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

Chapter 22:7

It was an unnaturally warm night. The twins removed their robes and the Invisibility Cloak when they reached the lawn.

"This could be it," said Fred, shoving the giant ball of fabric into his schoolbag. "Be prepared to use that wand of yours."

"With what spell? The cauldron scouring enchantment?"

"I dunno, just swing it round. Something's bound to happen."

"I'd rather not be in there long enough to use my wand, actually."

"Well, I'm not going back until we have some answers."

George eyed the line of dark trees nervously. "This is mental..."

"Look on the bright side, George," Fred encouraged with a charming smile. "At least we'll die together!"

They followed along the shore of the black lake and, when they reached the trees, Fred and George stopped to check the map. According to his ink dot, Professor Quirrell was deep into the forest and nearing the edge of the parchment.

"Paintings being destroyed, rumors of a hidden treasure, rampant theft, a witch with a strange past returns to the castle, and somehow it all comes back to the Toilers of Trouble," said Fred, looking determined.

"Something is happening at Hogwarts this year," George agreed. "And it seems like Dumbledore hasn't got a clue."

Fred lit his wand and aimed it at Quirrell's dot, just as he moved beyond the edge of the map. "We need to hurry," he said, folding the parchment. "We can't lose him. Not when we're this close to getting answers."

And before another second could pass, they stepped into the Forbidden Forest, putting the safety of the open grounds behind them.

Several minutes into their pursuit of Professor Quirrell, the twins spotted a lantern swinging in the velvety darkness between the trees, making it clear that they would have to proceed without the aid of the Lumos spell. Fred and George were the length of a Quidditch pitch away, and yet they could easily see Hagrid and his boarhound standing in the pool of golden light. From the sound of his babbling, he and Fang were searching for Witherwings.

Their gigantic gamekeeper was lost soon after to the dense and shifting vapor that crept along the forest floor. Fred surveyed the night sky to get his bearings, as George constantly looked over his shoulder, afraid to imagine all that could not be seen.

"It's much too dark. Even Hagrid won't come this far after sunset," George asserted, while shivering uncontrollably. "Something's not right."

"If it's the spider you're worried about, just — er — be on the lookout for webs," Fred encouraged without fear, as they climbed across a mossy crater of tangled roots.

"It's more than the spider," he argued. "It feels darker this time. I wish we could light our wands."

"We can't have him see us, George, now can we?"

"Do you even know where Quirrell is, at this point? I can hardly see my legs."

"Just there," Fred whispered, as he caught sight of their professor stepping into a sliver of distant light from many stars.

Quirrell bent under a low branch and entered a clearing surrounded by hollow trees, with a cold and resolute expression. He gazed blankly at the darkness, his pale face and purple turban standing out in the swallowing moonbeams. Although their professor appeared to be alone, muffled voices could be heard in the ominous silence.

He's talking to someone, Fred, said George in a nervous thought.

They're off the map. No way to see who it is, Fred replied, as they moved slowly forward. We'd have to get much closer than this.