#because she accidentally claimed to be a prophet and later accepted some gifts from a prioress on behalf of a refugee camp.

[unopenablebox]

instead of finishing either of my existing wip fanfictions for this exchange. i have begun a new fanfiction. about the protagonist being caught in a power struggle between rival factions of the church

[huntertales]

Let’s Write a Different Ending: Chapter Six.

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Prophet!Reader

Word Count: 4,891. // Episode Setting: Sympathy for the Devil

Summary: What if the “Supernatural” book series wasn’t written by Chuck Shurley? Instead, by a young woman named Y/N Y/L/N? She finds herself living out her most recent story—about the end of the world, an archangel whose sworn to protect her is moonlighting as a trickster and two fictional characters by the name of Sam and Dean are about to drag her straight into it. (Semi-rewrite from episode 4.18 “The Monster at the End of This Book” to—?)

Previous Part | Full Masterlist

Every writer, no matter how big or small in popularity, had their dedicated fanbase. It seemed your kind of fans ranged from those who enjoyed the first book and stuck around to read the rest until its end, to those who made it an underground cult classic. They loved everything about the "Supernatural" universe beyond the text. You were known to skim through a few of yourself when you were a bit bored and decided to search up fansites to see how people were liking the books and their theories about what was to come. Most of the stories you came across were harmless and even written so well that at times you felt like you were being put to shame from how talented they were. They made up different hunts for the boys to partake in with familiar monsters. And then there were the...not so innocent ones you accidentally stumbled on. Stories that made you internally cringe. But, hey. To each their own.

You might not be popular as some people like Stephen King and J.K. Rowling, but you had a fanbase that loved your work...back when you thought it was fiction. While you saw people embrace the books in their own special way, there was one person that rose above them all. Who declared herself as your number one fan: Becky Rosen. She was a sweet girl who spent her free time writing letters to you while you were still publishing books under the name she presumed was real. And belonging to a man. At first, the letters started off like the typical other ones you got from other fans who told you about how they loved the books and the characters. She told you about how Sam was her absolute favorite and how much she liked the books, things you heard before. Then the letters starts to get...weird.

Becky claimed herself to be your number one fan; she knew everything about the books. Every little detail. She sent you gifts, more letters, fan fiction, and even home baked goods. That you honestly quite enjoyed. Mch as people would claim her to be weird and crazy, you thought she was just a very, very enthusiastic person. And it seemed her obsession with the books was about to pay off, because she might have been your only hope.

You kept all of your letters from fans in a spot in your office, you found Becky's near the bottom, all rubber banded together. You faintly remembered her last letter after "No Rest for the Wicked" was published how much she was going to miss the books. She included all of her contact information if "Carver" ever wanted to personally chat with her. Just in case he wanted to start up the books again  and he needed someone to bounce off ideas with. She admitted that she was heartbroken to see the books come to an end, they were an escape from reality. The real world was such a boring place. She'd do anything to live in the fictional world with Sam and Dean. Oh, Becky. You were about to make her dreams come true.

You nervously sat in your office chair and waited as the video call to Becky Rosen continued on ringing and ringing, making your even more frayed nerves feel like you were about to have an anxiety attack. You felt a little bad for using your pen name to get in contact with her, but as the final ring echoed through your ears, you’d deal with the awkwardness. You let out a sigh of relief when she accepted your video call. A few seconds later your laptop screen showed a woman who looked to be about your age, and with a slightly skeptical look on her face. It quickly changed into hostility when she saw someone she wasn't expecting. Becky clearly didn't picture Carver Edlund to be twenty-two from the "About the Author" paragraph in the last page of every "Supernatural" book. Let alone a woman.

Becky Rosen, your supposed number-one fan, greeted you with a frown and a slightly annoyed tone of voice at who was staring back at her. “You’re not Carver Edlund.”

“No, I’m not. Well...yes, I am. But, not really. You see, uh, Carver Edlund isn't a real person. It's a pen name. My real name is Y/N Y/L/N." You found the words that you rehearsed in your head come out in a stumbling mess, making you feel even more nervous. You gave her a smile, the best one that you could give at this very moment, hoping it would be enough to buy you some time before she hung up on you. "I’m the writer of your favorite 'Supernatural' books, Becky."

