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One
The first time it happens, she assumes it’s a fluke.
Hermione is sitting around the kitchen table at the Burrow, wedged into the corner between Ginny and Fred, knees tucked to the side to avoid the wooden leg inconveniently placed in front of her. It’s a full house today—Andromeda and Teddy sit at one end, chatting with Arthur and Molly as Teddy tangles his sticky fists in his grandmother’s hair, the brown strands streaked with grey. Across from them, George’s arm is wrapped around Angelina, the smile on his face burrowing so deeply into his cheeks it almost looks etched into his skin in freckled marble. Farther down, Percy and Oliver are talking animatedly, with Oliver gesturing wildly as he gets more and more heated at whatever Percy is saying, the brogue in his voice growing thicker and thicker. Percy, who watches his boyfriend with a dopey grin, such adoration written across his face that it nearly makes her chest hurt.
Bill and Charlie are telling stories again, getting louder and louder with each tall tale. Fleur interjects in rapid-fire French from where she sits on the other side of Fred, her sharp native-tongue wielded with blade-like precision. It’s an amalgamation of near-misses and outlandish reenactments—embellishments sprinkled in like heavy-handed garnishes—in an attempt to finally answer the never-ending question between the two curse-breakers and a dragon-tamer of who has The Most Dangerous Job.
Gryffindors.
Harry sits next to Ginny, never far from her side now that they’ve returned from 8th Year, as he discusses some Quidditch game with Ron, who sits on his other side, Lavender attached to his hip. With the hand not wrapped around Ron’s upper arm, she absentmindedly pushes her hair over to the left side of her face—a habitual motion to hide the scars that weave between her features. Wedding plans are being made where Molly and Lavender sit and Hermione can’t help the shudder that crawls up her spine, spreading across her shoulders as she hears them discuss the upcoming backyard ceremony for what might actually be the millionth time. She loves Ron, but she thanks her lucky stars all it took was one unfortunate snog in the Chamber of Secrets to understand that it wasn’t that kind of love. Not the kind of love he and Lavender have; giddy and sparkly and so sugary sweet that it makes her teeth ache.
The late August heat is stifling despite the cooling charms Molly has layered into the walls, and Hermione reaches to gather her hair in her fist, twirling it into a manageable handful. Flyaways cling to her neck, damp in the thick, humid air, and she huffs, twisting it into a haphazard bun on the top of her head.
It’s hot, but it’s normal—as close to normal as she’s felt since last May. Since before then, really, if she’s honest with herself. There’s a levity in the air now; the stark reminders of everything they’ve lost usurped only by the gratitude for what remains. Laughter echoes around the room, crowded and comfortable and alive.
Hermione leans back, spine pressing against the faded pattern that papers the wall behind her, hand wrapped around a cold glass of lemonade. Ice clinks against the side as she hides a fond grin behind the lip of her drink. The Burrow has become such a reprieve in the last year; a home she never expected to find. To feel so welcomed into. Not after Hermione spent so long feeling like an interloper, not after she and Ron chose to go their separate ways, not after—
She cuts herself off, an abrupt turn from the memories that linger at the end of her sentence. But as if summoned by the very content of her thoughts, a snippet of conversation filters down the length of the ancient oak table.
“...are no joke. Had to get the whole squad out and everything. A bloody fucking mess if I’ve ever seen one.”
“William Weasley, watch your language!”
Hermione glances up at the exclamation, lips twitching up at the corners as Molly scolds a wildly gesturing—now properly chastised—Bill.
He winces. “Sorry mum.”
Charlie snickers before dragging a hand down his face. “Gods, that’s insane. All from one cursed artefact?”
Bill nods. “Curses of this nature are almost always irreversible because of how inherently volatile this kind of magic is. It’s complex enough when you know what you’re doing—infinitely more so when you don’t.”
Her breathing stutters. He can’t mean—
“An artefact cursed to indiscriminately Obliviate three of my most senior curse breakers?” Bill continues with a huff. “Almost guaranteed to be irreversible. And curse breakers who can’t remember past their Seventh Year at Hogwarts aren’t exactly helpful when you’re in the middle of a high risk job.”
Hermione’s lungs seize, the air catching in her chest. It makes an almost imperceptible noise but she feels in the way Ginny goes rigid by her side that it doesn’t go unnoticed. Guilt coils between her ribs, stretching like vines up her torso until they wrap around her throat, silencing her; cutting off the problem at the root.
Charlie laughs, agreeing with something Bill says, and Hermione briefly wonders if Ginny is going to Bat-Bogey Hex the pair of them without warning.
“Bill,” Ginny hisses. “Shut up.”
Silence falls over the kitchen. Even Teddy goes quiet; the constant stream of babbling that began the moment he and Andromeda came through the Floo pauses as the one-year-old picks up on the shift that just happened around him.
