Conjuring Chaos
The classroom Hermione had reserved for their study session was empty when she arrived, which was precisely how she preferred it. Unlike the library, where whispers and the occasional shifting of parchment could be a distraction, this room—tucked away on the third floor—was ideal for practical work. The desks had been pushed to the sides, leaving a wide open space for spell practice. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, casting golden patches across the stone floor, though the flickering torches along the walls made it feel cozier, almost inviting.
But even in the perfect setting, Hermione was already irritated.
Fred and George were late.
She checked the time again, fingers tapping against the spine of her textbook with impatience. Three minutes. Not a terrible offense by their usual standards, but it was the principle of the matter. We agreed on a time, and they can’t even bother to show up on schedule? She huffed, setting her book down with more force than necessary, her foot tapping. They had promised they were taking this seriously.
Just as she was considering storming out to hunt them down herself, the door burst open with a flourish, and in sauntered the twins as though they had all the time in the world. The heavy wooden door swung dramatically on its hinges, creaking slightly as if to announce their arrival, though the effect was somewhat diminished by the sheer casualness with which they strolled in. It was as if they had orchestrated the perfect entrance—unhurried, full of bravado, and utterly infuriating in its lack of urgency.
Fred was first, his usual mischievous grin firmly in place as he swept an exaggerated bow, bending so low that his messy ginger hair nearly brushed the floor. When he straightened, he clasped his hands behind his back, adopting an expression of mock sincerity. “Dearest Hermione, our sincerest apologies for our tardiness. You see, we were cruelly waylaid—”
“—by fate itself,” George finished smoothly, stepping in right beside him, mirroring his brother’s dramatic stance with impeccable timing. He pressed a hand over his heart, tilting his chin upward as if recounting a moment of great tragedy.
Fred sighed theatrically, running a hand through his hair with the practiced ease of someone who had delivered far too many dramatic monologues. “A tragedy, really. We were merely making our way here when we were stopped by—”
“—a most distressing sight,” George supplied, shaking his head in mock sorrow, his voice dipped in an almost comically solemn tone.
Fred placed a hand over his chest as though deeply moved by the memory. “A poor first-year, lost and afraid, needing guidance.”
“Two poor first-years,” George corrected, his lips twitching as he barely held back a smirk.
Fred shot him a quick glance, eyebrows raised slightly, before continuing undeterred. “And naturally, being the generous, warm-hearted individuals we are—”
“—not to mention devastatingly handsome—”
“—we simply had to stop and assist.”
George exhaled heavily, shaking his head again, as though the burden of their good deeds was something they carried with great difficulty. He turned to Hermione, his expression now one of exaggerated sincerity. “So you see, Professor Granger, we were performing an act of great public service. Our noble hearts could not allow us to ignore such a plea for help.”
Hermione, utterly unimpressed, crossed her arms over her chest and levelled them both with a flat, unwavering stare. “Three minutes,” she said dryly, her tone carrying none of the sympathy they were clearly hoping for.
Fred let out a low whistle, nudging George with his elbow. “Harsh. No appreciation for a good deed, I see.”
George sighed, shaking his head with an expression of mock disappointment. “Not a speck of gratitude.”
Fred, never one to let a moment pass without adding a touch of his own flair, leaned in slightly, his voice dipping into something smoother, more deliberately teasing. “But then, perhaps our fearless leader is simply too distracted by our presence to think clearly.” His grin widened, his brown eyes twinkling with mischief as he studied her reaction—or, rather, her complete lack of one.
George, ever the perfect counterpart, picked up the thread immediately, his smirk matching his twin’s. “Ah, that must be it. Poor thing, she can barely concentrate with us around.” He shook his head, feigning sympathy. “It must be terribly exhausting, having to resist our overwhelming charm while also maintaining that terrifying level of academic prowess.”
Fred gave an exaggerated sigh, pressing a hand to his forehead as if burdened by his own attractiveness. “It’s truly a curse being this charming.”
If they were expecting Hermione to blush, fluster, or even acknowledge their antics with anything more than mild irritation, they were sorely mistaken. She didn’t so much as spare them a glance. Instead, she turned on her heel with practiced efficiency, flicking her wand toward the far end of the room with a quick, precise motion. Instantly, a stack of parchment lifted from a desk in the corner and soared neatly through the air, landing in a tidy pile in front of them.
