A/N: Hi, friends.
Some wonderful people have seen drafts of this story months and months ago, but I'm hoping to get some additional insight/thoughts/comments.
This story is based on the unsubstantiated fan theory that JK Rowling considered pairing Fred with Hermione. Maybe in another universe, she did.
And maybe in another universe, he lived.
And Hermione was struggling to her feet in the wreckage, and three red-headed men were grouped on the ground where the wall had blasted apart. Harry grabbed Hermione's hand as they staggered and stumbled over stone and wood.
'No - no - no!' someone was shouting. 'No! Fred! No!'
And Percy was shaking his brother, and Ron was kneeling beside them, and Fred's eyes stared without seeing, the ghost of his last laugh still etched upon his face.
- The Deathly Hallows
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PART ONE: Come and Go
...
"Cor, Hermione, you just graduated, and you're already going back?"
Hermione scowled at Ron across the breakfast table, her knee-jerk retort temporarily dammed up behind a mouthful of eggy bread. He'd strategically waited to start in on her until she'd bit into her breakfast, she was sure of it.
As she glared, Harry appeared behind her. He placed a fresh heap of bacon on the table, nudging the plate toward Ron. Directly after, his hands found Hermione's shoulders.
"Are you really that surprised, mate?" Harry asked, his tone light. "Professor McGonagall is obviously trying to lure Hermione back to Hogwarts for good, like she's doing for Neville. I bet she would've owled before, too, if Hermione hadn't just gotten back from Australia on Saturday."
She narrowed her eyes. That was most certainly not Professor McGonagall's intent.
"I don't understand it is all." Ron looked to Hermione. "You escaped. Graduated. And now, not even a month later, you're going back to do more schoolwork. It's madness!"
Hermione nearly choked in an effort to swallow faster. She gulped before gasping, "I'm doing work for the school, Ron. Not schoolwork. It's not like an assignment, you know. It's because of the rooms, like I've been saying."
"Are you going to the library and writing up a report for McGonagall, or aren't you?"
"That's part of it, eventually, but - "
Ron waved a stubby, bitten piece of bacon dismissively. "Sounds like schoolwork to me."
Oh, and what would he know!
Harry's hands squeezed, his thumbs pressing pointedly behind her tensed up shoulder-blades. She snapped her mouth shut.
She wanted to shrug Harry's hands off of her shoulders, too, feeling a quick, ungainly surge of anger at his insight. That he was able to read her intentions so well, stop her seconds before she could form a cutting retort, and, in the process, prevent her from escalating an innocuous morning quibble into an all out fight—it was frustrating. Infuriating.
She frowned, exhaling through her nose.
No, it wasn't.
It was a reactive impulse, and an unfair one. Harry was only trying to help. Had been trying to help since she got here. So she swallowed her misplaced anger, keeping still.
And Ron? Well, Ron was just joking. She knew that. He was teasing her like he used to on a subject that he used to, and that was, indeed, infuriatingly familiar.
But at the same time, it wasn't—familiar, that is. There was a bitter undercurrent to his words that she could see plain as day, even if Harry couldn't. Even if Ron didn't actually mean it. Or know he meant it, at least.
Because—and this was the crux of the matter, wasn't it?—a year of distance hadn't stopped Harry and Ginny. If anything, it had strengthened them. But whatever tentatively forming thing she'd thought had been forming between her and Ron had flickered, then faded. Now, there was just a wisp of a what-could-have-been where there should've been something solid and tangible and real.
Hogwarts, apparently, was to blame. And so was her choice to attend.
Harry gave a short laugh, breaking the silence. "Yeah, okay. ' Schoolwork .' Nice try pretending you don't have to write up reports, Ron. Because those weekly papers we both turn into Robards say something different," he said, sitting down at the table next to Hermione. He refilled his mug with strong, oversteeped black tea, having already eaten with Ginny when she'd had to be up and out the door for six o'clock practice.
"At least I'm getting paid for it."
"Yeah, well, you won't be for much longer if you don't finish yours up by today, mate. It was due Friday."
Ron flashed a rude gesture, but it was devoid of any real heat. He was more interested in plopping the remainder of his bacon in his mouth and chewing, looking annoyingly morose.
