My first day of college starts tomorrow and what am I doing? Writing fanfiction. Yep. Sums up my life right there. Shit college, scary stuff XD

Anyway, I've been meaning to do this for awhile. Two things actually, write a '5+1' story (which I see all over Archive of Our Own since going over there as well) and writing one of my most beloved ships of all, Fredmione. For the longest time I didn't know what five things to do, until I decided to do it as a writing exercise and went online and picked six random words. I found it so meant to be that the first word was RED!

I hope you enjoy this, part 1/6. Instead of writing it as a one-shot I had a feeling it would get pretty long, so decided to make it as six smaller parts. Hope this is just as enjoyable as the other way.

I don't know when this will be updated, but I have a ton of great ideas and it's really small, so hopefully I'll finish this is a timely manner!

This gets pretty AU from some of the novels, little things to make it fit and all, nothing huge, but you'll see as you read so don't crucify me for not getting something 'right' because I probably did it purposely.

Enjoy!

I. Red

In the wake of the nightmare, Hermione sat against the wall of her little apartment. Her cold and grimy feet pushed herself up against the eggshell colored wall, her toes sliding across the dusty wooden flooring and in the middle of her breakdown she told herself that she needed to wash the floors better, for she was becoming lazy in her housekeeping. The sun was just hardly peeking out of the murky sky-line of Wizarding London, like the image of a runny sunny-side-up egg in a frying pan, just peaking from liquid to a morphing solid. And the light that spilled onto her sheets almost looked like sour milk, and that was what the back of her mouth tasted of also- the pungent and tell-tale taint of something long forgotten.

But nothing here was forgotten.

No, not the names of those who had died in the Great Battle three months ago, for it was their cries that kept her up at night, and why although she had only moved into this little place a fortnight ago, nearly all the boxes were unpacked and everything was almost in it's place, despite throwing herself into horrid work hours at the Ministry to focus on nothing at all. And tonight she stopped by the place where her quill lay on an old and antique table to pause, looking across the parchment strewn all about, falling into oblivion behind her desk. It was the one place that was untidy, that could not be cleaned. She rifled through the papers, and found the one she was looking for.

Remus trying to replace hot pumpkin juice with hot chocolate in the halls for one day in winter; she wrote. It was her dreams that reminded her. It would have been easy enough had her dreams been of the battle, she could have perhaps lived with that. Instead it was the happiest of memories of the fifty people she had known or loved or seen at least around the school or in town, like wisps of smoke disappearing rapidly from her view before she knew it. And she'd be damned if she let one moment slip by.

Remus had failed, she mused with a slight upturned smile. The school loved their pumpkin juice, and surprisingly hot chocolate wasn't the most well-known of warm drinks to consume. Butterbeer, cider, and other more common wizarding drinks were preferred and the Slytherins nearly had an uproar when they realized that this brown, frothy drink was there in place of what they thought was a covert hiding of their illegal firewhisky to burn the throat.

And even without the illicit drinks, the rest of the school just stared despondantly at their new drink choices. Only the Gryffindors were enthused, but only once they were promised it would only last a day.

In the kitchen, she took out her broom and pail and a used rag with floor cleanser on it. While she could have stayed in the Burrow, for she was always more than welcome, the ghosts of everyone were just too strong. And she needed a fresh place where she could wake up at three-AM and wash the floors vigorously without someone telling her this wasn't healthy, or she should just go back to sleep, or that perhaps she should go and see someone about this.

Hermione was perfectly fine, and she wished that everyone would stop saying such silly things.

Ron and Harry were broken. Harry had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, not like she was surprised. That's the name that she and Harry knew it by, but wizards did not. While they knew quite well what it was, they didn't really ever much have experience with it, much less with a young wizarding lad. Wizards had tried to keep out of World War I and II, mostly because they had the ability not to. As much as a Gryffindor as she was, Hermione was slightly jealous that they had the ability to do that, what with her grandfather having been in the tail-end of the second war and went mad, her father said. She never knew him, he passed away with terrible anxiety and panic attacks up to the last second of his life. He could have been spared, perhaps, if this literally magical gene that had presented itself in her had presented itself in him so many years earlier. Perhaps she even would have known him?

And Ron was depressed. One got depressed, she supposed, when his girlfriend died by the hands of a werewolf. Among other things, of course, he was usually found deep inside his house, staring at the ceiling.

And maybe Hermione had insomnia? What was wrong with that? It was hardly crippling. She was the only one of the three to get a job, to have a pay, to attempt to put herself back into the life that she had before. They would overcome. That was the thing about humans, they always did.

