The heady thrill of Gryffindor's Quidditch Cup victory faded faster than a Disillusionment Charm in a rainstorm. No sooner had the final cheers died down than the month of May swept in with cruel sunshine, the scent of blooming honeysuckle, and—worst of all—a tidal wave of revision for the looming O.W.L.s.

"I willneverlearn any of this!" Fred bellowed dramatically, launching his notes across the table. They fluttered through the air like defeated butterflies and landed in a heap nearFantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.

"Whose bright idea was it, anyway, to try and pass these ruddy things?"

George barely glanced up from a dense paragraph comparing Vanishing and Conjuring spells. He and Fred were hidden away in a remote corner of the library, shrouded under their well-practised Notice-Me-Not charm. Around them, the air crackled with tension. The occasional sniffle or suppressed sob echoed faintly between shelves, mostly from fifth and seventh years.

Fred slumped over the table, groaning. "Honestly, what's the point? And why does every single professor feel the need to start class with a heart-warming little speech about the importance of our 'Ordinary Wizarding Levels'? You'd think we were about to take the wizarding equivalent of the Triwizard bloody Tournament."

George twirled the end of his quill between his teeth and said, "Because we need them, dimwit. Joke shop, remember?"

Fred grunted. With a lazy flick of his wand, he summoned his scattered notes and began reordering them with a scowl.

George sighed and turned back to his Transfiguration diagram.

But then—

"- so yes, Slytherin's own little Muggle princess gave it away—"

"- heard she did it right after the match—"

"- woke up next to allthreeChasers—"

"- Slytherin slags, honestly—"

George's quill stilled. He shifted his chair ever so slightly to the left.

In the adjacent aisle, three Ravenclaw girls were huddled together, whispering with the fevered excitement of those who lived for scandal. He recognised one vaguely—Lydia, maybe?—but he couldn't be sure.

"Iswear, she did a lap dance for the whole team. Cheer-up gift for losing the Cup, apparently."

The girl with the upturned nose scoffed, "No shame, those Slytherins. No wonder eventheyavoid her. Filth."

George's mouth fell open.

"Oi, George! Come on," Fred snapped his fingers in front of George's face. "We'll be late for Transfiguration. Davies said we get our exam timetables today."

George blinked, then stood, jaw still tight. "Coming."

Sure enough, Professor McGonagall launched straight into business as soon as they were seated.

"Your Ordinary Wizarding Levels will be conducted over two weeks," she said, chalking up a chart with elegant, stern strokes. "The written theory in the mornings, practicals in the afternoons. Astronomy, of course, remains at midnight."

The class groaned.

"I must remind you that the most stringent anti-cheating charms have been placed upon your examination papers. Auto-Answer Quills, Remembralls, Detachable Cribbing Cuffs, and Self-Correcting Ink are all banned." Her eyes, steely and unblinking, swept across the room and lingered meaningfully on Fred and George.

"Professor?" Alicia Spinnet raised her hand. "When will we get our results?"

"In July. You'll be informed by owl."

"Perfect," Fred muttered under his breath. "That means we can ignore them for the whole of June."

McGonagall either didn't hear him or chose to pretend she hadn't.

The rest of the lesson was given over to review. Fred managed, at long last, to turn his rat into a floral-patterned china teacup, which won him five points and an exaggerated round of applause from George.

"Two weeks of pure torture," Fred muttered as they headed back to the library. "We're not going to survive this."

"It's just two weeks," said George, casting the usual charm around their study nook.

"How bad can it be?"

By Sunday, George bitterly regretted those words. Even two days had felt like an eternity.

The dormitory was a mess of parchment, half-eaten snacks, and broken quills. Lee lay sprawled on his bed, firing off definitions of Charms while Fred flipped through a checklist. George sat on the floor, fingers jammed in his ears, mouthing summaries from the past five years.

He was exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that seeped into your bones and made your dreams blur with reality. All he could think about was the shop. The joke shop he and Fred had planned since third year. Their freedom. Their future. Their proof to Mum.

"George?" Fred's voice broke through his thoughts. "Dinner?"

"I'm not hungry," George said quietly, not looking up. "You two go ahead. I'll revise a bit longer…"

Fred frowned. "You sure, Georgie?"

"Positive. I'll be back before curfew."

With a last, hesitant glance, Fred left, Lee trailing behind him.

The library was nearly empty. George darted between the shelves and tucked himself into his favourite secluded corner. He'd barely opened his book when—

"Well, well. Is that a Weasel Gryffindork I see studying, or have my eyes gone wonky?"

He didn't have to turn to know who it was.

"Good evening, Your Grace," he said, smirking into his book.

Eleanor Seymour flopped into the chair opposite him, dressed in Muggle jeans and a white T-shirt, looking completely out of place in the candle-lit hush of the Hogwarts library.

"You remembered my title," she grinned, resting her chin on her hand. "Colour me impressed."

"I figured winning the Quidditch Cup would've done that."

"Ouch," Eleanor clutched at her chest. "Wound's still fresh."

"Too soon?"

"Too soon," she nodded, twirling a lock of hair.

She glanced at his open textbook. "Achievements in Charming? Blimey, someone's in revision mode."

He rolled his eyes as she pulled out her own pile of books.

"You're studying too?" George asked, surprised.

"Obviously. Unlike you gents with your grand shop ambitions, I haven't figured out what I want yet."

George frowned. "Wait—how do you know about the shop?"

Eleanor arched an eyebrow. "You don't strike me as Ministry types. Hardly the makings of a Healer."

George chuckled. "Fair point."

They settled into a quiet rhythm. George revised. Eleanor scribbled, chewed her quill, and frowned fiercely at diagrams. Every so often, George found himself watching her—the way her nose wrinkled when she concentrated, the way her brow furrowed just before she got the answer right.

He looked away, smiling to himself.

As curfew crept closer and the library emptied, Eleanor began packing up.

"Well, this has been... strangely productive, Weasel Gryffindork."

"That the weirdest compliment I've ever had."

"Who said it was a compliment?" she replied with a mischievous glint, before disappearing between the shelves.

When George returned to the common room, Fred and Lee were setting off Dr Filibuster's No-Heat Fireworks in celebration of "surviving revision." Hermione was mid-rant, but her words only added to the chaos.

Later, as the twins climbed into their beds, Fred said, "We saw the examiners tonight."

"And?" George asked, pulling on his pyjama bottoms.

"Ancient," Fred said, grinning. "One of them had a beard longer than Dumbledore's."

George laughed, but the weight of nerves settled in his stomach like a stone.

Breakfast the next morning was subdued. Some students charmed the cutlery for distraction; others stared blankly at their notes. George barely touched his toast.

"This was the worst idea we've ever had," Fred muttered as they waited outside the Great Hall.

"Just do your best," George replied, jaw tight.

Professor Flitwick emerged and called the Gryffindors inside.

The House tables had vanished, replaced by rows of individual desks. George found himself seated behind Lee Jordan, which was a small mercy.

Across the hall, Eleanor Seymour took her seat with calm grace. She crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt, the picture of composure.

The sight of her made George's chest tighten.

Flitwick raised his wand. The great hourglass began to pour.

"You may begin."

George turned over his paper and dipped his quill.

It had begun.