Chapter Text
The familiar jingle of the shop door at Weasleys Wizard Wheezes was usually the sound of excited chatter and the occasional small explosion. Not today.
Today, Draco Malfoy was standing in their shop.
He wore expensive, dark green robes and an expression as if he accidentally wandered into a cowshed. His grey eyes swept over shelves full of puking pastilles and patented Daydream Charms.
“Malfoy.” Fred leaned casually against the till. “Lost? The jeweller’s is two streets down.”
Draco’s lip curled. “Charming. And here I thought shopkeepers were supposed to be pleasant to customers. Or do you treat everyone who walks in like an unwanted stray?”
“Only the ones who look like overgroomed Kneazles”, George said brightly.
Draco snorted. “I’m here because certain rumours suggest your products aren’t entirely useless. A claim I’m beginning to doubt already.”
George gasped theatrically,” Fred, did you hear that? That almost sounded like a compliment.” “I think he likes us,” Fred said, winking shamelessly at Draco, “Deep down in his tiny, icy, Slytherin heart.”
Draco’s ears went pink. Unmistakably, traitorously pink. He struck his chin up anyway, doing his level best to stare down his nose at them. A valiant effort, really, if only they weren’t both a head taller than him. “Don’t flatter yourselves. I like competent potioneering. You two just happen to have stumbled into it occasionally. Probably by accident.”
“We could teach you”, George said, stepping out from behind the counter. He circled Draco once, looking him up and down, far more slowly than necessary. “Private lessons. Very hands-on.”
“Hands-on?” Draco’s voice pitched slightly higher before he caught himself. He crossed his arms. “I’d rather learn from a Flobberworm. At least it wouldn’t talk.”
“but we’re so much prettier than a Flobberworm,” Fred said, moving closer now too, until they flanked Draco from both sides. “Go on, admit it.”
“Admit what? That you’re slightly less slimy than an invertebrate? The bar is on the floor, Weasley.”
Fred grinned. “he said we’re pretty.”
“I said no such thing.”
“You implied it,” George said. “That little frown you’re doing right now? The one where you’re trying very hard to look annoyed? My absolute favourite.”
Draco’s frown deepened, which only made George’s smile widen. “you’re both insufferable.”
“Insufferably charming”, Fred said.
“Insufferably persistent”, George added.
“and insufferably curious what you look like when you stop pretending, you’re not enjoying this”, Fred finished, leaning closer to Draco´s ear while nudging him playfully with his elbow.
Draco jerked away but didn’t actually step back. He glared at Fred. Then George. Then Fred again. “I don’t enjoy anything. I tolerate. There’s a difference. Though I wouldn’t expect either of you to grasp it with your combined attention span of a Niffler in a jewellery shop.”
“We’ve got a testing area out back,” George said, tilting his head toward the STAFF ONLY door. “Completely private.”
“We could show you our newest product,” Fred added.
“Or three.”
Draco looked at the door, then back at them, his eyes narrowed. “Right. Because following two known pranksters into a back room with no witnesses is exactly what they taught us in the basic self-preservation. I’ll pass.”
Fred clutched his chest. “You wound us.” “We’re harmless,” George said, spreading his hands with an angelic smile. ” Ask anyone.”
“I did,” Draco said flatly. “Three separate people told me not to drink anything you offered and to keep my wand drawn at all times. One of them was your own brother.”
“Percy doesn’t count”, Fred and George said in unison.
“Ron, actually”
The twins paused.
“Traitor,” George muttered.
“Disowned,” Fred agreed. Then he refocused on Draco with renewed determination. “Fine. You don’t trust us. Reasonable. Terrifyingly intelligent, really. So how about this—" He pulled his wand from his pocket, gave it a theatrical twirl, and placed it on the counter. "No wands. No tricks. Just us showing you the Skiving Snackbox prototype because we know you've been trying to reverse-engineer it for months, and frankly, watching you fail is getting sad."
Draco's jaw dropped slightly before he snapped it shut. "I have not been— that's absurd—" He stopped, because all three of them knew it wasn't absurd at all. His ears were practically scarlet now. "You're insufferable and delusional."
"And you're still standing here," George pointed out softly. "Haven't walked out. Haven't hexed us. Interesting, that.”
The silence stretched. Draco's fingers twitched at his side, and for a moment he looked genuinely caught, somewhere between wanting to storm out and something else entirely. Something that kept his feet planted firmly on their shop floor.
"If I come back there," he said slowly, "and a single thing explodes on me—"
"It won't," Fred promised.
"If anything changes colour that shouldn't—"
"Wouldn't dream of it," George said.
