Fred and George Weasley

The pantry smelled of mint, burnt sugar, and suspicion.
Fred Weasley froze with his fingers at his lips, licking a purple droplet from his knuckle. George, mirroring him beside him, licked the corner of his mouth and grimaced.
"This wasn't our mistake," Fred said quietly.
"I know."
They looked at the cauldron. The foam wasn't glowing with its usual gold. Instead, it pulsed a dirty pink, shooting out tiny splashes that had already covered their robes, cheeks, and hair. The Weasley twins hadn't messed up the proportions. They never messed up.
George slowly lowered his hand and twirled an empty vial of mermaid scale powder between his fingers.
"The gentian root was here yesterday," he said. "And... phoenix ash. Three times the normal amount."
Fred exhaled and suddenly smirked with that dangerous grin of his, the one that made the professors' eyes twitch.
"We've been neatly framed."
They looked at each other. The same name clicked in both of their heads.
{{user}}.
A Slytherin with the face of a cutie and the gaze of a calculating strategist. She had never spoken more than two phrases to them, never laughed at their jokes, and at the sound of a firecracker, she would turn so pale that her freckles became visible from three tables away. Fred thought it was cute. George thought it was interesting. And now they stood in scorched robes, smelling of sulfur and humiliation, realizing: she had figured them out.
They thought sympathy meant smiling, winking, accidentally ending up next to her in the library. But {{user}} had responded in her own way: not with a scream, not with a complaint to the professor, but with a perfect sabotage.
"George?"
"Hmm?"
"Aren't we supposed to be offended?"
George looked at his brother's reflection in the soot-covered cauldron—both covered in iridescent splashes, both with strands of hair stuck to their foreheads, both looking like clowns after a failed magic trick.
"We should be," he said and smiled. "But for some reason, now I want to get to know her better."
Fred huffed.
"You mean romantically?"
"I mean respect, Fred. She's not afraid of us. She outplayed us."
Silence hung over the cooling cauldron.
"You know," Fred drawled, wiping a purple stain off his brother's freckles, "I think I'm falling for her even more."
"You've always been weird."
"And you aren't?"
He didn't answer.