Invisible String | TVD x WIZARDING WORLD

ONCE UPON A PRANK

"Rise and shine, sweethearts," I chirped as I swung open the door to Fred and George's dorm.

It was five in the bloody morning. I hadn't slept all night. Too many thoughts. Too much silence. And far, far too much caffeine. Which meant: chaos.

So, naturally, I did what any rational, well-adjusted, perfectly sane person would do.

I poured two jugs of water—cold as a snowstorm and just as personal—straight over their sleeping, snoring, unsuspecting faces.

Two identical gasps. A sputter. A scream.

"WHAT THE—?!"
"MERLIN'S SOGGY BOXERS—"
"ARE WE DROWNING—"

Fred flailed like he was being exorcised. George shot up, drenched curls sticking to his forehead like a wet puppy and betrayal painted across his whole face.

"You witch," Fred growled, blinking through the downpour.
"You absolute menace," George coughed.

"Good morning to you too," I said sweetly, setting the empty jugs down like trophies. "Now that you're both awake, how about breakfast?"

"YOU'RE LUCKY YOU'RE CUTE," George groaned.
"I HOPE YOUR PILLOW IS FOREVER DAMP," Fred snapped.

"Love you both," I said, already backing out of the room.

They were still shrieking behind me, plotting my downfall, arguing about whether this counted as attempted murder or just Monday.

Honestly? Worth it.

We're making our way to the Great Hall when George asked, "How the hell did you wake up this early? You literally call it the illegal hour."

"Didn't sleep at all, honestly," I shrugged.

Fred squinted at me like I'd personally wronged him. "You're too cheerful for that."

Guess my vampire side kicked in today, I thought.

"Oh c'mon," I grinned, "just accept that you loved it, dumbos."

"Why us, seriously?" they both groaned in creepy twin unison.

"Why?" I fake-gasped. "Okay umm—October 13th, 2:08 a.m.—you woke me up with a literal drumroll because you couldn't decide what color the smoke should be for your final great prank in your seventh year, which I kid you not—is three years from now. Or how about October 28th? A dungbomb in my dorm. We had to sleep on armchairs, Fred."

George added under his breath, "That was a good smoke color debate though..."

I shot him a glare. "You made me pick between 'dragon's breath orange' and 'exploding vomit green'. That's not a debate. That's psychological warfare."

"Shut up, kids. Daddy's hangry," Fred muttered darkly as we collapsed onto the Gryffindor table like survivors of a war no one would ever understand.

Something was very wrong with him.

Like—red-alert, owl-emergency, butterbeer-for-breakfast-level wrong.

Because this Fred Weasley—the same guy who treated authority like a suggestion and my advice like background noise—had suddenly started helping people.

Voluntarily.

The only catch?

You had to say, verbatim, "Fred Weasley is the humblest, coolest, funniest, artfullest, cheeriest and handsomest person of all time."

Apparently, he thinks "artfullest" is a real word. And apparently, there's a national shortage of adjectives ending in "-est."

Or—plot twist—he believes that making people chant this ritualistic praise will somehow make someone (and we all know who) realise that he does in fact have the bestest qualities of all time.

Which is absolutely delusional.

But so very Fred.

George leaned over, voice low, "He's been like this since Sophie said he lacks emotional depth."

I gasped. "So this is a crisis rebrand."

"Yup. Man's running a whole PR campaign."

Fred slammed his goblet down. "I can hear you. And FYI, emotionally deep people don't cry. They make others cry."

I clapped slowly. "Poetic. We're giving toxic bard energy this morning."

~~~~~~

I wasn't even halfway through my first course (and yes, Hogwarts breakfast is a five-course event in my head), when Professor McGonagall's voice rang out across the Great Hall.

"Miss Salvatore, a word please."

Cue: Dramatic internal monologue, plate still loaded with eggs, toast, and the will to live.

I dragged myself up and walked over. "Morning, Professor."

She eyed me with that unreadable expression that said either you're in trouble or I'm about to assign you the fate of the free world.

"You're up early, I see. And quite cheerful too, Miss Salvatore."

"That makes you the third person to say this today," I said with a laugh that tried to be casual but came out just a little deranged.

"Well, very well," she said, folding her hands. "Did you check out the list on the Meeting Board on your way here?"

Oh no.

"No," I admitted. "I actually forgot there was a whole real event being planned."

"Not to worry," she said, far too calmly. "Just take care of everything, hmm?"

I blinked. "No, you didn't..."

"Oh but I did," she said, eyes twinkling in that Professor Dumbledore Lite™ way. "Sources say your town has a Founder's Day every year, and that you're basically royalty."

"Ronald. Weasley," I whispered under my breath like a curse, the way ancient witches might've spoken forbidden spells.

This had his redheaded meddling written all over it. This was payback. For what? I didn't even know. But I knew in my bones he'd said something like:

"You know who could totally pull off a historic festival with charm and trauma? Salvatore. She has capes."

I AM SO GONNA KILL HIM.