The trees lining the courtyard stood tall and proud, their autumn leaves unfurling like banners of gold and amber, rustling gently in the crisp breeze. Each leaf shimmered faintly in the pale light, casting the air in a warm, golden hue. Fiona walked steadily through the courtyard, flanked by Cedric and Heidi, their minds still lingering on the intricacies of their recent Transfiguration lesson.

"It's remarkable, really," Cedric remarked, his voice light and easy as he swung his bag over his shoulder.

"Remarkable?" Fiona echoed, her tone edged with a trace of frustration. The hours she'd devoted to her Transfiguration notes seemed to have dissolved into thin air. The first week of term had come and gone, and yet she still felt lost, grappling with concepts that refused to settle into place.

Heidi, ever the voice of empathy, sighed thoughtfully. "It's not exactly easy, is it?"

Fiona gave a small nod, more to herself than to them, feeling the weight of her own expectations press heavily on her.

"But just think about human transfiguration!" Cedric's eyes gleamed with excitement as they passed through the Entrance Hall, the vast space echoing their footsteps. His enthusiasm was infectious, an unquenchable energy that refused to be dimmed by the complexities of the subject. "The possibilities—imagine what we could do!"

For Cedric, the world seemed to unfold in endless possibilities, while Fiona found herself stumbling through the labyrinth of theory. She admired his confidence, though at this moment, it only served to remind her of the growing distance between their mastery of magic.

Heidi pulled out her timetable with the same grim anticipation one might reserve for unwrapping a cursed object. She glanced at it and groaned dramatically, as though the parchment had delivered nothing short of catastrophic news.

Cedric leaned over her shoulder, his eyes narrowing. "Divination," he announced, with a smile that was half a grimace.

"I'd rather drink a goblet of stinksap," Heidi declared, her shoulders slumping as though the weight of the subject was physically crushing her.

"I'll be sure to collect some for you," Fiona said, a grin tugging at her lips as she gave Heidi a playful nudge. "I'm heading to the greenhouses for my free period."

Cedric, always more in tune with the things Fiona couldn't see, gave her a knowing glance as they moved through the crowded hallways. His sharp eyes caught the subtle shifts in the atmosphere around them—the way students fell silent when Fiona passed, or how their gazes lingered just a little too long, curiosity barely masked behind forced nonchalance.

Up ahead, a group of older Ravenclaws clustered by the staircase, stealing glances at Fiona before whispering behind cupped hands. Cedric's jaw clenched. He recognized that look all too well—the curious tilt of their heads, the furtive glances. It was as if they saw Fiona as something... other. Something mysterious and different.

He hated it.

Near the entrance to the Great Hall, a gaggle of first-years gathered, their chatter unrestrained, voices filled with the exuberance of being new to Hogwarts. They hadn't yet learned the subtle art of whispering behind people's backs. Their wide-eyed stares followed Fiona, too curious for their own good, but Fiona remained blissfully unaware, her focus elsewhere.

Cedric, however, noticed every lingering look. He always did.

He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder, a gesture so familiar it had become second nature to him. The quiet strength in his touch, warm and reassuring, was meant to shield her from the weight of the stares she never noticed. His fingers curled gently, his grip steady, as if to remind her that he was there—that she was never alone in facing the silent judgments that followed her.

Then the words came, soft but cutting through the air like a sharp breeze.

"That's the blind girl."

Fiona's smile wavered, as though she had sensed the change in Cedric's stance, the tension that subtly shifted the space between them. She turned her head slightly, away from the direction of the voices, but it was Cedric who felt the sting of the careless whisper. His gaze flicked toward a group of first-years, their faces still bright with laughter, blissfully unaware of the harm their words carried.

"Do you need help getting there?" Cedric's voice was gentle, the concern woven through it like a quiet current, calm but insistent.

Fiona tilted her head, her small smile returning as if to brush away the sudden heaviness hanging between them. "I'll be fine," she replied lightly, but Cedric heard the faint edge in her voice, a strain she couldn't fully conceal.

Fiona reached into her bag and pulled out a slender cane, no longer than her wand, a tool essential for navigating the maze-like corridors of the castle. With a soft flick of her wand and a murmured "Engorgio," the cane extended with a crisp, graceful snap, now reaching from her chest to the stone floor.

