Chapter Twelve - Menace in the Making

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—∞·Chapter Summary·∞—

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Harry's mind is as vicious as it was brilliant. Malfoy and the Slytherins can attest to that.

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Menace in the Making

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Harry had never believed he would meet a boy he would ever hate more than he hated his cousin, Dudley— well, that was before he met the bloody git, Draco Malfoy. Acting civilly with the kid seems not enough to tolerate his irksome behavior and the brat did nothing but ruin his day. Well, not that he really tried that hard since pestering irksome gits is secretly one of Harry's hobbies anyways.

He was somehow glad that first year Gryffindors only had Potions with the Slytherins, so they didn't have to put up with him much. Or at least, they didn't until they spotted a notice pinned up in the Gryffindor Common Room that made them all groan. Flying lessons would be starting on Thursday and Gryffindor and Slytherin would be learning them together.

"Typical," Harry drawled darkly when one of the house-elves handed him a copy of the said notice. "Just what I always wanted. Flying like Butterflies on top of daisies with Draco Bloody Malfoy."

He had been looking forward to learning to fly more than anything else. After learning about Charlie's dazzling skill in the art of flying a broomstick, Harry has been thinking of the feeling his ginger-haired friend has been regaling him in all his stories.

"You wouldn't know that you'll make a fool of yourself," says Ron with a tone of encouragement. "Anyway, I know Malfoy's always going on about how good he is at Quidditch, though I bet all of those are nothing but shite talk."

The blonde certainly did blabber about flying a lot. He complained loudly about first years never getting on the house Quidditch teams, telling long boastful stories that always seemed to end with him narrowly escaping Muggles in helicopters.

He wasn't the only one, though. The way Seamus Finnigan narrated his own experience about it, he'd spent most of his childhood zooming around the countryside on his broomstick. Even Ron would tell anyone who'd listen about the time he'd almost hit a hang glider on Charlie's old broom.

In other words, everyone from wizarding families talked about Quidditch constantly. That caused Bill pages after pages of rants from Harry the night before, complaining why his redheaded guardian didn't even allow him anywhere near a broom. Charlie was obviously chuckling at the responses he scribbled in their three-way journal with nothing but "Hahaha" in between Harry's and his brother's bickering through a piece of parchment.

That morning, Ron had a big argument with Dean Thomas, who shared a dormitory with him, about soccer. Ron couldn't see what was exciting about a game with only one ball where no one was allowed to fly. Harry had even caught the redheaded boy prodding their housemate's poster of West Ham Soccer Team, trying to make the players move.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how they look at it, Neville had never been on a broomstick in his life, because his grandmother had never let him near one. Privately, Harry felt she had good reason because Neville managed to have an extraordinary number of accidents even with both feet on the ground.

Hermione Granger was almost as nervous about flying as Neville was. This was something she couldn't learn by heart out of a book— not that she hadn't tried. At breakfast on Thursday, she bored them all stupid with flying tips she'd gotten out of a library book called Quidditch Through the Ages. Harry didn't bother pointing out to her that he has his own copy of it, courtesy of Charlie himself but it was Neville who was hanging on to her every word, desperate for anything that might help him hang on to his broomstick later, but everybody else was very pleased when Hermione's lecture was interrupted by the arrival of the mail.

Harry hadn't had a single letter since Bill's package came, something that Malfoy had been quick to notice. (He doesn't want to waste time to shove into the blonde git's arse the three-way journal he's been using to contact Bill, Charlie, and his solicitors just to let him know that he, Harry, did receive more letters than anyone else in the castle was getting).

Malfoy's eagle owl was always bringing him packages of sweets from home, which he opened gloatingly at the Slytherin table. Harry caught his eye who in turn wriggled his brows at him, he had the sudden urge to jump onto the other table and squeeze the life out of his neck.

"Heart," he grumbles. A house-elf wearing a Hogwarts tablecloth pops up on his side.

"Master Harry Potter sir, what can Heart be doing for you today?"

