Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

" Ah, well, I risk my life for my own work and my reason has half foundered in it. But what can you do…”

November 28, 1981. That day.

A young woman scampered inside the room, her dark hair a mess and eyes red. All the lights were off in the house, and the only sounds were the weak sniffles of the woman. She held out her wand, her hand shaking, and casted a spell. The lights of the living room were dim, but bright enough to see where everything was. 

The woman walked in and her knees gave way. She dropped onto the nearby sofa chair, dropping her wand in the process. There she wept in silence, trying her hardest not to wake up the children in the house. For a few minutes, she only sat and cried. She cried about how she couldn’t do anything in the end. She cried about the secrets kept and the secrets revealed. Most of all, she cried about what she, no, what they lost.

Then a light creak startled her. She straightened and turned her head towards the stairway. Leaning on the railing was a little boy, who looked no more than the age of three. “Mama,” he yawned. “We didn’t get our bedtime story.”

The woman didn’t speak at first. She only stared at the little boy and wondered whether he had heard her cry. After coming back to her senses, she wiped her tears away and smiled weakly. “Story…of course, my boy. Let’s get you back to bed. It’s almost four.” She stood and picked him up. Together, the two of them walked up the stairs and to the bedroom. “Is your sister awake too?”

“No, I just woke up,” the boy rubbed his eyes. 

“That’s good, that’s good.”

She opened the bedroom door and glanced at the baby sleeping soundly in her crib. Above her were floating yellow stars that played a soothing lullaby. She gently laid her son down on the bed next to the crib and tucked him in. She picked up a book from the nightstand and sat down next to him. “Let’s read the Hopping Pot again. It’s your favorite,” the woman whispered.

“But mum,” the boy spoke in a faint and tired voice, “you read to me yesterday. It’s papa’s turn today.”

The woman took a deep breath. She stared at the child with a lump in her throat, unable to muster up the right words to say. How will she tell him? How will she tell him that he’ll never read him bedtime stories again? How will she tell him that everything will change from now on? She let out a long and wistful sigh as her eyes turned watery again. 

“Papa... won’t be coming home this evening.” That was her answer. 

“Is he at work again?” asked the boy, rubbing his eyes. He let out a soft yawn and buried himself deeper in his blanket.

“He’s... away. He won’t be coming home for a while,” she said as her voice cracked just a little. “Let’s start the bedtime story?”

The boy did not reply. Instead, he slept peacefully on his bed and was unaware of his mother wiping her tears away as she placed the book back on the nightstand. She brushed a stray strand of hair away from his face and kissed his forehead. “I’m sorry, anak ,” she whispered. 

“I’m sorry... I’m sorry…” were the words she repeated over and over again with her cheeks drenched in tears. The house felt big and hollow, and every wall felt they were closing in. The woman could only cry softly as she cradled her sleeping son. 

November 28, 1981. That terrible day.

Chapter Text

George didn't really look forward to the Quidditch World Cup after what happened early in the morning. As the Weasley family ate their breakfast, his mother caught him and his brother trying to smuggle their latest invention, Ton-Tongue Toffees to the campsite. He and Fred wanted to sell them during the World Cup, and if lucky, find themselves a wizard willing to finance them. Those hopes, however, were crushed the way Mrs. Weasley crushed and threw the toffees away. Fred protested, telling her how it took them six months to develop those, but Mrs. Weasley only became angrier and rambled on and on of how they should have studied those past months.

The cold damp air brushed lightly against George's sleeves as he shoved his hands deep inside his pockets and his shoulders tensed. It was early dawn, the sky still dark and the sun dimly lying on the horizon. The village of Ottery St. Catchpole had their shops closed and lamplights on.

George adjusted his eyes in the darkness. In front of him, he could see the figures of some of his family members, Harry, and Hermione. His brother Ron and Hermione walked next to each other, and Ginny, who, George noticed, kept glancing at a certain boy with dark hair and round glasses. Harry looked to be in deep conversation with Mr. Weasley, probably about the World Cup. Ahead of them was Stoatshead Hill, the place where the nearest portkey to the World Cup was located.

Walking slightly in front of him was his twin brother, who still kept the same sour expression that he gave to his mother right after leaving the Burrow (Mrs. Weasley gave him in return as well). Fred looked to be in a fouler mood than him. They didn't talk after the toffee fiasco, and George believed he was angry at him too. He understood why, though. If only he'd hidden the toffees more carefully, then they might've been planning their next big invention at this moment.

He could just wait for his twin brother to talk to him first. He imagined how the scene would play out: Fred will gesture him to walk faster and then try to ease the tension by telling a joke or discussing a plan to restore the toffees. George would then give his insights and come up with more ideas as if their mother hadn't scolded them that morning. The two of them will go on and on about their schemes, watch the match, and come back home and play more pranks on their siblings. They'd maybe apologize to their mother, and promise (fingers crossed) not to make another big fuss.

George thought that was kind of stupid. "Sorry," he apologized.

His brother slightly nudged his head, his back still turned. "Hm?"

"I'm sorry about the toffees. I should have hidden them better," George said.

Fred began to walk slower so that he was now walking beside his twin. He looked at George with a quizzical look. "That's okay? Why are you apologizing out of the blue?" he asked.

"'Cause you're mad at me."

"Mad? Why'd I be mad at you?"

"Aren't you mad about the toffee thing?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm furious," Fred scoffed. "But what gave you the idea I'm mad at you?"

"Well, Mum did find out about the toffees because of me," George said, though now with a bit of ease.

Fred gave a lighthearted laugh. "George, I'm not angry at you for that! I'm not even angry at you at all. Mum was going to find out eventually, and besides, it's not your fault she doesn't support our dreams," he said. Then, he pulled out a random wand from under his shirt and handed it to his brother. "Also, she never found any of our fake wands."

"Wow, I do not want to know where you're keeping them," George humored. He took the wand and hid it inside his bag. It was a relief Fred wasn't angry at him, but now he had another issue to worry about. "Do you think mum will ever support us?" he asked.

"Most likely no, but I don't care. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes is going to reinvent humor itself, and if mum's going to miss out on it, then that's her loss," Fred said and then tripped over a rabbit hole, which made George burst into laughter.

The rest of the group looked back at the commotion. "Everything alright back there, boys?" Mr. Weasley asked.

"We're fine, dad!" Fred called back. He looked at George and grinned. "Want to see which one of us trips over the most rabbit holes?"

"You're on, brother."

The next ten minutes were spent pushing each other into any hole they encountered in the hike on Stoatshead Hill. Occasionally they tricked the others into claiming they've seen a snake among the grass or that there was a mountain of rabbit holes ahead of them. Ron heavily clung onto Hermione's arm and jumped whenever Fred claimed he spotted a tarantula coming after him while Ginny remained unfazed by her meddlesome brothers.

They were almost at the top of the hill. Fred and George gazed at the view. The village looked miniature like it was carved in a map, and over the distance they saw the Burrow hiding among a patch of trees. George wondered if his other brothers were still asleep, or if his mother was still upset. The sun had risen slightly, and the first thing he saw in the daylight was Fred's pants and shoes covered in dirt. George laughed, and Fred rolled his eyes.

"You should see yourself," Fred pointed at him.

George looked down to see that much of his lower half were dirty too. His shoes were almost nowhere near their original color, and his pants looked like they came out of a trash bin. He wiped away the harder specs of dirt and threw some of them to Fred, and the other attempted to dodge.

They were interrupted by a shout from the trees. "Well it's about time!" A figure appeared from one of the nearby trees.

"Amos!" Mr. Weasley shouted back, smiling as he strode over to the man.

"This is Amos Diggory, everyone. He works with me in the ministry," introduced Mr. Weasley. Now at a clearer light, the man appeared to be middle aged, and he bore a cheery round face and thin brown hair.

Suddenly, another figure dropped next to Amos, which caught George by surprise. However, his face dropped slightly, and Fred grimaced. The both of them recognized the tall boy with brown locks and annoyingly bright grey eyes who always wore a suffocating smile to show to anyone.

"And I reckon you all know his son, Cedric," exclaimed Arthur as he shook hands with the boy, who flashed a smile in return.

"Hi," Cedric greeted warmly to the rest of the group. George nodded at him while Fred tried his best not to eyeroll. The rest of the group greeted him back, especially Harry, who George noticed was the last to break eye contact with Cedric.

Everyone in Hogwarts knew about the most popular Hufflepuff student. Quidditch captain, seeker, house prefect, you name it. That was Cedric, the Golden Boy of Hogwarts. That same Cedric was the one who beat the Gryffindor team in the first match the previous year. Both the twins were still salty about that.

Mr. Diggory focused his gaze on Harry and exclaimed, "Merlin's beard, it's Harry Potter!"

Harry stood around awkwardly as he was shoved into a conversation with the man. George caught a few snippets of their conversation, especially the words "Cedric beating the great Harry Potter,". Fred heard the same and he scowled while Cedric's face flushed with embarrassment.

"Show off," Fred grumbled, giving Cedric a dirty look. Thankfully, the other didn't notice.

Now that everyone was present, they proceeded forth. Cedric walked next to the twins until the three of them were walking together, with George in the middle and Fred and Cedric on either sides of him. Up close, Cedric's hair looked like a bird's nest. Small twigs and leaves were stuck in his brunette locks, and his clothes were creased and dirty. "Long walk?" he asked them.

Fred seemed to be suddenly interested in the grass. "Yeah, we had to get up at five," George answered. Despite being in the same year, George never had a full and genuine conversation with Cedric. He had no strong opinion of him, but he wasn't planning on befriending him either.

Cedric's shoulders relaxed and seemed to be relieved that at least he received an answer. "Our dad and I got up at two," he said.

The conversation went on as everyone walked up the hill. Cedric asked a bunch of light questions such as "How's the weather?", "Know anything interesting lately?", and "Are you excited for the tournament this year?". George replied dryly with "It's dark.", "Nothing much." and "What tournament?".

Before Cedric could reply, Mr. Diggory's voice rang about. "Gather around everyone!"

Fred pulled George by the arm and walked away as Mr. Diggory beckoned his son toward him. "Never thought I'd say this, but thank you, Cedric's dad," Fred snickered.

"Honestly, I thought my ears would fall off after one more question," George joked. Together, they joined the rest of the people crowding around an old worn-out boot sitting at the top of the hill.

Harry looked confused. "Why are we standing around a manky old boot?"

"That isn't just any manky old boot, mate," said Fred.

"It's a portkey!" said George.

"What's a portkey?" Harry asked.

Fred and George didn't answer. They were too excited now that they were only minutes away from one of the Wizarding World's most anticipated events of the year. Everyone placed their hands on the boot, and Harry, still looking like he had a thousand questions, followed as well.

Mr. Diggory then counted down. "On the count of three. One... two... three!"

In an instant, a sudden burst of wind surrounded everyone and a vivid motion of colors flew around. George felt his feet leave the ground and his whole body was pulled by an invisible force. On one side was Fred, who seemed to be having the time of his life and at his other side was Ginny, gripping George's sleeves in fear and excitement.

Then, the wind came to a halt and George landed hard on a grassy field. Ginny, Harry, and Hermione were sprawled across the area and Ron almost got knocked out by the boot.

"Oh crap!" shouted Fred.

George was immediately greeted by his twin brother's red hair slamming against his face. Another head, this time with leaves and brown hair, followed after and the three of them fell back and crashed on the grass. George's forehead throbbed painfully as he massaged his jaws. In front of him was Fred, who landed face first on the grass and on top of him sat Cedric, who rubbed his back in pain.

"Oh, sorry about that, Fred. I did warn you not to pull my arm too hard," Cedric apologized.

"Get your ass off me."

George looked up to see his father and Mr. Diggory walking in midair with smiles on their faces. They gently landed on the ground. "Looks like the kids are having a blast," said Mr. Diggory, eyeing over the three of them.

Cedric scrambled away and quickly got up. "Sorry about that," he apologized to Fred, and the other merely grunted.

"Welcome to the Quidditch World Cup!" announced Mr. Weasley.

The children were left speechless. In front of them were countless tents in all shapes and sizes packed full of wizards and witches, both young and old. It was as if the whole Wizarding World gathered together on this very field. Wizards from various nations roamed around, actively talking in unfamiliar languages.

Slowly, they made their way through the campsite. A couple of wizards in brooms zoomed overhead covered in green face paint and shouting chants.

Much to Fred's relief, both Cedric and his father parted from the group to their own tent. After a few minutes of walking, they've reached their tent, and each of them entered inside.

The interior oddly reminded George of the Burrow; the furniture and rooms all cramped together under one flat. Near the center was a round and empty table and some wooden chairs. He dropped his bags on one of the chairs and sat on another with his legs crossed on the dining table, and Fred did the same.

"Get out of the kitchen, Ron. We're all hungry," Mr. Weasley said as he dropped his bags on a couch.

"Yeah, get out of the kitchen, Ron," chorused the twins as Ron gave them a dirty look.

"Feet off the table," Mr. Weasley remarked the two.

"Feet off the table!"

Mr. Weasley searched through his bag and pulled out a little box. "Boys, clean yourselves up. You wouldn't want to enter the arena in those, do you?" he said to the twins, gesturing at their dirt-covered pants.

George didn't feel like changing. He was too exhausted from the journey up the hill.

"Why not just use a cleaning spell, dad?" Fred asked.

"This field is a Muggle area, so the Ministry prohibits any use of wand magic in broad daylight," Mr. Weasley replied.

"But we saw all sorts of Wizard stuff outside. Surely a cleaning spell wouldn't hurt," reasoned Fred.

"Our dad's in the Ministry, brother. It would be bad rep for their own employee to break restrictions," George chimed in.

Fred yawned. "Guess so," he said as he lazily got up and took a new pair of jeans from his bag. Together, they walked to the bathroom to change clothes.

---

The next few hours were spent preparing for lunch. Harry, Ron, and Hermione went off to fetch some water outside. Ginny helped her father try to light the fire with the small box, as what Mr. Weasley called a "matchbox" while the twins spent their time rummaging through ingredients. Often, Mr. Weasley was greeted by his coworkers from the Ministry. It was no interesting sight for George, but he couldn't help but notice the forlorn expression his father usually made every time a wizard leaves, and the quick glances he made at the area as if waiting for something.

Their latest visit was Ludo Bagman, the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports and Quidditch commentator. It was already noon, and the rest of the Weasley children, Percy, Charlie, and Bill, apparated in time for lunch. As everyone sat around the dining table eating lunch, a large man strode towards them and shook his meaty palms with Mr. Weasley's smaller ones.

Mr. Weasley introduced his children to Ludo, to which the latter nodded his head. The two men continued to chat, in addition to Percy, who had just started working in the Ministry. Ludo had the body of a retired fighter, yet maintained an energetic aura due to his rosy complexion and flashy smile.

"How about we bet on the match, Arthur?" asked Ludo. This caught the twins' attentions. "Many wizards are betting for Ireland to catch the snitch first, though others bet Bulgaria gets the first foul. So what do you say? Thirty galleons? One hundred?"

"If you say so... perhaps one galleon that Ireland wins." Mr. Weasley said.

Ludo Bagman gave him a quizzical look. "Just one?" he asked in a disinterested tone. "I see... any other takers?"

The twins looked at each other and shared a smile, thinking the very same thing.

Mr. Weasley hesitated. "I don't think my children would be interested in gambling—"

"We bet thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, and three Knuts that Ireland wins, but Victor Krum catches the Snitch," Fred spoke up as he gave Ludo a small sack that had all of their savings.

"And we'll throw in a fake wand too," chimed in George.

Percy looked like he choked on an old boot. "You're giving Mr. Bagman that rubbish?" he hissed at the two.

Ludo Bagman curiously took the wand from George's hands and gave it a flick. The wand let out a high-pitched squawk and turned into a rubber chicken. Percy stared in horror of how the Ministry wizard would react. "The disrespect! The audacity! Have you two no consideration on the fact that you showed Mr. Bagman that bloody—"

"Marvelous invention!" Ludo boomed and bursted into a fit of laughter. "I haven't seen something this entertaining in years! That fake wand of yours almost fooled me too. I'd pay for a dozen of them!" He shoved the rubber chicken in his pocket, its head sticking out.

Percy slumped back to his chair, his arms folded and ears red in both disapproval and embarrassment. He continued to stare numbly at his half-eaten sausage while Mr. Weasley eyed the twins in concern. "Boys, those are all your savings. Your mother will be even angrier if you'll use it for betting."

"Arthur, let them take a good risk! It's a part of growing up," reassured Ludo. He pulled out his notebook and noted down Fred and George's bet. "There's no way Krum will get the snitch and still lose, but I'll pitch in five galleons in place of that silly wand for that one."

Fred and George were jubilant. If they won the betting, they'd recieve double their savings, and, if calculated correctly, have enough money to kickstart Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Then, if business is successful, they might earn enough to build their very own store. They can almost feel their dream right at their fingertips, and at every minute, ideas came popping in and their imaginations ran wild. Yet no matter how different they perceived things, in the end of their imaginations they saw each other looking over their success.

Ludo Bagman soon left when he was notified he had to meet the Bulgarians, and the group continued lunch. The atmosphere buzzed in excitement and anticipation as the hours went by. In the late afternoon, salesmen started apparating in various parts of the campsite, pushing carts filled with unique trinkets. Many of the souvenirs were color coded—red for Bulgaria and green for Ireland. There were scarves and hats for each team, and one salesman sold face paint that could be immediately painted on people's faces. Ron was most excited out of everyone, using all his pocket money for souvenirs, especially for a Victor Krum figure.

"Damn, we should have saved at least five sickles," Fred pouted.

George shrugged. "It'll be worth it."

"Fred! George! I got you two some face paint," called Ginny as she beckoned them nearer to a salesman that carried a cart full of buckets of paint and brushes.

"Oh, Ginny, you don't have to," George refused.

"No, I insist. Besides, they're cheap."

Wanting to be spoiled by their sister's generosity, the twins decided to hell with it and had their faces painted. Fred had his fully painted in green and white, while George decided for a small streak on the cheeks so as not to abuse Ginny's savings. "Now it's clearer that I'm the better looking twin," he joked when he saw Fred's green-white face.

By the end of the day, most of the Weasley family covered themselves in green with the exception of Ron and Harry, who chose to support the Bulgarians, and the ever-formal Percy. Apart from the face paint, Fred and George were unable to buy any souvenirs.

"The match will be starting in about an hour, kids! Best we head up to the stadium now," said Mr. Weasley. Together with several thousands of other people, they all headed into the forest to watch the final match of the Quidditch World Cup.

Chapter Text

Tens of thousands of wizards and witches took their places in the rows of seats in the stadium. Mr. Weasley led the group up a long flight of stairs and stopped at the highest point of the stadium. George took one of the front seats and gazed down at the field, holding onto the metal railing. Below was a grassy field with silver goal hoops that stood fifty feet high. The entire area was illuminated with golden light, so bright that some might mistake that it was the middle of the day.

"We could see everything from up here! How'd you score these good seats, dad? It must've cost a fortune," George asked, still in awe of the view.

"You'll have to thank Ludo Bagman for that. We're in the Top Box, the best seats to watch the match," replied Mr. Weasley.

It wasn't long before the rest of the seats began to fill. Once again, Mr. Weasley was greeted by more members of the Ministry, each one more flashy and formal than the last. George met a few students he knew from Hogwarts, though none he considered close enough to talk to. Probably the most annoying one they met so far were the Malfoys. George noticed his father tense when Mr. Malfoy walked towards Cornelius Fudge and Mr. Weasley.

"What's the name of that twig-looking guy that always bothered you, again?" Fred, who sat beside George, asked Harry and Ron. "Drake? Darren?"

"Dick." Ron answered, and the four of them tried to stifle their laughter. Draco threw them a harsh look, but quickly turned his attention back to his father to listen in on Mr. Malfoy's conversation with Cornelius Fudge. To their luck, the Malfoys sat at the other side of the stadium, letting the twins, Harry, and Ron to make fun of them as loud as they wanted.

Slowly, the seats continued to fill in with more Ministry wizards. Mr. Weasley shook hands with most of them, though he was a little worn out. The rest of the group sat on their seats and waited for the match to start. George leaned onto the railing and looked to his left. One seat was empty, and he silently wondered who it was for. Hopefully someone he knew well like Lee or Angelina , he thought. The two of them wrote to the twins that they would be at the World Cup, but so far neither George nor Fred saw them. He'd want to look for them, of course, if it wasn't for the fact that the stadium was the same size as an island. He refused to get his hopes up, and expected that some old witch would sit next to him with a bag of cockroach clusters (who in their right mind thought of that as a sweet?).

Just then, he felt a sudden but light kick on his right leg. "Excuse me," said a small flat voice. George looked at his right to a small black-haired boy holding a bag of cockroach clusters. He looked no more than eleven years old, and wrapped around his neck was a red-and-black striped scarf that George knew to be a popular souvenir for those who supported the Bulgarian team. "You think the Irish will win? You're delusional," the boy spoke up again with that same monotone voice, his dark eyes staring blankly at George. With the roach clusters and the insult upon the Irish, he was tempted to give the boy a Tongue-tied Toffee.

"Edvard Vincent Lanh Malmvinsey! Who told you to run off by yourself?" yelled another voice, this one gravelly and taut.

Malmvinsey. That name was familiar, but where did George hear it from?

Entering the box was a thin man draped in a blush pink cape. His black hair was long and messy, reaching up to his waste. Underneath the cape looked to be a dark suit. He looked oddly familiar, as if George had seen him before.

The boy, or Edvard, turned around to face the man. "You are too slow," he complained and crunched on a roach. Seriously, who decided cockroaches would be a good sweet?

The man looked like he was about to imitate a Howler, until Mr. Weasley spoke up from behind. "Macario? Is that really you?"

The man looked at the seat row in front of him, and then to Mr. Weasley. "Oh, hello, Arthur," he greeted a bit bashfully.

Mr. Weasley stood up and eagerly shook hands with him. "It's been awfully a long time seeing you again! You look like you haven't changed since we were young—well, except the hair of course." He pulled the man into a big hug, which made the children stare in pleasant surprise.

"I see that your stubbornness to acknowledge my personal bubble is still functional," the man huffed and pulled away. He was much shorter than George thought. His head only reached Mr. Weasley's chin.

"And neither has your tongue!" Mr. Weasley humorously retorted. "Macario, let me show you to my kids. You remember the boys, right?"

Bill was the first to shake hands with him. "It's a great pleasure to see you again, Mr. Malmvinsey," he greeted warmly.

"Ah, William. You used to be so short the last time I saw you, and your hair as well," Mr. Malmvinsey said, taking high regards to Bill's long red hair, similar to his own. Charlie waved at the man and the both of them exchanged nods, while Percy couldn't let go of Mr. Malmvinsey's hand.

"It's an honor to be with your acquaintance, Mr. Malmvinsey," Percy praised.

Mr. Weasley failed to resist smiling from ear to ear. He introduced the wizard to everyone else as if they were his prized collection of electric chargers. "This is Ron—you saw him when he was three, I think. I believe you haven't formally met the youngest one, Ginny," he continued on. Mr. Malmvinsey slightly bowed and shook more hands. "These are Ron's friends, Hermione and Harry. Surely you know Harry."

"Who wouldn't?"

George looked back at the boy next to him, still munching on the cockroach clusters and seemed to be bored of the conversation. The boy walked toward his father, and outstretched his empty palm. Mr. Malmvinsey held it, and carried on with the conversation he had with Mr. Weasley and the older children.

Fred moved closer to George, glancing at the man. "George, any idea who he is?" he asked.

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

"Maybe Percy knows. He's a walking encyclopedia."

George tapped Percy's shoulder. "Percy, do you know him?"

Percy looked at the twins with his eyebrows wrinkled. "I'm not surprised you two don't know." He fixed his green rosette.

"That doesn't really answer the question."

Percy rolled his eyes. "That's Macario Malmvinsey. He's an Unspeakable, and he’s as mysterious as the department he works in. Rumor says that he once caused our Sun to go supernova, then used a time-turner to mend it just before he got scorched. To be frank, those rumors are ridiculous; Mr. Crouch says so! This is actually my first time meeting him in person."

"What's his relation to Dad?" George asked.

"He was dad's friend back in Hogwarts. They shared the same room. He's only been to the Burrow about once or twice. The last time I saw him was when I was six? seven? Anyway, don't you have someone from your year related to him? I think it was his oldest son," he said.

Fred's eyes widened. "Ah! You don't mean—"

The interrogation was cut short just as the two men moved toward the twins. "And finally, the twins. Macario, these are Fred and George. Boys, this is Mr. Malmvinsey, an old friend of mine."

"Nice to meet you," the twins greeted.

"To you as well," Mr. Malmvinsey said. His dark eyes darted from twin to twin, seeming to be unsure which was which. He shook Fred's hands first, and then George's. Mr. Malmvinsey's hands were rough and bony, and up close, his face looked long. In fact, the parts of his face were sharp as well; his eyes were round and had eyebags as if gravity was tugging his eyelids, and his brows were constantly furrowed like everyday was raining flobberworms. He had an aquiline nose that rose high at the top and sloped down to a pointy tip, and hollow cheekbones that formed with his square jaw.

The little boy lightly pulled the man's cape. Standing side by side, George could see a little resemblance between the two of them. Both of them shared the same tawny brown skin and aquiline nose, but unlike his father's round eyes, Edvard's were slender and paired with a mischievous roach-stained smile that only told sinister secrets.

"This is Mr. Malmvinsey, my dear friend and colleague. He and I had Muggle Studies together," Mr. Weasley introduced. He peered over at the little boy. "And could this be your youngest?"

"Indeed. Ed, say hi."

Edvard looked up. "Do I bless him, papa?"

"No need."

Edvard bowed and waved at Mr. Weasley. George wondered what "bless" meant.

Mr. Weasley patted the boy's head. "Good to see you, Ed! You've gotten taller since I last saw you and your siblings. Speaking of which, where's the rest of your kids?"

"Oh, Pierre's with one of his friends a few floors beneath, and Haliya stayed behind to make sure he comes up here before the game starts." Mr. Malmvinsey replied.

Pierre. That name appeared in George's mind. And then a familiar face came into view, along with something... gooey... and green.

Fred pulled at his arm and nudged his head at their seats. As they sat, Fred whispered to him, eyeing at the two wizards who were still deep in conversation. "Now I remember! Pierre-Auguste Malmvinsey. He's not the worst, but still has those annoying parts of the Slytherin heredity.”

"How'd I forget?" George grinned. "He caught us stealing pumpkin cake from the kitchen in our second year. We lost forty points because of that git.”

“Don’t forget what happened in fourth year!” Fred added. “Remember we made that green slime in Potions class near the end of the term?” 

“And you tried to sneak some out but-”

“You knocked me over in the hallways and-”

“It flew out the window-”

“And Malmvinsey got it all over him in the courtyard!” The two of them burst out laughing. 

“I still remember how he was screaming ‘Acid! Acid on my hair!” while Pucey tried to rub it off without getting some on himself,” George grinned.

“He was right though. The slime was acidic. Burnt through most of his hair and gave him a very bad buzz cut. His hair grew out a bit in fifth year, but it’s still as short as it is.”

“I haven't seen much of him in fifth year, though."

"Yeah, he's gotten busier since he got recognized for his "artistic talent". I hear he's always cooped up in the art classroom doing, you know, art things. I think he just didn’t want people to see his hair, though," Fred snickered.

George thought of being alone in a room all day, without anyone to talk to. He thought of staring into a blank canvas with a brush in his hand. He doubted such a person could endure solitude.

"Merlin, I'm starving. I'm going to ask Charlie for some spare sickles. What licorice wand flavor do you want?" Fred asked.

"Black."

Fred's nose wrinkled. "That's the worst flavor."

George shrugged. "We've all got preferences."

"Whatever, brother." Fred waved his hand, and walked away to his older brother.

Now alone, George debated on whether to focus on the lively stadium or on his father. He chose the latter.

Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malmvinsey were both leaning against the railing and watching the leprechauns dancing as fireworks lit up in the air. Edvard had already let go of his hand, as he was now with Harry and the others and playing with Ron's Victor Krum figure. George could barely hear a word they were saying over all the commotion in the box, so he leaned forward and slightly craned his head. He dipped his head down, careful not to be caught eavesdropping.

"I've said this time and time again, I can't visit you and Molly. You know my department's been busier than ever." He caught Mr. Malmvinsey say.

"It's always busy! I'm just offering you a chance to take a break. If not visit me, then why not go on vacation with your children? When was the last time you spent any quality time with them?" His father countered.

"I'm spending time with them now. Right here in the World Cup."

"You rarely leave the floor. I've seen Bertha Jorkins more than you, and she's almost always missing. Listen," Mr. Weasley's voice was now in a hushed tone. "I know it's hard after what happened to her, but you can't drown yourself in work all day. Think about what your children feel."

"My wife doesn’t have anything to do with this."

Mr. Malmvinsey glared at his old friend. The two of them only stared at each other in silence. Mr. Weasley's face grimaced. George scratched his head and looked at the empty seat next to him, wondering what was taking Fred so long to buy licorice wands. That was enough spying.

Mr. Weasley opened his mouth to speak, but closed it as two figures walked towards them. A young girl came up to them, her dark long hair bouncing at her back and hands in the pockets of her burgundy jacket. "Sorry we're late, dad. Kuya couldn't stop talking to Adrian," she said.

The other figure had his back turned facing George, so he couldn't get a good look at his face. However, he knew that was the eldest, Pierre-Auguste Malmvinsey. He had a slender and graceful build. Pretty much everything about him looked graceful, George thought. His posture was straight and his shoulders were relaxed . He wore an outfit slightly similar to Percy's, a white collared shirt with long sleeves probably made of silk, and holding his left hand was Edvard, who had now finished the cockroach clusters. Thank Merlin.

Pierre ignored his sister's shade and instead turned toward Mr. Weasley. "How do you do, Mr. Weasley?" he held out his free hand.

Mr. Weasley's face brightened at once. "Just splendid, Pierre. My, so this is the face of the Malmvinsey family. You've gotten more handsome, my boy!"

Pierre chuckled. "Thank you, sir. How is work in the Ministry? Congratulations on the promotion, by the way."

George had to admit, the guy knew how to lighten the mood. What was once a frown on Mr. Malmvinsey's face turned back into his usual stoic expression. The three of them continued talking as if even Pierre was an old friend. The girl also introduced herself, to which George heard that her name was Mayari and that she was the middle child.

Ludo Bagman walked into the box holding his wand up to his throat. His loud voice boomed across the stadium, signaling the World Cup to finally commence.

"I think we should all take our seats now. Macario, would you like to sit together?" asked Mr. Weasley.

"As you wish. How many seats are left on your side?"

"Oh, there's one . . . two . . . four seats next to Ginny. That's enough for . . .'' Mr. Weasley counted the Malmvinseys, and paused. "Oh, there's five of us. One of us has to find another seat."

"There's a spare one beside the orange boy," Edvard pointed.

They looked at where he was pointing, at the empty seat at George's left. "The orange boy. The one I kicked," Edvard added.

Pierre glanced at where Edvard pointed at, and George immediately sat up straight. Pierre looked nothing like his father. He didn’t share his father’s oval face, and he had a much softer appeal to him. His dark brown eyes were rounder and held a judgmental look. He and George made eye contact for a split second. George remained his best to look cool and disinterested. Pierre's face was unreadable until, finally, he broke away.

"I think that's a wonderful idea, Ed. Macario, perhaps one of your kids can sit with one of mine?" Mr. Weasley asked.

"I think Pierre should sit with him," Mayari suggested. For a moment, George thought he saw Pierre throw his sister a quick glare.

"Yes, kuya should sit," agreed Edvard. "The orange boy looks at him funny."

Pierre cleared his throat. "I don't think—"

"Oh yes, I believe you're classmates with my son, Pierre?" Mr. Weasley asked.

"Yes, but we don't really . . . talk." Pierre reasoned.

"Oh, then that won't be a problem. You can talk to him now, son," Mr. Malmvinsey said as he patted his son on the back. "There's no harm in new faces."

Pierre looked like he wanted to argue, but merely nodded. Mayari stifled a laugh while he rolled his eyes. "That's what you get for taking so long to come up here," she sneered.

Pierre said something George didn't understand, but he guessed it was another language.

While the rest of his family and Mr. Weasley walked away, Pierre walked towards George. The two of them glanced at each other for a short while, blue eyes locked on brown ones identical to the color of dark oak. The latter looked away first and sat down on the empty seat in awkward silence.

Chapter Text

Shortly after Pierre sat, Fred reappeared with a small bag of licorice wands. "Here's your black licorice, you menace," he offered as he tossed two of them to George.

"They aren't that bad," he shrugged and chewed on one of the wands.

"You'll get a heart attack."

"Then I will die happy."

Fred sighed and sat on his seat while chewing on a red one. He looked over his brother's shoulder. "Is that the Malmvinsey boy? I saw the rest of his family with Dad, why's he sitting like a lone duck?" he asked, a bit louder than George hoped for.

George placed a finger over his mouth and shushed him. "Not so loud. We don't want him to hear us. There weren't enough seats with Dad," he leaned his head closer to Fred and whispered, careful for Pierre not to hear. "Can you switch seats with me?"

"Hell no. You're on your own," Fred snickered.

"I'm not interacting with him. What am I even supposed to say?." George's voice was a little bit louder than he meant it to.

"You don't need to talk to him. He doesn't look interested in befriending a tosser like you, anyways. But hey, we'll never know. Maybe he likes leprechauns," said Fred, poking George's face paint.

George jokingly shoved a licorice wand to his face, and Fred whacked it away. "Git. You look more like a leprechaun than me with that green face."

He was right about Pierre's disinterest. George saw him resting his head on his hand looking at a Bulgarian player getting hit by a bludger. He didn't seem to hear their conversation, and he looked a little bored.

George decided to focus on the World Cup. Currently the score was thirty to ten, with Ireland in the lead. It was hard to tell what was going on in the field. The brooms sped by so fast that you can only see the blurry figures of the players. Every time either of the teams scored, a large portion of the stadium would howl in cheers and chants while the opposing side booed. Looking over the rest of the seats, he saw his family members watching the game in anticipation. Fred was shouting insults at the Bulgarian beaters and loudly cheered whenever Ireland scored. Mayari was with Ron and the others, probably teaching them how to properly make use of the Omnioculars, while Edvard silently had his eyes on the game happily munching on clusters.

Ireland was now leading with a score of seventy to sixty, and things got even more brutal from then on. The beaters were so focused on hitting the opposing team and had so many fouls that George lost count. He looked again at the boy sitting next to him, who still wore the same bored dark brown eyes. He wondered which team Pierre supported. He opened his mouth. "Hey-"

"I wonder how this match will end," Pierre suddenly said. "Who do you think wins?"

This made George a little dumbstruck. Since one of them was talking already, then here goes nothing. "I reckon you support Bulgaria?"

"Did my brother's scarf give you that assumption? No, I don't support the Bulgarian team."

"Well, I'm rooting for Ireland."

"The washable paint on your face gave that away."

That made George scoff. "So if you're not rooting for Bulgaria, then you must be rooting for Ireland like me, right?"

"I support neither. I'm not really interested in sports."

"A wizard not interested in Quidditch. A rare breed," George mused. This was the first time he ever heard of such a wizard, it was rather silly.

"A lot of wizards don't care about Quidditch. Maybe we just don't join in your kind of social circles."

"What kind of social circles do you think I'm in?"

"The unhinged circles."

George didn't know if Pierre wanted him to be amused or offended. I think he managed both. "And I take it that you're in the 'classy' circles, then."

"It's not my interest to take part in any circle."

The two were silent for a while. George didn't know how to progress further and Pierre didn't look like he wanted to keep talking about circles. If this had gone on, they’d probably be finding the diameter of a portkey. So, he turned his attention to the game. The players became harsher and brutal as the seconds passed, and it was all so quick for Ludo Bagman to commentate properly. The scores of both teams were tied with one hundred fifty. George chewed on his second black licorice wand. "Why don't you like Quidditch?" he asked.

Pierre shrugged. "We've all got preferences."

"Lynch has his eye on the snitch! He's flying down!" Ron exclaimed.

The people sitting on their seats immediately stood up and went to the railings to look over the field, including the Weasleys. Even Mr. Malmvinsey got off of his seat to find a better view. Viktor Krum spotted Lynch closing in on the Snitch and he dived down in immense speed. Shouts and cheers engulfed the whole stadium, excited for who would catch the Snitch first. Even Ludo paid attention to the Seekers and stopped commentating on the Chasers.

George stood up as well and was about to stand by the railings with his brothers, but he turned his head around to look at Pierre, who still sat. "Do you want to get a closer look?" he asked.

Pierre shifted in his seat, suddenly gripping the armrests. "I told you, I'm not interested in Quidditch. And I can see just fine from here," he replied.

George shrugged. "Suit yourself." He turned around and leaned on the railings with Fred and the others. Fred looked at him, then at Pierre, and then back at him.

"Made a new friend?" Fred asked cheekily.

"He’s unbearable."

The twins watched joyously at the two Seekers, who were now head to head in catching the Snitch. Viktor Krum was gaining on Lynch, his arm outstretched and body curled up. Suddenly, the Snitch dropped down and flew downwards. Both seekers swooped down at the same time, heading towards the ground. The crowd went wild. The shouts became louder and everyone was on the edge of their seats. George looked back to see Pierre still gripping the armrests and craning his head to try and take a look at the scene, but he recoiled once he caught George's eyes. Pierre looked away and frowned as the other grinned and focused back on the game.

"They're going to crash!" he heard Hermione yell.

"Krum, my galleons are depending on you!" Fred screamed.

Indeed, they did bet on Ireland winning and Krum getting the Snitch. Both twins knew for certain that it was a bet with odd chances, but they trusted their senses more than probability. This was the moment they depended on the most. The moment where they bring home double their savings or none at all, and it all depends on who gets the Snitch.

In an instant, Lynch hit the ground with a deafening crash, breaking his broom in the process. Viktor Krum, however, had slowly risen up the air clutching a glint of gold in his hand. He caught the Snitch.

George looked at the scoreboards. Bulgaria scored one hundred and sixty points while Ireland scored a hundred and seventy. The Bulgarian supporters groaned as the Ireland supporters cheered and celebrated their victory. "IRELAND WINS!" Ludo Bagman proclaimed.

Fred only stared at Viktor Krum with his mouth agape. "He caught the Snitch, but Ireland won," he murmured. "He caught it but Ireland . . . George, we won! We won the bet!"

"One step closer to the future of a lifetime!" George high-fived him, and together they cheered for Ireland's victory and for theirs.

The rest of their family had broad smiles on their faces, and Ron wouldn't shut up about Viktor Krum. George turned around, hoping to tease Pierre that he missed out on a once in a lifetime experience, but saw only an empty seat. He looked around in search of him, until he caught a patch of dark hair near the stairways. Pierre was already with his siblings and waited for his father to finish up their conversation with Mr. Weasley. Soon, they bid each other goodbye, and the Malmvinseys headed their way to the exit.

George found it a little rude that he didn't say goodbye to him at least, but to be fair, the conversation they had was enough for him. Besides, he didn't really care about it. He followed Fred past the roaring crowds and stopped right next to Ludo Bagman, who shook hands with other important wizards. "Ah, yes. I owe you two a fair amount of galleons," Ludo said.

The twins already outstretched their palms, impatiently waiting for their winnings. Ludo Bagman gave them twice their savings, and they joyously stuffed the gold in their pockets.

"It was a fine gamble! I look forward to the next one," encouraged Ludo.

"I don't think you should encourage the kids," said Mr. Weasley. "Don't tell your mother you've been gambling."

"We won't, Dad. We've got big plans for this money," said Fred mischievously, making their father look slightly concerned.

"This calls for a celebration!" yelled Bill. "To the tent!"

---

Nobody had any plans of sleeping early tonight. Percy had, but he was kept awake by all the noise the twins made. Fred and George were dancing around the tent in full joy due to their winnings. The group couldn't stop talking about the exhilarating match when they sat together at the dinner table. For once, Ron talked more than he ate. He narrated how Krum caught the Snitch over and over again that Fred and George decided to tease him. "He's like a bird from the way he flies in the wind," Ron praised.

"KRUM! KRUM!" Fred and George chorused.

"He's more than an athlete."

"KRUM! KRUM!"

"He's an artist." At this moment, one can mistake that he had hearts dancing on his eyes.

"I think you're in love, Ron," Ginny joined in. Ron would be protesting right about now if it wasn't for him ogling over the Krum figure. The inside of the tent remained to have no plans for serenity, and they could hear nothing but their own ruckus.

"It sounds like the Irish got their pride on," noted Fred, who heard nearby sounds outside in disarray. However, the noise they made themselves died down once Mr. Weasley entered inside the tent with his face full of worry.

"It's not the Irish." His voice was austere.

The group came to a hush. They heard muffled sounds outside, and as they edged closer to the end, the voices were clearer. There were screams coming from outside.

Mr. Weasley went outside first, and then the rest of the older Weasleys. George stepped outside to be immediately greeted by the smell of smoke. "Dad, what's going on?" Fred asked as he coughed and tried to wave away the smoke. The night sky was tinted with a hazy red, and a tinge of black was spotted from the corner of George's eye.

Something was heading towards their area. All around them, people were screaming and running towards the woods. "Run to the woods and stick together. Your brothers and I will sort this out with the Ministry," Mr. Weasley ordered them.

Mr. Weasley, Bill, Charlie, and Percy headed their way towards the looming threat while the rest of the group went in the opposite direction. Fred was the one leading the group. He held Ginny by the arm tight as George and the others followed behind.

Geoege doubted Fred knew where the woods were. He could barely see anything apart from the tents and people running about. Where was their tent? Were they going in circles? Wherever they were running, it was somewhere far away from the danger. George didn't exactly see the source of the chaos, but he knew the reason from the frightened wizards. "The Death Eaters!" He heard them cry.

Whether it was true or not, it didn't matter. All he had to know was if his family would get out of the campsite safely. The only problem about that is . . . where were they?

He stopped running. He looked around. People continued to scream and run, but no sign of Fred, or of Ron, his dad, or of anyone he knew.

He lost sight of them in all of this chaos. "Fred!" he called out. "Fred! Ron! Where are you?!"

He tried to poke his head above the crowd, still calling out to the rest of his family. Perhaps they were already in the woods. Had they realized that he wasn't with them too? Should he go to the woods by himself and hope for the best, or stay in the campsite to look for them? He didn't know. Fred usually makes the decisions, but to his luck, he isn't around.

It was hard to look for them with all of these people pushing him in a panic. He wanted to push them back, tell them to stop panicking, but he knew he was just like the rest of them. The blazing fire and smoke from the burning tents didn't help either.

Then a familiar shape caught his eye. A patch of dark hair in the distance and a pink cape stuck out from the panicking crowd. It was Mr. Malmvinsey.

George didn't have much of a choice to think as he began to head towards him. There was nobody else he knew within the crowd other than him. "Sir!" he called out, but the other didn't seem to hear. Mr. Malmvinsey only moved farther away, but unlike the frightened crowd, he looked . . . alert. Tense. He looked around, and his pace went faster.

George was closer now. He could touch him just by stretching out his arm. "Mr. Malmvinsey, sir!" he called out again, but he didn't look back. George paused. If Mr. Malmvinsey were here, then where were Pierre and his other children? Were they separated too? If he could just get to Mr. Malmvinsey, surely they can find both their families together.

The panicked crowd hastened, and George was shoved forward. He bumped onto the wizard and something went to his eye. Wincing, he dropped to the ground and tried to rub off whatever was on his face. It felt like his eyes had been doused in fire. Once his vision slowly regained itself, he gaped at the sight of his hand. His hand was covered in a strange tar-like liquid. His vision went . . . strange. His surroundings became blurry until all he could see were whizzing figures and fiery red hues.

Then something in front of him caught his eye. Not as blurry as the rest was a little object lying on the grass. He slowly moved toward it and reached out. His hands curled around something wooden and hard. He held it closer, and saw strange, still blurry marks on the wood.

"Search the area! The bloody thief can't have gone far." George heard someone shout. He looked up to see that Mr. Malmvinsey was gone. Once he just decided on searching for him, a familiar hand pulled him up to stand.

"George! What are you still doing here? Where are the others?" Bill frantically asked.

George didn't say anything directly. He was still left dumbstruck on the recent events that he stumbled upon himself. "I . . . I got separated. I think they're in the woods though."

Bill looked perturbed, but didn't ask more questions. "Come on, let's find them."

Eventually, Bill and George silently made their way through the area and headed to the woods. Finally, they reached a part in the woods where other wizards gathered. Bill and George later met the rest of their family, but also found out that Harry, Ron, and Hermione were separated.

"There you are, George!" Fred said with a look of concern. "Thank Merlin those bloody Death Eaters didn't hang you upside down. Seriously though, did they? I can imagine the scene perfectly." Typical of his brother to make everything a joke no matter how serious the situation was. But George didn’t have the energy to humor him right now. He was still dumbfounded at what happened.

He ignored Fred, and sat down on the grass. Fred stared at him. “You know,” he rubbed the back of his head. “I was a little worried.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Freddie,” George tried to lighten up. He held his head down, hoping that Fred got the note that he didn’t want to talk right now. He did. Fred turned his attention to Harry and the others, who had just arrived.

George could hear what they were saying, but decided he had enough to process tonight. He looked at the box in his hands. His hands were still clutching it tightly since he found it. He’d leave it for someone else to find, but something about it felt important. Besides, if someone appears on the Daily Prophet saying they've lost a weird box, that could save some trouble for the owner. 

Yet somehow, the box felt strange. It was like whatever was inside it was drawing him in, but what was inside?

"What are you doing?" Fred asked suddenly. "With your hands. Are you begging for sickles to the grass, George?"

"Ha-ha, very funny. I'm just wondering what's up with this box."

Fred raised an eyebrow. "What box?"

"Cut it out, Fred. I know you're joking," George said. 

Fred still looked confused. "You know I love a good laugh, but really though, what box?"

"I should've expected this from you," George laughed. "Percy! Check out this box I found."

Percy walked up toward them, obviously annoyed. "What is it this time?"

George moved the box forward so Percy can get a close look. "Any idea what this is?"

Percy fixed his glasses. "Uh. . . it's your hands."

"No, the box! Here, touch it."

"Touch where?"

"On the box!"

"What box?"

"That's what I said!" Fred cut in.

"Just touch what's between my hands, Percy."

"Bloody hell, fine." Percy, though hesitant, moved his hand towards the box. But to George's surprise, Percy's hand passed through the box, as if it was an illusion.

"What the fu—"

"I look ridiculous," Percy snapped and stomped away. "I'm going back to Father! Of course it's never something serious with you two."

Fred burst out laughing. "Now I get it! This was just a trick on Percy. Nice one, George!"

George looked at his palms.

The box was still there in his hands, the metallic designs cool, and the wood smooth and hard. If he listened closely, the box seemed to hum quietly. 

"Yeah," George faked a laugh. "Can't believe you fell for it too."

Chapter Text

The Weasley family returned to the Burrow the next morning. Mrs. Weasley greeted them all with a big hug, and to everyone’s surprise, she embraced Fred and George. “Thank goodness you’re all safe! I wouldn’t know what to do if the last moment I spent with you two was fretting about your toffees!” she cried.

This eased the tension of the twins and Mrs. Weasley a little, though neither carried lesser pride to apologize to each other. Everyone sat in the living room as Mr. Weasley read the Daily Prophet to everyone. George didn’t listen in on his family, however. He only stared blankly at the fireplace with his hand beneath his pocket and holding the box he found that night. 

He saw it clearly now. The box was rectangular and was just the right size for your usual trinket box. It was wooden, and if he looked closely, there were small carvings at the sides, but in an unfamiliar language. It didn’t look like letters either. The top of the box showed a fascinating design. At the very center was an empty space shape George didn’t know what was supposed to be placed on it. It was shaped like a very curvy explosion.

Around it were circular pieces of different sizes without a pattern on top of the box as if they were like buttons. George tried to press on one. It didn’t budge, although below the pieces were circular lines. Nearest to the empty center was the smallest line, and the others were larger the farther they were.

He didn’t know why he still held onto it. What could he gain from the box, anyway? He thought of finding the owner, and maybe they would give him a satisfying reward, but the chances were low. How was he able to find one out of a million people from the Quidditch World Cup? Not to mention that wizards from around the world were present too. 

What’s more complicated was the fact that nobody was able to see and touch the box except him. He figured it was enchanted, but whatever sort of magical item it was, he was clueless. That morning was also the day he decided to pay attention to class more. If it was enchanted, why could he interact with it and not the others? He wasn’t even sure if he was the only one who could. His next thought was that it was supposedly a prank that got lost in the crowd last night. It had to be.

He winced a little and rubbed his eyes. Despite there being no more trace of the dark liquid, his eyes still stung a little. The liquid quickly dissolved just before Bill found him, so nobody but him knew about it, not even Fred. He was unsure if he could tell him about what happened. He didn’t believe the box, so there was no way he’d believe that his brother got some black liquid on his eyes and magically disappeared. You can believe that a unicorn gifted you immense luck, but not about an invisible box only you can see. Welcome to the Wizarding World, where anything is possible, but not just anything.

“George,” Fred suddenly said. George looked up to see his brother sitting in front of him curiously. “Something up?”

“Yes, the ceiling,” George joked. He held onto the box, though positioned his hands as if he was resting them on his lap instead so as to not make Fred suspicious. He decided not to tell his brother or to anyone about the box and the liquid for now. He rubbed his eyes some more. 

The following days were spent preparing for Hogwarts this Sunday. Fred and George had just received their books (second hand from Percy) for their sixth year. Fred skimmed through them boredly while George was busy packing his luggage. 

“A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration, Standard Book of Spells Grade Six, Advanced Potion Making . . .” Fred grumbled. “These are boring.”

“Transfiguration doesn’t sound that bad,” George said as he struggled to shove his pajamas inside. “Where are the fake wands?”

“I already packed them along with our other inventions.”

“You didn’t pack your robes, didn’t you?”

Fred snickered and dropped the books. He opened his luggage and throwed in whatever he wanted to bring without bothering to arrange them. Together, they finished packing their luggage and decided to plan out brand new ideas and pranks.

A few hours passed, and eventually night fell. George stared up at the ceiling wide awake in the middle of the evening as the shuffling and creaking of Fred’s bed were the only source of sound in their room. He looked over to his nightstand. The box he found in the World Cup was placed on top. Seeing it this way, it looked no more than an ordinary trinket box. His luggage sat at the far corner of his room. He considered just leaving the box here at home and keeping it as a souvenir, but he was curious about its contents. Who knows, it might hold valuable treasure or something cool. The only problem is how will others be able to see it? 

He subtly tried to show his family the box. He once sneaked the box inside Percy’s desk, but he showed no signs of anger that some random object was sitting on top of his pile of parchment. He also tried throwing it to mainly Fred and Charlie to see if it would hit, but the box only passed through them and made a large thud on the floor (only he can hear it either). While staring up at the ceiling he decided to theorize.

Gred’s Case no. 1: None of his family can feel, see, touch, or hear the box except him. They have no possible interactions with it whatsoever, and fail to sense said box.

Gred’s Case no. 2: Can they taste the box?

He considered putting the box on top of Ron’s breakfast plate tomorrow, but decided not to. He’d probably never touch the box again if he did. He ultimately decided that it’s best to think tomorrow once he gets a good breakfast, and drifted off to sleep.

Steam billowed from the Hogwarts Express as many Hogwarts students shifted around platform nine and three quarters. Before they got onboard the train, they bid farewell to their older brothers. Mr. Weasley had to leave early due to an urgent call, and Mrs. Weasley stayed in the Burrow to rustle out the remaining gnomes in the garden, so Percy, Bill, and Charlie were in charge of escorting them to Platform nine and three quarters (it was mainly Percy).

“I’ll be seeing you sooner than you think,” said Charlie.

“And why is that?” asked Fred suspiciously.

“Charlie! Don’t say anything else, that’s classified information until such time as the Ministry sees fit to release it.” hissed Percy.

“It makes me wish I were still in Hogwarts,” Bill added and ignored Percy who looked like his glasses were about to explode.

“Why?” George asked as well. 

“If I said anything more, Percy would obliviate me,” Bill said.

“The train is about to leave,” butted in Percy. “George! Fred! Get on the train already! We’ve already lost our car, I do not want you both to lose punctuality in school.” Percy nagged. It seemed he had temporarily replaced their mother. 

“See you soon, boys!” Charlie bid farewell. 

“What do you mean ‘soon’?” Fred keenly asked as he and George boarded the train. 

“Charlie!” Percy scolded.

The train began to move, and a sharp shriek came from the engine. Fred and George waved goodbye to their three brothers who were too busy playfully bickering with each other. Fred put his hand down. “Any idea what they’re talking about?” he asked.

“I’m as clueless as you are.”

A couple of students ran past them and roughly bumped into their trunks. The trunks would have sprang open if not for George’s initiative to catch them in time. “Let’s go to our usual compartment now. Maybe Angelina has an idea. She knows every gossip in Hogwarts, after all,” George suggested.

Fred straightened a little and tidied his hair. “I call dibs on asking her,” he mused. 

“What’s wrong? Afraid to share?” George teased.

Fred rolled his eyes. “First come, first served, fucker. Get your own lady.”

Fred fancied Angelina ever since second year, and she was always his number one target for all of his pranks. He did whatever a boy did when he had a big crush.; light flirting, teasing, turning their hair red (that was in their fourth year). His advances always fell short, however, as Angelina always turned him down over and over again. This didn’t make Fred give up, though. 

The twins carried their trunks and began walking. Occasionally they waved at the other Hogwarts students, some they knew and some who they’ve never talked to. Everyone in Hogwarts knew about the notorious Weasley twins and their infamous trickery, and everyone was wary of who their next victim would be to their pranks, but excitement outweighed their worry for anticipation at what surprise they had in store. Even when the compartment doors were closed, the buzzling students were enough to fill the train. The farther they walked, the noisier and crowdier the train was. 

Finally, after trying their best to avoid tripping the first years, George opened a compartment door. 

“CROAK!” A chocolate frog was sent flying towards them. George dodged, but Fred wasn’t as fast. The frog hit his face with a big splat.

“Think fast!” Lee greeted them cheekily.

“Say it faster,” countered George.

“Really, Lee? Chocolate frog bombardment? That prank is too basic, even for someone like you,” Fred grumbled haughtily.

“Actually, Angelina did that,” Lee corrected him. From behind, Angelina smiled and waved at the twins. She turned to Fred, and raised an eyebrow.

Fred’s chocolate smeared face blossomed pink, and his eyes widened in Oh Shit . “On the bright side, it is a delicious trick,” he said while taking a bite out of the frog.

Angelina shook her head and huffed. “Whatever, Weasley,” she gave him a sly smile. “The frog is expired by the way.”

Fred nearly choked, and started to playfully throw his least offensive insults at Angelina. Instead of joining in, George remained silent and stowed their trunks away, although he stole a few glances at the three of them and chuckled along with their jokes to keep the mood. As he placed his trunk away, he felt the box from inside. 

He brought the box with him because, well, he wanted it close. It gave off an ominous vibe, and if his senses were wrong, then maybe it would be a fine trick to play on people. He sat on a spare seat. For now, he decided to forget about it and enjoy the ride. He was with Fred, Angelina, and Lee. The three of them were having a fun time, and he won’t be ruining that.

“Anything off the trolley, dears?” their heads turned at the voice.

Lee opened the door and the four of them peeked outside. The Honeydukes Express was nearby, and the trolley witch managed to handle every hand that appeared outside of the compartments. The students crowded in delight, making it hard for the four of them to see. 

“That’s a lot of heads,” Lee noted.

“Okay, guys, you know the drill,” Angelina said and pointed at whoever she mentioned, “Lee, prepare the sickles. Fred, list down the amount of treats we can buy, and George, you’re our ever-charismatic courier.”

“Wait, what will you do?” Fred asked them as he swiftly jotted down the items. 

“I’ll signal when George will go out. We need the perfect timing so he won’t drown in the sea of diabetic children.”

“Ha! Nice one, Angelina!” Lee applauded her humor, which made Fred turn green in envy. 

Lee started having a crush on Angelina in their third year, and it caused quite a rift between him and Fred. The two of them eventually reconciled with one another and compromised that it would be up to Angelina’s decision of who she would date. However, there were still some bumps here and there, and this one was about to get bumpy too.

With luck, Angelina alerted them before Fred said anything that might cause another beef. “We have an opening! George, quick!”

“I’m on it,” George nodded. Fred passed him the list and Lee handed him the sickles. The two of them cheered on for him as he got out of the compartment and headed for the trolley, which was actually just one compartment away from them. Not much to walk at, but he was satisfied.

“Anything from the trolley, dear?” The trolley witch asked, though George didn’t know who the question was addressed to. There were a large number of students gathered around the trolley and everyone mentioned the items they wanted and handed the old lady money. How the witch could keep up with all of the fuss was a mystery to George, but he already had one buried in his trunk, so he joined in on the students. 

“One box of Bertie Bott’s, four chocolate frogs, one pack of cauldron cakes, and one pack of Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum,” he said, and in an instant, the trolley witch presented him a paper bag full of the sweets he mentioned. He gave her the money, and was just about to head back to the compartment when he spotted a little familiar hand snatch a few licorice wands from the trolley.

The hand swiftly disappeared, and George saw a boy from behind the witch bury a few licorice wands under his pocket, and darted towards the opposite direction. It was Edvard, the boy with the roach clusters in the World Cup. The boy was about to open one of the compartment doors when another figure came out from one of the compartments. This one in particular, wore the same patch of hair as Edvard, and one that George met just a week ago.

Pierre said something in a language George unbeknownst.

“Nothing, kuya .” Edvard lied and put his hands in his pockets.

“Edvard…” Pierre said in a prolonged and strict tone.

His little brother groaned in annoyance, and showed him the licorice wands.

Pierre shook his head, and suddenly, he caught the sight of a spying ginger. George’s blue eyes met Pierre’s brown ones. George immediately darted his gaze to the many treats in the trolley. Don’t look, don’t look , those words repeated over and over again in his head. 

Since when did he listen to his head, anyways? He glanced back at Pierre to see him whisper something to Edvard, and gave what looked to be… ten galleons. Rich. Is money a Slytherin genetic? 

Edvard skipped in glee of the money he received, and went back to the trolley witch. “I’ll have twelve of these, nine packs of those, eight-no-fourteen packs of them, and eleven of these!” Edvard pointed at practically everything in the trolley while he gave the witch the galleons. His smile grew wide that the tips were just below his eyes.

The trolley witch gave him a large paper bag full of all the sweets he ordered, and when Edvard held it, he almost dropped them in surprise of how heavy it all was. He was about to leave but he turned around and pulled out one of the sweets he bought. 

“Orange boy, this one’s for you,” Edvard shoved a licorice wand to George, and he hesitantly accepted it. Then, the boy skipped away to his group of friends and gave some of the treats to Pierre, who went back inside his own compartment without sparing a glance.

To why Edvard gave him a licorice wand, George didn’t have the answer to. He didn’t care, though. He just got free food and he will not be passing up that opportunity. 

By the time he came back to the compartment, he was bombarded by Angelina’s frantic questions. “What took you so long? Was my timing off? Did you get Drooble’s?”

“On a more important matter,” Fred butted in as he offered George on the other side. “Who was that kid who gave you the wand? I think I’ve seen him before.”

“You really are forgetful,” George said. “It was one of the Malmvinsey boys.”

“Wow, George! What got you on their good side?” Lee asked amusingly. “They say the Malmvinseys are hard to impress.”

“Guess what, George and the Malmvinsey boy from our year sat beside each other in the World Cup,” Fred told them.

Lee perked up. “Damn, you really are an ever-charismatic courier.”

“Technically, he’s just charismatic. He hasn’t done any ‘courier’ duties to him yet,” Fred stated.

“What will he even deliver to the Malmvinseys? They’re loaded!” Angelina exclaimed. At the same time, the bubble gum she chewed on formed a large pink bubble. Fred popped it. “Hey!”

“Angelina does have a point. Isn’t the family originally from the Southeast?” Lee asked.

“As far as I know, it’s the grandparents who migrated, but who knows how much they already had before Macario Malmvinsey was promoted to Senior Unspeakable AND Head of the Department of Mysteries? Their networth could feed an entire town.” Angelina said.

“It must be fun living a life of luxury,” Fred mumbled. “But I bet they don’t have any fun in the summer. All Malmvinsey ever does is shake hands…” He stood up and did a funny pose and lifted his chin up as if portraying a snobby aristocrat. 

Lee played along and also stood, using his chocolate frog card as a fan. “You’re so dashing, Malmvinsey!” he jeered.

“Thank you sir. How is work in the Ministry? Congratulations on the promotion, by the way.” Fred said in a high pitched voice, and Angelina, Fred, and Lee all laughed at the act.

George, however, only sat in silence. He laughed along with them, but not as loud and cheery as his usual laugh was. He didn’t know why, but what Fred and Lee were joking about sounded a tad bit… offensive. And great Merlin! George, the other half of the mischief-managing tricksters of Hogwarts, found a joke offensive? And a joke coming from his own brother, too. It sounded blasphemous.

He lost the mood to join in, and instead stared out the window in a daze. Fred’s words echoed inside his mind. 

I bet they don’t have any fun in the summer.

Those words made him remember what he overheard in the World Cup. How his dad and Mr. Malmvinsey argued about the latter refusing to visit them. 

“ If not visit me, then why not go on vacation with your children? When was the last time you spent any quality time with them?” was what his dad said. It made him wonder just what Pierre does over the summer with his siblings. 

“Hey, George,” Fred tapped his shoulder. “You gonna eat that?” he asked and pointed at the chocolate frog he took out from the bag.

“Ah, here, you can have the last one.” He wasn’t in the mood to eat any of the sweets they bought.

Fred took it and bit the chocolate. He looked at the card corresponding to it, and gave it to George. “Here, I only wanted the chocolate. The card’s technically yours, and I know you collect them.”

“Thanks.” He accepted. He looked at the card. A beautiful woman smiled at him warmly as she fixed her dark braided hair. Her dark eyes, identical to the color oak, complemented the bronze glow of her skin. This was the first card he had of this woman. The description of the card read:

“ Haliya Kalalacao, 1956 - 1984; Widely known as The Evening Painter, she held the award of Painter of the Century of the Wizarding World. Her paintings are found to give unique side effects. Wizards with lost loved ones claim to hear their voices when gazing into some paintings, and those with illnesses felt a sense of great relief as if they have been healed. She sold over 5,000 paintings in her lifetime, and 979 of them reside inside the Kalalacao Manor from the Philippines.”

Chapter Text

Pierre felt indifferent today, just like how he had always felt every other day. He didn’t feel the excitement everyone had about coming back to Hogwarts. That excitement was gone a long time ago. 

He sat alone in the train compartment farthest from the exit doors. The areas near those were always noisy and full of annoying first years like Edvard. His sister Mayari, his little brother Edvard, and he were escorted to Platform nine and three quarters by their grandmother, to whom they called “Lola Chesa”.

She was a strict old lady, who was incredibly taller than the average Filipino, and hell, Pierre can bet she could easily tower over half the seventh years. She stayed with them over the summer ever since he was seven, and whenever she was, none of his memories had any genuine joy.

Lola Chesa never loved Pierre, and she made sure he knew that. All he remembered of her was being neglected at every merienda, receiving the smallest portion of biko, and all the physical disciplines he had to endure from his grandmother. After all, she couldn’t love him for his birth. To her, he was a stain in the family, and whenever she faced him, her face grimaced as if Pierre was about to bring shame any second.

This particular morning, he was pissed off. Something happened at home, and his grandmother was the root cause.

Lola Chesa insulted his mother in front of his face. She called her a coward; a talentless witch who fled from responsibility to chase after a meaningless dream and a meaningless man. Hearing what she said made him go off. He gripped his wand, a thousand curses spinning in his mind. And then, he dropped his wand, and his loss of control sent the ceramics out of place, breaking at least a dozen plates in the kitchen without touching them.

“Don’t ever insult my mother!” he said. 

“Don’t raise your voice at me,” Lola Chesa hissed. She pointed her wand and casted a hex. Pierre felt a sharp pain in his knees that caused him to drop and kneel on the floor. The hex was an extreme punishment within the Filipino wizarding household to punish children, especially used by strict. The adult would cast a searing pain as if the child’s knees were being pressed on sharp rocks. This was the usual punishment his grandmother liked to give him whenever he did something that irritated her. She pressed her wand on his chin to make him look up and face her. “A bastard’s words will never hold value in this family. The next time you try to talk back to your grandmother , I’ll stitch your mouth, and I won't be using my wand.”

And she carried out another disciplinary punishment she liked to give him; whipping. She walked out of the kitchen, ignoring the sharp cracking sounds of the whip she hexed on Pierre. For a good five minutes, he was left alone in the kitchen getting beaten by his grandmother’s whip, careful not to make his cries too loud so his siblings didn’t have to worry.

He still had some rage left from what happened that morning, and he tried his best to shove it down. He was good at hiding his anger.

His stepfather, Macario Malmvinsey, visited the house only once in a blood moon. Pierre bet he never slept in that house in his lifetime either. Pierre rarely did too, but testing out color palettes in his bedroom still counts. Macario only came back in the house to greet the children, ask them if they ate, retrieve some items and maybe a new weirdly-styled coat, and leave for work with just a simple nod. He was like a ghost that disappeared at first light.

The World Cup was their very few events where every member of the family partook in (almost everyone). Throughout the evening, they still shared a lingering distance with each other, but it was a night where Pierre could breathe and talk to his father like they were a normal family. But at a blink of an eye, that funny feeling was cut short when he had to sit next to one of the Weasley twins. 

He remembered his name was George. He heard it when the other twin shouted his name as the both of them cheered for Bulgaria winning. Weren’t they team Ireland? Pierre didn’t understand magical sports. He rather not think about Quidditch at all in the summer; he already had to endure his roommates planning how to make more fouls in their Quidditch matches over the school year. 

George . . . yes, that was the Gryffindor who dumped that hair-ruining acid on him in fourth year. Oh, how he wanted to strangle him after ruining his hair. He was forced to cut it so short, and no magical hair treatment could fix what that slime acid did to him. Adrian couldn’t focus on his Transfigurations without laughing about it. Thank Merlin that his hair grew back to its usual self in time for sixth year. He wondered if George noticed that. He most likely forgot about the acid hair incident, Pierre thought. There were more bizarre pranks the twins did to many other poor souls like him. Whatever, it wasn’t his business. 

That Weasley couldn’t shut up, and his doppelganger was even worse. He heard their loud whispers while sitting next to them, and it absolutely bored him to death (though he found it a bit funny seeing George get nervous around him, but he wasn’t going to admit it). That brief conversation he had with George left no strong emotion in him. 

A memory from that night played in his mind:

“Do you want to get a closer look?” 

“I told you, I’m not interested in Quidditch. And I can see just fine from here.”

To be honest, he couldn’t see well from his seat. George and his family seemed to be excited at what went on in the match, and it made him want to see what made them excited. It wasn’t like he was interested in Quidditch at all, he was only . . . curious. God how he wished that he sat with his family instead of George. He wouldn’t grow an interest in quidditch, and he wouldn’t have gotten caught by George when he tried to look over while sitting down.

He didn’t like the Weasley family. They were loud at the World Cup. All of them shouted at the top of their lungs during the game, and he didn’t understand how a family can share such enthusiasm in one thing. His own family had very little interests and similarities except for, well, academic excellence. The Weasley family cheered at the end of the game while his family left without a word. By the time they reached their tent, Macario told them to pack their belongings and head back home. Pierre and his siblings complained at the sudden leave, but Macario's words were final. Pierre knew it was no use arguing with him, he was incredibly stubborn. He didn’t even bother telling them why they had to leave right after the match.

It was probably for the best, because the next morning the Daily Prophet’s headlines were all about the Death Eater attack in the World Cup. Pierre was somewhat grateful they left early, but something felt off. He had no material evidence, but his gut told him Macario knew something about it that others didn’t. Perhaps he knew beforehand there would be an attack that evening, hence urging them to leave right after the match. It shouldn’t be Pierre’s business to assume. He didn’t want anything to do with Death Eaters. Not anymore.

He hadn’t seen Macario after the World Cup. He was cooped up in the Ministry sorting things out regarding the incident. How was the Department of Mysteries even related to the incident anyway? They’ll see each other next summer, he guessed.

The door opened, and a patch of chestnut hair entered the compartment. “Aw, I’m not the early one anymore,” he sighed. 

“Morning, Adrian. Your fly is open,” Pierre greeted. Seeing Adrian eased his mood and made him forget about what happened that morning.

Adrian looked down and zipped his pants. “Ugh, my mom kept me up all night sorting her potions cabinet. I think I spilled some of her Confusing Concoction this morning. I’ve inverted my robes.”

“Adrian, you’re not even wearing your robes yet.”

“Bloody potions!”

Adrian Pucey was a sixth year student from Slytherin, and one of Pierre’s roommates. He was also (Pierre wasn’t the first to approach him) his best friend since first year, and was the more sociable and easygoing between the two. He knew some of the issues he had with his family, so he could always count on him whenever something bothered him. He was the only person he opened up to. Only slightly, though. 

Adrian sat next to Pierre and fixed his curls. “So, how’s your summer?” His amber eyes looked Pierre in his usual felicitous aura.

