Just a reminder, chapters with (Read After) at the end are side chapters, often related to the plot, or sometimes just fun, standalone chapters.

—

The chaos that followed Hat’s announcement was delicious, if the chef had a taste for absolute anarchy and a loose grip on health regulations.

Students wandered halls aimlessly. No one knew where they belonged. Common rooms refused them like picky bouncers at a club. The Ravenclaws got kicked out of their tower. A Gryffindor first year reportedly cried outside the Fat Lady’s portrait for fifteen minutes, begging to be let back in. She didn’t even blink.

Fred was in tears by the time they reached Charms… “Look at this,” he said, waving at a group of second-years clustered helplessly in the corridor. “Like confused ducklings.”

George leaned against the doorframe. “Is it wrong that I feel proud?”

“Yes,” Fred grinned. “Very. You should feel honoured.”

McGonagall had been spotted no fewer than three times with her hands in her hair. Professor Sprout was trying to barter with the Hufflepuff entrance. Flitwick just levitated above the mess and pretended it was someone else’s problem.

It got bad enough that Dumbledore had to gather everyone in the Great Hall again. All houses. All years. Even Peeves showed up, drifting over the chandeliers and practically drooling.

Fred and George squeezed into a spot near the centre. The Hat sat on a small stool up front, smug as anything.

Dumbledore looked at the twins. Then at the rest of the students. Then back at the twins again.

“If the chief of this prank steps forward and admits, there will be no further questioning,” he said. “So long as you reverse it.”

Fred stared at the ceiling. George rubbed at his nose as if it could physically push time backward. They looked everywhere except Dumbledore.

Yeah, right.

Even if they wanted to own up, and let’s be clear, they didn’t, there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in Knockturn they could reverse it. The colour magic alone was volatile, and the enchantment tied to the Hat? They had no idea what was going on.

A murmur ran through the hall. A few hands twitched like they might rise, but none did.

Dumbledore turned to the Hat. “Can you cancel the house reshuffling?”

The Hat tilted its brim in something close to a shrug. “My fabrics are tied as well.”

Dumbledore sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and looked out over the sea of technicolour hair and chaos.

“Classes are cancelled for the day. Tonight, there will be a resorting.”

That got groans and wild cheers. Someone shouted, “Do we still get lunch?” No answer.

“Until then,” Dumbledore added, “your hair colour is your new house.”

Fred and George didn’t wait. They were already halfway to the dungeons before anyone noticed.

***

“Mate,” Fred said as they stepped through the Slytherin common room entrance, “this is… this is classy.”

The green-glass windows, the stone archways, the dim lighting that somehow made everything look suspiciously expensive, it all screamed secret rich people club.

George let out a low whistle. “I feel like we’ve broken into the underground lair of a Dark Lord.”

A second-year Slytherin boy glared at them from the armchair.

Fred waved. “Alright, fellow snakes. Don’t mind us. Just here to reevaluate our life choices.”

They wandered deeper, passing a pair of Hufflepuffs who looked like they were still processing their existence. One had a pillow clutched to his chest like a security blanket. A Ravenclaw sat near the fireplace, quietly taking notes about the room layout.

Their dorm door was already marked. Neat little plaque, their names on it. Magic worked fast.

They pushed inside and found their trunks already stacked at the foot of two sleek, green-canopied beds.

Fred looked around. “I feel like we should be plotting a coup.”

George opened his trunk, pulled out the black book from underneath a few pairs of socks and one suspiciously rattling box.

He flipped it open.

The second page was there now.

Congratulations.

Fred squinted at the page. The ink shifted.

“I probably laughed myself to death seeing all of your faces,” George read aloud, deadpan. “So RIP to me.”

Fred squinted. “He better mean that figuratively.”

They both went quiet.

Fred leaned back, rubbing his knuckle against his cheek. “Reckon he’d have loved it.”

“Course he would’ve.” George closed the book halfway. “No one else has the range to summon the Sorting Hat like it’s stage crew.”

Fred flicked the book back open. “We should’ve heard him laugh.”

George didn’t say anything. Just nudged the book so the page turned.

For your second task…

They leaned in.