Hermione can feel the stares of the gathered audience—oh god, there’s so many people—and her nose begins to sting, eyes burning as tears pool along her lash line. She blinks and one falls, carving a briny path down her cheek until it lands on her shirt. The dark spot lingers there, a blatant sign of her distress. All she can do is watch in painfully slow motion as the realisation slams into Bill like a bludger to the ribs. He blanches, freckles stark against his cheeks, and regret radiates from him as his gaze darts to meet hers.
“Fuck,” he curses under his breath and this time, not even Molly bothers to correct him, “I’m— fuck, Hermione, I’m so sorry. I’m an arsehole.”
Hermione clears her throat, reaching up to wipe the tear from her cheek before pressing her hands against her thighs, hidden beneath the frayed edge of the worn tablecloth. “It’s okay,” she rasps, throat tight. “I can’t expect you to censor any mention of an O— of that spell forever.”
Bill drags a hand down his face. “I should’ve been more thoughtful.”
She shakes her head. “Think nothing more of it. I promise.”
The smile she offers him is more grimace than grin but he accepts it with a grateful look regardless. Slowly the conversation returns to normal; fading in and out of focus as Hermione takes deep, steadying breaths and searches for something else to think about. Her gaze drags along the length of the table, catching on notches and blemishes in the wood, finding reminders there that scarred things can still have purpose, can still be loved and cherished too.
It works, briefly, until Bill’s words run through her mind with vicious clarity.
Almost always irreversible.
A tremor runs through her and her hands curl, nails digging into the soft skin of her legs. But before she can try to explain, there’s a tap on the back of her right hand. She tilts her head to the side, finding Fred watching her intently.
She expects him to say something, to offer some sort of quip, but he’s quiet. Just looking at her with a staggering amount of concern reflected in his hazel eyes. There’s another tap against her knuckles and Hermione instinctively loosens the death grip she has on her leg, brows furrowed in confusion. Almost instantly, Fred tentatively replaces the space with his own, fingers threading between hers, warm and steady and there.
He nods once, as if to say you’re okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.
And the exhale that wracks her chest is full of relief.
The comfort his presence brings is unexpected, but not unwelcome, and with a sniffle, Hermione uses her free hand to wipe the rest of the tears from her cheeks. She takes a deep, shaky breath and when Fred squeezes her hand ever so gently, she reciprocates the gesture.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
Fred smiles softly in reply, lips parting to answer when Ginny interrupts.
Tucking an arm around Hermione’s waist, she scoots closer, resting her head on the older girl’s shoulder. “I’m legally obligated as your best friend to remind you that what happened to your parents isn’t your fault.”
Ron makes a sound of protest. “I don’t really think you’re her best —”
“But you heard what Bill—”
Ginny cuts her off with a loud buzzing noise. “Wrong. Doesn’t matter what my wanker of a brother said. He’s not the healer at St. Philip’s who told you it wasn’t the quality of your spellwork—that simply too much time had passed and their brains had already rewired themselves. And none of that was your fault.”
“I hate it when you’re right,” Hermione sighs. “Still doesn’t make it any easier though.”
Ginny softens, squeezing Hermione in a one-armed hug. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll Bat-Bogey him later if you’d like me to.”
“Please don’t,” Hermione snickers. “I don’t think he earned quite so harsh a punishment. It was just an accident.” She sighs again, eyeing her friend. “I never should’ve brought you along to Australia though. Now you can use it against me.”
She beams. “Only when you’re being daft.”
“How the hell did you get her to agree so quickly?” Harry interrupts exasperatedly. “I’ve been telling her that for months and somehow she just, what, agrees? Hermione never just agrees.”
“I mean…,” the two exchange a glance, “yeah, pretty much.”
“Hermione? Our Hermione?” he repeats.
“Do you think he knows that many other Hermiones?” Fred questions from behind her and Hermione stifles a laugh.
Harry continues, “You’re certain it’s her, not someone in a very convincing bit of Polyjuice?”
Ginny waves him off. “Yes, Potter, I’m certain. She’s a stubborn one but—”
“You can say that again,” George interrupts from across the table. “I’ve been trying to convince her to come work for us for months.”
“Hermione’s not going to work in a bloody joke shop,” Percy sniffs. “She’s a war heroine—she should have a job of importance, like something at the Ministry.”
Fred snorts. “I reckon that means she’s probably done more than her fair share for the government.”
Ron raises his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
“Here, here,” Harry mutters from his side.
Oliver bumps his boyfriend’s shoulder with a grin. “Aye, she’s a war heroine, Perce. I say the lass does whatever she wants.”
“Besides, it’s not like she’d just be running the cash register. We don’t need her to work the shop floor—” George waggles his eyebrows, “—unless she wants to. Or, you know, has some free time. Between potions. Or charms. Or experiments, etcetera, etcetera. The whole point is that we’re trying to recruit the brightest mind of her generation to head up our R-n-D team.” He lowers his voice to a stage-whisper. “For all you unimaginative witches and wizards, that’s research and development.”
Angelina clears her throat. “And what, exactly, is wrong with running the cash register?”