Harry leans forward and whispers something in his ear which he immediately responded by nodding his head profusely. Then, in a heartbeat, the house-elf disappeared. It wasn't until after like five minutes that anyone would've realized what he did when the four house tables were filled with sweets— all identical to everything that Draco Malfoy had received. He looked back and saw the shock on the blonde's face seeing his friends enjoying the rich classy taste of macaroons and bonbons of the same brand from France. He darted his gaze towards him right away, and this time, it was the raven-haired boy's turn to wriggle his brows toward his direction, smirking smugly. Harry taunted him more by raising a fist to his mouth, acting as if he was blowing the horns of triumph.

Meanwhile, a barn owl brought Neville a small package from his grandmother. He opened it excitedly and showed them a glass ball the size of a large marble, which seemed to be full of white smoke.

"It's a Remembrall!" He explained. "Gran knows I tend to forget things— this will tell you if there's something you've forgotten. Look, you hold it tightly like this and if it turns red— oh…" His face fell because the Remembrall had suddenly glowed scarlet, "… you've forgotten something…"

Neville was trying to remember what he'd forgotten when the Malfoy heir, who was passing the Gryffindor table, snatched the glass ball out of his hand.

Ron, Seamus, and Dean rose to their feet. They were half-hoping for a reason to fight the blonde git, but Professor McGonagall, who could spot trouble quicker than any teacher in the school, was there to handle the situation really quick.

"What's going on?"

"Malfoy's got my Remembrall, Professor."

Scowling, the blonde boy quickly dropped the glass ball back on the table.

"Just looking," he said, and he sloped away with Crabbe and Goyle behind him.

"That arse," Ron spat. He turned to Harry who did nothing but nibble on his mince tarts elegantly, acting nonchalant. "Why didn't you stop him?"

After another bite of the said treat, Harry drawled the words, "revenge is sweeter when subtly made." And then gets up to join the rest of the crowd on their way outside the castle grounds.

At three-thirty that afternoon, Harry, Ron, and the other Gryffindors hurried down for their first flying lesson. It was a clear, breezy day, and the grass rippled under their feet as they marched down the sloping lawns toward a smooth, flat lawn on the opposite side of the grounds to the forbidden forest, whose trees were swaying darkly in the distance.

The Slytherins were already there, and so were twenty broomsticks lying in neat lines on the ground. Harry had heard Fred and George Weasley complain about the school brooms, saying that some of them started to vibrate if you flew too high, or always flew slightly to the left.

Their teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived. She had short, gray hair, and yellow eyes like a hawk.

"Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone, stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."

Harry glanced down at his broom. It was old and some of the twigs stuck out at odd angles.

"Stick out your right hand over your broom," their lady instructor called at the front, "and say 'UP!'".

"UP!" Everyone shouted.

Harry's broom jumped into his hand at once, but it was one of the few that did. Hermione Granger's had simply rolled over on the ground, and Neville's hadn't moved at all. Perhaps brooms, like horses, could tell when you were afraid, he thought. There was a quaver in the young Longbottom's voice that said only too clearly that he wanted to keep his feet on the ground.

Madam Hooch then showed them how to properly mount the flying devices without sliding off the end and walked up and down the rows correcting their grips. Harry and Ron wore Cheshire cat grins when she told Malfoy he'd been doing it wrong for years.

"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," the witch said. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle— three— two—"

To their utter surprise, Neville, as nervous and jumpy as he could be for being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the whistle had even touched Madam Hooch's lips.

"Come back, boy this instant!" she shouted, but Neville was already rising straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle— twelve feet— twenty feet. Harry saw his scared white face look down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp, slip sideways off the broom, and— WHAM!"

A thud and a nasty crack and the Longbottom kid lay facedown on the grass in a heap. His broomstick was still rising higher and higher and started to drift lazily toward the forbidden forest and out of sight.

Their lady instructor was bending over him, her face turned as white as his.

"Broken wrist," Harry heard her mutter under her breath. "Come on, boy— it's all right, up you get."

She turned to the rest of the class with a stern look on her face.

"None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are, or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch.' Come on, dear."

Neville, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist, hobbled off with her, who had her arm around him.

No sooner were they out of earshot when Malfoy burst into laughter. "Did you see his face, the great lump?"

The other Slytherins joined in.

"Shut up, Malfoy," Snapped Patil.

"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" says Pansy Parkinson, a hard-faced Slytherin girl. "Never thought you'd like fat little crybabies, Parvati."

Harry stood there straight using his broomstick as a cane, "now, now, Parkinson. No need to be such a tease." He sneered.

