Black Lake – December 20th
Two Days Before Christmas Break
Weather: Snow falling like it's auditioning for a Netflix holiday special
The Black Lake looked like Elsa had rage-quit and frozen the world out of spite. Hogwarts glittered behind them like a snow globe someone had shaken a little too aggressively, and the sky was the kind of gray that made you want to fall in love or eat five chocolate frogs in under a minute. Harry had done both. Often.
A tartan blanket was spread out beside the lake, anchored by thermoses of cocoa, three heating charms, and one Harry Potter, who looked like a winter photoshoot in motion — scarf tucked just-so, emerald eyes annoyingly intense, and cheekbones doing unforgivable things under soft lighting. If he wasn't magically betrothed to three of the most terrifyingly gorgeous girls in Hogwarts, there might've been a duel on the hour every hour.
Jean Grey, who was currently leaning into Harry like she'd grown there, wore a crimson beanie that read 'TELEPATHS DO IT MENTALLY' and had no shame about it. She was the kind of redhead who could commit arson with a look and still get a scholarship.
Susan Bones, seated on Daphne's left, had conjured a floating tray of biscuits like it was her divine right and was braiding Daphne's platinum-blonde hair while humming "Last Christmas" under her breath. Multitasking, thy name is redhead menace with a Hufflepuff badge.
Daphne Greengrass, meanwhile, was sitting suspiciously still — which, in girl-speak, translated to "I am emotionally overwhelmed but refuse to show it until someone dies or gives me a cupcake."
Harry sipped his cocoa and smirked like he knew exactly how hot he looked doing it.
"So," Daphne said coolly, flicking a snowflake off her glove like it had insulted her lineage. "Let's hear it. Convince me Xavier's isn't just some overhyped American Hogwarts knockoff run by drama queens in leather trench coats."
Jean grinned. "Oh, honey. It absolutely is."
Harry snorted into his cocoa.
"But it's also brilliant," Jean continued, eyes sparkling with the kind of energy that usually preceded magical explosions or unwise dares. "Imagine Hogwarts, but with sarcasm as a core subject, a coffee machine in every hallway, and zero risk of Snape's shampoo-deprived drama."
"And the teachers?" Susan chimed in, twirling Daphne's braid with casual fondness. "Hot. Like, dangerously hot. We're talking 'I-question-my-soul's-loyalty' levels of hot."
"Except Beast," Harry added. "Beast is more 'hot librarian who also happens to be a blue-furred academic ninja.' But he sheds."
"And quotes Yeats while bench-pressing science equipment," Jean added, mock-swooning. "I cried once."
"Because he corrected your thesis mid-sentence," Susan reminded her.
"Traitor."
Daphne raised one eyebrow — the Greengrass trademark I'm listening but unimpressed expression. "And this is supposed to make me want to go?"
"You haven't even heard about Rogue," Jean said, grinning. "Imagine southern sass, combat boots, leather jackets, and the ability to knock you out with a touch — all delivered with a honey-thick accent that could make death threats sound like lullabies."
"She called me 'darlin'' once and I almost proposed on the spot," Harry said, deadpan.
Daphne turned, lips twitching. "Should I be jealous?"
"That depends," Harry replied smoothly, "are you also planning to throw me into a wall and call me sugar with a switchblade smile?"
Susan snorted.
Jean looked entirely too smug. "To be fair, Rogue did try to teach him how to flirt properly."
"And failed," Susan said. "Because this idiot decided to compare her to Sirius Black in drag."
"She took it as a compliment," Harry said defensively.
"Because she thought you meant she had 'tragic bad boy energy,'" Jean replied. "Not because you were picturing your godfather in a leather corset."
"I wasn't!" Harry paused. "Much."
Daphne blinked. "This is the school I'm being dragged to?"
"It's not a school," Jean said. "It's a lifestyle."
"It's a cult with extracurriculars," Susan clarified.
"It's also where we met the rest of our found-family," Harry said, softer now. "The people who made sure we weren't alone. People who made room for all the weird parts, even the dangerous ones."
"People like Kurt," Jean said. "Blue, fuzzy, teleporty, swashbuckling German cinnamon roll. Teleports with bamf sounds. Smells like brimstone and baked goods. Fences like a musketeer on espresso."
"Also made Harry cry once," Susan added.
