A/N: Happy Monday to all my wonderful readers! I whipped up this lovely tidbit over the weekend, and couldn't resist sharing it with you all. Warning, this has a good deal of angst involved in it, and is my only story so far where I allow a Weasley twin to have actually died in the war. If you can't handle that, or don't want to, I don't blame you in the least. Also, I have no idea why I am so attached to Fred, but I seem to always want him around. So for this story, poor George didn't make it, and Fred did. I hope you still enjoy it, and don't worry, I almost always guarantee a happy ending. 3
He trudged painfully through his dark apartment; eyes crusted shut from the tears that had overcome him the evening before. Rubbing them with itchy aggravation and running a hand through his hair, he stepped into the bathroom. A shattered mirror greeted him, but he paid it no mind, and moved bitterly toward the shower. He considered the shining knobs, staring accusingly at him; tried to force his arms to reach forward and turn them. Shower, shave, and leave the flat, he told himself, yet his body wouldn't move.
His mother's words echoed in his ears, and he tried to ignore the painful throbbing that accompanied them, "He wouldn't want this," she whispered. Shaking his head fiercely he backed up against the opposite wall and turned quickly toward his bedroom, giving up. It didn't matter what he would or wouldn't have wanted—he didn't want anything anymore. Slamming the door behind him, he crumpled back on to the bed, his hand clawing towards the bedside table, searching for another vial of Dreamless Sleep.
Salvation in hand, he uncorked the small vial and lifted it to his lips, intent on forgetting for another day. That was when he heard the creaking of hinges and shifting of boxes coming from downstairs, and his eyes went wild.
Fred hadn't even known she was there until he heard the careful thud of boxes moving below him, and his eyes had been furious when he tore down the stairs, ready to destroy whoever had intruded on his grief. When he thundered into the shop he tripped over several boxes, sprawling across the newly swept floor.
He was less shocked from the fall, then from the pale underfed hand which reached out to pull him up. A small sad smile greeted him, and his objections were lost on his lips as he suddenly realized who it was that had taken over his shop. As he carefully stood, she turned away without a word and went back to shelving the colorful packages, humming quietly to herself. He stared around himself in shock, seeing that she had clearly opened the whole shop up to the daylight, had dusted, and was now reshelving any abandoned merchandise that she could find.
It had been two weeks since the final battle of the war, and he vaguely recalled his mother telling him that today was the day she was to be released from the hospital. He had assumed she would be with Ron or Harry, quietly healing from the last year—but instead she was here, in his shop, shelving his merchandise.
"Hermione, what are you doing here?" He asked dumbly, his voice a cracked whisper.
"Shelving," she responded simply, her voice light and clear, despite the darkness that surrounded her.
She was meant to get a job at the Ministry, meant to right the wrongs of the previous generation.
She was meant to educate the youth of England, eventually taking Minerva McGonagall's place as Headmistress—the youngest in history.
She was meant to be a great healer and researcher, meant to cure Lycanthropy and lessen the effects of the Cruciatus Curse.
She was meant to do a great many things, but those weren't what she wanted to do.
She wanted to work in a joke shop—apparently. She wanted to sell the tools for classroom disruption and sibling torment. She wanted to invent potions that would turn the victims' hair a violent shade of magenta with turquoise polka dots. She wanted to sweep floors and shelve merchandise and stop teenagers from shoplifting. She wanted to make the shopkeeper smile.
What she was supposedly meant to do, and what she wanted to do, apparently differed greatly, and he would be lying if he said it didn't perplex him completely. He would never take away her chance at happiness, and if she wanted to work in his silly shop she was more than welcome—but he couldn't understand why she would want to.
From the morning she first arrived at his shop he would ask her nearly daily, "Why are you here, Hermione?"
Her answer was always the same, "Because I want to be."
The truth of the matter was, most of them had left him behind quite some time ago. Sure, they invited him to family gatherings, and dinner every Sunday, but they didn't actually want him there—not as he was. His family wanted to see the him from before the war. More than that, they wanted to see them, not him. Not the singular. The singular just scared them, and broke their hearts. It was easier for them to mourn the them than see what was left of him.
Except for her. She never asked for jokes from him, never expected a sunny disposition—but then again, he didn't expect that from her either. She never asked him what was wrong, because she knew.
The morning he found her crying in the stairwell he had almost walked away—that was just the truth of it. He hadn't thought he had the strength to help her. But when he had seen the rusted old SPEW badge peeking out from between her fingers he hadn't had to ask her why it made her cry. Grieving the life you would never be able to live was something he was quite familiar with, and his arms had gone around her without hesitation. He couldn't just leave her.
