Peeves's kazoo solo wasn't just loud—it was aggressively off-key, like he'd found the exact frequency to make your brain itch. Each sour note seemed to rattle the old glass windows and make the chandelier sway dangerously over the hall. The students below were already dodging the odd candle drip, but now they were also craning their necks, waiting to see if the whole thing would come down.
"Peeves! Unhand those students at once!" McGonagall's voice cut through the bedlam, but she had to shout to compete with the kazoo abuse. She looked like she was marching into a warzone, her robes already dusted in stray glitter and her bun starting to come loose.
Peeves dangled upside-down in midair, twisting lazily back and forth as if considering her order. "What if I don't, Minnie?"
A muscle in her jaw twitched. "Then I'll make you."
"Tempting…" Peeves grinned, eyes flashing, and snapped his fingers. The enchanted banner released its captives with all the subtlety of a guillotine rope being cut.
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle dropped like sacks of bricks, hitting the flagstones hard enough to make the people nearby wince. Goyle immediately started trying to stand, only to slip in a puddle of cabbage-smelling slime left from some earlier prank. Crabbe tried to help him up and ended up on his own back. Malfoy, however, sprang to his feet like a furious ferret, hair askew, screeching about "compensation" and "family influence."
As if on cue, the chandelier gave another ominous groan. A half-melted candle, loosened by all the swinging, fell and landed directly into the puddle of slime. There was a muffled whoomph—nothing dramatic, just enough to ignite a thin spurt of flames and a weird-smelling smoke.
The fire went out quickly thanks to a couple of quick-thinking prefects, but the smoke wasn't done. It turned a deep, unnatural purple, rolling out in low clouds across the floor. Wherever it touched exposed skin, it left behind shimmering, glittery handprints that stuck like paint.
Neville tripped and stumbled into Seamus, accidentally leaving two perfect purple prints on his face. Parvati had one across her forehead like a bizarre war paint. The effect was instant—screams, laughter, people trying to rub them off only to smear the glitter further.
Then there was a collective gasp. McGonagall, standing in the middle of the chaos, now had a single vivid violet handprint right across her cheek. She didn't even notice at first—until Peeves swooped down, pointed at her, and announced, "And the award for most fashionable professor goes to—"
The rest of his sentence was drowned in laughter. Even some of the Slytherins couldn't help snickering.
McGonagall's hand twitched toward her wand, and for a moment it looked like Peeves was about to be turned into a decorative wall ornament. But before she could say a word, Filch came stomping in from the side corridor, broom in one hand and a dented bucket in the other, looking like he'd just crawled through a glitter storm.
"WHAT is going on here?" His voice cracked on the 'what,' which rather ruined the intimidation effect. His hair was sticking up in all directions, with stubborn flecks of silver glitter still clinging like they'd developed squatters' rights.
Half the students tried to stifle laughter. The other half didn't even bother.
Filch's gaze swept the room like a predator seeking its favourite prey, and it locked onto Harry almost immediately. "Potter," he growled, drawing out the name like it physically hurt him. "I know you're behind this."
Harry threw his hands up. "Look, I didn't—"
And then, from somewhere above, there was the unmistakable creak of wood under too much weight. Every head tilted up in unison.
Suspended above the hall, wedged between two beams, was another bucket—this one full to the brim with the same ghastly green glitter sludge from earlier. It teetered, wobbled, and for a moment looked like it might settle. Then Peeves appeared out of thin air beside it, grinning like a lunatic, and tapped it once with a finger.
The bucket tipped.
Time seemed to slow as the entire room watched the cascade of sticky green glitter descend in a perfect arc. Filch, unfortunately, did not have the reflexes of a Seeker. It landed squarely on his head with a wet splat, running down his face and soaking into his clothes until he looked like some sort of cursed Christmas tree ornament.
There was dead silence. Even Peeves hovered, eyes wide with anticipation.
Filch's shoulders rose and fell with each heavy, glitter-filled breath. He wiped a hand across his face, smearing the sludge into something that vaguely resembled war paint, and fixed Harry with the kind of glare that promised long, agonising detentions.
Then Peeves broke the silence with a single, wheezy kazoo note. That was all it took—laughter exploded from every corner of the hall, bouncing off the high stone walls until it was almost deafening.
McGonagall's lips twitched like she was fighting a smile. The moment passed quickly, though, and she raised her wand, cleaning the air with a sharp flick. "Enough! Back to your dormitories!"
The crowd shuffled out, still snickering, leaving Filch dripping and muttering about quitting and taking up goat farming somewhere in the Highlands. Peeves zipped off before McGonagall could hex him, still tooting on his kazoo.
Ron sidled up to Harry as they left. "Best day ever."
Harry gave a weak smile. Something told him the chaos wasn't just over for the day—it was warming up.