"I think we need to seriously reassess our strategy, George."
"I couldn't agree more, Fred. When the opposition starts ignoring all the unwritten rules—by which I mean, when they start showing up with those long-tailed, glass-shattering scream machines—the entire game balance goes straight out the window."
In a secret, abandoned classroom, the Weasley twins stood in front of their own hand-scrawled battlefield analysis diagram on the wall, pointing and gesturing dramatically.
Two stick figures represented them. Opposite were two more stick figures, each crowned with a crude doodle of a dog with a forked tail. Wavy sound lines and a shattered wine glass hovered nearby for dramatic effect.
"Swallow-tailed dogs," Fred said, arms crossed, tone grave.
"Two filthy Slytherins, one each! That shriek of theirs is literal ear murder! It's not about damage—it's sustained psychological warfare!"
"Exactly!" George nodded vigorously, mimicking someone tormented by noise, hands clamped over his ears.
"You're in the middle of concentrating on a complicated Binding Charm, and suddenly—'AWOoooOO!!'—a piercing, Boggart-scaring screech drills straight into your skull!"
"Your train of thought snaps—crack!—like a dry twig. Then the other bastard's Disarming Charm sails right through while you're grimacing and clutching your head!"
"We're like two trolls trying to solve calculus in the middle of a symphony orchestra!" Fred summed up with righteous fury.
"Humiliating! The Weasley Brothers' legendary combo chain—defeated by two walking noise machines!" George thumped his chest in despair.
They fell silent for a moment, both rubbing their chins in perfect sync amid the damp air.
"Rules," Fred said at last, eyes fixed on the doodled "magical creature" section of the diagram.
"Supplementary Rule Seven, revised by Professor Viktor and Professor McGonagall: No carrying or commanding magical creatures rated above 3X in duelling practice or matches."
"Swallow-tailed dogs? Officially 3X, sure—but in terms of 'causing chaos' and 'noise pollution,' they're straight-up 5X material! They exploited the breeding-permission loophole and brought sonic artillery to the battlefield."
"And we," George continued, tracing dramatic shapes in the air with his finger,
"need a… partner. One that doesn't technically violate the letter of the rules—we are, after all, the proud architects of rule improvement, we have standards—yet can effectively counter sonic assault… or even deliver overwhelming 'silence' superiority."
"Partner," Fred repeated, eyes beginning to gleam.
"Can't exceed 3X. Bowtruckle? Limited strategic value unless the opponent plans to chop up the platform."
"Niffler? Might strip the enemy's wand gems clean off… but it'll probably empty our pockets first."
"Augurey? Comes with its own ominous BGM, but we might lose to our own depression before the match even starts…"
"Kneazle?" George suggested. "Sharp senses, might detect malice early, could disrupt the dogs…"
"But not decisive enough," Fred shook his head.
"We need something… elegantly Weasley. Something jaw-dropping. Something that'll have Snape pointing furiously at the rulebook and still coming up empty-handed…"
Their gazes locked in mid-air. You could practically hear the electric crackle.
Almost simultaneously, they whipped their heads toward the corner—behind a pile of old cauldrons.
Nothing was there… but their minds had clearly jumped somewhere else.
"Wait a second…" Fred said slowly, words accelerating.
"The rule specifies creatures with official ratings, right? Based on Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them and Ministry classifications…"
George's eyes went wide as saucers, seamlessly picking up the thread.
"And some beings… might not even be in that book at all! Not in any standard Ministry category! Because… they're completely unique!"
"Unique!" Fred snapped his fingers, voice rising with excitement.
"Professor Viktor said it himself! In the Great Hall! In front of everyone! 'He is a one-of-a-kind existence in the magical world; his form and true nature are still under observation and study'!"
"So!" George leapt to his feet as if a cartoon lightbulb had actually popped above his head, glowing golden.
"He has no official rating! Not 3X, not 5X—he's an X! Unknown! Unclassified!"
"The rules restrict 'known-rated magical creatures'!" Fred jumped up too, high-fiving George in mid-air.
"But for a 'unique, unrated, professor-certified special entity'… there's no explicit prohibition!"
