The whistle cut through the air.
Exams were done. The Wizarding Examinations Authority geezers had packed up and left, classes were canceled, and the whole school was in that lazy countdown to report cards and summer freedom. Everyone except the Gryffindor and Slytherin Quidditch teams. Those poor bastards were still grinding, getting ready for the House Cup final.
The pitch was packed today.
Under orders from both Heads of House, the two rival teams had finally stopped hogging the field like it was their personal turf. They'd split the practice slots fair and square so both sides could prep in peace.
With no homework breathing down their necks, watching Quidditch practice had turned into prime entertainment for the rest of the school.
The players didn't mind the crowd. Hell, the cheers made the brutal drills feel almost fun.
Wood—red captain's cloak flapping—clapped his hands and waved everyone in. "Too many eyes in the stands, so no secret plays today. We're sticking to basics: fitness and ball skills."
Quidditch had four positions. Chasers, Beaters, Seekers, Keepers. Beaters had it worst—swinging those heavy bats, protecting your team while trying to murder the other side with Bludgers. Pure power and stamina.
"After hundreds of years, nobody's ever suggested giving Beaters a break?" George and Fred panted after their 271st swing, sweat dripping.
The other positions just had to steer a broom. These two had to swing clubs like they were trying to knock the damn things into orbit. Meanwhile Harry floated around the edge of the pitch, speed whatever the hell he felt like, looking like he was on a Sunday joyride while fans screamed his name.
George glared at Harry with pure envy.
"Look at Wood—he's got it made!" Fred jabbed his bat toward the goal hoops.
Oliver Wood, who should've been drilling saves in front of the rings, had already landed. He was off his broom, deep in conversation with Professor Levent.
Wood kept nodding. Melvin smiled that calm, knowing smile of his. Before he left the pitch he spotted the twins staring and gave them a little wave.
"Hey, Wood!"
"Captain can't just slack off!"
The second the professor was out of earshot, the twins dropped like stones, hovering right in front of their captain and using his own bossy tone on him.
Wood didn't even blink. "Keep practicing."
The twins grumbled but rose back into the air.
For the rest of the session they pictured every Bludger as Oliver's smug face. The dull thuds and sharp cracks suddenly sounded a lot more satisfying.
When practice finally ended and everyone trudged back to the locker room, Wood strolled over to the twins like he had all the time in the world.
"Professor asked me to pass this on. Right after the final, he's taking you two to that Muggle factory for the tour."
"Muggle factory? What Muggle factory?"
Angelina and Alicia spun around.
George and Fred grinned like they'd just won the Cup early. "Our summer internship, obviously!"
Harry looked up from polishing his broom. June sunlight poured through the high windows, the Whomping Willow outside thick with leaves, tiny wildflowers dotting the grass like stars.
"Harry, you head back to the castle with the others," Wood said.
Harry lifted his still-dirty broom. "But these still need to go back to the shed—"
"I've got it." Wood took the broom and dropped onto a low bench, already picking grass and gravel out of the tail twigs. "Won't be long before I'm gone from here. Might as well do it while I still can."
Harry felt a sudden pang. Back in first year, Wood had been the one who taught him the very first rules.
"Puddlemere's got professional broom techs," Harry reminded him with a smirk.
Wood just laughed and waved him off. Harry left with the rest of the team, glancing back once. The captain was talking quietly to the broom like he was saying goodbye to an old friend.
Out of nowhere Harry thought of Sirius and felt the first real spark of excitement for summer.
…
Late that night, Gryffindor boys' dormitory.
Lights out. The summer night was warm. After showers and brutal practice, the exhaustion sank deep into every muscle and bone. Nobody wanted to move a finger.
Normally the twins would already be snoring like chainsaws, but tonight they were wide awake, eyes shining in the dark like they'd mainlined Pepperup Potion.
George and Fred were dead tired but their brains wouldn't shut up.
"George… George…" Fred rolled over, whispering.
"What do you think the Muggle factory's actually like?" George beat him to it, voice buzzing with excitement.
They were identical twins—they could usually read each other with a look—but tonight they were whispering like first-years on the train, too hyped to sleep.
"Professor mentioned assembly lines. Said it's so efficient it feels like magic!"
"What the hell's an assembly line? Does water do the work or something?"
"…"
They kept picturing some shiny metal world floating on the ocean, machines clanking, gadgets popping out one after another. The more they talked, the more wired they got.
Bang!
George's head suddenly got smacked. Both twins whipped around.
Lee Jordan glared at them, dark circles under his eyes. "You two done yet? Want me to hit you with a Stupefy so the rest of us can sleep?"
The twins yanked their blankets up to their chins in perfect sync.
"That'd be great!"
"Do it!"
Lee rolled over and muttered something about idiots.
…
Early afternoon, early June.
Students were scattered across the lakeshore and grassy slopes. The corridors were quiet. Inside the Muggle Studies office, the only sound was the soft scratch of a quill on parchment.
Violet-scented ink filled the air. A tall stack of just-graded third-year exams sat on the desk—names uncovered, starting with Hannah Abbott.