"Whatcha gonna do, Potter? Scare me with your scar?"

Her housemates roared in laughter taunting the raven pretty hard.

"My scar is doing just fine, Pansy, thank you very much, but I should say you must be lucky for surviving such a hit. Or is that your face? I'm sorry, I thought you ran yourself into a wall while flying as Longbottom did."

The laughter from the Gryffindor side was louder than the Slytherins. The serpents didn't expect to hear such an attack, they all have gone speechless.

Having at a loss of what to say next, Malfoy spotted something out of the grass. "Look!" He cried. "It's that stupid Longbottom's gran sent him."

The Remembrall glittered in the sun as he held it up.

"You better give that here, Malfoy," Harry warns him.

A nasty smile glowed upon his face.

"I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find— how about… up a tree?"

Harry was about to say something more, but Malfoy had already leaped onto his broomstick and taken off.

He hadn't been lying, he could fly well indeed. Hovering level with the topmost branches of an oak, he called, "why don't you come and get it, Potter?!"

Rolling his eyes, the young raven grabbed his broom and mounted it, accepting the challenge.

"No!" shouted Hermione Granger. "Madam Hooch told us not to move— you'll get us all into trouble."

"I'll vouch for everyone," he said, ignoring her. Blood was pounding in his ears. Harry kicked hard against the ground and up, up he soared; air rushed through his hair, and his robes whipped out behind him— and in a rush of fierce joy, he realized he'd found something he could do without being taught.

Ha! Watch out, Bill Weasley. He couldn't wait to gloat at his overprotective guardian in his next message to him.

This was easy. This was wonderful. Harry pulled his broomstick up a little to drag it even higher and heard screams and gasps of girls back on the ground and an admiring whoop from Ron.

He turned his broomstick sharply to face Malfoy in midair. The blonde looked stunned seeing him hovering in his broom like an expert.

"Give it here now, blondie," Harry warns again.

"Make me," says Malfoy, trying to sneer over the nickname but looking worried.

The young Potter Lord knew, somehow, what to do. He leaned forward and grasped the broom tightly in both hands, and it shot toward the blonde like a javelin. Malfoy only just got out of the way in time. Harry made a sharp about-face and held the broom steady. A few people beneath them are clapping their hands, cheering for him.

"We better settle this now or your father will hear about this…" He smirks. Malfoy pales.

"It's amusing to see someone making fun of somebody else's weakness who get easily startled when his own father's name is heard."

The boy felt mocked to the innermost corner of his soul.

"Catch it if you can, then!" He shouted and threw the glass ball high into the air before streaking back toward the ground.

Harry saw, as though in slow motion, the ball rises up in the air and then starts to fall. He leaned forward and pointed his broom handle down— next second, he was gathering speed in a steep dive, racing the ball— wind whistled in his ears, mingled with the screams of people watching. The boy stretched out his hand— a foot from the ground, he caught it, just in time to pull his broom straight, and he toppled gently onto the grass with the Remembrall clutched safely in his fist.

Wow! That was awesome. He said to himself.

"HARRY POTTER!"

He groaned seeing Professor McGonagall trotting toward their direction. From her horrified face, he knew he's in trouble right away.

Brilliant… just brilliant.

"Never— in all my time at Hogwarts—"

The lady professor was almost speechless with shock, and her glasses flashed furiously, "— how dare you— might have broken your neck—"

"It wasn't his fault, Professor—"

"Be quiet, Miss Patil—"

"But Malfoy—"

"That's enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter, follow me. NOW."

Harry caught sight of Malfoy and his friends' triumphant faces as he left, walking assertively in Professor McGonagall's wake as she strode toward the castle.

"I swear to you, young man." He could hear her grumbling as they go their way into the marble staircases. "You'll be just the death of me, Harry Potter. James must be laughing his bollocks up there for turning my hair greyer by sending in his spawn!"

He didn't know whether to laugh or sympathize over her misery for ranting like that about his Dad.

Was he really that bad?

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Menace in the Making

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It was dinnertime. Harry had just finished telling Ron what had happened when he'd left the grounds with Professor McGonagall. Ron had a piece of steak and kidney pie halfway through his mouth, but he'd forgotten all about it. Harry fought the urge to wipe his friend's face with a table napkin. He was such a messy eater.

