Invented back in the 1880s, the Dungbomb is a magical stink-bomb explicitly designed to release a violently foul stench of pure decay.
It was, unsurprisingly, one of the Weasley twins’ absolute favorite prank props.
Once, they had successfully managed to slip a Dungbomb right beneath the chair of their Great-Aunt Muriel.
The resulting eruption had sent her into such a towering rage that she vowed never to set foot in their house again.
She had even gone so far as to explicitly state in her will that neither of them would inherit a single nut from her estate.
Yet despite the heavy financial sacrifice, the Weasley twins’ devotion to the Dungbomb remained utterly unshaken.
In fact, they rarely missed an opportunity to pitch them to a potential customer.
“If I remember correctly, those are contraband, aren’t they?” Neville asked, swallowing hard.
“Professor Dumbledore explicitly emphasized that–” George and Fred scoffed in perfect unison, looking entirely unfazed.
“Dumbledore only keeps emphasizing that Dungbombs are contraband because Filch begs him to.” “And besides, even if you aren’t planning a prank, you can always buy one for self-defense,” Fred added, pulling the canvas bag open to showcase his little darlings.
“The next time someone tries to bully you, you just lob one right at their head.” George caught his brother’s rhythm instantly: “And if they don’t happen to know the Scourgify charm, that’s when the real fun begins.
That stench will cling to them like a shadow.
It’ll crawl right up their nostrils while they’re trying to sleep.” “So, care to take one?” “Purchase right now, and we’ll throw in the specific detonating jinx for free.
Guaranteed to work every time!” Fred finished the thought seamlessly.
Then, both twins snapped their heads around, speaking in perfect, eerie synchronization: “They truly are our little darlings!” Neville shook his head frantically.
He hadn’t even mastered the Scourgify charm himself; there was absolutely no way he was touching something that volatile.
“How much for one?” Silan, however, asked for the price with genuine interest.
He actually found himself quite taken by the idea.
During Potions class, hadn’t those two little rats sitting near Nott been whispering vile things about him behind his back?
Silan was a deeply vindictive person by nature.
If someone crossed him, he paid them back in full–and if they did it without him directly hearing, he simply charged interest.
Since they chose to have such filthy mouths, it was only fair to provide them with something equally filthy.
Adding a little extra flavor to a classic act of retaliation was practically his signature brand.
Convenience was on his side too, considering the two of them happened to share a dormitory.
Fred and George exchanged a quick glance, raising their eyebrows at one another.
In their sales experience, a customer asking for a price was always an exceptional omen.
“Four silver Sickles.
But seeing as there’s a special promotion today, we’ll let you have it for three Sickles a piece.” The price was technically a bit steeper than what one would pay in the outside world, but within the walls of Hogwarts, it was a thoroughly honest bargain.
These were contraband items, after all, meaning the twins had to absorb the hidden costs of smuggling and concealment.
It was hardly a rip-off.
“I’ll take two.” “Done!
Pleasure doing business with you!” After teaching Silan the necessary detonating jinx, the Weasley twins bid their farewells and went on their way.
As they walked down the corridor, Fred glanced back over his shoulder, murmuring quietly, “Do you think we overcharged him a bit?” “Not at all.
We charge everyone else the exact same rate.” “Yeah, but what if he really *is* Uncle Fabian’s lad?
That would make him our actual cousin.” George paused for a second, momentarily tongue-tied.
“Well…
we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” With that settled, the two immediately went back to plotting what kind of prank supplies they should buy next–or whether they should save the coins.
They had long dreamed of opening their very own magical joke shop, and they had been hoarding every single Knut toward that goal.
It was the entire driving force behind their aggressive Dungbomb marketing.
Meanwhile, the news of Snape awarding points to Hermione during Potions had spread through the castle like wildfire.
Much like Nott’s prior forced apology to Neville, the student body completely ignored the nuanced reality of the situation, immediately escalating the matter into a grand conflict between houses.
Both Gryffindor and Slytherin were in absolute uproar.
The only difference was that the Gryffindors were actively hunting for Hermione, hailing her as a legendary warrior capable of wresting points from Snape’s cold hands.
The Slytherins, on the other hand, were thoroughly outraged.
“It’s completely absurd!
