Terribly Complicated

Author's Note: This is the narrative of what happened on January 23, 1998, in the letter-fic Wonderfully Simple. Enjoy! I know a lot of you have asked for it, and I finally got inspired.

Disclaimer: Very sadly, I do not own these characters, and thus, cannot become filthy rich off of it. Although I do encourage you to make J.K. Rowling even more filthy rich as it was she who developed these wondrous characters and has made it possible for me to play with them and give you this story...

Hermione frowned as she read Fred's last letter at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. She hadn't heard from him in more than two weeks, and had been getting worried. The letter she was currently rereading only served to increase her worry. What was wrong with Fred? He'd obviously been doing some work for the Order, and gotten hurt doing it. She couldn't stand to stay at Hogwarts when he was probably hurt somewhere. Of course, she reasoned with herself, he was probably being cared for by his twin, so he wasn't that badly off.

She sighed, frowning, and looked up at the High Table. Professor Dumbledore was listening as Sprout talked animatedly, waving her arms about and smiling. Professors Snape and McGonagall seemed to be having a glaring contest, as neither was looking away and she'd never seen either of them wearing such ferocious scowls before. She shook her head. They hadn't had such an intense house rivalry since… Well, the fact was that she couldn't remember when the last time had been, if there had been one.

Then there was Ginny. The younger witch was seriously worrying the Head Girl, who bit her lip every time Ginny glanced at the Slytherin table. The redhead had taken to sitting where she could have a clear view of Malfoy, for whatever reason she wanted it. Hermione didn't know what that reason was, but she had a pretty good idea—that was what worried her. Ginny still had not told her what she had been doing that day in the library. She had made the excuse that she was looking for some manuals for a Transfiguration assignment, but Hermione knew very well that wasn't the case. She'd asked McGonagall about it; Ginny didn't need manuals for an assignment she didn't have.

Then there was Harry. He'd been so depressed, and then suddenly he wasn't. Nothing had happened that would have warranted such a change, as she had told Fred. It had been so utterly annoying that there were two things she couldn't figure out. She was Hermione Granger—she could figure anything out. But this, apparently, was something she couldn't, because she hadn't. Yet. There was still time, after all. If she figured it out before someone had to tell her, she still would have figured it out. Then again, how would she figure it out if they didn't tell her?

Hermione gave a frustrated sigh and stood, picking up a piece of bread and keeping the sheet of parchment in her hand. She wanted to go to the library. Though she didn't think books would be able to help her in this situation—perish the thought—it would never hurt to look. Perhaps they had some Wizarding psychology books available; it was the only thing she could think of that might shed some light on Ginny's situation, as there had to be some logical reason the youngest Weasley was gazing after the only Malfoy heir with something akin to caring in her gaze.

-----

Three hours later, though much richer in her knowledge of Wizarding psychology, Hermione hadn't found any answers. She hadn't even been certain where to look, as where did one look for the answer to the question, "Why has my best friend fallen for her worst enemy?" The closest thing she could find was Stockholm Syndrome, which wasn't actually Wizarding psychology. She sighed, looking at Fred's last note again. It was part of the reason she hadn't made much progress; she couldn't stop thinking about it. She was worried that he was hurt, of course, but it was more than that.

She was starting to question just how she felt for Fred Weasley, brother to her best friend and co-owner and founder of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes. She had assumed that her feelings were strictly platonic, and it had seemed that way for the first few months. But during their last few correspondences, there had been something more, a feeling she had whenever she sat down to write a reply. It didn't seem normal; it wasn't the way she would write her parents, or even Ron and Harry during the summers.

She didn't think she loved him. That much, she was sure of. After all, she barely knew him, didn't she? They'd exchanged a few letters, yes, but that wasn't enough to be able to tell whether she loved him, or, Gods forbid, he loved her. She enjoyed writing to him, yes. She enjoyed speaking with him, yes. She enjoyed thinking about him, yes. She enjoyed creating little jokes to surprise him with, and then make him ask her for the antidote, as he had when she'd turned his hair pink. It was fun, and it was different than what she normally did.

Oh, for goodness' sake. Why was she even following this line of thought? Even if she did like him that way (not to even think about love, which was ridiculous) it didn't mean that he liked her that way.

Hermione abruptly closed Psychology: An Animated Journey and put it back in the Wizarding Psychology section, being sure to place it in the correct spot. Madam Pince was notorious for knowing just which title was misplaced and who had done so. Though in her seven years at Hogwarts she hadn't earned one reprimand from the older witch, Hermione wasn't one to start taking chances just to see if she could tempt fate.

-----

She could not believe she was doing this. Sneaking out in the middle of the night was not something she normally did. And sneaking into the boys' dormitory to borrow Harry's Invisibility Cloak was definitely not something she normally did. But here she was, walking feather-light through Diagon Alley with Harry's cloak draped around her. She saw Fred and George's shop nearing and breathed a sigh of relief.

Most of the shops were dark and quiet, although in the distance she could vaguely hear that Knockturn Alley was still doing business. What kind of business and to whom was something she did not even want to consider, and made her shiver, clutching the cloak tighter around her body.