"What?” Becky was taken aback from the information she didn't even know how to respond to right away. She knew her favorite author was a very private person, but to know the person she had wrote letters to for the past four years, was someone else made her slightly flustered. "But, I thought—"

"A man? Yeah, no. I'm the real author of the books. All of the work is mine own. I'm the creator. And before you ask, I wrote them when I was younger I used a pen name for privacy and for a chance to get published.” You explained to her, getting any sort of information out of the way that would lead to questions you didn’t have time to answer. With that all out of the way, you let out a breath, composing yourself again to give her a real smile. "So...Hi, Becky. Nice to finally meet you.”

"Oh...my...God. Oh my—" Becky couldn't form a complete sentence from the excitement she was feeling. The biggest grin you might have ever saw in your life began to spread across her lips at what was happening. You forced yourself to return the friendly gesture as you looked over your shoulder to see if there was anyone there when you heard Winchester shift around slightly, his dog tags jingling against each other. When you turned to look back at the screen, Becky's happiness had faded. She was now staring back at you with the same hesitant look. As if you were putting in all of this effort to make her look foolish. "Hey, this isn't some kind of joke, is it?"

"What? No. I'm the real author. See? All of these are my unpublished work. Stories that have never seen the light of day or another pair of eyes besides my own. And these?" You proved yourself to be the real author of her favorite books when you shifted around slightly in your seat to show her your bookshelf full of manuscripts. And if that was enough, you lifted up the stack of handwritten letters she had personally sent to you. "All of your letters are yours. I saved them. Hell, I'll read you one if you don't believe me. This is not a joke. I swear."

"You kept my letters? Oh my God! So you must have gotten my marzipan, too." Becky said. You rubbed your stomach and forced a smile at her to show your appreciation. All though you quite enjoyed the home baked goods, you didn't have time to ask for the recipe. You opened your mouth to tell her why you were really getting in contact with her, but she quickly cut you off to tell you something you knew very well. “I’m your number-one fan. You know, I’m samlicker81.”

You found yourself taken off guard from what Becky just let slip out of her mouth. You blinked as you tried to comprehend what words she formed together, but your brain failed to comprehend. "I'm sorry." You blinked as you looked at her with a confused expression. "You're what?"

"Webmistress at morethanbrothers dot net?" Becky asked. You refrained yourself from giving her a disturbed look when you figured out what she meant. "Your work really inspired me to dabble in my own literature. But enough about me. I've got a million questions to ask! Like, how do you come up with all of your ideas? Are you ever gonna publish more books? Would you consider yourself more of a Sam girl? Or more of a Dean girl? I'm a Sam girl myself. Hence the username...Awww! And who is this cutie?"

Without any proper warning, you felt ninety pounds launch into your lap when Winchester took it upon himself to figure out who you were talking to. He jumped on his back legs and rested his front side on your lap. He was now in the frame with you, staring at Becky with a tilted head. You let out a sigh as you rubbed the top of Winchester's head that he loved so much.

"Uh, dreams mostly. Sometimes the idea hits met out of nowhere. I don't know. And this is Win." You tried to gather your thoughts as you quickly answered her questions before you could get to the reason why you were contacting her in the first place. “Look, I’m calling you not only because you’re my number-one fan. You're kind of the only one who will believe me."

Every little creek and floorboard squeak made you lose your concentration from the conversation you were having. You nervously looked around the room, wondering if you were going to find an unexpected guest ready to stop you from what you were about to do. Your odd behavior didn't go unnoticed by Becky.  "Are you all right?"

"Uh, well, I've had better days. I'm pretty sure I'm being watched." You admitted. You cautiously eyed your surroundings one more time before you fell silent for a moment, waiting to hear any sort of sound of existence beside your own. Yet again, you were reassured that you were alone. "Not right now. I don't think so. But I don't have much time. I need your help."

Becky's eyes grew wide with excitement, "You need my help?"

“That’s right. I need you to get a message to Sam and Dean.” You instructed her. “Okay?”

The grin on Becky’s face disappeared quickly as it came from what you were asking her to do. "Look, Miss. Y/L/N...Yes, I'm a fan, but I really don't appreciate being mocked. I know that ‘Supernatural’ is just a book, okay?" Becky said. You rolled your eyes in frustration when she went on thinking you were wasting your precious time trying to pull a prank on her. "I know the difference between fantasy and reality."

