A/N: Alright, fair warning: I've never written a Pensieve memory before, so I hope you can follow it properly. When it's in italics that is the memory. Hopefully it makes sense.

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* SAY SOMETHING *

CHAPTER 10:
A WALK DOWN MEMORY CORRIDOR

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Fred found it scary how well he still knew the halls of Hogwarts as he strode down them, heading towards the Headmistress's office. As his footsteps echoed down the empty corridors, he began to unconsciously trace back his movements of the night of the battle.

It seemed weird to say, whilst looking at the intact Hogwarts. Had there really been a battle here? Had this been the wall that practically crushed him? Had this been the corridor he almost died in? You wouldn't have known it from looking at it, still standing tall and sturdy as if the past never happened. Fred felt ridiculous relating himself to a corridor, but this was where his memories ended. The last thing he saw before waking up in that hospital bed was this wall falling on him.

Fred placed a hand on the brick, feeling its solid build. It was hard to imagine that it was once rubble that had easily collapsed from a spell backfire. He inhaled in deeply, trying to feel the heartbeat of the castle pulsate beneath his hand. Maybe if he stood there long enough, the magic of the castle would bring him back to that moment so that he could have a chance to redo it all…

And this time do it right.

He sighed as he retracted his hand. He didn't have time to reminisce about what once was, or what could've been. He was on a mission, and only had a small window of opportunity to complete it. He squared up his shoulders and continued on, the echoing of his footsteps resuming once more.

He walked along the second floor corridor hearing the faint sounds of students talking, owls hooting and a variety of bangs and screams as spells and potions backfired. Fred smiled softly to himself: these were the good days. Yes, he had left school early but that was under the circumstances at the time. He had loved his time here, so many things happened between these walls that most people wouldn't even know about.

Like his first kiss, for example. It had happened in his fourth year, in the Gryffindor common room. A game of truth or dare to keep their minds off the whole Chamber of Secrets craziness that was going on. Lee had made the dare, to Alicia, to kiss the cutest boy in the room. It was a juvenile request, and they had all groaned and complained at the time about how pathetic the dare was, but quiet Alicia obliged, planting a chaste kiss on Fred's lips, silencing everyone in the process. It had stunned him, and he hid his embarrassment and fluster with a joke and continued on with the game.

George had been the only one who knew that was his first kiss, slightly peeved that he had not won an earlier bet that they had made on the subject. But nonetheless, it had been George who had coaxed him through his next move of asking Alicia out, who had been too shy to confront him after her ballsy move. He hadn't even really considered Alicia as more than a friend before, but he figured there was no harm in seeing where it could go. However, despite the months they had dated, they never seemed to go beyond the friend status.

It had been down the gargoyle corridor that they both agreed to end their relationship. That probably was why the memory had jumped in his head as he reached the end of the aforementioned corridor, seeking for one particular gargoyle to complete his quest.

Reaching the correct gargoyle, he checked the parchment he had just fetched from his pocket. "Magpies," he told the gargoyle, watching it step aside and allow him to the circular staircase it concealed. He quickly checked his watch for the time before he ascended the stairs and knocked on the large door.

"Come in," came a voice from behind the door, and Fred obliged.

He entered the large, circular room, and was immediately greeted with the familiar sight of hundreds of past Hogwarts headmasters and headmistresses snoozing away in their portrait frames. The sound of their snoring brought a sense of familiarity that Fred hadn't realised he had been missing, and the reassurance that somethings never really change.

He moved forward to stand in front of an enormous, claw-footed desk, where another familiar sight greeted him: Professor McGonagall hunched over the desk, scribbling away amidst of piles of paperwork.

"Mr. Weasley," Professor McGonagall greeted, peering over her glasses.

"Professor," he said more curtly than he ever had said in his life before. He never gave much respect to his teachers, but this was a situation he didn't want to mess up. "Thank you for allowing me to come by."

