━ 𝟘𝟚𝟞. 𝐵𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝐻𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑂'𝐶𝑙𝑜𝑐𝑘

💌🏹

╰┈➤ ❝ [𝑇𝑊𝐸𝑁𝑇𝑌-𝑆𝐼𝑋] ❞ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-
⁺⤾·˚.⃗.  [ʙʟᴏᴏᴅʏ ʜᴇʟʟ ᴏ'ᴄʟᴏᴄᴋ] 𑁍ࠜೄ ˊˎ
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

The Gryffindor Boy's Dormitories
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
— Scottish Highlands
( December, 1994. )

                        𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐘'𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 was a chaotic mix of prank aftermath and the kind of drunken mess that could only follow a night of revelry. The air was thick with the smell of cheap Firewhisky, leftover Butterbeer, and what could only be described as magic gone wrong. The walls were smeared with glitter, enchanted paint, and remnants of spells that had clearly gone awry in the throes of a drunken prank war. Bottles, both full and empty, were scattered all over the floor. Some had spilled, their contents staining the wood like blood after a battlefield. A torn-up piece of parchment, no doubt an attempt to create some kind of prank list, fluttered lazily in the breeze from an open window. A forgotten sock lay in the corner, suspiciously stuck to the wall with a piece of chewing gum.

And the paint. . Oh Merlin the paint.

That was mostly Fred's doing. So you see the prank that had gone terribly awry the previous night had been Fred's brainchild, of course. It had started as a simple prank war—nothing too dangerous, just a bit of harmless fun to cap off the Yule Ball celebrations. Fred had decided that George's hair was looking far too neat and tidy for someone who was supposed to be his twin. So, naturally, Fred's first move was to liven things up a bit.

The plan? Easy peasy. Transfigure a can of bright paint into a harmless little splash right onto George's perfectly styled hair. That would throw him off balance, right? No harm done, just a little harmless fun to get the ball rolling. And, in Fred's mind, a perfect way to prank his brother.

But, as with all Fred's pranks, things went... slightly off-course.

The initial spell was meant to lightly coat George's hair with a small splash of hideously purple paint—something that would wash right out. Instead, Fred had accidentally misfired. Instead of a light coat, a full-on wave of bright purple paint shot from the wand and splattered across the entire room. It covered George's hair, his bed, and—most spectacularly—the walls, creating splotches of vibrant purple that were now impossible to remove without an army of house-elves.

The magenta streaks had gone everywhere. Fred, thinking the prank was over, hadn't realized that the paint had splashed onto other random items—the nightstand, Oliver's broomstick, even some leftover party streamers. The disaster only escalated when George, horrified at the damage to his hair, retaliated by aiming a charm right back at Fred, only for the charm to ricochet and splatter a stream of lime green pain across the room.

What had started as a quick prank turned into a scene out of a painting disaster. The walls were splattered with streaks of violet and even a shocking magenta. The floor? Absolutely covered in lime green paint. The remnants of the party hats and streamers had been splashed in random shades of color. Paint even dripped down from the ceiling, where it had been flung in wild splashes during the chaos.

The whole room smelled like cheap paint and an accidental explosion of magic—mixing with the sour tang of spilt Firewhisky and half-melted Butterbeer cans. As Fred had tried to clean up the mess, his wand had malfunctioned in his drunken state, flinging more paint everywhere as he aimed for a quick fix.

By the time they all passed out, the room was less of a dormitory and more of a modern art installation—one that Fred, to his credit, had meant to be funny.

Now come morning, In the middle of it all sat Lee's owl, who had apparently become the only creature in the room fully awake. The owl, named Spaz, was hopping around the room with reckless abandon, chirping loudly in the quiet, chaotic mess. It was a tiny, scrappy thing with a perpetually startled look, as if it couldn't believe it was stuck with these idiots. Spaz had one singular mission this morning: wake up Lee. So, it flapped its wings and hopped its way onto Lee's bed, landing directly on his chest.

Lee, who was sprawled out with his mouth wide open, snoring so loudly he could've rivaled a herd of hippogriffs, didn't budge. Spaz tilted his head, confused for a second, before giving an even louder, more insistent hoot. Still, nothing.

"Fuuuuck off," Lee mumbled, muttering something unintelligible into his pillow. He swatted a hand weakly, missing Spaz entirely. The owl, clearly unimpressed, hopped closer to his face and pecked at his ear.

Lee jerked awake with a gurgling snore, swatting at the owl, "What the bloody hell?!" He squinted one eye open, his face covered in crumbs from whatever suspicious snacks he'd eaten before passing out. "Get lost, Spaz," he grumbled, pulling the blankets over his head, blocking out Spaz's persistent chirps.

