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One simple incantation and you will enter a top-quality, highly realistic, thirty-minute daydream, easy to fit into the average school lesson and virtually undetectable.
Hermione and Ginny had been standing in front of the Patented Daydream Charms for a good minute now, the exploding pinks and whites and golds of the display reflecting in their wide eyes. Before Hermione could stop herself, she was remarking aloud on the innovative brilliance of the charms, not knowing that Fred Weasley had snuck up behind them while they shopped.
Hermione wasn’t often embarrassed, but something about gawking at Daydream Charms and paying Fred a compliment that he wasn’t meant to have heard (but that he heard nonetheless) made her cheeks redden. She wasn’t the sort to go googly-eyed over romance novelties. Yet here she was.
Fred beamed in response and quickly offered her a Daydream Charm free of charge. Hermione turned an even darker shade of red, which probably made her look clownish paired with the black eye she had been sporting the last week.
“What’s happened to your eye, Hermione?”
Fred’s concern momentarily distracted her from feeling ashamed. She explained what had happened with the punching telescope--his and George’s punching telescope--and Fred’s face waxed regretful. He reached into the pocket of his suit and extracted a tub of yellow paste. As he handed it to Hermione, she tried not to think of troll bogies.
Hermione set to dabbing it over her eye as Fred found Harry and ushered him off, further into the shop. The paste he’d given her smelled vaguely of ginger and stung for a good thirty seconds before being replaced by a dull buzzing sensation.
Ginny, who had remained at her elbow, remarked, “That was quick.”
Hermione hurried off to the mirror hanging beside the love potion display and gazed at her reflection. She saw herself, freckled and pink, without a black eye.
She breathed a sigh of relief.
“I thought I’d be walking around sporting a black eye for the rest of my days,” she said, feeling light.
“Nothing Fred and George do is ever permanent,” Ginny reassured her. Just then, a fizzing whizbee flew past her head, missing her hair by no more than an inch. “Blimey!” she shrieked, her mouth stretched wide in amusement. “This place is like home.”
Hermione laughed and the two girls turned back to the display of Patented Daydream Charms. Another girl had joined them. Hermione didn’t recognize her, but she did recognize the look of awe on her face. She was impressed, too.
Hermione smiled to herself. The way the professors at Hogwarts talked about the Weasley twins, they were doomed to become sales associates at the owl emporium, scooping up owl dung for the remainder of their ill-equipped lives. Yet underneath the pranks and the goofing off, the twins harbored the magical skill requisite to invent such complex, innovative goods as this.
Ginny picked up one of the charms and Hermione nudged closer to admire the packaging. On the front, a young seaman and swooning girl clung to each other atop a pirate ship, their eyes locked in a fierce exchange. Hermione scoffed and flipped it over to the back, where frilly calligraphy detailed a caution about side effects including minor drooling. Another, smaller caution indicated that the charms would not be sold to anyone under 16.
Hermione turned to shrug at Ginny.
“You should take one,” Ginny said. “Fred said you could have one for free.”
“I couldn’t. They’ve just started this shop and I--”
“He wouldn’t have offered if it would hurt the shop.”
Hermione looked at the packaged charm in her hands.
“Well, I’m certainly not going to use it during class,” she said.
“That’s a given,” Ginny snorted. “Go ahead. Take it.”
And she did. She took one last look at the gold packaging and slipped it into the pocket of her robes, feeling the weight against her hip like a hidden sin.
She turned around to find that Harry had returned with both Fred and George. They were speaking in hushed tones, heads down. Then Harry was nodding as Fred clapped him on the back and George was hurrying off in the direction of the Skiving Snackboxes as Ron fell into place beside Harry.
Hermione’s stomach did a flip at the sight of Ron’s lopsided smile and Ginny nudged Hermione in the ribcage.
“I have a feeling a certain brother of mine will be making an appearance in that daydream,” she said, after which Hermione gave her a sharp shush and looked resolutely out the window.
How could he?
Ron had been her best friend since first year. Though Ron was lazy and sometimes jealous, he understood her in ways that Harry couldn't. He laughed at her self-deprecating jokes and he brought her food when she skipped dinner to cram for a test. He routinely fell asleep on the couch waiting for her to return from professors’ office hours and even went so far as to research dentistry so he’d understand her blabber about her parents’ business.
