The frost had settled deep into the marrow of Hogwarts, turning every window into a sheet of translucent, frozen lace. November had arrived with a brutal, biting wind that made the stone corridors feel like the inside of a meat locker. Every morning, the view from the upper windows was dominated by a familiar, massive figure—Hagrid, bundled in an absurdly thick mole-hide coat, tramping through the snow with a broom the size of a young tree to clear the Quidditch pitch.
"Albert," Fred said, his voice muffled as he buried his face deeper into his sweater, trying to stave off the chill of the dormitory. "Be honest. What's the verdict? Are we actually going to walk away with a win, or is Slytherin going to turn the pitch into a disaster zone?"
George and Lee Jordan didn't even look up from their frantic, last-minute review of their newest firework prototypes, but their silence was heavy with the same question. They were waiting for the verdict—the one that would decide whether they spent the morning in hopeful anticipation or bracing for a public humiliation.
Albert, who had been staring blankly at the frost patterns on the glass, didn't answer right away. He let the silence stretch, giving it the weight of a considered prophecy. Finally, he turned, his expression carefully neutral.
"We win," he said, his voice steady. "Harry Potter is going to find the Snitch. It's not a question of 'if,' it's a question of when. I have a lot of respect for the boy's instincts, and I think today is going to be the day he surprises everyone."
The effect was instantaneous. It was as if the temperature in the room had risen ten degrees. The twins exhaled in a synchronized burst of relief, and even Lee looked like he'd just been told he'd passed his exams without studying.
"I knew it!" George cheered, moving to clap Albert on the back with a bit too much enthusiasm. He stopped short, however, when Albert shot him a look that could have curdled milk. "Right. Sorry. No physical contact. Saving the energy for the match."
"I just can't wait to see the looks on their faces," Lee said, leaning back with a grin. "The Slytherins have been strutting around like they own the sky ever since Harry was picked. I want to see that ego deflate in real-time."
By the time they reached the Common Room, the energy was frantic. Angelina, Alicia, and Katie were already near the portrait hole, their broomsticks slung over their shoulders.
"Good news," Lee shouted, catching up to them with a self-satisfied smirk. "The oracle has spoken. Albert says Harry's going to catch the Snitch. If I weren't stuck in the commentary box, I'd be taking bets and retiring on the proceeds."
"You couldn't find me?" a voice chimed in. Kenneth Towler pushed through the crowd, practically vibrating with opportunistic greed. He snagged Albert in a headlock, ignoring the fact that he was at least half a foot shorter. "You say Potter's the winner? Then help me out, Albert. Let's set up a pool. We go 50-50 on the house winnings. What do you think?"
Albert peeled Kenneth's arm off his neck with the surgical precision of a man removing a parasite. "I'm not interested in the 'pool' setup. But if you want to bet, go right ahead. Just don't expect me to be your partner in crime."
Kenneth didn't miss a beat, his eyes gleaming with potential profit. "Fine, be like that! But you're ruining a golden opportunity. Nobody at Hogwarts will touch your bets anymore—you're too much of a sure thing. You've got that 'lucky' tag firmly attached to you."
"Then find other suckers," Albert said, turning toward the Great Hall.
Kenneth followed, undeterred, his mind clearly racing. "Fine, fine. I'll give you thirty percent of whatever I rake in if you just give me a tiny hint—just a nudge—on when he might catch it. Just don't bet against me, whatever you do."
The Great Hall was a cacophony of nervous energy, dominated by the savory scent of fried sausages and the heated, often violent, debates about which player was most likely to end up in the hospital wing before sunset. Everyone had an opinion on Harry Potter, and most of them were skeptical.
Albert sat at the table, methodically working his way through a plate of breakfast, while Kenneth darted toward the Slytherin side of the room like a ferret in a chicken coop. It was a bold, borderline suicidal move. He was offering lopsided odds in favor of Slytherin, clearly trying to bait the arrogant house into betting against the Gryffindor Seeker.
When Kenneth returned, his face was flushed with the thrill of the chase. "They're furious," he whispered, dumping a box onto the table that looked dangerously full. "Most of them are convinced Slytherin's Seeker is going to dominate. The total bets are over twenty Galleons now. Are you absolutely sure Potter is going to hold it together?"
"He's fine," Albert said, taking a bite of his sausage.
"You sound like you're betting on a sure thing, not a nervous first-year," Kenneth muttered, though he grabbed the box again, clearly too hooked on the profit to walk away.
Shanna, who had been watching the exchange with amusement, pulled a silver sickle from her pocket and tossed it onto the table. "I'm in. Supporting the house is a moral imperative, and besides, I like the idea of Kenneth sweating over his ledgers."
Albert leaned over to Shanna. "If you want to actually make money, don't bother with sickles. Put a few Galleons down. This is the easiest bet you'll ever make."
"Who's betting on Slytherin?" Truman asked, sliding into the seat beside them, his eyes darting toward the green-draped table.
"Marcus Flint and his gang of misfits," Albert said, his tone flat. "They've set up their own pool. Trying to intimidate everyone, I assume."
"Flint's family is loaded," Alicia chimed in. "He's got the money to cover whatever he loses."
"Good," Albert said. "Because if he doesn't pay up, we'll just have to collect it from him personally."
Ron, who had been hovered nearby, looked back and forth between them as if they were speaking a foreign language. "Are you lot mad? You're betting Galleons? That's a fortune! And you're just... giving it to them?"
"It's not gambling, Ron," Fred said, grinning as he dropped a coin into the pile. "It's a philanthropic donation from the Slytherin treasury to the Gryffindor rebuilding fund."
"Have a little faith," George added, clapping Ron on the shoulder. "Albert has never been wrong. If he says Harry catches the Snitch, he catches the Snitch. You might as well bet what you have and buy yourself a new broom with the winnings."
Ron looked at the money, then at Harry, who was sitting across the table, looking like he was trying to keep his breakfast from making a sudden exit. The confidence of the older students felt like a landslide, sweeping Ron along despite his own reservations. He reached into his pocket, his hand trembling slightly, and pulled out a single, lone Galleon.
"Fine," Ron grumbled, sliding it forward. "But if this goes south, I'm holding you responsible."