Their "geographical study" concluded, the twins re-entered the castle through the secret passage concealed by the landscape painting. They were weary, chilled to the bone from the mountain air, and yet high on adrenaline and the smug success of their venture. They began the final stretch back toward the Gryffindor common room, their movements guided by the infallibility of the Marauder's Map.
"Just a little further," George mumbled, his jaw tight against a sudden, violent spasm. He clamped a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle the sneeze that threatened to betray them.
Fred cast a sympathetic glance at his twin, whose face was pale and slightly glistening with cold sweat. "I told you that sea air was treacherous. We should have waited for Friday, as Albert wisely suggested."
"It was worth it," George managed to wheeze, rubbing his nose furiously. "A bit of a chill is the price of admission to true Hogwarts freedom."
They climbed the final flight of stairs to the fifth floor, preparing to use a known shortcut—a crumbling bust of a forgotten wizard—to ascend directly to the eighth floor. Their confidence was soaring; the Map had confirmed that Argus Filch was still theoretically contained within the first floor, sulking in his office.
Meoooow.
The sound was not a plaintive call, but a sharp, high-pitched warning. It was spectral and seemed to originate from the air itself.
Fred froze instantly, every muscle tense. He raised his wand, but before he could even whisper Lumos, a dark, lean silhouette detached itself from the gloom around the corner. It was Mrs. Norris, Filch's skeletal cat, her lamplike eyes glowing an unnerving, malevolent yellow.
The cat didn't approach. She simply fixed them with a gaze of pure, feline malice, let out another demanding yowl, and then, with unnatural speed, she turned and bolted back down the corridor.
The twins stared after the retreating shadow, a silence hanging between them that was suddenly colder than the night air.
"She... she saw us," George whispered, the reality of their exposure hitting him like a cold wave.
"She's not chasing us," Fred observed, his mind racing through escape strategies. "She's running to get him."
A strange, dark humor overcame them, a moment of inappropriate bravado masking sheer panic. "The poor man," Fred giggled nervously. "Woken up in the middle of the night, cold already, and now dragged out of bed because his furry spy found a target."
"We'll be tucked in before he even reaches the fourth floor," George affirmed, though his voice lacked its usual certainty. "Let's go, double time."
Their good mood evaporated entirely the moment they reached the eighth floor corridor, the home stretch.
The corridor was dark, silent, and familiar. They rounded the final corner, anticipating the vast, comforting oil painting of the Fat Lady, ready to whisper the password and plunge back into the sanctuary of the Common Room.
But the portrait frame was empty.
The canvas was gone. In its place, only a smooth, unsettling patch of bare, grey stone stood.
Fred slammed the Marauder's Map flat against the wall, his breath hitching in his throat. George looked utterly defeated, the color draining from his face as the gravity of their situation settled over him like a tomb slab.
"Oh, Albert, you wretched prophet," George groaned, the helpless frustration tearing through him. "You warned us we'd get locked out. We were so smug. We are utterly and completely locked out."
"Forget the guilt trip," Fred hissed, pulling the map closer to his eyes. He saw the ominous dots moving toward them. Filch was moving with astonishing speed.
Mrs. Norris's alert must have been instantaneous, and the caretaker, fueled by righteous fury and a chest full of cold, was utilizing shortcuts they hadn't even discovered yet.
The dot labeled "Argus Filch" was not on the fourth floor as they had expected. It was already nearing the landing of the sixth floor.
"He's closer than we thought. Much, much closer," Fred muttered, the parchment trembling slightly in his hands. "He knows a faster vertical route. We are seriously exposed."
The shame factor was the worst incentive. Being caught by Filch meant not just detention, but the inevitable, unbearable cross-examination by Professor McGonagall and the smug, pontificating disapproval of Percy. They would likely lose thirty points, ensuring Gryffindor's total isolation from the House Cup race—an offense their peers would never forgive. The consequences were suddenly immense.
"We can't wait for her," George stated, his voice regaining a desperate clarity. "We need cover. Now. Where is the closest bolt-hole that Filch doesn't know about?"
They scanned the Map's eighth-floor markings. There were numerous fake walls and dead ends.
"The staircase shortcut on the fifth floor is where he just came from. Too risky," Fred analyzed rapidly. "The Knight's Armour on the seventh floor is supposedly a reliable path, but the Map shows Mrs. Norris is already sweeping that area. If we try to open it, she'll hear us."
"We can't stay on the eighth floor. He's coming up the concealed staircase right now!" George pointed to the Map. The Filch dot was moving straight towards them, following a line marked "Griffin Ascent," a secret passage they had planned to explore later.
"Run!" Fred shoved the map into George's hand and sprinted toward the nearest down staircase.
Their footfalls echoed loudly in the silent, curved corridor as they flew down to the Seventh Floor. The sound was an instant acoustic signature in the heavy silence of the night, a blatant challenge to their pursuer. They could hear the creak of the door leading from the "Griffin Ascent" passage opening below them.
"I hear them! I hear those wicked little brats!" Filch's voice, raspy and thick with cold, echoed from the landing of the eighth floor. "Don't you run, you delinquents! I'll skin you alive and hang your names in my office!"
Mrs. Norris, having joined her master, let out a triumphant shriek. She was faster than Filch, a low, gliding shadow already scrambling down the stone steps toward the Seventh Floor landing.
"Filch is right behind us!" George gasped, stumbling slightly. They were at the statue of the knight in armor—their safe house—but there wasn't time to perform the ritualistic charm and open the door without the caretaker seeing the entrance.
"We can't risk him seeing the entrance!" Fred shouted, waving George past the statue. "We need to lure him away and use the Map to circle back! Run!"
They flew down the next flight, the sixth floor now their target. They were descending rapidly, but the sound of Filch's wheezing, rapidly approaching steps was terrifyingly close. Mrs. Norris's low growls were almost beneath their feet.
Just as they reached the landing, the cold air, the frantic movement, and the sheer tension became too much for George's already compromised immune system.
He suddenly pitched forward, his entire body convulsing. The sound was not a polite ah-choo. It was a loud, wet, explosive SNNNEEEEEEZE! The noise ripped through the cold stone corridor, shattering the silence and echoing into the floors above and below.
Fred froze, his eyes wide in disbelief and horror. The sneeze was the most disastrous, self-sabotaging sound they could have made. It wasn't just a sound; it was an exact GPS location.
"The little devil!" Filch roared from the stairwell above, his voice energized by the undeniable proof of their proximity. "I've got you now! You won't escape my grasp!"
Mrs. Norris emitted a sound halfway between a hiss and a triumphant purr, immediately changing direction and scrabbling toward the source of the noise.
"Brilliant, George! Utterly brilliant timing!" Fred whispered, a frantic, desperate edge to his voice.
George, pale and weak, managed to grab his twin's arm. "What… what do we do? We're cornered!"
Fred, recovering his composure by sheer force of will, pulled the Map out, his mind now operating in pure survival mode. "We do exactly what we practiced, only faster, much faster. He's predictable. We are not. This is no longer an exploration; this is a high-speed strategy session."
He pointed a shaky finger at a narrow, rarely used corridor marked on the map. "Fifth floor. Down the stairs. Take the shortcut behind the tapestry of the dancing trolls. It leads to the third-floor portrait corridor. We lose him there! Come on!"
The game of cat-and-mouse was officially on, but the mice were now hacking, terrified, and their every move was broadcast to their pursuer's malevolent eyes.