But sometimes that idea seemed so far away. Especially now when she happened to glance out the window of her flat to see the sky bleeding a brilliant gold-red, the exact same color as...

Fred.

And in that moment, Hermione wasn't in the flat anymore. She was in the Gryffindor common room of her fourth year, and the crowd around her was rejoicing in wonderful celebration, most likely a Quidditch win. Hermioen fell short on those details; for it always seemed like the common room was hosting a party. It was as if someone in their house got an A on a test, and her fellow lions felt it appropriate to break out their party hates and dance around the room for the most absurd of reasons.

Hermione recalled everything to be red. The streamers on the walls were red. The ottoman she delicately placed her feet on were red. The color of the blood running down the irresponsible first year's finger (which she had to bandage) was red. The cover on the book she was reading was red. And recalling the day, his hair was the most wonderful red in the room.

The Weasley children all had their own shade to their hair, and although all of it was undoubtably ginger, it was so unique to each child that if someone were to pluck out a hair from each, Hermione could name who it belonged to, if persay this was between life or death. Quite the ridiculous idea of a sort of threat, but yet, Hermione giggled behind her pages all the same.

Bill's hair, although she had yet to meet him in person, was such a fake-red color that when she saw the glimpse of a picture, it reminded her of the shade of cherry cola nearly. She almost asked if he felt the need to make his hair more red from a bottle, but was informed by Percy's narrowed eyes at the response that his hair had always been that color, not matter how outrageously faux it may seem.

Charlie's hair she compared to soft cinnamon. It was like someone took a picture and then subdued the color everywhere, making the edges soft and the colors diluted and drained. It was the idea that if someone were to see this picture at full saturation, it could be the wow-ginger that people usually associated with the Weasley (and even now, it was still enough to make people guess his lineage without any further assistance) but was just a slight reflection in a dirtied mirror.

Percy's hair had highlights of blonde, and was rather the color of the gold when the sun hit against the glass perfectly, the kind of color that you imagined seeing on a perfect picnic day with long dresses and sun-hats and men in slacks and pressed button down shirts rolled up to their elbows. Someone once compared it to a sunset, the soft hues of ginger melting into the pinks and the yellows before it vanished completely. George and Fred scoffed at the lightness in his hair.

"Malfoy trait, gotta be. With all the wizards interbreeding, we must be related to 'em somehow. Acceptable Percy got it. Could you imagine me with Malfoy blond in my hair, Forge?"

Ron's hair was almost brown, such a dark and deep reds that it held in an infinite depth that was opposed to his blue eyes. They were so tranquil and shallow that it seemed as though it was always clear, and always open. There was nothing much that could be held secret in his glance. Yet his hair, for all the silliness of it, seemed to be the difference to that.

Ginny's hair was-

"Want a Red Velvet cupcake?" Fred said, setting the item on the flat pages of her novel. She was glad that there was a paper on the bottom, for Fred had no idea of the fury of Hermione Granger had those little crumbs wedged itself into the bindings of her book.

Red velvet. She mused. That was Ginny's hair. Perhaps not so...burgundy, but it was instead a rich red-brown that glimmered on her scalp once she'd been out on the Quidditch pitch for a couple days and her usual pale skin deepened to a soft and darker color that surpassed the tanning that any of her brothers could ever hope to exceed.

George's hair and Fred's hair looked almost the same on the first, uneducated, passer-by glance. But once one really studied them, along with the other seemingly obvious differences between the pair, George's hair was darker copper, almost like someone had dunked his natural color (Fred's) in water and it had simply never dried. The difference was perhaps three or four shades difference, quite small, but it was one of the things Hermione liked about Fred's hair.

Of all the Weasley's, his was the most perfect shade of red for hair, she had long ago decided. It was that brilliant copper that really did make people stop, made his white skin almost look like porcelain, and lit up his brilliant and sometimes inquisitive green eyes like an exotic flower in the middle of the amazon.

"I suppose that you were't really expecting an answer." She said with a raised eyebrow, as she set her book aside and pulled off the cover. She did have a weakness for red velvet, and she did consider if the most attractive of her Weasley men had known that or if this had simply been a coincidence.

"I snagged the last one. I didn't even think you knew they were there." He sounded proud of himself. She shrugged.

"I didn't. I haven't been over there." She said, looking at the food table.

"You haven't been anywhere." He said, pointing to the worn couch with pieces of fluff falling from the pillows, and threads hanging down all over, "Just there."