Fred, George, and Oliver were no better off. They were all sprawled out in a tangled mess of limbs, sheets, and half-empty bottles. Fred was stretched across his bed in a manner that defied logic, his arms flung out like he was trying to create a starfish in the middle of a hurricane. His feet were hanging off the edge, his chest bare and glittered in enchanted lime paint. He was snoring loudly, the kind of deep, guttural snore that made it sound like he might've been attempting to impersonate a dragon. His face was squished into his pillow, his mouth hanging open as drool pooled slightly around his chin.

George wasn't much better. He was face down, his body half-sunk into the mattress like he had been run over by a stampede of centaurs. His shirt was nowhere to be found, tossed aside after some late-night dare—or was it a prank? No one could remember. His legs were tangled in the sheets, and his head hung off the side of the bed, his neck crooked in a way that looked painful, though his snores were even more obnoxious than Fred's. A half-eaten sandwich, now soggy and unrecognizable, was wedged between the bed and the nightstand.

Oliver, meanwhile, was somehow sprawled out on top of the blankets, arms splayed wide, as if he was in some bizarre attempt to fly on his broom in his sleep. His chest was completely bare, and a piece of bread was stuck to his forehead. His hair was an absolute mess, sticking up in all directions like a magical tornado had hit him in his sleep. Even his fingers were twitching, like he was trying to conjure something in his sleep. He kept snoring and shaking his head back and forth, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

Knock knock knock.

The first knock on the door was a faint sound at first, but it quickly grew louder, as if the universe itself was trying to wake them from their drunken stupor.

Knock knock knock.

Fred groaned from under the covers, his voice muffled by the pillow. "Oh fuck offff, what sod would be knocking at this hour?" He rolled over, pulling the blanket up higher, clearly not planning on answering it.

Lee barely opened one eye, muttering into his pillow, "Go away, for the love of Merlin..."

George, whose face was still smooshed into the mattress, barely moved, muttering something incoherent. "Wha... no... don't... no bloody... not today..."

The knocking continued.

Knock knock knock.

"Ugh, for Merlin's fuckin sake!" Oliver finally cursed, pulling himself up from the bed, looking like a disheveled wreck who could barely remember his own name. "I'll get it, you lazy sods," he muttered as he dragged himself toward the door, not even bothering to put on a shirt.

"My hero." Fred hummed before passing back out into his pillow.

He yanked the door open, expecting to see some unfortunate first year trying to sell him something or ask a question about last night's disaster.

Standing in the doorway were Olympia and Cassie, casually leaning against the doorframe like they owned the bloody place. Olympia was already rolling her eyes as she glanced at the mess of the room, her arms crossed in amusement.

Cassie grinned at Oliver, clearly enjoying the view of a shirtless, still-drunk Oliver standing in front of her. "Morning, Wood," she said, her voice flirtatious. She gave him a once-over, lingering for a moment on his bare chest. "You don't look half bad, you know."

Oliver, his brain still half-fried from the night before, gave her a lazy smirk, not realizing that the very drunk part of his mind was the only one functioning properly. "Oh, I know," he said, stepping a little closer, "But I reckon you'd look better in—"

"Bloody hell, you two just get a room already!" Olympia interrupted, her voice dripping with sarcastic amusement. She gave them both a pointed look, raising her eyebrow.

Cassie laughed softly. "Fine, fine," she said, finally breaking eye contact with Oliver, "I'll behave." She hummed, walking her fingers up his chest before waltzing into the room.

The second George heard Olympia's voice, he threw his head up from his pillow, and in an instant, he tried to scramble up to a sitting position. Unfortunately, his body had other ideas. With a loud thud, he fell straight out of bed, his limbs tangled in the mess of sheets and blankets. His face met the floor with a thunk.

Fred, still laying half on his back and half twisted into an impossible position, snickered at his twin brother. "Nice move bud," he said, his voice thick with exhaustion and amusement.

Lee, who was still hiding under his pillow, let out a muffled curse. "What the bloody hell, mate? You've got to be shitting me..."

Oliver, standing at the door, couldn't help but laugh at George's misfortune. "Aaaand there he goes!" He grinned at George's now-familiar face in the carpet. "You alright there, Georgie boy?"

Cassie walked in, looking around the room with a mixture of disbelief and amusement. "You guys are unbelievable," she said, shaking her head. "Honestly."

Olympia stepped into the room and sighed. "Alright, listen up," she said, giving the room one last look. "You might want to start cleaning this up before Filch and McGonagall do their bloody room checks."

The boys froze in panic. Suddenly they all shot up, eyes wide, and faces pale as ghosts.

"Wait, WHAT?" Fred yelled, jumping out of bed and immediately beginning to shove clothes under the mattress and toss empty bottles out of sight. "No no no way in hell!" He just about stumbled out of bed, "this room is so not ready for a bloody inspection!"

George scrambled to get up off the floor, eyes wide with panic. "Shit, McGonagall and Filch? We're dead! We're dead!"

