Chapter Text
Hermione stood at the hearth of the Grangers’ fireplace, trunk in hand, the summer sun beating harshly on the windows outside.
Her mother fussed over her for the third time, patting stray strands of hair into place.
“Hermione, dear, make sure you're careful. And promise me you’ll write often—”
“I will, Mum,” she said quickly, forcing a smile. “I’ll be fine. I love you.”
Her father hovered nearby, brow furrowed, hands deep in his pockets.
“Be sensible,” he said quietly. “I know how those boys are, but don’t.. Don’t get yourself into trouble.”
She smiled at the mention of Harry and Ron, and nodded, and nodded, knowing neither of them could grasp the kind of trouble she was heading into.
Not the real kind. The kind that was more than just teenage hijinks and worrying about grades, because Lord Voldemort was back – and this was all very real.
But she couldn’t tell them.
Because if she did, she knew she’d never make it to the house.
They’d wrap her in a blanket and take her far away — somewhere quiet, somewhere small. Somewhere safe.
Her heart ached for it.
But she couldn’t let herself have it.
Instead, she drew a shaky breath and checked her watch, hoisting her trunk higher.
“I’ve got to go now, Mrs Weasley is expecting me.”
The goodbye was rushed, the hugs too tight, the promises too earnest.
It all felt very rehearsed.
She stepped into the fire; in the absence of the fire's heat, she felt the heat of their worry clinging to her skin.
She willed herself to be brave.
The Floo swallowed her up, and in an instant, the light, airy warmth of summer vanished.
She emerged into darkness, the air damp and heavy with dust.
Grimmauld Place – the name Mrs Weasley had quickly shown her on a piece of paper at the burrow before ushering her back into the fire– loomed above her, silent, its windows like eyes that had seen too much.
Hermione hadn’t expected it to feel so… empty.
She hesitated in the entryway, trunk clutched against her chest, listening to the faint shuffle of unseen feet above. The house smelled of old wood, wax polish, and something she couldn’t name — a lingering weight she couldn’t shake.
“Don’t look so grim,” a voice drawled. Sirius Black appeared from the shadows of the hallway, leaning casually against the banister. “It’s only slightly haunted.”
Hermione forced a small smile. “I’ve dealt with ghosts before,” she said, though she wasn’t entirely lying.
“Not these ghosts,” he murmured, smirking. He moved towards her, bringing her into a hug.
“It’s good to see you.
Hopefully, this place will feel a bit better with you here,” he added.
Behind her, the stairs creaked as someone else approached — Ginny, bright-faced, hair mussed from the summer heat. “Hermione! You made it,” she said, tugging her into a brief hug. “I was starting to worry you’d forgotten us.”
Hermione returned the hug, a bit awkwardly. “Of course not.”
Behind Ginny, Ron appeared.
“Welcome back,” he said, a small, tentative smile on his face., “It’s good to see you.”
Something in her chest loosened a bit at the sight of Ginny and Ron. This was familiar, this she knew.
Ginny gestured for her to follow, helping Hermione to haul her trunk up the staircase and into the room she’d call her own for the summer.
By the time she had unpacked, organised her clothes, and tried to air the room with a quick charm, the house had started to feel like something she could navigate — though far from comfortable.
She made her way back down to the kitchen. Mrs Weasley was bustling through, wiping her hands on her apron. “Hello, Hermione dear! You’ll want to join me in sorting these supplies. We’re trying to organise and clean up Grimmauld Place while we’re here.”
“Of course, Mrs Weasley,” Hermione said, placing her quill and parchment carefully on the table. She tried to ignore the oppressive shadows and the smell of damp wood, focusing instead on the small rhythm of the day: cupboards to tidy, letters to write, corners to sweep.
They moved in silence mostly, creating lists upon lists of rooms to clean, marking off the smaller tasks, adding almost endlessly to the bigger ones.
“Mrs Weasley, I was wondering... now that we’re all here, can we write to Harry? He’s been begging for some information.”
Mrs Weasley paused in her rummaging, straightening up to give Hermione a pitying look.
“Oh, we can’t, dear. Dumbledore’s orders. Security risks and all that. The less he knows, the better.”
Hermione felt a twist in her stomach, but she nodded tightly, “Right. Yeah, of course, I understand.”
She wished, more than anything, she could write him more than a few lines. She hated knowing he was upset, hated lying to him – even if it was by omission.
Ginny flitted in and out with updates from the others, tucking stray strands of hair behind her ears. “Did you see the kitchen upstairs? It’s… somehow worse than I imagined.”
Hermione allowed herself a small laugh. “We’ll manage. One room at a time.”
Ron lingered nearby, an almost constant presence. He helped where needed, finishing tasks assigned by Mrs Weasley, but mostly standing back, observing. Letting Hermione and Mrs Weasley take charge, she felt a flicker of warmth at the simple, ordinary companionship, though it didn’t reach the cold edges of the house itself.
The day settled into night, and they paused the cleaning to eat dinner, though it wasn't the boisterous affair she had come to expect with the Weasleys. It was quiet, subdued, hurried.
They fell into this routine, each day following a familiar pattern: wake up, breakfast, clean, lunch, clean some more, then dinner. After dinner, she would find somewhere to read, or spend time with Ron, Ginny, Fred and George, playing chess, exploding snap – mostly keeping the shadows of the house at bay.
It was a few weeks later, around lunch time, and Hermione stood, hunched over the long kitchen table. Today's task was cleaning out the cupboards and sorting dried herbs, parchment stacked nearby for letters she hadn’t yet sent.
A voice behind her made her start.
“Merlin’s beard,” Fred muttered. “You’ve been at this all morning.”
Hermione nearly dropped the bundle of sage.
