Fischer Frey had a list.
A carefully curated, highly logical, utterly useless list.
It sat folded in his robe pocket, the parchment smudged from how many times he'd unfolded, reviewed, and angrily crumpled it again. At the top, written in perfectly symmetrical handwriting:
"Possible Suspects."
Fred and George Weasley were circled.
Twice.
Cael Vale was underlined with growing suspicion as he threatened him the day before so he was strongly suspicious of this name.
Lee Jordan had a question mark beside his name.
Even Malinda Crew was written in the margins, despite the growing evidence she'd had nothing to do with it.
Frey had interrogated half his housemates, listened in on every hallway whisper, even planted an Extendable Ear in the Gryffindor common room (which had been tragically eaten by a cat). But after a week of listening, questioning, and brooding in his glitter-scarred shame… he had nothing.
Nothing but a fading trail of feathers, a few enchanted rubber ducks still shouting obscenities in Goblin, and the distinct suspicion that someone was laughing at him from the shadows.
And worst of all?
No one took him seriously. Even though he was a prefect of the Slytherin
Not his classmates.
Not the professors.
Not even his own brother, Colby, who had offered no comfort beyond a raised eyebrow and the helpful suggestion: "Have you considered simply becoming less embarrassing?"
—
A week has passed
Slowly. Painfully. Infuriatingly filled with duck noises echoing in his memory.
By now, the rumors had started to die down. The reenactments stopped. The Great Hall had moved on to other scandals—like the Hufflepuff boy who accidentally turned his eyebrows into jellyfish, or that time a Charms spell backfired and made half a corridor sing sea shanties for an hour.
But Fischer hadn't forgotten.
The glitter had taken three showers, one Cleansing Charm, and half a jar of Madam Dupper's Anti-Sparkle Scrub to fully remove.
And the humiliation?
And specially The way Cassandra Vole looked at him , he was humiliated in front of his future wife and this Still clung to him like an invisible second skin.
—
Still, life at Hogwarts moved on.
Classes had resumed their usual rhythm.
He went to the library more often now—not to study so much as to sulk. Or investigate. Or pretend to do both while scribbling angry theories in the margins of his Arithmancy homework.
Occasionally, he'd spot Cael Vale at a distance.
That quiet first-year with the strange confidence and unreadable expression. Too calm. Too clever. And the one with more possibility of being the culprit
Frey watched him once at dinner—just watched—and Cael must've felt it, because the boy slowly turned, looked straight at him, and smiled.
A smile that said: You can try. But you'll never prove a thing.
Frey had looked away first.
—
Books. Lessons. Routine.
Evenings spent with his brother in the Slytherin common room, pretending he wasn't still furious. Quiet mornings in the library, where he sometimes overheard someone muttering "Twinkle Trap" before coughing awkwardly.
He tried to put it behind him.
Tried.
But every time someone chuckled under their breath as he passed…
Every time a duck quacked somewhere behind him…
Every time he saw Cael Vale or the Twins sitting innocently as if they were innocent …
And even if they were innocent he will get them for good
Frey's jaw tightened. His knuckles clenched.
He hadn't caught them yet.
But he would.
Eventually.
Probably.
Maybe.
…
Unless, of course, they really had gotten away with it.