Finally at the shop, Hermione went around to the alleyway and walked up it, sighing in relief when she saw the stairs leading up to the second floor. Tiptoeing up the stairs, she had barely alighted on the landing when the door flew open and a wand was thrust up in front of her. She shrieked before she was able to realize that the wand was not pointing at her precisely, and was abruptly grabbed and yanked into the house. It wasn't until she'd been thrust into a chair that she realized there must have been a binding spell cast because she couldn't seem to use her legs.

In the struggle the cloak had fallen to her shoulders, leaving only her head showing. It was enough, though, to make George realize his mistake.

"Hermione," he gasped, his mouth dropping open. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Sorry," she stuttered, embarrassed at her stupidity. "I wasn't thinking, I just wanted to see how you and Fred were doing…"

George shook his head, his eyes rolling upward slightly. "Let me get Fred." She also heard him mumble, "I can't believe it was my turn to check when the alarm went off," although she wasn't certain that she had been supposed to hear that part.

"Uh, George," she said, trying to wiggle her toes. "Could you take the binding spell off?"

"Oh, sorry," he smiled, laughter in his eyes. "Forgot about that." He waved his wand, presumably undoing the spell, as she was suddenly able to move her legs.

"Thanks."

"No problem. I'll just go get Fred now."

Hermione nodded, not wanting to repeat herself by saying "thanks" again.

A minute after George disappeared, during which Hermione looked about the sparse room, surprised at the lack of "things" in it – particularly things which were indicative of a hilarious lifestyle such as the one the twins led – Fred walked through the door. A not-quite-dressed Fred, wearing only pajama bottoms and a robe that wasn't tied. Hermione leapt out of the chair she'd been in, yanking the cloak off belatedly as he looked at where her body should have been, his eyes widening.

"Hermione," he said, frowning. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"I just…wanted to make sure you were okay," she said, her voice getting lower towards the end of the sentence as she realized how silly she sounded.

His face softened. "Thank you for that. Um," he looked slightly uncomfortable, shifting his feet. "Do you want some coffee or tea?"

"That's okay, I can just…leave…" Now that she'd realized the folly of her actions, Hermione was very eager to get out of this situation as quickly as possible.

"No, don't worry, I wasn't sleeping too deeply anyway." He walked toward her, and she tried to back up. "Come on," he said, brushing past her and walking into the kitchen area. She shivered from the contact, trying to forget the feeling and followed him.

"I'm so sorry," she started, then stopped when he abruptly turned around.

"Don't worry about it," he said again.

"Where were you hurt?" she blurted out, her curiosity finally getting the better of her.

He looked at her carefully before pulling off his robe and tossing it across one of the chairs at the lone table. She gasped when she saw the bruises on his right arm and torso, and before she could stop herself she reached out to touch them.

Subconsciously, she realized she had expected him to flinch, to pull away, when her fingers touched the bruised area, but instead he simply drew in a very deep breath, watching her face as she traced the area on his torso. It was then that she realized just how closely she was standing to him, and when she looked up, his face was mere inches from hers.

"I'm glad you're all right," she said, her voice soft.

He smiled, his face still oddly serious. "I'm glad you're here."

Still, she didn't move away, and he didn't either. Almost of its own accord, its own plan (as if her hand were separate from her body, which she knew was not true, so she must attribute it to her own subconscious desires), her hand splayed softly across the bruise on his torso, and her eyes met his.

She knew she'd moved too close, too fast, and was touching him too much. His face was too close, and she knew before he started moving towards her what was going to happen. But she didn't pull away because the pull was too strong, the feelings welling too deep, and the warmth of his body too great.

And she needed it too much to be able to pull away for whatever reason her analytical brain decided upon.

As his lips touched hers, she let a sigh tumble past her lips, her other hand coming up to hold his waist as he backed her up against the wall, his lips moving softly on hers. One of his hands had come up to cup the back of her head, his fingers massaging her scalp as his body pressed lightly against hers. His other hand lightly touched her side, and when his thumb brushed against her breast, almost as if on accident, she moaned into his mouth, one of her hands dropping lower on his waist, almost to his hip.

In response his kiss became harder, more demanding, and the thumb that had at first lightly brushed her breast now massaged it openly. She responded without thinking, pressing herself against his body.

Almost as soon as she felt that growing hardness against her lower belly, however, she pulled away, everything hitting her conscious brain all at once as she realized where the abandon she had been indulging in would eventually lead. Still unwilling to leave his embrace, she leaned her head into the crook between his shoulder and neck. In turn, he began pressing kisses below her ear and progressing down to her shoulder. She shivered, letting him continue until he began pulling at the collar of her shirt.

Finally she pushed him away. "Fred…" she started.

"Yes?" he asked, pecking her softly on her swollen lips.

"I think I need to leave," she said, pulling away from him abruptly and walking towards the door.

"Why?"

"I just…I need to leave."

"Hermione, wait –" He grabbed her arm, but she pulled away insistently.

"Let go of me."

"Fine," he said.

She didn't look back. Why did it all have to be so terribly complicated?