a/n : starting 2021 off right with a double update, since ffn was being crabby when I tried to upload chapter 8 a few days ago :) thank you all for the wonderful comments! Happy New Year!

Agreeing to switch places with Rose was the worst idea she had ever had.

Molly had "fixed" Holly's ankle straight away, and now she only had three days to figure out how to get out of the Boxing Day Quidditch match. She was thinking about feigning illness, but Molly surely would have a remedy for anything she could come up with short of dragon pox, and where would she have gotten dragon pox from, anyway? Even then, Uncle Charlie would probably know what to do.

Holly took the opportunity after breakfast to escape the relentless activity of the Burrow and headed out to her grandfather's shed. She just needed someplace quiet to think. The shed was full of broomsticks, most of them well-worn, and Holly took a deep breath. This was a Quidditch family. Rose had probably been riding a broom before she could walk, and if Holly so much as attempted it, she would completely blow their cover. Flying was not a pastime that had ever been taken up in the Granger household, and Holly could count on one hand the number of times she'd been on a broom before school.

There was, surprisingly, a very old muggle telephone in the corner of the shed and though she wasn't hopeful it would be functional, Holly picked up the receiver anyway and was shocked to hear a dial tone. Praying that her mother didn't know the telephone number of the Burrow, and that the phone was wired for international calls, Holly dialed the landline number of her flat in New York. Maybe Rose would have an idea of what to do, some lie that her family would believe of why she suddenly couldn't play Quidditch.

But the phone rang several times before Hermione's cheery voice sounded on the answering machine. Holly hung up with a groan, and jumped when she turned around and saw her Uncle George standing in the doorway to the shed. "Oh, hi, Uncle George. I was just trying to call a friend from school. Muggleborn, you know."

George shook his head and grinned mischievously. "You don't have to lie to me, Holly."

Holly froze. "Who's Holly? Why would you call me that?"

"Oh, relax, I won't tell anyone. You can be honest with me." George raised an eyebrow and waited. Holly hesitated. He obviously knew, or at least suspected, that she wasn't Rose.

"It was the gnome, wasn't it?" she asked sullenly, giving in. One day, and already she'd been found out.

"Did Rose tell you I was a twin?" George returned. "I knew the minute I saw you that you weren't Rose. Call it twin-tuition. But yeah, the thing with the gnome confirmed it. It's always been Rose's favorite part of the tree."

"You won't tell my dad, will you?" Holly asked nervously. "We only did it because I wanted to know what he was like, and Rose wanted to meet Mum."

"Nah, I won't tell. It's been too long since this house was privy to some solid twin-style mischief. I'm intrigued, though. How did the two of you meet up?"

"At school."

"No kidding? Hermione sent you to Beauxbatons, too?" Holly nodded. "Oh, the irony. I bet they both thought there wasn't a chance in hell of this happening."

"Yeah, well, I didn't see it coming, either."

George laughed. "Fair point. So, let me guess—the foot injury was fake?"

"How could you tell?"

"Just a hunch. I've seen your mum on a broom, so I'm guessing you're not the flyer that Rosie is."

"Not even close."

"Well, I can help you out there." George reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of sweets. "The classics never go out of style."

Holly stepped closer and took one of the sweets. "What are these?"

"Part of our Skivving Snackboxes line. One of the first things Fred and I ever invented. Have your pick. I can give you a nosebleed, uncontrollable vomiting, whatever you fancy to get out of the match."

"That sounds horrible." Holly wrinkled her nose at the thought, but she didn't have much choice. "I'll take a Nosebleed Nougat, I suppose."

"Excellent choice. Welcome to the Weasley side of the family, kiddo."

Ron was restless that night. He was overjoyed to have his daughter home for the holidays, but something felt off. He wandered from his old attic bedroom down through the quiet house, intent on some biscuits and tea, and was surprised to find that the kitchen wasn't quite so empty. His mum was seated at the table with a skein of purple yarn in front of her, knitting away.

"I thought you had done all the jumpers already," Ron said as he pulled a teacup down from the cabinet.

"Well, I had, and then Lucy informed me in no uncertain terms that she was quite partial to violet."

Ron frowned as he sat down. "D'you mean to tell me that I could have asked for a different color than maroon years ago? Or is choosing a color a privilege reserved for your grandchildren?"

"Of course not. What color would you like, dear?"

"It's okay. Maroon is Rosie's favorite, and she likes that ours match." Ron pulled the tin of biscuits that Ginny and Victoire had made earlier toward himself and popped one in his mouth.

Molly let him chew silently for a few minutes before she ventured, "Sickle for your thoughts? I assume you didn't come down here in the middle of the night to watch me knit."

"Does Rose seem different to you?" Ron asked after another moment.

"Of course she does," Molly agreed immediately. "She's becoming a young woman, Ron, and she's away from home for the first time. She's going to meet new people, learn new things...I'd be worried if she wasn't a bit different."

"Yeah, but...it's more than that."

"What do you suppose it is?"

"I dunno. She's almost like…" Ron almost smiled, but the thought behind the words stung too much. "Like how I imagine Holly would be, now."

"Well," Molly tutted. "That may be, she's half Hermione after all, and those traits were bound to surface eventually, but the fact of the matter is you've no idea what Holly is like now."

"That's not fair, Mum," Ron said softly.

"You're right, it's not fair," Molly replied fiercely, setting down her knitting with a clunk. "Not to you, not to Hermione, and certainly not to your daughters, but we all have to live with the choice you two made."

"We did what we thought was best, at the time."

"And at no point in the past eleven years did it occur to you to reevaluate what was best?" Ron put his face in his hands with a sigh, and he felt rather than saw Molly move to sit next to him. Her voice was calmer when she spoke again. "Ron. You're a wonderful father to Rose, and I couldn't be more proud of you for that. But what you and Hermione did, splitting those girls up? You can't avoid the truth forever, you know."

"She's going to hate me, Mum. And how am I supposed to tell her everything without knowing where Hermione is on it? Won't it be worse if she knows she has a sister and then can't see her?"

"Well, there's quite a simple way to find out where Hermione stands on the issue." Molly raised her eyebrows, and Ron shook his head.

"She already hates me."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true. You haven't seen the girl in over a decade. She's probably quite moved on by now."

Ron was sure this was meant to be reassuring, but the thought made his stomach twist uncomfortably. Though he never mentioned when he had heard from her, he knew that Harry still had occasional contact with Hermione. Surely she would have told Harry if anything major had happened in her life—if she'd gotten married, or had more kids—and Harry would surely have told Ron. Wouldn't he?

"Is that my weekly hint that I ought to move on, too?" Ron teased half-heartedly.

"Oh, dear, you know that I only want what's best for you, you and Rosie," Molly sighed. "I want you happy, that's all."

"I know, Mum." Ron leaned over and kissed Molly's cheek before he stood. "I'll think about it. Goodnight."