Cedric squeezed her shoulder gently, a silent promise—he was there, always, ready to shield her from the parts of the world she didn't need to face. "Right then," he said, his tone warm but light, "we'll see you at dinner." He and Heidi turned toward the grand staircase, Heidi's muttered grumblings about Divination fading into the background as they walked away.

Fiona set off, her cane sweeping rhythmically before her with each step, guiding her through the familiar path of the courtyard. The world around her shifted in subtle ways—colors she couldn't see but sensed in the rustling of leaves overhead, the crisp scent of autumn on the breeze, the far-off hum of conversations blending into the cool air. Each step she took was precise, deliberate, as if the rhythm of her cane matched the beat of the castle itself.

"Hello, Fiona!"

A voice—clear, familiar, and warm—cut through the ambient noise, startling her in the way it always did. Her heart skipped a beat, and her pulse quickened, as it inevitably did when Roger Davies called her name.

"It's me, Roger," he said, his voice rich with that easy charm that seemed to wrap around her. But today, instead of the usual excitement his presence brought, Fiona became acutely aware of the cane in her hand. The lightness she felt moments before was replaced with a sudden heaviness, as though the cane had somehow grown more conspicuous, more visible.

Her cheeks warmed as she fumbled with it, trying to shift her grip as if doing so might somehow hide it from view. She longed, as she often did when Roger was near, for the cane to simply vanish. It felt like a glaring reminder of the differences she wished he wouldn't notice.

The familiar scent of vanilla lingered around him, but today it was underscored by the sharper, more rugged aroma of his dragon-hide Quidditch gloves. It added to the image of him that had always seemed just a little out of reach—more impressive, more distant, somehow unattainable. Her heart gave a nervous flutter, and she struggled to find her composure.

"I'm off to meet Cho and a few others for practice," Roger said, his tone light and effortlessly cheerful. It was the kind of voice that made even the most mundane statements sound brilliant.

Fiona smiled, though her thoughts were a jumble of emotions. She wished, just for a moment, that she could appear as effortless as he did, that she could push aside the awkwardness and simply exist in the easy glow of his presence. But even as she smiled, the weight of the cane in her hand felt heavier than ever.

"Qu-Quidditch?" Fiona stammered, cursing herself instantly for how flustered she sounded. She forced a smile, hoping it would smooth over her stumble.

Roger chuckled, a warm, breezy sound that made Fiona's stomach flip. "Of course! Can't let the team get rusty."

Fiona's mind scrambled for something clever to say, but her nerves betrayed her. "But... there's no cup this year," she blurted, feeling her cheeks flush with heat. She bit her lip, hoping it didn't sound as awkward as it felt. Roger, either too oblivious or too charming to care, laughed again—a rich, easy laugh that made her feel as though she were standing in a beam of sunlight.

"True," he said, flashing that effortless smile, "but if we're going to have a shot next year, we've got to stay sharp."

As he spoke, a few students wandered past, glancing at them as they went by. Roger's smile widened just a touch, and he straightened his posture ever so slightly, as though he were suddenly more aware of the attention.

Fiona's heart pounded in her chest, but somehow, she managed to find her voice. "Well, if you want to beat Cedric, you'll definitely need the extra practice." Her words came out with a shaky hint of confidence, though her insides were a tangled knot.

Roger's laugh rang out, louder than necessary, almost as if inviting the attention of anyone nearby. Fiona smiled, but inside, her thoughts were spinning in a chaotic swirl. Every accidental brush of his arm, every breathy laugh made her head feel light and untethered.

"Where are you off to?" Roger asked casually, his question floating lightly between them. A spark of excitement flickered through her—he didn't seem in any rush to leave, as though he wanted to stretch the conversation just a little longer.

"Greenhouse Seven," she stammered, half-expecting him to make an excuse and dash off to Quidditch practice. But, in typical Roger fashion, he seized the moment without hesitation.

With smooth, practiced ease, he stepped closer and linked his arm through hers. "I'll walk you," he said, his voice warm and friendly, as though guiding her was the most natural thing in the world. His grip on her arm was firm, enough to send her pulse skittering like a dropped quill.