Pierre wanted to give him a different answer this year unlike the times he’s been asked that question for the previous years, but couldn’t think of any. “It was fine.”

And Adrian expected to hear that answer. “At least your hair grew,” he smiled slyly and tousled Pierre’s hair. Pierre glowered at him and swatted his hand away. 

“You’re messing up my hair, Adrian.”

“Riiiight, thou shalt not touch Malmvinsey’s hair,” Adrian joked. “My peasant hands do not deserve to make physical contact with your princely locks!” 

Adrian’s humor made Pierre chuckle. Shortly after, the compartment doors entered and three boys walked in. “BLETCHLEY BANGER IS IN THE AREA!” yelled one of them. He had his hair dyed a dirty violet and his eyes were azure blue.

“Miles, shut the bloody hell up. We haven’t even reached Hogwarts yet and you’ve already docked us house points!” another scolded. This boy was Graham Montague, another Slytherin the same year as Pierre and Adrian, who was shorter than the other two. He was Egyptian-French, and his tawny skin complemented his sharp copper eyes, and his dark curly hair was cropped short. Like Pierre, he already wore his school robes as expected of a star pupil. 

“What happened this time?” Adrian asked them. 

The last one to enter was Cassius Warrington, Slytherin just like the rest, who was sipping on a Surreal Snake Smoothie. Cassius was a Taiwanese boy who stood nearly six feet. He had an olive complexion with dark narrow eyes, and was the tallest one in the room. On his other hand was his wand, which he casually waved in the air, and glowing words appeared out of thin air. Miles flooded a fourth year compartment.

“How were the kids?” asked Adrian in slight concern.

“They’re fine, but that’s not the problem. Some Gryffindor prefect saw what happened and told us she was gonna tell Professor McGonagall. We’re going to lose fifty points before the school year’s even started, and this one’s on your wand, Miles!” Graham shouted. Miles showed no signs of care about Graham’s complaints. “We can always hex that Prefect. Maybe we can erase her mouth with that . . . Pierre, what was that spell called again?” He sat down across Pierre and Adrian, and put his legs up on the rest of the seats. Graham kicked his feet off and sat next to him. 

“I doubt you can even execute a perfect Oscausi. You’d end up shutting your own mouth instead,” Pierre smirked.

“Wait, that can work. You’ve redeemed yourself, Bletchley,” Graham mischievously grinned.

“Oh, so we have our first victim already?” Adrian asked. 

“Bloody right we do. You mess with the Vyssiors, you’ll get your arse beat,” Miles cackled. 

Vyssiors was the name the boys called themselves as a group. It was Miles who came up with the name based on a Slovakian word he claimed meant “superior”, and Pierre had to admit, the name didn’t lie. The five of them; Adrian, Miles, Graham, Cassius, and he were quite well known in the school halls for losing a great amount of house points, yet somehow end up regaining them in a span of a week. Pierre preferred to describe them as feared rather than respected by the other students. 

Miles, Graham, and Cassius sat in the opposite seats of Adrian and Pierre. Adrian joined in on the other three on scheming. “Pierre, got any ideas? You are our best strategist, after all,” Graham asked.

“You four have your fun. I’ll be the one to get all of you out of trouble like usual,” Pierre said. He rarely ever joined their misfits, and besides, someone had to prevent any collateral consequences. His friends weren’t exactly the best or the most noble, but he never felt excluded despite seeming distant, and he believed this was a great attribute in their friendship. No matter how far you are, they’d always apparate in your headspace and drag you in their happy chaos.

Soon enough, they heard the chimes of the trolley witch, and the five of them searched their pockets. “Hey, that reminds me,” Adrian said. “Pierre, do you have any of those- what do you call them? Parcels? Pascals?”

“ Pasalubong ,” Pierre corrected.

“Merlin, please say yes. They’re one of the things I look forward to in September,” Miles praised.

“Not this time, boys. The family’s been busy ever since the issue in the World Cup,” he lied. The last thing he wanted the others to know was what always happened to him in the summer. He was grateful to come back to Hogwarts, and Hogwarts will stay as it is. Like always, he’ll forget about the bloody slash-like wounds on his back and the purple bruises on his knees at school. His grandmother will never ruin his time here with his friends. He’d make sure of that. 

While the rest of his friends were bummed out that they couldn’t get any special summer treats, Adrian gave Pierre a knowing glance. He knew about his grandmother, but didn’t know of the extreme punishments Pierre had to endure. Pierre glanced at him and gave him a reassuring nod to tell him he didn’t have anything to worry about. Adrian hesitated, but continued to pull out a few sickles from his pockets.

“Alright, so who’s gonna deal with our usual Honeydukes orders this year?” Graham asked.

“I’ll do it,” Pierre offered. He needed something to distract him. The boys lent him their money, and he opened the compartment door to see his brother Edvard and his suspiciously heavy pockets. 

Adrian looked over at them. “Hi, Ed!”

Pierre folded his arms. “Ed, why do your pockets look heavy? ” he asked in Filipino. 

“Nothing, kuya ,” Edvard said. 

“Edvard, what is inside?” Pierre said strictly.

“Uh oh, someone’s in trouble,” commented Graham. 

Cassius waved his wand and words appeared out of thin air. Miles, you found your twin.

“Maybe this Malmvinsey would like to join our scheming?” Miles suggested jokingly, earning a glare from Pierre.

Edvard and Mayari were Pierre’s half-siblings. The three of them shared the same mother, but Edvard and Mayari's father was Macario Malmvinsey, and his biological father was someone else. Someone whose name he rather not mention. Just the thought of his actual father could burst out all the anger and pain he felt this morning, but soon he focused on the present.

Edvard eventually surrendered and showed him the licorice wands he stole. Pierre sighed, and through the corners of his eyes he saw a familiar patch of red hair. He looked over at the other side of the train to see George staring at him. George noticed he was caught staring, and looked away. 

Seeing that made Pierre amused, and an idea popped into his mind. “Edvard, come here for a second,” he gestured. Edvard obeyed and leaned in as Pierre whispered. “I’ll give you a few extra galleons if you buy treats for my friends.”

“How much extra, exactly?” Edvard asked.

“Five,” answered Pierre.

“I’ll take fifteen.”

“Seven.”

“Twelve.”

“Nine.”

“Deal!”

“And one more thing,” Pierre said, quieter this time. “Remember the orange boy we met in the World Cup?”

“Yeah?”

“Give him a black licorice wand, why don’t you? As thanks for the brief company.” 

“ Sige, ” Edvard nodded. He happily took the money and did as he was told, and Pierre found himself satisfied seeing George’s surprised and confused expression when he got the candy. Edvard came back to him and gave the treats.

“Thank you, Ed.”

“Anything for the money!” Edvard grinned and went back to his own compartment.

Pierre closed the compartment door without a glance at George, and sat back down. His friends excitedly snatched the sweets from the bag. “In tradition to every start of the year of the Vyssiers, we shall perceive our future through our first flavored bean,” announced Miles. 

This was something that they did at the beginning of their years. They would eat a random bean chosen and they’d assume whether the year for them would be great or not depending on the taste. Each of them took a bean out of Bertie Bott’s and ate them. 

“Mmm, vanilla ice cream,” Adrian hummed. “Something tells me I’ll have one ‘sweet’ year.”

“Buttered popcorn. It tastes better if it wasn’t bean-shaped, honestly,” Graham said.

“C-chili! Hot! Hot! Water!” blurted out Miles, and he drank the rest of Cassius’s Surreal Snake Smoothie. Cassius didn’t mind, though, as he happily ate his coffee-flavored bean. It seemed like most of them would have a decent year.

Pierre ate his. Black licorice.

Chapter Text

The students moved to their respective seats in the Great Hall to await the sorting of the first years. Likewise, the four houses were kept in separate tables. George and the others sat at the very left table along with their fellow Gryffindors. 

The floating candles from up above illuminated the Great Hall. Fred sat next to George, with Angelina and Lee sitting across the twins. Silence fell as soon as the doors opened, and entered Professor McGonagall leading the first years inside. One of them, George noticed, was Edvard, who was quite smaller than most of the boys in line. Like the other first years, Edvard marveled at the ceiling’s thunderstorm atmosphere above the floating candles. Eventually, the first years were being sorted to their houses.

“Sorting always takes forever! I want to eat already,” Fred groaned.

“Why not distract yourself? See which of these children are going to set off your dung bombs on the first day,” Angelina suggested as she brushed her coily black hair. The ceiling candles illuminated her cool black skin. She was chatting with Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell, who both sat beside her. 

Occasionally the Sorting Hat would shout the first year’s houses, and Fred, George, Angelina, and Lee would cheer for the ones sorted to Gryffindor. The line went short at every passing minute, until eventually it was Edvard’s turn. A lot of heads turned to witness the Sorting Hat being placed on his head. A minute had passed, and then two. Edvard sat with his head resting on his hands. He seemed a little bored now. 

“Huh,” Lee pointed out. “A Hatstall.”

“Didn’t expect it to be a Malmvinsey, though,” said Alicia. “They usually go straight to Slytherin.”

George's eyes wandered over the Slytherin table. He caught a glimpse of Pierre in a daze as he ignored the whispers from those sitting around him. Three minutes had passed, and the students, especially those in Slytherin, stirred in their seats. Whispers started to shadow the room. 

Edvard looked at the sudden change of atmosphere due to his sorting, and an impish smile dawned on his face. Did he find this entertaining to him? George had a feeling he was amused at the reaction from his Hatstall. He’d see him whisper to the hat with that cheshire grin. 

Fred groaned. “What the bloody hell is taking so long? My bloody stomach’s aching so that hat better shout ‘Slyther-’”

“GRYFFINDOR!”

The Great Hall fell silent. Lee nearly choked on his goblet. The hat just shouted ‘Gryffindor’. Not Slytherin, but Gryffindor. Edvard Malmvinsey was sorted to Gryffindor. Fred suppressed a laugh. “Look at their bloody faces,” he nudged at George and pointed at the Slytherin table. 

The Slytherins were flabbergasted. Some of them whispered nervously to each other, while some shook their heads in disappointment. Some looked at Edvard’s brother, and George followed their gaze. Whether Pierre was in dismay of his brother’s sorting or not, he didn’t show. Pierre’s face showed no strong reaction as he watched Edvard stand up and walk to the Gryffindor table. In fact, the Slytherins he sat with were more shocked than he was.

Meanwhile, the Gryffindors were unsure on how to react as well. Angelina decided to clap so as not to make things more awkward, and so did Alicia and Katie. The rest of the Gryffindors, though hesitant, followed suit. Eventually, most of the Gryffindor table clapped for Edvard. He took a seat with the first years with a smug smile on his face while the kids beside him nervously shifted in their seats.

“Now that’s a way to start the year,” Lee commented. 

“I can’t help but feel bad for him,” Angelina said, resting her head on her hands. 

The sorting carried on after that fiasco, and not long after it was time to feast. The twins and Lee immediately dug in to dinner, and practically hoarded most of the chicken on their table. Fred was just in the middle of teasing Angelina’s mashed potatoes when Professor Dumbledore stood up from his chair and spoke in his usual tranquil voice. 

“Hogwarts will not only be our home this year, but home to some very special guests as well. Hogwarts has been chosen to host a legendary event: The Triwizard Tournament,” he announced.

Murmurs of excitement rose from the tables. “You’re joking!” exclaimed Fred. so this was why their brothers were acting stranger than they already were. George felt a thrilling rush once he heard that the Triwizard Tournament would be held this year. It was also announced that there would be no Quidditch this year, much to the disappointment of  each house team, although neither Fred nor George paid any mind. They were more excited to take part in the Triwizard Tournament. Competing alongside Hogwarts were the Durmstrang Institute and the Beauxbatons Academy, in which the students will arrive later in the month. What made the twins' intrigued more was the thousand galleon prize to the winner. 

“Eternal glory,” Dumbledore proceeded. “That is what awaits the student who wins the Triwizard Tournament."

“Wicked,” said Fred and George in unison.

The Tournament was then elaborated by Mr. Bartimus Crouch from the Department of Magical Cooperation. Only one student for each school would be chosen to compete in the games. George was a little disappointed that he couldn't compete alongside his brother, but as long as one of them was chosen, he'll be satisfied.

"However, due to the tournament's history of danger among students, there will be an age restriction. Only those the age of seventeen and over could enter their names in the goblet of fire."

Groans and boos filled out the room at that rule. The twins' hopes of getting those galleons and that “eternal glory” were immediately crushed. "BOOO! THAT’S RUBBISH!" Fred exclaimed. 

"It's okay boys. Lee and I will enter in honor of you two," Angelina joked. George could telepathically hear Fred's internal screams. 

"Thank Merlin that my birthday’s in September," Lee said. 

"Don't get full of yourselves. Fred and I will get our names on that goblet, one way or another. We'll do a spell that makes our birthday tomorrow instead of next year!" George said. 

"Or a potion," Fred wondered.

George nodded. "A potion might work." Although the age restriction was a major obstacle preventing them from entering, rules never stopped Fred and George from getting what they wanted. It was unfair that not everyone was allowed to add their names, and it was definitely unfair that he and Fred were forbidden to enter. Rest assured that although they were the most reckless students Hogwarts ever encountered, they personally call themselves the most clever.

Their conversations were interrupted by a flash of lightning from the enchanted stormy ceiling that dangerously struck close to the Ravenclaw table. Another glowing spell struck the lightning itself, and the thundering growls from above calmed. George looked over to the source of the magic, and his eyes halted to a man making his way to Dumbledore in a messy stride. 

"That's Alastor Moody, ex-Auror," George overheard Ron explain to Harry. "I heard my dad talk about him this morning. He’s our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."  

Although one of Professor Moody's eyes were focused on Dumbledore, his other eye was an artificial electric blue that moved around in a frenzy like it was checking every spec in the Great Hall. George found it a little grotesque, and made him lose the urge to finish his mashed potatoes.

Not long after the announcement of the Triwizard Tournament, the students were sent to their respective Common Rooms. George and Fred brainstormed all the way up to the Gryffindor Tower on how they could get past the age restriction.

“It’s totally impossible,” Angelina interrupted them as the four of them sat on the couches near the fireplace. “Hell, nothing’s gonna get past Ministry enchantments. And not even whatever you two will conjure can get past that.”

“It can be so!” Fred countered. “George and I just didn’t figure it out yet.”

“Oh, and when will that happen?” 

“Before the tournament starts, duh.”

Angelina smirked. “I bet you’ll fail.”

“Ooh, what are you gonna do Freddie?” George stuck out a tongue.

“Shut up, she meant the both of us,” Fred said. He turned to face Angelina, who stifled a yawn. “Okay, Johnson. If you want to gamble, then let’s gamble. If we fail to get past the restriction, we-”

“Hey, leave me out of it. This is only for the two of you, I’m just an accomplice.” George playfully kicked Fred’s leg and winked. Apparently only Lee and George noticed the romantic tension between Angelina and Fred who were delightfully oblivious, and the two shared a knowing glance. 

“As if you have a choice! We’re partners in life, we do everything together!” Fred said. George sighed, and pretended he wasn’t flattered by the statement.

“Maybe a neutral party should make the rules.” Lee spoke. “If the two of you fail to get past the age restriction, Angelina can order you to do anything for a day. But if the both of you succeed, Angelina gets to do something for the two of you.”

Angelina nodded. “That’s fair. So, Weasley, do we have a deal?”

A short pause filled the group. George opened his mouth. “Wait, which Weasley are you talking-”

“BET!” Fred declared. “Best prepare yourself for cleaning my room, Angelina!”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Angelina laughed. 

“Anyways, guess who snuck some cream puffs from the feast,” Lee searched his pockets, and offered them a bunch of cream puffs stuffed inside a pouch.

Fred was the first to take one. “Merlin, you could have shown them sooner, I’m starving!” 

It was never a bore when the four of them were together. George was grateful he had Angelina and Lee as his closest friends. Angelina was a dazzling and pretty girl who was the best chaser Gryffindor's had, and Lee was like a right hand man for the twins. He looked forward to this year, and whatever trouble the three of them would cause, Angelina would be there to bail them out and scold them for being reckless. Fred would say she's just bitter she wasn't part, and he was right.

Angelina was the first to turn in for the night, and the twins and Lee followed to their own room later right after they planted a bunch of dung bombs underneath the floorboards. George lied in his bed, listening to the raindrops tapping on the window pane. The low rumble of thunder was heard from a distance.

To his right was Lee, who was having a snoring contest with Fred. Lee was winning. To his left, Fred slept without a blanket on him. "It's hot in here," was what Fred said when he gave George his blanket minutes earlier. One difference they had with each other: Fred had better resistance to the cold. He had no clue how Fred didn't need a blanket during this freezing night, and the fact he had the audacity to say he felt hot while George was busy shivering beneath two thick blankets. Though since it meant more blankets for him, it was an absolute win. His brother's thick skin complimented his freezing one. Even their differences matched.

His trunk was casted aside at the closet, and his belongings had magically been placed in their usual spaces in their room. Most of them. 

George slowly sat up and searched his drawer. The box he found in the World Cup was absent. Perhaps it finally got tired of being invisible that it made itself completely disappear? George had his fingers crossed. 

He got out of his bed and searched the wardrobe. Not there either. Not in the bathroom as well. So where . . .

The last place he searched was his trunk. He opened it, and the box rested exactly where he placed it as if untouched. That's weird , he thought. Why was it that everything else inside his trunk had been automatically placed inside the room except the box? Had Hogwarts failed to recognize its existence? This made George lose some hope. If not even Hogwarts, one of the places with the highest magical concentration within Great Britain, sees the box as a materialistic object, then there's a great possibility that nobody can sense its presence at all except him.

George chuckled softly. "This is it. I've finally gone mental." 

He took the box out and carelessly dropped it on the drawer. As he expected, none of his roommates heard the loud sound it made as he dropped it. He went back to bed. Maybe he'll throw it in the lake tomorrow. 

Unbeknownst to those who lie in rest was that one student was wide awake. This student crept outside his common room with an elegant and glowing wand in his hand that held a quiet hum alongside the dark walls. He entered inside the farthest dungeon cell, and pushed on a slightly off colored brick located at the center of the cell’s wall. The wall, although appearing the same, became an illusion to hide what was behind it. The sixth year took one step, and he went through it without effort. He didn’t look back, but if he did, he would see a gap in the wall he went through. It served like a one-way mirror, where one can see the dungeon students often walk by, but unable to see if on the other side. 

This was a secret passage he found in his third year. He continued further until he reached a circular platform, and as he stepped on it, the ground below him ascended until it stopped at a set of stairs. Finally, he came to a halt. Above him was a trapdoor, and he opened it with ease and climbed up the ladder. 

He had reached the Astronomy Tower, specifically under a wooden table. As he got himself out, he whispered “Nox,” and the light in his wand died. There was no need to carry a light source to find your way in the Astronomy Tower. The tower itself was directly illuminated by the night sky, and it was bright enough to see the star charts and celestial models. 

The student walked towards the center of the Astronomy Tower. A gigantic model of the solar system stood at the center. The planets’ metallic models, upon closer inspection, revolved around its ‘Sun’ following their respective orbits. The ceiling was decorated with artificial constellations perfectly replicated like the night sky. 

The student tampered a bit of the enchanted model, and after some complicated movements, he finally got what he aimed for. The constellations of the wall glowed and descended. The whole room dimmed, and soon he was surrounded by multiple galaxies and nebulae that moved in a slow rhythm. He inspected whichever caught his eye.

He took the longest with one group of meteors that followed a comet. The comet’s specs of light dust brushed against his hair, and as he touched one of the meteors, he smiled at the occurrence. 

“Studying meteor showers? I’m afraid we won’t encounter the topic until later in the term, Mr. Malmvinsey,” said a voice from behind him.

Pierre returned the meteor to its place. “Good evening, Professor Sinistra,” he greeted formally.

Professor Aurora Sinistra stood at the door in her midnight blue night robes. Her short curly dark bun was hidden beneath a night cap and her face was covered in a glittery face cream that shone on her rick black skin. Pierre wasn’t surprised at her appearance. He often saw her in her night routine whenever she’d drop by the Astronomy Tower.

“I see you discovered my other orreries. As expected from my ‘star’ pupil,” she said humorously. 

“Clever joke, Professor. I’m rotating on the floor laughing,” Pierre snickered. 

“My child, you are as bright as Polaris, yet your counter joke fell short. Maybe I should teach good humor in my class next time?” Professor Sinistra hummed.

“I’d fail on the first lesson.”

Pierre knew that students were forbidden to leave their Common Rooms past curfew, but he didn’t care, and Professor Sinistra didn’t seem to mind either. He often came here whenever he wanted to clear his mind in the evening, and Professor Sinistra left him reading the star charts so long as he didn’t break any of the models. Pierre observed the Aries constellation. 

Professor Sinistra adjusted the lunascope. “Difficulty sleeping again, Mr. Malmvinsey?” 

“Just needed fresh air.” 

“Are your siblings well?”

Pierre nodded. “A headache as usual.”

Professor Sinistra chuckled. Her face cream looked like it was about to fall off any minute. “And how are you with the news of your brother in Gryffindor?”

Pierre glanced at her. “He’ll manage. My opinion doesn’t matter.”

“I’m not asking for your opinion, Mr. Malmvinsey. I was asking how you felt,” Professor Sinistra now spoke in her stern voice. Pierre only stared at the Mars model.

“It doesn’t matter either way.”

He didn’t visit the Astronomy Tower to talk about what happened in the Sorting Hat Ceremony. It gave him a migraine that Edvard was in Gryffindor and not Slytherin. His friends looked at him in concern when the hat spoke that house, and he hated how they looked at him during that moment. He heard the whispers from his own House. He heard how they viewed Edvard as a traitor or a wizard that lacked the prime qualities of a Slytherin. It got worse when they reached their Common Room. Before he could have a say in anything, Adrian and his friends dragged him down to their room to get away from the bombarding questions. Although his roommates had questions of their own, Pierre dismissed them directly, telling he wanted to get in bed after the train ride. 

It was a lie, of course. He only placed the covers on top of him and waited for them to shut up and turn the lights off. And when they did, he stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, put his hands on his face, breathed, and sneaked out quietly so they wouldn’t wake up.

Professor Sinistra sighed. She should know by now that there’s no point trying to get me to open up, Pierre thought. The professor took out her wand. A selenite canister floated beside her, followed by a glass. The canister poured tea in the glass, and Professor Sinistra gestured the glass to Pierre. “Drink, my child. It’s Moon Water Tea.”

He did. The tea gave a lingering cold taste in his mouth, and his migraine was briefly gone. 

“Do you know what phase our moon is in, Mr. Malmvinsey?” Professor Sinistra asked.

“It’s a Full Moon.”

“Precisely. And where does tonight’s moon fall?”

“In the Virgo constellation.”

“Correct again. In Astrology, Virgo, or Valetudo , is the House of Health. The zodiac is said to rule over our vitality, which is why I always brew tea at the start of the school year. The tea I gave you was the very same tea, and I hope that your vitality is alchemized.”

Pierre stared at his glass, his eyes squinting. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, Professor.”

Professor Sinistra looked at him. “I am giving you a lesson, Mr. Malmvinsey. I have my fair knowledge of Divination, and I decided to apply it here. The full moon is a symbol of completion; the height of power, hence why Moon Water Tea is most powerful when brewed at the night of a full moon. Since today’s full moon falls under the zodiac Virgo, the tea harnesses our mental strength and well-being. I let you drink the tea simply for you to feel at ease, and I believe it proves effective for you considering that you hold a Virgo moon, are you not?”

Pierre chuckled, a little dazed. “Indeed I am.”

“And indeed it is a coincidence that an actual Virgo moon is placed right before your very eyes. Mr. Malmvinsey, don’t stay ignorant of your own health. Times are changing and galaxies slowly expand at every passing minute. Despite the trillions of years of their journey, galaxies meet other galaxies and they converge. Sooner or later, you will have to face what haunts you, and as terrifying as it can be, you have no choice but to endure it. And perhaps, once you have thought through all complications, you will be able to find tranquility.” 

For a good minute, everything was quiet. Pierre stared mindlessly below the castle grounds while Professor Sinistra marvelled up at the twinkling stars. Pierre didn’t want to reply to what she just said, but he had to give her one.

“Will this be in the curriculum?” he asked as a joke.

Professor Sinistra, whose face cream started to melt, smiled at him. “You’ll encounter that further in Divination, I believe. For now, get some sleep, Mr. Malmvinsey. I’ll see you in class this Saturday. I don’t want to see you ending up accidentally encountering my fourth year classes on Wednesday.”

Pierre snickered. “I just wanted to pay a visit to my dear sister struggling in naming moons that time in my fifth year.”

“You’re lucky I’m not the type to deduct house points as I please.”

After the conversation he had with Professor Sinistra, Pierre returned to his room using the same secret passageway. Professor Sinistra, deciding to give both him and herself a break, always turned a blind eye about the passageway. Hogwarts had other weirder installments. 

Pierre plopped himself in bed, but was still unable to sleep. Instead, Professor Sinistra’s words lingered in his mind; about how soon he’d have to ultimately face his troubles. It made his stomach twist. It wasn’t from fear of his past crawling back, but the fear that there was a small possibility that his life could take a turn for the better. He just wasn’t sure if it was what someone like him deserved.

Chapter Text

“Now that was wicked,” Fred commented. 

Lee, George, and Fred peered from the stairs at the Common Room. They had just witnessed all of their dungbombs go off at once. Most of their victims were the first years, who awoke earlier than the rest. One of the Prefects scolded one of them: Edvard. 

Just ten minutes ago, Edvard spooked one of his classmates, causing them to recoil and accidentally step on one of the rigged floor boards. It happened fast, and a series of other bombs went off in the process. 

Edvard looked to be trying his best not to laugh while getting scolded. He definitely enjoyed the ruckus he created. 

Apparently, he was not only being scolded for scaring his peers, but he was also accused of planting the dung bombs. Edvard shook his head. “I only planned to scare her a bit, but the bombs were a nice finish.”  

This reply made the Prefect angrier. Now that she knew Edvard didn’t plant the bombs, this left the Prefect to other, more likely suspects. 

“Okay, time to go,” George said, and the three of them dashed out of the Gryffindor Tower for breakfast before the Prefect had the time to interrogate them. 

The Great Hall was packed full of nothing except the Triwizard Tournament, and many of the older sixth and seventh years planned to enter. Angelina, Katie, and Alicia sat with them a little later, each of them with their own perfume bottle. Before they sat, Angelina sprayed her perfume all over their table.

“Hey, hey, watch the eggs!” Fred said as he covered his plate from the sprays.

“Hehe, eggs,” Lee giggled.

“The Common Room reeked of vomit,” Angelina pestered. “I’m not taking any chances.”

“I heard the little Malmvinsey got scolded from the trouble you guys caused,” Katie said.

“Allegedly,” Fred corrected. “There’s no proof that we did it.”

Katie raised her eyebrow and gave them a look of unsurprised disbelief. "Either way, I can't help but feel bad for the kid. It's only the first day, and he's already gotten himself a bad view from the Prefects."

"Maybe if the Hat placed him in Slytherin, things would be different. Only Merlin knows why he's sorted in our House instead of those vipers," Lee commented. 

"I've gotta admit, though," George added, not wanting to speak ill of Edvard. "Kid's got the steel to spook his roommates who already dislike him."

Fred grinned. "Yeah, he kind of reminds me of when we were still new in Hogwarts, right George?"

"We did exactly what he did on our first day, just minus the dungbomb part!" The twins laughed. Edvard may have got himself an unsettled reputation within Hogwarts, but he sure caught the eye of its two best pranksters.

"So," Angelina asked as they ate breakfast. "Which of us plans to compete in the Triwizard Tournament?"

"Obviously, George and I are competing," Fred announced with his mouth full of toast.

"Hah! I meant those who are allowed, not those who just celebrated their Sweet Sixteen."

"Don't get too cocky, Angelina," George spoke up. "I can't wait to see the look on your face when you hear Dumbledore shouting one of our names!"

Angelina's smile was smug. "We'll see."

The rest of the morning followed with the ongoing topic of the Triwizard Tournament. “I heard from my cousin in Durmstrang that Viktor Krum will be arriving with the Institute,” George heard Adrian Pucey murmur during Transfiguration. 

“No way, the Viktor Krum?” Fred whispered as he also overheard. “Do you think he’ll use one of our products for the Tournament?”

“Fred, we’re going to be in the games. We’ll be using our own products to win,” George reminded.

Fred nodded as he “accidentally” changed a student’s hair to a ghastly white color. “Self-advertising is sure-fire advertisement. Do you want to gather stuff for the Ageing Potion after classes?”

George nodded. “How can I ever say no?”

“Good, we’ll do that right after DADA.”

They were late in Defense Against the Dark Arts that afternoon because Fred slipped in one of their firework mints in one of the Slytherin goblets during lunch. As they predicted, it resulted in an incredibly wet explosion and a dozen fuming Slytherins. They lost quite an amount of house points, but so did the Slytherins for throwing hexes at them (they missed as always). McGonagall had them clean the Great Hall tables, but of course they only did it halfway. 

By the time they arrived in class, all heads turned to them. Professor Moody's magical eye stared at the two of them. "What do we have here? Two strays in my class. Get to your seats. Don't cause a scene next time," Professor Moody said in his rough voice. 

Some of their classmates laughed, especially the Slytherins they pranked in lunch. Fred and George sat in the back of the class at the far corner, with Lee and Angelina right in front of them. Angelina turned her head and whispered. "And this is why food pranks are better held at dinner."

George shrugged. "Still worth it."

"You're just in time for the lesson, at least. I’m excited for this one," Lee whispered.

Fred leaned in. “What’s it about?”

Angelina shushed them. Fred stuck out a tongue. 

George slouched and put his head on his arms. It was time he'll be taking his daily afternoon nap, a sort of daily ritual he does in every class after lunch. This spot always served as the perfect seat out of a professor's line of sight. "Fred, cover for me."

"As always." 

"Over the years, wizards advanced in their ability to spellcraft. These spells that were crafted, whether a jinx or a charm, none can strike the most chaos than curses. There are three curses classified as Unforgivable in 1717, with the strictest penalties attached to their use. When faced with these curses, you must remain in CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”

George jolted in surprise.

"Does anyone have the brains to name one of them?"

Some hands shot up, but Professor Moody didn't choose any of them.

 "Weasley! The one on the left."

"What?" George said in surprise, having to not have heard his question.

"Give one unforgivable curse, and next time, don't be sleeping in my class else you'll be dragged by an Inferi."

The class laughed. It looked like the perfect napping spot was ineffective to Moody. Fred stifled a laugh, and George nudged his elbow. He remembered one his father mentioned once in the summer. "The Imperius Curse, sir." 

"Yes, your father would know very well about that one. The Ministry was put in a lot of trouble for the Imperius Curse." Wait, what did Professor Moody mean about that? He saw Fred furrow his eyebrows, but continued to play with his wand. George shook it off, it probably meant nothing.

Professor Moody pulled out a spider and casted Engorgio for all to see better. And then to everyone's shock, he casted the very same spell he said himself was forbidden. "Imperio!"

He moved his wand, and the spider moved along with it, as if it was being pulled by needle-like strings. 

Fred and George laughed at the funny way the spider moved. The rest of their classmates were very much entertained by the spider performing tricks, especially the Slytherins. George stuck a miniature firework on it, and the spider flew up in the air with sparks at the tips of its legs, making everyone in the room laugh. "Nice one, George!" Fred cheered.

The spider landed on one of the desks; right next to Pierre, who sat a few rows in front of him. Unlike everyone else, Pierre frowned at the sight of the spider, and moved his textbook away from it. Someone's woken up on the wrong side of the bed , George thought. 

Professor Moody cackled. "What do you want it to do next?"

Miles was the first to raise his hand. "Make it swing on the chandelier!" He suggested, and the Slytherins were ecstatic.

A Ravenclaw perked up. "No, let it stand on one leg!"

"Let it try to carry a goblet!"

"Or bite itself!"

More and more hands started to raise with each suggestion more bizarre than the last. Fred and George also raised their hands, with Fred asking it to ride a golden snitch while George asked for more fireworks.

"Marvellous things this curse does. But the way you all react as you watch the spider—" Professor Moody snapped. "—is the exact reaction of every dark wizard who has conjured the Imperius Curse: laughing as you watch the insect being forced against its will."

The laughter died after that. Even the Slytherins kept their mouths shut. George scratched his head. For a moment, he—no, almost everyone in the room forgot they just witnessed an Unforgivable Curse. He felt a little guilty for laughing, but it was only a spider, so surely, it’s fine to feel no sympathy for it. His eyes darted on Pierre. He couldn't see his face, just his back sitting straight. 

Professor Moody proceeded. “Lots of witches and wizards were controlled by the Imperius Curse. Augustus Rookwood was famous for using this curse to evade suspicion from working as a spy in the Wizarding War. Another one?”

More hands shot up. “The Cruciatus Curse,” answered Pierre. 

Professor Moody placed the spider at the very front, and muttered, “Crucio!”

The spider twisted and curled. The students watched as it writhed in pain and many cringed at the sight. George saw Angelina look away, her brows furrowed.

“This one was popular back in the day. No need for knives or pins if you can cast the Cruciatus Curse.” 

“And the last one: the most unforgivable of them all,” He slowly raised his wand and pointed at the tortured spider. A chill went up everyone’s spines. “Avada Kedavra!”

The spider collapsed. Its legs stopped twitching in an instant. It was dead. There was a mix of fear and awe from the class (more on the latter for the Slytherins). 

“Nothing can stop it. One second and you drop dead. No one can block the Killing Curse; the only survivor is Harry Potter, who I’m sure you’re all familiar with," Moody dropped the dead spider in a jar full of other dead spiders. 

"In the next meeting you'll be learning how to resist the Imperius Curse. Bear in mind, it's almost impossible to actually resist it. In my classroom, a clear head is a must, and always remain in CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"

That didn't make George flinch anymore. Moody's discussion already got him wide awake. 

"That was cool," Lee exclaimed as he, Fred, and George walked in the corridor. Angelina went her separate way with Katie and Alicia. 

"Cool is an understatement, that was bloody wicked!" Fred said. "So that's how curses are done. Gives me the chills, honestly. What if the Slytherin gits cast one of them on us?"

"I doubt they can," George chuckled. "Slytherins are all bite and no bark. Moody says you need lots of power and intent for them, and obviously they have intent, but who's to say they're that powerful?"

Fred hummed. He took out his wand and pointed at Lee. "Avada Kedavra," he teased.

Lee jumped back like he was dodging a bludger. "What the shit, Fred!" The twins laughed. 

"Damn, I don't have enough power too," Fred sighed. 

"Fuck your power! Are you saying you got the intent?!"

"Ooh, let me try," George also pulled out his wand and pointed at Lee. 

"George, you crazy fuck!" Lee nervously reacted and in instinct, he hid behind Fred. Fred laughed at Lee, but his face dropped when he saw George still holding out his wand.

"Holy shit, don't aim at me, aim at Lee! He's our usual experimental rabbit!" Fred then tried to hide behind Lee, and the both of them struggled to hide behind one another in the corridors. The students glanced at them a little concerned but used to it.

"Not today, bitch!" Lee argued.

"Hold still!" 

"No, you hold still!"

"Hey, hey, I can use two rabbits!" George teased the both of them, and waved his wand. 

"Lee, run! My brother's gone to the dark side!" Fred pushed him, and both he and Lee ran as George chased them both.

All three of them ran down the corridors and the stairs. Fred casted a spell that made his shoes have wheels, and he glided like he was skating on ice. "Wheely Wizz!" It was a spell they invented in their third year, and they often used it whenever a professor or an angry mob of Slytherins were after them. Lee followed suit as well. "Try to catch us, brother!"

"Ha! You know I'm the more athletic one in our family!" George then casted his shoes to have wheels under them. The students in the halls hurriedly avoided the centre of the corridors to avoid collision.

Fred and Lee turned around a corner, and George smirked. He knew that way was a dead end. He crouched slightly and made a sharp turn whilst smiling in triumph. 

But that smile quickly faded when he crashed onto someone in the way. He stumbled on the floor, his knees aching a little, but thankfully unscathed. “Ouch,” he said aloud. He got to his feet and looked at the dead end wall in front of him. George and Lee were nowhere to be seen, with only the open hidden passage behind an armoured statue. They must have used it, the sneaky bastards.

He was about to follow after, but found something stuck in one of his shoe’s wheels. Tucked between them was a ripped piece of parchment paper. That’s when he remembered that he crashed onto someone. He looked behind him to see Edvard, still standing with his hands on his face as an attempt to maybe lessen the impact. However, he opened his eyes, and realised he was unharmed. His parchments were the only ones damaged, having been dropped in a shock. George found this quite odd, but quickly noticed the magical barrier in front of Edvard, a translucent blue wall just his size. This must be what he crashed onto and was repelled instead of crashing onto the kid.

“Can’t you skate more responsibly?!” a familiar voice shouted at George far across the corridor. At the other side of the hallway was Pierre with his wand held out. He did a quick flick and the shield charm protecting Edvard dissolved. He stomped towards them, his strict expression sterner than usual. 

Up close in the day, George could see Pierre a lot better. His hair which used to be a slobbering green from the slime accident in fourth year was longer and dark, and developed a side part at George’s right. His dark oak eyes had a glint of both anger and worry, but was easily replaced with that usual relentlessness he projected.

George took out the parchment paper from his shoe, and Pierre immediately snatched it out of his hands. His arms were thin, he noticed. "Because of your reckless skating, my brother has to do his homework again!"

"Technically, I stole it from one of the Ravenclaws," Edvard added, like he was proud of it.

"Ed!" Pierre's eyebrows raised. He was ready to scold him right now, but restrained himself when he remembered they were in the company of a red haired idiot. "Just . . . just wait for me in the library. I'll help you with your homework after my History of Magic."

Edvard groaned. "Don't you have to draw after class?"

"Ah, right," Pierre sighed and rubbed his temple. "Then wait in the arts classroom."

"But I hate waiting!"

"There's no other option. I'm not letting you out of my sight until you finish your homework by yourself," Pierre told him, his voice slightly raised.

"Since I'm free for the rest of the afternoon," George interrupted their brotherly conflict. He placed his hand on Pierre's shoulder. Pierre brushed it off in annoyance. "I can help Mini -vinsey with his Potions. I'm skilled at the subject."

"Oh, really?" Pierre scoffed in disbelief. "What's your OWLs last year?"

"An A," George boasted, and Pierre’s lips curled into a sneer.

The annoyed Slytherin (and most likely already late to his next class) closed his eyes. "Edvard Vincent Malmvinsey, you're to wait in the art classroom until I fini—"

"Bye, kuya !" shouted Edvard who had run towards the open secret entrance beside the armoured statue. 

"Edvard!" Pierre shouted and proceeded to follow after, but George placed his hand on Pierre's head and tousled it about. Pierre brushed his hand off again and glared.

“Relax, ‘Vinsey. Your brother’s in safe hands,” George grinned as he followed after. 

“Hey, wait!” Pierre wanted to argue, but George and Edvard were already gone. He cursed under his breath, fixed his hair, and stomped his way to History of Magic.

George had no idea why he touched Pierre's hair. It could be out of habit from always tousling his sibling's hairs all the time in the summer whenever they started to get upset. It was just his way of assuring them that everything's fine. Pierre's dark hair felt silky and smooth when he touched it. He wondered what shampoo he used to make it so silky. 

The two Gryffindors walked up the secret passageway. This was one of the many paths hidden in Hogwarts’ walls he and Fred often used as a shortcut to their Common Room. But instead of another George, a little and highly unhinged first year skipped joyfully beside him. “So,” George broke the silence. “About this morning in the common room.”

“You mean the dungbombs? If one of my classmates told you to ask me, tell them I didn’t plan that part. I’m innocent,” Edvard said.

“I know,” George hummed. “My brother and I planted them.”

He could feel Edvard’s pupils widen. He looked at George in awe. “Really? That’s awesome. This reminds me; my big brother Pierre would talk when he returned in the summer about two Gryffindors always bringing trouble every day in Hogwarts.” Edvard jumped in excitement. 

“Wait, Pierre talks about me?” George said, but didn’t know why he cared if he did talk about him.

“Everyone does! You two are famous.”

“Ah, fair.”

“Wait, YOU’RE one of them?! The ones who bring mischief wherever they go? The ones who attached wings on the books in the library? The ones who turned my brother’s hair green?”

George laughed. “The very same. But which one am I?”

Edvard was skipping higher up the steps now. “Uhh, I forgot the names. Gred? No, you must be Forge!” 

George laughed. “I obviously look like a Gred,” he winked.

“Astronomical! I look forward to what you and Forge have in store this year!”

Edvard was a fun kid. Definitely more fun than his older brother. He should ask Fred to let Mini-Vinsey join in on their pranks.

It was always tiring to walk around the castle, especially in a dimly lit hidden corridor, but George was used to it. Edvard wasn’t, so when his feet got tired, George gave him a ride on his back, to which Edvard very much enjoyed. He touched the dusty ceiling, twirling at the cobwebs and sometimes sprinkling some dust on George’s hair. George didn’t mind; Edvard was way dustier. During the walk, George told Edvard his favourite pranks he did with Fred and Lee.

“Woah, you added snakes in the Prefect's bathrooms?”

“Yes, but they weren’t venomous so we only lost 200 house points and a month of scrubbing toilets."

"And that was only your second year?!"

Finally, they reached the end of the passage. George pulled on a loose brick and the wall in front of them moved. 

The Common Room had a few Gryffindors lounging on the sofas. Fred spotted the two of them and stood up from a couch. “Finally, I’ve been waiting for ages,” he walked towards them, and only then did he notice Edvard on his back. “What’s he doing with you?”

“Just bumped into each other, that’s all. Where’s Lee?”

“He’s left with the others to go swimming in the Great Lake. I’d go with them too, but we have to gather ingredients for the Ageing Potion.” Ah, right, George remembered. He forgot that he and Fred were going to sneak into the Potions classroom after class.

“Shi- I mean- why not do it after dinner?”

“Snape would already be loitering in there by night time, it has to be now. He goes to the Hospital Wing around this time to restock so we currently have a full forty minutes to snatch some stuff up.”

“I was going to help Ed with his Potions homework, though.” George pondered. Should he go with Fred and get a headstart on their plan for the Triwizard Tournament? Or should he stay behind and help Edvard? He rather not leave Edvard alone to do his homework; he might steal someone else’s, and that would give George a nagging from Pierre.

“Can I join? Can I join?” Edvard offered as he got down on the wooden floor. 

“Ah, you’re the one who set off all our bombs this morning! Sorry, kid, but as much as I enjoyed that, this task is only for expert sneakers such as ourselves,” Fred turned him down. “Besides, what do you have to offer for our heist?”

“Nothing, but I can give you a galleon,” Edvard said as he held up a gold coin.

Fred coughed. “Make it three.”

“Two.”

“Okay fine, deal,” Fred hastily agreed and took the galleons and shoved them under his pocket. “Don’t bring us too much attention, or we’re leaving you in a dungeon cell.”

Edvard giggled, and placed his textbooks and parchments on a nearby table. “Mini-Vinsey, what about your Potions?”

“I’m lazy, but it doesn’t mean I’m not smart! You think I’d be scared of Snape? I got him confused this afternoon that he accidentally removed ten house points in his own house.”

He had George’s respect. “Very wickedly of you, Mini-Vinsey.”

Edvard smiled. “Thanks, I can’t wait to learn a lot of mischief with you, Gred!”

“George, let’s go already!” Fred shouted at them by the entrance doors.

“Just wait!” George shouted back. He looked at Edvard with a mischievous grin. “Come on, time for your first lesson of mischief.”

“YAY!” Edvard cheered as the three of them headed out of the Common Room, ready for a potion heist. “. . . Wait, I thought your name was Gred.” 

Chapter Text

Carolling gumdrops, blood-flavoured candy canes, and exploding sugar plums. These were Fred’s favorite christmas sweets from Honeydukes, and George practically hoarded everything in that store enough for the rest of winter break. 

It was December 24, 1992. Christmas was due in less than ten hours, and he was alone in Hogsmeade carrying a Honeydukes shopping bag. A snowflake gently landed on the tip of his nose, and he let out a sneeze. As much as he loved Christmas, he hated the cold. He would have tolerated it if Fred was around, but his brother got himself a broken leg after he and their friends went skiing yesterday. Now he was stuck in the Hospital Wing waiting for Madam Pomfrey to treat him, which was going to take a long time since she was away for the holidays. Fred had no choice but to wait, and for George to plan for a two-person Christmas Eve party in the Hospital Wing by himself.

He didn’t want to go out in the snow alone without Fred. Everyone else he was close with left for Christmas, and he had no idea where his brother Ron went. He couldn’t stand the freezing temperature, and his teeth chattered despite being draped in a lot of fur. He pulled on his beanie and, still shivering, headed inside Zonko’s Joke Shop.

He breathed a sigh of relief from the warmth that welcomed him inside. The sound of Christmas bells jingled as he opened the shop door, and the smell of warm peppermint incense and cinnamon-aroma fireworks hung in the air. What was often a place crowded with students was now almost deserted apart from the tourist witches and wizards. He made his way through the shop, resisting the urge to buy everything inside. 

And then there it was. At the farthest aisle stood the limited edition gingerbraves, a once-in-a-year international Zonko product only sold in December. The gingerbrave was a special collectible that had a special attribute each year. Last year’s gingerbraves had a hula hoop prop that burst into flames when activated. There was no way George was going to miss this year’s gingerbrave special, not even his vulnerability to hypothermia. This was the only reason that gave him the stubbornness to go out in the snow without a twin to accompany him. A gingerbrave was the icing on cake, the cherry on top, and the button to a bomb. 

He grabbed the last gingerbrave in the stand, but another hand was already there seconds first. George looked at the hand, and then at the grumpy face who owned said hand. A boy his age wearing a familiar stoic face held onto the last gingerbrave. He was wearing a dark blue hat too big for his head, and around his neck was the school scarf; the Slytherin one. George squinted his eyes and gave him a look, but whether he noticed or not, the boy didn’t seem to care.

The Slytherin yanked the gingerbrave out of the stands as he ignored George’s daggering glares. George’s palm was empty now. “Hey.” He had this I’m-going-to-commit-violent-acts-against-Slytherins voice.

The boy looked back at him and wrinkled his nose. “You.” He frowned. George noticed the hat sliding off his head, and the boy adjusted it.

Now George recognized him. He knew that face. One of his favorite pranks made that face. One month ago. Potions. The acidic slime prank. Victim: the ever-sneering Malmvinsey. Accidental, but George liked to believe it wasn’t.

“Morgana curse me, if it isn’t the Slytherin shut-in,” George said in a smug grin.

Pierre sneered. “Sod off Weasley.” He walked towards the counter.

“Hold on,” George said. “I think you have something that’s mine.”

“I wonder what that is,” Pierre hummed as he waved the last gingerbrave in the air.

George’s eye twitched. No! The gingerbrave! The last gingerbrave! In the hands of a slimy acid doused bloody Slytherin! This was blasphemy, he declared. That gingerbrave should be his; he touched it with his own hand. He clenched his wand hidden inside his pocket. He wanted to spell Pierre’s feet onto the ground so he wouldn’t walk out of Zonko’s but that meant they’d start dueling inside and George would get banned for a year. And if he were to be banned for a year, he wouldn’t get next year’s gingerbrave. Hexes! Seven snakes and bat0bogey hex him!

He was getting that gingerbrave today, one way or another. If a duel won’t work, then he’ll do the next effective method: Annoy your enemy until they lower their guard from your absolute stupidity.

The Weasley had been following Pierre for who knew how long. Right after he left Zonko’s, he had a ginger devil standing five feet eleven. The two of them walked in and out of shops (sweet shops, shops selling parchment paper and quills, with back-to-school potions, etcetera.) and every minute, the Weasley opened his mouth and said whatever dumb thing Pierre couldn’t think of.

“What if I trade you some of my sweets,” George suggested once. “For one little gingerbrave?” He was wagging his eyebrows. Only Adrian was allowed to wag his eyebrows at Pierre.

“I don’t like blood-flavored candy canes.” He lied. He horded them on his birthday.

Out in the snow, Weasley was relentless. For every snowflake that fell, Weasley sneezed. Right. In. Front. Of. His. Face. Pierre’s internal organs were gagging.

Weasley sometimes liked to curl his fingers around the gingerbrave. “Need a hand?” He grinned.

“Not in any dimension.” Pierre tugged the gingerbrave back.

Weasley let go of it. Then he grabbed a random bag and asked again.

Honestly, the Weasley should be grateful Pierre hadn’t casted him to the North Pole yet. It was a hassle to resist the temptation, he didn’t want himself to get expelled. Sometimes he tried throwing the Weasley off his scent by walking too fast, too slow, or just standing. The third one almost worked. It had Weasley go to a shivering fit, but he was too stubborn and stupid to let the gingerbrave go. A balanced both. He might have Taurus in his natal chart.

He pretended not to notice Weasley’s shaking mittens. He pretended not to notice that Weasley’s shaking mittens were a Terror?! At the Coven design (Pierre’s favorite wizard rock band).

“Why are we in a gift-wrapping store? You don’t know how to wrap presents? What if I teach you how in return for a lil’ gingerbrave, eh? Eh? Eh?” Weasley asked as they walked inside Salvador’s Gift-Wrapping Emporium. Shut up, shut up shut up. Pierre shouted mentally. “Whatcha’ wrapping?”

“Your mouth.” Pierre thought that answer would shut him up. It did not.

“Don’t worry, I’m a pro at colors.”

He was not. He pointed at a mud yellow one hanging on a rack.

“That’s a wet towel,” Pierre corrected. He ignored Weasley and stopped to admire at a pitch-black wrapping, with a moving nebula swirling around. It was beautiful, and the Weasley noticed.

“Ooh, that one! See, I told you I’ve a knack at colors. I’m practically wearing every color.”

Now that he was correct. Pierre detected thirty-three shades of red.

Pierre glared and picked something else; a wrapping made of frost and snowflakes.

The sales wizard nodded at him and wrapped it around the gingerbrave. That’s when Pierre saw George’s face look like a deer in wandlight.

“You’re giving the gingerbrave to someone else?!” No! The last gingerbrave! It’s not his and it’s not even acid-head Pierre’s! He was going to give it to a baby cousin with a name he’ll forget, or worse, family gift exchanging! This was terrible. Gingerbraves were legendary collectibles. They’re not toys for the simple entertainment of children! He had to save that Gingerbrave from Pierre’s uncaring clutches. This was the evilest act a Slytherin ever did in front of him, and he’s met Miles Bletchley!

“Duh, why would I want a toy?” Pierre raised an eyebrow.

George fumed. “It’s not a toy, it’s a rare once-in-a-year collectible!”

“Okay.”

Pierre walked out of the store. George followed, and the two of them were back to their game of “Give it to me” and “Sod off”. George couldn’t touch the gingerbrave anymore because it was wrapped in frostbite. Pierre chose the wrapping on purpose to keep his hands out of the way, and why was his hands keeping their normal color when he’s holding the wrapping without mittens? Hell, not even his clothes were that heavy for winter. Pierre was dressed like it was a rainy day in England.

After a round of aimless wandering and attempting to sell off his Honeydukes bag, they headed inside the Three Broomsticks.

Good, George thought. He can rest inside there. It was the warmest place in Hogsmeade and it had a fireplace that sprouted blue flames.

They walked by a wall of hanging socks stuffed full of free samples. George secretly shoved one of the socks inside his bag. He waved a gingerbread man in front of Pierre’s face. “Do you want a real one instead?”

Pierre swatted it away and sat on the bar tables, and he moved his chair inches away when George sat next to him.

Pierre ordered two drinks. One of them sizzled fire. “Thank you for your generosity,” George thanked him as he was ready to take the fire drink, but Pierre grabbed both drinks and walked out of the Three Broomsticks. George heavily groaned.

Pierre spelled his shopping bags and levitated them to follow behind him. He sipped on one of the drinks, mulled sun-scented cider. His favorite. In his left was hot cocoa, his second favorite.  Weasley walked out right after, and he looked furious. Was he seriously mad because he was too slow to buy the gingerbrave? Pierre bought it with his own galleons, and the ginger had the nerve to be mad that he got the gingerbrave instead of him. Pierre didn’t really care about his feelings. He just wanted to drink cider in peace.

“We’re not done yet!” George shouted. He was getting impatient, Pierre took note.

“You’re souring your own Christmas, Weasley,” he scoffed. He walked faster. He wanted to run, but it would make him look silly, so the two of them spent half a minute trudging across the snow in angry legs. They were a few feet away from each other, and Weasley was catching up.

“Why do you want this stupid toy so bad?!” Pierre snapped.

“Because!” Weasley reasoned. “It’s a bloody gingerbrave!” Bloody. One more word AND Pierre might take that cuss literally.

Pierre turned around. His face remained unmoving.

“You don’t even want it.” George pouted.

“It’s a bloody Christmas gift.”

“Let’s be real, ‘Vinsey. You’re the least wizard to be Father Christmas. Whoever you’re giving it to, the blood in their hands will turn blue the moment they touch that present. You’re like the Frost Witch! Bloody cold. Bloody ruthless. Fucking unbearable!”

Pierre glowered. “Is this your new low of persuading me to hand this over to you? Christmas-themed insults? Rudolph, you’ve really gotten me convinced.” He had no time for this silly arguing. He started to turn away.

Near the corner of his eye, he saw Weasley pull out his wand. Pierre was faster. “Expelliarmus,” he casted with his own wand.

Weasley’s wand was thrown out across the snow, and he rubbed his hand and winced. “Bloody hell, even your magic is like ice,” he grimaced.

Pierre ignored him.

In frustration, Weasley bent to pick up his wand, but as he did so, a strong gust of wind brushed over his head and blew off his beanie. “Shit!” he cursed. “Shit! Shit!”

He reached out for it, but it flew to the entrance of the Forbidden Forest. “Grarrggghh!” he let out whatever that was.

Pierre watched the beanie drop to the snow a few yards away, and as Weasley stooped down to grab it, a dozen ice pixies bit his hand. Weasley jumped back and winced. kThe pixies carried the beanie further into the forest, probably to be used as a village house.

“MY BEANIEEE!” George howled and dropped down on the snow. He sneezed. He sneezed again, and immediately he was in a sneezing fit. He was already sneezing during their little rendezvous in Hogsmeade but right now he sounded like he caught Dragon Pox. “Accio achoo!” It was a sorry sight. “Accio beanie! Accio- achoo!” He repeated the spell in a fit of sneezes, but the beanie was long gone.

“Your bloody beanie’s gone. The ice pixies drowned it in a frozen lake,” Pierre said. Weasley kicked a nearby pine tree and a pinecone fell on his head. His red hair looked a sickly pale when it was covered in the snow.

“That was my only beanie!”

“Buy another one then.”

“My mom made it, you snake!”

“Ask for another one then.”

Weasley glared at Pierre, and half-screamed. He put his hands over his hair and shook off the snow. Pierre noticed that his teeth began to chatter, and Weasley’s nose started a pale red. “Fucking cold, you and winter,” he heard Weasley mutter under his breath. Visible, like crystal vapor. The winter was getting to him. Weasley continued to sneeze, and although he tried not to show it, Pierre can tell his eyes began to water. Even his legs shivered. Pierre sighed.

George decided Christmas was his least favorite holiday. He was starting to hate it. He hated his Fred for being absent on his Hogsmeade trip. He hated the snowflakes falling on his hair. He hated the ice beanies that stole his beanie. He hated the pinecone that fell on his head (he was too cold to worry about a concussion). He hated Pierre for being the last person to get a gingerbrave. Most of all, he hated himself for being so angry about it. It wasn’t like Pierre stole it from him even though he felt like he did. He knew he was in the wrong for pestering Pierre about it, but he couldn’t help it. He really wanted that gingerbrave. He never skipped a year without one.

His back faced Pierre. He wasn’t hearing anything, but he was sure Pierre was trying to hold his laugh. “Weasley.” He heard him say. George sneezed. “Weasley,” Pierre repeated.

“Shut up, ‘Vinsey,” George spat.

“Lower your head or I’ll freeze the atmosphere.”

George laughed bitterly. “What are you going to do? Crown me as the new Queen?”

“I’m the Frost Witch. You’re the first I will turn to an ice cube in the dead of winter, then I’ll crown you a tiara made of icicles and watch as you suffer from pixie hypothermia.”

Great Merlin you’re cynical,” George turned to argue, but paused when he felt something fuzzy placed on his head. Warm. His hair felt it was brushed by the summer wind, and the warmth flooded to his ears. He stopped sneezing.

In a surprise, he took off the hat. It was Pierre’s blue winter hat! He sneezed again, so he wore it back. Immediately he felt much better as if he was at a beach. The air around him was still cold, but he wasn’t shivering. He realized it was an enchanted had that warmed the wearer.

He hastily removed it. “I can’t accept this.”

“Okay then.” Pierre moved to grab the hat, but George backed away and wore it again. “You said you can’t accept my hat!”

“I don’t, but you’re supposed to say something nice like ‘I insist’ and now you ruined the nice mood!” George argued.

“Great snakes, the ice pixies should have dragged you instead of your beanie,” Pierre muttered. “Keep the hat, I own dozens of those.”

George stared at him. He then stared at his head. Without the hat, Pierre’s hair was fully exposed. It was cut incredibly short, and the bangs he wore throughout their Hogwarts years were gone. He wore a buzz cut and much of his forehead was exposed. There was a mole at the right of his forehead. Still, in a way Pierre was still handsome, and a bad hair didn’t ruin a good face. It might even attract more girls, George reckoned. So, this was the aftermath of when he accidentally poured acid on Pierre’s hair in November. He let out a small giggle.

“Don’t laugh,” Pierre muttered. George burst out laughing.

“You look like a gremlin,” George joked.

“I’ll spell my hat to stick on your head until the end of time,” Pierre muttered. A patch of snow fell on his half-shaven hair, but he was unshaken. Even without the hat, he didn’t shiver at all.

“Frost witch,” George said mid-laughter. He could feel his cheeks getting warmer. He leaned to touch Pierre’s head, but the other backed away in surprise. “This hair looks food on you, ‘Vinsey. You should cut it shorter.”

“I regret giving my hat to you.”

“Your hair’s gonna burn its way in my memory. Just like the acid burning through your hair after Potions—”

“Finish that sentence and you’ll be buried six feet in snow,” Pierre half-threatened. He looked like a kid with his hair, and it made George laugh even more. Pierre only rolled his eyes. “I’m never giving the gingerbrave to you, you know.”

George shrugged. Of course, he was still upset he didn’t get the gingerbrave, but Pierre bought it fair and square. To take it, he realized it was just low of him to do so. “Since you showed a rare act of kindness,” Truthfully it was the kindest thing a Slytherin ever did to him—and George met Theodore Nott! “I’ll let it slide. Keep your gingerbrave, but I call dibs on next year’s!”

Pierre grunted. “Whatever. Here, I lost my appetite.” He tossed George his other drink from the Three Broomsticks.

George took a sip, and then a big gulp. He hummed merrily. “Hot cocoa.”

He expected Weasley to follow on after that, but the other just sprinted back to Hogwarts and yelled, “Merry Christmas, ‘Vinsey! Hope they like the gingerbrave! They better! It’s a limited edition!”

Pierre walked away and didn’t bother looking back. He had enough of Christmas presents. He headed inside the owl post office, and inside he started to shiver. His heat spell finally wore off.

Fred already finished most of the sweets (he didn’t touch anything blood-flavored) while listening to George’s yearly winter rants. George had taken off Pierre’s (now his) winter hat the moment he stepped foot in the castle and left it inside their bedroom. No way did he want Fred to know he accepted something from a Slytherin. He was suspicious of it back in Hogsmeade, but so far, it’s been helping him keep warm from the snow.

He ranted to Fred about every annoying bit about Pierre, except for the small detail of him giving away his hat. “If I was there, I’d duel him right then for that gingerbrave,” Fred commented.

“But you weren’t!” George complained and threw a pillow at him.

“Watch the leg!” he shouted. “At least I wouldn’t run off with hot cocoa like I got a letter from a crush!”

“In my defense, the cocoa was delicious,” George defended. He was hanging mistletoes on the windowsills. He spelled most of the beds together and stacked them up to form a Christmas tree, and he added Christmas lights he found in the Charms classroom (he broke in).

“Add a slide!” Fred suggested.

“I don’t have a spell for that, Fred.”

A smile grew on George’s face. Despite not getting what he wanted for Christmas, he was glad he was still able to spend Christmas Eve with Fred. Who needed a gingerbrave when you already have the cleverest and funniest twin brother? Besides, he can always ask Katie Bell. She always bought two extra gingerbraves every year. And as a bonus, he got his own enchanted thermal hat. Now he didn’t have to worry about growing sick from the cold.

He backed away from the windows to admire his creativity. Then he turned to look at Fred, who was climbing on top of the Christmas tree beds with two working legs. “You arse, your leg was fine this whole time?!”

“Bone mending potions exist, genius.”

“I ALMOST FREEZED TO DEATH FOUR HOURS AGO!”

“Congrats, you defeated the Frost Witch!”

George was about to start a whole new rant when Fred threw a Christmas box at him. “Shut up and open my gift,” Fred shouted from the stacked beds. His foot got stuck in one of the Christmas lights.

George reluctantly unwrapped it, and his eyes lit up. Cheerfully he took out a small, awaited collectible and beamed. “A GINGERBRAVE!”

“Merry Christmas, George!”

“But Zonko’s ran out of this!”

“Eh, I tipped an early reservation.”

George smiled and he couldn’t stop admiring at his very own gingerbrave. “This is the best Christmas present ever.”

Fred scoffed. “I’m the best.”

“I got a present for you, too,” George said as he pulled out a long box and threw it up at Fred.

He squealed. “Bloody yes! Festive Firework Sticks: Prancer and Vixen Edition—made in Iceland! Get up here, George. We’re lighting the Hospital Wing up like it’s New Year’s Eve!”

And so, Fred and George spent their Christmas flying around the room with firework sticks. The midnight stars contrasted with the sparking lights. The snow illuminated itself through the mistletoe-adorned windows, and when all the chandeliers blew out in Hogwarts, the Hospital Wing stayed a merry blast of sparks.

Just a few buildings away was the Art classroom, one of the very few rooms still lit in midnight. Inside, Pierre had just finished reading Edvard’s Christmas Caroling howler sent from the Philippines.

“The gingerbrave fits perfectly inside my playhouse coffin! It’s great to use on my Shanghai rockets too (I tested it outside and Ate Mayari’s hair went on fire. You’re matching now.) The wrapping is cool. Actual snow in the country! Papa is worried you’re not eating much there. He’s gonna send you his star-sprinkled bibingkas later. Merry Christmas, Kuya!”

Pierre looked outside and spotted the fireworks coming from the Hospital Wing. Whoever was inside was going to get in a lot of trouble tomorrow. Not his problem, however. He stood up and fixed a miniscule canvas and compared his palette with the colors of the fireworks. Perhaps Edvard would like a nice little painting of the reindeer shaped fireworks prancing around Hogwarts in this quiet time of the year.

Chapter Text

Fred had made Edvard keep watch for passing Slytherins while he and George searched through the supply cabinets for ingredients of the Ageing Potion.

“It’s generous of you to let Minivinsey in on our mischief,” George said.

Fred scoffed. “Ha! I only did it for the galleons. Extra money to add with our winnings from the World Cup.”

“George! Fred! A group of Slytherins are about to pass by us,” Edvard whispered from across the classroom.

Fred moved away from the supplies and hid beneath a desk. “Kid, don’t let them see you,” he beckoned.

Edvard instinctively hid in the shadowy corners, making Fred a little surprised that he can fully hide just standing in the corner. He thought he was a ghoul for a second!

Then he realized George wasn’t beside him. He looked back at the supply cabinets and saw George staring questionably at a jar of snakes. “Merlin’s beard, George! George!” he hissed out.

“Wait,” George whispered.

“Slytherins at three o’clock. Get under here!”

“I can’t, I don’t know which snake to pick.”

“The orange one!”

“Yellow-orange or red-orange?”

“What the—whatever’s more orange!”

“They both are ‘more’ orange!”

Edvard stuck his head out from the shadows. “My brother’s a painter, maybe ask him?”

“Your brother is a Slytherin,” Fred recalled. “Get back in your hiding spot!”

Edvard stepped back into the shadows. What the hell, Fred really couldn’t see him like that.

“Crap, crap,” he heard George curse. Fred saw him hastily shove the entire jar inside the bag along with the rest of the equipment and ingredients.

“George, they’re coming,” Fred called.

Just as a group of Slytherin students walked past the windows of the classroom, George ducked under a desk in time. Fred mentally sighed in relief. They waited for them to walk past the classroom. All three were quiet and still, careful not to make a sound.

“I know we agreed not to talk about it,” a voice spoke from the passing group. “But we got to talk about Malmvinsey.”

“Pierre?” a second voice asked.

“No, Adrian, the Gryffindor one.”

A third voice rang out. “There’s nothing to talk about him. He’s chosen his house. He chose those bloody lions instead of us AND his own brother. He’s a traitor.”

The second voice, who Fred assumed to be Adrian Pucey, cut him off. “That’s enough. Gryffindor or not, Edvard is still Pierre’s brother. He doesn’t know anything about the centuries-long feud between Slytherins and Gryffindors. He’s only eleven.”

“Yeah? Or are you just saying that because of your soft spot for Malmvinsey?”

“And so, what?” Adrian Pucey asked, a little bit defensively.

A short pause hanged above the group, then the first voice spoke again. “Cassius is right. The Gryffindors don’t find him as part of their circles, so the kid’s an outcast. I can only imagine what Pierre must be feeling.”

“He’s not much of a feeler though, is he?” the third voice joked.

The first voice scoffed. “Your inputs are irrelevant, Bletchley.”

“Ouch, you break my heart, Montague!”

Fred’s head hanged low. He glanced over to the shadows Edvard hid. Had he heard them? He could see his vague figure, but his face was hard to read. Fred refocused on the passing Slytherins, but a clouded thought hanged over him. He couldn’t explain to himself why he felt pity for Edvard. It didn’t make sense; he still didn’t trust the boy.

As the Slytherins walked further away, Fred, George, and Edvard left their hiding spots. “We better move. Snape will come back in less than five minutes,” Fred reminded them.

He and George slipped silently out of the classroom, and as Fred walked ahead, a loud shatter stopped him in his tracks. He turned to see a broken beaker, and Edvard right beside it. He must’ve bumped himself too hard on a desk.

“What was that?” one of the voices from before said in alarm.

“From that hall over there.”

“Bloody hell, run!” Fred hissed.

The three of them ran past the dungeon cells hoping they wouldn’t be seen by anyone. The torchlights felt a blur to Fred as he sprinted. Behind them, footsteps were growing quicker. “They’re catching up,” George warned.

As they turned round a corner, they heard a shout. “Hey! I think I see someone!”

Fred cursed under his breath. “Over there!” he pointed at the left. There was their exit, the stairs that headed the main halls.

Fred was the first to turn, and just as he did, he almost crashed into a Slytherin. He dodged him in time and continued running.

“’Vinsey?” he heard George ask. Abruptly he stopped to look behind. George stood facing the Slytherin—Pierre-Auguste Malmvinsey, and only stared like he saw a wraith. Beside him was Edvard, who also stood surprised to see his older brother.

Fred didn’t have time to wonder why they were just standing there. The other Slytherins were catching up! “George, come on!” he hissed.

Edvard glanced at Fred, and then he tugged on George’s arm. “George, the stairs!” he said.

George reluctantly took a step forward, his eyes still locked onto Pierre. “George!” Fred hissed again. He was furious. What the hell was going on with George? He’s giving Pierre a good look of the culprits so he can rat them out to Snape. To make matters worse, the Slytherins could turn the corner at any minute. He stomped towards them.

“’Vinsey, I can explain—”

“George!” both Edvard and Fred hissed at the same time. He grabbed his twin by the arm and dragged him away. No bloody way was he going to make idle chit chat with someone during a potions heist, especially with a Slytherin of all houses.

Fortunately, it seemed that George regained his senses, and started to run off as well.

As they finally reached the last steps of the stairs, Fred could hear the Slytherins behind him.

“Pierre, did you see who the thieves were?”

He didn’t hear an answer, but it was obvious that they’ve been seen. And eventually, Snape will find out. His head started to ache.

“The bloody hell happened back there?!” Fred fumed. They were panting inside the twins’ room. Edvard was with them; he sat on George’s bed hugging one of the pillows. George leaned on a bedpost, scuffling through their loot in case they missed anything. He was trying to ignore Fred’s ranting.

“If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t have been running like mice! We could have had a smoother escape, no thanks to you, kid!” Fred yelled.

George didn’t see it right that Fred was shouting at a little boy. He placed the bag on his bed. “Give Minivinsey a break, it’s his first heist. We made mistakes on our first heist too, Fred.”

Fred glared at him. “How can we be sure that he’s not playing for the other team? What if he broke the beaker on purpose so we could get caught? Bloody hell, now I’m regretting taking you with us, kid!”

“Fine, then say goodbye to my galleons,” Edvard hummed. He wasn’t paying much attention to Fred. He sat on the bed casting sixth-level transfiguration spells from George’s textbook. George reversed his pillow-to-knife transfiguration.