"That was because I beat him at Mario Kart and he refused to accept it," Harry muttered. "And then he challenged me to a rematch in the Danger Room."
"And lost again," Jean said, preening.
"Because I had a wand, and he was using a pool noodle," Harry reminded them. "Which I transfigured into a snake halfway through."
Daphne turned, arms folded, that smirk of hers blooming like a frost-kissed rose. "So I should expect fencing duels, teleporting cinnamon demons, and mutant Southern belles with attitude?"
"Yes," Jean, Susan, and Harry said in perfect, unholy harmony.
"And of course Logan," Jean added like it was a threat and a dare rolled into one. "Wolverine. Grumpy Canadian murder-dad. Smells like cigars and regrets. You already love him."
"I'll duel him within 24 hours," Daphne said primly.
"I'll start the betting pool," Susan offered sweetly.
"Winner gets Harry's hoodie collection," Jean added.
Harry blinked. "Hey!"
Susan leaned over and kissed his cheek. "You'll live."
Daphne leaned into Susan. "Just promise me this place has proper bathrooms. I refuse to spend my Christmas peeing in an enchanted bush."
Jean cackled. "Girl, they've got water pressure that could strip paint. You're gonna be fine."
Harry raised his cocoa in salute. "To mutant academies, magical mayhem, and our shared custody of sanity."
Susan clinked her mug to his. "To Daphne not stabbing Logan."
Daphne raised hers. "No promises."
Jean just grinned. "To the four of us, taking on America. One chaos moment at a time."
The snow kept falling like a whispered secret, and somewhere in the frozen lake, the giant squid waved a tentacle like it was shipping them hard.
Which, honestly? Fair.
Because under the snow, beside the lake, tangled in cocoa, curses, and complicated feelings, four teenagers leaned into something terrifyingly beautiful — the kind of bond that didn't just survive the storm.
It danced in the middle of it.
—
Room of Requirement – Later That Night
Final MageX Training Session Before Christmas Break
The castle was quiet. You know, that post-curfew, all-the-prefects-are-hiding kind of quiet. Which meant it was absolutely the perfect time to blow something up.
The Room of Requirement had transformed itself into what could only be described as the fever dream of a magical combat simulator. Think X-Mansion Danger Room, only with ancient runes etched into the walls, enchanted platforms floating lazily in the air, and a scoreboard that kept glitching between Hogwarts house points and something that looked suspiciously like a Fortnite kill count.
Harry Potter walked in like he owned the room. Which, to be fair, he kind of did. Not legally, but in the way teenagers own their favorite hoodie or an internet meme. Flanked by Jean Grey, Susan Bones, and Daphne Greengrass, he was still dusted with snow and cocoa crumbs, like they'd just stepped out of a winter rom-com. Except this rom-com involved highly volatile magic, a lot of sarcasm, and more unresolved sexual tension than a Quidditch locker room.
"Look who finally thawed out," Fred Weasley announced from the top of a floating platform. He and George were in matching jumpers that blinked "EXPLOSIVE CHRISTMAS" in red and green.
"We were bonding," Susan said sweetly, snuggling against Daphne, who raised an eyebrow but didn't deny it.
"Cocoa counts as a tactical team-building exercise now," Harry added. "Plus, it was either that or deal with Hermione's third revision schedule. Again."
Hermione, who was currently arguing with the sentient scoreboard, didn't even look up. "It's called preparedness, not obsession."
"You're literally color-coding the trauma," Ron muttered.
Jean twirled her wand like it was a baton and smiled. "He used four marshmallows and half a candy cane."
George high-fived Fred. "Told you he was a sugar gremlin."
Ginny, twirling a staff like she was auditioning for a magic-infused Black Widow reboot, snorted. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
Harry threw off his coat and revealed a black MageX training shirt that looked like it had been painted on. There was a golden phoenix emblem over his heart and several hormonal sighs from nearby students.
Ginny whistled. "Remind me why I ever broke up with him?"
"Because you didn't like the competition," Daphne said, wrapping an arm around Susan. "And because he's emotionally constipated."
"Which is part of the charm," Jean said, smirking. "Right, Potter?"
Harry grinned. "I don't need emotional availability when I have killer cheekbones."
Percy cleared his throat. "Focus, please. We have a training session to execute."
"Execute is a strong word," Neville said from behind a potted plant that had suspiciously sharp teeth.
