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“Is that…Hermione?”

Fred turned at his twin’s question, eyes searching through the dim lighting and busy room to settle on a familiar head of curls. The witch was seated up at the bar and, despite the crowd, was flanked on both sides by empty chairs as if she’d erected an invisible bubble around herself.

“It is, indeed, Georgie. I’ll be right back.” He accepted his brother’s slap on the back, ignored the following look of warning, and proceeded on his way.

If he resented the cautionary look, it was only because he’d dug the hole himself. Fred knew, as did everyone else, apparently, that he was a bit of a loose cannon these days. Maybe the rocks tumbling down on him had knocked something vital out of him. Still, he’d chop his own legs off before harming Hermione.

She was…different.

From the rest. From his family. From his other friends. Speaking of–

A heavy perfume of firewhiskey surrounding her nearly knocked him on his arse. So this was what was keeping others away. That and the scowl she’d turned his direction, one that transformed into a face-splitting grin once she recognised him.

“Fred!”

“Oomph.” His arms wrapped around her automatically as she threw herself onto him. “Easy there, love.”

She pulled away, only to shoot him a saucy wink. “Why? Don’t you want to take care of this poor, drunk girl? Nobody else seems to want to.” Then, she burst into a fit of giggles and snorts.

Hermione slowly sensed her words didn’t quite have the effect that she’d expected when all he could do was stare at her in dismay, and her smile faded, the gold-flecked amber of her eyes fixating on his own.

“Why don’t you let me take you home, Hermione? Would you let me do that for you?” he asked, keeping his voice low and calm.

“Is everything alright?” George materialised at their sides, causing them both to jump a little at the suddenness of it. His eyebrows lifted up into his hairline once he caught wind of Hermione’s state.

“I was just waiting for Hermione’s response.” They both turned to look at her.

Her beautiful eyes flickered back and forth between the two of them, and she licked her lips nervously before answering. “Yes.” The word came out almost too soft to make out. “Take me home, please.”

George gave his shoulder a brief squeeze before helping make a path for the two of them to take their leave. For the millionth time since opening his eyes after the battle, Fred thanked Godric for the luck of having a twin like him.

As they got to the apparition point, he tucked Hermione under his arm and ignored how good she felt there. “Hold on tight, love.”

They spun away in a burst of light, not unlike a firecracker.

Their landing placed them at the front gate to Hermione’s cottage. Fred had been there before, of course, but this was the first time he’d come on his own, much less with the witch herself wrapped around him.

He expected her to pull away now that they’d arrived, but she simply hooked her arm into his and tugged him along. Moonlight shone down onto them, illuminating the walkway up to her door. Huge flower bushes flanked the steps, the blossoms too dark to make out their true colours. They warned off intruders with their size, and Fred could easily imagine the branches coming to life, yanking enemies off their feet to bury them in the soil and use their blood and bones as nutrients. He shuddered and gave them a wide berth.

They drew to a halt at her door, and once again, Hermione surprised him.

“If it isn’t too much to ask, do you mind coming in for a cuppa? I don’t really want to be alone right now.” She spoke without looking at him, her face pointedly turned to the side.

Fred’s heart twinged at the familiarity of her request. He’d made the same himself numerous times of other witches who he then never proceeded to meet again.

“I’d love to.”

She nodded, still not looking at him, before leading Fred into her home.

The last time he’d been here had been nearly a year ago, shortly after she’d first moved in. Back then, the abandoned cottage had been barely livable, the roof falling in at several points.

Now, he could see her touch on every surface.

Walls lined with overstuffed bookshelves, more books piled atop multiple tables, the squishy couch and armchairs with their own dedicated cushions and blankets, and a writing desk covered with parchment and quills up against the window facing the garden.

He followed her into the kitchen where she immediately began preparing tea. A large vase sat in the middle of the small dining table nearby, inside of which were arranged the flowers he must have seen just outside. They were a deep purple, and he realised he’d seen ones like them before, only these were far more saturated than any of the varieties at the Burrow. They looked far less threatening this way.

“I’ve never seen ones this dark before.”

“What? Oh, the hydrangeas.” She walked over to him with two steaming mugs and joined him at the table. “I got them from your mum.”

“Aren’t ours, you know, lighter than this? Did you charm them or something?”

She paused blowing at her tea to shake her head. “No. Their colour is easily affected by the environment in which they grow, so they can vary greatly from place to place.”