“Fine, you get a pass, but don’t blow our cover next time,” Fred pursed his lips. Then he turned to George. “But you! Can you explain to me why you just stood there giving Malmvinsey a good look on your potions-burglar face?!”

George folded his arms. “I don’t understand why you’re making it a big deal. We get caught all the time.” He avoided Fred’s question of why he stood trying to explain to Pierre. The reason why he stopped was because Pierre was expecting that he was helping Edvard with his homework. Now that he saw them running around the dungeons instead, George had an uneasy feeling at the pit of his stomach. He had no clue where that uneasiness came from.

“This is different. I don’t care if we lose house points or get detention to the Forbidden Forest, but when Snape finds out we’ve been searching through his stuff, he’s taking it all back, and we won’t get to make the Ageing Potion.”

“So, we’ll make it right now,” George reasoned. “Remove the evidence, and then it’ll look like the Slytherins are simply trying to make us look bad.”

“But we don’t know which snake to use. You guys might mess up if you pick the wrong one.” Edvard mused.

George swallowed a mouthful of curses. Of course, how could he forget about the snakes? It was a big issue, and if they picked the wrong snake, they might end up growing too old that they’ll see Death, even if they took the smallest sip. “We can ask Malmvinsey?” he suggested, but then immediately regretted. No chance was he going to help them after that fiasco.

“Not us,” Fred muttered. “He will.” He pointed at Edvard.

The little boy shrugged. “Fine. I’ll ask him after dinner.”

“Great. One problem down, one possible problem to await,” Fred grumbled. He headed inside the bathroom without another word and a glance at George.

As the bathroom door closed, Edvard helped in putting out the ingredients from the bag. “I’m guessing Fred’s the one with a temper?”

George laughed lightly. “Nah, we both are hotheads, but siblings like me and Fred get over it quick. Why spend a day being grumpy when you can turn a sink into a butterbeer fountain?” It was true. Currently, Fred was inside taking a shower to cool off, but he’ll be strategizing pranks and inventions the second he comes out. George was like that too whenever they fight, but unlike Fred, he would talk about the argument first and apologize, no matter who was right or wrong. It just felt good if he did. Fred wasn’t like that. He often pretended the argument didn’t happen.

Edvard played with the beakers. “Huh, you’re not like my siblings. They look like they’re always in a bad mood, and they hold grudges, especially Pierre.”

Hearing that, George gulped. He replayed what happened back in the dungeons when he stood in front of Pierre. He remembered his face a mixture of surprise and confusion quickly turning to suspicion when he saw Edvard. “Hey, stop right there!” they heard one of the Slytherins shout. Pierre quickly put two and two together, and his eyes bore holes at George. Obviously, he was furious. The person he entrusted (he didn’t, but George did insist on watching Edvard) to make sure his little brother finished homework was right now in front of him carrying a bag of stolen ingredients, and to make matters worse, he brought along Edvard. Just remembering that scene made George want to bury himself in his pillows. “I figured ‘Vinsey’s a killjoy.”

Hearing that made Edvard grin. “Yeah, he’s no fun at all. All he does is scold me for touching his paint brushes and buy me snacks. I like the second thing he does, however!”

“What about your sister? My brother Ron’s in the same year as her, and he tells me she’s a spitfire.”

“Mayari likes to pick fights with people, and I’m her sidekick!”

“Ah, so she’s the fun one!”

“Yeah, we also send owls to each other all the time back when I was too young to be in Hogwarts. She teaches me hexes!”

“Scary,” George commented.

He figured out that Mayari was the middle child. The same year as Ron, she was described to be undaunting and intimidating. Even Malfoy sometimes watched his tongue when he had to address her. In a way, George realized both Pierre and her were similar in terms of reputation: feared, respected, and the least that people in their own house wanted to cross.

“Say, Minivinsey.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you afraid of your brother sometimes?”

Edvard let out a laugh. “No way, I think he’s afraid of me!”

George laughed at his probably true statement. “But seriously, you don’t seem to be bothered when he caught us.”

“He gets mad, but he never lifts a finger on me. He’s just going to give me another scolding like always. He’ll be over it in a day.”

George felt a little relieved upon hearing that. He doubted someone like Pierre could cast an unforgivable curse. Sure, there was a rumor going around that he made a Ravenclaw vomit frogs for accidentally ruining his frog transfiguration project in third year, but surely it wasn’t true. The evilest thing George witnessed him doing was buying the last collectible George yearned for in fourth year, Christmas.

“Although, Minivinsey, you should listen to your brother sometimes. You don’t want him snapping and hexing random students,” George joked.

Edvard giggled. “Wands crossed.” He picked up the jar with the two orange snakes inside from the bag. “Where do I put this one?”

“Just at my nightstand. Desk is full of Weasley Wizard Wheezes.”

Edvard shrugged and moved toward the nightstand. There sat the invisible mystery box that only George could interact with. George stared mindlessly at it. It still bothered him, but he pretended nothing was on top of his nightstand. Edvard believed nothing was on it, he assumed.

Edvard set aside the box and placed the jar beside it. Wait . . .

“Minivinsey.”

“Yeah?”

“Can you touch the box again?” George sat up; his eyes locked onto the box.

“You mean this box?” Edvard said as he placed his hands on the box’s carved design.

“Wicked. Bloody brilliant!” George exclaimed. He was looking at Edvard’s hand. Edvard’s hand! On the box! He can touch it! Then he focused. He had to make sure this wasn’t a trick Edvard was playing at. Like he and Fred, Edvard was a born trickster. “What color’s the box?” he said, grabbing the box from Edvard and holding it up for both to see.

Edvard stared blankly at him. “It’s brown? With pieces of metal—I think it’s metal—at the corners.”

George’s eyes sparkled with hope. “What about the designs? Do you notice the carvings?”

“There’s seven circles that look like an amateur carved them. Most of them aren’t even fully carved out. And a big curvy circle stretching out at the center.” He poked at the odd symbols on the sides. “I have no idea what these are.”

For the first time, George laughed while holding the box. Not in hopelessness, but in relief. Finally, someone else can also see the box that haunted him since the World Cup. He plopped back on the bed. “WOOOOOH!” he exclaimed. “I’m not a madman after all!”

Then he noticed Edvard looking at him questionably. He sat up. “I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

He explained everything. He told him how he was separated from the rest of his family while the Death Eater attack happened. He told him how he spotted his father, Macario Malmvinsey, and that he had been doused by a strange liquid out of nowhere.

“Who did that?” Edvard asked.

“No idea, but it made my eyes sting!”

And then he told him he saw the box on the ground in front of him, and that only he could see and touch it. Nobody, not even his family could see it.

“But then you can see it, too! That has to mean something!”

Edvard was still processing everything. He lied on the bed and playfully shook the box. “It looks ordinarily fancy to me,” he leaned in to listen to what was inside. “And empty. Can you open this?”

George shook his head. “I tried unlocking spells, muggle tools from my dad, explosion spells; it won’t budge.”

Edvard kept shaking the box, and then dropped it on the bed. “How come only we can touch the box? And why can the bed and the nightstand touch it?”

“Another one of its many mysteries. I haven’t figured out why it revealed itself to me, and now that you’re in the picture, I’m more lost than I already was. I do think that the strange liquid got something to do with it. Say, do you ever recall being drenched in stuff that’s black and gooey and stings your eyes?”

Edvard pondered. “Nah, only water and manananggal blood.”

“Mana—okay, nevermind that. So, if you weren’t drenched in the stuff, then how can you see it?”

Edvard only shrugged. Then his eyes squinted. “How do I know this isn’t a prank? You two are born pranksters, you know! Is Fred gonna come out of this box?” He picked it up again and shook it harder. “FRED! Is it cramped in there?”

George laughed. “I promise, this is the truth. Also, Fred walked in the shower if you recall.”

“I’ll just have to test it.”

“What do you mean—”

As if on cue, the bathroom door opened and out walked Fred fresh out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist. “I think I packed Ginny’s shampoo instead of ours. My hair smells like marshmallows,” he grumbled.

“That’s Lee’s,” George corrected as he chuckled.

Then, Edvard threw the invisible box at Fred, making George jump in surprise. For a second, he thought Fred will get hit, but it went right through him and landed on the ground with a large THUMP!

“Woah, it really is a mystery box!” Edvard marveled, and George laughed.

Fred stared at the two of them. “Weirdos, both of you.”

The following days were spent with Fred and George’s usual up-to-no-good pranks. They agreed not to work on the Ageing Potion until they knew which snake to use. “Have you asked your brother yet?” George asked next morning at breakfast.

“He won’t tell me. He thinks I’m putting color-coded snakes on the toilets.” Edvard said as he switched the ketchup with hot sauce. Now there’s a real madman.

Fred snickered. “I know what we’re gonna do this morning.”

Lately, Edvard was allowed to join in on their nefarious pranks. George made sure they stayed far away from Pierre in case he disagreed with Edvard’s choice of company.

Fred was still suspicious about Edvard. He still thought he was spying for the Slytherins, but George always noticed of the proud look he had whenever Edvard successfully turned the bathroom waters into butterbeer. On the first week of Hogwarts, they found their latest addition to their mischief.

Their friends adored him. Angelina shared her favorite bubble gum brand to him, and Lee gave him a ride on his broom and toured around the halls once. “He reminds me of my early days when we first met,” Lee recalled.

“Keep your wands up, you’ll never know when he’ll try to sabotage us,” Fred muttered.

George butted in. “Says the one who taught Malmvinsey all the best spots to hide a dungbomb.”

“His bomb planting was atrocious!”

Though Fred wouldn’t admit it himself, George knew he loved the little kid. Late Thursday, he showed him a few secret passages, taught him the spell that lets them add wheels, and gave him free samples of Ton Tongue Toffees. He practically thought of Edvard as his own son.

Pranks and potion planning weren’t the only thing that kept George occupied that week. Ever since he discovered that Edvard can also see the Mystery Box (Edvard named it), the two of them had been conducting experiments and researching regarding its origins. Edvard kept throwing it at people like the Gryffindors and Slytherins that picked on him while George oversaw critical thinking. He felt like he was making a thesis on Magical Theory.

“I think that the reason why the box can still interact with inanimate objects,” he theorized, “is that it’s enchanted to not interact with living beings, specifically people.”

They were often inside the library reading books that had something to do with magical invisible boxes. Edvard poked his head out of Houdini’s Box Tricks Volume III. “And you were able to see it, hypothetically, by the liquid you were drenched with in the World Cup. Still, it doesn’t explain how I can see it. I don’t think I ever experienced what you did.”

“Hmm,” both pondered on. They continued to research, which they didn’t have much getting on. Their minds swiftly wandered to later new pranks to pull.

Fred and George waited for Snape to punish them, but there were no signs of Snape suspecting them of thievery. In fact, his cabinet supply was restocked and resumed his usual distaste for literally everyone. George was perplexed. He thought Pierre had told his friends or Snape about their dungeon heist, but neither of the Slytherins and Snape knew a thing. Except Pierre.

George had avoided him ever since he was caught by him, which wasn’t that hard. From trusty sources (Edvard and Angelina), he found out that Pierre was often cooped up in the arts classroom in his free time. He was barely seen wandering about in the halls and was never around in lunch and sometimes dinner.

“It’s his extracurricular. He tutors younger students as well,” Angelina said.

“Did you know my brother can move paintings?” Edvard once gloated.

“Like put them on walls?” George asked.

“No, the drawings themselves move!”

Hearing that made George admire Pierre a little bit. He was no artist, but he knew that only people who were awfully talented and full of magic can make even the least efforted paintings move. But being in a classroom all day . . . that sounded terribly boring.

He couldn’t care less about Pierre’s hobby anyway. He was thankful he only saw him at breakfast or in the classes they shared. And if he were to move towards him, George would try evading him. Once, as the two of them were about to cross paths in the hall, George jumped out of a window. It earned a lot of alarmed looks from the students, and he lost 20 house points. But when he looked back at Pierre, the Slytherin simply continued walking! It’s like he didn’t care at all if someone got injured.

That time on Friday during D.A.D.A. when George was attempting to resist the Imperius Curse, he swore he saw Pierre raise his wand. Thinking he was going to hex him, George lost focus, and did terrible at D.A.D.A. He fell and the class laughed, and when he looked at Pierre, he saw him just casting a spell that fixed Miles Bletchley’s tie. George felt his cheeks turn pink when he realized he thought wrong. Fred couldn’t stop teasing him about it all day.

Now it was Saturday. The first week of school was over. George had left the library with Edvard after two hours of useless research on the box. They went on their separate ways since Edvard had to water his Herbology flower project. The first years were tasked to take care of a flower and train it to hold a specific talent. Edvard was training it to learn how to light a match.

As he ate lunch in the Great Hall, Fred spied at his sulking. “Only one sausage? You always eat three when you’re feeling yourself. Penny for your thoughts, George?”

In instinct George stabbed his fork on another sausage hoping to throw off Fred’s attention. “Just tired.”

“I don’t believe that for a second. Is this about the small fuss about the dungeons heist? I’m over that already, we haven’t gotten caught in almost a week already.”

George couldn’t tell him about his brainstorming with Edvard about the box. He tried telling him before, but Fred always shook it off as a sibling joke. After all, who would believe in something that can’t be seen? Just thinking about the box made his stomach churn. Still, he had to give an answer that Fred wanted to hear.

“There’s a lot on my mind, I don’t know. The Triwizard, ageing potions, snakes, and tutoring Minivinsey,” he lied, which was partially true. He told Fred that he was tutoring Edvard in the library instead of the Mystery Box researching.

That answer seemed to relax Fred’s shoulders. “You’re right, we have been a little busy,” And then his eyes lit up. He faced Angelina, Lee, Katie, and Alicia. “How do you all feel about a small game of Quidditch today?”

Angelina laughed. “Funny one, Fred. Everyone knows Professor Mcgonagall forbids everyone to play in the Quidditch pitch. They’re prepping it up for the Triwizard Tournament next month,” she replied sarcastically.

“It’s no joke, Angelina! I’m serious for once, and I say we should play Quidditch!”

“Then where do we even play? Hogwarts has too many ancient artefacts you boys could break.”

Lee interrupted. “Well, we can play in another area, like . . .”

“The Great Lake?” suggested George.

Fred’s eyes sparkled. George felt he was glad that he liked his idea. “Exactly! We could all use a break from the Triwizard excitement, do something fun, yeah?” he exclaimed.

George and Fred stared at each other with their eyes twinkling. Fred’s idea was fantastic, and one game of Quidditch can lift George’s spirits. It had been a while since they played, and he needed to regain his skills. George took pride as Gryffindor’s best beater in years, and Fred—who was more prideful than he—even admitted that he was better at Quidditch than he. Another nice thing about playing Quidditch was that he got to tease Fred for blocking a bludger for Angelina.

“We’ll be quick. We get our brooms after lunch and use Katie’s quaffle, and then go to the Great Lake after we eat. So, is everyone up for it?”

Lee was the first to nod. “Of course, I’m down. It’s not everyday you get the chance to not be the Quidditch commentator!”

Angelina reluctantly sighed. “Fine, someone needed to look after the five of you.”

“Oh, and I’ll be holding my quaffle, it’s worth 200 galleons!” Katie said.

Fred grinned from ear to ear with a satisfied look on his face. George smiled as well. Quidditch will take his mind off the Mystery Box. After he finished his sausage and coffee, the six of them fetched their broomsticks. Katie held up her quaffle and tossed it to Alicia. “Hey, how come Alicia gets to hold it and not us?” complained Fred jokingly.

“Because she’s my special girl, duh,” Katie boasted, making Alicia’s cheeks turn pink as she smiled at her statement.

Katie and Alicia have been together ever since Alicia confessed last year on Valentine’s Day. Fred called it cliché to confess on that day, but Angelina and Lee found it romantic. Meanwhile, George didn’t think much of when or how they got together. There were some who didn’t take Katie and Alicia well. Some people refused to acknowledge that two girls can fall in love with each other. Both Katie and Alicia were looked down on and hated by some students, but neither of them paid attention to them. Thankfully, it seemed the hate they received had died down this year.

George always supported them both, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of something missing. Not from them, however. It was more of a personal feeling; something within himself. Ultimately, he was genuinely curious of how such a different love is possible. He was curious why that love was shunned by others. He was curious how Katie and Alicia can love each other like that.

They were headed to the back of the castle where the entrance to the Great Lake was. As they made their way through the back courtyard, they heard an unfriendly voice ahead of them.

“Where are you Gryffindors off to?”

A few yards away were a group of Slytherins Fred and George knew very well. They were the same Slytherins who almost caught them stealing in Potions, and at a casual basis, those Slytherins were their favorite people to prank. Miles Bletchley, Graham Montague, Cassius Warrington, and Adrian Pucey strode up towards them with devilish smiles on their faces.

“Hello, visions,” Fred greeted.

“It’s pronounced as ‘Vyssiors’, you twat,” Graham Montague scoffed. Vyssiors were what they called themselves, but George found the name too extra. As much as he wanted to start a wizard brawl, George had to remain calm. He didn’t want to cause a scene just yet; Quidditch came first.

Adrian Pucey eyed at George and his friends until they landed on the brooms they were holding. “Y’all flying somewhere?” he asked suspiciously.

Miles Bletchley slowly sneaked around them. Alicia tried to hide the quaffle behind her, but Miles already saw it. He darted towards her and grabbed the quaffle, shoving her hands away. That earned him a glare from Katie. “Graham, look what I found!” he exclaimed as he skipped back to his friends.

The Vyssiors stared at the quaffle in Miles’ hands with bemused looks. Finally, Graham stepped forward. “Quidditch! When your own Head of House specifically said it wasn’t allowed,” then he grinned, “It would be a shame for her to find out that you lot were breaking her rules. Especially you, Johnson. Aren’t you the soon-to-be Head Girl of Gryffindor?”

Angelina looked offended. She started to say something, but Fred stepped forward to size up Graham. George and Lee followed suit as well. “Don’t get cocky, Montague. Mcgonagall only said not to play in the pitch. We’re technically not breaking any rules.”

“Johnson, what’s wrong? Are you too shy to tell me off so you had your boyfriend do it for you?” Miles snickered. Fred looked at Angelina bashfully, and she averted his gaze.

“So where are you guys going to play Quidditch, then?” Adrian asked.

“None of your business,” George spat.

“Oh, come on,” Miles said as he patted George’s shoulder. George shoved him off. “You, Weasley-two, aren’t being a good sport. My friends and I see that you’re lacking players,” He held up the quaffle for Katie to see. Katie tried to snatch it away, but Miles averted her hand and cackled. “And you’re in luck! The Vyssiers can be the other team!”

Adrian interrupted him. “But aren’t we lacking one member? We’re only four.”

“Ha, you’re not even complete! Malmvinsey too afraid to face us?” Lee insulted. George couldn’t help but feel awkward about what he said, considering that they were well acquainted with Edvard. He knew Pierre was friends with these pricks, so he was obviously no better than them. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a slight uncertainty. If he can recall their past chaos, Pierre was barely involved.

The Vyssiers sent Lee hard glares, especially from Adrian and Graham. “Making a cause to wizardkind, unlike you sorry excuses of wizards.” Graham spat.

“At least we hex better than Bletchley Bitcher,” Katie grumbled, making George and the others laugh. They knew Miles liked to call himself Bletchley Banger.

Hearing that, Miles sent her a dirty look. He glanced Alicia, and smirked. “Hey, Vyssiers! I think I found our lacking member. What do you think, Bell? If you’ll let us take Spinnet off your hands, she’ll have a better time and forget about kissing a bitch like you.”

That made Katie go off. She stomped to Miles punched him in the face. “No one fucking disrespects my girlfriend! Not from the likes of you, Bitchley!” she spat.

The punch sent Miles reeling, and the quaffle fell from his hands. Lee tried to catch it, but the quaffle zipped away from him and zoomed towards Cassius Warrington, who waved his wand. The Vyssiers were shocked from the punch, but quickly felt the immediate tension blowing up. George and the others knew what they got themselves into, and they were going to get themselves out. Soon, they were all fighting each other outside the castle walls. George was thankful nobody saw them now, so he didn’t have to hold back.

Lee took out his wand. “Expelli—”

“Stupefy!” Graham casted and sent Lee flying, dropping his broom on the ground.

“I’ll have you lose House Points, Montague!” Angelina yelled.

“Not if I shut you up!” Graham snarled. He pointed his wand at her and casted a hex. But before the hex got to her, Angelina swiftly casted a counter spell and the hex was thrown to Graham instead.

“Nice one, Angelina!” Fred cheered.

Catching his eye, Angelina shrugged and smiled. She was about to say something, but Fred’s jaw was met with a punch from Miles, who recovered from Katie’s punch. His nose was bleeding.

“Bloody shit, you’re not Katie!”

“Why does everybody keep interrupting me?!” Angelina said as she smacked Graham with her broom.

Across them, George was struggling with Adrian and Cassius. “Your friends shouldn’t have thrown the first punch,” Adrian snarled

“And let you guys do it? Hell no.” His voice barked as he fired spells at them. His main goal was to get the quaffle out from Cassius’ hands, but it was hard to find an opening. Seconds later, he got a lucky hit from Adrian, who was shoved back and bumped Cassius.

“Accio quaffle!” Alicia casted beside George. The quaffle was about to fly to her arms, but just before she could touch it, Miles snatched it away. He was flying Lee’s broom. He carried the quaffle and paraded it around the sky.

“What’s stopping you idiots?! I thought you wanted to play Quidditch!”

George tried to fly his broom, but he was too busy dodging the hexes thrown at him. Alicia got shot by a hex that made her robes curl around and immobilized her. “Alicia!” he heard Katie shout. Katie shot a stun spell at Adrian, and Fred, whose wand was trapped in a bubble charm and his broom snapped in half, grabbed Cassius’ wand and both of them struggled for it.

“George, get that quaffle!” Fred shouted.

George nodded, and as he climbed on his broom, he flew off. Miles saw him coming, and the two of them zipped in the air playing chase. They flew past walls, dodging and throwing spells. “You a chaser now, Weasley?” Miles beckoned. He barely ducked beneath an arch.

Having taken this as an advantage, George flew above him. As Miles came out of the arch, he swooped down and punched his face (the same area Katie punched), sending the quaffle off his hands.

“No, but I’m hell of a wicked beater!” George flashed a smug smile. The two of them raced after the ball, swooping down for it. It reminded George of when Viktor Krum raced after the snitch that flew down in the Quidditch World Cup. George was the better flyer between him and Miles. He smiled knowing he was closer to the quaffle, but he forgot that Miles was notorious for having the most Quidditch fouls. Miles kicked his broom, and George stumbled.

As he found his bearings again, he saw Miles about to reach for the quaffle. George grabbed hold of it the same time Miles did, and the two of them struggled to overthrow the other. By this time, Fred and the others including the Vyssiers caught up to them. “You can do it, George! Show that Slytherin who’s in the better house!” Fred yelled. “Make Bitchley fall off!” Katie cried.

From a lucky opening, he kicked Miles in the shin, and the quaffle was in his hands. He heard his friends cheer, but then as he glanced back, he saw Miles throw a hex at him. George dodged it, but as he regained himself, Miles zipped toward him. Without thought, he threw the quaffle away just as Miles crashed onto him.

They were about to claw at each other, but then a loud crash followed by a scream jolted them and the others.

The quaffle George threw smashed a window of a classroom. George broke away from Miles and curiously looked at where the quaffle crashed into. Then, to everyone’s dismay, a strict and furious face was seen from the windows.

Professor Aurora Sinistra, the Astronomy professor, eyed at George and Miles, and then below at Fred, Lee, and the others. Beside her was the fourth-year student, Dean Thomas, who was holding the quaffle in his shaking hands. George caught a glimpse of smashed easels and spilled paint cans on the classroom floor. Then just behind the professor, he caught a glimpse of something dark and something red. He froze upon realization of what that was.

Professor Sinistra whispered something to Dean, and the boy hurriedly left out of sight. Her eyes remained an icy glare as she pointed at each of them. “All of you. Hospital Wing. NOW!”

Chapter Text

The first time Pierre held a paint brush was when he was only four years old. He barely remembered how it went. Tragedy often lets you forget the measures of joy. He didn’t remember the place or the day or the room he was in. But he remembered his mother’s hands as they helped him better grasp her small round brush. Those hands guided his little right hand, and he felt the canvas' rough textures. Those hands were rough and calloused compared to his soft small palms, but they were cold. It was and always will.

“That is how you paint stars. Borrow them from the evening sky, and pluck some—not too many or you’ll make the world go dark—and let them sing their twinkling songs as they are tickled by the big friendly brush. Lie them next to the moon, for the moon should never be lonely.”

Until now, her voice was calm and soothing, like it was born to sing lullabies only for him. He will always remember the faint English accent that showed after the end of sentences spoken in Filipino. No laughter escaped her mouth because she knew herself that smiles were already enough. She’d let his hand go, and after painting stars all by himself, the painting was finished. He refused to forget anything. He still remembers and always will.

That painting was entitled Soar unto Solace . The moon and stars were not the focus. Soaring across a dark branch stroked by the palette knife was a magpie with one wing. Its other wing was replaced by a yellow streak that critics believed to be a paint spill. However, when looked closely, it reflected the textures of the Sun. From that discovery, the painting was worth 90 thousand galleons and displayed in Hogwarts’ walls.

It was not only Haliya Kalalacao’s painting; it was also Pierre’s. That was his true first painting, and he got to see it every time he entered the Arts’ classroom. It was hung at the center of the wall. Some of his mother’s paintings resided in Hogwarts, including Soar unto Solace . All of them landscapes whose styles were a combination of Romanticism and Impressionism. 

His mother claimed her paintings to be “pretty”. Not beautiful, but pretty. Beautiful is a word used for things that can make you sad. When she looked at her own paintings, they were only pretty, but Pierre believed that every single one were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. His mother was very beautiful. She still was and always will.

“Macario, your stepfather, won’t admit it, but he likes it when I call him pretty.”

“Why only pretty, mama? Is he not beautiful to you?”

“No, orbit. He’s made me very happy.”

“Did my father make you very happy too?”

A short silence.

“He did, and it was a beautiful happiness, and he gave me the most beautiful star who never fails to make me smile.”

Pierre spotted Dean Thomas, one of the students enrolled in the Arts class, laughing at his canvas when he entered. Dean caught his eye, and his face brightened. He shook his hand. “Good afternoon, Pierre. I’m surprised you're not early. You’re always in the classroom when I enter.”

Pierre shrugged. “Graham Montague got drunk from a butterbeer toilet. It’s not a pretty topic.”

“Oh, I understand. It took me a while to pull Seamus away from the bathroom sinks. I heard it was a Weasley prank.”

Pierre’s eyes darkened. “I see,” he muttered. He silently hoped Edvard wasn’t involved. Those Weasley twins were a bad influence on his brother. He’s told Edvard not to go with them a thousand times, but of course he wouldn’t listen. At least Edvard hadn’t gotten himself sent to the Hospital Wing yet. Another peculiar thing that occurred was with one of the twins. He had no clue which one, but he was acting strange all week. Just yesterday he jumped out of a window for no reason. It was ridiculous.

A happy chirp came from the easel which had him at ease. Flying with one wing inside Dean’s canvas was the magpie from Soar unto Solace . “At least Bituin’s having a good day,” Pierre said. He tapped his fingers on the canvas while Bituin the magpie acted like he was pecking at them. She tweeted excitedly as she flew towards the half-finished blue sky and nestled on a cloud. Pierre frowned. “Your cloud’s too thick. Don’t forget to apply water on your brushes.”

Dean gave a lighthearted laugh as he dabbed his brush on a glass of water. “And we’re back to Student-Professor Pierre.”

Arts was an extra-curricular class optionally taught in Hogwarts. Pierre’s been taking it ever since his first year, and the professor overseeing Arts was Professor Aurora Sinistra herself. She acknowledged Pierre’s artistic knowledge and helped cultivate it when he joined. Soon enough, Pierre’s skill blossomed to the point that he could make his paintings move. Like his mother, his talent and skill were unmatched. Eventually, wizardkind noticed his potential, and he made a reputation of himself as an art prodigy. His first recognized painting, Veil of the Deep , was sold to the highest bidder (Narcissa Malfoy) for 200 thousand galleons. 

Although he was successful, there was an empty feeling inside him; that all his paintings were incomplete. Sure, his paintings can move and gain a little consciousness, but his mother brought her paintings to life . Her paintings can not only move between walls, but they can project emotions to the viewer. There was so much magic poured into them that you can sense it yourself. He read articles and accounts of people who had temporary illnesses feeling themselves in great relief that they were cured in just staring at Whispers in the Winds . He witnessed people’s drinks and snacks refill when they noticed that the little yellow shapes from Heavenly Siege were fireflies. And in melancholic delight, Pierre can hear the faint voice of his mother reading the Hopping Pot in My First Love in Late Spring . That painting brought so much pain to many wizards that it drove them to imminent grief and depression, so in 1985 it became a private painting to be hanged in the Malmvinsey house. Pierre had to avoid the parlor to keep himself sane. He couldn't handle the voice that could never whisper in his ear anymore. It was Haliya Kalalacao’s last painting.

“It’s my responsibility to help guide everyone’s developments, even if class was over three hours ago,” he told Dean.

“Sometimes, I admire your tortured-artist mindset.”

As both lightly chatted in the classroom, Pierre worked on his own painting. He was about to finish the first portrait, a knee-up of Dean Thomas’ mother. It was for her forty-ninth birthday this coming Monday. He had painted her in a white dress, and her frizzy hair was tied with gold beads and ribbons. She stood in a meadow background.

He lifted his mother's brush and painted. He had his own brushes and palettes he bought himself. Not much of his mother’s art materials were preserved and salvaged after her death. Her prized easel, her crystalline fan brushes, everything was destroyed. Not even her moonstone palette knife, her most prized possession.

Brushes often get lost or damaged overtime, and palette knives rust and become dull. A quote from his mother recalled his mind.

“The process is temporary, but the final piece is immortal.”

Pierre was able to keep only one of his mother’s items. Her round brush, carved by herself. Macario told him it was made of casuarina wood, the same wand wood his mother's wand was carved with.

The same brush she left, and the first brush he held. Unlike the brushes here in the classroom, he carried the brush wherever he went. In a way, her mother was with him, painting alongside him.

Bituin later transferred from Dean’s portrait to Pierre’s and upon seeing the meadow, she twittered around the meadow with her one wing. Pierre smiled slightly at the sparrow. Dean stepped away from his own painting and walked towards Pierre’s easel. 

“Woah!” he exclaimed in awe. “My mother looks beautiful! Pierre, this is wonderful. My mom’s a big fan of your work, she’s going to cry when she sees this.”

Pierre lightly dipped his head. He was used to compliments like these. “No problem, but it isn’t finished yet. I still have to add the wildflowers.”

“And you’re going to make it even more perfect?! How is this free?!”

“It's a gift,” Pierre said. "I’ll have to reapply paint in my palette.”

Dean nodded excitedly. “Can’t wait for the final result!” He stepped aside and went back to his canvas.

Once Pierre was finished with the grass, he grabbed some paint tubes. He applied small splotches of blue, violet, and pink, but the red paint tube ran out. Not to worry, though. Nearby was the supply closet that held paint cans.

A habit of his, he tucked his mother’s round brush behind his right ear. He took out his wand and spelled the closet door to open. “Accio red paint can.” What he exactly wanted shot out from the closet and sped to his open hand. Satisfied, he opened the lid to be greeted by the metallic smell of new paint.

“Pierre!” he heard Dean shout. Bituin chirped alarmingly with her one wing towards the window.

He heard glass break. At the corner of his eyes, he saw a dark haze speeding towards him.

And everything went black.

At first, Pierre thought he was back to his little self, sleeping in his mother’s arms. Then he silently called himself an idiot and tried to go back to sleep. However, the searing pain coming from the side of his head prevented him, so he just lied still, too tired to move. He was hearing muffled and faint voices; at one point coming almost to a shout. He tried to sleep it off. He hadn’t gotten a good sleep in years. But the voices got louder until they were almost understandable. He could hear bits of sentences.

“ . . . thinking?!”

“fault . . . the Gryffindors.”

“Who threw that quaffle?!”

Pierre opened his eyes. He was lying in bed in the Hospital Wing and as he slowly turned his head, a pain shot up at the back of his neck. He was having a migraine. He winced. He felt cloth wrapped around his head, and one part was soft and damp. What am I doing here? He thought.

He looked around him until his eyes rested on a group of people. Three teachers; Snape, McGonagall, and Sinistra. All of them had their backs turned to face the group of students they seemed to be scolding. In front of them were ten students, four of them from Slytherin and six from Gryffindor. Immediately he recognized their faces. It was his friends. They were arguing with the Gryffindor students about something. What trouble were they up to this time? He speculated.

“We caught them breaking school rules! They should get detention, not us,” Graham reasoned.

“We weren’t breaking any rules yet !” argued one of the Gryffindors; Angelina argued.

“Enough! Because of all your reckless impulse and careless actions, not only did two of you account for unauthorized flying, but a student also got injured! I am very disappointed in all of you, especially you, Montague and Johnson. I expected better from you, this isn't how potential Head Boys and Girls should act,” scolded Professor McGonagall.

A girl with dreadlocks looked down in shame, while Graham kept apologizing.

Pierre wanted to sleep again, having wanted to skip whatever the fuss was, but then he paused. He placed a hand on his right ear. His mother’s brush was gone. A wave of panic surged inside him. No, he couldn’t lose that brush. It was his mother’s. That brush was too important for him to lose. He had to find it quickly, there was no time to rest in the infirmary. He tried to sit up, but his migraine acted up. He let out a painful grunt, and he glanced at the teachers and students.

The first person his eyes rested on was George Weasley. He was the first to notice him waking. Surprised blue eyes met his own dark ones. He assumed they were navy blue. Probably not. The Hospital Wing was kind of dark.

Pierre stopped staring when another pain prickled at the back of his head. Merlin, why was his head hurting so much?

“Pierre!” he heard Adrian cry out in relief. He broke away from the group and ran to him. He almost hugged him but held back. He sheepishly sat on a nearby stool. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, trying to fake his headache. “What’s happening?”

“One of the Weasleys hit you with a quaffle.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah, we were just messing with the Gryffindors outside ‘cause we found out they were going to play Quidditch. Then one thing led to another, and we started fighting—you know—like always. And then Miles and Weasley flew up trying to get the quaffle until well, you get what happened next,” Adrian explained. He inspected the bandage wrapped around Pierre’s head. He brushed away his bangs. “You sure it doesn’t hurt?” he asked in a slightly worried tone.

Pierre’s mouth twitched at the unexpected touch on his forehead. He didn’t like people touching him. Adrian knew that, but he must have forgotten from all the worry. He brushed Adrian’s hand off. “I manage.”

“Thank Merlin, you’re okay, Mr. Malmvinsey,” Professor Sinistra said as she walked towards the two of them. Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall were busy reprimanding the rest of the students. “You took a heavy blow from the quaffle. Thankfully Mr. Thomas alerted me when I was walking past the Arts classroom. Madam Pomfrey says the healing potion will take effect in two hours, so it’s best you take a rest for now.” She gave Pierre a kind smile. 

“Thank you, Professor, but I’m alright now. If you please, I must get back to work,” Pierre said as he tried to sit properly. It was a lie of course. His migraine remained painful and annoying, but he had to find that paintbrush. He can’t afford to lose it.

To his disappointment, Professor Sinistra shook her head. “That can wait. As also the Arts Professor, it is my duty to see that my students are well, especially you, Mr. Malmvinsey. You are my star student, after all.”

“But—” He was about to complain when Professor Sinistra raised her hand.

“Rest,” she told him gently. “We don’t want your head to ache too much.” Having no choice, Pierre reluctantly obeyed. He watched as Professor Sinistra turned to face the others.

“This is only the first week, so Professor Snape and I decided to lessen your punishments. However, if one of you dares injure someone again, we will have you expelled,” declared Professor McGonagall. Her eyes bore holes through all the students.

“Detention for two weeks for Mr. Bletchley, Montague, Pucey, and Warrington,” Snape said. “You will be cleaning the dungeons with Mr. Filch after dinner. For unauthorized flying, Mr. Bletchley will have one extra week in the Forbidden Forest,” ordered Snape. Pierre saw his friends silently groan.

“Thank Merlin there’s no Hogwarts Cup this year, else Snape would have been harsher,” Adrian whispered. He didn’t go back to the group. Pierre assumed he just wanted to sit down.

Snape then told the Slytherins to leave the Hospital Wing as they were already finished, and eventually Snape excused himself. Adrian also left as well. “Get well soon,” he whispered to Pierre, who gave a nod in return.

“Now, two weeks detention for Ms. Johnson, Bell, Spinnet, Mr. Lee, and Mr. Fred Weasley. You will be polishing the floors of the entire first floor after dinner. I will also be confiscating your brooms and Ms. Bell’s quaffle,” Professor McGonagall said as she raised the quaffle in her hands.

One of the girls let out a gasp.

“And as for you . . .” McGonagall turned her stare at George. “Mr. Weasley, as the direct cause of Mr. Malmvinsey’s injury, we cannot take the matter lightly.”

He saw George looking down on the floor in silence. He tugged nervously on his sleeves; his jaw clenched.

“As conducted by the school regulations,” McGonagall continued. “Your punishment will be more severe. I’m afraid I’ll have to give you a one-month suspension.”

From that, George’s face fell. The other Gryffindors were in shock. His brother, Fred, stepped forward. “You can’t do that; he’ll miss out when the other schools arrive! And we won't get to put our names in the Goblet!” he argued.

“That’s enough. My verdict is clear and fair. I’m sorry, but he won’t step foot in this school until the second week of October.”

“Professor, I’ll accept any punishment you get, just don’t suspend me! There’s got to be another way,” George begged.

Pierre felt pity for him, in all honesty. It was an accident. How could George know that he’d hit the Arts classroom and bludgeon a student? Plus, he wouldn’t have thrown it if Miles and the others hadn’t intervened with them. Honestly, his friends needed to know when to mind their own business. It seemed this would be another mess he’d have to clean up . . . and maybe put into good use.

“Professor,” he whispered to Sinistra. “I know that what Professor McGonagall is doing follows regulation, but as the injured victim, I believe I have a right to also discuss the terms regarding Weasley’s punishment.”

Professor Sinistra nodded. “You have a fair point. What is it that you have in mind?”

After Pierre suggested his plan, Professor Sinistra cleared her throat. Professor McGonagall and the others who busily argued had stopped to face her. “I just had a little chat with Mr. Malmvinsey, and he generously proposed an alternative punishment for Mr. Weasley.”

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips. “And what is this proposal, Professor Sinistra?”

“That Mr. Weasley will not be suspended at all,” Sinistra proposed, receiving a look of confusion from McGonagall and visible relief from George and the others. “And instead, he will serve detention under Mr. Malmvinsey’s care for a whole month.” She gestured over to Pierre.

Pierre continued after Sinistra’s proposal. “He’ll be my temporary assistant for the time being, and if he were to disobey and object, feel free to resume his original punishment.” That was enough for the grin George wore on his face to vanish. His mouth went agape with suspicion and confusion. Now his eyes looked like pale sapphires. The others were trying to hold in their laughter.

“I suppose that is an admirable suggestion, but are you sure of this punishment? Do remember that he’s the one who injured you,” Professor McGonagall asked.

“I’m sure, professor. If he has some decency left in him, he may also learn some discipline when I’m around,” Pierre smirked, and he caught George rolling his eyes. That made him smirk more.

“A generous offer,” McGonagall accepted. “Very well. Mr. Weasley, instead of suspension, you will be assisting Mr. Malmvinsey for one whole month, starting Monday.”

George's brother and friends were holding back their laughter after hearing his punishment.

Professor Sinistra clapped her hands. “So, the matter has been settled. All of you,” she pointed at the Gryffindors. “You may leave the Hospital Wing now. Detention for the rest of you starts tonight, and you better do it fast. We have Astronomy at midnight.”

“And don’t commit the same mistakes. Or I won’t be as kind as today,” warned McGonagall.

The students left the Hospital Wing, including George, who at first hesitated and gave Pierre one last look. His face was an open book, Pierre thought. It was like a palette of mixed emotions. Gratefulness, suspicion, and embarrassment were most visible in George’s cerulean (Was it really cerulean? Hard to tell.) eyes. Then he left, and McGonagall followed shortly after, wishing Pierre to get well.

Professor Sinistra was the last to leave. “You best sleep, Mr. Malmvinsey. Telescopes often increase the tension of migraines.”

Pierre nodded. “Not to worry, Professor. How is the Arts classroom? Is anything damaged?”

Sinistra’s twilight eyes stared at Pierre’s oaky brown ones in pity. “Not much, but I spotted your painting for Mr. Thomas’ mother and I think it might be damaged.”

Pierre held his breath, wanting to go more than ever. He tried to calm himself down; the migraine was worsening. “How so?”

“It’s best if you see it yourself since I can’t be sure if it’s actually ruined. All artists have different minds, you know. I had Mr. Thomas fetch Professor Moody who happened to be nearby and asked if he could clean the classroom while Mr. Thomas and I ushered you to the Hospital Wing.”

“I see. Thank you, Professor,” Pierre said.

“I’ll see you in class,” she bid goodbye.

Now that he was alone in the Hospital Wing, Pierre sat still for a while. And then, when his instincts told him the coast was clear, he stood up and snuck out. His headache worsened, but he doesn't care about that now. He needed to find that brush. He searched thoroughly in the halls heading to the arts classroom, whispering “accio brush” whenever he can. His head was spinning, and it wasn’t because of the injury.

As he trudged down the moving stairs, he overheard voices below him. He looked down to see George and the other Gryffindors from before.

“My quaffle!” One of them, Katie Bell he guessed, howled.

“I knew that was a terrible idea,” Angelina grumbled.

Fred snarled. “It’s always the bloody visions—”

“Vyssiers.”

“Yeah, them. Our mortal enemies since first year are never going to spend a day without trying to screw us off! Merlin, why do they always show up at the worst times? It’s like they have a sixth sense for making us miserable.”

 “At least you’re not meeting up with one of them every day,” George muttered. “Suspension doesn’t sound so bad right about now.”

That burst Fred and Lee into laughter. “What’s wrong, George? Afraid of one little Slytherin? Listen, if he tries to get at you, you just zap him back with a hex! Easy. But if we are being honest, I rather spend scrubbing every floor in Hogwarts rather than hanging out with pictures.”

Pierre rolled his eyes unfazed. He just wanted to get to the next corridor. Why were the stairs moving so slow?

“I’m a little curious,” the shortest girl added, her brunette hair wrapped in a braid. “Why did Malmviney propose such a punishment? I don’t think he’d want to spend a day with someone like you, no offense, George.”

“Offense taken.”

“Huh, you do have a point there, Alicia. Maybe he wants to use my brother in a blood sabbath?”

That earned a small laugh from George. “Maybe.”

Finally, the stairs reached the fifth floor. He proceeded up, listening to the group. He wasn't eavesdropping, it's just that their voices were so loud.

“Well, I think he felt bad about George being suspended. I’d feel bad if someone got suspended from an accident, even if I don’t like them,” theorized Angelina. She was half-correct.

“ Felt bad ? Since when do Slytherins ever feel bad? I cast accio pity on them and I received twenty hexes in twelve  languages. The blood sabbath is more believable,” taunted Fred.

Just as he was about to get off the stairs, he felt a prickling pain at the back of his head. He winced, and as he started walking faster, he glanced at the Gryffindor group to see if they heard. Thankfully, it seemed they didn’t.

“I’ll catch up, I forgot something in the Hospital Wing,” he heard George say.

Soon enough, he reached the fifth floor, and to the arts classroom surrounded by hundreds of paintings. When he opened the door, someone was already inside. “Professor,” he greeted.

“Malmvinsey, how’s your head? Lucky it wasn’t a bludger,” Professor Moody said. His real eye looked at him, but his enchanted one was transfixed with Soar Unto Solace . “It seems I lost track of time staring at the art after fixing the windows. This one is nice. Isn’t there supposed to be a bird here?”

Bituin was nowhere to be found. Strange. She loved meeting new faces and entertaining company. “She flies off most of the time."

Moody nodded. “A mind of its own. Which one’s yours?”

Pierre moved to the racks of brushes nearby. None of them his mother’s. “None.”

“I know, you’re Haliya’s boy. Your art always sells,” Moody laughed, a hint of mania in his voice.

Pierre's eyes twinkled. "You know my mother?"

"Who doesn't?" Moody said. His enchanted eye looked at the paintings in a tantalizing gaze. "Kids these days, all they care about is Quidditch and card games. But wizards older than you know her. We thrive on history, and Kalalacao was historical."

"Have you met her?" 

Professor Moody took a while to answer. "Yes, but I don't suppose we can be called friends. I just admire her work."

"I see."

Searching subtly around the room, Pierre’s eyes couldn’t spot the brush. It was nowhere to be seen. Moody continued to praise him. “I’m no painter, so I have no say in painting. But you really do have a gift. Moving paintings can move wizards.”

He’s heard praises before, this one no different. Nothing new. He’s used to people softening their voices just to score some discount. He nodded, half-listening.

He found his unfinished canvas of Dean’s mother. A bright red streak and splotches of paint was on it already, splashed across her dress. 

Moody went on with the compliments.

“Talented boy.” He’s heard that complement the most. Talent.

“Your father must be proud.” He’s heard that too.

"My father’s too busy looking at his coat than paintings,” he tried to joke as he inspected a nearby tray of tools.

“I wasn’t talking about Macario.”

Pierre almost dropped a carving knife. 

He slowly turned around. “What do you mean by that—” 

He jumped, startled by George standing in the doorway with his arms folded. Moody had left without an explanation to what he said.

“What are you doing here?” Pierre demanded.

“I followed you,” George explained, earning a guffawed look from Pierre. He coughed. “I saw you at the stairs, but that’s not the point—”

“I can expel you for spying on me.”

“Ha! After hearing your ‘generous’ offer to McGonagall, that doesn’t sound dreadful at all. I’m here to get this over with, so spill it.”

A short pause.

Pierre pursed his lips. “Spill . . . paint?”

“What.”

“Spill what.”

George huffed. “Spill the beans! No Slytherin ever bails out a Gryffindor,” he hissed as he sauntered over. “Unless they have something up their sleeves. So, spit it out. What do you want from me, ‘Vinsey?”

Pierre shrugged. “Nothing much.”

“And you think I believe that?” George spat.

“I don’t really give a shit about what you think,” Pierre sneered. He picked up the fallen carving knife and proceeded to prop up a new palette. George watched him reapply some paint tubes. “Some madman threw a quaffle at me.”

“It was an accident!”

“I got hit nonetheless, so you’re still at fault. Not only did you give me a concussion,” he went on as he spelled the canvas to be placed on the easel. “You also added a little touch to my work. If curators saw this, they’d say it’s worth a dozen thousand galleons as repayment for damages.”

Georg gulped. “A d-dozen thousand.”

“But I don’t care about another wizard’s coin. I’m an artist. Painting over mistakes is what I do everyday. I can easily make this look just as exactly as it did before.”

“Oh, I think I get what’s going on here. You’re making me a servant for your entitled arse,” George guessed. “To mock me. Like that liquorice you told your brother to give me on the train!”

Pierre chuckled harshly. “I don’t need a servant. I have a wand that can do a hundred things you can’t do. And I only gave you liquorice as thanks for your forgettable company in the World Cup.”

“Merlin, what do you want from me?” George demanded.

“To keep my eye on you. You’re a bad influence on my brother, Weasley.”

George scoffed and showed him a cocky grin. “Not my fault you’re a killjoy. Morgana smite me, I think your brother would rather have me as a brother than you.”

Pierre ignored that last bit. “I wouldn’t make a big deal out of this if the person he was associating with wasn’t so accident prone. Seriously, Weasley? Edvard’s a child. Whatever pranks you have going on, it’s not safe for him.” 

“Cut him slack, let Edvard do whatever he wants. You’re not his dad.”

Pierre’s head started to ache from the boiling anger beginning to stir. “I’m his brother. Surely you understand. Don’t you care about your brothers’ safety?”

George giggled. “Oh, they’ve been through more near-death experiences than me.”

“Merlin, it’s the bloody Olympics trying to talk some sense into you. You should thank me that you escaped suspension,” Pierre narrowed his eyes.

“I’ll put a raincheck on that.”

“Just as McGonagall said, you’re to assist me throughout the month, and I'll make sure you don’t attract my brother with any of your hazardous energy.”

“Hey! I’m not hazardous.”

Pierre gave him a look. He raised a brow. “You put a python in the bathrooms.”

“It’s not venomous.”

“You jinxed Adrian’s broom to fly backwards.”

“For charms!”

Then he pointed at his own head.

“I’m sorry for hitting you, but it was an accident !”

“Not my head, you git! I was pointing at my hair. You doused me in acid!”

“Oh!” George laughed at the realization. “Yes, one of the highlights of my fourth year!”

Pierre must’ve made an unusual expression, because when George glanced at him, he stopped laughing and looked away a bit guiltily and scratched his head. "But I apologize for that too, I guess . . ." 

Pierre cleared his throat. “Those are just a few of the countless things you did. You and your twin are a walking hazard. I wonder why neither of you have been expelled yet."

Then George was back to his dislike for the Slytherin. “How come you don’t complain about your friends hexing others?”

“Oh, I do. I’m the one that gets them out of trouble.”

George scrunched up his nose. “Unbelievable. So that’s it? You just want to babysit me?”

“Pretty much.”

“Why not just have McGonagall suspend me? I wouldn’t be causing a ruckus for a month at all, and I’ll be out of your way, genius.”

Ah . Pierre hadn't thought of that. Easily he could have just let McGonagall do what she wanted, and George would have been gone for a month. He wouldn't be throwing Edvard into imminent danger for a while. Maybe the quaffle hit him so hard that he wasn't thinking straight. Instead of answering him, he countered with another question. "Did you want to get suspended?"

"Merlin, no!"

"Then you're welcome. Your punishment starts on Monday at four," Pierre concluded. He turned to his painting and held a random brush he picked off. Not his mother's, but it will have to suffice for now.

On the other hand, George wanted to say something else, but he only sighed. He started towards the door. "You should play with your little brother sometimes. Minivinsey's a fun kid," he suggested, throwing him one last look of distaste. 

And then he was gone with the wind. Minivinsey . It was clever, he'll give him that. 

He stared at the painting with a brush in hand. The red streak of paint stared back. Like the abyss that gazes back from his mother's painting, Abyss of the Deep . 

To be honest, he loved the red. It was a beautiful splash of bright crimson clashing the neutral colors of the painting. 

But it wasn't perfect. Wizards would see it as a large mistake. A paint spill. Even though he already saw the streak as a part of the painting, he had to give what the wizarding world wanted.

The 'damage' was a lot, but nothing that can challenge him. He can repaint it in a day, if he doesn’t sleep.

His hands hovered over the painting. The red streak stayed quiet, waiting for its death. 

Erase it, the world beckoned. Make it vanish without a trace. To be forgotten.

He dropped the brush and the palette. " Accio ," he whispered in hopes that the brush would fly home to him. " Accio ," he repeated, over and over. He can't lose it. He just can't. He can't lose her . 

He's never had, and never will.

Chapter Text

George had been moping all weekend. 

"You're complaining all day, I'm starting to think you got Malmvinsey's name tattooed under your tongue," Fred told him after classes. Fred's cheek, which was punched by Graham the day they tried to play Quidditch, was now fully healed.  

"I need to complain as much as I can before Vinsey oscausies me," George reasoned.

The second week of school had started: September 8, Monday. It was also the start of George's month-long detention with his least favorite Slytherin, Pierre. 

After D.A.D.A, he dragged Fred along with him to which the latter reluctantly agreed to escort. Pierre told George to meet him in the Arts classroom at four rather than three, since Pierre still had History of Magic. Although they sometimes met in some classes, their class schedules were different. Sometimes, George finished his classes earlier than Pierre, and vice versa. Today, George only had one period in the afternoon (D.A.D.A) while Pierre had two (D.A.D.A and History).

Because he had tailed Pierre the day he hit him with a quaffle (by accident), he learned the Arts Classroom was on the fifth floor, west wing. If he had to be honest, heading there was a whole workout. It was farthest from his other classes and was situated near the Ravenclaw Tower, way on the other side of the castle from the Gryffindor Tower. 

"Why are Ravenclaws so obsessed with stairs?!" Fred complained, panting. 

"I have to walk here, starting today. Merlin, please summon a basilisk to end my misery," George wailed as he almost nearly fell to his temporary death when he missed a step. Too bad McGonagall confiscated their brooms, otherwise they can simply fly up without breaking a sweat. 

After a million flights of stairs that George definitely miscounted, they reached the fifth floor. Fred dropped to his knees. "I'm not coming here ever again."

"Lucky you have a choice not to," George huffed. He used the strength he had left to remain standing and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He was the twin that had more stamina, and he always found the time to brag about it.

"Where is that bloody classroom?" 

"Somewhere there." George pointed at the longest corridor, earning a pale face from Fred. 

"Okay, I'm out."

"Oi! Come on, we're almost there! I'll buy whatever you want when we go to Hogsmeade!" George said, although he doubted he'll remember that promise.

That got Fred convinced. "Oh, alright, but just this once." And together, they were off.

The Clock Tower chimed to signal it was thirty minutes past four. A little late, but George didn't mind the tardiness at all. As they walked down the corridors and past the Ravenclaw Tower, the walls were decorated with largely different yet equally important paintings. The farther they explored the fifth floor, the more paintings they saw. George didn't notice them the other day; he was too busy spying on Pierre. Now that he walked without haste, he idly counted each painting he and Fred came across. Sixty-two—he estimated, but he knew he miscounted multiple times. 

Every painting moved. Some people left their original portraits and appeared on the other side of walls, and many of them gathered in large paintings while those who prefer an environment with more air had whispered into pairs. George overheard their whispers notably about the two new but well-known faces that passed the West Wing. 

“Careful m’lady, those are the Sir Weasleys of Catchpole. My fellow knights had their portraits splattered in dungbombs once,” he heard a knight whisper to a woman wearing a furisode. 

Many paintings stared at Fred and George curiously, wondering why they’ve taken an interest in this wing. “It’s creepy having this many paintings in one wing,” Fred muttered as he shifted to the center of the path.

Despite always agreeing with everything his brother says, George thought otherwise. These paintings, although old and somewhat haunting, were mysterious. And George loved to pry on mysteries. 

Finally, they reached the door to the Art classroom, unsurprisingly decorated with a mess of paint spills and most noticeable was a poor attempt of a carving work above the door knob. Above the door read the slate '5A'. George couldn't hear anything, but Pierre was definitely inside already.

"I'm off. Ciao, brother!" Fred waved goodbye as he walked the other way to the Gryffindor Tower. 

"Wait, I haven't opened the door yet!"

"What's there for me to see? The Mona Lisa?"

Immune to George's pleas, Fred stuck a tongue at him. "Have fun in detention!"

"At least save me a pie for dinner!" Fred was definitely getting his least favorite pie.

And there he was, standing alone in front of the entrance to his month-long demise. He didn't look forward to twisting the knob. His mind wandered off to what Pierre told him the day George confronted him.

"To keep my eye on you. You're a bad influence on my brother, Weasley."

Bad influence. That insult was nothing new to George, but hearing it from Pierre made it more annoying than it usually was. So what if he was a bad influence on Edvard? At least he had an influence on the kid unlike him! And besides, how was Pierre going to contain the flighty George Weasley with just one detention? If Pierre thought George was the unfortunate one, then he was definitely wrong. 

With one loud groan, he opened the door. Had he not focused on Pierre the other day, he would have noticed the classroom's interior better. Just like the tent he stayed in during the World Cup, it was larger and more majestic on the inside. A high ceiling patched high above him with chandeliers made of seashells illuminating a clear light. Paintings hung on the walls like from the corridor outside, but most of these paintings didn't move with life, and a lot looked unfinished. They were probably made by the students partaking in the class. George wondered which of them were Pierre's. 

"You're late," Pierre welcomed (unwelcomed). He was propping up something wooden and complicated by the windows, making it stand upright.

He wore his uniform, but what replaced his robes was a clean white apron. He still had the school's sweater and the Slytherin tie. Fred scrunched his nose on that tie. Pierre frowned, making his side bangs cover one of his knitted eyebrows. 

George shrugged. "For only a few minutes. And good afternoon to you too, Vinsey."

"Has anyone ever taught you punctuality?"

"It's not in the curriculum, so no."

Pierre sneered. He sneered a lot. Instead of arguing any further, he gestured over to another door at the other side of the room. "Grab an apron in the supply closet."

"Wait, I'm going to paint?" George asked rather excitedly. 

"No way I'm letting you touch a canvas. Aprons are just mandatory."

"Which apron am I allowed to use?"

"Anything you won't ruin."

Having gotten the idea that Pierre wasn't going to explain any further, George went for the door to the supply closet. The seashell lights couldn't reach the small room. It was tight inside, and he could only move a few steps without knocking anything over, which he rather not do. Yet.

"Lumos," George casted. A small glowing light appeared at the tip of his wand, and he searched the closet for an apron. He had no idea where it was. Unlabeled boxes were stacked high and metallic tools were shoved in shelves. He searched aimlessly inside a few boxes, hoping that an apron would appear out of a box of colorful clays. 

After a few minutes, he heard someone clear his throat. He turned to look behind him to see Pierre standing outside the supply closet with his head tilted in slight confusion. George laughed awkwardly. 

Without warning, the Slytherin walked inside the closet, lightly brushing against George's arm. Now that they stood beside each other, George noticed that Pierre was a little shorter than he thought and . . . small. The tips of his dark raven hair only reached up to George's chin, and his body, although graceful, was so thin and the knucklebones from his hands were hauntingly visible when he reached out for something past the stacks of boxes. 

Their shoulders touched, and George can feel his cheeks go red. His instincts told him to slowly work his way out of the closet. He learned that day that the supply closet can hardly fit two people, and a wizard as tall as he counts as one person and a half. He promised himself not to get stuck inside the closet with someone in the near future.

Just as he stepped out, Pierre shoved a dark blue apron in his hands. He found out he got it from a coat rack covered behind a pile of boxes. "Right, I was going to get that," George fibbed.

"Put it on. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish," Pierre said. “And I’ll be taking your wand. McGonagall says no magic for you.”

"Demanding, much?"

Reluctantly, he put on the apron and gave Pierre his wand, awaiting for the outcomes of his detention. As he got a better look at himself from a nearby mirror, he thought he looked good in blue. Maybe that was his color instead of red. He walked towards the wooden-stand-thing Pierre had set up earlier.

Pierre was already casting spells from his wand; levitating some kind of circular wooden plate and two brushes mixing various colors. At least George knew those were brushes. He had no idea what everything else was. He stood in the same spot where George confronted him, and the same spot where he was hit by Katie's quaffle. The windows were clean and bore no cracks as if George had never thrown a quaffle at them. And the painting set up on the wood-stand-stick-thing was the one George saw the first time he entered the room.

Something chirped. Slowly he walked next to Pierre to get a better look at the painting. He wondered why it wasn't framed—or maybe it was supposed to be framed after it was done. Art is confusing.

His eyes fixed on a magpie that flew out and about the still grass in the painting. It soared with only one wing as it drifted closer. Beside George, Pierre touched the painting with the tip of his wand, and the magpie pecked and chirped at it like it was a treat. 

"Did you paint that, Vinsey?" he asked.

Pierre didn't answer him directly. Usually, he immediately answered his questions without a thought, and often he said clever and sarcastic things. "No, she's not mine."

"Oh, so who—" Before he could ask, the magpie chirped loudly upon hearing a new voice. She turned her attention to George, and landed on one of the red streaks. George lifted his hand and brought himself closer to the painting, eager to touch the magpie. He glanced at Pierre for permission, to which the other merely nodded. 

"Go on, the paint's dry."

Lightly he tapped on the painting, letting his fingers rest on the red streak. Pierre's head was fully healed already like he never got a concussion. The magpie pecked at his fingers, and though George felt nothing, he giggled at her twittering delight. She then flew away with a sole wing across the meadow. The magpie was the only thing that moved. “Whoever thought of drawing her with only one wing, they’re a genius,” George praised.

“You don’t think it was a mistake?” Pierre asked.

“You can make mistakes in art?” 

Pierre took a moment to answer. George was still trying to figure out what that meant. “Yes, if you want it to be perfect,” he answered. George wasn’t satisfied with that answer. 

“So is the bird perfect?” What was perfect, anyway?

“In a way, yes. It was intended by the artist. That landscape is her original place,” Pierre said as he pointed at a landscape of the evening sky. It sort of looked lacking and empty without the bird.

George moved toward it. He traced the yellow streak that blocked the only tree in the painting. “Did someone spill on this?”

“That’s intended as well.”

“I don’t know, it’s more like a paint spill to me. Are you sure the artist was a pro?”

“It’s symbolism,” Pierre answered, his voice slightly raised. He began painting more flowers on his painting, and continued to speak without a glance at George. “The yellow ‘streak’ represents joy amidst the solitary from the evening. Notice how there’s only one type of object in the painting?”

George took a closer look, and he could see Pierre was right. In the painting he saw one mountain. One tree, and one branch on that tree. One crescent moon, and one cloud near it. The only object without singularity were the stars at the top, but as it drifted closer to the yellow streak, there were less of them. And finally, one bird and one wing. He looked at the placard beneath it. The painting was entitled Soar Unto Solace.

“Is that your interpretation? The magpie’s happy with being alone?”

“It’s everyone’s interpretation.” He noticed Pierre didn’t answer his question directly.

George brushed his fingers across the yellow. “But do you think it that way? You’re an artist, so you’d know the true meaning and all.”

He saw Pierre’s brows draw together. “Art has no true interpretation. Everyone’s entitled to their own opinions. As for mine, I also believe one can find true happiness in solitude. Why fit in with the stars when all they do is see which one shines brighter than the other?”

“So you think the bird’s flying away because she’s bored of stars?”

“The bird’s name is Bituin.”

“Cute name!” Nearby, Bituin the magpie chirped happily at George’s comment.

Pierre scoffed. “And I believe she flew away because she can’t burn for them. It’s logical to seclude herself out of danger.”

George pondered. “Doesn’t seem right to me.”

Pierre replied with something that sounded like a fancy hmph. “Alright, certified critic. What’s your view then?”

“I think,” George declared, like he was actually thinking, which for once, he actually was. “Bituin is lonely.”

“You think.”

“I mean, yeah you’re right she can’t burn for the stars, but she didn’t leave because she can’t fit in. Bituin likes the way she is, and she’s flying out to find some friends who like her just as she is.” From that, Bituin let out songful chirps as she flew over to her own painting and flapped her wing in excitement. “I think your friend likes my view,” George chuckled.

He glanced at Pierre, whose eyes didn’t glance back. Instead, they stared intently at the painting in front of him. The red streaks stared back. “Friends . . .” Pierre repeated.

“Yeah, never heard of it?” George joked, receiving a quick glare from the other.

“As much as I hate to say it, you make a good point. And it’s just what I’m missing!” Pierre announced, whisking a brush and proceeding to paint on the red streaks. 

“You’re missing friends?”

“No, git. It’s for my portrait,” Pierre said. Having got the sign to shut up, George decided to observe whatever he was doing. He had his wand placed down on a can of paint brushes while one brush was on his palm. Quick and short strokes were what he applied on the red streaks. This was a first for George. Passing by the school halls he always saw paintings that were finished and praised during their prime, but today he was witnessing what went on behind masterpieces. 

At first, he thought Pierre was painting over to erase the streaks and keep the sky blue as it always was, but then he saw him dabbing more reds. Not red, because the red he added were different shades he couldn't name. At one point, Pierre even added violet, and like magic that color disappeared to create another red. 

Quickly, George got the idea of what he was painting. What used to be red streaks were now red birds, and because he actually listened to Care of Magical Creatures, he knew they were robins. "Wicked," was what he would say in this situation, but he didn't want to interrupt. 

He watched Pierre's fingers move so swiftly but carefully in blending the red wings with the clear skies in a way they looked like they were in motion. George's eyes shifted to Pierre's face, and he couldn't help but stare. He had a look George never thought he could express. He didn't know what to call it. He was all focused, determined, and guided. The brown eyes he often used to glare at now looked calm and like the stars from Bituin's painting, they twinkled.  His lips slightly parted and for a second, George saw the corners of his mouth turn up. But as fast as a blink, his eyes went back to their distant stares and the smile that was about to form had drawn back.

George walked towards him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he brushed his hand off and looked at George in bewilderment, like he was ready to throw a curse at him. Before he could say anything though, George spoke first.

“You should smile when you paint.” 

What the bloody hell was he saying? He intended to say what every onlooker would say to an artist, like “nice art”, but why did he have to comment on his smile–or Pierre’s attempt to smile, at least. His mouth had always acted first before his head. He blushed. His cheeks were turning red. It was always clear to others whenever he was blushing. Curse his white freckled face!

Pierre stared at him, his alarmed look seemed to have simmered into eye rolls. He looked away and proceeded to paint again. “You look at paintings, not painters, Weasley.”

“Then I’ll keep looking at you so I can piss you off,” George joked, and fortunately it brought an amused sneer across Pierre’s face. 

George kept observing the process. However he quickly stopped when Pierre told him to “do something productive”. “The paint brushes aren’t going to clean themselves.” They can, actually. He could whisk away with one of his mom’s cleaning spells if Pierre hadn’t taken hold of his wand. It sat next to Pierre’s on the brush can.

Two hours of his time were spent cleaning the entire classroom. “Merlin, why is it so messy here?” he grumbled. In fairness, he didn’t get anything done much as he was easily distracted by Bituin the magpie. The bird was great company, and she admired George’s abstract and amateur sculptures, in which he secretly broke a hammer. Most of the time, however, he watched Pierre paint in silence. He still had that look in his face whenever he made the red streaks redder than possible, but it was fainter and less noticeable.

Near the end of detention, the painting was finished. George took a few steps closer. Everything about it was beautiful. What were once red spills had now turned into red robins that surrounded Dean’s mother, and they were painted as if they were in motion. The painting was done, but something was missing. George took a step forward. "Why isn't it moving?" he asked. 

Seeing Pierre's unwavering expression told him it wasn't anything troubling, but he couldn't figure out why he was frowning. "In a minute," he muttered so faintly. 

The two of them waited. George searched for any sign of life in the painting. A few seconds passed, and the woman's dress moved. Soon enough, the wildflowers and grass moved along with the dress, and the woman's dreadlocks swayed with the breeze. The robins immediately followed after, their red wings flapping in the painted air. In an instant, the entire painting came to life. Dean's mother beamed as she twirled around the robins surrounding her. 

"Wicked," George marveled. So this was how paintings were born.

The corner of Pierre's mouth curved. George left his gaze on the painting and stared at Pierre. He had no idea what face he was making. Was he trying to smile?

Pierre noticed him stare, and he cleared his throat. George felt his face flush, and he looked away. Wait, why was his face flushing?

Before he could analyze further, Dean's mother spoke from her painting. "You painted me beautifully," she smiled. "And I'm in love with the company you gave me. The birds are a wonder. I hear them sing to the flowers, you’ve given us a wonderful portrait." The robins chirped in agreement.

"Your welcome, Mrs. Thomas," Pierre slightly bowed. “But I don’t deserve all the credit. I somewhat had help.” He gestured to George, much to the redhead’s surprise. This was the first of Pierre to acknowledge him like that, it was weird in fact, but not unsettling.

He waved at the woman awkwardly. He was flattered that in a way, he helped Pierre create such a brilliant piece of art, even though it caused a head to bleed two days ago. Mrs. Thomas smiled. “Thank you, George. Please continue to be my creator’s inspiration.”

Pierre’s eyes widened at what she said. “It’s not like that, Mrs. Thomas,” he defended, a little flustered. George couldn’t help but snicker. 

Dean’s mother let out a hearty laugh in response to Pierre’s dazed expression. She bid them goodbye, and she was off to the farther side of the meadow, dancing with the robins. Bituin later joined in, her golden feathers sticking out among the reds. 

Meanwhile, George turned to Pierre, who still watched the birds fly. He had a faint smile, this one calm and not sinister, but he moved the corners of his mouth like they weren’t used to making such a genuine expression. Somehow, it made George smile too. Pierre caught him staring, and quickly he dropped that smile. “That’s enough for today. You’re free to go.”

The clock tower chimed. It was six; dinner time. Finally, he was free for today! “Nice,” he said as he gave Pierre a clap on the back. Pierre stumbled a little at the surprised weight, making George laugh not in mockery but in how much reverence he surprisingly had in detention. He grabbed his wand from the brushes. He left for the exit, sparing quick glances at Pierre’s painting and enjoying the robins. Bituin chirped farewell.

“Same time tomorrow, and don’t be late next time.”

“I know, you don’t have to remind me!” George waved as he left the classroom. And then he went back inside. “Are you coming or not?”

“With you?” Pierre sneered.

“Bloody hell, no. I mean, are you going to eat?”

“I’ll stay a little longer,” Pierre answered without sparing a glance. 

George shrugged and headed out. “See ya tomorrow, Vinsey!”

By the time he sat in the Great Hall, Fred joked. “How’s your date?”

“Must be a terrible first date,” Lee added humorously.

“It’s the closest thing George can call a date.” Fred joked. “I get most of the girls!”

“Oh, so George gets the boys, then?” Lee remarked.

