The shop was calm for once.

It was mid-morning, and George was restocking the WonderWig shelf while Freya sat behind the counter, lazily flipping through a new supplier's catalogue, a cup of tea balanced on her knee. There was a rare lull between the chaos of joke prototypes and customers looking to prank their neighbours, and Freya cherished these pockets of stillness.

Then came the unmistakable flutter of wings at the shop window.

A snowy owl hovered impatiently, tapping the glass with a precise claw.

Freya blinked. "I know that handwriting..."

She opened the window, and the owl dropped the letter right into her lap with practiced grace. It didn't wait for a treat. Just shot her a look — stern, like it was passing judgment — and flew off.

George looked up from behind a stack of Extendable Ears. "That from home?"

Freya gave a soft groan as she unfolded the parchment. "Yep. My mum's handwriting. Very... final."

She began to read. Her eyes skimmed quickly, but halfway through, she let out a sputtered laugh, covering her mouth with her hand.

"What?" George walked over, brushing glitter off his jumper.

Freya didn't answer immediately. She leaned back in her chair, rereading the letter, this time slower. Her amused expression turned fond, then slightly nervous.

George raised an eyebrow. "You're doing that thing where you smile like someone just dared you to juggle fire."

She handed the parchment over.

George took it and read:

Freya Kalei Husniya Nolan,

Your father and I have given you more freedom than any parent in their right mind would, largely because we trust your judgment and — let's be honest — you've always done exactly as you pleased anyway.

However, now that you're living with a boy who runs a shop selling Skiving Snackboxes and furniture-eating fireworks, your father is growing grey hairs.

We would like to meet Mr. George Fabian Weasley. Formally. In daylight. Sober.

This is not a request.

We'd also appreciate it if he doesn't arrive covered in glitter, soot, or levitating pastries.

Tell him we know about the Fanged Fizzing Flapjacks. And we haven't forgotten the Canary Cream Incident.

Dinner. Our house. This weekend.

It would be better if he could stay with us, at our house, for a few days for careful examination and observation.

With firm affection,

Eleanor Ismat Nolan

George read it twice before letting out a stunned whistle. "Blimey. Your mum writes better threats than Mad Eye."

"I told you she was terrifying," Freya muttered.

"She wants me sober, clean, and punctual?"

Freya looked at him over her teacup. "And not responsible for any baked goods that bite."

At that moment, Fred popped his head down from the top of the stairs, holding a half-unwrapped Cauldron Cupcake. "Did someone say 'bite'? Is this about that flapjack again? Because I warned you not to enchant it with the hiccup hex and the fangs, mate."

George shot him a withering look. "This isn't about that. This is about your future sister-in-law's mother demanding I show up like some well-behaved, polished gentleman."

Fred gave a theatrical gasp and leaned dramatically against the bannister. "A gentleman? Oh, George, how will you survive? Should I dig out your one good jumper and hide the Puking Pastilles?"

"She said no glitter," George muttered, slumping onto the stool.

Fred's eyes lit up wickedly. "No glitter? That's half your personality, gone. What's left? Gingersnaps and existential dread?"

Freya snorted into her tea.

George dropped the letter onto the counter with a groan. "Do you think her dad still has that sword cane?"

"Yes," Freya replied flatly.

Fred leaned in, grinning. "Well then. It's been an honour, brother. I'll start planning the funeral. Should I go with a coffin-shaped joke box or one that explodes into confetti shaped like Freya's mum?"

Freya grinned and reached for George's hand. "Nah. You've survived product testing with Fred. My parents are practically cuddly by comparison."

George gave her a long, deeply skeptical look.

Fred, already halfway back up the stairs, called over his shoulder, "Try not to die, Georgie. I quite like you alive. You're easier to prank."

Freya just laughed.