Author's Note:

I am not going to lie, this piece is just a fun fluff piece. I have been writing a very serious fic, with an intense plot line, called Love and War. I have put a lot into that chaptered fic, but after investing so much into it, I needed to have a little fun and write something that was a little bit silly. I came up with the idea a while back and I figured I would refine it. I hope you guys find some joy in it.


A Prank To End All Pranks
Chapter One

Desperate Times


The library was dim and quiet as always; the smell of musky ink and parchment lingered in the air, a scent which always put Hermione Granger at ease. She sat comfortably, nestled in her chair as she put the finishing touches on the potions essay she had been working on for the last four hours. Her quill fell silent after scratching out her closing sentence and, with a sigh of relief, Hermione began returning her textbooks to their proper place. She was rounding Aisle 114: Ingredients and Magical Artefacts when she heard a familiar voice.

"She's mental if she thinks I'm helping her." The unmistakeable Ronald Weasley's yelled loudly, his words echoing across the high ceilings. Hermione stopped her dead in her tracks; the many books which rested in her forearms trembled with unease. "S.P.E.W was one thing, but this is ridiculous."

"Ron," another voice mumbled, shushing Ron, and Hermione placed her books down on the side table before carefully making her way down the aisle. It sounded like Harry, but she was not quite sure. The mumbled words became clearer as she reached the end of the row, and when he spoke again, Hermione was sure it was him. "We both know it'll never pass. Goblins aren't going to get equal wages; no one likes them anyway." The voice broke out into a soft snicker, and Hermione almost let out a gasp. Were they laughing at her? How could they laugh at her? Ron, well, he would laugh at her, and probably not hide it in the slightest, but Harry? She peeled a book from the shelf, looking through the empty hole where it once sat. Ron, Harry, and Ginny were sitting at a work table, looking down at the petition she wrote for them to read.

"She's our friend," Ginny spoke up, and Hermione smiled in relief. Ginny Weasley was her friend; she always stood up for Hermione. Like Hermione would for Ginny. This was friendship at its finest. The boys would learn a lesson now. "Just play along for her sake." Maybe, she jumped to conclusions a little too soon. Her eyes got glassy, and her breath hitched in an attempt to keep in a sob. The only people she thought would understand her ambition to assist magical creatures were mocking her. The support she thought was there was all a lie. They faked it out of pity.

It was as if the world was crashing below her, the floor giving way and causing her to fall into a pit of despair. Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of their generation, was one big joke. Not just to the wizarding world, but to her best friends. The far away reality that surrounded her started to disappear. Hermione vaguely heard the discussion turn to the topic of Quidditch. It was a blur, placing the book back onto the shelf, grabbing her things, and making her way out of the library; it was all an out of body experience, and Hermione had no idea how she wound up in the dungeon corridor until a cruel and familiar voice broke her concentration.

"What are you doing down here, Mudblood?" Draco Malfoy. Merlin, help her. This was just what she needed. Draco and his goons' mockery were the icing on the cake. She steeled herself to look straight ahead as her eyes welled up with more tears. The barrage of insults would start soon. "Granger, you haven't answered me yet."

She refused to meet Draco's eyes, or even see where he was or who he was with, but when she felt a hand tug her around, she finally broke. A sob escaped her lips before she could contain it. It was as if the physical touch shocked her into feeling, even if it was one of malice. The gasp of her shuddered sob echoed off the walls and caused Draco's hand to retract instantly. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, her lungs brought air rapidly into her chest, and her body was shaking at the weight of her sadness. It was the first time she let anyone see her cry like this, and it was not just anyone. It was Draco Malfoy. Today was truly the luckiest of days.

"Hermione?" He asked, his voice morphing into one of sympathy, and it was then that she realised the ultimate humiliation of this. She looked so distraught that her enemy had sympathy for her. After noting that the blonde mess of hair which stood before her was alone, she met his gaze, refusing to give away any bit of her strength. But, then they locked eyes, his compassion showing through, concern conveyed through their visual interlock, and she faltered.

Her archenemy was showing more regard for her feelings than any of her friends in the library, and with as much speed as she could muster, she turned on her heel and ran. Draco called out to her trying to aide with directions back to the Gryffindor common room, but she turned left instead, reaching the staircase she desired. Taking the steps two at a time, she slowly started to crumble.