“Ha, ha,” George rolled his eyes. “To answer your question, it wasn’t that boring to be honest.”

“Really? What did you do?” Lee asked.

“Well, I saw cool paintings.”

“That sounds boring to me,” Fred commented.

“Okay, talking about it is boring to you, but you should have seen him paint. It was magical.”

Fred laughed, believing what he said was a joke. “Did one day with Malmvinsey make you want to be an artist?”

“Hell no, I don’t have the skill. It’s just the way he paints, like when he started putting some colors on it, I couldn’t take my eyes off.”

“Blimey, George! You watched him paint? That’s even more boring than looking at paintings!”

George huffed. He stole one of Fred’s sausages. “If you saw it too, you’d say otherwise.”

Fred had a look of confusion, but he went to his usual comedy while gulping down a glass of pumpkin juice. “Just this morning, you were dreading going to the Art classroom, and now you’re into drawing? Did Malmvinsey make you go drunk with Amortentia?”

To George’s surprise, his own face started to go red again like earlier when he told Pierre about his smile. He had no clue why he was blushing just because Fred teased him about love potions. It was only a joke, of course, but still. He and Pierre? No way was he falling for someone like him. Especially not a Slytherin! “Bugger off, Fred,” he replied, resting a cheek on his hand in an attempt to hide his flushed face. Fortunately, Fred didn’t notice him blushing.

Angelina broke away from Alicia and Katie, and turned her attention to the boys. “Word went around about you having detention with Malmvinsey. Merlin, I do envy you, George!” 

“How so?” Fred asked keenly.

“Well for one, Malmvinsey is a renowned artist, and he’s only sixteen! His technique is unlike any other. The world knows him and the generational legacy he has on his shoulders, so just having to be in a room with him is almost like having tea with the Queen,” she reasoned. “Also, he’s bloody cute.”

Fred glowered. “Didn’t know you like pretty boys, Angelina.”

“What kind of girl wouldn’t like Malmvinsey? He’s a gentleman, a little shorter than average, but he’s classy, posh, smart, brilliant at spells, and a lover of the arts. He’s mysterious–we girls love to dream–and deadly handsome; Katie thinks he could be quarter villa. Plus, he’s rich. His grandmother’s a politician in Asia,” she went on.

“He’s a Slytherin.”

“I will never understand why wizards like to marry the rich,” George commented. He was trying his best not to laugh at Fred, who was getting more jealous the more Angelina rambled on about Malmvinsey.

“All the more exciting! My friends and I love a forbidden romance. I recalled in our sleepover with the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuff girls last year, we voted him to have the ‘Best Character’ among the boys.”

“Was I voted ‘Most Devilishly Handsome’?” Fred joked.

“No, you were voted ‘Worst Date’, and a lot of girls agreed on your casanova agenda,” Angelina scoffed. “But anyway, you’re lucky to have seen him paint. He’s awfully secretive of his personal life, but his works are worth thousands. He’s incredibly gifted, just like his mother.”

“Wow, you sure know a lot about him, Angelina. You got a crush?” Fred asked, a bit of envy obvious from the way he said it.

“Jealous?” Lee chimed, receiving a flashing glare from Fred.

“I find him quite charming. It’s common knowledge among wizards. He’s been a hot topic ever since first year among the nouveau wizards, but I’m not surprised you two are so ignorant. You barely care about whose powerful and whose got galleons.”

“Wait,” George interrupted. “Vinsey has a mom?!”

Angelina paused before taking a bite out of an apple. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“His mother was Haliya Kalalacao, the most famous painter in the Wizarding World of the century–of all time!”

Hearing that name, George remembered the chocolate frog collectible card he got back in the Hogwarts Express. He kept it hidden inside a small pocket from his suitcase. He remembered how she looked. Slowly he saw the resemblance. Both she and Pierre shared the same squarish jaw, the same round dark brown eyes, but the smiles were different. Pierre smiled like someone was buried alive in a flowery grave. Haliya smiled like a bird just planted a tree bearing her favorite fruit. She smiled like she was joy herself.

He tried to imagine Pierre smiling like that, but he found himself blushing at the thought of imagining. He covered his face once more.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Fred said.

“This is why you don’t sleep in History of Magic!”

“I can’t help it! The desk is too comfy!”

Angelina ignored Fred, keeping her focus on George’s curiosity. “I’m no expert on her, but I do know she came from the Philippines as an exchange student, roughly the same age as Malmvinsey. She quickly made her way into the high classes from her expertise in astronomy and magic, and she made a fortune from her paintings, and with the fortune she already had from her family, she turned it double! Not only was she rich, she was charming and fashionable. Blue was her signature color.”

“If she’s that famous, how come nobody talks about her?” Fred interrupted.

“Well, even Slytherins prefer not to speak of those who have passed.”

A silence fell on the table. Even Fred, who learned it was the time to cease the jokes, shut his mouth. George already finished his plate. He sat, unsure how to feel about this revelation. “You’re saying she’s dead?” he asked in a whisper, afraid Pierre might come from behind him and overhear, but that was unlikely since he hadn't seen him in the Great Hall. He must’ve skipped dinner.

“A fire broke out about ten years ago in their home in Hampshire. I don't know the full details, but the main gist was that Mr. Malmvinsey, her husband, found the entire house in flames after work. The children were unscathed, thankfully, but the artist herself wasn't so lucky," Angelina lowered her voice. "It was horrible. News of her death impacted our world globally. I remember my mother reading about it from the Daily Prophet, and she was weeping. It was a big tragedy for her to be gone so soon."

Slowly, bits of memories flooded in George's mind. His mind took him back to when he was still six years old in the Burrow and playing pranks on Ron with Fred. He remembered his father letting out a low gasp of disbelief while reading the paper on his usual chair, followed by his mother's choking sobs. They were saying sentiments, the same ones you'd say to someone who crossed the veil. He saw his older brothers share the same sad looks too. He didn't understand why they looked so sad back then as they all stared at the newspaper, but now he understood why. 

A sense of guilt washed over him, but as to the reason why, he didn't know. Perhaps he felt guilty for disliking someone who lost a mother. Even if he didn't like Pierre, he would never wish for something like that to happen to him. 

Dinner ended with another food fight led by Fred and Lee. George decided to pass on it, claiming he was tired from detention, but really his mind was elsewhere on mothers and paintings. After sneaking some scones in the Common Room and sharing some with Edvard, he turned in early for the night. 

Fred later came into their room right after George put on his pajamas. “Since you’ll be spending time with Malmvinsey everyday, how about you try asking him what type of orange snake is best for an Ageing potion? Don’t tell him we’re making one, though, his friends might get ideas.” He was talking about the Vyssiers. 

“I’ll try my best if I get half of your hot chocolate everyday for breakfast.”

“Don’t try to trick me, I know the glasses here are refillable.” Fred didn’t proceed to chat any further. George didn’t have to tell him he didn’t feel like talking, because Fred already knew that. “Sleep well, brother. You’ll need it tomorrow,” Fred teased. He went inside the bathroom to freshen up.

George plopped on his bed and pulled up two blankets, one of them his and the other was Fred’s. He closed his eyes, but his mind still lingered to play with his intrigue of Pierre’s mother. How did a woman who once radiated like the Sun raise a son so annoying and derogatory? How could a woman like that leave that son’s world so sudden without warning? How could that son choose to move on so quickly?

Pierre’s had people watch him paint before. Professor Sinistra, Adrian, the other students taking Art. George Weasley was no different than the rest of them, so why was he thinking about what he said?

“You should smile when you paint.”

What was he, a fashion model? It was indeed the most idiotic compliment he was ever given. Maybe that was why he was thinking about it so much, even after he finished framing his portrait and even while he ate a light dinner in the common room brought by his friends.

He and his friends–the Vyssiers–were up for a group study that evening, but it was mostly talking about girls rather than transfiguration techniques. At one point, Graham thought of changing the group name because it was hard to spell. Pierre agreed, but he never bothered to speak his thoughts because everyone else was agreeing already. Of course, they still kept the name, because it was so terrible that it was easier for it to be iconic.

Like always, Pierre was the last to turn in, and in most study groups, Adrian stayed with him for a little while until he was too tired to say anything else. “Get some sleep, Pierre. You barely had any since we arrived in school,” Adrian said, yawning. 

That advice wasn’t really helpful, Pierre thought. Adrian knew that telling an insomniac to go to sleep was like telling a fish to take a deep breath, but Pierre knew he said that anyway, just to make sure Pierre was still in touch with reality. To make sure he wasn’t lost, but Pierre always let himself be lost.

“I will, you go on ahead.”

Adrian laughed heartily. “That’s what you say everyday ever since we were eleven. You’ll say ‘I’m almost done’ and then I’ll see your head stuck in a book while sitting on a chair the next morning.” He smiled. He always smiled. It made Pierre think about what George said about smiling more. He tried to focus on studying his Charms. Sixth years were told they should start practicing nonverbal spells, and that was what he was doing. He continuously levitated books, and extinguishing and reigniting the fireplace without stating a spell. 

“My reducto still needs some work,” he mumbled.

Adrian sighed. He casted aguamenti on an empty glass. His nonverbal was decent, too. “At least stay hydrated for the night, okay?”

“Noted,” Pierre assured.

Adrian gave him a faint smile as he bid goodnight and trudged up the stairs, leaving Pierre alone in the common room. 

Hours had passed. There was no moon to tell anyone the time since all they could see out the window were the sleeping merfolk and the giant squid that swimmed by. Thankfully, a previous Slytherin student set up a clock by the fireplace. A quarter past two. 

On tired nights he spent lying on his bed listening to merfolk sing shrill lullabies to their children, apparently immune to sleep. On busy nights where he bottled up too many things at once, he’d go look at whatever planets were in retrograde up in the Astronomy Tower. He doesn’t go to the Art Classroom in the evenings. Not much moonlight can enter, and the paintings hate it when they’re woken up by the chandeliers. He can’t sleep. He’s never had a good sleep, not since what happened the night his mother died. He didn’t want to close his eyes and wake up in a room full of flames again. He didn’t want to close his eyes, because he was afraid that before he did, that would be the last time he’d see the people he cared about. Studying for tests and doing month-long homeworks were just excuses for the real reason why he refused to sleep. The stars weren’t excuses, however. They calmed him, and he found it easier to sleep after finding a constellation he liked. Not much, but enough sleep to keep him sane.

This night was both a tired and busy night. After everyone else went to bed, he’ll stay in the Common Room to study what he didn’t know yet and what he already knew. Many times he’ll get distracted and draw whatever the ink wants to draw on the textbooks. Half of the pages in his Transfiguration book were already covered in ink-people. He knew he was going to stay awake until dawn.

Spells weren’t the only thing that made him stay up particularly late this evening. Another problem arose two days ago, when he lost his mother’s brush. Damn that Weasley. If it wasn’t for him, he wouldn’t have gotten a headache over that brush. He had searched everywhere in the Art classroom and in every route to the Hospital Wing, but his mother’s brush was nowhere in sight. 

The brush’s handle was carved from casuarina by her mother, and the bristles were made from unicorn and thestral hair, and his mother said the ferrule was of a special material, but what material, he didn’t know as she proceeded to show her how gladiolus petals were pressed to intricate perfection on the casuarina. The Umbrella brush was what his mother called it. She named it after her favorite painting of a muggle artist, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, who Pierre was also named after. 

“It’s one of my favorite paintings,” she once said.

Pierre remembered his childlike eyes only staring at the brush in wonder the first time he saw it.

“Because the painting’s blue?”

His mother laughed. “Yes, and it’s a pretty painting.”

Pretty. That was always her reason why she liked things. “I like this brush. The oak makes it pretty. Aren’t these shoes pretty on you, Bulan? This is a pretty ring I bought yesterday, Bulan. I’ll let you try it on when you’re older. Bulan, what a pretty portrait you drew of me! Bulan, look how pretty your stepfather can smile!” He heard that word everyday in the house. And in a way, he grew to agree with her that there are things that were pretty, but he learned that such pretty memories couldn’t last. He didn’t find much joy in reminiscing now.

That brush was the only piece he had of her, and now that he lost it, he couldn’t forgive himself. But that wasn’t his only reason.

He wasn't painting the way he usually did now. Perhaps he wasn't used to painting with another brush, as he never went anywhere without the Umbrella brush. That afternoon when he painted the wildflowers, he felt . . . lacking. He didn't know a certain word to describe it. Emptiness. Lack. Barren. Stark. All of these words were what he felt when he painted without the Umbrella brush. 

That feeling stopped a bit when George gave him the idea to keep the red and turn it into a flock of bright robins. Now that gave him a new feeling. Refresh. Rejuvenation. Revival. 

Rebirth.

He could hear the robins call for him, begging to be painted to their full potential. He thought he was a candle relit with the brightest flame. There was a spark, and he wanted to reach out. And he can reach out. Then he held back and the spark was gone. Nothing else lingered but the empty brush in his hand. He knew George noticed, but not entirely. 

That spark was magnetic and amazing. It made him want to paint whatever he wanted, even if what he wanted to paint wasn't perfect. Yet that was a problem that can ruin not only his reputation as a perfect painter, but can very well ruin the legacy his mother built with her one paint brush. He needed to find the Umbrella brush in order to steady his hands and maintain his focus on the canvas.

Draw what you have to paint, he whispered in the solitary evening to remind himself of the weight in his shoulders as a prodigy.

See that you are good and worthy enough for a legacy. 

Chapter Text

For the past days he had detention with Pierre, seeing the art classroom absent of his presence surprised George that Friday afternoon. It was already almost a week since his first detention started, and George thought he was going to see more of Pierre’s process. Much to his dismay, Pierre made him run errands for not only himself but for the paintings too. He barely saw him paint because he was always ordered around to go outside and become a butler for several hundred paintings. In addition to that, he couldn't find an opening to ask about the suitable orange snake.

“ Portraits, ” Pierre corrected him one day. “If a painting is in a vertical orientation, they’re called portraits. Horizontal displays are called landscapes.” He had no idea why Pierre told him that. Maybe he was annoyed that George was so ignorant of such topics, or he just wanted to flaunt his knowledge. Typical straight OWLS student behaviour. 

On Fridays, George’s last period was a two hour class of Care of Magical Creatures far down in the Forbidden Forest. It was a long way to go up to the classroom, and he didn’t have the time to clean himself properly unless he was willing to risk a petrification curse for showing up tidy, spotless, and an hour late. Anger shot through him. He made the effort of attending detention, and the least Pierre could do to show gratitude was show up and complain that George’s shoes were mucking the floor with dirt before telling him to take off his shoes and leave it out. He stepped inside the room with his shoes still on.

Dean Thomas was the only one inside, but he was already heading for the door. “Where is he?” George asked him. Dean looked up to make a face like he wasn’t supposed to be here. That was surprising, considering how everyone in the school knew he was always off flattering paintings every afternoon now.

“He? You mean Pierre? He left,” Dean answered.

“Left?”

“To Hogsmeade. I passed by the North Tower before I came in here. We ran out of some materials, so he offered to buy more."

"Wait, so he just left?" George asked, accidentally raising his voice that made Dean gulp as he nodded. "So what, do I just start detention by myself?" 

"Oh! Pierre said he won't be meeting you for detention."

What. The. Bloody. Hell. George couldn't believe this. He had never been so angry about having detention cancelled. He climbed up all those stairs and brought the trouble in at least keeping his face clean, only for Pierre to ditch him! It was like Pierre wasn’t taking him seriously, and he didn’t even tell George beforehand. George could laugh it off and be thankful he didn’t have to spend two hours with a pompous brat and an adorable magpie, but he was too stubborn for that. That scheming Slytherin obviously didn’t tell him on purpose. Dubiously he wanted George to feel conflicted on how he should react, whether it be an outburst on his friends or a silent adolescent crisis, George had no idea which one Pierre would find more amusing. Well then, if it made Pierre satisfied, then he’ll definitely light the fire. At the perpetrator himself.

Noticing his glare, Dean shifted nervously. “You must be happy you won’t be stuck in detention, right?”

Oh, he was. So happy he wanted to pay Pierre a sweet visit to show how happy he was.

In the most passive aggressive way possible, he put on a kind smile. "Can I borrow your broom?”

“Sure, but where are you goin–”

“Thanks, see you later!” George bid goodbye as he marched off to the Gryffindor Tower and up to the boy’s dorms. As he hastily knocked on Dean’s room, the door opened and he was greeted by none other than his favourite little brother, Ron. 

Ron rolled his eyes. “For the last time, I didn’t get your toffees–”

“I know, it was Ginny. Anyway, where’s Dean’s broom? It’s faster to go to Hogsmeade with one.”

“Don’t you have your own broom?” Ron pried.

“McGonagall took it away because I smashed someone’s head by accident, remember?” George answered rather annoyedly. 

“Whatever. Bad news for you, Seamus took it off to look for Neville’s toad, which somehow got itself stuck on a bloody tree.”

“ Fuuuuck .” 

“Don’t you have detention? What do you need a broom for?”

“Detention got cancelled,” George only answered one of Ron’s questions, because he wasn’t sure why he’d need a broom. Maybe it was to fly faster to Hogsmeade with a broom. Or wack Pierre in the head with it. The broom truly has its versatile uses. “What about your broom?”

“We only have two brooms in the family, and you and Fred got it confiscated.”

“ Fuuuuuck .”

Having heard their conversation, Harry appeared behind Ron with his own broom in hand. And like an angel, he lent it to George. “You can borrow my Firebolt, George. It would be nice for it to be flown more often this year.”

May Merlin bless Harry Potter. “Thanks, Harry. See, Ron? You should be more like your friend. Honestly, can’t I have a little brother who cherishes me with his brotherly affection?”

Fuming, Ron shooed him away. “Sod off!”

George slowed down for a quick visit to his room to grab his robes. It was the middle of September and he was not taking any risks outside the humid weather. Now with a broom in his hands, he headed outside the open corridors. The gleaming afternoon sun basked his pale freckled skin as he pushed himself up the railing. Like magic, he jumped on the Firebolt, and flew to the skies. The Firebolt was different from George’s Cleansweep Five. The wood was carved better to sit and grasp, and it flew as fast as a falcon. He always loved flying, ever since he and Fred were kids. He piloted the broom with such ease as he dived under archways and over smaller towers. 

The serotonin that the Firebolt was giving him almost made him forget why he needed to fly in the first place. He circled around the school in search of Pierre. He searched the grounds looking for a certain raven haired person who looked good in green. 

It was easy to spot Pierre; he was the only student walking near the Great Lake. He wore a white buttoned down shirt and his house tie, puzzling George on how someone can wear such a light attire in this cold afternoon. As if he spotted a snitch, George picked up speed and the broom darted down to the mountainous terrain of the school and zoomed past the waters, aimlessly dodging the flying fishes.

He landed the firebolt just far enough to spot Pierre, and with his own legs he ran towards him. A few yards away, George shouted. “Vinsey!”

Pierre turned his head. His face was, as always, unbothered by anything, and after stopping to give George a quick glance, he continued walking. Furious, George continued to shout his surname in hopes of getting his attention. “Oi! Why the bloody hell didn’t you tell me you cancelled detention!”

“Why are you mad? I thought you’d love to hear there’s no detention today,” Pierre scoffed without looking behind him.

Seriously, why did everyone keep saying that? George furrowed his brows. “Oh believe me, I love it when detention is cancelled. More so, I’d kill to have a break away from you! But you could at least be considerate of how much I’m working my ass off.” Merlin knows what he’ll do when he puts Pierre in a headlock.

“I should be considerate of working your ass?” Pierre thought amused.

A blush crept up to his face, and he wished it was summer so he could use the scorching sun as an excuse for the growing redness in his cheeks. Quickly he tried his best to hide it, but Pierre definitely sensed his flustered expression. It was unfair Pierre knew how he’d react while George couldn’t see Pierre’s own emotions.  “Merlin, you know what I mean! Stop avoiding the problem! All week I’ve been doing what you and those bloody paintings–”

“Portraits.”

“--portraits want, and I deserve some respect. You should have told me earlier you were going somewhere else instead of letting me walk up all the stairs from the grounds and all the way up to the fifth floor after a messy session in Magical Creatures,” he barked. 

“Ah, no wonder you reek of glumbumble honey.”

“Can you stop avoiding the topic?” George growled. He grasped Pierre’s arm and pulled on it in an attempt for the Slytherin to finally face him. 

Startled by the sudden touch, Pierre tried to pull his left arm away. He gripped his wand in his other free hand. “Let go of me, Weasley, or you’ll regret it,” he threatened, using no magic to turn the mood more sour than it was.

Reluctantly, he let go of his arm, but not completely. Instead, he pulled on the sleeves of Pierre’s sweater. Pierre tried to struggle out of his grasp, but gave up. He sighed. “I didn’t tell you because I was in a hurry. If it makes you feel better, I would have told you if we passed by each other.”

“In a hurry? When you’re taking the longest route to Hogsmeade? You’re good at playing nice with wizards, I’ll give you that, but you’re terrible at lying,” George spat.

“Exactly why I was in a hurry. It’s a hassle to walk back when it’s dark,” Pierre claimed, like it made sense.

“Uhuh, and why not just go through the forest route? It’s more convenient.”

“I can choose which path I take. I just happen to like the lake better than trees.”

George groaned. “You’re so weird.”

“And you’re so annoying. Is that all you have to discuss with me? To complain about no detention? Move on and go bother someone else,” Pierre rolled his eyes and resumed walking, deciding to ignore George who still gripped his sleeve. 

“I’m mad that you didn’t tell me sooner. I would be happy to go terrorising other Slytherins if I knew beforehand that I don’t need to roam about in the arts room. I hate you too, believe me, I would hate to be in the same room as you, but is it really that hard to acknowledge my presence? It’s like you’re not taking me seriously at all.”

“I’m not.” Pierre said flatly.

“Okay, fuck you, Vinsey.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

The two of them continued to argue like that, neither of them willing to back down. For George, he wasn’t going to let this go. He believed that Pierre didn’t on purpose just to mess with him. For Pierre, he was annoyed that his peaceful walk in Great Lake was ruined by a detention-obsessed redheaded troublemaker. 

It wasn't long until they realised they made it to Hogsmeade. Still, George went on. “You’re just a selfish, entitled–”

“Weasley.”

“And rude and ungrateful. Seriously–”

“Weasley!”

“Would it kill you to drop by or leave me an early note–”

Unexpectedly, Pierre covered George’s mouth with his hand and prevented him from speaking further. Thinking that it was a poor attempt to end their one-sided conversation, George made a grunt under the cold hand covering his mouth. He grasped it with his own hand. “What did you do that for?” He glared, but Pierre wasn’t looking at him.

That’s when George realised they were in the middle of the village, and in the moment he had argued loud enough for students wandering the streets to overhear. One of them, a girl resembling Pierre, stared at them like they were disturbing her day. That must be Mayari, his and Edvard’s sister. George decided to play it cool and gave a friendly and non-threatening smile at the curious crowd. Fortunately with his efforts, the crowds continued to go along with their day. 

Now relieved from unwanted attention, it was time for him to grab the attention he wanted. “So as I was saying–what the hell?” He turned to his side only to find nobody bothering to listen to him, because the person who should be listening was walking away. It took all of George’s strength not to snap Harry’s broom and use its halves to wack Pierre in the head. He caught up to him.

“Vinsey, I wasn’t finished,” George hissed, pulling on Pierre’s arm. Pierre leered at his touch. Knowing that they were easy for others to see, he dragged Pierre to the back of a building, where they could be alone.

“We are,” he said. Flat and monotone as always. “On the way here, all I’m hearing is a child who can’t get over having his day not go how he expected it to be.”

“And what I’m hearing is a stubborn git who can’t admit he fucked me over.”

Pierre rolled his eyes. “What do you want? You know I’m in a hurry.”

Honestly, George didn’t know what he wanted from Pierre exactly. It was true he was furious he cancelled abruptly, but what was he going to do? Ask for detention? Merlin’s beard, no. Maybe an apology, but he doubted he’ll get one at all, but it couldn’t hurt to try. “For you to admit you were in the wrong. Then you can go.” he settled with that.

Pierre sighed. “Look. I’m sorry I cancelled without bothering to tell you.” Now that was surprising , George thought. The only setback was that it didn’t sound sincere. 

He hummed, stepping slightly closer to tower over Pierre, who was now leaning against the brick wall. He flashed a mischievous grin. “Okay, you may go.”

Pierre rolled his eyes. Once he walked away, George immediately darted to his side, still bearing the same grin on his face. He placed a hand on Pierre’s shoulder, who the other shoved it away. “What is it this time?” he answered hastily.

“You can go,” George nodded. “But I didn't say you can go without me.” He winked.

Pierre glared. “You’re irritating,” He expected Pierre to pull out his wand and throw a hex, but he only casted a quick glare and walked. Perhaps he didn’t really mind the company after all? But that was a far-off thought. “I'd rather have you ask for an extra hour for next week’s time.”

“Spending a day with you is already detention enough,” George quipped.

Pierre then pulled out his wand, and George flinched. Instead of feeling any hex, he felt a soft wind brush against his robes. He looked down to see that his clothes were clean and rid of glumbumble honey, that his shoes not only had the mud swept away, but they were polished and shined so that he could see his reflection through his Tricker’s. 

“If you’re going to stick around, then at least try to look decent.”

“I smell like lemons.”

He couldn't figure out how Pierre was tolerating his intervention, but what was worse was how he should've thought things through better before he proposed such an idea.

The air was colder in Hogsmeade than in Hogwarts, and the stores inside lit a warm glow that beckoned George to head inside, but he was too stubborn to leave Pierre. Instead, he followed him wherever he went, whether it be the coldest part of Hogsmeade or . . . Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop. The most boring place imaginable. George rather went to the Shrieking Shack than some quillstore.

"Why are we here again? Didn't Dean say you were getting some new materials?"

"Yes, and this place has them. You didn't think they only sold quills and books, did you?"

"Whaat? Of course I know, I'm just checking if you knew where to get them," He lied, and Pierre's nonchalant eyes told him he didn't believe any word. 

Pierre smirked. "Then do you happen to know where I can find these materials?" 

He was screwing him over. George laughed, a little too confident. "Of course I know what an artist as esteemed as yourself needs, much else knows where they are. I'm so great at finding things, the Hat almost placed me in Hufflepuff!"

"Okay, show me."

"Ha."

"Show me where they are. It's been a while since I've last set foot in this store so I'm lucky to have an expert like yourself at my side."

His lies and overconfidence backfired, but George was excellent at improvising. “I can, but my memory is foggy so–”

“I thought you were great at finding things? Or was it just a bluff?” Pierre sneered.

“Bloody no. I’ll show you where they are right now,” George huffed. There were two things he didn’t know: what Pierre needed and where it would be. In short, he was screwed. He aimlessly wandered around the shop, idly passing by inks and quills and whatnots. His half-developed plan was just him going around the whole shop and waiting for Pierre to pipe up and say he found what he was looking for. 

Lucky enough, it worked. After five minutes of wandering around, by the time they reached the second floor, Pierre clapped approvingly. “Huh, you actually found them.”

“Of course, I’m an honest man,” George lied.

Pierre went on ahead of him and searched through a rack of small bottles of paint. “So that’s what you were looking for,” George mumbled. 

Once they were piled in the shopping basket, he added in all sorts of other things like a type of knife (to cut pictures?) and a hammer (probably to replace the one George broke last time). After everything was placed inside, Pierre stared at the racks and frowned. 

“Something missing?” George asked, though he tried to sound like he didn’t care.

Pierre ignored the question. Instead, he went downstairs without waiting for George. As George caught up to Pierre, he was already about to pay. “That will be nineteen galleons, Mr. Vinsey,” the saleswitch behind the counter informed. Without even blinking in surprise at the amount of money, Pierre pulled out the coins needed and paid. He spent nineteen galleons and George could barely keep seven. 

“Bloody hell, you’re loaded,” George said.

“It’s only nineteen galleons, Weasley,” Pierre told him unbothered by the large amount of money he spent. He looked back at the saleswizard. “Mrs. Scrivenshaft, is there any onyx black?”

The witch shook her head. “I apologise, but we ran out of stock. A wealthy actress almost emptied out the colour to have her entire villa painted in onyx.”

Crazy rich wizards, George thought. 

“When’s the next restock?”

“I’m afraid they’ve delayed it to November."

In just a glance, George could tell Pierre was disappointed. "I see." He thanked the saleswitch and took the bag of materials. His hand was startled by the weight, but he was able to keep his bearings, gripping tightly on the bag.

George noticed this, and he said something he never would have said before. "I can hold that for you," he offered once they were outside.

Pierre shook his head. "I can manage just fine, and you're already holding a broom." He was holding the bag with both hands now, and he struggled to lift it above his knees.

"Stop being so stubborn," George insisted. Without a thought, he reached for the bag, his fingers lightly brushing against Pierre's. He saw Pierre's hand flinch at the touch, but he held his hand firmly, but not with force. "You'll get things done way faster if you let me carry the stuff, and besides, don't you want your own servant for you to order around for the time being?"

Reluctantly, Pierre considered the offer. He let go of the bag, and let George's own hand slide under the sling, their hands now parted. "You do realise I'm the only one who benefits in your offer?"

"Nah, this means I get a more valid excuse to stick around," George winked. The reply he got was an eye roll. When he got the weight of the bag, he was quite surprised why Pierre struggled to carry it. The bag was heavy, yes, but it wasn't so heavy where the average person could barely carry it. Pierre probably lacked some strength.

Together they walked idly around Hogsmeade, unsure and awkward of what they'll banter next. Along the way, they passed by a few familiar faces, some George knew and strangers Pierre did some small talk with. At one point, they came across Pierre’s group of friends, who George was familiar with all too well. “Nice to take your dog out for a walk once in a while, eh Pierre?” Miles Bletchley cackled, his cheek still bruised since last week. Aggressively he bumped George’s shoulder, causing George to almost drop what Pierre bought.

George tried his hardest not to whack Miles with the broom. He expected Pierre to go along with the joke, but he saw him roll his eyes. “Miles, take your cack-handedness to someone else like Graham. I’m shopping,” Pierre barked. Even he didn’t want to deal with Miles’ troubles.

Graham fixed his glasses. “As if he wasn’t already doing that everyday,” he grumbled.

“Not sharing your prey? Alright, I respect,” Miles laughed.

“See you later,” Adrian bid goodbye. He smiled at both Pierre and George, but the kindness and genuine affection he gave Pierre meant fake and displeased at George. It was a smile with two meanings George could easily discern, but the Slytherin touring him around hardly noticed Adrian’s look of malevolence.

The Vyssiers shortly left Hogsmeade via the forest route, leaving Pierre and George walking side by side among the autumn trees. George’s nose started to sting at the gradual drop in temperature, and if he wasn’t carrying anything, his hands would be stuffed inside the pockets of his robes. It’s barely the end of September, and he was already starting to feel a cold approaching.

They passed by Zonko’s Joke Shop, and one simple glance of that shop made George slow his pace. It was there he recalled another similar visit he went for Hogsmeade, one where neither Fred nor Lee was with him but rather a rude Slytherin had him as unwanted company in fourth year.

“Weasley.”

He turned to look at that same Slytherin, taller now but still rude. “Yeah?”

Following George’s gaze a few seconds ago, Pierre scoffed. “I’m afraid the gingerbraves won’t be available until December.”

And then George chuckled. A pleasant joyful chuckle escaped his mouth. Caught a little off guard, Pierre asked suspiciously. “I don’t understand why you’re laughing. That was meant for you to feel insulted.”

Seeing Pierre fluster that he wasn’t expecting the reaction had George suppress the laughter about to escape. “No, I’m just surprised you remembered the first time we were together in Hogsmeade,” he smiled without malice this time.

The corners of Pierre’s lips rose. “How can I forget? You made quite a big fuss over just one toy. You kept following me around trying to trade your horde of candy for it the whole afternoon.”

“Like I said two years ago, it was a limited edition,” George hummed. Who would have thought he’d end up back in Hogsmeade with Pierre again. He felt his shoulders relax upon knowing they were having a conversation where neither of them were plotting who’d hex who first. They continued walking. He pointed to a vacant spot, one with trees barren with red leaves. “That’s where I lost my beanie.”

“And where I gave you my hat.”

“Ha! That was also the time I got to see your hair–”

“Finish that sentence and we’ll see which of us gets to go bald.”

“Oh come on, Vinsey. We’ve all had a bad hair day!” George joked. It was funny to see Pierre suddenly riled up.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten that you were the cause of my hair to melt,” Pierre grumbled. He patted his hair and combed it with his fingers. “I had to try every magical hair product to revitalise this, and for months I had to cover up the damage or else I’d curse everyone who laughed to stone,” he explained. His voice, although mostly giving a fair amount of annoyance, gave a slight hint of embarrassment.

George could feel the mood turn sour, and he was too tired to bicker. Instead, he tried to cheer Pierre up. “Lighten up, Vinsey. It was only an accident. Fred pushed me a little too hard, the acid went flying, and it just happened to hit you!”

“Right,” Pierre said in disbelief. “Like how you hit me with a quaffle by accident a week ago.”

“Believe it or not, it’s the truth and that’s what I’ll keep saying no matter how many times you’re gonna confront me about it.”

Pierre sighed, and he opened the door and gestured to George to head inside. George didn’t even realise they entered the Three Broomsticks. “Now that I heard your side about it, I suppose I’ll let it go. My hair grew back, anyway. Let’s sit over there.” He suggested as they both headed over a round table beside a window.

“Are you paying?” George anticipated as he placed the Firebolt and the bag safely under the table.

The Slytherin scoffed. “Don’t think you’re so special. This is only because you offered to carry my things.”

“Won’t it be dark when we finish?”

Pierre shrugged. “Assuming you eat fast, we’ll be back in Hogwarts before dinner.”

The Three Broomsticks had a pleasant aroma that accompanied the damp air. The candlelights brightly lit the inside and emitted a warm glow that dawned on the other students ordering. A little while later, the food they ordered had arrived. Taking advantage of his acquaintance’s generous galleons, George ordered a rotisserie smoked chicken platter with a side of seasoned wedge fries and two slices of apple pie. Originally he wanted a glass of fire whiskey, but Pierre rather wanted George to carry his things sober, so he had to settle with pumpkin fizz. Nothing ever went wrong with a meal as big as this. Meanwhile, he noticed that Pierre only ate little. He ordered only a sandwich and iced tea, and George couldn’t tell if he was saving some room for dinner or if that was his actual dinner.

“George?” 

Walking towards them were two of George’s friends, Alicia and Katie holding hands. “What a surprise!” Katie greeted. “I thought you were still in detention?”

“I’m having one right now, actually,” George joked, nudging his head for the two girls to notice Pierre. 

The girls greeted Pierre kindly. Katie let out a dramatic gasp. “Merlin! Seeing you without Fred is already a surprise enough, but it’s a shock to see you with someone like Malmvinsey. No offence, but I think Hogwarts’ greatest artist is a little out of your league.”

“We just happened to see each other, and wanted to share a meal, there’s nothing else going on to it,” George said, earning a raised brow from Pierre. He ignored him. “And what brings the both of you here, alone and together, sharing the same Butterbeer?” he teased back.

Katie gave a hearty laugh. “You already know the answer! Though I’m afraid we’ll have to cut our meeting short, Alicia and I have to continue our date.”

“Alright, Vinsey and I won’t interfere. See you back for dinner, lovebirds.”

“Have fun on your date!” Alicia bid farewell, and they both left the inn giggling.

“We’re not like that!” George defended. He went back to gulping down his glass of pumpkin fizz, hoping the drink can cool off the blushing cheeks off his face. His gaze was fixed hard on his nearly empty plate, avoiding eye contact with Pierre from the embarrassment his friends gave him. “Sorry about that, my friends like to tease me about . . . you. Ah, but I don’t really join in if that’s what you’re concerned about!” The words he wanted to say turned out to be not how he wanted them to sound like. 

Pierre chuckled. “It’s fine, my friends tease me too, although they tell me about fifty different ways to torture you rather than well–interpersonal topics among you and your friends.”

“Are all Slytherins really sadistic?”

Pierre snickered. “No, that's a phase. We get over it by the fifth year.”

Hanging out with Pierre was actually not that bad at all. For one, at least George didn’t feel like he had to keep his guard off, and just eating and chatting away had relaxed his shoulders from the other problems he had. Though they didn’t really talk that much about themselves, they talked about which building they liked best in Hogsmeade (George unsurprisingly answered Zonko’s while Pierre found all his favourite novels in Tomes and Scrolls) or the food they liked best in the Three Broomsticks.

“You’ve been staring at my pie for nearly two minutes, Vinsey. Do you want some?” George teased.

The other cleared his throat. “I would like it better if it was coconut.”

“Coconut pies exist?!”

By the time they left Hogsmeade, the sun was already setting. George breathed in the moist air as they took their time walking near the Great Lake. It was a bit awkward at the start. After leaving the Three Broomsticks, they haven’t talked since. Pierre was busy contemplating whatever was on his mind, while George was itching to go on another ride on the Firebolt. “So,” he spoke up in an attempt to start small talk, “Do you have everything you need?”

Pierre pondered the question. “Almost. I’ve already gotten everything the classroom ran out, the items other students requested, except one.”

“Right, was it the one you were looking for in Schrivenshaft earlier? Ox paint or something.”

“ Onyx paint. And yes, they ran out of stock much to my dismay. The pigment’s in rare production originating in the Middle East, they’re brilliant in alchemy,” Pierre explained, which George didn’t know how to follow.

“What’s a pigment?”

“It’s a raw material. Pigments are used to impart colour onto something. Paint production often uses items to produce the desired colour. Like how onyx’s dark colour can produce a jet black shade.”

George nodded. “Oh, so it’s like, leaves getting their greenish colour from chlorophyll?”

“You’re smarter than I thought.”

“Don’t underestimate me,” George smirked. “Why not just buy another black?”

Pierre rubbed his head. “I can, but nothing blends like onyx black. It applies so smoothly and complements almost every colour well on the canvas.”

“A canvas is that wooden plate that’s on your hand, right?”

“That’s a palette. A canvas is the coarse cloth used as a surface for oil painting.”

George laughed. “Blimey, Vinsey. My vocabulary’s expanding every minute I’m with you. Too bad you can’t just make your own paint.”

Hearing that, Pierre’s eyes lit up. “That’s it! I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you just gave me a good idea.” His dark oak eyes were gleaming. George wondered if oak was considered a pigment. 

“Thank you, I’m a genius, I know. But Vinsey, how can you simply make paint? You have a wand, but I doubt you know how to do something like that,” George added. Unlike Pierre, he actually doubted his own idea. 

“Weasley, I’m a Slytherin. I always find a way. Let’s see, there has to be a certain procedure and ingredients, not to mention I’ll have to estimate the correct amounts. If I’m lucky there could be a spell, most likely a transfiguration spell . . .” And this went on and on for a bit. It was difficult to understand what Pierre was saying; his words were too experimentally practical. There’s a reason why George wasn’t good with potions. So many rules to follow, and if you don’t follow exactly as it says on the scrolls, you’ll end up combusting every liquid within a hundred metres. 

He glanced at the Firebolt he held. He turned to Pierre. “Do you want to fly back to school? You can brainstorm better in the library.”

He expected Pierre to agree, since it was obviously a logical reasoning, but he shook his head like it was unheard of. “Absolutely not.”

“Whaat? Why not? I thought every wizard loved to fly.”

“You also thought every wizard liked Quidditch until you found out I exist.”

George groaned. “Come on, Vinsey! If you’re afraid I’ll dump you on the Great Lake, I can assure you that as much as I wanted to, I’m a decent human being.”

Pierre glared and continued walking. “Getting on a broom with you is the last thing I’ll ever do.”

“Suit yourself,” George shrugged. He whisked a spell that let Pierre’s bag stick tight on the Firebolt, and without even warning Pierre, he took off.

“What the bloody hell?! Weasley!” Pierre yelled in shock and anger.

“You can walk your way back, but I’m taking the way that’s fun.” He didn’t really mean that. His plan was to just fly far enough for him to hear Pierre lower his pride and ask for a ride. He’ll give him one, of course, but if the Slytherin scolded him more then he might just consider dumping him off the Great Lake. He flew high and closer to Hogwarts, but not too far. “So, you want a ride or not?” He asked, his voice confident and cocky.

No answer.

He was probably too far for Pierre to hear him. He turned around to fly back to him, but what he saw had his hair stand on edge.

In the distance, he saw the giant squid near the lake shore, one of its long limbs held out and grabbed Pierre, dragging him to the middle of the lake. Pierre's small figure was frozen in place. It was hard to see his face, but George knew he was terrified. Fearful of what might happen, he sped towards them. "Vinsey!" he screamed.

The giant squid's other limbs held out to attack the flying figure. George barely dodged each of them. Its tendrils were fast and they came out wherever beneath the grey waters. In the corners of his eyes he saw one of the squid's limbs grab hold of Pierre by the waist. "Let Vinsey go, you overgrown calamari!" he shouted as he threw offensive spells at the squid. No matter how loud he casted them, however, the spells didn't hold much effect on the tentacles. He tried every spell he can remember from his classes. "Bollocks, why did Hagrid never teach us how to battle a giant squid?!"

One of the tentacles grabbed hold of the end of the broom, making George almost fall off. The bag started to open, and he quickly closed it back to avoid the items from falling out. He cursed. He knew he should have dragged Pierre to walk in the mountainous terrain instead. 

"Confringo!" he casted. Luckily, it held good effect on the squid, as the explosion caused it to let go of the Firebolt. Quickly he fixed himself up, and went back on finding Pierre. Most of its limbs were trying to attack him in every direction, but he casted the same spell whenever it tried to go near. 

"Weasley!"

From below, Pierre was entangled by tentacles. He was dangerously near the squid's maw, about to be eaten. "Vinsey! Hang on, I'm coming!"

"Weasley, wait!" 

George dived down, launching another round of spells at the squid's arms. He flew slower this time, as one wrong move would cause both of them to be trapped and eaten. Pierre kept calling after his name, but the rest of the words were blurred out. He was still too far to reach. 

Water splashed against him. Instead of grabbing hold, the squid aimed to knock him off his broom. The squid was starting to have a resistance to the blasting curses he threw, and he was running out of ideas. Pierre was shouting something else. “. . . empra!”

“What?!” 

“Rictusempra!”

George shouted the spell at the top of his lungs, aiming for the nearest tentacle. The tentacle lurched back, and moved in a shaking motion. The spell was successful. One by one, the rest of the squid’s arms started to move unnaturally from the tickling charm, and a gurgling shriek came from below. Was the squid laughing? That wasn’t all that happened; the water turned to a rich black. It looked a bit like ink.

The spell was enough to keep the squid away from him, and it finally stopped attacking George. Unfortunately, it also stopped holding Pierre. 

The tentacle that held onto Pierre had loosened, and Pierre’s body slipped out. In an instant, he fell.

“VINSEY!” George dived down towards him. Just before Pierre could hit the inky water, George caught him just in time. He had his arms around Pierre’s back and under his knees. Frightened from the fall, Pierre didn’t bother to hesitate in gripping George’s robes.

George looked at him. “Are you okay?” he asked, unaware of the worried tone he expressed.

Before Pierre could reply, a tentacle lunged at them. George barely dodged it, but he lost focus of the broom, and soon they crashed on the shore. George lay on the damp grass, seeing the dark blue and orange sky. Lots of clouds have loomed lately this month. On top of him was Pierre, whose groan was muffled by George’s robes. He raised his head and their foreheads almost touched. He was so close, George could see the irises. They looked like a desert.

Realising the state they were in, Pierre moved away. He sat abruptly, looking away. “Bloody hell, watch where you’re flying.”

George laughed. “A ‘thank you’ would be nice.”

“I didn’t need your help, Weasley. I had it under control until you intervened”

“You had it under control? It was going to eat you! And it attacked me!”

“It was not. The squid’s friendly. It always greets the first years in my common room. It was going to give me a few of its ink so I can use it as pigmentation. And the reason why it was attacking you was because it thought you were going to attack me,” Pierre explained. He explained like it was something that was so obvious. It was not.

“How was I supposed to know? I was stuck thinking that if I did look back later, you would have drowned.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have left on a broom with my stuff.”

“Ah,” George didn’t know how to defend himself on that one. Okay, maybe flying off and leaving Pierre to walk was not the best way to tease him. “My bad,” was all he could say without lowering his pride.

Pierre rolled his desert eyes. Very brown and very dark. He didn’t stand up yet. George realised he was still lying down, but decided to continue lying on the ground and ignore the grass that would stick on his hair afterward. “At least,” Pierre spoke up, suspiciously softer than usual. “You saved me from falling. You have a few of my gratitude.”

“Eh, I’m sure you’d want to take a dive in the Great Lake. You’d be as graceful as a mermaid,” George joked.

“Assuming I can swim.”

George sat up, mouth open at the revelation. Pierre wasn’t meeting his eyes, but his cheeks were red, both from slight embarrassment and exhaustion. “Wait, so Vinsey–”

“I will rip your tongue out.”

“You mean to tell me–”

“ Don’t. ”

“You can’t–”

“Shut up.”

“Swim?” George exclaimed. He laughed. “Then it was a good thing I saved you from the fall.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of not knowing how to swim. I’m sure a great lot of us can’t even float,” Pierre defended, his hands playing with the bag slings tied to the Firebolt.

“Yeah, but I thought every Slytherin knew how to swim. You’re all about water, and you can literally see what’s under the lake’s surface, so I assumed.”

“I cannot believe you’re this idiotic, stereotyping my housemates in one shallow mindset,” Pierre huffed, arms folded now.

“Heh, shallow. Shallow water. Perfect for non-swimmers.” He started laughing.

“I get it already! I have no idea how to swim!” Pierre glared.

“I’m not laughing because of that,” George said mid-laughter. “It’s just that today was not how I expected things to go.”

“Me neither, but I’m not laughing. You’re not making any sense, Weasley.”

“Nothing needs to make sense when you’re having fun,” George answered. It was one Fred’s and his motto. This one used to lighten up the mood. He looked at Pierre, giving him his friendliest smile. He looked down. He felt his ears turn red. “Uh, Vinsey,”

“What?”

“Your shirt’s . . . you look slimy.” Just saying that made George’s cheeks hot. It felt weird to say that. Pierre’s tie and half of his buttons were undone. The first time George saw him look so unkept and unruly. He was soaked in something sticky and slimy from the squid’s tentacles that wrapped around him. In addition to it, the fabric of his shirt became almost transparent, almost see-through . . .

Pierre looked down, and his eyes went wide. “Shit,” he didn’t blush as hard as George did, but there were faint rosey colours on his cheeks as he dug under his pockets for his wand. He frantically glared at George in embarrassment. “Don’t–don’t look,” he stuttered.

George looked away, his hand over his face trying to hide the growing deep blush. Fortunately, Pierre was too busy casting various cleaning spells on himself to notice. 

It took him a minute to question himself why on earth he was blushing about the situation. Pierre was a guy, for Merlin’s sake! Isn’t it normal for guys to see other guys’ chests? Pierre was nothing different. Nothing at all. So why was his face turning redder the more he thought about it? Today was really not how he expected things to go.

It took them a while to return to Hogwarts. Pierre had taken his time collecting the squid ink that covered nearly half of the lake to use as his pigment. He didn’t scold George that much since in the end he got what he needed anyway. “I’ll take these upstairs so I can get started on the paint,” Pierre said as he took the bag off George’s hands. He slightly bowed. An unusual gesture. His shirt was dry and back to being, well, a regular shirt with buttons all done and tie straightened. His hair, however, still looked like a hurricane swept it. George shouldn’t judge; his hair had grass stuck between the strands.

“You’re not going to have dinner?” he asked, a little concerned.

“Already had,” Pierre waved as he walked up the stairs without looking back. He was implying about his sandwich from the Inn. No bloody way did that sandwich make him full enough to skip dinner. He was tempted to drag him to the Great Hall and introduce him to the great and homely magical cuisine, but it wasn’t his place to advise him about his consumption. Pierre wasn’t going to listen to him about it anyway.

With a lingering pause, he turned to the opposite direction, and hoped there’d be some chocolate fudge on the table.

“Katie says you were in cahoots with Malmvinsey in Hogsmeade,” Fred told him the moment he sat down and took a bite out of his roasted ham. Earlier, he returned the Firebolt to Harry and briefly praised its quality. “And Dean told me you had no detention today. So which one’s the truth?” 

“Both,” George answered, and he proceeded to tell what went on that afternoon. He told him how he confronted Pierre for letting him walk up all those stairs all for nothing, and how he ended up tagging along with him in Hogsmeade. He told him that he was annoying the hell out of Pierre (partly true), that he took advantage of his money in the inn (not really true), that he saved him from the squid (Pierre would say this was a lie), and how he fairly enjoyed himself (fully true). He left out the bit of him seeing a bit of Pierre’s skin, because how would he even say it to someone? “I saw some of his chest and I giggled like a bloke.”  

“Nice one, George! I wish I’d been there. I’d give away a billion galleons just to see Malmvinsey holding on and screaming like a banshee,” Fred snickered. George wanted to tell him it was himself who was screaming. “That will surely teach him a lesson not to mess with you.” 

“Yeah,” was all George could say.

He listened in on his friends. Nothing new. Fred still was hopelessly infatuated by Angelina, Lee backing off but still hopeful, and Alicia and Katie won’t shut up about each other. He didn’t realise his mind was elsewhere; that he was looking for someone. A certain Slytherin, short and posh, graceful and intolerant. He couldn’t find Pierre sitting at the Slytherin table, or sitting anywhere. Just now he noticed he rarely saw him dine in the Great Hall since the start of year six. It made him wonder if he often skipped meals the previous years too. 

He found Pierre in the first place he thought he might be in. When dinner was over, he excused himself from Fred and the others claiming he forgot something in the Arts classroom. He didn’t complain about going there anymore, the Gryffindor Tower was on the same floor anyway. 

Pierre was at the teacher’s desk busy concocting his first self-made paint that he didn’t notice George was in the room. George cleared his throat. Finally, Pierre looked away from the glass beaker, surprised to see him at this time. “What? Still upset that I cancelled our time?”

George ignored the question. “I didn’t see you in the Great Hall.”

“I already ate.”

George shook his head. “In Hogsmeade? That was hardly a meal.” He took a step closer to him. Pierre continued his focus on the paint. George guessed it was fine to barge in. 

“Either way, my diet is not your concern.”

“Fair. How’s the ink coming along?” he asked. He observed the way Pierre mixed the squid ink with other ingredients. A thin book had its pages annotated, showing instructions. The liquid inside was tart and black. It reminded George of the mysterious liquid his eyes were doused back in the summer. The stinging sensation dug itself into his memories.

“Almost done, it just needs a bit of water,” Pierre said. Nearby was a chair behind the desk unoccupied. George sat down and rested his arms on the desk, his fingers playing with the gold-plated name card. Professor Sinistra . Astronomy was George’s least favourite subject. He never really liked spending his Saturdays waking up in the middle of the night to look at stars. “Why are you here?” Pierre asked suspiciously.

“Just bored. Checking in on you to see if another squid tried to drown you,” George joked. If he didn’t know the answer to a question, then answering with humour was always the best option. “I snuck in some scones, do you want a bite?” He pulled a bag of scones tucked in his robes and offered them to Pierre.

Pierre scoffed. “I’m not hungry–is that blueberry I smell?”

“Blueberry lemon,” he winked. “But if you’re not hungry, then I suppose I can just keep this for myself–”

“Just because I’m not hungry doesn’t mean I don’t want one,” Pierre countered. A smug victory, George took one scone out and waved it at Pierre. Before Pierre could grab it, however, he pulled back. He wasn’t going to give his stolen scones that easily. “Try to bite it out of my hands. Careful, the cream’s melting.”

Pierre raised an eyebrow. “So this was your revenge all along? How childish.” 

George chuckled. “Not up for the challenge?” He teased, waving the scone at his face. He thought that Pierre wouldn’t participate. Slap his hand away, transfigure it to a dog’s paw, or just turn back to making paint. 

His face quickly drew close to the scone. Caught a little off-guard, George briskly pulled away, but not without smearing a bit of blueberry on Pierre’s lips. “At least you got a bit on you, I’ll give you that,” George grinned, pointing at the blueberry on his lips.

“Bloody Gryffindor. I shouldn’t have taken your word for it,” Pierre muttered in annoyance. He tried to wipe it off, unaware that the cream was on the right side.

George tried not to laugh. “Here, let me get that for you.”

Before Pierre could object, George pressed his thumb on the corner of his lips, wiping the cream that trickled down his chin. Pierre only stared at him in surprise. George smiled. And then his face slowly fell upon realising what he just did. He stuttered. “Here, take the scone,” he quickly offered. He looked down on his other hand with the blueberry stain on his finger. George didn’t know where to wipe it off, so without thinking, he licked it off. And then he glanced up at Pierre in alarm to see if he saw it.

He did. Pierre took the scone before turning away quickly. “You’re ridiculous,” he said.

George hung his head low, a hand over his face to hide the rushing heat on his face. It took a minute for them to go back to their own business, a light awkwardness looming over the air. Pierre focused on mixing paint, idly eating most of the scones that George only ate one. Merlin, he really was hungry. Starving, if he skipped dinner throughout the previous years.

Potions wasn’t his best subject, according to his grades. He and Fred barely passed with an A. But he knew his cauldrons and ingredients, he just hated going by the book. “So you just follow what the book says and paint is invented?” he asked, staring at the cover of Magical Scenes Behind Canvases: A Guide to Creating Colours .

“No, that’s just a clue on how I should do it. I couldn’t find anything else more helpful in the library. I’m just improvising,” Pierre clarified. He tested out the paint on a piece of paper. It flowed smoothly, and George found it a success, but Pierre frowned. 

“It’s smooth,” George praised.

“Too smooth. It can pass as a watercolour, but not oil. I don’t think water was the right ingredient to make it flow.”

“Maybe try oil, since it’s oil paint,” George joked. And just like what happened with finding another pigment, he accidentally gave Pierre another idea.

His desert eyes lit up like fire. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you just gave me a good idea.”

“And I’m getting deja vu.”

Pierre worked fast. He applied another set of squid ink, solidified it with a spell, and poured a small amount of oil over it. Linseed oil was what Pierre called it. George watched in silence (and a bit of awe) as Pierre continued to grind the solid ink, blended the oil and cast various spells that Pierre sometimes casted through words and sometimes in silence. George’s thoughts went to him thinking that at first the poshy and intolerable Slytherin was practical and did everything with rules and directions, but the Pierre he saw right now was someone else. Creative, and all about hypotheses. George loved doing hypotheses. 

His thoughts drifted to scones. Pierre was eating the last scone, a chunk of it hanging on his mouth because his hands were too busy getting paint all over themselves. George tried to figure out why he wiped the smear off his face. The answer that made the most sense was it was just a tease, a joke, something purely for fun, and he held onto that answer. It’ll probably take some time for him to look at his hand properly after that. He thought of Hogsmeade, and how he hardly noticed the autumn air that usually signalled a runny nose later on. He thought of the weekends, and tried to think of something else after he found out he couldn’t help but be disappointed there was no detention on the weekends. He thought of paint. The metallic scent of oil and the salty smell of the ink gave George’s nose a clusterfuck of emotions. 

He thought of potions. “Vinsey,” he tried not to yawn. “You’re brilliant at potions, right?”

“I got an owl last year in the subject, so yes.”

“Let’s say you were to make a potion requiring a certain colour of an ingredient, like a red powder, blue twigs, or an orange snake,” George continued. “What kind of shade of the colour is best for the potion?”

“Why are you asking such an odd question?” Pierre countered.

“Just popped up, is all. If we’re looking at paint, I gotta talk about colours and potions, maybe they’re similar,” George lied. He didn’t want anyone to find out he and Fred were attempting to make an Ageing potion, especially not Pierre. Edvard was also involved in the scheme.

“You’re overthinking it. Potions and painting are two entirely different things. The shade of the colour doesn’t matter at all, as long as it is within the spectrum of said colour.”

“So if I have a red-orange snake and yellow-orange snake, then I can use any of the two for the potion I’m making?”

“Oddly specific example, but yes. Any orange snake is fine,”

“Interesting,” George hummed. So he was overthinking it all this time. He could already hear Fred say “I told you so” in his head. At least that was one less problem to deal with.

A few moments later, Pierre’s eyes lit up. “I think I’m done,” he said, looking for a brush nearby. “Yeah, this is it, I think.” He walked to a small empty canvas, carrying the palette and paint.

George stood up and followed him. Pierre dabbed a small amount of the inky black paint with a brush. To his surprise, Pierre handed the brush to him. “Would you like to do the honours?”

George gave him a light smile. “You sure? You know I’m not Michelangelo when it comes to this,” he asked. 

Pierre smirked. “Wouldn’t hurt to try. This was your idea, anyway.” After a small moment of hesitation, he took the brush from the artist’s hands. He made a black dot. He grinned, and Pierre nodded along. “Carry on,” he said.

And that was what he did. He tried to imitate the strokes he observed whenever he had the chance to see Pierre paint. By the time he was finished, Pierre coughed a giggle. Surprised by the reaction, George turned and folded his arms to attempt anger. “Don’t laugh at my masterpiece!” he said in a rather high and exaggerated voice. 

"What is that supposed to be?" Pierre chuckled. A genuine chuckle. This was new.

“Do you not see the resemblance? And you call yourself an artist,” George exclaimed sarcastically. “It’s the giant squid.”

“ That’s a squid? It looks more like a virus.”

“How is it a virus? These are arms sticking out of its body, see?”

Pierre chuckled again. Very light and without a speck of malice.

Their time, however, was short. The door was pushed open, and in came Adrian Pucey from Slytherin. “Pierre, I was wondering if you could help me with some Herbology–” he looked up, and his once kind fluttered voice darkened without heed. “Weasley? You’re not giving Pierre any trouble, are you?”

He felt the daggers glared at him. Cautiously George backed away, setting the brush down the wooden board. “Can’t a wizard admire an artistic touch, Pucey?” he said without emotion.

Adrian moved forward, issuing himself near Pierre, who was busy setting aside the new materials and the fresh black paint. Adrian hovered over him, his amber eyes that stared kindly and warm at his friend, but avoidant and suspicious at George. “They can, I just didn’t find you to be the . . . aesthetic type.”

“Adrian,” Pierre greeted. “I’m busy at the moment. Why not have Graham tutor you? He’s better at Herbology than me.” 

Pierre . Adrian . So they were on a first name basis.

Adrian shrugged. “I understand the lessons better when you’re the one teaching me,” he excused. He was only looking at Pierre now, ignoring George’s presence around the room. Pierre had his back turned to tidy up the room; he hadn’t looked at George either since Adrian came. George didn’t know why he felt disappointed.

But he got the note. Why was he hanging around with Pierre in the first place? With a Slytherin of all houses? And to think for a second there was a possibility to befriend one. He headed for the door. “I’ll be on my way, then,” he bid goodbye, unsure who he was waving farewell. Probably the bird. Yeah, definitely Bituin.

“Don’t get too excited about detention again,” Pierre replied. It made George grin, and he grinned more when Adrian glared after him.

On his way out, he heard them talk.

“Pierre,” Adrian asked in the only kind tone he used for someone, “I picked up a few sandwiches on the way. Do you want one?”

“Thank you, but I already ate.”

George couldn’t help but smile.

Chapter Text

“I have good news and bad news,” said Edvard Wednesday morning when he spotted George in their common room. “The good news is I made a breakthrough with your mystery box. The weird carvings aren’t just scratches, they’re symbols!”

George nodded. “That’s great! What do they mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then how do you know they’re symbols?”

“Because,” Edvard said cheekily. “The bad news is my sister found out about it.”

“George almost fell off the sofa. “She found out? She can see it?” he asked in alarm.

“Uhm, yeah! I was surprised too.”

George scratched his head. “Merlin, this is getting weirder,” he grumbled. Mayari? Seriously? George believed it was a great possibility that others could see the box, but he never thought a random Slytherin girl he barely knew could see it too. There had to be an explanation for all of this.

Edvard shuffled his feet on the dark maroon rug. “Since she can see the box, does it mean something? What if we let her join our research?” he asked excitedly. 

George didn’t want to rain on his parade, but he had to choose the safer option. “That’s not a good idea, Minivinsey. It’s best if we just keep this secret to ourselves for now before we throw it out there in the open. How much did you tell her?”

“She doesn’t know everything. She thinks it’s a toy someone bought for me in Zonko’s.”

“And did she ask who ‘bought’ it for you?”

“Yeah, I said you did.”

George fell off the sofa and almost spit his tea. “You told her WHAT?! You know she’s gonna tell Pierre about me being a 'bad influence'.”

“Yeah, but I struck a bargain with her. She keeps her mouth shut, and in return you have to do something for her.”

“Which is?”

Edvard only gave a cheshire grin. “ Kuya , do you want to go for another round of potions heist?”

—

Mayari jogged around the castle early that morning, wearing matching dark green sweatpants. If George were to put an apple cider stain on it, I think he’d have to sell an ear to repair it. She waved them over. “Wow, you two actually came.”

“Didn’t you say you wanted to meet me, Missvinsey?” George asked. He pulled out a bag of the items Edvard said Mayari needed him to get.

“Didn’t expect you’d actually pull through,” she shrugged. She threw a pebble at the great lake, causing skips. Good throw.

Mayari Malmvinsey, Slytherin 4th year, was dubbed the “scariest Slytherin girl” according to Ron. She went head-to-head against Professor Flitwick in a duel once, but other than that, George wasn’t all that familiar with her. In fact, this was their first conversation.

“Lacewing flies, knotgrass, fluxweed . . . these are ingredients for a Polyjuice potion. Now why would a younger witch want to brew one?” George asked, sparing no small talk.

“Straightforward. I like this one, Ed,” Mayari flashed a smirk. “I know Edvard’s still your little gnome, and I know that my older brother doesn’t like you at all.”

“Understatement, he loathes me.”

“You should have a medal for being so self-aware,” Mayari barked. She had more insults in her wand than Pierre. “Anyway, I’d love to mind my own business about this whole bloody gift-exchange; I really don't care at all. But I love the opportunity for a poor lad who can do the dirty work for me.”

She snatched the bag out of George’s hands. She opened to see the inside, but her eyes darkened. “Why’s there only a few of them?” she asked.

George sighed. “Hells, Minivinsey and I were surprised to find there wasn’t a lot in stock. I’m not risking Snape to wonder why he ‘mysteriously’ ran out of ingredients again.”

Although the frown on her face didn’t leave, Mayari nodded her head. “Fine, I can make do of this. Alright, I’ll make my end of the deal. No word will come out of my mouth about this situation to Pierre. Have a good morning!” 

Before she jogged away, Edvard hopped in front of her. “Wait, you said you’ll tell me what the symbols of the box mean,” he recalled as he brought the box he carried up to her face. 

Mayari giggled. “I know where they’re from , but not what they mean. I won’t tell you what it is–”

“Why not? Why not? Why not?” Edvard pestered.

“One, because you annoy me. And two, it won’t bring any fun without a little bit of puzzle solving,” she walked past Edvard and George. “I’ll give you lola ’s favourite line; Nasunog ang kamay ng mahabang buhay ng ninuno natin. ”

And then she took off, leaving George and Edvard pondering what she said.

“What did she say???” George asked, the most confused he had ever been.

Edvard repeated the words over and over. “ Si . . .sinu . . . kamay . . .” he hummed. “It’s Tagalog –a Filipino language. She said something like ‘the hands of our ancestor’s long life are burnt’ or something, but I don’t get it at all,” he explained.

They came to Mayari for answers, but they ended up getting a bloody riddle that neither of them had a hint of what it might imply. There had to be something important along those words. Burnt hands, long life . What did it all mean?

George didn’t feel like searching for dead ends in the library the next day, so he left the investigation to Edvard. The kid was smart enough to steal books from the Forbidden Section without getting caught, so it was easy to assume he could find some answers. He doubted Edvard needed his help on Mayari’s riddle. He didn’t understand Tagalog anyway. The junior expert can have his way.

It was no surprise that Professor McGonagall scolded the twins for being late for Transfigurations next Thursday morning like they always were in her period. However, she seemed rather in a hurry and instead told them to sit without taking away any house points. “As I said in our last meeting, today’s period will be spent practising human transfiguration spells. Firstly, you must have your magic select your partner for today’s session. Please pull out your quills,” she instructed.

Everyone did as she said, rather confused on what comes next. “Are we going to write who we want as our partner?” George asked Fred.

“I hope so, I’ve been meaning to be partnered with Angelina.”

George huffed jokingly. “Abandoning me, are you?”

“Simply transfigure your quill into a twenty-sided die. Whichever number stands on top of your die will be the same number that your partner will have,” McGonagall continued. 

Following that, George pulled out his wand. He stared at the feathery quill. White and soft. The feathers were a mess, flowing out like hair strands through different directions. He then imagined them facing a direction, and for them to come together. Still white, but now it hardens in a definite shape. 

And then he imagined the first number he thought. He waved his wand, and without a word, the quill transfigured into a twenty-sided die. The number 12 was facing him. 

Contented, he held up his die for Fred to see. “I guess we’re partners once again?”

Fred gulped. He showed his own die, which faced the number 3. "Not today, George. I think Alicia got the same number as me."

It was a surprise, really. They usually thought the same ideas and knew the words either of them would say next. This time, George didn't know which one of them thought differently.

"Who else has a twelve?" George wondered.

The class erupted into questions and calls. Some stood up, exchanging seats to sit with their partners. Among the noise were the numbers four, seventeen, eleven, and a lot more, but still George didn't sense a twelve amongst them. He stood up to glance at the dice to see if anyone had 12, to no avail.

He glanced at Pierre’s desk, to which Adrian was sitting beside him. It looked like they were partners, unsurprisingly. George decided he ignored them. Their friendship was none of his business. It wasn’t his business either when Adrian stood up and sat next to Bletchley, two seats behind Pierre.

That left Pierre alone in his seat, clutching his die. George looked around. It seemed almost everyone was able to find their partners except him and Pierre. He walked up to McGonagall. “Professor, it seems no one’s got the same number as me,” he said and held up the 12.

McGonagall raised her eyebrow. “A 12? This is interesting."

"Interesting? How?"

Before McGonagall could explain, a voice he knew all too well spoke from behind. "Weasley, I assume you’re my partner for today, correct?”

George turned around to see Pierre sitting on his desk holding up a dark blue glass die. The number 12 was strikingly bright and luminous. McGonagall nodded along. “Carry on, the both of you,” she said.

George only stared as he sat next to him. He set down his red wooden die next to Pierre’s glassy blue die. “Hi,” he said.

They’ve been seeing each other lately. 

They always had. They’re in the same classes for years, walked in the same hallways, and their houses have been enemies through generations. It was only this year that George started to notice him, to realise that there was a raven-haired oak-eyed boy in his year who liked to draw and get his friends out of trouble. He’s been seeing him after classes, watching him take care of a lively oil-made magpie. They still bickered at times, but the hostility they had against each other seemed to decrease. Hell, George can turn his back away without having to grow tense and clench his wand when it was just the two of them.

But they don’t talk anywhere else. Not sure about Pierre, but George didn’t know how to greet Pierre when in the halls he was with Adrian and the other annoying Slytherins. And in classes their seats were so far apart that George wanted to send a howler just to say hi. Of course, that didn’t actually happen, because he was busy having a crisis on why he wanted to get his attention that badly.

And then fate said 12. 

Pierre nodded. “Hello to you as well.”

George could feel Adrian muttering curses from the other side of the room. George was getting more immune to those by the day.

The class broke into spells. McGonagall let them transfigure whatever they wanted on the person, whether it be the colour of their hair or giving one wings (Angelina looked pretty in angel wings). Any transfiguration spell was fine as long as it was non-verbal and safe.

“Not to boast, but Transfiguration is my best subject,” George wholeheartedly boasted. 

Pierre smirked. “I’d like to be the judge of that.” He faced him, his eyes staring so intense that George had to constantly look at his wand to avoid going red again. 

George gestured a hand. “Slytherins first.”

Gracefully, Pierre flicked his wrist. George felt a slight tingle, a metallic shiver across his neck. His magic felt familiar. It stung. 

He felt his ears grow large. At first, he thought Pierre simply enlarged his ears, the easiest transfiguration trick in the book, but then he felt his senses enhanced. He transfigured Pierre’s book into a mirror, making the latter frown.

“Turning my ears into a dog’s ears? Creative,” he complimented. They were stuck up high and alert.

“An Ibizan Hound’s ears to be precise. Though they look exquisite, they’re active tricksters, like you,” Pierre explained. Transfiguration was all about shaping your thoughts. You think of the object you want to make, and apply it with another entirely existing object. For a clear mind like George, it was easy. For an artist like Pierre, it was child’s play.

“You’re saying I’m exquisite, Vinsey?” George asked as he leaned a little closer, chin up and dog ears flapping. It almost made the corners of Pierre’s mouth rise.

“It’s as if you’ve only heard half of what I said,” he rolled his eyes.

George giggled. He had no idea how he giggled, but he did. The dog traits were getting to him, he felt all excited. He raised his wand. “My turn.”

He transfigured Pierre with the first thing that came on his mind. He swished his wand, summoning the magic from his fingertips and out to his wand. Pierre flinched, sitting up straight from the shock. This was the first time George ever casted a spell on Pierre. 

