Fred was trying to launch a Dungbomb into Lee’s sleeve without him noticing when the portrait swung open with a bang.

Neville barreled in, cheeks red, hair sticking up like he’d jogged through a storm cloud. “It’s horrible!”

Nobody looked up.

“Horrible” from Neville could mean anything, usually meant he’d set his cauldron on fire or misread the page count on a Potions essay.

Lee didn’t even blink. “Did you encounter Snape again, mate?”

But Neville kept going. “Professor Rosier… he quit!”

That stopped everything.

Conversations choked mid-word. A deck of Exploding Snap cards fizzled in mid-air. Fred’s Dungbomb missed its mark entirely and rolled under the couch.

Angelina straightened. “What?”

Neville swallowed, eyes wide. “I saw him. He was arguing with the Headmaster near the Duelling Hall. Loud. Everyone heard.”

George kicked his legs off the arm of the chair. “Arguing about what?”

“I don’t know! But then Professor McGonagall showed up and said something, and Professor, he looked furious. Said, ‘I’m done trying to make this school something sensible. I quit.’ And he left.”

Hermione shot up like she’d been hit with a hex. “Neville, don’t make jokes like that.”

“I’m not.”

Fred and George both stood.

“Yeah,” George said. “April Fool’s isn’t till tomorrow.”

“I’m not joking,” Neville said again, softer this time. “Loads of people were there.”

Just then, Seamus and Dean tumbled in, eyes wide.

“You lot hear about Rosier?” Seamus asked.

Lavender looked half in shock. “He really left?”

Dean nodded grimly. “Stormed off down the west hall. We tried to follow but McGonagall blocked it.”

People poured out of common rooms, half in slippers, some still clutching half-written essays or snacks, all trying to find someone who knew something. They didn’t get far.

Prefects lined the staircases like human barricades. Any time someone asked, they gave the same answer, “Curfew.”

Not what happened, not where he went, not even a half-decent lie. Just curfew.

It didn’t help that the Prefects themselves looked rattled, barely holding onto protocol. And when Percy Weasley finally showed up, the twins pounced like wolves.

They threw everything at him. Jokes, questions, threats of singing embarrassing lullabies from when he was seven.

Percy didn’t even try to play along.

He stood there, pale and rigid, like someone had kicked over his entire belief system and he hadn’t figured out how to put it back yet. He just shook his head and walked away.

Didn’t say a word.

Fred didn’t joke after that.

Neither did George.

***

George flung a pillow straight at Fred’s face. It landed with a satisfying thwack, sending the other twin flailing halfway out of his blanket cocoon.

Fred groaned. “Why.”

“Because it’s our birthday, you troll,” George said, already halfway through unwrapping a parcel. “And you’re snoring loud enough to wake portraits.”

Fred blinked blearily at the chaos unfolding across their shared corner of the dorm. Parcels everywhere. Half the floor was lost under ripped wrapping and oddly shaped socks.

“I thought that was the plan,” Fred said, voice still sleep-rough. “Start the day with a scandal.”

George snorted. “Too late. Lee already tried to climb in through the window and got stuck.”

Fred sat up, hair wild, grin already loading. “Did he fall?”

“Arse-first into Angelina’s cup. She was not impressed.”

Fred whistled low. “Bold for a Friday.”

George held up a lumpy-looking package wrapped in bright green paper. “This one’s from Hermione.”

Fred squinted. “Think it’s a book?”

“Pray it’s not another essay on ‘why safety is important.'”

They tore it open together. Inside, two identical notebooks with tidy labels, Spellwork Notes: For Experimental Modifications.

George blinked. “Huh.”

Fred turned it over. Inside the cover, a short note in Hermione’s cramped script…

If you’re going to test dangerous things, at least keep a record. I’m not covering for you when someone ends up with a third ear again.

Fred grinned. “I’m not saying I like her…”

“But she gets us,” George finished, nodding.

Next was a neatly folded set of socks from Ron. One red, one blue, mismatched on purpose. A scribbled note read, “Mum tried to send you proper ones. I swapped them. Happy birthday, gits.”

Fred pulled them on immediately. “Fashion.”

“Disaster,” George said approvingly.