Lee tossed his pillow aside and began muttering curses under his breath as he jumped up to grab a few random items. "Fuck, fuck, fuck! This is all your bloody fault, Wood!"

"My fault! It's Fred's dumbass that splattered paint everywhere!" Oliver defended, grabbing his blanket and using it to mop up some paint off the wall.

"Hey! Now is not the time to be pointing fingers!" Fred managed as he pulled a shirt on, tossing one to George who briskly put it on.

Cassie, meanwhile, took a seat on Oliver's bed and casually picked up Spaz, Lee's owl, who had been hopping around impatiently. "You poor thing," she said with a grin, gently stroking the owl's feathers. "You deserve better than this lot. Come live with me, hm?"

Lee, now looking panicked as he started to use his wand to tidy the mess, shot a look at Cassie. "You're not stealing my fuckin' bird," he grumbled, his face scrunched up in defiance.

As chaos erupted around them, Olympia rolled up her sleeves and joined in the frantic clean-up effort. "Alright, lads, let's get this place sorted. We don't have long before McGonagall and Filch walk in here."

With wands in hand, the boys scrambled to clean their room, casting quick and messy cleaning spells, throwing clothes under the bed, and trying their best to make the disaster of a room look remotely presentable. Meanwhile, Cassie simply hummed softly, petting Spaz with a relaxed smile as she watched the madness unfold.

The room was chaos. Paint was splattered everywhere, the smell of cheap alcohol clung to the air, and there was the unmistakable sound of frantic cleaning spells being cast. Wands flicked frantically, trying to reverse the mess, but for every bit of clutter cleaned up, more seemed to appear. George was scrubbing away at the walls with a muttered curse under his breath, his hair still slightly purple from Fred's prank, when Olympia suddenly froze mid-clean.

She picked up a crumpled piece of parchment from the edge of the bed, her eyes scanning the familiar handwriting. It was a note she had slipped into George's hand on the train, all those weeks ago. The one that had started this whole bloody mess. "George? You kept this?"

She unfolded the paper and held it up in front of him, the words glaring at him in the harsh light of the morning: 'You're a bloody idiot-O.'

The second George saw the note, his face went beet red. He froze, mid-scrub, eyes wide. His brain stopped functioning as he scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "Yeah... of course I did," he mumbled, his voice much softer than usual.

Fred, who had been halfway through a spell to remove some confetti from the carpet, groaned loudly. "Okay, enough with the sappiness, you two!" He waved his wand frantically, clearly still panicking about the state of their room. "You can snog about it later! Right now, we need to make this place look like it hasn't been hit by a bloody paint bomb!"

Olympia flushed a little at Fred's words but didn't say anything, just shaking her head and holding the note a little higher. "Well, I didn't think you'd actually keep it."

George grinned sheepishly, still blushing. "Why wouldn't I? I liked it. Thought it was... funny," he mumbled, scratching his head again. The words 'you're a bloody idiot-O' had become a bit of a sweet reminder of how far they'd come since then.

At that exact moment, Cassie, who had been absentmindedly petting the owl (which was still chirping and bouncing around the room, very much adding to the chaos), let out a loud, sarcastic snort. "You might need to worry about yourselves too," she said, her eyes glinting with mischief.

The boys all paused in their frantic cleaning, eyes snapping to her in confusion. "What's that supposed to mean?" Fred asked, his eyebrows furrowing.

Cassie merely nodded toward the bathroom mirror, her lips curling into a smirk. "Look in the mirror, geniuses."

The boys exchanged confused looks, but it was Oliver who moved first, making his way toward the bathroom door. The rest followed suit, crowded into the tiny bathroom, still clutching their wands in a half-hearted attempt to tidy up. The second they saw themselves in the mirror, they all collectively gasped in horror.

Each of them looked like they'd been dragged through hell and back.

George's hair was still streaked with purple, his face was smeared with random streaks of paint, and there were confetti pieces stuck to his forehead like a sick joke.

Oliver's usually neat, bronzed chest was splattered with dark streaks of paint, and his face bore a few blobs of dried Butterbeer. He ran a hand through his tangled hair and winced when more confetti fell to the floor.

Lee's eyes were barely open, and his hair, had been treated to a lovely splash of red. His body was covered in splatters of paint, confetti clinging to his skin like a second layer. He had even managed to somehow get a bit of paint in his ear.

And Fred—Fred looked like he'd wrestled a giant blob of paint in his sleep. His skin was splattered in every possible color of the rainbow, and there were streaks of something that looked like Firewhisky on his chest, drying and turning a sticky shade of amber. There were remnants of streamers hanging from his ears like messy earrings.

All of them stood there, staring at their reflection in horror.

"Fuck me," Lee groaned, his face cringing in disbelief. "We look like we've been hit by a bloody paint truck."

