C12: Twins and Quidditch
John earned a few rare points for Slytherin after impressing Professor Flitwick with a particularly crisp Wingardium Leviosa, reversing—if only slightly the house's slide in the standings.
Once classes were over, John began wandering the castle corridors.
Each time he passed a large tapestry, he paced before it three times, thinking intently about needing a training room.
To any reader familiar with the Harry Potter series, his behavior would be obvious.
Yes, he was searching for the Room of Requirement.
As John had said before, his memories were hazy at best. He recalled the entrance was across from a tapestry depicting trolls in tutus trying to learn ballet, but he couldn't recall the exact floor or orientation.
Luckily, Hogwarts didn't overflow with massive tapestries. When he finally passed the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy being clubbed by trolls on the seventh floor for the third time, a plain wooden door appeared on the wall opposite.
John stepped through. The room inside had rearranged itself into a dueling arena, with old training dummies standing stiffly in place.
A humanoid target stood near the far wall, its stuffing poking out from one shoulder. John's brow furrowed.
Dust hung thickly in the air, like it hadn't been used since Dumbledore's school days.
"Scourgify."
With a flick of his wand, dust and grime vanished from the floor and equipment. Only then did John relax.
The humanoid dummy was sturdier than it looked, and in the far corner rested a dark, curved wooden sword—heavier than anything he'd seen knights wield.
It was clearly meant for brute strength. John hefted it briefly before placing it back. He couldn't swing it yet, but he'd make this room his training ground for magic.
It was the perfect multi-use space.
Though he still had no offensive spells, John could hone his existing skills. His Disillusionment Charm had recently leveled up to Rank 2.
"Disillusionment!"
He waved his wand. A clear, watery shimmer spread across his skin like melting glass.
When he raised his arm, it blended almost entirely into the background.
"If I didn't know better," he muttered, "I'd say that's active camouflage."
With the spell in better form, night missions would be even easier.
Satisfied, he left the Room of Requirement. Since it was nearing curfew, he made his way to the trophy room, where he had another obligation.
As he entered, he pulled out a packet of cat treats, a thank-you gift from last time. Mrs. Norris was already there, eyeing him with suspicious affection.
"You've gained weight," he commented, lifting the feline. She felt heavier than usual.
He didn't know how Filch fed her before, but she'd definitely been malnourished. Now, her coat looked better. She was even licking her fur contentedly.
John, ever thoughtful, brought along a bottle of fur conditioner.
Filch eventually appeared, face scrunched up like he'd smelled spoiled durian. That probably was the case.
The stench hit John the moment he stepped outside. Not far down the corridor, he spotted two flaming heads of red hair sneaking about.
Fred and George Weasley, unmistakably.
John rolled his eyes, murmured "Disillusionment," and shadowed them, just close enough to hear.
"George, we could chuck the dungbombs into that cupboard."
"Not yet, Fred. John Wick's still in the trophy room—I don't want him caught in the blast."
"Fair point. What about Filch's office instead?"
"Perfect. Time that old buzzard gets a surprise."
Fred and George Weasley: Gryffindor's infamous mischief-makers and the bane of Argus Filch's existence. Their prank war had raged since first year.
John shivered at the thought of being caught in that mess. He liked a clean suit.
The twins reached Filch's office—door creaking slightly and lobbed two dungbombs inside.
John gagged as a sulfurous wave burst from within. He couldn't imagine where Filch would sleep tonight.
Inside, he spotted a drawer labeled Confiscated and Highly Dangerous. It overflowed with banned magical items.
Before he could investigate further, Filch's furious shout echoed from down the hall.
The twins dashed away. As they passed John, a piece of parchment slipped from Fred's robes.
John bent and picked it up, frowning at the blank page.
A white square of parchment… it tickled a memory.
"The Marauder's Map?"
Mrs. Norris's yowl came from behind. John quickly cast the Disillusionment Charm again and bolted in the opposite direction of the twins.
Filch, storming past, didn't see him. John grinned and slipped back to the dungeons.
Even under his blanket, he could smell the dungbombs clinging to his robes.
He unrolled the parchment and drew his wand.
"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."
Black ink immediately spidered across the parchment.
Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, purveyors of aids to magical mischief-makers, are proud to present… the Marauder's Map.
John's eyes scanned the names. He remembered Harry's father—James Potter had been one of them.
The parchment revealed an entire map of Hogwarts, complete with tiny, labeled footprints wandering the halls.
"Filch is still prowling. If he turns left here, he'll spot the twins."
The map showed secret passageways, moving staircases, and even Peeves causing chaos on the third floor.
To possess this map was to wield power.
Quirrell's name flickered on the map, far too near the Forbidden Forest for comfort.
"Looking for your master again?" John murmured.
But there was no sign of Voldemort, as he half-expected.
"Maybe the map doesn't show non-corporeal forms," he muttered, disappointed.
He watched as Professor McGonagall—his "Bat Director," as he called her—snuck up on a pair of kissing fifth-years behind a statue. He winced in sympathy.
"Prank's over."
He tapped the map. "Mischief managed."
The ink vanished. He slid the parchment under his pillow.
Night patrols just got a whole lot safer.
---
Good news and bad news came the next day.
The good news: John had found a new leisure activity beyond lessons and training—watching Harry Potter zoom around the Quidditch pitch like a golden retriever on espresso.
He had to admit—despite the glasses and gangly frame, Harry had some wicked dynamic vision.
The Golden Snitch, a walnut-sized, winged orb with near-invisible speed, zipped through a three-dimensional arena like it had a mind of its own.
John could barely follow it. Harry, on the other hand, could track and catch it.
A legacy passed down, maybe. He'd heard James Potter was a star Chaser in his day.
Still, watching Harry nearly fall off his broom three times was entertaining.
As Harry made another nose-dive toward the stands, Hermione's voice piped up beside him like a walking encyclopedia.
"In 1269, the Chief of the Wizards' Council, Barberus Bragge, released a Golden Snidget during a Quidditch match and offered 150 Galleons to the Seeker who caught it. That's why catching the Snitch earns 150 points."
John blinked.
"Later, the Snidget population declined rapidly due to overhunting, so it was replaced with a bewitched Golden Snitch. Same speed, no ethics violations."
Hermione's tone carried a proud little sniff. She glanced at John, eyes gleaming.
He gave her a lopsided grin.
Hermione had started treating him like a personal academic rival—ever since he earned more class points from Flitwick than she had.
Unfortunately, that was the bad news.
She wasn't letting it go.
John felt the invisible pressure of a whip behind his back—slow down, and he'd feel its sting.
He sighed.
The life of a top student, it seemed, came with fierce competition. Especially when that competition had frizzy hair, an answer for everything, and zero chill.
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