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Hermione wasn't sure when it had started.
Okay. Maybe that was a lie.
She knew when it had started (the Yule Ball, fourth year).
What she didn’t know was when it had changed. When a silly, fluttering crush had twisted itself into something steady and stubborn — into still being half in love with Fred Weasley at twenty-one.
In many ways, her crush on Fred had been the most consistent thing in her life, through the chaos, through the war, through all the aftermath.
Three years later, that much hadn’t changed.
What had changed was her patience.
Because the daft man still wouldn't pick up on a single one of her hints.
"Right," Hermione muttered to her reflection, fingers braced against the bed frame. "Tonight’s the night. No more subtlety. No more hints he can laugh off or miss entirely."
"Talking to yourself again?" Ginny’s voice floated from the doorway, followed by the sight of her best friend balancing an armful of dresses. "Never a good sign."
Hermione turned, exasperated.
"He’s driving me mad, Ginny. Absolutely mental." She gestured to the chaos of clothes spilling across her bed. "It’s been years of this — of me practically setting myself on fire with flirting that everyone else can see — and still nothing!"
Ginny arched an eyebrow, dropping a short black dress onto the pile. "Define obvious?"
"Last week I was helping him test a new product, and I complimented his hands. I said they were very… capable." Hermione flushed, pressing a hand to her forehead. "And what did he say? ‘Thanks, Hermione! We’ve been trialling a new WonderWitch’s line— and then he spent ten minutes explaining the bloody packaging!"
Ginny wince. "Oh, Hermione…"
"And then there was the time I told him I’d love to see his bedroom sometime — privately — because I wanted to know what mattress he uses, since he always looks so well rested. And do you know what he did?" Hermione threw her hands up. "He offered to take me to the shop. The shop, Ginny. Not even a flicker of understanding!"
Ginny’s mouth twitched, fight laughter, "Maybe he's just–"
"If he doesn't want me, fine," Hermione cut in, pacing now. "But he has to say it. I can’t keep living in this in-between space. The anticipation and his obtuseness are killing me. He needs to man up and reject me."
"Hermione," Ginny said gently, resting her hands on Hermione's shoulders, "It’s not an act. He’s not ignoring you on purpose. He’s that oblivious.”
Hermione froze mid-step.
“You really think so?”
"I do.” Ginny’s expression softened. "Fred’s brilliant — but when it comes to women? Completely hopeless.
Hermione let out a shaky laugh.
"Hopeless," she echoed.
"Which," Ginny said, lifting the black dress again with a glint in her eye, "is why tonight, we go nuclear."
An hour later, Hermione barely recognised the girl in the mirror.
The black dress hugged every curve; her hair fell in polished waves; Ginny had somehow managed to coax a quiet confidence from her.
She looked… breathtaking. And she hated it (just a bit).
"I feel ridiculous," Hermione muttered.
"You look incredible," Ginny countered. "Trust me. Fred’s going to swallow his tongue. And if he doesn’t, I’ll hex it out of his mouth."
Hermione laughed softly, nerves settling somewhere low in her chest. "Right. No pressure, then."
–
The Leaky Cauldron was loud, warm, and full of the people she loved.
She was cool. She was calm. She was hot.
Well, trying to be.
Conversation faltered when she entered. Harry’s jaw went slack; Ron’s ears went pink. George and Angelina wolf-whistled; Luna clapped politely; and somewhere in the corner, Seamus muttered something about divine intervention.
But Hermione only noticed Fred.
And Fred was staring.
She was cool, she was calm, and she was hot.
She fought a smile. Good.
"Bloody hell, Hermione!" he said, leaping to his feet. "You look— I mean— stunning. What’s the occasion? Trying to pick someone up tonight?"
Hermione caught Ginny’s knowing smirk. "Yeah. Something like that."
"Brilliant! I’ll help you!" Fred said cheerfully. She thought something flickered in his eyes, but she couldn’t pinpoint it.