Professor McGonagall put down her quill and regarded him quietly. "I had heard of your recent misfortune that has robbed you of your memories. However, I was surprised to receive your letter. I wouldn't had considered that you would be requiring my assistance in recovering your memories."

Fred already knew this, he had read as much in the letter he was still holding in his hand. But he needed access to her office, Harry wouldn't have led him astray there. McGonagall definitely wouldn't have lied about what he was seeking.

"You have come alone, I see," Professor McGonagall observed. "I was expecting the other Mr. Weasley to be joining you on this. It is rare to see either one of you on your own."

He had snuck away again, throwing around a variety of lies in order to get here. It had only taken twenty minutes to convince George to let him walk around Diagon Alley on his own, before he disappeared into the Leaky Cauldron and discreetly used to Floo network to make his way to Hogwarts (even if he did end up in the wrong office originally).

"Yes," answered Fred. "I wanted to do this on my own."

Professor McGonagall regarded him with a stern look. Whatever was running through her head at the time, she did not wish to share with Fred, most likely her disapproval of him going about this unaccompanied. With a flick of her wand, the paperwork on her desk disappeared. With another flick, a nearby cabinet opened up and the Pensieve was revealed. Professor McGonagall stood up and walked over to the Pensieve and glanced at its contents. "You do understand how a Pensieve works, Mr. Weasley?"

"I have a general idea."

"Mr. Weasley, I do hope you know what you are doing." Her face was stern, judgmental, and Fred felt himself diminish under her gaze. "Memories are powerful things. They show you the truth, whether or not you want them to. Are you sure you're prepared to go through with this? You don't know what you uncover, and when you do, it's too late to do anything about it."

Fred felt the anxiety rise within in, but he swallowed it down the best he could. "I have to do this, Professor."

She nodded, but there was no emotion to read in her face. "I will leave for lunch now, so not to intrude on your time here; and as it is now lunchtime, nobody should disturb you whilst you are..." she gestured to the Pensieve next to her.

Fred swallowed and his lips pressed into a hard line. "Thank you, Professor."

She began to head towards the office door, but stopped next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. With a heavy sigh, she told him, "be sure to tell your wife how deeply sorry I am to hear what happened," before continuing her way out.

Fred watched Professor McGonagall with a frown. He shook his head free of any thoughts of her last comment and turned back towards the Pensieve. He had never seen one in reality before, but he had heard about them during his Hogwarts years. It had seemed bigger than he had imagined, the large stone basin

He uncorked the vial and poured Hermione's memories into the stone basin. Fred paused for a second time, the damage was already done – he couldn't put the memories back now. The memories swirled, silver and strange, beckoning him to come swim in their glistening strands.

Abandoning all his nagging thoughts, Fred dived in.

Fred landed a second later in a very crowded pub. It took him a moment to realise that he was in the Leaky Cauldron, only he had ever seen the pub so crowded on a handful of occasions. He glanced around the room, through all the strangers and recognised the head of Hermione Granger sitting alone at the bar.

Coming closer, he saw her down the last of her drink and push the empty glass towards the bartender.

"Another, please."

"Are you sure about that, Miss Granger?" asked Tom. "It's your fifth drink."

"Thank you for keeping count, but yes I'll have another." Tom looked a bit hesitant for a moment, but with a wave of his hand, the empty glass became full again. Hermione didn't hesitate and immediately began nursing the drink again.

Fred frowned at the memory of Hermione. She was clearly having a bad day; if the alcohol consumption wasn't already a dead giveaway, her appearance was clearly one of misery. He had never seen her so miserable before, like she carried the entire weight of the world on her shoulders, not even when he had the accident did she ever show this side to her.

A burly young man, with a familiar face, was approaching to Hermione's right. He just seemed to have solidify out of thin air, which was impressive given his build and the fact that the crowd was quite large. Fred wasn't sure of where he had come from. He had blond hair, hazel-green eyes and to seem to have somewhat of a stagger as he leaned across the bar next to Hermione.

