"YES!!"
The twins high-fived so hard they nearly knocked Tom off the sofa.
In pure euphoria, Fred and George leapt up simultaneously, twisting mid-air with practiced flair—preparing for their signature butt-bump victory celebration.
"For the Weasley Brothers and Boss Tom—OW!"
But joy turned to disaster in an instant.
Maybe they were too hyped. Maybe they underestimated just how cluttered the Room of Requirement's floor really was.
George landed perfectly… on a rolling brass telescope tube.
His foot slipped. Balance gone. He crashed straight into Fred, who'd just touched down.
"OWW!"
"WHOA!"
Two yelps rang out almost in unison.
They tumbled like twin human hedgehogs—arms flailing, legs kicking—straight into the nearest mountain of junk: discarded cauldrons, mouldy textbooks, and mysterious magical scrap parts.
"PFFFFT—CRASH!"
The junk pile wobbled violently. A cloud of ancient dust exploded upward.
Four Gryffindor-robed legs stuck out the side, feet still wearing mismatched socks, kicking uselessly in the air.
Tom, still lounging on the sofa, watched the entire catastrophe unfold.
His whiskers twitched. Then he rolled his eyes so hard they nearly disappeared.
He let out a long, disdainful "hmph" through his nose.
He was seriously questioning the "maturity level" of his two new minions.
With elegant disdain, Tom rose, padded over to the four thrashing legs, extended one paw—and yanked backward hard.
"OW!"
"Hey!"
Fred and George popped out like carrots pulled from soil—covered in dust, dizzy, coughing, spitting grit.
And on each of their heads sat a brand-new "souvenir" from the pile.
Fred's head was crowned with a grapefruit-sized crystal orb—transparent but webbed with cracks.
Inside, miniature weather scenes swirled endlessly: lightning storms, blazing sun, swirling snow—all fast-forwarded, refracted through the fractures into weird, shimmering halos.
George's head sported an ancient, battered broomstick—handle scarred and peeling, paint flaked away to reveal dark wood beneath.
Most eye-catching was the brush: not neatly bundled twigs, but a dramatic, almost split-in-half "Y" shape—straggly branches sticking out like the tail of some startled magical creature.
Both boys shook their spinning heads, pulled off their new accessories.
"Hey, George—look at this!" Fred held up the cracked weather orb, eyes sparkling through the dust.
"A genuine Weather Divination Orb! These things are insanely expensive. We take this back, tinker with it… who knows what we could invent!"
George yanked the broom off his head and squinted at the faded inscription on the handle. His face lit up.
"Hey! Fred! Check this out—'Comet 1900'! Merlin's beard, this is a grandpa-era antique! Just… uh… looks pretty thoroughly wrecked."
He patted the split brush. Nothing happened. A few twigs fell off.
"Comet 1900?" Fred leaned in, poking the forked end with obvious disgust.
"Come on, George—this relic wouldn't even sweep the floor properly. What are you gonna do, ride it? If this thing can still fly, I'll eat the brush end myself!"
As if personally insulted by the words "relic" and "can't even sweep the floor"…
The apparently dead Comet 1900 gave the tiniest, almost imperceptible shudder.
George felt it. His eyes widened. Curiosity ignited.
"It moved! It actually twitched!"
He didn't hesitate—flipped himself onto the handle, gripped the scarred wood.
"Come on, old friend—let's see if you've still got—"
He never finished.
"VRRRRMMMM—!!!"
The ancient broom erupted with a low, furious vibration—like a beast finally pushed too far.
Next instant it launched forward like an arrow from a bow—completely ignoring George's control.
"WAAAAAHHHH!!!"
George's scream echoed through the vast room.
The broom didn't fly straight. It carved a vicious arc—
—and the split brush end slammed—WHAM—right into Fred's backside with pinpoint accuracy.
"OW!"
Fred stumbled forward. The weather orb flew from his hands, tracing a sparkling arc of lightning and rainbows.
Before he could recover, the mad Comet 1900 banked hard and swooped low again.
George—still screaming—reached out instinctively and somehow snagged Fred by the back of his robes!
"Let go! George, you idiot—AAAHHH!!"
Fred's feet left the ground.
The broom didn't stop. It dragged two screaming twins and a very surprised cat in chaotic loops.
The furious buzzing sounded almost like a drunken, enraged knight determined to give these two big-mouthed wizards a proper taste of "vintage wrath."
It streaked over Tom's sofa—wind ruffling his fur.
Then—with one wild sweep—it scooped Tom up too.
"MROW—!!"
"Boss Tom!" George yelled through the wind—half terror, half delight.
The initial panic lasted less than ten seconds.
Once the Comet 1900 started tearing through the towering junk piles—diving, climbing, banking wildly between mountains of debris—
The Weasley adventure gene and sheer Gryffindor optimism completely overpowered fear.
"YEEE-HAAAWWW!!!" Fred whooped first.
He adapted to the uncontrollable ride—started enjoying the breakneck speed and near-misses.
"This beats dodging apple trees in the orchard on toy brooms by a mile!"
"Hahaha! Damn right!" George laughed wildly—fighting to stay seated even though he had zero directional control. "Old boy's got serious attitude! Faster! Give us more!"
Tom—clinging to the tail—slipped into performance mode almost instantly.
Four paws planted firm. Body swaying naturally with every sharp turn and climb. Balance impeccable.
