The sky was a perfect, cloudless blue, the kind that made the sun feel like it was trying to cook your scalp. Even in the middle of Charing Cross Road you could hear crickets and grasshoppers buzzing.
Hermione stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron's courtyard into Diagon Alley and headed straight past Gringotts. The Daily Prophet building wasn't far.
She stopped at a quiet little crossroads and looked up.
A brass street sign hung on the red-brick wall: a quill at the top, neat lettering below spelling out the address. Under that, curly vine-like script read:
Daily Prophet – Est. 17th Century
Hermione took a breath, adjusted the linen bag on her shoulder, and stared at the low building. The bag looked stuffed but didn't hold much—just paper, a few Galleons and pounds, her wand.
Her stomach was doing flips. Professor Levent hadn't given her a proper recommendation letter, just a short note.
The note said she was expected at the Prophet, that the internship had already been cleared with Editor-in-Chief Barnabas Cuffe, and it was signed with the familiar Ouroboros seal. Nothing else. No proof, no formal intro.
"Don't worry, everything's arranged. Cuffe is friendly, and most of the staff are Hogwarts alumni…"
Professor Levent was an excellent teacher. The note had arrived two days after she got home for summer, casual as if walking in and knocking would automatically get her a job.
She trusted him. That didn't stop her heart from hammering as she stood outside the Prophet's door.
Fourteen-year-old Hermione Granger—soon-to-be fourth-year—had taken the Knight Bus across half of London with nothing but that note and her wand. If the directions were right, this building would be her workplace for the next two months.
Do the staff know me? Will they ask for ID? Do I have to register my wand at the door? she thought, raising her hand to knock.
While she waited, she rehearsed what she'd say to the first person she met. Ask for Mr. Cuffe's office? But she didn't have an appointment—would he even see her?
"Are you the new intern, Hermione?" a bright voice asked as the black-lacquered oak door swung open. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, like she'd heard it on the Mirror before.
"Yes, I'm Hermione Granger. You are…?"
Hermione turned and froze for a second. Standing in the doorway was a sharp, attractive young witch with wavy golden hair spilling over her shoulders, bright blue eyes, and a smile that felt perfectly warm.
Cecilia Haynes—former Gryffindor, now the face of Mirror news, and basically an idol to half the students who'd graduated in the last couple of years.
"Come on in," Cecilia said, spotting Hermione's nerves and softening her smile. "Cuffe already gave me the heads-up. Follow me."
The two witches stepped inside. Beyond the entrance hall was a circular atrium with a spiral staircase. The walls were papered floor-to-ceiling with old issues of the Daily Prophet—not for decoration, just centuries of back issues. The air smelled of warm magical ink, slightly musty parchment, and the faint warm scent of owl feathers.
Past the staircase lay an open-air garden courtyard ringed by offices. Through windows and open doors Hermione glimpsed cluttered desks, towering bookshelves stuffed with ledgers and bulging folders, labels stuck to the sides.
"Quidditch Riots"
"Goblin Rebellions"
"Troll Wars"
"Centaur Protests"
"Cauldron Thickness Bill"
Hermione peered through the archive room's tall windows at the mountain of files. Cecilia moved like a goblin guarding a vault, leading her down the corridor while Hermione's eyes drank everything in.
Staff bent over desks, focused and quiet.
One witch in a private office caught Hermione's eye—thick golden hair forced into stiff, unnatural waves, jeweled glasses, chubby fingers with bright red nails. The whole look was… off.
Cecilia noticed and lowered her voice. "That's our star reporter and columnist, Rita Skeeter. Her writing used to be… let's say more sensational. She's calmed down a lot lately. Newbies can learn plenty from watching her."
Hermione pressed her lips together. She'd seen that name in the paper more than once and remembered it as the queen of sleazy, made-up scandals.
A little farther on they passed another private office. Hermione caught a glimpse of the man inside and couldn't stop herself from whispering, "Lockhart!"
"Gilderoy Lockhart. He's our memory-charm specialist now—expert at Obliviates and false-memory charms. Perfect for Mirror editing."
"But…" Hermione's brain short-circuited.
"He was recommended by Professor Levent too."
Hermione shut her mouth instantly.
They reached the very back office, right next to the supply storeroom. Cecilia grinned. "Last time the Prophet hired a kid was centuries ago—family business using their own children to count paper and ink. But you don't have to worry about grunt work. You've got a proper recommendation."
Hermione clutched the note tighter, cheeks warm at the thought of walking in as the professor's special case.
"What department are you in?" she asked.
"Mirror news. Part of the new Mirror division."
"Mirror division?" Hermione repeated, surprised.
"Brand-new," Cecilia explained. "Cuffe split the paper into two separate sides—one for Mirror content, one for print. Completely independent."
"So they're separate…" Hermione sounded a little disappointed. She'd hoped her internship would let her touch every part of the operation. "What exactly will I be doing?"
"You'll rotate through everything—copy editing, layout, printing, sales, client liaison… Oh, right!" Cecilia turned to her. "Have you studied any memory magic? How comfortable are you?"
