The Quidditch match at the end of November saw Hufflepuff suffer a crushing defeat in the snow, leaving Gryffindor and Ravenclaw as the main contenders for the House Cup.
To secure victory, Gryffindor's Quidditch Captain Charlie intensified training, making the official team members miserable. Fred and George, however, as reserve players, always found excellent excuses to skip the grueling practices in the snow.
"Charlie must be mad!" Fred grumbled, staring out at the snow.
"He's just too eager to win the Quidditch trophy," Albert replied. He understood Charlie's efforts—after all, it was the captain's responsibility. If Charlie relaxed, Gryffindor would never have a chance at the cup.
"Are you going home for Christmas?" Lee Jordan asked, looking up from a letter he had just finished reading.
"Of course," Fred and George said at once.
"I'll be going home too," Albert added. He glanced at the potted plant by the window. "Since we're all leaving, what should we do with the things in the flowerpot?"
"Leave them. A month without watering shouldn't matter… right?" George said, though his tone lacked conviction as he looked at the flourishing garlic plant.
"Actually, you can make them when you're home—during the holiday," Albert suggested.
In truth, he knew the twins had lost much of their enthusiasm for making garlic crosses. Children's patience was limited, and Albert suspected they had already forgotten why they had been so excited about it in the first place.
"Oh, that!" Fred and George exchanged a look, clearly realizing their initial enthusiasm had faded.
"Well, we can try," Fred said uncertainly. "But how do you even make garlic crosses? Do you soak the cross in mashed garlic?" He hesitated, worried his mother would scold him for wasting food.
"You can mash the garlic, soak it in alcohol, then soak the cross in that," Albert suggested. He hadn't tried it himself, so his advice was limited.
"That's a good idea. But…" Fred trailed off.
"…we're not sure we can get alcohol," George finished. Ordinary beer was hard enough to sneak, let alone stronger spirits.
"What about your dittany plant?" Lee Jordan asked, changing the subject. His situation wasn't much better.
"Leave it. If it dies, nothing can be done," Albert said. The other plant by the window was a dittany branch Hagrid had given him. Dittany could be re-cultivated if its branches were buried in soil and tended carefully, but it was sensitive to weather. Without a greenhouse or warmth, it would likely wither. Albert wasn't confident it would survive the winter.
As December began, the weather grew even colder.
Though the Gryffindor common room blazed with fire, the hallways were swept by icy winds. Windowpanes rattled in the storm, forcing students to wrap themselves tightly in their cloaks.
Christmas was approaching, and everyone looked forward to the holiday.
But the professors, true to form, left students with piles of homework.
"Are they even going to let us enjoy the holiday!" Lee Jordan exclaimed, throwing down his quill at the growing stack of assignments.
"Just accept it. You'll have to do it anyway, or you'll come back and get detention," Albert said, putting away his parchment. Even he had to admit the workload was heavy—too much to finish quickly.
"Don't say that, you're a devil," Lee muttered, leaning back in his chair.
That day, the third-years and above had gone to Hogsmeade, leaving the common room unusually quiet.
"Albert!" George's voice trembled as he pointed to the front page of The Daily Prophet. "Look at this!"
"What's wrong?" Fred asked weakly. "Is there big news?"
"Millicent Bagnold is retiring in February, and her successor has been confirmed as Cornelius Fudge," George said, breathing rapidly.
"Cornelius Fudge?" Fred repeated, stunned. His voice rose. "Are you saying… Cornelius Fudge?"
"What's wrong with him?" Lee Jordan asked, confused. Then realization dawned. "Wait—Cornelius Fudge… wasn't that…"
The three turned to Albert, eyes wide. They remembered the Hogwarts Express.
"I remember…" George stammered.
"…you bet 25 Galleons…" Fred finished.
"Bet that Cornelius Fudge would become the next Minister for Magic!" Lee Jordan exclaimed, his eyes widening further.
All three gasped, staring at Albert in shock.
"I do remember that," Albert said calmly. "I even asked if you wanted to join the guessing game."
"My heart… it hurts so much," Fred groaned, clutching his chest. Watching 25 Galleons slip away was agony.
"What were the odds?" Lee Jordan asked quickly.
"Four to one."
"Twenty-five Galleons… that's 100!" Lee Jordan's breathing grew heavy, like an old ox.
"100 Galleons," the twins murmured, stunned. Such a sum was beyond their dreams.
"I told you, my luck isn't bad," Albert said with a wink. "Did The Daily Prophet mention when they'll pay out?"
"It shouldn't be long. Once Fudge officially announces his succession, the game ends. They'll tally quickly and award the winners."
Albert nodded. He wouldn't have to worry about money for a while.
He disliked asking his family for money—it was never pleasant.