The aftermath of a Quidditch defeat is usually a somber affair, but for the residents of the Gryffindor boys' dormitory, the grief was surprisingly short-lived. The sound of clinking metal and muffled whispers filled the room as Fred, George, and Lee Jordan sat cross-legged on a bed, meticulously dividing a small mountain of silver Sickles and the occasional gold Galleon.
"I still can't believe it," George said, his face splitting into a wide, mischievous grin as he scooped his share into a leather pouch. "I heard Kenneth Towler looks like he's aged ten years. Apparently, the Slytherins actually came to collect their winnings, and they aren't exactly known for their flexible payment plans."
"He's lucky he's still got his shoes," Lee added, biting a Sickle to check its authenticity. "I heard he's down at least twenty Galleons. In student terms, that's practically a bankruptcy."
Albert, who was sitting at his desk applying a final layer of sealant to his new Swamp Digger gloves, didn't even look up. "A dozen, maybe fifteen. Don't exaggerate, Lee. It's a lot, but it's not 'sell your soul to a mountain troll' money."
"By the way," Fred said, leaning back against the bedpost. "You haven't told us. How much did you actually squeeze out of him? We saw the exchange in the stands. You looked like a loan shark collecting a debt."
"Five Galleons in profit," Albert said calmly. "Kenneth was smart. He realized that if he let the bet ride until the final whistle, he'd be owing me enough to buy a small cottage in Hogsmeade. He paid me a 'settlement fee' to walk away early."
"And you just... let him?" The twins asked in unison, their voices filled with genuine confusion. To them, leaving money on the table was a cardinal sin.
"Look at it this way," Albert said, finally setting his gloves down. "If I had insisted on the full payout, Kenneth would have had two choices: drop out of school to work in a dragon dung mine, or simply vanish. If he can't pay, he won't pay. By taking the settlement, I got my gold, and he stayed in business. Besides, what was I going to do if he defaulted? Take his school robes as collateral? I don't have a high enough 'Tailoring' level to fix the smell of desperation."
The room was silent for a beat before the trio erupted into laughter. The mental image of Albert trying to resell Kenneth Towler's secondhand, sweat-stained robes was enough to break the post-match tension.
"Fair point," George chuckled. "I suppose a living debtor is better than a vanished one."
"Exactly," Albert said, though his expression shifted slightly. "Though I'd be careful. Kenneth isn't the type to take a loss lying down. He's got a big mouth and a lot of contacts. If he can't get his money back, he'll try to get his pride back by causing trouble."
The trouble started sooner than expected. By the next morning, a poisonous rumor had begun to seep through the Gryffindor common room like a spilled potion. It wasn't just about the loss; it was about the why.
"They're saying Charlie's turned the team into a 'Family and Friends' club," Fred hissed that afternoon, finding Albert in the library. He looked ready to hex the nearest suit of armor. "They're claiming the only reason we're on the team is because we're Weasleys, and that the 'real talent' was left on the sidelines while we ruined our chances for the Cup."
The other players, including Angelina and Alicia, looked equally miserable. It's one thing to lose a game because the other side was better; it's another to be told you only got the job because of your last name.
"Is that what people think?" Albert asked, flipping a page in his book. "That Gryffindor is a meritocracy that suddenly failed?"
"They're saying we're the reason for the crushing defeat," George added, his voice low and dangerous. "Last year we were heroes. This year we're 'nepotism hires.' Why didn't they say this when we held the trophy?"
"Because success has many fathers, but failure is an orphan," Albert said, finally closing his book. "People need a scapegoat. It makes them feel better about being losers themselves. If you're really bothered by it, don't just sit here and mope. Go find out who's holding the megaphone."
"If I find out who started this," Fred gritted out, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his wand. "I'm going to give them a 'surprise' they'll be talking about until graduation."
It didn't take long for the twins to track the scent. By the next afternoon, they were back, and they looked like they had just swallowed a whole jar of Acid Pops.
"It's Marcus McLaggen," George announced, his voice dripping with venom. "A fifth-year. Apparently, he's Cormac's cousin, and he's just as much of a self-important prick. He was cut during the tryouts because Charlie said he had the teamwork skills of a Blast-Ended Skrewt."
"And Kenneth Towler?" Albert asked.
"Spot on," Fred said. "Kenneth has been whispering in the corners, 'confirming' the rumors. He's still bitter about the gold he lost, so he's trying to tank the team's reputation to spite Charlie."
"Marcus McLaggen," Albert mused. "The name sounds familiar. Didn't he try to bribe the Seeker last year to 'miss' a catch so he could take the spot?"
