The only frustrating reality was the margin of victory: it was far too narrow.
But sometimes, five points are all the distance required to separate crushing defeat from spectacular triumph. Ravenclaw had almost—agonizingly—managed to capitalize on the chaos between Gryffindor and Slytherin, only to finish the year trailing by a handful of points. The disappointment in their usually composed ranks was palpable; they had been so close to a clean, strategic win.
That evening, the Great Hall was a spectacular canvas of celebration for the End-of-Year Banquet. Crimson and gold draperies cascaded from the ceiling, and the enormous banner emblazoned with the mighty Gryffindor Lion took pride of place behind the faculty table. The atmosphere was a vibrating mix of pure, unadulterated elation.
Gryffindor students were practically shouting their triumphant conversations, reliving every crucial Seeker catch, every brilliantly executed hex in the corridor wars, and every point they hadn't lost to Snape's arbitrary deductions. Their confidence was soaring, amplified by the knowledge that they had broken the Slytherin hold on the House Cup, a reign that had lasted four uninterrupted years.
The Slytherin table, by contrast, was a picture of collective, sour misery. Their usual arrogant swagger had dissolved into sullen scowls and rigid, resentful silence. To lose the Cup was bad enough; to lose it to Gryffindor—the house they openly despised—was an institutional humiliation they would be dissecting for the entirety of the holidays.
The Ravenclaws, positioned between these two warring factions, were a complex study in conflicting emotions. They were profoundly bummed out that the golden snitch of victory had been snatched away by a mere five points, but this sting was mitigated by the sheer satisfaction of watching Slytherin crash and burn.
Even the Hufflepuff students, who hadn't seriously contended for the Cup in living memory, found themselves applauding enthusiastically for the Gryffindor victory, if only to rub salt in the collective wounds of the "uncompetitive" Snakes.
A slight hush fell as Headmaster Dumbledore swept into the hall. He ascended the podium and, with a casual wave of his hand, silenced the remaining buzz of conversation.
"Another year has vanished into the whirlwind of time!" Dumbledore announced, his eyes twinkling above his half-moon spectacles.
"I won't bore you with the usual tedious parental admonishments before you attack this magnificent feast. However, the tradition of the House Cup must be honored." He paused for dramatic effect, allowing the hall to hold its breath. "The final scores stand thusly: In fourth place, Slytherin, with 250 points; in third, Hufflepuff, with 395 points; in a most commendable second place, Ravenclaw, 439 points; and finally, securing the victory with 444 points, Gryffindor!"
A noise comparable to a rogue Bludger hitting a suit of armor erupted from the Gryffindor table. Students stood, cheering, stamping, whistling, and roaring until their voices were ragged.
Fred, George, and Lee Jordan were the loudest of the loud, practically vibrating with excitement. Albert, swept up in the wave of enthusiasm, clapped his hands together heartily, a wide, convincing smile plastered on his face.
Beneath the noise, he allowed himself a quiet, strategic groan. "Four hundred and forty-four. An entirely unnecessary, almost pathetic final score after all that tactical maneuvering. A shame, really."
Lee Jordan, red-faced with glee, didn't hear the comment but elbowed Albert hard, pointing a triumphant finger at the glowering Slytherin table. The defeat was visibly agonizing for their rivals.
Every person in the Great Hall, except the defeated members of Slytherin, was on their feet, celebrating either the victory of the Lions or, more likely, the devastating humiliation of the Snakes. Professor McGonagall, seated at the head table, wore a triumphant, almost smug grin as she formally shook the hand of a stone-faced Professor Snape, rubbing salt in his deepest professional wound.
The feast that followed was a glorious, excessive spread of magical cuisine. During the main course, Fred and George leaned across the table and extended an enthusiastic invitation.
"You've got to come stay with us over the summer, Albert! Our mum's written a letter already—she wants to thank you properly for… well, you know, everything," Fred insisted, nodding toward the general direction of their recent Quidditch triumph and the eighty-point bonus.
Albert gave them a genuinely regretful look. "I appreciate the offer, genuinely. But the family's summer schedule is unfortunately carved in stone. My father, Herb, wrote to me recently—we're doing the grand France tour this year. A full summer vacation abroad."
