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Chapter Text

Hermione Granger had always prided herself on being a model student—punctual, diligent, and completely devoted to her studies. Her days were often filled with meticulous planning, careful note-taking, and an unrelenting desire to excel academically. So when a note, scrawled in Professor McGonagall’s familiar sharp script, was passed to her at breakfast, she assumed it was nothing more than a routine request for some prefect duty or perhaps a suggestion for additional coursework.

The parchment felt crisp as it landed in front of her, and Hermione unfolded it without much thought, already bracing herself for the usual academic request. But as her eyes skimmed the brief, no-nonsense message—Miss Granger, please report to my office after breakfast—a sense of unease prickled at the back of her neck. There were no details, no pleasantries. Just a stark command to meet the Professor. It was the kind of note that made her wonder what on earth McGonagall could want at such an early hour.

The odd feeling gnawed at her as she sat in the Great Hall, watching the chatter and laughter of her fellow students blur into a distant hum. She barely noticed the steady clinking of silverware or the rustling of robes as her mind replayed the note again and again. Something didn’t sit right. McGonagall wasn’t the type to call students to her office unless it was important, and Hermione couldn’t shake the sensation that whatever awaited her was not going to be pleasant.

Ron, ever the curious one, leaned over from across the table, his mouth full of toast. He barely noticed as crumbs fell onto the table. “What’s that?” he asked, his voice muffled.

Hermione shook herself from her thoughts, looking down at the note still in her hand. She folded it carefully, slipping it into her robes with a sigh. “McGonagall wants to see me.”

“Probably something about extra credit,” Harry said lightly, his voice carrying a grin as he took a swig of pumpkin juice. He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by the idea.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I highly doubt it. I’ll find out soon enough,” she muttered, her thoughts lingering on the possibilities. The more she thought about it, the more she dreaded the idea that it might have something to do with her involvement in the current year’s challenges. Or worse, perhaps a reprimand about how her grades might be making others look bad. McGonagall, after all, was not someone you kept waiting.

As breakfast wrapped up and the students slowly began to clear out of the hall, Hermione rose to her feet, her mind racing. The air around her felt thicker somehow as she left the warm, comforting atmosphere of the Great Hall behind and stepped into the cold stone corridors of Hogwarts. The walls seemed to echo faintly with the sounds of students’ footsteps, their voices blending into the distance. Each step she took toward Professor McGonagall’s office made her feel increasingly nervous, her stomach doing uneasy somersaults as the inevitable confrontation loomed closer.

The corridor was quiet as she approached McGonagall’s office, the heavy wooden door standing imposingly before her. Hermione hesitated for a moment before she rapped her knuckles against the door twice, the sound sharp in the stillness. She stood there for a beat, her heart thudding in her chest, before hearing the familiar voice from inside.

“Enter.”

Taking a deep breath, Hermione pushed open the door and stepped inside. The sight that greeted her wasn’t quite what she expected. Professor McGonagall, as always, sat behind her desk, her hands folded neatly in front of her, her expression as stern as ever. However, seated across from her were two very familiar faces—Fred and George Weasley. Hermione’s stomach dropped into her shoes.

The twins turned toward her as the door creaked open, their faces breaking into identical mischievous grins. Fred winked at her, his eyes gleaming with that familiar mischievous spark. “Morning, Granger. You’re looking particularly studious today,” he said, his voice oozing playful sarcasm.

George, ever the one to follow suit, nodded solemnly as if he were making a profound observation. “Indeed. Positively brimming with intellectual authority,” he added with a smirk, clearly relishing the idea of her reaction.

Hermione’s jaw clenched involuntarily. “What are you two doing here?” she asked, her voice sharp despite herself. The twins didn’t even try to hide their amusement. Of course, they were the ones involved in this. She could hardly believe it.

Before either of them could respond, McGonagall cleared her throat with that sharp, no-nonsense sound that made it clear she was about to speak. Hermione quickly turned her attention back to the Professor, who fixed her with a stern gaze.

“Please, sit, Miss Granger,” McGonagall instructed, her tone brooking no argument.

Hermione hesitated for just a moment before she took the seat beside the twins, her gaze lingering on them warily. Fred and George exchanged an amused look, but neither of them said anything. Hermione folded her arms across her chest, trying to maintain her composure.

McGonagall wasted no time getting to the point. “I will get straight to the matter at hand,” she began, her voice brisk and commanding. “As you are well aware, academic excellence is a cornerstone of Hogwarts and a standard we uphold for all students.”

Fred, predictably, yawned loudly and exaggeratedly, making a show of rolling his eyes. George elbowed him gently, but Fred’s expression was one of complete boredom.

McGonagall’s lips tightened, but she carried on with a trace of impatience. “Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley, however, have failed to meet the necessary requirements to advance to the next year. As such, they will be repeating their coursework.”

Hermione blinked in shock. She hadn’t known the twins were in danger of failing—failing? It seemed completely impossible to her. Fred and George were always clever, always full of potential—at least when they weren’t causing chaos. How could they have ended up in such a predicament?

“We prefer the term chosen to linger,” Fred said, his voice dripping with a casual air of indifference, as though the idea of failing out of Hogwarts was nothing more than a temporary inconvenience. He leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head, grinning lazily at Hermione.

“Or academically detained,” George added with a straight face, his tone equally flippant, as though they were discussing nothing more important than what to have for lunch. His posture mirrored Fred’s, relaxed, though his eyes were twinkling with mischief.

Professor McGonagall didn’t so much as blink at their comments. She stared at them with the kind of steady gaze that made even the most unruly students quail. The twins, however, seemed impervious to the weight of her scrutiny. Her attention swiftly shifted back to Hermione, who was still trying to process the absurdity of the situation.

“I am assigning you, Miss Granger, as their tutor,” McGonagall said without preamble, her voice firm, cutting through the air like a knife.

The words hung in the room, thick and suffocating. Hermione’s mind was momentarily blank, her breath caught in her throat. The thought of tutoring Fred and George Weasley—who had spent the majority of their school years causing chaos—was a joke, wasn’t it? Surely, this was some kind of misunderstanding.

Silence stretched across the room. Hermione’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. She glanced from McGonagall’s unyielding face to Fred and George, who were watching her with varying degrees of amusement. The air was heavy with the realization that this was not, in fact, a joke. McGonagall’s eyes were stern as ever, and there was no mistaking the seriousness of her tone.

“I—what?” Hermione finally stammered, trying to make sense of the words that had just been spoken.

McGonagall’s gaze remained impassive, unwavering. “You will ensure that they meet the necessary requirements to pass this time around. If they do not, they will be expelled.” The finality of the word expelled resonated through the room, and for a brief moment, it felt as if time had stopped. The weight of it—the gravity of her responsibility—hit Hermione all at once. The twins’ futures hung in the balance, and she was being asked to carry that burden.

Expelled. The word echoed in her mind like a cold, unforgiving bell tolling, and it sent a ripple of unease through her chest. She glanced at Fred and George again, who, for once, were not smiling or making wisecracks. Their expressions had become more serious, their usual bravado faltering under the weight of the situation.

Hermione’s breath hitched, but she quickly steadied herself. She was nothing if not capable. But this—this—was something else entirely. “Professor, with all due respect,” she began, her voice hesitant, “I don’t think I’m the best choice for this. Surely someone else—someone with more experience—could help them.”

“You are exactly the best choice,” McGonagall interjected, her voice cutting through Hermione’s objections with the precision of a sword. “You are the most capable student in your year, and I have no doubt that you can handle this challenge.” Her eyes softened for a split second, but the firmness in her tone made it clear that the decision was final.

Hermione’s stomach churned. She resisted the urge to groan aloud. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in her own abilities—she did—but the idea of tutoring Fred and George was... overwhelming. The twins weren’t exactly known for their dedication to academics, and Hermione knew better than anyone that they had a tendency to focus more on pranks than on their studies. This was a recipe for disaster.

“Professor, they don’t want to study,” Hermione protested, frustration creeping into her voice. “I can’t force them to care about their grades. They’ve never shown any interest in schoolwork. This is going to be impossible.”

Fred, who had been sitting in silence, leaned forward suddenly, propping his elbow on his knee with an exaggerated frown. “That’s unfair, Granger,” he said, his voice mockingly solemn. “We care deeply about our studies.” He gave her a look that was a blend of innocence and mischief, though there was a flicker of something else—something she couldn’t quite place.

“Oh yes,” George chimed in, nodding dramatically. “We care so much, it practically hurts to be here.” His voice was laden with sarcasm, but there was a softness in his tone that hinted at something more serious beneath the banter.

McGonagall, however, was unfazed by their antics. Her gaze never wavered, and the slightest narrowing of her eyes made it clear that she wasn’t buying their act. “Miss Granger will be tutoring you both, and that is final. You will meet three times a week. You will cover all core subjects. You will do whatever is necessary to ensure that you succeed. This is not a request. This is an expectation.” Her voice grew firmer with each word, and Hermione had no doubt that there was no room for negotiation.

Fred and George exchanged a glance, their smiles fading slightly as they processed the gravity of the situation. The playful atmosphere in the room had evaporated, replaced by something more sober—though, of course, it was still laced with their usual irreverence.

Hermione clenched her fists in her lap, fighting the urge to snap at them. “And if they refuse?” she asked, her voice dripping with frustration.

McGonagall’s eyes snapped to the twins. “Then they can pack their bags and leave Hogwarts,” she said coldly, the finality in her voice leaving no room for doubt.

For a moment, there was silence. The twins, once so confident, exchanged another glance—this one laced with the barest hint of nervousness. Fred’s cocky grin faltered for a moment, though he quickly masked it with a shrug. George let out a long breath, like he was deflating.

“Alright, Professor,” George said, his tone finally serious. “Looks like we’ll be Hermione’s star pupils.” He threw a teasing glance in Hermione’s direction, though it lacked its usual playful edge.

Fred, still grinning, added, “Lucky her.” There was a flicker of something in his eyes, though, something she couldn’t quite place.

Hermione rubbed her temples, feeling an overwhelming wave of exhaustion wash over her. She wasn’t sure if it was from the sheer absurdity of the situation or the sheer impossibility of it, but she could already feel the headache creeping in. This was going to be hell.

Professor McGonagall stood, effectively signalling the end of the meeting. “You will report to the library for your first session this afternoon,” she said, her tone final. “I trust there will be no further issues?” she added, her gaze sweeping across the room, landing on the twins.

Fred and George, now subdued but not beaten, stood up, offering her a sheepish look. “No issues here, Professor,” Fred said with an exaggerated wink, though the playful glint in his eyes had dimmed.

McGonagall nodded once, her expression softening just slightly, before she turned and walked out of the office. “Dismissed.”

Hermione stood as well, her body stiff with the weight of the situation. As the door clicked shut behind them, she could feel the sinking feeling in her stomach deepen. Fred, ever the joker, slung an arm around her shoulders as they left the office. His grin was wide and cheeky.

“You and us, Granger. A dream team,” he said, his voice laced with mock enthusiasm.

George followed suit, smirking. “Don’t worry, we’ll go easy on you.”

Hermione let out a long, exasperated sigh. This was going to be a nightmare.

Chapter Text

Hermione stormed into the Gryffindor common room, her thoughts swirling in a chaotic mess. The familiar warmth of the room—the soft glow of the fireplace, the gentle murmur of voices, the rustle of pages turning as students studied—did little to calm the storm raging in her mind. She was consumed by the events that had unfolded only minutes earlier in Professor McGonagall's office. Every step she took toward the couch in front of the fire felt heavy with the weight of what she had just been tasked with. The very idea of it—tutoring Fred and George Weasley—was incomprehensible. There was no way it was going to work. They didn’t care about their grades, about school, about any of it. The idea of trying to make them do something they didn’t want to do was enough to send her into a spiral of frustration.

She sank into the cushions, her hands running through her thick hair, fingers digging into her scalp as if she could physically pull the tension out of her. She let out a sharp exhale, her breath shaking slightly as she tried to collect her thoughts. Her eyes scanned the room, but her mind was elsewhere—already replaying McGonagall’s words, the cold, matter-of-fact tone of her voice as she’d assigned the task. You’re the only one who can do this, Hermione. I have complete faith in you. How could McGonagall believe that? She couldn’t even make Fred and George take their work seriously when they were in the same room as her, let alone spend hours tutoring them, trying to coax them into actually learning.

As she slumped back into the couch, she let out another heavy sigh, hoping that talking about it to Harry and Ron would somehow make her feel better. Or at least make her feel less alone in the madness of the situation. Her gaze found Harry first—he was slouched in his usual armchair, his legs stretched out in front of him, a thick book in his hands. He glanced up, sensing the shift in the air as soon as Hermione entered. His brow furrowed slightly at the storm of emotion swirling around her. His eyes met hers, and she saw the flicker of concern flash across his face. He set the book down on the table, his full attention now on her.

Ron, who had been sitting cross-legged on the floor and playing with his broomstick, immediately noticed the tension in her posture. He paused mid-spin, his gaze locking onto her. It wasn’t hard for either of them to tell something was very wrong. After all, it wasn’t like Hermione to look so thoroughly defeated, so weighed down. She had always been the one who rose to every challenge, the one who could do everything, and now she was slumped in front of them, looking as though the weight of the world had just crashed down on her shoulders.

“Hermione?” Ron asked, his voice rising in concern, his eyes softening. “What happened? You look like you just fought a troll in the hallway.”

Hermione’s lips curled into a wry, humorless smile as she took a deep breath and sat up a little straighter. She met Ron’s eyes, then Harry’s, and knew she couldn’t avoid telling them what had just transpired. There was no escaping it, no pretending like she hadn’t just been handed a nearly impossible task. They were her best friends—they deserved to know what was going on.

“I’m... I’m going to be tutoring Fred and George,” she said in a low, incredulous voice, as if she still couldn’t fully process the reality of it. The words hung in the air between them, like an unexpected gust of wind that had knocked the breath from her lungs.

Ron’s face twisted in confusion. “What?” he asked, his voice clearly struggling to understand. “You’re tutoring Fred and George?”

Harry, who had initially been caught off guard, blinked a few times, processing the information slowly. His lips parted as though he were about to say something, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. Finally, after a moment of stunned silence, he managed, “Wait... You’re tutoring Fred and George? You’re the one McGonagall decided should help them?”

Hermione buried her face in her hands, exhaling sharply through her nose as frustration began to claw at her again. “Yes, I’m the one she picked,” she muttered, her voice muffled by her palms. “Apparently, I’m the only person who can make them care about their grades.” She let her hands fall into her lap, glancing up at them. Her face was flushed with frustration, and her eyes were wide with disbelief. “She said—I quote—‘You’re the most capable student in your year. I have complete faith in you.’ Like that somehow makes sense. As if I can somehow get Fred and George to sit still for an hour and learn anything.”

Ron’s eyes were as wide as Hermione had ever seen them. He stared at her, momentarily speechless, as if trying to wrap his mind around what she’d just said. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said finally, his voice low with incredulity. “Why on earth would McGonagall assign you to do that? They’re impossible. No one can get them to study. Let alone... let alone tutor them.”

“I know, Ron,” Hermione said, her hands pressing against her forehead as if to stifle the headache building there. “I have no idea why she thinks I can do this. They’re Fred and George. They don’t care about school. They care about pranks, and jokes, and causing trouble. What am I supposed to do? Chain them to the table and force-feed them facts about transfiguration and charms?” She stood up abruptly, her feet restless on the cold floor as she paced a few steps before turning back to them, her hands in the air in exasperation. “They don’t care about anything other than their jokes. And now I’m supposed to be the one to make them care about grades? How?”

Harry glanced over at Ron, then back at Hermione, his expression thoughtful but serious. “That’s... that's insane. But Hermione, you’re not wrong about one thing,” he said, his voice steady, “McGonagall does trust you. And—well, I hate to say it—but maybe you’re the only person who could make them see sense. If anyone can get them to do their work, it’s you.”

“I don’t know about that,” Hermione muttered, her voice trembling slightly as the weight of the responsibility crashed over her once more. “It feels impossible. They won’t listen to me. And if they don’t pass... McGonagall was very clear. If they fail again, they’ll be expelled.”

Ron’s eyes widened even more. “Expelled? I thought they were just behind on their work. But expelled? That’s... huge.”

“I know!” Hermione said, her voice dropping, the tension in her shoulders tightening as the seriousness of the situation set in. “I’m their last chance, Ron. They’ll be sent home if they don’t pass. I’m the one who has to make sure they do.” Her voice quieted, and she sank back into the couch, her head tipping back as she stared at the ceiling. “And to make it worse... McGonagall basically handed the responsibility to me. I’m the one who has to fix this.”

Ron and Harry exchanged a glance, both of them trying to find something comforting to say, but they knew better than anyone that sometimes, no amount of comforting words could take the weight of responsibility away. Hermione was right: this was huge, and she had no idea how to even begin tackling it. And that uncertainty? It was something she wasn’t used to feeling.

Ron opened his mouth to say something, but just as he began to speak, the familiar creak of the Gryffindor common room’s portrait hole interrupted him. The sound of footsteps and muffled voices drifted through the air, and when Hermione looked up, she saw Fred and George strolling into the room. The usual sense of mischief in their expressions was more prominent than ever, the pair already deep in conversation, no doubt plotting some new prank or scheme. But as soon as they noticed Hermione sitting on the couch, their heads turned in unison, and those mischievous grins broke out across their faces, as if they’d just discovered the most delightful of secrets.

“Well, well, well,” Fred said, his voice carrying across the room, loud and confident. “If it isn’t Hermione Granger, the new head of the Weasley Academic Assistance Program.”

Hermione’s heart sank, and a surge of heat flooded her face. The last thing she needed was them turning her tutoring sessions into another one of their jokes. But, of course, that was exactly what she had expected. The twins were practically experts at turning any situation into a comedy routine, and she was all too familiar with their ability to make light of even the most serious moments. She wasn’t in the mood for it now, not after everything that had just transpired in McGonagall’s office.

Fred strutted over toward her, his hands casually tucked into his pockets, his smirk widening at the sight of her already irritated expression. George trailed behind him, his gaze never leaving her, his grin almost as wide as Fred’s.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at them, silently warning them not to make things worse. “Don’t you two start,” she said sharply, her voice low but edged with a clear sense of warning.

Fred raised his eyebrows in mock innocence, his hands dramatically lifting in the air as if he couldn’t understand why she was upset. “What? We just wanted to say hello to our new tutor,” he said, putting on his best attempt at a syrupy sweet voice, the sarcasm dripping from every word. “It’s an exciting new chapter for us, isn’t it, George?”

“Absolutely,” George chimed in, nodding solemnly with a look of exaggerated seriousness, though his eyes sparkled with the usual gleam of mischief. “We might even take notes. Imagine that, Granger—notes! We’re a changed pair of students.”

Hermione let out a long, frustrated breath and crossed her arms tightly over her chest, trying to maintain a semblance of control. She could already feel the frustration building in her chest, knowing full well that they weren’t about to take any of this seriously. The very thought of tutoring them—of trying to get them to do something they had no interest in—was overwhelming enough, but dealing with their antics on top of it? She wasn’t sure if she could keep it together for long.

“You’re not taking anything seriously, are you?” Hermione asked, her voice tight as she glared at them, trying to remain stern, but knowing it probably wouldn’t do any good.

Fred and George exchanged a dramatic look, their faces twisting into expressions of mock shock and disbelief, clearly enjoying the opportunity to wind her up. “Us? Not serious?” Fred asked, his voice dripping with exaggerated sarcasm. “How could you think such a thing, Granger? We take everything seriously. Everything.” He paused, letting the words sink in for a moment before adding, “Especially our pranks.”

“Especially pranks,” George echoed with a smirk, his voice conspiratorial.

Hermione’s fingers pressed against her temples, and she closed her eyes, trying to stave off the headache that was rapidly building. She knew this was coming, but it didn’t make it any easier to handle. She had hoped for just a little bit of respect, just a tiny bit of sincerity in their approach, but no such luck.

“You’re impossible,” Hermione muttered, letting her shoulders slump in resignation. She could already feel the weight of this task bearing down on her, and it hadn’t even started yet.

“Oh, come on, Granger,” Fred said, his tone softening just slightly as he leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice as though he were trying to soothe her. “Don’t be like that. We’ve got this. We’ll try our best to behave. It’ll be fun. You’ll see. Who knows, maybe we’ll even come up with a new invention during study breaks. Might even help you with your essays, eh?”

George leaned in slightly, a devilish grin spreading across his face. “And don’t worry, Granger, we’re good at getting things done when we need to. We’ll pass, no problem. You’ll see. It’s in our blood, after all.”

Fred leaned a bit closer, his grin turning even more mischievous. “And you’ll be there to cheer us on, won’t you, Granger? We will succeed with your expert help. I have faith in us. We’re practically unstoppable.”

Hermione shot him an exasperated look, feeling the absurdity of the situation wash over her. The more they spoke, the more she realized they were genuinely convinced that they could somehow pull this off with their usual antics. Unbelievable didn’t even begin to cover it.

“You two are unbelievable,” she muttered, shaking her head in disbelief, though despite herself, a tiny part of her wanted to smile at their ridiculousness. It wasn’t much, but their sheer audacity almost made it seem like this was just another one of their pranks. “Honestly, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

Fred’s face softened a little, and before Hermione could react, he slung his arm casually around her shoulders, pulling her a little closer than she had expected. She stiffened in surprise, her body tense for a moment before she relaxed slightly, but she couldn’t suppress the surprised flush that crept up her neck. George mirrored Fred’s actions, draping his arm around her other side, as though they had all been best friends for years, completely oblivious to the fact that Hermione’s mind was in a whirlwind of stress and confusion.

“Oh, come now, Granger,” Fred said with a grin that was a little too innocent for Hermione’s liking. “Don’t you think the Weasley charm will help you through this?”

George leaned in even closer, his grin widening. “The Weasley charm and the Hermione Granger brainpower. A perfect combination. Together, we’re practically unstoppable. You’ll see. We’ll make a team out of this. It’ll be brilliant.”

Hermione couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corners of her lips despite herself. She was certain they were only making this more difficult, but something about their enthusiasm—however misguided—was almost contagious. Almost.

Ron and Harry, who had been watching the exchange in silence from a distance, clearly tried to hold back their amusement. Both of them could see exactly how this was going to play out, and neither one of them was under any illusion that this would be anything less than chaotic. Ron was trying his best not to laugh at the absurdity of it all, his hand still clutching his broomstick, while Harry looked at Hermione with a raised eyebrow, his lips curling in an amused yet sympathetic way.

Hermione finally pulled herself out of Fred and George’s embrace, her body still rigid with the weight of what was ahead. She shook her head in disbelief, the exhaustion creeping back into her bones as she sank back into the couch.

“This is going to be a nightmare,” she muttered, the frustration rising again as she looked from Fred and George to Harry and Ron. “I can’t even begin to imagine how this is going to go.”

Fred’s face lit up with another grin as he straightened up, holding his hands out in mock surrender. “Don’t worry, Granger. We’ve got this under control. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Right, George?”

George, still smiling like a Cheshire cat, nodded. “Right. Nothing to worry about at all. It’ll be a breeze. A fun breeze.”

Hermione sighed deeply, slumping further into the couch, the weight of the task ahead settling heavily on her shoulders once again. She wished she could escape, even for a moment, to the library or somewhere quiet where she could think. But instead, she was here, caught between her friends’ ridiculous confidence and the very real pressure of making sure Fred and George passed their classes.

She almost wished she could escape to the library and hide in a corner, away from the madness that was about to ensue. But deep down, there was a tiny part of her—small, quiet, and buried deep—that wondered if maybe, just maybe, she could make this work.

Chapter Text

The first tutoring session was set to take place that afternoon, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel a knot tighten in her stomach. The library was quieter than usual when she arrived, the scent of aged parchment and the soft rustle of pages filling the space. She had arrived early, wanting to ensure everything was in place before Fred and George arrived. It was all she could do to prepare herself for the chaos she was about to face.

She had spent the last few hours reviewing her study program, the one she had perfected over the years. During the summer, she had meticulously gone through every textbook, making detailed notes, and forming a routine that had gotten her through countless exams. It was a program that had worked for her—one that included precise schedules for studying, reading, and practicing every spell and charm she needed to master. Hermione had adapted that same program for Fred and George, hoping that with her structured approach, they might at least make some headway.

She had already set out the materials they would need for the session: textbooks, parchment, quills, and a stack of notes she had prepared for them. There was a large table at the back of the library, which Hermione had claimed as her base of operations for their weekly study sessions. It felt odd to be setting up for a tutoring session with Fred and George, but she was determined to stay organized. She wasn’t going to let this get out of control.

The door to the library creaked open, and Hermione looked up to see Fred and George saunter in, as usual, a bit too casually. They were a couple of minutes late, but that was to be expected. Fred grinned at her, looking far too pleased with himself. George’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his face neutral, but his eyes sparkling with the mischief that Hermione had learned to associate with nearly everything he did.

“Here we are,” Fred said brightly, his tone far too chipper for the situation at hand. “Sorry we’re late, Granger. Got caught up in a bit of a minor distraction on the way here.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t waste any time on questions. “Let’s get started,” she said firmly, taking a seat and motioning for them to sit across from her. “I’ve prepared a study plan for you two. It’s going to be strict, and we’re going to follow it exactly.”

Fred and George exchanged a look before sitting down with exaggerated slowness, both trying to hide grins. Hermione ignored them, pulling out a sheet of parchment and setting it in front of them. It had everything mapped out: when they were going to study, when they’d take breaks, and exactly which chapters they were going to cover.

“This is how it’s going to work,” Hermione began, her voice steady and professional. “You will have three sessions a week, each lasting two hours. In between sessions, I expect you to read the assigned chapters and complete the exercises I give you. There’s no room for messing about.”

Fred raised his hand, his usual smirk plastered on his face. “Just a quick question, Granger,” he said with mock seriousness. “What happens if we, say, decide to break for a snack in the middle of one of these rigorous study sessions? Is there a designated snack time?”

Hermione didn’t even flinch, keeping her tone deadpan. “You can have a snack—on the condition that it’s done during the break time.” She shot him a pointed look. “I’ll be timing it.”

Fred and George exchanged glances, clearly entertained by her no-nonsense attitude. But Hermione didn’t let their antics throw her off. She was determined to make this work. They were in their final year, and they had to pass.

“Now,” she continued, flipping through the notes she had carefully prepared, “I’ve tailored your study plan based on everything we’ve covered so far. I expect you to stay on task. I’ve broken down each subject by week. We’re going to focus on Transfiguration first—since I know that’s one of the more challenging ones for you two.” She gave them a pointed look as she spoke. “The goal is to get through the entire textbook by the end of the term.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “That’s ambitious.”

“It’s necessary,” Hermione said, her voice firm. “You can’t pass the exams if you don’t know the material inside and out.”

She slid a piece of parchment over to them. “Here’s the study schedule. Every week, we’ll cover two chapters per subject. I’ve included time for reviewing and practice. You’ll each have specific spells to practice every day, and I’ll quiz you on them at the start of each session.”

Fred and George shared another look, though their faces were now a little more serious. Hermione’s dedication was something they couldn’t ignore, and the weight of their failure to advance to the next year was starting to settle in.

“So, you’ve planned out everything?” George asked, his voice slightly less teasing than usual.

“Everything,” Hermione replied, nodding firmly. “And I’ve even set up a reward system. If you complete all of the required work for the week, I’ll allow a break at the end of each session for something you both enjoy. Maybe a prank or something light-hearted. But only if you stay on task.”

Fred and George leaned back in their chairs, clearly interested in the idea of a “reward system,” though they knew Hermione wasn’t one to make empty promises.

“Now, I’m going to go over the first chapter of Transfiguration with you,” Hermione said, flipping to the appropriate section in the book. “I’ve written down notes on the key concepts, and I want you to follow along. If there’s something you don’t understand, ask. I’m not going to babysit you, but I’ll make sure you understand the material.”

Fred raised his hand again, this time more seriously. “Granger, we do know some of this stuff. We’re not complete novices, you know. We’ve just... got distracted in the past.”

Hermione nodded, acknowledging his point. “I know you know some of it. But the goal is to make sure you know it all—and that you don’t get distracted this time. No shortcuts. We’re going to go through this properly.”

The session began in earnest. Hermione spent the next hour walking them through the fundamentals of Transfiguration, making sure to pause every few minutes to answer any questions they had. She was impressed that they didn’t immediately try to derail the session with jokes or distractions. It was clear they were taking things a bit more seriously now that the consequences of failure were staring them in the face.

But even with their improved focus, Fred and George couldn’t resist throwing in a few quips now and then, trying to break the tension. Every time they did, Hermione shot them a pointed look, and they quickly straightened up, only to smirk at each other when her attention was elsewhere.

By the end of the session, Hermione felt both drained and satisfied. The twins had followed her study schedule, mostly, and she’d managed to get through the material without too much interruption. They had worked harder than she had expected—and even seemed to appreciate the structure she had imposed on them.

“You did alright,” Hermione said as she gathered up her things, giving them an appraising look. “Not perfect, but you’re improving. We’ll pick up where we left off next time.”

Fred, looking surprisingly tired but pleased with their progress, grinned. “Alright, Granger. We’ll be ready for the next session. We’re serious now.”

Hermione couldn’t help but smile at that. As much as it frustrated her, she knew Fred and George were trying, even if it was in their own peculiar way.

She hoped this wasn’t all for nothing.

Chapter Text

The library was unusually quiet that afternoon, even by its typically serene standards. The usual murmur of hushed voices was replaced with the soft rustling of pages turning and the scratch of quills on parchment. A few students dotted the long oak tables, their faces buried deep in the pages of their textbooks, seemingly oblivious to anything but the study at hand. The air was thick with the familiar scent of ink, parchment, and the faintest trace of old leather from the countless volumes lining the shelves. The cozy atmosphere, however, did nothing to ease Hermione’s rising frustration.

She had arrived early, as always, her books and study materials neatly organized before her like a battlefield waiting for an opponent. With meticulous care, she laid out the study plan she had crafted for the twins, breaking their coursework into digestible pieces, ensuring each subject was given its due time. Every spell was listed with its theoretical background, examples, and even additional practice exercises. She was not one for half-measures, and today’s focus was on mastering nonverbal spells, a skill that was critical for their sixth-year Charms exams. She had thought of everything—when they would study, when they would review, when to practice spells, and even when they would take breaks. If she was going to help Fred and George pass, she had to treat their study sessions like a military operation.

Of course, as was to be expected, Fred and George were late.

Hermione tapped her fingers against the table, glancing down at her watch with a sigh. They had agreed to meet at precisely one o'clock, and now it was well past that. She had half a mind to just begin without them, but part of her felt she might as well have the twins present when she worked her way through their chaos. The clock on the wall ticked louder than ever, each passing second gnawing at her patience. She was just about to start sorting through the next section of her notes when, at long last, the twins sauntered in, their unmistakable grins spreading across their faces.

She had half a mind to start without them, but just as she let out a sigh of frustration, the twins sauntered in, wearing identical grins. Fred plopped into the seat across from her, stretching his arms lazily behind his head.

Fred was the first to make his entrance, his usual swagger on full display. He sauntered toward the table, flopping dramatically into the chair across from Hermione as though he were an actor arriving on stage. With a grand flourish, he stretched his arms over his head in an exaggerated yawn, causing the corners of his mouth to curl upward into that signature mischievous grin Hermione had grown all too familiar with.

“Ah, our esteemed professor awaits,” Fred said, his tone dripping with cheeky sarcasm, his eyes glinting with that unmistakable spark of mischief. He seemed to thrive in moments like these, fully aware of Hermione’s ability to be both irritated and amused by his antics at the same time.

George, not far behind, followed suit with a dramatic sigh, as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. He slid into the chair beside Fred with an air of exaggerated sorrow. “We apologize for our tardiness, Professor Granger,” he said with a mock-serious tone, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You see, we were detained by a very serious matter—”

“—the tragic disappearance of our favorite quill,” Fred interrupted, his voice dripping with mock solemnity. He placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “We had to hold a moment of silence, you know, for the quill’s valiant service.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed as she felt an all-too-familiar sigh building in her chest. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate their humor—on some level, she did—but it was becoming increasingly clear that Fred and George had absolutely no sense of urgency when it came to their studies. And considering their exam schedules were rapidly approaching, Hermione couldn’t afford to let them waste any more time.

“You’re five minutes late,” she replied, her tone teetering between mild exasperation and weary patience. She took a deep breath, knowing that snapping at them would be futile. Instead, she refocused her energy on the matter at hand, doing her best to push aside the frustration she felt at their lack of seriousness.

Fred, ever the carefree spirit, barely batted an eyelash. With a dismissive flick of his wrist, he waved her off as though her irritation was nothing more than a passing breeze. “Time is a construct, Hermione. Really, it’s merely an illusion, you know? The true measure of time is how much fun you’re having.” He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed as if he were already lost in some imaginary world where the concept of deadlines didn’t exist.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, her patience beginning to fray at the edges. She’d long learned that arguing with Fred was like arguing with a brick wall—unproductive and often exhausting. But she had no choice. She was determined to make this study session count. They had to focus, and if she had to drag them there, she would.

Letting out a long, resigned sigh, Hermione pushed the neatly prepared study plan across the table toward the twins. She knew they wouldn’t appreciate it as much as she hoped, but she wasn’t about to let them derail the whole session because of their usual antics. Her tone was firm, bordering on no-nonsense. “This,” she said, her voice unwavering, “is your study plan for Charms. I’ve taken the liberty of planning out every detail.”

Fred and George exchanged skeptical glances, clearly unsure of what to make of the densely packed parchment Hermione had laid before them. They both leaned forward, eyeing the schedule as if it were some foreign document, completely alien to the typical chaos they were used to. George picked up the paper, his face crinkling into a frown as he read through the meticulously color-coded schedule. Each section had a specific time allotted—when to read, when to practice, when to review, and when to take breaks. The various charms they’d be learning were outlined in full detail, accompanied by theoretical explanations, notes for additional practice, and space for their own observations. The entire plan was designed with the precision of a well-oiled machine, carefully constructed over hours of Hermione’s personal effort to ensure they stayed on track.

Fred let out an exaggerated exhale, clearly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of detail that went into the study schedule. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms wide as if the weight of the study plan was more than he could bear. “Merlin’s beard, Granger, have you planned out our next six months down to the second?” he asked, his voice dripping with mock awe.

“Seven,” Hermione corrected without missing a beat, folding her arms tightly across her chest and glaring at him. “I accounted for the holidays as well. I wouldn’t want you to waste valuable time over the break.”

George, still scanning the paper, shook his head slowly as he let out a quiet chuckle. “You really are something else, Hermione,” he muttered, clearly impressed but equally bewildered by the amount of effort she had put into their study regimen.

Hermione’s lips curved into a faint, determined smile. “I take my responsibilities seriously,” she said, her tone softening just a fraction, though her eyes remained as sharp and focused as ever. “And that includes making sure you two don’t completely fail at Charms this year. We’re focusing on nonverbal spells today, and if you want any hope of passing your exams, you need to master them.” Her gaze hardened as she leaned forward, her voice unwavering. “And you will, because I’m going to make sure of it.”

Fred and George exchanged another glance, and for a fleeting moment, Hermione thought she saw a glimmer of genuine understanding in their eyes. But that feeling evaporated almost immediately when Fred shot her a grin that was equal parts cheeky and skeptical.

“Nonverbal spells, eh?” Fred said, twirling his wand lazily between his fingers. “The art of looking like we’re doing absolutely nothing while secretly pulling off some very impressive magic. I think I’m quite suited for this.” His grin widened, the twinkle of mischief back in full force.

Hermione barely spared him a glance. “Exactly,” she replied, ignoring his playful tone. “Nonverbal magic is about intent. Sixth-year Charms is going to require you to cast without speaking, and if you want any hope of getting through your exams in one piece, you need to start getting comfortable with it. So let’s begin with something simple.”

She handed each of them a textbook, her eyes sharp and expectant. “Try casting Accio on your textbooks without speaking the incantation aloud. Just concentrate and use your wands. Focus on the intent, and the magic will follow.”

Fred and George exchanged looks of casual confidence, both raising their wands in unison. “Easy enough,” George muttered, his grin as wide as ever.

Fred nodded. “Piece of cake.”

Hermione watched with barely concealed amusement as they both focused intently on their books, wand tips aimed with precision. She could practically feel the intensity of their concentration, and she waited in silence for the magic to happen.

Seconds passed. Then a few more. But nothing stirred.

George squinted at his book, clearly perplexed. He flicked his wand again, but still, nothing. His brows furrowed in frustration as he muttered something under his breath. Fred, on the other hand, was staring at his textbook with a look of complete disbelief, as if it had personally offended him. He flicked his wand again, harder this time, but still no movement.

Hermione let out a long breath, her patience thinning. “You’re not concentrating properly,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “It’s not just about flicking your wands. You need to concentrate on willing the magic into existence. The spell requires intent. Try again, and focus on that.”

Fred tossed his wand down in frustration, leaning back in his chair with a dramatic groan. “I am concentrating! I swear, I can feel my brain sweating with the effort.”

Hermione shook her head, refusing to let them off the hook. “Try again,” she insisted. “And this time, focus on the intent of the spell. It’s not just about what you’re doing with your wand. It’s about what you’re doing with your mind.”

With a reluctant sigh, George raised his wand again, his focus hardening as he aimed it at his textbook. He glared at it with sheer determination, his wand flicking once more. This time, there was a slight movement. The book trembled on the table, then, with a sudden jerk, it shot off the surface—directly at Fred, smacking him square in the face.

Fred let out a startled yelp, stumbling back in his chair, hands flailing to catch his balance as the book ricocheted off his face. For a long moment, he just sat there, stunned, rubbing his nose with a dazed expression.

There was a beat of stunned silence before George erupted into laughter, clutching his stomach as he struggled to breathe through his chuckles. “Well, Fred,” he gasped, tears beginning to form in his eyes, “at least you got a reaction out of the book this time.”

Hermione couldn’t hide the smile tugging at her lips, even as she pretended to scold them. “Well, at least you got some movement,” she said with a mock sternness.

Fred groaned, still rubbing his nose. “Great. Now George can summon books straight at me.”

George wiped a tear from his eye, still grinning wildly. “Most effective studying we’ve ever done,” he declared, barely able to contain his laughter.

Hermione sighed, but there was no hiding the fondness in her eyes. “Alright, that’s enough for today,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Let’s move on before you two destroy each other with your wands.”

Chapter Text

The library was quiet as always when Hermione finally gathered her belongings. She had spent the last few hours trying to corral Fred and George, guiding them through the basics of nonverbal magic. The session hadn’t been a total disaster—well, not entirely—but Hermione was exhausted. Hermione couldn’t deny that she had, in some strange way, made progress with Fred and George. The twins, for all their antics, had managed to summon their textbooks—well, sort of—and that was something, even if it meant Fred had spent half the time rubbing his nose and muttering about books seeking vengeance.

As she packed up her things, Hermione glanced at her watch, realizing that dinner would be served soon. She’d have to go over the theory on the Drought Charm and the Vinegar to Wine spell again, as they were likely to come up in tomorrow’s lesson. The walk from the library to the Great Hall was one she often took alone, the air crisp with the sharp bite of early winter.

As she passed through the archway that led to the hall, Hermione was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice the figure leaning casually against the stone wall until it was too late.

“Well, well, well,” a voice drawled from the shadows, smooth and laced with that unmistakable arrogance that Hermione had grown all too familiar with. “If it isn’t the infamous Granger, Queen of the Books and Defender of the Rules.”

Hermione froze, the hairs on the back of her neck rising instinctively. She knew that voice all too well. Turning, she came face to face with Draco Malfoy, who was standing with his arms folded, a sneer twisting his features as he looked her up and down.

“I didn’t realize the library had such a pull on you,” Draco continued, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “I mean, it’s not like you have anything better to do than to play little headmaster with the Weasley twins.”