"I am the bloody paint truck," Fred mumbled, running his hands over his face in defeat. "How the hell are we gonna explain this to McGonagall?"

Cassie, still perched lazily on Oliver's bed, just shook her head. "You boys really know how to throw a party, don't you?"

The chaos continued as they scrambled to clean themselves up, casting cleaning charms on their bodies, their hair, and desperately trying to remove the splatters of paint from the walls and the floor. The owl, Spaz, was still bouncing around, chirping in protest at the commotion. Lee's eyes narrowed as he reached down, trying to grab the bird. "You're not stealing my fucking bird, Cassie," he growled.

Cassie merely grinned and scooped up the owl, cradling it against her chest. "Oh, I'm not stealing him," she cooed. "Just taking him somewhere a bit more... peaceful. These boys are crazy."

"Yeah, and so are you," Lee grumbled, but it was clear he wasn't going to fight over the bird this time.

The room was a whirlwind of motion—wand flicks here, curses muttered there, and the continued chirping of Spaz as they worked to restore some semblance of order. Olympia, with a faint smile on her face, ended up helping, sweeping paint off the floor with a simple charm and rearranging the scattered bottles and broken party hats that were littering the room. But through the madness, she could still hear Fred muttering under his breath, "This is a fucking disaster."

And he wasn't wrong.

Just as the last bit of paint splattered against the wall, and Fred frantically waved his wand to clean up the last of the confetti, a loud, authoritative knock echoed at the door. All of them froze, eyes widening in panic as the sound reverberated through the room. The noise was a direct threat to their already fragile state of mind. The room was still horrid, bottles and parchments sprawled across the floor, the thick smell of alcohol still lingering in the air — it would be simply impossible to come up with an explanation for this one.

Fred's head snapped toward Cassie and Olympia, his face contorting in terror as he whispered urgently, "You're girls!"

Cassie, perched lazily on Oliver's bed, shot him a deadpan look, her fingers absentmindedly scratching the owl's head. "Wonderful observation, Fred," she quipped, not looking the least bit fazed by the commotion.

Olympia, however, was already a few steps ahead. With a casual flick of her wand, she muttered a spell under her breath, and in an instant, both she and Cassie disappeared from view. The only thing left was the faint shimmer of magic in the air, like an invisible ripple running through the space.

The boys stood in stunned silence for a moment, gaping at the empty space where the two girls had been.

"Haha! You're invisible? Holy shit!" Fred gasped, his eyes wide with awe, momentarily forgetting about the impending doom at the door. "Bloody hell, Georgie, she's a bloody genius!"

George blinked, still processing the fact Olympia had just vanished into thin air like some sort of wizarding magician. "She... what the hell?!" His brain struggled to catch up with the sudden turn of events. Vanishing charms were far more advanced that that of a sixth year.

Lee, still in his half-undressed state with a wand in one hand and his other gripping a bottle of whatever alcohol they hadn't quite managed to finish last night, looked equally impressed. "She's got you wrapped around her finger, mate," he said, with a smirk. "She's bloody brilliant."

But Fred, ever the one to break the tension with his classic charm, grinned and shook his head. "Bloody hell, that's just impressive." He turned his attention back to the door, groaning. "Now, we've got more pressing issues, like that blasted knock. If McGonagall or Filch finds us like this, we'll be dead by breakfast."

Lee gave a tired, exasperated groan, "Right, because this room doesn't already scream disaster."

In the blink of an eye, the boys scrambled into action, frantically waving their wands to clean the room, trying their best to make it look remotely presentable. Paint stains vanished in bursts of light, confetti was swept up with swishes of their wands, and the bottles that had once decorated the floor were hastily hidden under the beds (not very well, as they were frantically pushed under with not much care for genuine concealment.)

Fred, meanwhile, was muttering to himself, glancing toward the door. "We better be quick. We don't have much time."

Lee, who had somehow managed to find a clean shirt (thankfully), hurriedly shoved a few more things into a closet, his eyes darting nervously around the room. "There's no way we're getting out of this clean," he muttered.

The knock sounded again, louder this time, followed by a deep voice, "Hello? Is anyone in there?"

It was McGonagall.

The boys froze again, the blood draining from their faces. "We're so fucked," Fred whispered.

"Come on, come on!" George hissed, waving his wand wildly at a pile of discarded clothing.

Just as the door handle jiggled and they heard the distinct click of it turning, a faint laugh echoed from the empty space behind them.

"You lot are screwed," Olympia's disembodied voice teased.

"Royally." Cassie chipped in from right next to Oliver, chasing him to jump at the sudden voice.

"Bugger off!" Oliver whisper yelled, swatting at the air but missing her invisible self completely.

Fred stood in front of the door, taking a deep, dramatic breath, trying to regain a sense of composure as his mind raced. He turned to face the rest of the boys, who were all still scrambling to finish cleaning in some sort of chaotic synchronized panic. With a raised hand, Fred declared, "Alright, lads, on three, act normal. I'm looking at you, Oliver."