The twins looked genuinely disappointed. The entire Weasley family felt a deep obligation to Albert for his instrumental role in securing their success.
Despite the abundance of food, the twins kept their appetites surprisingly modest. Tonight was a night for action, not indigestion. The Garlic Wax Offensive was scheduled, and they couldn't afford to be heavy-footed or sluggish. Losing their window of opportunity to strike back at the detestable caretaker, Argus Filch, now that the fear of losing House Points was gone, was unthinkable.
Just after midnight, when the castle was deep in its post-celebration slumber, the operation began. Fred, shielded by Albert's reliable Disillusionment Charm—which he now handled with remarkable finesse—created a subtle but persistent series of loud bangs and spectral noises on the fourth floor. The perfect distraction.
Filch, attempting to get a few restless hours of sleep in his perpetually dusty office, was instantly drawn into the fourth-floor corridor to chase the elusive "noise."
Meanwhile, George, moving with the practiced stealth of a man who has spent years avoiding detection, slipped into Filch's unlocked office. He quickly retrieved the jar of concentrated Garlic-Scented Wax that Albert had prepared.
The smell was truly a weapon. It was not merely garlic; it was the purified, aggressive essence of garlic, suspended in a waxy, undetectable base. George swiftly smeared the oily, potent wax into the deep cracks, dusty corners, and dark crevices of the office, as well as the tiny, private room where Filch slept.
Unlike a Dungbomb or a temporary stink, the wax was invisible and absorbed into the ancient wood and stone. The source of the horrific, nose-burning odor would be practically impossible to find, let alone eliminate. Soon, every cubic inch of the caretaker's domain reeked of highly concentrated, inescapable allicin.
George, realizing the mission was complete, quickly backed out, sealing the door gently behind him. Fred, observing George's return via the Marauder's Map, abruptly ceased his noise-making and silently retreated, leaving Filch to wander the empty fourth-floor corridor in confused frustration.
Filch, furious at the realization that he'd been fooled by a vanishing noise, stormed back to his office only to be met by an invisible, choking wall of odor.
The strong, aggressive smell of garlic hit him like a physical blow. He staggered backward, shivering with visceral disgust, his eyes immediately beginning to water. He barged into his office, lighting his lamp and frantically searching for the culprit. A furious, strangled roar of pure indignation echoed through the deserted administrative area as he failed to locate the source. He searched, he sneezed, and he grew only angrier as the overwhelming stench saturated his clothes and skin.
Even Mrs. Norris, Filch's beloved cat, stood a wary distance from the office door, unwilling to enter the potent, garlic-laden airspace.
George returned to the common room, practically dizzy with success, only to find Albert already waiting for them by the fire, looking completely undisturbed.
"Don't you think that was perhaps… a bit much?" George asked, still half-listening for a retaliatory shout from below.
Albert shook his head, a wry amusement in his eyes. "It was necessary. But I'd suggest immediately washing every stitch of clothing and scrubbing your hands raw. That substance clings. You don't want to be caught smelling like the weapon."
George, realizing his hands were subtly radiating the smell of the Garlic Bomb, paled and immediately bolted toward the washroom.
The next morning, the news of the spectacular revenge on Filch was the primary topic of conversation among the students. Most reacted with delighted, boastful speculation, universally agreeing that the old tyrant deserved every moment of his garlicky torment.
While the twins were still basking in their midnight success, Albert and his friends turned their attention to the Final Exam Results posted on the house notice boards.
Fred smiled broadly, punching Albert lightly on the shoulder. "Look at that, Albert! You absolutely smashed it again. Top of the class, no contest."
"You three did excellently too," Albert responded, genuinely pleased for his friends. The twins and Lee Jordan had all passed their first-year exams with impressive grades, well above the basic requirements.
Shanna approached them, beaming. "I knew you'd be first, Albert. But I'd love to see the look on Katrina's face right now."
Albert merely offered a casual shrug. He hadn't felt a great surge of personal pride from placing first. The first-year curriculum was hardly a challenge, and his real objectives—completing the panel's tasks of establishing himself as a "genius" and demonstrating "overwhelming ability in every way"—had already been met simply by the scores themselves. The first-place ranking was just quantifiable proof.
