Chapter Text
Earlier that same day…
It was quiet.
Which meant something was wrong.
Very, catastrophically wrong.
It was NEVER quiet in the twins' shop, wonderfully named Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, or dutifully dubbed by one kind Hogwart's prefect, "the biggest pain in the arse" – since the twins themselves, of course. There was either too much noise from a complaining customer, or shouts from a too enthusiastic kid, or some sort of catastrophe from a precariously placed whizbang.
Which thus induced one hesitant Hermione Granger, witch extraordinaire, to cautiously tiptoe around the shop lest some unfortunate calamity might enforce itself on to her, courtesy of two pranksters she begrudgingly had to find.
“Fred! George!” she called, irritation creeping into her voice.
Nothing answered her. Not even a rude pop from a misfired Pygmy-Puff pellet.
With a feeling of paranoia sweeping into her, Hermione carefully edged towards the back of the shop, wand in hand and eyes fretfully glancing towards every corner of the store. She could see their patented daydream charms at one end of a shelf, decorated with lilac ribbons and funny cut-out shapes of what she believed were clouds (and she wasn't entirely sure, but did one of those clouds look suspiciously like Professor Snape with a tutu?).
Towards the other end, there were stacks of canary creams piled dangerously one on top of the other and potions of all sorts of colors. Whizbangs littered the entire vicinity of another shelf while familiar-looking telescopes like-things were content with their positions in yellow burgundy chests on the floor. She still hadn't forgotten the weeks' worth of makeup she had gone through trying to cover up the black eye that telescope had given her.
But thus far, everything seemed in order.
Which then meant that everything was absolutely wrong.
You could never be so sure with the twins. But there was, at least, one universal law, and it stated that the Weasley twins would never behave. Not even by accident. They had a talent for disaster so consistent it could have earned a Ministry classification.
A lesson she, of course, had once learned the hard way when she had accidentally borrowed Ginny's shampoo.
Then there was that one time when she was accidentally locked inside the Hogwarts boys' bathroom closet.
Ah yes. There were actually two more things she had also learned that day.
One, that the boys' bathroom did indeed have closets (for what purpose she did not know and very possibly did not want to know).
And two, never ever let the twins offer to be your guide because one of your best friends accidentally gave you whiplash while attempting to make a luck potion in class.
Oh wait, there was another thing she had learned that day.
Never ever let Ron add anything to a cauldron unless she was one hundred (one hundred and ten even) percent sure it was safe and she herself was safely hidden at least five feet away. She had to positively scour an entire section of the library to find a spell on how to grow your eyebrows back.
“George! Fred!” she tried again, louder this time.
Silence. Again.
This time, she took another hesitant step backwards before a discreet shuffling of steps caused her to abruptly turn around, wand raised high and—right into the corner of the counter.
“Oh, bloody Merlin!” she hissed, doubling over with a hand to her abdomen. That would bruise. Definitely.
A low chuckle drifted over her shoulder.
She glared through her pain at the two offending redheads emerging from the back room.
"I never knew you were so agile, 'mione!" Fred laughed, clearly enjoying her misfortune.
"Yep, and quite the vocabulary too", George added, a smirk forming on his face. "And what was the part about castrating somebody by sending a flood of birds? I didn't quite catch that".
Blushing, Hermione gave them the sternest stare she could muster and fought back the urge to slam her head against the countertop.
“If you’d like, I can demonstrate,” she said sweetly… and dangerously. “That way you’ll catch all of it.”
George recoiled instantly. “No thank you! Still nursing the bruise from Ginny’s bat-bogey hex.” He rubbed the back of his head, where several vengeful magical bats had viciously pecked his hair. “Didn’t think bats could bite.”
Hermione responded with a tight-lipped smile and a stiff nod, refusing to indulge them further.
The twins, still dressed in their bright work robes, practically glowed beneath the shop lights—both from vibrant hair and the obnoxiously flashy ‘WWW’ badges pinned to their chests.
"Well I'm quite impressed, really", Fred said, grin wide enough to be illegal. "...But what did we do to warrant such an honor with your lovely presence, oh great witch?"
He finished this with a great flourish and deep bow that left his robes flittering, though the entire effect was slightly marred by the obvious wiggles of his eyebrows.
Oh, brilliant, Hermione thought miserably. I’m never going to live this down.
