Gryffindor Tower had not known peace since 7:03 p.m.
That was precisely when the portrait hole flung open with such dramatic force that Sir Cadogan was still shouting about being assaulted by red-haired marauders. Fred and George Weasley had returned.
"Annnd we’re back!" Fred announced, arms spread as if expecting thunderous applause.
George followed, carrying a bag that was ominously smoking. "Miss us, dearest lions?"
A moment of silence. Then—
"NOOO!" came the groan of at least five first-years.
"YES!" yelled Seamus.
"Someone hide the tea set!" cried Parvati.
Dean blinked. "What tea set?"
Fred winked. "Exactly."
It was like a firework went off—not literally this time, though that was always a possibility. The twins were only meant to be visiting for a night before heading back to their joke shop in Diagon Alley, but they’d already transformed the stairs into a slide, spelled all the quills to giggle when touched, and passed out Fizzing Fairies (a new prototype) to unsuspecting second-years.
Ron had buried his face in his hands. “Why do I feel like this is my fault?”
Hermione didn’t look up from her Transfiguration essay. “Because it is.”
By 10 p.m., the Tower was a disaster. Pillow forts had been constructed, a game of Exploding Snap had morphed into “Exploding Everything,” and several students were camped out on the floor eating sweets that were very definitely not approved by the school board.
In the corner, George was helping a tiny first-year braid her hair with sparkly thread that hummed faintly. Fred was deep in conversation with a fourth-year who was near tears over a Defense essay.
“Honestly,” Fred said gently, “you could have just turned in a blank piece of parchment and it’d be better than what Ron handed in third year.”
The girl blinked, sniffled, then snorted. “Really?”
“Oh, absolutely. It was soggy. From tears.”
George snorted from across the room. “You cried on it?”
Fred shrugged. “Artistic expression.”
They hadn’t planned to stay that late. But then, George had noticed a particularly quiet third-year curled up near the fireplace. And Fred, despite his permanent grin and general chaos, had a sixth sense for when someone needed a joke and a serious talk.
It was strange, really, how easily they fell into that role—big brothers to the whole Tower. Kings of mischief, sure, but they’d never let one of their lions suffer in silence.
That’s how they found themselves huddled on either side of Oliver, a third-year with bitten fingernails and tired eyes.
“Tough week?” George asked.
Oliver nodded. “Professor Snape told me I’d never be a real wizard if I couldn’t even brew a basic calming draft.”
Fred’s eyes narrowed. “Did he now?”
George cracked his knuckles. “Well, looks like we’re making a surprise visit to the dungeons.”
Oliver panicked. “No, no—don’t get in trouble on my account!”
Fred softened. “Alright, no dungeon break-ins tonight. But listen—Snape talks like that to everyone. Doesn’t mean he’s right. You’ve got heart, Ollie. You’ll get the potion eventually.”
“And until then,” George added, pulling a small wrapped package from his coat, “we’ve got these.”
Oliver blinked. “...Fanged Fudge?”
“Limited edition. Distract Snape long enough to slip out of the classroom and cry in peace.”
Oliver laughed through a sniffle. “Thanks.”
It was nearly midnight when the twins settled on the couch, watching the chaos die down around them. Younger students were dozing, curled in strange shapes on beanbags or under transfigured blankets. Seamus and Dean had taken over fire-watching duty, talking softly in the corner. Even Ron looked relaxed, half-asleep with a book in his lap.
George nudged Fred. “You think they’ll be alright?”
Fred sighed. “Yeah. They’ve got each other. And they’ve got us—even if we’re only around sometimes.”
There was a pause.
“You know,” Fred said, voice quieter now, “it’s weird, thinking about how many of them don’t have… you know. Dads. Or mums. Or anyone, really.”
George nodded slowly. “And somehow, we’re the responsible ones.”
They both stared at each other, horrified.
“Don’t tell Mum,” they said in unison.
A small sound made them both glance over. Neville was standing nearby, clutching a blanket and looking slightly awkward.
“You alright, Neville?” Fred asked.
He nodded. “Yeah. I just… I couldn’t sleep. Too quiet.”
George patted the couch. “Come on then. We’ll tell you stories about the time we set off fireworks in the prefects’ bathroom.”
Fred smirked. “And the time Ron tried to impress Fleur and fell into the lake.”
Neville giggled as he settled beside them, sandwiched in warm Weasley comfort.
“Thanks,” he murmured.
“For what?” George asked, slinging an arm around his shoulders.
Neville shrugged. “For coming back. For making it feel like home.”
Fred was quiet for a moment.
Then: “You lot were always our home first.”
By the time McGonagall arrived at dawn, the common room looked like a dragon had thrown a slumber party with house elves and possibly a banshee. The portrait hole opened, and she took one look at the snoring twins, the dozing Tower, and the glitter-covered carpet—
—and quietly closed it again.
Some messes were worth leaving until morning.