"Becky, listen to me very carefully. I'm not about to repeat myself. All of it is real. Everything that I have freaking written is real. I have met Sam and Dean in real life. My dog? Win? Yeah, that's just a nickname. His full name is Winchester. I named my dog after their last name. Which was never included in the books. If that isn't real enough for you, I don't know what is." You told her everything you had been keeping to yourself since you found out. You’d been living through this nightmare with nobody else knowing. And now she did. You felt relief, like you were finally letting out a breath you had been forced to keep. "Oh my God. Do you know how good that feels to get that off my chest?"

"I knew it! I knew all of it was real! Oh, Miss. Y/L/N, I feel so honored you chose me for such a difficult task." Becky said. You smiled slightly at her enthusiasm, not having the heart to tell her you didn’t have much of a choice but to trust her. “I won’t let you down.”

"Yeah, well, no pressure but the fate of the world kind of depends on you giving them this information." You muttered underneath your breath. Becky luckily didn't hear you. "Okay. Grab a pen and listen to me very carefully. This is what you need to tell Sam and Dean. Word by word."

+ + +

While you were stuck in your house nervously pacing around and trying your hardest not to bite your nails off, Becky was given the sole responsibility of giving the boys ten words you forced her to memorize. If she didn't get this right who knows what kind of trouble this meant. You wanted to tell the boys yourself, but it was too risky with everything going on. So you had to pull some extra help. Hopefully Becky could prove herself to be the number one fan she declared herself to be. You’d eventually find out if everything went belly up. You did your part.

While you crawled into bed to get some rest after a very stressful few days, Becky proved herself to be a reliable source. She safely tracked down the motel the boys had been staying at to stay low from angels and demons that were most likely scheming some big plan, whatever that was. The boys had been doing their own thing, Dean watching TV checking out news reports while Sam occupied himself by reading his father's journal to see if there might be a way to fix all of this. A knock on the door broke them out of their concentration, sending them straight into hunter mode from the unexpected guest they weren't expecting. Sam pushed himself up to his feet as Dean grabbed his loaded gun right by his side.

The younger Winchester cautiously approached the door as he bent down slightly to stare out of the peephole to see who was standing out in the hall. He noticed that it was a young woman he never seen before. Sam decided to answer the door anyway. He peered out slightly and stared down at the stranger, wondering who she was. But it seemed from the sudden awestruck look that crossed her face as she let in a dramatic gasp that she was surprised to see him. Sam gave her a slightly concerned expression, wondering what her problem was.

“You okay, lady?” Sam asked.

“Sam...is that really you?” The stranger somehow knew his name as she asked in a hopeful tone of voice. Sam furrowed his brow slightly as he took his gaze off her for just a split second. However the woman took it upon herself to step forward and place a hand on his chest without his permission. She let out a laugh as she continued to feel him up. "And you’re so firm.”

“Uh,” Sam had so many questions to ask her of what the hell was going on. “Do I know you?”

“No. But I know you. You’re Sam Winchester. And you’re....not what I pictured.” The woman said as she looked over at his older brother, her face scrunching up slightly from the very different idea she had on him while reading the books. She took it upon herself to walk past Sam and into their motel room, introducing herself. “I’m Becky. I read all about you guys. And I’ve even written a few—” She let out a nervous giggle, deciding not to admit to her fanfiction that might not leave the best impression on her favorite brothers. “Anyway...Miss. Y/L/N told me where you were.”

“You mean Y/N?” Dean asked the woman, wondering if that was who she meant.  Sam shut the door to give the three of them some privacy to see what this was all about.

“She’s got a message, but she’s being watched. Angels. Nice change-up to the mythology, by the way.” Becky said. Dean crossed his arms over his chest, trying his hardest not to tell this woman the way it was. “The demon stuff was getting kind of old.”’

“Right.” Sam brushed off the woman’s opinion as he got to the reason why she was here in the first place. “Just, um...what’s the message?”

“She had a vision.” Becky said. She closed her eyes and repeated every single world you forced her to memorize. “‘The Michael sword is on earth. The angels lost it.’”

“Becky,” Sam felt himself becoming intrigued to what she had to say. This might be the big break they needed to find in order to solve this problem before it got worse. "Does Y/N know where it is?"