"Seeker?" He groaned enviously, "but first years never— you must be the youngest player in about—"

"— a century," says Harry, shoving a spoonful of pie into his mouth. He felt particularly hungry after the excitement of the afternoon's events. He didn't even mention anything to Bill yet. He was thinking about telling it to him and Charlie as a surprise on Saturday when he goes home for the weekend.

Ron was so amazed, so impressed, he just sat and gaped at his friend.

"I start training next week," Harry tells him. "Just don't tell anyone, Wood wants to keep it a secret."

Oliver Wood was the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. It was he who McGonagall introduced him with when he thought the lady was going to have him expelled.

Fred and George Weasley now came into the hall. As they spotted the young Potter Lord, they hurried over to congratulate him.

"Well done," says George in a low voice. "Wood told us. We're on the team too— beaters."

"I tell you. We're going to win that Quidditch cup for sure this year," says Fred. "We haven't won since Charlie left, but this year's team is going to be brilliant. You must be good, Harry. Wood was almost skipping when he told us."

"Anyway, we've got to go, Lee Jordan reckons he's found a new secret passageway out of the school."

"Bet it's that one behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy that we found in our first week—"

"That one's blocked," Harry cuts in without looking at them. He pretends to be busy with his dinner, ignoring their stunned looks at the younger man.

"Wait, how did you know about that?" George spluttered. It's impossible someone else had beaten them in locating those hidden channels.

"Look. That passage is leading to one of the private houses in Hogsmeade. I'm pretty sure Mr. Filch knows where it is. You'll get yourselves into trouble. Now, the one that's located near Gryffindor Tower though…" He trails off, leaving that information to sink in their thoughts.

"Blimey," says George. "You're one of them…"

"One of what?"

"Never mind. What do you want in exchange for that tip?"

Harry pretends to be thinking deeply. "Hmm, how about a boon?"

"Bloody git," Fred mutters in disbelief. "Why on Merlin's balls are you not in Slytherin?"

The boy was smiling at them cheekily.

"Fine. You got yourself one." George murmured.

"Yay! Tonight, at ten o'clock. Portrait of the fat lady. Don't be late." He said to them.

"Deal."

That was it. Shaking their heads, the twins had departed to meet Lee Jordan. Both boys are left on their own with Ron gawking at Harry with a tinge of concern.

"You worry me sometimes, you know." He muttered.

"I could probably use some of their help soon."

They were still talking when someone far from welcome turned up: Malfoy, flanked by Goyle and Crabbe.

"Having your last meal, Potter? When are you getting the train back to the muggles?"

"Ooh, you're a lot braver now that you're back on the ground and no one's reminding you about your scary dad," Harry says coolly. Not to mention, he is now with his bodyguards. There was of course nothing at all little about Crabbe and Goyle, but as the High Table was full of teachers, neither of them could do more than crack their knuckles and scowl.

"I'd take you on anytime on my own," says Malfoy. "Tonight, if you want. Wizard's duel. Wands only— no contact. What's the matter? Never heard of a wizard's duel before, I suppose?"

"Of course, he has," Ron interjected, wheeling around. "I'm his second, who's yours?"

Malfoy looked at Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up.

"Crabbe," he said. "Midnight, all right? We'll meet you in the trophy room. That is always unlocked."

When Malfoy had gone, Harry and Ron looked at each other.

"What — on — earth have we just gotten ourselves into?" The raven-haired boy grumbles, staring at nowhere when he'd come to realize what they've done.

"Well, that was unexpected." Ron shrugged his shoulders.

"Do you think he'll show up though?" Knowing what a coward Draco actually is, Harry has doubts about his overspoken courage.

"Nah, who knows? Are we going to take the bait?"

Devious smirk streaks on Harry's face, "I think it's time we'll need the twins' help. Told ya' they'll come in handy sooner." He says menacingly.

All the same, it wasn't what you'd call the perfect end to the day. If he'd come right at his senses before pursuing the Malfoy git, there was a very good chance they were going to get caught by Filch or worse, Mrs. Norris, and Harry felt he was pushing his luck, breaking another school rule today. On the other hand, Malfoy's sneering face kept looming up out of the darkness, he wanted to give it a good punch.