Neville’s parcel came next, wrapped in brown parchment and tied with what looked like repurposed shoelace. Inside was a potted plant with a tag that read Doesn’t Bite (Much). It had tiny purple leaves and, rather concerningly, tiny teeth.

Fred poked it. It nibbled his finger.

George beamed. “Brilliant.”

Lee’s gift was stuffed into a Quidditch glove, two small enchanted firecrackers that hovered in midair, spinning like drunken pixies. They both immediately tried to grab one. It zapped Fred in the nose.

“Lee Jordan,” Fred muttered, rubbing the burn, “is going on the list.”

“Top of it,” George agreed. “Right after that cushion that exploded on us last week.”

Angelina and Alicia’s gift came in a plain black box with a folded note.

Happy Birthday, miscreants. Use responsibly. (You won’t.)

Inside were vials, smoke bombs, judging by the colour, and a rolled-up scroll of detailed distraction charm schematics.

George let out a low whistle. “They like us.”

“They really like us,” Fred said, clutching the scroll to his chest.

Harry had kept it simple, two boxes of chocolate frogs and a single card between them that just said, You lot make school bearable. Don’t blow it up. Harry.

They each immediately unwrapped a frog and ate it in silence, which was, in twin terms, deep appreciation.

And then there was one box left.

Fred reached for it, then paused.

George raised a brow. “What?”

Fred, with the bravado of someone who hadn’t been personally hexed by Cassian in class this week, opened it.

George gasped so loudly it could’ve passed for a fire alarm. If anyone downstairs heard it, they’d probably assume Peeves had set something ablaze.

Fred bit George’s arm.

“Oi!” George yanked away, nearly dropping the box. “Have you lost your head?”

Fred didn’t blink. “It’s a trap.”

“Obviously,” George said, already unwrapping the rest with both hands. “We’re still doing it.”

He lifted the book like it was a sacred relic. Across the front, in arrogant, looping ink, “Greatest Series of Pranks Hogwarts Will Ever See.”

PS: Only if you can manage it to the T.

PS2: It cannot be traced back to me. Don’t even try.

-C.R.

Before either of them could make a noise, the words vanished. All of them. Just a plain black book now.

George’s mouth hung open. “That, did it… did it just eat the writing?”

Fred flung himself onto the floor. “Check the cover. Check the pages. Is it enchanted? Did he curse us?”

They turned to the first page. Only that one held anything, the rest were blank.

Fred frowned. “Looks like the rest won’t show up until we pull off this one.”

George tilted the book, just in case the angle made the ink appear. It didn’t.

“Very Prefossor Rosier,” he muttered. “Set the rules, vanish the answers.”

***

Fred and George sat on the edge of their beds, the black book between them. The excitement of unwrapping it had already thinned out.

George scratched the back of his neck. “I still can’t believe he quit. Should we even do these pranks now?”

Fred shook his head, firm. “To honour him?”

They looked at each other. George tapped the book’s cover with one finger. “Feels strange. Like we’re laughing while he’s… gone.”

Fred leaned back against the bedpost, staring up at the canopy. “He’s not dead, George. He’s out there somewhere, probably glaring at dusty scrolls and cursing our names. If he left us this, it means he wanted us to carry on.”

George glanced down at the first page again. “Or he wanted to see if we’re daft enough to try.”

That got the faintest grin out of Fred. “Well, he knows us too well then.”

Fred picked it up, turned it over once, then set it back carefully. “We’ll do it. Not for honour. Not for anyone else. For us. And maybe… a bit for him.”

George nodded, slow. “Yeah. For him.”

***

Breakfast came in with a clatter of cutlery and too much noise. The twins lingered near the entrance of the Great Hall, scanning the tables like they were about to break into song, or commit arson.

Fred gave George a sideways look. “You know we’ll look like a pair of utter pillocks if this doesn’t work.”

George took a deep breath. “I trust in Professor R. Even if he’s not here, his spirit lives on.”

“Right. In our criminal records.”

Still, they walked in. Casual. Smiles fixed, sleeves neat, like they hadn’t spent half the morning whispering over charm timing and distraction hexes. As they made their way down the Gryffindor table, birthday wishes started coming in. They lapped it up, grins, thanks, a few cheeky bows. But beneath the grins, their hands were busy.