It wasn't until warm porcelain bumped into her hands that she realized she'd been clenching them tightly in her lap. After grasping the cup from Harry, she smiled at him—or tried to, anyway. It probably looked like a grimace more than anything. Harry smiled back, though, raising his mug to her in a mock salute before taking a sip.
She rolled her eyes at him but followed his lead, feeling herself simultaneously relax and perk up as the warm, bitter tea flooded her, doing a great deal to clear her head and calm her down.
She exhaled, and additional tension unspooled.
Jetlag, it seemed, still had her in its merry clutches, reeking havoc on her mood. She should really try to remember that. Her internal clock was off, yes, but that was no excuse to pick fights or fall to emotional extremes. She wasn't a child anymore. She was better than that.
Merlin, though, was she tired.
Yes. Tired.
She grasped the porcelain mug tighter and took another calming sip. Things were fine and good, and she was fine and good, and today would be fine and good even if it killed her.
In the hallway, an actual clock began to sound. It blared loudly, more like a siren than a tolling clock.
Ron groaned, a rough, guttural noise, and buried his head in his arms, looking for all the world like an ostrich sticking its head in the sand. Nine long blares rang through the kitchen, shaking the cabinets and the dishes. Harry stood, knocking back his tea in two huge gulps.
Shortly thereafter, a large navy Auror robe was flung across the table, hitting Ron on the head and covering him entirely with a swish of billowing fabric.
"Up you get, you git, or we'll be late," Harry said, shrugging on his own robe. "You know it's only set a little fast."
Ron groaned again, but the tent-like navy fabric started moving, bits and pieces bunching up at odd, clumsy angles, as if he was trying to put it on without lifting his head.
Which, come to think of it, he probably was.
Hermione looked from Ron to Harry and back. Harry, for his part, had lifted his glasses and was pinching the bridge of his nose while glancing at the ceiling, as if beseeching some nameless yet often called upon force for strength. This was probably because Ron's arms were high in the air, ensleeved by his work uniform. He'd succeeded in finding the armholes alright, but he'd put the robe on backwards, and his face was a solid dark blue mask.
The entire scene was so stupid .
Merlin, these boys were complete idiots, weren't they?
She snorted softly into her cup, unable to help it. Issues with Ron aside, she'd missed these fools rather a lot.
"You two are going to be late, you know," she said, sitting up primly. The urge to smile was nearly overwhelming. "Honestly, I haven't the slightest as to how you managed without me for an entire year."
"She's right," Harry said, "Ron, get up. Let's go."
Ron grumbled.
Harry kicked the table. "Into the Floo, Ron. Now ."
"Yes, mum , alright," Ron said from behind a mask of navy. "I heard you the first bloody time."
"Then get up the first bloody time," Harry mimicked. "And I am not your mum."
"Thank Merlin for that," Ron said, pulling the robe from his face just in time to see Harry throw two fingers at him.
Ron snorted and stood, rearranging his robes and grabbing up his wand, stuffing it into his inner breast pocket. He grabbed up the large plate of bacon, too, and made his way toward Grimmauld Place's kitchen fireplace, munching glumly and dragging his feet the closer he got.
Hermione watched it all with fond amusement, giving into the light, pulling urge and smiling as she took in the boys' domestic routine, like and not like what she'd imagined. Through their pouting banter, she could see the boys were happy together, content and silly and consumed with postgraduate concerns. It was normal. It was nice .
Their dynamic had shifted without her there, of course. They'd grown together, up and around the parts she used to fill. But she was back now. Could be part of it all again. Was still part of it, in a way.
"Uh, you okay if I take the rest of this with me?" Ron asked, pausing just before the Floo and gesturing to the plate in his hands.
Hermione stiffened, muscles taut and smile frozen in place. "Still vegetarian," she answered. "So go ahead. Have at it."
Ron winced. "Right. Sorry, Hermione, I knew that. My head will straighten itself out sometime around noon."
"Sure." Hermione flapped her hand, her stiff smile growing wider, cracking at the edges. "Of course. Now go, before you're even later than you are now."