“Hmmmm, I see.” They reminded him of the joke shop’s Pygmy Puffs, both the colour and round shape. Only they were pastel, like the flowers at the Burrow, rather than this rich plum shade.

He eyed Hermione in his periphery, checking her over for any further signs of the bitter witch from the bar.

Above all things, she looked tired. He was smart enough to keep that thought to himself. The last time he’d told a witch that, he’d walked away with a battered ego and blue balls.

There were bags beneath her eyes, and the hand holding her mug occasionally trembled.

“I can feel you looking at me.” Her lips twitched upward.

He flushed at being caught. “Sorry. You just look…”

What was he supposed to say?

“Like shite?”

“No!”

She smirked at his immediate reaction, like she knew she’d caught him in his lie. “It’s okay, Fred. I know what I look like, and it isn’t pretty.”

That was where she was wrong.

Fred took a deep breath, before letting it out in a long exhale. “I’m worried about you,” he murmured. He braced himself for the recoil, fingers tightening around the ceramic mug despite the burn.

Instead, Hermione sighed. He chanced a direct look at her.

She’d set her cup down in favour of leaning against her hand, elbow propped up onto the table. She bit her lip as she met his gaze.

He mirrored her pose, stretching out across the wooden surface. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

There was that sigh again.

“Life’s just been a bit horrible, really.”

He waited her out, knowing there was more to come.

“I’ve been reminded, yet again, that the work I do, the things I care about, just aren’t a priority at the Ministry.” A bitter laugh broke through as she shook her head in exasperation. “I feel like such a fool, coming in and thinking I’d do some good. Change the world!”

“Then there’s my personal life, which apparently is the business of literally everyone.” Now her eyes widened comically as she tilted her head at him and lowered her voice in a parody of gossip. “Did you know the Golden Girl’s proven herself too much for another wizard? She just can’t seem to keep anyone by her side. Not Ron Weasley. Not Harry Potter. Not Draco Malfoy–”

“I didn’t think you dated those last two…” Fred said slowly.

She slapped her hand on the table so hard the teacups nearly tipped over. “Exactly! They’re friends, but it’s not like that horrible excuse for a reporter cares about the truth.”

“Weren’t you seeing Dean Thomas?” He remembered the twist in his gut when he’d seen them holding hands in his shop just last month. They’d looked so happy together that he’d held back from interrupting them.

So when she buried her face in her arms and groaned, he was taken aback.

“Did I understand incorrectly?”

The mop of curls shook. Muffled, she replied, “No. We broke up last week.”

“Oh, Hermione.” He moved to rub circles against her back, but if he was being honest with himself, his heart buoyed at the revelation. He had nothing against the bloke, had even hung out with him a few times through Lee, but he liked him even better now that he wasn’t dating the witch Fred fancied.

As she turned her face back up to look at him, he made to drop his arm. She caught hold of it and intertwined their fingers.

“I’m a mess, aren’t I?”

He served her the Fred Weasley classic: crooked smile, easy wink. “Aren’t we all?”

She stared at him until his smile faded. “You don’t have to do that, you know?”

“Do what?”

“Pretend with me.”

He scoffed. “I don’t.”

“I see the way you look when you think others aren't watching.” Her fingers tightened on his as he averted his gaze and tried to tug them away.

“I think it’s time we get you to bed now.”

“Did I ever tell you how relieved I was that you survived that wall?”

His breath caught, time seeming to slow as he raised his eyes to hers once more. “You might have, yeah.” He stayed still as she leaned in, still gripping his hand tight.

“Well, I’ll say it again. I’m glad you’re alive, Fred Weasley.”

And then she kissed him.

On the cheek.

The gentle touch, sweeter than a Sugar Quill and softer than a Pygmy Puff, lasted less than a second, but within that second, he came to the understanding that this was where he belonged. Here. With her.

“Thank you for taking me home.” She squeezed his hand one more time before releasing him. He had to stop the impulse to take hold once more.

“Anytime. Do you need help getting up the stairs?”

This time it was she who scoffed, and she rummaged around in her pockets before pulling out a vial with a victorious cry. “Aha!”

She’d had a Sober-up the entire time and only now chose to take it? He wasn’t sure whether to laugh along with her or snog her silly.

“Well, then. It looks like you’re good to go now. I’ll head home, but don’t you dare hesitate to reach out if you need anything, you hear me?” He squinted his eyes in a bid at seriousness.

“You can’t take that back now that you’ve said it,” she teased right back.

