The early morning still clung to the sky, the soft light of dawn barely breaching the fog that rolled gently across the hills. Inside the Burrow, all was silent—until a sudden, thunderous pounding erupted against Fred and George Weasley's door.
George groaned and rolled over, burying his face deeper into the pillow. "What in Merlin's holy backside—?"
The pounding continued, insistent and unrelenting.
George cracked an eye open and cursed under his breath. "Who in the name of Circe wakes people this early on a holiday?"
Fred, snoring gently a moment before, gave a sudden snort and shifted. George, fed up, kicked him. "Oi! Door! Go deal with it."
Fred mumbled, half-dreaming. "Tell Mum it's too early for...beetle eyes…"
George kicked harder. "Get. The. Door."
With a dramatic groan worthy of a tragic play, Fred flopped out of bed and shuffled toward the door, his hair a mess and his pajama shirt twisted halfway around him.
"I swear," Fred grumbled, "if it's Percy with another schedule or Mum wanting help with the chickens…"
He yanked the door open—and came face to face with a small, determined figure.
"Ginny?" he blinked. "What in the name of flying flobberworms are you doing up? Sun's barely up!"
Ginny had her arms crossed, her eyes gleaming with purpose. "You promised me flying lessons."
Fred leaned against the doorframe. "Yeah, later. When the world's awake."
"No," Ginny snapped. "We have to take the broom from the shed before Mum finds it. You know she'll hide it again. So we do it now."
Behind Fred, George groaned from the bed. "Tell her we're unconscious!"
Fred opened his mouth to refuse again when Ginny leaned in and said very sweetly, "Are you going to get up, or should I go tell Percy who really stole his rat?"
Fred's eyes went wide.
"You wouldn't dare," George shouted from the bed, now fully awake.
Ginny smirked. "Try me."
There was a moment of stunned silence before Fred turned around and said with quiet despair, "She's got us."
"I hate being blackmailed before breakfast," George muttered, throwing the covers off.
Within minutes, the twins were dressed in their flying jackets, hair tousled and eyes half-shut. They crept through the Burrow with the caution of trained burglars. From the kitchen, they could hear the clatter of pots—Molly Weasley, already hard at work. That meant they had to be very quiet.
George pointed to the back door, mouthing silently, Shed.
Fred nodded, tiptoeing like a spy in a play.
Ginny was the one to nudge open the broom cupboard. It gave a soft creak that made all three of them freeze like deer in wandlight.
After a heartbeat, no shout came from the kitchen.
They eased the old Cleansweep out—worn, well-used, but still fast enough for learning—and slipped outside into the open morning air.
They didn't stop until they'd reached the far edge of the Burrow's property, just before the orchard began. It was far enough to stay out of view, with an open stretch of grass wide enough for broom practice.
Fred yawned and plopped down on the grass. "Right, Ginny. Show us what you've got."
Ginny stood proudly, clutching the broom in both hands. "You promised to teach me."
"And teach you we will," George said, trying to stifle another yawn. "Step one: mounting the broom. Put your dominant foot forward. No, the other dominant foot."
Fred chuckled. "She's already got better form than Ron."
Ginny scowled. "Don't compare me to Ron."
They spent the next fifteen minutes guiding her—how to tilt, when to lean forward, and how to grip without over-squeezing.
To their surprise, Ginny caught on fast.
"She's a natural," George said as Ginny zipped forward, turning midair in a clean loop and laughing with delight.
"Don't let her get a taste for this," Fred warned jokingly. "Mum'll have us by the ears if she breaks a toe."
"I'm not going to fall!" Ginny shouted from above.
"That's what Charlie said before he broke his nose on the chicken coop," Fred called back.
Ginny rolled her eyes but kept flying, weaving around the low apple trees with the determination of someone who had dreamed of this moment for years.
George nudged Fred. "Worth losing sleep?"