The Slytherin blinked. “Wow,” George marvelled. He had successfully turned Pierre’s eyes into a snake’s. The sclera turned to a light sandy brown, reminding George of the beach he went to once as a kid. Not only that, his pupils were dark and elliptical. Complemented with Pierre’s piercing gaze, he looked haunting and–he hated to say it–almost mesmerising. 

“My vision is different. Everyone looks vividly reddish around a room of grey,” Pierre said, holding up the mirror. George didn’t know a snake’s eyes could become wider. He touched his face. “Snake eyes, I should have known! At least you kept my eyelids.”

George laughed. His legs were giggling. “Snake eyes look good on you,” he teased.

“So are your earssss,” Pierre went along, hissing as if to imitate a serpent. Perhaps the days spent with George were teaching him good humour.

In the whole class they spent transfiguring each other, admiring their creativity. Merfolk scales, lion fangs, and George held onto his part-hand part-fan.

Meanwhile, Fred was prancing around the classroom with his lower half as a deer, and McGonagall was busy trying to get him to settle down.

Both of their skills were evenly matched and balanced out. Pierre’s casts sent a shiver in George’s spine, pricking him like frost in winter. It never failed to make him flinch and blink away the burning but cold sensation. Pierre’s magic gave him an uneasy familiarity.

He tried his best not to mind, though. At some point they stopped transfiguring each other because George was curious about Pierre’s wand. It was definitely not because he was worn out getting transfigured. Definitely not definitely. “That’s a nice wand. Is it from Ollivanders? Gregorovitch?” he asked.

His wand was beautiful. Its wood was of a dark colour similar to how Pierre described onyx black with silver etched at the part where Pierre’s fingers held firm. They resembled splatters of paint, but in a fancy way. Everything was fancy with the wand, what other word was there to describe it?

“Neither, actually. It’s crafted in Asia.”

“Asia? How’d you buy a wand so far from here?”

“I didn’t buy it, Weasley. It was given to me and passed on as a family heirloom. My grandfather was its previous owner,” Pierre answered, waving his wand for him to better see.

George stared in curiosity. “Can I hold it?” he blurted out so suddenly. “I’m not gonna hex you, you have my word,” he caught himself, drawing an X over his heart to seal his promise.

Pierre hesitated. “Alright, but only this once,” he agreed as he gave his wand to him. George took it, and in return he gave his wand too. 

“Don’t want a wizard unarmed,” he joked. He felt the wood rubbing his fingers. He pressed his palms at the silver marks and felt metallic cold. Why was everything cold with Pierre? He tried to swish it. It was rigid and long, possibly more than eleven inches. “Looks violent. What’s the wood?” he asked, twirling it around like it was a toy.

“Salingbobog.”

“Sa-what?”

“ Salingbobog. It’s a tree found in Southeast Asia, and highly abundant in my country.”

“Sa-ling-bo-bog. Alright, I think I got it. The wood feels like. . . wood."

"This wand in particular is made from one of the largest salingbobog trees. They say the wand woods give a silvery glow when it rains."

George's eyes widened. "Does it really?"

"You can find out for yourself," Pierre smirked. "I didn't know you were interested in the origin of wands, Weasley."

"I'm not,” Even with dog ears, they still turned red. "Just yours . . ."

For a moment, he caught Pierre's eyes lit up. He turned away, caressing George's own wand who he had held onto. "What about your wand? Do you remember the wood and core?" he asked. 

He grinned. He pointed at his ibizan hound ears. “Dogwood and dragon heartstring.”

Pierre held up the wand. “Dogwood? They aren’t the type of wands that perform non-verbal spells, yet your transfiguration is up to par.”

“Does that make me a powerful wizard, then?”

Pierre laughed. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Eh, a wand is a wand. Just swish and hope for the best, is what I always think,” George shrugged. “What’s your wand core? Must be something over the top!”

“My grandfather has great taste. It’s similar to your core; bakunawa scale.”

“Ba-ku–I give up.”

Pierre returned George’s wand. George returned his back. “They’re powerful, but difficult to learn. It didn’t work for me the first time I got it for almost two months.”

“Mind if I ask, what’s a bakunawa scale?”

Pierre contemplated for a moment, unsure of where to start. “A bakunawa is a serpent-like dragon originating in the Philippines that hides itself under the sea. It’s rare to find its scales, but they can be found washed up on shores or if wizards were daring enough, they’d dive down trenches to find a few more. There are only a few accounts of the bakunawa sightings, but my father used to tell me that it was large enough to swallow the moon, and it only comes out of the sea on lunar eclipses.”

“That sounds bloody scary, but pretty cool if I’m being honest,” George commented. He smiled. “Foreign wands are so interesting; I’d like to use one someday.”

McGonagall’s voice spoke at the end of class. “Please don’t crowd on your way out, and don’t forget to practise your non-verbals any time. By next week, I’m expecting everyone in this room knows how to fully transfigure someone into an animal,” she announced.

“That’s going to be difficult,” Pierre mumbled.

“We’ve got almost a week to practice, cheer up, Vinsey,” George assured. For the first time, he was disappointed class was over. He looked at him, a second of hesitation, but he couldn’t believe he was going to say it. “Hey.”

The wizard next to him turned to meet his blue eyes. Blue and brown. Those eyes deserved to be looked at more often.

George took a deep breath. He wanted to invite him over to have lunch with him as a friend. “I was wondering if–”

“George, mate! You’re lagging behind, come on!” Fred turned up behind them both, sending George a little surprised. “Quickly, if we’re lucky we can hoard all the muffins we want.”

“Yeah, well, Fred–” George tried to turn to Pierre, but the latter was already busy with none other than Adrian Pucey, the best friend himself.

He watched them talk to each other. He watched how Adrian’s hands moved closer to Pierre’s shoulder, to his back, to his hair even. Pierre either didn’t notice or he didn’t mind his friend’s affectionate advances. “Hope you didn’t miss me too much,” Adrian winked his amber eyes.

Ugh , George’s eyes replied. 

Pierre paused. He turned back to George. “Weasley, was there something you were going to tell me?” he asked. His brown eyes met his blue ones. Blue and brown. They don’t complement each other.

“I’ll see you later,” George said instead. Pierre nodded, and his brown eyes met amber. 

As usual, lunch at the Great Hall was hectic as ever. At least there was no food fight today. George plucked a set of grapes from the fruit arrangement in front of him. He didn’t feel like eating that much and only threw sideline glances at each table, particularly in the Slytherin table. He saw Adrian Pucey sitting with his other friends, but not Pierre. In fact, he wasn’t anywhere in the Great Hall. 

He didn’t notice Fred was watching him. He felt someone nudge his arm. “You okay, George? You’ve been spacing out since we came here,” Fred asked in concern. 

“I’m fine, it’s just the muffins are pretty bland today,” George said, trying to lighten the mood up. 

Fred laughed. “True. And it feels like I’m eating bricks.” He lowered his voice. “But come on, I’m your brother. I know when something’s bothering you.”

He was right. It was another one of their twin sixth senses. Still. “Fred, I’m fine, really.”

“Is it that bloody Malmvinsey? He better not be messing with you that bloody son of a–”

“Fred! Merlin, no, he’s fine.”

“Fine? Since when is a Slytherin ever ‘fine’ in your book? Don’t tell me you’re going to befriend Pucey next?” Fred huffed.

“Bloody no. He’s–”

“A suck up!”

“And fake! He’s always acting nice when there’s people around pretending he’s the ‘good’ student, he’s just as terrible as the rest of them,” George agreed. 

“Don’t even get me started on Bletchley! He’s the absolute worst, and he claims he’s always great at Transfiguration, but–”

“His hair bleaching is ghastly! Just today he transfigured it green, but it looks like grass covered in mud,” George laughed.

The day went by normally. The only class George and Fred had in the afternoon was Charms. He wanted to sit nearby Pierre, but Fred had already gestured toward the higher seats. So after accidentally filling every drawer with water and a few house points taken, the both of them had some free time before George went off to meet Pierre, who still had Ancient Runes until four.

“Can it be October already? I want to make the Ageing potion now,” Fred groaned as he waited for someone to step on the jinxed floor tile in the hallway. Floor jinxes were new; they were Edvard’s idea, and of course the twins had to take the opportunity to incorporate it.

“Tell me about it, we’re running out of mice and birds to feed the bloody snake.”

A group of second years were walking down the hall.

“We would have fed Scabbers to it. Too bad Granger’s cat got to the rat first,” Fred snickered. He leaned against the open terrace, watching the second years were nearing the floor tile.

“At least Pierre told me any orange snake is fine. Now we can let the other snake run off to the woods.”

One of the children had stepped on the floor tile, and the boy shot up to the ceiling, his hands grabbing a chandelier in fear of falling back down. Fred and George laughed. George took out his wand and levitated the shaken boy back to the ground. 

Fred, still laughing, turned to George. “You sure it isn’t some kind of trick? You’re trusting that Slytherin too easily.”

“I never said I trusted Vinsey. I’ve even asked Hermione and Angelina and they said the type of orange doesn’t matter as long as it’s orange. And wasn’t asking him your idea?”

Fred scoffed. “I’m just telling you to keep your guard up. An hour with him everyday and you’re already getting cozy.”

George began to redden. “I’m not–!”

The sound of angry shouts interrupted them both. The twins glanced at one end of the hallway, and saw Edvard turning around the corner and running in the hallway. His robes were a mess. Seeing them, Edvard’s eyes were filled with alarm and in dire need of help. “George! Fred!” he shouted, happy to see them both.

“Minivinsey! What’s going on?” George asked.

“Let’s get that bloody–” the word that came after made Fred and George frown in disapproval from the harshness, even for them. Three boys, all Gryffindors, appeared from the corner Edvard turned to, and darted toward him. Every step they took left wet trails on the floor, and their robes were heavily wet. In a frantic motion, Edvard gripped George’s robes and hid behind him. Fred stepped forward to intimidate the boys. 

“Afternoon, three blind mice! Not lost, are we?” he asked them with a devilish smile and blue eyes that pierced through walls.

The boy in the middle took a step back. “Move out of the way! We just want to give bloody Malmvinsey what he deserves.”

One of the boys pulled on his arm. “Jelkin, don’t you recognize the red hair? They’re the Weasley twins, be careful or you might get your tongue twisted!”

Fred hollered. “You’re a brave one for telling me and my brother what to do,” he said as he took another step forward, hands on his hips and leaning in as if to observe them one by one. “Shouldn’t you all be in a classroom instead of bullying someone from our own house?”

“That foul prick is not even a real Gryffindor!” The middle one said.

“His siblings are Slytherins, so he’s one too. He’s only here to spy on us and give Gryffindor a bad reputation,” one of them added.

“He’s been wreaking havoc on our year ever since he set foot in the Common Room.”

“And that git poured a waterfall of gillywater on us!"

"The Hufflepuffs were supposed to walk out first, not you three idiots!" Edvard objected.

"That's it, get him!" Jelkin, the boy in the middle, commanded. The three boys moved forward trying to grab Edvard, but Fred and George protected him.

"Hands off, you rabid flobberworms. Who's to say we expected you three to be Gryffindors either? You call yourselves brave when you're ganging up on one kid?" George glared. Edvard was burying himself in George's uniform to hide himself from the first years. He didn't show fear in his dark eyes, but his knuckles were turning white from how hard he was holding his robes. "If you think what Minivinsey here did to you–”

"-was bad, then would you like to have the Weasley treatment?" Fred grinned menacingly. "What prank should we pull, George? Tongue-tied coffees? Classic dung bombs?"

“I’d say Mercury fly-traps. That’ll get their mouths shut from insulting our fellow Gryffindor mates,” George added. 

That was enough to send them off. Their eyes widened in fear, and their sweat was visible to the eye. One of them practically squealed like a mandrake. “Let’s go!” Jelkin cried out in panic as they darted to the other end of the hall.

By the time they were gone, Edvard let go of George’s robes. “Thank you, kuya George and Fred! I really thought they were going to catch me, but lucky you were here,” he thanked. His expression became cheery once again.

“It’s nothing, Minivinsey. You’re one of us, prank artisans stick together. Are you okay? Did they do anything to you?” George asked. He kneeled down to inspect Edvard’s face to see if there were any bruises. 

“I’m fine, kuya. Jelkin and his blokes didn’t even get an inch on me; I’m a fast runner,” Edvard obliged.

“Let us know if anyone tries to mess with you, got it?” George offered.

Edvard nodded cheerfully. “I’ll be sneakier, next time, I promise.” He waved them goodbye, and he was off to more conundrums.

George noticed Fred smiling after. “Admit it, you care about the kid,” George nudged him.

Fred scoffed. “Not a chance, I simply acknowledge Minivinsey’s techniques of trickery.”

“Denial.”

“Shut it.”

Since their first potion heist with Edvard, Fred had been showing off to Edvard of how brilliant he was at pranking people. He had pranked half of the entire students in fifth year last Sunday when Edvard wanted to ask for new ideas. He never admitted it, but it was obvious he thought of him as a little brother–maybe even saw himself in him. 

“Be careful, you’ll never know what he might do to you,” Fred bid goodbye as it was time for George to head to the arts classroom. He knew he should still be wary of Pierre and his intentions, but as of the moment, he can have all the fun he wanted.

Pierre wasn’t painting when George came in. Like always, Pierre never really noticed him entered. His eyes never left the canvas he painted from the times he observed him, but this time he looked at it more intensely and with uncertainty that it was enough to leave a dreary atmosphere in the classroom. Even Bituin, the ever chirpy magpie, had rested on one of the painted tree branches to nip her feathers from the freezing silence.

George figured he needed to lighten the mood, and what better way than the art of surprise? He quietly walked up to Pierre, careful for his footsteps to be silent. When he was close enough, he poked a side of Pierre’s waist. The latter jumped in surprise, and he looked like he was about to infuse a bomb until he saw it was George who poked him, so he was back to his usual annoyed look. 

“That is a very unprofessional way to greet someone,” he critiqued. 

“I can’t help it, it feels so stuffy in here that I have to do something to lighten up the room. See? Even Bituin found it entertaining,” George said as he gestured to the now energetic bird. He flew to one of the nearer paintings and chirped to greet George. 

Pierre didn’t say anything else. His brown eyes were back to the canvas as if distracted by something. “Sickle for your thoughts?” George asked. 

“It’s nothing, I’m just thinking.”

“Your new work looks good. What’s the meaning?”

“Just a rainy day in London.” 

A high street was the main centre of the painting. Muggle vehicles and muggles in raincoats hiding under the umbrellas. It simply was a normal rainy day in London. Nothing deep going on underneath. He didn’t know Pierre can be the type to just observe and make art without anything between the brushes.

“I like the grey. That’s a lot of greys,” He complimented. Pierre let out a sarcastic laugh. He wasn’t holding any brush, and he had no apron either.

“I’m trying out an Impressionistic approach.”

He had no idea what that meant. “When will you finish it?” George asked.

Pierre was silent for a while. “I don’t exactly know when I’m going to finish painting. I just keep going until I’m done. You can say I work well under pressure.”

“That’s impressive. I just sleep when I’m under stress,” George noted. “Are you going to continue painting?”

“I will, just . . . not right now. I don’t feel like painting at the moment–”

“Wait, since when do you not feel like painting?” George asked in surprise. “You paint nonstop, I’m starting to think you do it in your sleep!”

Pierre scoffed. “Excuse me? I’m not some art deity who spits out masterpieces everyday, if you must know.”

“Kidding, I’m kidding! I totally get what you mean. Sometimes there’s just too much going on with your life that you don’t know which one to keep your eye on first. It’s important to take breaks once in a while.”

“Taking a break . . .” Pierre repeated, as if considering it. “Yes, I suppose I can try and take this break. How do I do it?”

“How–uhm, just relax?” George answered. Pierre only looked at him in confusion. Oh. Could this be? Could he seriously not know how to relax? “Let’s put it like this. You don’t want to do art things at the moment, so you rather just do something else that can ease your mind.”

Pierre thought hard. “Something to ease my mind . . . Well, a duel always satisfies me,” He said, rather excitedly.

George didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “W-well, does it make you relaxed in any way?” Of course Slytherins would alway find a way to fight a Gryffindor, but he didn’t expect Pierre to be this bold.

“Of course, it’s great to put my magic onto someone once in a while,” he said. Slyly he glanced at him. “Or are you perhaps afraid to face me?”

“Afraid of you? Never.”

They levitated the things out of the way in case something went bad. It was only them taking the centre of the room. The last time George duelled a wizard was in fourth year when a basilisk roamed the school walls. His duelling partner was Fred, and he could confidently say he was the better fighter. Pierre and George’s wands were drawn out. Salingbobog and Dogwood. Brown to Blue. “I have to warn you, I don’t hold back on my opponents,” Pierre smirked.

George chuckled. “You may be more experienced with this, but I’m a Weasley. I’m full of surprises.”

Bituin was the bird in charge of starting the duel. She chirped, signalling them to bow. He was about to duel Pierre, one of Hogwarts’ most gifted students.

Bituin gave a loud chirp.

Pierre spoke faster. “Expelliarmus,” he casted.

Before George could even think of a defensive spell, his wand was magically thrown out of his hands. The same chill he felt from Transfiguration class. Pierre bowed with a sly smile. He looked a bit like Edvard there. Bituin twittered as he carried a blue painted leaf and placed it on one of the two branches in the painting. “First match is on me.”

“How about using something more creative other than the disarming spell?” George rolled his eyes as he picked up his wand.

“You asked for it,” Pierre shrugged.

Wands at the ready. Brown to blue. This time, George was prepared with different spells for the situations at mind. Bituin chirped, and the second match began.

Again, Pierre casted first. Nonverbally.

A bright light darted toward George, who barely dodged it. “Holy shi–”

“Eyes on me!” Pierre called out, but he said it like it was a spell. George looked back at him. “That was a Stupefy spell and it could have knocked you out. Focus, Weasley. Look at me like I’m your enemy.”

That wasn't hard at all. George swished his wand. “Immobulus!” he yelled.

Unfortunately for him, Pierre set up a tough protego, rendering the immobulus spell ineffective. "Alarte ascendare! Relashio!"

A cold gust of wind blew at George, throwing him up in the air. He dropped his wand from the sudden magical chills. He fell back to the ground and stumbled. “Ow!” he cried. “My butt hurts!”

“Two to zero,” Pierre informed him.

What was supposed to be detention turned out to be a duel lasting for almost fifteen minutes, mostly because George was so determined on scoring at least a point. His wand fell out of his hands once again. The score was twenty-five to zero. Most of the time Pierre was silent in duel, seeing the activity as an opportunity to practise nonverbal spells. On the other hand, George was loud. “Confringo! Stupefy!” He shouted spells he thought could disarm or at least throw him off.

“I haven’t broken a sweat,” paraded Pierre. George groaned as he got up. It was hard to get a better opening when Pierre was constantly flicking spells at him. He could barely keep his footing for more than ten seconds. 

“I applaud you for being very persistent,” Pierre said. He was getting on George’s nerves. 

“I’m getting used to your spells,” George panted. He drew up his wand. “Another round.”

The other nodded. They bowed, and Bituin chirped. 

Pierre casted first; another Stupefy, but this time George was able to prod a shield charm. Pierre kept casting and casting, and on the third strike the shield was down. Seizing the opportunity, he casted a different one. “Incarcerous!”

Thin cords shot from his wand, binding George’s arms at his back. He struggled to move his wand. He couldn’t cast an unbinding spell with this. This didn’t look good. He was on the defensive, having to focus on protecting himself first rather than combat. 

Blue sparks shot up from Pierre’s wand. “SHIT!” George shouted. He made a run for it, jumping and dodging through every bolt of energy aimed at him. 

“Stop . . . moving!” Pierre complained. “Corroserum!”

He never heard that spell before. The spark was faster that George bet he couldn’t dodge it. In instinct, he turned around, and the spell hit the ropes binding him. The ropes broke apart and were torn to bits, finally freeing George. He moved his arms around. “That’s a foul! That spell could kill me!”

“It’s a cleaning spell. The least it can do to you is tear off your clothes,” Pierre explained. 

“Where’d you get that from? I don’t recall my mom using it to wipe out dust.”

“I know a few spells from my country. Sakopio!”

Directly below George, the floor started to rise like a platform. Pierre swished his wand, and the risen platform started to slope from either side, trying to get George to lose his balance. “Deprimo–AH!” George casted, blasting a hole in the elevated ground. Once again, he fell on his butt.

Pierre continued to cast more aggressive spells, and George struggled to think of counterspells. The fact that his opponent was blasting unfamiliar spells wasn't helping. “Show off!” George complained. 

“I can’t help it if you’re making it easy,” Pierre teased. 

He casted again and again, with George just barely evading. “Protego! Protego!” It was slowly becoming his favourite spell.

 “You should keep up with my pace.”

Pace . . . that was it! George pointed his wand at his shoes. “Wheely Wizz!” Small wheels manifested on the soles of his shoes, and he sped around the room dodging the spells with ease. “Don’t think you’re the only one with new spells!”

He saw Pierre smile, and his brown eyes looked more determined. Those eyes were a hell of a sight. 

“Periculum Eructo!” George casted. Fireworks shot off from his wand to aim at Pierre, who managed to conjure up a shield charm. An opening was clear to disarm him. “Expelliarmu–”

“Carpe Retractum!”

A rope shot out from Pierre’s wand and caught a hold of one of George’s legs. “Hey!” he stumbled. He casted a round of shield charms again once he was attacked with spells. This wasn’t looking good, George thought. He had to get out of the shield and start aiming. 

“Obscurio!” George’s eyes were blinded by a dark cloth. He couldn’t see where he’ll be hit now. He had no choice but to just swish his wand and hope for the best.

Pierre let out a gasp, and he was cut off. George quickly removed the blindfold over his eyes, but he didn’t see Pierre standing in front of him. His wand rolled over to George’s shoes, and he cheered with delight. “Hells yes! I finally won! Take that, Vinsey! Vinsey?”

Instead of Pierre himself, a small black cat stood at the place where he was directly. “Meow,” it said.

Bituin chirped in alarm. It took George a second to realise what he just did. He knelt down. “Vinsey, is that you?”

“Meow,” Pierre the black cat said. His eyes, although like a cat’s, still kept the same oak colour. 

“You’re a cat.” As if it wasn’t obvious. George laughed. “Sorry about that, I’ll transfigure you back.”

He offered to touch his fur, but Pierre hissed and backed away. “Not much of a toucher, are you?” George mumbled. He held up his hand, waiting instead for Pierre to go to him. “I don’t bite, I’m not the cat here.”

Though hesitant, Pierre cocked his round furry head, and sneaked his paws closer to George. He meowed again, sniffing George’s hand. His beady eyes looked at George’s human ones. He blinked. And then he climbed his way up to George’s shoulders. “Hey!” George said in surprise. Pierre’s black furry paws brushed against his sweater. He was more touchy as a cat than he was as a human.

George stood up as he picked Pierre’s wand on the ground, careful not to drop the cat. “Vinsey, it’s best you get off me so I can transfigure you properly. You don’t want me as your catmate, do you?”

“Meow,” Pierre growled. Do cats even growl? He stared into George’s eyes, his legs clinging onto his shoulder. George found it hard to look away. He found it harder to hide his cheeks turning red. Pierre sniffed him more, his muzzle lightly brushing his cheeks. He was getting close. This was bad.

George turned his face away in embarrassment and walked out of the art classroom right after waving Bituin goodbye. He picked up the black cat from his shoulder and gave them some distance. “Alright, that’s enough. Do I smell that good to you?” he joked. An annoyed meow was the reply he got. He brought him down on the floor. “Alright, I’m going to transfigure you so stay sti–”

Pierre darted off to the stairs. George groaned. He wished he could just leave him, but he didn’t want McGonagall or any professor to find out he transfigured the person supervising his detention, even if it was by accident. “Vinsey!” he called after, but the cat moved like a shadow. It was a game of cat and mouse–or in this case, wizard and cat.

They were on the fourth floor. Not a wizard in sight walked about on this floor at this time in the afternoon. He saw a small blurry figure turn round the corner. “Here, kitty, kitty,” George cooed. “If I knew you’d move so fast, I should’ve made you a turtle–Professor Moody!”

Professor Moody stood at the end of the hall, his usual grimace greeting whoever passed by. His normal eye was looking at George, but his magical eye that was usually crazy had locked itself onto Pierre the cat. “Did you lose your cat, Mr. Weasley?” he gruffed.

“Lost my–oh, yes. My cat. My dear sweet Princess Vanilla Berry,” George lied. Pierre meow-growled. Pierre craned his cat head closer to Moody, his paws shuffling in an irregular pattern. It was almost like he was inspecting him. George had to stop him from giving Moody any suspicions. He cannot afford another month’s worth of detention. He knelt down. “Come on, Vanilla Berry,” he cooed, to which the feline begrudgingly obeyed. Pierre made his dark fur seated comfortably on George’s arms. George kept touching his smooth fur. Even as a cat, Pierre was neatly combed and tidy. He should ask his mom to get a cat next summer.

Moody nodded. “Keep her close, then. This castle’s big enough to hide an army, you’ll never know where your cat might end up.” Though he proceeded to continue walking, his large eye still fixed his gaze on Pierre. 

George waited until Moody turned round another corner before setting Pierre down on the balcony. “Merlin, Vinsey, you got cat hair all over me,” he complained as he brushed his hair. Pierre meowed again, sounding more of a grunt of annoyance. “Stay still, I’m going to change you back.” He pointed his wand at Pierre, who only licked his paws in wait. 

Taking a deep breath, he thought of Pierre himself. He tried to remember everything he knew about him. Black hair, dark eyes, 24/7 resting bitch face, and in clean uniform. He waved his wand.

The once feline Pierre had quickly gone back to the original human and short Pierre. When his body was back, he was sitting on the balcony’s edge. The moment he realised he had turned back into a human, he looked outside and down the ground, and he lost his balance.

“Careful!” George cautioned him. He was able to hold onto Pierre’s waist just as he was about to fall over. On the other hand, Pierre had held onto George’s shoulders, a little panic in his breathing. They looked at each other, their faces close, and George silently prayed the blood didn’t rise in his cheeks. 

“Morgana’s name, don’t you ever put me up a balcony ever again,” Pierre meow-growled. He had let go of George and stood on solid ground, backing away from the balcony. “I did not expect you to transform me into an animal, I’m still a little in shock that you didn’t mess up any of my limbs.”

“I told you, I'm a Weasley. I’m full of surprises,” George winked. He gave him his wand. “Here’s your wand. How did you learn how to duel so well? Lockhart sucked at teaching. You’re a wicked duelist.”

“Oh, uhm,” Pierre stuttered. He sounded flustered from the sudden compliment. “My father taught me and my siblings the basics of duelling. He taught me spells from the country he used to live in.”

“The country? You mean the Philippines?”

“Yes, he served as a maharlika –they’re like aurors–for a year there when I was little, and he believed self-defence is something to be prioritised.”

“That sounds so cool! My mom never lets me or my brother do anything dangerous–only if she’s looking,” George admired. 

Pierre nodded, but he didn’t seem to be so fond of the topic. He was looking past George, at the direction Moody was headed. His eyes were locked. There it was again. “Is there something wrong?”

“It’s nothing. You know, the next time you try to transfigure me, turn me into something that can smell accurately, like a bloodhound? My nose was stinging with all the different scents coming at once, and just recently I thought I smelled–” Pierre paused, and he looked at George. In his eyes. Now the locked gaze was on him next. 

“What? Is there something on my face?” was all George could say without getting flustered again. He could barely handle a cat in his arms.

Pierre looked away. “Nothing, it’s just been a very long day,” he reasoned, but George doubted it was his intent. It wasn’t his place, however, to pry.

“Come on,” George said. “As the winner of our duel, you deserve a feast.” He took Pierre by the arm, ignoring the latter’s protests.

Pierre tried to wriggle his hand out, but George held firm. George held his hand in his, holding it up like an oath. “Just this once, Vinsey?” he asked. Blue on brown. 

Pierre hesitated. He was the first to look away. “Fine, I’ll come to dinner,” he gave in. “But we are not holding hands on the way to dinner.”

George shrugged. “Why not? Hand holding got you to finally go to the Great Hall.”

Pierre scoffed. “Did not! And what do you mean by finally ? Everyone goes to the Great Hall.”

“Yeah, but you’re skipping your meals. You’re so thin, Vinsey, I think the wind can blow you away.”

Pierre frowned. He walked first, stomping his way down the stairs and not waiting for George to catch up. “My eating habits are none of your business. Worry about your own, you eat like a werewolf!” he meow-growled. Meow-growling was his thing now.

George followed him, moving his way closer to avoid passing students from listening in. “Look, I’m sorry if I offended you, but you have to look at yourself! You’re as thin as a bowtruckle, Vinsey.”

“Hush, I’m a wizard. I can just use magic,” Pierre dismissed him.

“I don’t think magic can treat an empty stomach.”

“Just don’t dive too much into my diet. Why do you even care about when I eat, anyway?”

He didn’t know what was the right thing to say without sounding weird. All of the reasons coming into his head were weird! Because I care about you, Vinsey. Too affectionate. Because I am your friend. Going too fast. Because I think I–too early to sort this one out.

“Because when I see you ignore yourself–” he wasn’t thinking– “it just hurts to see.”

Pierre stopped walking. He looked at George, the anger turning to confusion. His mouth slightly hung open. Whether he was processing what George was trying to say or believe he made no sense was what George thought he was thinking of.

“What are you saying–”

“KUYAA!!!!” a girl’s voice rang below. Running up the steps was Mayari and Edvard, a disapproving look on Mayari’s face and a nonchalant one on Edvard’s.

“What is it this time?” Pierre yapped.

“One of Edvard’s bloody ascendare floor tiles got Bletchley thrown out to the Whomping Willow!”

“Ed!” Pierre scolded.

“Ate Mayari was supposed to step on it.”

“ED!” Mayari shouted.

George stifled a laugh. 

“Also, kuya George gave me the spell to transfigure the tiles.”

George coughed. As much as he loved the little kid, he really wished he stopped being so blunt. Pierre glared at him, but he quickly turned his glare on Edvard.

“I’ll deal with you later,” he dismissed his brother before leaving for the grounds with Mayari and Edvard, who whispered ‘sorry’. Pierre didn’t even bother to look back at George.

When he was left standing up the stairs, George threw his hands up his hair. He brushed back the long red strands that fell onto his forehead. He couldn’t believe what he just said. Seeing Pierre disregard his own health hurted to see? That made no sense whatsoever. He made no sense. On the bright side, Edvard changed the topic so George didn’t have to deal with sorting out what he meant by it, at the cost of Pierre getting mad at him. 

By the time he sat with Fred and the others in the Great Hall thirty minutes later, and the first time in his school life, black licorice was not the first thing he looked for during dinner. From the other side of the room, Pierre was seated at the Slytherin table with the Vyssiers. He really did come for dinner. Questionable as it was, it was enough to relieve George despite catching glimpses of Adrian offering food from his own plate. Pleaser.

He will admit it. He realised the reason why he’s been seeing Pierre so often these days was because his eyes automatically looked for those brown eyes. He wanted to see the eyes that turn dark at dim light and eyes that shined like twilight  underneath the golden hour. He’s grown fond of them that sometimes he didn’t really care who those eyes belonged to. Hidden in Pierre’s eyes, he had a feeling he could find answers, but what were the questions they answered?

Those eyes haven’t looked at him tonight.

To this, he drank his goblet in silence basked by the vigorous crowds of his housemates.

“The ceiling’s turned cloudy. I bet it’s gonna rain heavily tonight,” Fred noted.

George broke his gaze from Pierre to see the clouds. It was definitely going to rain.

He was a great artist.

He recalled everything he envisioned, every idea that birthed itself in his mind and every detail he painted on the Umbrella brush. 

But now that brush, the path between reality and passion is gone. It was more important than what was between life and death. 

He was a great visualizer, but he can never put his expressions to words. He didn’t know how to describe it. 

This is why he fell in love with painting, and it was going to be the last thing he will ever love in his life. Nothing else compared.

That’s why he was here in the twilight hour, hanging on the edge as his eyes bore holes against the unmoving canvas. He’s done and painted everything, so why was the rain not pouring? He didn’t hear the splatter and splashes of puddles on the cobble London streets nor the clicking shoes of civilians. The painting stayed as a rainy street, and no one was moving. Bituin appeared from the right, flying around and trying to get everything to move.

“Bituin, what am I going to do?” he asked. The rain wasn’t pouring, but this didn’t mean he was going to break, and certainly his voice will not be the first to shake. “Nothing. I can’t feel any magic in it.”

Bituin chirped in concern.

There was a lot in his mind. Too much, but not enough to break him. He refused to have anything to break him apart. 

His painting wasn’t moving. It was supposed to move the moment it was finished. The art went limp and spiritless, and Pierre’s magic didn’t reach it at all. He needed that brush to ignite the magic. He’s never lost it before. If it was out of his hands, then he always found it at the end of the hour. But two weeks were too long. And dangerous. 

He can’t paint without his mother’s brush. Like a wand, it was what connected him to art. 

He almost found it. He sensed it, when Weasley turned him into a cat. He wished he was transformed into a Bloodhound, and his problems would be solved right then and there. But felines had a sixth sense.

And he sensed something about George. Something so familiar and comforting. Why was it comforting? It brought nothing but safety that made him uneasy. Those blue eyes had nothing special. They were only blue. Sometimes blue like the clear skies, and blue like forget-me-nots. 

He couldn’t describe those eyes at all.

Then he remembered something. He raised his wand, trying not to feel disheartened when it didn’t glow silver. “Bituin, leave the canvas,” he told the bird. Bituin, with great sadness, left to watch from his own painting, resting on the sole branch.

There was something else he sensed when he was a cat. Something sinister shredding the very essence he held onto for years.

“Incendio,” Pierre casted, almost in a shout. Flame rose at once on the canvas, and as quick as light the painting was engulfed in flames. 

He sensed danger in hiding, but he also sensed the lingering thread between reality and passion. He knew this aura. It was the very same aura he had that made him passionate about art, his mother, her legacy, their lives.

The flames continued to burn its way through the canvas, the cotton scorched and the painted droplets overwhelmed. Bituin left his painting, not wanting to see the death of the rain.

Pierre’s eyes burned.

That aura was his mother’s passion. So why did he sense it on Professor Moody?

Chapter Text

No matter how he tried to get Pierre’s attention, it was hard when you’re in different circles. It was Thursday, and when Edvard sat beside him in the library carrying a large dictionary book, he already knew what he was going to say. “No detention again?” he grumbled.

“Woah, are you a seer, kuya?” Edvard asked in pleasant admiration, and George wondered if he was being sarcastic or if he thought he was a prophecy prodigy.

“This is the third time he’s cancelled. It’s obvious he’s avoiding me since he heard I’ve been showing you tricks,” George concluded. 

Pierre didn’t meet with him last Friday, and at first George was alright with it since he had to hear it from Edvard rather than climbing up all those stairs again. But ever since they parted ways when George pried in about his eating habits, he never had the opening to talk to him.

“Maybe just sleep it off,” Fred advised last weekend in Astronomy. Their class was in the middle of the night on Saturdays, and it was the best time to talk to Fred about relationship problems because he was always too sleepy to judge and retort. He didn’t even ask why George wanted to talk to Pierre.

“I don’t think Vinsey even sleeps, he’s a night owl,” George muttered. Instead of journaling the lunar phase for the evening, he stared at Pierre, who was already finished with his constellations and was instead chatting away with Professor Sinistra with a floating moon globe in his hands.

Ever since Mayari told them that riddle that goes “the hands of our ancestor’s long life are burnt”, Edvard and George had been trying to make sense of their lead. "I wish I paid more attention to my lola about our family tree," Edvard pouted.

They spent their time trying to find different languages that fit the symbols of the box, but mostly that was Edvard’s role. George spent his time asking why Pierre was avoiding him.

“It’s because I made a comment about his way of eating, isn’t it?” George convinced himself, skimming aimlessly through one of the language books.

“Maybe, but it’s a riddle knowing what’s always on my big brother’s mind. He could just be really busy with his reputation as an artist. I don’t think he’s avoiding you, kuya. He’s not the type to avoid people he doesn’t like.”

“Are you saying he dislikes me?” George lifted his head up and grimaced.

Edvard grinned. “Why does it matter to you if he dislikes you?”

“Oh, go back to reading!”

“I am reading! Stop sulking and grab the Norse book, kuya!”

In the end, they found nothing that fit the symbols of the box. “I’ll write a letter to my lola about what our ancestors used to say. There’s bound to be something that matches. Do you want to hold onto the box this time?” he asked.

“Nah, my mind’s more at peace when I don’t have to remember it,” George refused. It was nice to have a few people to be aware of its presence, but he wasn’t ready to welcome it back with open arms. It gave him a huge migraine just thinking about it. He was starting to regret bringing it with him to Hogwarts, but he considered the luck he got as it aided in befriending a little devil like Edvard. The two of them proceeded to the Great Hall for lunch.

Pierre was nowhere to be found again. The last time he came for lunch or dinner was last Thursday. It gave George an uneasy feeling. Clouded thoughts came to his mind. He wondered if Pierre took his opinion on his lack of consumption personally, and could be the main reason why he was avoiding him. In addition was when Edvard told Pierre that he taught him the ascendare spell on the floor tiles. The look on his face when he discovered his young brother was under the influence of a ‘troubling’ student. 

He hoped he wasn’t avoiding him because of that .

The memory always played every time he thought of him.

“Because when I see you ignore yourself, it just hurts to see.”

He couldn’t forget the look Pierre gave him after that. His dark desert eyes stared down at him coldly like winter. His lips parted, and he would have said something if his siblings weren’t there. Silently he thanked Mayari and Edvard that he didn’t have to deal with the situation back then, but as the week passed by, he was starting to wish they hadn’t.

George didn’t know what Pierre was thinking of when he heard him say that.

He didn’t even know why he himself said something like that, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know why he said it.

“What’s got you so down? It’s turning my fish and chips soggy,” complained Fred when he noticed George’s moping when he entered the Great Hall.

“Fred! Your brother has something troubling him and you’re worried about your appetite?” Katie barked, she and Alicia were listening in on the conversation.

“I’m just trying to lighten up the mood!” Fred reasoned. He placed a hand on George’s shoulder. “What’s gotten my partner-in-crime so quiet today? And yesterday and the day before yesterday?”

“He’s sad because he thinks Pierre is avoiding him,” Edvard blurted out, halfway into his sandwich.

“Minivinsey!” Edvard, for the love of Merlin, he begged he could just keep his mouth closed.

“Is that why you’re moping for so long? Why are you so worked up about that Malmvinsey? I’d be in high spirits if a Slytherin was too afraid to look me in the eye,” Fred said. He knew his brother was trying to cheer him up, but that was only making things worse.

“Fred, you’re too Slyther-phobic. Did you give him a reason why he should avoid you?” Angelina asked.

“It’s either because I’m still being a ‘bad influence’ on Edvard, or . . .”

George almost said it out loud. He was about to tell them how he was worried of Pierre eating so little, but even though his intentions were good, he couldn’t say something so personal without Pierre’s consent. He doubted Pierre even noticed his own eating problem. 

“What? Or what? You can tell me, I’m your brother!” Fred frowned.

Angelina smacked Fred lightly with a rolled up Daily Prophet paper. “Because it’s personal, you insensitive fiend.”

“But Fred does have a point. Is there something about it that you don’t see as something to be shared?” Lee added. The five of them, except Edvard, who knew why, all sat in waiting for an answer.

George shifted his seat. “It’s something only he and I can talk about in . . . private.”

Hearing this, Lee and Angelina’s eyes widened. Alicia almost gasped. Katie wiggled her brows. “So that’s how it is,” she smiled slyly.

“Interesting,” Lee agreed.

“What? What’s interesting?” Fred asked, confused.

“We completely understand what you mean, George,” Angelina nodded.

“Understand what?” Fred asked.

“You should have worded it better, kuya,” Edvard grinned.

“I don’t get it,” Fred grumbled. He decided to go back to finishing the fish and chips.

George was too busy trying to calm his heart down from the misconception of his friends, and drowned his blushing face down with some blueberry scones.

Class ended early for them. Fred and George only had Charms in the afternoon, so they were just loitering in the corridor eating sound candies, sweets that upon consumption, the wizard produces animal noises at a short period of time.

“Feeling any– CROAK –better yet?” Fred asked in mid-frog noise.

“Yeah, these always give me a few laughs,” George said, eating one of the candies and howling like a wolf.

Angelina appeared from a corner and greeted them. “Just finished Divination. Do you guys want to go to the Great Lake with me and the girls?” 

“With you? Anywhere is perfect,” Fred eagerly agreed. 

“Damn, you’re getting more bold everyday,” joked George.

Angelina rolled her eyes, but she didn’t seem to mind. “A little cliche even for you, don’t you think, Fred?” 

“You like cliche things, admit it,” Fred winked.

At least Fred was making progress on his love life. George was still waiting for someone he liked enough to sweep them off their feet. “I’ll sit this one out. I’m a little tired today,” he declined.

“What? Is this about Malmvinsey again? Come on, a little grass grazing won’t hurt a bit,” Fred sighed.

“Merlin, it isn’t. I just feel like having a nap,” George laughed it off. 

When they were gone, George walked up the stairs holding the bag of sweets in his hands to the Common Room. He was just about to turn around a corner when he heard familiar and despicable voices.

“We finally got you alone,” Jelkin hissed.

“Don’t you guys have anything better to do than tailing me?” Edvard countered.

George peeked from the corner he hid, and saw Edvard being cornered by the three Gryffindor first years that chased him around the halls. Fred and George were with him back then, but this time he wasn’t so lucky.

“Your days of evil are over, Malmvinsey! You fool nobody, we know you infiltrated our house just to plague us! Wolbert found an orange snake under your bed,” Jelkin claimed.

“I think you’re just jealous that Iris Lagoon picked me to be partners with her in Charms,” Edvard sneered. He and Pierre were great at sneering.

Two of Jelkin’s goons giggled. Jelkin’s pale face went as red as a tomato. “No I’m not! You guys, shut it!” He drew out his wand and pointed it to Edvard. “Let’s see if you can get your way out of this!”

It was time for George to intervene. He pulled out his wand and whispered a spell aiming at a wall where the first years could see. He ate one of the sound sweets, hoping to have consumed a good noise. He opened his mouth.

A low and deep growl escaped from his mouth. Seizing the opportunity, he conjured a shadowy figure resembling a dragon on an illuminated wall. He heard the uneasy shuffles of the first-years. “D-dragon!” one of them shrieked.

“Let’s get out of here! Run!” Jelkin stuttered.

George continued the act until their screams and evading footsteps were far enough. 

When the effects of the sound candy died out, the shadow dragon vanished off the walls. 

He stepped out. “Dragon? That’s an epic way to describe me.”

Seeing him, a big grin grew on Edvard’s face. “Kuya! I knew only two people could pull off a trick like that!” He ran up to him and to George’s surprise, he jumped to hug him.

George caught him in time, and he spun around in delight. “Minivinsey, if those three try to mess with you again, tell them you’re friends with a redheaded dragon,” he joked. The both of them laughed.

“I expect a rumour of a dragon roaming about in the school walls will be the topic by dinner.”

George paused. Walking towards them was Pierre in his usual formal and unwavering expression. “Vinsey,” his eyes widened. 

It’s been a while since Pierre’s eyes looked at him. “Weasley,” he greeted. Normally. 

George set Edvard back on the ground. “Kuya! Did you see what happened? Kuya George saved me from Jelkin and the Lim cousins,” he told Pierre. 

“I saw,” Pierre nodded, bowing a little to inspect if Edvard had any bruises he might have been inflicted on. “How many times have I told you not to stir any trouble? You know not every student thinks kindly of you,” he scolded. He fixed Edvard’s red tie. At times when Pierre scolded his brother, it reminded George of the way his brother Percy used to scold him and Fred when he was still in school.

Pierre stood up straight, finally acknowledging George’s presence. “Weasley,” he greeted.

George only stood there in the tall hall dumbfounded and unsure whether to laugh or cry. His hands acted without processing any of his whirlwind thoughts, grabbing Pierre by the arm. Firm, but gentle. 

Taken aback by the sudden act, Pierre’s eyes shifted to surprise and confusion. Before he could ask for George to let go, George blurted the words that rolled out of his tongue. “I need to talk to you.”

Pierre hesitated, his eyes glancing at Edvard. “I’m sure that can wait, I still have to look after Ed–”

“I’m late for music class, bye!” Edvard hurried off, waving at the two of them and sending a wink at George. “Take care of my big brother for me!”

George couldn’t help but smile. Pierre called out to Edvard and sighed. “Being the eldest is a hassle,” he grumbled. He turned back to George. “What is it that you want to speak to me about?”

“Oh,” George caught himself. He hesitated, unsure of what to say. Now that Pierre was right in front of him, the words he wanted to say to him didn’t seem to come out right. Should he ask him why he was avoiding him? Would that make Pierre avoid the question too? “It’s about detention,” was what he settled with.

“Yes, I assume Edvard already told you it’s cancelled today.”

He gripped his arm. “It’s been cancelled for a week. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

For a split second he thought he saw an answer in his eyes. It was the same look George saw Pierre had the first time he saw him paint. The answer was there, but gone at its fleeting moment. Pierre looked down. “Like I said last Thursday, I simply don’t feel like painting,” he reasoned, but George couldn’t shake the feeling he wasn’t telling the truth.

“Are you sure it’s just that?” he asked. “Are you sure?” He had to be sure.

“What else could be the reason why?” Pierre was turning away now, looking past him and to the empty corridor. He was losing his attention. 

George pushed it further. “Is it . . . because of me?” he finally asked, and he was starting to regret it. 

Pierre paused. His eyes were back, a little bit of brown finding its way to the blue. “No,” that was enough for George to believe he was lying. He had to be lying. It had to be out of pity and kindness just so he won’t feel bad. “Why on earth would you think it’s because of you?” It was Pierre’s turn to push. 

At a seemingly perfect time, an amount of students started to walk past the halls, idly chatting away to whatever topics George rather would have liked to talk about. A few of them stared at the two of them, looking down right to where their hands met. George let go of PIerre’s hand. Pierre turned and walked away. George was about to walk away too when unexpectedly Pierre’s voice rang.

“Let’s go. Don’t keep me waiting.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere without anyone.”

Frankly, George rather ran away, but he was a bloke who loved to put himself in awkward situations, so he followed Pierre. He kept some distance between them, pretending Pierre had a bubble that if he went too close to him he might pop out with a curse.

They went up a set of stairs. Neither of them have spoken yet. George couldn’t see Pierre’s face, but even if he did, it was still difficult to know what he could be thinking of. His black hair, primed and gelled, couldn’t find a direction to stick, so they fluffed all over the place from behind. It wasn’t what caught his attention, but rather a faded scar at the back of his neck. He wondered where he got that from.

“What gave you the idea that you’re the reason why I’m cancelling our session?” Pierre finally spoke when they were alone. 

“I’m not sure, maybe it’s because you don’t like me?”

Pierre scoffed. “Of course I dislike you. That’s already established for years, but it’s not enough that I wouldn’t meet up with you for the past two weeks at four. If that were the reason, I’d have let McGonagall suspend you.”

George rolled his eyes. “Like that’s supposed to make me feel better.”

“Believe me when I say you haven’t given me any reason to avoid you,” Pierre glanced back, a smirk on his face. “Yet.”

It made George laugh a bit. “Sorry, Vinsey, but it’s a little hard to believe in someone who hasn’t earned my trust just yet.”

“You haven’t earned mine either.”

“Good to see you again, Mr. Malmvinsey!” one of the portraits greeted them. It took George a second to realise that they were in the fifth floor and in the corridor full of paintings that George always gazed at most days of the afternoon. 

“I thought detention was cancelled,” he said. Could he have changed his mind?

“It is,” Pierre answered, leaving George slightly dismayed. Still, he didn’t mind a little visit. He was already starting to miss Bituin.

It can be easily told that Pierre hadn’t been in the classroom for a while. Paint tubes were scattered in no particular order among the shelves, the racks barren with any neat aprons and the easels were placed in no orderly position. The easel that George often saw by the window was kept without a canvas. 

“When was the last time you came here?” George asked. “Please do not let me clean all of this by myself.”

Pierre chuckled. “Since Last Thursday.” He started casting cleaning spells, first starting with the floor spills and scattered brushes. George waved his wand to help.

“Thursday? Are you sure it’s not because of me?”

“As I said before, it isn't. Why do you think so?”

George hummed. He saw Bituin fast asleep on a painting of clouds. “I don’t know, maybe because I’m still being a wicked role model for your brother?”

Pierre snickered. “Oh, I’m furious about it, but it’s not enough for me to blatantly avoid anyone. And I realised,” he sighed. “I think Ed’s alright if he’s with you.”

George fumbled on his wand. “Sorry, I didn't catch that one. What did you say?” he teased.

Pierre scoffed. “Merlin, you’re ridiculous.” He faced him. “I saw you saving him from the first years. And Edvard told me before that you and your twin saved him the first time last Thursday, and well, I haven’t properly thanked you for that yet.”

George smiled. “No need to thank me, Vinsey. Minivinsey’s a wicked kid. You should hang with him sometime.”

Pierre nodded with uncertainty. George continued. 

“So are you still going to keep an eye on me in case Edvard might blow up a bathroom?”

Pierre laughed. Actual laughing. “You’d both end up blowing one together either way. And I have to admit,” a rare smile appeared on his face. “I’m grateful that there’s someone my brother can look up to in his House. Despite the insults I’ve lashed at you, I tolerate your company.”

George couldn’t help but smile back. Unaware that his cheeks were red, he placed a hand on Pierre’s shoulder. Pierre’s eyes glanced at his hand, but he didn’t immediately brush it off like he always did. Just in case, George retracted, and placed both his hands in his pockets. “Merlin, I’m flattered,” he giggled.

An empty canvas caught his eye and an idea lighted its way to his mind, ignoring how risky it could be. He picked up a brush, and dipped it in a random paint bottle.

Pierre stopped what he was doing and raised an eyebrow, but decided to watch. 

He inspected a nearby table lined with carving tools. He took a piece of parchment paper and drew a squiggly line.

“Weasley, what are you doing?”

“Making art.”

“Is it another giant squid?”

“Bloody hell, no.”

Pierre walked closer to him. He casted accio on a chair for George to sit down, who contemplated whether the chair was for him or for Pierre, but seeing as Pierre continued to stand, he nodded a quick ‘thanks’ as he was seated comfortably. He started to draw a bunch of other lines he found difficult, but satisfied to finish. Meanwhile, the Slytherin looming beside him didn’t comment on a single thing and simply watched him puzzle out the pieces of lines. Whether Pierre was mentally judging him as he drew or not, George didn’t bother to ask. Finally, he showed him his masterpiece.

“Tadah!” He praised himself.

Pierre squinted his eyes. “It’s a . . . ?”

“It’s you!”

“I do not look like that.”

“No, not you -you. I mean this is you when you were a cat!” George explained. The “cat” moved awkwardly, its legs walking so stiff and tail wagging unnaturally as if it was a dog instead. He pointed at two semicircles that blinked asynchronously.

“I can’t believe you transfigured me in our duel. It looks like it’s blinking in morse code. H-E-L-P?”

Thank Merlin George’s creation wasn’t sentient. “I drew your eyes perfectly, if I say so myself,” George grinned.

“They’re quite abstract, I’ll give you that,” his fingers rested on the squiggle. “Is this my tail?”

“No, that’s your leg.”

“Pfft.”

George looked at him. “Did you just–”

“No.”

“-laugh?” His eyes were wide.

“I do not know what you are talking about,” Pierre folded his arms.

George let out a dramatic gasp. “How dare you mock my masterpiece!” He lifted the paper high in the air like it was an artefact. “The Queen would hang this up in her throne room.”

Pierre scoffed. “Or hang you.”

“Because my artistic prowess is overqualified,” George reasoned. He focused his eyes once again on the paper and lifted the brush, unaware that he was dipping too much paint on it. 

He was no artist, George admitted. He could barely draw a circle, much less a straight line. He had filled the paper with terribly drawn items, like an owl that looked more like a cat than his own originally drawn cat. 

In a room full of the best paintings from the entirety of wizardry art movements, Pierre was staring at his scrapped doodles on a piece of paper definitely not suited for paint so strong and thick. He didn’t know why he hadn’t stopped him from continuing to waste any more paint. It was unknown why he himself still tried to paint something knowing full well he was just terrible at this sort of thing, but hell, it was bloody fun. He dropped the brush. “The paper’s full and not once have I done a single decent drawing.”

That made Pierre chuckle. “I like the tree.”

“Really? The branches look a little spunky to me.” The tree he drew with the least effort had its branches stick out too horizontally and papery thin compared to the thick trunk he did. It would be the least Pierre would fancy the most. That and the crocodile-chicken.

Pierre smiled. “That’s what makes it art.” He picked up another brush and dipped it in blue, yellow, until it all came to an entirely different colour. In quick light strokes he painted leaves on a few branches of George’s tree. 

“Huh, now it looks more like a tree,” George noted. 

“Would you like to try?” Pierre offered his brush.

George didn’t want to think about why Pierre would suddenly offer to paint a tree with him. He took up the brush from his hands and tried to imitate how Pierre did it, and of course, he did it horribly. Now it looked like a dozen lightning bolts hitting the branches. He decided to keep it at that.

“What are you doing?” Pierre asked, sounding more of pleasant admiralty than typical artistic offence. 

“Getting creative,” George grinned. And his creativity worked. Like fireworks the vibrant green pulsed and moved, inches away from striking the branches before they moved back to their original positions. “Great Merlin,” he marvelled.

“Maybe you do have a talent for art,” Pierre winked.

“Looks like I’m the next prodigy!” George joked.

At first it was only George who drew on the papers, occasionally listening to the genuine comments of the Slytherin still standing beside him. But when George came to a halt, not knowing what to draw next, it was Pierre who continued, bending down to get his right arm a good elevation from the desk, his drawings effortless and unarguably beautiful. It was there George knew this was how artists draw when they’re listening to their hearts. 

They’ve done the same routine for more than a week now. George felt like he was going to meet up for a friend rather than going to detention, and sometimes he wanted to hit himself with a bludger for not realising that he liked art any sooner. 

Well, not enough to pursue it of course. It wasn’t going to be his lifetime passion, but just coming in to see Pierre already sitting on the desk, and he finally notices him come in. They’d sit facing each other, with George slouching and putting his face too close to the paper while Pierre leaned onto his chair, legs crossed and his left eye partly hidden from his bangs as he drew on his own sketchbook. 

Sometimes the classroom was quiet when George was focused on drawing something out, but most of the time he liked to talk and describe what he was drawing, and Pierre actually listened to him ramble. He threw in comments that never ridiculed how bad his doodles were, and at the rarest of times when he really liked one of his drawings, he’d try a “terrible” doodle. Of course, those doodles of his always ended up way better than George’s. 

Pierre didn’t like talking. This was one of the few things George learned from their afternoon meetups, but it wasn’t that hard to know. Most of his replies to his questions and shared thoughts were nods, but one question where for once George knew something more to Pierre than just art.

“Where did your first name come from?” he asked Pierre once, on a rainy afternoon and he tried to draw the window scenery. Pierre helped him sketch out the shape of the window.

“Where did yours come from?”

“Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

Pierre shrugged. “From a magical-muggle artist my mother used to love. Her art was inspired by him–Pierre-Auguste Renoir.”

“Your mother?”

“Yes, I assume you know of her–Kalalacao.”

“Yeah.” He knew, of course. He remembered what Angelina told him earlier in the school year. How Pierre’s mother was an astounding artist and incredibly famous, only he didn’t know of her full extent to her skill. He remembered that she died in a house fire ten years ago. He glanced at Pierre, who only nodded to his reply and continued to draw in his sketchbook without returning a glance. He was only six years old when his mother left him.

“I’m sorry about what happened to her,” George broke the melancholic silence they found themselves in. 

“It’s alright,” was what Pierre claimed, and George hoped he was alright. “It was a long time ago, anyway.” 

They hadn’t talked about his mother since. “So where did your first name come from?”

George found a way to brighten the day. “Oh, from my mom!”

“Pfft.”

“Did you just–”

“I will oscausi you.”

Their daily “detention” extended their time, sometimes they can go long until the evening. George had to take a pause and assure Pierre he’ll be right back, only to reappear with a plate of his favourite meals that he’ll share with Pierre. For added effect, he sneaked in some scones if they were serving. He hadn’t brought up the topic of Pierre’s dismissiveness towards eating, and he intended not to do so anytime soon. It was an insensitive thing he did last Thursday, confronting Pierre so blunt and sudden and pressing on the topic when clearly Pierre was uncomfortable. That was why he tried not to bring the topic up, and instead this subtlety was his best approach for now.

The first few nights Pierre only ate the scones (George learned his favourite were the blueberry lemon flavoured), but eventually he started eating off of George’s plate. George didn’t mind sharing, he already ate more than enough every lunch.

There were a few other things George learned about Pierre without having to ask. Just from watching him, he learned that Pierre had the habit of putting brushes and pencils on his right ear. He even tucked a charcoal pencil once, and that left a strikingly dark smudge on his temple that George had to wipe off. He found out he was right handed, he would purse his lips every time he paused on a drawing to think, and a fact George found impressive was that he could describe any colour. The Hogwarts doors were umber brown, the canvases were a creamy off-white, Dumbledore’s robes were a gainsboro grey, and the Gryffindor tie was a striking maroon.

“Is there anything you can’t tell the colour of?” George asked after being impressed by his keen sense to detail.

“There is one,” Pierre replied rather secretively.

“And that is?”

“Foolish of you to assume I’ll tell you,” Pierre said as he went back to drawing, averting his gaze.

“Come on, why not?” George asked. 

Pierre buried his head in his sketchbook. “Secret, obviously.”

“It’s just a small thing, come on, tell me, tell me,” George bantered. He got up from his chair, his hands on the desk they shared. He repeated his words over again, asking Pierre to tell him his small secret that he grew so curious of, for what reason could it be kept a secret? Pierre continued to bury his face under the sketchbook, refusing to tell him over and over again. His arms were still thin, making George come to the decision he should sneak out a lot of meat when dinner came.

“Please? I’ll buy you a butterbeer if I see you in Hogsmeade again,” George offered, lifting the sketchbook off his face. At last, their eyes finally met.

“Tempting, but the answer’s still no. What’s got you so worked up on my secret? It’s nothing special.”

“If it’s nothing special, then why are you keeping it a secret?” George countered. 

“Curious, aren’t you?” Pierre raised a brow. Finally, he took a soft sigh. “I’ll tell you when we visit Hogsmeade again.”

That was enough for George to be satisfied. He smiled. “Alright, want to go tomorrow?” he invited rather excitedly.

It earned a soft smirk from Pierre. “I’ll take a raincheck. I’m busy tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? But that’s a bloody Saturday, maybe you can find time?”

“Professor Snape asked me to head to Professor Dumbledore’s office after lunch to discuss my involvement in the Triwizard Tournament.”

“Involvement? You’re going to be part of the Tournament?”

“Bloody hell, I’m not competing. I think more like one of the wizards working behind the scenes.”

“Aw, but at least you play a role in the Tournament. Guess we’ll meet next Monday.”

Pierre chuckled. “That’s a nice joke.”

George raised a brow. “What joke? We’ve been meeting consistently now, I’m starting to like your company.”

“And how many days have we met?”

“Two weeks, I think. I can’t do maths.”

Pierre sighed. “Did you seriously not know?”

“What do I not know?”

Pierre nudged his head on a calendar at the wall. They’ve already finished the first week of October. George was in shock to be honest. He didn’t even know September had already ended. Wait, then that would mean . . .

“I’m finally done with detention?!”

“Now you get it.”

George’s mouth started to grow a smile. He straightened himself, as if an imaginary weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “So this is the last day? I’m finally free?”

“Yes.” Pierre nodded, seeming amused by his excitement.

“YES!” he cheered. Finally, after weeks of trudging up those stairs and holding back sneezes from dusting portraits, he can get back to his usual late afternoon misfits with his brother and friends. And what’s great, he can witness the Goblet of Fire next week, and by luck, his name or Fred’s might be chosen. Along with his blissful happiness, he heard the joyful twitters of Bituin, flying across paintings to congratulate George’s end of academic punishment. Now that it was over, he didn’t have to visit the art classroom anymore. No more stairs, no more acrylic solitude with the noisy paintings out in the halls, and no more drawing with Pierre.

That last part, for some reason, made him lose his smile, and Pierre noticed. “You must be very happy you’re finally rid of me,” he pointed out, a reassuring smirk on his face.

Forcing out a smile, George gazed at him. “I don’t know, I was starting to get used to a relatively short Slytherin artist.”

“Don’t call me short. You’re just taller than most students,” Pierre snickered.

“But I have to admit,” George continued. “I did have some fond memories of your company the past month.” He wasn’t going to listen to the lump in his throat telling him that he was going to miss spending time in the art classroom with him. 

The other didn’t say anything at first. He stared blankly in his mysterious little thoughts at the sketchbook, until finally he nodded. “I feel the same.”

That answer failed to stop a smile growing across George’s face. 

The weekend flew by rather slowly and rigidly. What he hated about weekends was he could never interact with Pierre at all. He was always surrounded with his Slytherin friends, too inside that circle for George to put in a greeting. He tried talking to him in Astronomy that Saturday, only to be bombarded with flying bats when Fred tried to defend himself from another one of Miles’ curses. The two of them had to clean every orrery that midnight. 

He tried to celebrate freedom from detention, but the most he could recall was spending his time in the library reading off of art books. He learned of Michelangelo, Vermeer, Monet, and other famous magical painters who achieved high status in the Muggle world, but were wizards themselves. It could be that the muggles were bound to find any type of art eventually, but even so, these artists were great at keeping their lineage a secret. He checked out a few books and decided to read them off in the Common Room, and that’s what he spent his weekend with. Under books of vibrant and chilling colours.

Like always, George was the last to turn in the night, and Fred didn’t even bother to wait for him. “Get some sleep, George. You’ve been looking at picture books–”

“Art books!”

“Whateverrr,” Fred groaned. 

George was sure to be in touch with reality, but this time he was willing to be lost for a little while.

“Later, throw your blanket in my bed.”

Fred snickered. “Aguamenti,” he casted on an empty glass. “Drink some water. You look as dry as mom’s lettuce.”

“I’m telling mom you said that,” George shot back.

Fred stuck out his tongue as he went up the stairs, leaving George alone in the common room. 

An hour had passed. The moon shone brightly, its light past the tower windows and contrasting the lit chandelier and orange fires from the fireplace. The clock ticked a quarter past ten. 

Pierre-Auguste Renoir.

He skimmed through Renoir’s biography. 

A french painter in the late 19th century, his eye for beauty celebrated him as a colorist with a keen eye for capturing movement of light and shadow, and the first to perceive the potential limitations of an art based primarily on optical sensation and light effects.

George had no idea what that meant but it sounded impressive, therefore he too was impressed. Like every magical and “muggle” painter, Renoir had the ability to conjure his paintings to move. He duplicated his moving paintings into decoys that were still and unmoving, captured in one single frame for the muggles to praise while those that moved were for the wizards.

George flipped through the pages of the painter’s artbook. They were just as impressive as he anticipated, and he could see why his art was fairly idolised by Impressionists. He learned that Impressionism was a sort of art movement from 19th century France that focused on capturing a feeling or experience. Looking at Renoir’s paintings, he noticed a few similarities between Renoir and Vinsey’s art styles, but not entirely.

His painting entitled ‘The Umbrellas’ reminded him of that half-finished painting he saw Pierre do about a rainy day in London, except Pierre’s was more duller than his other paintings, closely resembling the Symbolism movement. He flipped through other pages; La Grenouillere, Luncheon at the Boating Party, Two Sisters. Finally, at the end of the artbook was probably Renoir’s best. 

Bal du Le moulin de la Galette.

It was his magnum-opus, the book described. 

Bal du Le moulin de la Galette is one of Impressionism’s most celebrated masterpieces and has been described as “the most beautiful painting of the 19th century”.

He closed the book. So that was who Pierre was named after. From a man who delved into the moment, the experience of what was present and to paint it as timeless. He wondered if Pierre thought like that too.

He proceeded to the next artbook he borrowed: Kalalacao: Into the Eyes of the Evening Painter . 

Haliya Kalalacao’s artbook was the easiest to find, extremely in contrast to Pierre’s own artbook, which he scourged through every categorised shelf only to find out that his artbook was already borrowed by someone else who the librarian wouldn’t disclose for privacy reasons. It didn’t bother him, he can always just wait for it to be checked in. Second only to Pierre, it was his mother’s artbook he anticipated the most.

Since the age of six Kalalacao has been producing a variety of articulate works that gained global sensation. In her early teenage years her art gained traction from the East and eventually studied at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, placed in House Slytherin.

George paused. He didn’t know she was a Slytherin too. His eyes flicked from the description and to her self portrait, questioning whether it was possible for Slytherin to produce someone with eyes that can rival Renoir’s “most beautiful painting of the 19th century”. Her strikingly desert brown eyes were identical to Pierre’s.

It was this artbook that he fully indulged himself in, slowly reading the lines, biography and descriptions of her paintings. Her quick light strokes and vibrant colours were similar to that of Renoir's, giving George the belief that she took heavy inspiration from him, yet what made hers so unique was the lightened feel to it all. Just staring at her paintings was enough to know that this; this was joy. Happiness. All her paintings had something to do with happiness, even those with grim titles. 

He can easily think of meanings that contradict the descriptions of her paintings. The descriptions of her paintings just missed the mark of what he believed they meant. If Pierre was here, he’d argue that all art is subjective and open to any opinion, and George agrees. He respects all opinions, even the wrong ones. 

Tidal Winds , one of her early works, was falsely described as an art about sudden tragedies in the near future mostly due to the amount of people that did “surprisingly random” actions when they walked by it. George found it hilarious–probably one of his favourite pieces of art now. This wasn’t about sudden tragedies, it was about unexpected outcomes in your day, nothing too vain at all. Technically, no one has died when they walked past it.

That wasn’t all he wanted to correct. The orchids weren’t flowers of death, but rather they just wanted to see if the gardener had enough to drink in Towering Gardens . Whispers in the Winds told secrets rather than betrayals to the man. 

He’s been criticising the artbook all night. Not Kalalacao’s paintings, of course–all of them were masterpieces, but the symbolisms journalists and critics claimed them to have. They could be right and George could entirely be wrong, but Kalalacao never described her artworks like how other wizards did. All she said in many of her recorded interviews was that she wanted to draw things she found pretty, and George simply respected the grind.

He found the page of Soar Unto Solace and found a familiar magpie soaring across the open stars. So Bituin was one of Kalalacao's creations. It must be why the little bird was so fond of him; she saw her creator in Pierre. 

On this night he learned that the most important things in books were at the last page. My First Love in Late Spring , her very last work, completed only a week before her death. On the page it showed a portrait of what looked to be a masculine individual, dawned in dark colors from collar to waist. It would have been a normal painting if it wasn’t for the identity of the person.

There was no identity at all. Where the face was supposed to be was instead a mix of complicated strokes of paint from varied colours, some blending into each other and many posed striking and matted. The artbook wrote that this was the only portrait of Kalalacao’s that didn’t move. 

This portrait is strictly prohibited from the public eye due to its magical side effects on the mentality of viewers, and therefore resides in the Malmvinsey Manor away from the public eye. Critics believe it was a painting of–directly to its title–it was a portrait of Macario Malmvinsey, her husband. Others say that the figure could be someone else other than her husband, but rather an old lover gone, and various theories suggested a number of potential wizards who could have been her first suitor.

George had nothing to say. He couldn’t make out anything else except for the theories, which, for once he agreed to. He pressed his palm on the painting, feeling the texture of the page as if it was the canvas itself.

He took out the chocolate frog card collectable he got on the train. Haliya Kalalacao’s card figure was absent; perfectly normal for collectibles to disappear. He tucked the card in the middle of the art book.

He went up to his room, holding her artbook like it was a secret left in his palms. He’ll be keeping it for a little while.

Monday. Second week of October. George’s first weekday without detention in the art classroom. He and Fred celebrated this through charming every pancake to jump on people’s faces at breakfast. 

“Durmstrang and Beauxbatons will be arriving today,” Lee reminded the twins. “Angelina and the girls in our year are talking all about Viktor Krum.”

“The girls can talk about the Durmstrang boys, but me and George here are gonna admire the Durmstrang girls!” Fred joked.

“I think your brother’s more interested in Slytherins,” Lee teased.

Caught off guard, George turned, his eyes widened from that remark but careful not to give anything off from his face. “You guys have been playing that joke for a month now, I’m starting to be unaffected,” he smirked.

"George is never going to fall for a cad like Malmvinsey," Fred claimed. George can only nod at that. 

It's been almost three days since he and Pierre talked to each other. The closest contact they'd had so far was George attempting to greet him with a smile in D.A.D.A today, only to have Pierre's back turned the moment Moody walked in. Looking back at it, something was off about him this afternoon. It’s true that he was always the reserved type, the student who always listened attentively in class, but George noticed that he seemed more . . . attentive? His brown eyes darted a little frantically whenever the professor moved as if he was watching him close. Really, though, it could just be a play in George’s creative mind. 

His friends’ plans to spend the rest of the afternoon was just to prank call muggles on the radio rather than their fellow students, since Professor Mcgonagall strictly told them not to pull any pranks for the day unless they wanted to spend their night in the moat if they ever sent a Beauxbaton flying to a chandelier.

