Author's Note:

So sorry this took so long to get up. I wanted it up last weekend but my internet crashed and I could not log on. Anyway, this is not my favourite chapter, but it was necessary. I want to go back and edit this more when I get the chance, but I wanted to give you guys a chapter too. I hope you all enjoy it.

Only a few more chapters left!

Disclaimer:
J.K Rowling owns all.

Love and War Chapter 20
Confrontation

Never had a night lasted this long. In the quiet of one evening, time stood still, and everything happened. Fear and admissions. Heartbreak and reconciliations. Near death experiences and propositions. Even the most unlikely of recoveries took place. It all happened and Fred Weasley was there through the blood, sweat, and tears. Needless to say, he was exhausted.

Yet, the night was far from over.

With a sigh, Fred shut the door to the infirmary and began his descent to the main floor of Kingsley's stronghold. Hermione Granger, his patient and his twin brother's love, was finally on the road to recovery. The poison scan was complete and the antidote administered. Now, she needed the time to rest.

Picking at the skin on his nail, he felt the ache in his fingers from the complex magic that had flown through them not long ago. His back slumped forward, shoulders heavy with fatigue, as exhaustion took its toll. When he reached the main floor, Fred felt the dull thud behind his eyes, strained from reading texts and brewing potions, and he knew instantly the solution. What Hermione needed now was rest, and what he needed was a stiff drink.

Rummaging through the kitchen cabinets, Fred found a large bottle of firewhiskey. He did not bother with a tumbler, not when he planned to polish the bottle, and made his way to the sitting room. Standing in the entrance, he regarded the scene with lethargy. This was where it all began.

He moved through the room, passing the remnants of the chaos, and collapsed on the couch. The over turned armchair, the broken wooden china cabinet, and the shattered dishes. These were the few signs of what occurred less than two hours ago. The mess was easily fixable, a few swishes of a wand would have righted it all, but Fred did not have the strength. Instead, he gripped the glass tight, uncorking and bringing it to his lips. He drank deep, feeling the sting in this throat, and relished in the warmth that began to settle in his stomach.

Oh, he definitely needed that.

Placing the bottle on the end table, Fred leaned back into the cushions and let his eyes wander to the surprisingly unscathed grandfather clock. The second hand kept rhythm, ticking off the passing moments of time at a snail's pace. Ten thirty one and fifty eight seconds. Ten thirty one and fifty nine seconds. Ten thirty two.

He just wanted this day to end. Maybe in the morning he could deal with all this, but not now. Not today. Too much happened today, and it was his fault.

George had trusted him to keep the situation tame, keeping Hermione unscathed, and what did Fred do? How did he respond? He had failed, that is how. Fred Weasley had failed. Failed his twin. Now, George had to deal with the repercussions.

Sure, Fred acted, taking care of all the medical procedures. He would have anyway, but the explosiveness of the prior could have been avoided. Hermione Granger was a hysterical wreck, though now physically more stable, and George Weasley was the one up there cleaning up his colossal blunder. Of one thing Fred was sure, this disaster was his fault.

All that had been required of him was more control. The ability to manage his younger brother, Ron's aggressive reaction, he used to have that. It was a power that somehow eluded him and Fred was like a gaping fish.

With another swig of the whiskey, Fred realised he should have insisted that George be present during that meeting from the start. Instead, he pushed the opposite. Fred and George should never be separated. This never would have happened if Fred and George acted like a team. The brilliant team that they always were. George Weasley sat out on one mission debriefing and the whole world fell apart. That was enough proof for Fred.

Voices and footsteps neared closer to the sitting room and startled Fred out of his revere but he remained motionless seemingly unbothered by the disturbance. Slumped in the cushions of the couch, his feet propped on the coffee table, and the glass bottle of amber liquid nestled in his lap, Fred sat unmoved by the two younger boys entering the room. It was only when his name was called that he let his focus rise from the floor.

Looking up Fred met the worried gaze of Harry Potter and immediately regretted it. This was not the conversation he wanted to have. Not at all. Not today.

"Fred," Harry took a seat on the now righted armchair with Ron in the other. "Any news?" Fred only shrugged, resuming his staring contest with the floor. Could the prats not see he was brooding? He had no time for silly inquisitions. "Was she given the proper medication?" Harry continued, and Fred nodded, taking another drink to quell his irritation.

"Oh, come off it, Fred," Ron's voice boomed loudly, and with a sigh, Fred realised his attempts were completely futile. Irritation was enviable. "Will you just tell us what's bloody wrong with her?"

"Ron," Harry interjected sternly, "calm down. I know you're upset–" But before Harry could finish, Ron interrupted.