George pales. “Well, you see, Ange—”
“It feels a bit dramatic to call you and me and Georgie a team,” Fred stage-whispers into her ear, distracting her from the verbal smackdown she’s almost certain George is about to receive. “But you’re in high demand. We’ve got to keep up with the competition.”
Hermione giggles. “I see that branding is very important to you over at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. Will I be required to wear exclusively purple and orange? Maybe dye my hair to match?”
Fred snickers. “I don’t quite know if you have what it takes to pull off this kind of hair, Granger. It’s no easy feat.”
“Oh, how you underestimate me, Weasley,” she quips.
He throws his head back, laughter spilling from him in waves, and the smile that stretches across her face is so big it makes her cheeks hurt.
“Thank you,” Hermione whispers. “Again.”
Fred hums, glancing down at her with a crooked grin. “Anytime, Granger.”
“—or you’re sleeping on the couch tonight,” Angelina threatens.
There’s a beat of silence before everyone around the table bursts into laughter and Hermione looks around, overwhelming gratitude for her found family blooming beneath her sternum. The rest of the night passes in a blur of good food and better company and a round of Firewhisky shots that leave everyone significantly tipsier than they intended.
Fred traces a soothing pattern across her knuckles with his thumb; a mindless gesture that leaves her feeling inexplicably warm. Part of Hermione feels guilty for holding him hostage by the hand like this, for taking advantage of his kindness. But he never lets go.
Not once.
Two
The second is easy to brush off as circumstantial.
It’s two weeks after her twentieth birthday and she’s hunched over a severely temperamental, highly experimental brew in her newly outfitted Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes lab. The new Daydream Charm-inspired potion has taken nearly a month to reach this stage and it’s still not stable—the loss of George’s eyebrows last week is proof enough of that.
Hermione stretches, her spine cracking with the movement, and sighs softly. The day has gotten away from her; rays of late afternoon sun pour through the windows, dust motes spinning in their golden light.
The deconstructed Daydream Charm that sits by her cauldron catches her eye and she stares at the brightly coloured packaging as the animated couple move in a never-ending loop. The man pulls the woman close, his hand tangling in her hair as hers falls to his forearm, where the muscles very obviously bulge beneath his torn shirt. There are pirates visible in the background, the infamous skull and crossbones flag billowing in the wind dramatically, but the couple never looks away from one another. They’re enamoured; lost in a world that consists of only each other.
Hermione envies them sometimes.
She narrows her eyes as the image loops on an exhale, the couple moving precious centimetres away before drawing close once more.
Not that she would ever admit it.
With a huff, she goes back to the potion. Her goal is to create a more complex version of the charm; one that grants the viewer more autonomy, has less side effects, and has more variety in its visions.
But so far all she’s done is accidentally give herself hallucinations of an eye-patch wearing, pirate version of Fred Weasley.
Which, while hilarious, is not exactly what she was going for.
The mixture in her cauldron bubbles, making a distinctly loud sucking noise, and Hermione raises an eyebrow. She watches warily as it churns, turning from swamp green to opalescent purple in the blink of an eye—the kind of insignificant act of pure magic that still takes her breath away, even after all this time.
“Fred!” she hollers, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “George!”
George pokes his head around the doorframe. “You rang?”
“Get in here,” Hermione whisper-yells, as if the mere sound of her voice will disturb the brew. “I think it’s almost done.”
“Freddie,” George calls over his shoulder. “The wonder-witch did it.”
“Shh!”
Fred appears only moments later, bounding into the room like an overexcited puppy.
“For fuck’s sake, be careful,” she hisses but he only waves her off.
“You did it,” he murmurs, coming to a stop by her side, voice full of awe.
“We don’t know that yet, there’s still—”
Fred cuts her off. “Do you know how long it took us to create the original Daydream Charms?”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “I believe you’ve mentioned once or twice.”
“Over a year.” He ignores her, gesturing wildly at his brother. “And that was the both of us combined. Yet you’ve completely re-made it in barely a month.”
“It might not even work.”
Fred hums. “I don’t believe that.”
She shakes her head. “I think you put far too much faith in me.”
“Nonsense,” George tuts from behind them. “You’ve been a proper successful investment.”
“One of our better business decisions,” Fred agrees.
Hermione stares at George. “I think your eyebrows might disagree.”
George frowns, a hand darting up to smooth over his forehead. “Oi, you told me they grew back just fine!”
“I did, didn’t I?” she snickers, the sound melting into a giddy round of giggles as George huffs dramatically.
The potion gurgles, drawing Hermione’s attention back to the cauldron before her. She peers inside and, finding it translucent, grins.
“I think it’s ready,” she begins haltingly. “But we won’t know until—”
“Dibs,” Fred shouts.
Hermione blinks. “Until Fred tests it, apparently.”
She reaches for a ladle and spoons some of the already cooling mixture into a phial. Giving it a good shake, she examines it closely before handing it to Fred.
George steps towards them quickly, lanky limbs taking him across the room in just a few long strides. “Ready, Fred?”
Fred grins and her stomach flutters. “Ready, George. Bottoms up.”