As they reached the fifth floor via the moving staircases, George separated himself from the group. He wanted to see Pierre again. He never really got to thank him for the company, and besides, his offer to Hogsmeade was still open. 

“But detention is over, you should celebrate with us!” Fred complained.

“I’m just going to drop by and check on Vinsey,” George reassured. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Before Fred could object any further, George had already bolted for the West Wing. It was just when he walked past the corridor of a thousand paintings when he began having second thoughts. Just why did he want to see Pierre in the first place? Yes, he had a great time with him on some occasions but there were nowhere near enough for him to assume they were anything special. They weren’t even friends. Or were they? He didn’t know. He liked to believe he was going for mere curiosity. 

He stopped walking. With hands on his red hair, he let out a loud groan. The paintings around him looked at him questionably, but he ignored them. 

Alright. He’ll visit the art classroom once and that’s it. After this, he’ll go back to his separate life pranking Slytherins in his year as he and Fred always did, and Pierre will just be one of them. After this, they’ll go back to the way they used to be–in their own separate circles.

He opened the door. The room was quiet, and everything had its own place. The easels arranged neatly and not a spill on the floor in sight. He figured Pierre must have been back to painting after detention was over. 

Propped up next to the glass window was a canvas draped in a pale translucent cloth. It was the only canvas hidden and unseen. Curiosity failed to kill the cat, and George removed the cloth.

A lot of birds. White doves in particular. A swarm of them flying in a solid blue background, overlapping each other so much so at the centre. Harsh light strikes the doves the brightest white and leaves their other half in bold shadows. If George looked hard enough, the shadows looked like they were forming a humane figure. 

It was obviously Pierre’s style, but his strokes were harsher and more chaotic than what George ever saw. He trailed his fingers on the outline of the shadows. Could it just be a trick in his gut or could it be that–

“Weasley?”

He turned. Standing at the door was Pierre, his face a mixture of confusion and surprise. “I’ve told you that your detention is over, right?”

George blinked. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Lovely day, Vinsey. I figured I’d stop by and you know–” he scratched his head, “see how you’re doing. Wicked painting, by the way.”

Pierre stepped forward, finally noticing his unveiled painting. Judging by the frown on his face, he was not happy to see him. “You’re not supposed to see that.”

Something was wrong. Pierre didn’t even care if anyone saw his paintings. “Is it not finished yet?”

“It doesn’t matter to you, so why don’t you just get out?” Pierre snapped.

There was really something wrong. As much as George wanted to tease him for being shy, he doubted that was actually the reason. Pierre was everything but shy.

“So what if it doesn’t matter? I thought I’m free to see what you paint,” George said, frowning as well. He hated tolerating the attitudes of Slytherins.

Pierre glared. “Anyone’s free to see what I paint, just not this one.”

Hearing them bicker, Bituin flapped her wings nervously. The magpie flew across paintings and entered Pierre’s painting of shadowed still doves and flying across a blank dull sky.

That’s when it hit George.

“Why aren’t the doves moving?”

Chapter Text

“Why aren’t the doves moving?”

Pierre pursed his lips, pretending to look at the window instead. “What doves?” 

George shook his head at Pierre’s poor attempt of playing dumb. “Your doves!” he gestured at Pierre’s painting. “They’re not moving. Your painting isn’t moving.”

“Does it have to move?” Pierre asked a little too quickly. 

“No, but your paintings always move!”

“Oh, then this is the first time it’s not,” Pierre charmed the cloth to cover up the painting.

“Hold on–HEY!” George tried to intervene by removing the cloth, but he felt an invisible tug on his robes, pulling him back. 

“You may leave now, thank you for stopping by,” Pierre said, ignoring George’s persistence. 

“Vinsey, is there something–ow!” George’s butt hit an easel. “There’s something wrong with the painting, isn’t it?”

“None of your business,” Pierre dismissed.

George was tugged out of the art classroom. Quickly he regained himself and in the nick of time he placed his foot inside just before the door was going to smash shut. Of course, receiving impact on all of your toes even with closed shoes can still make you shriek like a banshee. 

“AHH!” He groaned in pain, blinking back tears but despite that, his foot remained at the door. The reaction made Pierre flinch and open the door a little. Seizing the opportunity, George grabbed hold of the door and pushed it wide open. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

Pierre gave up using his wand to throw him out of the classroom, so instead he pushed the door back. “I don’t have to tell you that.”

George didn’t understand why he was being so avoidant. “Vinsey,” he said, trying to get through to him. “Is there something wrong?”

Pierre didn’t meet his eyes. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said sternly. “So if you’re satisfied, then you may leave. I don’t need your company.”

That last bit stung a little. George didn’t listen. They held the door firmly, neither of them turning away. He was hiding something, he knew it, and he doubted anyone else knew what it was.

He let go, and the door slammed shut. George didn’t leave. He only stood outside the classroom, in front of a door splattered in dry paint, clutching on the rusted knob. On the other side, Pierre was alone and dealing with whatever that problem was by himself in solitude. In solace. George took a deep breath. “Listen, Vinsey. I know I’m the last person you’d talk to about whatever’s going on with you, but please know that I–that you can tell me what’s troubling you.”

He was mad, he was certain. Only Merlin knew if Pierre listened, much less even heard him. A few seconds passed, and then a minute or two. Hell, he could have completely ignored him and went back to painting. He was starting to regret coming back. Detention was over, and that’s the end of their acquaintance with each other. He turned around.

He heard the door open, and he turned back to see Pierre standing at the doorway, his face unreadable but his eyes glinted with contemplation. He sighed, and nudged his head to gesture to George to come in.

George smiled, not expecting the other to return one. The painting wasn’t covered anymore, and was instead moved to the centre and away from the materials. George sat down at the same table he and Pierre used to sit when they spent their afternoons doodling last week. 

Pierre continued to stand, his arms crossed. “You’re quite persistent, aren’t you?”

A smug look dawned across George’s face. “I am a pretty convincing bloke. Mind telling me what’s going on with that over there?” He pointed at the painting at the centre.

Pierre sighed. “You’re right. Nothing is moving at all.”

“Is it intentional?”

“No,” he shook his head, his bangs nearly covering both his eyes. “All my paintings are supposed to move–just as you said.”

“Is that why you haven’t been painting the past weeks?”

He nodded. “I’ve tried to paint a full picture a few times, but nothing. No signs of movement or of life in the canvas. This one in particular is no different.” He raised his wand in the direction of the painting.

George slowly stood up. “What are you doing right now?”

“I’m burning it,” he replied calmly.

“What the bloody hell?! No!” George exclaimed as he trudged towards him and grabbed his arm, lowering down the wand. 

Pierre didn’t struggle, but he seemed annoyed. “What’s gotten into you?”

“What’s gotten into you ?! Burning a painting you worked hard for? Are you mad?” George scolded. He was starting to sound like Angelina, but he didn’t care. Pierre had to be mental to just start burning things on a whim. 

Pierre rolled his eyes. “This is my art, I can do anything I want with it. Besides, this has no use for me anyway. No one wants a painting that can’t move itself.”

“That logic’s pure stupidity,” George argued, but he recoiled once he realised he was calling Pierre dumb. To be fair, he was acting kind of a dumbass in this situation. Pierre was taken aback by what he said, but he let George continue. “So what if nobody wants it? Art’s not supposed to be for others; it’s for you.”

“How would you know about art?” Pierre sneered.

“I know art’s what you love. And if you’re going to burn it for the sake of others, then you’ll have nothing left to love,” he reasoned. 

The room was quiet. Bituin had already retreated and flew off to the other paintings in the halls to give them privacy. Some portraits craned their heads to listen in, and Pierre glared at them before casting a spell that shut the door. 

He looked at the painting, and then at George. He sighed as he returned his wand back in his pocket. “Fine,” he agreed. “I’ll hang it up on the wall later if that’ll get you to stop yammering about it.”

George nodded. “Okay,” he said. Finally, he let go of his arm. “Let’s get back on the topic. Do you have any idea what could be the cause of this? Another one of your art blocks? This might be normal for an artist–I’ve read that some magical artists didn’t have their paintings move.”

Pierre raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you read about magical artists–”

“That’s not the main topic,” George cut him off. “What I mean is that maybe this is only temporary and eventually they’ll move.”

“First of all, any wizard can make a scribble move no matter how terrible they are in drawing. A more powerful and talented wizard can bring paintings to life. Second, these artists you read of duplicated their paintings to create a decoy that can stay still so the muggles don’t expect anything. And third," his hands were on his hips. "I already know why my paintings aren't moving."

"You do? What could be the reason?"

"It's a long story."

George sat back down as he propped up another chair for Pierre to sit across. "I like stories," he grinned.

"Fine," Pierre nodded as he sat on the spare chair, his legs crossed and arms folded. "To start, I thought this problem I've been dealing with started in the second week of our detention, but looking back this may have started to develop itself in the first week."

George winced. "That long?"

"Yes. Remember the painting I made about a rainy day in London?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"That was my last attempt at finishing a painting that couldn't move. I've tried a few times before, painting whatever idea popped in my mind but everything had the same result: they all failed to move."

"And where are these paintings now?"

Pierre coughed. "I burned them." That was enough for George to give him a concerned look. 

"Bloody hell, Vinsey, you're a pyromaniac."

He threw his arms up in defence. "Nobody's going to admire those kinds of paintings."

I would, George wanted to say. Yet he couldn't find the courage to say that out loud. Just the words themselves were weird enough. "But your mother made one that didn't move, and people admired it," he added without thinking. 

He regretted saying that. He saw Pierre hang his head low. Obviously he knew what painting George was talking about, and he doubted he had any great memories related to it. "That's different. It might be intentional."

" Might be ?"

"She never told anyone its meaning. She never talked about the meanings of her paintings." He was right. All the descriptions in her artbooks were only theories of critics.

A disturbing theory came to George's mind. "Vinsey, it was her last painting, right?"

"Yes, wasn't that discussed in History of Magic last year?" 

He ignored that remark. "And just after it, she . . ." he didn't dare finish that sentence, but Pierre knew what he was thinking.

"Not possible," he spat.

"It might be connected with what's happening to your art. You take Divination too, right? This might be an omen!" George explained rather worriedly. 

"It isn't an omen," he quickly interrupted. "She painted one, and only one, and she died. I've painted four, including today, and I'm still alive." He said that so casually, it gave George chills at how he was talking about his mother’s death so casually. 

He felt guilty for ever thinking that way. “Right,” he apologised. “I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter. Moving on, I believe in a more logical theory,” he grabbed a piece of paper and pencil and started sketching something. He always drew fast, like he was running out of time. Barely a minute passed and he already drew what looked to be a fancy paintbrush. “This is the Umbrella brush,” he called it. “It’s what I always used to paint ever since I can pick up a quill.”

On paper, the brush was still, yet it didn’t need to move to show its elegance. The handle was dark with intricate designs that looked like petals. A beautiful brush suited for a . . . beautiful painter. “Wickedly pretty,” he complimented.

He noticed Pierre’s cheeks tinge with a slight pink, but he didn’t dare tease. “It was my mother’s,” he said. “And I’ve used it ever since she . . . passed.” 

The atmosphere in the room was thick with a territory George was at the edge to enter. He wanted to ask more of what happened during the fire incident in their home, but he didn’t want Pierre to dwell on it.

Pierre continued. “And on the first saturday of September, someone hit me with a bludger while I was using it–”

“Accidentally,” George reminded.

“And by the time I returned here, it was gone. I searched everywhere but it’s nowhere to be found. Coincidentally, my abilities to make my art move the way it should started to fade until the canvas was just shrivelled and barren with none of my magic.”

“So you’re saying that your mom’s brush is what brings your paintings to life?”

“Precisely, and the sooner I find it, I can get back to painting as I did before.”

His assumptions technically made a lot of sense, but could a brush truly ignite life into anything it paints? He remembered the words he skimmed through on the artbooks he read yesterday. He recalled Michelangelo holding onto a chisel for 30 years, and Van Gogh keeping the same consistent easel. Other magical artists had materials they’ve been using their whole life, so Pierre’s theory was likely true. 

“You have a small itty bitty point, but,” George lifted a finger, “if that’s how wizard art works, then shouldn’t my shitty scribbles not move? I was just using whatever brush was nearest to my left hand.”

“The brushes here are different. They don’t have the special properties assessed in the Umbrella brush. When my mother used it, her paintings were magic itself; capable of conjuring effects on a person. Sort of like drinking a potion, but only having to look at the portraits she had drawn,” Pierre explained, and then he said something George never thought he’d say to him. “And for the record, I find your sketches charming.”

“Oh,” George gave up. He let the blood rise in his cheeks. “Yes, yes, my artistic abilities are to die for.”

Pierre rolled his eyes. “To sum it up, that brush is what causes my paintings to live , and I need to find it before the end of the Triwizard Tournament.”

“Why does it have to be before the end of the Triwizard?”

“Remember when I had to decline your offer to Hogsmeade because Dumbledore wanted to have a word with me? It’s because I’ll be painting the winner for this year’s Triwizard.”

George softly clapped in admiration. “Merlin, that’s a wicked prize! Now I’d definitely throw my name in the goblet,” he smiled.

“Aren’t you only sixteen?” Pierre scoffed. 

“That’s true, I hate being an April baby!” George wailed dramatically. “But Fred and I have a plan. You see, we sneaked into the Potions classroom in the first week–almost got caught in the act but we escaped–and tomorrow, my brother and I will make an ageing potion to turn ourselves a year older.” He only realised what he just revealed by the time he finished talking. He clamped his own mouth shut, praying that Pierre wouldn’t read between the lines.

His prayers were not answered. Pierre narrowed his eyes. “Potions classroom . . . is that why I saw you and Edvard running out of the dungeons?” His mouth twisted into a frown and his eyes went dark like he was about to curse George at any minute. 

George laughed nervously. “No?”

“You hassled my brother into breaking school rules?!” Pierre scowled. “Do you have any idea of the punishments he could have had if the both of you were caught?!” He put his hands on his hair, brushing his bangs out of the way. 

“Everyone’s had detention at one point, and besides the punishments aren’t that harsh anymore. Hell, I bleeded your head dry and the worst I could have gotten was a month-long suspension,” George reassured. He didn’t understand why Pierre was so wary about the issue. Not his fault he wasn’t as academically stressed as he.

“Morgana, I can’t deal with you,” Pierre rubbed his temple. “I know for a fact you’re never up to anything quiet, but if you’re bringing Ed along, then make sure he doesn’t get hurt. Otherwise,” he lifted his wand. “I’ll give you a reason to study harder in Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

George pouted. “I doubt that. You wouldn’t do anything to ruin my face. You stared at me a lot when we were only drawing last week.”

Pierre scoffed. “The light’s been tricking your eyes,” he looked straight at George, into his blue eyes. George wondered what shade of blue his own eyes were. “I’m asking you this as a brother. If there comes a time where I am absent, will you take care of Edvard?”

Silence. Neither paid no mind to the landscapes around them, only to each other. “I will,” George promised. 

Pierre didn’t say anything else related to that. He took a deep breath, and went to the original topic. “So yes. If I can’t find the brush before the end of Triwizard, then my career as an artist won’t last long.”

What he didn’t really get were the mechanics of the brush. It was known that items with special magical properties exist, like flying brooms and exploding cards, but a single brush capable of creating life? That wasn’t something you see everyday in the world of magic.

But what he did understand was Pierre’s feelings. He understood that the brush was at a high level of significance within his life, and losing it would be like losing meaning. After all, it was his mom’s brush. “I don’t really get how great that umbrella brush is, but if it’s what makes you get back to spitting out masterpieces every hour, then I’ll help you find it,” he offered.

Pierre was fast to hesitate. “I was only explaining my situation, I’m not asking for any help. I can find it on my own.”

“You’re a smart bloke, but it’s better having an extra pair of eyes,” George insisted. “See this as my apology for being an indirect cause of you losing it.”

Pierre thought about it, and finally he accepted. “Alright, but you must know that I’ve searched everywhere in school, but nothing. Accio isn’t working either.”

“What about Filch’s office? Filch always finds all sorts of things in the school. I stole a map in there once,” he suggested.

“Why did you steal a map of all things?” Pierre scrunched up his nose.

“Long story.”

Pierre sighed. “Nevermind, I don’t need to know. I’ll ask Filch if it’s okay to take a look tomorrow.”

George’s eyes sparked. “I’m coming too. It’ll be nice to pay old Filch a visit,” he joked, already having a prank all fleshed out in his mind, but Pierre was not amused.

“Don’t do anything that’ll get you another month of detention,” he warned. “I’m already seeing you almost everyday, I’m not sure if I can take another day with your face.”

“You have been talking about my face recently, I’m starting to think you like looking at it,” George pointed out, and he had no regrets in doing so even when he earned himself a small surge of water splashed on his face by Pierre’s aguamenti.

And then, a chorus of awe rang from outside. George looked out the window and saw a fancy light blue carriage pulled by a dozen winged horses. “They’re here!” he exclaimed. He stood up from the desk and skipped towards the open window. “Pierre, look! Beauxbatons have already arrived!” he urged.

He grabbed Pierre by the hand despite the latter’s startled expression, and guided him to the window to admire the view. “Wait,” he objected, pulling his hand out. “The window here doesn’t have the best view. We’re too far from the lake.”

George thought and thought, recalling the best places to go sightseeing in the castle. “There’s the open balcony near the Gryffindor tower. Do you want to come with me?” This time, he offered out his hand, waiting for Pierre to take it. 

The other hesitated, and George believed it might be because he preferred to be stuck here in this classroom alone with the canvas. A worse thought he had in his mind would be that he’d burn the painting the minute he left, and that was something George didn’t want him to do. It was self-destructive, and George only supports destruction unto others rather than yourself.

So when Pierre finally accepted, he took him by the hand and left, running down the hall to see the arrival of the other schools better. Silently, George thanked Pierre for leaving his artistic confinements. He was aware it was what comforted him, but too much comfort never lets you see what else can be worth it. Besides, Pierre was already stressing out over his talent, so why not take a break from thinking about it?

George held his hand firm and took the lead to navigate their way through the hall along with other excited students who also had the same location in mind. Occasionally he looked back to see if Pierre was doing alright or if he was catching up. When he looked tense, George simply slowed his pace and grinned at him. “You’ll love the view from here. You can see the Great Lake the closest, too,” he reassured. 

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Pierre smirked. 

The corridor was already packed by the time they got to the open corridor. “Shit,” George cursed. “You don’t mind crowds, right?”

Pierre shrugged. “Hogwarts is always crowded.”

Since Pierre was still alright with going, George guided the way into the crowd, passing through small openings and excusing themselves so other students could let them pass. He spotted an identical patch of red hair leaning on one of the vertical slabs of stone with Lee, Angelina, Katie, and Alicia. His eyes brightened when he saw them. “Vinsey, let’s watch over where my brother’s at,” he suggested.

Glancing, Pierre nodded. For a small guy, he was nimble and agile, easily slipping past the rumbling students coming and going. He didn’t hold George’s hand in return, but he didn’t pull away. 

Together they found their way past the excitement, and when Fred noticed them, he gave George a nodding smile. “I’ll just drop by, he says,” he said sarcastically.

“Be back in a minute, he says,” Lee chorused.

Jokingly George punched the both of them at their sides. “Hey, at least I’m in time to see the other schools.”

Fred looked behind him, and his eyes darkened. “Why is he here?”

“I have a name, Weasley,” Pierre sneered.

Seeing the tension starting to grow between the two, George placed himself between them. “We came to get a better look.”

“Right,” Fred said, uninterested. He was busy entertaining Angelina, who watched beside him and greeted George and Pierre.

“Angelina Johnson. It’s great to finally talk to you. The girls and I are big fans of you and your work,” she winked as she shook Pierre’s hand.

“I love your style!” Alicia praised.

“Thank you,” Pierre smiled kindly. George felt a little at ease. At least the girls tolerated him. 

“You and George seem well-acquainted. I take it you two must have been somewhere else before you guys came here?” Angelina asked keenly, her dark eyes glancing back between the two.

“Angelina!” George’s ears started to turn bright pink. Their relationship was definitely not what she was thinking. Absolutely nothing like that.

Pierre was absolutely oblivious to the hidden meanings of her statement. “I do happen to see him more often. We just came from the art classroom,” he answered in a literal sense, but Angelina assumed it to be something not so platonic. “He dragged me here, actually.”

“I can see that,” Angelina smirked, glancing at George’s hand which was still holding onto Pierre’s.

Noticing this, George let go. “Look, the horses are flying closer!” he pointed out, trying to change the subject before Angelina could point out his face going as red as his hair.

The carriage flew closer to the castle. Angelina and Alicia, who were chatting away with Pierre, had turned their attention back to the Beauxbaton carriage and marvelled at the elegant horses. This made Fred stop giving constant jealous eye rolls at Pierre, and focused on trying to catch the horses’ attention with Lee. He leaned forward, peering above the clouded and sunset skies and admiring the winged horse-drawn carriage that swooped above them. Behind him, Pierre could barely see the carriage from the towering students. His excitement was disheartened a bit. He wanted Pierre to see the horses too.

“Vinsey, take my spot,” he suggested, one hand leaving the hand rail and moving to Pierre’s back. 

Pierre hesitated, his brown eyes shifting warily. “The rails are a little low.”

“They seem fine to me,” George said. And then it hit him. A cheeky grin crept up to his face. “Vinsey, are you afraid of heights?”

“No,” Pierre scoffed, looking anywhere but at him. “What gave you that idea?”

“A number of things actually. Your cosy chair in the World Cup, the giant squid incident, clinging onto me when you realised you were sitting by the stone handrail after our duel, refusing to look through the art classroom’s window, and more recently,” he gestured towards himself. 

Pierre sneered. “I am not afraid of heights,” he claimed, and stubbornly accepted George’s spot, making the redhead snicker. 

Once he propped himself up, immediately he looked down. “Shit,” his eyes widened in fear, and he stumbled. 

On instinct George caught him by the stomach, pressing him firmly back. “Hold onto the rails,” he advised, making his way to Pierre’s right palm, holding it gently and placing both their hands on the marble railing. He felt the pulse on his wrist beating fast. “I got you,” he assured, his other hand around Pierre’s waist and holding him secure.

Pierre leaned back slightly onto George’s sweater, and George could feel his heart rate beat calmer, in contrast to his own heart rate beating fast. He was thankful  Pierre couldn’t see his flushed face. He tried his best to stay calm as well. This was totally normal. Holding an acquaintance around their waist is normal. Nothing weird. Letting your hand rest on their hand is normal as well. Definitely normal.

He pointed up at the sky. “Try looking up rather than down there,” he advised. Pierre did so, and together they watched in awe of the winged horses flying across the skies. At one point they flew too close to the open corridor, causing everyone to step back in surprise. George slightly stepped back in reaction, but he noticed Pierre didn’t even flinch. His eyes followed the horses, a faint smile visible on his face. Apparently he was more afraid of heights rather than the dangerously close horses suddenly swooping past them.

"Weasley, the Durmstrangs have arrived too," he pointed out, a spark in his eye. With his hand still holding onto the shorter boy's waist, George leaned forward and gazed down at the Great Lake. 

"Bloody wicked!" he exclaimed when he caught sight of a huge dark ship rising above the waters. The students all cheered at the arrival of the ship and carriage. George overhead debate over which school had the best entrance, to which Fred loudly proclaimed Hogwarts was still the best despite everything.

Soon the carriage landed on the school grounds and the ship was docked near the boathouse. Professor Mcgonagall’s announcement rang across the entire school, ordering the students to gather in the Great Hall to welcome the schools. 

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” George laughed in the passing thrill.

“Yeah, it was,” Pierre agreed, and when he turned his head it caught George by surprise at how close their faces were. Slightly Pierre’s nose brushed his cheek, and when the smaller boy realised, he recoiled. George did as well, abruptly standing straighter and removing his arms away from Pierre. 

He cleared his throat. “We should go. Let’s see if the students live up to the way their ride is,” he humoured. He looked away, at anything that can turn his face so Pierre wouldn’t see him go red.

The Great Hall was already crowded when they entered. The ceiling was under an atmospheric spell that showed a dark sky heavily patched with clouds. At least the weather was better than the thunderstorm in the Welcome Feast. Rather than candles, brightly lit orange pumpkins illuminated the hall. 

They parted ways with each other, idly sparing an exchange of subtle waving. Though they separated, George couldn’t stop observing Pierre, who at the moment he took a seat, his friends all turned their attention to him, interrogating him and wondering where he had been. Pierre said something that George couldn’t make out the words, and they all went quiet. And then they glanced–more like glared–at George.

George averted his gaze and pretended he didn’t notice. When he sat down though, he too was bombarded with questions. "I saw you and Malmvinsey holding hands together in the corridor," Angelina spoke first. 

"They looked like they were hugging," Katie corrected.

"Explain yourself, George!" Lee interrogated.

The gossip was starting to annoy George a bit. "Crikey, it's nothing like what you're all thinking. The corridor was tightly packed, so obviously I had to squeeze myself in the crowd," he explained, which was partly true. He left out the small detail of him helping Pierre sustain himself from looking over such a tall height.

"It still looks like you two were hugging," Katie muttered.

"I don't buy it at all. Are you sure there isn't something going on between you two?" Angelina asked once again.

Before George could reply however, Fred interrupted the group. "For hell's sake, there's no way George is doing anything with someone like that ," he said the last bit like it was bitter to his tongue. "If my brother says it isn't like that, then it is not. He's not even into guys."

George wasn't even sure if he agreed to what Fred said, but he kept himself quiet for he probably didn’t need to object.

Katie shrugged. "Fair enough. But if there is something actually going on between you two, you have to spill!"

Fred groaned. "All this talk about snogging Slytherins is making me lose my appetite." He threw a slice over to the Slytherin table, landing on Graham Montague's plate. The Slytherin jumped and screamed in shock, his glasses knocking off his own face.

Shortly after, Professor Dumbledore stood at the podium, encouraging everyone to listen. “Presenting the lovely wizards and witches of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and their magnificent headmistress Madame Maxine.”

On cue, the doors burst open and a group of students all dressed in blue robes made of fine silk and hats pranced forward so elegant that had people mistake them for sirens. “Who is that fine lady? She’s a bloody beaut,” Lee asked, mesmerised by a tall and silvery-blonde girl in a low ponytail, her dark eyes enchanting almost everyone. When George saw her, he felt the world was a blur in the background. She stood at the centre, as expected for someone so beautiful as her to have everything revolving around her. George barely tore his eyes off. He noticed others stared at her too as if entranced by a spell, and Fred, who was madly infatuated with Angelina, even struggled not to look.

Behind the students was a large woman (possibly larger than Hagrid). Her beaky nose complimented her olive skin dressed in silvery makeup. Her hair was a shining black bob that matched her dark dress and coat. “That’s one big woman,” he heard Seamus say to Dean. 

“That must be the Headmistress,” Fred assumed. 

“And now our friends from the North. Please greet the proud sons of Durmstrang Institute and their headmaster Igor Karkaroff.”

Girls and boys in their late teens marched inside the Great Hall, everyone dressed in blood red robes. They seemed to be more resistant to the cold temperatures of Scotland, compared to the Beauxbatons who shivered at their comparably thin sleeves. At last, two men entered before the doors closed. One of them had a thick fur coat and a familiar sharp gaze that would have sent chills if he wasn’t a famous and admired Quidditch player.

“It’s him! It’s Viktor Krum!” he heard Ron exclaim excitedly. “I didn’t know he was still at school. Does anyone have a quill?” he scrambled in search of a quill under a basket of fruits. He wasn’t the only one fawning over Krum. Several witches and wizards chatted excitedly, a few girls trying to use lipstick instead of a quill, and Lee was jumping head to head to try and get a better look before getting dragged back to his seat by Angelina.

Fred was shaking George’s shoulders. “In Merlin’s name, it’s the Viktor Krum! I wouldn’t mind cheering him on if he gets chosen, honestly,” he fancied. 

Behind Viktor Krum was a tall and skeletal figure, Igor Karkaroff, scruffed in a goatee ending with a curl. He wore a white fur coat that sharpened his blue cold eyes. He stepped up the podium to give Dumbledore a friendly embrace before sitting down and engaging in conversation.

When both heads of schools found their places in the teacher’s table, trays of fancy dishes appeared on every table. “Is that a chocolate fondue?!” Fred admired, blissfully stabbing strawberries and bread on his plate and dipping them in the fondue. Many foreign European dishes were laid out on their table, most of them George didn’t recognize at all. It was a large variety, an equal combination of meat and salads, and most of the Beauxbatons indulged in the soups and seafood. 

There were so many different and unfamiliar dishes that George didn’t know what to take. He decided to just randomly pick whatever was near to him. He went for a whole tray of what looked like sandwiches with a lot of meaty toppings. He wasn’t the only one going for that too. 

However, another hand took that sandwich, and George glanced up to see a girl in a red uniform sitting beside him. The girl noticed him, and her amber eyes widened. “Ah, sorry, did you want the smorrebrod ?” she asked, both hands carefully placed and offering the beef sandwich. 

She had an intimidating but handsome face, her jawline and nose sharp. She was tall, possibly almost as tall as him. Her most striking feature was her strawberry blond hair in a pixie cut that matched her amber eyes. A little surprised by her question, George stuttered a little on his words. “No, it’s okay, I’ll just take the–err–” he grabbed a random bowl. “Fish soup?”

“You mean the bouillabaisse d’escargot?” she asked in a thick accent. 

“Escargot? There’s snails in this?” George pushed the bowl back to its original position. He was open to trying new things, but snails were a bit out of his level for now.

The girl chuckled. “There’s enough smorrebrod on the table,” she gestured to the plate. 

George grabbed one with smoked salmon, and he was about to take a bite out of it when the Durmstrang girl interrupted. “You can’t eat it with just your hands or the toppings will fall off,” she advised. She demonstrated a more proper way of eating the open sandwich, slicing it and taking a small chunk to bite.

He did it like that, and felt the lettuce and salted salmon be savoured on his tongue mixed with the bread. He ate some more. “Thish shmore-broad ish delish!” he said mid-bite.

The girl’s amber eyes smiled brightly. “ Ja , it’s the best type of sandwich. Magda P. Bondevik from Roskilde, I like your red hair,” she complimented, offering her hand.

George shook her hand, smiling. “I’m George Weasley from Devon. Your hair’s wickedly dashing too.”

He felt a sharp kick on his knee. He flinched, turning to see that his mischievously smiling brother was the culprit. Fred craned his neck to get a better view of Magda. “I’m his doppelganger, Fred Weasley. A pleasure to meet you,” he greeted. 

The others noticed Magda too, and they glanced back at George, trying to see something that wasn’t actually there. Great, now he had to deal with another teasing. Magda waved at Fred before going back to eating.

Fred nudged him. “Getting friendly, are we?” he wiggled his brows.

“Bondevik seems cool,” George shrugged.

“Just cool? She’s fucking gorgeous!” Fred loudly whispered. “I suggest you shoot your shot at her rather than a bloody Slytherin,” he snubbed.

He didn’t really care about Fred teasing him about Magda, but what he greatly disliked was his own brother teasing Pierre. He didn’t pester her about it, and simply assumed that it’s just Fred being Fred. “Are those three Beauxbaton boys talking to Angelina?” He changed the topic.

Thankfully his brother was greatly smitten with love. “Hell no, no one’s offering her ratatouille except me!” He turned back to his friends’ attention and begged to change seats with Katie.

George focused on the different arrays of food. Peacefully he ate some more smorrebrods when he overheard some of the Durmstrangs talking about Hogwarts.

“The dining hall is as big as our smallest classrooms,” one of the Durmstrang boys taunted.

“The walls here look very tattered. The floor isn’t well waxxed either.”

“And the uniforms are ghastly. I’d rather fight an Occamy than wear one.”

George furrowed his eyebrows. He was about to object when Magda interrupted the Durmstrangs insulting the school. “Lukasiewicz, is it the escargots I smell or is it just your heinous breath?”

The Durmstrang students chortled, and one of them finally went back to drinking their goblet. 

Magda turned to George. “I’m terribly sorry for my classmates’ rude behaviour,” she apologised.

“It’s alright. Is it actually true that the Great Hall is the size of your institute’s classroom?”

Magda laughed. “No,” she answered. “It’s twice as big.”

“May I present to you Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports,” Dumbledore introduced.

Fred and George spotted Ludo standing beside Dumbledore, and they gave him a round of applause. “It’s Ludo!” George exclaimed.

“Thanks to him we got twice our savings,” Fred added. 

Filch carried a heavy wooden casket placed in front of the podium. Excited murmurs rose in front of the crowd, trying to get a look. “Mr. Bagman and Crouch will be joining me, Madame Maxime, and Professor Karkaroff as judges during the tournament. There will be three tasks spaced throughout the year, and they will test champions in different ways. Only one from each school can compete and will be chosen by the Goblet of Fire.”

On instinct, the lid of the casket creaked open, and a large silver cup flew out. Blue flames filled the cup, dancing and locking everyone’s gaze. 

“Anyone desiring to nominate themselves as champion must clearly write their name and school on a scrap of parchment and drop it into the cup," Dumbledore explained. "Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours to submit their names. Tomorrow night, the goblet will decide the three it has judged to be most worthy of competing.”

Once Dumbledore’s speech was over, the students finished their dinner. The Durmstrangs were shortly sent back to their ship by Igor Karkaroff. “It was nice to meet you, Weasleys. May we see each other soon,” Magda bid farewell to Fred and George.

“See you tomorrow, Bondevik,” George bid goodbye as well.

When Magda was too far to hear him, Fred made a smitten impression. “I think you got yourself a fan, brother,” he winked.

“We only talked a bit,” George dismissed.

“Who’s the Durmstrang girl?” Lee asked.

“Magda Bondevik, George’s girlfriend,” Fred answered. 

George rolled his eyes. The group stood up, having already finished dinner.

“She seems nice,” Angelina added. “But I’m team Georierre,” a haughty laugh escaped her lips. 

Alicia walked beside her and Katie. “Me too. They just look so cute together.”

Katie smirked. “They definitely snogged when we saw them in Hogsmeade.”

“The only snogging on that day was me snogging the bloody temperature drop! It’s isn’t like that at all with Pierre, you’re all quick to assumptions,” George stuttered, a soft tint of pink visible on his cheeks.

Katie scoffed. “Stage one, denial.”

“Ugh, again with bloody Malmvinsey. Do you guys think he and George will actually be a thing? It makes absolutely no sense,” Fred complained.

Although George was sure that Fred was only joking, he couldn’t shake away the lump on his throat. He didn’t understand that emotion he was feeling, and he rather did not want to know what it was. He changed the subject. “How long does it take to make an ageing potion?” he asked.

Fred was quick to answer. “Thirty minutes, tops. Works best when it’s fresh, so let’s start brewing it after History of Magic.”

Now that was something George looked forward to. He was about to push the hall doors open when he lightly bumped into someone small. He looked down and to his genuine surprise, it was Pierre.

“Vinsey,” he smiled warmly at the sight of his dark desert eyes.

“Evening,” Pierre slightly bowed. Behind him were the Vyssiers, tempted to throw daggers instead of glares at the Gryffindor group. Fred and the others returned the mutual feeling.

George ignored them. He didn’t really care as long as he was at least on good terms with Pierre. “After you,” he said, his hand about to hold the knob, but was interrupted by Adrian Pucey, who gave him the fakest smile of the entire wizarding history.

“I’ll take it from here, thanks,” Adrian said, rather forcefully. 

Pierre walked past George, but just before that, he returned a soft smile for a brief moment. It honestly sent pixies in George’s stomach. He was smiling like an idiot. When the Vyssiers finally left, Angelina, Katie, Alicia, and even Lee were coughing to get George’s attention.

“Wow,” Angelina smirked. “There is totally nothing going on with you two.”

Katie snickered. “Totally.”

“Hello? Am I the only one who thinks those Vyssiers are still evil?!” Fred groaned.

“Enemies. That’s so romantic,” Angelina teased. A disgusted scowl was slapped on Fred’s face.

“Blimey, guys! I’m going to sleep early!” George almost shouted on their way out. 

“You’re blushing!” Alicia and Katie teased.

“Am not!”

Lee started singing. “Vinsey and Weasley, sitting on a tree–”

“Finish that and I will make your bed explode!” George exclaimed, swiftly stomping up the stairs and to the Gryffindor Tower.

By the time they were in their own dorms and lying on their beds, George could barely sleep. There wasn’t even a lot going on his mind. The bloody invisible box was already burdened onto Edvard’s shoulders and he didn’t have to worry much about it as before. 

But a new problem arose. Not really a problem, but more of a constant lingering in his mind. 

He can’t stop thinking about Pierre. 

In truth, he had always thought of him since the start of his detention with him but he never noticed just how much he was thinking about him. It was constant thinking, he was sure of it now. The big question was why him out of everyone. Fred’s always on his mind but it’s understandable, he’s his twin and they stuck together like glue. He thought about Lee, Angelina, Katie and Alicia, and even Ron, from time to time but never this constant. None of them made him feel this type of way. There was something about Pierre he couldn’t put into words, but whatever it was, it was like the guy’s been pulling strings on his chest. 

He remembered the secret he discovered about Pierre and the umbrella brush. He tried to remember what his face looked like when he went quiet. Always he remembered those brown eyes, and the glimpse of mixed emotions. Fear and sadness was prominent and in a way George was feeling those things too.

Today he discovered that Pierre had a fear of heights and that fact made him laugh that he got two secrets now. He was at least glad he helped overcome his fear of heights a bit. When he rested his arm on top of his, he felt them shake and pulse fast everytime he started to look down and overthink how high they were. But then he remembered Pierre in awe of the Beauxbatons carriage, and seeing the brightened eyes was a reward itself.

His chest felt heavy. He could still feel Pierre’s waist wrapped in his arm, and the boy’s back leaning and pressing onto his front. His cheeks felt hot. The redness began to rise. Pierre’s raven hair softly brushed against his collar, and he unintentionally felt his shoulder blades that contract when nervous. Not to mention when their faces were so close, the closest they’d been. Pierre’s nose bumping against his chin before jumping back.

He rolled side to side on his bed, attempting to physically shake off the memory. All those things, he wished he could get them off his mind. He wished he could get Pierre off his mind. Of all the people, it had to be him he’s feeling such unfamiliar things with.

He turned his head to look at Fred, who snored soundly. Once again, George got his blanket. Before Fred went to bed, he gave George a warning. “Jokes aside, don’t try to get too close to Malmvinsey. It doesn’t matter how nice he is or how you get along ‘great’, at the end of the day he’s a Slytherin. All he cares about is what benefits him.”

What was there in George for Pierre to benefit from? Certainly not his looks or of his family’s status, and his reputation in school isn’t all fancy. So in short, he had nothing valuable enough for Pierre to care about him.

It made him wonder if Pierre was also experiencing similar feelings right now, and if he didn’t; if he saw him as nothing more than just a wizard with nothing to offer, then it was another great mystery to why that made George feel fear.

Chapter Text

"WHERE IS THAT BLOODY SNAKE?!"

Fred's incoherent yells were the not-so-highlights of the day as he was brewing–or in this case–trying not to blow up the room. George, Fred, and Edvard were busy making the ageing potion after classes, and they were quite in a hurry to get it done. 

"We have to speed this up, Fred. It's almost time for dinner," George complained as he skimmed through the potions book.

"We would have done it earlier if someone –" Fred squinted at his twin, "didn't ditch me to goggle at Slytherins."

George had to admit, it was partly his fault they were at a late start. Earlier, he left to help find Pierre's brush inside Filch's office. It was good to have Pierre with him whenever it involved authorities, because somehow everyone seemed to like him.  Unfortunately, their efforts were wasted because they didn't find anything. Pierre was in a bad mood afterwards, and he didn't bother scolding George for taking a bunch of sneak o’ scopes.

"Good luck in the ageing potion," Pierre bid goodbye, not even sparing a glance. If he was in a better mood, he would have done a creative remark of how the potion would absolutely fail. 

"We had some important things to do, alright?" 

"More important than this?" Fred hissed as he chucked a banana into the cauldron. "I don't mind hiding in closets together with your new friend –"

"He's not my friend," George said absentmindedly.

Fred paled. "You’re denying that but not the closet?!"

"Merlin, Fred, you know what I mean!" George was quick to answer. "I told you before. Just acquaintances."

Edvard snorted. "Acquaintances," he repeated, playing with the orange snake. 

Fred snatched it out of his hands. "I'll take this, thanks."

Edvard snatched the snake back, sending a sharp hiss at Fred. "I won't let you! Why does a potion even need a snake?"

"We're not plopping that into the cauldron, kid. Just a few of its skin," Fred corrected. He pulled out a knife. "Hold still."

Edvard's eyes grew wide. He jumped out of the bed and ran to Lee's bed instead. "No! That's animal torture! You can't tear off Magnolia’s skin, he'll bleed to death!"

“You named the snake Magnolia?” George raised an eyebrow.

Fred groaned. "We're wizards, we have wands to stop the bleeding!" 

“Edvard does have a point,” George noted. “And I don’t think ripping off snake scales isn't child friendly. Why not use snake shedding?”

Studying the potions book closely, Fred squinted his eyes in thought. “Shedding is dead skin, though. Are you sure?”

“Skin is skin.”

Fred sighed. “Fine, we can use it, but there isn’t any snake shedding lying around, right?"

Edvard reached in his pockets. "Here, Magnolia shedded yesterday." He handed out what looked to be dried translucent orange skin and scales barely attaching itself together. 

George hastily took the shedded skin and dropped it onto the cauldron. At their final ingredient, the liquid turned into a ghostly white, swirling like cobwebs as it was stirred. “Oh, it worked!” George commented in relief.

“Wait, you weren’t sure?”

“I was being theoretical,” George corrected. 

Fred swiftly poured the liquid into two small glass vials, prancing around the room like he just got the Quidditch Cup. He hopped down from the bed and pulled both Edvard and George into a tight hug. ““Finally! After a month of hard times, we did it! We’re going to the Triwizard!” he exclaimed excitedly.

“Come on! Let’s go, I want to see if the potion actually works!” Edvard escaped Fred’s grip and nestled the small orange snake,Magnolia, under his robes. 

The twins followed right after they wrote their names on thin sheets of paper. Word already spread fast Fred and George had concocted an ageing potion to age themselves up. They ran past Angelina and the sixth years, with Fred bragging how they’re going to put their names in the goblet for real. “We’ll see about that!” Angelina shouted as she and the other sixth years followed to witness it.

As they ran down the first floor, George was so caught up in the thrill that he accidentally bumped into one of the Beauxbaton students. “Excuse me,” George pardoned a little too late. 

The Beauxbaton boy, tall with dark hair, sneered at him. “ Con,” George heard him say. He had no idea what it meant, but it didn’t sound friendly. George wouldn’t have taken another glimpse of him if it wasn’t for his strikingly golden eyes. He resumed his own business right after.

When the doors opened, their classmates were already cheering for them among the blue light. The twins entertained their applauses, thanking them for their undying support. “Well lads, we’ve done it!” George said, showing them the ageing potion.

“Cooked it up just now,” Fred grinned.

They were about to show their vials off for the crowd to see when Hermione hummed. “It’s not going to work,” she claimed.

Both the twins sat beside her, exchanging mischievous looks on their faces. “Oh yeah?” George smirked. “And why is that, Granger?”

Hermione confidently pointed at the white mystical thread that encircled the goblet. “Dumbledore drew this age line himself.”

“So?” The twins asked at the same time.

Hermione scoffed. “So, a genius like Dumbledore couldn’t possibly be fooled by a dodge as pathetically dimwitted as an Ageing Potion.”

“But that’s why it’s so brilliant,” Fred pointed out.

“Because it’s so pathetically dimwitted,” supported George. Ignoring Hermione’s theories–which they like to believe were always wrong–the two of them stood on the benches. 

“Ready, Fred?”

“Ready, George?”

“Bottoms up,” they prepared, gulping down each other’s vials. 

The moment of truth was seconds away from success. Together, they jumped inside the circle. For a moment, they expected an invisible barrier that would instantly repel them back. He glanced at Fred, who winked at him. The Hogwarts students cheered them on as they lightly threw their names into the goblet, and for a second, the goblet’s blue flames hummed calmly, leading them to assume their names were accepted.

Fred and George turned around to throw their arms up and cheer for their own success, but to their surprise, the blue flames zapped around the room in a thunderous approach. Not only did it throw their names out, but the flames sparked up a blast that sent the twins flying out of the age line. 

George groaned as he and Fred landed across the Great Hall, and when they came to their senses, they looked at each other's grey beards and hair in shock. The Great Hall erupted in laughter when they saw what happened. Hermione mouthed an "I told you so," at them as she giggled along with Harry and Ron. 

Rather than being disappointed though, Fred and George laughed along with everyone. "Pathetically," Fred grinned.

"Dimwitted," George grinned back.

Edvard, Angelina, and Lee helped them get up. "Was that part of the plan?" Edvard asked  as he held out his arm. Fred was about to take it when he instantly jumped to his feet when Magnolia emerged under Edvard's sleeves in an attempt to bite Fred's hand. 

"Your snake hates me!" Fred grimaced.

"It's not that Magnolia hates you, she just doesn't respect you," Edvard explained with the most innocent yet malevolent brown eyes. 

Angelina skipped chimely towards the twins, bearing a winning smile. “Since you two lost our bet, I expect you’re both ready for your dares?”

Oh right. The bet that Fred and Angelina made on whether they’d get their names in. Fred stepped in to try and escape it. “Technically, we did put our names in the goblet, it just got thrown out,” he corrected.

“But they didn’t stick around and therefore the goblet had disqualified you both. Also, I put my name in,” Angelina smirked.

“You put your name in?!” Fred and George exclaimed at the same time.

“You bet I did. Now, as for your dares,” she faced Fred first. “Fred, you have to chaperone me this Saturday for my Hogsmeade shopping spree,” she dared. Alicia, Katie, and a few other girls cheered approvingly of that dare, and when George glanced at Fred, he had his blue eyes wide open.

“Chaperone? With you? Hogsmeade? Saturday?” Fred asked to make sure he heard it right.

“You bet,” Angelina winked. That’s when Fred stopped functioning. He went as red as George did, forgetting that he still had a grey beard attached onto his face. Fred continued stuttering and at a loss for words. 

Angelina turned to Goerge. “As for you,” she pondered on George’s dare. It was probably something much softer of a dare than Fred’s was. He hoped it wasn’t feeding Alicia’s venus fly trap. Never again.

"I dare you to get your face signed by Malmvinsey!" 

Well, at least it wasn't laundry. "My face? Does it have to be my face? If it's not going to be parchment to get his autograph, then can't it at least be the arm?" George complained. 

"It has to be the face. And you have to get his autograph or else you'll have to feed Alicia’s venus fly trap," Angelina quipped.

"Fine, my face it is," George sighed. "But I'm not asking him in front of everyone. I don't want him feeling uncomfortable with you guys grinning like cheshire cats."

"Fine, fine. Just you getting flustered about this dare is entertainment enough," Angelina shrugged. 

"I'm not flustered . . ." George grumbled, his face pinkish. He glanced around the Great Hall. He would have ignored the unfriendly group of Slytherins if he hadn't noticed Pierre was among them. His blue eyes lit up when Pierre looked back, a faint smile visible on his face. He gave Pierre a cheeky smile under his beard. 

"Kuya, you're red again," Edvard pointed out. 

Lee grinned. "Your tomato face really does match your beard."

"Sod off, you guys," George dismissed, laughing along with them.

Hearing the commotion, Dumbledore strided in, an amusing look on his face. “I did warn you,” his eyes twinkled. “I suggest you both go up to Madam Pomfrey, though I must say, neither of your beards are anything as fine as mine.”

“Mr. Bagman!” Fred caught the wizard’s attention nearby. He waved at Ludo, who in return casted his usual bright smile. 

“Arthur’s kids! How is the ruse of the tournament treating you? Dumbledore told me you both tried to enter your names in the goblet. That’s hell's brave of you, getting past the Age Line.”

“Wanna bet that our names do get called out?” George joked.

Ludo’s reaction was unexpected. Rather than laugh and encourage the bet, his laugh was slightly shaken and nervous. “I have to respect Arthur’s wishes for you boys risking your galleons, but let’s put a raincheck,” Ludo said. Before the twins can give him a reply, he excused himself to chat with Dumbledore.

“Is it just me or is Bagman acting a bit off when you mentioned betting?” Fred noticed.

“I saw it too. Weird behaviour for a wizard who pushes student gambling,” George assured.

When George and Fred made their way out, the Slytherin group–though preferably calling themselves as Vyssiers–howled in laughter. "They're as old as their own jokes!" Miles Bletchley cackled. 

Cassius reanimated red stick figures being blasted by fire in the air with his wand. Though shameless their insults were, Pierre had to admit the scene was entertaining, and by Merlin's own white beard, George Weasley looked dashing when beyond his prime. He was more curious though of what creature was hiding under his brother’s sleeves.

"So which one of us is gonna put their names in?" Graham asked, adjusting his purple glasses.

"That would be me, you, and Cassius," Miles spoke, waving three parchment papers in the air. Cassius retrieved his, and walked towards the goblet, placing his name inside. His birthday was in late August, while Miles had his in September, and Graham's just last week.

Pierre stood a bit confused. "Graham, I thought you didn't want to compete?" he asked.

"I didn't!" Graham wailed. "Miles, you bloody bastard, don't put me in!" He chased after Miles, who was already past the age line.

"You only live once, Graham! Risk yourself for once in your mundane life."

"Already risked myself last year, no thanks. Accio Doc Martens!" Graham casted.

Miles' shoes were lifted in the air, making him lose balance. Without thinking through the spell, his shoes headed towards Graham, and the pair crashed into each other. "Ow, get your elbow out of my mouth!" Graham spat.

"That was not my elbow."

Night fell fast, and the hall was once again full of students and teachers awaiting for the choosing of champions. Likewise, Pierre sat with Adrian and his friends. He spotted Fred and George, now with their beards freshly shaven and hair back to flaming reds, sitting in the Gryffindor table together with Edvard. George happily ate his smorrebrod as an orange snake as red as his hair did twists and turns around his arm.

He must have used its shedding to create the ageing potion , Pierre assumed correctly. He looked good with a snake.

At that moment, Professor McGonagall walked nearby the twins with Professor Sinistra, blissfully chatting away. Pierre witnessed George hide the snake underneath Fred’s robes, and he yelped when he noticed. 

From that reaction, the two professors turned to look, and they gave innocent smiles. When the professors walked past, George gently held the snake back to nestle in his arm. 

Most of the word going around was of Cedric. Earlier that afternoon he put his name in the goblet of fire via the encouragement of his friends in Hufflepuff. Judging by the Vyssiers' reactions, they were not amused. "No way the goblet is choosing a boring Hufflepuff. Whatever did they do that was so great anyway? They always placed last in House cups," Graham scoffed.

"The only thing Cedric achieved is being half as dashing as me," Adrian joked. 

That made Miles laugh out loud. "Adrian, the only one who thinks you're 'dashing' is Pierre. Right, Pierre?"

Leave it to Miles for pushing him into any conversation they were having. Pierre only wanted to eat his lobster bisque. He finally paid attention to them. Adrian was busy laughing off Miles' question. "Blimey, Miles. You don't have to put it like that," Graham shoved him a little.

"I'm just asking! Dear Graham, you have always believed in satisfying one's curiosity, but you are resisting this curiosity!" Miles reasoned dramatically.

Adrian tried to settle whatever atmosphere was going on in their table. Confusion? This had to be the current mood, because Pierre was not following at all. His brown eyes looked over to Adrian's amber ones. There were clearer tints of emerald green at the right eye than the left. 

"To answer that question, he's definitely more composed than you, Miles," he sneered. 

The Vyssiers laughed. Miles flipped his recently dyed white spiky hair. "Come on, everyone agrees I'm the stylish one here."

"You look like a confused unicorn. It's Pierre who has fashion; he's the artistic one after all," Adrian countered. 

"There you go again, always ready to praise Malmvinsey like he's a Mugwump," Graham grinned. 

"I don't praise him–" Adrian stuttered.

"You do! Everyday you talk about him and you can't shut up about how one hell of an artist he is," Graham explained. He turned to Pierre, who poured more lobster bisque in his bowl. He missed the taste of seafood during a lively conversation. "Hey, Pierre, has Adrian ever told you that you have wonderful eyes?"

"Sod off, Graham," Adrian interrupted, his cheeks slightly red. Pierre didn't know why, but he was reminded of how George's face did that sometimes too. but it would be his entire face going as red as his hair. He had no clue as to why they happen sometimes.

"And did you know that his favourite artwork of yours is Fairest Darling ? The one with two wizards snogging in a river," Miles snickered. 

Fairest Darling showed a wizard and witch embracing each other as they were splashed with water by the river nymphs. He didn't consider it his best art, because it was originally supposed to portray the most joyful expressions. In the end he failed to apply that in the canvas, and all their forms were awkward and stiff, and their smiles were empty and their eyes dead. 

So really, there wasn't anything he liked about it. It was the least magical painting he made.

"Ridiculous, the both of you," Adrian sighed. 

Pierre whispered to Cassius while the others were arguing over Fairest Darling. "Is there a hidden context I'm missing in what they're talking about?" He asked, confused.

Cassius moved his palms in a wave of signals. He often uses sign language more than his own wand whenever it was just the Vyssiers. Graham was the most fluent at it while Miles still struggled to know the difference between 'hello' and the letter B. 

You're really oblivious . 

"Oblivious of what?"

Cassius shook his hands. Not my place to say .

Piere shrugged. They can keep their secrets. It didn't really concern him. “Is there anyone else in our year who placed their names?” he asked them. 

Adrian, who knew every gossip that rang in these halls, was quick to answer. “It’s not a surprise that practically every Gryffindor at seventeen put their names in the goblet–”

“And Gryffindors under seventeen,” Miles joked.

“Apart from Cedric, there’s nobody else in Hufflepuff, and a lot of the Ravenclaws didn’t enter. Of course, half the Slytherins had enough pride to participate.”

"Who do you guys think gets chosen?" Graham asked. 

Miles confidently pointed at himself. "Who else would it be other than me?"

"I'll root for Cassius," Graham scowled. He turned to Adrian and Pierre. "It's a shame your birthdays haven't come yet. Imagine if all the Vyssiers could put their names in."

"They can just drink a Weasley's ageing potion and they're sure to have a blast," Miles remarked.

Adrian shook his head. "I'm fine with being part of the audience. Competition isn't my thing, and I almost flunked Defense Against the Dark Arts last OWLs. Pierre would make much more sense if he was chosen," Adrian convinced.

Hearing his own name made Pierre raise his eyebrow. "I don't have time to throw myself in tournaments," he dismissed. 

He never liked watching sports; he didn't understand the hype at all and rather he was more interested in interschool cooperation. He's talked to a few Durmstrangs already, and a lot of the Beauxbaton girls asked if he was selling some new pieces of art just this morning.

"You're not the most daring Slytherin, but you are one hell of a duelist. You make hexes and jinxes be casted as level one charm spells," Graham said. 

The other nodded in agreement. Cassius signed. Defeated everyone in the duelling club.

"And wits that can rival Rowena Ravenclaw. You always make the best excuses to help us escape detention," Adrian winked. 

"But there is one little problem," Miles chimed in. 

"And what could that be?" Pierre asked, knowing full well what it was.

"You're a little . . ." he answered, trying his best not to laugh. He imitated his hand as if measuring Pierre's height. 

"Yeah, little," Graham stifled a giggle.

Cassius did the sign language of small .

"I'm surrounded by blokes," Pierre cursed, flicking his wand to straighten all of their ties, and Miles' was so unkept that he almost choked. 

Adrian laughed lightly. "You are the Vyssier's dragonfly, after all; small, but it's an advantage."

When the conversation of Pierre's shorter-than-average height died down, Pierre idly glanced around the Hall. His eyes landed on a certain ginger haired sixth year from Gryffindor, who sat with his friends; he always does. Seconds before, Pierre felt the redhead's eyes staring right at him, and though he always looked away, Pierre always looked back a bit too late.

George always stared at him when in the Great Hall like he had something to say. Pierre never stared back, for fear he might express something he was unfamiliar with.

Tonight, he was talking to a Durmstrang girl. Somehow, she looked a little familiar. They seemed to be getting along well, he thought. 

They seemed to get along better than he and George did, he thought.

For a short while, the goblet’s flames hummed, harshly enveloping the Great Hall. Dumbledore brought everyone’s attention to the goblet as it was time to choose the champions in each school. “Now the moment you’ve all been waiting for; the champion selection!” he announced. The entire Hall grew silent, eager to await the results. 

The flames hummed low, taking in everyone's anticipation. It flickered and bursted shortly to a cool red, until it roared back into its original colours. Then, the flames rose and a slightly burnt strip of parchment flew out. Dumbledore caught it, and he read out the name. "Durmstrang's champion: a round of applause for Viktor Krum!" he announced. 

Roars and cheers cried out upon hearing the name. From afar, Igor Karkaroff encouraged the crowd, patting Viktor on the back. On the other hand, Viktor calmly shook hands with Dumbledore and gave a small but humble wave towards the crowd. Though only a small gesture, it was enough to increase the swoons of the girls and a few boys even. 

When he proceeded to the chamber, the crowd's applause had died down, and the flames flickered red again. Like before, sparks flew out as another parchment was thrown. "The champion for Beauxbatons is the lovely Fleur Delacour!"

Another round of applause struck the Hall. As Fleur rose from her seat, most of the male students got to their feet as well, craning their necks to see her clearer. Adrian said she was part-veela, which explained how most of the boys were fixated on her. 

On the contrary, Pierre didn't feel any effects of the veela charm. Sure, the girl was attractive, but if he had never been infatuated with anyone, then he wasn't going to be easily infatuated with a veela charm.

In their table, the Vyssiers were transfixed on her. The closest to resisting was Adrian, who darted to meet Pierre's eyes constantly before going back to Fleur. It made Pierre chuckle. "You look like you're going to faint if you force yourself to resist the veela charm like that."

"Is there a better way to resist them like you do? You’re practically immune to it, I’m starting to think you’re a veela yourself." 

“Professor Lupin taught us about resisting them last year. Care to recall his words?”

Adrian chuckled. “With strong will to occlumency and a good image of your sweetheart, you can resist the most beautiful of all veela charms. Strong will, that’s obvious for you, but could it be that there is someone special on your mind?”

Leave it to Adrian to open up the topic of idle romance. In his whole life, Pierre never took part in the world of school romance and teenage infatuations. He had never even experienced the feeling of liking someone. “I’m a busy wizard. I don’t have time to chase after someone, much less fall for them, but perhaps you have someone in mind?” Pierre scoffed, acknowledging the way Adrian was handling the charm better.

He looked away, smiling and shrugged. "Maybe," he jest. 

"So you do like someone. Who is it? Is it someone I know?" Pierre interrogated. Romance was an unusual topic for the two of them to talk about. To Pierre, he had nothing to say about it, but to Adrian, he's entirely secretive.

"If I tell you, it will spoil the fun. You'll have to make me drink a veritaserum to spill the truth out of me," Adrian chuckled.

Pierre smirked as he looked back to the goblet. "Alright then, keep your secrets."

The cheers died down once Fleur entered into the next chamber, and there was an overwhelming silence in the crowd. It was time for the Hogwarts champion. 

"Manifesting it's me," Miles crossed his fingers, and Graham manifested the opposite. 

The flames spurned red, and a fiery parchment shot out. Dumbledore caught it with his fingertips. and revealed the name. "The Hogwarts champion . . . is Cedric Diggory!"

The Hufflepuff table erupted into cheer as Cedric stood and grinned broadly. "He's so handsome!" Pierre heard a few of the younger girls squeal.

"Handsome? Their standards are degrading," Miles grumbled. 

"My manifesting worked," Graham raised his hands and cheered.

So Cedric Diggory was the Hogwarts champion. He had the look of a champion, they all had to admit. Surprisingly, Miles and Cassius didn't seem to be that upset about not being chosen. Maybe they were a little relieved that they didn't have to carry the weight of representing the school.

The applause for Cedric was by far the loudest that even some of the Slytherins began to clap. When all champions were chosen, Dumbledore stood once again at the centre. "Now that we have our champions. I'm sure I can count upon everyone to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering them on–"

Dumbledore stopped. The crowd had stopped their claps, and everyone was now looking at the goblet. Just like the red fires that appeared whenever a champion was chosen, this one flickered again, more vibrant than the rest. A piece of parchment flew out of the goblet. 

"Harry Potter."

Silence.

Everyone sat, too stunned to speak. Had they heard it right? Harry Potter was chosen among the champions. Pierre flicked his eyes on everyone. The Vyssiers said nothing, only surprise in their eyes the same as the rest of the Slytherins. Even the Gryffindor table bore no applause when the Boy Who Lived stood up and awkwardly walked to the next chamber.

When he was gone, he took the silence with him too, and the crown erupted into confusion and resentment. "What the bloody hell just happened?!" Miles exclaimed. "Bloody Potter got in, underaged, and I didn't?!"

The goblet is rigged. Cassius signed, and judging by his cold expression, he too was not pleased. 

The Gryffindors meanwhile, were shocked to their core, but they took the result well. Some of the older students who placed their names seemed upset that they didn't get chosen, but their pride for a Gryffindor competing washed that disappointment away. George and Fred looked dumbfounded, as they wondered how Harry succeeded when they didn't.

Pierre had nothing to say. He can only watch as every student came to their own assumptions on how Harry got his name in the goblet of fire. Everyone believed he cheated, that he made an older student put his name in the goblet of fire. The whole evening was full of bizarre theories (made mostly by Miles) even as they reached their common room dorms. 

"This is so unfair, Dumbledore should have reselected the champions! That goblet has to be rigged, and Miles! Get the fuck out of the bathroom and let me piss!" Graham insisted. Miles had already stopped ranting about how it should have been him and not Cedric or Harry, and was off in the showers trying to drown himself, and Cassius was peacefully asleep. 

Adrian ignored anything that was currently going on with Miles and Graham, and focused on switching to different signals on Pierre's muggle radio. It was originally a gift from Arthur Weasley to Macario Malmvinsey, his father at the end of their school years, but when he found work too busy to listen to music, he gave it to Pierre instead. In his words, it was "something to make the silence go away".

"What do these buttons do?" Adrian asked, leaning to get a closer look on the buttons. He pulled on the antennae, which was pretty useless considering how Pierre's father charmed it to have a stronger signal. Adrian continued to spam the power button.

"Here, let me," Pierre offered, taking the radio and changing its frequencies. From static, he twisted the right direction, and then Rick Astley started playing.

"Damn it, that's the fifth time I heard that bloody song this week!" Graham shouted.

"We're no strangers to love~" Adrian snapped his fingers. He sang the best out of all of them.

"Sod off!" 

"You know the rules and so do I~" Pierre joined in, ignoring how off-key he sounded. When it comes to tormenting Graham, they were all ready to sing his most hated songs.

"I just want to tell you how I'm feeling!" Miles sang from inside the bathroom.

"No wonder wizards hate muggles. Their music is atrocious!" Graham groaned.

"It's art. Pure art," Pierre corrected.

Adrian and Pierre continued singing as the volume was turned up. "Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and—"

"DESERT YOU!" Miles threw the door open, making Graham let out a surprised scream. Miles continued shouting the lyrics while being chased around the room, jumping up and down and wrestling each other on Adrian's bed. All of this happened as Cassius was sound asleep, his ears taking everything in like it was a lullaby. "Never gonna run around–" Miles said as he ran around, "and hurt you!"

After a while, the radio channel evaded its pop hit music, and played softer songs into the night. Graham and Miles, too tired from trying to fight each other, both slept on Cassius' bed and snored on top of each other. 

Adrian swished his wand. Nothing happened. "Nox," he said, and the lights switched off. Easily, Pierre flicked his wand to leave his lamp on without having to say a word. "Your spellcasting is as spelltacular as ever," Adrian complimented, unfurling his bedsheets. 

"And your nonverbals need a little bit of work," Pierre added, sitting on his own bed. 

Adrian laughed, pausing for a moment to observe him. "You look troubled. What's on your mind?"

Adrian was always looking out for him ever since first year. He was the only one who saw him at his low, but not the lowest, states whenever he had to shut himself away. Adrian never really understood, of course, but he always waited for him to resurface. His best friend sat beside him on the bed. 

"Just one of those days. Nothing new."

"Those days are my least favourite days of the year," Adrian gave him another reassuring smile. He properly buttoned Pierre's pajamas, the latter moving his arms to the side.

He flipped open one of the library's artbooks; Friedrich. He borrowed it shortly after dinner in hopes of finding some inspiration for his art block, but so far his luck had not sparked.

If professors like Professor Sinistra asked who his favourite painter was, he'd answer Artemisia Gentileschi. The Beauxbaton girls who loved to swoon in front of him argued Vermeer. The Daily Prophet claimed it was Renoir and their only proof was his namesake. Miles thinks his favourite was da Vinci because it was the only artist Miles knew from all his Mona Lisa jokes. Adrian's guess was the closest; Van Gogh was his second favourite. 

Everyone thought it was Haliya Kalalacao.

She used to be his favorite, the greatest one, when she was still alive. Now every painting of hers just gave him emptiness.

That was why Pierre liked Friedrich so much. Because every single painting of his captured what he always felt every single day.

He tore his eyes away from The Abbey in the Oak Wood painting. The field of oak trees barren, but not dead, and the remains of an old church were significant against the negative space to create absence. 

The art depicts only an empty sky.

"Let me know if something's bothering you. You know I'm here for you, yeah?" Adrian asked him to confide. 

"I will," Pierre said, which meant that he most likely won't. Even if he was one of the very few people he trusted in, it didn't mean he was someone to confide in. There were some problems he wanted to deal with by himself.

When his friends slept into the night, Pierre found himself slipping out. All he can see in the windows of the common room was the silent dark waters of the Great Lake, reminding him of an endless empty sky.

He went to the secret passage to the Astronomy Tower, expecting to see another endless, but not empty sky.

The other part of the evening was the Gryffindor common room in its normal state: pure chaos. The students there had mixed feelings about Harry being the fourth champion. They were jealous, but a part of them was proud they got to have a Gryffindor competing. Fred and George made sure everyone should be proud of him. They've bombarded Harry with questions on how he did it and praising him for doing the impossible.

"Did an older student put your name in? Was it Lee?" Fred asked Harry, who looked just as confused as everyone else.

"Hey, I don't even want to compete," Lee pouted. 

"I really didn't put my name in," Harry dismissed, stomping up the stairs and ignoring the glares of those who resented him.

"You know what, Fred? I'm starting to think Harry might be just as clueless as everyone is," George suggested. 

"No shit," Fred huffed. "But we can't do anything about it, so might as well just support him all the way through rather than stay salty, unlike some people," he said the last bit a little louder, grabbing the attention of a few students. "What's got your arse stung, James? You expect the goblet to choose you and your six inch wand?"

James, the guy with a short wand, flipped him off.

"Ron's no different. He's been moping since dinner. I bet he's going to unfriend Harry like he's his stuffed occamy," George sighed, making their way to their room. 

Fred opened the door and fell on his bed. "Eh, I'll give it two weeks he'll quit moping. It's Ron. He gets mad at everything."

For a while, they chatted away, inventing new Weasley Wheezes on paper. Fred got up from his bed and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. "Shame none of us got chosen, much less got our names in. We can kiss that thousand galleon prize away," Fred grumbled while brushing his teeth. 

“And eternal glory.”

“Yes, yes, eternal galleons.”

George got up from his bed and opened the drawer. Now that the goblet has chosen its champions, and Merlin made fate not choose them, it was time to go ahead with plan B. “At least we got twice our savings since we won that bet in the World Cup. Seventy-five galleons, thirteen sickles, and six knuts. A little too small to open a business emporium, but enough money to invent prototypes to find ourselves sponsors."

He opened the pouch that Ludo gave them. Shining golds and silvers shimmered inside as the pouch shook. On the bright side of losing, they get free time to promote their wickedly Weasley Wizard and Wheezes. He can already imagine himself and Fred living their lives as the most handsome and mischievous entrepreneurs the wizarding world has ever seen.

Fake wands, tongue-tied coffees, and screaming yo-yos galore.

He plucked out a galleon, proud of their winning bet.

And then it was fading away.

"What the hell?" George muttered. He waited for a bit, and then the galleon disappeared into thin air like it was never there. No bloody way . . .

"What the hell!" he shouted in shock. He scrambled for the rest of the money, but they too began to fade.

Hearing him shout, Fred walked out of the bathroom, still brushing his teeth. "You summoning demons over there, George?" he asked grinning, but that grin shortly faded away when George showed him the money vanishing away. He gaped, not bothering to wipe the toothpaste falling to his bare chest. Curse Fred for being able to take his shirt off without shivering. 

"Leprechaun gold. Ludo, that cheat!" Fred spat.

The galleons, once their winnings, had disappeared, leaving nothing but an empty pouch. They never won anything at all.

Chapter Text

“Dear Ludo . . .”

“Too friendly, use his surname instead.”

“Dear Mr. Bagman, we got leprechaun gold by mistake. I hope our other six letters have reached you. Will you please give us our real money, you lying blast-ended scum of a wizard?”

“I think you should cross out the last part, Fred.”

“The last part is persuasive, George,” Fred spat, but for his brother’s sake, he started over with the letter again.