"Upset?" He cried, "Upset! I can't even hug her and George is touching her like that. For Merlin's sake, I can't go near her because George bleeding well said so!"

"Shut your fucking mouth, Ron," Fred gritted out slowly between clenched teeth. His tone morphed to the icy calm one that George had used earlier that evening as he forbade Ron from entering the infirmary ward. It was eerily quiet, Ron's tirade chopped to huffed breaths.

Taking another mouthful, Fred felt his blood boil with alcohol and rage. How was Fred supposed to control this oaf of a boy? The same oaf that was on a vital mission for the Order. The same oaf that surprisingly managed not to muck it all up. But, really, Ron had done just that, had he not?

The redhead sitting before him was there when Hermione was captured. He was there when the Death Eaters took a muggleborn. A muggleborn for Merlin's sake. Fred's grip tightened a little, he let the alcohol calm him with another, shaky, but large swig. This was why George was so angry towards their younger brother. Brushing his unoccupied hand through his ginger locks, he envisioned all of which his twin confided earlier that afternoon.

Oh, that cut deep.

The hopelessness Fred had felt. The real helpless shock that had seeped through him as Hermione retreated on the floor at his feet. He was unable to do anything. And that was in safety. George had found a lifeless Hermione in a broken cell and watched her get tortured for weeks. He had been unable to do anything. Fred could only imagine the intensity of George's mirrored fear.

Couple that with the deep love. Fred shuddered, paling with the image of Angelina in Hermione's stead. He could not bear to think it.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the immensity of the sensations surrounding him, but Fred finally snapped.

"Did you know George was captured?" His words were as sharp as steal, slicing through the silence of the air like a sword unsheathed.

"George," Harry whispered, registering the news, but was quickly quieted. Fred slammed the bottle down on the side table, the liquid sloshing against the sides violently.

"You're so well hidden," Fred growled out as he rose from his seat. He just could not sit anymore, not with the energy rushing through his veins. "You're brother was captured and guess who he saw when he got there?"

"I-I" Ron sputtered, unable to form any coherence.

"A muggleborn at the hands of those sick bastards and you just went on with your merry day, assuming that getting her out, would be, what, instant? You knew about her location better than we did, why didn't you two try and trace her?" Fred paced the length of the carpet, his emotion consuming him in a blind fury. He was oblivious to the wide eyes following his movements, even as he paused to give Ron a frozen glare.

"The mission—" Ron started but was once again cut off.

"You're so wrapped up this bloody mission you've got no idea what's happening with the rest of the war." There was an echo through the room as Fred screamed, his voice bouncing off the high ceilings with ease. "A muggleborn witch connected to Harry? For Merlin's sake, they kept her alive as bait. Two months of torture and you expect her to be ready for more?"

"Fred," Harry said cautiously and Fred had to stop himself from throwing the whiskey across the room breaking that damned clock. Deep breaths were brought into his lungs, but rage still blazed, "please, tell us what happened."

"What happened was the complete derailment of a brilliant witch." Everyone in the room was startled as George's voice filled the air.

With a heavy sigh, Fred settled back into his seat on the couch, watching as Harry and Ron turned to the door. There his twin stood in the entrance to the sitting room, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. He looked ragged with dark circles surrounding his eyes and thick stubble covering his chin. George was visibly more exhausted than Fred could ever have been, and yet, George remained against the frame, stoic as steel, and daring anyone to cross his path.

This would not end well.

Fred's defeated sigh registered in him, but George hardly cared. He was lost in sleep deprivation. With muddled hearing and strained muscles, George waited against the door, letting the wood support his weight. The air was strained, taut with uncertainty. It was clear everyone clenched in anticipation. A whirlwind of chaos or calm collection was about to happen and it would only be described as tense.

Ron and Harry were rigid, wide eyes and slightly pale, the after math of his twin's lecture still crashing over them. And it was one hell of a lecture. George heard most of it on the stairs on the way down. Fred's voice was electric, the words charged with static bolts as they thundered. Even with one ear, the anger had received loud and clear, and George was certain it lingered.

His vision tunnelled slightly as he glanced around the room, his eyes finding Fred. Fuming with a simmering ferocity, Fred's face was red with a flush. His eyes were little glassy while his fingers fidgeted slightly with the couch fabric. Yes, his twin had indeed been drinking.

With a smirk, George spotted the glass bottle of firewhiskey on the side table just behind Fred.

Perfect. The hard stuff.

On the opposite end of the couch, George sat and motioned for the drink. The candle light glinted off the clear glass as it settled into George's grasp and he raised it to his lips. One gulp of amber. Yes, he needed this. Two gulps of amber. Oh, boy had he needed this. The third gulp went down, just as quick, and he felt his stomach singe.

