In the tight confines of the passage, Albert finished the incantation. "The Disillusionment Charm is now active on you, Fred. It should hold for a few hours, perhaps a little less, but the effect will deteriorate gradually.
Pay keen attention to the feeling around your edges, and if you start to feel the slightest shift or shimmer, that means the spell is beginning to fail. If, by some impossible twist of fate, you get apprehended, you know the code: I was never here, and you are acting alone."
"I'm not worried in the slightest," Fred declared, already adjusting to the odd, subtle sensation of feeling transparent. In his mind, Albert's willingness to use the charm on himself was the ultimate guarantee of its integrity. "If you have enough faith in this spell to use it on your own person during a high-risk operation, then it's good enough for me."
George, peering intently at the Marauder's Map, immediately issued a warning. "He's moving. Filch has been successfully roused. He's up and clearly intends to start his patrol route with the express purpose of capturing us."
"And what of the other patrols? Any professors detected nearby?" Albert pressed, his attention fixed not just on the prank, but on the greater objective of his task panel. The time spent dealing with Filch could potentially be used to complete his earlier mission of humiliating the caretaker, provided the timing was right and no other, more dangerous authority figures were present.
"Not a single professor detected yet, just the usual distant movement of the House ghosts," George confirmed, tracing the lines of the Map. "Filch is heading straight for the third-floor corridor. The optimal plan is for us to move up quickly to the fourth floor, deploy the distraction there to pull him away from the Restricted Section's path, and then circle back down once the confusion has settled."
After a few final, low-voiced agreements on the sequence of operations, the three conspirators began to move through the dark, silent castle.
On the third-floor corridor, Filch, wrapped tightly in a frayed, thick cloak against the chill, was in a truly foul mood. He had missed his target again. The sounds that had first disturbed his brief, light sleep—the subtle scraping and distant whispers—had vanished. The student, or students, who had dared to venture out at such an hour were no longer where he had first detected them, and even the annoying spectral nuisance, Peeves, was nowhere to be found.
They can't have escaped entirely, Filch thought grimly, his face contorted in a sneer of anticipation. They must still be nearby.
He heard a muffled clatter, followed by a hurried, almost panicked series of footsteps echoing from just around the corner.
That's him! Filch's heart pounded with malicious delight. The wretch was still close; he simply couldn't have vanished into thin air.
Grit gritted his teeth, raising his sputtering oil lamp higher and charging around the corner, desperate to catch the culprit in the act. As he rounded the bend, he caught a vanishing glimpse of what looked like a faint, shimmering disturbance in the air, quickly retreating up the next flight of stairs.
"You can't escape me this time, you pathetic little delinquent!" Filch muttered savagely, quickening his pace.
However, he had taken only a few more steps when he felt a sickening, yielding squish beneath his worn leather boot. He paused, lifting his foot and raising the lamp for illumination. His face immediately darkened to a dangerous crimson.
He had stepped squarely into a sizeable, glistening pile of Dung—a fresh, incredibly pungent Dungbomb.
Filch let out a sound somewhere between a choking cough and a wounded animal's growl. He furiously lifted the lamp, sweeping the beam rapidly across the corridor walls, hunting for the insolent, invisible scoundrel who had dared to pull such a revolting trick.
What Filch didn't know was that the person he sought—Fred, cloaked by Albert's charm—was pressed tightly into the deep, shadowed recess of a window archway only feet away, battling a silent, agonizing compulsion to burst into hysterical laughter. The Disillusionment Charm had worked flawlessly, preventing Filch from even registering the outline of the perpetrator, who had merely left the pungent trap and melted into the stone.
Filch didn't linger long to inspect the filth, because another, louder, and even more frantic sound echoed down the stairwell from the floor above: the unmistakable, cascading metallic CLANG of a suit of armor being violently toppled.
He's run upstairs! Filch's rage now eclipsed his disgust. Could there be a hidden passage near here that I don't know about?
"Impossible!" Filch roared, certain of his own superior knowledge of the castle's secret architecture. He furiously scraped his contaminated boot against the stone and chased after the sound, his voice rising in an angry, maniacal mutter that promised severe consequences. "You will not escape! I will definitely find you and hang you up by your thumbs until you are dead! I swear it!"
After Filch's frantic footsteps had faded into the distance, Fred finally allowed himself a quiet, convulsive shudder of silent relief and excitement. He was gasping for breath, the combination of terror, exertion, and suppressed laughter leaving him weak. He was in awe of the Disillusionment Charm; it was the ultimate tool for mischief, completely shielding him as he watched Filch's blind, predictable fury.
Meanwhile, Filch, having burst through a secret passage onto the fourth-floor corridor, arrived at the source of the metallic noise only to find a single helmet lying on the ground, rolling slightly. The rest of the suit of armor stood askew, but otherwise intact.
That was the sound… just the helmet, he realized.
As he moved toward the helmet, the air was suddenly thick with that familiar, sickeningly sweet, rotten-egg scent. A second Dungbomb, perfectly aimed, had detonated just a moment ago. This one had landed directly on his cloak. He knew instantly that he had been duped, pulled floor to floor by a meticulously crafted trail of noise and stench.
It has to be the Weasleys! he screamed internally. Or that wretched, invisible ghost!