"That's the one," George said. "He's got a massive ego and the brains of a Flobberworm. He thinks the only reason he's not Captain is a conspiracy. He's been telling everyone that if he had been on the pitch, Flint would have been crying for his mother by halftime."
"So, what's the plan?" Albert asked, seeing the dark glint in Fred's eyes.
"I've already written to Mundungus," Fred whispered, leaning in so close that Albert could smell the gunpowder on his robes. "I'm going to buy a batch of 'Double-Strength Bowel-Blaster' laxatives. I'm thinking we spike the evening soup. Let the whole Great Hall see what a 'real' disaster looks like."
Albert's eyebrows shot up. "The whole hall? Fred, that's not a prank. That's a biological terror attack. If you make the entire school lose control of their dignity at the same time, the Professors won't just give you detention. They'll have you expelled and probably banned from every bathroom in Britain."
"But it would be legendary!" George argued, though he looked slightly less sure.
"It would be a disaster," Albert corrected. "You'd hit the innocent along with the guilty. You'd hit Professor McGonagall. Do you really want to be the reason the Head of Gryffindor has to flee the High Table in a panic? She'd hunt you down with a fury that would make Voldemort look like a house-elf."
The twins winced at the thought of a truly vengeful McGonagall.
"Target the individual, not the crowd," Albert suggested, his voice dropping to a cool, analytical tone. "If you want to silence McLaggen, you don't need a riot. You just need a spectacle. One person having a 'fragrant' incident is a comedy. A hundred people having one is a tragedy."
The twins shared a look—the silent communication they were famous for—and a slow, predatory grin spread across their faces.
"You're right, Albert," George said. "Precision is key."
That afternoon, Marcus McLaggen disappeared during his double Herbology session. He had been seen walking toward the Great Hall, looking smug and loudly complaining about "amateur broom-handling," when he suddenly seemed to lose his footing near a darkened alcove.
When he reappeared two hours later, he didn't look smug. He looked like he had seen the afterlife, and the afterlife was made of porcelain.
He was pale, his legs were trembling like jelly, and he was walking with a wide, awkward gait that suggested he was afraid of making any sudden movements. Every few minutes, his face would contort in a mask of pure agony, and he would break into a desperate, staggering sprint toward the nearest bathroom.
Fred and George were conveniently nearby, sitting on a stone bench and "studying." In reality, they were holding a camera Albert had lent them—an old wizarding model that captured moving images with a sharp, unforgiving clarity.
Click.
"Oh, look at that, Marcus!" Fred shouted as McLaggen scrambled past, clutching his stomach. "You're moving faster now than you ever did on a broom! Truly, your 'output' today is impressive!"
"Need a hand?" George asked, holding up a roll of parchment that looked suspiciously like toilet paper. "Or perhaps a cork?"
McLaggen didn't answer. He couldn't. He was too busy trying to keep his dignity from escaping through his trouser legs. He ducked into the boys' bathroom on the third floor, and the sound that followed was described by a passing Hufflepuff as "reminiscent of a dragon with a chest cold."
By dinner, the rumors about Charlie's leadership had vanished, replaced by the much more vivid and hilarious story of "McLaggen's Meltdown."
The twins had been thorough. They hadn't just spiked his pumpkin juice with a targeted dose of laxative; they had followed up by locking him in a specific stall and "suggesting" he stay there until he'd finished his business. They even managed to get a photo of him emerging from the bathroom, looking utterly defeated and clutching the wall for support.
"We're calling it the 'Fragrant Portrait' series," Fred told the table during dinner, passing around a moving photograph of McLaggen's desperate sprint.
The Great Hall was filled with the sound of muffled laughter. Even some of the Slytherins were snickering. There is a universal hilarity in a bully losing control of his bodily functions, and the "heavy taste" of the conversation didn't seem to bother anyone's appetite.
"I think he's learned his lesson," Albert said, watching McLaggen pick at a piece of dry toast at the far end of the table, looking like a ghost of his former self.
"Oh, he's learned it," George said, pocketing the camera. "And Kenneth Towler has gone very quiet too. It's hard to fan the flames of a rumor when everyone is too busy laughing at your partner-in-crime's digestive tract."
Albert smiled, returning to his meal. He had successfully diverted a school-wide catastrophe, helped his friends reclaim their honor, and all it had cost was a few drops of a potion and a little bit of "market research."
As he looked at his new Swamp Digger gloves, now perfectly sealed and ready for use, he realized that in Hogwarts, the most powerful tool wasn't always a wand. Sometimes, it was just knowing exactly how to turn a "bad smell" into a "good story." 🏰💩📸