"Yeah, let's not use the murder verbs until at least three people are unconscious," Tracey Davis added, flipping a throwing dagger with way too much glee.
"Alright, troops!" Harry clapped his hands. The room shook slightly. A dummy in the corner burst into flames. "Tonight's goal is simple: teamwork and survival. Extra points if you don't set your partner on fire. Ron, I'm looking at you."
"That was one time!" Ron protested.
"One Tuesday," Hermione corrected.
"Split into pairs! Pick someone who won't hex you in the back unless it's for a learning opportunity," Harry called out.
Chaos, meet your favorite teen superheroes.
Jean and Harry paired up and moved like synchronized dancers, all fire and precision. His spells lashed out like whips of light, hers surged in psychic waves that bent the dummies mid-air.
Susan and Daphne were less ballet and more heavy metal concert—ice and flame, sarcasm and elegance, blowing up constructs like they were competing for Most Likely To Destroy The World (and Look Hot Doing It).
Fred and George were using magic to prank Percy mid-duel. Again. Percy was doing his best to pretend he didn't cry in the prefects' bathroom.
Angelina yelled "HOLIDAY DEATHDROP!" before launching Katie Bell through the air. Alicia kept score from her broom with a very large foam finger.
Neville's plant tried to eat Luna's crystal. Luna patted it and whispered, "Not today, Trevor. She's in a delicate mood."
Cho disarmed Cedric with a flourish and kissed his cheek. Cedric looked like he'd just had a religious experience.
And through it all: laughter, glittering spellfire, flirting, accidental explosions, and the sounds of teenagers who knew that even if the world outside sucked, inside this room, they had each other—and a few hexes with their names on them.
Harry caught Jean mid-dive, their faces inches apart. She grinned. "Still showing off?"
"You love it."
"Maybe."
From the other end, Daphne shouted, "Oi! Stop making out with the telepath and duel me, Potter!"
Harry winked at Jean. "Hold that thought."
She rolled her eyes. "You're lucky you're cute."
As the session ended, half the room was on the floor. Someone had conjured confetti. Someone else (probably Luna) had painted a rainbow mustache on Percy.
Ron raised his wand. "Next year, we take over the world!"
Hermione groaned. "Please don't."
"Maybe just parts of France," Fred offered.
"Do they have good pastries?" Susan asked.
"Only if Trevor doesn't explode again," Luna said serenely.
Harry pulled Jean close and looked around at his chaotic, magical, slightly-deranged found family.
Christmas was coming. The future was waiting.
But right now?
They had each other.
And that was more than enough.
—
Room of Requirement – Moments After the Session Lighting: Warm embers, lazy flickers of golden firelight, and fairy lights that were definitely not there before. Probably Fred and George's fault. Probably enchanted to blink in Morse code insults.
The last dummy disintegrated with a dramatic puff of glitter and smoke, like it had been cursed by a disgruntled theatre major. Ron coughed. Tracey Davis cheered.
"Ten points for pizzazz!" she crowed, twirling her dagger like she was auditioning for the next installment of Magical Hunger Games: Hogwarts Edition.
Most of the group was now on cooldown—sprawled across conjured mats, leaning on each other like overcooked spaghetti with good hair. The scoreboard above glitched again and flashed a bright red "LOL," which felt oddly personal.
Harry Potter wiped sweat off his brow with the hem of his black MageX shirt (which, let's be honest, was absolutely painted on and illegal in nine wizarding countries). A chorus of hormonal sighs followed—Ginny definitely included. Ron might have been one of them.
Jean Grey—still slightly glowing and looking unfairly good while doing it—tossed him a towel.
"You're a menace," she said, collapsing beside him. Her fiery red curls stuck to her neck like she'd just walked out of a particularly flirty shampoo commercial.
Harry grinned. "And you're the reason my spine hasn't been turned into spaghetti. So… team effort."
"Still hot, though," she said, like it was an objective fact. It kind of was.
Susan Bones, looking way too fresh for someone who just set fire to three dummies and Fred's shoelaces, conjured a clipboard out of nowhere. The quill it summoned with wrote in glitter. Real, sparkling glitter. Somewhere, Percy gagged.
"Alright, chaos gremlins," Susan declared, snapping into Head Girl mode like a magical Elle Woods. "Break's coming up, but that doesn't mean your brains get to go full pudding."