Hermione didn’t bother hiding her disdain as she glared at him. “I’m surprised you even know how to spell ‘library,’ Malfoy,” she retorted, her voice calm but sharp.

Draco’s lips curled into a grin, though it wasn’t friendly. “I’m sure you’re delighted with your little study group,” he said, stepping closer, his eyes narrowing with mock pity. “But you can’t honestly think they’re going to learn anything from you, can you? Those two can barely manage to cast a simple charm, let alone keep their mouths shut long enough to do anything properly.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. She could feel her temper rising, but she held it in check. Draco Malfoy had a knack for getting under her skin, and she wasn’t about to let him win this time.

“You seem to be awfully concerned with how I spend my time, Malfoy,” Hermione said coolly. “Shouldn’t you be worrying about your own studies? Or, better yet, doing something useful for once?”

Draco’s eyes flicked to the side as he smirked. “Useful?” he repeated, his voice dripping with amusement. “I’ve always found that being charming is far more effective than all that bookish nonsense you seem to think is so important.” He took a step closer, his sneer widening. “But then again, you probably wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Hermione’s lips parted, ready to fire back with something cutting, but before she could speak, Draco waved a dismissive hand, as though he was finished with her.

“Well, whatever,” he said, his tone now bored. “I’ve got better things to do than listen to you drone on about your ‘important’ study sessions. Just don’t expect anyone else to take you seriously, Granger. You’re hardly a model for the rest of us.”

With that, he turned on his heel, walking off with a swagger that only Draco Malfoy could manage. Hermione stood there for a moment, her jaw clenched in frustration. She hated that he could still get to her after all these years. It wasn’t as if his words held any real weight—they never did—but the arrogance in his tone always made her feel like a fool, no matter how hard she tried to ignore it.

Still, she wasn’t about to let him ruin her evening. She straightened her back, squared her shoulders, and made her way into the Great Hall, determined to focus on the night ahead.

A few hours later, the noise in the Great Hall was as boisterous as ever. The long tables were filled with students laughing, chatting, and eating, the clatter of cutlery filling the air. Hermione, Harry, and Ron were seated at their usual spot, surrounded by the noise of the other students. They’d managed to get through a reasonably uneventful dinner, though Hermione couldn’t shake the lingering irritation from her encounter with Draco earlier.

“Blimey,” Ron muttered, looking toward the entrance of the hall. “Looks like Malfoy’s had a bit too much of something.” His eyes were fixed on the figure of Draco Malfoy, who was striding confidently toward the Slytherin table, his usual smug expression in place.

Draco reached for his seat, but just as he was about to sit, something strange happened. He froze mid-motion, his hand hovering over the edge of the table. A strange sensation seemed to ripple through him. His eyes widened, his body stiffened, and for a brief moment, it almost looked like he was… vibrating?

“Is he… is he okay?” Harry asked, his voice tinged with confusion.

But it was too late for Draco to react. Suddenly, with a loud pop, a huge pie—covered in a brilliant mixture of chocolate and whipped cream—appeared out of nowhere and landed squarely on his head. The pie squelched and splattered as it made contact with his perfectly styled platinum blonde hair, drenching him completely.

The hall went silent for a split second, as if the entire student body had collectively gasped in disbelief. Then, as if on cue, an explosion of laughter erupted from every corner. Even the Slytherins couldn’t help but snicker, though they tried to suppress their amusement.

Draco stood there, stunned, his face dripping with whipped cream, a piece of chocolate sliding down his forehead. His usual composure was completely shattered, and for the first time in years, Draco Malfoy looked entirely out of his element. His eyes darted around the room, narrowing with fury as he sputtered, trying to wipe the pie off his face, but only succeeding in smearing it further.

“That’s... that’s impossible,” Draco hissed, but no one was paying attention to his protest.

From across the hall, Fred and George Weasley sat together, their faces adorned with mischievous smiles, their eyes twinkling with mirth as they watched the scene unfold. They exchanged a meaningful glance, the unspoken understanding clear between them. They nodded toward Hermione, who was trying and failing to suppress the faintest smirk tugging at her lips.

It wasn’t a loud or boisterous gesture—more of a subtle acknowledgment—but it was enough for Hermione to know they had a hand in this little bit of payback. The twins had, once again, managed to turn the tables on Draco Malfoy, and she couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction at the sight of his discomfort.

Draco, still trying to salvage what little dignity he had left, shot a venomous glare toward Hermione. “You!” he spat, his voice low with fury. “This is your doing, isn’t it?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, her expression cool and composed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Malfoy,” she said smoothly, though the edge of amusement was impossible to hide.

Draco’s face reddened as he sputtered in frustration. “This is—this is ridiculous!”

Hermione could only smile faintly as she returned to her dinner, pretending to ignore the chaos around her. She knew it wasn’t technically her prank, but that didn’t mean she didn’t enjoy the moment. And as Draco tried to wipe the last remnants of chocolate off his robes, she caught sight of Fred and George once more, their faces grinning like Cheshire cats. She gave them a barely perceptible nod in return.

It had been a long day. But sometimes, a little bit of chaos was exactly what the day needed.

Chapter Text

The classroom Hermione had reserved for their study session was empty when she arrived, which was precisely how she preferred it. Unlike the library, where whispers and the occasional shifting of parchment could be a distraction, this room—tucked away on the third floor—was ideal for practical work. The desks had been pushed to the sides, leaving a wide open space for spell practice. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, casting golden patches across the stone floor, though the flickering torches along the walls made it feel cozier, almost inviting.

But even in the perfect setting, Hermione was already irritated.

Fred and George were late.

She checked the time again, fingers tapping against the spine of her textbook with impatience. Three minutes. Not a terrible offense by their usual standards, but it was the principle of the matter. We agreed on a time, and they can’t even bother to show up on schedule? She huffed, setting her book down with more force than necessary, her foot tapping. They had promised they were taking this seriously.

Just as she was considering storming out to hunt them down herself, the door burst open with a flourish, and in sauntered the twins as though they had all the time in the world. The heavy wooden door swung dramatically on its hinges, creaking slightly as if to announce their arrival, though the effect was somewhat diminished by the sheer casualness with which they strolled in. It was as if they had orchestrated the perfect entrance—unhurried, full of bravado, and utterly infuriating in its lack of urgency.

Fred was first, his usual mischievous grin firmly in place as he swept an exaggerated bow, bending so low that his messy ginger hair nearly brushed the floor. When he straightened, he clasped his hands behind his back, adopting an expression of mock sincerity. “Dearest Hermione, our sincerest apologies for our tardiness. You see, we were cruelly waylaid—”

“—by fate itself,” George finished smoothly, stepping in right beside him, mirroring his brother’s dramatic stance with impeccable timing. He pressed a hand over his heart, tilting his chin upward as if recounting a moment of great tragedy.

Fred sighed theatrically, running a hand through his hair with the practiced ease of someone who had delivered far too many dramatic monologues. “A tragedy, really. We were merely making our way here when we were stopped by—”

“—a most distressing sight,” George supplied, shaking his head in mock sorrow, his voice dipped in an almost comically solemn tone.

Fred placed a hand over his chest as though deeply moved by the memory. “A poor first-year, lost and afraid, needing guidance.”

“Two poor first-years,” George corrected, his lips twitching as he barely held back a smirk.

Fred shot him a quick glance, eyebrows raised slightly, before continuing undeterred. “And naturally, being the generous, warm-hearted individuals we are—”

“—not to mention devastatingly handsome—”

“—we simply had to stop and assist.”

George exhaled heavily, shaking his head again, as though the burden of their good deeds was something they carried with great difficulty. He turned to Hermione, his expression now one of exaggerated sincerity. “So you see, Professor Granger, we were performing an act of great public service. Our noble hearts could not allow us to ignore such a plea for help.”

Hermione, utterly unimpressed, crossed her arms over her chest and levelled them both with a flat, unwavering stare. “Three minutes,” she said dryly, her tone carrying none of the sympathy they were clearly hoping for.

Fred let out a low whistle, nudging George with his elbow. “Harsh. No appreciation for a good deed, I see.”

George sighed, shaking his head with an expression of mock disappointment. “Not a speck of gratitude.”

Fred, never one to let a moment pass without adding a touch of his own flair, leaned in slightly, his voice dipping into something smoother, more deliberately teasing. “But then, perhaps our fearless leader is simply too distracted by our presence to think clearly.” His grin widened, his brown eyes twinkling with mischief as he studied her reaction—or, rather, her complete lack of one.

George, ever the perfect counterpart, picked up the thread immediately, his smirk matching his twin’s. “Ah, that must be it. Poor thing, she can barely concentrate with us around.” He shook his head, feigning sympathy. “It must be terribly exhausting, having to resist our overwhelming charm while also maintaining that terrifying level of academic prowess.”

Fred gave an exaggerated sigh, pressing a hand to his forehead as if burdened by his own attractiveness. “It’s truly a curse being this charming.”

If they were expecting Hermione to blush, fluster, or even acknowledge their antics with anything more than mild irritation, they were sorely mistaken. She didn’t so much as spare them a glance. Instead, she turned on her heel with practiced efficiency, flicking her wand toward the far end of the room with a quick, precise motion. Instantly, a stack of parchment lifted from a desk in the corner and soared neatly through the air, landing in a tidy pile in front of them.

“You’re late,” she repeated briskly, already scanning over her notes, her tone clipped and businesslike. “Which means we’re starting immediately. I’ve planned today’s session around conjuration. Transfiguration is a fundamental part of your NEWTs, and Conjuring Spells in particular require precision, intent, and control.”

Fred and George exchanged a glance, their usual playfulness momentarily tempered by the sheer seriousness in her voice. They knew by now that Hermione wasn’t one for nonsense when it came to academics—though that had never stopped them from trying to slip some in.

George clutched his chest dramatically as though she had just struck him with a particularly devastating curse. “You wound me, Hermione,” he lamented, shaking his head in mock distress.

Fred, never one to be left behind in the theatrics department, followed suit, clasping a hand over his heart with an exaggerated sigh. “So little faith,” he added, his voice dripping with mock sorrow.

Hermione, wholly unimpressed, didn’t bother looking up from her notes as she flicked her wand. A neat stack of parchment, filled with detailed instructions and diagrams, divided itself into three sections and floated gracefully onto their desks.

“Prove me wrong, then,” she challenged, arching a single brow as she watched them from over the top of her parchment.

The twins exchanged a quick, knowing glance before picking up the papers in unison.

Fred hummed thoughtfully as he skimmed through the instructions. “Seems easy enough.”

George twirled his wand between his fingers, his lips twitching as though suppressing a laugh. “Simple conjuration? Child’s play.”

Hermione gave them a withering look, folding her arms across her chest. “Then do it,” she said simply, waiting.

The room was silent save for the faint rustling of parchment and the distant flickering of candlelight against the ancient stone walls. Fred and George adjusted their grips on their wands, their earlier bravado tempered by the challenge before them. With a shared nod, they raised their wands in unison.

Fred furrowed his brow in concentration, gripping his wand a little tighter as he focused. He envisioned a quill—long, elegant, perfect for scribbling down witty remarks and clever comebacks at a moment’s notice. He flicked his wrist with purpose, feeling the familiar rush of magic coil through him.

Nothing happened.

George, on the other hand, had his wand poised, murmuring under his breath as his eyes narrowed in determination. He envisioned the quill clearly, picturing every detail, from the texture of the feather to the sharp point of the nib. He gestured smoothly, confidently.

Still nothing.

Hermione exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose before levelling them with a patient—if slightly exasperated—stare. “You need to feel the spell,” she instructed, her voice firm. “The magic should build inside of you before you cast, like a spark waiting to be ignited. You can’t just say the incantation—you have to mean it.”

Fred let out a dramatic sigh, shaking out his hands as if loosening invisible tension. “Alright, alright. Spark. Got it,” he muttered, shifting his stance slightly before trying again.

This time, with a faint pop, something materialized on the desk before him.

Hermione leaned in, hopeful.

“…That’s a spoon.”

Fred blinked down at the object in front of him. Sure enough, a gleaming silver spoon lay where his quill should have been, reflecting the dim candlelight mockingly.

George let out a loud bark of laughter, practically doubling over in his seat. “Well, if we ever need to transcribe notes in soup, you’ll be our man.”

Fred frowned at the spoon, giving it a nudge with his wand as if willing it to morph into the intended object. “Not quite what I had in mind, but points for effort?” he offered, flashing Hermione a hopeful grin.

Hermione closed her eyes for a brief moment, inhaling deeply as though summoning the patience of a saint. The twins had only been at this for a short while, and already, she felt as though she’d aged several years. Exhaling slowly, she reopened her eyes and fixed them on George with a measured stare, her voice clipped yet calm.

“Try again.”

George, still grinning, straightened in his seat, rolling his shoulders as if physically shaking off the remnants of his laughter. He adjusted his grip on his wand, shifting slightly where he sat, his expression turning from amusement to something almost resembling focus.

He could do this. Conjuring wasn’t that different from some of the spell work he and Fred did for their pranks. It was just about intention—visualizing what you wanted and making it appear. At least, that’s what Hermione had been hammering into their heads for the last half-hour.

With a small exhale, he narrowed his eyes at the empty space on the desk before him, willing his magic to comply. He pictured the quill in his mind—sleek, dark, with just the right balance to glide smoothly across parchment. The shimmer of conjuration filled the air, faint but unmistakable, as magic coiled and twisted into shape.

With a soft pop, something dark and feathery appeared in front of him.

Hermione’s eyes brightened as she leaned in, already nodding in approval. “Much better—”

But George had already picked up the object, turning it between his fingers, inspecting it closely. A slow grin crept across his face.

“…It’s a chicken feather.”

For a brief moment, silence hung in the air. Then Fred collapsed against the desk, his forehead resting on his folded arms as he burst into uncontrollable laughter. His entire body shook with it, his muffled snickers breaking into outright cackles as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Oh, brilliant,” he wheezed between gasps. “You’ll be writing essays in cluck, then?”

George, ever unfazed, lifted the feather and twirled it thoughtfully between his fingers. “Could be useful,” he mused. “Maybe I’ll translate my next essay into chicken scratch.”

Fred clutched at his ribs, still grinning. “McGonagall’s going to love that one.”

Hermione inhaled deeply, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose in a familiar gesture of restraint. There was no actual rule against cursing in a tutoring session, but she was starting to wonder if she should establish one—at least for her own sanity. She had seen students struggle with conjuration before, but this? This was something else entirely.

“This is going to be a long session,” she muttered under her breath before straightening and setting her shoulders with renewed resolve.

And indeed, the next hour proved to be both a test of patience and an absolute masterclass in magical unpredictability. The air was filled with the occasional pop of conjured objects appearing—though rarely the correct ones.

Fred, to his growing frustration, somehow managed to summon three more spoons in succession, each one landing neatly beside the last, as if taunting him. When Hermione had finally told him to stop trying to conjure quills and just conjure anything, his next attempt had produced a rubber duck that let out a loud, shrill squeak when poked.

It had sent George into another fit of laughter.

“This is an academic lesson,” Hermione reminded them sharply, rubbing her temples. “Not a toy factory.”

George, to his credit, had put forth genuine effort—but his results were only slightly more successful. After several failed attempts, he had finally managed to produce an actual quill, though it was far from perfect. The nib was crooked, the feathers looked singed at the edges, and when he picked it up, a small cloud of what looked suspiciously like soot puffed into the air.

“I think it’s got character,” George said, holding it up to the light. “Bit of a rebel, this one.”

Fred snorted. “It looks like it barely survived a house fire.”

Meanwhile, Hermione had conjured a flawless, elegant raven-feather quill on her first try.

She had set it down on the desk beside her with an air of casual ease, as though it had taken her no effort at all, which, of course, it hadn’t. The sight of it—pristine, perfectly balanced, and utterly smug in its perfection—only served to deepen Fred and George’s irritation.

Fred gave it a glare. “Show-off,” he muttered under his breath.

By the time they wrapped up, the twins were slumped against their desks, utterly drained, their energy significantly depleted. And yet, despite the repeated failures, the spoons, the ducks, the accidental summoning of what might have been a liquorice wand at one point, neither of them looked the least bit discouraged. In fact, if anything, they seemed even more amused than when they had started.

Fred stretched his arms high above his head, groaning as his joints popped. “Well, Professor Granger, I must say, that was a humbling experience.”

George, rubbing a hand through his hair, nodded solemnly. “I’ll have nightmares about spoons for weeks.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t quite keep the hint of amusement from creeping onto her face. At least they’d actually tried, which was more than she had initially expected. She gathered her notes swiftly, stacking them into a neat pile before glancing at them both.

“Same time next session?” she asked, already half-prepared for whatever ridiculous response they were bound to give.

Fred and George exchanged a glance before identical smirks spread across their faces.

“We wouldn’t miss it,” Fred said, his tone light, teasing.

George nodded in agreement, spinning his battered quill between his fingers. “After all, someone has to keep you on your toes.”

Hermione, as always, remained completely oblivious to the undertone of their words. She simply nodded briskly before turning toward the door, her mind already shifting to the next task on her ever-growing list of responsibilities.

Fred nudged George with his elbow, his grin lingering as he watched her disappear into the corridor.

“Think she’ll ever notice?” he murmured.

George didn’t even hesitate. He leaned back in his chair, watching the empty doorway with a knowing grin.

“Not a chance.”

Chapter Text

The dim, amber glow of the advanced potions classroom settled over the long wooden tables, the air heavy with the scent of various herbs, simmering concoctions, and the faintly metallic tang of the cauldrons bubbling away. Shelves lined with dusty jars of ingredients covered the walls, some labelled in painstakingly neat handwriting, others scrawled in rushed ink. It was a familiar, if slightly intimidating, setting for Hermione and the twins—one that they had grown accustomed to after years of potions classes together.

But today, the stakes were higher.

Professor Slughorn had assigned a particularly challenging potion: a complex variation of the Draught of Living Death, one that required precision and patience. The students were instructed to create their own version, altering the potion’s properties in subtle ways by adjusting the ratios of ingredients. It was a task that required not only expertise in potion-making but also an eye for detail, something Hermione took very seriously.

Hermione stood at the front of the table, her eyes narrowed in intense concentration as she prepared to chop up the bundle of belladonna. The plant was delicate, its stem slightly curved, the small leaves glowing faintly under the dim lighting of the potions classroom. She had always prided herself on precision, the kind of exacting accuracy that could be the difference between a perfectly brewed potion and a disastrous one. Today, however, it wasn’t coming together as she’d hoped. Her knife hovered above the belladonna, and though she made the attempt to slice through it, the results were less than ideal. The pieces were uneven, too thick in places and jagged in others, and it wasn’t the clean cut she had been aiming for. Her frustration mounted with each failed attempt, her brow furrowing deeper, and her hands began to tremble slightly as she placed the knife down with a sharp exhale.

It’s not perfect, she thought, a wave of irritation rising in her chest. I need it to be perfect. There was a creeping, overwhelming feeling that the slightest mistake, the smallest imperfection, could ruin the entire potion. She could already picture Professor Slughorn’s disapproving glance, the way he would raise an eyebrow at her for failing to meet his high standards. Hermione prided herself on never failing—on always being the best. And yet here she was, struggling with the simplest of cuts.

Across the table, Fred had been quietly watching her as she worked, his eyes glinting with mischief as he noticed the growing tension in her posture. Fred and George had made steady progress on their own potion, a task that involved some minor ingredient manipulation, though their table looked like a chaotic storm had swept through it. Half-spilled bottles of dragon liver, random slips of parchment covered in scribbled notes, and scattered ingredients lay around them in a jumble. It was hard to believe they were working on the same potion as Hermione.

George, balancing a bottle of dragon liver in one hand and a ladle in the other, glanced over at Hermione. His face broke into an almost predatory grin as he saw the frustration in her expression. “Need a hand, Granger?” he called over, his voice light, but there was a teasing edge to it.

Fred leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with an exaggerated sigh. “You look like you’re about to strangle the poor belladonna. Need us to step in before you start hexing it into oblivion?” He shot Hermione a cheeky grin, fully aware of her tendency to get wound up when things weren’t going perfectly.

Hermione shot them both an exasperated look, trying to keep her mounting frustration under control. “I’m fine,” she muttered through clenched teeth, though the tightness in her voice betrayed her. She grabbed the knife again, adjusting her grip with newfound determination, and attempted to slice the belladonna once more. But again, the slices were uneven—too thick in some places, too thin in others, and several pieces were completely jagged.

George smirked at her, his eyes narrowing as he leaned in to inspect her work. “You’re doing it wrong,” he said casually, his tone full of amusement.

Fred, never one to miss a chance for dramatics, stood up and strode over to Hermione’s side. He placed a hand on her shoulder, his voice taking on a mock-serious tone as he leaned close. “Fear not, Hermione. We, the Potion Professors of Weasley Inc., are here to rescue you from your state of despair,” he said, giving her a cheeky wink.

Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away. It was clear they wouldn’t let this go, and while she certainly didn’t want their help, a small part of her was aware that, despite their usual antics, they did know a thing or two about potion-making. The chaotic way in which they approached it often worked wonders—though it made Hermione’s more meticulous nature cringe.

Fred grabbed the knife from her hand with a flourish before she could protest, twirling it between his fingers like a pro. “You’re being too precise,” he said, his grin widening. “You want the cuts to be sharp, sure, but not overly perfect. You need a little bit of unpredictability here, Hermione. A little chaos. The potion needs to breathe, you know?”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest but hesitated. There was a kernel of truth in his words. She frowned, considering it for a moment, then crossed her arms tightly in front of her chest. “But precision is everything in potions!” she said, her voice firm, though not quite as confident as she would have liked. “If I don’t get these cuts exactly right, the ratio of the belladonna will be wrong, and the entire mixture could be ruined. You know how dangerous this can be if I get it wrong—this potion could—”

“—explode in your face?” George interrupted, leaning in with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. He waved his wand dismissively, as if swatting away the very thought. “You’ve been reading too many cautionary tales, Hermione. Look, you’ve got to let go of the need for everything to be perfect. It’s the Weasley law of potion-making: a little chaos goes a long way. You can’t control everything—sometimes, you’ve got to roll with it.”

Fred grinned widely, nudging Hermione with his elbow. “Besides, you’re overthinking it. I’ve got this covered.” He pulled out his wand, swishing it with a flourish as if this were all part of a grand plan. With a flick of his wrist, the pieces of belladonna that Hermione had been struggling with levitated effortlessly into the air, swirling gently before they dropped into the cauldron, each piece settling into place with perfect alignment.

Hermione froze, watching the scene unfold in front of her, her mouth slightly open in surprise. “You—did you just levitate the ingredients into the cauldron?” she asked, her voice a mixture of incredulity and annoyance. The edges of her frustration softened, but only slightly. The belladonna glowed faintly as it sank into the simmering liquid, and a subtle shimmer seemed to emanate from the cauldron. It was perfect.

Fred beamed at her, entirely unperturbed by her response. “What can I say? I’m a genius,” he said with a mock bow, as if he were receiving a standing ovation.

Hermione opened her mouth to lecture him on the importance of following procedure, on how levitating ingredients was hardly a standard method, but then she caught herself. The potion was reacting beautifully to the addition of the belladonna—more gracefully than she could have ever imagined. The colour of the liquid deepened, becoming a rich, violet hue, with an almost otherworldly glow. Though not exactly by the book, it was undeniably effective. She hesitated, biting her lip as she surveyed the cauldron.

“See?” Fred said, his eyes glinting with triumph. “Perfect doesn’t always have to mean perfect.”

Hermione huffed, though a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. She couldn’t argue with the results. “I suppose you’ve done enough damage to the belladonna,” she muttered, though there was no malice in her words. She glanced over at their table, where George was busy mixing dragon claw powder into a bubbling cauldron, some of it spilling onto the table in a streak of vibrant red. “I’ll handle the rest, thank you.”

“You sure?” George asked, raising an eyebrow and leaning closer to Hermione’s cauldron. He crossed his arms over his chest with a smug expression. “You know, I’ve got a pretty steady hand when it comes to stirring,” he said, as if the phrase steady hand wasn’t an oxymoron when attached to a Weasley.

“I’ll pass,” Hermione replied dryly, her eyes narrowing slightly as she glanced at George. “But thanks for the offer.” She turned back to her cauldron, carefully adding the next ingredient, a sense of focus returning to her as she worked.

Fred chuckled softly, his eyes glancing sideways at George, who had settled back into his chair, a satisfied grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Should we leave her to it?" Fred asked, his voice light and teasing. "I think we’ve helped enough for today. We wouldn't want to be accused of stealing the spotlight from the Potion Prodigy of Hogwarts." He flashed Hermione another grin, his smile a mixture of mischief and camaraderie. "You’ve got the potion on the right track now, don’t you think?"

Hermione’s brow furrowed slightly as she took a moment to study her cauldron. The potion, though still bubbling gently, had undergone a remarkable transformation. The colour had deepened, becoming a rich and vibrant shade of violet that almost seemed to shimmer in the dim light of the classroom. The way it reacted to the addition of the belladonna—now carefully sliced, thanks to Fred’s levitating assistance—was undeniably more positive. The texture of the potion was smoother, the bubbling even, and the mixture seemed to hum with a subtle energy. Her own precise cuts, or rather, their slightly imprecise cuts, had indeed made all the difference. She couldn’t help but feel a small spark of appreciation for the twins' help, though her pride still held firm against fully admitting it.

She sighed, her shoulders relaxing as she let her gaze linger on the cauldron for just a moment longer. “Fine,” she said begrudgingly, her voice tinged with reluctant gratitude. She glanced at Fred and George, trying to maintain her usual air of composure, though she couldn’t quite hide the flicker of gratitude in her eyes. “I suppose it looks better now,” she admitted, her tone softening just slightly. “But you’re not going to let me forget this, are you?”

George leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms with a contented yawn, his face painted with the expression of someone who had just completed a job well done. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Granger,” he said, his voice full of playful defiance. He couldn’t resist adding, “After all, this is the most exciting moment of our entire semester. You’re going to be hearing about this for ages.” His grin was full of amusement, but there was an underlying warmth to it, as though he genuinely enjoyed pushing Hermione’s boundaries just to see her rise above the challenge.

Fred raised an eyebrow and winked at Hermione, his usual mischievous glint never far from the surface. “Just consider this a lesson in the art of flexibility,” he said, his tone lighthearted but with a touch of sincerity that caught Hermione off guard. "You can’t always control everything, you know. Sometimes, you’ve got to roll with it.” He gestured broadly, as though to make a point of how easy it could be to embrace a little bit of unpredictability. He seemed almost pleased that Hermione had allowed herself to embrace the chaos, however reluctantly.

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn't help the small, reluctant smile that crept onto her lips. Her eyes flicked back to her cauldron as she carefully adjusted the temperature, watching the potion shimmer and change. Despite herself, a small sense of accomplishment settled within her. "I’ll remember this when I’m getting perfect marks on our next exam," she said, a playful tone edging into her voice. “And you two are struggling to make a simple potion, no doubt.” Her words were teasing, but there was an unspoken challenge in them as well. Hermione had a way of holding her ground, especially when it came to her studies. She couldn’t help but feel a little smug knowing that her precise methods would always have their place in potion-making, no matter how much Fred and George would argue otherwise.

The twins exchanged a glance, and Fred leaned over toward George, a grin spreading across his face as he watched Hermione’s focused expression. “She’s too good, isn’t she?” he murmured, his voice filled with a quiet admiration. There was no mockery in his tone now, just an unspoken acknowledgment of Hermione’s brilliance—her ability to hold her ground, to push herself beyond limits even when chaos was lurking around every corner.

George, still watching Hermione as she worked, nodded thoughtfully, his eyes bright with amusement and affection. “No one else could pull off perfection and chaos at the same time,” he said with a hint of admiration, though his words were lightly teasing. There was a fondness in his gaze as he observed the way Hermione worked, the precise control she exerted over her potion even as the twins made their raucous, unpredictable appearances. It was clear, in that moment, that the twins appreciated her for what she was—the steady hand in a storm of unpredictability—and they admired her determination, even if they didn’t always show it in the most conventional ways.

Hermione could feel the warmth of camaraderie beginning to settle over her as she continued to add ingredients with a steady hand. The connection with Fred and George, though tested by their usual banter and teasing, had deepened over time. They weren’t just a source of irritation to her anymore, not in the way they once were. Over the years, they had become her unlikely partners in this world of potions, spells, and constant expectations. Their help—though chaotic and often unexpected—had made her feel a little less alone in this whirlwind of magic and academics. As much as she would never admit it out loud, their presence gave her a sense of balance, as if the twin forces of order and chaos had found a way to work together, if only for a fleeting moment.

The classroom, once filled with tension and the overwhelming weight of academic expectation, seemed a little lighter now. Hermione found herself shaking her head as she watched Fred and George go back to their own potions, their banter still in full swing. She couldn’t help but smile, the edges of her frustration melting away in the shared laughter. Despite all the teasing and mischief, despite her desire for perfection, there was a comfort in knowing that even when things didn’t go exactly as planned, she could count on them to help her navigate the chaos.

As the twins settled back into their own brewing, Hermione felt a flicker of something deeper than just relief—something that, if she were being honest with herself, she hadn’t quite expected. There was an odd sense of camaraderie there, a shared understanding that, for all their differences, they were all in this together. And though they had certainly tested her patience, she had to admit that their help—however unorthodox it may have been—had made her feel just a little bit less overwhelmed in this whirlwind of potions, books, and expectations.

Chapter Text

The Gryffindor common room hummed with activity, a familiar symphony of laughter, chatter, and the occasional squabble over unfinished homework. The air smelled faintly of ink, parchment, and the faint woodsy scent of the fire crackling merrily in the hearth. Its orange glow bathed the room in a warm, golden light, making the stone walls glow and giving the wooden beams above a soft, flickering hue. A few scattered candles illuminated the tables and cozy nooks, casting gentle shadows across the room as students relaxed after a long day of classes.

At one of the larger tables near the fire, Harry and Ron sat across from each other, fully absorbed in their wizard chess game. The chessboard was alive with movement, as each piece displayed an animated personality. The knights galloped across the board on their steed-like mounts, and the pawns marched forward, some looking eager for battle, others hesitating with exaggerated, nervous glances. A particularly grumpy-looking pawn grumbled at Ron's last move, while one of Harry's rooks looked deeply offended by the position it had been forced into.

Harry’s forehead creased in concentration, his brow furrowing slightly as he chewed on the edge of his lip. His queen had just been knocked off the board for the third time, and his situation wasn’t looking any better. His remaining pieces were dwindling, and it was only a matter of time before Ron would claim victory. Ron, however, was enjoying himself entirely too much. He leaned back in his seat, resting his hands behind his head, a wide grin plastered across his face. His knight had just leaped over Harry’s bishop in a dramatic, almost theatrical fashion, taking it out of play with a flourish.

"Gotcha," Ron said, his voice full of mock-sympathy as he leaned forward, eyes glinting with mischief. "Honestly, mate, you really should’ve seen that coming."

Harry huffed and muttered something under his breath as he slid his knight forward, trying to shift the balance in his favour. He knew it was a losing battle, but there was no way he was going to let Ron know that. He didn’t particularly mind the game, but it was one of those things that had always managed to make his palms a little sweatier than he liked. There was something about the intensity of the game—the way Ron played with such enthusiasm, and how his gloating became louder with each move—that made Harry feel a bit more stressed than he should have. And it didn’t help that Ron wore that particular expression on his face, the one that screamed I’m about to gloat in the worst possible way.

As Ron chuckled under his breath and prepared for his next move, Harry felt a sudden sense of relief. It was clear who was going to win this round, but he would be ready for the rematch. He glanced around the room, searching for something to distract him from the inevitable defeat, and his eyes fell on Hermione.

On the other side of the room, Hermione sat perched comfortably in one of the armchairs by the window, bathed in the soft, flickering light of the fire. She had set aside the usual pile of textbooks that seemed to follow her wherever she went, and instead, she was engrossed in something a little more whimsical: a book about magical creatures. A book she had picked up earlier in the week during a break in classes, thinking it might provide a much-needed escape from the more academic texts she usually devoured.

But even her "light reading" had a distinct air of scholarly focus. The book's pages were filled with beautiful illustrations of mythical creatures, ranging from the docile to the dangerous, each sketched in painstaking detail. Hermione had underlined and highlighted entire sections of text, her handwriting flowing neatly between the lines of the book's carefully laid-out pages. The margins were crowded with her usual notes, scribbles of observation and curiosity, and occasional thoughts of clarification for things she hadn’t fully understood yet. Some of the creatures she found fascinating; others seemed to be presented as almost too absurd to be true—yet Hermione knew better than to dismiss anything in the wizarding world.

The book had been a pleasant change of pace for her, though even as she read, her mind was rarely ever fully idle. She found herself thinking back to her earlier classes, considering what she could do to improve on her next assignment or how to approach the upcoming exams. It wasn’t just relaxation, but a calm way of organizing her thoughts for the tasks ahead.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes scanning the page with practiced ease. The book’s subject matter seemed to hold her attention more fully than usual. The creatures described weren’t just fascinating; they were often tied to magical history, obscure legends, and ancient magical practices. It was this sort of connection that Hermione found endlessly fascinating. The more she read, the more she scribbled down notes, underlining new facts and jotting down ideas for later research. Even in moments of supposed relaxation, she couldn’t resist the pull of knowledge, the allure of understanding things better than anyone else.

Though the fire crackled behind her, Hermione remained lost in the words before her, occasionally pausing to turn the page or adjust her reading glasses, which had a tendency to slip down her nose as she read. The whole room seemed to fade around her as she absorbed every detail of the creatures’ descriptions.

Her focus was so complete that, at first, she didn’t notice Fred and George Weasley approaching her from across the room, each carrying that gleam of mischief they wore like a badge of honor. But when Fred’s voice broke through her concentration, she looked up, an eyebrow raised in silent question.

"Alright, Granger," Fred said with an exaggerated grin, leaning casually against the back of her chair as George stepped beside him, both of them clearly bursting with excitement over whatever scheme they were planning. "We’ve got something that’s going to completely revolutionize your study routine."

Hermione sighed, setting the book down with a soft thud. "Oh, no," she muttered under her breath. "What now?"

“We've taken your advice about staying ahead of the game, Granger,” George said, his voice dripping with mock-seriousness, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object with great fanfare. He held up a shiny, perfectly round bronze ball, the size of a Snitch but much smoother in texture, its surface catching the soft glow of the firelight.

Hermione's eyes flickered from the ball to George’s smirking face, her brow lifting in curiosity. “You’ve been studying my notes?” she asked, a hint of incredulity in her tone.

Fred gave a sly wink, grinning widely. “Oh, we’ve got all your notes under careful study, Granger. The twins always like to keep an eye on the expert in any given field.” He twirled the ball in his hands, clearly savouring the moment. “And you, Hermione, are definitely the expert when it comes to magical creatures, aren’t you?”

Hermione couldn’t help the small flush that crept into her cheeks. She wasn’t quite sure whether to be flattered or unnerved by the idea that the twins had been combing through her notes. She knew they had a knack for absorbing information—whether it was for prank purposes or not—but it still seemed a little too… personal. “And what exactly have you been doing with my notes?”

With a dramatic flourish, Fred flipped the ball over in his hands and gave it a quick twist of his wrist. The ball hummed softly, and before Hermione could respond, a small, shimmering image of a serpent appeared in the air above it, flicking its tongue in an eerily lifelike way. It was a graceful, undulating motion, so precise that for a moment, Hermione thought it might actually be a real creature, just magically rendered in the air. The serpent’s form shifted as it slithered, its tail curling in tight coils with a fluidity that mimicked the movement of a real snake.

“Introducing,” George began, voice rich with theatrical flair, “The Serpent’s Trick.”

Hermione blinked, taken aback. The serpent hovered above them, an intricate, almost magical illusion that made her heart skip a beat. “A serpent?” she repeated, momentarily distracted by the creature’s unsettling presence. “What is this, another one of your pranks?”

Fred raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying her reaction. “Oh, it's not just any prank, Granger. This here is a low-level confounder. We’ve crafted it to project a lifelike illusion of a dangerous creature—specifically, a serpent—that can be used to distract, disorient, or… frighten someone.” He tapped the ball with his wand, and the serpent flickered, briefly changing shape into a much more venomous variety with glowing red eyes and bared fangs before returning to its original form.

“We thought it might come in handy if you ever find yourself in need of a quick distraction,” George added, his grin never fading. “You know, for dealing with troublesome people who might need a little… scare to keep them in line.”

Hermione watched the serpent with a wary eye, her lips pursed as she processed what they were saying. Despite the cool, calculated way they presented it, she couldn’t help but feel a flicker of admiration. This wasn’t just some cheap joke. There was real magic in this device. But that also made her uneasy. It was one thing to pull harmless pranks; it was another to create something that could potentially cause actual harm if used irresponsibly.

“And this has what to do with my notes?” she asked, crossing her arms as she leaned back in her chair, eyeing them carefully. She hadn’t expected them to involve her academic work—of all things—in their pranks.

“Oh, we’ve done our research,” Fred said, grinning like a cat that had caught a particularly tasty mouse. “We used your notes on magical creatures, Granger. You’ve got all that information about how serpents move—how their magical presence can actually be felt—and we used that to make the illusion feel as real as possible.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows, clearly taken aback by how seriously they seemed to have approached the task. “You studied my notes?”

“Indeed,” George said, tapping the ball with his wand again, causing the serpent to flicker once more, this time taking on a more detailed, venomous form. “We weren’t just throwing magic together willy-nilly, you know. We studied how serpents’ movements have a certain weight to them, how their magic can be felt when they’re near. It’s all in the details, Granger. You should know that by now.”

Fred’s grin widened at the look of surprise that crossed Hermione’s face. “We thought you’d appreciate the effort. After all, you’re the one who knows how important it is to understand the creature before trying to mimic it. We wanted to make it lifelike, not just throw together some silly illusion.”

Hermione’s mouth opened slightly, but she couldn’t find the words to express her surprise. She was caught between feeling oddly touched and frustrated. Part of her wanted to scold them for the reckless nature of such a device—it could easily go wrong, and what if someone used it in a dangerous way? But another part of her, one that she rarely admitted to herself, was impressed. They had actually studied her work. They’d gone through her notes with attention to detail, and created something that wasn’t just a mindless joke. She couldn’t quite believe it.

“So, you’re telling me,” she began slowly, folding her arms, her tone sceptical but laced with curiosity, “that you really put in all this effort just to make a prank that could—what? Terrify someone with a lifelike illusion of a serpent?”

“Well, yes,” Fred said, clearly enjoying the moment. “But we didn’t want it to be too realistic, you know. We don’t want to send anyone into a full-blown panic. We just wanted to, well, create a little shock value.”

Hermione looked at the serpent, its eyes gleaming with an unnerving intensity as it flicked its tongue again. “It’s impressive,” she admitted begrudgingly, “but you should be careful. Someone might take it a bit too seriously.”

“Ah, Granger, don’t spoil the fun!” Fred said, shaking his head. “It’s not like we’re planning to scare the first years. Unless, of course, you plan on using it on us next time you catch us being too mischievous.”

Hermione glared playfully at Fred, though a smile tugged at her lips. “I’ll be the judge of that,” she said, her eyes narrowing with mock threat. “And I’ll make sure to let you know exactly what I think once I’ve had the chance to test it out myself.”

Fred raised his hands in mock surrender. “Careful, Granger, we wouldn’t want you to get any funny ideas.”

“Yeah, you’d probably outdo us,” George added with a smirk. “Not that we mind a little competition.”

Hermione chuckled softly, shaking her head. “If I didn’t know you two better, I’d almost think you were trying to impress me,” she said, raising an eyebrow as she looked between them.

The twins exchanged a glance, then turned back to her with exaggerated innocence. “Who, us?” they asked in unison, both with feigned expressions of surprise. “Never.”