The thought of her asking him over in the near future was the only way he was able to stand up and walk to the door like normal. “I wouldn’t dare.”

It was only after he’d bid her good night one more time and stood alone on her porch that Fred threaded a hand into his hair and tugged. What was supposed to be a short drop-off had turned into a heart-to-heart that he hadn’t nearly been ready for.

He didn’t regret it. He did wish he was in a better place mentally and physically to let her know how he really felt about her.

As it was, he still had a lot of his own boggarts to banish. First, he needed to get George in on the plan to woo Hermione Granger. He’d been a shite brother for far too long, taking advantage of his twin’s understanding. That stopped now.

The next item on his list was to pull his head out of his arse and stop sleeping around. It was all too easy to lose his head in the warmth of a witch’s bed from time to time, but he never stayed, nor did he want to. While all parties involved knew what they were getting into, he still thought they deserved more. He needed to stop running away.

He could be better. He would be better.

He turned to look one more time at the home of a witch who had no idea of the plans he had in store for them. For her. The bushes that had seemed ominous when he’d first arrived now took on a different role in his mind.

“Take care of her for me, yeah?” An opportunistic wind rustled the leaves, which he took as agreement.

When Fred woke up the next morning, it was to the smell of cooking bacon. He was normally a morning person, but he continued to lie still, listening to the sounds of George cooking in the kitchen.

Their flat sat above Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes and was angled in such a way as to afford a fantastic view straight down Diagon Alley. It was only at the start of days like this that one could appreciate the rare stillness of the street outside, just before the rush. He might have at one point, too.

That was before the wall fell down on him, before the bubble that partially shielded and saved his life, before he’d remained buried for what felt like an eternity not knowing if he’d ever be found.

Now, silence unsettled him. Solitude, a reminder of those moments underneath rubble, his life slipping away with each second that passed.

Strangely enough, he felt okay at the moment. The usual discomfort that built in intensity the longer he remained stationary didn’t arrive. Was it because of the resolution he’d made just last night?

It was only the consideration for his brother that Fred finally got up to wander down the hallway. If he didn’t emerge, then he’d really worry George.

“How many eggs you want?”

“Good morning to you, too. Just two.”

His twin shot him a quick grin before snatching up a couple of eggs and turning back to the stove. The table was already laid out with bacon, toast, and a large pot of tea. Fred busied himself setting out napkins and silverware.

“What time did you get in last night?” George asked, sliding eggs onto a plate and gesturing for him to take it.

“Just after midnight, maybe? Not sure.”

The other man hummed, then joined him at the table with his own eggs, over easy, same as Fred. “How was she?”

“Better once she got home.”

Rather than point out the time discrepancy between when they’d left the pub and when he’d returned home, George proceeded to pour a glass of juice and start eating.

Most people’s view of the twins was that of a pair of hyperactive mischief-makers, and they wouldn’t be wrong for the most part. They generally were loud and always up to something. Without an audience, however, it was an entirely different affair.

Call it the innate understanding between twins, but Fred and George didn’t talk much when it was just the two of them. They didn’t need to.

Fred had known exactly how his other half would react when Angelina finally came out and told George how she felt, and so had all his reasoning ready when George tried to argue that what she was going through had to be a misunderstanding.

Yes, she and Fred had dated back at Hogwarts, but they’d never progressed beyond hand holding and the one kiss that had opened their eyes. They were friends, nothing more. Angelina and George, on the other hand, simmered with an unresolved tension that Fred had waited ages for the two of them to act upon.

Similarly, George could always tell when Fred was putting on a brave face for the rest of the family. He didn’t say a word when Fred frequented pubs, nor when he started going home with witches whose names he didn’t even know. While they were out, George stayed glued to his side, always on the lookout for his well being. When Fred left hand-in-hand with a woman, he could always count on returning home to George putting on a fresh pot of tea.

“Did you know Hermione has a couple of Mum’s flower bushes out front?”

George blinked slowly before responding. “Yeah? Which ones?”

“The purple balls on those gigantic bushes.”

“The ones that look like Pygmy Puffs?”

Fred snorted into his orange juice. “Those are the ones.”

George tilted his head, his brow furrowing in consideration.

“Hers are darker, though. Almost black,” Fred continued.

“That sounds…ominous. I’m pretty sure Mum’s has something to do with wealth. Wishful thinking, huh?”

Fred shrugged, not really concerned with whatever meanings might be attached to a flower’s colour. He knew flower language was a thing, but hadn’t ever paid attention to the tradition in the past, despite his mum’s attempts otherwise. It wasn’t like they were part of the old families anymore and looking to unite households.