Fred smiled as Ginny landed with a perfect, if slightly wobbly, dismount. "Yeah," he said, clapping. "Yeah, definitely worth it."
Ginny beamed, brushing wind-swept hair from her face. " After breakfast?"
"Maybe," George said. "Depends on how much blackmail material you stock up."
Ginny gave them a mischievous grin. "Don't worry. I always keep receipts."
They laughed, the early morning sun warming the fields as the wind carried Ginny's laughter high into the sky. Unbeknownst to them, the day ahead would change far more than just flying lessons.
The breakfast table at the Burrow was a lively affair as always—but today, a thread of tension buzzed underneath the clatter of spoons and the sizzle of sausages. Percy Weasley sat stiffly, his toast untouched and his teacup steaming as he lamented—yet again—the mysterious disappearance of his beloved pet rat, Scabbers.
"I just don't understand it," Percy sighed dramatically, rubbing his temples. "He's never gone missing before. I always lock the cage, always double-check. And now, just before I return to Hogwarts, he's vanished without a trace!"
Fred rolled his eyes behind his teacup. "Maybe he finally escaped your lectures."
George coughed to cover a laugh, but Percy's eyes narrowed sharply.
"I know it was you two," Percy said, jabbing a finger toward the twins. "You've been acting suspicious for days, and no one else has a motive."
Arthur, seated at the head of the table, raised a hand calmly. "Now, now, Percy. Let's be reasonable. Fred, George—did either of you take Scabbers?"
"Absolutely not," Fred said with faux innocence, buttering his toast with unusual care.
George nodded solemnly. "We're innocent. This time."
Percy scoffed. "You two would absolutely steal my pet if you thought you could transfigure him or test one of your ridiculous concoctions."
Molly frowned from the stove. "Boys, tell me truthfully—Scabbers isn't hidden in one of your prank kits, is he?"
Fred and George exchanged a glance—one of those silent twin exchanges—and then Fred replied smoothly, "We have no idea where your beloved rodent is, Mum. Honest."
But as the conversation dragged on, it became increasingly clear that something was off. The twins barely ate, their gazes flitting repeatedly to the window, their expressions far too gleeful for a morning shrouded in accusations.
Charlie leaned forward, eyebrow raised. "Alright, what's going on with you two? You look like you just won the Quidditch World Cup."
Bill, who had just returned for the holidays, glanced between them with a smirk. "It's the same look they had when they replaced my shampoo with green slime in third year. Plotting something, are we?"
Fred only smiled wider and shook his head. "Just enjoying the view."
At the third-floor window, Ginny Weasley stood on tiptoe, her face pressed to the cold glass as she watched her brothers slip out the back door. Her sharp eyes tracked them across the yard as they crept toward the shed—Dad's shed, filled with Muggle knick-knacks and forbidden curiosities. She saw them go inside and return a few minutes later carrying something metallic. A cage.
Her heart thumped with suspicion.
"They're up to something," Ginny muttered. "And I'm going to find out what."
Moments later, Ginny had snuck out the front door with the stealth of a seasoned cat burglar. The cold air bit at her cheeks, but she ignored it as she crept toward the shed. Before going far, she doubled back to the tool rack and quietly pulled out the broomstick she'd flown on before.
"If they think I'm not getting more flying lessons," she muttered, "they're barking."
Tucking the broom beneath her arm, Ginny slinked around the edge of the garden wall, eyes locked on her brothers and the mysterious cage now resting under an old canvas tarp near the orchard. They're hiding something. And Ginny Weasley had no intention of being left out of the secret.
Ginny crept carefully behind her brothers, her footsteps muffled against the frost-bitten grass. The twins were far too distracted to notice they were being followed—again. She had learned the art of stealth from years of dodging pranks, chasing gnomes, and sneaking into her brothers' rooms. But this time, her curiosity burned hotter than ever.
Fred and George didn't go beyond the Burrow's protective boundaries often, especially not this early in the morning. As they crossed through the last edge of the wards and onto the narrow dirt road, Ginny crouched behind a hedgerow, her breath forming pale clouds in the crisp winter air.
