Cael had just returned to Gryffindor Tower, ready to collapse into bed after a long, grueling day of… well, doing absolutely nothing. He'd spent most of it napping under the tree near the Black Lake, and yet somehow, he felt more exhausted than if he'd run a marathon.
He didn't even make it past the fireplace before—
"CAEL!"
Three voices shouted in perfect unison.
He flinched like he'd been hexed. "WHAT?!"
Fred and George Weasley were seated like royalty on the common room couch, flanking Lee Jordan, who was grinning as if he'd just won the Quidditch World Cup.
"Sit," Fred commanded.
"Where've you been all day?" George added. "We've been searching for you everywhere!"
"Oh?" Cael arched a brow, lowering himself onto the chair opposite them with a healthy dose of suspicion. "And what, exactly, did you lot want with me?"
He already knew the answer. With these three, it would either be dangerous, illegal… or both.
"We're planning to sneak out," Lee said brightly.
Cael narrowed his eyes. "Sneak out of Hogwarts?"
Fred leaned forward. "We're going to Hogsmeade."
George leaned in too. "Second-years aren't allowed, obviously."
Lee grinned. "So we thought we'd find our own way out."
Cael blinked. "Right. Except there's no way out… other than the front gate, which is watched day and night by Filch."
"Exactly," George said, wagging a finger. "That's why we were searching for secret passages to Hogsmeade. We searched last year too—no luck."
Cael, of course, knew there were secret passages. But he played dumb. "And you're sure they even exist?"
Fred gasped dramatically. "My brother Bill said he used one to sneak off and meet his girlfriend back in his school days! And Nymphadora Tonks claimed she used one to visit Honeydukes whenever she craved sweets."
"So why haven't you found any?" Cael asked, playing along.
George sighed. "We tried. But Mum caught wind of it and made Bill swear not to tell. As for Tonks, she didn't trust us not to get the passage shut down if we were caught."
"Selfish girl," Lee muttered. "No wonder she's still single."
Fred waved a hand. "Doesn't matter. We'll find it ourselves soon enough."
Cael leaned back. "Alright then. Count me in."
Fred and George shared matching grins. But before they could launch into planning, Cael asked, "By the way, who's the Slytherin prefect? The boy, I mean."
George snorted. "Why? Got a secret crush?"
Lee leaned in, eyebrows wagging. "Oh no. Is this a forbidden romance?"
Fred dramatically shifted away from Cael. "Just so we're clear, I like girls. So behave."
Cael rolled his eyes. "Relax. He came up to me by the lake today, called me a Mudblood, and threatened me. I want to know who he is."
The room went silent.
Fred and George's smiles vanished.
"He what?" Fred growled.
"You should've hexed him in the face!" Lee added. "Or better—gone for the balls."
"You should tell McGonagall," George said firmly. "She'd take him down a peg."
Cael shook his head. "I don't care about the name-calling. But I do think he needs to be taught a lesson. Just enough to make him think twice before throwing that word around again."
He smiled. Slowly. Dangerously.
"How about… a prank?"
Fred sat up straighter. "Now you're speaking our language."
Lee unrolled a parchment already covered in wild scribbles, diagrams, and explosive words like BOOM and STINK.
Fred tapped the paper. "We call it… Operation Slimeball."
Cael looked at the sketch. Then back at them.
"Oh no," he said, grinning.
"Oh yes," said George.
Lee pointed to the first phase. "We wait until Frey's heading back to the Slytherin common room."
Fred continued, "Then—Step One: the Stink Mist. Rotten eggs plus sweaty troll."
"Step Two," George added, "he opens the door to escape—BAM! Bucket trap."
"Of what?" Cael asked, morbidly curious.
"All of it," Lee said proudly. "Itch powder. Pink feathers. Sticky glitter. And—best part—a rubber duck that sings 'Twinkle Twinkle' in Goblin. Off-key."
Cael burst out laughing. "That's evil."
"We're just getting started," Fred said, gleefully.