"Peeves, I know you're behind this! You wretched poltergeist, come out here! I will have the Headmaster lock you in a jar for a month!" Filch shrieked, his face a terrifying shade of puce.
Fred, still cloaked in invisibility and now joined by his brother George near the stairwell, watched the eruption with pure elation. Framing Peeves! This was an unexpected bonus. Peeves was a chaotic force, and if he and Filch were now distracted fighting each other, their path to the library would be even clearer.
In a quiet corridor on the fifth floor, Albert glanced at his antique pocket watch, estimating the optimal moment to create the final distraction that would consolidate Filch's position. He raised his wand and produced a small, sharp cracking sound—the sound of wood splintering under pressure—and was just preparing to make his escape from the immediate vicinity when he heard a new, distinct set of footsteps approaching rapidly.
"Oh, bother," Albert muttered, his heart stuttering in his chest.
He instantly pressed his back flat against the cold stone of the corner, holding his breath and willing the Disillusionment Charm to hold firm.
A few tense seconds later, a pale, pulsing light appeared. Professor Bardbrod, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, emerged from the gloom, his deep purple traveling cloak swirling around him. He held his wand ready, his eyes scanning the corridor with unnerving stillness. His gaze swept over the precise spot where Albert was hidden, and lingered there for a fraction of a second too long.
"It's over," Albert thought, a wave of cold dread washing over him. He was not confident that his hastily cast, low-level charm could deceive a professional wizard, let alone a Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor, whose expertise lay in detection and counter-curses.
Suddenly, Filch's heavy, wheezing footsteps burst around the far corner.
"Professor! Professor, did you hear those delinquents?" Filch raged, his voice thick with anger and the smell of the Dungbomb. "They are out at night, and I swear there's more than one of them! That infernal poltergeist is helping them!"
Albert caught a whiff of the foul odor and was certain it was the work of the twins, who had executed the dung-bomb trajectory perfectly.
"A student out at night, you say?" Professor Bardbrod said, his voice level and dangerously calm. He glanced pointedly at Albert's concealed corner again, but his expression revealed nothing. "I haven't seen a soul. I only heard a sound of breaking wood and came to investigate. But, Mr. Filch, what exactly is the matter with your boots?"
"The Dungbomb! It was Peeves!" Filch sputtered, utterly distracted.
"Peeves," Bardbrod repeated, his tone meaningful, before he gave a slight, precise wave of his wand. The charm instantly cleaned the sticky, foul stains from Filch's boots and the bottom of his cloak.
"Oh, thank you, Professor," Filch mumbled, momentarily mollified.
"You're welcome. Now," Bardbrod continued, pointing down a different, much longer and more complicated corridor, "I suggest you search down that route, as the sounds seemed to be moving away quickly. I will check the other side of this hall. If it was a student, they cannot have traveled very far."
"Excellent plan, Professor! We must apprehend them tonight!" Filch, now reinvigorated and clean, charged off around the corner. Bardbrod watched him go, then turned and began walking in the opposite direction.
As he faded into the darkness, Albert distinctly heard a low, almost inaudible mutter that sounded unmistakably like: "Don't let it happen again, first-year."
Albert let out the breath he'd been holding. It wasn't a hallucination. Professor Bardbrod had seen him. He had seen through the charm, noted the position, and yet had deliberately covered for him, diverting Filch and issuing a subtle warning.
The shock of the escape quickly morphed into a profound, intense suspicion. Why would the DADA professor protect a rule-breaking first-year?
Did he truly see me? And why the warning?
The pieces clicked into place: Bardbrod was the only adult who had been close to the Room of Requirement earlier that night. Bardbrod was the only person with the skill level to bypass Albert's charm.
The Room of Requirement. Albert was now certain that the person occupying the secret room was the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. The question was, what was he doing in there?
The Change of Plans
Albert tiptoed away, heading to the rendezvous point with Fred and George, his mind racing with the strategic implications of Bardbrod's quiet intervention.
"You're alive!" George whispered, rushing toward him. "I was worried sick when I saw Professor Bardbrod show up on the Map! Did he see you? Did he see through the Disillusionment Charm?"
"Yes, he saw through it," Albert confirmed, his voice low and serious. "But he let me go. He diverted Filch and gave me a verbal warning as he walked away."
"What? Why on earth would he do that?" Fred asked, rushing into the hideout tunnel.
"We don't have time to discuss it now. Filch is still active, and Bardbrod is also on the move," Albert said, interrupting their questions. "Get the Disillusionment Charm on Fred, and then we are immediately going back to the seventh floor, to the Room of Requirement."
George quickly cast the charm on his twin. "The seventh floor? Why? We were supposed to hit the library!"
"We should be able to get in there now," Albert explained, his eyes fixed on the map. "Bardbrod has been patrolling since the moment he left that general area. If he was the one inside, the room should be vacant and ready to open for us. We need to confirm that theory and, if correct, we need a secure hiding place until Filch goes back to bed. The library can wait, but this confirmation cannot."
Fred and George exchanged a look that conveyed pure, electrified agreement. The mystery of a powerful professor using a legendary secret room was far more exciting than stealing a few books.
"Lead the way, Albert," Fred whispered, a genuine, excited grin splitting his face. "We're ready to see what kind of secret research Professor Bardbrod was conducting."