Her breath hitched at the sudden contact. The gesture—so casual for him, yet thrilling for her—left her struggling to maintain her composure. Her cheeks flushed as a small smile curled on her lips. Roger made her feel as if she were bathed in sunlight, warm and bright, and she couldn't help but bask in it.

As they walked, Roger kept the conversation light, his voice effortlessly charming as always. throughout their conversation, Roger's eyes flicked toward passersby every so often, as if checking to see who might be watching. His grip on her arm remained steady, guiding her with careful precision, his pace matching hers perfectly. There was an air of chivalry in his demeanor, the ever-gallant gentleman. Fiona, however, found it difficult to focus on anything beyond the warmth of his arm against hers and the flutter in her chest that made coherent thought seem impossible.

"I didn't know Sprout taught lessons in Greenhouse Seven," Roger remarked, his tone casual, almost conversational.

"Oh, she doesn't," Fiona replied quickly. "But I've been tending to the plants there for years. It helps Sprout out and gives me something to do during my free hours when everyone else is off at Quidditch practice." It was a half-truth, but Fiona wasn't about to reveal the real reason for her frequent visits to the greenhouse.

"That was good of her, to give you something to do," Roger said, his tone still warm, though Fiona caught an edge of patronizing approval, as if he were praising a house-elf for completing a simple task.

Fiona nodded, forcing a polite smile, though his words lodged uncomfortably in her chest. There was something in the way he spoke that unsettled her, though she couldn't quite put her finger on it. She quickly buried the thought, hiding her discomfort beneath a practiced smile.

The distant hum of student chatter faded as the sounds of nature took over—the soft cooing of birds high above, the hum of insects buzzing in the air, and the faint trickle of water from the greenhouse fountains. Her cane tapped lightly along the gravel path, its steady taps keeping her focused, though her senses were far more attuned to the world Roger seemed oblivious to.

Before they even reached it, Fiona could smell the greenhouse—the heady aroma of magical plants wafting toward her. Some scents were sweet and floral, others sharp and earthy, weaving together like a complex melody that danced through the air. The faint warmth of the sunlight, though invisible to her, kissed the glass walls, reflecting glimmers she couldn't see but could almost feel against her skin, like a fleeting caress.

"Thanks for the help, Roger," Fiona said, tilting her face up toward him with a soft, grateful smile as they finally reached the greenhouse entrance. The subtle shift in temperature as they approached signaled the familiar change to the greenhouse's unique climate—humid, warm, and teeming with life. The air clung to her skin, thick with the scent of damp soil and thriving plants, a world entirely different from the cool autumn breeze outside.

"I might've spent the whole free hour wandering about if not for you," she added, her voice genuine but tinged with a hint of reluctance. She wasn't quite ready for the moment to end.

"It was no trouble," Roger replied smoothly, though his gaze flickered briefly to a passing Slytherin who shot them a cursory glance. His voice rose just slightly, casual yet deliberate. "Maybe I'll see you in Hogsmeade?"

Her heart leapt, a flutter of excitement stirring something deep within her. Her cheeks warmed, and for a fleeting moment, she felt weightless, full of anticipation.

"Yes," she said softly, the word carrying more meaning than she dared express. "I'd like that."

Roger chuckled, a sound that seemed to come so easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world. With one final glance around, he bid her farewell, his steps confident as he walked away, aware of the occasional glances sent their way by passing students.

Fiona's pulse quickened as she stepped into the greenhouse, the earthy scent of rich soil and magic wrapping around her like a familiar, comforting embrace. She couldn't help the small smile that lingered on her lips, her thoughts still spinning with the memory of Roger's arm linked with hers, the way he had made her feel so... special.

"Well, well, well," a voice drawled from the shadows, dripping with sardonic amusement.

"The little Hufflepuff princess looks rather taken," another voice chimed in, its tone thick with teasing warmth.

Fiona tensed, her irritation bubbling up like a simmering potion. "What are you two doing here?" she snapped, her tone sharp as she turned toward the source of the voices.

