After supper, George made his way to Professor McGonagall's office with the distinct sensation that the castle corridors had never felt longer. Fred had been unusually silent all afternoon, clearly mulling over George's offhand remarks about their O.W.L.s. George suspected he'd hit a nerve.

McGonagall wasn't at her door when he arrived—but someone else was.

Leaning idly against the wall, Eleanor Seymour looked like she had stepped straight out of a Muggle fashion magazine rather than a Hogwarts corridor. Her long legs stretched out before her, crossed at the ankles. Her skirt barely grazed mid-thigh, and a flash of suspender clips caught the torchlight. Her shirt was unbuttoned just enough to reveal the lace edge of a dark bra, and her tie hung loose around her neck like an afterthought.

She had her eyes closed, a pair of sleek black earmuffs—clearly of Muggle make—clamped firmly over her ears. George could hear the faint thud of bass pulsing from them, something loud and furious.

He paused mid-step, watching. Her heart-shaped face, usually framed with an expression of unimpressed detachment, was relaxed for once. She nodded slightly to the rhythm only she could hear.

Then—

"Ah. Mister Weasley. Miss Seymour."

The door to the office creaked open, and Professor McGonagall emerged with her usual brisk authority, giving them both a look sharp enough to slice parchment.

"Good evening, Professor," George said, flashing her a lopsided smile. "You're looking rather radiant this evening. Beating Ravenclaw must do wonders for the complexion."

"Do hush, Mister Weasley," she said dryly, though a flicker of amusement might have touched her eyes. "Both of you—inside."

George cast a glance at Eleanor, who hadn't so much as flinched.

"Miss Seymour," McGonagall snapped. "Kindly remove that contraption."

Still, Eleanor only tapped her foot.

"Miss Seymour," McGonagall said again, marching forward with the resolve of someone who had no time for teenage nonsense. She plucked the earmuffs from Eleanor's head.

"Oi! That was—"

"I don't care what dreadful din you call that music," McGonagall cut across her, her voice like ice. "You know perfectly well Muggle devices are prohibited on school grounds."

"There is no such rule," Eleanor replied coolly, her eyes flashing. "Merely an outdated assumption. If I've managed to get electricity functioning at Hogwarts without disrupting the wards, surely that should be cause for commendation, not punishment."

"Put the earmuffs away, Miss Seymour, or I shall keep them. Is that clear?"

With exaggerated slowness, Eleanor leaned down and tucked the earmuffs and the little black device they were attached to into her bag. Her face was unreadable.

"Thank you. Now—inside."

They took seats in the Transfiguration classroom—Eleanor right at the front. George dropped into the chair beside her. She leaned back and folded her arms, her narrowed eyes on the front of the room.

Professor McGonagall's lips were pressed in that thin, unforgiving line that meant trouble.

"You are both here this evening because your behaviour has, once again, failed to meet the expectations of this school. Mister Weasley, you were caught wandering the corridors after curfew. Miss Seymour, you performed a prohibited hex on a fellow student during Transfiguration class. Detention for both of you. Your parents will be informed."

"I maintain," said Eleanor, "that it was an exemplary demonstration of cross-species transfiguration."

George smirked. Merlin help him, she had nerve.

"You've already cost Slytherin twenty points, Miss Seymour. Another word, and I'll make it forty."

Eleanor glared but kept her mouth shut.

"Leave your bags here," said McGonagall. "You'll be assisting Madam Pince in the East Wing of the library. Dusting every single book cover. Without magic."

George groaned. "No magic? Even Mum doesn't clean without a wand..."

Eleanor's glare could've frozen fire.

They got to work in silence. After about thirty minutes, Madam Pince—satisfied that her books were not under threat of spontaneous combustion—disappeared, leaving them alone.

"I cannot believe I'm stuck in detention with George bloodyWeasel," Eleanor muttered, dragging her duster with a vengeance.

"How do you know I'm not Fred?" George asked, slowing his own movements, idly trailing his fingers across the spines in search of something interesting.

"Because I'm not blind," she snapped.

"Even Mum can't tell us apart. You and I have never even spoken."

"Then your mother might need her eyes tested. I know a good ophthalmologist she could visit," she said, pulling out a book and flipping through the index with clinical focus. "We've shared classes for five years. It's not exactly complicated."

"Ophtha-what?"

Eleanor let out an exaggerated sigh. "I'm neither blind nor an idiot, Weasel. Kindly allow me to serve this ridiculous punishment in peace."

But George wasn't done yet. "Why'd you hex Roger Davies, anyway?"

She rolled her eyes. "Because the greasy little toerag's been spreading lies about me. I thought a well-placed curse might shut him up."

"You turned him into a pig?"

"He was already a pig," she muttered.

George grinned. "That's fair."

Rumour had it Eleanor had once hexed a Muggle boy at Christmas for daring to ask her out. Her mother, Astraea Fawley, had reportedly had to bribe half the Wizengamot to hush it up.

"Only reason I hexed Henry Talbot, heir to the Earl of Shrewsbury, was because he couldn't keep his eyes—or his comments—off my backside. Suggested I ought to sleep with him out of 'hospitality.' Thought it only fair he look the part."

George stared. He hadn't expected that.

The gossip about Eleanor Seymour was legendary—her mother, Astraea Fawley, a disgraced member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, now married to some fabulously wealthy Muggle noble. Eleanor herself was rumoured to be richer than the Malfoys. Some whispered she was the illegitimate daughter of Sirius Black, heir to the House of Black.

"I didn't think Slytherins went in for reckless behaviour."

"That's because you Gryffindors think subtlety's a four-letter word," she said acidly.

"You lot don't exactly go out of your way to prove us wrong."

"Because you wouldn't recognise nuance if it hexed you in the face."

They worked in silence again, a prickly sort of truce forming between them.

George dawdled now and then, occasionally lingering on a spine or flipping through a page or two.

"What are you doing?" Eleanor hissed.

He grinned. "Just because we're not in Slytherin doesn't mean we're short on ambition, Your Highness."

"It's Your Grace," she replied automatically, then scowled.

George shrugged and returned to the shelves.

Eleanor gave him a sideways look, the sort that measured more than just height and freckles. She was seeing him now—not just as one half of a prankster duo—but as someone with something hidden beneath the mischief.

She'd always found the Weasley twins curious. Their tricks weren't simple japes; they were layered, clever, and sometimes technically brilliant. No one who was thick could manage half the things they'd pulled off. Eleanor respected that.

She watched George now, his brow furrowed in concentration, his duster forgotten as he pored over a spellbook. His fingers traced the page, his lips moving silently.

A shame he wasn't in Slytherin. Salazar would've loved a mind like that.

George looked up suddenly. "Staring, are we?" He grinned cheekily, that little-boy glint in his eye. "Can't say I blame you."

Eleanor rolled her eyes. "Keep dreaming, Weasley."