Approximately two weeks after the Daily Prophet confirmed the stunning news that Cornelius Fudge would assume the post of Minister for Magic, the payoff for the newspaper's guessing game arrived. The Great Hall was a scene of customary pre-holiday chaos; snow continued to fall heavily outside, lending a hushed weight to the air, even as the morning owls streamed in.
Albert, seated next to a visibly anxious Fred and George, watched as the mail delivery descended. A solitary, frost-covered owl, clearly battling the bitter cold, dropped a simple, heavy parchment envelope directly in front of him.
A moment later, a second, larger barn owl—whose flight looked far more burdened—released a surprisingly weighty, animal-hide bag onto the table. The bag landed with a dull, resonant clunk that instantly silenced the immediate vicinity and attracted the hungry eyes of the surrounding students.
Albert reached out, his hand closing around the cool, thick hide. He lifted it, weighing it twice, and listened to the unmistakable, crisp metallic chink of gold coins shifting within.
There was no need to guess; this was the long-awaited payoff. He slipped the heavy bag, which felt like a substantial brick of metal, into the hidden pocket of his schoolbag without opening it.
He then took his wand, used a quick Drying Charm to eliminate the frost from the envelope, and carefully broke the wax seal. Inside, he found two pieces of parchment.
The first was a formal letter:
Congratulations, Mr. Albert Anderson.
You have won the prize of 100 Galleons in the "Next Minister of Magic" guessing contest, placing your faith correctly in Cornelius Fudge.
Please sign the attached magical contract to confirm receipt.
—Barnabas Guffey, Head of Magical Betting, Daily Prophet.
Note: Do not attempt to open the attached animal-hide bag before this contract is signed in the presence of a witness, as the bag is enchanted to ensure only Mr. Anderson personally receives the Galleons. Any attempt at unauthorized access will result in immediate consequences.
The second parchment was the Magical Contract itself—a brief, but legally binding agreement designed to verify his identity.
Albert didn't doubt the seriousness of the warning; the protective enchantment was likely a combination of a powerful tracking charm and perhaps a mild, targeted jinx that would inconvenience any thief who attempted to break the seal. This was a standard measure to prevent theft by proxy in the absence of Gringotts goblins.
He quickly signed the contract with his quill, the ink glowing momentarily with a faint orange light as the magical signature finalized. Only then did he feel the protective charm on the animal-hide bag fully dissipate, confirming the gold was now securely his.
Albert's efforts to keep the windfall quiet proved utterly futile; secrets about wealth and luck spread through Hogwarts like a virulent strain of dragon pox.
Within hours, the entire school—from the first-years cowering in the dungeons to the seventh-years poring over their N.E.W.T. texts—knew he had played the Daily Prophet's game and won a magnificent, indeterminate amount of gold.
The exact figure was, as always, distorted by rumour. Some breathlessly claimed it was a mere fifty Galleons; others swelled the figure to two hundred; a few particularly imaginative Slytherins speculated the total was closer to five hundred, claiming he must have somehow cheated the betting house. The truth, however, was violently extracted by the twins.
George, unable to contain the immense, tragic knowledge of the missed opportunity, eventually confessed the true figure: 100 Galleons won from a twenty-five Galleon wager at four-to-one odds. The confirmation of the exact sum only amplified the envy, creating a palpable, sour atmosphere around Albert.
Every time the topic came up, the students' tone was so acidic it felt as though they could corrode the stone floor.
"Everyone is calling you 'Lucky Albert' now," Shanna observed later in the Common Room, turning in her armchair to face him. "What do you make of your new, very envious title?"
"I think it's excellent," Albert replied cheerfully, laying out his Charms homework. "I fully intend to live up to it. Perhaps I'll dream of winning the jackpot again next time."
"You could try taking a nap on the table right now," Shanna countered, rolling her eyes with affectionate exasperation. "Maybe a second hundred Galleons will fall out of the sky."