Oliver, who had been standing next to Fred looking like a man on the verge of a breakdown, turned to him, wide-eyed. "What? What do you mean?" He was still frantically attempting to tidy up a bottle of questionable liquid. "I'm cool. I'm chill."

His voice, however, lacked any hint of calm. In fact, it was the exact opposite—strained, tight, like a kettle about to whistle. His back was stiff, and his eyes flicked toward the door every other second, trying not to lose his shit. He hurried and put on a shirt, nervously pacing back and forth across the room.

"Sure, you're real chill," Fred muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes but with a playful smirk. He clapped his hands together. "On three! One...—"

Before Fred could even finish his countdown, Oliver was already over at the door, fixing his hair with one hand and trying to act casual with the other, though his face was anything but relaxed. He tried to puff out his chest in a way that just looked like he was trying to breathe through a paper bag. "I got this, lads," he whispered, though no one was quite sure who he was convincing—his voice cracked halfway through.

Fred raised an eyebrow, but instead of correcting Oliver's attempt at nonchalance, he gave him a sharp pat on the back and continued, "Two... three!"

With that, the door creaked open, and the boys plastered the biggest, most innocent smiles they could muster, like four young men who had absolutely no idea how to hide their guilt.

Oliver, trying desperately not to hyperventilate, grinned so widely his face might've cracked. "Morning! Professor McGonagall! Lovely day, isn't it?"

They expected to be met with the sharp, disapproving glare of McGonagall, followed by a swift trip to detention. The chaos of the previous moments still hung in the air like the scent of cheap alcohol and paint. Fred was already steeling himself for the inevitable scolding.

But then they saw it.

McGonagall didn't look angry at all. In fact, she looked... pleased?

The boys blinked in confusion, still standing in their perfectly 'casual' poses, but now with the air of someone trying to hide their shock.

McGonagall, with an uncharacteristic glint of approval in her eyes, glanced around the room. "Well, well, I must say," she started, her tone surprisingly light for someone who had a tendency to look like she might turn you into a ferret at any moment. "I must say I'm impressed."

The boys all exchanged confused glances, brows furrowed, wondering if their heads were playing tricks on them.

The room was pristine.

The mountain of clothes had disappeared, the empty bottles that had been shoved under the beds were nowhere to be seen, and the mess that had been such a desperate challenge just moments ago was completely gone. Every chair was back in place, and even the faint, lingering smell of alcohol had vanished. Even the confetti, the remnants of Fred's prank war, had been swept away into thin air.

"What the fu—" George started, before Fred quickly nudged him, as though trying to push the words back down his throat.

Fred, barely able to suppress his astonishment, smiled a little too widely. "Oh, well, you know, we—uh, we were just doing a bit of holiday cleaning!" he said with an overly forced chuckle.

McGonagall raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but still nodding approvingly. "I'm very impressed, boys," she said, her gaze sweeping over them. "You've certainly cleaned up well, in your six years here I've never seen this room so pristine."

The boys stood frozen, each one unable to comprehend what was happening. They had only just been in a full-on frenzy to avoid their worst nightmares—Filch's wrath, McGonagall's disapproving eyes—and yet here they were, suddenly rewarded for something they hadn't even managed to do themselves.

What the bloody hell was going on?

The sudden realization dawned on George when he glanced toward the corner of the room, his gaze locking with the spot where Olympia and Cassie had been moments before. His eyes widened with the dawning realization—she had done it. Olympia had, with one swift spell, saved them from certain doom.

"Well, I'll leave you to it," McGonagall continued, her eyes still scanning the room with approval. "And just to remind you," she said, with an odd, knowing smile, "stay out of trouble boys."

With that, she nodded once and left, the door clicking shut behind her.

The boys stood there for a moment, completely stunned, before Fred let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Bloody hell... Did that just happen?"

Oliver, now looking as if he might collapse in relief, wiped his forehead dramatically. "What in Merlin's name just happened? How the hell is this room spotless?"

Fred grinned, looking over at George. "Well, Georgie, it looks like your girl is a blood genius and just saved our arses, didn't she?"

George, still reeling, managed to crack a smile. "Yeah, she did."

Lee, finally relaxing, flopped back down onto the nearest bed. "Shit, I thought we were done for."

Fred slapped him on the back. "I think I'm buying her a thank you gift. A massive one."

The boys all chuckled, still processing the near-miss.

And then, from nowhere, Olympia's voice echoed faintly from the corner. "Don't forget the owl, Cass," she teased, her invisible presence making the joke land with extra punch.

Lee groaned, "You're not stealing my bloody bird."

And the chaotic morning, for once, ended in relieved laughter—though they knew it wouldn't be the last time they'd need to call on a bit of magic to bail them out.