Ever since their money turned out to be an illusion, the twins started to gently prod Ludo with letters regarding their money. George genuinely believed that it was just a mistake Ludo overlooked, meanwhile Fred was convinced they got scammed. Leave it to his brother to assume the worst of people. On a fairly cloudy noon, they sat at the corner of their common room writing letters as they had done so for the past three days. So far, Ludo never replied. 

“Yours truly, Fred and George Weasley,” they signed. 

George closed the letter and stood up first. He was always the one who took it to the owlery. Fred complained once that they should just confront Ludo straight on, but George claimed they had to go professional about this.

“Letters done, now to prepare for my date,” Fred grinned, removing his school robes and loosening his tie. He skipped to the stairs, wishing George luck on his own dare.

“I’d rather be your third wheel,” he sighed.

“No way, brother. If you’re going to Hogsmeade with me, at least bring a partner with you. Hey, do you think Magda will like a Weasley double date?” Fred snickered.

“For the last time, Magda and I don’t see each other like that,” George rolled his eyes. Fred had been teasing him whenever they happened to be in the same room, just like how Angelina does whenever it was Pierre instead. It’s true Magda was pretty, but can’t he just stay friends with a pretty girl? It doesn’t have to have anything romantic. As for how he saw Pierre . . . he’ll just figure it out some other time.

He left the room without bothering to wait for Fred to finish his hour-long beautification. Lee was helping him with his hair and how to apply perfume, and George was not so tolerant to the smell of Old Spice. 

He did not expect to see Pierre’s sister in the owlery. “Miss Vinsey, what are you doing here?”

“Sending a letter, what are you doing here?” Mayari sneered, holding up a fancy letter with a dark blue seal.

“Sending a letter,” George sneered back and held up his own letter, more mundane and without any fancy seal. He chose a random owl as Mayari chose a smaller one. Her owl was more composed, and barely moved its feathers when Mayari instructed it to send the letter. The Malmvinseys most likely owned it or it could just be another one of Edvard's new friends.

They tied the letters to their owls, awkwardly. “How’s your polyjuice potion? I reckon you used it already.”

“Hell yes I did, and I became Draco Malfoy in one hour and five minutes,” Mayari boasted. “People thought he was at two places at once last October.”

“An extra five minutes? Polyjuice potions only last for exactly one hour,” George considered.

“Woah, you knew that? I thought you were stupid for making that ageing potion,” Mayari smiled passive aggressively. Ron was right. She had no filter. “I plan to make a better version. Polyjuice exists for nearly two hundred years and no one bothered to try improving it, unbelievable. I’m disappointed of my own kind.”

“Well, if you ever perfected that new polyjuice recipe of yours, let me know. Fred and I know a lot of plans when disguising ourselves as Snape.”

“You’ll be on my waitlist. Moody’s asked me first,” Mayari said.

“Why would Moody want to use polyjuice?” George asked, curious. He never thought of Moody to be fascinated in potions. The closest thing he paid interest in such liquids were gin and rum, so as his dad says. 

“Don’t know, don’t care. I think that whatever gets me in good graces of my professors will boost up my grades. Anything that gets my kuya to stop pestering me about the importance of being studious. Speaking of my kuya . . .” she pulled out another letter from her pocket, the same seal and parchment. She gave it to George. “My father sent this letter early this morning, but Kuya got dragged away by Pucey before he could see it. Mind giving this to him?”

“Why not just give it to him yourself?” George asked, though he accepted the letter.

“We’re siblings, we hate each other,” Mayari explained, which was pretty reasonable. “It’s just a letter from my father anyway. Have you figured out the words on that toy box?”

Right. The box. George almost forgot about that, and he wished he fully forgot about it because it was back to being a meddling thought. Edvard hadn’t brought it up. He was too preoccupied with his newfound and possibly venomous pet. “No progress,” was all he could say.

Mayari frowned. “I take back what I said about you not being stupid. If Edvard can’t remember what language that is, try looking around the Forbidden Section. It has everything, that’s why it’s forbidden.”

Huh. George never thought of that. He considered the idea, bidding a friendly farewell to Mayari, who cringed at his attempt to act friendly with her. At least he now knew Edvard’s the kindest Malmvinsey to have as company.

Alone in the owlery, he caressed the parchment letter, feeling the wax seal’s flowery design. They look like magnolias, he thought. 

When he was done sending his letter, he went onto his next task: finding Pierre. The problem: Where is Pierre?

He was nowhere near the art classroom or the dungeons. Even Edvard didn’t know of his whereabouts. “He never tells me where he goes, which is unfair because he always knows where I am. Did you ask his friends?”

“Minivinsey, I would rather be burnt to ashes from a dragon than to breathe the same air as the Vyssiers.”

He was tempted to fly around with a broom to find him again like what he did when he was furious before, but Harry was stressing out over being Hogwarts champion. Angelina said he felt pressured from the mixed crowds. Ron said he was busy soaking in the fame. One of them was right and the other was just jealous. He walked mindlessly in the grounds with the letter in his hand. He hoped Fred wasn’t taking too long with his date. He usually followed Fred for whatever he had in mind.

“Weasley!” he heard Magda call him. He turned, and saw Magda out on the grass with a few other Durmstrangs. One of which was Viktor Krum, who was followed–or possibly stalked–by a group of infatuated girls. “Fancy seeing you here,” she greeted.

“Nice afternoon, Bondevik and other Durmstrangs. Where are you off to?” 

“We’re going to Hogsmeade, although we don’t really know how to get there. I was thinking of letting Krum snag one of his fans for directions,” Magda said. Instead of their red uniforms, they wore coats in bold colours. Magda’s in particular was a dark green. Her friends laughed at her tease, and Krum bashfully smiled.

George gave it a bit of thought. Maybe prying in his brother’s whereabouts can give a bit of entertainment for today. Who knows, they might be in Madam Pudifoot’s Tea. Now that was something Fred can never recover from.

“I can show you where Hogsmeade is at,” he offered. “The forest trail’s the quickest way to get there.”

Pierre sat alone in the Three Broomsticks, half finished with a glass of gillywater. He and his friends visited Hogsmeade mainly to tend to Miles’ pet frog for its monthly checkup. Miles and Graham were left in the local pet store whereas Adrian went with Cassius to check out a new bow for Cassius’ violin. Adrian went with neither, wanting to be left alone for the time being.

Often his mind was somewhere else, whether it be deadlines of homework, figuring out what to paint next, or trying to minimise his friend’s punishments, but this time he had nothing to think of at all. He hadn't painted for a week now, and his hands had gone restless, nervously twirling his wand around his fingertips. Curse Weasley for hitting his head. Would it have killed him for the quaffle to hit anywhere else? And speaking of homework, he needed to transcribe some hieroglyphics by Monday . . .

A glass of butterbeer slid past him, and quick in his eye he noticed a slightly darker shade in its bottom. Alcoholic butterbeer. What rebellious underaged fool chose that? 

A tall and handsome boy sat next to him, taking a sip. "If someone told me a year ago that I’d be drinking with the prodigal artist, Pierre-Auguste Malmvinsey, I’d laugh in their faces. An artist like no other, you're my inspiration," he said in a French accent. One of the Beauxbatons. He had long dark hair tied in a low ponytail, and his lips curled into a smile. 

Pierre can only acknowledge his presence. "It's unfair that you know me, yet I know nothing of you."

The Beauxbaton student chuckled lightly under his butterbeer. He sported a vermillion jacket and dark jeans that made his golden eyes appear more vibrant. He extended a pale hand. "The name is Weiss Ravel, monsieur ."

At the moment he heard his name, Pierre's eyes widened in realisation. "So you’re Ravel? It's a pleasure to be your acquaintance." He shook his hand. 

Weiss straightened himself a little, surprised by his reaction. "Th e talented Malmvinsey knows who I am?" he grinned.

"Of course, you’re a rising artist. Although I've never seen your paintings personally, I am especially interested in your earliest one; the Moulin Diamonds. You mastered the lighting in that one," Pierre complimented. 

He heard the people say that Ravel was one of the rising magical artists in Europe born from a family with high influence in the French Ministry of Magic. A main trait of his art were his portraits, though the figures had a sort of, well, pleasuring appeal.

Weiss gave his remark a bit of thought before he smiled kindly. His golden eyes gazed gently over to him. "I'm honoured you like it," he thanked. "But I'm not as talented as you. You're a legend in France. We have four of Haliya Kalalacao's paintings in La Ruse, one of yours, and wow," he leaned a little close and winked, "now that I've seen you up close, I don't think I can tear my eyes away from you just like the lovers in Fairest Darling."

Pierre couldn't help but laugh lightly at his praise. He had heard praises of his art before, but never those kinds. And to hear it from another artist, no less. He took a sip of his Firewhisky, almost forgetting how it burns the tongue. Perhaps he was conversing easily with Weiss because he was an artist himself, or because he was starting to get a little drunk. He only drank three shots and he was starting to get tipsy? He was getting rusty. 

"So Fairest Darling is your favourite, I take it?" 

"Indeed. I'm a bit of a romantic," Weiss chuckled. His eyes were the colour identical to that of alcoholic butterbeer. 

"I can tell. Your works do involve a lot of that," Pierre cleared his throat, smirking. "The critics certainly were enraptured by your intimate portraits. Tell me, do you acquaint yourself with your muses?" 

Weiss laughed, blushing slightly. "I assure you, I keep things friendly with my muses."

George had been wondering who the hell was this bloke talking to Malmvinsey. When he reached Hogsmeade, he separated with Magda and her friends and went to where he thought Fred and Angelina might have their date. But instead of seeing Fred snogging his crush, he saw some bloody fancy French wizard trying to snog Pierre. He had been in the closest yet most discreet table and hiding under a long menu and drinking his non-alcoholic butterbeer. 

He recognized the Beauxbaton boy. He was the guy with the weird coloured eyes he bumped into when he was on his way to place his name in the goblet. He called him a con, whatever that meant.

" Mon dieu , this drink's not as strong as I thought," he sighed. What did he expect? It was butterbeer of all things.

"Do you often drink alcohol, Ravel?" Pierre asked. Is Pierre into alcoholism?

"My peers and I love alcohol, Monsieur Malmvinsey, but French alcohol is different from the British. The British are a little safe." Lies. Nothing was stronger than Hog’s tea. George puked for a solid hour after he got himself wasted with just a sip one time.

"That's because you're drinking the weakest one. Butterbeer? Not even a child can go red with that," Pierre pointed out. Atta boy. Show him the country with the best intoxications. 

Weiss leaned closer now, his golden eyes fixed onto Pierre's brown ones. And then, his eyes turned a darker hue, matching the green of Slytherins. Bloody hell, he's an metamorphagus.

"I think I'd rather get a taste of something else," Weiss winked one of his (now an ugly shade of green) eyes. His hands were reaching for Pierre's fingers on the table.

That was enough to send George hot on his heels. He made his way through the spare seat beside Pierre. With a swift hand, he placed his glass of butterbeer on the bar a bit harder than he ought to, and smiled when he was met with Pierre's annoyed, but slightly soft look.

"Ah, Weasley. We meet again," he greeted, surprisingly warm. 

The Beauxbaton, upon recognizing him too, almost broke away with his smile before composing himself.

"Vinsey, I'm surprised to find you here with a stranger. Care to introduce yourself?" George returned the fake smile.

"Weiss Ravel," he greeted monotonously. 

“Gravel, nice to meet you, but I need to have a little chat with Vinsey. Do you mind?” George asked. Aggressively nice.

“Not at all,” Ravel aggressively grinned. He nodded to Pierre as he picked up his butterbeer. “ Au revoir, monsieur, ” he bid farewell to them both, but mainly to Pierre.

“ Au revoir, ” Pierre nodded back, and something about it made George’s mood turn sour.

Just as he left, Pierre turned his head to finally acknowledge the ginger sitting next to him.

“What.” 

“I thought you didn't like people drinking."

“I don't mind it. It's not my business if someone is bloody drunk."

“Fair enough,” George shrugged. He turned to a nearby waitress on the counter. “Rosemerta, the wizard beside me wants butterbeer!" 

"I don't even like butterbeer," Pierre grumbled.

“Good. It means I can drink another one,” George smirked as another glass slid into his side of the table.

“Why are you here, Weasley?”

George shrugged sheepishly. "I took a break from being Durmstrang's tour guide to Hogsmeade."

"Making friends with the visitors already? I'm surprised, I thought you and your house would be against those supporting the other champions," Pierre inquired, a smirk on his face.

"I can be friends with the enemy just as you can be friends with that Beauxbaton guy. He was awfully close to your face by the time I came,"  he shot back. 

Pierre scoffed. "You’re exaggerating. Ravel is an artist from France, we were only sharing our artistic interests.”

"So when Ravel was trying to take a bite out of you, was that his way of expressing his 'artistic interests'?" George scowled. He didn't know why he was annoyed about this. It shouldn't even be his concern on who Pierre associated with.

"Nobody is biting anyone,” Pierre scowled back. He held up his arm as he ranted, his right hand open to gesture just how pointless this conversation was.

George stared blankly at him for a short pause. He looked at the wizard in front of him, and then down at the open hand. He looked back again. He grabbed hold of that hand, expecting Pierre to brush him away, but the latter furrowed his brows instead, curious of what he was going to do.

And then he bit it.

The Slytherin yelped in surprise. “Weasley! Are you mad?!” He hissed, jerking his hand back. He stared, unable to  believe what he just did. He glared as George grinned mischievously while taking a sip out of the butterbeer. 

“You arse, what was that for?! You left a bloody bite mark on my hand,” Pierre barked, caressing the visible teeth marks on his hand. “I swear if that butterbeer has alcohol.”

George laughed. “Caught you off guard, didn’t I?”

"I can have you suspended for injuring me again.”

"Knowing you, I think I'll just get another month of detention with Bituin."

Pierre frowned. "Hey, it's not just her you'll be seeing. There's also me. You always watch me paint instead of doing the tasks I assigned to you."

He noticed?

"I don't watch you."

Pierre laughed sarcastically. "Yes you do. You're watching me right now." 

“No, I’m not.” He looked away.

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not . . .”

“You are.”

“The floor is made of floor.”

“Weasley, look at me.”

He looked at him. His dark hair was combed well at the back yet his bangs seemed to go wherever they wanted. His eyes glossed over George, fluttering to any direction where they wouldn't meet his gaze. George was looking at eyes that didn't return his gaze. Hypocritical. 

Pierre shook his head and got up. “I’m leaving.”

George sprang up from his seat. "Hold on, Vinsey, I was only joking!" 

Pierre opened the door, and a cool breeze flew by that made George shiver. "Your entire actions revolve around jokes.”

George followed him outside. The clouded skies loomed above them, and some of the tree branches were barren. He watched Pierre kick a pile of fallen leaves in his way. There were people outside, a lot more than usual now that the Durmstrangs and Beauxbatons were visiting. He wondered where the foreign students stayed. Hogsmeade inns, perhaps, or maybe their carriage and ship. 

George grabbed him by the sleeves of his dark grey sweater. "Why don't we just head back to the Three Broomsticks and you can order us some pie," George suggested, though he doubted Pierre was going to follow through. 

His doubts were right. Pierre glared at him, his eyes fierce. "And then what? You're going to continue to make fun of me?”

“Is this about me biting your hand? Come on, Vinsey, it was just a joke!”

“You think that everything is a joke. You don't take anything serious and you never think before you act," he sneered.

"Look, if it makes you stop lecturing me, I'm sorry for biting your hand off," George spoke with his voice low so they wouldn't attract any unwanted attention. 

"I don't give a shit about your apology," Pierre spat. He threw his arms up in frustration. "Just why is it that we're talking to each other all of a sudden and meeting so coincidentally?"

"You know, there’s a legend that Hogwarts gets smaller the older you become, so maybe we keep seeing each other because the walls are nearing?" George jokingly theorised. He subtly motioned for Pierre to follow him to a more secluded part of Hogsmeade, the path to the Shrieking Shack. Nobody had the guts to step foot in that area.

Pierre looked at him like he was the most idiotic specimen of magic. He most likely was, and Pierre discovered it. “How did I ever become associated with someone like you?” he groaned. “It’s all because of that stupid bludger.”

“Quaffle,” George corrected.

“Quaffle. Whatever!” Pierre exclaimed, throwing his arms up in the air.

George moved closer to the boy in front of him, unsure what to say. He already had a hard time dealing with calm Pierre, so what did angry Pierre have in store? The Pierre he was talking to right now was furious and vulnerable. "You're really mad."

“No shit,” Pierre spat.

"Maybe you should take a breath and look at the dead leaves. Autumn is a cold season," George explained, stomping on a bunch of dead leaves.

“I have a better idea. Why don’t you sod off? We’re not even supposed to be in each other’s circles,” Pierre warned. He gripped his wand. 

“I can’t sod off. You haven't accepted my apology yet," George reminded him. The leaves on the ground crunched as he stepped a foot closer. Any step further and he’ll be in Pierre's circle.

Pierre laughed bitterly. “Apology not accepted,” he smirked. He raised his wand without warning.

Alarmed, George quickly grabbed Pierre’s arm before he could cast anything. He covered Pierre’s mouth with his other hand so he wouldn’t utter whatever twisted jinx he had in store.

“Mmph!” Pierre gagged. His brows furrowed, then there was a sly look in his eyes George didn’t know he could make. To his surprise, Pierre bit his hand.

“Ouch!” George yelped. He retreated his hand, and saw a faint bite mark on his left palm. He looked over to Pierre, who had a devilish smirk similar to Edvard’s. “Did you just bite me?”

“Caught you off guard, didn’t I?”

He did not expect that. George couldn't help but let out a laugh. “Were you really going to jinx me?”

“You're a fool to believe I'd waste my magic on you,” Pierre scoffed. He raised his wand again but this time, it was only brushing the leaves off of George's red hair.

He held up his left hand, the one with a faint bite mark. "We're even, now."

George stared at him as the latter stared back, amused and dumbfounded. "I guess we are," he laughed.

The clouds gathered into grey, and the pair felt light rain pour on their heads. George was the first to look away. "Shit, we should head inside."

He glanced again. Pierre did not meet his eyes this time. Instead, his eyes were closed and hands deep in his pockets as he held his head high. His hair wet and droplets trickled down his pale tawny cheeks. For a moment, he looked like one of his own paintings. Solaced and angel-like.

George sneezed. The sound seemed to interrupt the other's quiet trance in the rain. "As long as it isn't the Three Broomsticks, I'm fine taking shelter anywhere," Pierre shrugged.

George nodded slowly, as if caught in a little trance himself. "Right," he said.

Right.

They ended up drying their clothes in Zonko's. "You don't have any spell for drying clothes, do you?" George asked. 

Pierre shook his head. "I don't usually explore cleaning spells." He slumped on a nearby wall, next to a display stand full of enchanted fireworks. 

George hummed. He pointed his wand at himself. " Sicco ventus ."

A hot air streamed around his clothes, air drying them until it felt comfortable and warm. "Where did you learn that?" Pierre wondered, impressed. 

"My mom always casts it whenever she catches me and Fred out in the rain. She always shouts that spell in our ears, it just makes us want to go out again,” he recalled. He practically remembered about twenty other variations of cleaning spells from his mother. He casted the spell on Pierre’s clothes as well. “You're welcome, by the way.”

Pierre ignored him. He took notice of a familiar poster by the shelf. “Weasley, take a look at this,” he gestured him over to his side.

'COMING SOON: a new and fresh one-of-a-kind gingerbrave product to be sold this Winter! This time, the establishment has partnered up with the Ministry to create a once-in-a-lifetime gingerbrave. Mark your calendars as this year's gingerbrave will be extra fantastically special! More details revealed on December."

Just from reading that, George once again felt the excitement he had when he was young and clutching his savings for every gingerbrave collectible. "Once in a lifetime . . ." he reread the poster, eager to find what Zonko's had in store this December.

"Are you going to buy one? Don't worry, I won't take the last one this year," Pierre smirked.

He almost said yes, but he snapped himself back to his situation. "I think I'll pass," he looked down.

Pierre looked at him. "Didn't you say you would never miss out on a gingerbrave in your life when we were fourteen?"

George cleared his throat. "I was a young adolescent kid, I exaggerated all the time! I haven’t bought one since the time I tried to get yours in fourth year.”

“So you didn't buy the one from last year?”

“Nope,” he shook his head. “Fred and I decided to start saving for our future.”

“Your futures? What ominous future are you two planning for the world?”

“I’m serious,” George interrupted his sarcasm. “We realised our dream was to build ourselves a business emporium, but not those businesses where you sit in a chair doing paperwork like the Ministry–”

“Huh, I find sitting in a chair quite relaxing.”

“I’m talking about businesses like Zonko’s and Honeydukes where all their products bring fun to wizards. I thought of the name Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes–Fred suggested Weasley and Weasley–an establishment selling the most inventive and wicked joke products made by yours truly and yours truly’s twin brother. It’s technically running since last year and so far we sold a dozen glow in the dark gums, a few nosebleed nougats, fever fudge, and tongue-tied toffees, although we never really prioritised the nougats because the ingredients are expensive. . .” 

He stopped himself from rambling any further. He glanced at Pierre, hoping that he didn’t think his dreams were overly ambitious and impossible to achieve. He scratched his head. “My bad, you must find all of this pathetic,” he chuckled in an attempt to avoid Pierre’s upcoming judgement.

“Not at all. It sounds like you and your brother got it all planned out. How did this business start?” Pierre asked curiously.

The way he said those things sounded so genuine that George wasn’t used to it at all. “It started off as a joke at first. We’ve managed to create pranks just for the hell of it, and when our friends started getting curious of how we pull off the best pranks, I realised that we can take our talents and make it into something bigger.”

Pierre nodded like he was actually impressed. “So this Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, this business is the reason why you refrain from buying miscellaneous things like the Zonko gingerbrave?”

“Sort of. Materials for our products are costly, especially since most of our products are sweets so we have to save enough galleons to pay for the materials, and expenses for the owl delivery service.”

“Owl delivery service? Why not just buy an owl instead of paying for a public service owl every time you send orders?”

“First of all, Vinsey, buying an owl weighs more galleons than my entire family vault. I’m not as well off as you,” George said. “And second, the only available family owl at the moment is Errol, and he always faints before he can deliver a single letter.”

“I see,” Pierre hummed. "I take it you won't be buying this year's gingerbrave either."

"I mean, I thought I could when Fred and I almost had enough galleons, but–" he stopped himself. He almost told Pierre about him and Fred's gambling issue with Ludo. 

"But?" Pierre asked keenly. 

"It's nothing," George dismissed. "It turns out we're a lot of galleons short on funds and there's no time to buy any gingerbrave. It doesn't even have any value other than being a collectible on a shelf." A sudden guilty conscience weighed on him right after he said that. He'll have to apologise to all the gingerbraves he had in his room when he comes back home.

Pierre hummed. He definitely didn't fall for his bluff, but he decided to shrug it off. "Then it’s too bad you’ll have to miss out on this year’s as well. It looks like this collectible is related to the tournament.”

“Yeah," George nodded. He was disappointed in himself for even gambling. When he and Fred thought they had double their savings, he was planning to maybe buy something for himself. And now, they don't even have a single knut. Ludo wasn't responding to any of their letters, and their luck turned out to backfire. Maybe he should sell his wand to a goblin for a galleon . . .

"Is that George?"

He looked around to where the soft voice came from, and he laughed when he saw Angelina and Fred, who was busy suffering from carrying huge shopping bags. They had just got down from the second floor. "Brother! Angelina! How's your date?" he asked eagerly.

"Fairly good, surprisingly. Fred is such a big help in carrying the new shoes the girls and I bought!"

Fred blinked a morse code of "H-E-L-P".

George smirked and ignored him. "Ah, so Katie and Alicia are with you guys too?"

Angelina nodded. "Oh, they're looking for quaffles nearby. Katie's too impatient to wait for Professor McGonagall to return hers, so she decided to buy a new one, though I think it's just an excuse for them to spend some alone time together."

"Typical Katie and Alicia behaviour. What are you doing in Zonkos, anyway? I didn't know you liked to play pranks."

"Oh I'm buying for Fred. It really was right of me to give him this dare to go to Hogsmeade of me, or else who would carry all of these?" Angelina praised before stacking her bag of pastries on the bags. 

Fred grunted from the surprised weight before regaining himself. Angelina looked around the area before setting her eyes on Pierre, arms folded and leaning against the wall while looking good doing it.  She glanced at George, and then back to Pierre. "Oh! Was I interrupting your own date?" she whispered to George, her brows wiggling. 

Fred grimaced. "I hope we did."

George blushed. Him? On a date with Pierre? Putting those two things together was just absurd. "Angelina, it's nothing like that. Seriously, focus on your date instead," he reasoned. 

He looked back at Pierre, and sighed in relief when he didn't seem to hear anything. Pierre looked over at the group, and he waved politely at Angelina and Fred. Only Angelina returned the gesture.

"Angelina, the rain's stopped," Fred pointed out, though metaphorically, because all his fingers were busy holding shopping bags to even move.

"We'll be going now. See you later, George. Bye, Malmvinsey!" Angelina waved excitedly, her dreadlocks bouncing as she headed for the door.

Fred leaned close enough to whisper. "This date is turning out to be a nightmare. My arms hurt! I knew I should have used my wand to levitate these bags. Help a brother out, will you, George?" he complained.

George jokingly stretched his arms out. "Eh, I'm too lazy to get my wand. Get it for me, will you, Fred?"

"Fuck you," Fred rolled his eyes. Then he turned serious. "Why are you with him ?” 

He glanced at Pierre, who was busy nodding off to the groovy stereo music playing around the store. He must really be into pop jazz.

“We just met by chance.”

“Malmvinsey goes to Zonko’s?”

“It was raining so . . .”

Fred dismissed him. “You know what, it’s not my business. Just be careful around that bloody Slytherin. He looks like he’s going to dump a body in the Great Lake.”

Fred had a point, because when he looked back he saw Pierre being fascinated by a shelf full of Zonko’s most hazardous bath bombs.

“Well, what are you doing here then?”

“Angelina’s bought me a nose-biting teacup,” Fred bragged.

“Lucky bloke. Do you think she can give us an extra thirty galleons?” George joked.

“George, I cannot extort the girl I like. Also, I already asked and she said I have to lose a leg first.”

“Well, are you going to lose a leg?”

“What did you think I bought the nose-biting teacup for?”

George guffawed. “I salute your sacrifices, brother.”

Angelina called on Fred, and the twins bid each other later. Before Angelina walked out of the shop, she called out to George. “Don’t forget your dare too!” she reminded him and Fred snickered.

Realisation struck him, and he immediately turned back to Pierre. Right. The dare. He crossed his fingers hoping Pierre wouldn’t spell him to his grave when he asked. “Vinsey?”

Pierre looked up. His hair only reached up to George’s chin. 

George took a deep breath. “Can you sign my face?” he bluntly asked.

Pierre blinked. “Ha?” 

George pointed at his own face, trying his best to look as serious as possible. “I want you to sign my face.”

Pierre blinked. Or fluttered. Hard to tell, really. “Is this a joke?”

“It’s a dare,” he corrected. “I lost a bet to Angelina.”

Pierre nodded, as if it was a perfectly understandable dare. For a second George thought he’d refuse even if it was an unbreakable vow. “As much as I like to carry that obscure dare out, I don’t have anything to write with.”

“I’m sure Zonko’s has some quills somewhere,” George assured. The two of them briefly looked around the shop, scanning the shelves for any quill or pen they could write with. 

“This is perfect,” Pierre said. He bought a maroon quill and an odd-looking ink from a stand and lightly waved it around. 

“How convenient,” George said. “But it isn’t normal writing ink, is it?” 

Pierre smiled rather frighteningly. “Indeed it isn’t. In fact, it’s an Everlaster ink. It can’t be washed off or removed by any means, so it’ll stick permanently on your face for one week.” He dipped the quill in the ink.

George gulped and backed away. “Hell’s spells, Vinsey. Couldn’t you just buy normal ink?”

“Where’s the fun in normal?” 

"You are not signing my face with that ," George huffed. On second thought, he thought Angelina's dare was just dumb. He didn't need to go through with it; it's only just a stupid dare. Or he could just forge a random signature by himself and Angelina would never find out about it (unless she made him drink Veritaserum).

Pierre shrugged. His head swayed left and right. He really needed to sit down. "Fine then. Be a killjoy."

"What did you call me?" George's eyes flared.

"A killjoy. You are one."

"I'm not the killjoy, you're the killjoy!" he complained.

Pierre laughed haughtily. "Then how come you can't go through with a dare as simple as this? Come on, let me sign that bloody freckled face of yours.”

“It’s not that I’m scared of a quill, it’s the fact that I have to walk around with your name on my face–hey!” George was caught off guard when he felt hands on his cheeks. He was shocked at first from how cold those tawny hands were.

“Hold still, I don’t want the ink to get on my hands,” Pierre nudged his face closer as he held the quill. 

George reluctantly bent his knee to adjust to Pierre’s height. “Vinsey, are you crazy?” 

"I’m having fun." 

He was surprised that Pierre was touching his face. So he didn't like being touched, yet he's right here violating George's cheekbones. 

Pierre's hands didn't move away. George could feel them pressing against his jaw. George didn't know what to feel about it. It's too new. He turned his face abruptly.

The cold ink of the quill accidentally smeared on his left cheek. Pierre giggled at the sight. George removed his hands from his face and tried to wipe off the smudge. "Vinsey!"

"I told you not to move," Pierre argued, smiling. 

George rolled his eyes away from him and checked his face on the window, vaguely seeing his face. A black line of ink was easily visible on his left cheek that stopped just below his eye. "It's not too obvious, right?" George asked. "I can just hide it with my hair, it's long enough."

He tried to fix his side bangs to cover it up, but they only reached the tip of the line. He tried wiping it off again, but the mark remained clear as day. He turned to Pierre in frustration. "Great, now I have to walk around looking like a low budget Potter."

"Pfft."

"Did you just–"

“Just let me sign your face. There’s already ink anyway, so might as well carry on with it.”

George shook his head in disbelief. “I bet you’re going to make it worse.”

“You’ve been losing bets lately.”

His ears turned pink. He could not believe the audacity of this wizard. He sighed, and Pierre took it as a sign of consent. His hands touched his cheeks again, and George felt the wet ink being drawn on his face. 

"You better not draw anything that violates my cheek."

Pierre scoffed. "I'm not that evil."

It didn't take that long for Pierre to sign his face, but it certainly felt like hours for George. He's never been so nervous about having his face touched. He's used to having it roughed up by Slytherins (90% caused by Vyssiers) but certainly not being treated like his face was a drawing board. It's a good thing they were in a quiet part of Zonko's where no one could question why Pierre was drawing on a Weasley's face instead of a canvas.

The entire time, Pierre was solely focused on his cheek. When George moved his face, he'd hold his chin and press on the spot and occasionally let out a "hold still". His face was so close to his, similar to the time they went sightseeing the flying carriage. 

On the other hand, Pierre looked unfazed at how close their faces were. He didn't even look him in the eye the whole time! It was like he was oblivious of the tension, or maybe it was only George who felt the awkwardness.

Finally, he retrieved his hand. "Dare complete," he said. 

George checked his face on the reflective windows. He nodded in approval of the end result. Instead of just a striking line, the skilled artist turned it into a branch that beheld little flowers with five petals lined with ink. “Hey, this actually looks wicked!”

Pierre rubbed the back of his neck. “It looks crooked.”

“That’s not true, it’s nice,” George complimented. “Do you usually draw on people’s faces?”

“You’re my first living canvas, Weasley, so no, I have only drawn on your face so far,” Pierre answered. 

They went outside the shop to be greeted by the cool autumn air. Winter was nearing, and George was not looking forward to getting frostbite again. He touched the drawn branch o. his cheek. “These flowers look familiar . . .”

“They’re frangipani. My home has a tree full of those flowers.”

So that’s what they’re called. George had seen these frangipani flowers on his cheek very recently actually. He suddenly remembered Mayari’s request just a while ago. “I almost forgot.” He whipped out the slightly crumpled letter from his pocket and gave it to Pierre. “Your sister wanted me to give this to you. She says it’s from your dad.”

Pierre took the letter from his hand, briefly inspecting the frangipani seal. He opened the letter and read its contents. George’s curiosity got the better of him and unconsciously his eyes drifted to read the letter as well, but darted away when he felt Pierre glance his way. Instead of scolding him for not knowing privacy, he shifted the letter for the both of them to read. “I don’t really mind, there’s nothing confidential written here. See it as thanks for being my owl.”

“Do I make a handsome owl?”

Pierre frowned. That frown can cut skins. “A dreadful owl.”

George and Pierre read the letter.

“My son,

As you may have already known, the Ministry is tasked to ensure the safety of not only the champions, but of the students in the school during the Triwizard Tournament. There’s been a slight delay in preparation of the first task due to an incident in transporting the tasks at hand which I am prohibited to give further details. The Ministry was then in need of extra wands in assisting the tournament, and Bartemus Crouch has assigned me to assist in overseeing the preparations of each task. I will arrive in the first light of Monday, just a day before the first task. 

How is Edvard’s first year? You’ve written to me that he’s in the same house as I was. I understand your concern considering he is in a different house than you and Mayari, but don’t worry too much about him. I’m sure he’s made friends that treat him well, like my friendship with Arthur Weasley. If we had not been friends, I don’t know how my life at Hogwarts would have turned out.

Edvard shares your determination, Auguste; he’ll thrive.

1. M.”

Percy told him back at the World Cup that his dad and Mr. Malmvinsey used to be best friends during their time in Hogwarts. "I wish my dad's coming too. I didn't know how close our dads used to be," George said.

"Trust me, they still are. We don't go to Devon anymore, but father still writes to Mr. Weasley from time to time."

"You've been to Devon?"

"Of course I have. You’d know.”

"How would I know when the first time we saw each other was in first year?”

Pierre frowned. "You don't remember?"

"Remember what?"

He didn’t answer immediately. He had a look of surprise, and it made George wonder if he had said something wrong. “You think the first time we saw each other . . . was in school?”

“Yes?”

A weak laugh escaped from his mouth. He looked at him this time, looking at everything about George that it made him want to squirm. “You’re joking.”

He shook his head. “I’m serious, what are you talking about? Are you implying that we actually met before?”

“Merlin, you’re forgetful,” Pierre grumbled. “Do you remember a particular New Year where you got yourself a blue scarf with sun patterns?”

George knew exactly which New Year he meant. He pictured a bright night at the Burrow, the sky full of fireworks that flooded warmth despite the cold. He remembered he tried to chase after one and fell on the damp snow. He could still vaguely remember his body being so cold and wet. And when he got up, he remembered thin tawny hands that wrapped around a cotton blue scarf that seemed to light up in the night around his neck. “Of course I do, some kid gave it to me–wait, how did you know about the scarf?”

And then his eyes widened in realisation. “Bloody hell! Vinsey, we spent New Year’s Eve together?!”

Pierre kicked a few leaves. "When I was six, yes. Are you this forgetful?"

George stopped walking. "Hey, I was only five. And how come you're six? Aren't I the older one?"

Pierre stopped walking too. "Who said you're older? I was born in December 17, so I turned six at that time too."

"I'm born April 1, 1978. I'm eight months older," George argued.

The other scoffed. He faced him, smiling slyly. "December 17, 1977 . Correction, I am four months older than you."

His mouth hanged open. "You're older? For someone my senior, you're almost as short as my sister."

Pierre smacked his hand away. "Five foot seven is a normal height. You're just taller than almost everyone." He was right. George was five foot eleven, and still growing.

George laughed. "I still can't believe we knew each other when we were little.” He wasn’t ready to tell Pierre that the blue scarf was his most favourite one. “Were we childhood friends?”

“Merlin, no,” Pierre tried not to laugh. “We just knew each other because of our dads. We were merely strangers who just happened to see each other back then.”

George pouted. “Then what does that make us in the present? Are we still strangers who just happen to meet on occasion?”

Pierre’s expression was indifferent, and it disappointed George. He was still giddy from the fact that they actually met before when they were little, and though he couldn’t remember much, he was starting to recall little by little of that one new year’s eve. Only one scene remained perfectly clear, and it was a pair of small gloveless hands helping him up and wrapping a scarf around his neck. All he could remember were those small and frail hands that lightened from the fireworks in the sky.

And to think that those hands belonged to Pierre, it was still hard for him to believe. But the resemblance was there, and until today those hands looked like they were perfect reflections of fireworks. 

How can those hands be a stranger to him? And does Pierre still consider him to be a stranger in his life? Is he really just a stranger who happened to barge into his day and nothing else?

“When you put it that way, I think we are past the line of strangers.”

The leaves were falling.

“Then what exactly is our relationship?” George asked, not because he was angry, but because he did not know as well. He’s never one to declare initiatives.

The pause was deafening. He could see Pierre’s mouth twitch, trying to figure it out too. “We’re . . .”

“Pierre! There you are.”

At the sound of Adrian Pucey’s voice, Pierre broke away his gaze from George. What perfect timing, George rolled his eyes. 

Adrian gave a brief glare at George, who returned the gesture. “He’s not giving you any trouble, is he?” he asked Pierre.

“I assure you, Weasley and I are on good terms.” Pierre dismissed. 

Adrian nodded. He returned to his usual gentle demeanour, one that George observed he only showed to everyone except him. With Pierre, it was tenfold. “Let’s go to the Three Broomsticks, the others saved us a seat near the fireplace.”

The way he clinged onto Pierre made George annoyed. That prick was acting like George wasn’t right next to them!

Pierre on the other hand, glanced back at him. “Sure, but . . .”

This was a surprise. Could Pierre feel bad about leaving him? It made George’s chest feel light for unknown reasons he set aside. Or maybe it’s because he couldn’t answer the question he asked him. In truth, George didn't want him to answer. He didn’t want to be disappointed in what he might say. He gave a brief wave goodbye. “I was going back to the school, anyways,” he lied, but that’s what he was going to do.

Pierre nodded, and he walked the other direction with Adrian. 

George stared at them for a while, noticing how close they must be with each other. For Adrian to walk side by side with him without his smile dropping, and Pierre in his usual cool manner without being quick to anger. Unlike George, who felt like he walked too fast or too slow, and always said something that made the air heated. Adrian and Pierre looked like they got along well.

He turned and went in the direction of the Great Lake. A few steps after, he heard Pierre call his name. 

When he turned around, he saw Pierre jog towards him. For a brief moment his eyes looked brighter than usual, but only for a moment. He stood once again in front of him. He thought he was going to answer his question. 

“If you’re still looking forward to delivering your products, you can use my family owl. You don’t have to pay for anything,” he offered. Their eyes met, and quickly Pierre averted his gaze. 

“Oh,” George said. He didn’t expect that one. He chuckled, grinning from ear to ear at him. “Hell, Vinsey. I thought it was something serious with the way you were frowning.”

Pierre glared. “I don’t look mad all the time.” He was partly right. Sometimes he had the most calming smiles.

“Thanks,” George grinned. “I appreciate it. Really.”

Pierre avoided his eyes. “Think of it as my thanks for taking care of Edvard.” He gave him one last look before he went back to Adrian.

George didn’t realise he was still smiling, even when he was at the Common Room reinventing products with Edvard, who had no clue what got him to smile like that, and George wasn’t going to tell him anything about it.

Meanwhile, Pierre was with his friends dining in the inn, watching Graham try to keep Miles' frog from jumping from one table to the other. “Miles! Control your frog!” he hissed.

Miles supported his frog’s revolt. “Fly, Drewpy! Spread your amphibious legs and defy the animal kingdom!”

Pierre took a sip of his gillywater, exposing the mark where George bit him. Adrian noticed it. “What happened to your hand?” he said worriedly, grasping his palm to see if it was actually injured.

Pierre swung his arm out of his way, covering it with his sleeves. “A dog bit it,” he excused. 

While listening to the gossip and topics among his friends, his mind wandered to something else. He thought hard about George’s question on what their relationship was, exactly. They weren’t strangers, they’re already familiar with each other. They weren’t enemies either even though they still argued whenever they met. So that only leaves them to be friends. Sort of friends.

Did Pierre see him as a friend? He never gave much thought about it. He wasn’t one to take interest labelling who was his friend and who was not. Yes, he was friends with the Vyssiers, but that’s because they declared each other to be friends. Adrian was his best friend because Adrian said so himself.

So what kind of person was George to him? And what kind of person was he to George?

The fireworks flew bright and exploded into sparkling streams of vibrant dust in the entire night sky. Two families celebrated the start of a new year. The Burrow was filled with the pleasant aroma of the most delicious food cooked by the hearts of two mothers, one with red hair and one of raven colour.

A boy with raven hair clinged onto his mother, who carried his younger brother. He stared curiously at the other family’s children, who were in the garden lighting up sticks and fireworks, but he did not participate with them.

“Do you want to play with the firesticks too, little Pierre?” the other woman, the mother of the children with red hair, asked him.

The raven haired boy nodded, but his hands still grasped his mother’s dress. His mother, hair as dark as his and eyes that glimmered like gemstones, smiled warmly at him. “Go and play with them, bulan. I’ll be right here inside,” she said, bending down to kiss his forehead.

With his mother’s permission, the boy shyly walked to the group of other children outside. Two fathers were there, assisting the boys in holding the firesticks. He went to his father first. His father, his hair dark and long but neat and tidy, looked glad to see him. Cradled in his arms was his sister, who carried her own firestick. “Arthur, can you give my boy a stick? He wants to play too.”

The father with red hair laughed. “It seems that one of my twins want to play with him.”

Someone patted the little boy’s shoulder. This other boy was slightly taller than him, and he shared the same patch of flaming red hair as his family. His whole face was covered in freckles. He smiled and held up another firestick. “Do you want to play with me?” he asked.

The boy nodded, his dark eyes fixed on the firestick. When he held it, its tip sizzled with bright sparks, and he almost dropped it. The other boy laughed, but he helped him hold the stick steady. “I like you,” he laughed.

The two of them shared laughter, playing with the sticks. The other boy smiled again. “My name is George!”

The raven haired boy’s eye lit up. He adjusted his scarf so he can talk clearer. “My name is–”

The older children lit up their fireworks, and watched as they sizzled up into the night sky. 

George looked up, and started to chase after the fireworks, hoping that he too could light up the evening. Child laughter was all that could escape out of his mouth at that moment. 

When the fireworks exploded, he was captivated by the magical scene above him that he didn’t notice the disheveled snow in front of him. He tripped, and fell. He felt the freezing snow embrace his small body, and he burst into tears from the sudden cold. The fireworks continued to shine bright as he wailed.

His mother called out to him, but he did not move, for the cold air kept him from going further and though the Burrow was bright, the path was too dark to walk. 

He saw a small hand reach out to him. He took it, and he was pulled up, though the little hand struggled a bit at first. Though dark, he could make out the shape of the little boy who helped him. He removed his blue scarf and wrapped it around George. The suns stitched onto the scarf were bright yellow, and they looked like they were glowing. He didn’t feel cold anymore, and he had already stopped crying. In front of him was the raven haired boy, who did not speak. George could not help but stare at his dark eyes. There were fireworks in them.

The boy held out his small pale hand, and together they ran back home as the fireworks burned bright.

Hello, it's the author! So sorry for uploading the chapter late, school has already started and I'm going to be busy since it's going to be my graduating year in highschool!! Please expect later uploads, dear readers!! (Here's some doodles I did when writing this chapter hehe) ^^

Chapter Text

Excitement arose when the fifth horn sounded across the large field. Pierre was with his friends, seated in the first row. Adrian was beside him. "Are you sure you're fine with this spot? We can always sit a few rows back if the height is too much for you," he worried.

"It's not that high," he assured. He wasn't as afraid of heights as before now, although he preferred another spot farther from the far ground where you can probably fall.

"If you say so. I'll go check Graham and the others if they actually bought the right popcorn flavour," Adrian waved and left to go down the stands.

The first task was to capture an egg and survive against dragons. Seemed simple enough when the "avoiding mere death," isn't part of the equation, but unfortunately, it is. 

"Place your bets!”

“Step up, folks! Who fancies a flutter in today’s bloodbath?!” 

Roaming around the stadium were a pair of redheads, most notoriously known as the Weasley twins. 

“Yes, sir, 10-1 for Fleur, there you go. Thank you very much.” 

“Smart money’s on Krum to survive. Any bets?” One of them said while a group of Durmstrangs and some from Hogwarts put their money on the betting pool.

It was hard to tell which was which. Physically, at least. Pierre mostly relied on which one smiled at him and which one does not. 

For example: the one nearest to him, looking at him right now and then quickly looking away once he's caught, was George. He had been glancing his way for a while, and it seemed like he wanted to approach Pierre at the right time.

Slung at George's shoulders was a board full of money bets from students. He had the same hat he wore whenever they met at Hogsmeade, and given his sensitivity to the cold, layers upon layers covered him up. He certainly knew how to make a wizard feel underdressed. Pierre wore lighter clothes, a turtleneck and dark blue coat. He wore no winter gloves or hats either. 

"Vinsey!" His blue eyes brightened.

"Weasley, what are you up to today?"

"Fred and I thought of the idea of having people make bets on the outcome of this trial. I have loads of money right now, a shame none of it is actually mine," he grinned, extending the flower branch Pierre drew on his face for a dare. It's been almost a week now, so soon enough the mark will disappear. Still, it was entertaining to see George get asked about where he got a fancy tattoo, and for him to brush it off saying it was some new prank invention.

"Do you wanna place a bet? Any amount is fine, and don’t worry, we don’t scam wizards!”

“I doubt you can scam me, you’re too afraid I’ll hex you,” Pierre remarked. 

“Am not, I’m an honest wizard.” Pierre liked to think he was lying.

Finally swayed by George, he took out 15 galleons from his wallet. “Will this amount suffice?” He handed the money to George.

“That’s quite a lot,” George’s eyes widened a little.

“I’m sure my bet will happen.”

“Oh, and what is your bet?”

Pierre scanned the champions’ tent, his eyes fixed on a certain boy who wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place. His lightning scar stuck out from the rest of the champions. “I bet that the Potter champion will destroy half of the stadium, yet still manage to finish the task.”

“Ha! Finally, something different! Most of the bets I’ve jotted down had Harry losing a leg or two. Alright, I’ll write your name down,” George said as he noted down the amount and bet. “Are you sure you don’t need to lower the amount? It is quite a lot,” George asked one more time.

“Yes, I’m sure. What’s got you so worked up? It’s as if you got scammed yourself,” Pierre chuckled.

George looked away and laughed nervously. 

Pierre’s smile fell. 

“Ah.”

“It’s a long story . . .” George said as he brushed off his bangs away from his face, blushing in embarrassment. Pierre guessed he wasn’t ready to talk about it, and he definitely wasn’t the best person to open up about that problem, so he didn’t bother to pry.

“Anyway, has your dad arrived yet?” 

Pierre was surprised that George remembered the letter his stepfather gave him. The content of the letter he and George read together was that his stepfather was going to visit them early today, but it was already three in the afternoon, and he still hadn’t shown. Pierre expected it was another promise he wouldn’t keep, but why did he still count the seconds? Why was it disappointing him? Perhaps a small part of himself looked forward to spending time with his stepfather, a part of him still hoping for more time they spent like from the Quidditch World Cup, even if it was just a small moment.

He shook his head. “He hasn’t. I don’t know what’s keeping him.”

George looked sympathetic. “I’m sure he’ll turn up eventually. Maybe he just got held up, or the train’s moving slow.”

“It’ll be a miracle if he does, he rarely keeps his word. I’ve gotten used to it at this point.”

Before George could say anything, Adrian and the others had just climbed up the stairs to the stands. Pierre stared as George backed away slightly. “I should go,” he said. “Otherwise Fred’s gonna accuse me of slacking off,” he joked.

"Have fun," Pierre nodded as George went further above the stands. 

Before he could find out if George was looking back at him, Adrian swung his hand around Pierre’s shoulder.

“Sorry we were taking so long. Has it started already?” Adrian asked.

Graham fixed his glasses as he sat beside Pierre. “I think we’re right on time, Adrian. Look over there!”

From where Graham was pointing, the large iron bars from beneath the stadium opened and a luminous but fearsome dragon entered the arena. A couple of dragonologists whooshed in to cast spells that could chain the dragon down. At the centre of the arena was a golden metallic egg, the objective of the champions. 

Ludo announced the first champion to enter was Cedric Diggory. Many people cheered for him, even Pierre's friends. "Even though the champion isn't a Slytherin, at least we have one," Miles clapped.

"We have two champions," Graham corrected.

"I don't acknowledge the Potter twat! I put 5 galleons in those bloody Weasleys' betting pool that he loses a leg."

The challenge carried on. Seeing each of the champions face off against a dragon was impressive. Pierre felt the rush of excitement the rest of the audience were having, and whenever the dragon roared with fire as the champions dodged its attacks made him and his friends whoop and urge them on. One by one, the champions all successfully obtained the egg and the audience cheered them on; Krum being the loudest so far. Not only was he able to obtain the egg, he managed to send back the ball of fire back to the Chinese Fireball!

Pierre’s eyes scanned around the crowd. Several columns to the right was Edvard, sitting beside Fred and George and eating a bag of cockroach clusters. He saw him try to offer George one, and when George tried to eat one, he spit it out and it landed on a third year’s hair. They did not bother to pluck it out. Pierre almost laughed at the funny (and concerning) scene. Mayari was nowhere to be found, as she told him that she was going to be busy perfecting her potion making.

“It’s Potter's turn,” Adrian said.

The audience went quiet. It appeared that everyone anticipated Harry’s turn the most as they were all unsure if he was powerful or worthy enough to face off against a dragon. And at the mere age of 14, for the matter. Even Pierre was nervous for him. Personally, he felt indifferent towards the boy competing, and didn’t care much whether he supported the boy or not, but sending a child to fight a dragon is just bizarre. What even was on Dumbledore’s mind to let him continue to compete when the goblet chose him?

A loud roar rang throughout the stadium. Those in the front seats had to cover their ears from the shrilling roar of the Hungarian Horntail. The crowd prompted. Several cheers and shouts rang around, either to support Harry or to tell him to watch out for the dragon. 

“He’s not doing too good,” Graham commented, his tone more casual than concern. 

Harry narrowly missed the tail that swung behind him. 

“GO DRAGON!!” Pierre heard some Slytherins behind him shout. At least he knew how to pick out friends that have some moral decency (except Miles).

Things weren’t looking too good for Harry. The dragon continued to aggressively try and attack him. The poor boy was about to be cornered from the fire. He casted something, waved his wand at the sky, but Pierre couldn’t hear the spell he casted from all the noise.

Moments after, something zipped through the air, and Harry reached out for it. The crowd went wild when they realised it was a broom. There were more cheers than boos now, everyone was eager to see how this played out. But as Harry flew up, the dragon spread its wings and tried to go after him. 

The dragonologists acted too late, because now, the dragon had broken free of its chains, and flew to attack Harry. Lucky for Harry, he was able to dodge the dragon just fine. Unlucky for Pierre, the dragon was seconds from crashing into his side of the stands, too slow to react to Harry’s speed.

“WE’RE GONNA DIEEEE!” Miles shrieked.

The front rows ducked down to avoid the dragon, as did Pierre and his friends. Meanwhile, Miles ducked a bit too much and Graham and Cassius had to hold onto his pants to prevent him from falling off the stands before the dragon could reach them.

The dragon hit the stands, mostly from the upper parts. Broken wood and flags were thrown and ripped apart, and nearly half of the stadium was destroyed. Harry and the dragon had flown far away headed directly to Hogwarts, and the staff and organisers were too busy to notice as they were rushing to aid any injured witches and wizards.

Pierre sat back once it was over. He rested his hand on the seat, but winced. He looked down. His right hand had been cut, and a bloody gash clearly visible on his palm. Damn it, he thought. It just had to be his dominant hand. He must have badly scraped himself from the hard wood that broke.

Before the others regained themselves, he quickly wrapped the wound with his handkerchief and shoved his hand in his pockets. 

"Damn it! I sprained BOTH my wrists?!" Graham cursed in pain. "Why did it have to be both?!"

"Looks like someone won't be able to cast hexes anytime soon," Miles said.

"Shut up, Bletchley! Heal me!"

"I only know how to repair your glasses," Miles reasoned. 

“I think I got hit at the back by something,” Adrian groaned as he sat back up. “You’re not hurt or anything, Pierre?”

“No, just a little surprised from the crash,” Pierre answered. He didn’t want people to make a fuss over such a small wound.

“Pierre! Can you come with me to the healers? I do not trust Miles at all, he’ll lead me to another dragon,” Graham asked. Both his wrists didn’t look too well.

“No I won’t!” Miles argued.

Pierre scoffed. “You’re literally the most untrustworthy of us.”

“And I take pride in that, but Graham, don’t you want me to help? What if you break your glasses?”

“Sod off, you’re not going anywhere near my damn glasses,” Graham rolled his eyes.

As Pierre accompanied Graham to the healers, his eyes scanned the crowd, hoping his brother was unharmed from the crash. Luckily, he found him huddled behind George, who appeared to have shielded him from the rubble. George had a few bits of wood stuck on his hair, and some scratches and rips from his jacket, but overall he seemed fine. They were both near the healers’ area, where other wizards were getting treated. Pierre gave a sigh of relief, but he wasn’t sure if it was only Edvard he was glad to be unharmed.

George saw him first. He smiled, also relieved to see Pierre. He moved towards him, leaving Fred to babysit Edvard. “Vinsey! Are you okay? Your area was the one directly hit by the Horntail," he looked over. "Oh, hi, Montague."

". . .I'll just go ahead," Graham whispered to Pierre, and gave George the side eye as he walked off to the healers.

George looked down. "Is your hand alright?" he pointed out.

Pierre revealed his wrapped hand. “I only scraped it," he tried to convince, but Geoge still looked worried.

"Hells, it’s still bleeding, but just a small wound. Why haven’t you healed it?”

Pierre bit his lip. “I don’t know much about healing spells.” He admitted.

He thought George might make fun of him; he prepared to be teased about it, but George only pulled out his wand from his jacket. “Give me your hand,” he said, offering to heal him. 

"Seriously, Weasley, it's not that bad."

"But it'll get infected. My mom always told my brothers and I to heal our wounds as quick as we can. And besides–"

George took in Pierre's hand, exposing the deep gash. Pierre felt the warm fuzzy mittens firmly hold his open palm as he loosened the handkerchief.

“I wouldn't want the world's most wicked artist to lose a hand. Episkey! " George casted. Pierre watched as the wound closed, startled by the warmth of George’s magic on such a cold afternoon. Soon enough, his palm had been healed, and no trace of blood was visible.

“Thanks,” he said. “It’s been a long while since I’ve been struck by a healing spell.”

“Maybe you just don’t get injured much?”

“That’s what you would think.”

“What do you mean–?”

Then, someone pointed at the sky, shouting. Others looked up, and then there were cheers. Harry came back, flying with his broom and holding the egg. What George tried to ask him, his voice had drowned from the booming crowd.

Fred came looking for him as he was shouting cheers for the tournament. "George, come on! Let's congratulate Harry!"

"I'm still with Vinsey," George said, though he didn't notice the sneer Fred gave Pierre.

Pierre got the hint he shouldn't stay around for long. "It's fine. I have to accompany Montague back to our side of the stands anyway."

George paused for a bit. "Oh," he said. "Okay. I'll see you around, right?"

"Of course," Pierre assured, not sure why George sounded disappointed he was leaving.

He turned away, but as he began down the stairs, George grabbed his hand from behind. It shocked him a bit, but George quickly let his hand go before he himself could yank it out. 

"Vinsey, wait."

"Yes?"

"I was wondering–" he stuttered. "My house is throwing a party later after dinner. You know, to celebrate Harry's win."

"Oh, that's nice." Pierre nodded.

"There's gonna be a lot of booze, but if you're not into that, there's some sodas. And Lee's pina colada. There's gonna be a lot of people. Other houses too; some Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw sixth years."

"Oh, good for you."

"But we haven't gotten in touch with the Slytherins in our year. You know how it is with your house, ha ha."

"I'm sure you will have enough in my house attending."

"Yeah, but you know, the invitation never closes."

"Oh you made invitation letters?"

"No, what I meant is that people are free to come and go."

"Ohh."

"Yeah."

"...So?"

"Well, invitations are always open."

"Can you get to the point? We've been standing on the stairs, there's a line behind you."

"Ah," George realised, and he stepped aside. Some of the students grumbled in annoyance. He turned his attention back to Pierre afterwards. He cleared his throat. "I was hoping–if you want to–if you want to go to the party."

"Ah!"

"It starts at eight, but you can come earlier–or later–or not come…but you're always welcome to go!"

Pierre thought of it this way. One of his friends' least favourite wizard just invited him to a party. If he never knew George the way he knew him now, he would have laughed at his face and jelly-leg jinxed him, but now, he was actually considering it. 

He thought of George and all the things they'll talk about. Talking to him seemed easier nowadays. He didn’t have to keep his guard up all the time. Somehow, being around him felt relaxing. 

Then he looked at Fred, who glanced at them both suspiciously. Pierre changed his thoughts to the looks of others. There will be people talking. Not about him. He didn’t care what others thought of himself, whether resentment or fear. But he didn’t want George to be part of it. 

Pierre looked at George. “Weasley, I don’t think I–”

“You don’t have to give me an answer,” George cut him off. He smiled, but Pierre could tell it was to hide his disappointment. 

“I see.” Pierre nodded. For a short while, they looked at each other, unsure who should leave first. Pierre decided to turn away first. He left the stands, unsure whether to look back or not.

“Anything from him yet?” 

“The owls haven’t arrived yet. Lots of deliveries from the Daily Prophet because of today’s trial. Kuya, you never cared about our father's letters, what’s up with you?” Mayari started to pry. She and Pierre were in his room. Three years ago, Pierre scolded her to stop going down to his room since it was off limits for both genders to go to each other’s rooms. He gave up because she was too stubborn.

“Nothing is up with me. I’m just curious as to what got him so caught up in the Ministry that he couldn’t go.” He was lying down on his bed, wearing the same turtleneck from the afternoon. He didn’t bother to go to Hogsmeade for a late night drink with his roommates. All he did was lie in bed waiting for his father to give him another excuse why he didn’t come.

“There you go again with the Ministry! He doesn’t come because he’s always so busy, he’s an Unspeakable, there’s so much work to do ,” Mayari mocked. She was fixing her hair, getting ready for a girls’ night and stealing her brother’s colognes. “And when he actually doesn’t come because of work, you bitch and moan about it!”

“Excuse me, but I’m not the one bitching here,” Pierre grumbled, annoyed by his sister’s rambles. “And stop using my cologne, it’s running out because of you.”

“At least I’m putting it to use unlike your lonely ass. Aren’t you going to the Gryffindor party tonight?”

“No.” He had already made up his mind not to go. He bet that he would already be caught in a fight the second he stepped foot inside the common room. 

“Really? Edvard said that the ginger guy looked depressed the entire afternoon. Did you reject the poor bloke? You're breaking hearts now?!" 

“Jesus, Mayari, you talk like we have any weird connection between us. And I certainly broke no one’s bloody heart,” Pierre said. “I’m simply not one for parties.”

“ I’m not one for parties blah blah I have high standards, I’m too fancy for lousy wizard parties and I’m BORING ! ” Mayari mocked again. Pierre threw a pillow at her.

“Get the hell out of my room!”

Mayari smiled mischievously. “Oh well! Edvard’s gonna be by himself, just him and a bunch of older wizards and witches with nothing to eat or drink except a bloody ton of firewhisky."

Pierre rolled his eyes. "As if that will get me to go. Edvard wouldn't dare, he's only eleven."

Mayari shrugged, and left the room.

A few seconds passed.

"Damn it," Pierre muttered. He got up from the bed and changed his clothes. Curse Mayari, but she had a point. Edvard was young, but the Malmvinsey name has a history of alcoholics (him included) and Pierre did not want Edvard to be part of that history too soon.

And besides, he didn’t want to admit it himself, but Pierre was hoping for some good company.

“SCREEEECHH!!!!”

“CLOSE THE EGG! CLOSE IT!” 

Everyone in the room was relieved when Harry closed the egg and the sharp screeching stopped. Shortly on, the party started to come full circle, with music of famous rock wizards blasting the Gryffindor common room and drinks being passed around.

George slouched by the door. He was in charge of welcoming guests in and keeping professors out. The room was warmer than outside. He had one of his thicker shirts on with a design of a wizarding rock band at the centre. 

Fred came up to him holding a cup of firewhisky. It was Fred's fifth shot. Anymore and he would black out. "The boys and I are gonna play butterbeer pong, do you want to join in?"

"I'll sit this out."

"Are you going to wait for that bloody Malmvinsey all night? He isn't coming, you know," Fred groaned.

"You don't know that," George frowned. 

"He's not going to have fun here."

At this point, George was starting to have his hopes down. Back at the stands, Pierre was about to decline his invitation. He wanted to wait longer in hopes he had changed his mind, but as the minutes passed, he started having doubts.

It was already ten in the evening, thirty minutes to eleven. Twenty minutes later, George decided that he shouldn't wait any longer.

Before he could give up on waiting, the Fat Lady opened the door. “You, one of the twins! Someone’s looking for you!”

George turned, and it took him everything to keep himself from smiling. Technically, he still smiled. “Vinsey! You came!” He suddenly felt a bit embarrassed wearing just a shirt and pants. Pierre was wearing a striped polo shirt and brown slacks matched with designer shoes. 

Pierre cleared his throat. "You’re not letting my brother drink alcohol, are you? He’s literally a child, and I will have you in Azkaban if you do." He stepped inside the common room. 

"Hey, I promise you that this party is for all ages! The sixth years are in the corner along with the alcohol and your bro is playing with the fireplace. I promised I take care of Minivinsey, didn’t I?"

As if he heard his own name, Edvard skiddled towards them. "Kuya! I thought you weren't coming! George said so and that's why he's been so quiet all night–"

"Wow, Minivinsey, look! Katie and Angelina just brought cake from the kitchens! Go eat it!" George interrupted him. 

"I love cake!" Edvard squealed and ran off the other direction. 

Pierre gave a light laugh. "You? Quiet in a party? I can hardly believe it."

George laughed back to hide his embarrassment. He wasn't about to tell Pierre how he was moping all night wondering whether he was going to arrive or not. But on the bright side, Pierre was here. 

"So, what do you want to do first?"

"You're the host, what do you think?"

George thought for a moment. “Shots.”

He lightly touched Pierre's back as they walked together across the room. Some of the students there, especially the sixth years, were puzzled of Pierre's sudden appearance at the party. They didn't bother hiding their whispers. 

"Is that Malmvinsey? That guy almost killed me in duelling club once."

"He's with one of the Weasleys too. Was he invited?"

"It's probably some kind of joke those twins are playing at him."

"Or one of them is sucking up to Malmvinsey's pockets. You know how poor those Weasleys are."

George ignored whatever gossip they spread. His attention was more towards Pierre, who whether he heard them or not, he continued his usual nonchalant expression. 

"I'm glad you're here," George reassured, just in case Pierre felt out of place. 

Pierre glanced, a little surprised with the sudden statement, but gave the faintest curves at the corners of his lips that George caught for less than a second.

George led him to the couch near the fireplace, grabbing two shots of firewhisky along the way. They sat apart from each other, both of them at the ends of the couch.

"How's your hand?" George asked.

"It’s alright, your spell helped.”

He wanted to ask more. He wanted to ask him how Pierre, a talented wizard, couldn't trust himself with healing spells. Maybe he was so used to casting duels and offensive spells that he might alter healing casts to make it do the opposite? He didn't pry further anyway. He now knew that he had limits of where he stood with Pierre, and he worried Pierre will push him more away.

But had Pierre really pushed him away?

A popular wizard band song vibed around the room, interrupting his thoughts. Some of George’s classmates ushered him to the dance floor. "Vinsey, come dance with me!" George pointed to the small vibrant crowd at the center of the room. 

"Oh I'm not a good dancer–" Before Pierre could say no, George was already dragging him to the floor.

George already started swaying his arms to the beat of the song and singing off key, but he didn't care. Pierre stood in front of him, tapping his head lightly along with a light smirk. "You look like an idiot," he chuckled.

"Then you're also one for being around me!" George laughed. Gently he took Pierre by the hand and guided him to sway along the rhythm. He could feel the hesitation from his grip. "No one's watching," he assured.

It was true. Most of the older students were already too drunk to care. 

Pierre took another sip of firewhisky. Liquid courage. He complied with George's wishes, letting him guide his arms. 

The two of them drunkenly danced together for a great duration. At one point, Angelina, Alicia, and Katie danced along with them. Pierre was smiling, almost laughing at the vibrant company. George couldn't tell if it was from the firewhisky or just sheer happiness. Either way, seeing this side of Pierre was a breath of fresh air. Maybe they should both get drunk together more often. 

The night went on, and at some point nearing midnight, George had to grab more firewhisky from his room. As he shuffled to carry the drinks he stored under the bed, a small part of his sober self started thinking.

The past few days, it seemed that they've warmed up to each other a little. To George, at least. He had enjoyed spending his time with him, stealing secret glances and noticing every little detail about him. 

But he couldn't seem to understand that there was some sort of distance between them, as if something was holding them back from really knowing each other.

But he didn't get it. George had lots of friends, but he never had to constantly question the distance or closeness of his friendships. He had never been bothered by how distant someone was to him until now.

That begged the question, what does he want from Pierre?

—

Pierre found himself quite acquainted with George's friends this year. Some he recognized and knew, students from the Art club and those who respected him for his status, but most of the time everyone kept their distance from him, except for Angelina and the girls.

He knew he wasn't welcome at the party. Even though he was invited, he knew he was still treated like an outsider. He didn’t know why he even came here. He thought it was to keep an eye on Edvard, but he barely kept watch. He was too preoccupied with the presence of George, who hadn’t left his side ever since he entered the room. He could leave at any time. He had a lot of reasons to leave. He just couldn’t figure out a reason why he was staying.

When George left the common room to fetch more butterbeer, he heard someone clear his throat. He turned around to see Fred, who leaned against the wall, frowning at him and with a drink in his hands.

"Malmvinsey," he acknowledged.

"Weasley." The way Fred mentioned his family name was the opposite of how George addressed him. Uninviting.

"We need to talk about you getting into my brother’s head."

"I don’t follow." Pierre replied cautiously.

Fred laughed sarcastically. "You think I buy that? Don't try to save face, I know you're manipulating him. I won't let you mess with his head." 

An unreasonable accusation. "I beg your pardon, but you're the one who can't stand to see him happy with anyone else. What's wrong, Weasley? You're upset because your brother is enjoying himself with people other than you?" Pierre sneered.

Fred stood straight, giving more height to himself to show he wasn't going to back down. "Don't fucking flatter yourself, Malmvinsey! George deserves someone better than a conniving and selfish git like you."

"Oh, I understand now. You're just mad because he's not with you all the time anymore. Sorry to break it to you, but you don't get to make his decisions. He doesn't need you breathing down his neck."

Pierre turned to leave, but Fred blocked the way. His face was nearing a violent red, and his hands tightly grasped the glass. 

"I'm trying to protect him from your bad influences! You'll only lead him into trouble. Admit it, you don’t care about him, and you'll only drag him down just for the fun of it. You think that I’d believe that in just a few months you’re suddenly treating George as a human being when you and your bloody group of Slytherin blokes have been terrorizing us for years? I know this is another one of you and your friends’ damn tricks. You earn one of our trust and you’ll do something later to humiliate us."

Pierre furrowed his brows. He was annoyed now. 

"You know nothing about me, and nothing about how I see George."

He roughly nudged Fred to make way, but in doing so, Fred spilled his drink onto his shirt. Pierre gasped to see the fiery red colour now staining his clothes. A few students noticed the exchange, and started throwing glances trying to make out of the scene.

"That's what I think of you and your lies. Leave my fucking brother alone, Malmvinsey. There's nothing bloody good in you!" Fred spat. He pushed Pierre, not a strong push, but enough for Pierre to stagger.

"I'm not the one always making the first move, Weasley. Maybe you should tell your brother to leave me alone instead," Pierre shot back. Maybe he said that in the heat of the moment, or he was drunk, but he just wanted to get this over with.

“You arse! George has never once insulted you, and the first thing I hear from you is how you don’t even give a shit about him. I see exactly what you are, Malmvinsey. A fucking danger!"

Pierre resisted the urge to grab his wand and curse him. People were already looking. He didn't want things to get worse. "What the fuck did I even do to make you so offended? Are you scared that I've made it seem as if I'm stealing him from you? Could it have occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, he doesn't need to be with you all the time to enjoy something?"

"I'm his brother, and we've been through everything together. You're just a nuisance in our lives. You're the one who knows nothing!"

"What's going on?" 

George came back to the party, unaware of the exchange between his brother and Pierre. He saw his brother holding an empty glass, and Pierre's red stained clothes. Putting it together along with the last words he heard them say to each other, he suspected that their argument wasn't going to end well if he hadn't intervened.

"Can you tell your brother to lay off?" Pierre sneered. 

"Tell your 'friend' to sod off!"

"That's enough, both of you."

Fred turned to his brother in defiance. "Why can't you see what he really is? He clearly doesn't care about you!"

"You don't get to decide who I make friends with. Vinsey and I get along fine enough, and I won't let you treat him like this."

He stole a glance at Pierre, who was staring at him before looking away, face unreadable.