Harry, to prove her point, had pulled his pocket watch out, the one Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had given him years ago, and started fiddling with it, an absent, nervous habit.
Ron opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to say something, but he must have thought better of it, because after half a second, he turned, went through the fireplace, and was gone.
Instead of following in Ron's wake like she expected, Harry lingered, glancing at her.
They shared a look.
"So," Hermione began, the word clipped. "Ron hates his job."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Really?" he deadpanned. "I had no idea."
Hermione rolled her eyes, relaxing just a little. "When is he going to quit and start working for George, again?"
"Working with George. That's a sticking point. And as for when," Harry trailed off, shrugging. "Who knows? A couple of months? More? I wouldn't be surprised if it was next week or next year, honestly. Both of them have their reasons for not moving faster — not that I'm even sure Ron has realized just how much he wants to work with him yet, mind." Harry looked at the floor and coughed. "It can, uh, take him awhile to come around sometimes."
"That's one way to put it," Hermione muttered, standing. She picked up her wand, banishing the used dishes into the kitchen proper. The porcelain vanished, then reappeared with a muffled clink in the sink basin. Another movement, and warm, sudsy water flowed from the tap.
"Ahh!" Harry cried, throwing an arm out. "No, stop! I was serious this morning. If you don't let Kreacher do those, he'll throw a complete fit."
She paused, frowning. "You're joking."
"I'm really not," he said. "Kreacher's an elephant. He doesn't forget; you know that. He's only just stopped going on about all the knitting and baking you did over Christmas, so for the sake of everyone living in this house, please don't."
"It's just a few dishes, Harry. It'll take a minute . Less than."
"Seriously, Hermione. Please." He raised his hands, palms out. "Do not stand on this hill. Not so early on a Monday."
"Fine," she said bruskly, turning off the tap with a flick of her wrist. She sat, slumping back in her chair.
"Good, okay," Harry responded, relieved, but then he fidgeted, glancing at the fireplace and pulling his pocket watch out again. "You're heading to Hogsmeade, then Hogwarts today?"
"That's the plan," she answered slowly, glancing at him. "I'll be back and forth for a couple days, I think. Is it still okay for me to take the map with me? I want to see if it picks up the rooms."
"Yeah, of course. I don't care. Just try not to let McGonagall see it unless you have to."
"Really?" Hermione blinked. "She wouldn't care."
"Family heirloom," Harry shrugged, smiling and looking a bit shy. "I'd like to have the chance to pass it down some day. Have it be useful."
Hermione smiled back, a little shocked at his admission—but also not, because she could see it then, too: tiny, laughing little Harry's with clothes that fit and glasses that had never been broken sneaking along the halls of Hogwarts at night, seeking mischief and causing trouble and perhaps getting caught yet never once actually being in trouble or in danger.
She wanted that for him. It's what he should have had; what they all deserved. But just then, also in that moment, a crack rocked the room, and a sweaty redheaded blur appeared out of nowhere, clutching a broom in one hand and a wand in the other.
Hair in a tight french braid, knuckles bloody and left eye newly blackened, Ginny Weasley lurched forward, carried by unseen momentum. She was breathing hard, obviously having come straight from practice. Likely, she'd apparated back as soon as her feet had hit the ground.
"Sorry I'm late!" Ginny kept up with the inertia seamlessly, moving forward to lean her broom against the wall, then twirling around and bounding over to Harry, looping her arms around his neck and kissing him soundly on the mouth. Harry was ready for her, waiting. His arms were at her waist, tugging her closer, twining himself with her in a way that looked as natural and necessary as an exhale.
When Ginny finally pulled back, she straightened Harry's wrinkle-free white collar and smirked up at him playfully. "Have a nice day at work, darling."
Harry grinned down at Ginny like an idiot, smile lines crinkling around his bright green eyes. It was an open, honest, endearing expression, and Hermione went still, feeling something soft and tender move in her chest. Ginny looked up at Harry for a second, said something Hermione couldn't hear, and pulled him down for another searing kiss.
With no small amount of reluctance, Harry extricated himself from Ginny's arms, his hands palms out againsst her sweat-soaked gold practice jersey, gently pushing her back even as his body bent forwards.