George groaned. "Oh, for Merlin’s sake."
Fred ignored his outburst, "I'm excellent at wingman duties. Just ask George."
George choked on his butterbeer, "Uh.. yeah. Just the best there is."
He stood up from the table and moved towards his brother, "Come on, Fred, I believe the next round is on us."
Pulling his twin with him to the bar, "What the bloody hell are you doing?" he hissed.
"Helping a friend," Fred replied innocently.
"No. Not a friend, Hermione."
"I'm sure I don't know what you're implying," Fred said, his ears turning slightly pink.
"Im not implying anything. I'll outright say it if you need me to," countered George, waving down the bartender to order the drinks.
"That won't be necessary, Georgie. I'm well aware of everything I need to be aware of."
George paused from putting the drinks on the tray to carry them back to the group, side-eyeing Fred. He sighed, "You're an incredibly frustrating man. But I cannot control you."
"Right. Back we go. To your funeral."
–
And so began Weasley’s Wingman Services.
Hermione leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, and decided if subtlety hadn’t worked before, then the obvious would.
"Alright," Fred said, grinning. "Describe your type. Give me something to work with."
"Well," Hermione began carefully, "he’d have to be tall. But not too tall. Just a few inches taller than me. Probably… exactly your height."
Fred nodded, thoughtful.
"Red hair’s a weakness," she continued, eyes flicking deliberately upward. "Always has been."
Fred hummed, scanning the crowd. "Plenty of gingers about. What else?"
Across the table, Ginny was shaking her head while Harry patted her consolingly on the back.
“Funny,” Hermione said. “The kind of person who can make me laugh even when I’m miserable. Creative, too. Someone who’s built something out of nothing."
Fred grinned. "Ambitious! I like that. You need someone who can keep up with you."
Hermione’s smile was fixed. "Yes. Exactly."
Hermione felt her eye twitch slightly, but powered on, "And someone with really nice hands. Just perfectly capable hands. Hands that are good at… You know. Creating things. That's a nonnegotiable for me. Hands."
Fred blinked, looked down at his own, then up again. "Right. Hands. Important."
Hermione thought it was like shouting into the void.
Behind them, Ron made a sound like a dying Hippogriff. Dean and Seamus had given up all pretence and were openly staring at the spectacle. Even Luna looked bewildered, which was saying something. Angelina was gripping George's arm so tightly that he was wincing.
It was like watching a car crash. Awful, upsetting and yet, none of them could look away.
Well, other than hands… anything else?" Fred asked brightly, apparently immune to the fact that everyone else had stopped even pretending to care about anything else.
"Well," Hermione said, her voice taking on a slightly desperate edge, "I suppose he'd have to have brown eyes. Warm brown eyes. And maybe a little scar through his left eyebrow from a Quidditch accident when he was twelve. Oh, and it would be nice if he had siblings, since I'm an only child and all"
Fred's hand moved unconsciously to touch the faded scar she'd mentioned, but he still didn't seem to connect the dots. "That's... very specific. Are you sure you don't already have someone in mind?"
"Bloody hell, mate," Seamus muttered, shaking his head.
Hermione smiled tightly, "Let's just see where the night takes us."
–
Two hours– and several drinks later – Hermione had abandoned all restraint.
She was pressed against Fred’s side, their thighs pressed together, her shoulder tucked against him, tracing the collar of his shirt, drunk on the warmth of him.
"This colour looks good on you," she murmured.
Fred frowned down at himself. "This? I wear this all the time."
"I know," she said softly. "I’ve noticed."
For a moment — a flicker — something in his gaze shifted, his eyes seemed to study her.
Then he glanced past her.
"Don’t look now," he whispered, "but that bloke’s been eyeing you all night—"
Hermione pulled back, cold washing through her. She removed her hands from him and moved back in the booth, creating space between them where there hadn't been before.
"Not my type."
"You didn’t even—"
She locked eyes with Fred before taking a sip of her drink. "I didn't need to. I just knew."
