Fred Weasley was...unhappy.

It was odd. He'd always been so sure of himself. After the war ended, he'd been given money, fame, women – everything he'd ever thought he wanted. Everything somebody needed to be happy. But the days seemed to melt together, until his entire life was just a blur of uncertainty, and secrets and he lost himself. It had been five years, and everyone else seemed so...blissful. The Daily Prophet published weekly updates on the Weasleys' personal lives, making everything so painfully exhilarating – Harry bought a brand new silverware set? How galvanizing! Ginny wore a new dress? How exquisite! Pictures of the Chosen One and his fiancee were plastered everywhere, along with Ron and Hermione, Molly and Arthur, and every other Weasley or Hogwarts alumni that had survived. They were all so sickeningly happy.

Fred knew it was bullshit.

They would write verbose paragraphs about what kind of shoes Ron wore, but there was never one word about how many nights Fred had woken up to the sound of his own screams. They never talked about how frequently Harry fainted from the intensity of his flashbacks. They were more concerned about why Ron hadn't proposed to Hermione yet than the fact that Hermione wore sweaters everywhere she went to hide her 'mudblood' scar.

The worst part was that nobody else would talk about it, either. They were all so eager to forget that the war ever happened that it almost became sinful to bring it up. It was all one giant game of pretend. They were all so busy being war heroes and celebrities, they forgot that they were human beings, too.

And Fred felt so alone.

They were at a pretentiously grandiose party thrown by the Ministry to celebrate Harry and Ginny's engagement (much to Harry's dismay – he'd wanted something small, but there were witches and wizards that even Molly didn't recognize), and Fred was in the corner with three empty bottles of firewhiskey in front of him. Tonight, he felt even more detached than usual. He tried losing himself in the alcohol, in the dancing, in the fame-hungry girls who lusted after him, but tonight, he just couldn't bear it. The party beat faster than his heart did, and he prayed for some kind of distraction from it all. He needed something to hold on to, something to remind him why he was there. So when he saw Hermione storm out of the ballroom with a face that matched his inner emotions, he followed.

He found her leaning against the balcony's railing, staring up at the sky. She had taken her hair out of its updo and her messy brown curls were now spilling over her shoulders. She had also discarded her gold heels, and they were lying next to the doorframe in a very un-Hermione-like heap with her purse.

She had on a floor length dress made from a flowy, red material, and there was an intricate gold design snaking around her waist and up the front of her dress. He heard her sigh as she removed a gold necklace and matching earrings and tossed them next to her shoes.

He tied on his lopsided grin. "Stinks in there, doesn't it?"

She jumped at the sound of his voice, and then stiffened visibly. She wiped hurriedly at her tears and hiccuped, "I'm s-sorry, Fred, but I'm really not in the mood right now."

He moved forward to lean against the railing next to her. "Why the tears? Was it that bad?"

She looked away. At that moment, with the moonlight highlighting her silhouette and her eyelashes glistening with tears, Fred couldn't breathe.

"It's stupid. I'd much rather be alone right now, Fred..."

He nudged her, and she turned sharply, fully prepared to tell him off – but once she saw his grin (somehow assuring her that it'd be all right), something in her eyes softened.

"I guess – I just wanted one night..." She took a breath and looked up at the stars again. "...just one night...that Ron didn't ruin. But I don't know what I expected." She laughed bitterly and looked at her hands. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be talking to you like this – about your brother, I mean."

"Why not?" Fred said, "He's got more arse in his personality than he has in his trousers, hasn't he?"

Hermione laughed in spite of herself. Fred smiled. "You look nice tonight, Hermione," He heard himself say.

She turned faintly pink, batting at her hair. "Oh – um – thank you," Still smiling, she said, "So do you."

"Are you sure?" He straightened the jacket of his tux, making a face that was a mix between a smile and a grimace. She laughed again, but he could tell that whatever Ron had said was leaking back into her mind.

"It's so exhausting, trying to please him all the time." She said. She spoke so softly, Fred got the impression that she'd never told anyone this before. "It's never good enough for him. Nothing ever is. He ruins everything."

