Fred and George’s Invitation

"She actually cares about you and Harry," Vizet recalled from their last conversation in the library. "She asked me how she could change so that you two wouldn't find her annoying."

Ron looked up, startled. "She did?"

Vizet nodded. "I told her not to sound so condescending, but rather to be more tactful. Hermione is direct with her words, and that's not something she can easily change overnight. But this morning in Charms, I actually noticed she was trying. At first, she bluntly asked if you weren't paying attention to Flitwick's lesson. But then, realizing that might come across the wrong way, she tried to soften it by suggesting that maybe you were just nervous."

Ron clenched his fists, his ears turning red. "And I snapped at her before she could even finish…" He gritted his teeth. "I'm such a git!"

Harry sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "So… what do we do? Apologize?"

"Unless you want to lose a friend over something this petty," Vizet shrugged.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk…" Anthony Goldstein draped an arm over Vizet's shoulder. "It seems our Mr. Lovegood isn't just a top student — he's a peacekeeper too! Is there anything you can't do?"

"This was just a coincidence," Vizet chuckled. "I really don't have experience in this sort of thing. But if you ever need help with homework, that I can do."

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As the night deepened, the scent of roasted pumpkins grew stronger, drifting through the halls like a warm, spiced invitation.

Vizet was making his way toward the Great Hall when two familiar redheads intercepted him.

Before he could react, Fred and George each grabbed an arm and steered him toward a quieter corner of the castle.

"Alright, spill," Fred said in a hushed voice. "You've been spending a lot of time with Snape lately."

"And we were worried," George added, eyes narrowing playfully. "So we came to check if you've been… poisoned."

Vizet blinked. "Poisoned? What? No! He just asks me to help process potion ingredients."

Fred and George exchanged an exaggerated look of shock.

"Snape? Asking a student for help?" Fred gasped. "Merlin's beard! Next thing you'll tell me, he wears pink pajamas to bed!"

"This is serious, Fred," George said, solemnly shaking his head. "The man didn't even pick a Slytherin for the job. That's how you know the end of the world is near."

Vizet chuckled, shaking his head. "You two don't actually believe in that whole 'end of the world' nonsense, do you?"

Fred's expression turned eerily serious. "We have a real Seer in our midst, you know."

"Not Trelawney," George clarified. "A proper one. And their predictions always come true."

"Ahem — anyway," Fred coughed, waving it off. "Since you haven't been poisoned, let's get to the real reason we're here."

Vizet raised an eyebrow. "And what's that? Do you want me to introduce you to Snape so you can help process potion ingredients too?"

Fred recoiled as if the very idea physically pained him. "Absolutely not! We enjoy living, thank you very much."

George's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Actually, we have a brilliant venture in the works, and we'd like to invite you to join us."

Fred clapped his hands together. "Yes! George, you're a genius! What a fantastic idea!"

Vizet crossed his arms, intrigued. "I'd love to hear it first. I'm already juggling a packed schedule, so I need to know if it's something I can even manage."

Fred and George shared a knowing grin.

"Oh, it won't take much of your time," George assured him. "We're looking for a materials consultant."

"A what?" Vizet repeated, puzzled.

Fred snapped his fingers. "You heard us! Word on the Hufflepuff grapevine is that you're a wizard — no pun intended — at handling magical ingredients."

"Otherwise," George added, "Snape would never have picked a Ravenclaw to help him."

"That's how we knew you were special," Fred said with a smirk. "We called it back on the train, remember?"

Vizet let out a small laugh, slightly embarrassed. "And these 'materials' you need help with… they wouldn't happen to be for prank products, would they?"

George's grin widened. "Ah, so you do remember!"

Fred nudged Vizet playfully. "Come on, then! Let's show you what we've got planned!"

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The corridors of Hogwarts were growing quieter as most students had already made their way to the Great Hall for the Halloween feast.

But not Vizet.

Fred and George led him on a winding path through the castle, darting through shortcuts and dodging patrolling ghosts.

Eventually, they stopped before an unusual painting — a drum set painted in shades of deep red and black.

George glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then pulled out his wand and tapped the drums in a rhythmic sequence.

Dong-dong-dah!

The painted drumsticks struck the surface as if a ghostly hand had played them. The entire picture shimmered before shifting into a narrow wooden door.

Vizet's eyes widened. "So this is how you get in?"

"You know this place?" Fred and George exchanged surprised glances.

"Not exactly," Vizet admitted, stepping closer. "But I could sense the magic here. I just never knew how to open it."

Fred whistled. "Impressive. Now we really want you on board!"

With a mischievous grin, George pushed open the door, and the three of them slipped inside.

The hidden space was small — barely ten square meters. The air smelled of dried herbs, scorched wood, and something vaguely metallic.

Along the walls, several burlap sacks sat piled on top of each other, faintly rustling as if their contents had a life of their own.

Against the far wall stood an old wooden table, charcoal-black from years of wear, covered in pits and scratches.

Atop it, a collection of potion-making tools lay scattered — an aged cauldron, a stone mortar, a delicate herb scale, a medicine knife, glass vials, and a cabinet filled with labeled ingredients.

Fred rolled up his sleeves. "Alright! We're making fireworks to celebrate Halloween. If you think we're doing anything wrong, feel free to jump in."

Without hesitation, the twins began pulling ingredients from the sacks, measuring and grinding them with the ease of seasoned pranksters.

But Vizet frowned slightly, watching them work.

"Albizia japonica?" he remarked suddenly. "Are you trying to get the fireworks to burn gold?"

Fred and George both paused mid-motion.

"Yes!" George said, eyes lighting up. "But no matter what we do, the color isn't bright enough. Grinding it into powder helped, but it still fades too fast."

Vizet thought back to Snape's lessons. "Try adding Albizia japonica root in a ratio of one to twenty —"

"And two drops of valerian juice," he added after a brief pause. "That'll stabilize the Albizia's pigment and keep the gold from fading."

Fred and George exchanged looks of realization.

"Of course!" George smacked his forehead. "We thought about using Albizia julibrissin roots, but that always turned the color a murky yellow."

Vizet nodded. "That's exactly why valerian juice works — it keeps the pigments stable and prevents muddiness."

Fred's eyes gleamed with excitement. "I feel like we're about to make the best firework in Hogwarts history!"

"Then what are we waiting for?" George grinned. "Let's get to work!"

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Elsewhere in the Castle

Deep beneath Hogwarts, in the dungeons where torches flickered weakly against damp stone walls, Professor Quirrell stood trembling.

His usually timid expression had twisted into something more tortured — his face slick with sweat, his lips slightly parted in silent protest.

Behind him, a voice hissed like a whisper of death.

"Quirinus, let go of your consciousness. Surrender to me completely."

Quirrell clenched his fists. "B-but, Master… that isn't what you said before…"

"Are you questioning me?" Voldemort's voice was sharp, laced with irritation. "Do you wish to be discovered by Dumbledore?"

The very mention of the headmaster sent another shiver down Quirrell's spine.

"I…" He swallowed hard. "Master… are you certain he won't —?"

"After the troll is set loose, you will report it immediately. Distract them. Make them believe it is an accident."

Quirrell flinched as Voldemort's command rang in his ears. He felt the cold presence pressing against the back of his skull, felt the unseen force within him tightening its grip.

"Now, Quirinus — let go."

Quirrell's breathing grew ragged. He hesitated, his body stiffening as his mind wrestled against the inevitable.

And then, with a final, pained whisper, he closed his eyes.

"...Yes, Master."

Like a puppet on invisible strings, he raised his arms, his fingers curling into unnatural angles as they pointed toward the iron-barred cell before him.

A hulking silhouette loomed within — the troll.

Its dull, beady eyes barely registered Quirrell's presence. Its heavy breaths came in slow, laborious snorts.

Then Voldemort's voice came, cold as the grave.

"Ferox Dementis Mors!"

A sickly pulse of dark light shot from Quirrell's fingertips, sinking into the troll's thick skull.

The beast let out a violent, guttural roar, its massive body convulsing as if being torn apart from the inside.

The castle trembled.