A third voice, deeper and unmistakably familiar, cleared its throat. "Three of us, actually," Came the voice of Lee Jordan. "Didn't think I'd let them have all the fun, did you?" His voice cut through the air, his usual nonchalant confidence making its presence known.

Fiona pressed her lips into a thin line, but before she could respond, George Weasley bounded forward, grinning as wide as a Cheshire Cat. "Does Cedric know you're out here consorting with the enemy team? Tut-tut, Fiona. I'm afraid we'll have to report this serious breach of loyalty."

Fred, never one to be outdone, strolled forward with a dramatic flair, mimicking George's tone. "Cedric'll be heartbroken. Hufflepuff unity—shattered like a dropped crystal ball."

She frowned, irritation simmering as she maneuvered through the familiar pathways of the greenhouse, her fingers brushing lightly over the broad leaves as she passed. Each step was deliberate, her pace measured, silently counting as she moved deeper into the warmth. Six, seven, eight—by the ninth step, the rich, slightly musty scent of Shrivelfigs filled her senses. She paused, extending her hand until her fingers brushed the distinctive rough bark of the fig's stems. The leathery texture of the small fruit confirmed what her nose already knew. A faint sour tang of sap clung to the air, unmistakable.

Fiona's lips twitched in satisfaction. She moved the pots aside with ease, revealing the hidden cauldrons nestled behind the tangle of plants. As the Shrivelfigs shifted, a pungent scent rose—an earthy blend of fresh herbs and something bitter, a sharp reminder of the work she had begun earlier. Her hand moved forward, brushing past the plants until her fingers met the familiar warmth of the first cauldron. Inside, long stalks of fluxweed floated lazily in the bubbling liquid, their thin leaves curling and twisting in the gentle heat. The earthy aroma wrapped around her, a comforting reminder of the greenhouse's magic.

But today, Fiona had other plans. She bypassed the simmering fluxweed, her attention shifting to the empty cauldron beside it. The cold metal felt solid under her hands, a stark contrast to the surrounding warmth. With a quick flick of her wand, she whispered, "Aguamenti." Water gushed from her wand, cascading into the cauldron with a soft splash that echoed through the quiet space.

Satisfied, she lowered her wand and turned back toward Fred and George, a wry smile on her face. Dropping her schoolbag onto the workbench beside the cauldron, she muttered, "By that logic, he wouldn't be too pleased about the four of us spending time together either."

Fred and George exchanged a quick glance, their identical grins spreading wide, as if they had been waiting for her to say exactly that.

Fred clutched his chest in exaggerated alarm. "Not happy about spending time with us? I'm wounded, truly."

"Unlike that Ravenclaw twit," George chimed in, sweeping his arm with a grand, theatrical flourish, "we're the true gentlemen of Hogwarts! Upstanding members of this fine institution!"

"Model students," Fred added, nodding solemnly, his tone dripping with exaggerated sincerity. "Pillars of integrity. Just ask any professor—well, maybe not Snape, or McGonagall... or Flitwick."

Fiona snorted, amused, as she rummaged through her knapsack, fingers deftly finding each ingredient without needing to see. "Maybe if I ask Peeves?" she shot back, pulling out a small vial and inspecting it with a quick sniff.

Fred clasped his hands together, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Peeves holds us in the highest regard."

George nodded, his face taking on a mock-serious expression. "We gave him a few pointers just last week. You'll be pleased to know that Hogwarts is in very, very capable hands."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure," Fiona muttered, though a smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. "I'll be sure to commend your noble efforts when the whole school's in chaos."

"Please do," Fred said, grinning. "Public recognition never hurts."

"Especially when it's well-deserved," George added with a wink.

Lee, hovering nearby, leaned in, curiosity piqued. "What's in that cauldron over there?" he asked, gesturing toward the gently simmering pot at the back of the work table.

"Fluxweed," Fiona replied, already focused on the vial in her hand. "It needs to stew for twenty-one days." She paused, her brow furrowing slightly. "How did you even know I'd be here?"