Well, research was perhaps a strong word for the single pamphlet he’d read on the subject, but even still, she hadn’t expected him to turn around and snog Lavender Brown, especially when she had that horrid nickname for him that wasn’t at all suitable. If Lavender knew him at all she wouldn’t use such a silly name.
Not that Ron cared. No. He just wanted a good snogging.
And so she’d been forced to go to the Christmas party with Cormac McLaggen who had been downright horrid.
Then again, summoning a flock of birds to attack Ron had been equally as horrid.
Hermione pressed her face into her pillow and let out a quiet scream. It was late--well past midnight--and she hadn’t gotten much sleep. Truth be told, she hadn’t gotten much sleep in weeks. Her mind swirled with thoughts of Ron’s coldness and of Lavender’s proximity (she was just two beds away) and her hatred became tangible with the latter so near.
Hermione sighed. It was her fault, too. For not telling Ron how she felt. She could’ve told him last summer. She’d had so many opportunities...
The image of a seaman and his lass immediately popped into her frazzled mind. She remembered standing in Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes four months earlier, admiring the pretty packaging on the Patented Daydream Charms and imagining a dream-Ron galloping in on a horse, shirtless and smitten.
She blushed at the memory, then frowned. All along, she’d been saving the charm, hoping for real-life-Ron to confess his feelings and sweep her into his arms, rendering the charm useless. When her dreams became reality, what good was a Daydream Charm?
But her dreams were still dreams, and so she reached into her nightstand and felt around for the Charm, pulling it out and holding the package in her palm. Then, in an uncharacteristic bout of spontaneity, she opened it.
Out fell a folded piece of paper, white and long like a Chinese fortune. Holding her breath, Hermione pried the paper apart with careful fingers. A single word was written on it, illuminated by the moonlight. A charm.
Amidst the gentle sounds of sleep-breathing, Hermione pulled the hangings on her bed closed. She took her wand in her hand, heart pounding, and cast a Lumos spell. The bedsheets swam in blue light. And there lay the Daydream Charm, silent and unmoving on her lap.
She cast the spell and everything went black.
“That was quick.”
“Huh?”
Hermione opened her eyes to find herself standing beside Ginny at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. In one hand, she held the tub of paste, smelling of wax and ginger. She felt the gentle sensation of buzzing underneath her eye.
“I said, ‘that was quick,’” Ginny repeated. “Your eye is good as new.”
Hermione’s jaw slackened. She gazed around the shop, taking in the colors flashing and the magic humming and the customers laughing. The charm had brought her back to the Weasley’s store, four months earlier. And the image was as vivid as could be. Not a single blip or flutter.
“This really is brilliant magic, isn’t it?” she said.
Ginny’s brow furrowed and her lips parted, preparing for speech, but before she could get a word out, she vanished. Alarmed, Hermione looked around the shop as patron after patron followed suit, popping out of existence until she was alone.
Alone save one of the Weasley twins.
He gazed at her with a look of amusement, his eyes bright in silent laughter.
“Fred?” she asked.
“Good guess, Hermione,” came his reply. He was sitting on the counter, looking boyish with his legs criss-crossed beneath him. “You finally used your Charm.”
“How did you-- Are you--?”
“Real? Yes. Real to you, that is.” He smirked. “And I knew you’d take a Charm. You were practically drooling just looking at the display.”
“I was just admiring the magic.” She crossed her arms.
“And the pirate captain.”
“No, that scene was childish.”
“Kind of like my ickle baby brother.”
That shut her up. Hermione dropped her arms to her sides and let them hang there, limp, as Fred leapt from the counter and closed the gap between them. He stood before her and offered her a hand.
“Come with me,” he said.
Maybe it was because he’d mentioned Ron or maybe it was because Fred was looking positively radiant in this Patented Daydream, but Hermione slipped her hand into his and let him lead her through the store. The stock had grown quiet in the absence of a crowd--no more rustling and shrieking and banging about. Everything had fallen into place and Hermione caught only glimpses of the merchandise as Fred guided her towards the backroom, pulling aside the curtain so that Hermione could go in first and…
Hermione let out a gasp.