With that, they gave her one last look—one full of mischievous delight—and began to slip away, disappearing toward the door. Hermione, bemused, watched them go, the floating serpent still twirling in the air above her, its movements so lifelike that it seemed almost real. And despite herself, Hermione felt a small sense of pride—oddly pleased, and more than a little impressed, by their unexpected attempt to impress her.

Chapter Text

It was a crisp Sunday morning, and Hermione Granger was sitting in the History of Magic classroom, her books neatly arranged in front of her. The space was quiet and orderly, much like her mind—well, almost. She had prepared meticulously for this session. Today’s lesson would be on the Uprising of Elfric the Eager, an event that had fascinated her ever since she first read about it in her first year. The uprising, though not as well-known as other events in magical history, had been a turning point in the way the wizarding world dealt with magical rebellion. Elfric had been a particularly charismatic figure, leading a group of disenfranchised witches and wizards in an attempt to overthrow the Ministry’s laws regarding magical creatures. Despite the fascinating subject, Hermione had a nagging feeling in the back of her mind.

She had really hoped that this time Fred and George wouldn’t be late. After all, this was an important lesson. History of Magic wasn’t the most exciting of subjects for many students, and Hermione had put extra effort into making it engaging. She had even added some of her own notes, pulling from her research on the Uprising of Elfric, and was looking forward to sharing them with Fred and George. The twins, as mischievous as they were, had surprised her in their previous sessions by showing real interest in the material. This time, she wanted to see if they could live up to her expectations and show up on time.

The classroom was silent, save for the occasional crackle of the fire in the hearth and the soft rustle of Hermione’s notes. The walls were lined with portraits of long-dead wizards and witches, their eyes flicking toward her occasionally, but she barely noticed. She was focused—focused on the lesson, and more specifically, on ensuring Fred and George wouldn’t throw a wrench into her plans again. She checked her watch once more: 9:06 AM. The lesson was supposed to have started at 9:00 sharp.

With a sigh, Hermione leaned back in her chair, tapping her fingers lightly on the desk. Her thoughts drifted to the material she had prepared, and she mentally reviewed the notes she had on Elfric. He had such an interesting approach to magical creature rights… Hermione thought. She’d even made a list of key moments from the rebellion to keep track of the major events. She was proud of how she’d crafted the lesson, but she knew it would be a wasted effort if the twins were late again.

Another minute passed.

“Honestly,” she muttered under her breath. Another glance at the clock. Seven minutes late, she thought, shaking her head.

She could feel the nagging irritation creeping up, though she was still willing to give them a bit more leeway. She checked her watch again, and after a deep breath, prepared to start the lesson without them if they didn’t show in the next two minutes. It’s Sunday, she reminded herself. She had a right to be slightly flexible, right?

The door creaked open, and there they were. As usual, they entered with all the subtlety of a stampede. Fred was carrying a half-eaten chocolate frog, unbothered by the crumbs that fell from it as he took another bite, and George's wild, messy hair stood up in all the wrong places. It looked as though he’d run his hand through it at least five times, possibly in an effort to make himself look more presentable—though it was still a lost cause.

“We’re here!” George announced loudly, as if it were the most triumphant declaration of the day.

Hermione’s eyes twitched slightly at the booming voice, and she turned to give him an exasperated look, but couldn’t suppress a small smile that tugged at her lips. She had been bracing herself for this. They were late again.

“You’re seven minutes late,” she said, her tone the perfect balance of irritation and resignation, a slight raise of her brow making her disapproval clear.

Fred flashed her a sheepish grin, clearly unfazed by the reprimand. “In our defence, Granger, we were doing important research.” He took a dramatic bite of his chocolate frog, holding the piece aloft as if it were a trophy. “You know, for the next big thing we’re working on.”

Hermione shook her head, though she was trying her best to hide the small flicker of amusement that threatened to escape. “I really hope your ‘research’ isn’t going to interfere with your ability to focus today,” she said, glancing at her watch. “We’ve got a lot to cover.”

George, dropping into a chair next to Fred, snorted loudly, giving her an exaggerated wink. “Oh, don’t worry, Granger. We’ve got this,” he said, leaning back with all the nonchalance in the world. “Besides, History of Magic isn’t exactly the most riveting subject, is it?”

He smirked at Fred, who was still nibbling away at his chocolate frog. “No offense, of course,” George added, with a playful jab at Fred's half-eaten snack.

Fred raised both hands in mock surrender, grinning broadly. “None taken. We just thought we’d make it more interesting by arriving fashionably late. It’s an art form, you know?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but her lips curled upward, betraying her mild amusement. Well, at least they’re in a good mood today, she thought. “Alright,” she began, straightening up and flipping open the first page of her neatly organized notes. She had planned for this lesson to be both interesting and informative, hoping to teach them about the Uprising of Elfric the Eager—a topic she had long been fascinated by. “Today we’re going to talk about the Uprising of Elfric the Eager. I know it’s not exactly the most glamorous or exciting of historical events, but it’s incredibly important. It’s one of the first instances in which the Ministry was directly challenged by a rebel force of witches and wizards.”

Fred raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Go on,” he said. “You’ve piqued my interest.”

Hermione smiled, feeling the rare warmth of success at their attention. “Well,” she began, her voice steady as she dove into the history, “Elfric was born in the early 1300s in a small village in the Midlands. He was a highly ambitious wizard—very eager to improve the living conditions of magical creatures who were being oppressed by the Ministry’s new regulations.” She paused for effect. “Elfric believed that magical creatures, such as house-elves and centaurs, should have equal rights to wizards and witches, and he wasn’t afraid to voice his opinions.”

The twins were both leaning forward now, clearly interested. This was the moment Hermione had been waiting for. “Eventually, his protests became more aggressive. By 1324, he had gathered a group of rebellious witches and wizards, and even magical creatures, to rise up against the Ministry and challenge its policies.”

George raised his hand, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Did he, by any chance, use any... innovative methods of warfare? You know, something that might have involved sneaky spells or, dare I say, pranks?”

Hermione shot him a pointed look but couldn’t help but laugh softly. She could see exactly where this was going, but she wasn’t about to let it derail the lesson. “Actually, yes. Elfric was known for his unorthodox tactics. He was brilliant when it came to using illusions to confuse his enemies. It’s not exactly a prank, but it’s certainly a bit like one. For instance, Elfric used a group of chimaeras to create an illusion of a massive, unstoppable army.” She leaned forward slightly, her eyes sparkling. “The Ministry’s soldiers were thrown off for days. They didn’t know whether they were seeing a real army or just a magical mirage. It was an incredibly effective tactic.”

Fred raised an eyebrow, genuinely impressed. “That’s... actually clever,” he muttered, now clearly engaged.

“I know,” Hermione said, her voice tinged with admiration for Elfric’s methods. “He was a master of psychological warfare. Not only did he use magic, but he understood how the mind worked. The fear of an overwhelming army is sometimes more powerful than the army itself.”

She straightened up again, now feeling confident that she was making her points clear. “This rebellion was one of the first times magical creatures were used so strategically in battle. Elfric led his troops—wizards, witches, and magical creatures—against the Ministry. But, unfortunately, it didn’t end well for him. The Ministry managed to quell the rebellion after a few months, and Elfric was eventually executed.”

Fred’s expression shifted momentarily to one of mock seriousness, clearly trying to be more thoughtful. “Poor guy. Not every uprising can be as successful as, say, our future business ventures.” He shot George a meaningful look, and the two burst into laughter.

Hermione narrowed her eyes but couldn’t help but smile at their antics. “Yes, well, not all rebellions end in success. But Elfric’s influence has been felt for centuries. The Ministry’s approach to magical creatures changed after the uprising, and it set the tone for how future uprisings would be handled.”

George leaned back in his chair, looking impressed—perhaps for the first time all morning. “You know, Granger,” he said, his tone quieter now, “I didn’t expect you to be so... enthusiastic about History of Magic. You’ve made it sound a lot more interesting than I thought it would be.”

Hermione shrugged modestly, though a satisfied smile tugged at her lips. “It’s all about finding the right angle,” she said, her voice softening as she looked between Fred and George. “If you study the why behind the event, it becomes a lot more engaging. History doesn’t have to be dry facts and dates. You just need to understand the context, the people, and the impact.”

Fred nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll give you that. Elfric might not have been a successful rebel, but he certainly made an impact.”

Hermione’s smile widened. “Exactly. And that’s why we study history—not just for the dates, but for the lessons we can learn. Even if we don’t agree with the methods, we can still appreciate the consequences.”

Fred raised his hand dramatically, his face suddenly stern and full of mock seriousness. “So, what you’re saying, Granger, is that we should use our brains more often, rather than just our pranking skills?”

Hermione, who had been expecting this, gave him a pointed look. “Yes, Fred. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Fred’s face broke into a wide grin, and he stood up with all the flair of someone announcing their retirement after a long, successful career. “Well then,” he said, holding out his arms as if he were addressing an invisible audience. “I think we’re ready to change the world!”

He and George exchanged a quick grin before slinking out of the room, their laughter echoing down the hallway as they disappeared from view.

Hermione stood there for a moment, staring after them with a bemused expression on her face. Despite everything—the late arrivals, the interruptions, and the inevitable jokes—she couldn’t help but feel a small sense of accomplishment. She had taught them something, even if it hadn’t been the lesson she had originally planned. And maybe, just maybe, the twins were learning more than they let on.

Chapter Text

The chill of the winter air had settled over Hogwarts, and the castle seemed to glow softly with festive cheer as Christmas drew closer. Snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky, their delicate crystals catching the light as they tumbled through the air, settling gently on the windowsills and coating the grounds in a sparkling white blanket. The courtyard outside looked like a scene straight from a Christmas card, with the towering spires of the castle rising against the backdrop of the pale blue sky, and the low-hanging branches of the trees weighed down with snow.

Inside the castle, the scent of cinnamon, pine, and gingerbread filled the halls, a fragrant reminder that the holiday season was well on its way. Tinsel and holly hung in the hallways, and the flickering glow of candlelight gave everything a soft, warm ambiance. Every corner of the castle seemed to be bursting with a quiet anticipation for the upcoming festivities, from the students buzzing about their holiday plans to the house-elves bustling in the kitchens, preparing for the Christmas feast.

In the Transfiguration classroom, Hermione Granger was busy preparing for the next lesson. The tables were neatly arranged, the chairs pushed in, and her books were laid out on the desk in front of her in perfect order, each one stacked neatly. Her notes for the day were spread out as well, crisp and well-organized, every detail accounted for. Today’s lesson was going to be a challenge—she had planned an ambitious exercise in transfiguration that involved turning fairy cakes into actual fairies. It was an advanced spell, one that required not only a steady hand and concentration but also an understanding of animating magic.

She had spent hours the night before, researching the finer details of the spell and ensuring that the enchanted cakes were just the right mix of ingredients and magic to make the transfiguration difficult but not impossible. She had set out trays of fairy cakes on the tables—each one sitting neatly, their golden brown tops lightly dusted with powdered sugar. The cakes glistened temptingly under the light, but Hermione knew better than to let herself be distracted. These were no ordinary cakes, of course. They had been subtly enchanted, their transformation potential carefully calibrated to make the task more difficult but still achievable for her students.

Hermione was just finishing up a few last-minute preparations when she heard the familiar sound of footsteps echoing down the corridor. The cadence was unmistakable, and she looked up, smiling softly to herself. It was Fred and George. But this time, there was something different—this time, they were early. There was no rushing through the door five minutes after the bell, no last-minute flurry of activity. Instead, the twins entered the room calmly, their footsteps measured and purposeful.

Fred walked in first, his usual grin plastered across his face, but there was a certain ease to his movements. He looked more composed than usual, as if the notion of being on time had genuinely been an effort made. His hair was just a touch ruffled, the unmistakable result of having run his hand through it in a half-hearted attempt to tidy himself, but there was a sharpness in his eyes today. He glanced toward Hermione, giving her a knowing wink as he entered, as though announcing, Look at us, we’re actually here on time.

George followed closely behind, his expression just as mischievous as ever, though today he seemed less preoccupied with mischief and more focused. His usual casual swagger was replaced by a subtle but purposeful stride. His robes swished around his ankles as he moved toward one of the seats, and his smile, though just as wide as Fred’s, seemed more subdued—more... controlled, as though he too was quietly pleased with their punctuality. Both of them carried a certain air of triumph, like they had just conquered a particularly elusive beast.

Hermione glanced at the clock, her brow raised in slight surprise as she noted that they had arrived two full minutes early. She couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of pride at their effort, even though the rest of her was already bracing for whatever banter was sure to follow.

"Good of you to show up on time for once," Hermione said, her tone teasing but with a hint of approval in her voice. She had grown accustomed to Fred and George’s usual late arrivals, but this time, they’d surprised her.

Fred gave her a wink, his usual mischievous grin firmly in place. "We were just making sure we weren’t fashionably late for this lesson," he said, his voice laced with playful charm. He gave a mock bow as he approached one of the desks, his hands flaring outward as if he were performing a grand entrance. "We wouldn’t want to disappoint you, Granger."

George, following closely behind, smirked and leaned in slightly as if sharing some private joke between them. "We’ve been practicing," he said, his eyes glinting. "You’d be surprised at how quickly we’ve mastered the art of punctuality."

Fred raised an eyebrow and glanced at George with a mock-serious look. "Maybe it’s all the cake we’ve been eating recently," he mused aloud, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Keeps us on schedule."

Hermione couldn’t suppress a slight smirk, her eyes flicking toward the trays of fairy cakes neatly arranged on the desk. "I’m sure it does," she replied dryly. "Just be careful with those, boys. They’re enchanted. You can’t just gobble them down. They’ve got to be treated with a bit of care. You’ll be turning yourselves into fairies if you’re not careful."

Fred and George exchanged a knowing look, both clearly entertained by the idea. Fred tapped his wand against his chin thoughtfully. "Wouldn’t that be something," he said, his voice trailing off as he considered the possibilities. "A fairy Fred. Could be quite handy for certain pranks."

George chuckled, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Think of all the mischief we could cause from up high. A bit of flying here, a little glittering there," he said, eyes gleaming with anticipation.

Fred nodded dramatically. "Not to mention the disappearing act," he added, as though the very idea of vanishing into thin air was one of his favorite things. He flicked his fingers as if to demonstrate his dramatic exit.

Hermione shook her head, fighting the urge to roll her eyes but failing to suppress a smile. "Alright, alright," she said, holding up a hand to regain control of the class. "You can goof off all you want later, but for now, we’re focusing on turning these cakes into real fairies." She took a breath and turned toward the class, her posture straightening. "Now, remember, this is a delicate transfiguration. Fairy cakes, though enchanted, are not alive. The process requires precision—one wrong move, and you could end up with a very different kind of fairy... or worse, a very different kind of cake."

Fred and George exchanged another sly look, clearly amused but ready to get to work. They both settled into their seats, their banter momentarily subsiding as they prepared themselves for the task ahead. Hermione couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pride. Despite their endless jokes and mischief, they were surprisingly focused when it came to their work. There was something about a challenge—particularly a magical one—that always seemed to ignite their competitive streak.

"Alright," Hermione said, clapping her hands together once to bring the class’s attention back to the task at hand. "Let’s get started. First, take your wands, focus on the fairy cake, and begin the incantation. It’s a bit of a challenge, but if you concentrate, it’s doable. The incantation is ‘Feycærra animam.’ Let’s try it out, one at a time, and see what happens."

She watched closely as Fred and George each picked up their wands with practiced ease. Their hands were steady as they examined the enchanted cakes, though the usual mischievous gleams in their eyes never fully disappeared. Hermione had long ago learned that the twins always seemed to have their own unique approach to magic—often more about the process and the fun they had in it than the end result.

Fred went first, the tip of his wand flicking with quick, confident movements as he muttered the incantation. There was a brief flash of light, and for a moment, Hermione thought he had succeeded. The fairy cake began to quiver on the plate, its golden brown surface shimmering as though something was shifting within. But then, with an unexpected pop, the cake sprouted two tiny, comically oversized wings and, to Hermione’s astonishment, a pair of oversized spectacles. The fairy cake gave a small flutter and the glasses zoomed off the plate, hovering right in front of Fred’s face.

Hermione fought the urge to laugh, her lips twitching despite herself. "Well, that’s… different," she said, eyeing the spectacle-wearing fairy that bobbed in front of Fred like a tiny, confused librarian. "Not quite the fairy I was expecting, but you’re on the right track."

Fred let out a loud laugh, clearly delighted by the result. "Guess I need to work on the details," he said, his grin widening as he waved his wand once more. The little creature blinked, shook its head, and then, with a soft shimmer, reformed into a more traditional fairy, though still wearing a distracted look in its tiny eyes. Fred shrugged with a carefree smile. "There we go. A little more refinement, but at least it’s no longer blind."

George, watching the spectacle with an almost parental level of indulgence, went next. His movements were more deliberate, a little more focused, and soon enough, the cake began to glow softly, radiating a warm, inviting light. With a gentle flutter, a delicate, translucent fairy emerged from the cake. The tiny figure hovered gracefully above the plate, its wings shimmering like gossamer, casting a soft glow throughout the room. The fairy spun in a tiny circle before landing lightly on the edge of the plate, giving George a satisfied, almost regal look as it perched.

"There," George said, stepping back with a satisfied nod. "That’s more like it."

Hermione beamed, her heart swelling with pride. "Well done, George," she said, her voice filled with genuine approval. "That’s exactly what we’re looking for."

She turned to Fred, who was still chasing his overly energetic fairy around the room. It had taken off again, zooming about like a rogue firework, leaving a trail of sparkles in its wake as it swerved through the air. "And Fred," Hermione said, her voice amused but warm, "that’s… unique."

Fred, not the slightest bit bothered by the extra work, flashed her a playful look. "Hey, who said fairies have to be all prim and proper?" he asked, his grin wide. "It’s about personality, Granger."

George nodded sagely, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. "A fairy with flair is a fairy worth having."

Hermione shook her head, a small, affectionate smile tugging at her lips. "Alright, I’ll admit it," she said with a sigh. "You two have a special kind of magic." Her gaze flicked to the still-exuberant fairy Fred had created, which was zipping through the air at an alarming rate, leaving behind a trail of glittering sparkles. "Just remember—concentration is key. Control the magic before it gets too out of hand."

Fred’s fairy, by now, was spinning in mid-air, gaining speed with each rotation, its wings buzzing loudly. "Fine, fine," Fred said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I’ll tone it down." He winked at Hermione. "Wouldn’t want to make a mess of the classroom before Christmas."

"Good idea," Hermione replied, eyeing the still-careening fairy. "And for next time, let’s try keeping the fairies from becoming too lively. We’ll have enough chaos around here soon enough with the holiday festivities."

The bell signalling the end of class rang, cutting off any further conversation. Fred and George gathered their things, their fairy still fluttering happily behind them, despite Fred’s attempts to keep it under control.

"Merry Christmas, Granger," George said, his tone light and teasing. "Don’t get too stressed out by the holiday prep—leave some of the chaos to us!"

Fred added with a wink, "We’ll keep things interesting for you."

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh as the twins sauntered out of the room, leaving behind a trail of laughter and lightness. It was moments like these—when she got to teach, really teach them—that made her feel like she was making a difference, however small.

As she gathered her own things and straightened the desks, Hermione smiled to herself. Christmas at Hogwarts was just around the corner, and for once, the twins had left her feeling surprisingly optimistic—perhaps even a little less stressed than she’d been when the lesson started. It was a bit of magic, indeed.

Chapter Text

The soft crackle of the fire filled the cozy living room at the Burrow, where Hermione sat curled up in a chair by the hearth. Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing the fields and forest in a pure, glimmering layer of white. The windows were frosted with delicate, intricate patterns, the cold winter air making the warmth inside even more welcoming. It was the sort of winter afternoon that made one want to stay inside forever, a perfect day for tea and company.

Hermione had spent Christmas with her parents, and while she had thoroughly enjoyed the quiet, warm atmosphere of her family’s home—complete with the smells of her mother’s cooking and her father’s gentle teasing—it had been decided that after Christmas, she would spend the remainder of the holiday with the Weasleys at the Burrow. Her parents had been planning to get back to work shortly after the holiday, and her mum had insisted she join the Weasleys for the rest of the break. Hermione had been a little apprehensive at first, not wanting to impose on the Weasleys' bustling, already full house, but the warmth and enthusiasm with which Mrs. Weasley had invited her made it impossible to say no.

Now, just after Christmas, Hermione found herself at the Burrow, feeling perfectly at home despite the initial nerves. She had already helped Mrs. Weasley prepare an enormous dinner earlier that day, and the house was alive with the laughter and chatter of the family, a far cry from the quiet, reserved pace of the Granger household. It had been a bit of an adjustment, but one that she was more than happy to make.

The Burrow itself was even more magical than usual during the holidays. Brightly coloured garlands hung from every corner, and a cheerful Christmas tree sat in the corner of the living room, its branches weighed down with shiny baubles and twinkling lights. It was decorated with an eclectic mix of ornaments—some homemade, some magical, some worn from years of use—each one telling a story. The fireplace was crackling merrily, and there was a lovely scent of mulled wine and freshly baked gingerbread hanging in the air.

Hermione’s fingers absently traced the edge of her Transfiguration book, her thoughts drifting lazily as the warmth of the fire seemed to wrap around her like a soft blanket. The crackling flames illuminated the room in flickers of golden light, casting shadows on the walls of the Burrow. Outside, the snow fell in thick, soft layers, the world beyond the windows a blur of white against the night. The peaceful hush of the moment was a welcome respite from the whirlwind of activity that had been the last few weeks. Christmas had been lovely with her parents, but it had been a busy time—family visits, shopping, festive celebrations. Now, here she was, at the Burrow, the Weasley house, where the festive chaos had its own kind of rhythm. Still, it was hard to ignore how comforting this quiet was, how rare.

Hermione was enjoying the rare quiet of the room, but her thoughts weren’t entirely on the book in her lap. The weight of the book itself felt more like a prop, something to make her feel as though she was still doing something productive, when in truth, her mind was far away—absorbed in the sounds of the Weasley family and the warmth that surrounded her.

"Blimey, Hermione, you’re really getting into that book, aren’t you?" Ron’s voice, warm and familiar, broke through her thoughts, and she lifted her gaze to find him standing in the doorway, framed by the glow of the fire. His expression was playful, but there was a softness in his eyes that made Hermione’s heart give a little jolt.

She couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face at the sight of him. "I was just having a quiet moment," she said, her voice soft as she closed the book and set it on the side table. Her fingers lingered on the cover for a second longer than necessary before her attention shifted back to him. "I didn’t want to interrupt the chaos in the kitchen."

Ron’s grin widened, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he stepped into the room. "Chaos? You mean Mum’s delightful festive cooking routine?" He gave an exaggerated shudder, causing Hermione to laugh softly at his dramatic tone. "It’s like being in a whirlwind of flour, eggs, and too many spoons. The kitchen’s always a bit mad, but I think the twins are trying to outdo each other with the number of pranks they can slip into the food."

"I can only imagine what’s going on in there," Hermione said, shaking her head in mock horror. "I’m sure Fred and George are plotting something outrageous."

Ron flopped onto the couch, stretching his long legs in front of him, making himself comfortable as he kicked off his boots. The room was warm, and the flickering firelight made the scene feel even more intimate. He glanced at her with an easy grin, but there was something different in his expression now, something softer, as though he had settled into a more relaxed version of himself. "You should have seen them earlier," Ron continued, propping himself up on one elbow as he faced Hermione. "They tried to convince Mum to make 'exploding puddings.' Mum didn’t fall for it, but it was close."

Hermione chuckled, shaking her head in disbelief. "Of course they did. I’m sure Mrs. Weasley put an end to it pretty quickly."

"Oh, she did. But they’ve got some kind of charm that gets them out of trouble with Mum," Ron said, shaking his head. "You’d think they were born with a get-out-of-jail-free card or something."

"I’m sure they’ve earned it through years of practice," Hermione said with a teasing smile. "Still, it’s probably for the best that I wasn’t in the kitchen. I can just imagine what would’ve happened if I’d been caught up in it."

"Oh, I think we’re all better off with you in here with us," Ron said, his voice a little quieter than before. He shifted on the couch, crossing his arms in front of him, and his gaze lingered on her for a moment. She felt a warmth spread through her chest, but she kept her expression neutral, not wanting to overanalyse the moment. Ron’s eyes were fixed on her, though—sincere, focused, and soft in a way she rarely saw.

"I’m glad you’re here, Hermione. Really," he added, his voice carrying a slight weight to it. It was the kind of tone that made her feel like he meant it, like there was more than just casual words behind it. Her heart gave an unexpected flutter at the sound, though she quickly pushed it down, brushing it off as simply the holiday atmosphere getting to her.

Before Hermione could find the right words to respond, the moment was abruptly broken. The door to the living room swung open, and in came Fred and George, their presence practically crackling with energy. It was the kind of chaotic energy that seemed to fill a room the moment they entered, and even though they hadn’t said anything yet, Hermione already had a sense of what was coming.

Fred’s wide grin was impossible to ignore, and the gleam in his eyes was unmistakable. He bounced into the room with that familiar mischievous energy that could never be mistaken for anything else. "Oi, you two!" he called out, loud enough to make sure he had both their attention. "Guess what? We’ve managed to charm the mistletoe to move itself! Now it follows you around, and you can’t get away from it unless you make a wish!"

Hermione’s eyes widened, and she felt the corners of her mouth twitch as she fought the instinct to roll her eyes. Of course Fred and George would come up with something like that. She could already picture it: the two of them laughing hysterically while everyone else scrambled to avoid the mistletoe following them around like some sort of magical stalker.

George leaned casually against the doorframe, his smirk widening as he observed the reactions. "Don’t listen to them," he said, his voice dripping with mock seriousness as he cast a look toward Ron and Hermione. "We’re only offering a festive, loving atmosphere where no one is safe from unexpected kisses."

His tone was so over-the-top that Hermione couldn’t help but laugh, but Ron’s reaction was the one that made her smile most. He rolled his eyes dramatically, a smirk tugging at his lips even as he shook his head in mock frustration. "Typical," he muttered under his breath, clearly unfazed by the usual antics of the twins.

"Fred!" Mrs. Weasley’s voice suddenly rang out from the kitchen doorway, a mix of frustration and exasperation in her tone. "I told you not to mess with that mistletoe charm! Leave it alone!"

Fred threw his hands up in mock surrender, his face the picture of exaggerated innocence. "Sorry, Mum!" he called back, but there was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes that betrayed his true intentions. "Just making sure everyone gets into the holiday spirit!" He winked at Hermione, clearly proud of the trouble he was causing.

Hermione could only shake her head and laugh, finding it impossible to stay serious when the twins were involved. Even Ron seemed amused, though he shot them a good-natured glare as he shook his head. Moments like this—filled with spontaneous jokes, bursts of laughter, and playful chaos—made the Burrow feel like home. In the past, Hermione had sometimes felt like an outsider at family gatherings, but now, in this sea of Weasleys and magic, she was starting to realize just how much she had come to cherish these simple, joyful moments.

Later that evening, after dinner had been served and the plates cleared away, Hermione found herself back in the kitchen, a little more relaxed after a delicious meal and a few rounds of good-natured banter. Hermione, never one to shy away from lending a hand, had volunteered to help with the clearing up.

The kitchen was a cozy mess, with bits of wrapping paper scattered around from the earlier presents and the soft hum of a magical fireplace crackling in the corner. Mrs. Weasley, always a whirlwind of warmth and energy, was organizing everything with a determination that seemed to get stronger as the night wore on. She had a way of making everything feel important, every task infused with a sense of love and care.

Hermione was chopping vegetables, her knife working in a steady rhythm, when Mrs. Weasley, noticing her quiet concentration, paused for a moment and smiled warmly. "I’m glad you’re helping, Hermione," she said, her voice a little softer than usual. "You’ve really made yourself at home here. It’s not the same without you around."

Hermione’s heart warmed at the words. She had always been close to the Weasleys, but spending the holidays with them had shown her just how much they truly considered her a part of their family. It wasn’t just about the magic, or the extraordinary things that had happened over the years—it was about the simple, everyday moments. She felt the warmth of belonging deep inside her, something she had often wondered if she would ever find outside of her own family.

"It’s been wonderful being here," Hermione replied, her voice quiet as she carefully chopped the vegetables. "I didn’t realize how much I missed this kind of atmosphere. It’s... so different from what I’m used to, but it feels like home." She gave Mrs. Weasley a small, sincere smile. "Thank you for inviting me to stay."

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes softened, and she reached over, patting Hermione’s hand with affection. "You’re family, dear. You always have been. And it’s a pleasure to have you here."

Chapter Text

It was still early in the morning, the faintest hint of dawn barely painting the sky in soft hues of pink and orange as Hermione stepped out of her room. The Burrow, as always, felt like a refuge in the quiet moments before the chaos of the day began. The house was still and peaceful, save for the occasional crackling of the fireplace, the embers inside throwing off a soft, glowing warmth. Her footsteps were light, careful, so as not to wake anyone else. The wooden floorboards beneath her feet creaked in that familiar way, but the sound was more comforting than alarming. It felt like she was part of the house now, a quiet observer in the early hours of the day.

She’d woken up much earlier than she intended, her thoughts refusing to let her fall back to sleep after the night’s festivities. The laughter, the jokes, the never-ending energy of the Weasley family had left her feeling both content and slightly restless. A cup of tea, her own little solace, was enough to coax her downstairs in search of a little solitude. There was a stillness to the early morning hours that made the chaos of the previous night seem like a distant memory. It was the perfect time for Hermione to centre herself before the bustle of the day began in earnest.

As she quietly made her way down the hall toward the kitchen, the scent of warm wood and the faintest traces of cinnamon from the night’s festivities still lingered in the air. It was a time she cherished—the few moments of calm before everything became a blur of noise and activity.

But as she rounded the corner into the hallway, the silence was broken by an unexpected sight that made her pause mid-step. As her gaze slowly drifted from the mistletoe down to the figure standing directly beneath it, her stomach fluttered uncomfortably. There, his hands casually tucked in his pockets, stood George Weasley. He was watching her with an expression of amused satisfaction, his trademark grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Morning, Hermione," George greeted her, his voice carrying a lilt of amusement. His grin was wide and mischievous, the same playful gleam in his eyes that she had come to expect from him at all times. But there was something about this moment that felt different. Something in the way he regarded her, something in his tone, that felt more personal than the usual cheeky banter. "Seems you’ve found yourself caught under the mistletoe. Can’t say I’m surprised. It’s practically a tradition around here, isn’t it?"

Hermione’s heart gave an unexpected lurch. She hadn’t even noticed the mistletoe when she was walking down the hall, and now that she was standing directly beneath it, she realized she had unwittingly walked straight into one of Fred and George’s classic setups. Her mind raced as she processed the situation. It had to be one of their pranks, but this time, the mistletoe wasn’t just an accessory—it was on her, a stark reminder that there was no easy way out of this.

George’s grin widened as he took a subtle step closer, the faintest air of triumph about him. His eyes sparkled, alive with the energy of someone who had orchestrated yet another of his successful schemes. "What? You’re not going to get all shy on me now, are you? It’s only Christmas, after all." He tilted his head slightly, his smile softening in a way that made Hermione’s breath hitch. For a fleeting moment, she could have sworn there was a glimmer of something else behind his usual teasing—a vulnerability she rarely saw in him.

"George," Hermione began, her voice tinged with a mix of confusion and frustration, though she was doing her best to keep it light, "you—you—did this, didn’t you?" Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if accusing him, though the hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips despite herself. She hadn’t expected to be caught off guard, not by this, and certainly not by George. The Weasley twins were always pulling pranks on her, but this felt different—more deliberate, more... intimate.

George raised both hands in mock surrender, a playful glint dancing in his eyes. "Me? I’m just a humble bystander, Hermione." He made a show of looking around, feigning innocence. "It’s not my fault you happened to stumble right into it." His voice held that familiar teasing quality, the one she knew well, but his stance had softened, and his gaze lingered on her just a little longer than usual.

Hermione shook her head, her fingers self-consciously brushing against the sleeve of her jumper as she glanced around, searching desperately for some way to escape the situation. The walls of the Burrow felt impossibly close all of a sudden, as if they were closing in on her. She had no idea how she had ended up here, caught under the mistletoe in the early morning, heart racing and cheeks flushed with an embarrassment that seemed to deepen with every passing second. I can’t believe I’m standing here like this, she thought, mortified, her thoughts spiralling in every direction.

She could already hear Fred’s voice in her head, echoing that mock-serious tone from the night before when he’d teased her about "unexpected kisses" beneath the mistletoe. She could almost see his wicked grin, his eyes dancing with that irrepressible humour of his. Of course, it would be George she found herself with under the mistletoe this time. Of course, she thought wryly, feeling the rush of warmth spreading across her face. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or groan at the absurdity of it all.

George’s grin only widened, clearly delighted by the flustered expression that had taken over Hermione’s face. It was one of those moments when he didn’t have to say a word to make her feel like she was in the most ridiculous predicament possible. The sheer satisfaction in his gaze made it feel as though he had orchestrated this entire thing just for the pleasure of watching her squirm.

"Oh, come on, Hermione," George said, his voice low and smooth, laced with playful mischief that seemed more like a soft tease than anything malicious. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes locking with hers as he took another subtle step forward. "It’s Christmas. You’re not going to leave a fellow Weasley hanging, are you?"

The words, meant to be light-hearted, hit her in a strange way. She stared at him, blinking, trying to process what was happening. Her mind was racing, her thoughts tangled together in a chaotic swirl. She was standing directly beneath the mistletoe, and though she hated to admit it, there was something unspoken in the air between them. Something that made her heart race and her palms sweat. The way George was looking at her, with that quiet, almost tender expression, felt more intimate than any prank she had ever experienced.

It was ridiculous, really. This wasn’t a real kiss. This wasn’t anything like that. It was just a prank. Just Fred and George’s way of making everyone uncomfortable—except it was working. It was working on her, and that thought made her feel more uneasy than she’d care to admit.

But George wasn’t moving. He wasn’t laughing or retreating to make this some harmless joke. He stood there, his eyes focused entirely on her, and for the briefest of moments, Hermione felt as if the world had narrowed down to just the two of them standing there under the mistletoe. The other sounds of the house—distant creaks from the upper floors, the crackle of the fire—seemed to fade into the background. It was just George. And her.

"So," George said, his voice dropping slightly, softer now, and less teasing. "What’s it going to be? I’m sure you don’t want to leave me hanging here all day."

His words, though playful, had an underlying warmth that caught her off guard. The teasing was still there, but it wasn’t the same. His tone was more sincere than she was used to, and it made her heart flutter in a way she hadn’t expected. Hermione swallowed thickly, her pulse quickening as she tried to steady herself. She wasn’t sure why she was feeling so nervous. She wasn’t sure why her breath was coming just a little too fast, her chest tight.

She could walk around the mistletoe, couldn’t she? Surely, she could just step out of the trap, sidestep the prank and get away from the situation entirely. But something about the way George was standing there, blocking her path, made her hesitate. The charm seemed to move with a mind of its own, like it had been enchanted to follow her around. She had a feeling the twins had designed it to ensure there was no escaping it. The mistletoe was a constant reminder that she was caught.

She could have laughed at the absurdity of it all, the unlikeliness of her being in this very position—standing under mistletoe with George Weasley in the quiet hours of the morning—but her mind felt too tangled, her thoughts too jumbled to do anything except stand there, frozen.

And then, despite herself, she found herself giving in. The odd pressure between them was too much to ignore. The air was thick with unspoken words and subtle tension, and her own curiosity about what this moment might feel like made her hesitate even further.

"Fine," she muttered, finally breaking the silence, her voice coming out in a rush, too quickly, as if she wanted to get the whole thing over with. She looked away, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment. "But this is just for the sake of tradition, all right? Nothing more."

George’s smirk softened, just a fraction, and for a split second, Hermione saw something else in his eyes—something that made her pause. It was a flicker of sincerity, something far deeper than the usual mischievous glint she had grown accustomed to. But before she could analyze it, George moved, leaning in slightly, his hand gently resting on her shoulder as he lowered his lips to her cheek.

The kiss was quick, almost chaste, but in its simplicity, it sent a jolt of warmth rushing through her. His lips brushed against her skin with a soft pressure that lingered longer than the actual contact itself. It wasn’t anything like the romantic kisses she had read about in books or seen in movies, but something about the gentle nature of it—the kindness, perhaps, or the sincerity—felt more significant than she was prepared to admit.

It was over before she had a chance to fully comprehend what had happened. As soon as his lips left her cheek, she blinked in surprise, her mind struggling to catch up with the unexpected turn of events. For a long second, she just stood there, stunned into silence, trying to make sense of what had just occurred.

George, however, was already retreating, a small but genuine smile playing at the corners of his lips. His eyes were sparkling once more, but there was a softness to them now—something that hadn't been there before.

"See?" he said softly, his voice quieter than usual. "Wasn’t so bad, was it?"

Hermione blinked again, her heart still racing, her thoughts swirling in confusion. She tried to collect herself, to regain some semblance of control over her emotions, but it was difficult when she felt so... unsettled. She wanted to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, she took a small, unsteady step back, her gaze dropping to the floor as she tried to compose herself. The warmth of the kiss still lingered on her cheek, a faint, tingling reminder of the moment, and it made her feel both embarrassed and... something else, something she couldn’t name.

"Right," she muttered, her voice shaky as she turned to walk away, eager to regain some distance from the moment. "Well, I should probably go make that tea."

George’s amused smirk returned, but there was something more genuine behind it now—something that made Hermione feel like she had just stepped into something much more complicated than she had intended.

As she walked around him, trying to keep her composure, she couldn’t shake the strange warmth that seemed to radiate from the spot where his lips had briefly touched her cheek. The sensation was almost electric, as if the touch had left behind a lingering trace of something she wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

She couldn’t decide whether she wanted to laugh, cry, or just disappear altogether, but as she headed toward the kitchen, one thought kept looping in her mind: This Christmas was going to be far more complicated than she had ever expected.

Hermione made her way to the kitchen, the weight of the kiss still lingering on her cheek. She tried to shake off the fluttering sensation, convincing herself it was just the result of a prank, a silly moment that would pass. She needed to focus, to distract herself from the sudden awkwardness that had settled in her chest. A warm cup of tea would do just the trick—simple, comforting, and completely unrelated to any embarrassing moments involving the Weasley twins.

The kitchen was peaceful at this early hour, bathed in the soft glow of the firelight, the quiet hum of the house somehow soothing. She made her way to the kettle, filled it with water, and set it on the stove, the familiar, mundane task offering her a welcome distraction. She opened the cupboard to grab the tea leaves, her mind still whirling from her interaction with George. It had been just a kiss on the cheek—nothing more—but it had felt strangely significant, as though something had shifted between them. She frowned, trying to force the thought from her mind.

Just as she was about to turn and grab a mug, the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoed from behind her.

Before she could react, the faintest rustle of movement caught her eye. She turned instinctively, her heart sinking when she realized where she had unwittingly found herself: directly beneath another sprig of mistletoe. Her stomach twisted with an uncomfortable, familiar sensation, but before she could do anything about it, the sound of the door opening broke the stillness of the kitchen.

Fred Weasley walked in, his trademark grin already spreading across his face as he saw her standing there, caught under the mistletoe once again. It was too late for her to move now—the charm seemed to hum softly, as if confirming that she couldn’t escape the situation.

"Well, well, Hermione," Fred said, his eyes sparkling with the same mischievous gleam she’d come to expect from him. He crossed the room with the kind of casual confidence that only he and his brother possessed. "Seems you’ve found yourself in another pickle. Under the mistletoe, no less. Just like George, eh?"

Hermione’s cheeks flamed with a sudden rush of heat. She hadn’t been paying enough attention when she walked into the kitchen, and now she found herself in yet another embarrassing position. The very last thing she needed was for Fred to make a big deal out of it.