Grateful for any reason to change the subject, she cleared her throat. “Mrs. Weasley wants you both back at the Burrow.”
“Oh, so Mum sent you to fetch us,” George said knowingly. Hermione nodded. “Not to be rude, but… where is everyone else?” He glanced around the deserted shop.
"Quidditch", she replied flatly, still trying (and failing) to find a comfortable spot against the cursed counter to lean on.
“Figures,” the twins said in perfect harmony, failing to hide their amusement as Hermione side-eyed the furniture like it was plotting something (which, frankly, in this shop, it probably was).
"Eh, but why aren't you playing?" George couldn't help but ask as he leaned in closer.
He paused. Come to think of it, he had never seen Hermione play Quidditch.
Interesting.
Hermione, blushing under his scrutiny, suddenly found the stitching on her blouse fascinating. Stunning craftsmanship, really. Was that selkie silk she spied? Lovely material. Extremely distracting.
"Well, I, er-"
“‘Er’ isn’t a real answer,” Fred interrupted, leaning in as well, wearing a near-identical smirk.
They just had to be identical, didn't they?
Hermione, however, had a very different expression.
Something akin to horror and terror - very reminiscent of when Draco discovered that his entire dorm was painted in red and gold drapes or when he had discovered Crabbe and Goyle drunk and half naked dancing to a weird muggle song on his bed (who's Britney Spears, anyway?).
Why did she agree to be Mrs. Weasley's messenger?
She was sure that by now, her face was probably as red as a tomato. Or maybe the Weasleys' hair, whichever happened to be brighter.
Not to mention, Fred and George were still wearing that bloody awful smirk on their faces.
“So…?” Fred wiggled his brows.
“Come now,” George coaxed. “You know you can tell us anything.”
Could she lie?
No—they’d find out.
Or prank it out of her.
Hermione shuddered at the thought.
“I’mscaredofheights,” she finally blurted out, all in one torrential stream.
“Eh?”
"What was that?"
Oh, she was never going to live this down.
“I SAID,” she practically yelled, slower this time, “I’m scared of heights.”
“Well, well… is that so?” Fred asked, a dangerous grin spreading. He exchanged a look with George.
“We just so happen to have the perfect remedy,” George declared ominously, retrieving a suspicious blue bottle from a hidden compartment beneath the counter.
A counter Hermione had already established was evil. Cursed Counter.
She tensed immediately, wand tightening in her grip. Ginny’s bat-bogey hex replayed vividly in her memory.
"This" Fred started, pausing slightly for dramatic effect, "is our greatest new invention!"
"…" Hermione merely nodded.
"…"
“H—aren’t you going to ask what it is?” George asked, perplexed, twirling the bottle between his fingers.
Hermione shook her head, expression completely flat.
Zero enthusiasm. Maximum suspicion.
"Well, why not?" Fred pressed.
Dhe didn't bother answering. She simply began inching backwards from both twins and the even more suspicious-looking counter from which the bottle was pulled out.
If she had learned anything, anything, from her summers with the Weasleys at the Burrow, it was that no one should ever accept anything from the twins— be it liquid, sweets, or miniature dragons—unless they had a masochistic desire for being pranked and possibly, very possibly, humiliated and not to mention teased for a supremely long amount of time
She also learned that Weasleys, especially the twins, remembered things for a very long time, particularly if they are exceptionally embarrassing.
Lesson learned:
Never trust twins.
Not today. Not tomorrow. Not in the next six centuries.
And she certainly wasn’t about to fail that lesson now.
Seeming to read the doubt in her eyes as she glanced fretfully at them, Fred mentally sighed.
“Don’t worry,” he began diplomatically, “it’s not going to jinx you.”
"Or turn you blue", George added helpfully.
"Or make you grow a ridiculously large amount of facial hair".
Hermione grimaced at that.
"Or make you talk backwards".
“Or give you antlers,” Fred said, fighting a snort. Hermione narrowed her eyes. That sound—snickering—was never a good omen.
“Or a tail. Any variety. Monkey, rabbit, kneazle.”
"Or turn your hair blue".
“Actually,” George admitted at last, rubbing the back of his neck as if unburdening a great shame, “it has nothing to do with the color blue at all.”
"Or any other color, for that matter", Fred shrugged aimlessly.
