, warmth, and two glorious weeks of freedom. However, the Hogwarts professors, in their infinite wisdom, seemed determined to ensure that no one enjoyed that freedom guilt-free. The amount of required holiday homework had swelled to a truly shocking volume.
"How are we supposed to enjoy the holidays?" Lee Jordan moaned, dramatically throwing his quill onto the table, causing a small splatter of ink. He pointed at the mountain of parchment piled next to his armchair.
"You must accept your fate," Albert said simply, stacking his own completed homework neatly. Even he had to admit the workload was heavy; it would require several days of focused effort during the break just to avoid the professors' collective wrath. "It's either this, or face a rotation of solitary confinement when we return in January."
"Easy for you to say, you demon," Lee Jordan grumbled, sinking further into his armchair.
The Common Room was unusually quiet that day. All students from the third year and above had been given permission to visit Hogsmeade, leaving the Common Room comfortably empty for the first and second years—a welcome reprieve.
It was into this quiet, studious atmosphere that George Weasley's voice suddenly cut, sharp and vibrating with shock. His breathing became rapid and shallow as he stared, transfixed, at the front page of the Daily Prophet.
"Albert!" George managed to wheeze, his hand trembling so violently that the newspaper rustled loudly. "L-look at this! Look at this right now!"
Fred, who had been attempting to decode an unnecessarily complicated Arithmancy problem, sighed weakly. "What's the huge news in the Prophet today? Did they finally announce the new Minister of Magic?"
"It's Millicent Bagnold," George announced, his voice trembling on the edge of hysteria. "She's decided to retire in February. And they've confirmed her successor will be… Cornelius Fudge."
Fred froze, the quill halfway to the parchment. "Cornelius Fudge?" He repeated the name slowly, his voice rising sharply in pitch with each syllable. "Wait a minute… Cornelius Fudge?"
The realization hit the three boys—Fred, George, and Lee Jordan—simultaneously and with the impact of a Bludger. They turned their heads, their expressions identically slack with shock, and fixed their wide, incredulous eyes on Albert. Their minds flashed back to the chaotic, unforgettable journey on the Hogwarts Express on September 1st.
"I remember now…" George stammered, his mind reeling from the memory.
"…You seem to have spent twenty-five Galleons on…" Fred whispered, completing his twin's thought with a sense of utter devastation.
Lee Jordan's jaw dropped open, a guttural sound escaping him. "I bet you Cornelius Fudge will be the next Minister of Magic!"
The three first-years sat in stunned silence, the air thick with the unspoken tragedy of a missed fortune.
"I do remember this occurring," Albert confirmed, taking a sip of pumpkin juice with serene calm. He watched their devastation with mild amusement. "At the time, I even asked if any of you wanted to pool your money and participate in the guessing game with me. It was a perfectly viable opportunity."
"My soul… it physically aches," Fred managed, clutching dramatically at his chest. The realization of having witnessed prophecy in action and foolishly walking away from it was a visceral, heart-wrenching pain. To see twenty-five Galleons—a colossal sum—become an insurmountable one hundred Galleons, simply slip through their fingers, was unbearable.
"What were the odds they gave you on Fudge?" Lee Jordan asked, his voice suddenly sharp and calculating, trying to grasp the magnitude of the loss.
"If I recall correctly, it was four-to-one," Albert replied easily, setting down his cup.
Lee Jordan performed the immediate mental arithmetic, the calculation driving the air from his lungs. "Twenty-five Galleons at four-to-one means… one hundred Galleons!" He sounded like a bellows running out of air.
"One hundred Galleons," the twins muttered in unison, their eyes dull and fixed on the hazy image of the Gringotts vault that would never be theirs.
For three boys who had to scrape together every Sickle for joke supplies and broom maintenance, one hundred Galleons was an unimaginable, life-altering sum. It was enough to fund their entire joke shop idea for years. It was a life-changing amount of gold.
"I did mention that my luck tends not to be terrible," Albert said, offering a warm, knowing wink. He then turned his attention back to the newspaper. "The Prophet is quite clear. This news formally ends the betting pool. Do they state when the payout will occur?"
"It… it says the betting pool formally closes with the announcement," George mumbled, scanning the fine print with trembling fingers. "The results will be tallied immediately, and the winners will be notified and paid by the bookmakers within the week."
"Excellent," Albert concluded, feeling a pleasant sense of financial security settle over him. He was a wealthy eleven-year-old, entirely self-made. He had never liked the feeling of having to ask his family for money to buy non-essential items; this sudden windfall meant complete independence in all his magical pursuits.
Albert's substantial win has been confirmed, securing his financial future. Now that the twins believe in his inexplicable ability to predict politics, do you think they'll try to persuade Albert to finance their next great joke invention, or will they press him for more betting tips?