This time, administering the medicine went surprisingly smoothly. Mikel took the potion bottle labeled with the correct number and drank it all at once without needing any prompting.
From his gradually contorted expression, it was obvious that the potion’s taste remained indescribably awful, yet Mikel didn’t let a single drop go to waste. Even after he finished, he smacked his lips a bit and sighed, “Good medicine.” Of course, it would have been more convincing if his expression had been a little less strained; as it was, his face looked almost bruised, his features scrunched together. Paired with his earlier comment, “Good medicine,” anyone unfamiliar with him might have mistaken him for some kind of poison tester.
Kyle struggled to understand what was going through Mikel's mind at that moment. Perhaps it was a blend of both pain and satisfaction.
As the weather warmed, the Quidditch season was already halfway through. Gryffindor held the lead with the most wins and points, closely followed by Hufflepuff. Slytherin, however, lagged far behind in third place. Ever since they were showered with Dungbombs in the last game, just the sight of a broomstick seemed to make them dry heave. But after the Christmas break, they gradually recovered and had been scoring points like mad in recent matches, fighting to close the gap with the top two.
Being Slytherin, though, they weren’t about to avoid underhanded tactics in their quest for victory. In a recent game, they even knocked Gryffindor Chaser Angelina off her broom.
“This isn’t over, Rosier,” Charlie growled as he escorted Angelina off the field. “We’ll see about this.”
Rosier merely shot Charlie a mocking look, as if entirely unfazed.
That evening, during dinner, more than twenty broomstick-shaped packages were dropped by owls onto the Slytherin table. Rosier’s face turned a vivid shade of green on the spot. Gryffindor students, led by Fred and George, loudly urged him to open the packages and enjoy the "surprise" they’d prepared.
The commotion quickly drew Professor Snape’s attention. Cloak billowing, he stormed over after learning the details from a Slytherin informant.
“What Dungbomb? I have no idea what you’re talking about, Professor,” Charlie said innocently. “They’re just fireworks we had specially made to congratulate the Slytherin team on their well-deserved victory in today’s match.”
“Just fireworks?” Snape’s tone was skeptical.
“Absolutely. Rosier is a worthy opponent. He won fair and square, so of course, we wanted to congratulate him,” Charlie grinned. “What, doesn’t Rosier like the gift?”
With his graduation approaching and plans to head off to Romania, Charlie was notably less anxious in the face of Snape than most students. Snape’s expression darkened, and he drew his wand, flicking it to open the packages in front of everyone. Sure enough, the packages contained nothing but fireworks. Once unwrapped, the golden-red fireworks shot toward the ceiling, where they exploded with a loud bang, spelling out the word “Victory” in blazing letters.
Despite finding no Dungbombs, Snape docked Gryffindor ten points—for creating a disturbance in the Great Hall and for disrespecting a professor. But Gryffindor took it in stride. With their house points reduced to single digits, they’d all but given up on winning the House Cup that year. They figured they’d need at least five hundred points at the term’s end to stand a chance, so they collectively decided: might as well party!
After all, if they were destined to lose, why not enjoy it? The Gryffindors were starting to see Hogwarts life in a new light—one filled with unexpected freedom and fun. Even Snape’s ten-point deduction, which was patently unfair, didn’t faze them in the slightest.
George, putting on an exaggeratedly earnest expression, even suggested, “I think disrespecting a professor is a pretty grave offense. You should really take thirty points from us, Professor.”
His reasoning was simple: if they couldn’t be at the top, they might as well aim for rock bottom.
Snape’s expression grew even darker.
He genuinely wanted to fulfill George’s request, but unfortunately, the Gryffindor hourglass held only a thin layer of sand—probably no more than twenty points. He couldn’t just drain them all. Professor McGonagall’s authority still needed to be respected. Besides, the potion ingredients list required the Deputy Headmistress’s signature, and he had to consider his own private stockroom too.
“You’re right, Mr. Weasley,” Snape said, giving George a sinister look. “But there’s no need to deduct points; a detention will do.”
He paused, letting the silence settle before continuing. “Tonight, you’ll report to the Potions classroom and clean all the old cauldrons by hand. No wands allowed. Filch will supervise to ensure you don’t miss a spot.”
George’s grin froze. He stood there in a daze even after Snape had left the Great Hall.
“By Merlin’s floral socks! Detention? For what?”
“Because he’s a professor,” Fred said, patting George’s shoulder with exaggerated sympathy. “Look on the bright side; the night will pass quickly.”
“You’ll help me, right?” George asked hopefully.
Fred fell silent, clearly reluctant.
At the prospect of detention, a brotherhood built over more than a decade suddenly seemed rather flimsy. George felt close to tears, as though the world had turned cold and grey.
Just as George was perfecting his tragic expression, Charlie gave him a disgruntled tap on the head.
“Oh, knock it off with the dramatics! Don’t think I don’t know you and Fred have a self-cleaning kit tucked away somewhere.”
The tears about to fall vanished instantly as George’s familiar grin returned, any trace of sorrow or frustration gone.
“You’re no fun, Charlie.”
As the two most frequent recipients of detentions, Fred and George had come prepared. The self-cleaning kit was a reliable tool they’d devised specifically to deal with “scrubbing” duties—especially for cauldrons.
“But really,” said Charlie, looking at some torn packaging left behind, “that trick of yours was brilliant. I didn’t expect Rosier to get so freaked out he’d drop his plate. What was that about?”
“That’s a secret,” George and Fred chimed in unison, sharing a mischievous wink.
Luckily, Charlie wasn’t the curious type. Satisfied with knowing that this strategy could rattle Slytherins, he didn’t press for details.