"RECKON IT'LL WORK this time around?" asked Fred as he crouched over the top step of the Gryffindor tower's staircase, sprinkling the contents of a potion across the stairs.
Meanwhile, George, who had finished working the bottom steps, clapped his hands together in a concluding manner, then quickly rushed up the stairs two at a time and stood admiring his handiwork.
"Definitely. Better hurry back up, though, it should be entirely absorbed in seconds."
George crouched near the edge of the landing, his finger inches away from the floor, ready to test its surface, when a hiss sounded right behind him. Startled, he turned around to find Mrs Norris staring back at him, her incriminating glare upon the two of them. Another hiss had Fred and George exchanging looks of panic, their survival instincts set into motion; they both scattered away, darting in no particular direction, but no sooner than their feet made contact with the edge of the staircase, they were sent tumbling down the remaining steps, fooled by their own contraption.
George moaned at the pain in his back, clutching at his twisted ankle, and saw that Fred was holding his arm in pain, too.
"Yeah," said Fred with a groan, nevertheless an amused smile on his face, "I think it worked."
Hurried footsteps followed Mrs Norris's hisses and soon Filch was rounding the corner, giddily rushing towards them. A look of pure delight flashed across his face at the sight of them, only to be replaced with one of disappointment a moment later; the wretched old git knew that Fred and George were in no condition to be sent off to detention, and he had no other choice but to escort them to the Hospital Wing, moaning and complaining all the while.
Now, the hospital wing was nothing that George had expected. The place had never been this crowded before, and upon a second glance, George could see that... they were all girls. The whole place was loaded with girls. It looked like something out of a book on the Black Plague, but targeting only witches. Each and every one of them suffered the same unfortunate set of boils on their faces. He had to admit that it was a rather disgusting sight; some were the size of a snitch, filled with pus and threatening to pop at any second.
Fred, George and Filch stood at the entrance, waiting for Madam Pomfrey to come out of whatever corner she was buried in. They watched her dashing from one bed to another and in and out of the storage room to retrieve her healing potions and ointments.
"Well, how can I help you?" she asked breathlessly as soon as she had a moment of break.
"These two have fallen off the stairs, I think they've got some broken bones," explained Filch, not a shred of sympathy in his voice. "That could have very well been me if it weren't for my sweet Mrs Norris."
"Let me see that arm of yours, Mr Weasley." Madam Pomfrey began to cast some sort of spell on Fred's arm, humming along as she did so. "Hmm yes, that is indeed a broken arm. What about you?"
"I think I broke my ankle, it's throbbing." George winced at the pain when he accidentally put weight on it. Madam Pomfrey led them towards the remaining empty bed after escorting Filch out of the room. "Seems like you're the only lads in here. Been a busy week, it just suddenly started raining girls."
Madam Pomfrey started treating Fred's arm, placing some charms to mend the bones together when she stopped for a moment, her hands on her hips, to glare at the both of them. "I hope this wasn't one of your bright ideas..." she said, shaking her head.
"No, no, no, we promise— We could never, it wasn't us this time... Promise!" The twins answered frantically at the same time. The medi-witch looked at them one last time before she moved to George's ankle to perform the same charm on it.
"I have to fetch the Skele-Gro, I'll be just a moment," she announced before leaving the two on the bed to watch the girls around them groaning in disgust and pain.
"Ugh, not the Skele-Gro..." groaned George. "That stuff tastes like rot."
"I wonder what happened here..." George heard Fred mumble to himself. He wondered, too, as it was quite unusual. Was it some sort of disease spreading around witches? Or a curse? Maybe it was one of those girl things; a feud sparked by jealousy over clothes or dates or... whatnot (They had been getting quite frantic these past few days, he had to admit). One thing was sure, however—it had to be intentional... and despite how unfortunate the situation was, George couldn't help but be impressed by the sneakiness of the person behind this. He was lost in his thoughts when a sudden thud made him jump. It was a small pot of powder, previously put on the bedside table, that had now been scattered all over the floor. Nothing out of place, really. That is, if it hadn't begun to move a moment later; the specks of powder were now heading towards the exit in a bizarre wiggling pattern.
"What the..." George considered getting up and following it, but the throbbing in his ankle held him back in his place, and Madam Pomfrey was back either way, placing two mugs filled with the foul liquid next to them. His stomach churned at the smell.
"The poor girls, just around the time for the ball, too." As a sigh escaped her lips as she turned around to address one of the girls who kept squealing and covering her face in protest.