"You are my brother. If I can see Malmvinsey brings nothing but harm, then so should you!"

"I don't want to deal with you tonight, Fred."

He turned his back on Fred and left the party, grabbing Pierre’s hand along with him. He glanced back to see Fred glare at the both of them, his fists clenched. He shook his head and stomped away to the other side of the room. 

"Weasley, let go, I'm fine for Merlin's sake," Pierre grumbled. 

George didn't answer him. His thoughts and feelings before swirled violently in his mind, and he was more unsure of what he was feeling in the moment. He was angry at Fred for humiliating Pierre and for questioning their friendship. And yet he was angry at himself too for being too careless. Everytime he tries to hang out with him, something goes wrong! First was the squid, then that Beauxbatons git appears out of nowhere, then crossing the line at Pierre's personal eating habits (or lack thereof), and now fighting with his brother over him.

Perhaps it was George himself who was questioning his friendship with Pierre.

He brought Pierre up to his room. He was ignoring Pierre's complaints until now, not because he was annoyed or anything, but because he was thinking too many things at once. 

He rummaged around his closet, his mind stalling the time.

There were only a few things he would think of at the same time: box, mom, Fred, mischief, and Ludo's gambling scheme. But now, the list was adding up: box, mom, mischief, Ludo's gambling scheme, Pierre, Pierre eating well, Pierre in the art classroom, Minivinsey, Pierre again, and every other thought having to do with him (Fred is currently excluded from his thoughts).

In the meantime, he had to deal with Pierre.

Wait, why didn't he hear any of his ranting?

George looked over from the closet to see Pierre lie face first on the ground. "Vinsey!" he hurried over to him. 

" Urghh…" Pierre groaned, muffled from the floor.

"How much did you drink??"

"Why did you think you had to fetch more alcohol earlier?"

My god. "You're lucky I'm not taking you to the infirmary," George sighed as he helped Pierre up. 

Pierre's eyes looked tired, his eyebags got worse than the last George saw them, and when he steadied him by the shoulders, he could smell the strong and deep whiskey over him.

"How is that lucky?" Pierre slurred. He struggled to stand. The alcohol was getting to him. This is why Fred should have brought more mixers. 

"Because I'm here to take care of you!" George grinned.

"I prefer the hangover, thank you." Pierre had a coughing fit. "Fuck," he breathed.

"What is it?" 

Pierre only groaned heavily.

"Pierre–?!" George leaned in, but when Pierre's arms held onto his shoulders, Pierre fell clumsily back, and George followed forward. 

They both tumbled on the bed, Pierre's hair a mess and bangs fell back, exposing his forehead. George froze on top of him and he was lucky he stopped himself from putting his weight on the drunk wizard. He stared at Pierre, who sleepily looked back and face red from the alcohol. This was the first time George fully saw Pierre's face. Brown eyes like a desert in the night, and skin tawny like pale forest oak. This was the first time he got to see his forehead as well. 

Pierre closed his eyes, humming and breathing heavily. The tinge of firewhisky tingled from his breath. George couldn't help but dip his head low as Pierre's arms had circled around him, one behind his neck, tugging. Pulling. George wanted to let Pierre's arms pull him down, for him to sink onto the bed, onto–

"Hot."

"What?"

"It's hot. Hard to breathe," Pierre grumbled weakly.

George regained himself, reminding of the situation they're both in. Now he was the one all red. "Oh shit," he whispered. "Is your shirt tight?"

Pierre nodded. George was about to reach for one of his buttons, but Pierre had let his hands down and unbuttoned it himself. "This was one of my best shirts and now it reeks of butterbeer…" he muttered disappointedly.

George got up from the bed and rummaged through his closet. He grabbed the most fashionable yet casual shirt he had. A red shirt with gingerbread cookie patterns. 

"Here, you can wear this," he tossed it over.

Pierre was still lying on the bed. He took one look at the shirt and squinted his eyes in blatant disgust. "I am not wearing this."

"Then might as well go shirtless," George shrugged, but then cringed at himself when he realised what he said.

"Excuse me?" Pierre raised an eyebrow.

"Just wear the damn shirt! You're bloody drunk and you’re a mess in my room, and you still care about looking good?" George turned around, and he went stiff.

He saw Pierre sitting on the bed. His shirt that was soaked from the butterbeer was already on the other side of the bed, disposed of, and he tousled George's shirt. Pierre's back was exposed, and George only saw scars. Scars that looked like his back had been clawed out with no remorse. When did he get those?

"What's up with those scars?" George pried. 

Pierre didn't face him. "Just something I can't remove."

"When did you get those then? More importantly, how did you get them in the first place–"

"Can you shut up and mind your own business?" Pierre snapped. 

George stopped interrogating. He was stepping out of line, and this topic wasn't something Pierre wanted to talk about, especially when he's drunk.

Pierre reluctantly wore the shirt. It was a few inches shorter than most of George's shirts, but worn by Pierre it looked too big on him, covering all of his waist and hips. He tried to stand up again, but he faltered. He began to lurch over, his face pale.

"Fuck, I think I'm going to puke," Pierre said weakly.

Ignoring the thick air between them, George helped him sit back down. He transfigured Lee's pencil into a glass of water and gave it to Pierre. "You shouldn't push yourself, Vinsey."

"I don't need your help, Weasley."

"Says the wizard who's wasted on my sheets," Weasley pointed out. 

Pierre was not amused. "You shouldn’t have helped me. Your brother had a point.”

"I don't get it. What's wrong with talking to you? I talk to everyone!"

"You seriously lack self-awareness…"

George noticed that whenever Pierre talked to him, he purposely didn't meet his gaze. 

Pierre continued to rant. “Sure, you talk to everyone. But you don’t talk to Slytherins. My friends hate you and you hate them back. And throughout the years we never wanted to talk to each other. Hell, we didn't even think about each other until now. Haven't you always seen me as just another wizard you don’t want to be in the same room with?"

"What's your point in all of that?"

"The point is that I don't understand this . We are circles apart, and I do not understand why you’re annoyingly invading my circle.”

“There you go again with circles. Technically, we’ve known each other for years. Our dads are coworkers, colleagues, and schoolmates! You’re basically a family friend that just began to act like one this year.”

“Talking to you occasionally is a coincidence. Having been sat next to you in the World Cup was a coincidence. Hitting me with a bludger was a coincidence.” 

George sat next to Pierre on the bed, a cunning look on his face. “So you making up with that month-long punishment of me being your apprentice was also a coincidence?”

“I–”

“You got no comeback on that one.”

Pierre raised his voice. “Would you have rather faced suspension?!”

“Obviously not, but you could have just let me be suspended, but you didn’t. So to contradict your claim of me invading your circle, you’re the one letting me in–OW!”

George fell back as a pillow was thrown at him. 

Pierre's face was red, intoxicated from the alcohol. His bangs are wet from the sweat from his forehead. “I suggested that alternative rather than you facing suspension because I know it’s only going to cause more trouble the entire year. I rather have you temporarily annoying me for an entire month than a year of being shunned as the one responsible for the oh so likeable Weasley twin!"

Pierre continued to rant. “You think I would willingly associate myself with the likes of you, Weasley?! I always found you annoying since our first year and until now you still are, but a constant headache! Your detention was already over so why are you still dragging me along to your mischief?!"

George blocked another pillow. "It's because I like being with you!"

Pierre paused. "Ha?"

George looked at him seriously, and straight in the eye. "Do I really have to explain it? I like talking to you and I think you're just fun to be around, for some reason!"

"For some reason?" Pierre scoffed. He looked ridiculous with the gingerbread shirt. 

Before either of them could continue, a sharp knock on the chilling window interrupted their conversation. George got up from his bed and walked over to see a familiar owl tapping its beak against the glass, a letter secured in its claws. "It's your owl," he called Vinsey. 

He opened the window for the owl to enter and was about to pour some warm water, but as the owl flew over to Pierre to hand him the letter, it swiftly flew out without warming its feathers.

He closed the window and returned to sit on the bed. "It's from the Ministry," George said as he saw the MoM formal seal.

"From my father," Pierre elaborated. His eyes scanned through the contents of the letter, and George could tell from his eyes he expected disappointment. Shortly then, he discarded the letter aside and let himself fall on his back on the bed exhausted. He rubbed his temples, his brow furrowed.

He didn't bother to scold George as the latter took the letter in his hand and read through it. 

"I owe you and your siblings an apology for my absence today. I doubt I can even witness much of the tournament as there is an abrupt emergency in my department that I must attend to urgently. I hope you can understand, Auguste.

1. Malmvinsey"

His father was supposed to come? Right, half of the audience in the tournament were members of the ministry, most of them from the higher positions. 

"You've been waiting for your dad all day?" George asked.

"I already knew he wasn't coming." Pierre replied, his eyes tired. It was obvious he was upset about it, no matter how hard he tried to build a wall for himself.

"Maybe he'll show up in the later challenges. He's only late."

Pierre scoffed. "Spare me the comfort. The only time my father will ever spend some time with his own children will be when he has some sort of ulterior motive."

George chuckled. "Come on, Vinsey. He's your dad, why would he only see you for that kind of reason?"

"Do I have to elaborate?" Pierre turned, now lying at his side on George's bed. His face was still red, still drunk, but in his senses. "Remember the World Cup?" he asked.

"Of course. I got both good and bad memories there, one of which included sitting next to you in the stadium," George smirked.

"Is that a good or bad memory?" Pierre teased.

"I leave that up to you," George answered. 

"I'll view it as bad, then. I didn't like you at the time yet," Pierre announced.

"Wow, I'm deeply offended by the mutual feelings I had of you."

"At the time," Pierre clarified.

"At the time," George repeated, covering his laughter.

"My father was with us, if you even remember. It was actually one of the very rare times he spent with me and my siblings. He rarely comes home, usually just once a week, sometimes every other week with the same excuse–the ministry. I’ve only seen him seven times this year, two of them less than an hour.”

“You’re probably just exaggerating.”

“Ask Edvard if you don’t believe me. He’s seen his dad less."

“Well, even if that’s true, Minivinsey admires his dad a lot, you know. He’s always telling me and Fred about how he’d want to grow up working for the ministry like his dad someday.”

“Edvard? Working for the Ministry of Magic?  Unbelievable.” Pierre scoffed.

“I know! He’s more likely to be on their blacklist rather than their departments!” George laughed, but stopped himself. “Sorry, that might’ve come out as offensive.”

“No hard feelings, Weasley,” Pierre smirked. "I don't even think I can stop him from causing trouble. I don't understand him sometimes. He can never learn to sit still, he has these weird interests, and sometimes it feels like he's always one step ahead of my scoldings. It's hard for me to understand Edvard, but frankly I've given up on trying to know what the bloody hell is on that kid's mind. I'll leave him to himself, him and his smile as if he's hiding some–"

"Sinister secrets?" George suggested.

That brought a light laugh from Pierre. "Yeah, that."

They both laughed. George eventually followed Pierre’s lead and laid down on the bed next to him and faced the ceiling. 

“It’s hard to imagine not spending any time with parents. I know school keeps us busy for months, but the summer and winter–all my memories outside Hogwarts are with Fred, my siblings, and Mom and Dad.”

“What’s that like?” Pierre asked him. George shifted his head to look at Pierre. Pierre didn’t look back. He only stared blankly at the ceiling. He looked small in George’s shirt.

Still, George continued to look at him as he answered. “Fun, mostly because Fred and I bring enthusiasm. Last year, we went to Egypt to visit my brother, Bill, and we saw the pyramids. Fred, Ron, and I went inside one of them and accidentally stumbled on a pit of scorpions. Naturally, I fought valiantly,” he bragged jokingly. 

“Yeah, right. With your duelling skills I’d assume the scorpions won the first few rounds.”

“Hey! I cast great explosive spells! And Dad got us ice cream afterwards! Though it also came with two months of no broom flying but it was worth it! But nevermind that, what about your summers? I’m sure there’s at least one good memory you have with your own dad,” George said.

Pierre didn’t respond for a short while. The tranquil silence filled the room, and George felt himself start to become tense. Perhaps the question was too personal that Pierre chose to ignore him? He worried about the thought of being ignored by Pierre lately. He contemplated, unsure if he should tell George. George hoped he would tell him. He wanted to know everything there is about the real Pierre, outside of Hogwarts and past the years-long feud their circles had.

“There is one.” He finally said. “I was six. We went to the Philippines for the summer, staying at my mother’s family estate in the rural province. There was a beach near there too, and oh how I loved it there.”

George chuckled. “You can’t swim though!”

“Oh hush, it wasn’t about that. It felt right being on that beach. You would have loved it, Weasley–with the cool waves hitting the soft sands, and the coral reefs! England doesn’t have beaches like those. Mayari was there too, but she was young, only four and Edvard couldn’t even walk yet. In a way I feel special to be the only one with that memory.”

Another pause. 

“But at the same time, I wished Mayari and Ed could have remembered those summers too.”

“You never went back again?”

Pierre shook his head, tired and drowsy. “Not since my mother died. Everything changed. Father changed, the summers and winters changed and I had no choice but to change as well.”

George didn’t know the right thing to say to that. He knew now that Pierre’s mother, Haliya, was the center of the family, who brought everyone together. The way Pierre talked about her was enough to know that he practically admired her. He loved her, and still does. Now, he wondered about the pain Pierre felt when he lost her, and if he still carried that to this day.

“Change isn’t always a bloody bad thing, Vinsey.” 

Pierre, at last, returned George’s gaze. Oak eyes staring at another shade of blue. They were in a position where George lay at his side as Pierre lay on his back, one arm holding a pillow to his chest while the other was free at his side. George had a free arm too.

George explained himself, thoroughly and carefully. Gently. Warmly. “I know your family isn’t what you imagined, and yes it may seem like you’re distant from them, but trust me, I know family love when I see one. That’s the kind of love I’m sure about. You have Minivinsey with you, and to him you’re his strong big brother. And yeah he finds it annoying with you constantly scolding him, but he’s been doing well in classes–I should know, he corrected my Transfiguration essay!”

“Didn’t I ask you to help him with his studies instead of the other way around?” Pierre raised a brow.

“Moving on!” George interrupted, though it didn’t stop him from laughing. Pierre shook his head, laughing but only a little bit. “And to some extent, you changed as well.”

Pierre shuffled and now lay on his side, his body facing toward George. “How so?”

“Well for starters, you’re talking to me more often now,” George grinned. Pierre lightly slapped his hands. “And well, you’re less hostile to me than before. Do you think lying on my bed is a good change for us?”

Pierre laughed. “God, Weasley, you make that sound weird.”

“I’m not trying to make it weird!” George grasped Pierre’s free hand and pulled it closer to his own chest. “For six years I never imagined that I’d get to know the Pierre Malmvinsey–he and his high standards, his rude and sarcastic behaviour, his love of art and magic so cold, getting to know his little brother always in his own world, and your favourite flavour being blueberry lemonade scones!”

Pierre’s eyes dipped and he ran his own hair through his free hand. He seemed to be flustered a little by what George had said, but it was the truth. George was telling him bluntly of all the things running in his mind about Pierre, and to be frank, George didn’t care of the consequences at the moment. He was too drunk to care.

“I’ve only talked to you for a month and I’ve discovered so much about you. I call myself stupid for not talking to you sooner, Vinsey.”

Pierre’s eyes met his. The eyes were tired, fighting the alcohol. They knew something their hearts haven’t told their minds yet. It was something both of them have yet to discover. “You can still talk,” Pierre said softly as he closed his eyes.

George smiled brightly and his eyes were sleepy. He felt happy to have been granted the permission to be a part of Pierre’s circle. “For what it’s worth, I’m happy for this change.”

Silence passed between them.

There was no richly soft accent that replied to his words. He glanced up to Pierre’s eyes, which were already closed. He fell asleep. George tried not to laugh so he wouldn’t wake him up. The clock ticked thirty minutes past midnight. The faint sounds of the party were still vivid and lively. Usually their parties end at dawn. It would have been a problem if Fred and Lee walked in on them, but he didn’t need to worry about it. Big parties means they’re always bound to pass out in the common room. There weren’t any classes tomorrow either, so he can help Pierre slip past anyone easily.

Pierre’s complexion softened as he slept. This was a new face George saw in front of him. Oftentimes he’s been with him walking the halls, there was always a wall Pierre built around him that forbade anyone to get too close. Seeing him now, Pierre’s face softened as he slept. His hair was dishevelled, and George’s shirt was really too big for him. Still, he looked as poised as ever.

Though he was also drunk, his mind was sober enough to be lost in thought. As he laid beside Pierre, he contemplated to himself with his hand not letting go of Pierre's hand. He figured that he didn’t want to let go of it just yet. 

Yes, he was happy about this change. Who knew that after all these years this person would mean a great deal to him? Yet all this time Pierre was just in plain sight. He was the boy whose eyes reflected the fireworks on New Year’s eve. The boy in the compartment at the other side of the train. The boy who was friends with Fred and his’ natural enemies ever since first year. The boy they accidentally doused in acid slime, and thank god they’ve gotten over that already. And Pierre looked handsome with his hair cropped short back in fourth year near Christmas.

Then everything changed when he ended up having to assist him for a whole month. One month with just Pierre and everything he thought about Pierre became different.

Each hour his heart grew fonder for him, but it wasn’t the same fondness he felt for his brother or any of his friends. This was different, he believed. 

And then it clicked.

So that’s why he always searched for him in every crowd. That when he finds him, he can’t help but turn red all the time. It was simple, but it wasn’t the case. The answer to all these confusing feelings he felt about Pierre was right there in front of him. He saw it change himself, from years long annoyance and then growing to tolerate him. But he overlooked that those feelings can even go further. 

So that’s why he was always worried about him, if he was doing okay or eating right or painting well. So that’s why he noticed every little detail of Pierre, from his habit of putting brushes on his ear, how he would purse his lips to think, and the first thing he would always look for were the two moles on his cheeks. Those eyes like oak, he had searched for them constantly, frantic for those eyes to look back at him. And from the rare moment that they do, George never thought he would just simply fall apart from that. 

The fondness in his heart was something so much more, he knew. 

He knows.

He finally knew what his heart had been telling him from the start, and quietly he whispered to himself stupid for only realizing it just now. 

George softly brushed his lips on Pierre’s palm, his heart beating faster than ever.

Chapter Text

The transfiguration classroom was more crowded than usual that afternoon. Professor McGonagall gathered all 4th year and above Gryffindor students to practice for the waltz to be performed on the Yule Ball. 

Meanwhile, George had other things in mind. He remembered a lot of things about the party. Majority about Pierre of course, and his newfound revelation of the fact he caught romantic feelings for him.

It was all so confusing to him. This was the first time he’s ever had a crush on a man, even more surprising was that he’d actually fallen for the supposed school enemy. He always thought he would marry a girl–wait, no–too early to think about that kind of commitment. 

Pierre was no longer lying next to him in his bed that morning when he woke up. He must have left early without anyone seeing him, since he hasn’t heard Fred insult Pierre for a while now and he hasn't heard any rumors of a dark-haired guy wearing a fuzzy red sweater sneaking around their Common room. Of course, Pierre would care more about the damage such a scandal would do to his own image. 

His head bent down to look at his hand, the same one that held Pierre's hand that night. Traces of his touch faintly ran across his palm.  With the disappointment he had upon waking up and seeing his hand empty, much of his current thoughts were of when he can hold Pierre again.

He glanced at Fred, who was laughing at Ron make a spectacle of himself dancing with McGonagall. To be honest, he was still mad that Fred threw a drink at Pierre. It was uncalled for and disrespectful. When it came to getting back at someone, they always did it together, and they both disliked that person. It was also a first for him when his brother did that to someone he liked. He understood that Fred was just being protective, but George knew how to take care of himself, and he was sure Pierre wasn't that kind of person, despite their initial impressions of each other. He had previously tried letting Fred see his perspective on Pierre, but his brother was as stubborn as rock. Once he sets his eyes on someone he doesn't like, then there's more chances of him getting an O in Potions than changing his opinions on that person.

He and Fred hadn’t talked about the incident at the party. George had found his twin wasted the next morning near the fireplace, and Fred just acted as if nothing happened at all. He carried on with his harsh jokes, they carried on with their pranks as usual, and did everything else together as always… but George's view of his brother had slightly changed. Maybe an apology would have lifted this tension between them, but no matter how great their twin telepathy was, Fred had always been the more prideful one.

The next day in study hall, he sat with his friends, listening to idle gossip.

"So," Lee asked. "Have you guys found a date yet for the Yule ball?"

Katie Bell was about to speak, but Lee dismissed her. "Not you, Katie, we ALL know who you're going with! I'm talking about a certain redhead here in this table."

"Ron?"

"No!"

Fred snickered. "Ron told me he was gonna ask out Fleur Delacour, as if he's even got the chance."

"I meant you two blokes!" Lee whispered, though it was loud enough for Snape to sneer.

Free straightened himself. "Of course I have a date!" he claimed. 

"Really? I never saw you ask out any girl yesterday," George questioned. 

"Of course, I do! It's already a given, watch me!" Fred crumpled up a piece of paper and threw it to, unsurprisingly, Angelina. Angelina glanced at them in surprise and annoyance, mouthing the word ' what ?'.

As cocky as Fred was, he imitated himself dancing and then pointed at himself, and then to Angelina. 

Angelina rolled her eyes, which made Fred's eyes widen in anxiety, a little nervous that his straightforward plan might have failed. But then Angelina nodded, and smiled.

George had never seen his brother smile that bright after that. His brother looked at George and Lee. "See, a date," he grinned with his cheeks red. 

George chuckled at him, surprised that that kind of proposal actually worked. He glanced at Lee, who lightly laughed as well. George searched for any signs of jealousy from him, but it looked like he had already accepted defeat and he was alright with it. 

"And what about you, George? Your brother's found his match, have you found yours?" Lee asked.

George paused, pondering how he should answer. There was only one person in his mind, obvious enough. But he couldn't just admit it infront of his friends and his brother! To make matters worse, he might be instigating another fight between Fred and Pierre. He knew very well that if Fred found out about his feelings, his anger would be onto Pierre instead of him.

"I haven't thought about it," he lied.

Fred rolled his eyes. "There's a lot more girls in school and you don't bother to think who you're going out with?"

"You're more of the playboy than me," George explained. "There's enough time anyway, I'll probably ask someone out before the ball later."

"Who are you calling a playboy? You had a cauldron half-full of letters from girls way more than me last year," Fred argued. "Just choose one blindly and you have a date, easy!"

"Stop exaggerating! That's only 'cause of that perfect batter I hit from last year's match. I'm capable of finding a date without that stupid plan, thanks," he dismissed.

The rest of the time was spent in silence after that. George could feel Lee steal glances at him. He didn't feed his curiousity and as unlikely as it was, he focused a bit of his parchment work. He tried to put aside his thoughts about the Yule Ball and his friends peer pressuring him into finding a date. At the current time, even silence can't help him focus.

Once study hall was over, Lee pulled him aside.

"What's up?" George asked. He stepped a few paces behind from Fred as he walked alongside Lee.

"Don't play dumb, George. I know," Lee accused him, a slight mischief in his tone.

"You know what??"

"You know!" Lee rolled his eyes. He put one hand up, "You," and the other hand up "and Malmvinsey!" then he clasped his hands together. "You know!"

George had never gotten so red in shock. "Jordan, no! What the bloody hell made you think of that?!" 

"It's obvious. I mean, I had my suspicions of what you were trying to do, but the party last night confirmed it!" 

"Vinsey and I did nothing last night!" He hissed, careful that no one else had heard. "Keep your dirty minded bloke-ness to yourself!"

"Whuh luh wuh?" Lee said as he was pulled aside to a less crowded area. Fred called out to them, asking what was holding them up, but George waved his hand, signalling they'll catch up.

"The only thing we ever did was sleep together," George explained, but he realized he made Lee's accusation all the more convincing. Now his cheeks were going to a color more than red– crimson .

From what he said, Lee's eyes widened in shock. "WHAT?! YOU AND VINSEY–MMPH!" His mouth was covered before he dared finish the sentence. This gave them curious looks from the crowd, but George waved it off.

"I swear on Merlin's name, we didn't do anything you're thinking about," George said in a lower voice so as other people wouldn't have heard.

Lee removed George's hand. "HAHAHA! You thought I was talking about something dirty?" He laughed. A few students passing by scoffed at them, getting the wrong ideas and judging them.

"Keep your voice low," George grumbled.

"Sorry, sorry! But you're the one with a dirty mind, with the way you immediately accused me of thinking so!" Lee argued, half laughing.

"Well what were you trying to say then?"

"I meant that you and Malmvinsey are going to the Yule ball together," Lee said, now careful not to be too loud. "I just want to say that it's okay to tell me, I don't mind who you date. Hell, if Alicia and Katie smother each other, you can like whoever you want to like too."

Although Lee's accusation was entirely wrong, George couldn't ignore the support he got. "You don't find it weird?" 

"AHAH! So you DO like him!" Lee squealed.

George shook his head in embarrassment. "I didn't say that!"

"You don't have to, it's obvious to our friends–except Fred, I think. He probably has a gut feeling but he’s in deep denial."

"Jordan whatever you believe, Vinsey and I aren't going to the ball together. I haven't asked."

"Ah, but you're going to, right?" 

"That's not what I–” He paused for a moment. He wasn’t so sure if it was safe to open up. They were close friends, yes, but the only person he really ever opened up to about his own feelings was Fred, and unfortunately, telling Fred that he’s infatuated with Pierre may cause another assassination attempt. But since it was already so obvious that he's smitten, he couldn't continue beating around the bush.

"Even if I do confess, I'm only going to cause him trouble. I don't want to make things confusing between us anymore." He admitted. 

"Who knows? He might feel the same way."

“I doubt it. I’m not even sure if he's into guys. I wasn't sure I was into guys until yesterday! This is all new to me, Jordan.”

Jordan shrugged. “I only teased you guys as a joke, but I didn't expect you actually caught feelings, haha!” 

“I still don't know if asking him out all of a sudden is the right thing to do. We only started enjoying each other's company this year, and I don't want to risk losing what we have now. . .”

Suddenly, Lee hanged his head low. He slowed his pace, and then he stared off, unmeeting George's gaze. “I didn't want to risk my friendship with Angelina, and look what that got me.”

George fell silent. He stopped walking and look back at Lee, who rubbed the back of his neck. “Jordan. . .”

Lee’s eyes lit up again. “I’m sure your brother will keep her happy, so that's already fine for me. Besides, I only had a small crush on her, so I’m not that heartbroken. However . . .”

Then he stared at George with a determined look. This surprised George, for he didn't know Lee could be this serious. “Can you handle losing Malmvinsey in that way?” 

His question left George dumbfounded, unable to answer. He liked the way things were with Pierre now. He was happy with the conversations he had with him, learned a lot about him and magic, about his family and routine. He was happy enough only admiring his dark hair and sharp oakwood eyes. The way his moles moved on the rare occasion he was granted a genuine smile.

But would George still be happy if Pierre felt the same way for someone else? Would he be happy living at the possibility Pierre would prefer the company of someone else over him?

Before he could answer, they were already at the door to the Defence against the Dark Arts classroom. 

As the students poured in, Lee patted George on the back before taking a seat. “I support whatever decision you make. Hopefully you won't regret it, though.” 

George only nodded, still troubled and unsure of Lee’s question. He sat at the table where Fred was waiting for him. “What took you so long? What were you and Lee talking about?”

“Oh he wanted me to cover for his detention in the kitchens. I said no,” he lied.

“No one makes my brother into a scapegoat,” Fred joked. He threw a paper bird to Angelina who sat at the front, who the latter immediately caught. Thank Merlin that he was too smitten to stay suspicious.

A few seconds later, the Slytherins arrived. They must have had their dance practice right before too, as some gossiped about Snape's horrible dancing skills. One particular Slytherin caught George's eye, and it was none other than Pierre himself. 

Pierre didn't look as red and disheveled as he was from the party anymore. His hair was styled in his usual neat side part and his clothes unwrinkled and unstained. Adrian Pucey followed right beside him, happy as a dog and being all clingy again, which made George remember what Lee asked him. 

‘Can you handl e losing Malmvinsey in that way? ’ Shut up, brain.

George barely slept the night. The words Lee said huddled his mind throughout the rest of his day. The whole period, he recalled that Pierre didn’t glance at him at all. They haven’t talked since the party. George wondered if he did something wrong. Even after classes, he couldn’t go near him without Fred having to pull him away to go prank some fourth years down the hall.

He couldn’t sleep. The other night, his mind was head over heels with the sudden realization that he had a crush on Pierre, but tonight, he was full of worry. 

The thing is that he liked how things were, but George knew that it wasn’t enough. Ever since they started talking, they only continued. Every day when he used to be in detention, he got to know Pierre from the conversations they had. Each day, he only grew more curious of the wizard he knew so much yet so little about. 

He was starting to really miss detention now. With one last thought, he wondered if Pierre was awake in the night too, wondering if the very same thoughts bothered him.

Edvard’s favorite meal of the first Tuesday of December was breakfast. He disliked roasted meat dinners, vegetable and bone broth lunches, but always craved morning eggs and toast with passionfruit jam. His best friends in the whole world, Fred and George, skipped the food because Professor McGonagall made them clean the pumpkin farm after they blew it up recently. Naturally, having no close friends and being deemed an outcast by the entire  first years, he sat next to his big brother and his friends.

“Your brother is wicked!” Miles, the lettuce-looking hair, squealed. Kuya Miles always had a new hair color every 16 days! 

”He’s like me when I was still 11, a foul trickster at heart!”

Didn’t you dislike Edvard for being Gryffindor? Cassius, the tallest one in the group, signed. He also ate toast with passionfruit jam! Edvard wanted to grow as tall as him one day!

“As if. All you ever were in first year was shortest and most annoying bloke in our entire batch,” Graham bickered. He was like Pierre, Edvard thought. Smart and judgemental, but with glasses and no moles and talks all the time about kuya Miles’ lettuce hair. Edvard believed that kuya Graham only likes Miles in his natural hair, but Edvard doesn't know the color yet.

Kuya Pierre didn’t join what they were talking about. Adrian, the one with ‘angel eyes’, talked to him about their homework for potions. 

“Too bad we can’t do Polyjuice ourselves. Snape’s been saying there’s a thief who only gets the ingredients needed to make that potion. I hope they catch whoever it is,” Adrian sighed.

Edvard thinks that he tries too little to win his brother’s heart. Edvard also wonders why his angel eyes attract the love letters of Beauxbatons but not Pierre.

Before Edvard could finish his oatmilk, an unfamiliar face appeared near their table. He saw Adrian’s face darken at the sight of the new face.

This new face was one of those Beauxbaton wizards staying in the school. Pierre mentioned him before, but this is the first Edvard’s ever seen up close. He had a black ponytail and  yellow eyes. His smile matched Edvard’s, only more charming than sly. Edvard wonders if he can swear in French.

“ Bonjour , I’m here for Pierre Malmvinsey,” he winked. For a split second, Edvard saw his eye change to a blood red, matching the singular earring he wore. The stranger was quite tall and in similar height to kuya Fred and George. He wore the Beauxbaton uniform, a complete light blue cape that partly covered a blue blazer with silver embroidery. 

Pierre’s friends were quiet. It was obvious they felt intimidated by him, but Ed didn’t know if it was because he was a competitor or if he’s just scary.

“Ah, pardonne–moi, you see, since Pierre is now my Potions partner as my peers and I will take tentative classes during our stay for the Games, he and I discussed yesterday that we’d take today’s free period to study together the procedures.”

Only Adrian stood alert. “Ravel, such unfortunate timing. He’s still eating.” He still has the angel eyes, but from his tone there was faint annoyance and distrust. According to what kuya Cassius informed Edvard yesterday, this Ravel person took Pierre as his partner for potions, which was what made Adrian irritated even today.

“It’s alright, I can take the scones with me,” Pierre assured. He scooped a blueberry lemon, which George introduced him to. It was now  kuya’s top weekly cravings. He stood up, ready to go with Weiss Ravel, but Adrian grabbed him by the arm.

“Are you sure? Maybe the boys and I can tag along. You know, it’s more fun when all five of us are studying together.”

“Yeah, I need help differentiating a newt tail and a lizard tail!” Miles perked up.

The rest also started to agree. Pierre thought about it. “Hmm, I’m alright with it, but I must consider if Ravel’s comfortable.”

Weiss set up a charming smile. “My apologies, Pierre, but for us Beauxbatons, we prefer to study in a more peaceful setting. A large group is too loud in a library, and some of my colleagues will also be there to study as well, and we were taught to focus among the quiet.”

Pierre considered. “You have a point, this bunch is the loudest right now in the Great Hall.”

Miles looked offended. “Pierre, you insulting me in front of some Beau brat on?!”

“Lay off, Miles. We're just going to be in the library.” Pierre stood up as he went over to Weiss. 

Once the two of them left, Adrian let out an annoyed groan. Edvard, who was now seated next to him as he moved closer to the jam jar, stared at Adrian. “I don’t like the french man either, kuya ,” he said.

Adrian smiled, seeming to feel better. It must be that Adrian also had a feeling that there was something off about this Ravel guy, but Edvard couldn’t explain how odd he is yet. He felt a hand tousle his dark hair. “You can finish the entire jar, Ed. No one’s gonna stop you,” Adrian grinned. 

Edvard smiled and grabbed the tub of passionfruit jam. Then, he suddenly gasped upon realization. Yesterday, he and George had agreed to visit the library today too to try and decode the symbols on the magic box, and he completely forgot he was supposed to meet him an hour ago!

“Big brothers, I have to go to the library too! I need to–err–fill some books with my jam,” He excused as he held the jar up. 

“Aww, he’s a little devil at heart just like us before. Brings back memories,” Miles sniffed. This made Graham roll his eyes.

Adrian also stood up and offered to help Edvard with the jar. “I can come with you too, if that's okay, Ed,” he offered. 

“It's okay, kuya, I know the way!” Edvard tried to insist. If Adrian and George were to meet face to face, then Edvard would be caught between two passive aggressives trying their best to fight without exchanging bickery! The awkwardness would send Edvard into a coma.

“It's alright, Ed. I was planning to borrow another book there,” Adrian insisted. 

“Or someone,” Miles snickered, followed by a hard shove from Graham.

“Let Adrian accompany you, Ed. Hey, he can tell you some of our Vyssier secrets on the way,” Graham suggested. 

And now with peer pressure from his big brothers, Edvard had a premonition that the day would not end well. 

“The third to the last step seems a bit more challenging since we need to cut the snake grasses in a specific pattern. Perhaps I can perform this while you perform the last two?” Pierre suggested to Weiss.

The two of them sat beside each other in the corner of the library that Weiss insisted on sitting on, far apart from the other students who came inside to study (or gossip) as well. They were situated in the more secluded parts of the library, away from any noise or distractions that may interrupt their conversation.

“Yeah, I can cover the last steps. ‘Amortentia ,’” Weiss read. “Modernized in France, this potion was famously mentioned in many European fairytales. Infamously, it also caused political wars from the infidelity of royalty. Origins of the potion’s properties were unknown, but its most famous legend suggests it was given by the Greek goddess Aphrodite to the prince of Troy, sparking the kidnapping of Helen and the Trojan War.”

Pierre entertained the information. “It's amusing how a single potion is enough to topple kingdoms and empires. A potion built on love, yet the effects only bring chaos to those involved.”

Weiss stifled a laugh. “You are making it sound as if chaos is a bad thing.”

Pierre arched an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose you’d argue chaos is charming, then?”

Weiss leaned back against the high-backed chair, twirling a quill between her fingers. “Well,” he said, eyes gleaming, “chaos has a certain magnetism, don’t you think? Predictability is dull. Chaos—” he leaned slightly closer, voice softening, “is where all the interesting things happen.”

Pierre shook his head with a quiet chuckle. “Only someone dangerous says that with a straight face.”

Weiss pretended to be scandalized, placing a hand over his heart. “Dangerous? Moi ? I’m just academically invested in the effects of morally questionable potions.”

Pierre glanced down at the recipe again. “Right, and you're dangerously good at acting obvious.”

Weiss tilted his head, letting his gaze linger on him just a second too long. “Only when I want to be, Malmvinsey.”

For a moment, the quiet between them wasn’t awkward, but charged—enough that even the flickering library candle nearby seemed to hold its breath. Ever since Pierre met Weiss, many of their conversations had been unlike any of the sort. Though he hasn't formed a solid opinion on him, what he was sure of was Weiss was more than he let himself on. Although he asked for help on this assignment, his knowledge of the potion’s history revealed otherwise. Still, Pierre knew it was too soon for confrontation.

Weiss straightened, reaching over to point at the next line in the book, his shoulder brushing against Pierre’s lightly. “I think this part is your specialty,” he said casually, as if nothing had happened. “The snake grass has to be cut in a crescent pattern. Artistic, like ourselves, noh?”

Pierre cleared his throat, shifting slightly. “You mean tedious and unnecessarily delicate?”

“Please. You live for the delicate,” he smiled, but this time there was a golden gleam that flashed for a second in his dark eyes. A dangerous sort of intrigue, yet no matter how many times they talk, Pierre couldn't figure out what Weiss was thinking.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to the two was a certain wizard with fiery hair on the other side of the library. In the Forbidden Section, George had his hand over his head, in hopes of figuring out the symbols within the box. It's been three months in term, and he was still stuck on step one. Hell’s spells, he even brought parchment like he was going to write anything serious. 

Nearly thirty minutes had passed, and Edvard still had not arrived, and the quiet did not help him. The only thing keeping him out of boredom was drawing, though whatever he drew on the parchment paper seemed like an insult to art itself. Things like a dragon breathing fire (though it looked like a chicken about to vomit), some candies he and Fred made. He even tried to draw Pierre, and the only thing he got right were the mole placements.

George hunched over the table. The box sat in front of him, unmoving but always present—like it was watching him. Judging him.

He stared down at the symbols etched along its edge, lips pressed tight. Still nothing made sense. The usual runic references turned up nothing. He sighed, pulling out the brush.

"Okay, if you’re as magical and mysterious as you bloody insist," he muttered under his breath, "then maybe you can explain yourself.”

He dipped the brush in ink and let it hover over a blank scrap of parchment. The box gave off a soft vibration—not audible, but felt deep in the chest, like a plucked string.

One by one, he drew the symbols in the box. They weren’t English. Nor Latin. He guessed Norse, but skimming through Nordic Runebreaking 101 ruled that out. So, what could be its meaning?

“You’re not tracing gibberish, are you?”

George flinched, nearly dropping his quill. Standing on the other side of the table was Adrian Pucey, arms crossed, and an expression Adrian thought to be unreadable, but George noticed a flicker of curiosity behind his usual smug coolness. Beside him stood Edvard, clutching a book to his chest and fidgeting, clearly trying not to disturb either of them. 

George raised his brow to Edvard to send a telepathic message of ‘ What the bloody hell is Pucey doing here? ’

Edvard sent one back. A shrug.

“Didn’t realize you were fluent in creeping up on people,” George muttered, setting the brush down.

“Didn’t realize you were fluent in Baybayin,” Adrian shot back. His passive aggressiveness made the bookshelves stink. Hang on, what was Adrian rambling out?

George blinked. “Bay-huh?”

Adrian gestured lazily toward the parchment. “Have you gone mad that you don't even recognize what you're writing? It’s an old script from the Southeast, the Philippines to be exact.”

George’s stomach dropped. “Wait—how do you know that?”

“It was briefly touched in Ancient Runes last year as my elective, but of course you wouldn't know,” Adrian commented. 

“And what is that supposed to mean, Pucey?” George pried. The nerve of that bloke to call him dumb without even saying that word.

“I’m only saying that maybe if you focused on taking up more electives instead of messing around the halls with your doppelganger, you–”

“Oh yeah! Now I remember!” Edvard shrieked as quietly as he could, but it was enough to stop George and Adrian on the verge of throwing tomes at each other. “Kuya told me how my mama used it for old protection charms in our house!”

George looked back at the box, finally finding his revelation. If he didn't hate Pucey’s guts, he would have thanked him. But as far as he knew, this wasn't a common language people happen to find, and no less from a simple student. “And you just happened to recognize it?” George suspected. 

Adrian shrugged. “Maybe I pay attention when someone I care about talks about their culture.” His voice was light and returned to its usual friendly tone, but his amber eyes were sharp when he made that point.

George’s throat tightened. “Figures you’d try to win him over with your little trivia bank,” he muttered, not quite looking at him.

“Or I’m just the person who knows Pierre the best,” Adrian corrected. That first name basis again. He was taunting him.

A long silence stretched. Even Edvard winced.

Then Adrian locked his eyes on him. “I have a reason to know that language…but Weasley, my curiosity begs to ask why you're here in the Forbidden section writing down a language you don't even recognize?”

Fuck . He should have knocked him out with a tomescroll sooner. George glanced over the box, a humming silence looming around it. Only he and Edvard could see it at the moment, so of course telling Adrian the truth would have been just unbelievable. 

He gave a shrug, the most casual casual that he could muster. “It’s for a prank.”

Adrian scoffed. “A prank?”

George gestured at the parchment. “Fred and I are designing a new line of fake cursed love letters. Ancient-looking, dramatic symbols, mystery flair—the whole ‘don’t read this aloud or you’ll fall hopelessly in love with a teacup’ routine. Total rubbish, really. Thought using a legit language would give it more punch. Inspiration comes from dear old ‘Vinsey, of course.”

Adrian stared at him for a long, heavy moment. “You expect me to believe you’re spending your Tuesday morning in the forbidden section… designing props?”

George forced a grin. “What can I say? Commitment to the bit.”

Adrian glanced at Edvard, who was now trying to grab a book from one of the bookshelves. He looked at George again, and he grumbled. “Whatever you're playing at, Weasley–I don't have time for it.”

George stood up slowly, keeping the parchment in hand. “Thanks for the translation,” he snickered. “But I don't suppose you’d want to write love letters with me.”

“Believe me, I wasn’t planning to stay,” Adrian said coolly, then turned towards Edvard, helping him grab the book he wanted to reach for. “I’ll be going first, Ed. Douse these books well with jam, okay?” he smiled sweetly.

“Thank you, kuya Adrian!” Edvard cheered.

Once Adrian left their corner in the library, George slumped back to his chair. “Fucking finally, I thought he was never going to leave. Bloody Pucey and his bloody fake ass personality,” he grumbled. 

Edvard didn’t move. He was now perched at the edge of the table, elbows braced on the wood, flipping slowly through the aged reference book and putting a spoonfull of jam on the spine.

George looked at him sideways. “You’re not going after him?”

“He’s not the one with the haunted artifact.”

George sighed. “Right. Priorities.”

Edvard grinned at him, all teeth and the kind of brightness that didn’t quite match the dim, hushed corner of the Forbidden Section.

George showed him the parchment paper.

“See these symbols? I noticed that they occasionally appear in these carved circles on top of the box. And then when you get to the side, there are newer symbols. Any idea what to make of this?”

George leaned in, watching as Edvard trailed a fingertip over the ink-stroked runes on the box like he was reading them with his skin.

“The box must be trying to tell us something,” Edvard murmured. “Kuya, what if they’re not just words? Maybe if we follow what they say, they'll allow us to open the box?”

George frowned. “You say that like the symbols are alive.”

Edvard didn’t even blink. “Aren’t they?”

George opened his mouth—then closed it. Honestly, he couldn’t argue. The box did feel alive sometimes, especially when he touched it. Staring at it makes him queasy, and touching it gives a sort of bitter taste at his throat.

“Nevermind that. Now we know it's your cultural ancient language, can you translate for us, Minivinsey?”

Edvard hummed, squinting as hard as he could. He looked like he was about to pop a nerve. He pointed his finger on one of the symbols, the ones atop of the circular carvings. “ A…la…ala.” 

“Erm, can you repeat that?”

“ Alaala . It means ‘memory,” Edvard claimed.

Memory…Okay, more progress. So far, so good. “Brilliant! What does the next part say?”

Edvard’s eyes were blank. “Oh, that's the only word I can translate, kuya. Sorry,” he apologized.

“What? But Minivinsey, maybe you can recall more. Your family did pass this language down, right?” George scratched his head, trying to make it sound more casual and laidback in hopes not to pressure Edvard.

However, the little wizard could feel his disappointment. His head slumped and rested his chin on his fingers. “I’m sorry, kuya George, I really am! My brother tried to teach me how to read Baybayin, but I was more interested in strapping centipedes onto cobwebs!”

Even though George did not need to know that last part, he felt bad to see Edvard upset. He sighed and rolled up his parchment paper. “Minivinsey, don't worry about it, mate. I’m not mad.”

“Really? But I was late today, and it wasn't me who figured out it was Baybayin, and I could only translate one word…” Edvard sniffed. 

Tears welled up in Edvard’s eyes, and George didn't want him to think so low of himself. “Minivinsey, hey, don't cry. I’m not mad or anything. Hell, the last thing I’d possibly do is ever get mad at my prodigee. Even planning for the best prank requires time and patience, which is just what we need to decode the box, don't you agree?” He patted his head.

Edvard nodded slowly, considering those words. “Yeah, we just need time, kuya,” He then looked up at George with a beaming smile, no longer teary-eyed, but now held a sight of ambition. “I’ll do my best to translate the language, and I can even ask ate Mayari for help!”

“That's the bloody spirit!” George applauded. “We did well today, and I think that's enough for now, it's almost time for my History of Magic class anyway.”

“Oh right, I have Potions today with Snape, he’s–” 

“The worst?” George guessed.

Edvard giggled. “The worst!”

George tousled his hair. “Alright, let's get out of here.”

Just as they were about to make a turn to the exit, a familiar voice caught George's attention. As he turned, through the rows of bookshelves and near the back alcove of the library, George caught sight of Pierre.

He was sitting beside none other than Weiss Ravel. The two sat close, with emphasis on Weiss occasionally gesturing himself closer to Pierre. Honestly, George would rather have seen the Devil himself sitting beside his school crush if it meant Weiss was miles away from him. Weiss let out a laugh, soft and quick, and when observed closely, George could see his hand brushed over Pierre's wrist. 

George looked away. His chest had started to twist. His hands felt clammy. The parchment he held wrinkled as he curled his hands to a fist.

“Oh,” Edvard said behind him, watching too. “I forgot kuya was here with that weird guy.”

“Why’s that bloke with your brother?” George asked flatly.

“He asked for help in Potions,” Edvard replied, like he was commenting on a particularly dull plant. “But I think that's only an excuse to steal time with my brother. I don't like him. He can't pick a color for his hair.”

George swallowed hard, throat dry. He couldn't think of a clever remark on Edvard’s statement. He focused solely on the way Weiss and Pierre were talking. Pierre didn't flinch at the numerous times Weiss leaned in. How come he doesn't move away when it's with Weiss? And then he heard it.

A small laugh. A brief glance. A small smile, from Pierre. But it wasn't for George.

“He looks…happy,” he said before he could stop himself.

Edvard turned his head slowly. “He doesn’t look like anything. He looks like Pierre. The rest is noise.”

George wanted to believe that. But watching Weiss lean just a little closer, and Pierre not move away—felt like a punch in the ribs.

He shoved the parchment into his pockets and gripped the box hard that he felt his nails dug into the carvings.

“Let’s go, Minivinsey. We have no business here.”

Edvard didn’t protest. He only nodded as he eyed George with concern.

But as they left, the box pulsed faintly in George’s bag like it had felt what he was trying not to, and for a moment, George wondered if memory hurt the same way hope did. 

Chapter Text

“And you just walked away? You didn't even send a ‘Top of the morning to ya’?” Lee complained once he had the time to ask George how his love life was faring.

Professor Sprout assigned him and Lee together on learning how to plant various seeds. Easily enough, they were tasked to fertilize fluxweeds and mistletoe. The majority of the class were tasked to plant either knotgrass and fluxweed due to the shortage of ingredients. George knew who was behind the stealing of the ingredients as evidenced by Mayari’s commitment to prolonging a Polyjuice Potion. He could always report her, but where's the fun in that? And besides, Edvard’s been asking her to translate the symbols on the box, so he preferred to be on her good side for as long as possible.

As to what he and Lee were talking about, George ranted as he cut off a few dead leaves and sighed. “Well how was I supposed to even talk to him when some croissant-shoving ARSEHOLE–!” He cursed to ward off the venomous tentacula trying to strangle his ankle, “--has been coddling and following ‘Vinsey throughout the entire week?! Everytime I try to get even as meters away from him, that Weiss Gravel git seems to catch his attention way ahead of me. Hells, not even Pucey could snag him these days.”

Lee batted George’s gloved hand away before he could snip off a perfectly healthy stem. “First of all, respect the mistletoe. It’s the only thing having a worse time than you.”

George huffed, brushing dirt from his sleeves. “I don’t need a lecture, Jordan.”

“You do, actually,” Lee replied, standing and stretching his back with an exaggerated groan. “You need a lecture, a game plan, and possibly a slap across the face depending on how long you keep bottling it.”

George narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips in denial. “I am not bottling it!”

“You’re bottling it like Snape bottles greasy resentment.” Lee dropped his voice as a group of Hufflepuffs wandered by, then lowered his voice so others wouldn't hear about George's shitty love life.

“Look. I’m not saying you should write him sonnets or start practicing waltzes or anything—”

“Why are waltzes always your default for romance?”

“Because the Yule Ball’s coming up in less than two weeks and you’re running out of time, George! If you don’t ask Malmvinsey soon, a certain git with red-brown-piss colored hair will.”

George cursed under his breath as his shears nicked the fluxweed root too shallow. The plant hissed. He hissed back. “You don’t understand, Jordan. I can’t just waltz in and say, ‘Hi, ‘Vinsey, fancy ditching the academic French statue you’ve been hanging around for someone with soil on his hands and a walking hazard?” 

Lee raised an eyebrow. “Dumbass, yes, you absolutely can. He already talks to you more than he talks to most people. He doesn't even give you, me, and the rest of our friends the stink eye anymore! You have one of the best chances of successfully bagging him in this entire school!”

George’s face flushed with frustration and groaned. “Yeah, well, talking doesn’t mean anything, and Weiss—”

“Weiss is background noise,” Lee interrupted, plucking a dead leafblade off George’s shoulder. “You’re the one he spends all afternoon with in the Arts classroom. You're the one who’s stolen his tolerance whenever you two were prancing about in Hogsmeade. You’re the one his little brother practically imprinted on like a duckling.”

George put his hands over his face. Had Lee been this observant of George’s own feelings way before he figured it out himself? This was embarrassing!

“What if he says no?” he asked nervously. It was what he had been dreading after all and why he had been stalling the question. It was hard to tell what Pierre was thinking, so the odds of him ever saying yes were nearly zero, so he thought. 

What was worse than seeing Pierre with someone else was losing him entirely.

And Lee knew what he was worried about. His dark eyes gave him a look of concern, and for a time he pondered on his next advice. Lee was always the mediator of the group. He was the reason why Katie and Alicia got together in the first place, and he's the one who made Fred and Angelina stop beating each other up in second year. George was always confident Lee knew what to say. 

“Then just die and haunt the Yule Ball in eternal heartbreak.”

Nevermind. He was trying to send George into a coma.

Lee grinned. “Or Option B: You ask him before someone else does, and maybe, for once, you let something good happen.”

George was quiet for a moment. He trimmed the last fluxweed with extra care, mind miles away.

“Alright,” he said finally. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

Lee clapped him on the back so hard George nearly toppled into a pot of venus flytraps. “Great! Now, the real question is if you want a rehearsal partner? I made a good Malmvinsey impression.”

“Oh fuck off,” George joked. If he were honest, having to talk about his feelings with someone helped ease the pressure off of him. He was grateful to have Lee encourage him, especially when Fred couldn't. 

Later in the afternoon, he took Lee’s advice into mind as he marched his way up the moving stairs leading to the fifth floor. Thirty minutes had passed since the clock chimed four, and George knew well enough already from his previous detention sessions that Pierre often hid himself away in the Arts classroom. Except for the time Pierre came to a halt when he revealed his secret, of how his missing brush harnessed his power to bring life and magic within his paintings. Although he still was skeptical over such theory, he knew that brush held great importance for Pierre. After all, the Umbrella brush was passed down to him from his late mother.

As he walked along the corridor full of whispering paintings, George slightly slowed his pace. In a few minutes, he was going to ask Pierre out to the Yule ball, and his answer can either cause him to go into the first stage of grief or turn him into a full-blown tomato. 

He started to practice on the best chances of getting a yes. “‘Vinsey, the trees are very leafy today, have you noticed?” No, too subtle and soft. 

“‘Vinsey! Looking bloody handsome today,” Too bold. Might get hexxed. He’s fought off Peeves with nothing but a teacup and raw sarcasm, surely he can ask one boy a question without combusting.

Shortly, he heard the familiar chirping of a recent friend. He looked to his right, and flying across the paintings was Bituin, the starry bird herself. The gold streak on her feathers were easy to find zipping across the landscapes. 

“Long time no see, little lady,” George greeted as he rested his finger on one of the paintings, to which Bituin chirped happily in an attempt to nibble on. “I was hoping to pay your owner a visit, if you don't mind. See, the Yule Ball’s coming up, and I’ve been meaning to ask him out.” 

Bituin’s head perked up, chirping in surprise. George laughed, and whispered to the bird’s ear so the other nosy portraits wouldn’t overhear. “Yeah, yeah, I know. He’s probably going to say no or think I’m mental, but I’ve been rehearsing it in my head all week, and if I don’t do it now—” He exhaled. “I think I’ll lose my nerve.”

Bituin hopped closer, fluttering her wings with a low, warning whistle.

“What?” George blinked. “You don’t think I should?”

She chirped again—once, sharply. Then flapped back and forth in the frame, wings beating in an anxious rhythm. She tried to move toward the next canvas over, her painted body crossing into the adjacent frame, miming something—something that looked like a hand, like a barrier. 

“I don’t get it. You’re acting like—”

But he trailed off.

Because now, only a few feet ahead, the art classroom door was slightly ajar. A quiet murmur drifted out—faint voices, laughter.

Pierre’s voice.

George walked towards the door, heart kicking against his ribs. “Okay. Now or never,” he whispered to himself.

Bituin flapped furiously now, her painted frame glowing bright. She let out a shrill call, her voice cutting the silence like chalk on stone. George stood in front of the art classroom door, hand hovering near the knob, trying to will his heart to slow down.

Behind him, Bituin chirped loudly from the frame of a painted molave tree, flapping wildly from one corner of the canvas to the other. Her wings cut through the starlit brushstrokes like a signal fire—urgent, desperate.

But George just smiled at her, oblivious. “Wish me luck?”

Bituin only squawked.

George opened the door, confidence brimming. “Vinsey! There's something I–”

He stopped in his tracks. 

Pierre, seated still as a statue on a stool in the soft evening light. 

There was a tenderness to the touch—careful, practiced. Pierre’s eyes weren’t quite focused, as if locked somewhere between patience and discomfort. What made George’s heart heavy was Pierre’s chin being held by Weiss Ravel’s hand, unmistakably intimate. 

To their side, a half-finished portrait glowing with late sunlight. Pierre’s face rendered in sharp, reverent strokes that were much too beautiful that George can never capture himself.

George’s brain couldn't register what the fuck was happening in front of him. His heart only focused on the moment Weiss’s thumb brushed Pierre’s jawline, and Pierre didn’t move away.

“Oh,” George breathed.

Both heads turned sharply. 

Pierre’s gaze shot toward him, surprise cutting through his composure. “Weasley?”

“Weasley,” Weiss said, voice smooth in that wickedly annoying French accent. “Didn’t expect an audience. You’re welcome to stay, of course—though I’m afraid the model’s already taken.” Weiss, ever composed, gave a small sly smile.

But George was already backing out, voice clipped. “No–sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

His heart was already in his throat. His legs moved before his brain caught up.

Pierre called again. “Weasley, are you okay?” His voice was the same, as if he didn't care. As if he didn't know what was happening, as if he could not care what George was feeling. 

George couldn't look him in the eye.  Behind the door, Weiss turned slowly toward Pierre, the faintest trace of a smile still ghosting his lips.

He turned on his heel so fast that his cloak nearly caught the door. His boots hit the corridor floor with too much sound, too much urgency, but he didn’t care. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to put as many hallways between him and that room as possible.

His own name echoed somewhere behind him. Maybe a call. Maybe his imagination. He didn’t turn around.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered to himself, barely able to breathe. “What was I fucking thinking?” He had to get away. 

The paintings flashed as he passed them by quickly. From the corner of a nearby canvas, Bituin fluttered into the next frame with a desperate, shimmering trill, her painted feathers glinting like regret. George ignored her. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to put as many hallways between him and that room as possible. 

The weight of what he’d meant to ask turned to ash in his chest.

Eventually, George was out of breath from all the running. He slowed down, and caught himself by a window, his breath panting and mind blotched. He tried his best to shake away what he saw. Pierre and Weiss together in that damn room. Pierre and bloody Weiss again in the library. Ever since then, they’ve been next to each other all the bloody time, George was sick of it. He didn't know what was going on between them, whether they're only friends or something more, but either way, he hated seeing Weiss clinging onto Pierre! 

He didn't want to think or cry. He just wanted out.

He let out a long groan in an attempt to relieve his frustrations, then as he did so, a familiar voice perked up. 

“George? Good afternoon!”

He turned. Behind him was Magda Bondevik, who had just turned from theother corridor. She wore her Durmstrang uniform—a wine-red lining sharp against dark wool, boots shined, and a perfect posture. Her strawberry blonde pixie cut was wind-swept from the drafty corridors, and a new look from her were gold earrings glittering faintly against her cheekbones. She looked like she'd walked out of an Eastern European fashion scroll and into a war zone and somehow made it work.

George, sweaty and emotionally combusting, felt like he’d crawled out of a magical compost bin.

“Magda,” he greeted. “Fancy seeing you here. You're not with your other Durmstrang folks?”

Magda chuckled. “I just came from the Infirmary. One of my friends was caught up with your twin’s pranks in the castle grounds,” she said in a thick Slavic accent.

“Shit, I apologize on behalf of my brother.”

“All is well,” she accepted the apology. She tilted her head in curiosity as she examined George. “You look like you just lost a duel to a Banshee,” she said smoothly, not unkindly.

George offered a weak laugh. “Something like that.”

“Oh no, has your brother pulled a prank on you as well?”

“No prank,” George muttered. “Just bad timing. Bad idea. Bad… everything.” 

She cocked her head with a look of concern. “It's quite unlikely to see you so down, George. Would you prefer some company? Professor Kragov wanted us by the Great Lake to practice our combat magic. Would you like to walk with me there?”

“Sure,” George nodded. He had the entire day free, and he needed something to distract himself from thinking about Weiss and Pierre before he could go insane.

They didn’t continue the conversation as they walked down the moving staircases. The most they both got out from each other was when Magda almost tripped just as a platform began to move. George had to catch her in time. “Is it only me or do I find it odd that for centuries your school has never thought of considering these stairways to be a hazard?” Magda added.

George laughed at her remark. “Please, these aren’t even the most dangerous areas in this environment. Fred and I are!” George laughed despite himself. “You do know that’s a compliment here, right?”

She smiled. “I’ve been here a month, Weasley. I’ve survived the poltergeists, exploding cauldrons, and now your school’s truly unhinged staircases. I’m practically a native.”

George only smiled at her humor. He wasn’t really in the mood to be his usual funny self, and as much as he tried to force it out, the sting in his chest couldn’t leave him. On the other hand, he wasn’t the only one who didn’t notice his sudden silence amidst an opportunity to joke around.

Eventually, Magda pointed it out. “You’re not talking much as you usual, George. Has something happened?”

“What? Haha, no, everything’s wickedly fine here,” he pretended to laugh it off. “Just trying to enjoy the view of the…sun,” he said, despite it being cloudy.

Magda hummed. They were at the ground floor, a few steps towards the school’s entrance. “My cousin once said that people wear their hearts like a badge. Yours, it seems, has turned inwards. I won't judge you, if that's what you're worried about.”

He glanced at her, her short strawberry blond hair rustling against the cold wind. 

“It’s nothing serious,” he muttered. “Just senseless drama, emotional explosion, the crashing and burning. Probably going to haunt a corridor or two.”

“Ah,” she said. “So a Monday!”

George huffed a laugh and kept walking.

“Really, I’m fine, Magda. Just needed some air. And company.”

Magda walked a few paces in silence, then said gently, “Do you want to talk about it?”

George hesitated, then shook his head. “Not really. I don't even know how to talk about it.”

She nodded once. “Alright, I won't pry further.”

They were outside, walking down the hill towards a field of Durmstrang students beside the Great Lake. Upon seeing the lake, George was painfully reminded of the time he saved Pierre from falling off of the giant Squid. A reminder of Pierre was a reminder of him and Weiss snogging each other alone. Bloody hell, he wanted to pluck out his own eyes if it meant he would forget about that along with burying the question he couldn't ask.

Or maybe it didn't have to be buried?

“Say, Magda,” George mentioned. “Weird question. The Yule Ball’s coming up in a few weeks. Got anyone that caught your eye?”

Magda chuckled. “Unfortunately, no. I planned to just enjoy the moment with my fellow classmates. What about you?”

That was a question he was very disappointed to say he didn't have a date. “Sad to say, I don't have one either. My dance card is very vacant.”

“Really? I thought for sure that a few girls would be interested in having you as their date, considering my first impression of you was quite charming!”

“Could it be you’re one of those girls then?”

Magda laughed heartily, like she understood that the banter was mutually platonic. “Oh, Weasley, you're back to your old self now! I appreciate the effort in flirting with me, but much to your disappointment, I am certainly not one of them. No offense, but you're not my type.”

“George chuckled, mock-offended. “You wound me, Magda. Truly.”

Magda arched a perfectly groomed brow, amused. “You’ll live. Your ego seems resilient.”

“So,” George asked, trying to make it as casual as possible. “Would it be—uh—would it be awful if I asked you?”

Magda raised an eyebrow, curious. “To go with you?” 

He nodded. Then, before she could respond, he rushed out to continue.

“It’s not what you think! I only meant that strictly as a friend, and I’m not trying to date you at all.”

“I know,” Magda replied gently. “I also know when someone’s covering something up.”

“Forgive me for assuming but, has someone hurt you?” Magda asked.

George swallowed, eyes dropping to the ground. They were on the way down the steps past the castle grounds, nearing the Great Lake.  “Not intentionally.”

“But it still must have hurt you, yes?”

He gave a single, embarrassed nod. “I was going to ask someone else. I thought about it for weeks, and rehearsed it too.”

“Let me guess,” Magda said, crossing her arms and watching him with calm insight, “you didn’t get the chance.”

“Worse!” George muttered. “I got there just in time to watch someone beat me to it.”

“Oh dear, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes right now either!” Magda commented. 

“What’s worse was that the guy who stole them away was rubbing it on me too!”

“That fiend!!”

“I know right?!” George exclaimed. “Anyways, I’m sorry for asking you just because I couldn’t go with who I wanted. I don’t want to make it seem like I’m asking you to cover that up or like I’m using you to look fine when I’m not. But believe me when I only asked you because you’re a good friend, and I knew that if any other person would have to be my Yule date, it would be you.”

Magda looked out over the lake. The water was dark now, rippling under the fading sky. The air started to chill, and it was not long before the rains were replaced with soft snow. And then she looked at George and smiled cheerfully. 

“If you were asking me to pretend we’re something we’re not, I’d say no,” she said evenly. “But you’re not. You’re asking for company and I have no issue with that.”

““So… you’ll go with me?”

“Yes,” she said, without hesitation. “And for the record—I’d rather go with someone honest than someone trying to court me. Just because it is a formal ball, it doesn’t mean I have to fall in love to attend!”

“George huffed a soft laugh. “Well, I’m terrible at performing anything but causing things to explode.”

“Then we’ll get along just fine.”

When they finally reached the Great Lake, Magda patted George on the shoulder. “Thank you for escorting me here, George. Cheer up next time I see you?”

“I will, don’t worry. Thanks for saying yes anyway.” George smiled gratefully.

Magda offered a small, genuine smile. “You’ll enjoy the night. You’ll look dashing on the dancefloor, and that person would regret not going out with you!”

George grinned. “You know, out of all the foreign students, I’m glad to have been friends with you.”

Magda laughed. “So I’ve been told!”

As they parted ways, George felt the tightness that had been twisting in his chest all afternoon had loosened. The sting of earlier still lingered, sharp and unresolved, but it wasn’t as suffocating anymore once you’ve had friends like Lee and Magda to trust your problems with. He ate dinner with Fred and the others as usual, minus Edvard, who was currently in detention for breaking into Ron’s Care of Magical Creatures class. Of course, even when his heart was quite shattered from the afternoon, he still had time to look for Pierre, who wasn’t in the Great Hall. George didn’t know if he should be worried or relieved.

Once back in his dorm room, he flopped backward onto his bed, the velvet hangings rustling faintly around him. His ribs still ached from laughing too hard at dessert—Alicia had accidentally transfigured her spoon into a hiccuping snake—and for a moment, he let the noise of the common room, the clatter of footsteps, and the chatter of late-night study fade into the distance.

He didn’t feel amazing, but he didn’t feel awful either, which, all things considered, felt like a small miracle.

He’d barely unbuttoned the top of his shirt when Fred sauntered in, arms full of what looked like two pumpkin pasties, a handful of chocolate frogs, and something George hoped was a confiscated firecracker.

Fred on the other hand, was ecstatic once he found out George was going to the Yule Ball with Magda. “I heard from Angelina that you’re taking Bondevik of the Northern Ice Plains to the Yule Ball.”

George let out a groan and threw a pillow at him. “Where do you get these names?”

Fred batted it away with the grace of a seasoned older twin and plopped down on his own bed, grinning wide. “Word gets around. Angelina saw you walking with her by the lake earlier.”

George shrugged. “I asked and she said yes. That’s it.”

Fred’s eyes sparkled. “That’s it, is it?”

George gave him a look. He didn’t want to hear more of Fred’s teasing, especially when what he and Magda had was only platonic. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying,” Fred said, stretching out with exaggerated innocence, “that certain people had concerns.”

George rolled his eyes. “You mean you had concerns with who I was going to ask?”

Fred held up his hands. “Listen George, Magda’s pretty, elegant, charming, and pretty! You could build a nice, firework-free future with a girl like that. Plus, she’s not some gloomy killjoy!”

George unfastened the last of his buttons and reached for his pajamas. “Oh shut up, Fred. Magda’s just a friend. No star-crossed moonlight confessions here.”

“Good,” Fred muttered, soft enough that George almost missed it. “At least you came to your senses on who you should be associating yourself with.”

George decided to ignore that snide remark. He closed his curtain bed to change into his pajamas without having to hear more of Fred’s senseless assumptions. 

A knock came at the door.

“Come in,” Fred called, his voice immediately brighter. George was halfway into his pajama top, arms tangled.

“Hey,” came Harry’s voice from the doorway. “Is George here? I was asked to return his sweater from someone, he said he borrowed it from that party you guys threw for me when I won the first challenge.”

George’s head snapped up.

“Yeah, he’s just changing. I’ll make sure he gets it,” Fred said as Harry handed over the sweater to him.  

George yanked the curtain open.

“Wait,” he said sharply. “Who gave that to you?”

Both Harry and Fred looked over. George’s face was flushed, his hair a little wild from pulling off his shirt. His voice was a little too urgent, and even he knew it.

“Er,” Harry said, blinking. He knew that mentioning Pierre’s name in front of Fred would relight the tension he and George had back in the party. “I don’t recall the name…” he lied.

George obviously saw through it, but understood why Harry wouldn’t mention his name with Fred in the room. The sweater was already enough confirmation. 

““Where was he?” George asked, stepping fully into the room, already pulling on his sneakers. “When did he gave it to you?”

Harry took a step back, caught off guard. “Uh—he came to the door, actually. I only happened to come across him at the same time, and since he couldn’t enter, obviously, he asked me instead. When he left, he was on his way towards the hall where the Ravenclaw tower is at.”

George yanked the sweater from Fred, clutching it tightly to his chest. The wool was soft, neatly folded, and unmistakably carried so carefully in a way only Pierre would.

Fred sat up, brow raised. “What’s going on? You look like someone just handed you a love letter wrapped in yarn.”

But George was already halfway to the door, slipping past Harry.

“George?” Fred called. “Oi, at least tell us—”

“I need to catch him,” George said without looking back.

“Who the hell are you yapping about?! Hey–it’s almost curfew! GEORGE!”

And then he was gone. Their door left open and remained a very confused Fred and Harry, trying his best to mind his own business.

George barely noticed the chill in the hallway as he sprinted down the steps, the sweater still clutched in his hands. There was a scent of ink and fragrance still lingering in the knit—small, familiar details that made the ache in his chest return with startling clarity.

George took the stairs two at a time, heart pounding harder with every turn of the corridor. No name had been said, no words or phrases mentioned. Just a sweater was enough to make George yearn for the bloody man.

George knew his feelings for him. The way you know a storm is coming before it breaks. The way your skin prickles at the memory of someone’s voice. The way a familiar scent on wool feels louder than words. He didn’t care if the night was so cold that it threatened to freeze him. He didn’t care what corridor he had to search.

He almost forgot how much he wanted to see Pierre again. 

Maybe Pierre had already gone back to the dungeons, or that he was in some quiet corridor, halfway between return and retreat. But George couldn’t let this opportunity to see him again pass by. 

So he ran through the dim, shifting halls of Hogwarts, chasing a thread just to hold it again.