The backroom was a library! Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves sagged under the weight of thousands of tomes.
“Why?” was all she managed to get out.
“How do you think we pulled off all this ‘brilliant magic,’ Miss Granger?”
“Research. Of course.” Hermione stepped into the room and spun around, feeling delightfully tipsy. She could smell the sharpness of parchment, the warmth of aged leather.
Fred leaned against the doorframe, watching Hermione with a crooked grin. Hermione paused to look at him.
“Is this really what the backroom looks like?” she asked, eyes narrowed. “Or is it just the daydream?”
Fred laughed. “Typical, typical. Stop questioning and enjoy the masterpiece. By the way, you’ve got twenty five minutes and thirteen seconds left.”
“Well,” Hermione breathed. “Some daydream. What with a time clock ticking away in the background.”
With a gentle bow, Fred replied, “I apologize. I won’t mention the time again.”
Hermione nodded, though her arms slid into their typical crossed position. She surveyed Fred’s carefree posture, from his popped hip to his cocked head.
“Why is it you?” she asked.
“Were you expecting someone else?” Fred returned easily.
“Yes. In fact, I was.”
“But aren’t you mad at someone else?”
Hermione frowned. “Honestly, what kind of daydream is this, being reminded of the very thing I want to forget...”
Fred gave another bow, though he kept his chin up and his eyes locked on Hermione’s. Hermione, in turn, nodded. Then she asked, “Are you in everyone’s daydream? Is that how you’ve made the charm, to star one of you two?”
This time, Fred approached Hermione and cupped a hand on either of her arms. He was almost a foot taller, so he towered over her; despite his easy grin, she couldn’t help feeling intimidated.
“Stop questioning and enjoy,” he said. “For Merlin’s sake, you’re standing in a room of books. How you haven’t wet yourself already is anyone’s guess.”
Instinct told her to roll her eyes, but instead Hermione took Fred’s advice, allowing herself a short laugh. But the laugh steadily grew, flooding her with warmth and with relief and with not-caring.
“This is nice,” she said when she had caught her breath. “And I do love libraries and books and all, but there’s one book in particular that I’d rather like to--”
“You mean this one?” From behind his back, Fred produced a book. It was old and small, bound in green fabric, boasting the title Understood Betsy. As Hermione looked into Fred’s eager eyes, amazed at his summoning the very book that had slept beneath her pillow as a girl, she couldn’t help but notice his very Ron-like features--the curved nose, the freckles, the sharpness around his chin.
Wings tickled her stomach and she felt distinctly warm as Fred handed her the book. She felt its familiar weight sink into her palms as Fred placed his hand against the small of her back.
“Let’s move on,” he said, leading her out the back-back door as she fought to comprehend her out-of-place thoughts. But comprehension flew from her reach as she stepped out the door and into her parents’ backyard.
There was the rickety tree house her father had built with a hammer and saw. And the metal swing set she’d found waiting in the sun on her sixth birthday. And the rose bushes and hyacinth. The bird feeder and bath.
Though it was Christmas somewhere far away, in the dorm she’d left behind, it was summer here. Robins warbled overhead and a warm breeze swept Hermione’s hair into her face. Fred stepped beside her, his whole arm around her back now. She moved into his side, leaning against the cool fabric of his robes.
“This is--”
“Brilliant magic,” he finished with a wink. “I’ll quote you on the packaging.”
Hermione rolled her eyes playfully.
“There’s lunch in the treehouse,” he told her, pointing up at the weather-worn structure that had once been a proud treehouse. “Care to dine and read?”
“Uh… are you sure we won’t, you know, break it?”
“To quote you,” Fred cleared his throat, “this is 'brilliant magic.'”
Hermione waved him away. Fred waggled his eyebrows then offered Hermione a hand. She took it happily, feeling warm again. Her lips twisted themselves into a smile as Fred helped her up the ladder and into the house nestled among the branches of a towering oak. The floor was leaf-strewn but solid, and a single picnic basket sat directly at its center.
The contents were simple. Chicken, macaroni salad, chips, oranges. Foods that were luxurious not in their cost but in the nostalgia they brought brimming to the surface.
