Fairest of All Fair Beings
The Great Hall was alive with the usual hustle and bustle of dinner. The long wooden tables were filled with students, their voices a steady hum, occasionally punctuated by laughter or the clink of utensils. The rich scent of roasted meats and freshly baked bread filled the air, but despite the mouthwatering spread before her, Hermione’s attention was focused elsewhere—namely, on Ron, who was piling food onto his plate at an alarming rate.
He had a leg of chicken in one hand, greasy and dripping with sauce, and a bowl of mashed potatoes in the other, his fork stabbing at the mound of food with alarming speed. Ron's cheeks were puffed out, and his eyes were practically glazed over as he shovelled yet another forkful of potatoes into his mouth. There was barely a pause for chewing before he was moving on to the next bite, eyes locked on the food like a man starved for days.
Hermione, sitting beside him at the Gryffindor table, let out an exasperated sigh, pushing her fork around her own plate, clearly losing her appetite in the process. “Honestly, Ron,” she said, her voice tinged with disbelief as she watched his food-stuffing contest unfold. “Could you slow down for a second? You’re making a scene.”
Ron blinked at her, his face a mess of mashed potatoes, gravy dripping down the side of his chin. “What?” he mumbled, his voice muffled by the food. “I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry,” Hermione muttered, shaking her head and crossing her arms, leaning back in her seat. Her eyes flitted down to her own plate, then back up to the disaster unfolding before her. She was certain Ron had an eating competition somewhere deep in his soul that he just wasn’t telling anyone about. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”
Harry, sitting across from them, let out a quiet chuckle as he watched his best friend, ever the overeater, inhale his food at a pace that could only be described as absurd. He took a bite of his salad, trying to maintain his composure, but it was hard not to laugh at the sight of Ron attempting to chew with his mouth still stuffed. “Give him a break, Hermione,” Harry said, his grin spreading wider. “We’ve got a big match tomorrow. Ron needs to fuel up for it.”
Ron nodded vigorously, though the movement was awkward with the food still in his mouth. “Exactly!” he declared, his voice muffled and slightly garbled. “Big match. I need all the energy I can get. Gotta stay strong!”
It seemed like he didn’t even notice the gravy spilling over the edge of his plate, nor the fact that half of the mashed potatoes had ended up on his shirt. His eyes were wide with enthusiasm, like he was on the verge of declaring war on the food rather than simply consuming it.
Hermione, still looking at Ron with a mixture of disbelief and slight horror, raised an eyebrow at Harry. “You’re really going with that excuse, Harry? Fuelling up? You do realize he’s eating for the entire Quidditch team, right?”
Harry’s grin only grew wider, the mischievous gleam in his eyes lighting up. “Absolutely,” he replied, not missing a beat. “It’s a matter of survival, really. We need Ron in tip-top shape if we’re going to win tomorrow. A well-fed Keeper is a happy Keeper.” He winked at Ron, who beamed back at him, completely oblivious to the fact that he was in danger of developing a food coma before even reaching the pitch.
Hermione let out a dramatic sigh, feeling the familiar mix of affection and exasperation she always had for Ron’s eating habits. She was about to launch into another round of scolding when her gaze shifted toward the entrance of the Great Hall.
Her attention immediately snapped away from the scene of Ron and his mountain of food as Fred and George Weasley walked in. The twin brothers appeared as usual, grinning from ear to ear, looking like they had just gotten away with some fantastic mischief. Their presence immediately caused a ripple of quiet laughter from students all around, and Hermione felt a slight flutter in her chest at the sight of them.
Fred’s grin was wide and infectious, his eyes sparkling with his signature mischievous gleam, while George’s expression mirrored his twin’s. They had a way of walking into any room as though they owned it—swaggering, heads held high, the very embodiment of confidence and charm.
Fred caught sight of Hermione almost immediately, and his grin stretched even wider, if that was even possible. He winked at her from across the room, his expression full of amusement and mischief, as though they shared some secret that no one else was privy to. George, not one to be outdone, followed suit, giving Hermione a nod that made her heart flutter slightly. The twins moved to the Gryffindor table, their eyes scanning for a place to sit.
Ron, still devouring his food at a concerning speed, didn’t even notice them at first. Harry, however, spotted the twins and immediately leaned forward, his smile widening. “You two are late, as usual,” Harry said with a teasing tone, shaking his head but still clearly entertained.
“We’ve got important business to attend to,” Fred replied in a low voice, settling into the seat beside Hermione. George slid into the spot next to Fred, grinning as they exchanged a quick glance.
