Dear readers,
First of all, thank you for all the feedback and crit, as well as for your patience. I'm sorry that updates are so few and far between but I was really stumped for a bit.
Writer's Block = Bad Thing!
Here is the next bit, where we hear from the miscreants themselves, specifically George.
I hope that you all enjoy,
and please let me know what you think!
Sincerely,
Chaos
~
Double, Double, Toil and Trouble
Chapter 3
~
It had been their own fault, really.
Their Potions lab journal and the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes book looked alike on purpose - as they often worked on both simultaneously when in class. In the hurly-burly to get good and gone for the hols either Fred or George – they were still arguing about that one - had dropped the wrong one on Snape's desk.
They had realized this only hours later. George had opened the book to a dog-eared page to check an ingredient for a candy that would dye the consumer in alternating stripes of color.
His scream of horror brought half of Gryffindor running.
Fred had been quick to pass it off as a joke he'd played on his brother, who needed three shots of contraband firewhiskey just to achieve minimal coherence.
"Snape. Die. Die. Die. Wrong book. Die. Die. Die."
Fred medicated himself with a like amount of firewhiskey and, once he stopped shaking so hard his teeth chattered, the two of them had sat down to formulate a plan. They could go to Snape and tell the truth - that they had handed in the wrong journal – but if the man were to see what they had been spending time on…
They visualized it.
It was traumatic for something hypothetical.
They could try to steal the journal back and replace it with the correct one but - as if being redheaded twins wasn't conspicuous enough - Gryffindors spent as little time as possible in the dungeons. Snape might give them detention for breathing incorrectly or deduct house points for sloppy posture. The man was a terror.
It thus fell to leverage. Amongst their clientele were all sorts from all four houses, many of who paid quite well and kept very quiet. What they needed was someone who owed them a favor, who was often about the dungeons, was sneaky and well practiced at general thievery.
Such as someone, who – just hypothetically, mind – had managed a trip to Knockturn Alley for certain ingredients in exchange for a percentage of net profit on a certain product. No matter who his father was the boy would be so deeply in hack that he might not see sunlight again until his thirtieth birthday.
So, they went and put it to him.
"That's blackmail!"
"Such an ugly word for it."
"We prefer 'extortion.' "
Still, the party in question fit the bill perfectly. A Slytherin, therefore eternally in the dungeons, with Snape as Head of House. A top potions student in his year, therefore much in the same area as their book. A crack little thief, as sneaky as fog, and possessed not only of a set of unequaled lock picks but an actual Hand of Glory.
"If I get it, I'll meet you on the platform with it. Snape's wards are top notch, not to mention all the damned locks I'll have to pick."
The hours passed as trunks were packed and taken down to the Great Hall and the students began to assemble for departure. The ride to the station was torture, with Tranquilatis charms needed to calm George's hyperventilating.
On the platform, there was no sign of their ferret. Indeed, he did not show until the last whistle sounded. Ginny came looking for them just as the boy passed them, pressing a note into Fred's hand without even a blink before getting aboard. George turned sheet-white and nearly went to his knees, Ginny catching him around the waist before he could hit the pavement.
Ginny helped George into the train just as the last whistle sounded, telling Fred to get the lead out and what is the matter with you? Fred boarded behind his brother and sister and lagged behind to read the note.
Dear Weasels:
Snape, fine. McGonagall, fine. But both at once? No chance. Not even Loki himself in an invisibility cloak with a Hand of Glory stuffed up his arse could manage it.
Did overhear Snape saying that he'd be grading the seventh years first. The NEWTS are in May and he told McGonagall that he wants to make sure that the Potions scores are up to his standard.
Make your peace with the Deity of your choice. You're screwed.
Sincerely,
D.
Fred opened a window, leant out and threw up his lunch.
The ride to London and then back home to the Burrow passed in a black and grey haze of terror. Over the next two days, their mother was at them constantly with Pepper-Up potion, herbal teas, tonics and all manner of remedies for myriad maladies, but nothing could blot out the images that appeared every time they closed their eyes.
They imagined Snape with his bottle of the legendary red ink and raven quill in hand. They could see him picking up the innocent-looking journal and opening the cover. The man's brows would curl, first in puzzlement, and then in fury as he turned the pages! Would he tear it to bits? Throw it in the fire?
Their hearts were pounding, sweat dampened their clothing, the occasionally locked themselves in the bathroom and wept.
In the end, Snape did the most horrible thing possible – proving once and for all that the man was an absolute unmitigated sadist. The owl arrived, with the Howler and the book, and a note for their parents.
Snape had loosed upon them The Wrath of Mum.
Banished to their room for an indefinite period of time, Fred and George considered their options.
Running away and joining the circus was discussed and held as a possibility if things did not pan out.
If no circus would take them, then they could broom it across the Channel and see if the French Foreign Legion – something the boys were very familiar with through contraband Muggle comic books – was recruiting.
After their mother had her say there was a definite appeal to being sent to the arse-end of the world under an assumed name. With Snape in the picture, it looked like salvation and grace! With Mum actually meeting and talking with Snape it was a sign of the coming Apocalypse. It was a pity that the French Foreign Legion could not post them to someplace safely out of the way – like Mars.
The boys settled back to await their fate, watching the world outside the window as if they would be executed at sunrise.
"Fred?"
"Hmm."
"What d'you think they're talking about?"
"Don't want to think about it. Just let me enjoy the last few hours of my too-short life."
The garden gnomes were still occasionally popping up to peer at the house, the ghoul had been quiet for the entire day.
"Fred?"
"Hmm?"
"What d'you think Mum with do if Snape cuts stroppy with her?"
Fred blinked. A smile lit his face. "Now that, brother mine, is something I'd give up tickets to the Cup to see."
~
TBC