Invisible String | TVD x WIZARDING WORLD

THE DETENTION

It wasn't even the next morning.
It was barely thirty minutes post-fireworks when a very sharp, very Scottish voice echoed through the entire castle:

"MISS SALVATORE. MISTER WEASLEY. MISTER WEASLEY. MY OFFICE. NOW."

The kind of "now" that could rip through the fabric of space-time if you stared at it too long.

Fred winced. George muttered something about "going out in a blaze of glory," and I? I just stood up, fixed my hair in the reflection of a nearby armor, and said, "Well, boys, it was an honor."

We were marched—escorted more like—by two very grumpy prefects (Ravenclaw and Slytherin, naturally) who looked like they'd rather be anywhere but here. The whole hallway watched us pass like we were celebrities being led to an execution.

McGonagall's office was warm and smelled weirdly of lemon drops and something burnt. Possibly our futures.

She stood behind her desk, arms crossed, mouth pressed into the world's thinnest line. Behind her, the giant window glowed faintly with the last embers of the "FUCK Y'ALL" display.

"Do you three have any idea the level of irresponsibility, danger, and sheer public spectacle you've just unleashed on this school?"

"Yes," I said.

"No," Fred said.

George shrugged. "A little?"

"Sit."

We sat. I expected fire and brimstone. A Howler-level screaming fit. A rant about rule-breaking and disrespect and endangering the Sorting Hat's delicate emotional state. (Which, to be fair, did get slightly singed in the blast.)

But what we got was worse.

Silence.

McGonagall sat across from us, folded her hands, and just... looked. Like she was letting the disappointment seep into our skin, molecule by molecule. Diana Salvatore? Not built for guilt stares.

"You do realize," she began, slowly, like dragging a knife across butter, "you've tampered with enchanted architecture, disrupted one of the most sacred traditions at Hogwarts, and spelled vulgarities visible from half the grounds."

"We also improved school morale," George added helpfully.

"I heard Peeves laugh so hard he cried," Fred said proudly.

I couldn't help myself. "And we didn't even set anything on fire. That's growth."

McGonagall exhaled through her nose. "Miss Salvatore, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Weasley... you're all on probation. One more stunt—one—and I'll have Filch personally un-enchant your kneecaps."

"Is that medically allowed?" I whispered to George.

"Probably not," he whispered back.

She stood, walked to the door... and then paused.

"You'll be assigned detention. Tomorrow. Eight p.m. sharp. Bring gloves."

"Gardening?" Fred asked.

"Graveyard shift," she replied without turning.

Oh. Oh.

Excellent.

~~~~

The next night, 8:02 p.m.

(I was fashionably late. Sue me.)

The air outside the castle hit like a wall of frost and regret, sharp enough to sting my cheeks and loud enough in its silence that my boots crunching on gravel sounded like a war drum. The night had swallowed the courtyard in a deep velvet black, speckled with stars that didn't twinkle so much as stare. Judging.

I pulled my cloak tighter around myself, its fabric still faintly dusted in glitter from yesterday's chaos, and made my way toward the abandoned toolshed near the Forbidden Forest—our assigned location for "special supervision" under the ever-watchful eye of Hogwarts' favorite gentle giant.

Fred and George were already there, naturally. They had that way of arriving early even to detentions, like chaos was a VIP event and they had backstage passes. Fred was leaning against the shed door, fiddling with a pocket-sized sneakoscope that wouldn't stop spinning, while George was halfway into a bag of stolen pastries, munching like the threat of death-vine strangulation meant nothing to his metabolism.

"You're late," Fred greeted, not looking up.

"I had to look presentable for my graveyard debut," I said with a dramatic twirl, cloak fanning behind me. "We can't all roll out of bed looking like disheveled gods."

George tossed me a pair of gloves that looked one hex away from sentience. "You'll need these. We're uprooting Devil's Snare. It's gotten... clingy."

"Clingy like your ex?" I raised an eyebrow, slipping the gloves on.

"Worse," George replied. "At least my ex didn't try to choke me in my sleep."

"Just during arguments," Fred added with a smirk.

Before I could make a joke about mutual strangulation being a form of affection, the door to the shed creaked open with the kind of moan that could haunt dreams. And there was Hagrid, holding what could only be described as a monster-sized rake and wearing a scowl that said, "I like you kids, but I will bury you if you sass me tonight."

"Yeh lot ready?" he grunted, already turning back toward the forest like we didn't have a choice. "Got a patch o' Devil's Snare that's been creepin' toward the pumpkin patch. Gotta rip it out 'fore it decides to eat someone."

An Hour (that felt more like an eternity) Later

We were covered in more dirt than dignity. My arms ached. My knees were soaked. There was mud in places that should not have mud. Fred had already been partially digested by a vine, George was limping from a gnome bite, and I was questioning all my life decisions that had led me to willingly attend a magical school where sentient plants tried to murder you as punishment for being mildly iconic.

"This is child endangerment," I muttered, yanking a root that hissed at me.

"This is character building," Fred replied, wincing as he tried to detangle himself.

"This is how horror movies start," George added, kicking a gnome.

We finally, finally, subdued the Devil's Snare (I named my vine Murder Ivy because it felt right), and Hagrid gave us a grunt that sounded vaguely like approval.

"Reckon that'll hold it off," he muttered, glancing at the dark edge of the forest. "For now."

My entire body paused. "For now?"

"It grows fas'er when the'e's darkness brewin'. Plants feel it, yeh know. Magic turns funny when somethin' bad's comin'."

Of course, who would know that better than me.

And then he left. Just like that. No context. No elaboration.

Classic Hogwarts...

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted him—Theodore Nott—slipping silently into the graveyard like he belonged there.
Not a hesitation in his step. No glance over the shoulder. Just... vanishing into shadows like they were stitched into his skin.

Odd time to be here, I thought. But then again, when isn't it odd with the likes of him?
Wouldn't be surprised if Draco's little lapdog was out here running another one of Malfoy's delightfully sinister errands.
Dark magic. Hidden relics. Cryptic messages carved into tombstones. Who even knows anymore?

"So, let's get going then," Fred called out, the rest of them already halfway turned away.

"Yeah, you guys go ahead. I'll join you in a bit."

I didn't give them the chance to respond—didn't want the chorus of concern, the where are you going, D? or worse, don't do anything stupid.
But that's kind of my thing, isn't it? Doing the exact thing I probably shouldn't.

So, I did what I always do—
Invited myself into chaos.
Slipped away before logic could catch up.
Followed him into the fog-draped stillness of the graveyard, where every step felt like a dare and every breath like a secret waiting to be broken.