“Maybe we can ask her about it tomorrow.”

George was referring to their usual Sundays at the Burrow, a tradition they’d kept up over the years without interruption.

“Maybe.”

“You could even invite Hermione. Been ages since she last joined.”

Now that was an idea. Sure, she’d stopped coming after her and his little brother’s falling out, but that was ages ago. From what he could tell, the two of them had moved past the awkwardness and there shouldn’t be any reason why she wouldn’t say yes.

“I just might.”

Hermione’s morning included far less frying bacon and more stabbing headaches. While Sober-up potions did away with haziness and sickness, it did nothing whatsoever for the inevitable hangover.

It didn’t help that she couldn’t breathe due to the heavy weight on her chest.

“Crooks…” She groaned as her familiar shifted in place. “Please, can’t you put on tea or something?”

Her reward for daring to ask was a butt in the face, to which she sputtered and launched upward, sending the cat flying with a yowl of indignation that pierced Hermione’s head like a well-aimed dagger.

A full glass of water and one Pain potion later, she felt almost human again.

Weekends at the Granger cottage contrasted greatly with the other days of the week. Usually, she barely had time to gulp down a cup of coffee and a granola bar before she was in the Floo, her mind already on the day’s agenda. Saturdays were her chance at rejuvenation.

Her current book combined adventure, fantasy, and romance, the protagonist of which was an injured warrior woman recovering in a seaside town. Hermione read three chapters of the novel as she dipped soldiers into runny yolk in between sips of fortifying tea. She snorted as the main character argued with a bookshop owner over erotica, of all silly things.

Not that Hermione didn’t read her own fair share. Far from it, actually. She kept an ereader on hand for just that purpose, trusting that the Muggle device would deter most of her friends and keep them ignorant of her lustier inclinations. They could continue to assume, as most people did upon looking at her bookshelves, that she was first and foremost a scholar and reader of high literature.

Stories like the one she held in her hand typically remained in the bedroom, along with her ereader.

Maybe that was part of her current predicament.

She sighed and snapped the book shut, giving up on progress while her mind wandered.

Guess reading is off the agenda for now.

Her eyes settled on the bouquet of hydrangeas and recalled the previous night’s conversation. Fred had been so kind and understanding, despite the way she’d acted.

“Gods,” she groaned, covering her face with both hands. Remembering how she’d basically thrown herself at her long held crush in public was almost as bad as the memory of how badly she’d wanted him to keep her company.

“Mrow.”

Hermione turned a glare towards the cat in the corner. Crookshanks sat next to his empty food bowl, acting like she hadn’t just fed him. “Fat lot of help you were last night.”

He turned his face away like he hadn’t the faintest clue what she was talking about.

Really, what happened was her own fault. She knew better than to go out for a drink feeling as low as she did after work. She’d never handled her liquor well. Then she’d gone and ordered Firewhiskey, like she actually hated herself.

Truthfully? Maybe she did.

Drowning herself in the amber liquid seemed appropriate, like she was burying all her aspirations that had led her to that point. It wasn’t like anyone was going to notice, much less care. If anything, they’d be relieved to not deal with her repeated appeals any longer. Dean wouldn’t need to avoid her, either, which he’d done ever since breaking up with her over the most awkward lunch in recent history.

For some reason, Fred had ignored the alcohol and attitude and saw fit to make sure she got home safely. She was just his little brother’s ex, and he was someone she hadn’t dared consider as anything more than a repressed fantasy. Still, he took the time to sit with her. Listen to her.

Then she’d gone and made things awkward. Again.

Pointing out his mask, like she was someone close, someone whose opinion of his life mattered, was sheer arrogance on her part. So what if he chose to show a specific face to the world? That was his business.

Despite his offer and how she’d replied, she would not hassle Fred for his time and attention. He deserved someone who could give him the sort of joy he so easily imparted on others.

“That’s that,” she said to the empty room.

She’d clean up the cottage a bit, as usual, perhaps write a paragraph or two for her ever-in-progress novel, and maybe even go for an afternoon stroll. It’d been forever since she last did so.

Tap, tap, tap.

Hermione had just gotten up to start on the dishes when a delivery owl pecked at her window. She glanced at the clock. Odd, she thought. She wasn’t expecting any mail.

The owl, whose tufts extended out almost like cute little ears, hooted appreciatively at her offered treat and settled in to eat while she examined the bright orange envelope.