"How's she doing?" Fred asked finally. The haze of firewhiskey and fatigue was blocking out the words slightly, but George heard the question and immediately felt deflated.

"Not good," George replied, downing another quick mouthful before handing the bottle over to Harry. "She's convinced she killed Ron. Nearly snapped her wand on two occasions."

A strangled silence fell over the scene in the sitting room. The alcohol passed through them in turns, each drowning in the numbing feel with a few swallows. The steady intake of whiskey fuelled emotionally charged curiosity. Two boys sat, burning with questions, while the other two suffered from the answers. With another sigh, George turned to face his twin, "Give 'em a quick run down."

Harry and Ron both perked up instantly, but their rapt attention only seemed to irritate George more. Where was that attention when Hermione had been captured? Where was that attention when she had broken down in front of them? When she had cursed Ron?

"The curiatus curse," Fred began, pulling George to the same speech he heard countless times. Now, however, George was already convinced and as much as he wanted to tune it out, the droll explanation helped roadblock his anger. "It leaves a type of poison. The poison is slow acting, causing the victim to have the memories of the pain. If only used once or twice, treatment is not necessarily needed since the poison can work its way out of the body with the withdrawals. But, in Hermione's case, she had twenty percent of her blood replaced."

"Sh-She's dying?" Ron asked with a choked gasp, and despite the lurching feeling that surged through him, George remained in a stoic slump. Beating Ron to a pulp was not the proper way to deal with his thoughts. This was the exhaustion playing tricks on him. It had to be. George could not possible be that angry with his brother.

"No, not dying." Fred corrected. "As I said, the poison blends nightmare with reality, slowly deteriorating the mental state of the person. Trauma is a side effect from any type of inflection, both mental and physical, so some trauma just cannot be healed. She has been given the antidotes for the lingering dark magic, but I expect night terrors to continue, just not conscious flashbacks. She may have ended up like Frank and Alice Longbottom, if we had not started treatment tonight."

George paled slightly, hunching forward to bury his face into his palms. The thought of Hermione admitted to consistent care at St. Mungo's, completely lost to reality, shook him to the very core. He bit the inside of his cheek, attempting to control his waning temper, but his control was slipping. The alcohol stirred in his chest, bursting through his veins, and blanketing his body with fluid heat.

"This is what you were trying to bring up tonight? This is why she cursed Ron." The deduction passed Harry's lips and George bristled. It was obvious and unnecessarily spoken, and most importantly, did not help one bit.

George shut his eyes, pushing the heels of his palms into the lids, rubbing sparks of colour into his vision, attempting to urge more than red to paint the black. She cursed Ron, yes, Hermione cursed Ron. But, Hermione did not think it was Ron. No, she was reliving something much, much worse, and George was struggling to avoid that line of thought.

"She thought Greyback was advancing on her again from what I gathered," And there it was. Fred spoke aloud the very last piece of kindling George could take. He was oblivious to the concern of the other boys as he took the bottle from his twin once more, greedily tossing back a large mouthful.

His finger tightened, knuckled turning white against the glass, as George tried, and failed, to force his focus on the burning. The soothing sting of the alcohol was present, but it could not banish the memories clinging to his mind. With another quick sip, George felt the tremors shudder through him, rippling through the fluid. The blood suddenly rushed past his ears, blocking out the quiet conversation surrounding him.

Greyback, he spat the name out like venom. That bloody wolf would pay for touching her. For forcing himself upon her. For marking her mind and body with that moment forever. The dog would be ripped apart limb from limb with the scent of werewolf blood filling the air. George was going to kill him.

George leaned back into the cushions. His shoulders slumped forward, his chin resting on his chest. Deep breathes. In and out. A murderous rampage was not in the cards right now. He tried to calm himself, tried to regain control, but thinking of his witch laying upstairs so broken, drove him beyond the capacity of rationality.

But if he were being honest here, George blamed himself for everything. It was his fault really. Hermione never would have cursed Ron if she had been in treatment sooner. Not listening to his twin's expertise led them down this road. George almost wanted to curse himself for ever delaying her recovery.

Hermione was his everything. The earth, the sky, and all the magic in between was nothing but her. Hermione Granger was all of it and George Weasley failed her. He had sworn he would protect her. She was pure life and goodness, nothing but absolute bliss, and he had let her down when she got hurt.

The only redemption George felt was in the treatment Hermione finally did receive.

