The secret passage to the Restricted Section had been sealed shut by cold stone and solidified spells.
It was a composite magic—part permanent sticking charm, part physical blockade. The surface left no gap or seam to work with, only a thick layer of dust bearing the marks of age.
The original plan crumbled the moment they touched the wall.
"What do we do now?"
George's voice was dry and strained, unnervingly loud in the dead silence of the corridor. His eyes darted between the sealed wall and Alan's calm profile, his palm slick with sweat where it gripped his wand.
"Professor Quirrell… what is he doing in there?"
No one had an answer. Yet the mere thought of the stammering professor, forever wrapped in his garlic-scented turban, possibly on the other side of this wall engaged in some unknown activity, sent a cold shiver crawling up their spines.
"Whatever he's doing, it's not something we can meddle with right now."
Alan's voice was firm, decisive, without hesitation. His mind, after only a moment of shock, was already racing, rebuilding their plan from scratch. That uncanny calmness settled George and Fred almost instantly.
"Change of plan."
Alan turned, the black of his eyes gleaming with cold reason in the dim light.
"We leave—immediately. But we can't just walk away. We need to create a diversion, draw Filch off, and then get into the library through the front doors."
"Cause a diversion?"
Fred's spirits flared to life at once, his frustration over the failed plan evaporating in an instant. A grin spread across his face, brimming with excitement.
"Now that we're good at!"
Alan wasted no words. He drew something from the inner pocket of his robes.
It was an ordinary-looking wooden yo-yo, smooth, undecorated, not even painted, carrying only the faint fragrance of raw timber.
He handed it to Fred.
"Take this. Go to the far east corridor on the fourth floor and toss it inside an empty suit of armor. Then come straight back here as fast as you can."
"What is it?"
Fred weighed it curiously in his palm, surprised by its heaviness.
"A Screaming Yo-Yo. I can activate it remotely once you return."
Alan's explanation was brief and clear.
Fred didn't ask further. A single exchanged glance between the twins was enough. He trusted Alan's plan.
Crouching low, footsteps light, Fred slipped away like a cat into the shadows at the far end of the corridor.
The waiting stretched unbearably long.
Hogwarts at night was alive—armor joints creaked faintly in the distance, some portrait muttered in its sleep, and a chill draft carried the damp smell of stone dust through the passageways.
George licked his lips nervously, ears straining at every tiny sound, dreading that Filch or Mrs. Norris would round the corner any second.
Only Alan stood motionless, relaxed, breathing steady, like a statue emptied of all emotion—just patiently waiting for the right moment.
Minutes later, rapid but muffled footsteps approached.
Fred was back.
His chest heaved, cheeks flushed from the run, but he made no sound. Instead, he gave Alan a crisp hand signal: Done.
Alan nodded. Without hesitation, he pulled out something smaller from another pocket.
A tiny wooden chip, no larger than a thumbnail. Carved into its surface were intricate micro-patterns, almost invisible to the naked eye.
He pressed a fingertip against a small raised dot in its center.
No sound. Nothing visible.
But the moment he pressed it, a terrifying noise erupted from the distant fourth-floor corridor.
It wasn't a sound any human could make.
It was shrill, piercing, and bone-deep—like a chorus of banshees clawing glass with their nails, mingled with the metallic shriek of tearing steel.
The noise ignored the walls, drilling straight into their eardrums, setting scalp and teeth on edge.
The silent castle of Hogwarts was jolted awake in an instant.
"Go!"
Alan barked in a low voice.
He and George grabbed Fred, still catching his breath, and sprinted for the library.
Their footsteps were swallowed by the hideous wail.
Sure enough, they hadn't gone twenty meters before the sound of furious shouting erupted behind them.
"Which blasted little monster this time?!"
It was Filch.
His angry roar, mingled with Mrs. Norris's shrill yowls, echoed as their footsteps hurried toward the fourth floor—the source of the screams.
The plan had worked flawlessly.
Perfect misdirection.
The three boys raced through the maze of corridors, excitement gleaming on their faces. Ahead, the familiar outline of the library loomed into view at the far end of the passage.
Yet just as they were about to round the final corner—slipping through the gap in security left by the caretaker's absence—a short figure appeared ahead of them.
Without warning. Without sound.
As if he had been standing there the entire time.
Fred's grin froze on his face.
George stumbled mid-stride, nearly crashing into the wall.
Alan's pupils contracted sharply.
It felt as though an invisible hand had clutched all three boys' hearts and dragged them into an icy abyss.
It was over.
They'd been caught in the act.
Standing before them was the Charms professor, Head of Ravenclaw House—Professor Filius Flitwick.
The diminutive professor stood atop a tall stack of books, just enough to peer over the corner's edge. Adjusting the tiny spectacles on his nose, their lenses reflected the faint moonlight streaming in through the window.
To their surprise, his gaze did not immediately fall on the three students, still panting and awkwardly frozen mid-motion from their abrupt stop.
Instead, he tilted his head, ears pricked, listening intently to the shrill, unrelenting wail still echoing from afar.
There was no trace of anger on his face, none of the stern authority one would expect from a professor catching students out after curfew.
In its place was something else—an overwhelming, almost overflowing scholarly curiosity.
The expression on his face was not that of someone hearing noise, but of a man savoring a complex, masterful symphony.
After several seconds, he finally turned his head, his eyes landing squarely on Alan.
Behind the gleam of his spectacles, those bright eyes shone with pure, untainted thirst for knowledge.
"Mr. Scott," his voice was sharp but clear, "if I'm not mistaken, this sound was your doing, wasn't it?"
"Uh… Professor—"
Alan's mind whirred at full speed, weighing the risks of honesty against the benefits of denial.
"No need to be nervous, no need."
Professor Flitwick waved his wand hand lightly, as though brushing away their fears, signaling them to relax.
"I'm simply… very curious."
He leaned forward slightly, his tone brimming with the excitement of a scholar encountering a brand-new subject.
"Tell me—how exactly did you achieve remote activation and sustained effect of the Sonorus-based enchantment on such a small device? As far as I know, that requires extremely delicate magical delay-work and carefully constructed energy circuits. Did you use runes?"
Professor Flitwick's insatiable pursuit of magical technique had, in that moment, completely overridden the fact that three students were sneaking about the castle in the middle of the night.
To him, they weren't troublemakers awaiting punishment and detention.
They were the creators of an ingenious magical invention—worthy of study and admiration.
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