“You’re late,” she repeated briskly, already scanning over her notes, her tone clipped and businesslike. “Which means we’re starting immediately. I’ve planned today’s session around conjuration. Transfiguration is a fundamental part of your NEWTs, and Conjuring Spells in particular require precision, intent, and control.”
Fred and George exchanged a glance, their usual playfulness momentarily tempered by the sheer seriousness in her voice. They knew by now that Hermione wasn’t one for nonsense when it came to academics—though that had never stopped them from trying to slip some in.
George clutched his chest dramatically as though she had just struck him with a particularly devastating curse. “You wound me, Hermione,” he lamented, shaking his head in mock distress.
Fred, never one to be left behind in the theatrics department, followed suit, clasping a hand over his heart with an exaggerated sigh. “So little faith,” he added, his voice dripping with mock sorrow.
Hermione, wholly unimpressed, didn’t bother looking up from her notes as she flicked her wand. A neat stack of parchment, filled with detailed instructions and diagrams, divided itself into three sections and floated gracefully onto their desks.
“Prove me wrong, then,” she challenged, arching a single brow as she watched them from over the top of her parchment.
The twins exchanged a quick, knowing glance before picking up the papers in unison.
Fred hummed thoughtfully as he skimmed through the instructions. “Seems easy enough.”
George twirled his wand between his fingers, his lips twitching as though suppressing a laugh. “Simple conjuration? Child’s play.”
Hermione gave them a withering look, folding her arms across her chest. “Then do it,” she said simply, waiting.
The room was silent save for the faint rustling of parchment and the distant flickering of candlelight against the ancient stone walls. Fred and George adjusted their grips on their wands, their earlier bravado tempered by the challenge before them. With a shared nod, they raised their wands in unison.
Fred furrowed his brow in concentration, gripping his wand a little tighter as he focused. He envisioned a quill—long, elegant, perfect for scribbling down witty remarks and clever comebacks at a moment’s notice. He flicked his wrist with purpose, feeling the familiar rush of magic coil through him.
Nothing happened.
George, on the other hand, had his wand poised, murmuring under his breath as his eyes narrowed in determination. He envisioned the quill clearly, picturing every detail, from the texture of the feather to the sharp point of the nib. He gestured smoothly, confidently.
Still nothing.
Hermione exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose before levelling them with a patient—if slightly exasperated—stare. “You need to feel the spell,” she instructed, her voice firm. “The magic should build inside of you before you cast, like a spark waiting to be ignited. You can’t just say the incantation—you have to mean it.”
Fred let out a dramatic sigh, shaking out his hands as if loosening invisible tension. “Alright, alright. Spark. Got it,” he muttered, shifting his stance slightly before trying again.
This time, with a faint pop, something materialized on the desk before him.
Hermione leaned in, hopeful.
“…That’s a spoon.”
Fred blinked down at the object in front of him. Sure enough, a gleaming silver spoon lay where his quill should have been, reflecting the dim candlelight mockingly.
George let out a loud bark of laughter, practically doubling over in his seat. “Well, if we ever need to transcribe notes in soup, you’ll be our man.”
Fred frowned at the spoon, giving it a nudge with his wand as if willing it to morph into the intended object. “Not quite what I had in mind, but points for effort?” he offered, flashing Hermione a hopeful grin.
Hermione closed her eyes for a brief moment, inhaling deeply as though summoning the patience of a saint. The twins had only been at this for a short while, and already, she felt as though she’d aged several years. Exhaling slowly, she reopened her eyes and fixed them on George with a measured stare, her voice clipped yet calm.
“Try again.”
George, still grinning, straightened in his seat, rolling his shoulders as if physically shaking off the remnants of his laughter. He adjusted his grip on his wand, shifting slightly where he sat, his expression turning from amusement to something almost resembling focus.
He could do this. Conjuring wasn’t that different from some of the spell work he and Fred did for their pranks. It was just about intention—visualizing what you wanted and making it appear. At least, that’s what Hermione had been hammering into their heads for the last half-hour.
With a small exhale, he narrowed his eyes at the empty space on the desk before him, willing his magic to comply. He pictured the quill in his mind—sleek, dark, with just the right balance to glide smoothly across parchment. The shimmer of conjuration filled the air, faint but unmistakable, as magic coiled and twisted into shape.
