Years on, George Weasley still couldn't quite fathom how he'd managed to scrape through his OWLs with Eleanor Seymour floating around like some kind of hypnotic Banshee in a perfume advert.

The written portion of Charms had gone off without a hitch—smooth as butterbeer on a cold day—and George found himself surprisingly peckish when they broke for lunch. The long house tables were back in place, groaning under the weight of sausage rolls, shepherd's pie, and other comfort foods. His appetite, which had been absent since breakfast, returned with gusto.

A few seats down from George and Fred sat Percy, poring over notes with the intensity of someone who believed revising during lunch was the mark of true brilliance. He looked more pallid than usual, which was saying something.

Percy was in his seventh year, fixated on landing a position at the Ministry. George had heard all about it in exhaustive detail—Mum's letters from home had been practically glowing. Apparently, Percy was determined to earn ten NEWTs, a feat not entirely impossible given that their eldest brother, Bill, had already pulled it off.

"Did you do all right?" George asked, watching Fred pile his plate with sausages and beans like he was preparing for hibernation.

"Better than expected," Fred murmured, trying to speak without spraying crumbs. "You?"

"Same."

After lunch, they were herded into the antechamber beside the Great Hall to wait their turn for the practical portion. The names were called in alphabetical order, which meant Fred and George were destined to be among the last—a tragic injustice, according to Fred.

George was doing his utmost to avoid looking in Eleanor's direction as he rehearsed the motions forWingardium Leviosa. His wrist was beginning to cramp.

"Less swish, more flick," Fred muttered under his breath.

"I know," George snapped, before accidentally poking Fred in the ribs with his wand.

"Oi! You trying to levitateme?" Fred yelped as he rose a good few inches off the ground.

"Put me down, you prat!"

The surrounding students burst into laughter, but the amusement was short-lived.

"Mister Weasley and Mister Weasley, kindly demonstrate your levitation skillsin front of the examinators, not your classmates," Professor Flitwick squeaked, ushering them both inside. "Professor Marchbanks and Professor Tofty are ready for you."

Fred made a beeline for Marchbanks, who was conveniently stationed by the door. George found himself standing before Professor Tofty, who looked roughly the same age as Hogwarts itself, if not slightly older.

"Fred or George?" the old man wheezed.

"George Fabian Weasley, sir," he replied, gripping his wand a bit too tightly.

"Ah! Nephew to the late Fabian Prewett, aren't you?" Tofty peered over his spectacles. "Marvellous lad. Tragic business, that."

George swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"No need to fret, my boy," Tofty went on kindly. "Now, would you be so good as to make this teapot grow a few feet?"

George's nerves eased. "Just to clarify, sir—two feet or five?"

Tofty chuckled. "Whichever feels most dramatic."

The rest of the exam was rather anticlimactic. Fred had managed to turn his levitation charm into a full-blown performance, flipping his plate like a trained seal until Marchbanks threatened to confiscate it.

There was little time to dwell on their success. That evening, George, Fred, and Lee Jordan headed straight to the library to revise Transfiguration.

"You know," Fred said later, as they climbed the stairs back to Gryffindor Tower, "you might've been onto something. Pranking the examinerswaskind of fun."

Transfiguration went swimmingly. George fibbed through bits of theory he couldn't quite remember, but his practical was solid—Tofty again. The old Professor beamed at him.

"Mister Weasley! Fancy seeing you again. Do be so kind as to turn this mouse into a china cup."

"Any pattern preference, Professor? My mum's fond of rose motifs, but I'm a polka dot man myself."

By Wednesday, Herbology and Defence Against the Dark Arts had come and gone with barely a hitch. George nearly forgot his earmuffs when repotting Mandrakes, but managed just in time. As for Defence—well, Professor Lupin had them more than prepared.

"Three whole days before Potions," Fred sighed in relief as they trudged up the stairs Thursday evening.

George didn't share the enthusiasm. "I'm just glad Snape won't be breathing down our necks, but it's still going to be murder."