With her head nestled against his chest she had cried even harder, apologizing for her weakness, "I'm supposed to take care of you," she had sobbed.
"How about we take care of each other from now on?"
Wood splintered across the room, and she covered her face with her arms, trying to avoid the worst of the shrapnel. A shelf of unrecognizable potions flew from the wall, glass bottles shattering against her skin as she ducked to avoid the shelf itself and leapt behind a display of muggle merchandise to avoid the shattering windows.
As glittering shards of glass peppered the floor of the shop she darted out from behind the display and tackled the redhead in the doorway, sending him sprawling on the ground. She swiped his wand from his hand, and threw it across the room where it skittered to safety.
"Fred," she cried, her voice uncharacteristically loud, "Fred, can you hear me?"
The wildness in his eyes dimmed slightly as he blinked, his eyes taking in the room. Her voice called to him through the memories, begging him to return to the present. "Fred?" she called again, softer this time, more like herself.
His hands shook uncontrollably as he sought her out from behind the fog in his eyes. Finding her in the wreckage, he gave a gasp and crumpled into her arms, deep guttural sobs clawing from his chest. She thanked the heavens that she had gotten him to the ground; otherwise she would have collapsed with him. Wrapping her trembling arms around his shoulders she tried to protect him as best she could.
Some days they were actually okay. Some days they worked together quietly and sold their merchandise. Some days she almost made him smile. But other days, days like this one, the grief was too much for him. He would lose track of himself, and on those days his magic exploded from him like a carelessly prodded landmine. The only thing she could do was try to minimize the damage, and be there when he returned.
Despite the pain of the situation, her favorite moments with him always seemed to occur several hours after an outburst, when the grief would be overtaken by his worry for her, and he'd momentarily escape from himself. He would open his eyes and find Hermione, her eyes swollen with tears and skin bruised and bleeding from the effects of his explosion. Her hands would shake as flashes of the war were betrayed in her eyes, and pulling her into the back room, he would care for her, healing every scrape and every bruise. He'd make small quiet jokes, and she would smile as her eyes lightened ever so slightly.
Occasionally the stray potions would dye her skin emerald green, or cause her fragile fingers to grow a foot longer—once she even found herself with ears that dangled down to her knees. Whenever he found her in such a state he would try to hold back his laughter, and watching him bite his lip to stop from laughing always made her smile. If she had to guess it was those moments that eventually made her fall in love with him.
"Why are you here, Hermione?"
"Because I want to be."
He sighed, and she could tell that he was growing frustrated with their usual scripted conversation. They had been working side by side every day for over a year, and she knew that he couldn't understand it. He liked working with her, of that she was fairly certain; but he was also aware of the aspirations she used to have, and he couldn't grasp why she would instead choose to spend all of her time with him. "I know that, Hermione, but why do you want to be here? Why aren't you with Ron, or Harry, or working to save the world?"
She placed another box of Puking Pastilles on the shelf, and took a deep breath. Glancing towards him she studied him carefully for a moment—considering her next words. Sighing deeply, she opted for the truth, "I already saved the world once—I don't want to do it again. I would rather be here."
After that, he hadn't asked again, because he had known she was right. If she wanted to spend the rest of her days shelving joke boxes in a shop, she had earned that right.
It had taken nearly two years, and that was far too long for most people to wait. Immersed in their own grief, even their closest friends had slowly drifted away. From daily companions and close family members, to those acquaintances with whom you visit when you stumble upon them at your favorite pub or bookstore—the shift was clear. The pair never really blamed their former friends, they were all too aware of how dismally depressing and disjointed they could be; they had all suffered, and they couldn't fault them for finding happiness after the war.
It had just taken them a bit longer to heal.
Two years of small smiles, swollen eyes, and uncontrollable magic; two years of soft voices and aching hearts. But after two years, there was a Tuesday.
She had planned to go to the bank and the bookstore before work, perhaps convince Fred to abandon his usual sandwich for lunch at the pub with her, and return home at the end of the day to her cat and a much needed cup of tea. That was the plan.
Her old alarm clock beeped beside the bed, and she stumbled obliviously towards the shower. Washing quickly, she stepped out and blindly charmed her hair dry before digging through her closet for a clean blouse. She settled on a pretty blue dress, while grumbling about needing to do laundry and making a quick pass by the mirror before leaving for the shop.
As her slim fingers wrapped around the doorknob, she froze. She backed up slowly, returning to the mirror. Her eyes widened in shock as she ran a hand through her now violet curls. Her eyebrows furrowed, and her lips pursed dangerously as she turned on her heel and hurried forward to the shop.