One by one, they slipped small glimmers of charm-fizzed powder into juice pitchers and teapots.

After the third spiking, and of course after birthday muffins, George leaned in. “That’s the easy part done. Now Cedric.”

Fred steered them toward the Hufflepuff table. “Cedric, mate!”

Diggory blinked mid-bite. “Birthday rounds?”

Fred clapped him on the back. “Wouldn’t miss it. Told McGonagall we’d be diplomatic. Building house bridges.”

Cedric raised a brow. “You two? Building? Right…”

George grinned. “We’re rebels, but also artists.”

They stayed long enough to drop a fizz-vial into the pumpkin juice, then moved on with more grins and a wave.

“Now Clearwater,” Fred muttered.

George’s face lit up. “We’re carrying a message.”

“From Percy?”

“Obviously.”

They strolled to the Ravenclaw table, found Penelope halfway through her toast.

“Clearwater,” Fred said, polite. “Percy asked us to pass on a note.”

She blinked. “He what?”

George handed her a folded bit of parchment. Completely blank.

She squinted at it. “This is empty.”

Fred sighed, theatrical. “Merlin’s beard, he said that might happen. It’s one of those enchanted ones. You have to warm it up. Use your elbow.”

Penelope gave them a flat look. “Why would that…?”

“Experimental charm. He’s very excited. Said you’d understand.”

To her credit, she didn’t throw it back. She tucked it into her bag and mumbled something vaguely polite.

“Good luck with that,” George added, tossing something into the Ravenclaw tea tray as they turned.

That left Slytherin.

They both paused at the foot of the hall, pretending to check the time.

Fred whispered, “Can’t exactly waltz over and ask to borrow a snake.”

George scanned the crowd. “Lee?”

Lee Jordan looked up from his bowl of cereal like he’d heard them thinking about chaos.

Fred gave the briefest nod. Lee raised his spoon in solemn agreement.

Five seconds later, a bowl exploded.

Slytherins and Gryffindors leapt to their feet. Screaming. Accusing. One of the second-years started crying over spilled milk, literally.

Professor Sprout shouted something about boundaries. Flitwick stood on his chair trying to mediate. McGonagall didn’t bother standing, her glare did most of the work.

In the middle of it all, Fred and George slinked sideways through the crowd, slipped to the Slytherin table unnoticed, and poured their last vial into the water jug.

They were back at Gryffindor before the worst of the shouting began.

Fred sat, picked up a toast triangle, and grinned. “Timing.”

George took a bite of his and nodded. “Now we wait.”

As they waited, eyes slid toward the staff table. No sign of Professor Rosier. Or Babbling, for that matter. Which made it much worse.

Whispers filled in the blanks fast, he really had quit, then. McGonagall batted off every question with a curt “Eat your breakfast.” Which wasn’t exactly a denial.

Fred leaned over the table, scanning faces. “I’m telling you, if he walks in now, I’m eating this toast whole.”

“Wait for it,” George muttered, grinning at nothing in particular.

Right then, Harry, Neville, Ron, and Hermione dropped into their usual seats beside them.

Harry reached for the pumpkin juice. “Anything news?”

Fred and George shook their heads, just watched.

Pumpkin juice poured. Glasses lifted.

Neville sipped first. Then Ron. Hermione. Harry.

Five seconds.

Ten.

At exactly the fifteen mark, poof.

A muffled crack of magic swept the Great Hall.

And then…

All at once, colour burst across the room like someone had upended a painter’s palette into a wind tunnel.

Students jolted in their seats as curls of smoke hissed from their scalps. Gasps turned into shrieks. Hair changed in real time, red, green, blue, yellow, puffing out like startled fireworks.

Fred blinked.

Green.

George blinked back.

Also green.

They stared at each other, jaws dropped.

“Oi,” Fred said, slowly, “why the hell are we green?”

George dragged a hand through his newly cursed mop. “It was meant to be red. I checked the trigger charm.”

“Well, then clearly you cocked it.”

Across the table, Ron looked like he’d swallowed a Quaffle.

“Her… Hermione?”

