Hogwarts Castle was quiet in the dead of night, with only the occasional flickering oil lamp drifting lazily between floors.
"That's Filch on patrol."
"I figured," Harold said, glancing at Fred beside him. "But are you seriously telling me you can get outside the castle without opening a single door?"
"George, sounds like we're being doubted."
"Then let's show our first-year what the Weasleys can do," George said, stepping in front of a painting.
Harold instinctively looked up. It was a landscape: endless wheat fields, herds of cows and sheep, and a lone barn.
George reached out and knocked three times on the bottom-left corner where the barn stood.
A man who hadn't been in the painting before suddenly appeared, muttering curses. He stomped to the barn, yanked open its doors, and just like that, the entire painting split down the middle like a doorway, revealing a pitch-black passage beyond.
"Fred, you go first," George said. The moment the words left his mouth, Fred dove in.
"What're you waiting for?" George grinned at Harold, gesturing dramatically.
Harold didn't hesitate. He stepped inside.
It was dark, but flat enough underfoot. Wand raised, Harold moved forward cautiously.
After about ten minutes, the tunnel angled upward into a staircase, and Fred was already there waiting. As Harold climbed up, Fred pushed open a trapdoor overhead.
Moonlight streamed in from above. Harold knew—they'd exited the castle.
"What are you waiting for? Go take a look!" George's cheerful voice rang behind him.
Harold emerged into a reasonably spacious room. By the silver-blue moonlight shining through the windows, he could make out lockers along the left wall and a bench in front of them.
"Quidditch changing room," Fred said, lifting a blue robe hanging nearby and glancing at it before putting it back. "Too bad it's Ravenclaw's."
"We've been trying to convince Wood to trade for this one," said George as he joined them. "But he refuses."
"Who knows? Maybe he's just too attached to our current one," George replied.
"Well? One Galleon for such a convenient secret passage—worth it, right?"
"A bit steep," Harold admitted, pushing open the door and looking out at the serene Quidditch pitch, "but fair."
"By the way, does Filch know about this tunnel?"
"He probably doesn't," Fred said, thinking it over. "Last time we used it was last year—exploring the Forbidden Forest."
"Hagrid caught us, and McGonagall gave us hell."
"But the passage was still here, untouched."
"So we figured Filch doesn't know."
"Or maybe he left it open to catch us in the act," George added. "He loves those kinds of traps."
Didn't sound super safe.
Harold frowned, suddenly less thrilled about that Galleon. But then again, Fred and George were talking about last year. No way Filch had been keeping watch for an entire year.
"If you're planning to check out the Forbidden Forest," Fred said as he reopened the trapdoor, "I'd advise coming back with us now."
"Even at night, Hagrid can find you in that forest," George added.
"Consider that a free tip."
With that, the two dropped back into the tunnel. They had their own plans and weren't tagging along with Harold tonight.
"I'll remember," Harold said. He hadn't planned on going into the forest anyway. Follow current novels on 𝗻𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹✦𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖✦𝓷𝓮𝓽
His reason for venturing out at night was simpler—to avoid Professor Sprout.
Whether it was coincidence or something more, every time Harold got near the Whomping Willow during the day, she'd show up before he could even try anything and chase him off.
Always with a "perfectly reasonable" excuse: dangerous area, off-limits to first-years. Nothing Harold could argue against.
So, he chose night. And enlisted the tunnel-savvy Weasley twins for help.
So far, everything had gone smoothly.
Harold stepped out of the changing room. Thick clouds blanketed the sky—only half of Hogwarts Castle basked in moonlight, the other half swallowed in darkness.
Still, it was bright enough to see.
He didn't bother hiding his movements and quickly reached the Whomping Willow.
At night, the Willow looked even more peaceful than during the day, standing still and silent, its bark glistening like silver frost in the moonlight.
But as if sensing Harold's presence, a few of its massive branches—each thick as a troll's thigh—suddenly shuddered.
The sheer force and weight radiating from them made Harold instinctively step back.
He picked up an egg-sized rock and hurled it at a barely visible knot on the trunk.
With a dull thunk, the once-agitated tree immediately fell still.
"Perfect." Harold glanced toward the nearby greenhouses. No sign of life.
Though lights still glowed inside, that was likely just to accommodate certain magical plants—not Professor Sprout herself.
Harold let out a breath of relief and pulled a wand from his bag.
This would be his first time harvesting a branch by hand. Normally, wandmakers made trades with Bowtruckles. But the Whomping Willow wasn't fond of those little guys, so Harold had to do it himself.
He climbed the tree quickly and found a good spot.
Following traditional wandmaker etiquette—never cutting from the trunk—Harold targeted a few of the thinner, hanging branches.
These were like a Devil's Snare's tendrils or a Mandrake's roots: built for offense. Taking one wouldn't harm the tree.
Once in position, he swung his wand sharply.
A slicing spell, often used for fabric—or pruning branches.
A screeching scrape sounded out as sparks flew from the branch.
Damn, it's tough, Harold thought, lips tightening. It was like cutting stone.
Still, the spell wasn't useless. If you looked closely, you could see a coin-sized gash.
Harold didn't pause. He cast again. Then again.
The branch finally gave way.
But at the same moment, the Whomping Willow began to stir.
Harold felt the trunk tremble under his feet.
And across the castle, a window suddenly lit up.
He didn't know if the sound of the cutting spell had alerted anyone—but he wasn't about to find out.
No hesitation—he slid down the trunk, grabbed the fallen branch, and darted into the shadowed base of the castle.