"Nothing happens in this castle without us knowing," George said with a casual shrug, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Fiona's hands moved methodically over the workbench, fingers sweeping across the smooth wood. She checked for any stray leaves, tools, or scraps of fabric that might catch fire, making sure the area around the cauldron was perfectly clear. Once satisfied, she positioned the cauldron with care, ensuring only its base would be exposed to the flame.

With a swift flick of her wand, she whispered, "Incendio." A small but concentrated flame burst to life beneath the cauldron, heat radiating steadily as the fire began its steady dance. Shadows flickered across the greenhouse, the dark metal of the cauldron gleaming faintly in the shifting light.

Fred leaned in closer, his breath warm against Fiona's shoulder, a familiar grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "So this is where the magic happens, eh?" His voice was soft, teasing, but there was a note of genuine curiosity beneath it—something more thoughtful, almost watchful.

Fiona remained silent, her focus entirely on the task before her. Her fingers wrapped around a small vial, the dark liquid inside shimmering like deep red wine. She uncorked it, tipping the contents into the cauldron with a delicate hand. The potion absorbed the liquid in silken ribbons, swirling into the depths of the bubbling mixture, its surface rippling like molten glass.

Reaching for another vial, this one even darker, a black so deep it seemed to swallow the light, Fiona carefully uncorked it. She brought it to her nose, inhaling the sharp, metallic scent of old iron, her expression steady and focused. Satisfied, she poured the viscous liquid into the cauldron. It unfurled slowly, dark tendrils twisting and merging with the brew.

Fred and George leaned in closer, the light from the flames casting flickering shadows across their faces, making them look like conspirators in some secret, forbidden magic. Beside them, Lee stood, his eyes fixed on the swirling potion, the reflection of the flickering flames mirrored in his deep gaze, watching with barely concealed fascination.

"So," Lee began, barely able to contain his excitement, "what's on the menu today?"

"Aging potion," Fred noted, his grin wide and unmistakably mischievous. His eyes sparkled with amusement, but beneath the surface, there was a sharper edge—a flicker of something more calculating. Fiona gave a quick nod. Ever since the announcement of the tournament, orders for aging potions had spiked. It was easy business, but business nonetheless.

"We'll take three!" Lee said, leaning forward, his enthusiasm bubbling over. Fred tsked, shaking his head in mock disapproval.

"Now, now, Lee. Georgie and I have been doing some thinking." Fred's voice carried that playful, irreverent tone he used whenever one of their grander schemes was in the works. But there was an undercurrent of seriousness this time, the kind that signaled mischief bordering on danger. "And if Dumbledore's the one behind the tournament protections, the old aging potion might as well be pumpkin juice."

Fiona's brow furrowed slightly, she didn't need to see their faces to know where this was heading. Potions had their limits—bound by ingredients, rules, and the Ministry's pesky guidelines. But magic? Magic was boundless, open to those reckless (or foolish) enough to push the boundaries. If anyone would test those limits, it was Fred and George Weasley.

The flickering light of the fire beneath the cauldron cast dancing shadows across the bubbling potion, the liquid swirling like ink. Fiona could sense the tension rising, the unspoken challenge lingering between them.

"To be honest," she said, her voice steady, her hand even steadier as she gave the potion another swirl, "I think you might be right." The surface of the potion rippled darkly, shimmering in the glow of the fire.

"Are you letting your clients in on this?" Lee asked, a knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Why would I turn down easy coin?" Fiona's tone was casual, but beneath it was a shrewd edge, the mark of someone who knew the value of her skills. Her fingers moved deftly into her bag, retrieving a small glass jar with the ease of long practice. Inside, a pale, lumpy substance clung to the sides like mashed snow. She sniffed it briefly, her expression thoughtful.

"They're not asking for guarantees," she added as she tipped the jar's contents into the cauldron. The potion hissed softly, rippling as the new ingredient joined the mix. "They're asking for possibilities. And possibilities, well—those are always for sale." A faint smile played across her lips as the potion began to swirl, its surface reflecting the flickering firelight, her hand guiding the brew to life.

A whispered word from Fiona's lips sent the wooden spoon stirring on its own, the motion smooth and deliberate. The potion obeyed without question, its surface swirling in harmony to her quiet command. Fred couldn't help but watch, entranced by the ease with which she worked. There was something about the way she handled the brew, like magic was second nature to her. It was hard not to admire it—impossible, really.

