"Do you really want to throw it here?"
In a rarely used corner of the second-floor corridor, tucked behind a tapestry depicting a portly medieval knight, the Weasley twins huddled close. The air here was slightly dusty but clean, a stark contrast to the foul atmosphere they were about to create. Yesterday's furious practice had yielded results, with Fred successfully cracking the simple padlock on their dormitory drawer. Now, the theoretical mischief was about to become agonizingly real.
"Yes, throw it here," George whispered back, his breath ragged with a mix of excitement and terror. He looked up at the vast, silent corridor stretching away from them. "This is the spot. William from third year threw his dungbomb right here yesterday, and I heard it took Filch half the morning to clean up the sticky mess. This location maximizes his humiliation and, more importantly, distraction."
"Okay," Fred said, his voice barely a squeak. "Remember the plan. I'm the bait. As soon as I'm in the office and he's distracted by the paperwork, you hit the office door with the second one. That's my cue. You have to buy me ten seconds, George. Just ten."
"I'll buy you twenty!" George promised, his eyes wide.
Fred took a deep, trembling breath—a gesture of false calm—and then quietly reached into the large paper bag he was carrying, retrieving a single, heavy, and already subtly noxious Dungbomb. Just as he grasped the sticky sphere, he caught sight of movement at the far end of the corridor. Filch was rounding the corner, his gaze already sweeping the area for any misplaced sock or loitering student.
"He's coming," Fred hissed, turning to George for one last moment of shared, adrenaline-fueled conspiracy.
But George was already gone.
Fred's eyes widened in momentary disbelief. "Damn it, you're running away real quick!" he muttered under his breath, a rush of pure terror briefly eclipsing his resolve. He felt utterly exposed, the sole target in the expansive, echoing corridor. There was no time to panic, however. The old caretaker was rapidly closing the distance.
Taking another frantic breath—which did nothing to calm him but instead filled his lungs with the distinct, metallic scent of the stone corridor—Fred held the Dungbomb loose in his hand. As Filch drew level with him, his head bowed in his usual weary slump, Fred let the ball drop.
Pfffft.
The sound was less an explosion and more a sickening, wet release. A tidal wave of stench, the unmistakable, eye-watering, concentrated smell of rotten eggs, stale cabbage, and something faintly reptilian, burst from the spot where the Dungbomb hit the floor. The smell was immediately overwhelming, filling the air and clinging to the stone.
Filch's weary posture vanished. His head snapped up, his face instantly contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. His eyes, normally rheumy, seemed to bulge with manic rage.
"You nasty, little brat!" Filch screeched, his voice cracking with the sheer volume of his anger. "Do you know how long I spent scrubbing that stench out of the floor yesterday? You defiler! You menace!" He lunged forward, his long, bony fingers closing around Fred's wrist in a grip of surprising strength, noticing the paper bag still clutched in Fred's hand.
"The evidence is irrefutable! That bag speaks for itself! Come with me!" Filch hauled Fred forward, his feet shuffling with impatience. "This time, I'm going to put you in a detention that you will never forget! I should have persuaded Dumbledore years ago to revert to the old-fashioned methods! I should string you lot up from the ceiling for a few days, or give you a proper beating to teach you a lesson!"
As Filch dragged Fred away, venting his inner storm with constant, bitter muttering, George cautiously emerged from a side passage, his own paper bag clutched tightly. Watching his brother being subjected to the caretaker's physical and verbal abuse, George swallowed hard. But then Fred glanced back, catching George's eye with a quick, nervous nod, confirming that George needed to follow, and the mission was still a go.
George took a deep breath, trying to ignore the overwhelming rotten smell that followed Filch like a dark cloud, and hurried to catch up, remaining a discreet distance behind.
It wasn't long before Filch arrived at his office, a dusty, dimly lit room dominated by a chipped wooden desk and the ominous sight of a set of rusty chains hanging behind it. The air in the office was thick with the scent of stale tea, old leather, and disappointment.
"Don't even think about running away!" Filch hissed, shoving Fred toward the desk. He pointed a shaking finger at the chains. "I oil these occasionally. Who knows, they might come in handy someday. I'm going to teach you little bastards a lesson. You'll think twice before breaking the rules again, won't you?"
Fred barely heard the threats. He knew the chains were an empty boast, but the drawer—that was real. His eyes, moving quickly and professionally, scanned the wall of filing cabinets near the entrance. He located his target: a sturdy, dark wood drawer with a fading handwritten label. It read, in looping script: Confiscated Materials, Highly Dangerous.
Filch sat down, pulling a roll of yellowed parchment from his desk drawer. He spread it out, dipped his long black quill into the inkwell with a flourish, and looked up menacingly.
"Name..." Filch demanded. When Fred hesitated, he raised his head ferociously. "Your name, boy!"
"Fred Weasley," Fred answered, trying to sound casual despite his pounding heart. He mentally noted the exact angle and position of the drawer.
"Offense..." Filch muttered, scribbling on the parchment.
"Using joke props in the hallway," Fred supplied.
"No, you were defiling the castle!" Filch corrected him with a furious pen stroke. "And your punishment and confinement..."
Before Filch could finish his malicious sentencing, the world outside the office door exploded in a fresh wave of vile smell. A large, sloppy Dungbomb—clearly thrown with reckless force—smacked the outside of the door jamb and splattered. A concentrated cloud of the foulest scent imaginable instantly rolled into the office, far worse than the first.
Filch stopped mid-sentence, his eyes wide in stunned, utter betrayal. He threw down his quill with a clatter and rushed out the door like a maddened beast, roaring. "Not again! You dare! I'll skin you alive, you little filth!"
Fred knew this was his one and only chance. George had come through, perfectly.
He strode instantly and silently to the filing cabinet, his heart hammering against his ribs. He yanked his wand from his sleeve, pointed the tip at the drawer labeled "Confiscated Materials, Highly Dangerous," and tapped it lightly, focusing every ounce of his adrenaline-fueled will.
"Alohomora!"
The simple, clear incantation, practiced dozens of times, worked instantly. The lock made a sharp, almost polite click. Fred pulled the drawer open just enough to see the jumbled chaos inside—wands, exploding snapping gum, stink pellets, and a few ominous, unlabeled jars. His eyes immediately darted to the objective: an old, mysterious envelope, marked with a faded, curling seal. He snatched it, shoved it deep into his pocket without even looking at its contents, slammed the drawer shut, and gave the label a quick, reassuring straighten. He was back by the desk just as Filch's thundering footsteps approached.
Filch stormed back into the office, dragging a struggling, pepper-scented George by the ear.
"Good! Another little bastard!" Filch was panting, his face mottled with purple and red, his hair sticking up wildly. He pointed maniacally at the fresh, putrid tracks left by the second dungbomb outside. "I'll make sure you both clean up the mess you made. I'll keep an eye on you every second. Don't you dare try to escape. Now, you're coming with me to see Professor McGonagall!"
A few minutes later, Fred and George stood before the imposing mahogany desk in Professor McGonagall's office. The Head of Gryffindor sat rigidly, her expression one of profound, yet contained, disappointment. Yesterday's incident with William had clearly put her in a terrible mood, and this fresh insult was too much.
Filch breathlessly recounted the "great achievements" of the Weasley brothers, detailing the twin attacks and the double defilement of the corridor and the office entrance.
Professor McGonagall looked from the seething caretaker to the two unrepentant faces before her.
"Twenty points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasley, and twenty points from you, Mr. Weasley," she stated, her voice sharp and utterly devoid of warmth. "And detention. I truly don't know what possesses you two to perform such destructive acts." She nodded curtly to Filch. "You will arrange their detention, Argus."
"Oh, I'll make them realize their mistakes, Professor," Filch sneered triumphantly, gripping both boys by the collar. He felt like he had finally won a battle in his endless war against the students.
"I think you should clean up your mischief before you put me in detention," Fred muttered innocently as they left McGonagall's office.
Filch's triumphant smile faltered. He realized the corridor and the office entrance were still coated in the foul, lingering residue of the Dungbombs. "Then you'll clean up the mess now," he spat. "You two have classes this morning, but I think you need to ask for leave. Follow me."
The twins followed Filch's furious stride toward the first floor of the castle, attracting many curious, sympathetic, and amused glances from passing students. This was their public humiliation, the price of their venture.
Fred turned his head and gave George a quick, subtle wink. Mission accomplished.
George couldn't help but breathe a sigh of profound, internal relief. Their detention and the forty-point deduction were nothing compared to the contents of the envelope now tucked safely inside Fred's pocket. Their adventure was not in vain.
They were finally brought to a cramped, dark broom closet tucked under a spiral staircase. Filch produced a bucket, a mop, and a stiff-bristled broom, thrusting them into the twins' hands.
"Well, start mopping the floor," Filch snarled, his eyes glinting maliciously. "And scrub every centimeter of that corridor until I can't smell a thing. It's the perfect time to show everyone what the proper punishment for being naughty is."
The twins looked at the mop and the broom, then at the vast corridor. They were officially in detention, but their secret mission was a success. Their grand performance had earned them the right to call themselves true mischief-makers.