“I—I didn’t mean to!” she stammered, her hands awkwardly adjusting the cup in front of her as she tried to break the tension. "I was just making tea, and—"

Fred raised an eyebrow, cutting her off with a casual wave of his hand. "No need to explain," he said smoothly, his voice laced with playful amusement. "We all know how the mistletoe works around here."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Fred was already stepping closer, a wicked grin still firmly in place. Before she could react, he paused just beneath the mistletoe, his eyes locking onto hers. The room seemed to shrink as the weight of the charm settled between them, the unmistakable magic of the mistletoe making it impossible to avoid.

“I’m afraid,” Fred said, his voice taking on an exaggerated, mock-serious tone, "that there’s no way out of this one, Hermione. The mistletoe’s magic ensures it. Once you’re caught, you can’t escape. And I’m a Weasley, after all," he added with a wink. "We never leave anyone hanging.”

Hermione, who had been so focused on getting away from the awkward situation, felt a shiver of unease run down her spine. The idea of Fred kissing her—however casual or innocent it might seem—felt different than with George. She wasn’t sure why, but her heart was beating faster now, her stomach fluttering with a strange mixture of embarrassment and something else she couldn’t quite place.

“Fred,” she began, her voice a little shakier than she intended, “you don’t have to—”

“Oh, but I do,” Fred interrupted her with a mock pout, his grin widening. “I’m a gentleman, you know. I simply cannot allow you to remain in such a compromising position.”

Before Hermione could make a retort, Fred had already closed the distance between them, leaning in with a dramatic flourish, his hand gently brushing against her arm. The moment his lips made contact with her cheek, it was as swift and unexpected as George’s had been, but this time, something about it felt more lingering. The kiss was light, playful—yet somehow, it carried with it a weight that George’s had not.

The warmth of Fred’s lips left a trace of heat on her skin, and for a split second, Hermione could do nothing but stand frozen in place, her mind racing. Her thoughts scattered, as if her brain couldn’t keep up with the sudden shift in the atmosphere. Fred pulled back just as quickly as he had leaned in, his expression still mischievous but with a slight softness behind it. There was something in his eyes—a kind of quiet satisfaction, as though he was savouring the moment.

“See?” he said, his tone more teasing than anything else. “It wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Hermione could barely speak. Her mouth had gone dry, and she was sure her cheeks were as red as a beetroot. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Fred’s kiss had been so fast, so playful, yet it felt different than anything she’d ever expected. It was nothing like the friendly, carefree teasing that typically defined her interactions with the twins. There was an odd sweetness to it, something that made her heart pound faster.

“Well,” she finally managed, her voice quiet, “I suppose that’s… that’s tradition, too, isn’t it?”

Fred’s grin softened at her response, and for the briefest moment, she saw something more genuine behind the mischief. “You’re a good sport, Hermione,” he said with a wink, stepping back and giving her space. “Now, I’ll leave you to your tea. But you’re still under the mistletoe, just so you know.” He paused, his eyes twinkling as if to emphasize the point. “So… I’m just saying. If you’re planning on getting out of here, you might want to think about making a wish.”

Fred made a show of turning and walking toward the door, but Hermione was still frozen in place, trying to process the whirlwind of emotions that were suddenly swirling within her. She couldn’t help but feel a strange, fluttering sensation in her chest, like the ground beneath her was shifting with each passing moment. She had kissed George, and now Fred. They were just pranks, yes—just part of the Weasley twins’ relentless teasing. But why did it feel like there was more to it?

As Fred disappeared from view, Hermione shook her head, trying to shake off the lingering thoughts. She looked back up at the mistletoe, the magic still hanging in the air. Somehow, she had the distinct feeling that this Christmas, beneath the twinkling lights and the enchanted kisses, things were about to get even more complicated.

Chapter Text

The return to Hogwarts after the holiday break was both a relief and a return to routine for Hermione. As much as she had enjoyed her time at the Burrow—well, most of it—there was something comforting about the structured nature of the castle, where things (mostly) made sense. The rigid schedule, the predictability of classes, the quiet solace of the library—those were things she could count on. She had buried herself in her studies almost immediately upon arrival, hoping to push aside any lingering thoughts of enchanted mistletoe, teasing grins, and the particular warmth that had settled over her during Christmas. Unfortunately, forgetting about Fred and George Weasley was proving to be more difficult than she had anticipated.

“Come on, Hermione,” Fred groaned dramatically, letting his entire upper body collapse onto the wooden table in the empty classroom they had commandeered for their tutoring sessions. His quill slipped from his fingers and rolled onto the floor, but he made no effort to retrieve it, as though he had completely resigned himself to the burden of academic suffering. “Do you really think we need to know this?”

Hermione let out a slow, measured sigh, rubbing her temple as though trying to stave off an impending headache. She had known tutoring the twins would be a challenge, but she had underestimated the sheer theatricality they brought to the table. “Yes, Fred, I do,” she said firmly, fixing him with a stern look. “If you want to pass your exams, you need to understand the properties of magical ingredients and how they interact in potion-making. It’s not just about tossing things into a cauldron and hoping for the best.”

Fred, still face down on the table, lifted his hand weakly in protest. “Hope is a powerful thing, Hermione.”

“Just imagine,” George chimed in from beside him, his quill twirling lazily between his fingers, “two brilliant minds, daring innovators, and a whole world of unexplored potion possibilities. Who’s to say we won’t revolutionize the field one day?”

Hermione folded her arms, unimpressed. “Well, considering you nearly melted your cauldron last time, I’d say you have a long way to go before ‘revolutionizing’ anything.”

Fred suddenly sat up, clearly deciding it was time for a different approach. His face was alight with mischief, but beneath it, there was something calculating, as though he had been waiting for the perfect moment to spring a new idea on her. He rested his chin in his hand, looking at her with an exaggeratedly thoughtful expression. “You know, Hermione, I’ve been thinking.”

She raised a sceptical eyebrow. “That’s dangerous.”

George chuckled, leaning back in his chair as though thoroughly enjoying the exchange, but Fred pressed on, undeterred. “Maybe we’d learn better if we had some practical application. Something hands-on. You’re always saying we should engage more with our studies, right?”

Hermione regarded him warily. “And just what do you propose?”

George grinned, leaning forward conspiratorially, his voice dipping slightly as though they were planning something far more devious than a simple tutoring session. “A challenge.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “A challenge?”

Fred nodded, his expression turning smug. “You teach us a potion, and we’ll brew it under your watchful, ever-so-clever supervision. If we manage to do it correctly, you have to admit that we might not be completely hopeless.”

Hermione hesitated, fingers tapping against the edge of her parchment. This was dangerous territory—giving Fred and George free rein in potion-making was just asking for disaster. But then again, if they actually took it seriously, it could be beneficial for them. And if there was one thing she was confident in, it was her ability to keep them in line. Even if they didn’t take their other studies seriously, they always seemed oddly determined to get her attention—whether it was through exasperation or, on rare occasions, actual effort.

“Fine,” she said at last, setting down her quill with finality. “But if I see even the slightest hint of you trying to turn this into a joke, I will hex you both so thoroughly that Peeves will seem tame in comparison.”

Fred clutched his chest dramatically, eyes wide with mock horror. “You wound me, Hermione. Do you really think so little of us?”

She simply gave him a pointed look before gathering her books, completely unamused by his performance. “We’ll meet in the Potions classroom tomorrow evening. And you’d better be prepared.”

George smirked as she turned to leave, exchanging a glance with his twin. “Oh, don’t worry, Hermione. We’ll be ready.”

As Hermione walked away, she couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever the twins had planned, it was going to be more than just a simple potions lesson.

The next evening, as Hermione pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the Potions classroom, she half-expected to find chaos. Perhaps Fred and George would be launching ingredients at each other like they were in a food fight, or maybe she’d find that one of them had already caused an explosion, sending plumes of oddly-coloured smoke spiralling toward the ceiling. But what she didn’t expect—what she had never expected—was to walk in and find them already there, workstations meticulously arranged, cauldrons at a gentle simmer, and ingredients laid out in neat, careful rows.

She hesitated in the doorway, momentarily thrown off by the sight before her. For once, they weren’t making a show of themselves, weren’t slouching or tossing quips back and forth. Instead, they appeared... focused. That was perhaps the most shocking part.

“Well,” she said after a pause, setting her books down on the front table and eyeing them with a mixture of suspicion and reluctant approval. “I have to admit, I’m impressed. You actually managed to follow the setup instructions.”

Fred, standing beside his cauldron with his arms crossed, shot her a wink. “We aim to impress.”

George, mirroring his brother’s stance, leaned just slightly against the table, his smirk never fading. “And you never know, Hermione,” he mused, “maybe we’ve been taking this a little more seriously than you think.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “I’ll believe that when I see it.” She had been around them long enough to know that any time they appeared well-behaved, it was usually a precursor to something ridiculous. But for now, she had no choice but to proceed.

Pulling open her textbook, Hermione cleared her throat and straightened her posture before beginning the lesson. “We’ll be brewing an Invigoration Draught this evening,” she announced, her voice steady and authoritative as she cast a glance between the two of them. She half-expected them to be making faces at each other or engaging in some silent, mischievous game, but instead, she found them both leaning forward ever so slightly, their attention fixed on her. It was an unfamiliar sight—Fred and George Weasley, sitting quietly, listening with what seemed to be genuine interest.

Encouraged, she pressed on. “If done correctly, this potion should enhance alertness and mental clarity, making the drinker more focused and energized. However,” she added, fixing them both with a meaningful stare, “if done incorrectly, well… let’s just say you’ll end up in the Hospital Wing with an uncontrollable bout of jittery energy. Imagine a Cheering Charm gone wrong, but much, much worse.”

Fred and George exchanged a look—one that Hermione had seen too many times before. It was the kind of silent communication that spoke volumes, the kind that usually meant they were already contemplating what might happen if they intentionally brewed it wrong. It was the same look they shared before setting off one of their infamous pranks or slipping something highly questionable into someone’s goblet at breakfast. She braced herself.

“Sounds fun,” Fred quipped, rolling up his sleeves as he reached for the first ingredient, his expression far too innocent.

Hermione exhaled sharply but chose, for once, not to lecture them about the importance of taking their studies seriously. Instead, she moved between their workstations, guiding them through each step, watching them like a hawk for any signs of trouble. To her great surprise, they actually followed her instructions. Their potions steadily turned the correct shade of deep blue as they stirred counterclockwise at the right pace. Their measurements weren’t careless, and—perhaps most shockingly of all—they weren’t actively trying to sabotage their own work.

It was so unexpected that she almost forgot to remind them to add their final ingredient. For the first time, Hermione wondered if maybe, just maybe, they had taken this tutoring seriously after all. Perhaps they did want to succeed, to prove to her that they weren’t as hopeless as she always accused them of being. And yet, just as she was beginning to believe in this newfound focus, Fred decided to test his luck.

“You know, Hermione,” he mused, his voice deliberately smooth as he carefully stirred his potion with the kind of precision that almost seemed like he was showing off, “I’m starting to think you might have underestimated us.”

Hermione, who had been closely examining the thickness of George’s potion to ensure he hadn’t accidentally overboiled it, looked up with a sceptical arch of her brow. “Is that so?”

George, never one to let his brother do all the talking, leaned on his elbow, his smirk widening. “Absolutely. In fact, I think we deserve some sort of reward if we pull this off.”

Hermione crossed her arms, giving them both an exasperated look. “Your reward is passing your exams,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Which should be motivation enough, considering how much you need the help.”

Fred clucked his tongue in feigned disapproval. “Oh, come on, Hermione. Surely you can think of something better than that.” His lips curled into a grin, his expression nothing short of devilish. He was enjoying this, she realized, enjoying pushing her buttons just enough to see her reaction. Then, with an almost lazy nonchalance, he added, “How about another kiss under the mistletoe?”

Time seemed to freeze.

Hermione’s mind barely had a chance to process the words before her body reacted first. Her face burned instantly, the heat creeping up her neck and spreading across her cheeks like wildfire. It was the kind of warmth that was impossible to ignore, and she felt betrayed by her own reaction.

“Fred Weasley!” she hissed, scandalized, her voice echoing slightly off the stone walls of the dimly lit Potions classroom.

George, who had just taken a sip of water, promptly choked, coughing violently as he thumped his chest and burst into laughter. His potion nearly sloshed over the sides of his cauldron as he wheezed, barely able to contain his amusement. “She used your full name, mate. That’s when you know you’re in real trouble.”

Fred, meanwhile, simply leaned back in his chair, entirely unfazed, his grin only widening. He held up his hands in mock surrender, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Alright, alright! Just a suggestion, no need to hex me.”

Hermione, still trying to recover from the shock, huffed in frustration, gathering her composure as best she could. She had half a mind to dump an entire vial of armadillo bile into his cauldron just to see him panic. Instead, she settled for glaring at him as she tried to ignore the way her pulse had inexplicably sped up, her mind replaying the brief moment from Christmas break that she had tried so hard to forget.

“Honestly, you two are impossible,” she muttered, shaking her head as she turned back to her book, flipping through the pages with a little more force than necessary.

Fred chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. “Ah, but you love us for it,” he quipped, his tone teasing, but there was something underneath it—something softer, something that lingered just a little too long.

She refused to look at him, refused to let him see the way her lips threatened to twitch upward in response. But even as she buried her nose in the textbook, as she pointedly ignored their smug expressions, Hermione couldn’t quite suppress the small, amused smile that ghosted across her face.

Fred and George might have been trouble, but she had to admit—they certainly made life at Hogwarts a lot more interesting.

Chapter Text

The castle was eerily quiet at this hour, the only sounds the occasional drip of water from the high ceilings and the distant creak of the moving staircases. The stone corridors were cast in shadows, with the flickering torches barely cutting through the overwhelming darkness. It was as if the entire school had gone to sleep, and she was the last person awake in this ancient, sprawling building. The stillness felt oppressive, like the walls were closing in on her, and Hermione could feel a knot of anxiety tightening in her chest with every step she took.

Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, though not from the cold that seeped into her bones. It was more to hold herself together—if she let go even for a second, she feared the floodgates would open, and all the tears she’d been holding back would come rushing to the surface. She wiped furiously at her cheeks, but it was no use. The fight with Ron had been too much, too personal, and too raw for her to shake off easily.

It had all started innocently enough. A disagreement over their homework schedule—who was supposed to revise for what, which subject needed more attention—but, as often happened with Ron, it spiralled out of control so quickly that neither of them had time to realize what was happening. He’d made a sarcastic comment about her always being the one to take charge, about how she was always “the bossy one,” and, for a split second, she’d felt the sting of his words more sharply than she cared to admit.

But it didn’t stop there.

Ron, with his usual bluntness, had lashed out in a way that made her feel like she was being stripped bare, vulnerable in a way she hated. “You always think you know best, don’t you, Hermione?” he’d snapped, his voice rising. “Maybe I’m tired of it. Maybe I’m tired of always being second to your perfection. You act like you’re the only one who’s allowed to be right!”

She had opened her mouth to argue, to defend herself, but the words had gotten caught in her throat. He’d been angry—angry in a way she didn’t know how to handle—and it had felt like everything they’d built over the years was suddenly teetering on the edge of something fragile and broken.

And then, just when she thought it couldn’t get worse, Ron had said something that shattered the calm façade she’d worked so hard to maintain. “Maybe you should just admit it,” he’d said, voice cutting through the space between them. “You don’t really care about me, do you? You only care about being right. About always being the one with all the answers. I don’t need someone who feels better than me, Hermione. You make it so obvious.”

That was the moment she’d completely lost it, her temper flaring, her heart breaking all at once. Her breath had come out in short gasps, her chest tightening as the tears she’d been holding back threatened to spill. It was like Ron had torn open a wound she hadn’t even known was there, one that went deeper than homework schedules or arguments over trivial matters. It was about how, despite everything, she still feared that, one day, Ron might just realize that he deserved better than her.

She’d stormed out of the room, running without any clear destination, needing to get away. But now, as she wandered through the cold, empty corridors of Hogwarts, she couldn’t escape the echo of his words. The hurt and the frustration gnawed at her insides, mixing with the loneliness that seemed to grow in the space between her and Ron. Was he right? Did she come across as someone who didn’t care? Did she really make him feel second best?

Her mind raced, every step heavier than the last. She wiped furiously at her cheeks again, trying to stem the flow of tears, but it was a losing battle. The worst part was, she wasn’t even sure what she was hoping to find by walking through the castle at this hour. A moment of solitude? A place to clear her head? Or was she running from something that was always just out of her reach?

As she reached the next staircase, she heard it—the telltale sound of footsteps echoing through the corridor. Her heart lurched in panic. She froze, her breath catching in her throat. Filch? A Prefect? Professor McGonagall?

The thought of being caught like this—tear-streaked, trembling—was unbearable. She couldn’t face anyone right now, especially not a professor or a prefect. The last thing she needed was to be questioned about why she was out after curfew, let alone be caught in such a vulnerable state.

Instinctively, Hermione flattened herself against the cold stone wall, her heart hammering in her chest as she frantically scanned the dimly lit corridor. The faint echoes of footsteps bounced off the walls, making it impossible to determine where they were coming from. She glanced over her shoulder, considering her options: should she risk running, or find another place to hide? The winding corridors of Hogwarts seemed to stretch endlessly in front of her, and for a moment, it felt like the walls themselves were closing in. She had to get away, had to hide.

Just as she was about to slip behind a suit of armour to the left, strong hands suddenly grabbed her from behind, yanking her into the shadows. A sharp gasp tore from her lips, and she instinctively fought back, but her struggle was met with a quiet chuckle. Before she could even process what was happening, she found herself pressed into a small alcove, hidden behind an ancient tapestry. The cool, damp air in the alcove wrapped around her like a second skin, and she stilled, heart pounding in her ears.

The sudden, overwhelming presence of two figures next to her was both a shock and, somehow, a relief. The scent of parchment and fireworks clung to them—something familiar and oddly comforting. It was Fred and George.

"Easy there, Granger," Fred whispered, his voice low and playful, though there was an undercurrent of concern in it. "Didn’t mean to scare you. Well, not too much, anyway."

Hermione exhaled sharply, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. The tightness in her chest only seemed to intensify with every passing second. She had been on edge ever since the argument with Ron, and now, caught in this narrow, dark alcove, the emotions she had been desperately holding back were bubbling up to the surface. Her hands trembled as she wiped at her eyes, knowing that she needed to keep her composure. She didn’t want to appear weak, not even in front of Fred and George. Not that they’d ever make her feel that way, but it wasn’t how she wanted to be seen.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed in a whisper, the words coming out sharper than she meant. She shifted slightly, but the tiny alcove left her with nowhere to go. She was practically pressed between the twins, their warmth enveloping her, their presence overwhelming. She couldn’t help but notice how much closer they seemed now, their proximity far more intimate than anything she had expected.

"Dodging Filch," George murmured, his breath brushing against her ear, so close that Hermione could almost feel his words on her skin. “Same as you, it seems.”

Fred leaned in even closer, his face just inches from hers, as he observed her more closely, his teasing expression softening into something more serious. He seemed to notice everything in that moment—the way her shoulders were slumped, how she couldn’t quite meet his gaze, how her breath still came in soft, shaky bursts. The usual mischief in his eyes dimmed for a moment as he gave her a penetrating look, something deeper and more concerned than his usual playful demeanour.

“But something tells me you weren’t sneaking around for fun,” Fred added, his voice gentler now, though still with that signature twinkle in his eyes.

Hermione’s breath hitched in her throat. She turned her head sharply, trying to hide the fresh wave of emotion that threatened to spill over, but it was too late. Even in the dim light, they could see it. They could see everything.

George’s usual smirk faded into a more serious expression, his brows furrowing as he shifted closer to her. He was the first to speak, his voice unusually gentle. “Hermione,” he said quietly, his tone filled with concern, “Why are you crying?”

The question hung in the air for a long moment. She felt the weight of his words in the pit of her stomach, and her breath caught as she swallowed the lump in her throat. She stiffened, her chest tightening as the emotions she had been pushing down all night came rushing back. She didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to let them in. Not now. Not like this.

But she couldn’t hold it in any longer.

A shaky breath escaped her lips before she could stop it, and she let out a strangled whisper. “Just… had a fight with Ron,” she confessed, the words coming out ragged and small. “A bad one.”

Fred and George exchanged a glance over her head, their eyes meeting in silent understanding. A silent conversation passed between them, one that Hermione couldn’t quite follow, but somehow she didn’t need to. It was as if they both understood, as if they knew exactly how much Ron’s words had hurt her, how deeply the argument had cut.

Without another word, George moved first. His hand, warm and reassuring, slipped around her shoulders, gently pulling her closer to him. He didn’t rush her; he simply offered a steady presence, a silent promise that he wouldn’t push her, wouldn’t force her to talk if she wasn’t ready. It was exactly what she needed in that moment—comfort, not questions.

Fred followed suit, his presence steadying as he leaned in just a little, offering warmth and support without overwhelming her. His usual cheeky grin softened, replaced with an unspoken understanding. “He’s an idiot,” Fred muttered, his voice laced with genuine frustration. “But you already knew that.”

Hermione let out a quiet, watery laugh at the words, shaking her head slightly as the tears continued to fall. “Yeah,” she admitted, her voice thick and fragile. “I did.”

George’s hand gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, his other hand lingering on her arm as if anchoring her to this moment, to this small space where, for a brief moment, everything else in the world didn’t matter. “Want us to prank him?” he asked, his voice lightening. “Something classic? Maybe dye his hair green? Or make his robes disappear mid-breakfast?”

Hermione sniffled, the smallest of smiles tugging at her lips as she felt the first stirrings of something akin to normalcy. “Tempting,” she murmured, leaning just slightly into George’s hold. “But no.”

Fred tilted his head, considering her response with an exaggerated air of mock seriousness. “Alright, but if you change your mind, we’ll be happy to make his life mildly unbearable for a while.”

Hermione felt her body relax ever so slightly, the warmth of their presence washing over her in a way she hadn’t expected. They weren’t rushing her, weren’t expecting anything from her. They were just here—two boys who understood, who saw beyond the tears and the tension, who made her feel like she didn’t have to carry the weight of everything on her own.

For a long while, they just sat there, cocooned in the small alcove, hidden from the rest of the world. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable; it was soothing. Hermione had spent so much of her life trying to be strong, trying to shoulder everything on her own, but in this moment, she let herself sink into their quiet comfort. She let herself feel. Let herself be weak.

George nudged her lightly, a gentle reminder that he was there, that they were both there. “You okay now?”

Hermione nodded, though she wasn’t sure how much of it was the truth. But in that moment, it felt real enough. “Yeah,” she said, her voice softer than she expected. “Thanks.”

Fred grinned, the mischievous glint returning to his eyes, though it was tempered by something tender. “Anytime, Granger,” he said, his voice lighter now. “Now, how about we make our escape before Filch finds us and decides to give us all detention for the rest of the year?”

George smirked. “Not that we’d mind detention with you, of course.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but a genuine warmth settled in her chest. For once, she wasn’t alone. “Come on, before I regret hiding with you two.”

With that, the three of them slipped from behind the tapestry, moving like shadows through the castle halls. They moved quickly and quietly, bound together by a shared sense of camaraderie and something unspoken that lingered between them—an understanding that didn’t need words to be felt. As they crept through the dark corridors, their soft laughter echoed, a sound of comfort and trust in the stillness of the night.

Chapter Text

Three days later, Hermione was standing in front of the Charms classroom, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she waited for Fred and George to finally show up. It had been a long, frustrating day, and she was already in a foul mood from the argument she’d had with Ron earlier, and it didn’t help that she knew exactly what the twins had been up to. Their prank on Harry had spread through the school like wildfire, and she’d already heard about it from Harry himself.

She could feel the heat in her chest, the lingering anger over the whole situation. She understood their sense of humour, but it was one thing to prank someone in good fun, and another entirely to mess with their friends in such an unpredictable way. Harry had gotten caught in the middle of one of their pranks, and while it hadn’t done him any serious harm, the fact that they hadn’t even considered the possible consequences made her blood boil.

Hermione was snapped from her thoughts when the door to the classroom finally swung open. Fred and George walked in, as usual, with a look of mischief dancing in their eyes.

“We’re here, Granger!” Fred called out cheerfully, as if they had just arrived at a fun social gathering instead of a tutoring session.

Hermione’s gaze immediately hardened, and she took a deep breath, trying to calm the irritation bubbling up inside her. They had been late yet again, which was annoying in itself, but the real issue was far more serious.

“Three minutes late,” Hermione began, her voice cool but tightly controlled. “And I’m assuming you’ve both been up to something—again.”

George winked, and Fred merely grinned wider. “What can we say? We like to make an entrance,” Fred said, moving toward his seat and taking his time as if he had all the time in the world.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you did to Harry,” Hermione said, her voice dropping as she eyed them both, her frustration starting to boil over. “I know you pranked him during breakfast this morning, and you can’t tell me you didn’t do it on purpose.”

Fred and George exchanged a glance, and for a brief second, their expressions flickered with something almost like guilt. But then George leaned against the desk, a smirk returning to his face. “Harry’s a tough one, Hermione. We knew he’d be fine.”

“Right,” Hermione snapped, her temper finally getting the better of her. “Fine? He ended up with half his breakfast in his lap and a huge mess in the Gryffindor common room. How is that ‘fine’? You didn’t even think about what might happen. What if it had been worse?”

Fred, seemingly unaffected by her anger, tried to deflect with one of his usual jokes. “Oh, come on, Hermione. You know we’ve got the best intentions. Just a little harmless fun.”

“Harmless?” Hermione’s voice was sharp now, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “This isn’t harmless. You two are constantly crossing the line. You didn’t just prank him—you humiliated him. “

Fred and George exchanged a knowing glance, their grins growing even wider as they saw the fury building in Hermione’s eyes. It was clear they were enjoying every second of her outrage. Her cheeks were flushed with anger, her eyes flashing like storm clouds on the brink of breaking, and yet they couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of triumph in seeing her so worked up. As much as Hermione had a knack for putting them in their place, there was something undeniably amusing about watching her lose her temper.

“Now, now, Granger,” Fred said, his voice dripping with mock concern. He pushed off from the desk lazily, leaning towards her with a twinkle of mischief still dancing in his eyes. “No need to get so worked up. You’ll give yourself wrinkles.” He gave her a dramatic, exaggerated frown as if he were genuinely worried about her complexion, which only served to make her glare more intense.

George, equally unfazed by her fury, followed suit, adopting a mock-serious expression. “And we’d hate to be responsible for such a tragedy,” he added, his voice taking on an exaggerated tone of faux sympathy.

Hermione’s breath hitched in frustration, her hands balling into fists at her sides. It was as though nothing she said was registering with them. She was standing there, seething with anger, and they were still playing it like a game—like it was all some grand joke. The nerve of them.

“Oh, you think this is funny, do you?” Hermione demanded, her voice tightening with every word. She couldn’t hold back the heat rising in her chest. “You two think it’s hilarious to ruin someone’s day just to get a laugh?” She shook her head in disbelief, her words coming out in a sharp, biting tone. “You think this is all a big joke, don’t you?”

Fred tilted his head slightly, feigning an air of consideration as if he were weighing the question in earnest. The teasing smile on his lips never wavered. “Well, yes,” he said slowly, dragging the word out as he leaned back, clearly enjoying every second of her frustration. “Actually, it’s just a little bit funny. At least, to us.”

“Fred’s right,” George chimed in, stepping forward in sync with his twin. He gave Hermione a grin that looked far too smug for her liking. “It’s harmless fun, Hermione. Nothing too serious.” He made a dismissive gesture, as though to downplay her entire tirade.

At that, Hermione snapped. She threw her hands up in frustration, unable to contain the fire any longer. “That’s it!” she shouted, the words barely escaping her lips before her temper exploded. “I don’t know why I even bother with you two!” She could feel her heart racing as the adrenaline coursed through her veins. She took a deep breath before continuing, her voice sharp and piercing. “You act like a pair of insufferable, overgrown children, never taking anything seriously, and for what? A cheap laugh?” She shook her head in disbelief, the anger twisting in her chest. “Do you even care that Harry had to walk around the castle looking like he lost a duel with a breakfast platter?” Her voice cracked a little at the end, her frustration evident in every syllable. “Do you even care—”

“About you?” George interrupted, his voice cutting through her rant with a surprising ease. He took a slow step forward, closing the distance between them. The playful, teasing tone from before had shifted into something else—something much deeper. It was as though the light-heartedness had all but faded, replaced by a look of something more serious, more intense.

The sudden shift in his demeanour caught Hermione off guard, her words dying on her lips as she looked up into his eyes. There was something unreadable there, a glimmer of something she wasn’t entirely sure she could decipher, but it made the air around them feel heavier. He didn’t seem amused anymore.

“Yes, actually, we do,” George said, his voice quieter now, the playful lilt replaced by a softer, more earnest tone. He took another step closer, his gaze never leaving hers. His proximity suddenly felt too close, and yet, Hermione couldn’t bring herself to step away. The weight of his words hung in the air, mingling with the heavy tension that had already built up between them.

Hermione faltered for a fraction of a second, caught off guard by the raw intensity in George’s gaze. There was something about the way he was looking at her—something far too serious for their usual antics—that made her heart stutter. Her thoughts scrambled, and she quickly shook it off, her brows knitting in frustration as she fought to stay composed.

“Then why—” she began, her voice clipped, still managing to sound furious despite the storm of emotions that churned in her chest.

But before she could finish her sentence, Fred, ever the showman, stepped forward, his grin widening into that familiar mischievous smirk. “Because that hex wasn’t meant for Harry,” he said nonchalantly, as if he were revealing some trivial detail of a harmless prank.

Hermione blinked, her mind stuttering as the words hit her like a bucket of cold water. “What?”

Fred didn’t seem to care that he’d thrown her off. He continued with that same cocky grin, never losing his swagger. “It was meant for Ron,” he added, as if he were casually discussing the weather. “A bit of revenge, you see. For making you cry the other night.”

Her mouth opened, then closed, and then opened again, as the information processed in her mind. It took a moment for her to fully grasp what Fred had just said. She had spent the last three days stewing over their recklessness—distrusting their motives, fuming at their inconsiderate antics—and now they were telling her it had all been some misguided attempt to ‘avenge’ her? Her brain just couldn’t seem to reconcile it.

“That— that is the most idiotic, immature, utterly ridiculous thing I have ever heard!” she burst out, her voice rising with each word. “I don’t need you two interfering with my problems, least of all by throwing pranks around like hexes! What on earth made you think—”

But before she could finish her tirade, her words were abruptly cut off.

One moment, she was full of fury, mid-sentence, her face flushed with indignation—and the next, everything she had been about to say vanished entirely in the overwhelming sensation of Fred's lips on hers.

It was as if the world stopped spinning.

His kiss was firm, confident, and completely unexpected. It was a sharp contrast to the anger that had been surging through her just moments before. Her breath hitched in surprise, her mind short-circuiting as she stood frozen, unable to move or even think. The intensity of it left her breathless, and for a moment, she couldn’t do anything but feel the shock of it rippling through her.

And just when she thought she couldn’t possibly be more stunned, Fred pulled away slowly—giving her no time to recover. Before she could even process the first kiss, George, who had been standing quietly beside them, stepped forward. He placed his hand gently on the side of her arm, leaning in as he replaced Fred in the same smooth, practiced motion. His kiss was slower, lingering, and more deliberate, like he was savouring the moment and daring her to push him away.

But Hermione didn’t. Her mind, still reeling from the shock, couldn’t seem to gather itself enough to react. Instead, she stood there, completely stunned by the way their kisses made her feel. There was no resistance, no push to shove them away. It was like all the anger, the frustration, and the fire she’d been holding in for days had melted into something else entirely—something raw, something that was too tangled to be easily understood.

When George finally pulled back, she was left staring at them both in complete silence, her body still humming with the sensations of what had just happened. Her lips tingled as if they were still feeling the press of their mouths against hers, and for a moment, it was all she could focus on.

Fred’s voice, low and soothing, broke through her daze. “There now,” he murmured, brushing his thumb gently across her cheek as if to calm her, “That’s much better.”

Hermione blinked rapidly, her heart hammering so violently in her chest that she was sure they could hear it. Her breath was unsteady as she tried to process what had just happened. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, utterly at a loss for words. “What—” she finally managed, but she couldn’t form a coherent sentence.

George, who was still smirking slightly, reached out and brushed his fingers over her wrist in a completely nonchalant manner, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just transpired. “We figured since you were already furious at us, we might as well make it worth our while,” he said smoothly, taking a small step back, but still keeping an eye on her, as if awaiting her reaction.

Hermione’s mind took another moment to catch up with the madness of what had just unfolded. She opened her mouth again to shout at them, to demand an explanation, but before she could get a word out, the outrage that had been simmering inside her flared up again—this time, hotter and fiercer than before.

“You— you absolute menaces!” she nearly shrieked, her fists clenched so tightly she was sure her nails were digging into her palms. “You— you cannot just—” Her voice broke, her breathing quickening, her pulse racing.

Fred grinned, his expression almost too pleased with himself. “Oh, we absolutely can,” he said, his voice full of that maddening arrogance she had grown all too familiar with.

George, standing just behind Fred, winked at Hermione, his mischievous grin still firmly in place. “And we did,” he added, his tone full of teasing confidence.

Hermione was utterly exasperated, her face now burning with a combination of fury and embarrassment. She turned on her heel, desperate to escape before she completely lost her composure. “I am going to hex the both of you into next week,” she warned, her voice sharp, the words biting with irritation.

Fred chuckled softly, as though he had already won some battle he hadn’t even fought yet. “Totally worth it,” he muttered under his breath, clearly satisfied with the results of his chaos.

George nudged Fred, his smile turning sly. “Told you she’d be cute when she raged.”

Hermione groaned loudly in frustration, her hands flying to her burning face in embarrassment, as she walked briskly away. She was absolutely certain she would never survive tutoring these two ever again, especially not after this... disaster.

As she made her way toward the door, still mortified, Fred and George shared a glance, clearly entertained by her reaction. The twins had done what they did best—disrupted everything and left Hermione both infuriated and undeniably flustered in the process.

Chapter Text

The morning of Valentine’s Day dawned bright and crisp, a pale golden sunlight streaming through the enchanted windows of Hogwarts, casting soft reflections across the frost-covered grounds. The air inside the castle was thick with the scent of chocolate, enchanted roses, and something distinctly sugary—likely the work of Honeydukes’ latest Valentine’s-themed confections.

Everywhere Hermione turned, students were exchanging gifts, parchment cards sealed with enchanted wax stamps, and miniature boxes of sweets that giggled when opened. Soft pink and red streamers curled along the walls, floating and twisting in the air as if carried by an invisible breeze, no doubt the work of Professor Flitwick’s festive charm work. The tiny cherubs that flitted through the corridors, reciting overly sentimental poetry in warbling, sing-song voices, were the final straw for Hermione’s rapidly fraying patience. She had spent the entire morning dodging them, pretending to be engrossed in whatever book she happened to be carrying, just to avoid the embarrassment of having one latch onto her.

She wanted absolutely no part of it.

For the past two days, Hermione had made it her mission to avoid Fred and George Weasley at all costs. It had been no small feat, considering the twins had an uncanny ability to pop up when she least expected it, but she had managed. A carefully planned series of strategic exits, abrupt changes in her usual routines, and, on one particularly desperate occasion, a hasty retreat through the Restricted Section of the library had all ensured that they hadn’t been able to corner her again.

But even as she congratulated herself on her success, Hermione had the distinct, sinking feeling that they weren’t the type to give up easily.

Still, she had work to do—important work. While other students might be swooning over the idea of romantic strolls and candlelit dinners, Hermione had a much more productive evening planned: a quiet night with a stack of books, a fresh roll of parchment, and an extensive essay on the magical properties of runes in ancient wizarding societies. A blissful, uninterrupted night of studying. No distractions. No nonsense.

That was, until breakfast.

The moment Hermione stepped into the Great Hall, she knew something was wrong. The atmosphere felt... charged, and not in the usual morning buzz of half-awake students gulping down pumpkin juice. A ripple of movement spread across the room as heads turned in her direction. Students were already watching her—whispering, nudging each other, and giggling behind their hands in a way that made her stomach twist uncomfortably.

Frowning, Hermione straightened her shoulders and made her way toward the Gryffindor table, determined to ignore whatever ridiculous spectacle had caused this particular reaction. But as she neared her usual spot, she came to an abrupt halt, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

The space where she normally sat had been transformed.

A luxurious red silk napkin was draped elegantly over the table, a golden plate stacked with perfectly arranged pastries sitting atop it. A goblet filled with what appeared to be freshly squeezed pumpkin juice gleamed invitingly in the soft morning light, as though it had been charmed to sparkle just for effect. A small candle—an actual, flickering candle—hovered gently above the setup, as if she had just stumbled into a private dining experience rather than her usual breakfast routine.

And then she saw them.

Fred and George were seated across from her designated spot, identical grins plastered across their mischievous faces. They looked entirely too pleased with themselves, lounging comfortably as if they had all the time in the world. Fred, ever the showman, lifted a single red rose, twirling it idly between his fingers before setting it down with a flourish.

“Ah,” he announced grandly, his voice carrying across the table. “Our lovely Hermione has finally arrived.”

George, looking entirely too pleased with himself, waved his hand toward the empty seat across from him. “Come, sit. Enjoy the ambiance,” he coaxed with a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes.

Hermione remained standing, arms tightly crossed in front of her, her posture rigid with annoyance. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, a frown deepening across her face. She stared at the elaborate setup in front of her, the absurdity of it all settling like a weight in her chest. “What. Is. This?” she demanded, her voice flat, though underneath it, there was the unmistakable edge of barely contained frustration.

Fred let out a dramatic sigh, as if deeply wounded by her disbelief. “Granger, must you always ruin the surprise?” he lamented, his voice pitched to sound overly dramatic, though his eyes twinkled with amusement. “It’s Valentine’s Day, and as your very thoughtful and selfless suitors, we simply had to ensure that you were properly romanced.”

George nodded with an exaggerated solemnity, his face the picture of mock seriousness. “We’ve gone to great lengths, Granger. We pulled many strings, we used every ounce of our charm and wit to arrange this exclusive dining experience just for you.”

Hermione couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow, her patience already fraying. “Right here, in the Great Hall?” she deadpanned, gesturing around at the now-silenced room, where students were still watching, wide-eyed and eager for the spectacle to unfold.

Fred’s grin only widened. “Oh, this is just the beginning,” he said, almost theatrically. He leaned back in his seat as if daring her to challenge him further, his eyes glinting with mischief.

Before Hermione could open her mouth to retort, a sudden flurry of motion interrupted her thoughts. She glanced up, her heart sinking, as the tiny enchanted cherubs, previously flitting about in the background of the hall, began to swoop down toward their table. They were small, chubby little creatures, their wings flapping furiously as they twirled in the air like overly enthusiastic doves. Their presence alone was enough to make Hermione's stomach churn.

One cherub—particularly plump, with a golden toga that barely stayed in place—hovered just above the table and cleared its throat with an exaggerated sound that echoed across the hall. With all the grace of a Broadway performer, the cherub unfurled a scroll with a dramatic flourish, its tiny face brimming with purpose.

“In honour of this most romantic occasion,” the cherub's sing-song voice rang out, carrying with it a note of what could only be described as overly sincere theatrics, “a special poem, composed by none other than Fred and George Weasley, for the most brilliant, stubborn, and breathtaking Hermione Granger.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. No. No, they had not. She felt her face flush with a mix of disbelief and embarrassment. Her eyes darted to Fred and George, who were now watching her with proud, smug expressions. “You did not—” she began, her voice tinged with a growing sense of dread.

“Oh, we did,” George confirmed, his voice carrying the unmistakable tone of someone far too pleased with their own scheme. He practically glowed with pride, his grin never faltering.

The cherub, clearly satisfied with its audience, straightened its back with a flourish. It puffed out its chest, took a deep breath, and began to recite the poem in a voice that was louder now, almost booming in the vast, silent hall. It echoed off the stone walls, and the students in the Great Hall fell into an awed silence.