"Oh no," Ron groaned. "She brought the clipboard."
Daphne Greengrass—beautiful, cold, and possibly responsible for half the emotionally unstable boys in the room—walked over toweling her hair. Somehow she looked like she belonged on the cover of Battle Witch Monthly.
"You mean the magical war school we chose to attend?" she asked, deadpan.
Jean stood, clapping her hands. "We've split you into task groups. Potter, hit 'em with the big picture."
Harry, now channeling his Serious Leader Voice (aka 'wet dream of authority' as Ginny once mumbled not-so-quietly), conjured floating parchment sheets that hovered toward each student like overenthusiastic owls.
"Over break, you'll be focusing on three pillars," Harry announced. "Defense. Synergy. Creative chaos. Think outside the wand. And no, that's not a euphemism. Tracey, put your hand down."
"I wasn't gonna say anything," she lied.
"Group One," Harry said, as the parchment began orbiting. "Ginny, Angelina, Alicia, Katie—you're on agility combat and broom-based defense drills. I want bruises, not broken bones. Bonus points if you film the near-death experiences."
"Hell yes," said Angelina Johnson, spinning her staff. "Code name?"
"Holiday Hellfire," Katie Bell smirked.
"Please don't get arrested," Hermione said without looking up from her parchment, already color-coding her own to-do list.
"Group Two," Jean added, grinning. "Hermione, Percy, Neville, Luna. Magical theory, transmutation puzzles. Solve them or become them. Either way, good times."
Luna clapped dreamily. "Can I include the emotional transformation of toads into poets?"
Percy blanched. "Please don't."
Neville just nodded. "Only if Trevor doesn't explode again."
"Surprise us," Jean said.
Susan chimed in. "Group Three: Cho, Cedric, Tracey, Hannah—dueling and target precision. If I see anyone stabbing out of spite, it better be dramatic and followed by a heartfelt monologue."
Tracey twirled her dagger. "So… Tuesday?"
"Group Four," Harry said, leveling a Look at the twins. "Fred, George, Ron—you're doing magical misdirection. Prank-based infiltration drills. No kidnapping. Unless it's Malfoy. Then you might get a medal."
Fred saluted. "We accept these terms."
George added, "We also don't remember agreeing, but we accept anyway."
"And finally," Jean said, "Group Five. Us. Harry, Susan, Daphne, me. Spellweaving, combat fusion, and—God help us—emotional communication."
Daphne groaned. "Ugh. Feelings."
Harry blinked. "Wait, that's on the syllabus?"
Susan smirked. "Welcome to Hogwarts Therapy Club, Potter. Now hug your feelings."
"I'd rather hug a Blast-Ended Skrewt," Harry muttered.
Jean bumped her shoulder against him. "You're lucky you're cute when you sulk."
"I'm always cute," Harry deadpanned.
"Okay, Narcissus," Daphne muttered.
Jean looked around. "We'll check in every few days via mirror-call. If you ghost us, you get cursed homework. No, I'm not kidding. I've got one prepped with hiccupping hexes."
Hermione nodded. "And if you come back early, use the Room. Password's still 'Muffliato Mafia.'"
"Who came up with that again?" Cedric asked.
"Ron," the room chorused.
Ron looked smug. "My greatest achievement."
"Oh Merlin help us," Susan muttered.
The group began to scatter. Some left yawning. Some kept spell-sparring on the way out. One person (probably Luna) was humming to the glittery scoreboard, which now read: "SLAY QUEENS."
Jean lingered. She slid her hand into Harry's. It fit perfectly, like it had always been meant to be there.
Ahead of them, Susan and Daphne were arguing over fusion spell theory. Daphne kept poking her with a wand. Susan kept trying to kiss her to make her stop. Neither was succeeding.
Jean leaned in. "I like this."
Harry smiled. "Me too. Even with the glitter."
"Especially with the glitter."
"You think we'll survive next term?"
Harry tilted his head, emerald eyes gleaming. "Jean, love… we're MageX. Surviving's the boring part."
—
Hogsmeade Village – The Next Day
Temperature: Aggressively festive. Snow level: emotionally unstable.
Soundtrack: Mariah Carey vs. Celestina Warbeck – Magical Remix Edition.