"Wow, someone's having a bad night."

"McLaggen," Hermione greeted with a suspicious tone, still staring straight ahead. "What are you doing here?"

"Having a drink, same as you," he indicated to the glass of alcohol in his hand.

"No, I mean what are you doing here bothering me?"

"I'm not bothering you."

"I beg to differ," Hermione muttered darkly.

The insult seemed to roll off McLaggen's back as a flashed Hermione an easy smile. "Now, now, Granger. Why so glum?"

"I don't think that's any of your business." Hermione took another sip of her drink and McLaggen eyed her carefully.

Fred frowned at the sight before him. He didn't have a good feeling of McLaggen's intentions, even though Hermione wasn't having a bar of it. She still wouldn't look at him, trying her best to keep her ice defences up and to not engage with him. Yet, McLaggen persisted. He was determined, that was obvious, but it was that fact that made Fred uneasy.

"Have a drink with me, Granger. Forget about everything else. You look like you need a friend right now."

"I have friends."

"Then where are they?"

Hermione let out a loud sigh, but neglected to answer. "Just leave me alone, McLaggen."

Her voice was wavering, but when Fred leaned in closer he could see the silent stream of tears that were cascading down her pale cheeks. Something awful had happened clearly, but she evidently did not wish to discuss it with anyone, present company included. Fred felt a pang in his chest as he watched her down the rest of her drink without another word.

"Hey, seriously, are you okay?" his tone had changed. He wasn't insisting any more, he seemed almost concerned. Hermione seemed to have picked up on it as well, and she turned to face him for the first time. She didn't say anything, but he would've been able to see her tears, and that seemed to be enough for him to shed his cocky attitude.

"Let me order you a proper drink." McLaggen leaned over the bar and ordered them a drink that sounded made up, but it wasn't long until a copper-red drink appeared before them. Hermione took it and McLaggen clinked his glass against hers and they both drank without exchanging any words and looks.

"That burns," Hermione coughed out, pulling herself away from the drink.

"Yeah, it's a bit strong. But you looked like you needed a strong drink." He regarded her carefully. She nodded and then went for another sip, grimacing at the after-burn feel again. "Come and have a drink with me, Granger. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

Hermione didn't say anything, clearly wanting to choose her words carefully. She looked at him up and down, clearly contemplating his offer. McLaggen grinned at her as she decided to let her icy barrier down for him.

"One drink," he insisted.

"One drink," Hermione succumbed.

Suddenly, the memory began to fade just as Hermione and McLaggen made their way to an empty table. The memory was changing and Fred could his own voice yelling before the memory finished putting itself together. His feet barely touched the ground in what seemed to be George's room in the loft when his past self stormed in.

"HERMIONE!"

Fred hadn't even properly scanned the room properly but quickly found Hermione sitting up right in the bed. This must've been when they were roommates, for he only just realised that George's room wasn't quite his room anymore. The Quidditch posters were gone, and so were the clashing colours of the furniture. Instead Hermione's interior design shone through a little, trying to make the most of the permanent bright purple walls.

His past self seemed to be fuming, his nostrils flaring with each deep, ragged breath. Both Fred's eyes were on the petite witch in the bed, who was still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes after being so rudely awoken by someone yelling out her name.

"Fred, why are you yelling? What time is it?"

Fred ignored the question at hand. "This just arrived," he threw what seemed to be a magazine onto the bed. Fred got a look at the cover, it was an advanced copy of Witch Weekly, with Hermione's picture blown up on the front, with a headline stating she had exposed secrets about her relationship with Ron.

Hermione was still waking up, but her photo coupled with the headline clearly woke her up.

"Oh my…" Hermione frantically opened the magazine and began reading it. Her eyes going wide, her mouth gaping slightly, a sense of panic lingered in the air. Fred was standing at the foot of her bed, arms crossed over his chest, looking at her with a mixture of anger and confusion.