“In a castle, on a hill made of forty-two dogs.” Becky said.

The last bit of information sounded like some sort of cryptic message that didn't help them at all. Sam wondered if Becky might have accidentally jumbled up the information. "Are...are sure you got that right?"

“It doesn’t make sense, but that’s what she said. I memorized every word...for you.” Becky said. Her voice dropped to a whisper as she approached the younger man with a look in her eye that was starting to make Sam feel uneasy. And she didn’t exactly help the feeling when she took it upon herself to place her hand on his chest once more. “Oh, she’s so lucky to have met you...and to have written about you in the way that she did if you know what I mean—”

"Um...Becky," Sam wasn't sure what the right kind of response was to get her off of him before this could keep going on. Becky seemed to be enjoying herself too much to stop now, feeling the muscles and body she read about. "Can you...quit touching me?"

Becky responded with a no. She continued for another few seconds before Sam had enough of it. He gave the woman a polite goodbye before shoving her out the door, making sure to lock it before she could sneak her way back in. Sam let out a sigh from all the crazy going on. He really hoped this little riddle you gave them, sent by possibly the creepiest woman he ever met, was worth it. The Devil was free, all because of him and the poor choices he made in the past. Sam needed some kind of win to help put things back to the way it was.

+ + +

You were confident with the idea that you were at least one step ahead of the enemy. Hell, you were racing towards the finish line while the enemy was scrambling to get back down to earth. You knew your tip to the boys wasn't exactly helpful. It was more of a riddle than anything else that even you were still trying to decipher. You were confident they would figure it out in time and get to this supposed sword of Michael. Meanwhile, you kept yourself busy by getting your life back together. Starting with your poor kitchen, the room sure had seen its better days.

The kitchen floor was littered with broken dishes and splinters from broken pieces of your table, making it impossible to walk on without shoes. Winchester felt a little out of sorts when you fed him dinner in the living room. You really didn't want to take him to the vets and explain how your German Shepard got a piece of china stuck in his paw. Some of the walls were splattered with what you could only guess was blood. It looked horrifying. You were heartbroken and a little nauseous at the unexpected fight you were dragged into that ended with dire consequences.  You had family heirlooms that were passed down from past generations and a dining room table that cost you a pretty penny. But they were just things. The real tragedy of what happened to poor Cas.

You still had things in your house that belonged to your family and you could easily buy yourself a new table. There was nothing some bleach and a new coat of paint couldn't fix. You got down to business, distracting yourself with the mundane task of sweeping and scrubbing the walls to the best of your ability. Soon you found yourself almost forgetting about the events that unfolded over the past few days. Maybe it was the bleach fumes mixed in with the music that you had been listening to that was making you feel a little more at ease. You managed to clean your entire floor of any spec of glass, making it safe enough for you and Winchester to walk on once more. You even swept up some more teeth without gagging.

You were scrubbing the last of the blood you found off the walls when you heard your phone ringing, pulling you out of your cleaning streak. You quickly paused your music and grabbed the phone before it could go to voicemail, all while trying your hardest not to sound breathless when you answered. The voice on the other end was one you weren't expecting to hear from so soon, it was Sam. You felt your lips stretch into a small smile, hopeful that it was good news.

"Hey. I wasn't sure if calling you was a good idea, considering everything that's been going on. I hope you guys got my little riddle. Which means you got to meet Becky." You found yourself rambling on slightly, getting ahead of yourself of why the man was calling you in the first place. You leaned yourself against the counter and waited for Sam to respond. When you heard the other line grow eerily silent, you felt yourself becoming nervous. "Sam? You still there?"

"Yeah...I am." Sam said. You could tell from the sound of his voice that he wasn't calling you with good news. You felt the familiar pause of silence that made your stomach tighten with anxiety, bringing you back to a much darker time in your life that you didn't like to think about. "Look, I know this is kind of weird for me to be asking, but did you have another vision recently?"

"No. Only about the one with the dog and the hills." You said. You felt your grip around the phone tighten when your mind began to wonder about why he was calling in the first place. You prayed that it was just about how they were stuck and needed some more help in figuring it out to what the hell you meant. "Why? Are you guys okay?"