The grounds were covered with a white blanket of fresh snow that stretched around the entire castle. It was the day of the ball, and the twins decided to pass the time by throwing around a couple of snowballs with Harry and his friends, seeing as Quidditch was not an option this year.
Harry had some very interesting news to share with the two, and George only wished that he had told them sooner, though he couldn't quite blame Harry—if he were going to the ball with Luxanna Black, he would have taken it to the grave, too.
"And then?" George asked Harry, who was retelling the event while furiously squeezing clumps of snow together in his hands.
"Then she just sort of... threatened me," answered Harry.
"Threatened you?" asked Fred with a snort.
"Yeah, and then she took off — didn't let me get a word in!"
"Keep it up, Harry," quipped Fred, narrowly dodging another one of Harry's snowballs, "that anger is doing wonders for your sling!"
"Well, you just have to man up and tell her to piss off. You've got no other choice, way I see it," said George.
Harry looked positively enraged, Fred and George's quips doing nothing to ease the tension. "I did! I-I told her, I—" he stammered in his anger. "I can't find her, alright? I tried asking one of the Slytherin fifth years but they just shrugged me off; said they had no clue either."
Hermione was sitting on top of a rock, watching the scene with a humourless expression. "Harry's the champion," she said tersely, "so he has to have a date. Harry, I'm telling you again: you've got to go tell McGonagall, and soon, she'll arrange somebody for you to go with!"
"Yeah, Millicent Bulstrode, maybe," said Ron, rolling his eyes. "Bad luck mate. I'd rather take a dementor."
"There's nothing wrong with Millicent Bulstrode!" argued Hermione. "Maybe you should take her, Ron, seeing as you don't have a date either!"
This wasn't news to Fred or George; all the available girls kept on popping up in the Hospital Wing over the past week, each with a mysterious case of boils or carrying some contagious illnesses. It had been getting damn near impossible to get a date, even Lee was a victim of the situation. It was downright hazardous. Luckily for George, Alicia swooped in and asked him about a week ago.
Now they knew the reason. Fred and George exchanged a knowing look, with one word on their minds: Black.
"Yeah, and you do?" asked Ron, earning him a scoff from Hermione who closed the book she had been reading and abruptly took off, saying she needed to go and get ready for the evening.
"What, you need three hours?" Ron said to Hermione's back; George took that opportunity to punish him for his tactless remark by letting his next snowball hit him squarely on the side of the head.
Ginny gave a loud snort, then stepped in to take Ron's spot in the snowball fight; Ron was too busy chasing and pouting after Hermione to continue.
"I wonder why she asked Harry, though," said Ginny. "Black, I mean. I thought she hated his guts."
"Harry's a right catch, that's why," joked Fred.
"Maybe she actually fancies Harry," added George, just for the sake of Harry's reaction.
"Ooooo!"
"Not a chance," said Harry dismissively.
"Wise up, it's gotta be another one of her schemes," said Fred, returning some well-needed seriousness to the conversation. "I mean, the girls in the hospital? That's her doing, just to make sure you wouldn't have anybody to go with."
"That's the kind of vile, conniving thing she does, I told you," added George, "ruin everybody's fun for a chance at tormenting her new target."
"I'm not her target!" yelled Harry, and as his hand jerked, the snowball he was holding hit the tree behind George and set off an avalanche that swept a large section of snow across the path, burying George's boots. This was their cue to retreat back inside before Harry's temper flared out of control.
Fred and George's tempers were not for the weak either, not since McGonagall announced that she would be calling their parents. It was the waiting that was doing them in; they didn't know what to expect—Mum didn't say anything; not a letter, not a howler, not a word. By now, even a lifetime of detentions with Snape was starting to look inviting.
Fred had suggested doing something drastic, like moving to Norway, changing their identities and transferring to Durmstrang; they could sneak in on the ship when the foreign students were leaving, lay low and feed off kitchen scraps until the whole thing blew over. George had to refuse the plan, but only because they couldn't afford it.
They were trudging towards the Owlery, another dose of blackmail in the shape of a threatening envelope concealed safely in George's back pocket. The consequences of the recent events had George rethinking their strategies. He briefly recalled the one time that Black had caught them sneaking there under similar circumstances, only back then they did not have the additional looming threat that was the high possibility of their mother actually coming to Hogwarts to give them a proverbial lashing.
It was all that she-devil's fault... George thought to himself for what felt like the thousandth time that year. If Black hadn't prattled off to Rita Skeeter they would not have been in trouble right now, Lee, Ron and Harry might have had actual dates and all those poor girls in the hospital might have had their chance at a lovely evening. They deserved it.
