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

Chapter 8:4

In the years to come, when Fred and George would walk to Charms, rearrange the names on the silver shield in the trophy case, or prepare to sneak off behind the statue of a humpbacked, one-eyed witch, they would think back to this day and recall the moment they first encountered the nearby abandoned section of the third floor corridor and the classroom it contained.

Unlike most of the hallways at the school, this one was protected by an impenetrable oak door with a corroded latch. The twins gave it a good pull before consulting the map. Thankfully it was able to offer a solution. Another speech bubble flourished between their dots, this time with a phrase. The twins aimed their wands at the handle and spoke the words in a single monotone.

"Defense lies in the reflection of self."

SHOONK! The bolt separated from the wall and the door swung lazily forward, filling the corridor with a groan of neglect. There wasn't much to see at first — a row of rusty pendants dangling from a high ceiling, a deep green, moth-eaten tapestry crumpled on the ground, and a trapdoor hidden in the floorboards that was speckled with owl droppings and refused to budge. It wasn't until they stepped through the open archway of the only room at the end of the corridor that the twins realized why it had been given special attention on the map.

They were standing in a classroom, but not just any classroom. Caked in dust, it appeared more like a crypt that was left intentionally undisturbed by the school governors. But beneath the grime was a chamber nearly as impressive as the Great Hall. Silently, the twins separated from one another and wandered the room. George was careful not to touch anything, as he passed between the rows of forgotten desks, some with the chairs still pushed in, others with a molted feather quill and parchment eerily at the ready. Fred progressed along the cold, exterior wall, where shrunken heads were mounted on stakes beside charcoal rubbings of gravestones, and books were attached to the wall with thick, iron chain. He rattled one of them to see what would happen and a low growl emanated from the pages.

"What the bloody hell was taught here?" Fred asked, staring into the polished black eyes of the nearest shrunken head.

"I haven't the slightest idea," whispered George dreamily. He had reached the front of the classroom where a wide glass sphere was resting on a stone pedestal. A goopy, dark red liquid swayed back and forth within the sphere. When George came near, it crashed against the surface like a wave in an ocean of blood. Then a barely distinguishable creature swirled away from the glass.

A stale odor drew them both to the blackboard where the tail of an animal had been fastened at the center of a whirlwind of haphazardly scrawled sentences, all written in a broad circle. The chalk had faded, but the twins could tell by the language that they had discovered the classroom for Defense Against the Dark Arts.

"Darkness rots upon the unguarded wizard," George read, scrunching his nose. "It certainly does."

"Is this Professor Allergen's room?" Fred thought aloud, as he rubbed a thumb through the chalk lines.

"Can't be," said George. "This place hasn't been touched in a century."

"Spooky thought, isn't it?"

"Wonder why it's been abandoned..."

"What's that over there?" Fred asked, squinting.

At the rear of the classroom was a thin cabinet, as tall as the blackboard and half-concealed by a white sheet. They inched toward it, listening to the faint, harmonizing wind that whistled through the keyhole.

Fred continued his thought. "What could be inside?"

"Judging by what's in the room, I don't think we should find out," George muttered, as he reopened the map. "What's this letter 'W' stand for, you think?"