“Wait—”
Hermione flicks her wrist and one of the chairs slides into place behind Fred just before he tosses the glass back, swallowing the mixture in a single gulp. She presses her lips together to keep from laughing at the expression on his face; eyes squinting and nose wrinkling as a frown tugs at the corners of his mouth.
“Tastes like lavender,” Fred mutters half a second before his knees buckle and he collapses into his seat.
George turns to look at her, wide-eyed.
“Did I forget to mention there might be some new side effects?” she asks sheepishly.
“Did you forget to—” George repeats sarcastically. “Yes, Hermione, you forgot to mention that the new version of this particular potion would render him unconscious within seconds. Fucking hell.”
“I didn’t know!”
“You didn’t know?”
“I wasn’t certain,” she clarifies. “Plus, he volunteered!”
George pinches the bridge of his nose. “I know he’s a bit of a numpty but I’d really prefer it if you didn’t kill my brother.”
Hermione waves a hand. “It won’t kill him.”
He stares at her.
“It won’t,” she insists. “At the worst he’d probably just…”
“Probably just what?” George splutters.
She gestures wildly. “I don’t know exactly, that’s why I said I needed someone to test it!”
“You—”
Fred jolts, interrupting him, limbs flailing wildly as he sits up. Hermione and George both jump, hands instinctively going to their wands before settling once more.
“Whatsgoingon?” Fred mumbles, words slurring together.
Hermione’s brows knit together in concern. “Fred?”
He glances up at her, eyes bleary and unfocused. “‘Ermione?”
She steps closer and presses her palm to his cheek, examining him closely. “Can you tell me what day it is?”
“G’nna tell you somethin’ else,” he whispers, and Hermione hears a sharp intake of breath from behind her.
“You can tell me anything,” she begins, a smile pulling at her lips as she pats his cheek and drops her hand. “But I have to make sure you’re okay first. I think your brother is about to have a heart attack.”
Fred breaks into a wide grin and all sense of disorientation evaporates from his expression. “Good thing it worked, then.”
Hermione blinks. “It—”
“Worked.” He nods. “Yup.”
“And you—”
“Pranked you?” Fred snickers. “Of course. I was going to keep going but poor Georgie back there is paler than Peeves.”
George crosses his arms. “Bugger off.”
“You really should've known better.”
“You really shouldn’t be such an arsehole,” George retorts.
“Can we get back to the fact that it worked?” Hermione interrupts.
Fred faces her, cheeks dimpling. “Bloody well too. There’s a few things that need tweaking but it’s…”
“Functional,” she supplies.
He shakes his head. “Incredible.”
She beams. “I can’t believe it worked.”
Fred slots his fingers through hers, raising their conjoined hands in victory. “You did it, Granger.”
Joy unspools in her chest, sun-warmed and gold-tinged. “I did it.”
“Brilliant,” George declares. “Can’t believe your talents went largely unrecognised until you started working here.”
Hermione sticks her tongue out at him.
Fred snorts by her side. “You really showed him.”
“Oh, not you too,” she groans. “I just completed a very complex potion. I don’t think I have it in me to spar with both Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum at the same time.”
Fred just laughs at the nicknames—the ones she knows he hates—and squeezes their hands together, holding her a little tighter. Her stomach swoops, breath catching ever so slightly, but she brushes it off. She’s been crouched over her brewing station all day and there’s a fine layer of dried sweat coating her from head to toe and she’s holding hands with her best friend’s older brother—nothing about it feels normal. It’s supposed to be weird.
It should be weird.
So Hermione pretends it is. That it doesn’t feel like the most comfortable thing in the world.
Three
The third time, however, is neither. There are no tears to console; no successes to celebrate.
They’re all gathered around a bonfire, warming charms and candles floating in the air around them. There’s a Muggle record player sitting in the grass, charmed to play the Celestina Warbeck holiday album at the perfect volume, and mugs of spiked hot cocoa drift one by one out from the kitchen as Molly sends them on their merry way. Arthur is telling a story Hermione recognizes as his infamous Christmas Eve inaugural run of the Ford Angelica—nearly thirty years ago to the day.
Her attention focuses on Arthur as he waves his arms, describing the unintentional and dramatic descent he nearly made into a nearby town when one of the Angelica’s levelling charms failed. Hermione can practically hear Molly tutting from the kitchen about the fact that stunt nearly cost him his job in the Ministry when a group of Muggle children spotted his car and claimed they’d seen Santa Clause. Laughter comes on cue as Arthur reaches the punchline, delivered with the practised precision of someone who has told this particular story on more than one occasion.
Hermione smiles softly, wrapping her arms around her legs to tuck them against her chest and resting her chin along her knees. The warming charm she’s placed on herself has long worn off but she doesn’t even notice she’s shivering until Fred plops down next to her.
“Cold, Granger?”
Her teeth chatter in response.
Fred snorts. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I was listening!" she protests. "I didn’t notice.”
He narrows his eyes at her. “You’ve heard this story a million times. I wouldn’t be surprised if you knew it by heart at this point.”
