HP: Hogwart's Journey

With a piercing shriek, Mr. Filch's furious voice echoed down the corridor: 

"Which blasted brat put dungbombs and stink pellets in my fireplace?!" 

Smacking his lips, Robert pondered the situation. The dungbombs probably wouldn't have been teleported away with the enchanted paper cranes, which meant… 

A figure covered head to toe in brown sludge appeared at the entrance to the Great Hall. 

Expressionless, Mr. Filch carried an aura so pungent it could repel even the most battle-hardened wizard. 

Step by step, he trudged toward the staff table. 

One step. 

Two steps. 

Three steps… 

Thud. 

A collective gasp rippled through the students as they stared in shock at the collapsed Mr. Filch, completely at a loss as to what had just happened. 

Professor McGonagall was the first to rush over. Wrinkling her nose at the overpowering stench, she waved her wand and promptly summoned two upper-year students. 

"Take him to the hospital wing." 

Robert, blending into the crowd, tugged at the twins and whispered, "Did you guys overdo it?" 

"Impossible!" Fred hissed back. "Dungbombs are just disgusting. And stink pellets—sure, they smell awful, but they're harmless!" 

Robert struggled to find the right expression. Harmless? Maybe. But potent enough to knock a man out cold? Apparently. 

And Mr. Filch was living proof. 

Seeing Robert's skeptical look, the twins hurried to defend themselves. 

"We swear, we only left one stink pellet!" 

Robert merely raised an eyebrow. Their credibility when it came to pranks was… questionable at best. 

In the end, the unfortunate Mr. Filch was carted off to the hospital wing. 

Madam Pomfrey, upon seeing his condition, was momentarily alarmed—thinking that perhaps the Hogwarts caretaker had been attacked. But after a thorough examination, she came to a rather exasperated conclusion. 

"Wait… so he passed out not because of any actual harm, but because he was furious?" Fred gawked. 

"Turns out," Madam Pomfrey explained, "Mr. Filch had just taken a bath, put on fresh clothes, even used men's cologne—only to step into his fireplace and get doused in dungbombs. The sheer indignation of it all must have overwhelmed him." 

Fred was stunned. "Wait, wait, wait… Filch wears cologne?" 

Robert's lips twitched. Something about this felt… significant. 

And soon, they found out exactly why. 

Because Mr. Filch had been on his way to a date. 

Yes. A date. 

He had gone through all that effort to make himself presentable for a mysterious woman in Hogsmeade, hoping for a pleasant evening together. 

Instead, he was lying unconscious in the hospital wing, reeking of stink pellets and dungbombs. The stench, according to Madam Pomfrey, would take days to fully dissipate. 

"…I think we went too far," Robert muttered nervously. 

"That was Filch's love life on the line," George added, his voice tinged with guilt. 

Fred, however, shook his head resolutely. "We take this to our graves. McGonagall must never find out." 

A voice, crisp and unmistakably sharp, cut through the air. 

"Find out what, Mr. Weasley?" 

The three of them stiffened, their bodies turning rigid. Slowly, they turned to find Professor McGonagall standing behind them, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. 

They lowered their heads at once, avoiding eye contact. 

"George. Fred, Mr. Leslie," she said, voice clipped, "my office. Now." 

The trio shuffled behind her, exchanging nervous glances. 

Once inside, Professor McGonagall's gaze swept over them like a hawk. 

"So," she began, "you set off dungbombs and stink pellets in Mr. Filch's room, causing him to lose consciousness?" She looked genuinely incredulous. "Exactly how many stink pellets did you use?" 

Fred shrank back. "Well… technically, we used three dungbombs and one stink pellet." 

George quickly added, "We knew the smell would be bad, so we never put more than one stink pellet in the same spot." 

McGonagall narrowed her eyes. "And yet, somehow, Mr. Filch fainted." 

Robert, sensing the professor's gaze shift to him, offered a sheepish smile. "Um… Professor, you know I never buy dungbombs or stink pellets." 

McGonagall's expression remained unreadable. 

"…I just, uh… put a little bit of 'Super Slick Hair Tonic' on his doorknob…" 

Her eyes sharpened. "You did what?" 

Robert coughed. "It's a hair treatment… extremely slippery… makes things a bit… hard to grab…" 

The twins shot him twin looks of admiration. 

McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. "So… because he couldn't open his door, he ended up inhaling the stink pellet's fumes for far too long… and that's why he fainted?" 

For a second, Robert thought he saw the corner of her lips twitch. 

After a long silence, McGonagall let out a heavy sigh. "Very well. Given the severity of your actions…" She hesitated, then seemed to give up on trying to describe it altogether. "For the duration of Mr. Filch's recovery, you three will be responsible for night patrols." 

"WHAT?!" 

Her expression was firm. "Every floor must be checked before you are allowed to go to bed. Consider it punishment for your… mischief." 

The moment they left her office, Fred groaned. "She's really mad. She actually gave us night patrol duty." 

"Night wandering is our specialty," George muttered. "But night patrolling?" They sighed in unison. 

Robert looked utterly dejected. "All I did was apply a little hair tonic…" 

Before he could finish his thought, an angry voice suddenly called out. 

"LESLIE!" 

He froze. Instinctively, his first thought was to run. 

Unfortunately, the Weasley twins were right behind him, blocking his escape. 

Slowly, he turned to face the furious witch before him. 

"Uh… good evening, Head of House?" he greeted weakly. 

Professor Sprout did not look amused. 

"No, Mr. Leslie. It is not a good evening," she said curtly. "Earlier today, Miss Barbara wanted to clear up her acne. I told her she could use Bubotuber pus for the job. Then, not long after, I received a report that my student had landed Mr. Filch in the hospital wing with a prank." 

Robert swallowed. This was not heading in a good direction. 

"Now," Sprout continued, her tone deceptively calm, "Miss Barbara—thanks to an unfortunate mishap—ended up drenched in Bubotuber pus." She smiled sweetly. "So instead of worrying about acne, she now has to worry about her entire face healing before the term ends." 

Robert gulped. 

"And so, Mr. Leslie," Sprout finished, her smile now resembling a predator's grin, "I'm sure you'd be delighted to help me collect every last drop of Bubotuber pus as punishment, wouldn't you?" 

(End of Chapter)