"If either of you so much as smirks in a way I find suspicious—"
"Impossible standard," Fred said. "We have naturally suspicious faces. It's our best feature."
"Your best feature is shutting up," Draco snapped. Then he exhaled through his nose, a sharp and irritated sound. "...Ten minutes. You get ten minutes. And I'm keeping my wand." "Wouldn't have it any other way," George said, and gestured grandly toward the door. "After you."
Draco didn't move. "No. In front of me. Where I can see both of you."
"Paranoid," Fred said approvingly.
"Paranoid, grumpy, and still here," George added, already heading toward the back. "We're growing on you, admit it."
"The way fungus grows on damp walls," Draco muttered, but he followed.
Fred watched them go, snatching his wand back from the counter. He caught George's eye over Draco's shoulder and mouthed something.
Ten minutes.
George's answering grin promised they'd make every second count.
The door clicked shut behind them with a soft, final sound that Draco did not appreciate at all.
The testing area was surprisingly organised for a pair of chaos demons, workbenches lined the walls, covered in neatly labelled jars and half-assembled contraptions. A single enchanted lamp hovered near the centre of the room, casting warm golden light over everything.
No ominous ticking. No suspicious bubbling. No visible trapdoors.
Draco hated it immediately. It was harder to justify paranoia when everything looked so reasonable.
"Well?" George spread his arms, still grinning. "This is it. The inner sanctum. Try to contain your awe."
"I'm containing it just fine," Draco said. He folded his arms tighter and scanned the ceiling for anything that looked like it might drop, splash, or explode. "Why is there a scorch mark on that beam?"
"Fred sneezed once while holding a prototype."
"That explains nothing."
"It wasn't meant to." Fred had already wandered over to a cluttered workbench and was rummaging through a drawer with the casual confidence of someone who had definitely rigged it to bite. Miraculously, it didn't. He pulled out a small, colour-shifting box no bigger than a Snitch.
"Here she is. The Mark IV. Nauseating Nougat, Fainting Fancies, and Fever Fudge all in one neat little package."
"We call her the Triple Threat," George added, leaning one hip against the workbench and crossing his ankles. "Catchy, right?"
"Catchy, dreadful, same thing." Draco didn't move from his spot near the door. His back was practically pressed to it. "You wanted to show me. I'm looking. From a perfectly safe distance."
George tilted his head. "That's not looking. That's loitering."
"I'm an excellent loiterer."
"You're also still standing by the exit," Fred observed. He had set the box down and was now leaning forward on his elbows, chin propped in both hands, watching Draco with an expression of unholy delight. "Are you planning to bolt? Because George will be very disappointed."
"Devastated," George confirmed. "Heartbroken. I'll have to close the shop for a week."
"The shop survived my absence for seventeen years," Draco said flatly. "It'll manage."
"Ah, but we didn't know what we were missing back then." Fred pushed himself off the workbench and started walking, not directly toward Draco, but at a lazy angle, hands in his pockets. "Now we do. And you're here. In our secret lair. Voluntarily."
"Under duress."
Fred stopped a few feet away, tilting his head. "You know, for someone who walked in here of his own free will, you're remarkably committed to the hostage narrative."
"Hostages don't get a choice. I'm exercising mine. From here."
George had started drifting closer too, mirroring his twin's casual approach. "What exactly are you afraid of? It's nougat. Worst case scenario, you vomit. We provide buckets. Very clean buckets. Charming aesthetic."
"I'm not afraid," Draco snapped. "I'm sensibly cautious. There's a difference. Though I wouldn't expect either of you to grasp it, given that 'caution' isn't in your vocabulary."
"Actually, we're very cautious," Fred said. "Test everything on ourselves first. George spent a whole Tuesday as a canary last month. Very dedicated to the craft."
"How reassuring. The canary anecdote really tips the scales."
George had stopped about three feet away, closer than Fred, but still leaving a clear path to the door. He didn't push further. Just stood there, hands in his pockets, head tilted. "Alright. So what would tip the scales? Because you're still here, which means something's keeping you. What is it? Genuine curiosity? Our dazzling personalities? The way Fred's left ear goes red when he's excited?"
"It does not," Fred said.
"It absolutely does. Look, it's doing it now."
Draco's gaze flicked to Fred's ear before he could stop himself. It was, in fact, slightly red. He looked away immediately, jaw tight. "I don't care about his ear."
"Then what?" George asked. No teasing now — well, less teasing. Just a question, genuinely curious.
The silence stretched.
Draco's fingers dug into his own arms where they were crossed. He looked at the box on the workbench. At the scorch mark on the beam. At the lamp floating gently overhead. Anywhere but at them. "I want to know how you stabilised the Fever Fudge variant," he said finally, the words dragged out of him like a confession. "The standard recipe causes temperature spikes. Dangerous ones. Yours doesn't. I've tested it. Extensively."