"Not carrying!" George corrected, flashing that signature Weasley grin—equal parts sly and innocent.
"Inviting! Collaborating! This distinguished being has developed a keen academic interest in our duelling artistry and has graciously volunteered to participate, offering valuable case studies for the advancement of magical duelling diversity!"
"Oh, George, you're absolutely right!" Fred clutched his chest in mock emotion.
"We're providing a practical platform for scholarly research! What a noble cause!"
They could no longer contain themselves—both burst into muffled, gleeful laughter.
Fred quickly pulled out the familiar, slightly worn square of old parchment from his robes.
"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good!"
Ink lines raced across the surface, sketching out every corner of Hogwarts and the tiny moving dots within.
Their fingers darted across the Marauder's Map—Gryffindor Tower, Great Hall, corridors.
"Where's our magnificent, unrated big brother…?" George muttered.
"Found him!" Fred's finger froze over a spot on the eighth-floor corridor. "Look—he's lingering right there… Tom always has very particular opinions about that tapestry and that vase."
"Action?"
"Immediate action!"
Like twin red whirlwinds, they tore out of their secret base.
Guided by the Map and years of expert night-time sneaking, they dodged every patrol flawlessly.
They sprinted straight to the eighth-floor corridor and the tapestry of the giant clubbing Barnabas the Barmy.
Just as they rounded the final corner, panting, they peeked out—and immediately froze, breath caught in their throats.
Their target—the very big brother who'd already helped them steal the show multiple times—was right there.
Currently displaying the exact sneaky, "up-to-no-good" posture they knew all too well.
Tom held a torch aloft, tiptoeing cat-style toward the wall opposite the tapestry.
Ears pricked. Head swivelling left and right in exaggerated caution.
Once certain the corridor was empty, a positively devious grin spread across his face—whiskers curling upward in smug satisfaction.
Without hesitation, he began to pace slowly back and forth in front of the blank stretch of stone wall.
Not a straight line—something rhythmic, deliberate. Eyes locked on the wall.
Above his head floated a little thought-cloud. Inside it: a massive room stuffed with every imaginable (and unimaginable) object.
One lap… two… three…
Fred and George stared, mouths falling open, pinching each other's arms furiously in silent, frantic eye-conversation.
"What the hell is the boss doing?!"
"No idea! But it looks insanely cool!"
The instant the third lap finished, something astonishing happened.
The smooth stone wall shimmered. A door-shaped outline appeared silently—then sharpened, solidified.
A heavy, polished wooden door simply… existed. Right in front of Tom.
"Merlin's sodding beard…" George breathed, barely audible.
Tom seemed entirely unfazed. He flicked his tail in satisfaction, reached up with a paw, hooked the handle—and prepared to push.
The moment he was about to vanish inside, the twins could hold back no longer.
They leapt from cover and hissed in unison:
"Boss Tom!"
"MROWWW!!!"
The shout was devastating.
Tom—mid-enjoyment of his secret lair—jolted like he'd been electrocuted.
Fur exploded outward in a perfect sphere of panic.
The torch flew from his paw, spinning wildly through the air in a dramatic series of flips.
Somehow—miraculously—he caught it mid-spin.
Only after regaining the torch did he realise who'd scared him: the Weasley twins.
He shot them a murderous glare.
But the twins were staring in wide-eyed horror—not at his face, but at his paw.
"Boss… boss… your hand."
Tom followed their pointing fingers.
He was gripping the lit end of the torch.
Smoke was already curling up from his paw pad.
A heartbeat later—delayed agony hit like lightning.
Tom let out a blood-curdling, pitch-shifted yowl of pure torment and hurled the "torch" away like it was cursed.
He thrust the unfortunate paw to his mouth, cheeks puffed, blowing frantically—"Fwoosh! Fwoosh!"—on the scorched pads.
The edges were bright red, already swelling. A few front whiskers had curled from the heat.
"Water! Water now!" Fred yelled.
He transfigured a bathtub out of thin air. George simultaneously cast Aguamenti.
"HSSSS—" A furious hiss. Tom's entire face scrunched up, whiskers quivering violently.