"Why on earth would you say this stuff to the Witch Weekly? Do you realise what a stupid thing that was to do?"

"I didn't speak to anyone from Witch Weekly," she said with a frown.

"Then how did they find out this stuff?"

Hermione let out an audible gasp. "Cormac."

"That's not an answer, Hermione."

"No," Hermione groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I had a drink with him last week, and… and I may have said some things to him."

"May have?" Fred repeated.

Hermione huffed a little. "Alright, I did. But this was not what I thought was going to happen." She looked at the magazine and gasped, "Oh Merlin, he wrote this."

"What?"

"Cormac," Hermione explained. She pointed to the magazine in front of her. "That's his name on the by-line."

There was a pause as everyone in the room let the information sink in.

"Did you know he was a journalist?" Fred spoke quickly, with a sense of urgency.

She sighed and tightened her grip around her blankets. "Fred, I know you don't think very highly of me and my moral standards but-"

"Did you know he was a journalist?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Answer the question, Hermione."

"No. He told me he was writing a book. A fictional thing. A novel. He didn't mention anything about being a journalist. I feel like such an idiot."

Both Freds looked at her suspiciously. His past self seemed to be thinking the same thing as he was: there was more to the story than she was letting on. She seemed really embarrassed, maybe about what she said about Ron, or the fact that she willingly released that information to someone she barely knew; but Fred wasn't sure.

"What happened, Hermione?"

"I told you. I had a drink with him and said… all of this," she said, gesturing to the magazine that now sat on the covers of her bed. "Honestly, Fred…"

"What happened?" he repeated.

"Merlin! Okay! He showed up at the Leaky Cauldron like it was the biggest coincidence in the world, even though he lived on the other side of Britain. I should have known. Then we had a few drinks, caught up on old times, he knew nothing about Ron and I breaking up, didn't even pretend to be all that interested, which, again, I should have been suspicious of, but I'd had a few drinks, so I talked a little… then… it doesn't matter. Then that was it. We left."

Fred's eyes narrowed and he searched her face for something. "No," he began slowly. "That wasn't it. Then what?"

"No, it's embarrassing, Fred. I-"

"Tell me," he practically shouted at her.

"We ended up back here." Hermione looked as if she was going to be sick. "Oh Merlin, I feel so… crap. What do you think I should do?"

Both Freds went quiet. Hermione was looking at his past-self expectantly, and when it seemed like an eternity, his past self said, "What do you mean, you ended up back here?"

"Merlin, how else can I put it? He stayed over, you know?" Now it was Fred's turn to feel sick.

"Okay," he said quietly. Fred stared at her for a minute before turning on his heel, and storming out of the room.

"Where are you going?" she called out after him, but all she got in response was the slamming of the front door.

The memory was changing again, and Fred could see Hermione lugging something large and with two big wheels up to the loft. Only, when she got there, Cormac McLaggen was waiting outside for her, looking like he tried to fight a hippogriff and lost miserably. His eye was half-closed and purple, and his lip was swollen and had obviously been bleeding not long ago.

"Merlin." She dropped the heavy item upon seeing him and whipped out her wand, "What happened to you?"

"Don't pretend you don't know," he said bitterly. "Just give me my jacket and I'll get out of here."

Hermione's wand hand dropped to her side. "Excuse me?"

"My jacket. I came to collect it. I know I left it here the other night."

"Your jacket," she repeated. "And what about an apology? Hello, Hermione, I'm sorry? I'm sorry I was a lying scumbag rat dickhead?" She didn't bother trying to control her rage – it all came tumbling out.

"Ah, come on, don't get like this." He held his hands up. "You know how journalism works, you know how the game is played. Aren't you friends with that short Weasley girl? Harry Potter's trashy wife? Isn't she a journalist as well?"

Fred felt his blood boil at his description of Ginny. "Ginny is a Quidditch reporter."

"Whatever," McLaggen groaned, rolling his eyes. "I was sent to get the story from you and I did my job."