"Why don't you break up with him?" Fred asked.

"It's not that simple," Hermione said. "Everyone expects us to get married, don't they? The Daily Prophet...your mother...the entire Wizarding world. I can't just end it because I'm unhappy."

"Why not?" said Fred. "I mean – Merlin, Hermione – you're bloody brilliant. You're beautiful – look at you! You deserve someone who knows that."

She smiled, but it was a sad, resigned smile. "It's complicated."

Fred sighed in exasperation. "Hermione, I've been miserable for years. I don't know how to fix it. But if you can do something about your misery, why aren't you?"

"I never said I was - " She stopped herself, then bit her lip and looked down. Sighing, she said, "I should probably get back inside, but I really, really don't want to."

"Why not?"

"I've been pretending to be okay for the cameras for years, but tonight, I don't think I can bring myself to do it."

Fred's heart ached, but in a way that he'd missed.

His voice a hoarse whisper, he said, "Me too."

They both sat silently, each achingly grateful for the other. He wanted desperately to look at her again, but he kept his on the stars because he didn't know what would happen if he did look at her, and because he was terrified, because he hadn't felt anything in so long.

"Fred?" She whispered.

"Hermione,"

Her voice cracked when she spoke. "I wish you had found me sooner."

He couldn't bear it any longer. When he looked at her, he found that she was crying again, but it was different now. Her eyes were lit.

And before either of them could really comprehend, their lips were crashing together, and his hands were traveling up her waist, and hers were running through his hair. He fumbled around for his wand, and once he found it in his jacket pocket, there was a crack – they were in his flat above the shop. He led her to his bedroom. She was unbuttoning his shirt and he was unzipping her dress, and Merlin, he wanted her. Every inch of her. At that moment, they were both nothing but themselves. She was not the Golden Girl. She was not the war hero. He was not another member of the Weasley clan or an infamous joker. She was just Hermione, and he was just Fred. And that was something they hadn't been for a long time.

They shed their masks, and they shed their clothes, and for the first time in five years, Fred Weasley felt happy.

Then morning came.

Hermione's head was pounding. Groaning, she tried to remember how much firewhiskey she'd had last night.

The person next to her stirred, and then, there was a string of profanities as Fred fell out of his bed and hurriedly stepped into his pants.

She sat up quickly, and instantly regretted it. Her hand flew to her head and she groaned again.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit." Fred whispered. "Are – um – are you okay?"

"I'm fine." She said, burying her face in the pillow again. "It's just a hangover."

"I'll get you coffee," He muttered. He rushed out of the bedroom.

Hermione sighed. How could she have been so stupid? She was screwed.

A few minutes later, she worked up the courage to venture out of the bedroom and into the flat. She found Fred in the kitchen with his head in his hands.

"I should leave," She said awkwardly.

"No," He said, placing a mug in front of her and grinning, albeit weakly. "Don't you know how suspicious that would look? Both of us mysteriously disappearing from the party and then you leaving my apartment at eight in the morning, hungover, messy, and looking super satisfied?"

She glared at him. "What do you want me to do, then?" She hissed. "You said you were sick of pretending."

"It can't change overnight," He retorted, resisting the urge to lean over and tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. Sighing, he said, "Listen. Last night was...great. Phenomenal. But...in the morning, you're still my brother's girlfriend. And it's like you said last night...it's too complicated for you to just end it with him."

"So..." She pursed her lips, staring into her drink. She wished he'd put a shirt on. "We just pretend this never happened?"

He sighed, ignoring the ache in his heart. "I guess so."

That afternoon, Hermione found herself back at the Burrow. Now looking as fresh as ever, she kissed a very hungover Ron on the cheek and passed out the excuse that she'd left the party early because she felt sick and had gone out early that morning to grocery shop.

Setting her grocery bags on the counter, she began to unpack them. The fake smile was back. The routine was back. The pretending was back.

It made her want to scream.

Ron grumbled, "I'm going to take a nap," And he stalked up the stairs like a zombie.

Life went back to the same painstaking normality it had been before. As far as the entire world was concerned, nothing had changed.