There’s absolutely something sinister going on!” “It has to be that Silan fellow!
He must have slipped Professor Snape a Love Potion!
Why else would he ever give points to a Gryffindor?” “The whole thing is deeply unnatural!” Inside the Slytherin Common Room, Noah Bulstrode and Oliver Baker were viciously tearing into Silan, branding him an outright traitor who actively aided the enemy.
These two were the exact individuals who had been tossing nasty slurs at Silan and Hermione during Potions.
As they spoke, their eyes remained glued to the common room entrance.
Every single time the stone door ground open, their voices would vanish instantly.
Only after confirming the entrant wasn’t Silan would they eagerly resume their tirade.
After a quiet dinner in the Great Hall, Silan finally made his way back down to the dungeons.
The moment he stepped through the entrance, the two Bake–who had been squawking so boisterously just a second prior–instantly choked on their words like chickens being wrung by the neck.
They fell dead silent, guiltily snapping their heads away to look in the opposite direction.
*Ah, marvelous.
I was just looking for the pair of you,* Silan noted with a cold internal smile.
He maintained his easy stride, walking directly up to their seats before offering a casual question: “Tell me, do either of you know how to cast Scourgify?” The two boys assumed he had simply picked up a new spell and had marched over specifically to flaunt it in their faces.
Their irritation flared instantly.
Noah Bulstrode, a boy from an old pureblood line, let out a sharp scoff, his tone dripping with immense arrogance.
“My family employs house-elves.
A wizard of my standing has absolutely no need to waste his magic on menial labor.” Oliver, a half-blood, refused to be outdone by his companion.
“We have servants at my estate for that sort of thing as well.” Having successfully manufactured a sense of superiority out of the exchange, the two leaned back, offering a smug, mocking sneer.
“So what if you can cast a simple cleaning charm?
It’s not going to wash away that pathetic, impoverished stench clinging to your robes.” Oliver waved a hand casually in front of his nose, eyeing Silan’s second-hand garments with open disdain.
“Mr.
Prewett, I suggest you keep your distance.
The scent of poverty rolling off you is thoroughly making me ill.” Silan simply nodded, his expression completely unreadable.
Through all that meaningless bluster, he had caught the one vital detail he needed: neither of them had the absolute slightest clue how to cast a cleaning charm.
That made things beautifully simple.
“Gentlemen,” Silan said, a pleasant smile gracing his features.
“I truly hope you have a wonderful night’s sleep.” Hearing Silan offer such a mild response, the two boys experienced a brief moment of confusion before collectively deciding that the boy had simply been cowed by their status.
A sudden surge of profound self-satisfaction rushed through their minds.
“See?
He’s not nearly as terrifying as the rumors say.” “Exactly!
Next time, we’ll really give him a proper sorting out!” “Too right!
We’ll make him get down on his knees and beg!” Just as their conversation was reaching a fever pitch, the common room door swung open once more.
Draco Malfoy strolled in, flanked by his two heavy shadows, Crabbe and Goyle.
Noah and Oliver fell silent out of pure reflex.
It took them a few moments to realize that Silan had already walked away toward the dormitories.
Since the target of their ire was gone, their artificial bravery returned, and they happily went back to congratulating themselves on their psychological victory.
Returning to his four-poster bed, Silan didn’t immediately turn in for the night.
Instead, he pulled out his copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3 and began flipping through the pages.
He had a rather specific late-night activity planned, and he needed to kill some time.
[Spell Inspiration: Proficiency +1] After studying the text for a considerable while, Silan checked his watch and decided the timing was perfect.
He quietly slipped out of his bed, exited his quarters, and made his way down the dim corridor until he stood squarely in front of Noah and Oliver’s dormitory door.
He gave the handle a gentle twist, finding it firmly locked.
The two were reasonably cautious, it seemed.
Unfortunately for them, Silan had mastered the Unlocking Charm days ago.
“Alohomora,” he whispered.
The lock clicked open with a soft, muted sound.
Stepping into the dark room, Silan looked toward the two soundly sleeping figures, a thoroughly ruthless smile cutting through the shadows.
He had no intention of touching the Dungbombs with his bare hands–that would simply ruin his own robes.
Instead, he raised his wand, letting the twin spheres hover gracefully into the air.