Nobody noticed. Why would they? The twins were always up to something. The general student body had developed a collective immunity to Weasley chaos—a sort of learned indifference that history would later record as a grave, grave mistake.

The scream ricocheted off the dungeons' stone walls. A few doors down, footsteps pounded against the floor. Then another voice. Then another. Like dominos, the sound of panicked voices began to ripple through the castle.

The hallways of Hogwarts had become a battlefield of exposed forearms and hysterical shrieking. Students stumbled out of their rooms, robes half-buttoned, hair sticking up in every direction, all of them flashing their bare skin at each other like it was some kind of cursed group project.

Meanwhile, in the Hufflepuff common room, the energy was less "chaotic catastrophe" and more "collective nervous breakdown with snacks." A group of students huddled by the fireplace, sleeves rolled up, comparing names like they were trading cards.

The entire castle was buzzing with the sound of a thousand frantic conversations. Students who had never spoken before were suddenly in each other's faces, demanding to see names. Couples were staring at their arms in horror. A group of Ravenclaws had already formed a research circle by the library entrance, clipboards and quills in hand, taking this with the seriousness of an academic crisis.