"Barely passable," Hermione admitted, no false modesty.
"Then you'll be learning editing too."
"From Lockhart?" Hermione's eyes widened.
…
Meanwhile, on the other side of London—Fowler Props Workshop, outskirts.
A cluster of employees crowded around a metalworking station.
Even though it was a CNC lathe, the skill level required was brutal. Everything had to match the design department's blueprints exactly—reading prints, precise measurements, programming, picking the right tools, mastering grinding techniques.
Today's job was especially demanding.
Some workers stared blankly, unable to even read the blueprints. Only the senior techs handled the real work, their movements so smooth the younger guys watched in dizzy awe.
Complex programming was one thing—that was knowledge. But tool selection, grinding angles, feed rates… those were years of accumulated feel.
The twins—only a week into their internship—stood at the edge of the crowd, brows furrowed, too focused to crack jokes. They had zero background in this. No idea how to program, no clue which tool to grab, couldn't even name half the machines.
The younger techs scribbled every step.
George and Fred craned their necks. The alloy cutting tool sparked like it had been enchanted, the machine's motor whining at high speed, indicator lights flashing.
They'd been commuting every day for a week now. No Apparition license meant early mornings at the Leaky Cauldron, then the Tube or bus through London. Without Bubble-Head Charms they would've passed out from the smells. The evening ride home was just as bad. Thinking about two whole months of it made both of them shudder.
The whine gradually quieted—the part was finished.
After machining came inspection, then delivery. Even after handover, there could be returns or repairs. The whole process was way more complicated than any wizard shop they'd ever seen—and way more profitable. The twins sensed something useful in it, but they couldn't quite put it into words yet.
They watched, took notes, marked questions, and repeated the cycle until the lunch bell rang.
In the canteen corner sat two identical red-headed figures. Workers walking past couldn't help staring—everyone already knew about the new twin interns: tall, broad-shouldered, decent-looking, but clearly from a rough background judging by how they attacked the high-fat, high-sugar food.
The twins didn't care about the looks. After surviving the morning Tube ride and hours of hard work, this was their reward.
Fred shoved pizza into his mouth, cheese stretching between his teeth. "George, I tried it—Transfiguration on metal works great. Shape comes out perfect, tolerances tight. But I can't make it hold. The magic fades and the metal slowly springs back. Half a day and the tolerances are shot."
"Maybe a Severing Charm? Magic cutting should be cleaner than any blade."
George drowned his fries in ketchup. These were pre-made anyway—factory-cut, frozen, then fried on site. Tasted way better than anything you could do at home.
"You've got ketchup for brains," Fred said, rolling his eyes. "There aren't even a handful of professors at Hogwarts who could control a Severing Charm that precisely."
George thought about it. "Yeah… fair point."
"What are you two chatting about?" A gruff voice dropped into the seat beside them.
The speaker was a bearded, middle-aged man—balding, eyes bright as headlights, wearing loose overalls that smelled of coolant and machine oil. He clearly hadn't changed them in days.
Senior tech from the morning shift—the guy who'd actually run the CNC.
"We were talking about the blueprints and process from earlier," George said, sucking on his Coke, bubbles popping against his tongue.
Fred looked up at the older man. "This job's brutal. Long hours, dirty work, and the pay's nothing special. You lot still have to rotate through sales and purchasing—save your energy for those. That's where the real money is!"
The twins exchanged a glance. Why was this guy putting himself down?
"Tech work is physical—sweat and grease for basic wages," the man continued, gnawing on a chicken bone like it owed him money. "The sales guys sit in air-conditioned offices, take clients to fancy restaurants, pocket commissions and quarterly bonuses."
He sounded optimistic, but there was a bitter edge underneath, like he'd been burned before. The twins suddenly felt a lot more excited about their upcoming rotations.
…
Clear across London, in the quiet Muggle suburb of Little Whinging, 4 Privet Drive.
"Hello? Harry? Can you hear me? Did I dial right this time?" Ron's voice blasted through the receiver, loud enough to rattle Harry's palm.
"Yeah, yeah, I can hear you," Harry said quickly, clamping the phone tighter.
Three o'clock in the afternoon was the only safe window he'd found. Uncle Vernon was still at work, Aunt Petunia had gone to the supermarket for dinner ingredients, and Dudley was glued to the television playing video games. The house felt wonderfully empty—Harry had the run of the place.
The first week he'd had to rely on Hedwig for letters. Once he figured out the schedule, he started planning actual phone calls. After a few days of trial and error, he'd finally connected with his friends at the agreed time.
"You've still got three weeks at the Dursleys, right? Figured out where you're staying after that?" Ron sounded uneasy about the distance, like he had to shout extra loud for the words to reach from the Burrow all the way to London.
"Sirius invited me over," Harry answered honestly. "Professor Levent's coming too."
"Brilliant," Ron said, relieved. "Mum's already planning the menu."
Harry smiled, feeling the knot in his chest loosen just a little. Summer was looking up.