"So now-", George said.
"Will you trust us?" Fred finished, both of them looking up at her with the pure, practiced tragedy of abandoned puppies on a rainy doorstep.
Ohhh…Why did she have to be weak against puppies?
She groaned internally, felt her resolve sag, and—traitorously—nodded.
"Great!"
"Stupendous!"
"You're not going to regret this!"
“Oh,” Hermione muttered under her breath, "I think I'm already beginning to,"
"What was that?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing".
The twins guided her to the workshop behind the shop, and Hermione let her eyes roam over the familiar tidy little orange space.
Before she could protest again, the twins ushered her toward the workshop in the back of the shop. She knew the route well—too well. Her gaze drifted around the familiar orange-tinted space, still aggressively bright despite being a few years old. They had even adamantly insisted on doing it the "muggle way".
She had spent hours with Ginny afterwards trying to get the paint out of her hair. Apparently, there was no good way to get rid of the paint magically without also losing a good chunk of your hair as well.
Pitiable. Someone really needs to look into that research.
The twins hustled her to a table on the right, completely buried under a small civilization of cups, vials, cauldrons, and unidentifiable goo. One blue cup was steaming ominously. Clearly, they'd been working on something when she arrived.
"Are you ready to be dazzled?" Fred asked, with a slight emphasis on the last word. That made her right eye twitch tentatively. When had he learned that word?
Hermione could only nod.
Taking that as a cue, Fred lifted the bottle into the air, striking a pose so theatrical that somewhere, Lockhart surely felt a phantom twinge of jealousy. "This, my dear witch, is 'Weasleys' No Fear' Potion!"
Hermione tilted her head. The pose was worse than the potion. And the potion was… an unfortunate greenish-blue. The kind of shade that suggested something had gone wrong in the brewing process.
“Well,” George said, noticing her look of horror, “the name needs work. But it functions!”
"Yep. The basic idea is that it stops you from being afraid of whatever you're afraid of. It's like a courage potion of some sort. You know, you just drink it and viola, no more fear".
“And,” George said with great pride, “it’s one hundred percent foolproof.”
Fred leaned in conspiratorially. “We tested it on Ron.”
“Oh yes,” George said. “Remember how terrified he was of spiders? After a sip of this, he practically kissed one.”
“Nearly kissed us too,” Fred added, shuddering.
Hermione burst into laughter.
Ah. So THAT explained Ron bursting into the room with a spider on his face during chess. Harry nearly fainted trying to decide whether to hex him or fetch a Healer.
“So that was your doing?” she said, giving them an almost approving nod. Almost.
"Ehh?" The twins both turned to her with a surprised expression.
Normally, this was the part where she served them the patented Prefect Granger Glare™ and confiscated their concoction.
"It's sort of brilliant". She admitted, smiling despite herself. "I mean, theoretically, it's plausible, but I didn't thinkk it could work like that."
Despite her reputation as a prefect- erhm, THE GRANGER PREFECT, she still found herself in awe (not that she'd admit it) at times of the twins' inventions.
She even had a secret stash of daydream charms tucked safely under her bed (not that she'd admit this either).
"So you're willing to test it out?" Fred asked enthusiastically.
"T-test?" Hermione squeaked.
Awed, yes, but it still didn't make her suicidal enough to be a test victim- er, dummy.
"Ha- I mean try it". George corrected, both of them leveling her with that look again.
Oh no. The pout. The glossy eyes. The puppies.
LOOK AWAY, HER BRAIN SCREAMED.
A tiny whimper escaped someone—possibly her.
Her head nodded.
"Perfect!"
"Excellent!"
"Wonderful!"
She bit back a groan as the sense of déjà vu washed over her.
Fred grabbed a small cup, tossed it to George, who popped the cork and poured in half the bottle. The mixture hissed, then gave a polite little poof of smoke.
Hermion hesitated. "Must I try it here?" She was still eyeing the smoke with suspicion.
"Of course you do!" They both answered together.
"But we really must get going. Besides, Mrs. Weasley wants us all back in the burrow!" She nervously spewed, her eyes glancing off towards the exit near the front right corner of the workshop.
Setting the cup down, she considered her chances of making it towards the exit before they could catch up and convince her back.