“He can’t be serious, can he?” Fred asked, staring at the second page, wondering if he forgot how to read.

George gulped. “I don’t know, but if we pull this off… we’re legends.”

***

Fred nearly brained himself on the underside of the desk for the sixth time. George was face-down in a pile of failed parchment, most of which had been cursed at least once. Two were still smoking faintly.

“This is cursed,” George muttered into the desk. “The book’s cursed. We’re cursed. Everything’s cursed.”

“Except Professor R.,” Fred groaned, holding up a scorched map with one finger. “He’s probably in a cave somewhere, laughing his smug socks off.”

They’d tried every variant of the second task they could think of, hexes, charms, one frankly questionable transfiguration involving a meat pie, but the book remained obstinately stubborn. Every time they thought they’d nailed it, the page would curl inwards and spit back a passive-aggressive puff of red ink.

By the eighth fail, they’d started pulling favours.

Katie Bell lent them a charmed quill. Didn’t help.

Lee Jordan offered backup distractions, three, actually, and nearly got caught by Snape in the process.

Hermione, now settled in the Hufflepuff common room like it was a punishment detail, had been the most useful. Not because she supported them, she didn’t, but because she kept muttering things like, “You’re doing the spatial enchantment backwards, you plonkers,” which was helpful, even if insulting.

Neville tried. He really did. He offered a plant.

It exploded.

Luna, floating cheerfully among Gryffindor with her red hair, handed them a jar of moon snails “for alignment.” They weren’t sure what it meant, but the snails were delightful and somehow mildly threatening.

Ginny, newly Ravenclaw’d and loving it, had given them her notes from Cassian’s class. The margins were filled with questionable doodles, but they worked out one charm-loop they’d overlooked.

Even Ron helped. Grudgingly. “Don’t tell Mum.”

The odd bit? A Slytherin helped too. Tall, sharp-nosed, probably regretted it instantly. Didn’t say a word after dropping off the runic cipher they’d been stuck on. Fred tried to offer thanks.

The bloke had vanished.

By the time they reached attempt eleven, Fred was ready to throw the book in the Black Lake and let the mermaids sort it.

Then, out of nowhere, literally, because it wasn’t there a second ago, a small brass key appeared on the corner of the desk.

George spotted it first. “That yours?”

Fred shook his head.

They exchanged a look.

With only that, they completed the task.

Didn’t know how. Didn’t even get a confirmation glow or a smug note from the book this time.

Then the castle rumbled.

Fred fell off his chair. George grabbed the book before it slid off the desk. Down the corridor, someone shouted about the floor moving. A portrait fell sideways and began cursing in 16th-century French.

“Think we’ve made it worse,” George muttered.

Fred peeked up from behind the desk. “Define ‘again.'”

Within minutes, the entire student body was crammed into the Great Hall. Everyone talking over everyone else, plates clinking, a few people in slippers and dressing gowns.

Above them, the ceiling flickered between sunny and thunderstorm, even the sky couldn’t decide how to feel about it all.

Fred ended up wedged between a second-year Slytherin who looked like she wanted to hex everyone in arm’s reach, and a Hufflepuff who kept humming nervously. Across from him, George was flanked by two Ravenclaws deep in a philosophical argument about magical identity and inter-house social constructs.

“What happened?” Flitwick asked sharply amidst the hush a few of the more panicked whispers.

They didn’t have to wait long.

The four House ghosts drifted down through the ceiling.

“House Heads have shifted?” Bloody Baron asked, looking at Dumbledore.

All eyes turned to the staff table.

Dumbledore, to his credit, didn’t blink. But he was frowning now. “Not with my permission.”

That hung there a beat.

The Fat Friar hovered above McGonagall, peering down, peering down as if rereading a contract. “Deputy Head is now the Hufflepuff House Head.”

That sentence alone nearly started a riot.

Fred’s head whipped round. “What?”

George blinked. “Hang on, she’s what now?”

It didn’t stop there.

“Flitwick was now Slytherin’s. Sprout Ravenclaw’s.”

“And Snape…” The Baron turned toward Gryffindor table, eyes glowing faintly beneath his helm. “…has been marked for Gryffindor.”

Silence.

Stone-heavy silence.