"Merlin," George heard Ron say, drawing his attention just slightly. "Hermione can hit hard." Pride swelled in his chest at that. Damn right, Hermione could hit hard. She was his strong, beautiful witch. Bright and cunning. Brilliant and creative. And, her reflexes were still quick despite all that happened. She was a force to be reckoned with and George beamed at her success. "I just never expected her to actually curse me. I don't get it."

"Ron," Fred said with a sly smile, "You're an idiot."

"Fred just explained it," Harry snorted, curving George's lips up as he reached for the bottle once more, "but you were too thick to listen."

"Oi, I'm not thick!" The words around George circled and swirled, melding into new ones, the exhaustion taking him further into his thoughts. The surrounding bickering was pushed aside to bring Molly Weasley's words to the forefront.

Earlier she had praised him. Him. George Weasley, mischief-maker extraordinaire. His mother was proud of him. Proud of his capacity of love. Proud of his devotion. Proud to call him her son. It warmed him far more than the whiskey ever could. Made him satisfied in the man he was going to be. The man he would be for Hermione.

"George," Fred said, drawing his attention. Their eyes met with a crash of water and ice, as the twins spoke without speaking. Fred was worried and George was just angry. His ears were tinted red with frustration, his rage breaking through his stoic resolve with a snap, as he rested his gaze on Ron.

"What the hell were you thinking?" George hissed, his lips forming a small snarl. The flames of his fury were making him feral.

"What was I thinking? What were you thinking?!" Ron yelled back in response. "You know how I feel about Hermione, how could you."

"You don't feel anything about Hermione," George's words severed whatever hesitation remained. This was it, the chaotic whirlwind confrontation that needed to happen. Ron was fuming but George, he was beyond that. Far beyond anything remotely human, George hovered just outside of absolute insanity. "You make some moronic claim to her, one you think you are entitled to, but you don't feel anything real about Hermione."

"What would you know about it," Ron bit back, his voice lowering slightly, "nothing, because you never really cared to know about her yourself." There was quiet for a moment, as George breathed deep through his nose, attempting to stop a physical response, and Ron took advantage of the pregnant pause, considering it a victory. "She's mine."

"Y-Yours?" George sputtered, standing abruptly to tower over the younger boy, the whiskey still firmly in his grasp. "Are you listening to yourself?"

"And what you think she belongs to you?"

"Fuck, Ron." He cursed, and with a loud crash Ron jumped. The bottle shattered against the wall with George's throw, the liquid training down the wall and staining the cream paint with a gold splash. "She doesn't belong to anyone." How in Merlin's name could his little brother breathe an idea so preposterous? Hermione Granger was the very definition of freewill and independence. She brilliance wrapped in skin.

"She is absolutely brilliant," George continued, his rant taking life as he paced laps around the room. "And strong, so strong that she fought against all they did. And determined, so absolutely breathtakingly determined. I've never seen someone so determined to live, and thrive, and defeat evil. You're lucky she only stunned you, Ron." A quick glance was all George shot Ron, as he let lose all the thoughts swimming in his mind. "I'm sure she would've wanted to do worse to anything that came her way but she held back 'cause she's just so good. But then again you would know all about that wouldn't you?"

"Well yea," Ron started, finding his footing in the heated exchange, "but you're forgetting mental. Mental she is. And bloody scary." He rubbed the back of his head, emphasizing his point by hinting towards the ghost of pain on his skin.

"Ron," George halted his steps. Shutting his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, he sucked in a sigh. "You're my brother, and I really do love you, and trust me I know how broken she is right now, but I don't bloody care. If I had to choose, if you made me choose," Ron's eyes widened with a gulp. He obviously was not expecting another brother deflecting from the family. This was something almost unheard of, not after the void Percy left. The rift which remained torn in their mother's heart, even after Percy returned, was enough to make it an unmentionable notion. But, George was beyond serious, and that, in turn, was beyond terrifying. "Not even a contest. I'd choose her, every time."

"Whoa, Georgie," Fred cleared his throat, and George turned his attention away from Ron's paling face. "Very smooth. When did you get all sappy? "

Fred winked and George let himself smile at the jibbing, but despite the laughter, the sincerity was there. George was resolute in his vow. He would choose Hermione. It was not just some attempt to make Ron back off.

Ron cleared his throat, rising from his seat and excusing himself from the room. As he watched his younger brother retreat upstairs, the fight draining from both of them, George knew what was needed. The boy needed time, but Hermione needed him. She had said so, announced it in her declaration of love and George would not waver. He had to be a constant for her. Never again would he let her down. For the rest of his life, George Weasley would stand beside Hermione Granger, if she let him, and George would sacrifice anything, even his place amongst the Weasley's, to do just that

The choice was simple. One that he would make in a heartbeat because without Hermione, George did not think his heart could in fact beat.

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