He glanced over at Katrina, who stood a little distance away, staring fiercely at the results board. She had placed a very respectable second, achieving high marks across all her subjects. Her fury wasn't directed at the curriculum but at her own failure to beat the perpetually under-stressed Albert, who seemed to have won the competition without breaking a sweat.
Soon, Professor McGonagall appeared, carrying a thick stack of official-looking parchment. She began the yearly ritual of making the first-year students sign a pledge—the "Contract of Reasonable Restriction for Underage Sorcerers." This was accompanied by a severe, official notice warning all minors not to perform magic outside of school during the summer holidays.
"This is pure torture," Fred groaned, waving the notice sadly after signing the official document. "A whole summer without practice! It's like being grounded for three months."
"Calm down, Fred, there's no need to fret over it," Albert said, leaning in conspiratorially. "The Ministry of Magic has a rather large, gaping blind spot regarding who uses magic where."
Shanna looked intrigued. "A blind spot? I thought the Trace was infallible. Everyone says the Ministry knows the second we touch a wand outside of school."
"It's not as infallible as they make out," Albert chuckled. "It can only detect that someone is performing magic within a certain radius of you. If you live in a Muggle area, and magic happens near your location, they logically conclude it was you, the only known wizard in the vicinity. That's how they manage the 'reasonable restriction.'"
Lee Jordan laughed, catching on instantly. "Ah, yes! The Truman incident! You proved that perfectly last term!"
"So, as long as you're home, in a known wizarding household like the Burrow," Albert continued, smiling at the twins, "the Trace is useless. They can't pinpoint which registered wizard cast the spell—it could be your mum, your dad, or any of your older brothers. They have to rely on your parents to police you, which is the system for Pure-bloods anyway."
"So we can use magic without any warnings, just by staying at the Burrow?" George asked, his face alight with mischievous possibility.
"Precisely. As long as you're not out in the middle of a Muggle street or in a location like Diagon Alley where only adult wizards are supposed to be casting, you're fine," Albert confirmed.
Shanna frowned, thinking hard. "But wait, how does the Ministry actually track us? You said it relies on location, but how do they even get the location, or the signature of our magic, in the first place?"
Albert's expression turned slightly pointed. "The secret is less in the Ministry's monitoring charm and more in the paperwork we just signed."
"You mean the pledge?" Lee asked, his eyes widening in dawning horror.
"It's more than just a pledge, Lee," Albert explained, lowering his voice further. "According to a slightly more enlightened former instructor of mine, the moment a first-year signs that paper, it's not just a declaration. It's a magical contract, essentially a lightweight, temporary 'tracking thread.' It's a legal-magical bond that registers your specific magic signature with the Ministry's monitoring network for the duration of the holidays. You've volunteered your tracking data."
Lee Jordan slapped his forehead. "You mean I just willingly subjected myself to surveillance for three months! Why didn't you warn me before I signed, Albert?"
"Could you have refused?" Albert asked softly.
Lee paused, looking at Professor McGonagall's stern back, then back at the slip of paper. "No, I suppose not. She'd have hexed me right there."
"So, what happens if we violate the contract?" Fred asked, his voice now thoughtful, focusing on the mechanics of the punishment rather than the magic itself.
"The Ministry's network is instantly alerted to the violation of the contracted terms, and the official warning owl is dispatched immediately. It's automated and highly efficient," Albert confirmed. "But, again, the weakness is not in the detection of magic, but in the identification of the caster, which only works reliably in Muggle areas where you are the sole registered source of magical energy."
"This is brilliant!" The twins shook hands again, celebrating their newfound loophole.
"Just remember to be careful about your mother," Lee Jordan grumbled, pulling his attention away from the contract. "She's likely a much stricter disciplinarian than the Ministry of Magic."
After the discussions, the boys made their way to the dorms, only to find their trunks packed and ready.
"The house-elves must have helped," Fred explained to Albert, pulling a label off his own heavy case. "They always take care of the heavy lifting at the end of term."