The MageX squad (minus Luna and Ginny, who were cruelly shackled to McGonagall's "Silent Study Hour from Hell") hit Hogsmeade like it owed them chocolate, emotional closure, and at least three Instagrammable moments.
Harry was the first to step off the snowy path into the village proper. His windswept black hair looked like it had been styled by the winter wind itself, all artful tousle and accidental perfection. He wore a black peacoat over his MageX hoodie, hands in his pockets, jaw set in that "cool guy who doesn't try to look cool but accidentally starts a fashion trend" kind of way. The sun dared to peek out just long enough to catch his emerald eyes, and honestly? Rude. That kind of lighting was a weapon.
Jean Grey strolled beside him, coat flaring behind her like a redheaded superheroine caught in a slo-mo walk sequence. Her curls bounced with attitude, and her smirk had just enough danger in it to make the snowflakes nervous. She bumped her shoulder into Harry's playfully.
"So, Potter," she said, eyeing the crowds ahead. "You got a plan, or are we just winging it with charisma and winter jackets?"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "My plans are charisma and winter jackets."
Jean grinned. "You forgot sarcasm. And that thing where you roast people so hard they need a Calming Draught."
"I consider it a public service," Harry replied innocently.
Behind them, Daphne Greengrass and Susan Bones were arm-in-arm, working the frost queen aesthetic so well, Elsa would've filed a copyright claim. Daphne wore icy blue robes trimmed in silver, the kind of outfit that said 'yes, I'm judging you, and yes, I look better doing it.' Susan had her red hair braided back, black boots stomping confidently through the snow like a warrior queen who'd conquered Honeydukes once and would do it again.
"You know," Susan said, eyeing the back of Harry's coat, "for someone with world-saving trauma and a death count, he's got a really great coat."
"I picked that coat," Daphne smirked. "And trust me, the trauma's part of the aesthetic. It's very brooding-hero-core."
"I'm not brooding," Harry called back without turning. "I'm introspective with menace."
"Sure, broody," Jean whispered, eyes twinkling as she looped her arm through his. "But you're my broody, so I guess I'll allow it."
Somewhere behind them:
Fred and George were squatting suspiciously behind a snowbank.
"Code: Slippery Socks is a go," George whispered.
"Repeat, a go," Fred confirmed, unwrapping an enchanted ice patch from his coat pocket like it was a rare collectible. "Target: Ronald Weasley. Secondary Target: Dignity."
"Do we have permission to engage?" George asked into an invisible walkie-talkie.
Fred pressed a candy cane to his ear. "Permission granted. Operation 'Skid and Scream' is live."
Ron, unaware of the ambush ahead, was trudging along with snow in his hair and two chocolate frog wrappers tucked into his sleeve like snacks for later. He looked up suspiciously.
"Oi," he said to Neville, who was very carefully carrying a baby mandrake swaddled in a Gryffindor scarf, "do you feel like we're walking into a trap?"
Neville shrugged. "I mean, statistically, probably. But also, this mandrake gets cold easily and cries when startled, so—please don't scream if something explodes."
Hermione was walking a few paces ahead, effortlessly sipping hot cocoa, reading a book titled Magical Treaties of Interdimensional Law, and side-eyeing the twins like she had their schedules memorized. She paused just long enough to say, "If you two try to ice-slide Ron into a Butterbeer cart again, I will personally transfigure your socks into snakes."
"We're offended you'd even suggest—" George began.
"We'd use the same trick twice," Fred finished.
Katie Bell, Angelina Johnson, and Alicia Spinnet walked past them with synchronized eye-rolls that could've been weaponized.
"Boys," Katie muttered.
"Menace," said Angelina.
"Still hot, though," Alicia added, because honesty matters.
Cedric Diggory and Cho Chang strolled hand-in-hand, looking like they'd been airlifted out of a dating app ad. Cedric smiled like he didn't know heartbreak was a thing. Cho had earmuffs shaped like tiny phoenixes and kept stealing glances at Jean and Harry with a knowing look.
Meanwhile, Tracey Davis was flipping a candy cane like a knife and scanning the crowd like she was expecting a duel to break out before lunch. Probably wasn't wrong.
"Alright, squad," Harry said, suddenly stopping in the middle of the cobbled street like he was about to deliver a quest briefing. Everyone paused like they knew the drill.