Snape’s jaw clicked shut like a trap. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t look at anyone.

Fred leaned slowly towards George. “We did not do that.”

George, blinking hard, whispered back, “I think we summoned something evil.”

Fred was already sliding lower in his seat. “If Snape gives us house points, I’m not taking them.”

“He won’t,” George whispered back. “We are Slytherins now.”

Fred clutched his face. “I never dreamed I’d feel relieved to be a snake.”

Back at the staff table, McGonagall’s hands were white-knuckled around her teacup.

Fred risked a glance at Harry.

He looked like someone had just handed him a live blast-ended skrewt and asked him to raise it as his own.

Draco, meanwhile, was quietly being dragged down into his seat by Blaise Zabini, who looked equal parts horrified and delighted.

The Bloody Baron hovered back, gaze still on Dumbledore.

Dumbledore’s frown deepened. He pushed back his chair and rose, “Please see to the students. No one is to leave the Great Hall.”

The other professors stirred, but he was already moving, beckoning the newly reshuffled House Heads and Lupin to follow. The murmur of confused students swelling behind them until the doors swung shut.

Inside his office, McGonagall’s jaw was set tight. “Albus. What in Merlin’s name is going on?”

The old man sighed. “I believe this is Sirius Black.”

Sprout gasped, hand flying to her mouth. Flitwick’s brows drew tight. Snape’s eyes narrowed to slits.

“Can he do such a thing?” Sprout whispered.

Dumbledore shook his head. “He and James were very clever. And I am afraid these pranks bear his signature.”

Lupin bit the inside of his cheek. He wanted to say no, it wasn’t bloody Sirius Black. Sirius was curled up in the Shrieking Shack, halfway through a loaf of bread and too sleep-deprived to plot anything more elaborate than not falling off the sofa. But he couldn’t say that.

Instead, he said, “Where are Professors Rosier and Babbling? I don’t believe they quit.”

***

In the Great Hall, the twins were still seated dead centre, hands folded like model students amidst the wreckage of their prank.

Fred looked up, half-hopeful. “Reckon they’ve decided to just expel us and get it over with?”

George scanned the crowd. “Nah. If they were going to, they’d have done it by now. Publicly.”

“I think we overdid it this time,” Fred muttered.

George didn’t even argue.

Dumbledore stepped in again.

The hall quieted as they walked the length of the room.

Dumbledore stopped at the end of the table. No smile this time. Just tired eyes behind the glasses.

“Given tonight’s… exceptional circumstances, all students will remain in the Great Hall until morning.”

“What?!”

“You’re joking.”

“Do we have to sleep here?”

Dumbledore raised a hand. The room hushed.

“Your Heads of House will ensure each year group is given space. Cots will be provided. Food will continue to be served.”

Someone in the back shouted, “But what about the toilets?!”

A faint cough. “We have enchanted screens. And corridors will be monitored. Prefects, assist where needed.”

The professors moved to their respective ends of the table, none of them looking particularly pleased.

Dumbledore turned to leave again, then froze.

Because right there, with a puff of coloured smoke and the faint scent of burnt ink, two figures appeared at the centre of the staff table.

Cassian. And Bathsheda.

Alive. Whole. And absolutely ridiculous.

Their hair was split clean into four stripes, red, green, yellow, blue, like someone had diced the Hogwarts crest and dumped it on their scalps.

Gasps echoed through the hall. Someone shrieked. A second-year fainted. Dumbledore stopped mid-step, blinked, and said nothing.

Cassian stepped forward, brushing invisible ash off his sleeve. “Evening.”

Silence.

You could feel the collective intake of air.

Fred clapped a hand over his face.

George whispered, “He did plan it. He actually, he, he’s alive and he pranked the entire school.”

McGonagall made a noise in her throat that might’ve been a curse. Or a prayer. Possibly both.

Cassian glanced at her. “Before you transfigure me into a hatstand, may I point out I technically never resigned.”

Bathsheda folded her arms. “Neither did I. Though I did almost curse your hair off.”

“Deserved,” Cassian said, unbothered.

Dumbledore finally found his voice. “Would you care to explain?”

Cassian grinned. “April Fools, fools.”

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