"But how could you–"
"Because," Hermione interrupted, her patience finally snapping, "I am very confident that there is no person in this pub tonight that you will find for me to be interested in Fred Weasley. Not the dark-haired bloke, not the blonde at the bar, not the apparent Quidditch star you met in the bathroom, not the person in the corner who's been trying to catch my eye for the past hour. None of them. No one but–" She stopped herself, jaw tight. “Don’t worry about it.”
Fred blinked at her outburst. Then looked at her again, with that same searching look from before. His eyes flickered with something.
"That's rather limiting, Hermione," he said, slowly. "Makes it a bit hard to perform my wingman duties."
Hermione stood abruptly, "Your wingman duties are self-imposed, Fred Weasley. Do what you want. I'm done."
She walked away on (slightly) unsteady feet, beelining for where Harry, Ginny, George and Angelina were standing, all looking at her sympathetically.
Behind her, Fred had the faint idea that there was something rather important he was missing.
–
"George Weasley, I hope you have enjoyed the past 23 years as a twin because tonight that very well might come to an end."
"Hermione, it's been a wonderful 23 years. Whatever you do to my dearest brother tonight will be well deserved, and I won't stand in your way."
"Yeah. We'll even help you," Angelina said, gesturing to herself, Ginny and Harry.
Harry put his hands up "As an auror-to-be, I will not be helping; however, I will turn a blind eye."
Hermione laughed shakily.
"Are you alright though, 'Mione?" George asked.
"Oh, I’m fine!" she said too brightly. "Just marvellous! Sat there listening to the man I love describe potential suitors as if I’m some hopeless case!"
George winced. "Yeah, he's... he's not great at this."
Hermione sighed, locking eyes with George, "Be honest with me, George. Is he really this oblivious? Or is this how he lets me down easy?"
George studied her.
"Hermione, that idiot once walked into a doorframe because you laughed at someone else's joke. He spent three hours reorganising your bookshelf because you said you needed to, then came home asking why his heart felt funny. He’s not rejecting you — he just hasn’t caught up yet."
Hermione blinked hard. "But why?" she whispered.
There was a pause as the group absorbed what she said, then:
"Because it's you," George said simply.
"And you matter to him. More than you know, more than he probably even realises. When something really matters to Fred, his brain just... short-circuits. He turns into an absolute disaster." He paused, glancing over at his twin.
"Look, I know it's frustrating. Trust me, Angelina and I have been watching this painful dance for years. But don't give up on him just yet, yeah? Sometimes the best things are worth waiting for, even when they come wrapped in the most oblivious package imaginable."
Hermione looked at Ginny, Harry and Angelina – all people she loved more than anything, who had never once lied to her, who looked at her right now like what George had said was more than the truth. It just was.
She felt something loosen in her chest, just a bit.
"You really think?"
Here, Angelina stepped in,
"Hermione, Fred would be the luckiest man alive if he ever got his head out of his arse long enough to see what's right in front of him." George squeezed her shoulder as she continued, "And besides. We all have a bet going, and mine ends tonight. Hope to it, I don't think it'll be much longer. Even Fred can't stay this thick forever."
–
It was later still, and Hermione had found her way back to Fred's side, as she always did.
"Come on," Fred said, deciding a change of scenery might help Hermione's mysterious mood. "Dance with me, and we can get a better view of the room. Scout out more options."
He pulled her onto the small dance floor, where a few couples were swaying to the soft music.
This was nice.
Hermione let herself melt into Fred's arms, pretending this was real, that he was holding her because he wanted her and not because he was trying to help her find someone else.
That no matter what everyone said, at least she had this, right now.
Even if it might not last.
Then: "Blonde bloke by the bar — he’s been watching you. Could be your type."
Hermione stopped cold. That was it.
She pulled back sharply, meeting Fred's eyes. "You know what, Fred? Forget it. Just... forget all of it."
She turned and pushed through the crowd toward the back exit, leaving Fred standing alone on the dance floor, with a sick feeling in his stomach.
