"Have you got it?" Fred whispered excitedly to George. George nodded.
The broom cupboard wasn't, perhaps, the most comfortable of hiding places, but compared the Filch's recently-Dungbombed office, it was paradise.
"I can't believe we got out of there alive," Fred grinned.
"And with a spoil of war," George agreed, placing the spoil of war onto an upturned bucket. "What is this thing, anyway?"
Fred lit his wand and bent over the bucket. It was a very old piece of parchment, rather unremarkable looking but bearing signs of having been folded and re-folded many a time.
"Does it do anything?" Fred wondered aloud. George removed his own wand and touched the parchment lightly.
Nothing happened.
"Dunno, Fred," he mused. "Think it's just plain parchment?"
"Filch must've confiscated it if it could do anything interesting," Fred replied. He tapped the parchment. "Why did Filch confiscate you?"
Nothing happened.
"What are you hiding?"
Nothing.
"Are you just shy?" George inquired.
Nothing.
"Well," Fred sighed, drumming idly at the blank parchment. "At least we didn't get lines. I know what lines I'd like to write for Filch."
With his free hand, he mimed writing in midair. "I... solemnly... swear... that... I... am... up... to... no... good..."
Beneath his tapping wand, inky words and lines began to spiral across the parchment.