"Come on, George, we've got to be back before one of the professors nabs us," Fred muttered, clutching a stash of Butterbeer bottles and several bulging bags of Chocoballs and Acid Pops.

The twins had just helped clinch Gryffindor's Quidditch win against Ravenclaw—thanks in no small part to Harry's Patronus spectacularly scattering Marcus Flint and his gang mid-match. The common room had erupted like a box of Exploding Snap. Even Hermione, buried under a mountain of third-year subjects and usually joined at the hip with a textbook, had cracked open a Butterbeer.

But best of all, the final would be against Slytherin—a prospect that had George counting down the days till May.

Near midnight, the twins had crept out for reinforcements. But their exit through the One-Eyed Witch's passage had hit a snag—literally. The statue had slid shut too fast, trapping George's leg.

The corridor torches flickered alight at the worst possible moment.

"Brilliant," George muttered, wriggling. "I think I heard something."

Fred froze. Both boys strained to listen.

At the far end of the corridor, a pair of glowing yellow eyes appeared—Mrs Norris. She stared at them, twitching her tail, then padded off silently.

"I'm done for," George groaned. "Fred, go. If Filch finds us both, he'll skin us. Take the sweets and leg it!"

Fred didn't need telling twice. He snatched the bags from George's grasp and vanished into the shadows.

George gave one last wrench, and the statue finally relented, releasing his ankle with a click. He scrambled upright—

Too late.

"Well, well, what have we here?" came a raspy voice. George turned and found himself nose-to-wart with Argus Filch, Hogwarts' ever-bitter caretaker.

"Evening, Filch. Learning any magic lately?" George said breezily, brushing dust off his jumper.

"Cheeky little Weasel," Filch snarled. "Where's the other one?"

"We're not joined at the hip, you know."

Filch's face contorted with glee. "You can explain that to your Head of House. Come on." He seized George by the ear and yanked him down the corridor. "Out past curfew, nicking sweets… McGonagall'll have your hide."

George sighed. Compared to getting caught by Snape or, worse, his mother, this was practically a cakewalk.

Professor McGonagall's tartan dressing gown billowed as she descended the staircase. Her hairnet quivered ominously. She squinted at him through her spectacles like he'd just tracked in Blast-Ended Skrewt droppings.

"Weasley! What on earth are you doing out of bed at this hour?"

"Just celebrating, Professor," George said, trying on his most charming grin. "Big match, you know. Once-in-a-lifetime glory."

McGonagall pursed her lips so tightly they nearly vanished. "For that impertinence alone, you've earned yourself detention. Tomorrow evening, after supper. I shall be overseeing it myself."

George's grin faltered.

"I will now escort you back to the Tower—and put an end to whatever raucous party you and your fellow Gryffindors are hosting. It's well past one!"

No points were taken, though. George considered it a minor miracle. She could've docked them all the Quidditch victory points—and probably would have, had Fred been with him.

Interesting. A theory worth testing again, perhaps.

Back in the common room, McGonagall shooed sleepy-eyed students to their dormitories like an exasperated sheepdog.

In the boys' dormitory, Fred raised an eyebrow as George limped in. Lee Jordan was already face-down on his bed, snoring.

"What'd she give you?"

"Detention. Nothing too dire. No points lost."

"Thank Merlin. We worked hard for those." Fred grinned. "Nice one with the Bludger at Davies, by the way."

"Ta, brother dearest." George peeled off his socks and collapsed onto his bed, exhaustion rolling over him like a tide.

"George!"

"Mmf—wha?" He blinked blearily as two hands shook him awake.

Fred's face loomed overhead. "Sirius Black was in the Tower last night. He showed up next to Ron. You slept through it!"

"What?! Is Ron all right?"

"'Ickle Ronniekins' is fine. Black shredded his bed curtains and legged it when Ron screamed loud enough to wake the Bloody Baron. Whole castle's been searched. You were the only one who didn't notice."

George sat up, rubbing his eyes. "I was knackered from the match."

Fred shrugged. "Ron's milking it now. Says Black nearly slit his throat. Honestly, if I hear it one more time—"

George snorted. "Did they catch him?"

"Nope. Vanished again. But the Fat Lady's coming back tonight. Sir Cadogan's off duty at last, thank Merlin."

George groaned, reaching for his trousers. "Come on, I need food. Sneaking out for sweets and not getting to eat any? That's not on."

Fred was already tying his tie. "By the way… are you still dead set on the joke shop idea?"

"Course I am. Why?"

George hesitated. "I've been thinking. If we're serious about it, we'll need to get proper licenses. Permissions. Paperwork. Otherwise, the Ministry will be on us faster than a Niffler on gold. I mean, we're selling experimental sweets—"

"—that may or may not make your tongue grow four feet—"

"Exactly. And I don't want to be shut down before we even start."

Fred looked thoughtful for a moment. "Fair point. Percy mentioned something about career advice with McGonagall after Easter. Might be worth bringing it up."

George grimaced. "Better her than Mum."

They both shuddered.

"Right, enough seriousness. Breakfast awaits!"

By the time they reached the Great Hall, most students were finishing up. The boys wolfed down some toast before heading to the dungeons for Potions.

"Late again, Weasley?" Snape's voice sliced through the air the moment they reached the Potions dungeon. "Ten points from Gryffindor."

George glanced at his watch. One minute late. Typical.

Snape only accepted the top students into his N.E.W.T. classes, which meant at least one of the twins needed an 'Outstanding' on their O.W.L. exam. Their current grades weren't promising—Fred had earned a 'P' for his Moonstone essay, and George had scraped an 'A' for a Hair-Raising Potion.

Time to up their game.

As George headed to the back of the room, his eyes met a pair of rich cedar-brown ones. Eleanor Seymour. Slytherin's duchess, or so she fancied herself. She tilted her head, smiling faintly. Her long ebony hair shimmered as she twirled it into a bun with her wand.

George nearly tripped.

"Stop staring at Slytherins," Fred hissed.

"I wasn't," George muttered, but Snape had already fixed them with a death glare.

"Today's potion," Snape began silkily, "is a repeat of the Draught of Peace. Tell me—what happens if the brewer is overzealous with the ingredients?"

George raised his hand, but Snape ignored him. "Miss Seymour?"

She stood, her skirt perilously short by school standards. George's stomach did something odd.

"Yes, Professor. If brewed incorrectly, the potion causes deep, sometimes irreversible sleep."

"Five points to Slytherin," Snape purred. "Weasley—how many stirs?"

"Er—seven, sir."

"Direction?"

"Seven clockwise, then seven counter-clockwise," George answered carefully.

Snape said nothing. He waved his wand, and the ingredients appeared on their tables.

"One hour. I expect silvery vapours. Anything less and you'll be re-brewing it until your fingers fall off."

Fred and George got to work. While Fred was better with beasts and brooms, George had a decent feel for potions—when Snape wasn't breathing down his neck.

"Right," George muttered. "Moonstone—slowly, Fred. I'll say when."

Fred tipped it in bit by bit under George's direction.

"Stop. Heat down. Now fetch the porcupine quills. Fresh ones."

Fred returned, shaking the jar. George didn't glance away from the cauldron.

"Keep stirring. Steady… now the hellebore—give me the pipette."

Seven perfect drops. A soft silver mist rose from the cauldron's surface.

They both exhaled in relief.

For once, George left Potions with a hopeful flutter in his chest.

Maybe—just maybe—he'd scraped an E.