"You did your job? Sleeping with me was part of your job?" She had her hands on her hips now and was so close to his face you could see her spit landing on his skin with each word. He had the audacity to look slightly embarrassed about that.

"Look, that, that wasn't… I had too much to drink. That shouldn't have happened."

Fred couldn't believe what he was hearing. McLaggen had clearly shown up unannounced, and had only moments before insulted her best friend, and yet admitted that he had made a mistake. It was barely an apology for the damage he had done, but Hermione seemed equally surprised by his words. Fred watched as her body was shaking from rage, or fear, or her body had gone into shock from what he was saying.

"But that was still no reason to send your bodyguard after me," McLaggen continued, his bitter tone returning. "That was ridiculous, Granger. And believe me, I will be pressing charges against him."

"Bodyguard? What the hell are you talking about?" Hermione asked, but in the pit of his stomach, Fred already knew where this was going. "I didn't "send" anyone after you. I would have been far more than happy to do that to your face myself so you can stop accusing me and start thinking of the numerous amount of people you have managed to insult doing your dirty job."

He actually smiled and when his lip stretched and fresh blood drew from the cut, he immediately stopped. "First of all, my dirty little job, as you say, is the exact same as your precious best friend's, don't forget that, Hermione Granger. And secondly, bodyguard or boyfriend, I'm not sure which, but did our night out get you in trouble, Granger?" he said smugly. "The last time I annoyed a Weasley twin was when I accidentally knocked his pint over his girlfriend at the Three Broomsticks so you can be sure I know exactly who it is that came after me and why."

Both Fred and Hermione's mouths fell open. "Fred? Fred did this to you?"

"I don't have much more time to waste on this so, my jacket?"

Hermione seemed to falter under this revelation that she didn't say a word. She simply unlocked the door, retrieved his jacket from inside the loft and brought it back to him.

"Never come here again," she said firmly as she handed back.

Fred felt himself begin to rise out of the Pensieve and, in an instant, found himself lying on the carpet of the Headmistress' office. Fred blinked in surprise as he sat up and readjusted to his surroundings. He took his time processing what he had just seen in the Pensieve, mulling over the finer details of the memories.

This what he did know now: he had savagely attacked Cormac McLaggen, for taking advantage of a drunken and upset Hermione Granger for the sake of a gossip magazine. This is what he had been arrested for; this is what Ron had been referring to when he talked about Fred defending her; this is the protective side of him his brothers had commented on.

But could anyone really blame him? After what he saw, Fred could've punched the prick again. His heart raced as the anger coursed through his veins involuntarily at the thought. Merlin, poor Hermione. First Ron, then McLaggen and now Fred's memory loss on top of all that? She had been through the wringer.

He stood up and brushed off his jeans when someone penetrated his thoughts.

"Be careful not to compromise what you want most for what you want now."

Fred recognised that voice, and began to search for its owner. It didn't take him long to find the portrait which the voice was emitted from. "Professor Dumbledore?"

The old wizard had appeared in what was an empty frame when he entered the office. He was sitting in an armchair, comfortably resting his hands on, where Fred would've imagined, his chest would be underneath all that silvery beard.

"It's been many years since you have visited my former office, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore spoke in his usual calming tone. "I don't suppose you and Peeves have concocted some grand, elaborate prank on the students? Though these corridors could use some of you and Mr. Weasley's flair for hilarious misconduct." Flashes of fireworks and Skiving Snack box experiments gone wrong came to mind instantly.

"I lost my memories," Fred blatantly began to explain.

"Ahh, yes. Minerva was kind enough to indulge me with why you were so interested in my Pensieve. I hope you found it to some use to you after all these years of lying dormant," Dumbledore asked, peering over his half-moon glasses.

"I suppose it was useful in a way…"

"Not the result you were hoping to find?"

Fred sighed. "I'm not entirely sure what it was I was expecting to find, to be honest."

