Fred and George and the Toilers of Trouble (Year 1) ✔

Chapter 6:5

Fred and George made a mental note, as they were dragged down the corridor by the hood of their robes toward the caretaker's office, that the ever-wheezing Mr. Filch was deceptively strong. He also had a fondness for inadvertently knocking their shoulders into the unforgiving stone of every doorpost and barrier on the way to the ground floor. Thankfully, they found it somewhat of a good sign that Professor Dumbledore was waiting in the hall with the four house ghosts, who had no doubt heard a rumor that Peeves was involved, yet again, with some tumultuous mayhem at the castle.

"Those two are wearing my house colors," whined the ghost of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington. His partially-decapitated head bobbed reprovingly from atop his ruff, his silvery plumed hat slipping to the right. "Certainly not representative of Gryffindor Tower, I assure you."

Dumbledore's soft, inquisitive eyes peered at them from behind his half-moon spectacles. "Argus. I see you have found the culprits of the incident with the — what was it?"

"A Dungbomb, Headmaster," said Filch in a swarthy tone. "And I know just the punishment for this lot. You needn't concern yourself."

"I see," said Dumbledore, with a contemplative nod. "If you would but humor me for a moment, I would like to discuss the matter of their sentencing. Boys, please take a seat in the office to your right. Disturb nothing. The caretaker will be with you shortly."

"Yes, sir," said Fred.

"Yes, Headmaster," said George.

The twins stepped past the threshold just in time to avoid Professor Snape storming down the Entrance Hall stairs, looking murderous. As they peered back to watch the drama unfold, Professor Dumbledore barred the office behind them. The wood of the door was either too solid to hear the commotion, or it had been silenced with a spell. The only thing the twins could detect through the quick and determined mutterings was the deep resonance of Professor Snape's monotone voice. A short while later the door reopened and Mr. Filch lumbered into the modest office with his heavily lidded eyes boring down on them.

"The headmaster has instructed, against my wishes, that you are not to be punished...too severely," he said grimly. "Being that it's your first week and the school's been getting bad press in the Prophet. So you'll be on —"

"Oh, so you can read?" chimed Fred.

"— kitchen duty," Filch continued. "Though, if it were up to me —"

"But it's not, is it?" George countered.

Fred adjusted his weight. "When are we getting our wands back, then?"

A flicker of glee twinkled one of Mr. Filch's eyes. "Where are my manners, Mrs. Norris?" Circling their legs, the filthy cat croaked up at them before vaulting onto the disorganized desk. The caretaker reached into his pocket and removed their wands. "Which one of you is George?" he asked, before handing him the wand with the initial carved into the handle. "Shame about the other."

Fred reached out in disbelief as he took the broken halves of his magic wand.

"What did you do?!"

"Awful clumsy of me. Maybe you won't struggle so much next time."

"Liar!" Fred howled, his cheeks going red. "Our father had to pull strings at the Ministry to get me this wand!"

Mr. Filch rested into his creaking chair, looking satisfied. "Can't blag your way out of that. No, sir."

George could feel his ears burning hotter by the second. "We haven't enough money to buy him a new one!"

"You're in luck, then. There's a box of loaners around here somewhere. They're absolute rubbish, but...better than half a wand, eh?"

Fred threw what was left of his wand against the wall, where the shards of wood flashed and coughed sparks against the stone before tumbling into a bin of waterlogged Wellington boots.