Ten, maybe fifteen seconds from here to the door. I could always dash for it, but then again, they have longer legs. Maybe I could bind them with ropes…
“Now, now,” George chided. “You said you’d do it. Drink up.”
"Shouldn't we get going?" She decided to press once more.
Ropes were sounding like a very good idea.
“We will,” Fred said.
“After you finish,” George said.
"That is…" Fred paused.
"Unless you're afraid?" George drawled out with a small smirk.
Hermione defiantly puffed her cheeks out.
She was not afraid.
"Come on…"
"Even Ron drank it".
She felt her eyes twitch slightly, but continued to eye the exit.
Don't fall for it, Hermione. Don't fall for the bait!
"I guess you're scared then". Fred murmured in a poignant tone.
"Who would've thought…"
"Griffindor's greatest Prefect would be intimidated by us".
And that was the end of that.
And thus she grabbed the steaming cup.
Back to the present:
"Red! Reorge!"
The twins froze. Not figuratively—literally.
They gave each other a shocked look before blinking dazedly and staring down at the little girl beneath their feet. She looked tiny compared to their size, which was considerable given that they both stood towering above six feet.
Peering down, she hardly looked past five. She was wearing a small, well used to be small cream blouse that hung off her shoulders and now reached past her calves. Her hair was bushier and wilder, with a few unruly curls falling covering her forehead. Her black robes pooled at her feet in a mournful heap of fabric, like they too had given up on life.
She was staring at them with her large doe-like eyes.
Another long moment of stunned silence passed before George, regaining approximately one percent of his brain function, jabbed Fred hard in the ribs.
"Ow! Merlin's saggy b-, what the bloody hell was that for?" Fred shouted.
Another jab—this time directly into Fred’s kneecap.
"Don't use that kind of language in front of a small child!" George hissed. "And pick her up too!"
"Huh?"
George stared at his twin with the expression of a man deeply reassessing his life choices. "Well, Freddie, me boy, don't tell me you've caught Ron's horrid daftness. I said, pick her up."
"Why me?" Fred all but pouted (and completely neglected to deny the former point of his twin's statement).
George crossed his arms like a smug dictator. “Because you started this.”
Fred looked personally offended. Outraged. Betrayed. "Me! My dear brother, I believe that it was you who created this calamity".
"No…" George shook his head, "If I remembered correctly, and I know I do, you were the one who insisted we recreate our aging potion from our fourth year".
"But I wasn't the one who left it on the table," Fred countered, arching a brilliant red eyebrow.
“But you were the genius who brewed it blue.
"Well, you didn't stop her from drinking it!"
“How in Merlin’s left sock was I supposed to know she’d actually drink it?!”
"Well, she lifted the cup," Fred said, giving his twin an incredulous look, as if it was the most obvious logic in all the known universe.
"That could've meant anything!"
“Oh, of course,” Fred said dryly. “She was planning to twirl it artistically, sprinkle in sparkles, pour it over your head, and summon Snape wearing a rubber ducky costume.”
"…."
"…."
George stared.
Fred stared.
The world paused in mutual horror.
"Well… that was one image I never needed to picture." George croaked, face shifting through shades not found in nature.
Fred snorted.
"But… you're not gonna leave her on the ground like that, are you?"
"W-what! Of course not!" Fred sputtered. Then, with a heroic attempt at distraction: “But Georgie, don’t you think you should pick her up?”
"Ehhh, for Merlin's sake, why me?"
“Well,” Fred said, pointing down, “she seems fond of you.”
George looked down.
There, wrapped around his leg like a tiny feral kneazle, the girl was attempting to climb him—tiny fingers clutching, face scrunched in determination. She made it a few inches, slipped, and fell with a soft but tragic oomph. Unfazed, she rose, grabbed his robes again, and resumed her ascent with the tenacity of a starving puffskein.
George stared at the distinct tears beginning to decorate the seams.
Brilliant, he thought. Mum’s going to love this. And are those—are those bite marks?!
With a sigh of resignation, he extended his leg to give her better leverage, or at least offer his shoe as a crash pad.
"But…" he began, looking up to face his smiling twin again before continuing, "Er, but how do you pick up a thing like that?"
"…."
"…"
Fred blinked at the girl.
George blinked at the girl.
The girl growled softly at George’s robe hem.
"I haven't the bloodiest clue."