And whether he'd show up or not, he finds it a good chance to explore the castle on restricted hours. That would be fun, Harry thought.

It's now half-past eleven. Harry was about to get into the portrait of the fat lady to get Ron and the twins when he noticed a lump of a figure snuffling next to the hole entrance.

"Neville?" He found the boy curled up on the floor, fast asleep, but jerked suddenly awake as he crept closer to where he is.

"Harry! Thank goodness, you found me! I've been out here for hours. I couldn't remember the new password to get into bed."

"Keep your voice down, Neville. The password is 'Pig Snout' but it won't help you now, the Fat Lady's gone off somewhere."

Just in time, the portrait door swung open. Three redheads stepped out of it looking surprised to see another member joining the party.

"Excellent!" George muses. "Didn't know this is going to be a school trip."

"It's not," Harry throws a glare at the whimpering kid. "Neville, look. We've got to be somewhere. We'll be back soon, see you later—"

"Don't leave me!" cries Neville pleadingly. "I don't want to stay here alone, the Bloody Baron's been passed here twice already."

Ron looked at his watch and snarls furiously at the Longbottom boy. "If you get us caught, I'll never rest until I've learned that Curse of the Bogies Quirrell told us about and use it on you!"

He nodded. As if he had a choice.

They flitted along corridors striped with bars of moonlight from the high windows. In every turn, Harry would expect to run into Filch or Mrs. Norris, but they are lucky. They sped up a staircase to the third floor and tiptoed their way toward the trophy room.

Malfoy and Crabbe weren't there yet. Obviously, not a sign of their impudent boss either. The crystal trophy cases glimmered where the moonlight caught them. Cups, shields, plates, and statues winked silver and gold in the darkness. They edged along the walls, keeping their eyes on the doors at either end of the room. Harry took out his wand in case the blonde Slytherin leaped in and caught them all off-guard.

The minutes crept by.

"He's late, maybe he's chickened out, don't you think?" Ron hissed.

Then, a noise in the next room made them jump. Harry had only raised his wand when they heard someone speak— and it wasn't Malfoy to their eternal fear.

"Sniff around, my sweet. They might be lurking in the corner."

It was Filch speaking to Mrs. Norris. Horror-struck, Harry looked at the other four to witness the same reaction on their faces.

"I guess you've been tricked, mate," says Fred nonchalantly who didn't seem worried at all.

He hates to admit it, but the twins are right. It's a trap Malfoy had formulated to set them up.

"Well, leader of ours. Any brilliant ideas in mind?" George teases the brunet.

Thinking as fast as he could, Harry waved the others to follow suit. They scurried silently toward the door, away from Filch's voice. Neville's robes had barely whipped round the corner when they heard the caretaker enter the trophy room.

"They are in here somewhere," they heard him mutter, "probably hiding."

"This way!" He mouthed to the others, and, petrified, they began to creep down a long gallery full of suits of armor.

"Oh dear, no, no, no…"

As he expected, the suits of armor stood at full attention. Now is not the right time to pay their respects to their Little Lord who's in big sort of trouble.

Fred and George gawked at each other and said, "wicked!"

They could hear Filch now getting nearer. Neville suddenly let out a frightened squeak and broke into a run when he tripped, grabbed Ron around the wrist, and the pair toppled right into a suit of armor.

The clanging and crashing noise were enough to wake the whole castle.

"RUN!" Harry yelled, and the four of them sprinted down the gallery, not looking back to see whether Filch was following— He made a mental note to strangle Neville later once they make it back to their rooms scot-free. He couldn't believe this boy can be such a walking disaster.

Their group swung around the doorpost and galloped down one corridor, then another, without any idea where they were or where they were going. Harry's mind is too preoccupied with fear, his knowledge of the castle's layouts failed to kick in. Having the twins joining their company wasn't a great help either. They just went along with the flow and seem to be enjoying themselves on this one night of an adventure.

They ripped through a tapestry and found themselves in a hidden passageway, hurtled along with it, and came out near their Charms classroom, which they knew was miles from the trophy room.

"You think we've lost him?" Ron panted. He leaned against the cold wall and wiping his forehead. Neville was bent double, wheezing and spluttering next to him.

