"Are you really going to throw it here?"
In a shadowed corner of the second-floor corridor, the Weasley twins whispered conspiratorially.
After yesterday's triumph—Fred finally mastering Alohomora—the brothers were itching to put their skills to use. And nothing delighted them more than tormenting Argus Filch.
"Yes, here," George confirmed, nodding toward the end of the corridor. "Yesterday, William from third year lobbed dungbombs in this exact spot. Filch spent hours scrubbing the floor clean."
"Fine. Just cover me," Fred muttered, adopting the air of a martyr.
Filch's footsteps echoed closer. Fred slipped a hand into the paper bag, fingers closing around a dungbomb. He turned to say something to George—only to realize his twin had already bolted.
"Coward," Fred hissed under his breath. He took a deep breath, and as Filch passed, the dungbomb slipped from his hand.
With a wet splat, the corridor filled with the stench of rotten eggs.
Filch froze, his face twisting in fury. His eyes darted wildly before locking onto Fred, who still clutched the incriminating paper bag.
"You little miscreant!" Filch roared, cheeks mottled red. "Do you know how long it took me to clean up yesterday's mess?" He seized Fred's filthy hand, brandishing it like evidence.
"Caught red-handed. This time you'll get detention, mark my words." His voice dropped to a dangerous growl. "If I had my way, you'd be strung up by your ankles in the dungeons or whipped until you learned respect."
Fred was dragged toward Filch's office, George trailing nervously from another passage. When Fred spotted his brother following, he exhaled in relief. At least George hadn't abandoned him completely.
The stench of dungbombs clung to Filch's boots as he muttered curses under his breath, venting his rage.
Inside the office—a place most students avoided—chains glinted ominously on the wall. Filch gestured toward them with relish. "I keep them oiled. One day, Dumbledore will let me use them again. Only a proper thrashing will teach you brats to respect the rules."
Fred ignored him, scanning the room. His eyes landed on the filing cabinet marked Confiscated Materials, Highly Dangerous.
"Name," Filch barked, dipping a long black quill into ink.
"Fred Weasley," Fred replied carelessly, already plotting.
"Crime: using dungbombs in the corridor. Punishment: detention—"
Before Filch could finish, another dungbomb exploded just outside the office. The stench rolled in like a wave.
Filch's eyes bulged. He dropped the quill and charged for the door, bellowing like a madman.
"Buy me time, George," Fred muttered. He darted to the cabinet, whispered Alohomora, and yanked open the drawer. Without hesitation, he snatched an envelope, shoved it into his pocket, and slammed the drawer shut.
Moments later, Filch stormed back, dragging George by the ear.
"Another troublemaker!" Filch snarled. "You'll both clean up this mess, and I'll be watching every second. No escape this time. Now—Professor McGonagall will hear of this."
Minutes later, the twins stood before their Head of House. McGonagall's lips thinned to a dangerous line as Filch recounted their "glorious deeds."
"Gryffindor loses twenty points," she said coldly. "And detention. Honestly, Mr. Weasley, I cannot fathom what goes through your heads." She turned to Filch. "Their punishment is yours to assign."
Filch's triumphant grin returned. "Gladly."
He marched the twins out, eyes gleaming with malice. "First, you'll clean up your own mess. Then detention."
Fred and George exchanged glances. "We've got class this morning," George muttered.
"Then you'll miss it," Filch snapped. "Come along."
The sight of the Weasley twins being frog-marched through the castle drew curious stares and whispers. Fred winked at George, signaling success. George exhaled, reassured their scheme hadn't been in vain.
At the broom cupboard beneath a spiral staircase, Filch thrust a mop, bucket, and broom into their hands.
"Start scrubbing," he sneered. "Let the whole castle see what happens to mischief-makers."