"I actually do need to get to work, Gin, " he said breathlessly, taking a small step back. "But try to get some rest before your noon practice. And drink some water, too, yeah? Three-a-days are no joke."
Ginny laughed, the sound bubbling out of her. She bounced up on her toes, inching closer to him. "Oh, I'm fully aware of how difficult they are, believe me!" And then she laughed again, and through her laughter, she kissed him for a third and final time before turning him around and pushing him off toward the fireplace with a swat on the bum. "Now go. I'll see you at dinner. Eight o'clock."
"Yes, see you!" Harry said, but over his shoulder, he called, "Don't forget water!"
"Good grief, Potter! Stop stalling and get to work!"
Hermione caught a glimpse of Harry's face right before he walked forward into the floo: his chin ducked down, his eyes dancing. A secret smile on his lips, like he couldn't believe his luck and his life.
The fireplace flashed green, and Harry disappeared, and Ginny smiled, coming down for her bubbling high as if she were floating on a cloud, slowly and wondrously, before rocking back onto her heels and into a wistful sort of wanting.
"Oh, I do love that man, Hermione," she sighed, a helpless, lovesick expression on her face.
Hermione's hands gripped the table as she started slightly, feeling guilty. If Ginny hadn't just acknowledged her just then, Hermione would've said Ginny hadn't known she was there at all. They'd been so wrapped up in each other. In their merging worlds and blinding happiness. How was she supposed to know there'd be room for anything in their periphery? She'd probably watched the scene too much, too closely.
And as she'd watched, a warmth had taken root deep in her chest. Such good and deserving people had found each other, had begun building a life and a love with each other. There was nothing better than that, what they'd started working toward, what she was witnessing, and the warmth in her had bloomed, unfurling. Steeped and spread like her morning tea, permeating through her veins and her brain and her heart, through almost every part of her.
Almost , because it didn't quite reach a small part. The part in her gut, hidden and huddled in on itself. Tiny and tinny and loud.
The part that said: You will never have this.
The part that said: This is not for you.
She'd fought against her focus there, but the more she tried to shove it away, the tighter it balled in on itself, the louder it rang out.
And then Ginny had called out to her, invited her to share in her happiness. Hermione's hands flexed over the wooden table edge, then relaxed, her palms resting flat over the top.
Ginny, oblivious, turned to her and sighed again, beaming. Her blackening left eye was still swelling, and her right eye was crinkled with the force of her smile, nearly shut as well. "I'm going to marry that man one day. Just you wait and see."
Hermione shook her head. Now was not the time to be selfish.
She smiled back at her friend and stood. "Yes," Hermione said. "I expect you will."
...
...
...
The full warmth of summer enveloped Hogsmeade, as inescapable as a fever dream. It was a sluggish, humid heat that felt out of place for the Wizarding village she'd known for the last eight, nearly nine years. Not that it ever really got too hot in the Scottish Highlands, not by Australia's definition of the word, at least, but the temperature was such that the entire place lost a bit of its familiarity. Felt different, strange and uncanny.
And weather was the least of it. Hermione looked up at the distant structure of Hogwarts, sweat beading along her back and forehead as she meandered through the empty streets. She continued walking along the path, winding her way toward the castle gates and deeper into her thoughts.
As with everything, time affected change, she knew that, but for a centuries-old immoveable structure of mortar and stone, change usually meant slow wear. Wind damage, rain damage, gradual decay.
Magic didn't play by the usual, though, and magic imbued every piece and part of the school. It provided a layer of complication as much as it did protection, and followed its own rules. After a year of suffering and after the Battle of Hogwarts and after efforts to heal and rebuild, the castle had certainly changed—in ways that grew more apparent with each passing day. Yes, the foundation still stood as it had for hundreds of years. But inside? The castle was different, evolved and evolving.
It wasn't harmful. She was moderately sure of that. Confusing, sure, and perhaps a little inconvenient, but the strangeness was largely benign—much like the school's other, longstanding magical quirks.
Still, it was probably best to try to figure out the why and how of what was going on. Just to be safe. Just to be sure.
