"She actually cares a lot about you and Harry," Wyzett recalled, thinking back to their last conversation in the library. "She asked me how she could avoid making you two dislike her."
"I told her not to sound so high and mighty—maybe try to be a bit more tactful. Hermione really is direct, and it's not easy to change that overnight."
"Like in Charms class this morning—I could tell she was trying. At first, she bluntly asked if you weren't paying attention, but then she caught herself and changed it to ask if you were just nervous…"
Ron dropped his head, fists clenched tight, his voice thick with regret. "And then I went and cut her off… Merlin, I'm such a prat."
"So what should we do?" Harry looked troubled. "Should we apologize?"
"What else?" Wyzett shrugged. "Find her and talk it out—if you want a real friend, that's where you start."
"Tsk, tsk, tsk…" Anthony threw an arm around Wyzett's shoulder. "Look at you, Mr. Lovegood—fixing everyone's problems! Is there anything you can't do?"
"This time was just luck," Wyzett replied with a small smile. "I've got no experience with this sort of thing. You'd be better off asking me about homework!"
…
Night had fallen deep and rich, the scent of roasted pumpkin growing stronger as it drifted through the castle.
On his way to the Great Hall, Wyzett was suddenly intercepted by Fred and George.
They each hooked an arm through his and steered him into a quiet corner.
Once they were sure no one was around, Fred lowered his voice, "You've been getting awfully cozy with Snape lately, haven't you?"
George added, "We're worried he might've poisoned you, so we came to check."
Wyzett laughed. "Professor Snape hasn't done anything like that. He just has me help him process ingredients, that's all."
"Snape actually letting you help?" Fred's eyes widened. "Has Merlin traded his cotton socks for silk stockings?"
"I think it's even more serious than that…" George said gravely. "For him to pick a Ravenclaw instead of a Slytherin—must be the end of the world!"
Wyzett couldn't help but laugh. "You two actually believe in the end of the world?"
Fred nodded solemnly. "We've got a real Seer on our side—not like old Trelawney. Our prophecies actually come true!"
"Ahem… well, since you're not poisoned, let's get to business," George said, clearing his throat.
"What kind of business?" Wyzett asked, curious. "You want me to introduce you to Snape? Help you process ingredients?"
Fred shook his head quickly. "No way… we're not as tough as you! We'd never survive it."
A glint flashed in George's eyes. "We've got a grand project in the works, and we'd like to invite you to join us. Interested?"
Fred clapped George on the back. "Brilliant idea! Why didn't I think of that?"
"Maybe tell me what it is first?" Wyzett said cautiously. "I've got a lot on my plate these days—not sure I'll have time…"
"Even in Ravenclaw, you're the most hard-working bloke we've ever met," George said admiringly. "Actually, we want you to be our materials consultant."
"Materials consultant?" Wyzett frowned. "You mean you want me to help you process ingredients?"
Fred snapped his fingers. "That's it! I heard from some Hufflepuffs—you're a whiz at prepping materials."
"Otherwise, with Snape's personality, why would he ever ask a Ravenclaw for help? Must be your talent," George agreed.
"Exactly!" Fred nodded. "We could tell on the train—you're not ordinary."
Wyzett blushed. "So… what kind of materials? Ingredients for prank items?"
"See, George? I told you he'd remember!" Fred grinned. "That's right—we're making prank stuff! Come on, let's show you."
With the Halloween feast drawing near, most students had already headed to the Great Hall.
Fred and George led Wyzett through a maze of corridors, darting around corners until they stopped before a painting.
The painting showed a drum set. After checking the coast was clear, Fred and George drew their wands and tapped the drums.
The drum kit let out a "boom-boom-tap!" and shimmered, transforming into a narrow wooden door.
Wyzett stared. "So that's the trick?"
"You know about this place?" Fred and George gaped. "How'd you figure it out?"
Wyzett pointed at the door. "There's magic woven through it—I can sense it. I just didn't know you had to use the drums."
"That's impressive. Now I really want you on our team!" George grinned, ducking through the door.
Inside was a cramped space, barely large enough for three people.
Sacks were piled against the walls, stuffed with herbs and odd ingredients.
A battered, blackened worktable sat beneath the window, its surface pitted and scarred from countless experiments.
On it sat a cauldron, mortar and pestle, herb scales, cutting knives, a medicine cabinet, funnels, potion vials—everything you could possibly need.
"We're making fireworks for the celebration!" Fred rolled up his sleeves. "If you see us messing up, just say so."
Fred and George began pulling herbs from the sacks and prepping them with practiced ease.
"Mimosa flowers?" Wyzett asked suddenly. "Are you trying to make the fireworks gold?"
Both twins froze. "Yeah, but we've tried a bunch of ways—the color's never bright enough. Grinding them into powder works best so far."
Wyzett recalled something Snape had once mentioned. "Try adding mimosa root—one part root to twenty parts flower. And two drops of valerian juice. That should stabilize the color and keep it bright gold."
"So that's what we were missing—valerian juice!" George exclaimed. "We tried the root, but it always turned muddy yellow."
Wyzett smiled. "That's what the valerian's for—keeps it stable and stops it from going dull."
"This is gonna be the coolest firework ever!" Fred pumped his fist. "Let's get to it!"
"Quirinus, let go of your soul—completely let go!" Voldemort hissed, his voice cold as a grave. "If you don't want Dumbledore to notice, this spell must not be cast by you."
"But Master… that's not what you said before!" Quirrell wiped sweat from his brow, trembling.
"Are you really not afraid of being discovered? Quirinus, you're growing bold."
"Master… are you sure we won't be found out?"
"Once the troll is loose, you'll go and sound the alarm—tell everyone what happened!" Voldemort snapped, impatience creeping into his tone. "Now do it! Release your soul!"
Quirrell shuddered, then shut his eyes in agony. "Yes… Master!"
He went rigid, like a puppet on strings, his arm rising in a twisted gesture, pointing through the stone at the imprisoned troll.
Voldemort's voice echoed from the back of his head: "Animus Demens!"
A jet of inky black light shot into the troll's skull. The creature convulsed violently, its roar echoing through the dungeons—loud enough to shake the castle…
~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~
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