The twins exchanged a glance. Something flickered between them, surprise, maybe, or reassessment.
"You've been testing our products," Fred said slowly. "Properly testing them. Not just reverse-engineering."
"Don't sound so touched. It's research."
"It's flattery," George said, and his voice had gone oddly soft. "You, Draco Malfoy, admitting we did something right. We should frame this moment."
"Put it in a vial," Fred agreed. "Preserve it forever."
"I will walk out that door," Draco warned.
"No you won't." George smiled, but it wasn't sharp anymore. It was almost gentle. "Because we haven't answered your question yet. And you really want to know."
Draco's eyes narrowed. His shoulders were still rigid. His spine could have been used as a ruler. But his feet stayed planted.
"...Fine. One answer. And I'm still not trying the nougat."
"Wouldn't dream of asking," Fred said.
"Yet," George added.
"Yet?" Draco's voice pitched up indignantly.
"Yet," the twins said in perfect unison, matching grins sliding back into place.
Draco made a sound of pure disgust. "You're impossible. Both of you. I came here for one specific piece of information, which you have just admitted you possess, and you're going to stand there grinning like... like..."
"Like what?" Fred prompted. "Take your time. We're not going anywhere."
"Like garden gnomes. Smug, ginger garden gnomes who've been dropped on their heads."
"Harsh," George said, not looking remotely wounded. "But we've been called worse. Mostly by our mother."
"Rightfully so." Draco's fingers were twitching at his sides now, a sure sign that his patience was fraying at the edges. "The stabilisation agent. What is it? Powdered moonstone? Diluted essence of feverfew? Something boringly sensible that I'll kick myself for not thinking of?"
"Interesting guesses," Fred said, wandering back toward the workbench. He picked up the Triple Threat box and turned it over in his hands, utterly unhurried. "Wrong, but interesting."
"Then tell me the right one."
"Hmm." Fred tapped his chin with the box. "No, I don't think I will."
Draco blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You heard him," George said. He had settled himself onto a stool near the bench, one leg drawn up, watching the exchange like a spectator at a particularly entertaining Quidditch match. "He doesn't think he will."
"That's not— you can't just—" Draco sputtered, his composure cracking for the first time. "You said if I came back here you'd show me the prototype!"
"And we did." Fred held up the box. "Behold. The prototype."
"I meant the formula!"
"Did you specify the formula? I don't recall you specifying the formula. George, do you recall him specifying the formula?"
"Absolutely not," George said solemnly. "His exact words were, and I quote, 'Fine. You get ten minutes. And I'm keeping my wand.' Nothing about formulas. Very specific about the wand part, though. We respected that entirely."
"I will hex you." Draco had gone very still, which was somehow more threatening than shouting. "I will hex you so thoroughly that Madam Pomfrey will need a map and a sherpa to find all the pieces."
"Promises, promises," Fred sighed. He set the box down and leaned back against the workbench, crossing his arms. "Look, Malfoy. You waltz into our shop after years of mutual loathing—"
"Loathing is a strong word."
"Mutual strong distaste," George amended helpfully.
"—and expect us to hand over trade secrets just because you batted your eyelashes and said please?"
"I did not bat my eyelashes!"
"You didn't say please either," George pointed out. "Which, frankly, hurt. Our mother raised us to expect basic manners."
"Your mother," Draco ground out, "raised a pair of absolute menaces to polite society."
"She did her best. We were just gifted." George's grin hadn't dimmed. "Tell you what. You want the secret? Earn it."
The word landed in the silence like a dropped pin.
Draco's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Earn it how?"
Fred and George exchanged another one of those maddening telepathic glances. Something passed between them, some silent negotiation, and then they both turned back to Draco with expressions that were identically, terrifyingly angelic.
"We'll answer a question," Fred said, "for every question you answer."
"Truthful answers only," George added. "We'll know if you're lying. We have an excellent nose for bullshit. Occupational hazard."
"Absolutely not." Draco's refusal was instantaneous and emphatic. "I am not playing some deranged truth-or-dare with the two of you in a windowless room."
"There's a window." Fred pointed. "Right there. Small one. Has bars on it, admittedly, but—"
"That's not the point!"
"Then what is the point?" George slid off his stool and took a few steps closer, not crowding this time, just... present. Curious. "You're clearly desperate for this information. You've been trying to crack it for months. You walked into enemy territory and voluntarily followed us into a back room. Whatever this is, it matters to you." He stopped, tilting his head. "So why does Draco Malfoy care so much about a Weasley product?"