But then again... Black didn't exactly lie to McGonagall that day, they did set up that Boggart with her in mind. Maybe if they were just a little more careful, maybe then...
"Do you think we went too far with that Boggart, mate?" said George, instantly regretting the words, but they were quicker than his thoughts, his mind having been a blundering mess these days.
"What?" asked Fred incredulously, coming to a halt in the middle of the staircase; George expected as much. Looking down, he could see his twin was wearing a frown, arms folded over his chest.
Fred sighed. "Right, I'll bite. What did we go too far with? The Boggart was bloody brilliant, she had it coming. Did you see her face?" he added as an afterthought.
"Yeah..." said George sheepishly as the image of Black's pale, frightened face came into view, making him shudder. He had never seen fear like that; actual honest-to-God fear. Fred looked at him like he had lost his mind, and for a second, George wondered if it was the case. Had he gone soft overnight?
His legs were aching from climbing these blasted steps, and suddenly he just wanted to get out of there, be done with it and not talk to Fred about this anymore. "Yeah, I just... I don't know."
"Do I need to remind you of—"
"Just forget about it."
"The Ageing Potion, hello?" Fred waved his hand exasperatedly. "Angelina?"
It was true, but... "Yeah, yeah, but you can't really say it wasn't fair play, can you?"
"Yeah I can!" snapped Fred, clearly growing annoyed with him by the second. "Because it wasn't! Nothing with her is fair play, alright? C'mon..." he said exasperatedly, his voice echoing through the empty tower, "we've been over this... That was the last time we get played like idiots. If you honestly care more about Black than Angelina, then I dunno what to say to you."
"Oh, so this is just about Angelina?" asked George, knowingly testing his brother's patience. "Because I specifically remember Angelina being the one who told us to drop it."
"Of course I can't just drop it. And no, it's not just about Angelina—are you dense? What about the potion? Those idiot rumours?"
"Yeah, but we already got her for that!" argued George, surprising even himself. Fred just shot him a bewildered look and continued his ascent in silence.
But even the bizzarity of the words coming out of his own mouth could not surprise him as much as the sight waiting for him round the corner to the Common Room.
It was Mum, she was standing outside of the portrait hole with Filch, who had obviously been sent to collect them. The expression on her face was nothing short of terrifying; the kind of look that would have made even You Know Who shiver.
"There they are!" exclaimed Filch greedily. His enthusiasm was rivalled only by George's own revulsion; if they were caught, Mum was sure to give him permission to hang them by the ankles in the dungeons.
"Run!"
Fred and George sprinted in the opposite direction, Mrs Norris hot on their tails. They practically leapt down a crowded stairway, knocking down several first years in the process, then dived into a cramped corridor where they took cover behind a dusty old tapestry. Trying to stifle his own heavy breathing, George inhaled a mouthful of dust, which made him cough in earnest; when he turned around to try to brush it off, he found Fred in a similar state, gasping for air, so out of breath that he had difficulty talking.
"Shit... All our stuff..." Fred panted. "All our stuff's in there."
"The dress robes..."
"There's nothing for it," said Fred in a resigned tone. "Mum's set up camp out there."
"You can't tell me you're planning to go like that," said George, pointing at Fred's robes, muddied by the snowball fight and now soaked with dust. "We'll be for it if McGonagall sees."
"Well, I can't just leave Angelina waiting," said Fred. A moment of silence passed before he spoke again, "What if she doesn't see?"
"Huh?"
"McGonagall. What if she doesn't see us come in?"
They had slipped out of the Gryffindor tower and ended up in the Quad Courtyard, as they crossed it a staff member appeared, forcing them to dive in a nearby bush. After a few seconds of holding their breaths, the coast was clear and they hurried up the staircase, careful not to make any sound, then to the courtyard where multiple Bouxbaton carriages sat under a thin veil of snow. They were now staring at the last obstacle which separated them from the night of a lifetime.
"Give me a boost, c'mon," George said to Fred.
Careful not to slip down the iced surface, George sprung one foot into a crevice in the wall, while the other used Fred's hands as a foothold. It was enough for him to grab onto the wall with both hands and fling his leg over it into a sitting position.
He then bent down to help Fred up, and after a few slippery close calls they were both at the top of the wall, exchanging high fives in triumph.
On their way down, they took use of one of the carriages that was situated directly beneath them. The roof swayed under George as he eased his weight onto it, and a blond, flushed boy peeked its head from the window, looking extremely puzzled.
"What is it, Antonio?" asked a different, quite giddy sounding voice from inside the carriage.
George murmured a 'Shhh' with his finger over his lips, only causing the blond's eyebrows to knit together tighter. Something told George, however, that he better business than to come running after them.
