Late night, Gryffindor common room.
The Quidditch team was throwing a full-on victory party.
It was supposed to be students-only, but they'd still smuggled in a seven-layer cream cake that gleamed like silk under the torchlight and a champagne tower that bubbled away, occasionally splashing onto the floor and setting off even louder cheers.
Three straight years of lifting the Quidditch Cup. The house points from the matches were more than enough to lock down the House Cup again next year, so the whole tower would stay draped in gold and scarlet. Players kept getting hoisted into the air by the crowd.
This year's party felt bigger than ever.
Even Percy had turned a blind eye to the rule-breaking. Oliver Wood's student days were officially over—last exam, last match, perfect ending. Every seventh-year was cutting loose tonight like there was no tomorrow.
The younger kids watched them screaming and laughing and barely recognized their own house-mates.
For the seventh-years, when this party ended, they'd never sleep in Gryffindor Tower again. Tonight they were shedding every last scrap of their old images and letting it all out, making memories they could replay for the rest of their lives.
In a few days the Leaving Feast would come, then summer. After that they wouldn't be climbing aboard the Hogwarts Express anymore.
This was the last blowout.
George and Fred were in and out of the portrait hole all night, hauling supplies, so they looked busier than anyone. Nobody else could help—too few students had real night-wandering experience, and most of those had only snuck around the eighth-floor corridor a couple times. They didn't have the battle-hardened skills needed to dodge Filch while smuggling food from the kitchens all the way up eight floors.
One mistake and the whole party would be dead.
Past Gryffindor victories had taught them the drill: the party would rage until the sky outside turned gray. When the first hint of dawn showed, they'd know it was time. Percy would organize cleanup—trash that could be vanished got vanished; the rest got stashed in empty classrooms to be dealt with later.
The twins usually stayed until the bitter end, not just hauling food but jumping into every game. They were Beaters and Gobstones champions; they could even last thirty moves against Ron in wizard's chess. Their carefully planned pranks always killed.
But tonight, at one in the morning, they'd already gone quiet.
Two shadows crept toward the spiral staircase to the boys' dorm, moving like ghosts so they wouldn't draw attention.
They almost made it.
Wood's arm suddenly clamped around both their shoulders. "George. Fred. The party's not over yet. Why are you sneaking off?"
"Because we've got stuff tomorrow," George muttered.
"Exams and the match are finished, aren't they?"
"You forgot already?" Fred twisted free. "We're summer interns—at a Muggle factory. Professor Levent's plan. We're supposed to tour the place and do the paperwork tomorrow morning."
George slipped out of Wood's grip too. "You were supposed to tell us after practice, remember?"
"Oh." Wood blinked, brain clearly swimming in champagne and wine.
He watched them climb the stairs, then shook his head with a weird little smile. Those two… actually turning into responsible students?
The soon-to-be-graduated captain grabbed two more cups and wandered back into the noise.
…
Eight o'clock the next morning.
London, Charing Cross Road.
The summer morning mist still hung in the air. The Leaky Cauldron wasn't open yet, so they'd borrowed its fireplace, changed into Muggle clothes inside, and were now heading to the factory the proper Muggle way.
This part of London was already busy. Tourists and office workers hurried past with coffee cups and briefcases, faces blank, steps quick.
Cars honked. A battered red bus swallowed passengers at the curb. The Tube station spat people in and out like ants.
Melvin walked ahead in a casual long coat, looking like any other traveler.
George and Fred trailed right behind in full denim outfits—jeans, jackets, the works. With their still-boyish faces they looked like a weird mix of street gang and posh prep-school kids.
The twins kept slowing down, heads on swivels, whispering about everything: the people, the shops, the cars, the traffic lights, the street signs.
A few homeless guys were already out, clothes ragged, looking a lot like some of the more eccentric old wizards back home.
Melvin didn't bat an eye. He glanced back at the twins and saw they weren't bothered either—just completely fascinated by every new thing.
"That looks like a bakery."
"Toy shop next door—poster says magic tricks and prank stuff…"
"Where?"
"Look—"
George stopped dead at the bottom of some steps, pointing at a window poster.
Fred's eyes went wide. "They've got magic items too…"
"Probably fake. Real ones would break the Statute."
"Professor, what's that magic box thing? And those trick cards? All made with science?"
Melvin had already reached the end of the street. He stopped beside a sleek black sedan, its window rolling down.
The twins jogged to catch up and peered inside.
A tall, broad-shouldered Black wizard sat behind the wheel, smiling warmly.
"Shacklebolt?!"
George and Fred recognized him instantly—Ministry Auror and one of their dad's few real friends.
Kingsley Shacklebolt jerked his chin toward the back seat. No long greetings. Melvin slid into the front. The twins piled into the back, hands everywhere, touching the leather, the wood trim, the fancy handles.