Apparating with a deafening crack, Fred jumped slightly and covered his mouth as she stormed through the front door of the shop. Behind his hand his lips quivered for a moment, and she crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at him dangerously. Suddenly, he lost all control. His knees buckled as he collapsed to the ground, laughter bubbling out as tears leaked from his eyes. He tried to apologize and beg forgiveness, but every gasping breath he took simply turned into louder laughter. She quirked an eyebrow, trying desperately to maintain a fierce McGonagall glare, but quickly found herself losing control as well.
The two huddled together on the floor of the shop, laughing irrepressibly at her now violet mane. Several minutes passed before they began to calm slightly, and Hermione swatted Fred playfully. "You're a prat," she declared.
He snorted slightly, grinning at her, "I don't know, I think that color looks quite lovely on you."
She rolled her eyes, but smiled fondly at him nonetheless. "I missed your laugh," she said softly, and then with a thoughtful look, "I missed my laugh."
"Me too," he replied quietly, as she leaned her head against his shoulder.
He sat at the checkout counter, enjoying the early morning silence and attempting to make notes on a new product, but his thoughts kept drifting to her.
He wondered if they could change, if they could adapt. For so many years they had held each other through the grief, but as shamed as he was to admit it—the grief was fading. He still couldn't say his name most of the time, and he still avoided mirrors whenever possible—but living didn't hurt so much anymore. Not for either of them.
With their long overdue laughter he found himself pondering more and more, what would come next in their strange friendship? Would Hermione still want to work at the shop if she was better? If he was better? Would she still lean on him, still eat dinner with him every day? Or would she move on to the impressive future everyone had expected, start socializing more, start dating?
A piece of him, the more noble piece of him, hoped that she did. She deserved every happiness that she desired, and he knew that she would love being able to put her mind to better use than invoices and silly inventions. Yet despite that knowledge, he just wanted her to stay with him. He knew it was selfish, but he didn't want to lose her, and he didn't want to lose those moments.
As he wondered and worried, the small bell above the door jingled cheerfully, and he looked up to find her smiling face in the morning sunlight. No—he definitely didn't want to lose this.
"Good Morning beautiful," he greeted.
"Morning, Fred," she said with a yawn. Slowly walking towards him she leaned against the counter and deeply inhaled the steam that wafted from the cup in her hand. Taking a long drink of the warm beverage she gave a soft sigh, "That's better."
He laughed lightly, "You're an addict, m'dear."
"Lies and slander," she argued. She took another deep drink from her coffee, and studied the man across the counter. He was clearly pleased to see her, but his eyes lacked their usual luster and he stifled a yawn as she stared. "Are you okay, Fred? You look dreadful."
"Thanks so much," he joked. Upon seeing her concerned expression though, he sighed, "I'm okay, just tired."
She studied him suspiciously over the rip of her coffee cup, "Anything you want to talk about?"
He considered her for a moment. He didn't want to upset her, but he also knew that the conversation would need to happen eventually, and she was bound to be suspicious until he brought it up. "Honestly? I—I was thinking about us."
Her eyebrows shot up, a look of complete surprise overtaking her. "Us?" she questioned, "What about us?"
"I just think we should talk, things have been changing a bit."
Her eyebrows furrowed with confusion, "Fred, stop being cryptic—what's going on?"
He took a deep breath, trying to find the words to simplify it all, "Hermione, we've both been getting better. A lot better, in fact," she nodded wordlessly, gesturing for him to continue. "You've, We've, been laughing more, been more ourselves than we've been since—well, in quite some time."
"I know," Hermione said with a soft smile. "I mean, things aren't perfect, but the world hasn't felt quite so suffocating lately, has it?"
He shook his head, "No, it hasn't."
"Well that's a good thing, so why is it worrying you, Fred?"
He smiled fondly at the brunette, her expression the picture of confusion, "I was just wondering if that was going to change things around here? I want you to be happy Hermione, and I wasn't sure if that would still be here."
Hermione stepped back with a small frown and a sigh. A hand rose to her forehead, and she slowly combed her fingers through her hair, "Merlin Fred, you still don't get it do you?" Fred cringed in response—she was using her 'disappointed' voice. "I want to be here."
