Mischief Managed

School: Beauxbatons

Year: 4

Grammar School Challenge, Issue 8

Technique: semicolons

Word Count: 988

George Weasley fidgeted restlessly as he and his brother awaited their punishment.

Argus Filch, the Hogwarts caretaker, was rummaging through a large trunk, muttering something about the good old days when he could hang students by their ankles until they promised never to misbehave again.

George wasn't sure he believed the veracity of that statement. Filch had started working at Hogwarts after Professor Dumbledore had become Headmaster; Dumbledore would never have permitted physical punishments. Of this, George was sure.

A draught whistled through the castle walls, like the lungs of some great, ancient beast drawing in a rattling breath.

It was an apt comparison. Hogwarts felt more like a living thing than it did an ordinary castle. Not just because every gust of wind felt like lungs exhaling air; nor because everything in the school could move – from the staircases to the suits of armour – but because they moved in a way that had no discernible pattern; nor did it appear to be random.

George and Fred had spent the last few months studying the movements of the castle for a prank. But their research had come up short, so they'd planted a few Dungbombs in the Charms classroom as a consolation prize; which was why they were now sat in the dungeons, waiting for Filch to decide what to do with them.

George let his eyes wander as he waited. There wasn't much to look at in Filch's office: an old wooden desk, stained and warped from the damp; a filing cabinet overflowing with yellowed sheets of parchment; highly polished chains and manacles hanging from rusted hooks.

If Hogwarts were a living creature, this would be its butthole. The headmaster's office would be its brain; the Great Hall, its heart; the corridors and passageways, its veins; the dungeons, its intestines. The teachers would be the antibodies; the students, the blood, and Filch, a bacteria-infested parasite, trying to do harm.

George almost snorted at the analogy, but thought better of it; he was on thin enough ice as it was.

Fred elbowed him sharply in the ribs, making him wince and glare, but his brother wasn't looking at him. The filing cabinet had caught Fred's attention, and George followed his brother's gaze to one drawer in particular. On it was a label and written in a scratchy and uneven hand were the words: "Confiscated and Highly Dangerous."

A lot of old people ran Hogwarts; people who must have forgotten over time what it was like to be young, reckless and curious. The words "Forbidden Forest" had barely been out of Dumbledore's mouth at the start of term, that George and Fred were already planning their first adventure in the woods. They'd have had no interest in the place if it had been named: the Forest of Kittens and Ponies; just as they would have had no interest in that drawer if its name were not so appealing.

George didn't need to speak with his brother to communicate a plan; they barely even had to look at each other. He took their last remaining Dungbomb out from beneath his cloak, held his breath and set it off.

Fred dashed toward the cabinet. Filch shouted; then gagged when the smell hit him.

The twins were out of there before Filch could get his barrings, and they dashed into the first broom cupboard they came across. They waited until Filch's thundering footsteps and angry cursing faded away before they let the laughter overcome them.

"Did you see his face?" George gasped.

"He's going to skin us alive when he finds us, but it was worth it," said Fred.

George's eyes raked over his brother, trying to spot what they'd borrowed from the cabinet. "What was in that drawer?"

There was a flash of white teeth as Fred grinned in the dark closet. He took out his wand and cast a quick 'Lumos,' bathing the dingy interior with a wavering light; in his other hand, he held a large piece of parchment.

"What is it?" asked George.

"I don't know. There were a few Fanged Frisbees in the drawer, a jar of slime and some other stuff. And this."

"And you chose the least dangerous looking object in there… why?"

"Because Filch put it in that drawer for a reason, and I want to find out why."

George looked over the parchment carefully. "It's blank. Do you think there's something written in invisible ink?"

"One way to find out." Fred pointed his wand at the old paper. "Revelio."

As though an invisible hand was writing upon it, words appeared on the smooth surface of the worn parchment.

"Mr Moony congratulates Messrs Weasley on finding this map."

"Mr Wormtail wonders how Messrs Weasley managed to steal it away from Mr Filch's clutches."

"Mr Padfoot is impressed; Messrs Weasley must be true troublemakers."

"Mr Prongs would like to inform Messrs Weasley, that a password is required to gain access to the map; the parchment cannot be activated without the right phrase."

The words began to fade, and George looked at his brother; both wore matching expressions of glee.

"It's a map," said George.

"A map of what, though? And how did it know our names?"

"I guess we need to figure out the password to find out." George raked his brain for an idea but came up short. The password could be anything, and they didn't have any clues.

Fred cleared his throat. "Open Sesame?"

The map didn't react, and George snorted. "Why would you think that the password is a made-up word?"

"It isn't made-up; I read it in a Muggle book. Besides, I didn't see you coming up with anything."

George couldn't argue with that; he went back to staring at the mysterious parchment, anxious to discover its secrets. It might take them a while, but the Weasley twins seldom gave up on anything after it had piqued their curiosity.