The corridor outside the charms classroom was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of torches and the soft silvery light of the moon through the high windows. You sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, wedged comfortably between Fred and George, a half-eaten bag of Fizzing Whizbees held loosely in your hand.

Fred tossed another sweet into the air and caught it with a grin. “Reckon we could make a version that actually levitates you for a whole minute,” he mused, popping it into his mouth.

“Only if you want kids floating into the ceiling beams,” George snorted, nudging your shoulder. “You’re awfully quiet. Thinking of joining our product development team?”

You smirked, flicking a sherbet lemon at him. “Only if I get hazard pay.”

Fred gasped theatrically. “Hazard pay? We offer only the finest in unpaid internships and slightly expired sweets.”

You all burst into muffled laughter. The night was quiet, and for once, the castle felt like it belonged to you—no homework, no rules, just the warm hush of whispered jokes and sweets.

That calm lasted all of two minutes.

“Hem-hem.”

That dreadful, deliberate little sound sliced through the air like a nail on a chalkboard.

George winced. “Tell me that was a ghost.”

“Nope,” Fred said, already climbing to his feet with exaggerated slowness. George rose with him, stretching just as theatrically. You followed suit, clutching the bag of sweets a little tighter.

Sure enough, Dolores Umbridge stood a few paces away, her lips curled into a smile so tight it looked painful, eyes gleaming with restrained glee.

“Students,” she said slowly, “out of bed.”

George gave her a bright smile. “Midnight patrol, Professor? Or just couldn’t sleep thinking about us?”

Her eyes narrowed, lips thinning.

“Rule number twenty-two: students are not permitted in the corridors after curfew.”

She took a step closer, clearly expecting a grovel. None of you moved.

Fred gave her a wide-eyed, mock-concerned look. “Oh no, we must’ve sleepwalked. All three of us. At once. Very rare condition, you see.”

“Highly contagious,” George said solemnly. “You should probably keep your distance.”

She ignored them and went on, voice tightening. “Rule number sixteen: possession of unauthorized sweets and joke items is strictly prohibited.”

You instinctively shifted the bag so it was more visible in your hand.

“Technically,” Fred said, “these are for medicinal purposes. Stress relief.”

George nodded. “And emotional support. Want one?”

She took a breath through her nose. “Rule number ten: gatherings of three or more students without supervision are subject to disciplinary review.”

Fred lit up, spreading his hands. “Ah! But we are supervised.”

George pointed at her with a grin. “By you, in fact. How lucky you showed up when you did—we were this close to breaking a rule.”

You bit your lip to stifle a laugh as Umbridge’s nostrils flared and her lips twitched—her pristine composure wobbling ever so slightly.

And then she delivered her final blow.

“And rule number thirty-one,” she snapped, tone suddenly sharp, “boys and girls are not permitted to be within eight inches of each other.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then both twins, as if choreographed, leaned in closer to you—Fred pressing into your left side, George into your right, so close you were practically sandwiched.

Fred’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Oh no, we might be closer than eight inches.”

George grinned wickedly. “You’d better measure us quick, Professor.”

Umbridge’s face flushed a furious, blotchy red, her hands clenching at her sides as her glare threatened to melt the very stone beneath her feet.