A large ‘W’ was stamped across the front. Given recent events, she was fairly certain she knew who the sender was. Hermione had expected him to wait for her to reach out unless other circumstances threw them together once more, so to say she was surprised to receive a letter, and so soon, was putting things lightly.

To the prettiest, most clever witch I know,

Won’t you come join me at the Burrow for Sunday lunch? Pretty please with extra Sugar Quills on top? I’ll save you a seat and a slice of carrot cake!

From the handsomest, most clever wizard you know.

She snorted at the humble closing, re-read the letter once more, then considered the options.

She could tell Fred she already had plans, or had too many items on her checklist for the weekend. The temptations to hole up in her abode, finish her book, and work on her writing were strong. Hermione couldn’t even remember the last time she’d gone to the Burrow.

Surely it hasn’t been that long, has it? she mused, mentally thumbing through her calendar. She’d definitely gone a couple of times after breaking up with Ron. Molly had been disappointed, obviously, but there was no escaping that given how long she’d wanted Hermione as a daughter-in-law.

No. She remembered now.

She hadn’t so much decided to stop going as she’d been overwhelmed with too many deadlines and not enough time in the world to meet them. Her projects had exerted so many demands that she’d forgotten what it was like having her own desires at all.

She wrote her reply at the bottom of the card before slipping it back into the envelope and offering it to the patient owl. “Take this back to the sender, would you?”

He accepted her parcel and a belly scratch before taking off.

Her mind made up, and with a weekend of cleaning and writing ahead of her, Hermione rolled up her sleeves and got to work.

“I still don’t see what all this mystery is about your guest,” Ron grumbled around a mouthful of biscuit he’d nabbed from the kitchen. Then he stood up straight, swallowing down the rest in one audible gulp. “Or is it a bird?”

“Oh, step off, you git.” Fred shoved him playfully, but, in truth, he really did want his baby brother to shut up. The last thing he needed was for Ron to make a big deal about Hermione showing up after not visiting for so long.

It really would have been ideal had he not found out at all until she walked through the Floo. His youngest brother was the sort of person who went along with the crowd, his history with Hermione notwithstanding.

Fred had made the mistake of asking his Mum to set an extra plate. He didn’t say who it was for, which was the first flag.

“You’re always welcome to invite anyone you’d like, love,” she shrugged in seeming nonchalance, “but is there something particularly special about your guest? A witch, perhaps?”

Ron happened to walk in just at that moment and had pestered Fred ever since.

The next flag raised itself when Fred started up a pot of coffee. Ron, still following him, noticed immediately.

“What’re you making coffee for? None of us drink that swill.”

Frankly, Fred was surprised he remembered that little fact at all. He was fairly certain his mum knew exactly who he was making coffee for. She’d pulled out a jar of cinnamon sugar, Hermione’s “secret ingredient,” and silently handed it to him.

Now Fred waited at the fireplace while Ron hovered nearby, chatting his ear off about the upcoming Cannons and Wasps game.

“Ronnie, don’t take this wrong since I mean this in as nice a way as possible, but do you think you talk to Harry and Ginny instead?”

Luckily, this wasn’t the first such instance of the twins shrugging off the baby of the family, one who knew by now that staying often resulted in payback later, and Fred and George did so love their payback.

“Yeah, no problem.” Ron whistled as he wandered off, leaving Fred in rare silence, and not a moment too soon.

It was just as his brother rounded the corner that the telltale whoosh of the Floo activating alerted Fred to the arrival. A glance at the family clock showed exactly 12 o’clock. That, in itself, indicated her reluctance, because Hermione made a habit of arriving five minutes early no matter the occasion.

Her brows jumped when she noticed him standing nearby, but he didn’t give her a chance to reconsider her choices.

He stepped forward to press a kiss to her knuckles, keeping his tone teasing and light. “Hermione, love, you’re looking bonny this fine afternoon.”

And she did. An oversized, sage green jumper coordinated with a jean skirt ending just above her knees. Curly hair wrangled into a thick braid trailing forward over her shoulder. White trainers, well-worn but spotless. Cheeks, naturally pink and growing pinker by the second as he looked at her.

“Oh, please,” she protested with a scoff. She still grinned up at him.

She deserves more than just compliments, he thought.

“I mean it!” he insisted. Then, being the gentleman that he was, he offered her his arm.

There was a pause as she looked at it, askance. Then she laughed awkwardly, like he was playing some kind of joke on her. “What are you doing, Fred?”

