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

Chapter 20:7

It had been months since Fred and George visited Hogsmeade. They first considered taking the secret passage behind the statue of the humpbacked, one-eyed witch. It would lead them into the cellar of Honeydukes Sweetshop, which was conveniently across the high street from Zonko's. But with the rainclouds looking eager to douse them again, Fred and George thought expediency was a better policy and took the road.

In next to no time, they were peering out from between two buildings at the gloomy, deserted streets to determine if it was safe enough to stay. Since term began, the twins had avoided any activity that could get them expelled straightaway. And whenever the temptation for serious wrongdoing came to mind, they needed only to recall how quickly Professor Snape wanted them banished from the castle after the ground floor corridor had been flooded. For now, Fred and George knew they could enter Hogsmeade undetected, even without the cloak. So, they strolled casually along the damp and quiet street towards Zonko's Wizarding Joke Shop, as if they weren't intentionally skipping their Enchantments lesson to be there.

Although it was empty as well, Zonko's was anything but quiet. As usual, a number of whirling toys buzzed through the shop, daring to slice at them with plastic propellers. The massive toad signaled their arrival with a deep croak, as it came plopping down the stairs a step at a time.

"Boys! Perfect day for a visit," Zonko cheered, shuffling out from behind the counter. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Out of Madam Wolden's Bewitched Baking Powder, are we? Pranking every student at Hogwarts is a tall order, but I'm sure I've got more to spare."

"We had enough supplies for the biscuits, thanks," said Fred gratefully. "Made them over the Christmas break."

"Good thinking," Zonko replied. "Less elves, I'd imagine. Meddlesome, those house-elves. That's why I've never entertained the idea of keeping my own, though I could certainly use the help. How was the reaction? Did Dumbledore's beard grow back?"

"We haven't gotten round to handing them out," said George. "There's been a lot on our minds, as of late."

"Well, I do hope you followed the recipe properly...could be a right mess, that one," he said, his expression betraying him. Zonko secretly hoped that it would go horribly wrong. "How about that Venus plant, eh? You have all your fingers, so that's good!"

Fred's smile gleamed. "It's brilliant, Zonko. Honestly."

"But we came by to pick your brain, if that's all right," George interrupted, trying not to be distracted by all the wondrous items throughout the shop.

"Pick away. Just mind what you find," Zonko encouraged with a grin, as he lowered himself hurriedly to the bench in front of them. "Grab a stool. Take a load off."

Noticing a glint in the man's eye, Fred caught George by the arm before he could sit.

"No thanks," he said warily. "I don't trust these stools for a second."

"Aww...no, you wouldn't, would yeh? Blast it, I was hoping to get you. These are ejection stools," he chuckled. "No explanation needed."

"Good one, Zonko," George laughed.

"So, what d'ya want to know?"

"Have you ever heard of a witch named Aruzula Darc? She was connected to someone who goes by the name of Slughorn."

Zonko flashed an inquisitive look. "Slughorn, oh sure. Taught at Hogwarts some years back. I'm afraid I don't know much about him or this Aruzula Darc...but — I might know a man who could help. Head on over to the Hog's Head, boys. See a wizard named Iscarion Spital. He was a professor at Hogwarts as well. And...bit of trivia..." Zonko leaned forward, "he's a member of the Dark Force Defense League."

"Are you joking?" Fred exclaimed.

"A member of the Dark Force Defense League?" said George, startled. "I thought they were made-up!"

"No, they are quite real, indeed," Zonko confessed emphatically. "But, you'll see. He's just a typical bloke. Most of them are, from what I hear."

"So...some of them aren't?" Fred wondered.

A smirk lifted on Zonko's round face. He pointed through the crowded store window at the inn along the side street, just shy of the quaint row of cottages. "As I was saying, if anyone can tell you about Slughorn it would be Spital."

"Are you sure we'll find him there?" asked George.

"He's at the Hog's Head every week, like clockwork. Plays Woolthwaite with the villagers. They're easypickins for a man like him. Doesn't look it, but he's smart as a whip."

"Zonko, what's...er...Wool — Woolth —" stammered Fred.

"Woolthwaite? A card game. One of the oldest we wizard's play. It's dead risky, though. Takes nerve, skill, and...a lot of guts," he said with strange elation, while tapping a tarnished button on his green velvet jacket. Suddenly, a goopy, gelatinous pouch of entrails poured out from beneath his vest and splashed across the runner.

"Oh, that's nasty!" Fred hooted, reaching for the door handle.

"Jellied intestines," said Zonko proudly. "I call it Guts-A-Plenty! I'll send you a bag."

"All right, Zonk. See you soon," said George giddily, as he turned to follow his brother out the door.

"You'd better," the portly man called. "How else will I test my Malted Muscle Melts?" He chuckled to himself while feeding the wrapped candied innards back into their pouch. "And if Spital won't pay you any mind, just tell him my brother Wonky sent you."

"Will do," the twins said, as they waved goodbye to the jolly shop owner.