“In honor of this most romantic occasion,” the cherub sang out, its tiny voice carrying the carefully crafted words, “a special poem, composed by none other than Fred and George Weasley, for the most brilliant, stubborn, and breathtaking Hermione Granger.”

Hermione’s stomach plummeted, and she couldn’t quite stifle the horrified gasp that escaped her lips. She glanced around the room, her eyes wide in disbelief, but it was already too late. She could feel all eyes on her, and the absolute dread of knowing what was coming next seeped deep into her bones.

The cherub’s voice rang out again, its words dramatic and exaggerated, as if savoring every syllable.

“Her hair is wild, her temper’s fire,
Her wit is sharp, her books stack higher.
She glares at us with fury bright,
Yet somehow, that just feels so right.”

A few students from Slytherin—looking entirely too smug—snickered behind their hands, the sounds of their laughter slicing through the tense atmosphere. Draco Malfoy leaned over to Blaise Zabini, whispering something, and they both exchanged a knowing glance. The twins, in their usual style, had turned the day into an event of their own making, and, it seemed, no one was letting Hermione off easy.

However, the girls at the Gryffindor table—along with a few from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff—couldn’t help but let out a few sympathetic ‘awws.’ A few of them giggled, charmed by the exaggerated poem despite the humiliating circumstances. Hermione could feel the blood rushing to her face, the heat of it spreading from the tips of her ears down to the very core of her being. This was so not what she had signed up for.

The cherub carried on, undeterred, its tone growing even more ridiculous with every passing line.

“Her mind’s a maze, a brilliant storm,
Yet she insists on keeping warm
In rules and order, lists so neat—
But Merlin’s beard, she’s still so sweet.”

Hermione fought to keep her composure, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from shouting. Her eyes flitted from Fred and George to the students watching her. The Slytherins were practically choking with laughter, their faces twisted into malicious grins. But across the hall, Hermione noticed the girls in Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff exchanging amused smiles, their expressions a mixture of admiration and slight embarrassment on her behalf. A small part of her wished she could join in the fun and laugh at herself—if only Fred and George weren’t behind it all.

The cherub was utterly oblivious to her discomfort, completely lost in its performance.

“She fights and fumes, she shouts and scolds,
Yet in our hearts, she takes a hold.
So, dear Hermione, don’t delay—
Join us for one spectacular day!”

As the last line echoed through the hall, the cherub gave an impossibly over-the-top bow, flapping its wings furiously. With a delighted trill, it flung sparkling pink confetti into the air. The glittering specks of magic twirled down around them, catching the light in the most obnoxious, glittering display Hermione had ever witnessed. The cherub finished its show by vanishing in a shower of golden light, leaving the air still ringing with its absurdity.

The entire Great Hall erupted into applause. The students of Slytherin snickered and hooted, some even clapping with a malicious edge, while the girls at the other tables—particularly Ravenclaw and Gryffindor—shared amused, sympathetic glances. A few whispered amongst themselves, their expressions a mixture of embarrassment for Hermione and admiration for the sheer boldness of the Weasley twins.

Ron, sitting at the far end of the Gryffindor table, nearly choked on his pumpkin juice. His face was an odd shade of red, somewhere between horror and sheer mortification as he wiped his mouth with his napkin. He muttered something under his breath, but Hermione couldn’t quite make out the words over the sound of the crowd’s laughter.

Fred, utterly unfazed by the spectacle they had just unleashed upon Hermione, leaned forward across the table, propping his chin up in his hand. “So, Granger,” he drawled, his voice oozing with mock sweetness, “how about that date?”

Hermione stared at him, utterly mortified, her heart pounding in her chest. She wanted to scream, to hex them, to get up and leave the hall before she died from embarrassment. But there was Fred, grinning ear to ear, completely shameless in his teasing. She didn’t know if it was the ridiculousness of the whole situation or the way he was so unapologetically confident, but something else flickered deep inside her, despite the swirling mix of fury and humiliation.

George leaned in next to Fred, his face the picture of unrepentant mischief. He winked at her, his eyes practically sparkling with amusement. “We really did put in quite the effort,” he said smoothly, giving her a pointed look.

Hermione clenched her fists beneath the table, exhaling sharply through her nose. Her cheeks were burning, a combination of mortification and something else she couldn’t quite place. She should say no. She wanted to say no. But the more she stared at them, the more she realized there was no escape. They’d won. Again.

Her voice was a low growl as she levelled them both with a glare that could have melted steel. “One date,” she said finally, her words clipped. “And if either of you so much as think about another public spectacle like this, I will hex you into next week.”

Fred’s grin only widened at her response, clearly delighted by her concession. “Oh, Granger,” he said, almost fondly, “we wouldn’t dream of it.”

George, leaning back in his seat with a mock sigh, added, “Not today, at least.”

Hermione groaned, dropping her head into her hands in sheer resignation. Her fingers pressed against her temples as she wondered how she’d managed to fall into their trap yet again. Of all the idiotic, embarrassing things she had endured in her life, this—this moment—was going to be impossible to forget.

The Great Hall erupted into even louder cheers, and somewhere in the back, she could have sworn she heard Ron muttering something about “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

And somewhere, deep in the pit of her stomach, Hermione felt the strangest sensation of dread and—was it excitement?—all jumbled up together.

Chapter Text

The weekend arrived far too quickly for Hermione’s liking. She had hoped that somehow, someway, the days would slip by unnoticed, and the looming promise of her "date"—if it could even be called that—would vanish like the winter mist. But of course, that didn’t happen. No, Fred and George Weasley, with their endless enthusiasm and knack for mischief, ensured that she was reminded at every turn. They left her little notes in her bookbag, sent winking owls with heart-shaped ribbons, and, more than once, greeted her in the hallways with exaggerated blown kisses, playful nudges, and whispered "sweet nothings" that made her cheeks flush with a mixture of embarrassment and—dare she admit it—something else.

It wasn’t just Fred and George, either. It was the whole of Gryffindor Tower. The entire week had been filled with giggles and pointed looks, whispers behind her back, and the occasional "You’re going to have so much fun!" from the more enthusiastic members of her house. It was impossible to avoid, even if she tried to bury herself in her studies. She was going, they all assured her. It wasn’t a question—it was a foregone conclusion.

By Saturday morning, Hermione was seriously considering feigning a terrible illness and locking herself in her dormitory with a stack of textbooks and the soothing sound of parchment crinkling under her quill. That seemed like the safest option, after all. She could stay out of Fred and George's line of fire, enjoy some peace and quiet, and not have to deal with whatever chaos they had planned for her. But just as she was about to pull the covers over her head and give in to the allure of an afternoon spent in solitude, a loud knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

She groaned.

“Hermione! You cannot bail on them now!” Ginny’s voice rang through the door, full of determination.

"I’m not bailing!" Hermione called back, her voice muffled by the blanket she had now pulled over her head. “I’m just… not feeling well today.”

Ginny’s laughter floated through the door. “Nice try, but no. You agreed, and you're going. Don’t think I’ll let you off the hook that easily.”

Hermione let out a huff, sinking deeper into her pillows. “I was coerced, Ginny. Coerced.”

The door flew open, and before Hermione could even register what was happening, Ginny had marched into the room, grabbed the edge of the blanket, and yanked it off her with one swift motion.

“Hermione Granger, you’re going on this date, and that’s final,” Ginny said, hands on her hips, her face full of mischief. “You agreed to it, and I’m not letting you get out of it. Not now, not ever.”

Hermione flopped back dramatically, hands covering her eyes. “This is outrageous,” she muttered, her voice muffled by the pillow.

Ginny grinned. “Call it whatever you like. But you are definitely going, and you’re going to have fun. Trust me, you’ll see.”

“I don’t see how,” Hermione grumbled, though she knew better than to argue further. Ginny had that look in her eye—the one that said there was absolutely no point in trying to get out of it.

“Get up,” Ginny ordered, raising an eyebrow. “The twins are waiting. You’ve got, oh, maybe ten minutes to look presentable.”

Hermione shot her a look that could’ve melted steel, but Ginny was unphased. With a resigned sigh, Hermione threw her legs over the side of the bed and trudged toward her wardrobe, pulling out a thick cloak and wrapping it around her shoulders. If she was going to survive this, she’d need all the warmth and protection she could get.

By the time Hermione made it down to the entrance hall, the chill of the February air had begun to seep into the castle, and the atmosphere outside was as cold and crisp as the tension she was feeling. The soft crunch of snow beneath her boots punctuated the quiet, and she was nearly halfway to the castle doors when she spotted them.

Fred and George were standing at the bottom of the stone steps, leaning casually against the railing, both wearing identical mischievous grins. Fred, with his jacket worn and slightly too big, his scarf looped carelessly around his neck like he had thrown it on in haste, was already looking far too pleased with himself. Beside him, George had his hands shoved into his pockets, his windswept hair making him look like he had just stepped out of one of those over-the-top romantic novels Hermione had occasionally borrowed from the library. The sunlight caught the gleam in his eyes as he spotted her, and his smirk deepened.

“Ah, Hermione, my dear,” Fred greeted, his voice dripping with exaggerated sweetness. He strode over to her, his hand outstretched in a dramatic offer of his arm. “You look radiant today.”

Hermione’s immediate instinct was to roll her eyes, but she held back, though the warmth creeping up her neck gave her away. “I was hoping I might slip by unnoticed,” she muttered, glancing at the castle doors behind her.

“Positively breathtaking,” George chimed in, his voice playful as he nudged Fred out of the way with a mischievous grin. “It’s an honour, really, to be in the presence of such a vision.”

Hermione gave them both an incredulous look, one eyebrow raised sceptically. “If you two are done with the theatrics, can we just get this over with?”

Fred let out an exaggerated sigh, pressing his hand to his chest like he had just been struck by some fatal blow. “She wounds us, George. Wounds us deeply.”

George shook his head, putting on a mock solemn expression. “Right in the heart. Absolutely no regard for our delicate sensibilities.”

Hermione didn’t know whether to laugh or groan at their antics, so she did neither, simply pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation. This was going to be one long day, she thought to herself. But she knew deep down that despite the madness, this was a bit better than being holed up in the library, hiding from the world.

“Fine,” she muttered, pushing past them. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Hogsmeade was bustling with energy, its cobbled streets alive with the vibrant chatter of students enjoying the holiday weekend. The crisp winter air seemed to make everything feel a little bit more magical, with couples strolling arm in arm, their breath forming little clouds of steam as they walked, rosy-cheeked and giddy with the romance of the day. Groups of friends wandered from shop to shop, hands full of chocolates, new trinkets, and bundles of brightly coloured scarves, their laughter filling the air. The rich smell of warm butterbeer and the sweet scent of fresh pastries from nearby bakeries wafted through the streets, mixing with the occasional blast of snowflakes from the enchanted rooftops. Hermione couldn’t help but feel, just for a moment, that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t going to be so terrible after all.

That was, of course, until she realized that Fred and George had absolutely no intention of behaving like normal, decent human beings.

The twins’ antics started the moment they entered Honeydukes, their favorite stop on any trip to Hogsmeade. As soon as they crossed the threshold into the candy shop, Fred immediately swept an arm toward the shelves, as though it were a royal display of treasures.

“Ah, Granger, my dear,” he said with a grin that could only be described as devilish, “the finest of sweets await.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but didn’t protest. Fred was already pulling her toward the counter, where a large display of sugar quills lay in front of her.

“Open wide, Granger,” Fred said, as he dramatically held one of the sugar quills up to her lips.

Hermione recoiled, not entirely sure whether to be offended or amused. “I can feed myself, thank you very much,” she said firmly, batting his hand away.

Fred’s grin only widened, and George, who had been trailing behind, snorted in exaggerated shock.

“Tsk, tsk,” George said, wagging a finger at her. “So unromantic.”

Hermione couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped her lips, though she quickly covered it up with a cough. “I’m not your child, you know,” she muttered, but the warmth creeping up her neck was betraying her.

Fred, not deterred in the slightest, made a grand show of sighing deeply, clutching his chest dramatically. “Our Hermione, always the realist. No room for romance, no room for spontaneity.”

George, on the other hand, bent down to pick up a sugar quill himself. “Don’t worry, Granger. Fred’s just heartbroken. He was really hoping you’d fall for the charm.”

Hermione could feel the heat of a blush rising in her cheeks as she stepped away from them, hoping to redirect the attention elsewhere. “Let’s just… move on, shall we?”

But, of course, they had other plans.

Their next stop was Zonko’s Joke Shop, and that was when Hermione truly understood the depth of Fred and George’s lack of boundaries. They had, evidently, no intention of having a normal date. Instead, they had roped her into their latest round of prank testing. While she browsed the shelves of peculiar joke items, examining the strange little items designed to cause chaos, she could hear Fred and George whispering conspiratorially behind her. They took turns trying to convince her to help them test their latest prank—a set of enchanted chocolates that caused the eater to burst into spontaneous sonnets of undying love.

Hermione crossed her arms. “Absolutely not.”

Fred leaned in, lowering his voice. “But Hermione, imagine the chaos. The drama. The Shakespearean tragedy of it all.”

George wiggled his eyebrows. “Just think—Malfoy reciting poetry to McGonagall. A thing of beauty, really.”

Hermione groaned, dragging them out of the shop before they could rope her into something she’d regret.

It wasn’t until they finally stopped for butterbeer at The Three Broomsticks that things began to settle into something more familiar, more comfortable. After a day of pranks, teasing, and general mayhem, the warm, cozy atmosphere of the pub came as a welcome relief. Hermione felt a sigh of relief escape her as she slipped into the corner booth Fred and George had snagged, away from the bustling crowds. The warmth from the fire crackling nearby enveloped her, the scent of roasted nuts and spiced butterbeer filling the air. She held her mug tightly, letting the warmth seep into her fingers as she took a small sip, the creamy, frothy taste of the butterbeer easing some of the tension in her shoulders.

For the first time all day, Fred and George weren’t performing for an audience. Their usual exuberance had dimmed to something softer, quieter, almost like they were allowing the day to be a bit more real—just for a moment. It was a side of them that Hermione had never really seen before, and she couldn’t help but appreciate it. It felt more… natural, almost. Less like they were trying to get a rise out of her and more like they were simply enjoying her company. The idea that she was part of this felt strangely comforting, even if she hadn’t fully wrapped her head around the situation yet.

“So,” George said, leaning back in his seat, his elbows resting on the edge of the table as he looked at Hermione, “have we completely ruined your life yet?”

Hermione smirked but couldn’t quite suppress a small chuckle. “Oh, without a doubt,” she replied, lifting her mug to take another sip. The heat from the butterbeer was beginning to settle in her chest, making her feel warmer in more ways than one.

Fred grinned widely. “Excellent. That was the goal.”

Despite herself, Hermione laughed. It wasn’t the boisterous, over-the-top laughter she’d gotten used to from them, but something genuine, a real release of tension. It was hard to be upset with them when they were being so effortlessly charming, in their own ridiculous way.

They sat in a comfortable silence for a moment, the only sound being the occasional clink of mugs and the soft hum of chatter around them. Through the window, Hermione watched the snowflakes fall lazily from the sky, the world outside seeming softer, quieter as the wind kicked up the snow into a gentle swirl. For the first time all day, the twins seemed to be content, and Hermione realized with a start that she was too. She wasn’t entirely sure how that had happened, but here they were—Fred, George, and Hermione—sharing a quiet moment.

Then, to her surprise, Fred spoke again, his voice quieter than usual. There was something about his tone that caught her attention, pulling her gaze away from the snow and back to him.

“You know, Hermione,” he said, his eyes meeting hers with an almost surprising sincerity, “we really do like you.”

The words landed with a soft thud in the air between them, and Hermione blinked, her heart giving a little jolt in her chest. She hadn’t expected him to say something like that. She’d been so used to their teasing, to their antics, that the shift in his tone took her off guard.

George, who had been staring at his butterbeer, looked up at her with a small, almost tender smile. “We wouldn’t go through all this trouble if we didn’t,” he added, his voice steady but kind.

The sincerity in their words made something flutter deep in Hermione’s chest. She wasn’t sure what to make of it—she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to laugh, or blush, or just brush it off. Her heart felt a little too full, her mind a little too conflicted. After all, Fred and George weren’t exactly known for their seriousness. But… this felt real.

“Well,” Hermione said after a long moment, her voice softer than before, “I suppose there are worse people to spend the day with.”

Fred’s eyes widened comically, and he pressed a hand over his heart, pretending to be dramatically wounded. “Granger, was that a compliment?”

George raised an eyebrow and let out a low whistle. “Blimey. She does like us.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Don’t push your luck.”

Fred, ever the one to seize on an opportunity, lifted his butterbeer high in a mock toast, his grin returning to its usual mischievous form. “To Hermione Granger,” he said, his voice warm, “our favourite, most stubborn, and most reluctant Valentine.”

George clinked his mug against Fred’s with a quiet laugh, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “May she never escape us.”

Hermione huffed, but the truth was, the words didn’t have the sting they would’ve had earlier that day. In fact, for some reason, she found herself almost enjoying their antics—perhaps because she could see the glimmer of something more underneath. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t the worst way to spend a day.

As the two twins laughed and took long swigs of their butterbeer, Hermione took another sip of hers, letting the warmth of the drink settle into her chest. The conversation shifted, but for a moment, she couldn’t help but notice how the day had turned into something far more intimate than she had ever anticipated.

And then, as if on cue, a small piece of froth from her butterbeer lingered on the corner of her lip. She didn’t realize it at first, too caught up in the moment. But when Fred suddenly leaned forward, his eyes glinting with that familiar impish gleam, Hermione froze.

“Oi,” Fred said, his voice low, but his eyes fixed on her lips. “You’ve got something… right there.”

Before Hermione could react, Fred’s thumb lightly brushed over the corner of her mouth, gently wiping away the froth.

It was such a simple, casual gesture—one that she had no reason to read into—but Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat. His touch was brief, soft, and the moment it lingered, she couldn’t decide whether it was another joke or if there was something more to it. The warmth of his thumb left her skin tingling, and for a moment, she couldn’t quite bring herself to meet his eyes.

But Fred wasn’t finished with her yet. His smirk was playful, yet there was something more in his gaze now. “There you go. Much better,” he said, leaning back in his seat, still watching her carefully.

George, who had been watching the whole thing with mild amusement, now shifted his gaze from his brother to Hermione, his expression far softer. “Don’t worry, Hermione,” he said, his voice low and genuine. “It’s just us. You don’t have to worry about all the teasing now.”

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but she found herself unsure of how to respond. The small act of wiping away that bit of foam had felt strangely intimate—almost like an invitation into a moment that was just for them. She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to laugh it off, or if they were truly being serious for once.

But, as Fred leaned back and George gave her a soft, almost reassuring smile, Hermione couldn’t help but think that maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t all a joke. She looked at both of them, really looked at them for the first time all day, and realized with a start that she might not be entirely opposed to the idea of spending more time with them.

Maybe this day hadn’t been a disaster after all.

And maybe—just maybe—the twins had been serious from the very beginning.

Chapter Text

The Three Broomsticks hummed with warmth, laughter, and the clatter of tankards against polished wooden tables. The air smelled of butterbeer and cinnamon, of damp wool and melting snow tracked in by students eager to escape the winter chill. Lanterns flickered overhead, casting a golden glow that made the room feel almost otherworldly, like something out of a story.

But Hermione wasn’t paying attention to any of it.

Everything outside their little corner of the pub had begun to fade into the background, muffled beneath the quiet, steady beat of her own heart. The lingering heat of Fred’s touch still tingled at the corner of her mouth, and she couldn’t seem to shake the way George had looked at her—not with amusement or mischief, but something steadier, something softer. Something that made warmth curl in her stomach in a way she wasn’t quite prepared for.

This was different.

It wasn’t like the teasing from earlier, wasn’t another joke or carefully orchestrated spectacle meant to make her blush and sputter. There was something unspoken in the air now, something that settled between them with a weight she didn’t know how to name. It left her feeling unsteady, like she was teetering on the edge of something unfamiliar, something that sent her pulse skittering beneath her skin.

And yet… she didn’t want to back away.

She wasn’t sure if it was the butterbeer warming her or the way Fred’s usual smirk had softened into something quieter, something contemplative. His fingers traced slow, absentminded circles against the handle of his mug, but his gaze remained fixed on her, unreadable and searching. George, always the more observant one, was watching too, though there was something different in the way he held her gaze—less teasing, more patient, as if waiting to see what she would do next.

She could still play this off. She could pretend that nothing had happened, that Fred wiping the corner of her mouth was just another one of their antics, that the way her stomach fluttered when their fingers brushed was simply a trick of the warmth in the room. She could smile, roll her eyes, push away whatever this was before it became something real.

But she didn’t want to.

For once, Hermione didn’t want to overthink. Didn’t want to analyse every little detail until she convinced herself it didn’t mean anything. Because it did. And she was tired of pretending otherwise.

Slowly, hesitantly, she set her mug down and leaned forward, just a little. Her elbows rested against the table, closing the space between them by an inch or two, and though the action was small, it changed everything.

Fred and George both stilled at the same time.

It was barely noticeable—the way their fingers tightened around their mugs, the way their breathing seemed to slow, just for a fraction of a second. But Hermione noticed. She noticed the flicker of surprise in Fred’s expression, the way George’s lips parted slightly as if he were about to say something but thought better of it.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Hermione wasn’t used to feeling bold like this—not in moments like these. But she held their gazes, let herself breathe in the weight of the moment, let herself exist in it instead of shying away.

“You meant what you said,” Hermione murmured, her voice quieter than she had intended, almost swallowed by the low hum of the pub around them. But they heard her. She could tell by the way Fred’s fingers were absentmindedly tapping against his mug, the way George’s eyes flickered, something unreadable passing through them.

Fred tilted his head slightly, studying her like she was something fascinating, something worth figuring out. “We did.”

George nodded, his gaze holding hers in a way that sent something unfamiliar curling low in her stomach. “Every word.”

She inhaled slowly, fingers tracing the rim of her mug, letting the warmth seep into her skin as she tried to gather her thoughts. For years, she had believed that Fred and George Weasley were all mischief and mayhem, a never-ending whirlwind of laughter and trouble, untouchable and unaffected by anything that wasn’t part of their latest prank or grand scheme. They had always been brilliant in their own way, clever beyond belief, but never—never—serious.

Not about school. Not about rules. Not even about the dangers that had loomed over all of them in recent years. They had always found a way to turn even the darkest of times into something lighter, something bearable. But now, sitting here in the golden glow of the pub, with their eyes locked on her and no trace of humor in their faces, Hermione realized she had been wrong.

Because this—whatever this was—was real.

The weight of their gazes settled over her like a spell, lingering and warm, sending a strange sort of shiver down her spine. For a brief, dizzying moment, Hermione felt like she was standing on the edge of something entirely new. Something exhilarating. Something terrifying.

And for the first time in her life, she didn’t want to analyse it. Didn’t want to map out every possible outcome before taking a step forward.

She hesitated only for a second before she did something that surprised even herself.

She leaned in just a little further, her elbows resting on the table now, the distance between them shrinking into something more fragile, more intimate. She wasn’t sure where the sudden rush of courage came from—maybe it was the butterbeer, or maybe it was the way they were looking at her, like she was important, like she mattered beyond what she could offer in terms of logic and cleverness.

Her voice was barely above a whisper when she finally spoke.

“So, what happens now?”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Fred’s fingers stilled against his mug, the easy smirk he always wore nowhere to be found. In its place was something quieter, something more careful, like he wasn’t quite sure how to hold this moment without breaking it. George exhaled slowly, his usual confidence softened into something more deliberate, like he had been waiting for her to say something—anything—and now that she had, he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

Then Fred moved first.

He reached out, hesitant at first, his fingers brushing against hers where they rested on the table. It was a fleeting touch, the barest whisper of contact, but it sent a jolt through her all the same. His skin was warm, rough in a way that spoke of years spent working with his hands, and yet… his touch was careful. Gentle. Like he was giving her the choice to pull away if she wanted to.

She didn’t.

George followed a second later, his hand finding the other side of hers, his touch just as warm, just as steady. He didn’t try to tease or make a joke of it. Instead, he let his fingers settle there, just barely overlapping hers, like an unspoken promise.

“Well,” Fred murmured, voice lower than usual, his thumb brushing lightly—absently—against her knuckles. “That depends.”

George’s grip tightened ever so slightly, his warmth grounding her in a way she didn’t expect. His voice was softer than before, but just as firm, just as certain.

“Depends on you,” he said simply.

Hermione’s breath hitched slightly, her pulse quickening at the weight of their words. They were giving her the choice—no teasing, no tricks, just an open door, waiting for her to step through. She had spent so much time around the Weasley twins expecting mischief, waiting for the punchline, that she had never imagined a moment like this. A moment where their playfulness softened into something sincere, something that made her stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with frustration and everything to do with the uncharted territory she was stepping into.

She swallowed, her fingers twitching beneath their touch, before she made a choice—the choice. Slowly, deliberately, she turned her hand beneath Fred’s, curling her fingers around his, then did the same with George’s. It was a quiet thing, a simple shift of her hands, but it felt monumental.

Their reactions were immediate.

Fred’s lips twitched—not into a smirk, not into anything overly confident or cocky, but into something softer, something that made warmth curl deep in her stomach. George let out a slow breath, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles, as if testing the reality of the moment, as if making sure she was really here, really choosing this.

For a long beat, they simply sat there, the weight of the decision settling between them, turning the usual background noise of the pub into nothing more than a distant hum. The laughter, the clinking of mugs, the snowy gusts rattling against the windows—it all faded. All that existed in that moment was the warmth of their hands in hers and the understanding that something between them had shifted, maybe permanently.

Hermione tilted her head slightly, breaking the silence first. “You know,” she mused, her voice quieter than usual but carrying a thread of amusement, “for once, I was expecting some kind of joke.”

Fred let out a breathy chuckle, his grip on her hand tightening slightly. “We were tempted, love, but—”

George smirked, though the warmth in his eyes softened the usual sharpness of it. “You’d hex us if we ruined this, wouldn’t you?”

Hermione arched a brow, lips twitching. “Without hesitation.”

They both laughed, and just like that, the tension that had been hovering between them shifted into something easier, something that settled into place as naturally as breathing. It was ridiculous, really, how much sense this made. She had spent years resisting the chaos the twins thrived in, trying to counter their troublemaking with reason and logic, but sitting here now, she realized that they had never actually been at odds. They had been dancing around each other, orbiting the same space in different ways.

Fred gave her hand a gentle squeeze, bringing her focus back to him. His expression was uncharacteristically serious, a flicker of something uncertain in his eyes. “So, if we’re being serious—” He glanced briefly at George before turning back to her. “We’d like to do this properly. Not just as some big spectacle, not just to drive you crazy.”

George nodded, his grip on her hand steady. “We want this, Hermione. You.”

There was no teasing in his voice, no clever turn of phrase. Just honesty.

Something in her chest fluttered—something foreign, something she wasn’t quite ready to name. For so long, she had been certain of everything. Her studies, her friendships, her future. But this? This was uncertain, unpredictable, and yet, somehow, it felt right.

A small, genuine smile pulled at her lips as she met their eyes. “Alright,” she said, the words settling easily between them. “Let’s see where this goes.”

The relief that flickered across their faces was impossible to miss. It was there in the way George’s shoulders seemed to relax, in the way Fred’s fingers curled more securely around hers, in the way they both seemed to breathe for the first time in minutes.

Fred’s grin returned, wide and full of mischief, though there was an unmistakable tenderness beneath it. He lifted their joined hands, bringing hers up just enough so he could press a quick, playful kiss to her knuckles. “Smartest decision you’ve ever made, love.”

George smirked, his thumb still tracing slow circles over her skin. “And possibly the most fun.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up, light and easy. Because, for once, she wasn’t dreading what came next.

The Three Broomsticks hummed with warmth, laughter, and the clatter of tankards against polished wooden tables. The air smelled of butterbeer and cinnamon, of damp wool and melting snow tracked in by students eager to escape the winter chill. Lanterns flickered overhead, casting a golden glow that made the room feel almost otherworldly, like something out of a story.

But Hermione wasn’t paying attention to any of it.

Everything outside their little corner of the pub had begun to fade into the background, muffled beneath the quiet, steady beat of her own heart. The lingering heat of Fred’s touch still tingled at the corner of her mouth, and she couldn’t seem to shake the way George had looked at her—not with amusement or mischief, but something steadier, something softer. Something that made warmth curl in her stomach in a way she wasn’t quite prepared for.

This was different.

It wasn’t like the teasing from earlier, wasn’t another joke or carefully orchestrated spectacle meant to make her blush and sputter. There was something unspoken in the air now, something that settled between them with a weight she didn’t know how to name. It left her feeling unsteady, like she was teetering on the edge of something unfamiliar, something that sent her pulse skittering beneath her skin.

And yet… she didn’t want to back away.

She wasn’t sure if it was the butterbeer warming her or the way Fred’s usual smirk had softened into something quieter, something contemplative. His fingers traced slow, absentminded circles against the handle of his mug, but his gaze remained fixed on her, unreadable and searching. George, always the more observant one, was watching too, though there was something different in the way he held her gaze—less teasing, more patient, as if waiting to see what she would do next.

She could still play this off. She could pretend that nothing had happened, that Fred wiping the corner of her mouth was just another one of their antics, that the way her stomach fluttered when their fingers brushed was simply a trick of the warmth in the room. She could smile, roll her eyes, push away whatever this was before it became something real.

But she didn’t want to.

For once, Hermione didn’t want to overthink. Didn’t want to analyse every little detail until she convinced herself it didn’t mean anything. Because it did. And she was tired of pretending otherwise.

Slowly, hesitantly, she set her mug down and leaned forward, just a little. Her elbows rested against the table, closing the space between them by an inch or two, and though the action was small, it changed everything.

Fred and George both stilled at the same time.

It was barely noticeable—the way their fingers tightened around their mugs, the way their breathing seemed to slow, just for a fraction of a second. But Hermione noticed. She noticed the flicker of surprise in Fred’s expression, the way George’s lips parted slightly as if he were about to say something but thought better of it.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Hermione wasn’t used to feeling bold like this—not in moments like these. But she held their gazes, let herself breathe in the weight of the moment, let herself exist in it instead of shying away.

“You meant what you said,” Hermione murmured, her voice quieter than she had intended, almost swallowed by the low hum of the pub around them. But they heard her. She could tell by the way Fred’s fingers were absentmindedly tapping against his mug, the way George’s eyes flickered, something unreadable passing through them.

Fred tilted his head slightly, studying her like she was something fascinating, something worth figuring out. “We did.”

George nodded, his gaze holding hers in a way that sent something unfamiliar curling low in her stomach. “Every word.”

She inhaled slowly, fingers tracing the rim of her mug, letting the warmth seep into her skin as she tried to gather her thoughts. For years, she had believed that Fred and George Weasley were all mischief and mayhem, a never-ending whirlwind of laughter and trouble, untouchable and unaffected by anything that wasn’t part of their latest prank or grand scheme. They had always been brilliant in their own way, clever beyond belief, but never—never—serious.

Not about school. Not about rules. Not even about the dangers that had loomed over all of them in recent years. They had always found a way to turn even the darkest of times into something lighter, something bearable. But now, sitting here in the golden glow of the pub, with their eyes locked on her and no trace of humor in their faces, Hermione realized she had been wrong.

Because this—whatever this was—was real.

The weight of their gazes settled over her like a spell, lingering and warm, sending a strange sort of shiver down her spine. For a brief, dizzying moment, Hermione felt like she was standing on the edge of something entirely new. Something exhilarating. Something terrifying.

And for the first time in her life, she didn’t want to analyse it. Didn’t want to map out every possible outcome before taking a step forward.

She hesitated only for a second before she did something that surprised even herself.

She leaned in just a little further, her elbows resting on the table now, the distance between them shrinking into something more fragile, more intimate. She wasn’t sure where the sudden rush of courage came from—maybe it was the butterbeer, or maybe it was the way they were looking at her, like she was important, like she mattered beyond what she could offer in terms of logic and cleverness.

Her voice was barely above a whisper when she finally spoke.

“So, what happens now?”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Fred’s fingers stilled against his mug, the easy smirk he always wore nowhere to be found. In its place was something quieter, something more careful, like he wasn’t quite sure how to hold this moment without breaking it. George exhaled slowly, his usual confidence softened into something more deliberate, like he had been waiting for her to say something—anything—and now that she had, he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

Then Fred moved first.

He reached out, hesitant at first, his fingers brushing against hers where they rested on the table. It was a fleeting touch, the barest whisper of contact, but it sent a jolt through her all the same. His skin was warm, rough in a way that spoke of years spent working with his hands, and yet… his touch was careful. Gentle. Like he was giving her the choice to pull away if she wanted to.

She didn’t.

George followed a second later, his hand finding the other side of hers, his touch just as warm, just as steady. He didn’t try to tease or make a joke of it. Instead, he let his fingers settle there, just barely overlapping hers, like an unspoken promise.

“Well,” Fred murmured, voice lower than usual, his thumb brushing lightly—absently—against her knuckles. “That depends.”

George’s grip tightened ever so slightly, his warmth grounding her in a way she didn’t expect. His voice was softer than before, but just as firm, just as certain.

“Depends on you,” he said simply.

Hermione’s breath hitched slightly, her pulse quickening at the weight of their words. They were giving her the choice—no teasing, no tricks, just an open door, waiting for her to step through. She had spent so much time around the Weasley twins expecting mischief, waiting for the punchline, that she had never imagined a moment like this. A moment where their playfulness softened into something sincere, something that made her stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with frustration and everything to do with the uncharted territory she was stepping into.

She swallowed, her fingers twitching beneath their touch, before she made a choice—the choice. Slowly, deliberately, she turned her hand beneath Fred’s, curling her fingers around his, then did the same with George’s. It was a quiet thing, a simple shift of her hands, but it felt monumental.

Their reactions were immediate.

Fred’s lips twitched—not into a smirk, not into anything overly confident or cocky, but into something softer, something that made warmth curl deep in her stomach. George let out a slow breath, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles, as if testing the reality of the moment, as if making sure she was really here, really choosing this.

For a long beat, they simply sat there, the weight of the decision settling between them, turning the usual background noise of the pub into nothing more than a distant hum. The laughter, the clinking of mugs, the snowy gusts rattling against the windows—it all faded. All that existed in that moment was the warmth of their hands in hers and the understanding that something between them had shifted, maybe permanently.

Hermione tilted her head slightly, breaking the silence first. “You know,” she mused, her voice quieter than usual but carrying a thread of amusement, “for once, I was expecting some kind of joke.”

Fred let out a breathy chuckle, his grip on her hand tightening slightly. “We were tempted, but—”

George smirked, though the warmth in his eyes softened the usual sharpness of it. “You’d hex us if we ruined this, wouldn’t you?”

Hermione arched a brow, lips twitching. “Without hesitation.”

They both laughed, and just like that, the tension that had been hovering between them shifted into something easier, something that settled into place as naturally as breathing. It was ridiculous, really, how much sense this made. She had spent years resisting the chaos the twins thrived in, trying to counter their troublemaking with reason and logic, but sitting here now, she realized that they had never actually been at odds. They had been dancing around each other, orbiting the same space in different ways.

Fred gave her hand a gentle squeeze, bringing her focus back to him. His expression was uncharacteristically serious, a flicker of something uncertain in his eyes. “So, if we’re being serious—” He glanced briefly at George before turning back to her. “We’d like to do this properly. Not just as some big spectacle, not just to drive you crazy.”

George nodded, his grip on her hand steady. “We want this, Hermione. You.”

There was no teasing in his voice, no clever turn of phrase. Just honesty.

Something in her chest fluttered—something foreign, something she wasn’t quite ready to name. For so long, she had been certain of everything. Her studies, her friendships, her future. But this? This was uncertain, unpredictable, and yet, somehow, it felt right.

A small, genuine smile pulled at her lips as she met their eyes. “Alright,” she said, the words settling easily between them. “Let’s see where this goes.”

The relief that flickered across their faces was impossible to miss. It was there in the way George’s shoulders seemed to relax, in the way Fred’s fingers curled more securely around hers, in the way they both seemed to breathe for the first time in minutes.

Fred’s grin returned, wide and full of mischief, though there was an unmistakable tenderness beneath it. He lifted their joined hands, bringing hers up just enough so he could press a quick, playful kiss to her knuckles. “Smartest decision you’ve ever made.”

George smirked, his thumb still tracing slow circles over her skin. “And possibly the most fun.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up, light and easy. Because, for once, she wasn’t dreading what came next.

Chapter Text

The walk back to Hogwarts was colder than they had expected. The wind whipped through the narrow streets of Hogsmeade, biting sharply at their cloaks and stinging their cheeks. But as Hermione walked between Fred and George, their presence was a welcome contrast to the chill in the air. She felt their warmth beside her—the steady rhythm of their footsteps echoing against the cobblestones, the faint brush of their cloaks against hers—and it made the biting cold outside seem almost bearable. Snowflakes fell softly, dusting the ground in a fine layer of white, and the quiet of the evening settled around them like a peaceful blanket.

The castle loomed ahead, its spires jutting out against the dark sky, and the light spilling from its windows painted the snow-covered ground with an amber glow. The path leading up to the castle doors was bathed in a soft, ethereal light, and for a moment, Hermione felt like she was walking through a dream, one that felt surreal yet comforting.

As they ascended the stairs, their boots crunching in the snow with each step, the quiet between them deepened. No one spoke. The usual playful banter, the teasing jests that had filled the air all day, was absent now. It was replaced by something gentler, something softer. An unspoken understanding seemed to hang in the air, like a secret shared between the three of them. The words they had spoken earlier, the ones that had shifted the dynamic between them, were still fresh in Hermione's mind. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the world around her had slowed down, that time had taken a pause, allowing her to simply be—to exist in this moment without rushing forward into the uncertainties of the future.

For the first time in a long while, Hermione didn’t feel like she was carrying the weight of a thousand worries. She wasn’t thinking about the homework that awaited her, or the ever-present pressure of exams, or the way she sometimes felt like a puzzle everyone was trying to solve. Nor was she worrying about the way her feelings for Fred and George had suddenly become complicated and confusing. Right now, there was only the present—only the gentle crunch of their footsteps, the soft murmurs of the wind, and the warmth of the two Weasley brothers by her side.

George, ever observant, stepped forward slightly, his expression soft but purposeful. His usual smirk was nowhere to be found, and instead, there was a look of genuine appreciation in his eyes. “And we’re glad you chose to share it with us, Hermione,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a warmth that seemed to seep into her bones. He brushed his hand lightly against hers, the touch brief but significant, and it left a small spark of electricity in its wake.

Hermione’s breath caught slightly at the tenderness in his voice, and for a moment, she felt as though the world had narrowed to just the three of them. Her heart fluttered, unsure of what to say, but she couldn’t bring herself to break the quiet moment. She had known all day that this moment was coming, but now that it was here, she didn’t quite know how to process it. The space between them, once filled with playful teasing, had transformed into something more—something that felt delicate, yet undeniably real. It was intimate, in a way she hadn’t expected, and it made her chest tighten with a mixture of excitement and uncertainty.

“I think I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying this more than I expected,” Hermione admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. She met George’s eyes, and for the first time, there was no need for words to convey the depth of what she was feeling. It was all in the look they shared—the understanding that they had crossed a threshold, and there was no going back now.

Fred let out a soft chuckle, the sound warm but devoid of the usual mischief that so often marked his humour. “You did agree to the date, Granger,” he teased, though the words were light, almost playful. He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the touch gentle and deliberate, as though he was enjoying every second. His fingers brushed against the side of her face, and the warmth of his touch spread through her, sending a shiver down her spine.

Hermione leaned into his touch instinctively, her breath catching as the sensation of his fingers against her skin lingered. There was something almost reverent about the way he held her gaze, as if he were trying to memorize the moment. The tension in the air was thick, but there was a quiet gentleness in the space they shared, as though neither of them wanted to rush what was happening.