That was Headmistress McGonagall's position, at least, according to her letter, and Hermione had agreed with everything she'd read. Had thought so herself during the past school year, whenever a classroom spontaneously either contained twice as many chairs as it should have or none at all, whenever a new broom closet sprang into being, then vanished after one use, like it had never been there to begin with. She'd looked into it casually, these small anomalies, a pet project on top of a side project on top of her NEWT coursework.
Now, it was to be her primary focus, and she desperately hoped she could figure it out.
Though how she expected to find answers when the school's own Headmistress couldn't, she had no idea.
Anxiety hollowed her insides. Her head bowed in thought.
Her shoulder clipped the solid form of a man.
She stumbled, crying out in shock.
"Woah!" A hand shot out to grab her flailing arm, steadying her in an instant. "Easy there, Hermione. No need to fall for me."
Hermione gasped, looking up at the stocky ginger man. "George, I'm so sorry!" She pulled her arm out of his gentle grip and resisted the urge to immediately rub her shoulder. It felt like she'd just been hit by a bludger.
Or worse, she guessed, reality: the person who hit bludgers.
Merlin, was he made of stone?
"No need to apologize, Hermione. I'm fine," George said. "I've found I'm made of hardy stuff." And, truly, he looked entirely unruffled. Perhaps even a little amused.
"That doesn't matter. I should have been watching where I was going, instead of just—assuming the streets would be empty. Which, come to think of it... what are you doing here?"
George smirked, shoving his hands in his pockets and shrugging. "Oh, you know. A little bit of this. A little bit of that."
"In Hogsmeade?"
"I'm afraid it's all official, secret Wheezy business," George said. He rocked back on his heels and gave her a mischievous grin. It was a recognizable one, and promised all manner of trouble.
Hermione looked at him sideways, and George raised an eyebrow, rocking back further still. "With Zonko's...?" she guessed, then trailed off, finally noticing the building George had walked out of before she'd slammed into him.
It was a modest shop—more like a generously large supply closet, truly—that she remembered had once housed Dervish and Banges some years ago. Now, a large, dusty red "For Sale" sign hung in the window, the paint scraped and peeling.
"Oh."
George caught her eye and tapped the side of his slightly sunburnt nose with a finger. "Yes, indeed. 'O' for Outstanding, angel of my heart. Your intelligence truly does precede you."
Hermione pursed her lips but graciously chose to overlook the ridiculous pet name, swayed by that steady glint in George's eye. Mischievous, familiar, and new.
It couldn't have been more than a few months since she'd seen him last, she was relatively certain, but witnessing his current state of sustained amusement—a low-level, propelling thrum of merriment that was visible across the lines and seams of him—felt achingly familiar, like an embrace with a friend after entirely too long.
Felt, Hermione thought, like she might be looking at George again.
She glanced pointedly over his shoulder at the abandoned shop and back to him. Her lips quirked up. "You don't say."
"I don't say anything at all, actually," George shrugged, the epitome of nonchalance, and also a liar. "Would if I could say more, dearest, but it's all a bit early yet. You understand, of course."
"Of course," Hermione demurred, feeling in on the joke for once. "Mum's the word."
George inclined his head magnanimously and placed his right hand over his heart. "My eternal thanks," he said, bowing.
Hermione fought to stay in character. Truly, she did. But George continued bowing, as deep and dramatic as a vaudeville showman, and her lips twitched helplessly. By the time he stilled, George's nose was brushing his legs and Hermione was smiling outright.
"Flexible," Hermione laughed, impressed.
In a heartbeat, George's head lifted, and he smiled wickedly. "You don't know the half of it, dearest."
Well, she walked right into that one, didn't she?
A blush flamed across her neck and chest and cheeks, quick as wildfire and twice as hot. The color could possibly be explained away by the heat, maybe, if George was an idiot.
Hermione cleared her throat and rubbed at her shoulder, which was starting to twinge. "Yes, well, I really should be getting up to the castle. I'm working with Professor McGonagall at Hogwarts. She's expecting me."