Hermione huffs, nose crinkling. “Because it’s my favourite, you menace. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to listen.”
Fred laughs lowly. “Still can’t have you freezing to death in the middle of it.” Hermione goes to elbow him but he manoeuvres himself to avoid the blow and continues. “It’s just practical, really. It would ruin the ambience.”
“Bugger off.”
“Come on then,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you warmed up, love.”
The warming charm settles around her shoulders like an old friend just as Fred reaches for her hand, tucking it between his two larger ones. He sucks in a sharp breath as his hands envelop hers.
“Godric, you’re freezing. Bloody icicles for fingers.”
She shrugs. “It’s really not that bad.”
Fred stares at her blankly. “Not that bad? I think they’re about to fall off.”
“They are not!”
“How would you know?” He chortles. “Can you even feel them?”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “Christ, you’re so dramatic.”
His cheeks dimple. “What gave me away?”
Exasperation colours her tone, masking the fondness that lies beneath. “You cheeky prat.”
“I’m not the one freezing to death out of sheer stubbornness.”
“Neither am I,” she splutters.
Fred bows his head. “And you’re welcome for that.”
A blush crawls up her chest, wrapping around her neck and painting her cheeks pink. “You’re an idiot, Fred Weasley.”
He beams. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”
Hermione shakes her head and a comfortable silence falls between them as Arthur’s voice grows louder, the end of his story fast approaching. Fred alternates between her hands, holding one between his own until they’re warm and then reaching for the other. She feels silly, being coddled like this, but it isn’t unwelcome.
The opposite, really.
Hermione looks at him, really looks at him; mapping the freckles that pepper his fair skin, gaze lingering on the strong lines of his profile. Part of her wants to consider the why —why he noticed she was cold, why he even cares, why he’s willing to sit here and be her personal heater. But a larger part doesn’t want to risk it, to ruin the moment, to shatter this growing familiarity between them.
Fred has become increasingly important to her and, if she’s honest, her track record with dating Weasley men isn’t the best. So she pushes it down, calling on her rudimentary Occlumency skills to hide it away in the back of her mind, tucking it between the pages of her favourite book.
It isn’t until he nudges her that she realises how long she has been lost in thought. She startles, glancing up to find him watching her.
“You okay?” Fred mouths.
She nods, smiling softly and squeezing his hand for emphasis.
He grins in return and Hermione can’t think of anywhere else she’d rather be.
Four
The fourth answers her unasked question.
It’s shockingly easy to forget just how many Weasleys there are. The family is so rarely together nowadays—as everyone gets older and busier—and significant others only add to the steadily growing number. When they are together, it doesn’t feel any different than it ever has; the Burrow simply expands around them, accommodating the sprawling family with the kind of ease only magic can create.
But not today.
Today, every member of the Weasley extended family is crowded in the St. Mungo’s waiting room, draped across chairs and seated on the floor and standing in doorways. Despite the fact that it’s—Hermione glances at her watch and squeezes her eyes shut—nearly half eleven, there’s a thick sea of red hair and gangly, freckled limbs spread out before her.
Arthur and Molly are closest to the door, hands intertwined, practically trembling with excitement. Charlie sits on the other side of his father, knee jiggling rapidly, eyes trained on the door. He arrived from Romania what felt like only moments after Percy sent the Patronus and has hardly moved since, brimming with nervous energy.
Ron sits in one corner, exuding significantly calmer energy with the newly minted Mrs Lavender Weasley napping in his lap, her face pressed against his neck. He’s talking in quiet tones with Harry, who’s mindlessly plaiting and unplating Ginny’s hair from where she sits on the floor between his knees, murmuring to a sleepy Teddy. Oliver is across from them with Percy tucked beneath his arm—an impressive feat for the much shorter Keeper—and he’s pressing kisses to his fiancé’s cheek. It’s really rather tame for Oliver, but Percy’s cheeks still burn nearly as red as his hair at the overt display of affection. George is asleep, stretched out on the floor with his head resting in Angelina’s lap. She’s running a hand through his hair absentmindedly and, every so often, George makes a snuffling noise in his sleep and presses closer to her.
Fred is sleeping soundly on Hermione’s left, slumped in his chair in a position that cannot possibly be comfortable. She has just started seriously considering waking him up to reposition him when Bill comes tearing through the swinging double doors that separate the waiting room from the rest of the hospital.
Two years is a long time, but it’s not long enough to dull the razor-edged reflexes of a family hardened by war. Instinctively, everyone jumps to attention, hands going to their wands and shoulders tensing. But the moment passes as Molly gasps, staring at her eldest son, hands pressed to her lips, and everyone begins to murmur.
There’s tears pooling in Bill’s bright blue eyes and he sucks in a deep breath, quieting them instantly. He pauses for a moment, the silence building, until a smile breaks across his face.
“Her name is Victorie.”
The cheer that unleashes from the gathered Weasleys shakes the walls of St. Mungo’s.