Then came the bang.
Ginny gasped and instinctively ducked lower as a triple-decker, violently purple bus appeared out of thin air, skidding slightly before coming to a screeching halt just ahead of the twins. Her heart leapt in her chest.
The Knight Bus!
She'd heard of it—everyone in the magical world had—but she'd never seen it in person. Mum had once told her it was mostly used by witches and wizards in emergencies or those without the luxury of fireplaces or Floo Powder. Dad had chuckled and added that Muggleborns like Professor Scripps or Mad-Eye's friend Mugglebones were known to ride it often.
But seeing it… was something else entirely. The massive bus towered over everything, its windows glowing faintly and doors creaking open with a hiss. Ginny's eyes widened as she peeked around the hedge. When the bus departed with another bang, a lone figure remained standing in the road where it had dropped him off.
Tall—almost the same height as her brothers—with a deep hood drawn over his head, the stranger carried a suitcase in one hand and had a broomstick strapped across his back.
Ginny frowned. Is this who Fred and George were meeting? A friend of theirs? A fellow prankster?
She crept closer, her fingers gripping the worn handle of the old broom she'd borrowed from the shed. But in her eagerness, her foot landed on a brittle stick with a sharp snap.
Fred spun instantly. "Ginny?! What are you doing here?"
She straightened slowly, biting her lip, caught in the act. "I… I was just coming to ask for more flying lessons," she said, trying her best to sound innocent.
George groaned, rubbing his face. "You followed us? Seriously?"
"She won't say anything," Fred said quickly, turning to the stranger. "That's our sister. She's curious about everything, but she can keep her mouth shut."
The hooded boy remained still for a heartbeat, then slowly extended his hand. One of the twins passed him a small, unbreakable cage—inside was Percy's rat, twitching nervously.
Ginny peered inside. Scabbers? That was the whole secret? They were meeting a stranger to sell Scabbers?
The boy tucked the cage under his arm, then withdrew a wand from his coat sleeve. The twins leaned in, curious.
"What are you going to do?" Fred asked, clearly eager.
"A little test," the boy said in a calm, confident voice. He pointed his wand at the rat and muttered an incantation under his breath.
A faint golden glow shimmered around the rodent's tiny body—and then, unmistakably, the glow pulsed with the shape of a human form curled within. Ginny gasped.
"What does that mean?" she whispered.
"He's special," the boy said, laughing softly. "Gotcha."
George whistled. "And here we thought he was just an unusually ugly rat."
The boy turned slightly, opening his suitcase on the ground. "Your part of the deal."
Inside the magically expanded suitcase were three owls—one large, majestic barn owl and two smaller owlets, fluffed up and blinking sleepily.
"Oh!" Ginny squeaked, stepping forward. "They're adorable!"
"Do you want one too?" the boy asked with a smirk.
She flushed. "I—what? I don't—!"
"I'm kidding," he added, chuckling, and handed Fred and George the owls. "The big one's for Percy. These two are yours."
He then reached into his suitcase and produced a large box. "Also, chocolates. Thank you—for your cooperation."
Fred grinned. "Now that's how you make a deal."
The boy's gaze fell on Ginny's broomstick. "You're teaching her how to fly on that?"
Fred scratched the back of his neck. "We're not exactly rich. That's what we've got."
The boy rolled his eyes. "I just bought a new broom. If you want, I'll send you my old one—it's still a decent model."
George didn't even try to hide his excitement. "We want. We definitely want."
"Wait!" Fred said, holding up a hand. "We never even asked your name last time. Who are you?"
The boy hesitated for a beat, then reached up and pulled back his hood.
A gust of wind blew across the open road, parting his wild, jet-black hair just enough to reveal the unmistakable lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. Behind round glasses, his emerald green eyes gleamed beneath the morning sun.
"I'm Harry Potter."