"And I wouldn't dream of keeping you," George said, finally rising, standing straight and tall like a normal human person. "I'm grabbing dinner at Rosmerta's later today with Angelina, and," he inclined his head to the abandoned shop. "You know. I'll be around."
Around. Right.
"Oh, okay. Maybe I'll see you later, then?"
George smiled, the mischievous grin back and there to stay. "Definitely."
...
...
...
What a tangled mess. So much worse than she had originally thought.
"A hidden library and a dueling court? What does that have to do with chairs disappearing from Professor Binns's classroom?" Harry asked, his bespectacled face blazing and flickering, composed entirely of flame.
"I have my hunches," Hermione said, leaning further into the Floo in McGonagall's office. "But I'm not really sure."
After she'd told the Headmistress her suspicions, she'd agreed to let Hermione send a quick message to Harry, letting him know she wouldn't be back for dinner. Judging by how things had gone, she might even be staying the night. The week.
"How could those huge spaces possibly exist in the castle without anyone finding a hint of them for a thousand years?"
"Oh, I'm sure they were found and used at some point. Besides, stranger things have happened here. Are still happening. Who would have thought an underground chamber beneath the girl's toilets really existed either? Or a room that changed its interior based on a person's needs and desires. The castle is... unto itself."
"At least there were always rumors about the Chamber," Harry pointed out.
"There weren't for the Room of Requirement."
Harry made a hum of agreement, conceding the point. "Has anything shown up on the map?"
"No, but it never showed the Chamber or the Room of Requirement, either."
"True," Harry conceded, his brow furrowed. "So what are you going to do?"
Hermione smiled. "Research," she answered. "What else did you expect?"
...
...
...
Books and cleverness. They weren't everything to life.
She glanced briefly at her reference book, a fourteenth-century tome referencing a second-century work referencing ancient murmurings of ley lines and transitory spaces and liminal thresholds. She jotted something on a piece of parchment, underlining it twice.
No, she thought, books and cleverness certainly weren't everything to life.
But, you know. They had their uses.
...
...
...
Spectatum veniunt, veniunt spectentur ut ipsæ.
And for to see, and eek for to be seie.
They come to see; they come that they themselves will be seen.
She rubbed her eyes, the motion conjuring red and pink floaters that danced across the inside of her eyelids. She blinked.
The light had dimmed significantly, nearly black where it wasn't speckled with bright, flesh-colored pinpricks. It was darker than it should be for summer. That is, unless she'd lost track of time and read straight through dinner and into the night. It wouldn't be the first time.
"Ugh," she said, rubbing her eyes again, feeling exhausted and thoroughly run down. Jetlag was truly a menace.
Her hands scrubbed over the rest of her face, then returned to her aching eyes. They were dry and strained from hours of reading. This, while not a new occurrence, was still an incredible annoyance.
After several quick blinks, her vision adjusted. Hazy golden light suffused the room, dappling books and tables and chairs, even this far back in her favorite forgotten corner of the library.
So, not bad, all things considered. It wasn't as late as she thought, either. Perhaps only eight or nine o'clock?
She shrugged, stretching her arms above her head, then carefully picking up a fifteenth-century blueprint of the castle. Her stomach rumbled, but she ignored it. When her hunger got too distracting for her to work, she knew where the kitchens were.
Those rooms hadn't changed, at least.
"Hermione?"
The voice was gruff and gasping. It cut through the room, and she jerked her head up. The unhinged quality of it set off alarm bells, and she turned quickly to its source, to the man standing stockstill by the open arched doorway, several feet in front of her. His eyes were wide and brown, pupils blown out almost completely.
"Goodness, George, you look an absolute fright! What are you doing here?" she asked, leaning forward over the table to scrutinize him. "Are you ill?"
For his part, he did look rather poorly, pale white and visibly shaking. He didn't seem aware of the tremors in his own hands, though, busy as he was staring at her. Gaping, really, looking more than a bit touched in the head.
Hermione rose swiftly from her chair and moved over to him, staggering for a second as she stood, her feet not quite used to her weight after sitting for so long.
But it was only a moment, and in the next, she was right in front of him. Reaching up, she placed the back of her right hand on his forehead, then copied the gesture, putting the back of her left hand on her own forehead, like her mum used to do for her.