Emotion wells in Hermione’s throat at the significance of her name. Flashes of the final confrontation flickering across her memory—of Harry walking to his death and Lavender’s unconscious, limp body and Fred, bruised and battered on the floor of the Great Hall, with over half the bones in his body crushed and only alive by sheer, dumb luck—but she fights back the feeling, swallowing the bile that rises, and focuses on what Bill is saying.
Victorie.
Everyone surges forward all at once, as if to storm the halls until they find the newest baby Weasley, and Bill huffs, holding up a hand. “Mother and daughter are both resting now but you can come in small groups to say hello.”
He’s barely finished speaking before Molly and Arthur are pushing through the doors and Bill shakes his head with a laugh. “I guess mum and dad are first.” He glances up, a hopeful expression on his face. “Maybe her godfather too.”
There’s a collective intake of breath around the room and all eyes land on Charlie, who’s watching his older brother with disbelief. “What?”
“Well,” Bill drawls, clearly enjoying himself. “We were hoping you’d be her godfather.”
A dry sob escapes from Charlie’s chest and Hermione presses her hand to her mouth, eyes stinging.
“Fuck you, Bill,” he rasps, and Bill snickers. “You knew I’d start crying, you arsehole.”
“This is payback,” he says primly.
“For what? ” Charlie exclaims, sniffling loudly.
Bill narrows his eyes. “You know what.”
Charlie pauses, a calculating look on his face. “I don’t really think that’s fair—”
But before Hermione can hear Bill’s response, a quiet voice catches her attention.
“Hey, Granger?”
She turns to find Fred sitting at a strange angle, a grimace distorting his handsome features.
“Would you, uh—” he cuts himself off with a sigh. “Would you mind giving me a hand?”
Hermione fights to keep her face neutral. Ever since the Battle of Hogwarts—two years ago to the day, she notes with a wince—that left Fred with permanent nerve damage along the left side of his body, he’s positively loathed asking for help. He refuses, instead meeting their sympathy with anger and their assistance with frustration.
Logically, she understands why. It’s an unthinkable thing, having to relearn so many basic motor functions at his age; to lose your autonomy, such a fundamental part of oneself, and struggle to get it back. But gods, every time she has to watch him suffer through a task instead of asking for help, it makes her chest ache.
But not today.
Today he’s sitting here, asking for her help. They’re surrounded by people and he’s not asking for anyone else’s help—he’s asking for hers.
Hermione’s breath catches, a smile tugging tentatively at her cheeks. “Yeah,” she says softly. Fondly. “Of course, Fred.”
Relief filters through his expression and pulls at her heart. She steps closer, unsure of how to help him, but he takes the lead without hesitation, reaching for her hand and twining their fingers together.
“Help me up?” Fred asks, gesturing towards his body with his free hand. “I’m just a little stiff but I should be okay once I start moving.”
Hermione nods, grabbing his other arm and bracing herself to help pull him to his feet. It’s awkward—he’s so much taller than her and she’s hesitant, scared to overstep and worried that somehow in her good intentions, she’ll embarrass him—but they manage, with burning cheeks and clammy palms.
He groans and straightens slowly, unsteady on his feet at first, wavering as the right side of his body bears the brunt of his weight. She slips her arm around his waist, supporting him until he regains his equilibrium, hoping she didn’t just cross an invisible boundary. But Fred leans into her, silently grateful for the relief, and she bites back a smile.
The rest of the family slowly filters out of the waiting room in their distraction, completely disregarding Bill’s mention of small groups to visit Fleur and Victorie. Fred and Hermione follow in suit and walk down the hall arm in arm, pressed against one another in a way that leaves her all too aware of the fluttering in her chest and the heat along her side where their bodies meet.
They take their time making their way to Fleur’s room, chatting quietly about nothing in particular. She thinks Fred is just being careful with his leg until she feels him tense beneath her arm moments before they step inside and she understands: he’s embarrassed.
Hermione fights the urge to hold him tighter, to pull him back, to tell him it’s okay to need help—that he’s no less of a person, or of a man, because of it. But in the end, she doesn’t have to do a single thing. They’re met with complete and utter disinterest from the rest of the Weasleys. Fred is old news compared to Victorie and everyone is enamoured by the littlest member of the family. Hermione giggles at the way no one even spares them a glance—no one but George.
There’s almost something gleeful in the way George stares at them, eyes flitting between the rosy joy present in Hermione’s features and the spot where their hands remain clasped, her free arm fitted around Fred’s middle. She sees the moment he finds whatever confirmation he’s seeking—it’s a familiar expression, one that means he’s just solved a particularly difficult problem, one she’s seen more times than she can count during their work together at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes—and the suspicion that’s been burning in her veins for months sparks into a four-alarm fire.
The final piece slots perfectly into place, like it was meant to be there all along.
Fred likes her.
Fred likes her.
Thousands of tiny moments over the last year and a half flit across her memory in the blink of an eye as the truth sinks in. It’s unmistakably foreign, despite the inkling that has lingered in the back of her mind for months, but something about it just feels right.