"We're sticking to the plan, right? You ace Potions, I ace Magical Creatures?"

"Yep," George said. "I'll skip the Creatures exam for a kip. You study during Potions and help me cram beforehand."

Fred nodded solemnly. "It's foolproof."

The weekend was a blur of bubbling cauldrons and note-strewn tables. George practically lived in the library. By Sunday night, his head was swirling with ingredients and antidotes.

"Show Snape what you're made of," Fred said with a wink on Monday morning. "Knock 'em dead, little brother."

George offered a weak smile. "Enjoy your revision."

The written part was brutal but doable. The practical went better than expected—Snape was mercifully absent—and George's potion came out identical in hue and consistency to Eleanor Seymour's. A small but satisfying triumph.

Fred was waiting eagerly when George clambered through the portrait hole.

"Well?"

George grinned faintly. "Better than we hoped. Now, if you'll excuse me, I plan on sleeping for a month."

And sleep he did—fourteen uninterrupted hours of dreamless rest. When he woke, the Tower was painted in golden dawn light. Fred and Lee were still snoring. It was just gone five.

On his nightstand lay the letter he'd written to Charlie. He scooped it up and tiptoed from the dormitory.

But as he reached the final steps to the Owlery, he heard a voice. A very familiar one.

"Wait, Pegasus. I still need to add the stamp—yes, thestamp. Andinthe letterbox this time, notonit. I mean it, Pegasus. No mistakes. If Mum finds out, I'll be six feet under before breakfast."

George froze. He counted slowly to ten, barely daring to breathe.

When he finally crept into the Owlery, Eleanor was there—head tilted against the stone pillar, eyes distant.

"Morning, Your Grace," George said quietly.

She smiled, despite herself. "Weasel Gryffindork."

"At your service." He gave a theatrical bow. She laughed, genuinely this time.

The rising sun backlit her silhouette, casting a golden halo over her loose ebony curls. They were both still in their casuals—George in his battered jeans and faded tee, Eleanor in sharply tailored trousers and a blouse that shimmered like starlight.

"I didn't think Gryffindorks voluntarily subjected themselves to two more years with Snape," she murmured as George coaxed down a school owl.

"Oh, well, you know," he said airily. "Got to keep the Amortentia legal, don't we? Wouldn't want to poison anyoneby accident."

"Amortentia, really? I'd have thought you'd rely on natural charm."

George winked. "I do. But it never hurts to have a backup plan."

He tied his letter carefully to the owl's leg, though his fingers fumbled slightly when Eleanor said, "That was a letter for your brother, wasn't it?"

"Charlie," he replied. "Yours?"

"My father," she said, then added lightly, "Via Muggle post."

George paused, frowning. "Why Muggle post?"

Eleanor's tone turned crisp. "Because he doesn't know I'm a witch."

The knot George was tying slipped. "He doesn't know?"

"It doesn't matter," she said quickly, as though regretting her honesty. "Don't, Weasel. I don't need your pity. Save it for someone who cares."

She swept out of the Owlery in a flurry of indignation.

George stayed where he was for a long time.

Later that week, during the Astronomy practical, Eleanor kept her gaze firmly fixed on her telescope. George tried not to look at her, but the way the moonlight silvered her profile was maddeningly distracting.

He forced himself to concentrate on locating Orion, his hand tightening on the brass adjustment wheel.

When Tofty finally called time, George couldn't hand in his chart quickly enough.

Thursday brought the final stretch—History of Magic and Muggle Studies, both written. George conjured a particularly violent account of the Troll Wars and was reasonably confident in his answers for Muggle Studies. He'd always had a soft spot for the non-magical world, and though he'd never tell Fred, he rather enjoyed the subject.

"We're done," Fred breathed dramatically as they turned in their last paper. "Sweet freedom."

George grinned. "Fancy a celebratory prank?"

Fred's eyes lit up. "I thought you'd never ask."