The tears dripped off her chin as she ran down the dark Hogwarts' corridor. Her breath came out in puffs, her hair even more frizzy than usual, and her shoulders shuddered with the sobs she tried to stifle. She picked up her pace and rounded the corner, bursting through the door to the perfect's washroom and slamming it closed.

Finally alone, the girl allowed herself to succumb to her tears entirely. With her back pressed to the door, Hermione slid down and curled her knees to her chest, as she relived humiliating memories. Her friends' cruel words, Draco's kindness, and the hope she still had for the magical community.

This is the final straw. But, how exactly was she going to fix this? As she started to contemplate her options, her hope faded. Who she could ask for help with the plan that was beginning to form in her mind? Her ideal option was out of the question. Draco, although having just helped her, was not an option. Her roommates were too preoccupied with fashion and boys. The solutions were slowly dwindling when it dawned on her.

How had she not thought of it before? Grabbing a quill and scrap parchment, she began to write out her message. Tonight. She would need an answer tonight.


George Weasley had never been one for social gatherings. Sure, he attended, but Fred was the more sociable twin. If we were honest here, George preferred to sit at home with a small group of close friends. The thought of mingling with a crowd of overly obnoxious people annoyed him. They were pompous, proud, and, well, prats. They were all moronic, self-absorbed prats.

So, how did he get through so many of these events? Sarcasm. Being sarcastic to them without them realising, well, that he enjoyed. Unfortunately, even that was not much of an entertainment tonight. Meeting the new people that were supposed to invest in the business was growing tiresome. With a sigh, he finished the last of his fire whiskey, the familiar burn warming his stomach caused a smile to creep across his lips. He could always leave that to Fred.

It was perfect. Fred, with his constant need for the new, would handle the shmoozing of the investors, and George, with his constant need to design, would go home and work on a new product. He spotted his twin on the other side of the room; he was talking to a bald man with a very, very, long moustache, and before George could even make his way over to him, Fred looked up and nodded.

Ah, the joys of having a twin who could read his mind. His smile widened, and George excused himself out onto the quiet balcony to apparate home. He did not have the energy to say goodbye to each person in the room. It was better this way. And, as he turned back to see the bald man actually trip over on the long hairs, his laughter popped out into silence. Definitely better this way.

The flat was quiet and so warm. For some reason, investors' parties were always so chilled. This was the fourth one in the last two weeks, and it seemed to be the common theme amongst business owners. Cold atmosphere; how was that supposed to conjure a sociable mood? The December night was unusually warm, but that did not mean you should keep the balcony door open all night and refuse to let anyone close it. The stupid git.

And, that was exactly why Fred handled investors.

Collapsing on the couch, George removed his tie and threw it behind him blindly when—BANG!

The empty apartment exploded with violent sounds, and George jumped up into a battle stance. A large brown owl was flying around the room, shrieking with anger, blinded by the very tie George had thrown over his shoulder.

"Shit," he mumbled before pulling the fabric off the bird, after many bites. "Sorry, little guy. I didn't mean it, honest. You're such a good mail carrier; I had no idea you're even here," he cooed, trying to calm the obviously irate owl. "Can I see that letter you got there?"

Owls were very proud creatures it seemed. All you had to do was stroke their ego a bit, and they loved you. George always found that worked. It was why Percy's owl always followed his instructions and not Percy's. Weatherby still did not know how George managed to change all Percy's signatures to read his proper title: Weatherby Weasley, the first of his name.

He untied the letter and took in the familiar scribble, holding it away from his face before bringing it close again. Why on earth would he get a letter from her? What was stranger still is that it was written solely to him; why him? The bird rubbed his beak against George's finger before flying over to perch onto the window sill, apparently waiting for his reply. Oh, he was beyond curious now.

George,

I know this may sound a little forward, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I need you to sneak into the castle. We need to talk, and I cannot have a letter be intercepted.

Meet me at the perfect's bathroom.
4 AM.
Tonight.

If you agree, tell the owl, and he will know what to do. No need for parchment.

Hermione.

PS. Burn the evidence.

George laughed. Had she gone bonkers? Was this some sort of covert mission? I mean, yes, he was a part of the Order now, but 'burn the evidence?' Oh, this was incredible. Looking up at the clock, he realised he only had twenty minutes. With a smile, he threw the letter into the fireplace and set it ablaze. Burn the evidence, he thought before laughing again and looking to the owl.

"Tell her I'll see her in twenty." The owl hooted loudly before flying off into the night sky. Grabbing his cloak off the hook, he smiled. This was going to be an exciting evening; that was for sure.


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