But the cool rush finally smothered the burning pain. He let out a long, shaky exhale.
Once the worst had passed, he turned—slowly—toward the culprits.
In one fluid leap he pounced. Left paw, right paw—two crisp, wind-whistling slaps—dead-centre on Fred's and George's foreheads.
"Ow!"
"Ow ow ow!"
Before they could even rub the stinging spots, Tom had already regained composure.
He glanced warily around once more—then delivered one precise kick to each twin's backside, launching them straight through the open door.
With both troublemakers safely inside, he dusted his paws in satisfaction. Tail hooked the handle. The door closed silently behind them—and vanished, as though it had never been.
Inside, the sight made Fred and George instantly forget their foreheads and sore rears.
They stood frozen, mouths hanging open.
An impossibly vast room stretched before them—seemingly endless.
Mountains of disordered objects towered everywhere.
Broken desks and chairs formed teetering spires. Mutilated statues stood silent in the dust.
Thousands upon thousands of faded books formed rolling hills. Rusted armour, snapped wands, bizarre unnamed artefacts…
Everything faded into shadowy depths beyond sight.
Fine dust drifted in the air. The scent of old parchment, aged wood, and forgotten things hung heavy.
"This… this is…" Fred's voice trembled.
"The Room of Requirement!" George finished, eyes like saucers.
"The legendary room! Peeves bragged about it, Nearly Headless Nick mentioned it… but we never found the entrance! So that's how you get in! Boss Tom—you knew!"
They turned to Tom with pure, blazing hero-worship.
Tom had already leapt onto a relatively stable old sofa piled high with cushions. He stretched out luxuriously, tail tip flicking lazily.
The twins caught on instantly.
Fred dashed forward, plastering on the brightest, most ingratiating smile imaginable.
"Big bro! Boss Tom! We were totally out of line just now—way too reckless! You got a fright!"
He produced a small packet of Fizzing Whizbees from nowhere and offered it with both hands. "Little treat to calm the nerves!"
George circled behind the sofa and began gently kneading Tom's shoulders and neck. "Yes yes yes—we're basically trolls with brains! Interrupting your grand moment of opening the sacred lair! How's the pressure? Good? We picked up a few tricks from Madam Pomfrey—great for shock recovery!"
Tom huffed through his nose—grudgingly accepted the sweets. To George's massage he narrowed his eyes and let out a deep, contented purr. Permission granted.
Seeing Tom's mood improve, the twins immediately launched into their tale of woe.
The hateful, ear-destroying swallow-tailed dogs.
Their perfect, loophole-exploiting plan.
Inviting the one-of-a-kind, unrated, supremely intelligent, terrifyingly majestic Boss Tom as their special partner/advisor/silent guardian deity.
Next doubles match—give those Slytherins a proper taste of humiliation.
"Just picture it, boss," Fred waved his arms enthusiastically.
"When those two idiot dogs start howling again, you stroll out—elegant as anything—like you're inspecting your territory. Step right to centre stage. Then—just one look. That deep, unfathomable, dignified glare of yours. One glance! Instant silence across the entire hall! It'll go down in history!"
Tom listened, ears twitching slightly. Tail-flick frequency betrayed rising interest.
Truth was—he'd already been secretly spectating recent duels from the corner of the stands, intrigued by all the flashy spell-slinging chaos.
Now here were two reasonably clever "underlings" personally inviting him to step onto the platform. Massage and tribute included. Plus the legitimate chance to shut those screaming dogs up for good…
Seemed like a pretty solid deal.
He pondered regally for a moment—during which George somehow produced a bowl of fresh water, and Fred offered a secret stash of mini smoked fish he'd been saving for a midnight snack.
After finishing the fish and licking his paws clean, Tom finally lifted his head. Green-gold eyes gleamed with anticipation.
He raised one forepaw—as if making a final, solemn confirmation—then nodded once. Firm. Decisive.
"Mrow."
"Deal. Sardines. Double portion. And my entrance has to be properly dramatic."
"YES!!" The twins high-fived so hard they nearly knocked Tom off the sofa.
"Don't worry, boss! We'll make your entrance legendary!"