"Stop fondling it," Kingsley laughed as he pulled away. "This isn't a Ministry pool car. It's a Downing Street motor. First time only. After today you two will be riding the bus or the Tube like everyone else. Just wait till you're crammed in a carriage in the middle of summer…"
The twins caught the grin on both adults' faces. It wasn't the polite "older wizard to kids" smile. It was the exact same grin they wore right after one of their own pranks landed perfectly.
A sudden, sinking feeling hit them both.
They were about to learn exactly what a real Muggle commute felt like.
The black sedan glided through London traffic and eventually pulled up outside a sprawling industrial building on the outskirts. A big sign read FOWLER PROPS WORKSHOP in bold letters.
The factory manager—a round-bellied man in a tie clutching a clipboard—met them at the gate and launched straight into the tour.
"Design department handles client meetings, concept work, engineering drawings. Then we've got the production floors: CNC machines, laser cutters, traditional wood and metal shops, mills, welders…"
They walked down a wide, bright corridor, peering through glass windows at workers busy at benches.
"Further back we've got sculpting and molding shops, casting rooms, paint booths… we work with metal, wood, plastic, foam, even clay."
Kingsley nodded along, taking notes like a proper civil servant. George and Fred stared with their mouths open, soaking up every detail.
The manager kept talking, clearly thrilled to be hosting people from Downing Street. "Wood for sets and scenery, metal for weapons and armor, silicone molds for resin, plaster, foam rubber…"
Melvin watched the process with genuine interest. London had once been the heart of the industrial world; now heavy industry had moved out, leaving behind high-tech shops, food plants, and specialty workshops like this one—perfect for stage and film props.
"This place is ideal for the boys," Melvin said quietly to Kingsley. "They'll see the whole operation in two months."
The manager beamed when Melvin asked if the twins could rotate through purchasing and sales departments too.
"No problem at all!"
Paperwork was quick. The twins got navy work uniforms, safety gloves, hard hats, and steel-toed boots. They also received ID badges and brand-new bank cards.
"Wages will be about a thousand pounds a month after tax and insurance," the manager explained. "You'll get a paycheck or we can mail it to your home address."
George puffed out his chest. "That's enough gold to keep our family fed for two or three months!"
Lunch was in the factory canteen—burgers, hot dogs, pizza. The twins devoured everything like it was Honeydukes. They tried to stuff a few slices in their bags for later, but the manager laughed and stopped them. "You'll get fed every day you're here—plenty more where that came from."
By early afternoon the tour was done. Kingsley drove them back to the Leaky Cauldron. The twins changed back into robes and Apparated straight to Hogwarts, still buzzing.
They burst into the Gryffindor common room like they'd won the World Cup.
"Hey, everyone! We're officially factory workers!"
George and Fred ripped open the plastic packaging and held up the navy uniforms. "Look at these! Real Muggle work gear!"
Angelina and Alicia crowded in. "Let me see!"
Lee Jordan squinted at the safety boots. "You're really doing this?"
The twins pulled out their ID cards and bank cards like trophies. "We get paid in real money! A thousand pounds a month!"
The common room exploded with questions. The twins tried to answer but kept getting tangled up explaining "bank accounts" and "commutes."
Hermione sat quietly in the corner, listening to every word. Her brown eyes sparkled with a new idea.
…
Later that afternoon, Muggle Studies office.
The room was quiet, windows open. Hermione sat at the desk, staring at the third-year grade sheet. Candlelight glowed on her own name at the top, followed by a perfect O.
A very satisfying sight. She still didn't know her other subjects, though.
"You're top of the year again," Melvin said from across the desk.
Hermione pressed her lips together, trying to look like grades didn't matter, but the smile tugging at her mouth gave her away.
She guessed the professor hadn't used Legilimency—just plain psychology—but she still tried to play it cool.
"Professor… George and Fred said you took them to the Muggle factory yesterday for onboarding. They'll be interning there all summer."
"Not exactly a fun vacation job," Melvin replied casually. "They want to open a joke shop after graduation, so this is hands-on research. Their mum isn't thrilled, though."
Hermione took a breath. "I want an internship too."
Melvin blinked. "Sorry?"
"I'd like to intern at the Daily Prophet over the summer. Is that possible?"
Melvin paused, clearly surprised.
"Since wizard-born kids can intern in the Muggle world," Hermione said, meeting his eyes, "Muggle-born kids should be able to intern in the wizarding world. It's only fair."
"Why not the Ministry? I thought that was your plan after graduation."
Hermione's face was still young, but her expression was dead serious. "I want to stay in the wizarding world long-term. The Prophet would let me see every corner of it—even the parts the Ministry never reaches."
Melvin leaned back, studying her.
The little witch had made up her mind. And when Hermione Granger decided something, the world had better get out of the way.