“I’m being a proper host and escorting you to lunch.”

“You know you don’t have to do that. This isn’t a formal gathering.”

“Hermione.”

“Fred.”

This was one such moment where he could have leaned into his playful side. As a friend, it wouldn’t be strange at all for Fred Weasley to latch onto a witch and pull her along for a ride. As her friend, he already had a history of closeness, more so than any of his other siblings. As Fred, though, he wanted her to know that he saw her as not just a friend, but as someone special, someone whose opinion he favoured above all else.

“I don’t need some reason like a dance to want to touch you, Hermione.”

She sucked in a breath as Fred reached out slow enough to stop, were she to give the word, and brushed the back of his hand down her arm. He took courage from the way she looked up imploringly at him, the golden flecks within her dark eyes as bright as his hopes, and slid his arm through hers.

“There. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

He nearly smirked at the mute way in which she replied with a shake of her head. It wasn’t until he lifted a wayward coil of her hair with his other hand, watching in fascination as it sprung back from a pull, that she finally found her voice.

“This isn’t the time for it, but I believe you owe me another talk, don’t you?” There was no reproach in her voice, but he should’ve known she wouldn’t take his advances silently. Nor did he want her to.

“As long as you’re sober this time.”

That earned him a shove. He held on tight to her, and she let him.

“Deal. Now, let’s do this.”

There weren’t actually that many others present when they swung into view of the kitchen: his mum, bustling around with plates, his dad, already seated at the head of the table with the Prophet in front of him, and Percy, in his usual seat for the two-hour window he allotted for Sunday lunch.

“Hermione,” Percy said in greeting with a nod, to which she politely bobbed hers in response.

“Hermione! How lovely for you to join us. We’ve missed you!” His mum rushed forward to scoop the two of them into a hug. If the embrace was longer than usual and left them covered in flour, Hermione didn’t say a word or complaint about it.

“I’ve missed you all, too,” she said.

“Why don’t you take a seat, my dear. Yes, right over there.”

At his mum’s insistence, Fred led her over to the chair next to his own where he’d already set out the cinnamon sugar. She shot him a little grin when she noticed the jar.

They’d only just settled in when the rest of the family started staggering in. First was George, who dropped a quick hug around Hermione’s shoulders before sitting down on her other side in an effective Weasley twin barrier. Then Ginny sauntered in, followed closely by Harry. They were laughing as they walked up to the table, but broke off once they noticed the addition to their headcount.

“Hermione!” Ginny immediately sat down in front of her. “You came!”

Harry joined his girlfriend on her side of the table and across from Fred. “It’s about time.” The two of them beamed at Hermione.

Fred was just about to open his mouth to make a thoroughly inappropriate joke when the last member of the family made his presence known.

“‘Mione? What’re you doing here? And why is George in my seat?”

“I’m in this seat because I want to sit next to Hermione.” George stressed her full name, not that their little brother would notice the emphasis. He did, however, do a double take as he looked between her and Fred, eyes growing comically wider as realisation sank in.

“Wait, Fred’s guest, ‘Mione, are you two–”

“There’s an open seat next to me, mate,” Harry piped in, attempting to diffuse the tension a bit more.

Ron glanced distractedly his way, then back towards the two of them like he wanted to continue where he’d left off.

“Oh, just sit down, Ron,” Ginny snapped, turning to shove at his hip. The moment he did, Hermione’s shoulders relaxed a noticeable amount. They still maintained a stiffness that Fred planned to massage out of them later, if she let him.

Harry and Ginny played Beater over the course of the lunch, repeatedly batting away Ron’s attempts to bring up Hermione or Fred. He’d owe them big time. Maybe a team sponsorship, or a sanctioned hit on any person of their choosing. He and George had a prototype variation on the Dungbomb to test, after all.

He paid close attention to Hermione, making sure to top off her coffee the instant the cup was empty, then offering her pumpkin juice when it was clear she’d finished eating. She hadn’t eaten nearly as much as she used to in the past, but he’d at least make sure she stayed hydrated.

“Hermione, I do so hope this means we’ll see you more regularly from now on. You know you’re always welcome here, don’t you?” His mum gave the witch a pointed look before looking meaningfully towards Fred. “And you, you best make sure she doesn’t forget it.”

“Oh, Molly, there really isn’t any need for Fred or yourself to go out of your way. I’ll try to keep in better touch, I promise.”