Fred watched as Dumbledore drummed his fingers on the armchair. "I don't consider myself an expert on the subject, Mr. Weasley, of either memory loss or love."

"Love, sir?"

"I take it those memories you wished to look at belonged to your wife?"

"Even you know about Hermione and me?" Fred said in disbelief. This was a painting. A painting. And even he knew more about their relationship than Fred did.

"Word of the former Miss Granger has wandered in this office from time to time, yes. Including her marital state with yourself. I believe that Professor McGonagall was invited to the grand event. Though, I must admit, it was quite amusing to listen to Minerva try and convince herself that you had Miss Granger under the works of a love potion."

So it wasn't just him that his relationship with Hermione was surprising. Everyone made it seem like they were made for each other, destined to be together, but it was refreshing to hear that somebody else found it a little out of the ordinary. Though, he never thought he would have to agree with McGonagall about his love life.

"What were you hoping to come from seeing these memories, if you don't mind me intruding?"

Fred pressed his lips into a hard line as he really thought about it. "Answers."

"Answers," Dumbledore repeated softly, stroking his beard fondly. "Tell me, Mr. Weasley, do you wish to have your memory return?"

"Of course." It was a silly question to ask. Who wouldn't want their memories to return? A person couldn't move forward if they couldn't escape their past.

"And what do you hope to achieve by doing so?"

"I don't understand, Professor." One of the paintings scoffed behind him, but pretended to still be asleep when Fred turned around to glare at them.

"There are many things in my past I wish I could forget. Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise, and not the burden you deem it to be. I would imagine it would be harder to have memories of those you have loved and lost, than to have no memories at all."

"I don't want to live not knowing what my life once was."

"But you trust that your life was once something worth remembering?" Fred paused for a moment, taking that in. He hadn't actually thought about what it was he was chasing, hunting for his memories like he was. If he took out the mystery of Hermione as his wife, would he be as eager to search for his past? He didn't seem to care much for the other aspects of his life, the store was easy to catch up on, and so was the family. But this was different.

Fred cleared his throat. "I trust that some memories are worth remembering."

"Are you sure about that?" Fred raised an eyebrow questioningly at the painting of his former headmaster. Dumbledore leaned back in his armchair and put his fingers together. "Consider your wife, if you will. She shares memories with someone who cannot remember them, alone in a past life you do not know you had lived. And yet, she waits. You both had a chance to walk away, and yet you both stayed. Doesn't that tell you something?"

Fred considered this for a moment. "I suppose so."

Dumbledore smiled widely at him. "Memories are a contrary thing; if you quit chasing them and turn your back, they often return on their own."

"So you're saying," Fred said slowly, his eyes narrowing at the portrait. "That I may get my memories back if I stop trying to think about them?" It didn't make much sense to Fred, how was he meant to not keep hunting for his lost memories, when the gap in his mind was so achingly obvious every day. He couldn't just forget and move on, that was absurd.

"I'm suggesting you do what time and memory do best together." Dumbledore peered down at him over his half-moon glasses, his blue eyes twinkling. "After all, Mr. Weasley, the best thing about memories is creating them."

A/N: Finally! I finally finished it this chapter. I honestly thought this would be an 'easy' chapter to write because I had been thinking about it for so long. How wrong I was.

To be fair, I also just returned to work and plus single parenthood… dear Merlin, I am exhausted. Who knew you could even be this tired? But I'm trying hard to not slack off on my writing, but give me some leeway here.

Anyways, what did you think? Now that you know what happened between Cormac and Fred (and Hermione, I suppose), are you feeling happy? Sad? Angry? A combination of the three, perhaps?

So thank you for all your support so far, my faithful readers. Your reviews make me so happy, and I do enjoy getting all those notifications of story favourites and alerts and whatnot. And I do hear you guys, you all seem to be begging for the same thing… so I shall give you a little bit in the next chapter: a little Fred and Hermione bonding. I think they need it too. :)

Anyways, leave me love and reviews. They bring me joy and fuel me to write.

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