Angelina Johnson, seated nearby, looked genuinely skeptical. "You seem awfully confident for someone who won on pure chance, Albert. Is there a method to this madness?"
"There is, actually," Albert said, leaning back and pulling his redwood wand from his sleeve. He presented it with a flourish. "I've always maintained good luck. Mr. Ollivander, himself, told me that wands crafted from redwood are often linked to good fortune. They are said to bring luck to the owner and are incredibly popular for that very reason."
"Redwood brings luck?" Angelina repeated, her skepticism slightly eroded by the reference to wand lore.
Katrina, a Ravenclaw who often hovered nearby, chimed in. "There is indeed that saying. It's a very old piece of folklore, particularly in European wand-making. Wizards often seek out redwood, believing it creates an optimistic magic flow. Though, many also dismiss it as pure superstition."
"Superstition, maybe. But facts are facts," Albert winked, reinforcing the story. "I correctly guessed the Minister of Magic with the help of my faithful wand. I simply trust its judgment."
Lee Jordan's face involuntarily twitched. He and the twins knew the real, absurd story: Albert hadn't used a complex divination method; he had simply stood the wand on the table, let it fall, and inexplicably bet the huge sum of twenty-five Galleons on the candidate the wand pointed to.
It sounded like the silliest way to win a fortune—and yet, it had undeniably worked. The sheer, inexplicable randomness of his success was what truly puzzled and infuriated everyone who had passed up the bet.
The intense focus on Albert's money quickly subsided as the much-anticipated Christmas Holiday finally arrived. After meticulously packing his trunk—including the Griffin Automaton, which required delicate wrapping—Albert joined the flow of students heading toward the waiting school carriages.
The roads leading to Hogsmeade station were thick with snow, and the journey was long and silent. As they approached the carriages, George nudged Albert, a nervous tension in his body.
"What are you doing?" George asked, utterly confused, as Albert reached out a hand into the empty space in front of the carriage hitch.
"Aren't you curious what's pulling us?" Albert countered, pointing a finger down at the snowy road. "Look at the snow. You can see the heavy footprints, but nothing is making them."
The three friends looked down. Clear, deep hoof-like indentations were visible in the fresh powder, leading from the carriage and disappearing just beyond the nearest lamp-post—but no animal was attached to the harnesses.
"Something invisible is pulling the carriage?" Fred whispered, horrified. The concept was immediately disturbing.
"They're called Thestrals," Albert said quietly. He glanced at the grotesque, winged horses, their skeletal forms and leathery wings quite clear to his sight, a consequence of having witnessed death. He chose his words carefully, avoiding any mention of his own ability to see them. "They are only visible to those who have witnessed death."
Lee Jordan recoiled instantly, grabbing Albert's sleeve and trying to pull him back. "I've heard of those creatures! They are extremely unlucky! They're associated with bad omens, with death and sorrow! They bring terrible disasters to anyone who even looks at them!"
"You're overthinking the folklore, Lee," Albert said, gently shrugging off his friend's grip as he pulled his trunk toward the carriage steps.
"Thestrals are a specific breed of winged horse, yes, associated with the dead and given a bad name by superstition. But if they truly brought disaster, do you honestly think Hogwarts would employ them to pull the carriages? They're just efficient transportation."
Despite Albert's pragmatic assurances, the twins and Lee Jordan looked genuinely terrified and avoided the carriage harness like it was a nest of Blast-Ended Skrewts. They hurried inside the Hogwarts Express, all too happy to seek the warmth and safety of an empty compartment.
The long train journey passed pleasantly. They ate snacks, laughed, and chatted about their holiday plans. When boredom inevitably struck, Fred proposed a round of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans Roulette. The game was simple: close your eyes, pick a bean, and swallow it quickly.