"I know, but—"
"No," she snapped, "You clearly don't know. I want to be here, and you need to listen for once," Fred nodded silently. "Two years ago I woke up in the hospital wing surrounded by people whom I loved. And every single one of them was telling me how happy I should be. Telling me how much better things were going to be from then on, and how I could have a real future. I could start work at the ministry that fall, or finish my time at Hogwarts. They just kept telling me how happy I should be," she said quietly, a note of disbelief still sitting heavy on her voice, "I thought they were fools. I had just lost my parents, had spent a year on the run, and had just fought in a war. I had been tortured. I—I was shattered beyond belief and just trying to pick up the pieces, and all of them just expected me to go back to the library like everything was fine. I didn't want that, Fred. I wanted simplicity, and camaraderie—and I knew where to find it."
She sighed again, and Fred continued to listen silently. "Fred, you were the only person that I knew wouldn't be pretending. I came here because here I would be allowed to be sad, and I could have a purpose. I could help someone else and also help myself. I just wanted simplicity—and as it turns out, I love that simplicity. I love the routine of working here every day, and I love that my greatest adventure is everyday life with a Weasley twin," He cringed slightly, and she gave him an apologetic look. "I don't want to do something more with my life, Fred. I already love what I'm doing."
"I'm sorry," Fred said quietly, "I was worried about losing you, but I should have understood."
"Fred, if you ever want me to go, so you can move on, I'll go. I'd be okay, really. But as long as you want me here—I'm here to stay," she said quietly, her eyes downcast and nervous.
He reached across the counter, gently grabbing her hand. "Hermione, I'll always want you here."
"I don't know," she joked self-consciously, "I can be pretty tiresome—a bit of a know-it-all."
Fred lifted her head, forcing her to look into his eyes, and spoke seriously, "Hermione, I will always want you here."
"Really?" she asked in a small voice.
"I promise."
There had been so many perfect times to say the words, or to make some sort of grand gesture. So many emotionally rich moments, and quiet nights spent together, and yet neither of them did anything.
Well—they did things. They did lots of things. They ran a shop together, and shared meals. They argued over musical tastes, and swapped book recommendations. They brainstormed inventions, concocted potions, and discovered all new ways to weave magic. They argued furiously from time to time, and occasionally fell asleep on each other's couches. They showed up on each other's doorstep at 2am after particularly vivid nightmares. But despite all of those moments together, they were never anything more than the very closest of friends.
Then she took a trip.
It wasn't long, only a single weekend. Two days in France. She was asked to give a lecture to the girls at Beauxbatons Academy, and speak to them about female empowerment and tell them what it was like to be the only witch of the "Golden Trio."
She hadn't wanted to go, and had even written a letter refusing, but she hadn't sent it. She may have hated being famous, but this was an exceptionally good cause. She knew what it was like to be simply seen as a sidekick or a sexual object because she was a witch, and she knew that plenty of the witches in school would face the same obstacles. She knew she wasn't the only war heroine who had dealt with harassment after the war, who had her accomplishments ignored in favor of being ranked by apparent attractiveness. It was important to prepare young witches for those things. Teach them that they were valuable and worthy in the wizarding world, and that it was worth the fight to get past those people.
Fred had encouraged her to go. He stayed up for a week, helping her prepare for the lectures and the trip. Despite her fear of traveling, and what a hermit she had become, he knew she would regret it if she let the opportunity pass. So they had packed her bags, he'd given her a firm hug goodbye, and she had left London for the first time since the war.
For her part, she was a nervous wreck. She enjoyed speaking to the students at Beauxbatons, they were absolutely lovely girls. They hadn't, as she had worried, treated her as a heroic celebrity. They had instead asked valuable and intense questions, and had milked her for every helpful bit of advice she could give them. And then, when she had finished her lectures for the first day, she had discovered hours of free time—without Fred.
There were meals—without Fred. There was the time after dinner, before it was time for sleeping—without Fred. There were the horrible shaking nightmares triggered by her change of routine—and she couldn't Floo to Fred.
She suddenly found herself faced with just how much time she spent with Fred on a daily basis, and just how much she relied upon him. It was terrifying and confusing—why did her heart seem to clench up so terribly whenever she realized he wasn't at her side?
Yet despite her confusion and turmoil—it was even worse for Fred. He found himself alone in his shop for the first time since he lost his twin, forced to reckon with the reality of just how alone he had become—and how much of a place Hermione occupied in his life and his heart. He wanted to fall apart in her arms, but also to simply ask how her day had been, and listen to her excitedly recount her presentation and the girls' reactions. He wanted to see the spark in her eyes, and the nervous trembling of her fingers as she tried to dissect how she was received.
Really, what he wanted was all of those things, every day, for the rest of his life.