"MROOOW!"
He began to show off.
First he let go of the tail—balanced on hind legs and tail alone, front paws raised like a circus cat.
Then—to the twins' gasps and cheers—he leapt lightly to the very front of the handle…
…turned around…
…faced backward…
…straddled the broom in reverse…
…and crossed his hind legs like he was lounging in an armchair.
"SO COOL! Boss Tom!" the twins roared in unison—completely forgetting they were riding a century-old deathtrap that could disintegrate at any second.
Emboldened by the cheers, Tom got even cockier.
He flipped back in front of George.
This time—one paw gripping the handle, body dangling sideways off the side, other paw casually grooming his whiskers.
"Epic! Do another one! Boss Tom!" George yelled.
Fred joined in: "Yeah! Something bigger—like a triple backflip mid-air?"
Tom flicked his tail smugly—clearly planning to deliver.
He shifted position, coiled to spring…
But none of them—not the hyped-up twins, not the showboating cat—noticed.
The Comet 1900—already cracked and battered—had been pushed far beyond its limits by the high-stress, erratic flight.
A faint, ominous "creeeak" sounded from deep inside the handle.
The split brush began shedding critical twigs.
Right as Tom prepared a spectacular "handle-mounted triple backflip"—
"CRACK!"
A sharp, wooden snap—lost in the twins' cheers and the broom's roar.
Then—the Comet 1900 simply gave up.
Its flight path went haywire—shuddering, spinning violently!
"WAAAH!"
"What the—?!"
"MROW?!"
In the chaos, the dying broom lost all control.
Like a leg-broken wild horse in its death throes, it screamed downward—
—nose-first—
—straight toward a towering junk mountain of old wardrobes, rusted scales, and rolls of discarded parchment!
"WE'RE GONNA CRASH!!"
"BRACE!!"
"MROOOOW!!"
Three screams—one human, one more human, one feline—blended as the orange blur and shattered broom plunged toward what looked soft but was probably full of sharp surprises…
"BOOOOM—!! CRASH-CRASH-CRASH—!!!"
The massive impact and cascading avalanche echoed through the endless room.
Dust rose like a mushroom cloud, swallowing the area.
Seconds later—the haze thinned.
A huge crater had been blasted into the junk pile. Debris everywhere.
From under a layer of parchment and rags came muffled rustling… and coughing.
A dusty cat paw emerged first—trembling—pushing aside fabric.
Then Fred's wild red hair poked through a cracked cauldron lid.
Then George—struggling out of a pile of quills and broken telescopes, a colourful feather still dangling from his mouth.
One cat. Two boys. All three grey with dust, hair/fur full of random junk fragments.
They stared at each other.
Silence.
Then—
"PFFFFFT… HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"
"OW—my arse—but HAHAHAHA!"
"Mrow~ ow~"
Survivor laughter—mixed with pained groans—exploded in the secret room of miracles and mayhem.
The "guilty" Comet 1900 lay in pieces around them—one handle segment stuck comically in an old hat, still quivering from the force of the laughter.
But right beside them, the junk mountain they'd just smashed into—already unstable—gave a teeth-grinding "creeeak."
The laughter died instantly.
Three pairs of eyes snapped toward the sound—pupils reflecting the slowly tilting "peak."
"Oh no…" Fred whispered.
"Not again?!" George wailed.
"MROOOW—!!!"
Too late.
"RUMBLE—!!!"
A deeper, longer collapse roared through the room.
The entire junk mountain—old textbooks, broken cauldrons, leaning wardrobes, rusted armour bits, nameless magical wreckage—lost its foundation and came crashing down!
A rainbow avalanche of debris roared toward the three still-recovering survivors.
"RUN—!"
"DUCK!!"
"MROOOOWWW!!"
Screams and yowls vanished under the thunder of rolling junk.
Vision filled with flying parchment, tumbling bottles, spinning oddities.
They barely had time to curl up and cover their heads before the second wave swallowed them whole.
...
Dust settled again—slower this time.
The wreckage looked even more chaotic—almost burying that entire corner.
After a dead silence, something stirred at the top of the pile.
Parchment and rags parted.
Tom's dust-caked, cobweb-draped head pushed through—stubbornly.
He shook it dizzily—flinging off feathers and a random metal shard—expression pure "who am I, where am I, what just happened."
As he struggled to free his body from the crush—
—an object slid from higher up.
"Thump."
It landed perfectly—right on his head.
Tom froze.
An old, tarnished crown now sat crooked on his skull.
Metal dulled with age, simple ancient design, but at the centre: one massive, dust-veiled sapphire—deep, ghostly blue even through the grime.
Tom—crowned and utterly bewildered—blinked.
The crown wobbled with the motion.
"Cough! Ptoo!"
He tried to yowl—coughed up a lungful of dust first—then started spitting out random junk he'd inhaled during the tumble.
A shard of the broken weather orb.
A torn scrap of parchment covered in messy ancient runes.
Half a snapped wand—core exposed…
Tom worked like a tiny garbage disposal—coughing up weirder and weirder bits.
Finally—one big heave.
"Ptoo!"
A miniature clay potted plant—complete with a clump of rock-hard dried soil and one long-dead brown stem—rolled out and tumbled aside.
With that final cough—the already-loose crown slid off.
"Clink."
It landed in the debris in front of him—gem facing upward—gleaming faintly through the dust.