A/N: I posted a fic yesterday titled "Nearing Departure." In it, I mentioned an interaction between Hermione and Fred and George after the twins had returned from a detention with Umbridge. Since I have an overactive muse and no actual life, I decided to write about that scene. You don't need to read the other fic to understand this. It would be nice of you if you did though.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this. Favourites, con crit, and reviews are always fantastic. Just saying. Also, I apologise in advance for any linguistic errors. I really do try my hardest to catch everything, but it's rather difficult. Just let me know if there are any glaring mistakes and I'll fix them ASAP. Thanks!
The Silver Lining
Hermione sighed in exhaustion, pushing tendrils of hair away from her face as they fell out of her messy bun. She coughed slightly as the foul-smelling smoke from the yellow potion wafted up, filling her small workspace.
She had drawn the heavy crimson curtains around her bed and protected them with Silencing Charms so her sleeping roommates wouldn't be roused by her work. The small area had become permeated with the noxious scent of the painkilling potion, but she pressed on, stirring and mixing the contents of her cauldron. She checked her watch. Eleven nineteen. When would they be back?
She reached into a pocket of her jumper—well, Fred's—and retrieved her Dumbledore's Army galleon. She and the twins had made a slight modification to theirs: the coins would burn when any of the three of them had been released from a detention, prompting the others to meet them in whichever location the coin displayed.
Eleven twenty one. Hermione sighed, pouring the potion into two small, clear bowls and magically charming her brewing equipment clean. She stacked her supplies and ingredients back into a small wooden chest that she had transfigured specifically for items for the potion, which she was now mixing at least once every other day, and placed everything back in its hiding place.
As quietly as she could manage, Hermione levitated the bowls with her wand and crept out of her dormitory. All the curtains were drawn except for Lavender's, and she could see the girl's right arm peeking out from under the sheet. Just three days ago, Hermione had soaked Lavender's bloodied hand in the potion as grey scars started to form over the poor girl's knuckles. "I must not talk during lessons."
Eleven twenty three. The common room was nearly empty. By the fireplace, two young girls, second or third years by the looks of it, sat curled in blankets in huge, plushy armchairs. Hermione went over to them, shaking their shoulders gently. Their eyes widened fearfully as they caught sight of Hermione's prefect's badge, but they relax considerably when they noticed the kind, albeit exhausted, expression on her face.
"You girls should head up to your dorms," she whispered quietly. With yawns and nods, they gathered their things and made for the stairs.
On one girl's right knuckles, "I must study for tests."
On the other's left, "I must not interrupt."
Hermione grit her teeth to suppress her anger. She had not treated the girls; had anyone? They were so young, how were they to know all the rules? What gave Umbridge the right to usurp all the power, to subject her own students, the ones who were supposed to learn from and look up to her, to such abuse?
Through the thick fabric of her borrowed jumper, Hermione felt the heavily altered galleon burn and she pulled it out to read it. "Eleven twenty seven. Gryffindor common room." The twins had just been released and would be in momentarily. Hermione set the bowls down on a table between an armchair and a couch, and sat down on the chair, waiting for her boyfriend and his twin.
The portrait hole swung open and two identical redheads stumbled in, right hands clutched in left, blood streaming down their fingers and wrists to drip little paths on the floor as they walked over to her. Hermione felt the fury welling up within herself as tears trickled down George's freckled face. Of course Fred would be too proud to cry in front of her. He was gritting his teeth so hard she wondered how they hadn't been worn down completely.
The two sat next to each other on the couch across from Hermione, who stayed completely silent as she pushed the two bowls across the table to them. They submerged their right hands in the liquid, wincing slightly. Blood from the wounds mixed in with the potion, gradually turning it from yellow to a light shade of orange.
"Can we heal them with a charm?" George asked after a while, breaking the painful silence in the room.
Hermione shook her head wistfully. "Harry and I tried on Seamus last week. Makes it worse."
"That evil, sadistic bitch!" Fred screeched, making his twin and his girlfriend jump in surprise. "What makes her think she can treat us like this?!"
"Calm down, Freddie," George urged his twin, trying to make his voice as soothing as possible. As soon as Fred stood and removed his hand from the potion, the pain increased tenfold and he cried out in shock, sitting back down and dunking his hand back. "Fuck that woman and the broom she rode in on," he growled angrily.
If it wasn't for the fact that he was clutching his hand in agony, Hermione would have scolded Fred for his foul language. But the identical expressions of pain and indignation the twins wore made her realise just how unjust this whole situation was. It had been surprisingly easy for her to comfort others when they came to her with blood running down their wrists, their lines forever etched into their knuckles. She had treated nearly every single member of Gryffindor house, along with some Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs and even two or three younger Slytherins.
When she was unattached, it was so simple to just direct them to soak their hands in the potion and wait, to tell them that the pain would be alleviated within half an hour or so. But when it was Ron or Harry, Ginny, the twins...the problem became so much more than just some flesh wounds and scars. It was not, she knew, in the nature of a Gryffindor to just roll over. They were the House that fought, that protested, that eventually won because the Light was supposed to trump the Dark, even if it took a while.
