Since it was only halfway through lunch, many students were still in the Great Hall, chatting with friends and enjoying the delicious pork cutlets and roast potatoes. But suddenly, an overpowering stench began to waft in from outside.
The young wizards sitting closest to the doors were the first to suffer, nearly gagging as the smell hit them. Some of them barely managed to avoid vomiting onto their plates.
"Ugh... Who threw a Dungbomb in the corridor?!" a Gryffindor with a Prefect badge yelled out, his voice carrying across the hall.
His shout served as a warning for the others sitting deeper inside. Moments later, they too caught a whiff of the foul odor.
The entire hall erupted into chaos. Students abandoned their meals and scrambled to leave the hall, rushing outside in a desperate bid for fresh air. But once they were outside, they realized the stench was even stronger. Still, there was no turning back now. Gritting their teeth, they hurried toward their respective common rooms, trying to escape the pervasive smell.
Amid the confusion, Percy Weasley noticed something odd. His twin brothers, Fred and George, were conspicuously absent.
"Fred, George... it has to be you..." Percy muttered to himself, convinced he had figured out who was behind the chaos. Determined, he pushed through the crowd and made his way toward the Gryffindor common room, fuming with anger. "I must write to Mum!"
"My dear brother, what are you planning to tell Mum?"
Percy stopped in his tracks. Rounding the corner in front of him were two identical figures, blocking his path.
George chuckled, "Before you write that letter, can you tell us what exactly happened in the Great Hall? We were only gone for a moment, and now it’s so... lively."
"Don’t pretend like you don’t know what you’ve done," Percy snapped, his face red with frustration. "Throwing Dungbombs around the castle? You've affected nearly every student, and Gryffindor’s sure to lose loads of points because of this!"
"Wait, Percy," Fred interrupted, equally angry. "Even if you are our favorite brother, you can’t go around slandering us like that."
"Exactly," George added with a serious nod. "We were at the Quidditch Pitch the entire time. How could we have thrown Dungbombs in the castle?"
"Don’t try to make excuses," Percy began, but Fred cut him off.
"You can ask anyone, Percy. Every member of the Quidditch team can vouch for us," Fred insisted.
George sighed, looking disappointed. "Percy, I can’t believe you’d slander your own brothers just to take credit for something we didn’t do."
"I’ll definitely be writing to Mum about this," Fred added as they both turned to leave.
Percy watched them walk away, doubt creeping into his mind. Had he been wrong? Could Fred and George really have been innocent? He scratched his head, anxiety building at the thought that they might tell on him to their mother. He wanted to catch up with them and apologize, but he couldn’t muster the courage, so he just stood there, wringing his hands nervously.
Meanwhile, Fred and George had barely contained their laughter until they were safely out of sight. Once they were sure Percy couldn’t see them, they burst out laughing.
Fred took a deep breath, savoring the memory. "No wonder that special Dungbomb cost twenty Galleons. The smell was absolutely unmatched."
"Actually, it was nineteen Galleons and ten Sickles," George corrected with a grin. "And don’t forget about the large bag of Exploding Balloons."
"Oh, right, sorry. But I still don’t get why Kyle wanted those balloons. They pop at the slightest touch. They’re probably the weakest prank prop out there."
"Who knows?" George shrugged. "Maybe he has something else in mind for them."
The two continued walking, blending seamlessly into the chaotic crowd.
On their way, they spotted Kyle, and the three of them exchanged knowing glances without saying a word. A silent agreement passed between them to stay quiet about their involvement.
By the time Kyle returned to the common room, a large group had already gathered inside.
“It was the Slytherin Quidditch team—Rosier and Marcus Flint,” a senior said, lounging on a sofa. “They were fooling around with Dungbombs in an empty classroom on the second floor. The door blew off, and Peeves saw everything. He started shouting in the corridor, drawing a crowd. Now Rosier and the others have been dragged to Professor Snape’s office by Filch. But they’re claiming to be the victims."
Most of the students believed this explanation. After all, Rosier was a seventh-year, and even though he was known for causing trouble, it seemed highly unlikely that he’d lock himself in an abandoned classroom just to mess around with Dungbombs.
But it didn’t really matter to them.
Harris, sitting nearby, took a satisfied sip of pumpkin juice and said with a smirk, "Serves them right."
Someone in the crowd voiced a concern. "Do you think Professor Snape might suspect us?"
"So what if he does?" Harris replied nonchalantly. "We didn’t do anything. Besides, our conflict with Rosier and his lot was a week ago. Gryffindor is far more suspicious right now."
“It’s definitely Gryffindor!” Rosier said shakily, standing in the corner of the Potions Office.
Marcus and the others had already been taken away by Filch to be confined to their rooms, but Rosier had been left behind. He stood there, his face black and blue from bruises, looking utterly miserable.
Getting hit in the face with Dungbombs was one thing, but he was also freezing. When Filch had dragged him to the office, Professor Snape had sprayed him down three times with plain water, refusing to let him use any drying Charms. It was the only way to keep the stench from becoming bearable in the confined space of the Potions Office.
Unfortunately for Rosier, the office was located near the dungeon cells, which were naturally cold. And since it was still November, the wind cutting through the stone halls made it even worse. In no time, a thin layer of ice had formed on his soaked clothes, making the freezing sensation all the more unbearable.
“You don’t need to tell me that,” Snape replied icily, casting him a sharp look. “What I can’t fathom is how you could be so idiotic as to activate the "Nimbus 2000". Have you lent your brain to a troll?”
“Professor, I didn’t mean to turn it on,” Rosier stammered, his teeth chattering from the cold. “I was just... I was trying to hide it, but I didn’t realize Peeves was there...”
Rosier quickly explained the entire sequence of events, conveniently omitting some minor details and making himself out to be a responsible Slytherin captain, only concerned with protecting the honor of his house.
Snape listened silently, his expression unreadable. When Rosier finished, he was met with the same cold stare.
“Is what you said true?” Snape asked, his voice dripping with skepticism.
“It’s all true, Professor. I guarantee it,” Rosier answered firmly, trying his best to sound convincing.
Snape gave a slow, measured nod. “Very well. You’re not entirely brainless.”
He tossed a small bottle of potion at Rosier, who caught it with trembling hands.
“Now get out and find Filch,” Snape ordered without looking at him.
Rosier felt an overwhelming sense of relief, as if he had just been handed a great mercy. He immediately uncorked the bottle and gulped down its contents.
The moment the purple potion hit his throat, his face contorted into a grimace, turning an even more unpleasant shade of green. He doubled over, coughing violently as the foul taste overwhelmed him.
To be honest, it wasn’t much better than the Dungbombs he’d just been hit with.