–
The alley was cool and quiet. Hermione braced against the wall, trying not to cry.
Maybe she should just give up. Maybe this was the universe telling her that some things weren't meant to be.
"Excuse me, love?"
She looked up to find the blonde man with a kind smile, pity in his eyes.
"That redhead’s a bit thick, isn’t he?"
Hermione laughed weakly. "That's a nicer way to put it than I would."
Before she could reply, the door burst open and Fred stumbled into the alley, breathless. "Hermione— there you are— I didn’t mean—"
He froze when he saw the other man.
“Oh.”
The stranger raised his hands. "Perfect timing, actually. Mate, she’s been flirting with you all night. And you’ve been setting her up with other people. You might be the densest man I’ve ever seen."
Fred blinked. “What?”
“I’m not trying to be a dick,” the man said, backing towards the door, “but you guys have things to talk about. Anyone with eyes can see it.”
And then he was gone
"Hermione," Fred started, running a hand through his hair, "I feel like I've been missing something important all night. You seemed upset, and then you left, and now that bloke is saying..." He trailed off, looking lost.
Hermione studied his face – the genuine confusion in his brown eyes, the worried crease between his brows. He really didn't know. He really, truly had no idea.
"Ask me again."
"Ask you what?"
"My type."
Fred hesitated. "Alright. What’s your type, then?"
Hermione took a step closer. "Someone whose laugh sounds like sunlight. Who builds joy out of nothing? Whose hair catches fire in the light, and who still doesn’t realise how brilliant he is."
Another step.
"Someone who smells like cinnamon and smoke, and who makes me want to stay."
Fred’s breath caught.
"Someone who’s been driving me mad for years because he’s too thick to notice."
He swallowed. "Hermione—"
This was it. Her very last chance.
"Someone I’ve loved since the Yule Ball," she whispered.
The world seemed to still.
Fred stared at her for a long moment, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Then, very quietly: "Ask me."
Hermione paused her approach. "What?"
"Ask me, Hermione."
She studied his face before asking, "What's your type, Fred?"
Fred’s answer came in a rush — unpolished, earnest, all heart.
"Someone brilliant," he said, his voice rough and slightly rambling. "Not just with books - though Merlin, the way you explain things... But like, properly brilliant. The kind where she can solve problems I didn't even know were problems and somehow make me feel useful while she does it."
He took a step closer. "Curly hair that's got a mind of its own but somehow always looks perfect. Sort of wild, you know? Like her." His voice got softer. "The kind of person who gets excited about things-house-elf rights, library organisation, the proper way to brew anything really - and makes you want to listen for hours just to watch her face light up."
"Someone brave enough to punch Malfoy and smart enough to figure out Time-Turners and bossy enough to keep me and George in line." He was getting closer, his voice more tender. "Someone who's not scared off by our chaos but who'll hex us if we go too far."
Another step. "Brown eyes that go all warm when she's happy and fierce when she's angry. Someone who does this thing where she bites her lip when she's thinking, and makes this little sound when she's frustrated with me."
"Someone who smells like vanilla and books and just... her." Fred's hands came up to almost touch her face, hovering just inches away. "Someone who fits perfectly when I hold her - not that I've held her much, but when I have... Someone who laughs at my terrible jokes and looks at me like I might actually be worth something."
His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "Someone who's been right in front of me this whole time, and I've been too much of an idiot to see it. Someone I think I've been falling for without even realising it, because being around her makes my brain stop working properly."
He finally touched her face, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. "Someone exactly like you, Hermione. Someone who is you."
Hermione felt tears prick at her eyes. "Fred…"
"I think I've been an idiot," he said softly. "How did I not see it? How did I not realise?"
"Because you're Fred Weasley," Hermione said, her voice shaky with emotion, "and if you'd realised when I did, at the Yule Ball, where would the fun have been?"
"Since the Yule Ball?" Fred looked stricken. "Six years, Hermione. I wasted six bloody years. You've been... Six years?"