“I’m trying to make things usable,” she said, sharper than she meant. “Half of this is mouldy, and the rest is alphabetised incorrectly.”
Fred leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, grinning like sunlight itself had found a crack in the dark house.
“Alphabetised incorrectly. That’s a new one, even for you.”
“Some of us prefer order.”
“Order? In Order Headquarters? Hermione, you’re funnier than you give yourself credit for.”
She sighed, shoving a jar back on the shelf. “If you’ve come to make fun of me, I’d appreciate you finding something else to do.”
He didn’t leave. Of course, he didn’t. Fred never did.
Instead, he plucked a stray sprig of rosemary from her pile.
“You realise no one’s going to eat half this stuff, yeah? Mum’s been cooking from memory for decades… and I’m pretty sure she has her own stash of herbs.”
“That’s not the point,” she said, tugging it back. “It’s about keeping things—”
“—under control,” he finished softly.
She glanced up, expecting mischief, but his eyes were steady. A flash of something she couldn’t name.
Then he grinned again — and the moment was gone.
“You know, if you ever run out of herbs, I’ve got a few things that could spice things up.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Didn’t even let me finish!”
“Because we've been living in close quarters for weeks at this point, and I know you, Fred.”
He laughed — a real one, bright and warm — and for a heartbeat, the house felt different. Almost alive.
Almost warm.
Hermione pressed her lips together, catching herself before a smile broke through.
He noticed, of course, but let her have the quiet mercy of pretending he hadn’t.
Fred watched her work, leaning casually on the counter, and the silence between them stretched — not uncomfortable, just strange. A new side effect of living with him for the last few weeks, of spending much more time together than ever before.
“Anyway,” he said at last, pushing off the counter, “don’t work yourself to death. We’ve already got a ghost problem.”
“Very funny,” she muttered.
He paused at the door, tossing her a wrapped sweet. “You skipped breakfast. Try not to faint before lunch, I’ve got enough cleaning to do without reviving you as well.”
Hermione caught it, staring at the glint of red wrapper in her palm. He was gone before she could reply.
Much later, after dinner, the house had quieted again. Hermione sat at the table, quill in hand, parchment spread before her. She had meant to study, but the words blurred under her eyes.
The ache in her chest lingered.
Footsteps again. She didn’t need to turn. Fred’s shadow fell across the table.
“You’re still up,” he said casually, though there was a note in his voice — the same one from before.
“So are you,” she countered softly.
“Got me there, Granger,” he said.
“Thought you’d have written enough to run out of ink.”
“It helps me think.”
“About what?”
She hesitated. “I don't know. Is it a cop out to say everything?”
Fred leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Not if it’s the truth.”
Hermione smiled, “Then there’s your answer. I’m still awake because I’m busy worrying about… everything.”
Fred looked at her, absorbing the words.
“I like to think about everything too.”
“You do?” Hermione said, confused by the turn in the conversation.
“Sure, I do. You can’t be an inventor if you’re not also a thinker, Hermione. I thought you’d know that.”
Hermione laughed softly, “I suppose you’re right. So here we are, late-night thinkers.”
“Don’t suppose you’re also brainstorming new pranks, are you?” Fred said.
Hermione laughed, a real one this time.
“No, Fred, I’m not.”
“Shame. You’d be a valuable asset. If you’re ever bored of trying to fix things, you’re more than welcome to help us create things.”
Hermione stilled.
“I’m not trying to fix things,” she said, carefully.
Fred glanced at her, sceptical.
“Right. Sure, you aren’t”
They both fell into silence, broken when Fred said
“You know, you don’t always have to try and fix things, don’t you? You can’t fix all of this,” he gestured around him, “this house, this war, by yourself.”
“I know that Fred,” she said tightly.
“That’s not what I’m trying to do. I’m just… thinking.”
His eyes held hers for a moment, any trace of teasing gone. Just watching.
“Alright,” he said. “If you say so.”
The moment broke, casual again.
“Don’t stay up too late, yeah? We don’t need another ghoul haunting the attic.”
Hermione rolled her eyes.
“Goodnight, Fred.”
He gave her a fleeting smile over his shoulder,
“G’Night, Granger.”
She stayed there, staring at the empty chair, her pulse thudding, just slightly.
That was weird.
Something had shifted — just a bit.
A soft tap at the doorway made her jump.
“Don’t freak out,” Ginny’s voice said, warm and low. “It’s just me.”
Hermione let herself relax slightly.
“You’ve got that look,” Ginny said, tilting her head. “You’ve been doing too much thinking.”
Hermione smiled, “Maybe I have.”
Ginny smiled in return.
Something inside Hermione loosened. Just enough to breathe.
Then, almost against her will, her thoughts flicked to Fred — the rosemary, the sweet, his eyes on hers.
She stiffened.
Ginny noticed immediately. “Hm. I thought we were done with thinking. Something’s got under your skin today?”
“Maybe just a bit,” Hermione admitted softly. “It’s just… distracting, that’s all.”
Ginny chuckled. “Ah. That explains it.”
She squeezed Hermione’s shoulder. “Try not to let him get the better of you, alright?”
Hermione blanched, but didn’t deny it.
“I’m going to bed,” Ginny said, smiling. “Come up soon, yeah?”
After she left, the house fell silent again.
Hermione sank into her chair, eyes tracing the stacks of parchment. The ache in her chest lingered.
She wished, more than anything, that Harry was here.
Then maybe everything would make sense. Everything could go back to normal.
But she knew, with that sharp certainty that came from being Hermione Granger, something had shifted. Something had changed.
Normal might not be something she would get back to.
She pressed her lips together and let herself imagine the windows open — the air soft and warm, the faint glint of red wrapper tucked in her pocket.
A warning. A promise. An ache that was beginning to solidify.