"Saves us a trip," Albert noted, grabbing his suitcase. "We should hurry, or we'll miss the Express."
As they were dragging their luggage through the marble foyer toward the castle entrance, a figure suddenly materialized from a shadowy side corridor—it was Argus Filch. His face was haggard, his eyes bloodshot, and he radiated a profound, garlic-tinged fury.
"You!" Filch hissed, his voice trembling with suppressed rage as he pointed a trembling finger at the four boys. "I know it was you! The stench! My office reeked of that foul… that garlic grease! You did it!"
The four boys exchanged perfectly crafted expressions of blank, innocent confusion.
"We don't understand what you're referring to, Mr. Filch," the twins said in perfectly synchronized, bewildered voices.
"We went to bed right after the feast, sir," Lee Jordan interjected smoothly, forcing a slight cough that did not quite cover his grin.
Albert merely shrugged, holding up his empty hands. "I'm afraid I have no idea about any 'garlic smell.' That sounds like a dreadful problem for your plumbing, perhaps?"
"Don't play dense with me! I know you were growing that vile stuff near the school!" Filch snarled, his eyes flashing. "You were cultivating it! You're planting garlic!"
"Oh, you mean the garlic we were growing for the house-elves?" Fred asked, an immediate look of comprehension on his face. "We had a lot left over from a meal we requested. Albert wanted a bit of extra garlic scrambled eggs, and we used the house garden to cultivate some of the specialty cloves. They did the cooking, though. Why would we possibly waste it by sticking it in your office?"
"If you need proof, just ask the house-elves, sir," George added helpfully, widening his innocent eyes. "They prepared the whole meal."
Filch was completely thrown. He knew they were lying, yet the sudden, casual mention of the house-elves—the one group whose testimony was unimpeachable—provided an immediate, unassailable alibi for the presence of the garlic. Utterly defeated, he could only stand there, seething in the pungent memory of his reeking office.
The four friends politely pushed past the sputtering caretaker, leaving him to nurse his invisible, inescapable pain.
The journey back was relaxed and chaotic in equal measure. The boys spent the time trading gossip, celebrating their victory, and experimenting with the new supply of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans provided by Lee Jordan, daring each other to eat the most repulsive flavors (sardine and vomit proved to be particularly memorable).
As the train pulled to a stop at Platform 9¾ in King's Cross Station, they changed out of their official robes and into more discreet Muggle jackets and shirts.
The exit through the ticket barrier was its own kind of slow-moving chaos, with the elderly attendant allowing only a few people through at a time to prevent any suspicious rush. Albert finally emerged onto the bustling, noisy Muggle platform.
"Albert! Over here!"
He immediately spotted Nia, his younger sister, waving enthusiastically. She had grown taller over the year and had a distinct air of maturity he hadn't noticed before.
"Nia! Look at you, you're practically a proper young lady now," Albert greeted her with a warm smile, bending down to give her a hug.
"I've always been a lady," Nia huffed, slightly offended, but pleased by the compliment.
Herb, their father, approached, taking Albert's heavy trunk effortlessly. "Welcome home, son. We heard all about your spectacular year. Top marks, and a House Cup win. Well done."
"Where's Tom?" Albert asked, looking around for his beloved cat.
"He's staying with your grandfather, Grandpa Luke, temporarily," Herb explained, hoisting the luggage onto a trolley. "With the whole family heading to France for the summer, we didn't want to subject the old boy to the journey or a strange new house. Luke is keeping him spoiled."
Albert immediately covered his face with his hands in mock horror. "Oh no! I must write to Grandma Sansa immediately and beg her to put him on a strict diet! I can already picture it: Tom the giant, spherical cat, unable to move!"
Daisy, his mother, placed a comforting hand on his arm. "Now, dear, there's nothing wrong with a cat being a little happy and chubby. I think he's quite charming when he's well-fed."
As they exited the station, Albert breathed in the familiar, non-magical London air. The chaotic rivalry of Hogwarts, the pungent memory of the garlic prank, and the anxiety of the final exams were already fading. Ahead lay France, and a world where magic was strictly, and delightfully, prohibited.