No. No, they weren't. It seemed your attempt at helping them was nothing more than a ploy, a trick to get the angels to get what they wanted. And that was Dean. It seemed they needed Dean's help to take down the Devil—but they just left out one small detail. The sword everybody was looking for wasn't an actual object, it was a body. A vessel for the archangel. And that was Dean, he was the body for Michael. It was a twist in the story that was right in front of your face, but never saw coming. You felt responsible for the trap you lead them into, and the trouble they had to go through in order to just get out.

Sam didn't just call you to inform you of the bad news, there was some good news as well. The only way him and Dean got out of there alive was because of Cas, who seemed to have came back from the dead. The news made you let out a sigh of relief at how there was some good that came from all of these terrible past few days. When you heard something that sounded to be another echoing voice coming from the other line, it brought up another piece of information that was bittersweet. The angels weren't the only one trying to track down Michael's sword. It seemed the demons wanted to be apart of the action, too.

Sam was at the hospital because Bobby Singer—hunter and father figure to the boys since they were young, a man you wrote countless times—was taken over by a demon. While it sounded like the story was doomed for a deadly ending, Bobby proved himself to be stronger than the enemy. In a last ditch effort to save the boys from Meg and her minions, he stabbed himself with Ruby's special knife. While it killed the demon possessing his body, he managed to cling on long enough for the boys to get him to a hospital. Bobby was going to live...but his injuries from where he stabbed himself meant he was going to be paralyzed from the waist down for the rest of his life. Sam didn't know which one was worse for the man; being killed, or not being able to hunt ever again.

Sam didn't know why he was even calling you in the first place, other than to tell you about the cheap trick Zachariah pulled to make you point the boys in their direction. He circled back to the hospital after having a conversation with his brother in the parking lot that crushed him even more. He just wanted to hear a friendly voice, someone who was a neutral party in this situation. You'd been supportive to the boys much as you could, even to someone who you watched make the worst decisions in his life that not only affected the people he was close to—but the entire world. You were a little freaked out after you saw him for the first time in weeks, you were relieved to see that he was okay, and very much human.

Subconsciously, there was something more about you that he didn't know why that made him want to call you. He heard the sound of your choice on the other line and for a split second it reminded him of Jess, how she comforted him during the few times that Dean or his father contacted him. The conversations were short, but it always left him raging with anger. But there was something about Jess, no how much he felt himself spiraling because of something, she would always pull him back. Even though she had no clue the reason why he was so angry. She would tell him that everything would be okay, in that soft and comforting voice...that made him feel like he could tell her all of his problems. The real issues he carried around through their entire relationship. But there was always a part of him that managed to pull him back. Because he never wanted to pull her into this life.

"All of this is my fault. I'm a terrible person." Sam found himself admitting a personal thought of his that was pretty clear to you from how he acted back at your house. You tried to reassure him that he wasn't such a thing, that people make mistakes. "I'm pretty sure nobody has royally screwed up much as I did. I mean, trying to fix this is one thing...but the worst part of it all might be the fact that my own brother doesn't trust me anymore."

"Well, I don't want to play devil's advocate, but you did pick a demon over your own brother and set Lucifer free." You said. When you realized what you let slip out, you winced at how bad it sounded out loud. The truth hurt, but it didn't mean that all of this could be a negative thing. "Look, I've been in Dean's position before. The whole forgiveness thing...it'll take a while, but your brother won't hate you forever. The both of you will fix this. And everything will be okay."

Sam scoffed at your optimism, but the fresh confidence made the ends of his lips stretch into a faint smile for the first time this week. “You’ve seen that far?”

"No...but, like I said before: we write our own stories. The ending can be anything we want it to be." You found yourself repeating the same piece of advice your mother used to tell you. She was always a firm believer that there was no such thing as fate. You made your choices. You weren't sure if you said it to comfort Sam, or for yourself. "My door is always open to you and Dean if you're ever in the neighborhood. Or, if you ever need...a neutral ground. I might be just a prophet, but I’m a pretty good listener. Win is, too.”

"I'll have to take you up on that offer one day." Sam said.

He felt a little bit better knowing there was someone at least on his side, who was in this much as he was. You felt your lips stretch into a smile, wanting to tell him over and over again that it was going to be okay. But you knew this was his fight to win, and you would do anything in your power to make sure things didn't escalate too far. The both of you exchanged your formal goodbyes before hanging up the phone so Sam could get back to his brother, and you to finish cleaning up your kitchen.