Just as the boys were beginning to relax, thinking Olympia and Cassie had left, the faintest of flickers of movement appeared next to Lee. Before he could even process what was happening, Olympia and Cassie suddenly popped back into view beside him.

Lee, who had been laying back on the bed in a state of disbelief, jumped so high he nearly collided with the ceiling. A yelp—more of a shriek, really—escaped him as he scrambled backward, his eyes wide and his hands flailing for something to hold on to.

"Bloody hell!" he yelled, his heart hammering in his chest. "You nearly gave me a bloody heart attack!"

The room erupted into laughter at Lee's expense, the boys howling with amusement at the sight of him practically falling off the bed in sheer surprise. Fred collapsed onto the floor, clutching his stomach, and even Oliver, who was usually so composed, was snickering behind his hand.

"You should've seen your face, Lee!" Fred gasped between laughs. "You looked like you'd seen a bloody ghost!"

Lee, still trying to regain his composure, shot them all a glare. "I'm not laughing. You'd have screamed too, alright?"

Cassie giggled softly, her smile still playful, while Olympia simply rolled her eyes with a smirk. "You lot are bloody impossible."

Fred, still wiping tears from his eyes, turned to Olympia and Cassie. "Seriously though, you two saved our arses back there. You have no idea how close we were to getting nailed by McGonagall."

Oliver, now calmer, nodded enthusiastically, his voice a little too eager. "Yeah, thanks for that. Don't know what we would've done without you."

Olympia's smile was laced with mischief as she shrugged. "It was nothing. Just a little creative thinking." She glanced toward George, her eyes flicking toward him with a certain intent.

"But why'd you wait so long? If you knew how to clean it all up in one swift spell..." Fred pried.

"Because I wanted you lot to realize how idiotic you all are. Maybe learn a lesson for once." Olympia stated, running a hand through he blonde hair.

George, still trying to process how their lives had just been spared, turned toward Olympia, the weight of her gaze making his chest tighten. He blinked, slightly dazed, as if he hadn't quite caught up with everything going on.

And then, suddenly, Olympia's expression shifted. She stood a little straighter, her eyes locking with his with an intensity that made George's breath hitch slightly in his throat.

"You," Olympia said, her voice low and firm, cutting through the chaos in the room. "I need to talk to you. Alone."

George, who had been trying to keep it together ever since McGonagall left, now found himself struggling to remember how to speak. His throat felt dry, and his mind was racing. "Right, yeah... okay..." he stammered, his voice betraying the nervousness he couldn't quite mask.

But before he could say anything else, Olympia held up a hand, silencing him. "Meet me in the Viaduct Courtyard in an hour," she said, her tone final, almost commanding.

Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked out of the room, her footsteps light but purposeful.

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the boys staring after her in stunned silence.

Oliver, Lee, and Fred exchanged confused glances, clearly not quite sure what had just happened. Lee was the first to break the silence, muttering under his breath. "What the bloody hell was that all about?"

Fred smirked, nudging George in the shoulder. "Looks like someone's in trouble." His tone was teasing, but there was a flicker of curiosity behind his eyes. "Don't keep her waiting, mate."

George, who was still standing frozen where Olympia had left him, slowly turned toward the rest of the boys, his face flushed with a mix of confusion and a fluttering nervousness in his stomach.

"I—I don't know. She just... she just wants to talk," he mumbled, his heart racing at the thought of what was coming next.

"Talk? Mate, I think it's more than that," Fred teased, winking at him with that familiar, mischievous grin. "You've got a date, Georgie. Just don't go too mental over it."

George rolled his eyes but felt a sense of warmth creeping into his chest despite himself. "It's not like that," he muttered, even though a small part of him wasn't so sure.

He quickly grabbed his shirt from the corner of the room, trying to ignore the rush of nervousness in his stomach. "I'll just... I'll just go meet her, alright?"

Cassie, still sitting casually on Oliver's bed next to him, stroking Spaz, watched him with a smirk, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Better clean up a little."

George rushed into the bathroom, the cold air of the morning hitting his face as he closed the door behind him. His mind was still buzzing from the events of the past night, the kiss with Olympia lingering in his thoughts. He needed to get ready—asap.

He quickly turned on the shower, the sound of water hissing against the tiles echoing through the small bathroom. The steam quickly filled the space, but George barely noticed as he stripped off his clothes and stepped under the hot water. The warmth immediately began to soothe the tension in his muscles, the remnants of last night's chaos and hangover slowly melting away. He scrubbed at his face, rinsing off the last traces of paint and confetti.

As he stepped out of the shower, he grabbed a towel and dried off hastily, the clock ticking in his head as he realized the minutes were slipping away faster than he'd like. His mind was still spinning—what was he even going to say to Olympia? Why had she wanted to talk? Was this about last night? Was she angry? Confused?