The young Muggle Studies professor hated overtime himself but had zero problem volunteering other people. He'd dragged Hermione in to help grade while the students were on break.
Third-year finals weren't that bad—no trick questions, more than half the class hitting "Exceeds Expectations." Solid results for any teacher.
So why were the in-class quizzes always evil?
Hermione snuck a glance at Melvin across the desk, thinking hard.
Maybe because finals had to be approved by other professors and the Examination Authority. Melvin's weird ideas got toned down. Did the actual N.E.W.T. papers end up easy too?
She kept marking scores while Yurm—freshly shed, scales gleaming like polished gemstones—curled on the left side of the desk.
The little Horned Serpent had picked up some very dog-and-cat habits from Fang and Crookshanks. Random meows and barks. Tail wagging when happy. And whenever anyone was working, he had to crawl right onto the papers and wiggle slowly, slowing everything down.
Every time Melvin or Hermione picked him up and moved him aside, he'd hiss happily like it was the best game ever.
Thanks to the snake's "help," it took until sunset to finish logging every third-year score. Hermione color-coded the ones above and below the passing line—Ron and Lavender both firmly in the red zone.
She made a quiet mental note, then checked the clock. "Professor, it's almost dinner. I should head back."
"Mhm." Melvin slid a box of chocolates across the desk—payment for cheap student labor. "Same time tomorrow. We've still got fourth- and sixth-year papers. I've graded them; you log and tabulate."
"Got it, Professor."
Truth was, Hermione secretly loved this. Knowing everyone's scores early gave her a weird little thrill.
"Oh—George and Fred came by looking for you a few times this afternoon," Melvin added casually. "They never knocked, though."
Ever since they'd been told about the Muggle factory tour, the twins had been hunting down anyone Muggle-raised for advice. Hermione was priority one. But she'd been stuck here grading nonstop, so they kept missing her.
For some reason the twins were being weirdly shy—wanted to talk to her alone, wouldn't corner her in the Great Hall or common room. They'd just hover outside the office door, then wander off like they were "just passing by."
Anyone else would've thought it was coincidence.
Melvin's magical senses were way too sharp for that.
"George and Fred?" Hermione looked puzzled, then instantly wary.
Those two had a reputation.
…
June in the Scottish Highlands was proper summer—sun warm but not brutal.
George and Fred wore their school robes on the outside, but underneath they'd layered every piece of Muggle clothing they'd scavenged from second-hand shops: morning coats with huge lapels, casual jackets, turtleneck sweaters, and—God help them—stiff, zero-stretch denim jeans. They looked like they were dressed for three different centuries at once and sweating like pigs.
It was uncomfortable as hell, but they refused to quit. They were about to step into a real Muggle factory for a two-month internship. They had to blend in or risk breaking the Statute of Secrecy and dragging their dad and Percy down with them.
The twins hid around the corner of the corridor, chewing on dud Skiving Snackboxes, pacing, peeking toward the office door every ten seconds.
Why wasn't she coming out?
They were dying to ask a real Muggle-raised kid what the hell normal people wore to work. Half-bloods wouldn't cut it—their heads were already half-wizard. Harry didn't count either; he just wore Dudley's hand-me-downs and had zero clue about style.
What counted as normal Muggle clothes? Why couldn't they wear pointed hats with stuffed animals on top? And why in Merlin's name did Muggles wear these horrible cardboard jeans?
Asking Professor Levent would've been smart—he always wore Muggle stuff—but his outfits were way too sharp and tailored. Perfect for a professor, terrible for factory work.
Plus he wasn't even British; his style might be all wrong for local Muggles anyway.
The more they thought about it, the more nervous they got. Two whole months. One slip-up and they'd have to Memory Charm half the factory themselves.
The office door finally opened. Hermione stepped out, chocolate box in hand.
" Hermione! Hermione!" The twins rushed her. "Quick—does this look Muggle enough?"
Hermione stared. Her mouth twitched.
The twins knew that look. It was the same one she got right before she busted them for a prank.
They'd nailed the "Muggle clothes" part. They'd just missed the part where no actual Muggle would ever wear all of it at the same time. They looked like circus clowns who'd robbed a funeral home.
Hermione fought back a laugh. "Lose the morning coat. Everything else is fine."
"Told you the professor's style wasn't normal for regular Muggles," George muttered, already yanking off the fancy coat.
"It's not the style," Hermione explained, still trying not to grin. "It's just… factory work means moving around. That coat's for sitting still."
"What about the jeans?" Fred lifted a pant leg.
Hermione nodded. "Those are perfect—tough, practical, hide dirt. Lumberjacks and gold miners wear them all the time. You could swap the jackets for denim ones too. Full jean look."
"Jean… suit?"
"Got it!"
The twins lit up like they'd just invented the Weasley Wheezes. They started stripping off layers right there in the corridor, laughing and whooping like prisoners breaking their chains.
Hermione watched them go, lips pressed together, brown eyes thoughtful.
Wizards interning at Muggle factories?
…Could Muggle-borns intern at wizard companies?
A tiny spark of an idea flickered in her mind.