"Didn't know you was into gingers, Malfoy?"
"Shut up Weasley"
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Gemma Weasley shared many similarities with her siblings, the ginger hair, pale skin, freckles and a super sense of humour, yet she was the one that stood out from them all. Even her tw...
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The Gryffindor common room was alive with chatter on Saturday afternoon, Fred and George at the center of it all, grinning as they handed out their latest inventions—Weasley & Weasley Snack Boxes. Colorful boxes changed hands as students clamored to get a taste, each labeled with tempting names like "Puking Pastilles" and "Fever Fudge." They promised temporary sickness symptoms that could conveniently get you out of a class, and the Gryffindors were clearly excited to try them out.
Fred passed one to a gawking first-year with a wink. "Eat the red side to get out of class, and the green to get better. Works like a charm."
George noticed Hermione watching, her expression skeptical, and raised an eyebrow at her. "Interested, Granger?"
Hermione folded her arms, casting him a disapproving look. "Do you really think this is a good idea? Some of these sweets look dangerous."
Fred chuckled. "Dangerous? Hermione, that's half the fun!" He popped a pink sweet into his mouth and winked. "Besides, if it were actually dangerous, Madam Pomfrey wouldn't have stocked up on some of these for when she needs her own breaks!"
Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn't hide a small, reluctant smile, clearly amused despite herself. She sat back down, pulling her textbook closer, but her eyes kept flicking over to Ron. He was hovering nearby, clearing his throat and shuffling his feet, glancing her way as if debating whether to approach her.
At last, he took a deep breath and leaned toward her. "Uh, Hermione?" He gave her his most hopeful grin. "I, er, was wondering about that Potions essay..."
Hermione raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.
"It's mostly done!" he assured her quickly. "I just... I'm rubbish at introductions, and, well, nobody writes them better than you."
Hermione sighed, giving him a look that was equal parts exasperation and fondness. "You know, Ron, if I keep helping you like this, you'll never learn to write them on your own."
"Yeah, but—just this once?" he pleaded, his grin widening. "I mean, you're so... smart, and, well, the most beautiful..." He trailed off, looking flustered as he suddenly realized I was watching him, smirking from my armchair.
I let out a loud, teasing cough. Ron's ears turned red as he stammered, "I mean—you know! I meant brilliant. Er—Hermione's... Hermione."
Hermione's cheeks turned pink as well, and she busied herself with her book, mumbling something about Ron working on the conclusion, too. But she didn't say no, and Ron's face lit up, triumphant, as he sat beside her.
Just then, Harry sank into the chair next to me, looking pale and distracted. He kept his hand tightly fisted in his lap, his jaw clenched as he stared into the fire. As he shifted, I caught a glimpse of something red and raw on the back of his hand.
"Harry?" I asked, gently. "What happened to your hand?"
Harry's face darkened. He immediately pulled his hand back, his shoulders tensing. "Nothing. I'm fine," he muttered, looking away.