His mother wasn’t having any of her excuses. In hindsight, he wished he’d suggested they take a stroll around the orchard or pond or anyone else but here. Unfortunately, he’d waited too long.

“Nonsense. I want to see you here every Sunday. It’s about time you settled down, both you and Freddie. Life’s too short to go through it alone and we already consider you family.”

“Mum! Leave Hermione and Fred alone,” Ginny spoke before he could, earning even more respect from him. “They’re both busy. The last thing they need is someone butting into their private lives.”

“Don’t think Fred minds much,” Ron mumbled around a mouthful of biscuit. Even though he didn’t state it explicitly, everyone knew he referred to Fred’s steady string of short relationships and even shorter one-night stands.

“Sod off, Ronald!” The source of the telling off had nearly everyone gaping up at where Hermione had shoved her chair back to stand up, hands balled into fists at her side. She turned towards the head of the table. “What Fred and I do separately and together really isn’t anybody’s business.”

“I’m sorry, Hermione, I didn’t mean to cause a fuss. I only care for the two of you–” His mum looked beside herself as she moved to join Hermione in standing. She stopped as the younger witch raised her hand.

“I know, and I appreciate the concern. I’m going to take a walk around the garden. Clear my head.”

“I’ll join you,” Fred quickly added, hopping up and following her out the side door.

It wasn’t until she’d taken several steps away from the house that Hermione finally turned to address him. “You don’t have to, you know. I kind of lost it in there.”

“Yeah, well, my brother’s an idiot. Guess I got all the brains and looks, huh?”

They shared a quiet laugh, though a small voice inside of Fred was glad she did not refute him. The heat of the afternoon sun felt good soaking into his skin where they stood, while Hermione’s presence warmed him from within. She let him sling an arm around her shoulders and steer her towards the orchard.

“I’m sorry about Mum. She likes you too much and worries neither of us will ever get our happy ending.”

“You don’t have to apologise, and I get it. I’ve just been so wound up lately, feeling like my entire life’s a ticking time bomb.”

Fred at least knew what Muggle movies were, and, together with his familiarity with all sorts of magical bombs, could imagine the scenario she described. “Have you ever just thought about letting it all go boom?”

She shot him a conspiratorial look that was quickly becoming one of his favourites. “Are you prepared for the aftermath?”

“I was born ready, baby.” And, using that as his launching point, Fred hoisted her over his shoulder and sprinted for the grove of apple trees.

She squealed her laughter, kicking her legs and swatting him on the backside. This was what Hermione needed–to be swept off the feet that bore the weight of all her worries and cares. Fred could do that for her, and more, were she to allow him.

He placed her gently atop a large tree stump, making sure she was steady before placing both of his hands against the wood on either side of her, keeping her caged between his arms. He was afraid that were he to step back and allow space between them, they’d be back to where they’d started before the pub–just friends, nothing more.

She still breathed heavily, and kept her forearms propped across his shoulders for leverage. “You really should have cast a feather-weight charm. I don’t want to be responsible for breaking your back.”

He scoffed at the idea. “You do realise that you’re a little thing, right–ouch!” He yelped when she tugged his hair. “Apologies, I meant to say tiny, but fearsome.”

“That’s much better.”

“Yes, and before you so rudely interrupted me,” this time he dodged her nimble fingers, “I was going to say that I have no problem carrying you.”

He expected her to make another teasing comment, so when she opted to cup his cheek with the palm of her hand, he could only stare at her in surprise.

“I just don’t want to see you hurt again.” She bit her lip, like she thought she might have said too much, but kept her hand where it was, thumb dragging across the stubble of his cheek.

Why was it that every time he took it in his mind to care for her, she turned the tables right back on him?

All around, the orchard buzzed with life, pollen-heavy bees moving sluggishly through the air, bird song trilling in the trees. A light breeze sent Hermione’s hair fluttering, but she paid it no mind. She kept her eyes and hands on him, searching for…something.

“I’m okay now, love.” Fuck. Why did he sound so choked up? “They healed me up good,” he said, for emphasis.

He willed himself to stay still as her other hand glided down his shoulder and over his chest, coming to a halt above his heart. “And what about here?”

This time, he managed to tilt his head and deliver the crooked grin that had always served him so well in the past. “You can feel my heartbeat, can’t you?”

Faster than his eyes could track, she flicked him in the forehead.

“Ack!”

He would’ve lurched backward had she not immediately fisted his shirt and jerked him further into her, knees parting around him. “Don’t pretend with me, Fred Weasley. I can read you better than that.”