He turned slowly, dramatic as always. "We have four hours, twelve galleons, and—" he glanced at Jean, "—absolutely zero adult supervision."
"Oh no," Susan murmured gleefully.
"Oh yes," Daphne said, eyes already locked on Honeydukes.
Jean flipped her curls over her shoulder and smirked. "Translation: We're gonna do something reckless, dangerous, probably sugar-related—"
"—and we're going to look fantastic doing it," Harry finished.
"I'm always stupid in style," Tracey said, candy cane twirling like a wand of poor decisions.
Ron blinked. "Wait, did we have a plan?"
"You never have a plan," Hermione said, not looking up from her book.
"That's because I trust the vibe," Ron replied, puffing out his chest and immediately slipping on the icy patch Fred had summoned.
He screamed. The mandrake wailed. Neville panicked and fell over.
Fred and George fist-bumped in the background.
"Worth it," Fred declared.
"Ten points to GryffinLOL," George added.
Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose. "This is why we don't let you near the strategic meetings."
"You have strategic meetings?" Angelina asked, suspicious.
"Only when Jean insists," Harry said, deadpan.
"Correction," Jean cut in, squeezing his arm, "I don't insist. I command."
"And I'm a sucker for powerful redheads," Harry replied, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Jean flushed but grinned. "You're lucky I like flattery. And idiotic plans. And you."
Daphne groaned. "Can we please go to Honeydukes before these two make me lactose intolerant from all this cheese?"
"Sugar now, regret later," Susan said brightly, tugging Daphne toward the candy shop like it owed her emotional support in gummy form.
And with that, the squad surged forward in a cloud of laughter, snowballs, low-level chaos, and potential detentions.
—
Honeydukes – 10:15 AM
Inside: one part candy wonderland, one part teenage riot, with a sprinkle of chaos and very poor impulse control.
The second the MageX squad burst into Honeydukes, the store's magic sensors gave a subtle flicker. Not because of security concerns (yet), but because the room temperature had just gone up ten degrees due to the combined presence of magical hormones, overpriced sweets, and about six too many hot people with no supervision.
The scent of peppermint and sugar hit like a festive freight train. Shelves stacked with rainbow confections glowed under floating fairy lights. The Fizzing Whizbee jars buzzed slightly. Chocolate frogs leapt inside glass tanks like they were trying to flee the vibe.
First casualty: chocolate presentation.
Daphne Greengrass—blue coat, platinum hair, and enough disdain to melt snow—stood in front of a velvet-lined display of chocolate truffles, hands on hips like she was personally offended.
"This," she declared, plucking a heart-shaped bonbon between two fingers like it might infect her, "is not a truffle. It's a cry for help with a caramel center."
Susan Bones, currently cradling a tin of Peppermint Detonators like it was a holy relic, rolled her eyes fondly.
"You say that," she said, "but you inhaled three of these last week and called them 'flavor bombs of emotional healing.'"
"I was vulnerable. It was post-duel. My blood sugar was in mourning," Daphne deadpanned.
Susan leaned in, lowered her voice to a flirtatious whisper. "Admit it. You like the emotional explosions."
Daphne's cheeks flushed a suspicious shade of pink, and she refused to meet her eyes. "I like symmetry. And not being poisoned by amateur ganache."
Translation: she liked Susan. A lot.
Meanwhile—
Jean Grey was on the hunt. Not for chocolate, but for chaos.
She practically twirled through the aisles in a red coat that flared behind her like an expensive villain cape, tossing her hair and throwing flirtatious smirks over her shoulder like she was handing out holiday coupons for heartbreak.
Harry tried to say something snarky about licorice wands. He got as far as "I don't trust any candy that—"
—and Jean, without warning, popped a Fizzing Whizbee straight into his mouth.
His eyes widened. He blinked. Floated two inches off the floor.
"…That's illegal," Harry said, once gravity returned and the buzzing in his teeth subsided.
Jean winked. "Not if you're cute. Which you are. And before you ask, yes, I will deny it in front of a professor."
Harry smirked, leaned a little closer. "You're flirting with a boy who once dropkicked a Banshee with a broomstick. Choose your candy combatant carefully, Red."
Jean arched a brow. "Oh, I've chosen. I just plan to win."
If Honeydukes had mistletoe, it might've spontaneously combusted from the tension.