Lee pointed to a tiny drawing of Frey's head.
"Step Three: Fireworks explode above him, spelling out—wait for it—Frey Wets the Bed!"
George beamed. "In rainbow sparkles."
"And the fireworks shout it every five seconds," Fred added. "'Frey wets the bed! Frey wets the bed!'"
Cael was on the floor, wheezing. "That's horrible. I love it."
Fred tossed him a small box. "We just need a way to lure him to the hallway."
They all looked at Cael.
He smirked. "Easy. Fake love letter. From a beautiful girl."
"Yes!" they chorused.
Fred slapped his back. "You genius."
"You've got a trustworthy face," Lee said. Then added, "Punchable, but trustworthy."
George grinned. "We'll use Malinda Crew's name—seventh-year, gorgeous, popular. Perfect."
Cael gave a theatrical sigh. "Alright. So we've got a deal?"
Fred high-fived him. "Deal!"
"Tomorrow night," George said, "Frey meets karma."
Lee raised his Butterbeer. "To Operation Slimeball!"
Cael clinked bottles. "To complete and utter chaos."
The Next Night
The sun had just dipped below the horizon. Hogwarts was still.
Too still.
Fred, George, Lee, and Cael crouched behind a large suit of armor on the fifth-floor corridor near the Slytherin dorms.
Fred whispered, "Phase One: Set the bait."
Cael had already visited the Owlery earlier, sending off the chosen love letter—Lee's draft, as it sounded the most convincingly feminine.
From around the corner, Fischer Frey appeared—dressed to impress, robes crisp, hair slicked back.
He was practically glowing with self-confidence… for about three seconds.
As he stepped onto a specific tile—
PFFFFFT!
A cloud of green mist exploded in his face.
Frey shrieked. "WHAT IS THAT SMELL?! DEAD DRAGON FARTS?!"
He staggered toward the Slytherin common room, gagging. He yanked the door open—
SPLASH!
Down came the bucket. Feathers. Glitter. Itch powder.
And a shrill, squeaky voice screamed:
"TWINKLE TWINKLE!"
The rubber duck charm flopped onto his shoulder and sang again. Off-key. In Goblin.
Frey stood there, stunned, dripping in pink feathers and sparkles.
BOOM!
Fireworks exploded over his head.
"FREY WETS THE BED!" the letters declared.
Then, every five seconds:
"Frey wets the bed! Frey wets the bed! Frey wets the bed!"
Frey turned red. Then purple.
He tried casting a hex—but the itch powder made him spasm, and he poked himself in the eye with his wand.
Behind the armor, the boys were howling with laughter.
"He looks like an angry pink chicken!" George gasped.
"Covered in disco dust!" Fred choked out.
Lee pounded the floor. "The DUCK!"
And still, the duck sang.
"TWINKLE TWINKLE!"
Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Professor Snape.
He stopped dead in his tracks, taking in the glittery, feather-covered Frey—and the screaming duck on his shoulder.
Snape blinked. Once.
Twice.
Then, in the driest voice imaginable, "Mr. Frey… why are you glowing?"
Behind him, Slytherins had gathered to gawk. Some were hiding laughter.
Frey's eyes met Cassandra Vole's. She gave him a look of pure revulsion, as though he were a particularly moldy flobberworm.
His dignity crumbled.
Later That Night
Back in the Gryffindor common room, the four pranksters collapsed on the couch, laughing until their ribs hurt.
Fred wiped away a tear. "That was… beautiful."
George nodded. "Art."
Lee raised his Butterbeer. "To Cael. Our fearless avenger."
Cael raised his bottle with a grin. "To Operation Slimeball."
They clinked drinks, stolen from some unsuspecting seventh-year's stash.
And far below, deep in the dungeons, Fischer Frey was still scrubbing glitter out of his ears.
As the rubber duck, now half-buried in a towel, sang one final, haunting verse…
"Twwiiinnkkkllleee twiiiinnnkkkllleeeee…"