"And that," said George, his tone shifting into something a touch more serious—though the glint of mischief never entirely left his eyes—"is exactly why we've come to you, Fiona. We need something... unique. None of that run-of-the-mill, off-the-shelf stuff."

"Something even Dumbledore wouldn't have thought of?" Lee mused, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative. The air between them seemed to thicken with anticipation, the bubbling of the potion the only sound, like the steady rhythm of a heartbeat.

Fiona reached for another jar, her fingers brushing the smooth glass. "Tortoise Shell?" she asked, holding it out toward Lee. Without hesitation, he took the jar, reading the label with interest before handing it back. Fiona tipped the green powder into the cauldron, where it met the surface of the potion with a soft hiss, swirling and blending into the mixture, the potion darkening and thickening.

"You might be particularly suited for our little project," George said, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as Fiona continued to rummage through her bag. She pulled out the final ingredients: thin, translucent slices of caterpillar and small, diced chunks of bat tongue. Her fingers moved with practiced speed, the soft hum of magic around her palpable. Fred watched, unable to stop the grin that spread across his face.

"We're thinking of creating something new," Fred said, leaning in just a fraction, his voice lower now, carrying the weight of their scheme. "A better aging potion." His eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was something else in his expression—something more focused, a spark of deeper intent beneath the surface amusement.

Fiona paused, her brow arching ever so slightly, though she didn't immediately respond. Skeptical, yes, but intrigued—Fred could see that. He admired her restraint, the way she never rushed to conclusions, always weighing her options, just like she did with her potions. Fred leaned a little closer, his curiosity piqued by the way she approached the challenge—carefully, thoughtfully.

He couldn't help but admire that about her: how she measured everything so precisely, never giving in too quickly, always holding just enough back to keep them guessing. Like the perfect potion recipe—each step meticulously planned, but with room for just a bit of improvisation.

Fiona nodded absently, shrugging off her yellow-trimmed robes. Using it as a makeshift heat pad, she lifted the cauldron from the flames, careful not to disturb the simmering liquid within. Heat rippled up in soft waves, carrying with it the mingled scents of herbs and smoke, a curious blend of sharp and sweet that filled the air. She set the cauldron gently on the workbench, her movements precise as she added the bat tongue and caterpillar slices. The wooden spoon, enchanted to stir itself, continued its steady, rhythmic motion, mixing the ingredients with mechanical precision.

The potion darkened as it absorbed the new additions, its surface rippling with a quiet, almost ominous energy—like a secret on the verge of being uncovered.

"Hear us out..." Fred leaned forward, eyes gleaming with that familiar glint of reckless excitement, as though he'd just unearthed the greatest prank of all time. "Dumbledore can't outsmart something that hasn't been invented yet, right?"

Fiona's brow furrowed, skepticism etched clearly across her face. "And what makes you think we can invent a new potion?" Her voice was steady and practical, grounded in the reality of potion-making's complexities. But Fred, ever perceptive, heard the faint crackle of curiosity in her tone. She was intrigued—he could feel it.

"That's where you come in," Fred replied, his grin widening, a flicker of admiration sparking in his eyes. George, standing beside him with his arms crossed and a knowing smirk, mirrored his twin's confidence. They weren't just paying her compliments; they were genuinely impressed. Her skill spoke for itself.

"We've seen you at work, Diggory," George added, casually leaning his hip against the table as if they weren't on the verge of something mischievous. "You don't just follow instructions—you perfect them. That's what we need."

Fiona's lips twitched, almost forming a smile. She respected the twins' audacity, their ability to see potential where others saw trouble. They reminded her of herself in that way—ambitious, but with a strategic edge. Where Fred and George's fire was loud and bright, hers was quiet, controlled. She stirred the potion, her mind racing ahead, considering the possibilities. She had spent years perfecting the potions others found too difficult, but now... now she was wondering if she could push beyond even her own limits.

Wasn't that what real magic was about?

"I'm good at following instructions," Fiona said at last, her voice firm, as though she was stating an indisputable fact. But there was a pause, a flicker of ambition igniting in her chest. "Not inventing them."