Without speaking, Fred conjured up some plates and began filling them. As she waited, Hermione leaned happily against the wall of the treehouse and cracked open her copy of Understood Betsy, an old children’s book of a girl who learns to be resilient and good. She remembered sitting on her father’s knee and smelling his cologne as he read Betsy’s story with her.
And so she read aloud. Fred listened quietly, interrupting only to hand her a plate before falling silent again, caught up in the spell of Hermione’s voice. It held the treehouse aloft. It froze the bees in buoyant suspension.
She read for a solid ten minutes before realizing that Fred had moved to sit mere inches from her right elbow. He was looking directly at her--his eyes fierce like the eyes of the pirate captain--and Hermione knew it was all part of the charm but she didn’t care.
She reveled in that feeling of not-caring.
“I’m sorry for not giving you enough credit,” she said.
“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Fred replied. His frankness and sincerity caught her off guard. He seemed to have noticed, because he quickly added, “George isn’t the only one with a sensitive side.”
“If you have to say you have a sensitive side, then you don’t really--”
“Shh,” Fred interrupted, placing his pointer finger against Hermione’s lips. “You’re ruining the moment.”
Anger and laughter flared up inside of her chest in equal measure. She felt a bit like a spluttering teapot as she began laughing, though it quickly turned into a steady spout of steam as Fred joined in. His laugh seemed almost healing.
Then Fred stopped laughing and looked at her again with those fierce eyes.
“What?” she asked. She brought a hand up to check her hair, but Fred claimed her hand in his and brought it up to his lips. He kissed it gently.
“Hermione,” he said.
“Yes?”
“I wasn’t going to mention someone else, but I have to say that you’re a person with or without him.”
Hermione pulled her hand away. “I know that.”
“Do you?”
Fred was so close to her now, she could smell orange on his mouth.
“I’m a person without George, you know,” he continued. “Same goes for George. I am the firstborn, which makes me more inclined to succeed on my own--read an article about it in the Prophet--but he’s got a heart of gold, or so mum says.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I read sometimes,” he laughed. “And I’m saying that, even though it may be hard to imagine yourself without someone else, you need to. Because what happens when he’s gone?”
“Gone with Lavender Brown?”
“Sure.”
Hermione fell silent. She let the moment speak to her, let it sink into her skin and her bones until she could really, truly hear it rattling around in there. Too often she muddied moments with talking. But not this one.
This one, she was going to enjoy.
“Why is it you?” she finally said, this time not out of curiosity but, strangely, out of gratitude.
“We’ve all got some unexpected in us, Hermione,” he said with another wink.
“Not me,” she replied.
“How about we change that, then?”
And just like that, as quick as the breath of a moth’s wing, he leaned in and claimed her lips. The gentleness surprised her, especially coming from one of Hogwarts’ most infamous pranksters. She’d expected roughness, power, but instead she got sincerity and carefulness.
When Fred pulled away, he was smiling.
Merlin, why was he always smiling?
“Thirty eight seconds,” he said softly. “It’s been a pleasure, Hermione.”
Hermione ran her fingers across her lips. Warmth lingered there.
“Thanks, Fred,” she said. “I’m glad it was you.”
Fred nodded in response.
Hermione closed her eyes and listened to the birdsong and the flutter of summer wind. Fred rustled beside her. She felt his hands claim hers, but just as their warmth began to seep into her palms, he was gone.
Hermione opened her eyes once again to the darkness of night. She was back in her dorm, sitting against the headboard of her four-poster bed.
She was smiling.
For a minute or two, she didn’t move. She could still feel the faint whisper of a breeze on her cheek, and a gentle pressure of fingers against her own. But the sensation faded along with the charm until she was forced to face the dull reality of a room full of sleeping sixth years in a castle that felt less like home than it had before.
With a sigh, Hermione felt at her lap for the piece of parchment that had held the magic word--the word that had initiated the charm. What she found instead made her heart clunk against her ribcage.
An old copy of Understood Betsy, with the same green cover and cracked binding, had appeared atop the bed sheets, right where she had left the bit of parchment.
“Well,” she said happily, “that really is brilliant magic.”