Shaking the thoughts from his head, he quickly dressed. He couldn't afford to stand there overthinking everything. He needed to focus on looking halfway decent. His reflection in the mirror showed a face that still looked a little rough—his hair damp and wild, a faint flush from the hot water on his skin.

"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his damp hair. He had no idea what was going to happen today, but he couldn't waste time worrying about it now.

He hurried back into the room, his eyes scanning the space as he noticed the empty beds. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic tweeting of Lee's owl, who had decided to hop around on the floor, trying to get attention. He held up his arm, letting Spaz fly up and perch atop it. There was a piece of parchment on George's nightstand, and he quickly picked it up.

'Went to grab food and make some hangover draughts – F, L, & O'

George's anxiety hit him full-force again. He glanced down at the mess of clothes scattered around the room—he couldn't just wear any old thing. He had to look halfway decent for Olympia. What if she thought he was a mess? What if she thought he wasn't good enough?

He wasn't used to being worried about what Olympia would think, but now he couldn't help but wonder.

With a sigh, George turned to the wardrobe, his mind suddenly bombarded with choices. He threw open the door and rifled through the sweaters and jackets hanging there, pulling out one after another. His eyes moved from sweater to sweater, tossing them aside in a mix of frustration and indecision. A green one, too dull. A blue one, too bright. A black one? Not bad, but maybe too plain.

He held up seven different sweaters to himself in the mirror, trying to figure out which one would be just right. His hair was still damp, sticking out in random directions, and he couldn't help but stare at his reflection for a moment. He felt like he was missing something.

After what felt like an eternity of trying on and discarding sweaters, he finally landed on a red one. It wasn't too flashy, but it was bold enough. It matched the red Converse he'd grabbed and looked somewhat decent with the jeans he'd pulled on.

With a frustrated sigh, George threw on the red sweater, it was freezing at Hogwarts this time of year. He checked himself out in the mirror one last time, giving himself a quick once-over. "Bloody hell." He muttered to himself, feeling slightly better about the way he looked, though it wasn't exactly perfect. But then again, what was he expecting? Perfection? He wasn't even sure how this was all going to play out.

He grabbed his wand and gave his hair a quick, half-hearted attempt at taming, but he wasn't about to waste too much time on it. The mirror reflected the messy, yet somewhat charming, disheveled look.

"That'll have to do," he muttered to himself, turning and grabbing his brown jacket.

Taking one last glance in the mirror—his stomach a mix of excitement and dread—he dashed out the door, hoping he looked halfway decent. He had no idea what he was walking into, but the one thing he knew for sure was that this conversation with Olympia was going to be a turning point. And he wasn't going to mess it up.

With one deep breath, George hurried down the hall toward the Viaduct Courtyard.

Viaduct Courtyard
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
— Scottish Highlands
( December 26th, 1994. )

             𝐆𝐄𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄'𝐒 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐒 𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓𝐋𝐘 in the fresh snow as he made his way toward the bench, his breath puffing in small clouds in the frosty December air. His heart hammered in his chest, though he wasn't sure if it was from the cold or the sight in front of him. Olympia sat on the bench, her legs crossed neatly, a thick book open in her lap. Snowflakes fell delicately onto her blonde hair, some catching in the light and making her look like something out of a painting.

On the bench next to her, two steaming cups of hot chocolate sat, the heat rising in soft wisps that swirled into the crisp winter morning. She looked up as he approached, her sharp blue eyes softening when they met his. A warm smile spread across her lips, and George felt like the breath had been knocked out of him.

"Morning," she greeted, her voice gentle but carrying a sense of confidence. She picked up one of the cups and handed it to him, the snow crunching slightly beneath her boots as she shifted.

"Morning," he replied, taking the cup from her gloved hand. Their fingers brushed briefly, and George tried not to think too much about how even through the layers, her touch felt electric. He sat down beside her, the bench cold beneath him, but the warmth of the cocoa and her presence made it bearable. She then reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a small vial. "Down it quick like a shot, it tastes horrid."

George recognized the liquid immediately, a hangover draught, he and Fred were more than familiar with the substance. He downed it in one quick fluid motion, setting it back into her hand and taking a sip of his hot chocolate to down the bitter aftertaste of the draught.

For a moment, they simply sat in silence. George stared down at his cup, watching the steam rise and feeling the warmth seep into his hands. The tension between them was thick, almost tangible, as if the unspoken words from last night still hung in the air. Every now and then, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, noting the way her lashes fluttered slightly as she stared ahead, her lips pressing softly to the rim of her cup with each sip.

He wanted to say something, anything, but his throat felt tight, his usual quick wit nowhere to be found.

Finally, it was Olympia who broke the silence. She set her cup down carefully on the bench and turned to face him, her expression serious but unreadable.

"George," she began, her tone soft but steady, "were you serious last night?" She questioned, her words slightly shaky as they full from her lips. "When you kissed me."