You let out a sigh and grabbed your bloodied rag, heading over to a spot on the wall that you'd been concentrating on during your conversation with Sam. Soon enough your kitchen was back to normal, too bad your life wasn't. You had a feeling it never would be again. You were still trying to decide if that was a good or bad thing.

[ladyknightleyisundercover]

The Joy of Socks

yeah, idk either, really. Happy birthday, Harry! [AO3]

Presents for Potter: Saviour Seeks Socks

What do you get the man who single-handedly saved us all from You-Know-Who? A luxury holiday? A bottle of Ogdeon’s Finest? Soap-on-a-rope? Harry Potter’s birthday is coming up, and the Prophet managed to secure an exclusive interview with the man himself. We asked what he really, really wants to receive on the big day.

“A wise man once said to me, you can never have enough socks,” said Potter. “Once you reach a certain level of fame, no one gives you socks any more. At the time, I was too young to truly appreciate the remark, but now I get it. Socks are a great gift—and I never get any!”

So there you have it. Harry Potter needs socks! You can send him some, c/o the Prophet, and we will make sure he gets them. But who was the learned individual who gave Potter such advice? Some have suggested that [cont. page 3]

“How many is this now?” Ginny asked, unwrapping yet another package.

“Today? Including those that were sent to work? Or in total? Because I think we must be close to five hundred pairs, by this point,” Harry replied, holding up another pair. “Ooh, look, these ones have snitches on them, that’s cool.”

“This’ll learn you not to speak to the press ever again,” she said, shaking her head. “‘Dear Mr. Potter, I hope you like these socks, I knitted them myself, also thank you for saving us from Voldemort, love Doris Englow, 94’.”

“It never says that,” said Harry. She held up the note. “Oh, how sweet. Honestly though, the Prophet needs to stop claiming I did everything ‘single-handedly’, they’ve never given enough credit to—dear God, those are the most hideous socks I have ever seen.”

“Don’t be rude to Doris! She put a lot of time into them, and personally I think mustard, lime green and beetroot are lovely colour combinations,” Ginny said. “When did you even get interviewed, anyway?”

“Last Tuesday I was coming out of the canteen at work, and some reporter was lurking. They asked me what I wanted for my birthday, and for a moment I felt like channelling my inner Dumbledore. Don’t worry, I’ve learnt my lesson. Never again,” he said firmly.

“I wonder if he knew all he had to do was complain to the national press about not having any socks, and he’d be sorted for life,” mused Ginny. “Look, the Chuddley Cannons have sent you an entire box full of their entire range.”

“Ron’ll be delighted,” Harry said. “I’ll give them to him later, when we all meet up.”

“Great,” Ginny said. “And what about all the rest?”

“There’s got to be some charity somewhere who’ll accept a donation,” he said.

“All of these?” Ginny said doubtfully. “What would anyone do with a thousand socks?”

“Well, we could give some to Aragog and his friends, they’d need eight each so it’d be an easy way to offload a bunch...”

“Or we could give some to Mum to unravel, and re-knit into our Christmas jumpers...”

“Roll ’em up and stuff ’em in your ears when George starts singing? Or when Percy starts droning on about cauldron bottoms again?”

“No,” Ginny said, sitting up suddenly, a familiar look on her face. “I know what we’ll do.” She picked out a pair at random and put them on, even though they were far too large for her. Harry frowned slightly as she walked over to the far side of their kitchen in them, trying to work out what she was up to now.

“Wheeeeeeeeeee!” she said, launching herself forwards and sliding across the floor. She skidded to a halt, then turned to face him. “C’mon. It’s your birthday. Sock slide!”

Laughing, Harry grabbed a random pair of socks from one of the many hundreds he’d been sent, and took off at a run. “Wheeee-oof,” he said, crashing into the wall.

“You need a better aim,” she giggled.

“We need a bigger kitchen,” he countered, rubbing his arm.

“You need—oh, bugger. We need to get going—we’re supposed to be at Hagrid’s now!”

*

“Thanks again for the cake,” Harry said on the way out.

“Ah, well, yeh know it’s tradition,” Hagrid grinned. “An’ say hello to Ron an’ Hermione for me. I haven’t seen them in ages.”