"Give or take."
Fred ran a hand through his hair, looking devastated. "Merlin, Hermione. If I had known–"
"What would you have done?"
"I…" He struggled for words, his usual quick wit apparently having deserted him entirely.
"I’d have kissed you then, when I first wanted to. I would have never left you or me wondering. I would have held you close, knowing I could, and missed you without guilt when I couldn't. I would have…" he paused, and the searching look came back.
"I would have told you I loved you when I knew I did. I would have never let you leave with Harry and Ron without knowing. And if I couldn't do that, I would have told you as soon as I woke up."
Tears pricked at both their eyes.
"If I had known, or if I wasn't so scared that being only a joke shop owner wasn't enough for you, I would have done so many things differently," He continued, his voice breaking slightly.
"But all I have is now, and all I can promise you is this. Me. Making up for all the lost time."
Hermione stepped close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, but there was still hurt in her voice. "Six years, Fred. Six years of thinking I wasn't good enough, that you'd never see me that way. Do you know how many times I almost gave up?"
"I'm sorry," Fred whispered, looking genuinely torn. "I'm so sorry, Hermione. I was an idiot, and you have every right to be angry with me."
"I am angry," she said quietly. "But I'm also tired of being angry. I'm tired of waiting."
"Then don't wait anymore," Fred said urgently. "Let me make it up to you. Let me show you that I see you now."
"Let me tell you the rest of my type, so you can really help. So you can get Weasley's Wingman Services off the ground."
Fred looked stricken, but nodded for her to continue.
"This guy, he's the kindest, funniest, most passionate person I know. He makes me laugh when I'm stressed and remembers exactly how I like my tea. He's not intimidated by my books or my career or my tendency to lecture about house-elf rights."
Fred's hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. "Hermione..."
"I've been half in love with him since I was 15, and trying to catch his attention just as long. I'm 21 now and not over him, and I don't expect to ever be."
"I love the way his mind works, even when it's working in ways that completely baffle me. Because he's brave and loyal and—"
Fred kissed her.
It was soft at first, tentative, like he was afraid she might disappear. But when Hermione melted into him, her hands fisting in the front of his shirt, he deepened the kiss with a soft groan. She threaded her hands into his hair, pulling him closer, until their bodies were pressed together.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Fred rested his forehead against hers.
"All this time," Hermione whispered, "we could have been..."
"I know," Fred said, his voice rough with emotion. "I know, and I'm sorry. But let me make up for all the lost years," he murmured. "Let me start now."
And when he kissed her again — soft, trembling, real — it felt like the first right thing in years.
When they broke apart, Hermione laughed quietly against his lips, and Fred groaned, “I can't believe I almost let you go home with someone else tonight.”
"Not let," Hermione said quietly, looking up at him, "helped. You helped me try to find someone else."
Fred whined, low in his throat. "Please, don't remind me. I can't believe I was such an idiot."
Hermione laughed, the sound breathless and slightly hysterical.
"I can't believe it took a stranger to make you realise what everyone else has been trying to tell you for months."
"Not months," Fred said, "George has been pushing this agenda since our last year at Hogwarts."
Hermione smiled, "Our friends are going to be insufferable about this, aren't they?"
"Oh, absolutely. George is going to take credit. While really, we both know Angelina and Ginny orchestrated the whole thing. Harry's going to be relieved he doesn't have to watch us pine anymore. And the boys are going to make jokes about it for months."
"And Ron?"
"Ron's been calling this for longer than either of us has known." Fred grinned, that familiar mischievous expression that had been getting her into trouble for years. "Well then, we'd better get back in there and give them the show they've been waiting for."
He took her hand, lacing their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world. As they walked back toward the pub door, Hermione couldn't help but think that it was.
Fred Weasley might be oblivious. It might have taken him six years and intervention from a stranger to figure out what had been right in front of his face all along.
But he was hers now, and that was all that mattered.