For a long moment, Fred’s hand lingered against her cheek, his thumb brushing along her jawline. Hermione felt her heart race in her chest, the soft brush of his touch causing her thoughts to scatter. She could feel the warmth of both Fred and George standing so close to her, and she knew that this moment—this quiet, intimate space—was one she would never forget.

George cleared his throat softly, but there was no mistaking the warmth in his eyes as he looked at her. His gaze shifted to Fred, then back to Hermione, as if they both knew this was the moment they had been waiting for. “I think we both have something to say, don’t we, Fred?” George’s voice was softer than usual, but there was a quiet strength to it that made Hermione’s heart beat just a little faster.

Fred nodded, his smile soft and sincere, his eyes locked onto Hermione’s. “We do,” he said, his voice steady but filled with something deeper—something that made Hermione feel as though the world had slowed down just for them.

Without another word, Fred leaned in, the space between them narrowing, and he kissed her. The kiss was light at first, hesitant, as if they were both unsure of what this meant. Yet, there was a quiet certainty in the way their lips met, as if this was something that had been building for far longer than just the course of the evening. The kiss was slow, almost languid, and it felt like a promise—a quiet, delicate pledge that time would stop for just a second, and nothing else mattered but this.

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat as she closed her eyes, the world around her fading away. It was a kiss of exploration, a kiss of softness, and for that one moment, everything felt right. There was no hurry, no rush, just the feeling of his lips against hers, warm and tender.

When they pulled apart, Fred’s eyes were searching hers, looking for any sign of hesitation or doubt. But Hermione couldn’t find it in herself to feel anything but warmth. There was no regret, no uncertainty—just the flicker of something new, something exciting.

Before she could respond, George stepped closer, his hand slipping around her waist in a way that felt natural, intimate. His lips met hers with the same softness, but this time there was something more daring about it, something more confident. It wasn’t as soft as Fred’s, but it wasn’t rough either—it was a kiss that spoke of things unsaid, of the way he had been waiting for this moment too. His kiss was slow, deliberate, and Hermione could feel the care and emotion behind it.

When they finally pulled apart, neither of them spoke right away. They simply stood there, close enough to feel each other’s warmth, the quiet of the castle surrounding them like a protective cocoon. The night felt suspended, as though time had paused just for them.

Finally, Fred spoke, his voice low and almost uncertain, “Goodnight, Hermione.”

George echoed him with a soft smile, his hand still gently resting on her waist. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Hermione nodded, her heart still racing, but now it was for entirely different reasons. She wasn’t sure what the future held, or what the next day would bring, but in that moment, she didn’t need to know. For once, the uncertainty felt like possibility, like the beginning of something new.

“Goodnight,” she said softly, her voice warm as she looked at both of them.

She wasn’t sure where this was going, but she was content to wait and see. As she turned to head inside, a small grin tugged at the corners of her lips. Maybe, just maybe, this—whatever this was—wasn’t so bad after all.

Fred and George watched Hermione disappear through the entrance, their gazes lingering on her retreating form until the door to the common room clicked shut behind her. There was a quiet pause between them, a shared understanding settling into the air. Neither of them spoke immediately, as if the weight of the moment had left them both momentarily speechless.

Finally, Fred let out a deep breath and turned to George, his usual easy grin returning, though there was a hint of something softer in his expression. “Well,” he said, his voice low and a little breathless, “that was… unexpected.”

George snorted, a quiet laugh escaping him as he gave his brother a sideways glance. “Unexpected? You kissed her first, Fred. I’m just following your lead.”

Fred shot him an amused look, but there was no denying the warm glow of satisfaction that lingered between them. “Don’t act like you didn’t want to,” he teased, elbowing George lightly in the ribs. “Besides, you were the one who insisted on doing this properly. No games, no tricks, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah,” George muttered, rubbing his side where Fred had nudged him. But there was a playful light in his eyes as he reached into his pocket and retrieved the small piece of parchment that held the password. He glanced at Fred, his grin widening. “You ready to face the common room, then?”

Fred’s smile softened as he nodded, a quiet chuckle escaping him. “Always. But let’s get in there before Lee starts worrying about us.”

With a shared glance, they turned toward the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, the massive wooden door standing tall before them. Fred stepped forward, his voice clear and strong as he called out the password.

“Caput Draconis.”

The door creaked open, the familiar warmth of the common room spilling out to meet them. The sounds of students chatting, the crackling of the fire, and the smell of butterbeer and parchment filled the air, a welcome contrast to the cold of the evening outside.

George held the door open for Fred, who slipped inside first. As he passed through the threshold, Fred glanced back at his twin, a grin still tugging at the corners of his lips. “That’s it then. We’ve kissed her, said goodnight, and now… we wait.”

George raised an eyebrow. “You’re already acting like it’s done,” he teased, stepping into the common room beside him. “This is just the beginning, Fred.”

Fred paused for a moment, looking around the common room. The firelight flickered softly against the stone walls, casting long shadows across the furniture. Their fellow Gryffindors were scattered throughout the room—some studying, others chatting, and a few still playing chess. But the moment they’d just shared with Hermione seemed to linger in the air, its weight both heavy and thrilling.

“I know,” Fred said softly, his voice more serious now. “But for the first time, I think we’ve got it right.”

George nodded, his expression thoughtful as he followed Fred toward the couch. “Yeah, it feels different, doesn’t it?”

Fred’s grin returned, but this time it was more subdued, more contemplative. “It does. But that’s what makes it worth it. We’re in this together, Georgie.”

“Always,” George replied, settling down onto the couch beside him.

The fire crackled in front of them, and for a moment, the noise of the common room seemed to fade into the background. The twins sat in comfortable silence, the weight of the evening settling into them. Whatever came next, they knew they had taken the first step in a new direction—one that they couldn’t quite predict, but one that felt right.

After a few moments, Fred broke the silence, his voice light but with an edge of something more sincere. “Think she’ll kiss us again tomorrow?”

George snorted, leaning back against the cushions. “I reckon she might,” he said with a grin, “but only if we play our cards right.”

Fred’s eyes twinkled mischievously, and he leaned back too, his mind still on the girl they both cared about. “Well then, we’d better make sure tomorrow’s even more fun than today.”

The fire crackled and popped, casting dancing shadows on the walls as they sat side by side, knowing that the next chapter of this unexpected journey was just beginning. But for now, they were content to let the night carry them forward—one step at a time.

Chapter Text

The morning air was crisp as Hermione made her way down the corridors, her footsteps quick and purposeful. Her bag swung from her shoulder as she hurried to the Transfiguration classroom, the weight of her responsibility hanging over her like a constant reminder. She had been up late the night before, reviewing her notes, ensuring she was ready for the final tutoring session with Fred and George before their end-of-term assessments.

As she reached the classroom, she paused outside the door, taking a deep breath to steady herself. This lesson would be a tricky one—“King to Rook,” the incantation to transform a King chess piece into a rook, or rather, a bird. She knew it would take all her patience to guide them through it, and she was prepared for their usual back-and-forth.

When she pushed open the door, she was met with an empty classroom. The wooden desks were neatly arranged, the faint scent of parchment in the air. She glanced at the clock. The twins were late—only by a minute or two, but it was enough for Hermione to wonder where they were. She set her bag down on the desk and began organizing her notes, trying to push the unease away. The last thing she wanted was to come off as frazzled when they arrived.

The door creaked open behind Hermione, and she turned just in time to see Fred and George stepping into the classroom. Their usual grins were plastered across their faces, but there was something different about the way they carried themselves today—something more focused, perhaps even a little too casual for the seriousness of the lesson ahead.

“Sorry we’re late, Hermione,” Fred said, his voice carrying that familiar mischievous tone, though there was a glint in his eyes, something that seemed to promise both trouble and success.

“Yeah,” George added, his voice light but with an undercurrent of something more, “had to do a little… extra preparation.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest. She couldn’t help but let out a small, sceptical laugh. “Preparation?” she echoed, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied them both. “What exactly were you two preparing for?”

Fred and George exchanged a quick, silent look, the kind that spoke volumes. It was a shared glance, one full of that private communication only twins could have. They both leaned forward, clearly relishing the teasing moment.

“Well,” Fred began, drawing out the words, his smile never wavering, “you see, we were practicing a little before we came. Making sure we get the spell just right. It’s a tricky one, after all.”

Hermione’s curiosity spiked, but she tried to keep her composure. “You practiced... without me?” she asked, tilting her head. Her tone was a mix of surprise and disbelief, though part of her wasn’t entirely shocked. She’d known the twins to go off and do their own thing before—particularly when it came to pranks or schemes.

“Absolutely,” George said, his grin widening even more, the mischievous twinkle in his eyes brightening. “But don’t worry, we’re ready to show you how it’s done. We’ve been working hard, and if we get it right on the first try, we think we deserve a little positive reinforcement.”

Hermione blinked, taken aback by the casualness of his statement. “Positive reinforcement?” she echoed, her voice laced with a mixture of curiosity and caution. She glanced from George to Fred, who was still leaning forward, a glint of something more playful—and perhaps a little daring—shining in his eyes.

“Well, yes,” Fred answered, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned in a fraction closer, his grin almost predatory now. “If we pull it off, we think a kiss would be the perfect reward. A little something to show your appreciation for all our hard work.”

Hermione froze, staring at them for a moment, trying to process what they had just said. A kiss? She was taken aback by the boldness of their suggestion. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or feel exasperated by their audacity. Still, she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks despite herself.

She shook her head, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips despite her best efforts to stay composed. “You two really do have a way of making everything a game, don’t you?” she asked, her voice a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

Fred shrugged nonchalantly, his smirk only growing as he casually leaned back in his chair, unfazed. “Why not make it fun, Granger? It’s a long, hard road to get to a spell like this, and we’ve earned a little reward for our dedication.”

Hermione let out a soft laugh at his words, shaking her head. There was something endearing about the way they never took anything seriously—except when they did. Despite her best efforts to remain professional, the smile on her face was impossible to hide. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, her tone playful but resigned. She glanced down at her notes, trying to regain her composure, but the butterflies in her chest refused to settle. The atmosphere between them was suddenly thicker, charged with a kind of tension she wasn’t entirely prepared for.

“Well,” she said, her voice a little more steady now, “let’s see if your practice pays off, then. Show me what you’ve got.”

Fred and George exchanged a quick, almost imperceptible look, the kind of glance that passed between them when they were on the verge of something—something serious, or perhaps just something they found amusing. With a synchronized movement, they each picked up a small, intricately carved wooden chess piece—a King. The pieces were surprisingly well-made, polished to a smooth sheen, and they held them with the kind of quiet intensity Hermione wasn’t used to seeing from the twins.

For a moment, the playful energy that usually surrounded them faded, replaced by a quiet concentration that caught Hermione off guard. She couldn’t help but feel a small rush of pride—maybe they had been practicing harder than she gave them credit for.

They both raised their wands in perfect sync, their eyes focused on the chess pieces, the room suddenly feeling smaller, the space between them brimming with the anticipation of what was about to happen. The warm light from the overhead lamps danced in the air, casting long shadows on the desk as the room seemed to still.

“Ready?” George asked, his voice low but eager, eyes flickering toward Fred, searching for any sign of hesitation.

“Ready,” Fred replied with a spark of competitiveness, his tone carrying that familiar challenge, but there was something else too—something deeper, as if the moment held more than just the spell they were about to attempt.

The room fell silent, the usual hum of the castle far away now, the soft scraping of their wands the only sound that broke the stillness. Hermione watched them both closely, her eyes trained on the two chess pieces—a small, carved King—resting on the desk in front of them. She had no doubt the twins had practiced, but something about the intensity between them now made her wonder if their usual easy confidence was actually hiding a sense of anticipation, of quiet determination.

They both muttered the incantation under their breath, their voices blending together like a harmonious echo, synchronized yet unique. There was no mistake, they had practiced this—probably more than she realized.

"Regalis transformare!" they said together, their voices almost melodic, perfectly timed as they flicked their wands with precise movements.

For a split second, nothing happened. The chess pieces remained static, seemingly unaffected. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat, a sense of doubt creeping in before she could push it away. She could see the slight tightening of Fred and George’s expressions—their focus sharpened, their wands held just a little more tightly as they waited for something to happen.

Then, slowly, the transformation began.

The pieces shimmered, a faint glow surrounding them as the magic took hold. The smooth surfaces of the wooden Kings warped, their edges stretching and reshaping as they transformed. The once rigid chess pieces seemed to come alive, their forms melting into something new—something much more delicate. The pieces shifted, feathers appearing where wood had been, their forms turning into soft, birdlike creatures. The newly formed rooks flapped their wings gently, testing their newfound freedom before they fluttered lightly in the air above the table, their movements fluid and graceful, like they had been flying for years.

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat as she watched the transformation unfold. It was impressive—beautiful, even. She hadn’t expected them to get it right on the first try, but here they were, their hard work and focus paying off in real-time. The birds fluttered in the air, delicate and elegant, their wings brushing against the light as they hovered in place, almost as if waiting for her approval.

Fred and George looked at each other, and Hermione could see the thrill in their eyes, a shared satisfaction between them that was evident in the way their smiles widened. They had done it. They had actually done it. They turned to her, their faces full of expectation.

“Well,” Fred said, his grin spreading wider, “I think that’s our cue, Granger. Positive reinforcement?”

Hermione shook her head, her lips curving into a soft, reluctant smile. “You two are unbelievable,” she muttered, though there was no real annoyance in her voice. It was hard to stay upset with them, especially when they had worked so hard—and had actually pulled it off. It had been a tricky spell, one that not even the most experienced students in the class would try lightly. But here they were, grinning like they had just won a prize.

Fred’s grin only widened at her words, as if he had been waiting for her to admit it. “You can’t deny it, Granger. We’ve earned our reward.”

Hermione couldn’t help but chuckle, a small, breathy sound that escaped before she could stop it. They were relentless. “Alright,” she said, her voice softening, the playful edge lingering, “you did it. I’ll give you your reward.”

Fred’s eyes lit up in triumph, but Hermione’s attention shifted for just a second, catching George’s expectant gaze. Her heart gave an unexpected lurch, but she shook it off, focusing on the task at hand.

With a sigh that was mostly feigned exasperation, she leaned forward, her face flushed from the intensity of the moment—and from the warmth spreading across her skin. She pressed a soft, gentle kiss to Fred’s cheek, her lips lingering for just a moment longer than necessary before she pulled back, her heart fluttering in her chest.

Fred’s expression was one of pure satisfaction, his grin wide enough to rival the Cheshire cat’s. He leaned back in his chair, looking both smug and pleased with himself, as if he had just been handed the finest reward in all of Hogwarts.

George, ever the observant twin, raised an eyebrow, waiting patiently for his turn. “Well, looks like I’ll have to get a little something too, huh?” he said, his voice teasing, but there was something in his gaze that made Hermione’s breath catch—an intensity that wasn’t there before, something different about the way he was looking at her.

Hermione felt her pulse quicken. She glanced at him, her eyes meeting his, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like the whole room had narrowed down to just the two of them. The teasing tone in his voice, the warm smile tugging at the corners of his lips—it felt as if he was asking her for more than just a casual kiss. But before she could think too much about it, she leaned forward once more, her lips brushing softly against George’s cheek, just as she had with Fred.

The kiss was light, lingering only for a heartbeat before she pulled away, her heart pounding in her chest. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air felt heavier now, charged with something Hermione couldn’t quite place—something electric.

The twins, for once, weren’t grinning like mischievous troublemakers. Instead, there was a softness to their expressions now, something almost… grateful? The usual teasing was gone, replaced by a more sincere warmth that Hermione hadn’t expected.

“Well, now that’s the way to start the day,” George said softly, his voice laced with a quiet satisfaction, looking over at Fred, who was still beaming.

Hermione couldn’t help but smile, though it was a little more subdued than usual. “Just remember, no more tricks for the rest of the lesson,” she teased, though there was no real edge to her words. She was still recovering from the moment, trying to steady her breathing as she tried to refocus on the lesson at hand.

Fred and George exchanged another look, their grins widening to the point of near ridiculousness. “No promises,” Fred said with a wink, clearly enjoying everything.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall was alive with the usual hustle and bustle of dinner. The long wooden tables were filled with students, their voices a steady hum, occasionally punctuated by laughter or the clink of utensils. The rich scent of roasted meats and freshly baked bread filled the air, but despite the mouthwatering spread before her, Hermione’s attention was focused elsewhere—namely, on Ron, who was piling food onto his plate at an alarming rate.

He had a leg of chicken in one hand, greasy and dripping with sauce, and a bowl of mashed potatoes in the other, his fork stabbing at the mound of food with alarming speed. Ron's cheeks were puffed out, and his eyes were practically glazed over as he shovelled yet another forkful of potatoes into his mouth. There was barely a pause for chewing before he was moving on to the next bite, eyes locked on the food like a man starved for days.

Hermione, sitting beside him at the Gryffindor table, let out an exasperated sigh, pushing her fork around her own plate, clearly losing her appetite in the process. “Honestly, Ron,” she said, her voice tinged with disbelief as she watched his food-stuffing contest unfold. “Could you slow down for a second? You’re making a scene.”

Ron blinked at her, his face a mess of mashed potatoes, gravy dripping down the side of his chin. “What?” he mumbled, his voice muffled by the food. “I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” Hermione muttered, shaking her head and crossing her arms, leaning back in her seat. Her eyes flitted down to her own plate, then back up to the disaster unfolding before her. She was certain Ron had an eating competition somewhere deep in his soul that he just wasn’t telling anyone about. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”

Harry, sitting across from them, let out a quiet chuckle as he watched his best friend, ever the overeater, inhale his food at a pace that could only be described as absurd. He took a bite of his salad, trying to maintain his composure, but it was hard not to laugh at the sight of Ron attempting to chew with his mouth still stuffed. “Give him a break, Hermione,” Harry said, his grin spreading wider. “We’ve got a big match tomorrow. Ron needs to fuel up for it.”

Ron nodded vigorously, though the movement was awkward with the food still in his mouth. “Exactly!” he declared, his voice muffled and slightly garbled. “Big match. I need all the energy I can get. Gotta stay strong!”

It seemed like he didn’t even notice the gravy spilling over the edge of his plate, nor the fact that half of the mashed potatoes had ended up on his shirt. His eyes were wide with enthusiasm, like he was on the verge of declaring war on the food rather than simply consuming it.

Hermione, still looking at Ron with a mixture of disbelief and slight horror, raised an eyebrow at Harry. “You’re really going with that excuse, Harry? Fuelling up? You do realize he’s eating for the entire Quidditch team, right?”

Harry’s grin only grew wider, the mischievous gleam in his eyes lighting up. “Absolutely,” he replied, not missing a beat. “It’s a matter of survival, really. We need Ron in tip-top shape if we’re going to win tomorrow. A well-fed Keeper is a happy Keeper.” He winked at Ron, who beamed back at him, completely oblivious to the fact that he was in danger of developing a food coma before even reaching the pitch.

Hermione let out a dramatic sigh, feeling the familiar mix of affection and exasperation she always had for Ron’s eating habits. She was about to launch into another round of scolding when her gaze shifted toward the entrance of the Great Hall.

Her attention immediately snapped away from the scene of Ron and his mountain of food as Fred and George Weasley walked in. The twin brothers appeared as usual, grinning from ear to ear, looking like they had just gotten away with some fantastic mischief. Their presence immediately caused a ripple of quiet laughter from students all around, and Hermione felt a slight flutter in her chest at the sight of them.

Fred’s grin was wide and infectious, his eyes sparkling with his signature mischievous gleam, while George’s expression mirrored his twin’s. They had a way of walking into any room as though they owned it—swaggering, heads held high, the very embodiment of confidence and charm.

Fred caught sight of Hermione almost immediately, and his grin stretched even wider, if that was even possible. He winked at her from across the room, his expression full of amusement and mischief, as though they shared some secret that no one else was privy to. George, not one to be outdone, followed suit, giving Hermione a nod that made her heart flutter slightly. The twins moved to the Gryffindor table, their eyes scanning for a place to sit.

Ron, still devouring his food at a concerning speed, didn’t even notice them at first. Harry, however, spotted the twins and immediately leaned forward, his smile widening. “You two are late, as usual,” Harry said with a teasing tone, shaking his head but still clearly entertained.

“We’ve got important business to attend to,” Fred replied in a low voice, settling into the seat beside Hermione. George slid into the spot next to Fred, grinning as they exchanged a quick glance.

“Important business?” Hermione repeated, raising an eyebrow as she glanced from Fred to George. She could already guess where this was going.

“Oh, you’ll see, Granger,” George said, winking at her. “Nothing too scandalous... yet.”

Fred snorted, leaning in closer. “But you might want to brace yourself. We’ve got something special in store.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, crossing her arms in mock annoyance. “I’m not sure I’m ready for whatever prank or chaos you’ve cooked up this time,” she said, though she could already feel the corners of her mouth twitching upward in spite of herself.

And then, she froze. Her fork hovered mid-air as her eyes widened in shock. Hermione blinked twice, unsure if she was seeing things correctly. But no—there was no mistaking it.

Draco Malfoy, of all people, was standing at the edge of the Teacher’s table, a piece of parchment clutched in his hand with such intensity that his knuckles were turning white. And—of all things—he was reciting something. In a tone that could only be described as exaggeratedly dramatic, the kind of delivery one might expect in an overblown Shakespearean tragedy.

“O, fairest of all fair beings, thy gaze doth pierce mine very soul,” Malfoy’s voice rang out, carrying clearly across the Great Hall. It was loud enough to stop conversations mid-sentence, and several heads turned to look in his direction, confusion spreading like wildfire through the hall. Hermione’s eyes widened further as she processed the words, the absurdity of it all hitting her at once.

“Thy beauty outshines the moon, and thy grace surpasseth the heavens above,” Malfoy continued, his voice dripping with false reverence as he stared straight ahead. His delivery was so theatrical, so utterly over-the-top, that it was almost painful to watch.

For a brief, stunned moment, the entire hall fell silent. Students glanced at one another, trying to process what they were witnessing. Was this real? Was Malfoy really... doing this?

Then, the silence broke, and a ripple of laughter spread through the room. A few of the younger Slytherins were desperately trying to hide their giggles behind their hands, but it was too late—there were plenty of others who couldn’t hold it in. Some students were snickering openly, while others were whispering to each other in disbelief. The Gryffindor table was absolutely in stitches, and Hermione could hear Ron’s muffled laugh from across the table.

Hermione’s gaze snapped immediately to Fred and George, who were sitting across from her, their faces lit up with mischievous delight. Fred’s grin had stretched so wide it was bordering on the ridiculous, and George had a glint in his eye that suggested he was quite pleased with the chaos they had just caused.

Fred caught her eye and winked, his expression an open challenge. “Like I said,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low but dripping with satisfaction, “nothing beats a good ol’ sonnet.”

George, leaning just slightly toward her with an unmistakable smirk on his face, whispered, “You’re welcome.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. Her brain was struggling to process the sight in front of her as she watched Malfoy continue his dramatic performance. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, partly from the embarrassment on Malfoy’s behalf, and partly from her complete and utter disbelief at what she was witnessing. “You actually did it,” she muttered, shaking her head.

Fred chuckled, clearly delighted with himself. “It’s poetry, Granger,” he said, as though that explained everything. “The finest form of expression. I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want to see it live. We’ve got the best performers in the business.” His eyes flickered back to Malfoy. “A work of art, really.”

Before Hermione could respond, she was interrupted by Ron, who had finally stopped shovelling food into his mouth long enough to witness the unfolding spectacle. His wide eyes were fixed on Malfoy, his mouth slightly open in shock.

“Blimey,” Ron muttered, staring at Malfoy’s impassioned recital. His eyes then flicked between Fred and George, still in disbelief. “I can’t believe it. I thought you were joking. I thought you were—”

“We never joke about poetry,” George interjected smoothly, his grin unwavering. “That’s an art form, mate. We have high standards, you know.” He raised his eyebrows dramatically, as though to punctuate his point.

Fred’s gaze flickered toward McGonagall, a knowing smirk spreading across his face. “This is the kind of thing that’ll make history, Granger,” he said, his voice thick with amusement. “Malfoy reciting Shakespeare to McGonagall? Priceless.”

Hermione’s lips twitched, despite herself, her hand still clutching her fork. “You two are absolutely impossible,” she muttered, but she couldn’t quite hide the laugh that bubbled up from her chest. The sheer absurdity of it all was too much.

“Well, we didn’t exactly get the reaction we were expecting from you,” Fred continued, his voice dripping with mock disappointment. He leaned in slightly, eyes sparkling with playful challenge. “You’re usually more up for a little chaos.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him, her amusement mixed with exasperation. “I’m up for chaos, just… not that kind,” she said, still trying to stifle a smile. Her eyes flickered back to Malfoy, who was still completely immersed in his sonnet. “But I have to admit, this is pretty entertaining.”

Malfoy, meanwhile, was practically throwing himself into his final lines, completely oblivious to the growing mockery around him. His posture was exaggerated, his hand clutching his chest as if he were some tragic hero from a play, delivering lines so dramatically it made even the Slytherins wince. “And with thee, I shall conquer all of life’s dark woes, for thy love doth light the path before me!” Malfoy’s voice cracked on the final note, adding an unintended comedic flair to the already ridiculous scene. He let out a breathless sigh and threw his arm out wide, his body dramatically slumping forward, as though overcome with emotion.

The hall erupted into laughter, the sound bouncing off the walls, some students clutching their sides, others pointing, and a few daring to mimic his wild gestures. Even McGonagall, though she was trying her hardest to maintain her usual stern composure, couldn’t quite suppress the corner of her lips twitching upward. The lines, so absurd and far removed from anything resembling a sincere sonnet, had done the job. They had brought the house down.

Malfoy, undeterred by the growing chorus of laughter, finished his performance with a flourish. His robes swirled as he dropped into a low bow, practically sweeping the floor with it as he looked up at the students, expecting admiration or applause. Instead, all he got was more uncontrollable laughter and a few sarcastic catcalls from the Gryffindor table. He straightened quickly, his face flushed red, and he shot an angry glare at the laughing crowd.

“Well,” Fred said, voice barely containing his laughter, “I think that went rather well.”

Hermione, still giggling, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “You two are ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head but still laughing. “But you did get Malfoy to recite poetry in front of the whole school. I have to give you credit for that.”

George, always one to take advantage of a moment, leaned back in his seat, winking at her. “You’ll come around, Granger. It’s all about embracing the art of chaos.” He punctuated the words with a mock flourish of his hand.

Hermione shook her head again, but her smile was unavoidable. She wanted to maintain her usual level of disapproval—after all, it was clear the twins were wreaking havoc for their own amusement—but it was difficult when their antics were so successful, so outrageously well-timed. The sheer brilliance of it was undeniable, even if it did come with a healthy dose of mayhem.

As Malfoy stomped back to the Slytherin table, his face still crimson with frustration, McGonagall raised an eyebrow at Fred and George, her expression unreadable for a moment. She looked between the twins, her lips pursed, then finally spoke in a voice that was stern but somehow less biting than usual, as if even she couldn’t help but be slightly impressed by the spectacle.

“Mr. Weasley, Mr. Weasley,” she began, her tone as calm as ever, though the faintest hint of an amused glint twinkled in her eyes. “Do try to keep your pranks a little more… discreet next time, if you would.” She paused, giving them both a pointed look that, despite her composed demeanour, betrayed some slight amusement at the absurdity they had just orchestrated.

Fred and George exchanged a look, their grins only widening. “Of course, Professor,” they said in perfect unison, their voices dripping with too much sweetness to be taken seriously.

McGonagall gave them a single, pointed look before turning back to her meal, clearly resigned to the fact that there would always be something in the castle that the twins would be involved in. She didn’t say anything more, but the corner of her lips twitched upward again, just enough for Hermione to catch it before the professor regained her usual composure.

Hermione leaned back in her chair, still trying to process the entire spectacle. The moment had been chaotic, utterly unpredictable, and a little too ridiculous for her to fully comprehend, but she couldn’t deny the twisted sense of satisfaction that came from seeing Malfoy so thoroughly outdone. It had felt like something straight out of a mad dream—a bizarre, Shakespearean play with a cast of characters no one had expected, least of all the one playing the tragic hero.

She looked back at Fred and George, who were clearly pleased with themselves. Their grins were wide, their eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a job well done. Hermione knew they’d continue to push the envelope, testing the limits of what they could get away with. And she had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last prank she’d be roped into.

Still, as ridiculous as it had been, part of her couldn’t help but admire their brilliance.

"That was… something,” she said, her voice full of wonder. She couldn't help but laugh again. "I’m not sure I’m ready for any more of your ‘art,’ but—" She paused, eyes flicking from Fred to George, her smile growing. "I suppose I’ll have to brace myself for whatever’s next."

George’s grin widened. “That’s the spirit, Granger. You’ll see. Chaos is the only way to live.”

As he leaned back in his chair, clearly proud of his handiwork, Hermione could only shake her head, trying—unsuccessfully—to stifle the smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. She didn’t know what kind of madness was waiting around the corner, but one thing was for certain: life with Fred and George Weasley was never boring.

Chapter Text

The day of the Quidditch match had arrived, and the entire Hogwarts grounds seemed to hum with the energy of the event. The sun was bright, casting a warm glow over the pitch, while just a few clouds hung lazily in the sky, offering a faint contrast to the brilliant blue expanse above. The smell of freshly mown grass mixed with the lingering scent of excitement in the air, and the cheers of students, already gathered in the stands, created an atmosphere so electric it almost felt like a tangible force.

Hermione sat in the Gryffindor section, her heart racing with the blend of nerves and excitement that always accompanied Quidditch matches. She had a front-row view of the action, her Gryffindor scarf draped snugly around her neck and her fingers tightly gripping the edges of the bench. Beside her, Luna and Neville sat eagerly, both of them equally as absorbed in the spectacle unfolding before them. Luna was leaning slightly forward, her wide, dreamy eyes trained on the sky above, and Hermione could already tell that a peculiar comment was on its way.

“Do you think the Bludgers get lonely when they don’t have anyone to chase?” Luna asked, her voice floating up with the soft clarity of someone who was lost in thought, her head tilted upward as if contemplating some grand cosmic truth.

Hermione blinked, momentarily taken aback by the question. She glanced from Luna to the game in front of her, where the players were already flying in the air, and then back to her friend. “Luna…” Hermione began, her voice holding a note of confusion but also a touch of fond exasperation, “I don’t think Bludgers can feel loneliness.”

Luna, completely unfazed, continued to squint up at the sky, her expression unreadable yet full of wonder. “But how do you know, Hermione?” she asked, her voice rising ever so slightly with the genuine curiosity that was so characteristic of her. “Maybe they just don’t like to talk about it.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed in thought for a moment. She opened her mouth to reply, but found herself momentarily speechless, trying to wrap her head around Luna’s logic. Hermione sighed, shaking her head with a smile that couldn’t help but tug at her lips. She had long stopped trying to make sense of Luna’s thoughts in any conventional way.

“I suppose it’s possible that you’re right, Luna,” she said. “Maybe the Bludgers do get lonely. It’s just that I can’t imagine them sitting around, talking about their feelings when they’re busy attacking players.”

Luna nodded thoughtfully, her eyes still scanning the sky, perhaps pondering a whole new layer to her theory. “You’re probably right,” she said, her voice trailing off as if the idea had been settled for now, but not completely ruled out. "It could be that they just want someone to talk to before they fly off in a rage."

Hermione’s mouth opened to respond to Luna, but she was interrupted by a loud cheer that erupted from the crowd. Her head snapped toward the pitch, where the Gryffindor and Slytherin teams were emerging from the locker rooms. The sunlight caught the gleam of their robes as they took their places on the field, the air thick with excitement. The Gryffindor team, with Harry, Ron, Ginny, and the twins—Fred and George—grinning widely from their positions on their brooms, looked like a force to be reckoned with. Hermione’s heart skipped a beat as she spotted Fred and George, their beaming faces searching the stands. As if on cue, Fred waved energetically at her and Luna, causing Hermione to smile and wave back.

Hermione’s eyes flicked over to the Slytherin side, and she caught sight of Draco Malfoy hovering near the goalposts. His pale face was set in a determined scowl, his blonde hair blowing back in the wind. As if sensing her gaze, Malfoy’s eyes flicked toward the Gryffindor stands, and for a moment, their gazes locked. He smirked, his expression daring her to doubt his skills. Hermione’s heart quickened in her chest, though she didn’t know if it was from the intensity of his gaze or the anticipation of the game.

The Slytherin team was just as formidable. Besides Malfoy, there was the tall, broad-shouldered Blaise Zabini, who was playing Chaser alongside Pansy Parkinson. Parkinson, as usual, was trying to look her best, her dark eyes sharp and calculating, but it was clear she was a skilled player. The Slytherin Keeper, Adrian Pucey, was poised at the goalposts, looking completely unbothered by the tension of the match. His cold eyes flicked briefly toward Ron as he adjusted his gloves, as if sizing up his opponent.

The whistle blew, cutting through the noise of the crowd, and the game erupted into action.

"Here we go!" Neville shouted, eyes wide with awe as the players rocketed into the air, soaring through the sky like a swarm of bees, darting and weaving in perfect synchronization.

"Look at them," Luna said softly, her eyes tracking the players with a faraway expression. "It’s like watching a ballet, only with more crashes and a lot more violence." She nodded as though this was an entirely logical observation.

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh, shaking her head. "I don’t know if I'd call it a ballet, Luna, but—"

"Look out!" Luna suddenly shouted, pointing up at the sky, and Hermione followed her gaze just in time to see a pair of Bludgers streaking toward the players.

"Incoming!" Fred called out from the field, his eyes flashing with excitement. He and George, both Beaters for Gryffindor, were immediately on the offensive. They darted toward the Bludgers, their brooms gliding smoothly through the air as they lined up their shots. With a swift swing of their bats, the Bludgers were sent hurtling toward the Slytherin players, forcing them to dodge and swerve as the dangerous balls streaked by.

"Nice hit, Fred!" Hermione shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth to be heard above the roar of the crowd.

Fred, never one to miss a chance for attention, shot her a wink as he zoomed past. "Thanks, Hermione! Keep watching, it gets better!" He grinned, looking back at her as he swung his bat again, knocking a Bludger directly toward Pansy, who yelped and barely managed to swerve out of the way.

On the opposite side of the pitch, Ginny had the Quaffle and was charging toward the Slytherin goalposts. She was fast, weaving through the Slytherin Chasers with ease, her hair flying behind her like a banner of determination. Ginny passed the Quaffle to Ron, who was positioned at the other end of the field, guarding the goalposts. He caught it with one hand, barely missing a Bludger in the process, and quickly lobbed it back to Ginny, who was already preparing for another attempt.

Ron was having a hard time keeping up with the fast-paced action, but his focus was unwavering. He was ready, his arms outstretched as he kept a careful watch on the incoming Quaffles. He had always been a bit clumsy with his broom, but he was a brilliant Keeper, and Hermione knew he’d rise to the challenge when it counted. He shot a quick, encouraging glance at Ginny, who nodded and darted back into the fray.

As the match progressed, the tension in the air grew thicker with each passing second. The crowd was on the edge of their seats, fully invested in the high-speed chase that unfolded before them. Hermione found herself gripping the edge of the stands, her heart pounding in sync with the intensity of the game. It was incredible to watch—each move was more breathtaking than the last, and every pass, every dodge, had her holding her breath.

The Quaffle flew between players like a flash of red, zipping from one Chaser to another. Gryffindor and Slytherin were locked in an all-out battle, neither side willing to yield. It felt like a tug-of-war, with each team trying to gain an inch, only to have the other snatch it away.

Ginny Weasley was an absolute force on the field, darting between players with fluidity and grace, her eyes sharp with determination. She had just made a quick pass to Ron when Millicent Bulstrode, one of Slytherin's Chasers, came barrelling toward them. Ginny didn't hesitate—she swung her broom hard to the left, narrowly avoiding Millicent’s attempt to block her path.

Hermione could practically feel Ginny's focus from the stands, her jaw set with that fire Hermione knew so well. Ginny’s next move was a quick and deft manoeuvre—she passed the Quaffle to Fred, who sent it zipping toward Oliver Wood, their Keeper, in an attempt to block Slytherin’s latest offensive.

Then, a loud cheer erupted from the Slytherin side of the pitch as Millicent Bulstrode had made an impressive goal. The scoreboard flickered and flashed: Slytherin 70 – Gryffindor 60. The crowd gasped, and then the Gryffindor side quickly retaliated with a chorus of disappointed groans.

Ginny’s expression was a perfect mix of fury and focus. She gripped her broom tightly and flew into the fray, chasing the Quaffle down as though her life depended on it. “We’re not letting them win that easily!” she muttered to herself, her voice barely audible through the roar of the crowd.

Hermione felt a swell of pride for her friend. Ginny was a force to be reckoned with, and she was pushing herself harder than ever to make sure Gryffindor had the upper hand. The Chasers passed the Quaffle with precision, each one cutting through the air like a blade, never pausing for a moment’s rest.

The game intensified with each passing second, but it wasn't just the Chasers who had the crowd captivated. Fred and George, both Beaters for Gryffindor, were doing their best to make sure the Slytherins didn’t get any easy shots. With a perfect synchronicity, they worked together, sending Bludgers hurtling through the air toward the Slytherin players, forcing them to duck and weave in order to avoid the heavy, enchanted balls.

“Nice hit, Fred!” Hermione called out, her voice rising above the crowd’s cheers and gasps.

Fred grinned as he sent another Bludger toward Millicent. “Thanks, Hermione!” he called back, flashing her a wink as he zoomed past. “This is just the beginning!”

But Hermione barely had time to respond before Neville’s voice rang out, sharp with excitement.

“Look! It’s the Snitch!” Neville pointed toward the sky, and Hermione’s gaze snapped upward.

There it was, fluttering near the farthest reaches of the pitch: the Golden Snitch. It glimmered in the sunlight, catching the wind with a delicate flutter of its wings. Harry’s eyes locked on it instantly, and the Seeker’s face became a mask of intense concentration.

From the opposite end, Draco Malfoy—Slytherin’s Seeker—had seen the Snitch too. His broom shot forward like a rocket, cutting through the air with alarming speed. Harry followed suit, his broom seeming to hum with power beneath him as he surged forward, inching closer to the Snitch with every beat of his broomstick.

The entire pitch seemed to hold its breath as the two Seekers raced toward the tiny golden ball. The crowd’s roars faded into a buzz of sound, the only thing that mattered now was that flickering speck of gold and the two Seekers desperately vying for it.

The wind whipped past Hermione’s face as she watched the scene unfold, her heart in her throat. Harry and Draco were neck and neck, each of them determined to be the one to catch it. The distance between them and the Snitch grew smaller with each second, their brooms gliding just inches from one another, neither of them willing to give an inch.

Then, with a swift and daring maneuver, Harry pulled ahead of Draco by a fraction of a second. His fingers stretched out toward the Snitch, his eyes locked on it with unwavering focus. For a split second, Hermione’s heart stopped—then Harry’s fingers closed around the Golden Snitch with a sharp, triumphant tug.

The crowd went wild. A loud, deafening cheer exploded from the Gryffindor side as Harry held the Snitch aloft, his face beaming with pride and exhilaration.

“We won!” Hermione shouted, jumping to her feet, her hands clapping together in excitement. Her voice rang out, but it was nearly drowned out by the sheer roar of the crowd.

Luna, still seated beside her, grinned widely. “It’s always nice when things work out, isn’t it?” she said dreamily, her eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and peace, as if the victory was just another bit of natural order in her wonderfully strange world.

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. It was hard to contain the joy that had surged within her at that moment. The team had done it—Gryffindor had won the match, and Harry had clinched the victory in true Seeker fashion.

As the players began their descent toward the ground, Hermione caught sight of Fred and George waving at her, their grins wide and their faces flushed with the thrill of the win. She waved back, her heart soaring with pride for her friends. Today had been nothing short of perfect, and she couldn’t wait to celebrate with the rest of the team.