This witch.

She’d pulled him close enough that when he dropped his neck, their foreheads pressed against one another.

“I’ve been lost,” he started to say.

Her eyes softened, causing the words to stumble in his throat. He started over again.

“I’ve been lost, but now I think I know where I am and where I want to go.”

The grip on his shirt loosened. Hermione settled both palms flat against his chest. “And where is that?”

Before he could lose momentum, he said the words he hoped he would not regret. “Here. With you.” He waited, afraid to break the silence that slowly built in intensity the longer it went on.

Maybe he’d moved too quickly.

She’d just broken up with her boyfriend last week.

She probably didn’t see Fred that way.

They were friends.

He opened his mouth to correct himself, to say anything that would reel them back from the future he wanted into safer waters, but then he felt a wetness against his cheek, followed by a sniffle.

“Hermione?”

She was crying.

He cradled her face in his hands, thumbs wiping away at the tracks running down her face. Still so pretty—blotchy skin and running nose not detracting from her beauty in the slightest. “Shit. Hermione, please don’t cry. You can just forget what I said and we can go back–”

“What? No!” She shoved him back with enough force to make him stumble a few steps.

“But–”

“No, I will not forget what you said.”

Regret tasted sour. He never should have tried to reach for more than he deserved. He never should have dared hope–

“They’re the loveliest words anyone has said to me in a long, long time.”

Startled out of his downward spiral, Fred dared to once again close the gap, though he kept his hands clenched at his side. “That can’t be true. Surely people tell you wonderful things all of the time.”

More curls spilled around her face as she shook her head, little hiccups slipping in between her laughs. “I assure you, they do not. Even the flowers Molly gave me–did you know that historically hydrangeas often represented singlehood? It’s like I’m cursed to forever remain alone.”

“They’re daft.”

“Fred–”

“They’re daft for not seeing what I see and telling you every single day, and no silly flower is going to isolate Hermione Granger. You’re brilliant, sarcastic, bonkers over the most unexpected things, sexy–gods, you make research look like foreplay, so unbelievably maddening when you constantly put others ahead of yourself–”

He found himself hauled forward, barely catching hands on the rough edges of the stump, and his breath stolen as she crashed her lips into his own. He could feel damp skin pressing against his face, taste the coffee and cinnamon sugar lingering on her tongue. She drank him in like he was her sustenance. What started as a kiss that she’d initiated transformed as Fred gave as good as he got.

The hands that once braced against the wood repositioned, one hooking behind her knee, the other cupping her jaw to tilt her lips just so. She fought for control of the kiss, but aided in pulling him flush against her, legs wrapping around his hips and giving him a glorifying stretch of bare thigh beneath her skirt.

The orchard seemed to hold its breath as they embraced, sounds fading into the background as their senses focused wholly on one another. All Fred could feel, taste, and breathe was Hermione. Home. They could have stayed here for hours just like this and he wouldn’t have even noticed the passing of time.

When they finally pulled apart, it was with eyes wide with wonder and swollen lips. Fred was afraid to speak first and break the enchantment their kiss had spun into being, but Hermione, being the formidable witch that she was, seized the moment before it could dissipate in the bright summer sun. “Does this mean what I think it means?”

“If by that you mean you, me, and a whole lot more snogging, then yes.” He saw no reason to hold back anymore. If she could be bold, then so could he.

A squirrel chittering in the boughs above them seemed to echo his determination.

“Your family is going to be insufferable once they find out, you do know that?” There was that sly look of hers again, one that immediately included him as her confidant.

Fred had never shared this sort of silent communication with anyone but his twin. He quite liked Hermione being the second.

“Let them be insufferable. We don’t have to be here for any of it.” Fred looked around, confirming their continued solitude. No one would be the wiser were they to walk away. “In fact, we can leave right now.”

Her cheeks bunched up as a slow grin spread across her face. “And go where?”

“Anywhere,” he said, letting go of her and spreading his arms wide. “As long as we’re together.”

He took her hand, bidding her to follow him through the columns of trees, down to the wooden gate, past the lavender hydrangeas that flanked every entrance to the Burrow. The flowers were meant to bring wealth to those in residence, but he imagined they also blessed those leaving. A farewell gift, of a kind. He hoped Hermione’s heart felt as full as his own, floating onward and upward towards the unknown.

“Fred?”

He glanced back at her sun-kissed freckles, the eyes that sparkled once more. “Yeah?”

“Take us home.”