The Easter holidays had only just ended when George Weasley quite literally ran into Eleanor Seymour.
The break had been anything but relaxing. Between bruising Quidditch practices in preparation for their final match against Slytherin, conducting slightly dangerous experiments with homemade spellwork, and knuckling down on some proper revision for their upcoming O.W.L.s, George and Fred had scarcely had a moment to themselves. Fred had grumbled about it incessantly, but even he had admitted that getting their O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s might actually be worth it—ifit meant making their dream of a joke shop a reality.
Their Careers Advice session with Professor McGonagall had cemented George's suspicions.
"Before we begin," Fred had said, before they were even through the door, "this meeting is confidential, right?"
McGonagall's lips had twitched. "Naturally."
Fred had taken a deep breath. "We want to open a joke shop," he'd announced, and George had winced. So much for easing into it.
McGonagall's eyebrows had risen. "A joke shop?"
"We're just toying with the idea," Fred had added hastily, shooting George a pointed look. "It's not set in stone or anything."
But McGonagall had not scoffed, nor did she lecture them on wasting their talents. Instead, she had launched into a detailed explanation of licensing laws and the prerequisites for magical product development.
"If you're serious about manufacturing your own products, you'll need at least Exceeds Expectations in Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology, and Potions for the N.E.W.T.s. Those are the minimum requirements under the Regularisation of Experimental Spells and Charms. If you're considering any breeding of magical creatures, Care of Magical Creatures at Outstanding wouldn't go amiss. There's a permit involved."
Fred and George had sat in stunned silence. McGonagall's interest was genuine.
She turned to George first. "You currently hold Exceeds Expectations in Herbology, Transfiguration, and Charms—well done. Potions is sitting at an Acceptable, and as you know, Professor Snape only admits students who receive an Outstanding at O.W.L. level. If you're serious, you'll need to buckle down."
George had nodded, jaw tight.
McGonagall turned to Fred. "You have an Outstanding in Herbology and an E in Charms. Acceptable in Transfiguration—which, I'm afraid, is not high enough for my N.E.W.T. class. And Potions… Poor. You've got work ahead of you."
Fred had visibly paled at the idea of "work."
"What do we do after we get our N.E.W.T.s?" George had asked, while Fred blinked like a Kneazle caught in wandlight.
"Find investors. Network. Build a name for yourselves. You're already known as pranksters," McGonagall had said sharply, "but if you want to be successful, you must also be known as reputable businessmen. Work on that."
And so, for the first time in living memory, Fred and George Weasley voluntarily committed themselves to studying.
Fred had liberated one of Percy's ancient revision timetables, and although it needed considerable tweaking (including a column labelled "Explosion risk: HIGH"), they had done their best to make it work.
"It's simple," Fred had declared. "We split the load. You focus on Potions and Transfiguration—you're closer to the required grades. I'll go all in on Care of Magical Creatures. It's the only subject I'm not flunking."
"Divide and conquer," George had nodded approvingly. "I like it."
"Iamthe elder brother, after all."
"By three minutes."
"Still counts."
That's why the pair of them had been camped out at a secluded library table on Tuesday afternoon, up to their ears in three years' worth of Charms notes. Lee Jordan was sat beside them, dutifully writing out summaries, occasionally muttering under his breath like someone helping criminals forge their alibis.
Fred had insisted on casting a Notice-Me-Not charm over their table. "Last thing we need is someone thinking we've lost our edge."
"This feels wrong," Lee had grumbled, scratching out a diagram. "Like… fundamentally wrong."
"I feel dirty," Fred groaned. "If Percy saw us now, he'd sprout wings and fly to the Ministry in joy. Actuallytryingto pass an exam. Honestly. I feel like I'm betraying my very soul."
George ignored him and openedStandard Book of Spells, Grade 5to brush up on Levitation Charms.
They'd made it just past the hour mark when Fred declared he couldn't focus anymore due to "pre-match Quidditch nerves" and marched off with Lee to find Harry.
George, needing a moment's quiet, wandered down to the Great Lake.
Oliver Wood had firmly warned every Gryffindor player not to be out on their own—tensions with Slytherin were dangerously high, and just the day before, a fourth-year Gryffindor and a sixth-year Slytherin had ended up in the Hospital Wing with leeks sprouting out of their ears.
But George had never been especially obedient when it came to instructions, and besides, he needed the space. He dropped onto the grass near the edge of the lake, flinging his bag a short distance ahead and exhaling deeply.
He wasn't like Fred. Not exactly. For a start, George preferred quiet. Not that anyone really noticed. Most people treated them like one person with two heads.
"Well, well. Was that actual studying I witnessed the Weasley twins doing in the library?"
George glanced over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. A few yards away, perched with surprising elegance on the grass, was Eleanor Seymour. Her dark eyes gleamed with amusement, and she was holding a book.
"Could've been," George replied casually.
Eleanor's posture was as straight-backed as ever, and she placed her book neatly in her lap, studying him. "Ambitious career plans?"
"Probably too ambitious," he admitted. "But imagine Snape's face if I make it into his N.E.W.T. class. Priceless."
Eleanor gave a soft laugh, her white teeth contrasting sharply with her dark red lips.
"What're you doing out here?" George asked, idly tearing blades of grass and flicking them.
"Avoiding the hysteria," she said coolly. "The Gryffindor-Slytherin match is all anyone can talk about. It's exhausting."
George gave her a mock-offended look. "Oi. It's the final match of the season."
Eleanor rolled her eyes. "Iknow. But honestly, the obsession is enough to make me hope it's over already."
"So you're admitting Gryffindor's the superior team, then?"
"When did Isaythat?" she asked, blinking innocently. "Are all Gryffindorks this hard of hearing? For the record, I still thinkwe'regoing to win."
"We've got a Seeker with a Firebolt."
"Yes, and as soon as Potter sees the Snitch, he'll go for it—immediately."
"Exactly. We win."
Eleanor scoffed. "You only winifyou're already fifty points ahead. We're up two hundred. Do the maths."
"Harry knows that."
"Adorable that you think so. Truly."
George snorted. "Don't worry, duchess. We'll see who's adorable after Saturday."
"If it helps you sleep, Weasel. Don't worry, our team will win."
"You meanourteam."
Eleanor gave him a long-suffering look. "Do shut up, Weasel."
They lapsed into a companionable silence. George stared across the lake at the darkening mountains. He was startled by how… normal it felt, sitting here. Withher.
"You're the first Slytherin this week who hasn't tried to hex me," he noted.
Eleanor shrugged. "Because it's stupid. Trying to scare you lot before the match only makes us look desperate. It's not cunning, it's childish."
George smirked. "Bravery of lions."
"Impulsiveness of ninnies," she countered. "We Slytherins prefer strategy. Preservation, not pointless heroics."
"Some might call that backstabbing."
"And others call it being clever."
She picked up her book again. George craned his neck to read the title.
"Pride and Prejudice? Which class is that for?"
"It isn't. It's a novel," Eleanor said, not looking up.
"A what now?"
"A book. That people read. Forfun."
George blinked. "Peopledothat?"
"I'm not dignifying that with a response." She stood, brushing down her robes. "Good evening, Weasel Gryffindork."
With that, she turned and walked away, her black hair bouncing behind her like punctuation.
George remained where he was, watching the shadows stretch across the lake. Of all the people to share a pleasant chat with, Eleanor Seymour hadn't even made the list. But it had happened, and it hadn't been awful.
In fact, he realised with mild horror, it had been… sort of nice.