"Where have you been?!" whispered Angelina once they were safely inside. She waved away the students who were laughing at the state of them.
"You know... here and there," said Fred.
"Why are you in your school robes?" she asked, plucking a leaf out of Fred's hair.
"Why're you in dress robes?" countered Fred, "the invitation clearly said casual."
"Alicia and I have been waiting for a while, we were getting worried. What took you two so long?"
"Beauty takes time."
George craned to look for Alicia, but instead saw Harry, pushing his way through the crowd, quickly followed by Black, who looked more furious, and somehow more posh, than ever.
"Hey," came Alicia's voice from behind. She was dressed in a long purple dress, with matching gloves to the elbows, and her hair was tied up, but not in the usual way she did it for Quidditch.
"Hey," George replied.
"You scrub up well," she said, admiring the fresh holes in his robes, courtesy of the rose bushes outside of the courtyard.
"As do you."
Alicia offered him the drink she was holding and George obliged. "What are the chances of this having any alcohol in it?" he asked.
"I'd saaay... the same as me agreeing to be your date for the evening. So it's within the realm of possibilities," she said with a wink. George had never seen her wink before. Strangely feminine, but cute.
"You didn't," he said with a wide grin.
"I did," she replied with an even wider grin.
He eyed the drink in his hand, then brought it up to his nose and sniffed it. She had definitely slipped something into it.
"Are you trying to get me drunk?"
"Maybe," she said in a small, sly voice.
George laughed. "I think it's nice we get to go as friends, don't you? I definitely enjoy your company more than I would some random girl's."
"Ah, yeah. Yeah, me too." Alicia cleared her throat, looking back between him and the crowd of dancing students. "So, uh, why are you in your school robes?"
"Read Skeeter's latest scoop? McGonagall called my mum to school. She's out there right now, looking for me," explained George, sliding down the wall he was leaning on so as to appear smaller.
"Your mum's here? Right now?"
George nodded, his eyes trained at the far end of the room, expecting his mother to show up at any second. "We had to sneak in. Couldn't get our stuff from the Common Room, she and Filch were keeping guard in front."
Alicia clasped her palm over her mouth, sucking in a giggle. She seemed moderately tipsy already.
"We have got to get more of this stuff," announced George.
"Yeah, come on," Alicia whispered conspiratorially. She took him by the hand and led the way through the crowd at the edge of the dance floor.
At the very end of the room, near a large table stacked with refreshments, George once again spied Black and Harry, this time in a heated argument of some sort. He was waving his hands up furiously, and she was blocking his path in. George narrowed his eyes; he could almost make out their words...
"Here," Alicia said, making him flinch in surprise.
"Thanks."
"What is it?" she asked a moment later, craning her head for a better view, and George realised he was still staring at Black.
"Hmm? Nothing."
"So I was thinking, erm... I... George?"
"Can you, uh, wait here, just a second?" he said clumsily, thrusting the drink back into her arms.
"George!" she yelled after him, but his legs were already carrying him away.
For a moment there, it seemed to him that Black was crying. Then again, maybe it was just the light reflecting off her eyes. Or perhaps he just wished it were true, to make sense of his actions, to have a reasonable excuse for leaving Alicia— No, it was him, not Alicia. Except he didn't know how to explain what he was doing, or why, nor what he would even say to Black once he reached her.
The Weird Sisters concluded their closing act, and a burst of applause rippled throughout the ballroom. George could no longer hear Alicia calling after him as he staggered out of the wooden doors and into the biting cold.
He found her outside in a covered area of the garden. She was curled up on a bench; a stark contrast to the evening around her, and were it not for the lamp above spilling its light around her silhouette he might have thought her a ghost. As it was, he was rather unsure if she had even seen him at all, let alone cared to reply to his calling. He approached warily, as if treading around a sleeping monster, careful not to awaken her fury, and yet still curious to observe her in that foreign state.
Her hair was like a veil around her thin frame, obscuring her expression from him, and she had shrunk into herself beneath all the vanity that decorated her head so that she looked almost like a small child.
There was a strange and painful poignancy in the way she was resting her head on her knees which drew George forward, taking another step towards the girl and the bench she haunted, only to notice by the trembling of her shoulders that she was indeed crying. This image startled him, involuntarily bringing forth memories of that night of the party.
Perhaps it was the persistent contempt he carried for her, or simply an image bred of her own inhumane nature, but George had completely overlooked the fact that Black had once been a child, frail and vulnerable and, on some days, perhaps even happy. It was almost unfathomable to him.
"Black?"