George's head snapped up, his eyes wide. She held his gaze, her own eyes searching his face for any sign of dishonesty.

"It wasn't just some game, right?" she continued, her voice quieter now, but still firm.

He blinked, stunned, before letting out a soft, nervous laugh. He set his cocoa down beside him and ran a hand through his messy red hair, the cold air biting at his exposed fingers. "Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

Olympia frowned slightly, her brows furrowing in confusion. "What?"

George looked at her then, his eyes meeting hers, and he let out another laugh—this one softer, more self-deprecating. "You know, for someone so smart, you can be so bloody thick sometimes."

Her mouth fell open slightly, a mix of surprise and indignation flashing across her face. "Excuse me?"

Before she could say anything more, George leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he clasped his hands together. His voice softened, his words spilling out quickly as though he couldn't hold them back anymore.

"Olympia, of course, I was serious. Do you really think I'd kiss you like that if it didn't mean anything? I've liked you for months—not just liked you—properly liked you." He paused, glancing at her to gauge her reaction. She stared back at him, her expression unreadable but her eyes wide.

"I kissed you because I wanted to," he continued, his voice quieter now. "Not because of a dare, or because I'd had too much to drink, but because it's all I've wanted to do for ages. And if I didn't do it then, I might've lost my bloody mind."

Olympia blinked, her lips parting slightly as she processed his words. George held his breath, his chest tightening as the silence stretched between them.

Then, slowly, her lips curved into a small smile. "You really are a bloody idiot, George Weasley," she said, her tone light but filled with warmth.

George chuckled, the sound deep and genuine. For the first time in a long time, everything felt right. They sat there together, the snow falling softly around them, the weight of unspoken feelings finally lifted. And as George sipped his cocoa, his shoulder brushing against hers, he couldn't help but think that this was exactly where he was meant to be. Right next to Olympia Harrington.

Olympia took another sip of her cocoa, her cheeks pink—whether from the cold or their conversation, George wasn't sure. She glanced sideways at him, her lips curling into a curious smile. "So," she began, her tone light but teasing, "you've liked me for months, huh?"

George let out a soft, sheepish laugh, scratching the back of his neck as he turned to look at her. His cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red, but he didn't look away. Instead, his grin grew wider, more mischievous.

"More like years actually," he admitted, his voice low but steady.

Olympia's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and she let out a laugh—a bright, genuine sound that seemed to melt away the cold around them. "Years?!" she repeated, her eyes wide with amusement.

George shrugged, leaning back against the bench with a self-deprecating smirk. "Yeah, well, I'm bloody brilliant at keeping secrets, aren't I?"

"Not really, you've been flirting with me since we were six." She shook her head, laughing again as she set her cup down beside her. "But really? Years, George? And you didn't think to say anything sooner?"

"Hey," he said defensively, though his grin remained, "it's not exactly easy to talk to you about feelings Ols, and I was trying not to make a complete prat of myself."

Olympia rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding the warmth in them. "You're still a prat," she teased, though her voice was softer now.

George chuckled, the sound rumbling low in his chest. "Yeah, but I'm your prat now, right?"

"Mhm." Olympia admitted. She froze for a moment, her laughter fading as her eyes met his. The playful banter between them gave way to something deeper as the space between them seemed to shrink. George's grin softened, and he looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered in the world.

Olympia's smile faltered—not out of discomfort, but because she was caught off guard by the intensity in his gaze. The snow continued to fall around them, quiet and serene, but the world seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them on that bench.

Without thinking, George leaned in slightly, his breath visible in the cold air. Olympia's heart raced, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she tilted her head toward him, her lips curving into the smallest of smiles.

And then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, they closed the distance between themselves.

The kiss was soft and tentative at first. But then George shifted closer, one hand instinctively coming up to cup her cheek, and Olympia responded in kind, her fingers brushing lightly against his wrist.

It wasn't just a kiss; it was a culmination of years of stolen glances, playful banter, and unspoken feelings. It was warm, sweet, and everything George had imagined and more.

When they finally pulled apart, their faces were still close, their breaths mingling in the chilly air. George's eyes flickered over her face, as if committing every detail to memory.

Olympia let out a soft laugh, her voice barely above a whisper. "You've really been holding onto that for years, haven't you?" This kiss had been different than the one last night, that one was pure passion, this one was more than that: it was pure, loving.

George grinned, his nose brushing hers. "Worth the wait," he murmured, his voice filled with warmth and certainty.

Olympia shook her head, but her smile was radiant. "You're impossible," she said, though there was no malice in her tone—only fondness.

"Good thing you like impossible," George quipped, leaning back slightly but keeping his hand near hers.

She laughed again, and for a moment, everything felt perfect. The snow, the cocoa, the warmth between them—it was all just perfectly right.

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