Hermione leans into Fred’s shoulder, eyes still locked on George, and a laugh huffs out of her nose as she watches his face light up.
Fred’s hand is warm and steady in hers and a soft smile spreads across her face, giddiness bubbling beneath her sternum. Because the thing is—as strange as it is to admit and as terrifying as it is to consider that George almost certainly knows the truth now—Hermione likes Fred too.
Five
And the fifth is all Gryfindor.
Knowing and acting, however, are two different things. Hermione spends two months mulling over the idea of her and Fred, contemplating the unavoidable truth that came crashing down on her at Victorie’s birth. She makes endless lists in a notebook charmed to look brand new; weighing the pros and cons, comparing the risk against the reward, attempting to convince herself she won’t ruin everything if she just gives it a shot.
Two months.
George is positively sick of her.
And he’s not afraid to tell her, either. The constant needling is making it nearly impossible to get her job done; plus he’s recently taken to sending her ridiculous Howlers detailing how absurd she’s being.
Hermione is starting to think he might be right.
Only the fear of mucking everything up has kept her silent, from blurting out her feelings at the sound of Fred’s laugh, from shouting it from the rooftops every time he so much as smiles at her.
Until today.
Today, they’re celebrating Harry’s twentieth birthday with a party that has filled the Burrow to the brim and spilled out into the backyard. A game of pick-up Quidditch has started and Hermione squints, hand shading the sun from her eyes to watch them dart about in the distance. The July heat is stifling despite the late afternoon hour and sweat beads along the nape of her neck, dripping in a steady pattern down the back of her dress. Her curls are steadily growing as the humidity seeps into them, slowly becoming an unmanageable mess.
It isn’t helping matters that while her friends and former classmates are all currently dotting across the orchards that line the back property of the Burrow, standing beneath the shade of the trees and the cover of the cooling charm Molly attempted to weave into the property’s wards, she’s tucked behind the garden shed with George, whispering furtively.
“I’m nervous! What if you’re wrong?”
George stares at her blankly. “When have I ever been wrong?”
She scoffs. “Plenty of times. There was that thing with the Nifflers—”
He winces.
“—and then the Billywig wings. Plus don’t forget about the Armadillo Bile. It took me a week to get that out of my hair. And—”
“Okay, okay. ” George holds up his hands. “I get it.”
Hermione nods forcefully but he isn’t finished.
“But when have I ever been wrong about Fred?” She hesitates and he grins, triumphant. “Even you can’t argue with that.”
Hermione crosses her arms with a huff. “Doesn’t mean it’s not scary,” she mutters, a pout flickering across her face.
“I thought you were a Gryffindor.” George shakes his head.
She straightens her spine, eyes still trained on the Quidditch players across the backyard, a frown burrowing into her cheeks. “I am, you numpty.”
“It’s that important to you?”
Something in his tone changes and Hermione turns to look at him, an eyebrow raised in question.
“Telling Fred,” George clarifies. “It’s really that important that you get this right?”
Hermione’s teeth sink into the soft skin of her bottom lip. “Yeah,” she offers quietly. “It is.”
He hums. “You love him.”
She blinks up at him. “What?”
George laughs, scrubbing a hand down his face. “That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t just like my brother—you love him.”
Hermione sniffs. “I haven’t the foggiest idea of what you’re talking about.”
“Right,” he drawls. “Very convincing.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “It’s not— This is just—”
George sighs and his expression softens, a smile tugging at his lips. “Go on, then. Tell him, Granger. You’re not going to regret it.”
“I can’t,” she whispers.
“You can,” he murmurs. “Or I’m going to go tell McGonagall that you need to be re-sorted immediately.”
Hermione gasps. “You wouldn’t.”
“You think?” George replies, a mischievous look in his eyes as he takes a step back.
“George,” she warns. “Don’t.”
He moves further away, out of the privacy of the shed, turning towards the house and yelling out, “Oh, Minnie—”
“Bollocks,” Hermione exhales sharply before following George’s lead and stepping out into the backyard. “Fucking bollocks.”
She pauses, hand pressed to her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun once more until her eyes land on Fred and Ginny, walking behind Ron and Harry, and talking animatedly. Fred doesn’t notice her approach and Hermione steels herself, George’s words playing on a loop in her thoughts.
I thought you were a Gryffindor.
It’s not until she slips her hand through Fred’s with significantly more confidence than she actually feels that he startles, glancing down at her. The confusion melts away instantly, leaving something soft and fond in its place. The apples of his cheeks pink, freckles stark against the flushed skin, and it spreads all the way to the tips of his ears. Hermione grins and even as her heart beats frantically against her chest—so loud she’s almost certain he can hear it—the tension in her shoulders loosens, a fragile sort of hope replacing the fear coiled in her gut.
“Hey Freddie,” she says softly, watching as his eyes widen at the nickname.
“Hi,” he replies, uncertain but not unkind, and Hermione can’t help but enjoy the rare feeling of catching him off guard; of unseating Fred Weasley, prank king extraordinaire.