Over by the chocolate cauldrons, Fred and George were hard at work pretending to be "quality assurance testers." Fred wore a fake mustache that sang off-key Celestina Warbeck carols while George pocketed samples behind a strategically positioned poster of Bertie Bott.
"For the people," Fred whispered, dramatically inspecting a Chocolate Bomb like it was a rare dragon egg.
"By the people," George added, unwrapping one and popping it into his mouth. "Mmmm. Revolutionary."
The shopkeeper—a very tired wizard with peppermint-patterned spectacles—was too distracted by the singing mustache to notice their hands were not exactly staying above the glass counters.
Neville was doing his best to pretend this was all normal. He hovered nervously near the lemon drops, clutching the baby mandrake (now wearing earmuffs and a festive hat) like it was his emotional support plant.
"It's not legal for this many people to be this loud around sugar," he muttered.
A crash from aisle three confirmed he was right.
Enter: Ron Weasley.
He was currently trying to slide a chocolate wand into his coat pocket using the time-honored method of "act casual and pretend you're invisible."
"Ronald Bilius Weasley!" Hermione snapped, rounding the corner like a moral reckoning in boots. "Are you stealing?"
Ron yelped, the wand clattered to the floor, and the security enchantment lit up red.
"I was going to pay!" he insisted, wildly defensive. "Eventually! Like… after I tasted it!"
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "That is literally the definition of stealing."
"Technically," Fred called from across the store, "he didn't leave the premises, so really it's more early tasting with intent to purchase."
"Very legal in Peru," George added helpfully.
"Ron," Hermione hissed, picking up the chocolate wand and handing it back to the shopkeeper with a tired smile, "stop embarrassing us or I'll start citing Wizarding Penal Code 7.3 aloud until you pass out from guilt."
Ron mumbled something about "authoritarian cocoa management" and slunk away toward the Fudge Sampler Zone.
Over by the floating mistletoe display (which hovered enchantingly and glowed every time someone walked underneath), Cedric Diggory and Cho Chang were doing exactly what beautiful people in relationships did: making everyone else feel single. Again.
Cedric leaned in and kissed Cho gently on the cheek. She giggled and kissed him back, and somewhere in the background, at least one candy elf let out a romantic sigh.
Alicia Spinnet, watching this from behind a stack of Licorice Snakes, scowled.
"If I see one more snow-kiss moment, I'm hexing someone into a Hallmark movie."
Angelina didn't look up from the box of Firewhiskey Fudge she was pretending not to buy. "Too late. We're already in one."
Tracey Davis, who was now using a marshmallow lollipop to duel her own reflection in a mirror enchanted to sass back, yelled from the other aisle, "Can someone please fall in love after we raid the toffee section? Priorities, people!"
And through all of this, Harry?
He stood at the center of the sugar storm, arm around Jean's waist now, candy in one hand, chaos in the other, and that wicked little smirk that meant someone—probably multiple someones—was about to be burned.
"Hey, Daphne," he called. "Found a chocolate sculpture that looks like your ego."
She turned slowly, deadly calm. "Careful, Potter. You're not immune to artistic critique. That hair? Definitely an abstract piece."
"Yeah," Harry said with mock-seriousness. "It's called 'Effortlessly Iconic.' Limited edition. No refunds."
Jean laughed against his shoulder, and somewhere behind them, Fred whispered to George:
"This is the best date we've ever third-wheeled."
George nodded solemnly. "Might cry."
And thus concluded another ten minutes of reckless spending, romantic tension, low-level criminal activity, and enough sugar to fuel a Quidditch match.
The day was young. The squad was hungry. And the chaos? Only just beginning.
—
Zonko's Joke Shop – 11:00 AM
Status: Mischief Detected. Danger Level: Fred and George have home-field advantage.
The moment the MageX squad crossed the threshold into Zonko's, it was like the store knew. Shelves trembled. Spell-activated displays glitched. One rubber chicken exploded spontaneously out of sheer anticipation.
Fred and George looked around like proud generals returning to their battlefield. The scent of powdered prank dust, peppermint toad ink, and danger clung to the air like a dare.
"Ah," Fred sighed dramatically, placing a reverent hand over his heart. "Home."
"I feel like pranking a government," George whispered. "Just a little one. Maybe France."
"Save that for Tuesday," Fred replied. "Today we corrupt youth."