George scoffed lightly, not ready to let her off so easily. "Harold Dingle comes up with a new spell every month," he said, his voice steady, as if that alone should make his case.

Fiona's eyes widened in disbelief. "Harold Dingle?" she repeated, incredulity lacing every word. "You mean the same Harold Dingle who turned his hands into teacups last year? That's your muse?" She shook her head, part frustration, part amusement. "I thought you were smarter than that."

The name seemed to hang in the air like a poorly cast spell, one of Harold Dingle's countless misfires—synonymous with magical blunders and regrettable catastrophes.

Fred, never one to lose his footing, shrugged with a lopsided grin. "True, Dingle's one snitch short of a Quidditch match," he conceded, his eyes gleaming with amusement, "but if Harold can dream up something, surely we can do better." His hand landed lightly on Fiona's shoulder, casual yet deliberate, drawing her focus back to him and away from the softly simmering potion.

George leaned in slightly, the playful edge in his voice giving way to something more serious. "Think about it, Fiona. With your skill in potion-making... we could be on to something big. Something no one's ever seen before."

Fred's eyes twinkled as he added, "And word is, you're a natural at herbology. That's why we came to you, not Dingle. We actually want this to work." His tone was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of something more—a flicker of genuine admiration, as though her quiet expertise had sparked something in him he hadn't anticipated.

Fiona could feel the weight of their words settling into her thoughts, and for the first time, she considered it. Could they really be on to something? Something bigger than just another aging potion? She wasn't sure, but the idea was intoxicating.

Fiona felt Fred's hand settle on her shoulder—warm, confident—but she shrugged it off with a swift, firm motion. Her touch wasn't unkind, but decisive, as if to signal she didn't need the reassurance. Her mind had already leapt ahead, far beyond the moment, racing toward something bigger. She could feel it, the familiar surge of ambition rising within her—the thrill of crafting something entirely new, something no one had ever dared before. It was exhilarating.

Potion-making had been her domain for years, a world of meticulous precision where she had mastered what others left unfinished. But this—this was a chance to break through boundaries. Her thoughts whirled, weaving through ingredients, reactions, delicate balances. The potential combinations spun in her head like intricate puzzles only she could solve. The more she let herself dive into it, the more intoxicating the possibilities became.

Fred watched her, noticing the subtle shift in her demeanor, the way her fingers twitched as if she were already conjuring ingredients in her mind. He admired her intensity—the quiet focus that radiated from her when she was on the verge of something extraordinary. There was something magnetic about her in that moment, and Fred felt drawn in, more than he'd expected.

"It... might be possible," Fiona murmured at last, her words slow and measured, as if giving life to them too quickly would make them unravel. But then, almost without realizing, a small, unguarded smile crept onto her lips. It surprised even her. Fred and George exchanged a quick, triumphant glance, their own grins widening as if they had just cracked open a mystery.

Fred's gaze lingered on her, amusement giving way to something more—something deeper. There was a flicker in Fiona's eyes, a quiet but unmistakable fire, and it illuminated her face in a way that caught Fred off guard. She wasn't just a skilled potion-maker; there was something else there—something hidden beneath her composed exterior, a sharp intelligence coiled like a spring. Fred felt an unfamiliar tug of curiosity, wondering what secrets she kept, what depths she hadn't yet revealed. It wasn't just her brewing talent that fascinated him—it was her mind, the way it worked, and the layers he was only just beginning to glimpse.

George, always quick to read his brother, noticed the shift in Fred's expression. The usual excitement in his brother's eyes had transformed into something deeper, more intense. George couldn't help but wonder if it was the potion—or something else entirely that had sparked it.

"Careful there, Fred," George teased lightly, sensing the tension. "Stare any harder, and she might start charging you for it."

Fred smirked, though his gaze didn't waver from Fiona. "Worth every Sickle," he replied, his voice soft but unwavering.

***
Authors note

If you liked this chapter please vote and comment!

I'm sorry for the delay. The original chapter was 2264 words. this one was over 5,000, so there were a lot of things to clean up.

I'm sorry these new updated chapters are so long. I'm trying to expand on the original story a bit.