The match had been intense, thrilling, and full of surprises, but in the end, it was Gryffindor who had triumphed once again.

Chapter Text

The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with energy, every corner filled with the sound of laughter, shouts, and the clinking of glasses as students celebrated the team’s victory. The match against Slytherin had been intense, and now, the triumphant players were entering the common room, their faces flushed with victory and their robes streaked with dirt and sweat. It felt like the entire house was alive with excitement, and Hermione could hardly contain her own energy as she sat with Neville and Luna, still floating on the high of the match.

"Oi, Hermione!" Fred’s voice rang out across the room, breaking through the celebratory din. He waved at her with one hand, the other draped casually over George's shoulder. The twins were grinning, their eyes gleaming with that familiar, mischievous spark.

Hermione’s heart gave a little jolt at the sight of them—Fred and George, always so full of life, so impossible to ignore. She was still feeling the aftershocks of the game, adrenaline and excitement keeping her light on her feet as she stood up from her seat.

"Looks like we’ve got some real heroes among us," Fred called, his voice carrying easily across the room, making a few people laugh.

Hermione smiled at his antics and shook her head as she made her way over to where the twins were standing, her own smile bright. "I think I know who the real heroes are," she teased, giving them both a pointed look. "The whole team was incredible today."

Fred and George exchanged a quick glance, their grins widening in unison.

George raised an eyebrow. "Oh, we’re not talking about the team, Granger," he said with a dramatic pause, clearly enjoying the buildup. "We’ve been thinking…”

Fred leaned in, his voice dropping to a mock-serious whisper. "And we’re convinced it was you, Hermione. You were the real MVP today. Without your unwavering support, we might never have pulled off that win."

Hermione rolled her eyes, the corners of her lips tugging upward despite her best efforts to look serious. "You two are impossible," she replied, but she couldn’t suppress the warmth in her chest. "You know I didn’t do anything but cheer."

"Ah, but that’s where you're wrong," Fred said, a playful glint in his eye. "You gave us all the energy we needed to fly higher, Hermione. Your support made all the difference."

George nodded solemnly. "And that deserves a reward, don’t you think?" His voice was teasing, but there was an unmistakable edge of affection behind it.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at them both, not sure where this was going. "I don’t need a reward," she said, half-laughing. "You won the match, not me."

Fred didn’t miss a beat, stepping closer until the space between them felt almost too close. He cupped her cheek gently, his thumb brushing across her skin in a surprisingly tender gesture. "We’ve thought long and hard about this," Fred murmured, his gaze locking with hers. "And we’re sure you deserve something special."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but before she could say a word, Fred leaned in. His lips brushed against hers in a brief, electrifying kiss that left her heart racing, her mind momentarily going blank. It was soft but full of intent, and it caught her completely off guard.

As she pulled back, trying to catch her breath, George was already moving closer, a smirk on his face. Without missing a beat, he mirrored Fred’s action, leaning in to kiss her from the other side. His lips were equally gentle, but the kiss was just as passionate, leaving her reeling.

When they finally pulled away, Hermione was left stunned, blinking rapidly as the room around her seemed to come back into focus. The sounds of laughter, cheers, and conversation filled the air again, but for a moment, she could only hear the thudding of her own heartbeat.

The common room was filled with the sound of hushed whispers and stifled giggles as Fred and George pulled away from Hermione, their lips leaving a lingering warmth on her skin. For a moment, everything seemed to slow down. Time itself appeared to stretch as the room took in what had just happened. The victorious cheers from earlier were now drowned out by the heavy silence, and all eyes were on the trio in the centre of the room.

"Did they just...?" Ron’s voice cut through the quiet, his disbelief unmistakable. His mouth hung open, and his eyes were wide with shock, as if he had witnessed something that defied all reason. His gaze flicked from Hermione to the twins, then back to Hermione again, his face stuck in a kind of dazed confusion.

Ginny, sitting near the fire with Harry, had frozen mid-laugh, her expression shifting from surprise to amusement. She looked at Hermione with wide eyes, a small smirk forming at the corners of her lips. "Blimey," she muttered under her breath, raising an eyebrow. "Those two really don’t know how to do anything halfway, do they?"

Neville, who had been sitting quietly next to Luna, let out a nervous laugh that sounded a little too high-pitched. His face was the colour of a ripe tomato, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unsure of what to do. "Well, I didn’t see that coming," he said awkwardly, his voice barely audible, as if the whole situation had caught him completely off guard.

Luna, on the other hand, remained calm as ever. She gazed at Hermione with a soft, ethereal look, as if the kiss between Fred, George, and Hermione was a perfectly natural and predictable event. Her large, silvery eyes sparkled with a quiet understanding. "I think," Luna said dreamily, her voice soft and serene, "they’ve given you a most interesting reward, Hermione."

Hermione blinked rapidly, trying to process what had just happened. Her head was still spinning. She could feel the warmth of the twins' kisses lingering on her lips, her heart racing with the confusion of it all. She glanced around the room, her cheeks burning bright red as she saw the stunned faces of her fellow Gryffindors. Some students were exchanging shocked glances, while others whispered animatedly behind their hands, casting curious glances at the trio.

Fred and George, completely unfazed by the attention they were receiving, exchanged smug, self-satisfied grins. The twins were clearly revelling in the chaos they had just stirred up. Fred, never one to miss an opportunity to make a dramatic move, slid an arm around Hermione's shoulders, pulling her into a casual half-hug. His grin widened, a gleam of mischief still dancing in his eyes.

George, standing on the other side, grinned with his usual irrepressible confidence. His eyes sparkled with mischief. "We can’t help it, Hermione," he said, his voice teasing but sincere. "You’re just too irresistible."

Hermione, still trying to catch her breath, pushed her hair behind her ears, her fingers trembling slightly as she did so. Her heart was racing, her chest tight with a mixture of surprise, embarrassment, and something else—something she couldn’t quite name. The weight of the room’s collective gaze pressed down on her, and she felt as though she were a deer caught in headlights. Her cheeks flushed crimson, her lips still tingling from the unexpected kisses. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she muttered under her breath, barely audible, "You two are unbelievable."

Her voice, though laced with disbelief, held a hint of laughter. She could hardly deny the small, surprised smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. Despite the shock, despite the way her heart was hammering in her chest, she couldn’t bring herself to be angry. She had known Fred and George would never do anything halfway. But this? This was… something else entirely.

Fred and George, ever the experts at reading Hermione, both laughed, clearly enjoying the flustered effect they had on her. They exchanged a look that was equal parts amusement and pride. Fred gave Hermione a playful nudge, his tone dropping into a mock-serious whisper.

"Now, now, Hermione," Fred teased, his voice low and warm, but still full of mischief. "Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it." His eyes twinkled with playful confidence, his lips curving into a grin that was impossible to ignore.

Hermione’s face flushed even deeper, her heartbeat speeding up. She shot a look at Fred, her mouth slightly open as if to argue, but the words didn’t come out. Instead, she shook her head in exasperation, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. "You are absolutely impossible," she muttered, her voice laced with a mix of disbelief and reluctant amusement. "You can’t just go around kissing people like that."

Fred leaned in slightly, his grin never faltering as he lowered his voice to a whisper, just for her. "You’re the one who got us all fired up, Hermione," he said, his breath warm against her ear, sending a small shiver down her spine. "We were just showing you how much we appreciate it."

Before Hermione could formulate a response, George chimed in, his voice equally playful. "Besides," he said with a wink, "You’re far too modest. You deserve a bit of recognition for all that cheering. We wouldn’t have won without you there, Hermione."

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. She swallowed, trying to regain some semblance of composure. The twins had a way of turning everything into a joke, but there was something in their eyes—something a little more sincere, a little less playful—that made her second-guess herself. She didn’t know what to make of this. But one thing was certain—life with Fred and George Weasley was never, ever boring.

Still flushed and a little overwhelmed, Hermione glanced around the room. Most of the students were watching with wide eyes, some looking at her with curiosity, while others were smiling knowingly. Ron, though still trying to make sense of it all, shook his head in disbelief and muttered something under his breath. Ginny, with her arms crossed, gave Hermione a teasing grin that said it all.

Hermione tried her best to ignore the attention, but the truth was, she was still processing the whirlwind of the last few moments. She looked at Fred, who was still standing close to her, his hand casually resting on her shoulder, and then to George, whose smile seemed to promise that this was far from over.

Chapter Text

The air in the Gryffindor common room was thick with nervous energy. Hermione sat by the window, her fingers anxiously tapping against the worn wooden armrest of the chair. The clock on the wall ticked away, each second dragging longer than the last. It was the day of the N.E.W.T. exams, and Fred and George had just finished theirs. Hermione had been pacing for what felt like hours, a pit of worry growing in her stomach as she waited for the twins to come through the portrait hole.

She had tried to distract herself by reading over her notes one last time, but the words on the page just wouldn't make sense. Her eyes flicked repeatedly to the clock. It was almost over. They were almost done.

The pressure of their N.E.W.T.s was heavy, not just for the twins but for her too. After all, she had been there for them in every test and challenge. She could hardly sit still, her thoughts racing as she imagined what the exams had been like. Had they done well? Was George nervous? Had Fred aced it like he always seemed to do, or had he stumbled?

Just as Hermione was about to get up and pace again, the door to the Gryffindor common room creaked open. Her heart jumped in her chest as Fred and George strode through the portrait hole, their faces a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. They looked tired, their robes slightly rumpled, and their hair a little more windswept than usual, but the familiar mischievous glint in their eyes told Hermione they weren’t as defeated as they might have appeared. She could tell that, despite the long and stressful N.E.W.T. exams, their trademark sense of humor hadn’t completely deserted them.

Her pulse quickened, her nerves immediately resurfacing as she jumped to her feet. "Well?" she asked eagerly, her voice coming out a little more breathless than she intended. "How did it go? What happened? Did you survive it?"

Fred and George exchanged a long, silent look. Their eyes twinkled, and without missing a beat, they both broke into wide grins—the kind of grins that could only mean one thing.

"Honestly, Hermione, it was a breeze," Fred said, stretching his arms above his head with exaggerated ease, as if the weight of the exams had never been on him in the first place. "Piece of cake."

Hermione’s shoulders dropped with a relieved sigh. A wave of tension flooded out of her, but she couldn’t shake the lingering nerves. "A breeze? Are you sure?" she pressed, her voice high with disbelief as she took a step forward, her eyes scanning their faces. "You two are the kings of charm and mischief, but N.E.W.T.s aren’t exactly a joke."

George let out a loud laugh, his eyes still glimmering with the satisfaction of having made it through the N.E.W.T.s. He leaned casually against the arm of a nearby chair, a relaxed posture masking the faint exhaustion that lingered in his posture. "Don’t worry, Hermione," he said, his voice light but with an underlying confidence, "We’ve been through worse. Besides, we had the best preparation you could ask for." He nudged Fred, who was standing beside him, and Fred returned the gesture with a lazy, exaggerated yawn as if he’d just finished a nap instead of the most intense exams of their lives.

"What George means," Fred clarified, his tone suddenly playful as he made eye contact with Hermione, "is that we knew we’d be just fine. Thanks to you, of course."

George shrugged with mock nonchalance, his grin widening even more. "The way you practically tortured us with those study sessions. You really pushed us to our limits, Granger." He placed a hand over his heart as if he was pretending to be offended, but the playful sparkle in his eyes gave him away.

Fred nodded dramatically, matching George’s tone. "Yeah, it’s all your fault we’re this brilliant, Hermione," he said, his grin cheeky and teasing. "Who else would have gotten us organized enough to actually study for once?" He glanced at George, who just rolled his eyes in response, but it was clear they both appreciated her relentless effort to make sure they actually focused during their study sessions.

Hermione’s cheeks flushed slightly at their praise, but she tried to hide it by crossing her arms in front of her. "Well, I just didn’t want you two to flunk out of school and disappoint everyone," she muttered, her tone still playful but with a hint of warmth. "I wasn’t about to let you ruin your chances of actually doing well."

Fred and George both chuckled at her response, the sound so familiar and comforting that it eased some of the tension Hermione had been carrying with her throughout the entire waiting period. For a moment, she forgot about the exams entirely and felt a sense of peace settle in. It was just the three of them, laughing, joking, and sharing a moment of simple camaraderie.

But then, the atmosphere shifted slightly. The laughter softened, and for the first time, Fred and George looked unusually serious. Their usual playfulness faded, and there was a quiet moment between them that made Hermione pause. She looked from one twin to the other, noticing how their faces, usually so full of mischief, now seemed contemplative. The weight of their exhaustion—and perhaps even a touch of uncertainty—was evident, and Hermione felt a sudden lump form in her throat as she realized how much they truly valued this time together.

After a long, thoughtful pause, Fred cleared his throat and gave Hermione a small, wry smile. "Honestly, Hermione, it wasn’t too bad," he said, his tone quieter than it had been before. "I mean, the practicals were intense, but we got through it. The flying part was a bit nerve-wracking, but it was alright in the end. We didn’t do too badly."

George chimed in, nodding. "Yeah, the written part... well, that was a bit more of a headache. Some of the questions were tricky, especially with all the theoretical stuff they threw at us. But we survived."

Hermione listened closely, her heart lightening as they spoke. She’d expected them to brush off the intensity of the exams with their usual bravado, but this was different. There was a sincerity in their voices that told her they’d taken the N.E.W.T.s seriously—even if they’d never show it in the usual way.

"You know," George added thoughtfully, his voice a little more subdued, "we did have our moments of doubt. There were times when we wondered if we’d prepared enough, or if we’d made some stupid mistake." He gave a half-smile, trying to mask the vulnerability beneath. "But in the end, we gave it our all. I think that’s all anyone can really do, right?"

Fred nodded, his face serious for once. "Yeah, we did our best, Hermione. And that’s what matters. No regrets." He looked at her, his expression softening slightly. "I know we joke around a lot, but we do care about this stuff, even if we don’t always show it."

Hermione felt a swell of pride for them. She’d always known that beneath their jokes and pranks, Fred and George were fiercely dedicated to the things they cared about. Even though they may have seemed carefree on the surface, they were driven and passionate about their future.

"Well," Hermione said, her voice warm and reassuring, "whatever happens, I know you’ve both done your best. And that’s what counts."

Fred’s grin returned as he stepped forward, giving her a quick, brotherly hug. "Thanks, Hermione. Really. We couldn’t have gotten through this without you."

George echoed the sentiment, his voice sincere though laced with his usual playfulness. "You’re the best, Hermione. We couldn’t have done it without your... tough love."

Hermione laughed, though she felt a twinge of warmth spread through her at their words. "I just wanted to make sure you didn’t fail," she said, rolling her eyes but smiling nonetheless.

Fred pulled away, clearly delighted by their little exchange. "Now that we’ve got that out of the way," he said with a sly grin, "how about we go grab something to drink and celebrate? All this talk about exams has made me thirsty."

"Thirsty, Fred?" George raised an eyebrow. "You mean starving." He glanced at Hermione with a mischievous glint in his eye. "You know what that means, right? We’re heading straight for the kitchens."

Hermione’s eyes widened, and she shot them a look of mock disapproval. "The kitchens? You two are impossible," she said, though her smile betrayed how much she was enjoying this spontaneous adventure.

"Come on," Fred urged, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her toward the door, "what’s a little sneaking around? You’ve studied hard enough, you deserve a break, too."

"Besides," George added with a wink, "you know the house-elves always have the best snacks."

Hermione hesitated, but only for a moment. She could already feel the weight of the exams lifting, and the idea of sneaking off with Fred and George to the kitchens sounded like exactly what she needed. "Fine," she said, shaking her head in mock defeat. "But if we get caught, it’s all your fault."

Fred and George exchanged a look and grinned in unison. "Deal," they said together.

But as they all headed for the door, she couldn't help but feel a sense of peace. The tension of waiting was over, and whatever the outcome of their exams, she knew that Fred and George would continue to follow their own path—and, hopefully, drag her along for the ride.

Chapter Text

The following week, the long-awaited moment had finally arrived: the N.E.W.T. results were in. The atmosphere around Hogwarts was tense with anticipation. Students were anxiously awaiting their grades, many of them already dreading the possibility of failing the exams that would determine the course of their future careers. For Fred and George, the pressure was mounting, but they were determined to keep up their usual carefree façade. Hermione, on the other hand, was a bundle of nerves, pacing in front of the Gryffindor common room, her eyes darting every time someone passed by with their results.

Fred and George had disappeared earlier that morning to check their grades, leaving Hermione anxiously awaiting their return. She couldn’t help but feel like she was holding her breath for them. She had worked tirelessly to help them study, pushing them harder than they had probably ever been pushed. It was more than just the exams—it was the hope that they could prove to themselves how capable they truly were.

When the door to the common room finally opened, Fred and George entered, their faces a mixture of exhaustion and anticipation. Their eyes met Hermione’s, and she could tell right away that they had already seen their results. The silence between them was thick with the weight of the moment. She stood up, her heart racing, her palms clammy.

“Well?” Hermione asked, her voice almost a whisper as she stood from her seat, her heart hammering in her chest. “What did you get? Come on, show me!”

Fred and George exchanged a sly glance, their faces unreadable, as they reached into their robes. Fred slowly pulled out a piece of parchment, and George followed suit, each holding their results tightly in their hands. The suspense was thick in the air, and Hermione could barely contain her excitement—or the dread that maybe it hadn't gone as well as they hoped.

"Drumroll, please," Fred announced theatrically, grinning wide, his eyes twinkling mischievously. He gave Hermione a playful wink, as if he knew exactly what kind of effect this moment was having on her.

Hermione’s fingers clenched at her sides, her pulse quickening. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, the anticipation coursing through her. She had always known Fred and George were brilliant, but their rather unconventional approach to studying, coupled with their knack for mischief, had left her on edge. They hadn’t been exactly traditional students.

"Alright," George said with a dramatic clearing of his throat, his voice slightly lower as he took his time, drawing out the moment. "First of all, we passed everything. All of it."

Hermione froze, her breath catching in her throat. The words hung in the air, and it took her a second to process them.

"Wait... What?"

The relief hit her in waves, so sudden and overwhelming that it made her knees go weak. She felt as though a massive weight she hadn’t even known she was carrying had just been lifted. The knot in her chest loosened, and for the first time in what seemed like days, she could breathe properly again.

“No way,” she whispered, her voice shaking with emotion. “You really did it? You passed everything?”

Fred nodded, his grin now broad and triumphant. “Yep. Every single exam.”

George held his parchment up with a dramatic flourish, as if presenting a trophy. “And we did it with style. But don’t get too excited yet, Hermione,” he teased. “We’re about to show you the grades.”

Hermione’s eyes scanned their faces, still half in disbelief. She could barely focus on anything other than the overwhelming wave of joy. They had done it. They had actually done it. All of it. No failed subjects. No worrying about retakes. The twins, the pranksters, the ones who always lived life on the edge, had made it through their N.E.W.T.s.

Without thinking, Hermione launched herself at them, arms wide, her feet hardly even touching the ground as she threw herself into an ecstatic hug. Her heart was racing, her body vibrating with joy and relief. She had spent months stressing about them, trying to help them study, hoping they would make it. And now, standing here, they were holding their results—they had passed everything.

Fred and George, startled at first, quickly adjusted to the unexpected surge of emotion. They both wrapped their arms around her, laughing in that way that only Fred and George could, but there was a tenderness behind their usual mischief that made the moment feel real, raw, and true.

Fred flicked the parchment open, his fingers brushing over the edges as he held it up, the delicate paper trembling slightly in his hands. Hermione’s heart skipped a beat as she leaned in closer, eager to see what the results said. The twins’ faces, usually so confident and full of mischief, were tempered with a flicker of nervousness. Fred’s grin was wide, but his eyes held a glint of uncertainty that only heightened Hermione’s curiosity.

"Alright, first things first," Fred said, his voice light and teasing, but Hermione could hear a subtle note of pride beneath the casual tone. His fingers gently smoothed over the edges of the parchment as he held it out for her, the paper still crinkled from being tightly clutched in his hand moments before. “In Charms, we got an ‘A’. Not terrible, but, you know... could have been better, right?” He shot a glance over at George, his eyebrows lifting in playful expectation, as if seeking validation for the grade. There was something about his attitude, a kind of boyish pride mixed with a touch of sheepishness, that made Hermione’s heart swell with affection for him.

George chuckled, his usual bravado tempered by a slight unease. "Yeah, but we passed, Hermione," he said, his voice carrying a quiet but unmistakable sense of satisfaction. He let the parchment dangle loosely from his fingers as he looked at her. “That’s the important thing, right?” He glanced down at the results for a moment before continuing, as if contemplating their own success. “Not everyone could pull off an ‘A’ in a subject like Charms without making a massive spectacle. I mean, can you imagine anyone else making it that entertaining?”

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh, the sound coming easily as she gave them both an affectionate smile. The weight of the past few weeks seemed to lift as she looked at the two of them—there, standing before her, proud of their achievements, even if they hadn’t followed the most traditional approach to studying. “You two never do anything quietly,” she said, shaking her head fondly. “Honestly, I don’t think anyone else could make Charms as memorable as you two.” She stepped a little closer, leaning in just a bit to peer at the parchment, her chest swelling with pride as she watched them make it through despite all odds.

Fred, noticing her close attention, flipped the parchment over with a flourish, revealing the next set of results. “Okay, here we go,” he said, his voice shifting, just a little more serious but still filled with excitement. “In Transfiguration, we got an ‘O.’” He let the word hang in the air, his grin growing wider as he looked at Hermione. “Outstanding, Hermione. Not just an ‘E’—but a solid ‘O.’” There was something almost triumphant in his tone now, a spark in his eyes that made Hermione feel like they had just won a victory that meant more than just a grade. Fred raised an eyebrow playfully, glancing quickly at George for a reaction, the unspoken challenge clear between them—could George be as impressed as he was?

George let out a soft laugh, his smile stretching into something more genuine, the tension from before easing away. He glanced at Fred with a teasing gleam in his eye, his voice light but affectionate. “Honestly, I think McGonagall was just impressed that we didn’t transfigure her desk into a pigeon or something,” he joked, his tone softening as he let the humor settle into a moment of shared relief. “Can you imagine? The last thing we needed was to be banned from Transfiguration forever because we turned the whole classroom into a flock of birds.”

Fred snorted, his eyes twinkling with amusement at the thought. “Careful, George,” he warned, his voice low but full of mischief. “You might just jinx it. Last thing we need is another accidental pratfall. We almost turned the entire classroom into a ferret farm last time, remember?”

Hermione’s laughter bubbled up again, warm and full, as she covered her mouth with one hand to stifle it. The image of the twins, causing chaos without even meaning to, had become so iconic to her that she couldn’t help but picture the whole scenario. It wasn’t just that they were mischievous—it was the way they managed to slip through situations like this and somehow make it work, no matter how bizarre or unorthodox. Their talent for creating unforgettable moments was something to be admired.

“Oh, I remember,” Hermione managed between giggles. “I definitely remember. You two were lucky McGonagall didn’t turn you both into frogs for that stunt.”

Fred shook his head with a smile, still clearly revelling in the small victory. “Well, if we’d had more time, I’m sure we could have managed it. Maybe next time, eh?”

George snickered in agreement, the playful teasing continuing as they both looked at Hermione, their shared joy and sense of accomplishment palpable between them. “Maybe we should start practicing Transfiguration on her desk. I’m sure it would make things more interesting around here,” George suggested with a wink.

Hermione’s eyes twinkled with laughter as she shook her head, unable to stop the giggle that slipped from her lips. "You two are impossible,” she said, wiping away a tear of laughter. “But honestly, I don’t think anyone could pull off an ‘O’ in Transfiguration and still make it sound like a victory. You’ve got some serious charm, I’ll give you that."

"Alright, alright," Fred continued, his voice growing more playful. “Let’s see… in Potions, we got an ‘A’. Nothing spectacular, but it’s passing. Definitely no ‘Outstanding’ there, though.” He looked at George with a slight smirk. “I’d say we did better than Slughorn expected, don’t you think?”

George snorted, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “Not our finest hour, but hey, we didn’t blow anything up, so I’m counting it as a win.” His smile softened, and for a moment, the two of them were no longer the pranksters of Hogwarts, but two brothers who had just taken on one of the hardest challenges of their lives—and come through it stronger than before.

Hermione’s heart softened as she watched them, the affection she had for them blooming with every passing second. The twins had defied expectations, both their own and everyone else’s, and here they were, holding their results like a badge of honor. She took a deep breath, still struggling to comprehend just how far they had come.

“You did it,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper as she reached out to touch their shoulders. “You really did it. All that hard work... it paid off. You both should be so proud.”

Fred glanced at George, and for a moment, the usual joking expression on his face faded into something more sincere. He met Hermione’s eyes, his voice softening. “We couldn’t have done it without you, Hermione. You pushed us, even when we didn’t want to be pushed. You helped us see that we could do this. We know that.”

George nodded, his smile now warm and genuine. “Yeah, you pushed us to do better, and we might not have liked it at the time—but we needed it. We really needed you. So… thank you.”

Chapter Text

The Gryffindor common room was bathed in the warm, amber glow of the setting sun. Long streaks of light stretched through the tall windows, casting soft golden patterns across the stone floor and over the mismatched collection of armchairs and sofas that had been worn into comforting familiarity over the years. The fire in the hearth was little more than a cluster of glowing embers now, its heat unnecessary in the early summer warmth, yet the occasional crackle still punctuated the room’s quiet hum of conversation. Outside, the vast Hogwarts grounds basked in the dusky light, the lake reflecting the last slivers of day while a few students lingered along the shore, enjoying the rare lull before the frenzy of exams and looming goodbyes.

Near the hearth, Harry and Ron sat hunched over a well-worn wizard’s chessboard, their game reaching what could only be described as its inevitable and utterly predictable conclusion. Ron, as always, was in complete control, his pieces marching ruthlessly across the board, each movement calculated with the precision of a seasoned general. His queen advanced with a sharp command, sending one of Harry’s bishops flying off the board in a shower of splinters. The fallen piece let out a pitiful groan before collapsing into dust, as if it, too, had resigned itself to its fate.

“That was a terrible move, mate,” Ron said with a satisfied grin, lounging back in his chair and stretching his arms behind his head. His confidence was well-earned—Harry’s side of the board was an utter disaster. What few pieces remained huddled together, as if clinging to some last, desperate hope of survival.

Harry let out a long, suffering sigh, rubbing his temples. “I don’t know why I even bother playing against you.”

Fred, sprawled lazily on the couch nearby, smirked as he observed the carnage unfolding before him. “Because hope springs eternal, dear Harry. Though in your case, I’d say it’s more misplaced optimism.”

“Nah,” George chimed in from the opposite side of the couch, his grin positively wicked. “I think he just enjoys the suffering.”

Harry shot them both a half-hearted glare, but there was no real venom behind it. He knew they were right. Every time he sat down to play, some small, foolish part of him thought, Maybe this time, I’ll win. And every time, Ron crushed that hope beneath the weight of his sheer, undeniable skill.

Between the twins, Hermione sat curled up on the overstuffed couch, her legs tucked neatly beneath her, a book balanced open in her lap. At least, it had started that way. She had set out with the full intention of reading—truly, she had—but her focus had unravelled somewhere between Fred elbowing her playfully in the ribs and George making an absolutely atrocious joke about the mating habits of hippogriffs.

She had tried to block them out at first, keeping her eyes firmly on the text, but the words had blurred together long ago, and she had resigned herself to the reality of her situation. The twins weren’t going to let her read in peace—not tonight. And, if she were being honest with herself, she didn’t mind as much as she pretended to.

“Alright, Granger,” Fred said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled over them. His voice was light, teasing, but there was something beneath it—something thoughtful, lingering just out of reach. He stretched out lazily, his legs extending over the arm of the couch, ankles crossed as if he hadn’t a single care in the world. “Now that we’re officially academic geniuses, what’s next?”

Hermione, who had been absently running her fingers along the edge of her book, rolled her eyes, though a small, reluctant smile played at the corner of her lips. “Academic geniuses might be a bit of a stretch,” she said dryly, flicking her gaze up to him before returning to her book, feigning disinterest.

“Excuse you,” George cut in, placing a hand over his heart in mock offense, his expression one of exaggerated hurt. “We got an ‘O’ in Transfiguration. McGonagall practically wept with pride.”

Hermione didn’t even glance up as she turned the page. “She sighed,” she corrected smoothly. “Very heavily.”

Fred grinned, his amusement evident. “Same thing, really.”

The air around them was light, playful, filled with the usual banter that had become second nature over the years. And yet, beneath the teasing, beneath the easy grins and sarcastic remarks, something else simmered. The reality of the moment—of what was coming—had begun to sink in. Graduation was a mere week away. The last chapter of their time at Hogwarts was drawing to a close, and soon, the familiarity of these evenings, of this room, of this life, would be nothing more than a collection of fond memories.

For the twins, the future lay ahead in a way it hadn’t before—full of possibility, of risk, of the unknown. For Hermione, it meant staying behind, watching them—and Harry and Ron, soon enough—step forward into a world she wasn’t quite ready to join.

“What’s it going to be like without us next year, Granger?” George’s voice, though still laced with his usual mischief, was quieter this time, more thoughtful. He didn’t look at her directly but rather stared at the fire, its dim embers glowing faintly in the hearth.

Hermione’s fingers instinctively tightened on the edges of her book, but she forced herself to maintain an air of neutrality. She had been trying not to think about it—about how different things would be when they were gone. She wasn’t one for unnecessary sentimentality, and yet, the thought of Hogwarts without them… without their endless energy, their pranks, their ability to drive her to the brink of madness only to make her laugh moments later…

It was going to feel emptier.

“Quieter,” she admitted after a moment, her voice softer than she intended. She finally glanced up, meeting their gazes, and for once, neither twin was smirking. “Less chaotic.”

Fred arched an eyebrow, waggling it in a way that might have been comical if the moment weren’t so heavy. “Less fun, you mean.”

She huffed, shaking her head in exasperation, but there was a warmth in her eyes that she couldn’t quite disguise. “Yes, alright. Less fun.”

“I’ll be too busy with my studies to miss anyone,” Hermione replied primly, lifting her chin just a fraction, as if the very idea of missing them was simply preposterous. But there was something in her voice—something just a little too rehearsed, a little too carefully measured. As if she was trying to convince herself of it as much as she was trying to convince them.

Fred, ever observant despite his usual carefree demeanour, smirked knowingly. “Right. Because studying is so thrilling that you won’t even notice the glaring absence of Weasley charm in your daily life.”

“Exactly,” she said, tilting her nose up in what she hoped was an air of confidence.

But the way she was gripping her book, fingers curled just a little too tightly around the leather cover, betrayed her.

The twins exchanged a quick look, one of those silent, wordless conversations they had perfected over the years, and then, without warning, Fred casually slung an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in slightly. His warmth seeped through her robes, grounding, familiar.

“Well, don’t worry, love,” Fred said smoothly, his voice as light and teasing as ever, but underneath it, there was something else—something softer, something almost gentle. It was rare, but when it happened, it always caught Hermione off guard. “We won’t be gone forever. We’ll be back to haunt the place soon enough.”

George, ever his perfect counterpart, nodded in agreement, the same easy confidence in his grin. “We do have a joke shop to establish, after all. Can’t let Hogwarts forget about us entirely.”

Hermione hesitated, her carefully constructed walls wavering just a fraction. She had known, of course, that they wouldn’t just disappear from her life the moment they stepped off the Hogwarts Express for the last time. She knew they would write, that they would visit, that they would still manage to cause trouble even from a distance. And yet, there was something unsettling about it all—something strange about imagining a Hogwarts without them.

It wasn’t as though she relied on their presence in the same way she did with Harry and Ron, but the twins had been such an integral part of her experience at Hogwarts, their mischief woven so deeply into the very fabric of this castle, that the thought of them not being here next year felt wrong. The Gryffindor common room wouldn’t echo with their laughter in the same way. The hallways wouldn’t be quite as unpredictable. There would be no spontaneous explosions of bright pink smoke from an unknown source, no hexes unleashed just to see what would happen, no ridiculous pranks that made even the most serious professors sigh in exasperation.

It would be… quieter.

And her final year was already going to be different in more ways than one. She would most likely be made Head Girl—something that, under normal circumstances, should have filled her with pride, excitement even. It was something she had worked toward for years, something she had always thought she wanted more than anything. And yet, now that it was almost within reach, she could only focus on the fact that a good portion of her time would be spent confiscating the very products the twins would undoubtedly be selling to the younger students.

It was almost comical how predictable they were.

“I suppose I’ll allow you both to visit,” she conceded at last, finally closing her book and resting it on her lap. “Someone has to make sure you don’t accidentally blow up Diagon Alley before your shop even opens.”

George let out a triumphant laugh, throwing an arm lazily over the back of the couch. “That’s the spirit, Hermione. Knew you’d come around.”

Fred, still leaning close, gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before finally letting his arm drop. But the warmth of his presence lingered, an invisible reminder that they were still here, for now. “Don’t worry, Granger,” he said with a grin, though something about it was softer than usual. “We’ll make sure you survive your last year without us. Might even send you a prank or two, just so you don’t get too comfortable.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind the gesture. Instead, she smirked, shaking her head at their predictability. “How generous of you.”

“Oh, extremely,” Fred replied, placing a hand over his heart as if deeply moved by his own benevolence. “We are nothing if not selfless.”

George’s eyes gleamed mischievously, already several steps ahead. “And as Head Girl, we know you’ll be keeping a very close eye on our products next year. All those innocent students wandering the halls, eager for a little harmless mischief… Who better to provide for them than us?”

Hermione groaned, already picturing the absolute headache they were going to cause her. “You do realize that as Head Girl, I’ll have to confiscate every last one of your ridiculous concoctions, don’t you?”

Fred let out a scandalized gasp, clutching his chest as if she had physically wounded him. “Confiscate? Our carefully crafted, highly innovative, completely harmless products?” He shook his head in mock sorrow. “Granger, I’m hurt.”

“Truly wounded,” George added, pressing a dramatic hand to his forehead.

Hermione crossed her arms, unimpressed. “You won’t be wounded until I have to write to McGonagall about the inevitable chaos you’re going to cause.”

Fred’s smirk widened, utterly unbothered. “Oh, c’mon, Granger. You’ll miss the excitement. What’s Hogwarts without a little Weasley-brand mayhem?”

Hermione gave him a long, scrutinizing look, as if debating whether or not to dignify that with an answer. But after a beat, she let out a soft sigh, one she hoped they wouldn’t notice sounded just the tiniest bit reluctant. “Fine,” she admitted, “I suppose it will be a little dull without you.”

George grinned victoriously, throwing his arms up in exaggerated triumph. “See? Progress!”

Fred nudged her playfully with his elbow. “Took you long enough to admit it.”

She shook her head, exasperated but, despite herself, smiling. She hated how easy they made it—how effortlessly they pulled her into their world, made her laugh, made her feel lighter. She hated that she was going to miss them.

The three of them fell into an easy silence, the kind that didn’t need filling with words. The fire in the common room crackled softly, its embers glowing faintly as the evening wore on. Across from them, Ron let out a triumphant cheer as he obliterated another one of Harry’s chess pieces, followed by Harry’s groan of inevitable defeat. The room was alive with the warmth of familiarity, the quiet hum of conversations, the occasional burst of laughter from a group of younger students gathered near the windows.

A week from now, the twins would be walking across that stage, saying goodbye to Hogwarts, stepping into the next grand adventure of their lives.

Chapter Text

The Great Hall was alive with a vibrant buzz that only came once a year—graduation day. The long tables had been replaced with rows of seats, all facing the stage where the headmaster, professors, and special guests would soon sit. The hall was adorned with golden banners that shimmered in the light, each bearing the Hogwarts crest. Flowers in full bloom lined the edges of the stage, and the air smelled faintly of fresh parchment and old magic. There was a certain heaviness that filled the space, as though everyone felt the significance of the day—this was the end of something, a milestone, a turning point for all the students preparing to step into the unknown.

The Gryffindor table was crowded with familiar faces, but amidst the sea of red and gold robes, two stood out above the rest. Fred and George Weasley. They had been a fixture of Hogwarts for seven years, bringing laughter, chaos, and more pranks than any of them could ever count. Their absence in the coming year would leave a gaping hole in the school, but for now, the twins were the centre of attention, just as they always had been.

Hermione sat at the table with Harry and Ron, her heart a little heavy as she watched them. She had never thought of herself as someone who got sentimental over endings, but now, with the reality of their departure settling in, she couldn’t help but feel the sting of it all. This was the last time they’d all be together in this way—no more late-night chats in the common room, no more adventures, no more ridiculous arguments about ridiculous things.

“Well, this is it,” Ron said, a note of awe in his voice as he looked at Fred and George, who were doing their best to look unaffected by the sheer magnitude of the moment.

“It’s really happening,” Harry added, his expression sombre but proud. “They’re actually leaving.”

Hermione didn’t answer right away. She was too busy watching Fred and George, who were both uncharacteristically quiet, their usual bravado replaced by something more thoughtful, almost bittersweet. Fred caught her gaze across the table and winked, his mischievous smile breaking through for just a moment, though it was tinged with a sort of melancholy she hadn’t expected.

The ceremony began with the usual fanfare—Headmaster McGonagall, dignified as ever, gave a long-winded speech about the accomplishments of the students and the bright future ahead of them. She spoke of perseverance, courage, and the importance of upholding the values of Hogwarts. But no one really listened. The words felt like background noise compared to the more pressing reality—the realization that this was the moment they had all been waiting for. The moment of transition.

When the time came for students to step forward and collect their diplomas, Fred and George, of course, were the first to make a spectacle of themselves. As their names were called, they stood together, grinning from ear to ear, both of them making dramatic gestures as though preparing for a grand entrance.

The crowd burst into laughter as Fred tossed a handful of what looked like harmless crackers into the air, only for them to explode into a spectacle of sparkling fireworks. A wave of vibrant reds, golds, and greens burst through the air, showering the Hall with vivid, crackling light. The fireworks fizzled out before they could touch the ground, but the brief, dazzling display was enough to send waves of excitement rippling through the audience. First-years gasped in shock and delight, some squealing with surprise, while the older students, who had come to expect the twins’ antics, laughed and clapped in pure enjoyment. Even a few of the professors, their faces stern and rigid, couldn’t help but allow the faintest of smiles to twitch at the corners of their lips. And then there was Professor McGonagall.

The usually composed Head of Gryffindor stood with her arms crossed, an eyebrow raised in an unmistakable mix of annoyance and amusement, though she could do little to hide the glimmer of affection that shone through her usually stern gaze. She had known, of course, that Fred and George wouldn’t just stroll through the ceremony like everyone else. No, their exit was always going to be a grand one. “You’re supposed to collect your diplomas, not blow up the Hall!” she called out, but even her words lacked their usual sharpness. Instead, there was a warmth in her voice—one that spoke of years spent watching the twins grow from mischievous troublemakers to the young men before her. She was hardly surprised.

Fred and George, grinning like a pair of cats that had just raided the cream jug, shrugged nonchalantly in perfect synchrony. “What’s a Weasley exit without a little fireworks?” Fred boomed, his voice loud and clear, the energy in the room seeming to rise along with his words. The students erupted in laughter and cheers. Some students began chanting “Weasley! Weasley!” while others just shook their heads in disbelief. In that moment, Hogwarts had become one gigantic celebration, and Fred and George were the stars of the show.

With their signature flourish, the twins took a dramatic bow, each sweeping a hand over their chest as though they were performing for an audience of millions. The crowd cheered even louder as they swaggered toward the front of the stage to collect their diplomas, their faces alight with the joy of the moment. Even McGonagall, despite her best efforts to maintain decorum, let a small, exasperated chuckle escape.

From the Gryffindor table, Ron rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the fond smile spreading across his face. He had known Fred and George for years, watched them push boundaries, and pull pranks in ways no one else could. And today, of all days, was no different. “They never do anything the easy way,” he muttered, but there was no trace of annoyance in his voice—only admiration and a touch of pride. Beside him, Harry chuckled. They were going to miss this—miss them.