"I don't like parties." Hermione said, "I prefer to read. But my bed is not nearly as comfortable as here." She said.

"You would prefer to read to anything." Fred scrunched up his nose, "What dull, boring piece of made-up squiggles are you eating today?" He asked, and Hermione rolled his eyes. Some people were so annoying. She didn't go around critizing his passions of making jokes- well, actually, she did...Even still!

"It's called The Count of Monte Cristo." She said.

"Sounds complicated." Fred tapped his foot, frowning in distaste.

"It is. But it's wonderfully complicated." She agreed, and he glanced up in slight interest.

"Life is wonderfully complicated also. Wouldn't know that, always reading." He said with a raised eyebrow, "Want to dance?"

"Do I want to trip over my own feet while I could be engrossed in a stimulating novel?" She countered.

"You danced with Krum. Are you two going steady or something now?" He asked, putting 'steady' in quotation marks.

Hermione's face blushed hard; but not because she felt any sort of feeling for Krum other than respect and gratefulness for asking her to the Yule Ball earlier that year. Instead it was the glimmer and the gentle smirk on Fred's face that she saw all at once as she had closed her book.

"Not at all." She blubbered, "He's nice and all-,"

"Ron says he's pretentious."

"Ron would think that." Hermione said, wincing at the look on Ron's face when she'd chewed him out for beginning a dance invitation to her with 'Hey, you're a girl, right?' Needless to say, she was still too sore about that, and perhaps had been purposely spending time with Krum to spite Ron. But in all honestly, Krum wasn't a deep and philosophical thinker. He was all bronze and strength and was kind to Hermione and found her endearing and interesting, but both had agreed that they had no romantic interest in each other whatsoever.

"You spend a lot of time with him, though." Fred continued, scrutinizing her, "I suspect you do it to make Ron upset. He really didn't have any class when he attempted to ask you, so perhaps he deserves it. Knock him down a bar or two." He observed.

"Am I that transparent?" Hermione's eyes widened in fear. Perhaps Ron had realized what she was doing, and all of this was for nothing.

"Ron's not that good at noticing things." Fred waved a hand, "How do you think we are able to test our products on him? You think he does it willingly?" Fred laughed loudly. Hermione gave a grunt of agreement.

"You know what would really make him upset?" He continued, and Hermione paused. Was did she really want to continue it any farther? She was quite sure the point was across; she could be very desirable and she was indeed a women. It wasn't even that she liked him, and that was why she was so upset. It was more that she had always thought there was a mutual respect and seemingly understanding and acceptance between the trio. It was clear she was a girl, she had thought, but the idea that Ron had perhaps always only seen her as a less-manly boy in their trio or something akin was more than insulting.

"What?" She decided to ask.

"Dancing with me." Fred said, extending his hand.

"Oh, you think you're so clever." Hermione shook her head, settling back, "I already said I would rather not."

"No really! Think about it; Ron's upset that he couldn't get you to go to a dance with him, but what do you think he'd do when you were willing dancing with me. Like him, his brother, but not him?" He said. It was rather tempting, a little spotty, but Hermione was intrigued.

"And why would you want to make him upset?"

"It's ever so funny." Fred simply shrugged, pulling Hermione to her feet forcefully before she could object and swinging her out to the dance floor.

"I daresay you should have been in Slytherin then." Hermione decided as he twirled her to the lively music.

"Dear Granger, I would, if I didn't enjoy the color red too much." He assured, with a wink and a half serious tone, and then leaned in, "I don't know if I could pull off green and silver, really."

Hermione pulled back for a moment, forgetting to look at Ron to where she was sure he was and paused. She looked him and down.

"Yes." She agreed, seeing his red sweater pulled across his chest, running her fingers up the thread, "I think red suits you quite well."

She blinked back to the dawn of the new day, and looked at the jumble of sheets. She gently brushed back the pages to reveal Fred's name on the top of a blank parchment.

Hermione didn't need to write down everything she remembered about Fred. To begin with, that would occupy a million novels. Secondly, she didn't need to be recalled of anything about him. All their memories, even some of his own, were stored under lock and key in the most important part of her mind.

The place that held the memories of the heart.

How did you like the first chapter?

BTW I'm in the middle of writing my Dramione Epic (don't expect to see that for a VERY long time though lol) but I always need Dramione songs or songs that make you think of Draco/Hermione please put those in your review too! Eventually you may see your song used somehow!

Hope you beginning of school or wherever you may be are being taken as lightly as mine are (Clearly. Sleep? Sleep is for the weak!)