The final week at Hogwarts slipped past like smoke on the breeze, all warm sunshine and the bittersweet scent of goodbye.

On Monday, Fred and George pulled off a stunt that would be remembered long after their names had faded from the Hogwarts rolls. With a well-placed charm and a wicked grin, they managed to transfigure every stitch of Slytherin clothing into the latest in garish Muggle fashion—though all, naturally, in blazing Gryffindor red and gold.

Draco Malfoy's howl of dismay could be heard three corridors away when he caught sight of himself bedecked in a shimmering golden swim short and a crimson button-down. He looked like he'd been hexed by Liberace.

But Eleanor Seymour, as always, remained unfazed.

She sipped her tea in the Great Hall with her usual maddening composure, entirely unaware—or more likely, entirely unconcerned—that she was now dressed in a golden ballet tutu and a halter bikini top the colour of fire.

George Weasley couldn't stop staring. Not that he was the only one. Half the male population of the school looked like they were about to walk into walls.

Saturday found the twins in Hogsmeade, using their last free day to pillage Zonko's of every last Skiving Snackbox and Fanged Frisbee they could stuff in their pockets. But once the chaos was crammed away, George wandered off from the buzz of the High Street and made for the peaceful curve of the Black Lake.

He was just dropping down onto his favourite patch of grass when a familiar voice drifted through the afternoon air.

"Hello, George Weasley."

He whipped around. Eleanor was stretched out lazily on the hillside, a novel pressed to her chest like a talisman. Her dark hair spilled around her shoulders and she didn't look up.

"No 'Weasel Gryffindork' today?" he asked, mock wounded.

Eleanor shrugged. Then, with a flick of her wand, she tapped the small black box beside her. Music exploded into the air—a jangly, haunting tune full of longing and electric guitars.

George jumped. Eleanor chuckled, her eyes still on her book. "What, never heard The Cure before?"

"The what?" George eyed the box suspiciously, as though it might sprout teeth. "Are you ill?"

Eleanor laughed again, louder this time. "Merlin, you're hopeless. It's a Muggle band. The Cure. Post-punk icons."

George huffed. "Still think 'Weaseldork' is original, do you?"

She rolled her eyes and went back to her reading.

"What's the book?" he asked after a moment.

"Pride and Prejudice," she replied without looking up.

George tilted his head. "Sounds cheerful."

"It's about a proud woman and a prejudiced man," she said, her voice light with amusement, "who are both far too stubborn to admit they love one another."

George blinked. "So… a love story."

"Averyfamous one," Eleanor replied loftily. "I identify with Darcy. He doesn't like people much."

"Didn't peg you as the romantic sort."

Eleanor only smiled and turned another page.

The sun beat down gently as they sat together, Eleanor immersed in her story, George gazing out at the lake where the Giant Squid occasionally surfaced with a lazy splash. The music played on, strange and raw and oddly captivating.

George glanced at the box again. "Whatisthat noisy thing?"

"It's called a boombox," Eleanor explained, sitting up slightly. "It plays music. This one has a radio and tape decks."

George perked up. "Oh, Iknowthis. We did it in Muggle Studies. Not that the professor noticed me copying Hermione the whole time."

Eleanor grinned and handed him one of the cassette tapes. George turned it over in his hands like a rare artefact, shook it, and then held it to his ear.

"Nope. Doesn't sing."

"Only worksinthe player, Weaseldork," she teased, barely suppressing a giggle.

"How does it work, then?" he asked, leaning in.

Eleanor pointed. "You put the tape in, press 'Play'—here—and music comes out."

George did as instructed, and the next track burst to life—a bouncy, infectious tune that had him tapping his foot before he could stop himself.

"I like this one," he said, grinning. "Muggles really know how to party."

"That's Rick Astley," said Eleanor, deadpan. "Congratulations, you're officially basic."

George shot her a mock-glare, still nodding to the beat. "And this music? Everyone listens to it?"

"Some Muggles," she said thoughtfully. "My dad hates it—prefers classical stuff. All violins and long pauses. You know, the sort of music played at Pureblood soirées."

"Never been to one," George said with a grin. "We're a bit short on blood purity over at the Burrow."

"Well, count yourself lucky."

They sat in easy silence after that, broken only by the music and the occasional whisper of pages turning. George watched her out of the corner of his eye—the way her brow furrowed when she read something intense, the way her lips moved silently with each line.

He didn't realise he was staring until someone came crashing through the grass behind them.

"Nell! You'll never believe—oh."

Berenice Yaxley skidded to a halt, her keen grey eyes bouncing between George and Eleanor. Her perfectly sculpted blonde ponytail looked almost electrified.

"Well. AWeasley. This is a turn-up."

George stood. "Ladies. Duty calls. Slytherins don't prank themselves."

"Duffer," Berenice muttered as he walked off. George gave her a mock-angelic smile over his shoulder.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Berenice pounced. "What wasthat?"

"Nothing," Eleanor said evenly. "Now, what was it you were so desperate to tell me?"

"Not so fast. You were practicallyloungingwith him. Nell, honestly."

"He sat down. We talked about the boombox. That's all."

Berenice's eyes narrowed. "Do you like him?"

"No," Eleanor said firmly. "He's just… easy to talk to."

"Right," said Berenice, drawing the word out like treacle. "Because you'redefinitelynot over Adrian after that Quidditch final."

Eleanor flushed. "It was a mistake. We were drunk."

"And naked."

"Idon'twant to know."

"Fine, fine." Berenice plopped down in George's abandoned spot and leaned in. "Youdowant to know what I came to tell you, though."

"Well, go on then."

"Sirius Black."

Eleanor's breath caught.

"He wascaught," Berenice whispered, eyes gleaming. "Earlier this week. Right here. On Hogwarts grounds."

Eleanor sat bolt upright. "What?"

"Don't panic," said Berenice quickly. "He escaped the same night."

Eleanor exhaled a shaky breath she hadn't realised she was holding. "You're sure?"

"Overheard Snape ranting to Dumbledore—something about Harry Potter being involved. Utter nonsense. I mean, the boy can't even brew a Calming Draught."

Eleanor looked down at the grass, her thoughts racing. Relief swept over her like a tide.

Berenice leaned back, smug. "Told you that would cheer you up."

"It did. Thanks, Bunny."

"Anytime, Nell."