"Remind me to kill Malfoy first thing tomorrow morning!" Harry hissed in anger. He took about five more minutes to breathe before he decided to continue their way back to their dormitories. "Let's go."

It wasn't going to be that simple though. They hadn't gone more than a dozen paces yet when a doorknob rattled, and something came shooting out of a classroom in front of them.

It was Peeves. He caught sight of them and gave a squeal of delight.

"Shut up, Peeves! Want me to turn you into a booger again?" Harry warns him.

"Oh, Little Lord. Didn't see you there, but oooh! Wandering the castle at midnight. Naughty, naughty, Little Lord, eh? Peeves want to join!"

He could feel the headache building up at the back of his neck. Getting on the bloody poltergeist's good side is as worse as his bad ones. His cooing voice is so loud it echoes within the entire vicinity of Hogwarts.

Their path was blocked by a door as they reached the end of the corridor. Worse, it was locked. They need to get away from Peeves or his noise will end them getting caught.

"This is it!" Ron moaned in despair as they pushed helplessly at the wooden door, "we're done for! This is the end."

They could hear footsteps, Filch running as fast as he could toward Peeves' cackling noises.

Leaving him with no choice, Harry twisted the bullring in his finger that bore his lordship of the school. It allows him to get through every ward and locks in any rooms including this one.

They heard a click and the door swung open— they piled through it, shut it quickly, and pressed their ears against the wooden panel, listening.

"Which way did they go, Peeves?" Filch's creaky voice was asking. "Quick, tell me."

"Say 'please.'"

"Don't mess with me, Peeves. Now, where did they go?"

"Shan't say nothing if you don't say please, though," says the poltergeist in his annoying singsong voice.

"All right— please."

"NOTHING! Hahaha! Told you I wouldn't say 'nothing' if you didn't say please! Haha! Haaaa!" and they heard the sound of Peeves whooshing away while the caretaker was cursing in rage.

Thank goodness for that ghost, Harry whispered to himself. "He thinks this door is locked," he said to the others. "I think we'll be okay for now— get off, Neville!" for the boy had been tugging on the sleeve of his bathrobe for the last minute. "What?"

Harry turned around— and saw, quite clearly, what Neville was whimpering all about. For a moment, he was sure he'd walked into a nightmare. This was way too much on top of everything that had happened so far to them.

It turns out, they weren't in a room, as he had supposed. They were in a corridor. The forbidden corridor on the third floor itself! And now, they knew why it was forbidden.

"Merlin! That thing is huge!" George exclaims both in fear and awe.

"Bloody hell!" Ron's pretty sure he got himself wet.

Five boys are looking straight into the eyes of a monstrous dog, a canine that filled the entire space between ceiling and floor. It has three heads. Three pairs of rolling, mad eyes; three snouts, twitching and quivering in their direction; three drooling mouths, saliva hanging in slippery ropes from yellowish fangs.

It was standing quite still, all six eyes staring at them, and Harry knew that the only reason they weren't already dead yet was that their sudden appearance had taken it by surprise, but it was quickly getting over that, there was no mistaking what those thunderous growls meant.

Harry groped for the doorknob— between Filch and death, he'd take Filch.

They fell backward— the young Potter Lord slammed the door shut, and they ran, they almost flew, back down the corridor. Filch must have hurried off to look for them somewhere else because they didn't see him anywhere, but they hardly cared— all they wanted to do was put as much distance as possible between them and that monster. They didn't stop running until they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady on the seventh floor.

"Oh, no…" Neville gasped.

Ron choked on his tears and is about to cry soon.

"Bloody Hell! The Fat Lady hasn't returned yet," says Fred who is now worried.

"We're stuck here until she gets back in the morning." George added as if spending the night outside the Gryffindor common rooms would be an exciting experience for them."

Sighing, Harry looked at the other boys who all seemed crestfallen. He knew he couldn't let them here by themselves until Filch catches them. And the fact that this was his idea in the first place, he has no choice but to take them all in.

"Urgh, fine," he groaned. Bill's going to kill him once he learns about his adventures. "You can stay in my quarters. This way."

Fred and George gaped at him, confused, while Ron felt relieved. As for Neville, well, it seems he'd never ever speak again for losing his breath from the whole time they were running.

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—∞·To be continued in the next chapter·∞—

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