Professor Snape's face was colder and damper than the stones of the dungeon itself.
When the Gryffindor gems vanished with a clatter from the hourglass, every person in the common room felt as though a piece of their own heart had been hollowed out. Twenty full points. Points they had worked hard to claw back during Quidditch training and in class—all gone in an instant, thanks to one out-of-control Mooncalf party.
Fred Weasley, as the so-called culprit, became the target of all reproach.
Yet punishment and criticism had never been reasons for the Weasley twins to restrain themselves. For them, it was always fuel—catalyst for the next adventure.
Late at night.
In the boys' dormitory of Gryffindor Tower, only the last embers in the fireplace still glowed faintly.
"That cabinet, Alan."
Fred's voice was low, but it couldn't conceal the burning excitement within. The heat of it seemed ready to ignite the very air around him. He sat on the edge of Alan's bed, leaning forward, his eyes shining brilliantly in the dark.
"Filch's cabinet! The one locked up with 'Highly Dangerous' items! We have to open it!"
From another bed, George turned over with a sigh of exasperation.
"Oh, give it a rest, Fred. That thing's sealed with runes. Last time we only got close, and it was already buzzing like a hornet's nest."
"That's exactly why we need Alan." Fred's gaze stayed locked on their always-composed roommate.
Alan did not reply immediately.
His consciousness had already sunk into a blank white space. In his mind palace, a black wooden cabinet floated quietly. Its three-dimensional model disassembled and rotated, every detail infinitely magnified. The ancient runes inlaid with silver wire across its doors were no longer mysterious symbols, but interconnected circuits of magical energy.
Any outside force—any breaking spell—would be like tossing a stone into a calm lake, instantly triggering the defense system's chain reaction.
"Force won't work."
Alan finally spoke, his voice so calm it betrayed not a ripple of emotion. His eyes opened in the darkness, reflecting the last faint glow of the fireplace.
"Its defense system is a closed loop. Any forceful attempt would trigger the alarm runes instantly. One alarm screams, the other goes directly to the caretaker's office bell."
"Then what do we do?" George's voice carried pure disappointment.
The corner of Alan's lips curled ever so slightly.
"We need a plan."
His eyes swept across Fred and George. The gleam in his gaze held no emotion, yet it was sharper than the most precise instrument.
"A perfect frame-up. A plan that lets us take what we want—while ensuring all suspicion points somewhere else."
Friday.
When the last window in Hogwarts castle went dark, when even Peeves had ended his nightly mischief, the world sank into deep silence.
The plan began.
Step one: George, the executor.
Like a ghost, he slipped silently through familiar passages, cold damp air brushing against the stone walls. At last, he emerged into the armor gallery on the fourth floor. Deserted. Moonlight fell in pale, twisted patches through the narrow windows.
He did not draw his wand.
Instead, he pulled from his pocket a coarse hemp rope—lifted during Muggle Studies. Crouching low, he gently tied together the boots of two suits of armor that stood opposite each other. His knot was clever: firm, yet designed to snap instantly under a strong enough pull.
Finally, from another pocket he took out a parcel wrapped in wax paper.
Dungbomb.
He placed it carefully on the ground between the two suits of armor, directly beneath the taut rope.
A trap of pure physics. No magic at all.
His work done, he slipped back into the shadows, vanishing without a trace.
Step two: Fred, the actor.
He lay in wait at the stairwell between the third and fourth floors, pressing his ear to the cold stone like a fox listening for prey. Seconds dragged like centuries.
At last—
"Arghhh!"
A shrill, furious, disgusted scream rang out from upstairs, shattering the midnight silence. Metal clanged, armor collapsing into a crashing cacophony.
The moment had come.
Fred burst from hiding, panic etched across his face with perfect realism, every cell radiating fear.
"Peeves has gone mad! Peeves is throwing armor on the fourth floor!"
He bellowed at the top of his lungs while tearing downstairs, following the exact path Alan had calculated—straight past the corridor of Filch's office.
Step three: Alan, the director.
He was already waiting.
A Disillusionment Charm cloaked him in the shadow opposite Filch's door, his breathing synchronized with the faint stir of the air.
Filch came storming up from the dungeons, lantern swinging, face twisted with fury. Just as he reached the corridor, a panicked figure came tumbling down the stairs.
"Weasley! You again!"
Filch's rage found its outlet. With a snarl, he charged after Fred, not once glancing at the unusually deep shadows across from his office.
The golden window of opportunity—five seconds.
The moment Filch's attention was consumed, his back turned to the office door—Alan struck.
He didn't move his body. His wand stayed in his robe pocket.
Only his fingertip twitched, wand tip aimed toward the lock.
A silent, invisible spell—complex, precise, and almost undetectable—slipped into the wood. Its purpose wasn't to unlock, but to send a signal directly into the defensive core of the black cabinet within.
The spell carried a five-minute delay.
All was within the script.
"Stop! Weasley!"
Fred was seized by the scruff of the neck, accused of "running through corridors after curfew."
Dragging him back to the office in a storm of fury, Filch prepared to unleash his cruelest reprimand—only to freeze at the sight before him.
The office door was untouched.
But inside—the black cabinet, locked with ancient runes, the one guarding all "Highly Dangerous" confiscated items—now stood wide open.
Its doors hung crooked, its contents strewn in utter chaos.
Filch's breath caught.
He shoved Fred aside, staggering to the wreckage, trembling fingers pointing at the devastation.
"You… what have you done?!"
His voice was ripped apart by rage and disbelief.
"I don't know!"
Fred's performance was flawless. His expression carried pure confusion and shock, as though he were seeing the scene for the first time himself.
"It was like this when I came in!"
Filch spun on him, bloodshot eyes blazing. He was a thousand percent certain—this Weasley brat was responsible.
But he couldn't explain how.
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