“Important business?” Hermione repeated, raising an eyebrow as she glanced from Fred to George. She could already guess where this was going.
“Oh, you’ll see, Granger,” George said, winking at her. “Nothing too scandalous... yet.”
Fred snorted, leaning in closer. “But you might want to brace yourself. We’ve got something special in store.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, crossing her arms in mock annoyance. “I’m not sure I’m ready for whatever prank or chaos you’ve cooked up this time,” she said, though she could already feel the corners of her mouth twitching upward in spite of herself.
And then, she froze. Her fork hovered mid-air as her eyes widened in shock. Hermione blinked twice, unsure if she was seeing things correctly. But no—there was no mistaking it.
Draco Malfoy, of all people, was standing at the edge of the Teacher’s table, a piece of parchment clutched in his hand with such intensity that his knuckles were turning white. And—of all things—he was reciting something. In a tone that could only be described as exaggeratedly dramatic, the kind of delivery one might expect in an overblown Shakespearean tragedy.
“O, fairest of all fair beings, thy gaze doth pierce mine very soul,” Malfoy’s voice rang out, carrying clearly across the Great Hall. It was loud enough to stop conversations mid-sentence, and several heads turned to look in his direction, confusion spreading like wildfire through the hall. Hermione’s eyes widened further as she processed the words, the absurdity of it all hitting her at once.
“Thy beauty outshines the moon, and thy grace surpasseth the heavens above,” Malfoy continued, his voice dripping with false reverence as he stared straight ahead. His delivery was so theatrical, so utterly over-the-top, that it was almost painful to watch.
For a brief, stunned moment, the entire hall fell silent. Students glanced at one another, trying to process what they were witnessing. Was this real? Was Malfoy really... doing this?
Then, the silence broke, and a ripple of laughter spread through the room. A few of the younger Slytherins were desperately trying to hide their giggles behind their hands, but it was too late—there were plenty of others who couldn’t hold it in. Some students were snickering openly, while others were whispering to each other in disbelief. The Gryffindor table was absolutely in stitches, and Hermione could hear Ron’s muffled laugh from across the table.
Hermione’s gaze snapped immediately to Fred and George, who were sitting across from her, their faces lit up with mischievous delight. Fred’s grin had stretched so wide it was bordering on the ridiculous, and George had a glint in his eye that suggested he was quite pleased with the chaos they had just caused.
Fred caught her eye and winked, his expression an open challenge. “Like I said,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low but dripping with satisfaction, “nothing beats a good ol’ sonnet.”
George, leaning just slightly toward her with an unmistakable smirk on his face, whispered, “You’re welcome.”
Hermione’s jaw dropped. Her brain was struggling to process the sight in front of her as she watched Malfoy continue his dramatic performance. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, partly from the embarrassment on Malfoy’s behalf, and partly from her complete and utter disbelief at what she was witnessing. “You actually did it,” she muttered, shaking her head.
Fred chuckled, clearly delighted with himself. “It’s poetry, Granger,” he said, as though that explained everything. “The finest form of expression. I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want to see it live. We’ve got the best performers in the business.” His eyes flickered back to Malfoy. “A work of art, really.”
Before Hermione could respond, she was interrupted by Ron, who had finally stopped shovelling food into his mouth long enough to witness the unfolding spectacle. His wide eyes were fixed on Malfoy, his mouth slightly open in shock.
“Blimey,” Ron muttered, staring at Malfoy’s impassioned recital. His eyes then flicked between Fred and George, still in disbelief. “I can’t believe it. I thought you were joking. I thought you were—”
“We never joke about poetry,” George interjected smoothly, his grin unwavering. “That’s an art form, mate. We have high standards, you know.” He raised his eyebrows dramatically, as though to punctuate his point.
Fred’s gaze flickered toward McGonagall, a knowing smirk spreading across his face. “This is the kind of thing that’ll make history, Granger,” he said, his voice thick with amusement. “Malfoy reciting Shakespeare to McGonagall? Priceless.”
Hermione’s lips twitched, despite herself, her hand still clutching her fork. “You two are absolutely impossible,” she muttered, but she couldn’t quite hide the laugh that bubbled up from her chest. The sheer absurdity of it all was too much.
“Well, we didn’t exactly get the reaction we were expecting from you,” Fred continued, his voice dripping with mock disappointment. He leaned in slightly, eyes sparkling with playful challenge. “You’re usually more up for a little chaos.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow at him, her amusement mixed with exasperation. “I’m up for chaos, just… not that kind,” she said, still trying to stifle a smile. Her eyes flickered back to Malfoy, who was still completely immersed in his sonnet. “But I have to admit, this is pretty entertaining.”