They zeroed in on a display labeled NEW! Perpetual-Snow Pockets: Winterize Your Enemies!—tiny enchanted pouches that, when slipped into a pocket, summoned freezing slush and endless snowballs for twelve hours straight.
Fred leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Fresh shipment of Perpetual-Snow Pockets."
George added with equal glee, "Guaranteed to ruin your enemies' socks and their will to live."
"I'll take two," said Tracey without missing a beat. She snatched a pair and stuffed them into her coat like a professional thief. "I've got prefects to disappoint."
Neville hovered near a rack of fake fanged mistletoe, one eye on the animated boxing gnomes in the corner that kept uppercutting each other into the shelves. He held his mandrake like a hostage and mumbled, "This is how Hogwarts ends, isn't it?"
Jean was casually leaning against a glass cabinet labeled Ethically Gray Gum Selection, flipping a red curl over her shoulder as she examined a glowing jar of Truth Serum Gumballs.
"These feel… ethically questionable," she said, turning the jar over. "Do they come with a legal waiver or just a visit from Madam Bones?"
Harry strolled over behind her, slipping an arm around her waist and plucking one of the gumballs like he was taste-testing a crime.
"Perfect for group mirror-call check-ins," he said, popping it into his mouth and chewing lazily. "No more lying about why someone missed training. Looking at you, Ron."
From across the store, Ron shouted, "IT WAS ONE TIME! And it was food poisoning!"
Hermione, who had just opened a box labeled Legal Laughter Potions: Now With Loopholes!, muttered, "More like butterbeer and poor judgment."
Jean tilted her head toward Harry. "Tell the truth. Would you ever use these on me?"
Harry grinned. His voice was low and wicked. "Only if I wanted to die in the most attractive way possible."
She smirked, pleased. "Smart boy."
Meanwhile, Susan had found the greatest abomination Zonko's had to offer: enchanted mistletoe that hovered above your head and insulted you in holiday-themed rhymes. She tested it by stepping under one.
A faint ding! The mistletoe lit up red and sang sweetly,
"Get away, you're much too close—
Even phoenix fire can't fix your nose!"
The entire store went silent for half a second—then Fred dropped to one knee in mock reverence.
"Marry it," he whispered. "It understands us."
Daphne stepped up next to Susan, arms crossed, hair immaculate, ice-blue coat giving her the energy of a snowstorm in court heels.
She stared up at the insult-mistletoe with narrowed eyes. "Does it come in a portable model?"
Susan grinned. "Want one for every doorway in the Slytherin common room?"
"I want five," Daphne replied. "One for every person who's breathed near my potions station this term."
Fred handed her a shopping basket without comment.
Angelina and Alicia were examining a rack of Whiz-Bang Wardrobe Potions—little vials that would "randomly change your clothes into a holiday horror show every fifteen minutes."
"I swear, if Cedric and Cho kiss under one more mistletoe, I'm throwing this at them," Alicia said.
"Do it," Angelina replied. "Make them match. You know they'd still look good in reindeer onesies."
George suddenly popped up between them with a half-full basket of suspicious items.
"Ladies, if you need help getting revenge, we do offer our consulting services. Reasonable rates. Accepts galleons, favors, and rare Quidditch gossip."
"And chocolate," Fred chimed in from the counter. "Mostly chocolate."
Jean was now leaning on Harry, both of them laughing as they watched Daphne threaten a fake goblin into giving her a discount. Her voice was all sugar and threat.
"Harry?" she asked, voice soft.
"Hmm?" He was still chewing the gumball.
"If I ever go completely off the rails and try to take over the world with enchanted Christmas crackers… you're in, right?"
Harry turned, his emerald eyes gleaming like he was forged from mischief and ancient magic.
"Jean," he said. "You're hot, chaotic, and probably dangerous. I'll bring the wand polish and the theme music."
She beamed. "God, I love when you flirt like a Bond villain."
Neville, ducking under another shelf collapse caused by Ron accidentally knocking over a Jinxed Jellybean Barrel, muttered, "I'm too young for this level of emotional damage."
Fred, watching all of it from the front register with a grin wide enough to make the ghosts uneasy, nudged George.
"Think they'll survive the day?"
George looked over the chaos—the flirting, the cackling, the mistletoe that now targeted Ron specifically.
"With us around?" George said. "No chance. And I wouldn't miss it for the world."
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