“I’ll tell them to come by for rock cakes next week,” Ginny promised.

“They know where I am,” Hagrid said. “Oh! ’Ang on a second. I’ve got something for yeh, Harry, wait there—” He disappeared inside his cabin, but returned a moment later with a very loosely wrapped present.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Harry said at once. “Seriously, the birthday cake was...enough...”

“Open it!” Hagrid said, and Harry, with a half-hearted shrug in Ginny’s direction, did so.

“Oh, you really shouldn’t have,” Harry said. Ginny giggled, seeing the red-and-gold items he was holding up.

“Couldn’t ’ave you goin’ short of socks now, could I?” said Hagrid. “It’ll be winter before yeh know it, and yeh must keep your feet warm. ’Sides, I knitted ’em meself!”

“Thanks, Hagrid,” Harry said, laughing. “I appreciate it.”

“No worries,” he grinned. “Great man, Dumbledore, great man. Full o’ wisdom. Great man.”

They said their final goodbyes, and, laughing, Harry and Ginny made their way back towards the school gates. Hogwarts looked glorious in the summer sunshine, and Harry reached for Ginny’s hand, squeezing it, as they gazed at the magnificent castle. “Anyone else you want to visit, whilst we’re here?” he asked. “We’re not meeting the others at the Leaky until six, so we’ve got time, if you want to.”

“Nah,” said Ginny. “I think we should go home, and...” At first, he didn’t notice that she’d trailed off, focused as he was on how nice a day it was. Then, he turned to her and saw that, once again, she had The Look on her face. “Okay. Babe. I know it’s your birthday, and everything, so we can do whatever you want. But, you know how you said our kitchen wasn’t big enough for sock sliding, earlier?”

“Yeah...”

“Well...” She nodded towards Hagrid’s gift, then towards the castle, then waited for him to meet her gaze again.

“I am so in,” he said.

*

“Ssh!” He grabbed her and pulled her into an alcove, and they both frantically tried to stifle their giggles as Professor Flitwick walked by, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and board shorts. On the one hand, it was hardly breaking and entering if the schoool’s main doors were wide open. On the other, neither of them had any great desire to explain what they were up to to their old teachers.

Ginny had said that she thought the longest corridor was the Transfiguration one (“If only Hermione was here, I’m sure she’d know what page in Hogwarts: A History gives that information,” said Harry) so that was where they were headed. Even though neither of them had been students for several years, it still seemed strangely illicit to be sneaking around during the holidays, and the corridors all echoed oddly for the lack of pupils filling them up.

It didn’t take long for them to reach the end of the Transfiguration corridor, however, and as it was his birthday, Ginny gallantly allowed Harry the first go with Hagrid’s socks. He took off at a run, and managed to slide about four classrooms along. “Pathetic, Potter!” she cried.

“Oh, you think you can do better, Weasley?!”

“Bring it!” she declared, and competition was on.

Ten minutes in, Ginny had managed the longest slide (eight classrooms, nearly two thirds of the corridor) but Harry had the best consistency, managing six classroom lengths or more every time to Ginny’s five. “No fair,” Ginny panted, handing him back the socks. “You’ve got more momentum!”

“Get fatter then!” Harry called, then yelped as she launched herself at him, grabbing hold of his shirt to try to hold him back. “Now who’s not playing fair?!”

“Who said anything about fair?!” she replied. “You think just because it’s your birthday I’m going to go easy on you—ahh! No tickling, no tickling!”

“I’ve an idea,” he said, pausing for a moment to catch his breath. “What are your opinions on piggybacks?”

“Oh yes,” Ginny said, eyes lighting up. “On three?”

“On three,” he confirmed. “One...”

“Two...”

“Three!” they both took off running, Ginny launched herself at his back and clung on for dear life, the two of them went sailing down the corridor, shrieking with laughter, and—“Oh, shit! Oh no! Oh—”

Crash.

*

“Potter! Weasley! What in the name of Merlin is going on here?!”

Ginny realised that both her legs were still wrapped around Harry’s waist, and thought it best to extract herself. She managed it, but sent the last parts of the suit of armour they’d crashed into rolling onto the ground. An arm wobbled around, whilst the statue groaned feebly, and she tried not to catch Harry’s eye.