“I probably need to do a better job of explaining myself,” she begins and his brows furrow, mouth opening in question, but she doesn’t hesitate, and the words pour from her in a deluge. “But right now, all I want to do is kiss you.”
Fred freezes, his jaw agape and eyes locked on hers.
“What? ” Ginny exclaims from behind them but neither pay her any mind.
“Rather bad, actually,” Hermione adds, voice deceptively nonchalant. “For a while now.”
He clears his throat, clinging fiercely to her hand. “You have?”
“Do you think that’d be okay?” she murmurs.
Fred nods and she steps closer, pressing a hand to his face. He leans into the touch almost instinctively and her lips tug up into a smile. Hermione allows herself a moment to really look at him; to drink in the constellations that freckle his complexion, the long, auburn lashes that brush his cheeks whenever he blinks, the slightly crooked upturn of his nose—the one she knows he got when Charlie hit him with a bludger—the bright hazel of his eyes, the thin white scar that bisects his upper lip. Her hand slides from his cheek and tangles in the short hair along the nape of his neck, nails scratching gently. Fred is watching her through heavy-lidded eyes and it feels like an eternity has passed in the few seconds since she first spoke.
“You really know how to tease a man, Granger,” he groans.
Hermione giggles. “Patience, Weasley.”
Fred grins, that crooked grin that’s starting to feel like it’s only meant for her. “You don’t think I’ve been patient enough?”
She isn’t sure who moves first. There’s no discernable signal; no spoken communication. The space between them closes in the blink of an eye and Fred’s lips brush hers, barely even a kiss.
But it’s like her world lights up.
Hermione surges forward, slanting her mouth over his, and Fred makes a soft sound of surprise against her lips. He regains his footing quickly; his tongue tracing the seam of her lips, his free arm coming around her waist to hold her close to him.
She snogs him like her life depends on it, and with the way her pulse is racing, she’s not entirely sure it doesn’t. Fred’s free hand travels up her back to tangle in her hair and he swears against her mouth as his fingers catch in the curls. Hermione laughs, kissing him more firmly, until a loud whooping cheer rings out across the yard and startles them apart, chests heaving and eyes wide.
Their heads turn in unison to find George, standing on the back patio of the Burrow, arms raised in the air.
“Yes!” he yells. “I knew you had it in you.”
Ginny waves her arms. “What the hell, George? You knew about this?”
Everyone ignores her.
She huffs. Loudly.
George shouts over his shoulder back into the house, “Oi, Charlie! You owe me a tenner.”
There’s an unintelligible reply from inside the Burrow but George snorts. “No I’m not lying, you arsehole. She just fucking snogged him in the middle of the yard!”
Hermione tosses her head back, joy spilling out of her unfettered, and she can feel Fred laughing too where they remain pressed together. He still hasn’t let go of her hand and something about that makes tears well in her eyes.
“No, seriously, what the fuck? ” Ginny shouts, but it only makes Hermione laugh harder. “Does everyone in this family know what’s going on with my best friend except me? ”
“Maybe,” Ron pauses, chewing loudly, “it’s ‘cause she’s not your best friend. She’s mine.”
Harry makes a noise of protest and Ron gestures at him with his sandwich. “Right, and his.”
Ginny sticks her middle finger up at the pair of them.
Hermione glances up, only to find Fred watching her with an incredulous look on his face.
“You’re bloody brilliant, you know that?”
Hermione snorts.
“No, no,” he shakes his head. “I mean it. Just about blew my mind with that little stunt right there, love.”
She giggles, the noise a little shaky. “I can’t believe we waited so long to do that.”
“Yeah, you really took your time, didn’t you?” Fred murmurs, gaze flitting from her eyes to her mouth and back up.
“Oi!” Hermione protests, smacking him lightly on the arm. “I don’t see you making any grand gestures.”
Fred tilts his head in consideration. “I suppose you’re right. I ought to fix that, yeah?”
With a smile so big it makes her face ache firmly in place, all she can do is nod.
“Will you, Hermione Jean, have dinner with me?” He leans closer, pressing his forehead to hers. “Someplace fancy, where the wine costs more than anything we sell in the shop and the waiter is a complete tosser, but it doesn’t matter because we’re together and the food’s delicious and I get to take you home for dessert.”
Hermione’s cheeks flush bright red. “I suppose that’ll do,” she whispers.
Fred kisses her then and she laughs against his lips when their teeth clack together.
It’s not until Ginny interrupts them, wrapping her hand around Hermione’s upper arm and tugging them apart, that they stop.
“Disgusting,” she huffs. “There’s plenty of time for that later, lovebirds. You—” the youngest Weasley pauses, poking a finger in Hermione’s face, “—owe me an explanation. A detailed one.”
Ginny drags her towards the Burrow and Hermione stumbles after her friend, twisting over her shoulder to stick her middle finger up at Fred’s stifled laugh. But her heart squeezes at the sight of him, pink cheeked and hair mussed.
“I’ll be right back,” she mouths.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Fred calls after her. “I waited this long. No sense in running off now, love.”