Lee Jordan, once again proving his abysmal luck, drew the short straw and was subjected to a revolting, earthy taste. He immediately retched, spitting out a brown bean fragment. "I swear, I'm done! Never again! That tasted precisely like mud and stale socks!" His dramatic declaration against the Multi-Flavor Beans only made the others laugh harder.
As the train began to pass through the Muggle suburbs of London, Albert changed into the Muggle clothing his mother, Daisy, had thoughtfully prepared: a simple, dark wool coat and sensible trousers.
In the late afternoon, the Express finally hissed to a halt at King's Cross Station. The bottleneck at the barrier to Platform 9 3/4 was severe; a shriveled old guard at the ticket gate strictly regulated the flow of students passing through the solid wall, trying to prevent the simultaneous emergence of dozens of robed wizards from attracting undue Muggle attention.
As Albert stepped onto the main thoroughfare of the Muggle station, he immediately noticed something amiss.
Standing nearby was a man in deeply ill-fitting Muggle clothing—a lime-green bowler hat and a ridiculously mismatched striped suit—who looked far too conspicuous to be a genuine Muggle. Scattered around him were several other individuals who seemed to be subtly guarding the area, clearly employees of the Ministry of Magic.
Most interestingly, Albert spotted a flicker of movement near a pillar that shouldn't have been there. One of the Ministry personnel had attempted a Disillusionment Charm—a subtle, tricky piece of camouflage that makes the caster blend into the background.
However, the wizard's technique was sloppy. Albert, who had been studying the theory behind advanced Transfiguration and Charms, could faintly perceive the telltale ripple of disturbed light—a shimmering outline—around the pillar.
Before he had gained a theoretical understanding of the charm, he might have missed it entirely, but now he could pinpoint the agent's position with precision. It was clear surveillance, likely linked to the recent political changes—perhaps looking for anyone trying to exploit the chaos, or even providing discreet protection for the newly appointed Minister's associates.
"Bye, Albert!" Lee Jordan called out, waving as he spotted his own family.
"Goodbye, Albert, see you at the New Year!" Shanna added, waving her hand.
"Goodbye!" Albert returned the farewells, spotting his own family by the large brick archway.
"He's there, Mum! Albert is right there!" Nia squealed, running toward him with boundless energy.
Albert smiled broadly, his exhaustion instantly dissolving. He waved to his mother and father, then turned back to his two closest friends. "Goodbye, I'm heading out now!"
"Bye! Our family's over there, too," Fred pointed, and Albert saw the familiar explosion of red hair that was the Weasley clan, including the young Ron and tiny, timid Ginny.
Nia was immediately in front of him, giving him a quick, obligatory hug before pulling away. "Hurry up! Don't just stand there gawking!" she complained.
"Alright, alright," Albert chuckled, reaching out to ruffle her hair, a habitual gesture of affection. But Nia whipped her head away instantly.
"Don't touch a lady's head! It's very rude!" she declared with the serious, newfound dignity of a sister who now attended secondary school.
His father, Herb, merely laughed, taking the heavy trunk from Albert's hand. "Welcome home, son. How was life at Hogwarts?"
"It was excellent, Dad. I learned a great many useful and interesting things," Albert replied truthfully, without elaborating on the 100 Galleons or the Thestrals.
Daisy smiled warmly, her eyes full of maternal pride, and then gently pushed Tom into Albert's arms. The large ginger cat blinked lazily up at Albert with half-closed eyes.
"He's gotten heavier," Albert noted, struggling slightly to adjust the cat's substantial bulk on his forearm.
"He has," Nia whispered conspiratorially. "Grandma Sansa had him for a few days while we were getting ready for Christmas. You know what Grandma Sansa is like with treats."
Albert looked down at his decidedly fat cat and sighed with a mixture of amusement and concern. Settling into the back seat of the family car, he placed Tom on his lap and began absentmindedly combing his hair.
"Tom," Albert muttered to the purring feline, gently kneading the excess fluff around his ribs. "It's time for a diet plan. A very strict diet plan."