Hermione, who had been watching the twins with a quiet, sentimental smile, felt a lump in her throat. It wasn’t just another prank. This wasn’t about fireworks or mischief for the sake of a laugh. There was a finality to what Fred and George were doing, a closing chapter that neither of them could escape, no matter how much they would have liked to. They were leaving Hogwarts for good. And this prank, their last at this school, felt like a send-off—an explosion of their personalities, of their way of life, one last time.

As Fred and George stepped forward to receive their diplomas, they lingered for a moment longer than necessary, exchanging a silent look between them. For the first time in years, there was a brief flicker of something other than pure mischief in their eyes—an unspoken understanding that this was it. This was the last time they would be on this stage, the last time they would stand together before the student body, the last time they’d be in the very place where they’d caused so much chaos. It was a poignant moment, but one that only they could fully comprehend.

“We’ll miss you all,” Fred called out suddenly, his voice carrying across the hall with a touch more sincerity than his usual antics allowed. “But don’t worry! We’ll be back to make sure you don’t forget what real fun looks like!” His grin returned in full force as he scanned the room, as if daring anyone to challenge his words.

“Just wait ‘til our joke shop opens,” George added, with a cheeky wink thrown toward the younger students in the audience. “You’ll never look at a broomstick the same way again.”

Laughter erupted around the room once more, and for a moment, it felt as though Hogwarts itself was holding its breath, not wanting to let go of the twins just yet. They weren’t just leaving Hogwarts—they were leaving behind a legacy, an irrepressible force of nature that had touched every corner of the school.

The twins exchanged another quick look, one that was more private than the audience could see, before they took a few more steps toward the stage’s edge. There was no fanfare, no last grand speech. Just Fred, in his usual devil-may-care way, muttering something under his breath as he raised his wand high.

Before anyone could react, a sudden explosion of colour filled the air. Fred’s fireworks burst to life, spiralling upward with breathtaking speed, trailing vibrant, twinkling streaks of red, gold, and green across the ceiling in a spectacular arc. The entire Hall gasped collectively, the brilliance of the display sending the students into a hushed awe. The fireworks seemed to swirl around the rafters like a living thing, exploding into the kind of chaotic beauty that only Fred and George could orchestrate. The crowd leaned forward, eyes wide, as the colours splashed across the ceiling in shimmering patterns.

And then, the grand finale.

In a final, thunderous explosion, the fireworks split apart into a brilliant display of silver and gold, showering the room in a sparkling rain of light. It seemed to hang in the air for a moment, suspended in time before the glittering sparks fell slowly back to earth. When they finally settled, what was left behind wasn’t just the fading embers of a prank—it was a message, a declaration, written in the fiery glow above them for all to see: “THE WEASLEYS WILL BE BACK!”

The crowd was in an uproar. Applause thundered through the Hall, deafening in its intensity, as even the professors, who had spent the last seven years trying to curb the twins’ antics, couldn’t help but be swept up in the sheer brilliance of it all. McGonagall shook her head, a tiny, fond smile curving the edges of her lips, her arms crossed tightly against her chest, though her eyes betrayed a warmth that went deeper than words. The twins had done it again. And as much as she would miss them, she couldn’t deny that Hogwarts would never be the same without them.

Fred and George stood at the front of the stage for a long moment, the room still roaring with applause. They were bathed in the light from their fireworks, their grins widening as they soaked in the chaos and the love that surrounded them. For one last time, they had done what they did best—leaving a mark, making sure that no one would ever forget who the Weasley twins were.

As the applause died down, Fred leaned in toward Hermione, who had been watching them with something in her eyes that he couldn’t quite place. “Don’t worry, Hermione,” he said softly, leaning closer so that only she could hear. “We’ll be back. Don’t worry about that.” His tone was lighter than ever, but there was something beneath it, something deeper that spoke of all the things they hadn’t said yet, of everything they hadn’t yet shared.

Hermione’s smile was bittersweet as she met his eyes, her heart heavy with the knowledge that things were changing in ways she wasn’t sure she was ready for. “Just promise me one thing,” she said, her voice thick with unspoken sentiment. “Promise me you won’t blow up Diagon Alley before then.”

George, who had been listening in, grinned from the side, leaning in with a cheeky glint in his eyes. “Can’t make any promises, Granger,” he teased, nudging her with his elbow. “But we’ll try to keep the explosions to a minimum.”

Fred gave her one last, heartfelt wink before he and George turned to leave, their steps echoing in the grand hall. The crowd parted for them, and as they made their way toward the doors, Fred, ever the showman, threw one last firework into the air. It exploded above the hall with a deafening crack, scattering colourful sparks like confetti, leaving behind the letters "WEASLEYS FOREVER."

And then, just like that, they were gone.

The twins stepped out of Hogwarts for the final time, their footsteps echoing in the stillness of the courtyard, leaving behind a trail of laughter, mischief, and a legacy that would forever be woven into the fabric of the castle. Hermione stood at the entrance, watching them disappear into the distance, her heart heavy with the weight of the moment. Everything was changing, and it was hard to imagine Hogwarts without Fred and George’s constant energy, their wild antics, and the chaos they so effortlessly created.

But as she glanced around at her friends—Ron, Harry, and the rest of the familiar faces who would still be there next year—Hermione couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of hope. Yes, things were changing, but that didn’t mean it was the end. Fred and George may have been leaving, but their influence would remain, etched into the very walls of Hogwarts and into her heart, a reminder of the fun and the freedom they had brought to their school days. It wasn’t goodbye, not really. The twins had made sure of that.

Chapter Text

Amidst the usual bustle of Diagon Alley—the chatter of eager shoppers, the clinking of coins exchanging hands, the rich aroma of fresh parchment mingling with the scent of Butterbeer from the nearby pub—one storefront stood apart from the rest, as if demanding attention with its very existence.

Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

Hermione had heard all about the shop’s booming success through Ron’s enthusiastic letters, each one filled with exclamations about how their brothers were revolutionizing the joke industry. But no amount of second-hand accounts could have prepared her for the sheer spectacle before her.

The massive, gaudily painted sign above the entrance flashed in dazzling bursts of colour, shifting from a brilliant magenta to an eye-watering orange in rapid succession. Words danced across its surface in swirling, animated script: “Uncontrollable Laughter Guaranteed!” and “Mayhem in a Bottle – Only 5 Galleons!” As if that weren’t enough, a towering, enchanted mannequin of a red-haired wizard—undeniably Fred or George—stood just above the doorway, winking and tipping an oversized top hat as he occasionally performed a dramatic bow.

Above the building, fireworks crackled and exploded in midair, their shimmering sparks rearranging themselves into cheeky messages before vanishing into nothingness. “New! Skiving Snackboxes – Fool Any Professor!” one proclaimed in looping golden letters. Another exploded into a giant, glowing grin with flashing words beneath it: “Trouble Has Never Been So Fun!”

The windows were just as chaotic, packed with a dizzying array of products. One display featured a cauldron spewing neon green smoke, with a sign that read: “Fainting Fancies – Collapse on Command!” Nearby, a row of Extendable Ears slithered off their stands, stretching toward the street as if eager to eavesdrop. Every available inch of space was bursting with colour, movement, and an overwhelming sense of organized mischief.

Shaking her head with an amused smile, Hermione adjusted the strap of her bag and stepped inside. The moment she crossed the threshold, she was met with an explosion of sights and sounds. The store was packed with customers—young students eagerly browsing shelves stacked with Skiving Snackboxes, Nosebleed Nougat, and Puking Pastilles, while older witches and wizards marvelled at the more eccentric displays like the new Perpetually Pranking Portraits, which winked and jeered at unsuspecting passersby.

A loud pop echoed through the store, followed by a high-pitched shriek of laughter. Hermione instinctively turned toward the commotion, just in time to sidestep a whizzing puff of rainbow-colored smoke that shot past her and dissipated into the air. A moment later, a group of young boys erupted into gleeful giggles, clutching their newly acquired Decoy Detonators like prized possessions. One of them pressed the small device again, sending another burst of harmless—but blindingly bright—purple mist into the air, much to the delight of his friends.

The shop was alive with movement, every corner bursting with colour and chaos. Shelves stocked with Sneakoscopes and Shield Hats lined the walls, while stacks of brightly wrapped Skiving Snackboxes teetered precariously on enchanted displays that adjusted their height to tempt potential buyers. A floating sign near the ceiling gleamed in shifting golden letters: “Buy One Puking Pastille, Get the Second Half Off! (Literally.)”

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t our favourite bookworm,” a familiar voice drawled from behind her.

Hermione turned, already knowing exactly who she would find. Fred Weasley stood leaning against a nearby shelf, arms crossed over his chest, his signature grin firmly in place. A few feet away, George appeared beside him, mirroring his brother’s stance with an equally mischievous glint in his eyes. The two of them looked entirely in their element, dressed in matching maroon and gold waistcoats—though, knowing them, the colour-shifting fabric was probably charmed to change at random intervals.

She rolled her eyes, though the affectionate smile tugging at her lips was impossible to suppress. “I take it business is booming?”

“Booming, exploding, and occasionally backfiring,” George replied cheerfully, nodding toward the far corner of the shop.

Hermione followed his gaze and spotted a young wizard struggling to remove a pair of Ever-Sticking Spectacles from his face. No matter how hard he pulled, the glasses remained stubbornly in place, the charm clearly working a little too well. Nearby, an exasperated shop assistant was flipping through a product manual, muttering under her breath as she scanned the pages for the proper countercurse.

Fred smirked, rubbing his hands together. “Ah, music to our ears.”

Hermione shook her head, a mixture of amusement and exasperation flickering across her face. “Should I even ask what went wrong?”

George, ever the picture of nonchalance, waved a hand dismissively as if the situation barely warranted concern. “Oh, that? Nothing major,” he said, his tone light and unconcerned. “We made some tiny adjustments to the adhesive formula—purely for scientific innovation, mind you—and may have, accidentally, made them slightly… permanent.”

Hermione’s brows shot up, her gaze flicking back to the unfortunate boy still clawing at the Ever-Sticking Spectacles attached to his face. His frantic movements had only grown more desperate, his muffled complaints barely audible over the steady hum of the shop’s activity.

Fred, watching the scene unfold, smirked and clapped his hands together. “On the bright side,” he continued, the mischievous glint in his eyes only sharpening, “they’re incredibly theft-proof now. No one will ever be able to steal them off your face.” He grinned at Hermione, as if expecting her to be thoroughly impressed. “That’s an improvement, if you ask me.”

She let out a long-suffering sigh. “I think I’d rather not ask you.”

Fred only chuckled, clearly undeterred. With an effortless shift in conversation, he turned his full attention back to her, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “And you, Hermione? What brings you to our humble establishment? Finally giving in to the undeniable allure of mischief?”

Hermione arched a single, unimpressed brow. “I just got back from France yesterday,” she answered smoothly, neatly sidestepping his bait with practiced ease. “Thought I’d stop by and see how the two of you were faring in the world of responsible business ownership.”

At her words, the twins exchanged a glance—one of those silent, perfectly synchronized looks that only years of brotherly mischief could refine. Then, as if on cue, they both burst into laughter, the sound so loud and unrestrained that a few nearby customers turned to see what was so amusing.

“Responsible?” Fred wheezed, clutching his chest as if she had just delivered a fatal blow. “Oh, Hermione, you do crack us up.”

“Truly, the funniest thing we’ve heard all day,” George added, wiping away an imaginary tear as he shook his head in mock disbelief. “Responsible! Us! Can you imagine?”

Hermione sighed, though she didn’t bother hiding her smirk. “I should have known better than to expect a serious response.”

“But to answer your question,” George said, finally composing himself, though the grin never left his face, “we’re thriving. Turns out, Hogwarts trained us exceptionally well in the fine art of controlled chaos.”

Hermione crossed her arms, tilting her head in skeptical amusement. “And by controlled, you mean…?”

Fred waved a hand dismissively, his expression far too relaxed for someone managing what was essentially a legally sanctioned danger zone. “Oh, you know—most customers leave the store mostly intact, and our employees only suffer minor hex-related injuries on occasion.” He flashed her an easy grin. “That’s about as controlled as we get.”

Hermione’s lips twitched. “Reassuring,” she deadpanned, though the sarcasm in her voice did little to deter either of them.

George, as if sensing an opportunity, leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Oh, don’t worry, we offer excellent medical coverage.”

Fred nodded sagely, crossing his arms as though discussing a thoroughly reasonable workplace policy. “And hazard pay. Can’t forget hazard pay.”

Hermione sighed, shaking her head. “You two really are ridiculous.”

She let her gaze wander around the shop again, taking in the dazzling array of magical products stacked on the shelves, the enchanted advertisements flashing overhead, and the steady stream of customers filtering in and out. Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was every bit as successful as she had imagined—and then some.

“I still can’t believe how much this place has grown,” she admitted. “I knew from Ron’s letters that you two were doing well, but seeing it in person is…” She trailed off, struggling to find the right word.

“Breathtaking? Revolutionary? An absolute stroke of genius?” Fred supplied helpfully.

“Chaotic,” Hermione corrected, though there was clear admiration in her voice.

Fred placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. “Oh, Hermione, your praise is overwhelming.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but her attention drifted momentarily as a memory surfaced.

She had just returned from France the previous evening—a holiday tradition her parents had upheld for as long as she could remember. Every summer, they would pick a different region to explore, immersing themselves in the culture, the history, and, of course, the food. This year had been Provence, a picturesque escape of lavender fields and sun-drenched villages. She had spent the last few weeks wandering cobbled streets, visiting ancient castles, and indulging in fresh pastries at quaint little cafés.

It had been… nice.

Peaceful.

But it had also been strange.

For the first time, she had felt a sense of restlessness, an ache for something more. She had realized—somewhere between visiting the Palace of the Popes and sailing down the Gorges du Verdon—that home wasn’t just a place anymore. It wasn’t just the house she had grown up in, or the destinations her parents took her to every summer. It was this. The world she had found beyond their ordinary lives. The friendships, the magic, the ridiculous, wonderful nonsense of people like Fred and George Weasley.

Maybe that was why she had come here first—before visiting the Burrow, before unpacking her trunk—why she had needed to see this place with her own eyes.

“So,” Fred said suddenly, breaking through Hermione’s thoughts with his usual effortless charm. “How was France this time? Learn anything exciting? Master the art of eating an entire baguette in one sitting?”

“Or,” George added, wiggling his eyebrows in that infuriatingly mischievous way of his, “did you finally give in and try a little mischief, just for the fun of it?”

Hermione let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “France was lovely, as always,” she said, deliberately sidestepping George’s suggestion. She had spent years perfecting the art of ignoring their bait, though the twins still made it difficult at times. “This year, we went to Provence—it’s absolutely breathtaking. The lavender fields stretch on for miles, and the scent is everywhere. The towns are charming, all cobbled streets and markets full of fresh bread, flowers, and the best fruit you can imagine.”

Fred sighed dramatically, leaning against a shelf. “Ah, to be rich and sophisticated.”

George smirked. “Truly, an elegant life you lead, Hermione. But we both know what we really want to hear about. Any chaos? A little mayhem, perhaps? Tell me you at least knocked over a ridiculously overpriced bottle of perfume in some posh shop.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Not everything is about mayhem, you know. We visited Roman ruins, spent a day in Avignon—oh, and my parents went on a few vineyard tours.”

Fred perked up instantly. “And you?” he asked, his grin widening. “Did you go on any of these vineyard tours? Swirl the wine, sniff it, mumble something about ‘oaky undertones’?”

Hermione huffed. “No, I did not. I stuck to sparkling water while my parents discussed tannins and aging processes.”

George placed a hand over his chest, feigning disappointment. “A tragedy, truly.”

“But,” Hermione continued, lifting her chin, “I did eat an unreasonable amount of cheese.”

Fred gasped, clearly scandalized. “Hold on, I think the real tragedy here is that you didn’t bring us back any of this allegedly excessive cheese.”

George nodded in solemn agreement. “Shameful, really. Neglectful, even. You spend so much time with us, and yet, you still fail to anticipate our most basic needs.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but the corners of her lips twitched in amusement. “Oh, stop your whining. I did bring you something, actually.”

Both twins straightened instantly, eyes lighting up with curiosity.

Fred clutched his chest again, this time in mock sentimentality. “Hermione,” he said, voice thick with exaggerated emotion, “you shouldn’t have.”

“Oh, but I did,” she said smugly, reaching into her bag. She pulled out a small, neatly wrapped package and handed it to them. “It’s a box of Calissons d’Aix—a specialty from the region. They’re made with almonds, candied melon, and orange blossom.”

George eagerly unwrapped the package, revealing the delicate, diamond-shaped confections inside. He picked one up with a reverence usually reserved for magical artifacts. “Well, well, well,” he murmured, inspecting it as though he had just uncovered a priceless treasure. “Would you look at that? She does care.”

Hermione smirked. “Don’t get used to it.”

Fred popped one into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before humming in satisfaction. “Not bad, Hermione. Not bad at all.” He swallowed and flashed her a cheeky grin. “You might just be growing on us.”

Hermione shook her head, knowing full well she had grown on them a long time ago.

Chapter Text

"Come on, let us give you the grand tour," George said before Hermione could protest. In one swift motion, he slung an arm around her shoulders, effectively trapping her, and began steering her through the shop with the confident ease of someone who knew exactly where he wanted to go. Hermione sighed, half-heartedly considering wriggling free, but in the end, she allowed it. There was no fighting the Weasley twins when they were determined.

As they moved through the aisles, Hermione couldn’t help but take in the sheer spectacle of the shop. Every inch of the place was bursting with colour, mischief, and what could only be described as organized chaos. Floating signs hovered overhead, flashing animated advertisements in shimmering, magical text. Some of them were rather dramatic—"Defend Yourself! Shield Hats Now Come with Extra Hex Deflection!"—while others were far more absurd. One particularly enthusiastic sign above a barrel of fizzing candies read, "Explosive Sweets: Because Life is Better When It’s Slightly Unpredictable!"

She was grudgingly impressed.

It wasn’t just a joke shop—it was an experience. Every display, every product, even the way the aisles were arranged had an air of calculated mayhem. She had expected a disorganized, chaotic mess, but no, there was a method to the madness. It was clear the twins had poured their very souls into the business, and it was paying off.

“You know,” she said as they passed a section labelled ‘Weasley’s Whimsical Wands – Guaranteed to Cause a Scene,’ “as Head Girl next year, I should really be taking notes on all the things I’ll have to confiscate from students.”

Fred, who had been inspecting a rather suspicious-looking black box labelled "Pocket-Sized Pandemonium", gasped, clutching his chest as though she had struck him. “You wound us, Hermione,” he said dramatically, staggering slightly as if on the verge of collapse.

George placed a solemn hand on her shoulder. “But we respect the dedication,” he said with a grave nod, his voice full of faux sincerity.

Hermione rolled her eyes, though the amused twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

Fred grinned. “Clever girl.”

As they continued walking, Hermione took the time to admire the craftsmanship behind some of the products. A display of Patented Daydream Charms caught her eye, the tiny bottles gleaming enticingly under a hovering golden light. Beside them, a glass case held Decoy Detonators, their sleek designs practically daring students to sneak them into classrooms.

She could just imagine the absolute mayhem these would cause at Hogwarts.

Finally, they reached the checkout counter, where a mountain of Galleons sat in the till. The sight of so much gold piled together was staggering. The sheer success of the shop was undeniable, and for the first time, Hermione truly grasped the scale of what Fred and George had accomplished.

They had done it.

They had taken an idea, a dream, and turned it into something real—something thriving.

She turned to them, genuine admiration in her expression. “I have to hand it to you both. This place is incredible.”

Fred and George exchanged a look, the pride in their eyes unmistakable. They might joke endlessly, but they knew what they had built, and they were proud of it.

“Well, in the spirit of generosity,” Fred began, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “we’d like to offer you a complimentary gift.” He flashed her one of his signature grins, the kind that always seemed to promise trouble.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed instinctively. “Should I be concerned?” she asked, her tone betraying a hint of amusement, though she was already mentally preparing herself for whatever absurdity was about to unfold.

“Absolutely,” George replied with a wink, grinning ear to ear as he reached beneath the counter. His hand emerged holding a small, brightly coloured box, the kind of thing that could easily pass for a child’s toy, but Hermione had learned long ago to never underestimate their creations. With exaggerated care, George pressed it into her hands, his fingers brushing hers for a moment in the sort of casual contact that always felt just a bit too deliberate.

Curious despite herself, Hermione turned the box over in her hands, her fingers tracing the embossed lettering. “Instant Daydream Charm?” she read aloud, furrowing her brow. She gave it a shake, but the box remained silent. “What exactly does this do?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, though the sceptical tone in her voice was clear.

Fred leaned in with an almost predatory glint in his eyes, waggling his eyebrows. “Perfect for those long, boring Head Girl meetings,” he said in his best suggestion-that-was-anything-but-suggestions voice. “Just a single drop of focus, and you’ll be off on a thrilling adventure—without ever leaving your seat!” He grinned, looking as if he could already see Hermione swept away by her dream-filled travels.

Hermione snorted, immediately shaking her head as she glanced up at him with an expression of disbelief. “I am the Head Girl, Fred. I can’t very well sit through meetings while mentally gallivanting through a dream world. What would McGonagall say?”

“Oh, details, details,” George interjected with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You don’t have to use it, of course. But it’s nice to have options, isn’t it?” His tone was light, but there was something almost mischievous about it, as if he was already picturing Hermione casting a casual glance at the Daydream Charm during one of the countless hours she spent in stuffy, monotonous meetings.

Fred, not to be outdone, leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if he was sharing a top-secret piece of advice. “Hypothetically speaking, though…” he trailed off, giving Hermione a pointed look, “if you were to use it, I’d highly recommend doing so during one of McGonagall’s lectures on school policy enforcement. You know the one—the forty-five-minute monologue about unauthorized spell usage in the corridors.” Fred was practically vibrating with barely-contained amusement. “Trust me, that lecture could put even the most alert wizard into a deep daydream. You’d hardly be able to resist.”

George added his own two cents, leaning in with a wink. “Or better yet,” he said, his voice dropping a little lower, “use it during a Prefect meeting when Percy’s old replacement starts droning on and on about corridor patrol rotations. Honestly, Hermione, that’s when you’ll really be begging for an escape.”

Despite herself, Hermione bit her lip, trying very hard not to laugh. The absurdity of their suggestions—the thought of sitting through yet another one of those lectures, her eyes glazing over while her mind floated off into a fantastical adventure—was almost too much. It was a scenario she could easily imagine, and the mental image of McGonagall’s stoic face reacting to her sudden, unintentional daydreaming was enough to make her shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. “You two are unbelievable,” she muttered, shaking her head, unable to suppress the fond smile tugging at her lips.

Fred gave an exaggerated bow, placing a hand over his heart as though accepting a compliment. “Why, thank you, Hermione. It’s always nice to be recognized for our finest work.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” George added with a wink, his grin widening as he gave a mock bow of his own.

Hermione glanced at the little box in her hands again, the colourful packaging now looking oddly inviting in the dim lighting of the shop. She sighed, knowing full well she was far too curious about the charm to leave without it. “Fine,” she said, slipping it into her bag with a resigned air. “But if this thing gets me into trouble, I’m blaming you both.” Her voice carried just the slightest note of exasperation, though it was more than outweighed by her fondness for the twins.

Fred grinned wider, practically gleaming with satisfaction. “Oh, please do. We love a good scandal,” he said, his voice laced with playful mischief. “You know we’ll take the credit.”

George nodded sagely, crossing his arms in a way that made him look far too serious. “And honestly, if McGonagall catches you using it, she’ll probably just be impressed with the ingenuity.”

Hermione huffed a laugh. “Doubtful,” she said, shaking her head, though she could already picture McGonagall’s disapproving stare, and yet… the idea of getting away with it was undeniably tempting.

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Fred lamented, shaking his head as though saddened by her lack of confidence in their latest innovation.

Hermione glanced at the bag on her shoulder, feeling a strange sort of warmth in her chest. Maybe it was just nostalgia, or maybe it was something else entirely, but standing there in the middle of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, she felt… lighter.

For all the changes, all the uncertainty the future held, some things remained wonderfully, absurdly constant.

Fred and George, for one.

Chapter Text

The apartment above Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was a curious place, much like the brothers who inhabited it. It was a chaotic mess of mismatched furniture, the walls adorned with posters advertising their latest concoctions—“Exploding Candy: The Only Treat That Bites Back!” and “Pineapple-Infused Pygmy Puff Soap: It’s Not Just for Bath Time Anymore!”—and the air was always thick with the scent of magic and sweet explosions. Despite the mayhem that ruled the downstairs shop, the apartment had a strangely comfortable feel—familiar and warm, like a haven where Fred and George could be themselves without the constant pressure of running a growing business.

Hermione sat on the worn-out couch that had once been bright green but now was a faded shade, a large book propped open in her lap. She was surrounded by the usual disarray: scattered papers, unlit sparklers, a few odd trinkets from the shop, and a half-eaten sandwich on a plate beside her. She had been sitting there for the better part of an hour, reading, but her attention kept drifting. The brothers were, as usual, making noise somewhere in the kitchen, their voices barely audible over the clinking of dishes and the occasional burst of laughter. They’d been in high spirits all afternoon, as they usually were when they weren’t buried in work, but today, Hermione found it harder than usual to fully immerse herself in the easy banter.

The truth was, she was feeling a little out of sorts. The summer had flown by, just like every year before it, and soon, it would be time for her to return to Hogwarts for her final year. A year that would, inevitably, lead to the end of this chapter of her life. The thought of leaving this place, of not being able to see Fred and George nearly every day, weighed on her more than she cared to admit. But she couldn’t—wouldn’t—say any of that aloud. It was silly, wasn’t it? To feel so attached to them when she knew the real world, and her responsibilities as Head Girl, were waiting. She could focus on her studies and figure out her future once school was over.

But for now, she just wished she had more time with them.

Hermione sighed softly, adjusting her position on the couch and trying to get comfortable again. Her eyes flickered back to the pages of the book, but the words seemed to blur together as her thoughts wandered.

In the kitchen, Fred and George had finally emerged, each carrying a steaming mug of what smelled like hot chocolate. The sight of them, so perfectly synchronized, made her smile despite herself. They looked a little bit like mischief incarnate, with the easy confidence that came from having not just a thriving business, but also a sense of having conquered the world—at least, the world of jokes, tricks, and laughter.

Fred was the first to notice her distracted expression. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he exchanged a quick, silent glance with George. Without hesitation, Fred dropped onto the armrest next to Hermione, setting his mug on the coffee table before leaning in, his voice casual but with a hint of concern.

"Something on your mind, Hermione?" he asked, his fingers brushing the side of her book as he tried to catch her eye. His grin was playful, but the look in his eyes was softer than usual.

Hermione blinked, forcing herself out of her thoughts and up to meet his gaze. She quickly closed her book and set it aside, a practiced smile appearing on her face as she waved him off. “Oh, nothing,” she said lightly, but the words didn’t feel right as they left her mouth. “Just thinking.”

George appeared a moment later, his grin mischievous, eyes twinkling with that usual mischievous glint. He perched himself on the coffee table in front of her, his legs stretched out casually, leaning back on his hands. “Thinking, huh?” he said with mock surprise. “Dangerous stuff.”

Fred raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying the act. “You sure? Because you’ve been awfully quiet.” He tilted his head, studying her intently. “I think someone’s feeling a little melancholy about going back to school.”

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat, and she sat up straighter, immediately shaking her head. "I’m not," she protested, though her voice had an edge to it that she immediately regretted. She had tried to avoid thinking about how much she would miss the twins in the coming months, and hearing Fred say it out loud only made it worse. "I’m just… I’m fine," she added quickly, brushing her hair back with a hand, though the defensive tone in her voice didn’t help hide the truth.

Fred’s lips curled into a teasing grin. “Fine, huh?” he repeated. “Because, you know, you’re usually so full of energy and excitement when school rolls around.” He lowered his voice mockingly. “It’s not like you’re the first person in line for the Head Girl duties or anything, right?”

Hermione rolled her eyes in an exaggerated gesture. “It’s not that,” she said, her voice softening. “It’s just… I don’t know. It feels like everything is changing, and I’m not sure I’m ready for it.” She hesitated before continuing. “I mean, next year, we’ll all be graduated and... I don’t know where we’ll be, or what we’ll be doing. I guess I’m just… not sure about leaving this behind. This place. You two.”

George’s grin softened, and for the first time that afternoon, he dropped his usual teasing. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, looking at her with an uncharacteristic seriousness. “Change is inevitable,” he said, his voice quieter now. “But that doesn’t mean it has to be bad.” He let out a soft laugh. “You’ve got us, Hermione. We’re not going anywhere. We’ll always be here for you, whether it’s for a chat, a laugh, or a ridiculous amount of pranks to keep you occupied.”

Fred nodded, crossing his arms as he leaned back into the couch, looking down at her with a fond expression. “Exactly,” he added. “You think we’ll let you be bored at school? Please.” He leaned in closer, his eyes gleaming with the familiar mischief that never really left him. “By the time we’re done with you, you’ll be so busy dodging pranks and dealing with our little surprises, you won’t have time to miss us.”

Hermione couldn’t suppress the smile that tugged at her lips, even though she knew she was trying to hide how much she’d miss them. "Pranks?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "You two really think I’ll get involved in all that nonsense when I’m busy trying to pass my N.E.W.T.s and keep my prefects in line?"

“You’ll have to make time for us,” Fred replied, his voice full of assurance as he nudged George, who had clearly been itching to add his own spin to the conversation.

George leaned back, crossing his arms smugly. “Maybe we’ll send you a few things—nothing too big, just a few of our more creative products. A bit of fun to break up all that studying.” His smile widened as he gave her an almost conspiratorial look. “A few surprise packages for Hermione Granger, Head Girl. You won’t be able to say no.”

Fred wiggled his eyebrows, leaning in with a mischievous glint in his eye. "So, what do you say?" he asked, his tone teasing. "You could use a little excitement to balance out all those essays, right? You might even find yourself sneaking down to the kitchen in the middle of the night, just to avoid the madness in the common room." His grin widened as if he was already imagining the trouble they could stir up.

Hermione opened her mouth to give a response, but then paused, a soft sigh escaping before she could stop it. Her gaze drifted to the window, where the last rays of sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting a warm glow across the room. It was strange, this quiet moment, with so much still ahead of her and so much left behind. The truth was, she wasn’t just dreading the school year—she was dreading the distance. She’d spent so much time with Fred and George this summer, and despite all the laughter and chaos, it had become clear how much she’d come to rely on their presence. The easy banter, the familiar comfort, the way they could always make her laugh even on the most difficult days—it would be hard to go back to the more rigid structure of Hogwarts without them.

Before she could let that thought linger too long, she shook her head, willing herself to focus. She forced a smile, one she hoped looked more convincing than it felt, and set her book aside. "I’ll survive," she said, the words tumbling out a bit more lightly than they felt. Her voice was firm, but there was an underlying wistfulness that even she couldn’t entirely disguise.

Fred’s keen eyes caught the change in her tone, and he leaned in closer, his expression softening. "You sure?" he asked, his voice quieter now, laced with concern. He studied her, trying to gauge what she wasn’t saying. "Because if you need reminding, Hermione," he added with a playful wink, "we’ll make sure you never forget that we’re just a Floo away. And if you start getting too serious on us, we’ll send you a little something to remind you how fun life can be." His words were light, but there was a sincerity beneath them, the kind that made her chest tighten in a way she didn’t know how to explain.

George, who had been leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, pushed himself off the wall and came to sit on the coffee table, close enough that his knee brushed hers. His eyes were soft, and he spoke with an earnestness that was rare for him. "Exactly," he said, his voice warm, like he was trying to offer comfort without it feeling forced. "We’ll always be here. You’re never really alone, Hermione." He paused for a moment, glancing at Fred before looking back at her. "Besides, if you ever start missing us too much, just think of all the trouble we’ll be causing in the background. You won’t have time to feel lonely."

Hermione swallowed, her throat tight as she looked between them—Fred, with his usual teasing grin, and George, with his unexpectedly gentle tone. She had never realized just how much their presence had come to mean to her until now, in this quiet moment of vulnerability. They had always been constants in her life, even when things felt uncertain. Fred and George, their banter, their jokes, their chaotic love for life—they were all part of her Hogwarts experience, part of the very fabric of her world. The thought of being away from them, even for a short while, left a hollow feeling in her chest.

She cleared her throat, trying to mask the lump that had formed. "I know. Thanks, you two," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She couldn’t say anything more; the words seemed inadequate, and besides, it wasn’t like her to wear her emotions on her sleeve. But she meant it, more than they could know.

Fred and George exchanged a look—one of those silent twin communications that didn’t need words—and for a moment, the room fell into a rare quiet. But then, as if on cue, Fred broke the silence with a grin that could melt any lingering sadness.

"Now, enough of the sentimentality," he said, his voice light and teasing once again, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "We’ve got trouble to cause, memories to make, and pranks to perfect before you head back to school. You won’t be able to escape us that easily, Hermione." He stretched his arms dramatically, like he was ready to leap into action. "Trust me, we’re not done with you yet."

George chuckled, leaning forward, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Yeah, and just when you think you’ve got it all figured out, we’ll send you something guaranteed to shake things up." He raised an eyebrow. "How’s that for a proper distraction from all your prefect duties?"

Hermione couldn’t help it—she let out a laugh, the sound escaping her despite herself. She leaned back against the couch, shaking her head at the two of them. "I guess I’ll just have to brace myself for the chaos you two will unleash on Hogwarts," she said, her voice laced with mock exasperation. "I’m sure my N.E.W.T.s will thank you for the added stress." But even as she said it, there was a genuine smile on her face, the first one in a while that reached her eyes.

Fred grinned widely, clearly pleased to have lightened the mood. "You’re welcome in advance," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"And don’t forget," George added with a wink, "we’ll be right there, pulling the strings behind the scenes, making sure you never have a dull moment." His tone was conspiratorial, like he was already planning something mischievous to send her way.

Chapter Text

The platform at King’s Cross Station was bustling with the usual flurry of activity that accompanied the start of every new school year. The air was thick with excitement and goodbyes as students and their families crowded around the towering platform, making final preparations for the journey to Hogwarts. Hermione stood with her parents, her mother’s arm wrapped around her in a warm hug while her father tried to balance a stack of luggage.

Despite the jovial atmosphere, there was a heavy feeling in the pit of Hermione’s stomach. The summer had been full of laughter, adventures, and, of course, endless hours spent at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, but now the time had come to say goodbye once more. It wasn’t so much that she dreaded returning to Hogwarts—it was the thought of the distance between her and Fred and George that weighed on her. She could already feel the ache of missing them, even though they stood only a few feet away, laughing and teasing Ginny as she loaded her things onto the train.

"Don’t forget to write to us, Ginny!" Molly called out. "And keep an eye on Ron, alright? Make sure he remembers to eat something other than chocolate frogs."

Ginny rolled her eyes, but the smile on her face was fond. "I’ll try, Mum, but no promises about Ron," she replied. Then, her gaze flicked to Fred and George, who were busy trying to sneak some of their latest products into Ron’s bag when Molly wasn’t looking.

Hermione glanced over at the twins, her heart giving a little lurch as she watched them effortlessly joke around with Ginny and Ron. It had been a magical summer, but as the train loomed closer to departure, she couldn’t help but feel the familiar ache that came with the thought of leaving them behind. The twins had been a constant in her life, and the idea of being away from them, even for just another year, felt strangely difficult.

"Everything alright, darling?" her mother asked, her voice bringing Hermione back to the present.

Hermione smiled faintly, her gaze still lingering on Fred and George. "Yeah, just… thinking," she replied, though the words felt empty. She didn’t want to admit how much she would miss them.

Her mother nodded knowingly, giving her a soft squeeze. "It’s hard, I know. But you’re going to have a great year at Hogwarts. And we’ll always be just a Floo call away."

"I know, Mum," Hermione said with a small nod, her throat tight.

The Weasleys were gathered together, their usual boisterous energy filling the air. Arthur and Molly stood near Ron and Ginny, giving their final words of advice, while Fred and George were leaning casually against a pillar, looking over at Hermione with knowing glances. Every now and then, one would wink at her, but neither made any move to come closer just yet. They were waiting for the right moment.

"Alright, Ron, don’t do anything stupid," Fred said loudly, clapping his younger brother on the back, but his eyes flicked to Hermione as he spoke, the hint of a grin tugging at his lips.

"Don’t let him off the hook too easily, Ginny. You know he’s hopeless without you," George chimed in, his voice teasing as he adjusted the strap of his bag.

Hermione watched the interaction, her heart feeling a little heavy. As Ron and Ginny moved toward the train, she lingered a moment longer, wishing she could bottle up this last moment with everyone, knowing it would be some time before they were all together again.

"Hey, Granger," Fred’s voice broke through her thoughts, and she turned to find both him and George walking toward her, their mischievous smiles softened by something else—something more sincere. They stopped in front of her, and for a moment, the chatter of the station seemed to fade away.

"Don’t think we’re just going to let you get away without a proper goodbye, are you?" George said, his smile warm.

Fred’s eyes sparkled. "You’re stuck with us, Granger. Even if we’re not in the same school this year, we’ll find a way to make sure you know we’re thinking of you."

Hermione chuckled softly, though the flutter in her chest betrayed her calm demeanor. She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she simply nodded, her heart full of affection for the two of them.

Fred stepped forward first, placing a hand on her shoulder with a soft, teasing grin. "We’ll miss you, Granger," he said, his voice quieter than usual, but still carrying that mischievous edge.

Before she could reply, he leaned in, his lips brushing lightly against her cheek in a kiss that lingered for only a moment—just enough for her to feel the warmth of it against her skin. He pulled back, his smile broader now. "Don’t go getting too serious over there, alright? We’ll need you to keep your sense of humor intact."

George followed suit, though he didn’t waste any time. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close in an unexpectedly gentle gesture. "You better write us, Hermione," he said, his voice low and sincere. "We’re only a letter, a prank, or a sneaky delivery away."

Before she could respond, George’s lips brushed her cheek as well, leaving behind a soft, lingering warmth. When he pulled away, his eyes met hers with something more than mischief in them—something that made her breath catch in her throat.

"Take care of yourself, yeah?" George said quietly, his usual humor replaced by something a little more vulnerable.

Hermione blinked, her heart racing slightly as she looked between the two of them. They stood there, close but still giving her space, the weight of their gestures not lost on her.

"I—" she began, but her voice caught in her throat. There were no words for this moment, nothing she could say that would fully convey how much they meant to her, how much this summer had meant, how much she would miss them.

Fred, sensing her struggle, smiled that familiar, teasing smile of his, though it was tinged with something softer. "No need for all the mushy stuff, Granger. We know you’ll miss us. But don’t worry," he winked, "we’ll make sure you can’t get away from us that easily."

George nodded, his smirk returning, but there was something fond in his gaze. "Exactly. We’re not that easy to forget."

Hermione gave a soft laugh, wiping at her eyes before she could make it too obvious how close she was to tearing up. She wasn’t sure what it was about them—whether it was their humor or their genuine care, but the thought of leaving them behind made her feel like a piece of her was being pulled away.

"I’ll try not to," she said finally, her voice thick with emotion.

With a final shared glance, the twins stepped back, giving her a moment of space, though they both seemed reluctant to leave her side. Behind them, the train whistle blew, signaling that the departure was imminent.

"Go on," Fred said, nudging her toward the train with a mischievous wink. "Before the train leaves without you, Granger."

Hermione gave them one last smile, this one full of warmth and gratitude, before she turned and stepped onto the train, knowing this was not a goodbye forever—but it would still be a long while before they’d all be together again.

As the train pulled away, she stood by the window, her eyes lingering on Fred and George, their faces full of laughter and warmth. She knew, without a doubt, that no matter how far away they were, they’d always be there—waiting for her with their pranks, their support, and their love.