“I am waiting,” Professor McGonagall said, tapping her foot. “And don’t act like the fact that you’re both in your twenties—if not mentally, it appears—means I can’t put you both in detention.”

They both gulped. Professor McGonagall sighed. “Perhaps it would help if you both got up off the floor, and stopped destroying my castle!”

Ginny managed to climb to her feet, but Harry, who was still wearing Hagrid’s socks, slipped and crashed into the suit of armour again, causing another round of clanging. Professor McGonagall closed her eyes for a moment, looking pained. “I should think,” she said, opening them again, “that two such distinguished former students should not, first of all, be breaking into—Potter, are those Gryffindor socks you are wearing?!”

“Hagrid knitted them,” he said, then realised this was not, probably, a proper response. “I accidentally talked to the press last week—”

“Don’t worry, Professor, I’ve already told him this was a bad idea, you don’t need to give us detention—”

“And they picked up this puff piece about socks—”

“It’s silly season, but some people did take it seriously—”

“Because I remembered Professor Dumbledore saying—”

“So naturally we’ve been inundated—”

“I really didn’t expect—”

“Five hundred pairs! In our kitchen! What do you even do—”

“And we gave sliding around in them a go, and it was fun and all—”

“But then Hagrid—”

“And he’d knitted them himself, as a birthday present, and how could I say no?!”

“And the doors were open, so it was just so tempting—“

“Wouldn’t put the pupils in any danger of course, but it is the holidays—”

“And it is his birthday—”

“Enough!” McGonagall said, and though she didn’t really raise her voice at all, both of them stopped talking at once, unable to catch the other’s eye. “I do recall Albus’s comments about socks. He did make them repeatedly, even though every year I would give him a pair. Tartan, they were, too.”

Both Harry and Ginny continued to stare into the middle distance.

“Very well. What caused the commotion? How did you come to crash into the suit here?”

“We were trying to see who could slide furthest,” explained Harry. “We thought if we piggybacked...er...greater momentum, you know...um...”

Professor McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “And you thought your little physics experiment gave you leave to destroy my castle?!” Neither of them felt like pointing out that one collapsed suit of armour was hardly a destruction. “Honestly, I thought better of you both. Birthday or no, Mr Potter, I’ve half a mind to put you in detention. And don’t you look so smug, Miss Weasley! I’d put you in, too. Have you any idea the injury you could have caused yourself? If you’d been out for part of next season, you know very well Tutshill might have caught up with the Harpies, and I have ten Galleons on you retaining the Cup!”

Ginny looked suitably chastened.

There was an awkward pause, where no one said anything. “Right,” said Professor McGonagall briskly. “Mr Potter, please give me your socks.” He thought—for a millisecond—about protesting that they were a birthday present, but thought better of it and handed them over.

Professor McGonagall accepted them, then eyed them thoughtfully. Harry and Ginny exchanged a glance. “Miss Weasley. May I have an arm?” After a moment’s hesitation, Ginny held out her left, and said nothing as Professor McGonagall held onto it as she first removed her shoes, then put on the socks.

“What was the record?”

“I...what?”

“How far did you get, before the incident?”

“Ginny managed to reach the eighth classroom down, but...Professor, you can’t—”

“I can’t what, Mr Potter?”

“I mean, um, what we found worked best was if you take off at a run, then slide,” Harry said at once.

“Very good,” said Professor McGonagall. Very carefully, she walked over to the far wall.

“She’s not serious?!” Ginny mouthed at Harry. He could only shrug.

Professor McGonagall took a few deep breaths. Then, she took off running. The two of them could barely believe their own eyes as she slid gracefully down the corridor; once she bested Ginny’s record, they started to cheer her on, although their cheers quickly turned to cries of alarm as she kept going, heading towards the far wall—she was going to crash—

They gasped in astonishment as, at the very last second, she performed a skid turn, looping back on herself as she came sliding back up the corridor towards them. They whooped and cheered as her momentum dissipated, and, finally, she came to a gentle halt before them. Harry stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled like he did at Harpies matches, and Ginny clapped and cheered along with him.

Professor McGonagall gave them one single, tiny nod, then bent down to remove the socks. She folded them neatly, and returned them to him.

“Happy Birthday, Mr Potter,” she said.