George flinched at her touch. Then he opened and closed his mouth like a sputtering, freckled fish. "I'm - You're -"
"Hold still a moment," Hermione cut him off, leaning into his stocky form and pressing her fingers more firmly against his forehead. His skin was clammy, and her brows knit with concern. "You don't seem to have a temperature," she said after a beat, dropping both of her hands.
He swayed toward her as she removed them, forcing her to reach out quickly to catch him by the shoulders.
Maybe his fever was just starting out? Or ending, possibly? Either way, he was certainly unwell and should probably be put to bed as a precautionary measure.
She bit her lip to keep her face from showing any obvious displeasure. Weasleys were horrible, stubborn patients, and George certainly wasn't an exception. If anything, he was the rule.
"Hermione?" George repeated in a soft, pained whisper. "Is that really you?"
What? She jerked back and tilted her head up at him.
"Yes, it's me. Are you..." She narrowed her eyes at him. "You are, aren't you? You're on something!" She scowled and would have crossed her arms if her hands weren't busy holding George up. She dug her fingers into the tendons of his neck, just a little. "You know I hate it when you and Ron and Lee test on yourselves. And why you've gone and done it just before your date with Angelina, I have no idea."
George just stared at her, deaf to her scolding. "You're here. You're -" he stopped, choked, the words caught deep in his throat.
Hermione sighed and waited for him to figure himself out, but he didn't say anything else. Instead, his dark brown eyes searched hers in a way that was becoming more and more unsettling with each passing second.
Just as she was about to say something to break the uneasy silence, George leaned forward and reached out to her, his hand hesitating and tentative. As if in slow motion, his hand came closer and closer, and she watched its trajectory, rooted in place. His touch, when she felt it, was light, tender. His fingers trailed over her cheek, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, curled softly down her jaw. With a slow, aching gentleness that hitched her breath, he tilted her chin up so all she could see were his bright brown eyes.
She swallowed thickly.
Whatever was happening felt strange and strong and intimate.
Like something that didn't belong to her.
Hermione flushed, immediately retracting her hands from his shoulders and taking two quick steps back.
After a deep breath, she rubbed the back of her neck. Glanced down at her shoes and the floor and anywhere but straight ahead.
"I—sorry about that, but you really do look unwell. Madame Pomfrey was here earlier taking stock of the Hospital Wing's stores, I think, so I'm sure we'll be able to find you a potion that will... clear up whatever's going on. I'll walk you. I'll just—let me go straighten my things, George, and I'll—"
George caught her arm as she tried to move by him, cutting her off with a slightly unhinged laugh. "I can't believe— Fred ," he said abruptly, with fierce clarity.
Hermione froze.
Looking up at him, tense and fairly certain she hadn't heard him correctly over her own whirling, consuming embarrassment, she chose her next words cautiously, carefully, as if on tiptoe. This was dangerous, delicate territory, as she well knew. "I'm sorry, George, what was that?"
"Fred," George repeated, turning his head and pointing at himself. Well, at his ear.
His wholly intact freckled left ear.
"Oh."
Fred.
Somehow, she found it in herself to move her gaze from his ear to his eyes, to look at him, this dissonant creature, but she couldn't seem to do more than that, her brain suddenly vacant. Merlin, the useless organ wasn't even instructing her body to breathe properly, her chest was so tight—her entire body stiff and still.
Fred.
If this was a joke, it wasn't very funny.
The Weasley in front of her shook his head slightly, as if dislodging the last vestiges of the stupor he'd been clutched by these last few minutes. He stepped toward her, catching her hands in his. His larger hands gripped hers tightly, tenderly, like he was holding a bird or a snitch, something small and precious that might flutter away given half a chance.
He needn't have bothered. She couldn't move.
Hermione blinked up at him stupidly, her heart caught in the vacuum of her throat.
"Fred?" she asked. Her voice was weak, whispered. Barely there.
And Fred—he laughed, his face splitting in a wide and wondrous grin. He pulled her closer, looking like he might cry.
"Hermione," he said, "you're alive!"