Malfoy, meanwhile, was practically throwing himself into his final lines, completely oblivious to the growing mockery around him. His posture was exaggerated, his hand clutching his chest as if he were some tragic hero from a play, delivering lines so dramatically it made even the Slytherins wince. “And with thee, I shall conquer all of life’s dark woes, for thy love doth light the path before me!” Malfoy’s voice cracked on the final note, adding an unintended comedic flair to the already ridiculous scene. He let out a breathless sigh and threw his arm out wide, his body dramatically slumping forward, as though overcome with emotion.
The hall erupted into laughter, the sound bouncing off the walls, some students clutching their sides, others pointing, and a few daring to mimic his wild gestures. Even McGonagall, though she was trying her hardest to maintain her usual stern composure, couldn’t quite suppress the corner of her lips twitching upward. The lines, so absurd and far removed from anything resembling a sincere sonnet, had done the job. They had brought the house down.
Malfoy, undeterred by the growing chorus of laughter, finished his performance with a flourish. His robes swirled as he dropped into a low bow, practically sweeping the floor with it as he looked up at the students, expecting admiration or applause. Instead, all he got was more uncontrollable laughter and a few sarcastic catcalls from the Gryffindor table. He straightened quickly, his face flushed red, and he shot an angry glare at the laughing crowd.
“Well,” Fred said, voice barely containing his laughter, “I think that went rather well.”
Hermione, still giggling, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “You two are ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head but still laughing. “But you did get Malfoy to recite poetry in front of the whole school. I have to give you credit for that.”
George, always one to take advantage of a moment, leaned back in his seat, winking at her. “You’ll come around, Granger. It’s all about embracing the art of chaos.” He punctuated the words with a mock flourish of his hand.
Hermione shook her head again, but her smile was unavoidable. She wanted to maintain her usual level of disapproval—after all, it was clear the twins were wreaking havoc for their own amusement—but it was difficult when their antics were so successful, so outrageously well-timed. The sheer brilliance of it was undeniable, even if it did come with a healthy dose of mayhem.
As Malfoy stomped back to the Slytherin table, his face still crimson with frustration, McGonagall raised an eyebrow at Fred and George, her expression unreadable for a moment. She looked between the twins, her lips pursed, then finally spoke in a voice that was stern but somehow less biting than usual, as if even she couldn’t help but be slightly impressed by the spectacle.
“Mr. Weasley, Mr. Weasley,” she began, her tone as calm as ever, though the faintest hint of an amused glint twinkled in her eyes. “Do try to keep your pranks a little more… discreet next time, if you would.” She paused, giving them both a pointed look that, despite her composed demeanour, betrayed some slight amusement at the absurdity they had just orchestrated.
Fred and George exchanged a look, their grins only widening. “Of course, Professor,” they said in perfect unison, their voices dripping with too much sweetness to be taken seriously.
McGonagall gave them a single, pointed look before turning back to her meal, clearly resigned to the fact that there would always be something in the castle that the twins would be involved in. She didn’t say anything more, but the corner of her lips twitched upward again, just enough for Hermione to catch it before the professor regained her usual composure.
Hermione leaned back in her chair, still trying to process the entire spectacle. The moment had been chaotic, utterly unpredictable, and a little too ridiculous for her to fully comprehend, but she couldn’t deny the twisted sense of satisfaction that came from seeing Malfoy so thoroughly outdone. It had felt like something straight out of a mad dream—a bizarre, Shakespearean play with a cast of characters no one had expected, least of all the one playing the tragic hero.
She looked back at Fred and George, who were clearly pleased with themselves. Their grins were wide, their eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a job well done. Hermione knew they’d continue to push the envelope, testing the limits of what they could get away with. And she had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last prank she’d be roped into.
Still, as ridiculous as it had been, part of her couldn’t help but admire their brilliance.
"That was… something,” she said, her voice full of wonder. She couldn't help but laugh again. "I’m not sure I’m ready for any more of your ‘art,’ but—" She paused, eyes flicking from Fred to George, her smile growing. "I suppose I’ll have to brace myself for whatever’s next."
George’s grin widened. “That’s the spirit, Granger. You’ll see. Chaos is the only way to live.”
As he leaned back in his chair, clearly proud of his handiwork, Hermione could only shake her head, trying—unsuccessfully—to stifle the smile that tugged at the corners of her lips. She didn’t know what kind of madness was waiting around the corner, but one thing was for certain: life with Fred and George Weasley was never boring.