Where was the authority? When would someone with power step in and say to Umbridge that enough was enough? Fred was right. Fuck that woman and the broom she rode in on.
"All the DADA professors end up gone within a year," George reminded them in a tone of forced optimism.
"We've got a while to go though," Fred said glumly. "And who knows how much worse things could get in a year?"
Hermione sighed. "Can I see your hands?"
Fred winced and shook his head. "I want to soak mine a while longer. Look at George's."
"She had you write the same line?"
For the first time that night, Fred and George grinned. Hermione looked between the both of them and rolled her eyes. "I was hoping I'd be able to tell you two apart by scars, but so much for that."
"You already can tell us apart," they said together.
Hermione smiled slightly. "Give me your hand, one of you."
George lifted his wet hand from the bowl and offered it to her. Potion dripped from his fingertips and she gingerly examined the scarring flesh. "I must not cause trouble," she read aloud. "Unusually neat handwriting, George."
"Yeah, well, we figured if we were going to have words etched into our hands for the rest of our lives, we should at least make them neat," Fred explained sardonically.
"And of course the handwriting is identical?" Hermione asked.
"Of course."
Hermione observed her own scars. "I must not be a know-it-all" was written across her right knuckles in her pretty cursive penmanship. The words had faded significantly, but she could still remember the fury she felt that night. As she left Umbridge's office, holding back tears with sheer will, she caught a last glance at the professor's nauseatingly self-righteous expression. She was incredibly thankful that Fred and George were right outside the office waiting for her, otherwise she wasn't sure who would have restrained her to prevent what would have surely been an all-out bloodbath.
"You know, we should talk to Harry about having you teach DA to brew the potion," Fred suggested.
"Yeah, it's not really fair for you to be doing it all the time," George said, slipping his hand back in his bowl.
Hermione smiled. "That's not a bad idea. But then, I think Harry has a pretty full lesson plan. I'll bring it up to him."
"Who else did you treat?" George asked her, swirling his fingers around in the now-orange potion.
Hermione thought for a moment. "Yesterday I had to dip into the emergency stash for a couple of second-year Slytherins."
Fred snorted. "They really packed in their pride, didn't they?"
"Accepting help from a Gryffindor," George laughed, shaking his head.
Hermione smiled, remembering the involuntary triggering of her deeply-buried maternal instinct as she had encountered a young boy and girl a corner of the library, trying to staunch the blood running down their knuckles in rivulets. She had figured their magical education was too rudimentary to have covered any sort of healing charms, not that they would have worked anyway. They had explained the same logic everyone seemed to have: they didn't go to any of the other professors for help because the other professors didn't seem to be at all aware of the situation.
"Maybe we should tell Dumbledore," Hermione suggested quietly. The twins glanced at each other.
"What would he be able to do?" Fred asked. "He's kind of just a figurehead these days."
"Yeah, he doesn't have any real power here, or with the Ministry."
The twins looked uncharacteristically grim. "I mean, it's not like he has the authority to tell her what punishments she's allowed to use."
Hermione nodded solemnly. "Maybe he could…I don't know…help brew this stuff in larger amounts?"
"You know what the worst thing about her is?" George asked his two companions, who looked back at him curiously. "That she pretends she's not evil."
"Merlin, I know! She's forcing students to write lines in their own blood, then she parades around in that pink monstrosity of a cardigan like she's the most innocent person in this castle!" Fred exclaimed, torn between laughing and screaming.
"Uh…Fred?" Hermione said in a shaky, nervous voice. Her brown eyes were widened in what could only be described as pure terror. Fred's face fell so fast Hermione thought she would be able to hear it hit the floor and shatter if such a thing was possible.
"She's right behind me, isn't she?" Fred choked out, practically whimpering as Hermione nodded slowly. The twins turned together, bracing themselves for Umbridge's secret army of rabid kittens to skin them alive.
"Hermione, you are a terrible person," Fred said to the brunette when he was met with nothing but empty air behind himself. She doubled over in laughter.
"You scared us half to death!" George scolded her.
"We're so proud," Fred beamed.
"Good choice, Freddie," George said to his twin.
"Never do that again," Fred demanded, glaring at Hermione until she pinky-swore she wouldn't.
"Okay, okay. Merlin; it's already twelve thirty! I have a Charms exam first thing tomorrow!" Hermione exclaimed, standing up. "I should go to sleep."
"Forgetting something?" Fred yelled after her as she ran for the staircase up to the girl's dormitories.
"Right, right," she said, turning back around and muttering "clingy" under her breath. Fred pouted until she was back. Ignoring his twin's retching, Fred pressed his lips to Hermione's, whispering a hurried thank you against her lips.
"Better now? I have to go!" she said rather frantically, hiding her reluctance as she broke away from him.
"Yes, yes, you can go," Fred said.
"Wait, one more thing," George stopped her.
"We have detention again tomorrow night."
"Just a heads up."
Hermione nodded, and for once, the anger at the idea of her friends having detention intermingled with an odd sense of happiness. Maybe it wasn't the best of ways, but through the injustice, the school seemed to be bonding.
After her own detention, as she was healing her hand in her godsend of a potion, Fred and George had advised her to look for the silver lining even in the worse of situations. This was it, she supposed.