"It's not about the product," Draco said through gritted teeth. "It's about the principle. I refuse to be outdone by—"
He caught himself. Too late. His mouth snapped shut.
Fred's eyebrows had climbed toward his hairline. "By us? Is that what you were going to say?"
"No."
"Liar," George said, but it sounded almost fond. "You were absolutely going to say 'by you.' You can't stand that we made something you can't copy."
"That's not— it's not about you specifically—"
"Flattery," Fred said. "More flattery. He's obsessed with us, George."
"I am not obsessed—"
"Relax." George had moved again, drifting just near enough to reach out and flick a non-existent piece of lint from Draco's shoulder. Draco flinched but held his ground.
"We're flattered. Really. It's not every day the most stubborn Slytherin in Britain admits we've got him stumped."
"I admitted nothing of the sort."
"You didn't have to. You're here." George's voice dropped, just slightly. "That's enough."
Something shifted in Draco's expression. Frustration, still, but layered with something else. Something that looked almost like bewilderment. As though he couldn't quite work out how he'd ended up here, cornered not by hexes but by gentle teasing and too-close proximity and the absolute refusal of these two idiots to treat him like an enemy.
"One question," he said finally, the words dragged out of him. "Each. That's all you get. And if I don't like the question, I reserve the right to walk out."
Fred beamed. "Now we're getting somewhere."
"Don't push your luck."
"Wouldn't dream of it." Fred pulled up another stool, spun it around, and sat on it backwards, arms folded over the top. "Ladies first. George?"
George didn't sit. He stayed standing, close enough that Draco had to look up slightly to meet his eyes. His expression had gone thoughtful, the teasing edge temporarily banked.
"Alright," he said. "Here's mine. When you were testing our products, the ones you admitted to earlier, what was the first one you actually enjoyed? Not respected. Not found academically interesting. Enjoyed."
Draco stared at him. His mouth opened, then closed.
"That's..." He stopped. Swallowed. "That's a ridiculous question."
"Is it?" George's gaze was steady. "I don't think it is."
Silence. The lamp flickered slightly overhead. Fred, for once, said nothing at all.
"I don't know," Draco said finally. His voice was quieter now, the sharp edges worn down. "The Daydream Charms, maybe. The one with the ocean. It was... adequate."
"Adequate," George repeated. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "High praise."
"It was thirty minutes of not thinking about anything. That's not praise. That's a basic observation."
"Sounded like praise to me." Fred's voice was gentle now too. "Sounded like you needed those thirty minutes."
Draco's jaw tightened. "That's two observations. You only get one question. My turn."
"Fair enough." Fred spread his hands. "Ask away."
"The stabilisation agent." Draco's eyes were sharp again, focused. "At least tell me if I'm in the right potion family. Mineral or botanical?"
Fred and George looked at each other.
"That's cheating," George said.
"It's a parameter question. Not the actual ingredient."
"He has a point," Fred admitted reluctantly. "Fine. Botanical. Happy now?"
"Not remotely. It narrows it down to about forty possibilities." But something in Draco's posture had relaxed, just a fraction. He'd gotten something. Not much, but something. "Your turn. One more question. Make it count."
Fred leaned forward on his stool, chin resting on his folded arms. His eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was something underneath it , something curious and maybe even a little tender.
"Okay," he said. "Why are you really still here, Draco? And don't say the formula. That's what got you through the door. It's not what's keeping you."
Draco went very still.
The lamp flickered again. From somewhere in the shop, muffled by the closed door, came the distant sound of the front bell jingling, a customer, maybe, wandering into the empty storefront. None of them moved to answer it.
"That's not a fair question," Draco said quietly.
"Never said I played fair." Fred didn't look away. "Neither do you, from what I remember."
The silence stretched.
"I don't know," Draco said at last, and this time it sounded less like evasion and more like a genuine admission. "I don't know why I'm still here. It's certainly not for the scintillating conversation."
"Ouch," George murmured.
"Or the décor."
"The décor is excellent, actually—"
"Or the company." But Draco's voice caught on the last word, just slightly, and the twins noticed. Of course they noticed. They noticed everything.
Fred smiled, a real smile, not the sharp teasing grin from before. "Well," he said, "we're glad you stayed anyway. Even if you are a grumpy, paranoid disaster of a human being."
"The grumpiest," George agreed. "The paranoid-est."
"I'm leaving."
"No you're not."
Draco didn't move toward the door. He didn't move at all. He just stood there, arms crossed, ears pink, looking thoroughly furious about absolutely everything including, possibly, the fact that he was still there.
"...You still haven't told me the ingredient," he muttered.
"We know," the twins said together.
And grinned.