It was a Sunday Evening when she was finally able to catch a portkey back to London, and as soon as her shoes hit the cobblestone of Diagon Alley, she hurried into the nearest Floo and spun directly into Fred's flat. As dizziness overtook her, she tripped gracelessly from the fireplace and considered that combining Portkeys and Floo Powder was perhaps not the best idea, but it was far too late to do anything about it. Luckily, Fred was there to catch her, as always. "Hiya, Hermione."
She smiled up at him, her legs still somewhat shaky, "Hi Fred," she breathed.
He pulled her close, holding her tightly for a moment. With a grin, he let her go, "You're home!" he exclaimed, "Never leave again!"
She laughed happily before simply replying, "Okay."
He spun her towards the couch, and she tumbled against the cushions, smiling brightly before pulling him down next to her. "I missed you," she declared. "Tell me everything, what did I miss?"
He pondered for a moment, "Well, there wasn't much excitement here," he replied honestly, "I discovered a hidden universe in the back of my wardrobe on Friday night. It was in trouble because of some nasty frozen bint, but I saved it, was declared King, and spent twenty years living there. Luckily, I managed to keep my boyish good looks," he winked, "Other than that though, things were completely boring."
Hermione nodded seriously, "Well next time you decide to become ruler of a mysterious cupboard universe, bring me with you please. I think Queen Hermione has a lovely ring to it."
"Oy! It wasn't a cupboard, and who says I would let you be my queen?"
Hermione snorted, "If I went with you, I would clearly be chosen as the rightful monarch. I'm obviously the more capable of the two."
"Unquestionably," He joked. Sliding from the couch he took a knee in front of her, "Most noble and effervescent Hermione! I beseech you, allow me, your most loyal servant and dutiful comrade, to serve at your side and do your bidding for as long as we both may live." He gave a sweeping and dramatic bow, finally kissing the ring she wore on her right hand.
She raised an eyebrow at him before nodding solemnly, "I will permit it," she said seriously, before allowing herself to break into a fit of giggles. The wizard smiled brightly at her as he joined her back on the couch.
"Now that that's been taken care of," Fred continued, acting as if the entire conversation had been nothing out of the ordinary, "How was your weekend?"
Hermione groaned, "Long. Next time I'm taking you with me."
Fred smiled at the thought, "That bad? Didn't they like what you had to say?"
"Oh, they loved me," Hermione smiled, glancing towards him, "They were intelligent and respectful girls, and the staff was absolutely wonderful. My talks went better than I could have imagined. I just didn't like all of the parts where I wasn't speaking. I wanted you to be there."
"No you didn't," Fred disagreed, "For one, I'm a man, and therefore clearly part of the problem," she stuck her tongue out at him, causing him to smirk. "And second, I would have turned your hair violet again—or possibly turquoise. I'm sorry, I wouldn't have been able to resist, and you would have hated me for it."
Hermione laughed tiredly, surprising him as she quietly confessed, "I almost liked that violet, you know."
Fred kissed the top of her head and smiled, "I love you," he said automatically, the words falling easily and thoughtlessly from his lips. He froze in place, his face hovering just barely above her hair as he cringed.
Hermione turned towards him, her eyes wide and a smile quickly spreading as his own face paled and turned away. It wasn't as if this was the first time he had ever told her he loved her, they said it all the time—but this was different. She knew his voice well enough at this point that she heard the difference; and if she hadn't known the difference, his pale face, panicked eyes, and bright red ears would have informed her easily enough.
She smiled softly at him, "Take a breath Fred, you look like you're going to pass out on me. I love you too."
He glanced back towards her, a surprised smile appearing, "You know you don't have to say that, right? I won't have some sort of break down if you don't—"
"Fred—I love you, so shut up."
He smiled brightly then, before shaking his head. "Oh, of that I have no doubt. I'm wonderful, how could you not? I should have clarified, I was talking about the violet hair—you don't have to pretend you liked it if you didn't. I'm really not all that emotionally invested in the shade of your hair, dear."
Pulling him to her, she smiled brightly and whispered, "I love the violet hair too," before kissing him soundly.
The following morning she woke up curled comfortably against him on the couch, and smiled peacefully to herself. Quietly slipping from his embrace, she disappeared into the kitchen, and as her feet found cool tile she thanked Merlin that she had bought the man a coffee machine—conjured instant coffee just didn't live up to her needs. Waiting as the water slowly boiled, she peered outside sleepily. As her reflection appeared in the sunlit window, the mug in her hand fell clattering to the tile floor.
As a small surprised squeak escaped her, a sleepy voice commented from the doorway, "You said you loved it."
As always, thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. Please consider shooting me a review, as they absolutely make my dad and I always love hearing what people have to say.