With a soft pop, something dark and feathery appeared in front of him.
Hermione’s eyes brightened as she leaned in, already nodding in approval. “Much better—”
But George had already picked up the object, turning it between his fingers, inspecting it closely. A slow grin crept across his face.
“…It’s a chicken feather.”
For a brief moment, silence hung in the air. Then Fred collapsed against the desk, his forehead resting on his folded arms as he burst into uncontrollable laughter. His entire body shook with it, his muffled snickers breaking into outright cackles as he struggled to catch his breath.
“Oh, brilliant,” he wheezed between gasps. “You’ll be writing essays in cluck, then?”
George, ever unfazed, lifted the feather and twirled it thoughtfully between his fingers. “Could be useful,” he mused. “Maybe I’ll translate my next essay into chicken scratch.”
Fred clutched at his ribs, still grinning. “McGonagall’s going to love that one.”
Hermione inhaled deeply, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose in a familiar gesture of restraint. There was no actual rule against cursing in a tutoring session, but she was starting to wonder if she should establish one—at least for her own sanity. She had seen students struggle with conjuration before, but this? This was something else entirely.
“This is going to be a long session,” she muttered under her breath before straightening and setting her shoulders with renewed resolve.
And indeed, the next hour proved to be both a test of patience and an absolute masterclass in magical unpredictability. The air was filled with the occasional pop of conjured objects appearing—though rarely the correct ones.
Fred, to his growing frustration, somehow managed to summon three more spoons in succession, each one landing neatly beside the last, as if taunting him. When Hermione had finally told him to stop trying to conjure quills and just conjure anything, his next attempt had produced a rubber duck that let out a loud, shrill squeak when poked.
It had sent George into another fit of laughter.
“This is an academic lesson,” Hermione reminded them sharply, rubbing her temples. “Not a toy factory.”
George, to his credit, had put forth genuine effort—but his results were only slightly more successful. After several failed attempts, he had finally managed to produce an actual quill, though it was far from perfect. The nib was crooked, the feathers looked singed at the edges, and when he picked it up, a small cloud of what looked suspiciously like soot puffed into the air.
“I think it’s got character,” George said, holding it up to the light. “Bit of a rebel, this one.”
Fred snorted. “It looks like it barely survived a house fire.”
Meanwhile, Hermione had conjured a flawless, elegant raven-feather quill on her first try.
She had set it down on the desk beside her with an air of casual ease, as though it had taken her no effort at all, which, of course, it hadn’t. The sight of it—pristine, perfectly balanced, and utterly smug in its perfection—only served to deepen Fred and George’s irritation.
Fred gave it a glare. “Show-off,” he muttered under his breath.
By the time they wrapped up, the twins were slumped against their desks, utterly drained, their energy significantly depleted. And yet, despite the repeated failures, the spoons, the ducks, the accidental summoning of what might have been a liquorice wand at one point, neither of them looked the least bit discouraged. In fact, if anything, they seemed even more amused than when they had started.
Fred stretched his arms high above his head, groaning as his joints popped. “Well, Professor Granger, I must say, that was a humbling experience.”
George, rubbing a hand through his hair, nodded solemnly. “I’ll have nightmares about spoons for weeks.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t quite keep the hint of amusement from creeping onto her face. At least they’d actually tried, which was more than she had initially expected. She gathered her notes swiftly, stacking them into a neat pile before glancing at them both.
“Same time next session?” she asked, already half-prepared for whatever ridiculous response they were bound to give.
Fred and George exchanged a glance before identical smirks spread across their faces.
“We wouldn’t miss it,” Fred said, his tone light, teasing.
George nodded in agreement, spinning his battered quill between his fingers. “After all, someone has to keep you on your toes.”
Hermione, as always, remained completely oblivious to the undertone of their words. She simply nodded briskly before turning toward the door, her mind already shifting to the next task on her ever-growing list of responsibilities.
Fred nudged George with his elbow, his grin lingering as he watched her disappear into the corridor.
“Think she’ll ever notice?” he murmured.
George didn’t even hesitate. He leaned back in his chair, watching the empty doorway with a knowing grin.
“Not a chance.”