Late night, Gryffindor common room.
The Quidditch team was throwing a full-blown victory party.
It was supposed to be students-only, but somehow a seven-layer cream cake had appeared, shining like satin under the torchlight, and a champagne tower bubbled away, occasionally spilling onto the floor and setting off even louder cheers.
Three straight years of clutching 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.