She was staring straight ahead, buttercup yellow hair sitting like a slap against her red jumper. She reached up as if to confirm it with her own fingers, then slowly lowered her hand again, jaw tight.

Neville’s hair was the same yellow, standing in tragic tufts.

“I look like a bleeding lemon tart,” he mumbled.

Dean cackled so loud. “Mate, you look like you’ve been hexed by sunshine.”

On the far end, Angelina Johnson doubled over, wheezing.

Then came the chaos.

A second-year Hufflepuff burst into tears. Two Ravenclaws started frantically trying to charm their hair back, only for it to shoot even brighter.

A sharp voice snapped from the staff table, “Silence!”

It was drowned immediately by Seamus shouting, “Malfoy’s got Weasley hair!”

Draco had frozen like he’d just been kissed by death itself. Scarlet curls framed his face like Gryffindor itself had taken personal revenge. He touched them, recoiled, then stood so fast his chair skidded halfway to the fireplace.

“WHAT IS THIS?!”

The volume alone earned him a dozen stares. He pointed, wild-eyed, across the hall as if someone else could see the cosmic mistake he was now physically wearing.

“I demand this be reversed… now!”

Fred choked on his juice. George gave a wheezy honk.

“Look at him,” Fred whispered.

George snorted.

Then, from above…

Thump.

Something dropped clean onto the High Table.

Murmurs rippled. A few students straight-up screamed.

Even McGonagall looked like she’d just seen a ghost sneeze on the floor. She stood slowly, eyes darting between the Hat and the crowd, wand already half-raised.

“What in Merlin’s name…? Why are you here?”

The Hat twitched. It coughed, then again. A thick puff of dust blew out of its brim, like it hadn’t spoken since before the Statute of Secrecy.

“By ancient charter,” it said, “a Sorting may be challenged only under rare and dire circumstances.”

The Hat cleared its nonexistent throat again, louder this time.

“When courage itself protests the path I chose, when house hearts change, and the lion flees his pride, then the castle listens.”

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed.

The Hat, meanwhile, was fully into its moment.

“If an overwhelming number of students reject my decision, visibly, intentionally, then by old accord, the school will allow a period of open re-sorting. Until then, any student wishing to sit with their preferred house may do so freely.”

It paused dramatically, letting the words settle.

“And it appears…” the Hat turned, eyeholes scanning the chaos of rainbow-haired students, “every single one of you has done so. House allegiance, by colour.”

“Oi!” someone from Slytherin shouted. “This is anarchy!”

“Best Friday of my life,” Fred muttered.

Draco Malfoy, scarlet curls blazing like a Weasley born wrong, shot to his feet and pointed at the hat like it had personally insulted his pedigree.

“I AM NOT A GRYFFINDOR!”

The entire hall went silent for half a beat. Someone snorted.

Draco kept flailing. “This is a prank! This… this isn’t legal! I demand a fix!”

The Hat didn’t even blink. “Your hair speaks your wish.”

“It does NOT!”

McGonagall gave him the flattest look in her arsenal. “Mr Malfoy, I suggest you sit. Preferably far from the Gryffindor table, before Mr Weasley tries to hug you.”

Ron had already started reaching.

Draco sat. Fast. Arms crossed.

The Twins were grinning so wide their faces hurt.

“Alright,” George said. “Re-sorting. Chaos. Identity crisis. So far, this prank’s done three years of therapy in ten minutes.”

Fred nudged him. “Think Professor R. planned this?”

George stared up at the ceiling. “Mate. He definitely planned this.”

A Hufflepuff girl with now blue hair, launched from her seat, grinning wildly. “I can finally sit with Ravenclaw?! Do you know how long I’ve been pretending to care about badgers?!”

“Oi, rude!” another Hufflepuff shouted.

Students stood, swapped benches, argued, hugged, shrieked. One Ravenclaw ran to the Slytherin table shouting, “I told you I wasn’t a bloody eagle!”

Some stayed put, too stunned to move. Others argued loudly, some insisting it was still a prank, others already halfway through reshuffling their morning friendships.

Fred, watching it all unfold, leaned over.

“We broke Hogwarts.”

George grinned. Staring at the mayhem.

“We might’ve fixed it.”

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep