AN: I sincerely apologize for how long it has taken me to update this fic, among most of my other fics as well. Clearly, with the pandemic there is a lot going on but besides all that insanity, I have been working on a lot of different projects that simply just take up all of my time. When I sit down to write now, I mainly focus on the book series I've created. At the rate I'm going, it will probably take several years to finish writing. It has already taken almost two to get where I am now, which in retrospect is not that far at all. I won't go into the details but as you can tell, I am not a professional writer but by golly, I hope to be one day – as many of us here on fanfiction, or AO3, do.

Speaking of AO3, a lovely reviewer by the name of Turtle0120 was curious why I implied that Harry didn't know what disco was and, first of all, great question Turtle0120. Secondly, at the time I guess I was thinking that there was no way that Vernon and Petunia Dursley would have listened to something like the Bee Gees when they were younger, nor around Harry. They struck me as the sort of people to listen to classical, opera, or big band music from the 50's... but then after a while, I realized that Vernon and Petunia probably would have listened to disco in their youth. Most young people did, even if they were uppity foul individuals, yes? I don't know. What do you guys think? Poll time, lol.

Also, also – all of my reviewers are so amazing! It means the world to me to hear from you and I really hope my fellow fremione shippers out there continue to enjoy this story. Happy reading, loves.

Those Summer Nights
Chapter Four
-o-

August 9th, 1996

Throughout the entirety of both Sunday and Monday, Hermione had to pretend she wasn't so trapped in her head, that she was more present than she actually was. As the long summer hours seemed to tick by so slowly, focusing on her friends' jibber jabber had proved difficult. The more and more she tried to listen, the less and less she felt she could hear, teetering between constant daydreams and the feeling of persistent guilt for who those daydreams were of.

By Monday night she was exhausted from keeping up with all of the Weasleys and Harry and, because of her yearnings, was deeply restless. Ginevra was lightly snoring from her bed on the other side of the room, listlessly sprawled out in total comfortability and for this, Hermione felt great envy.

A sigh of agitation groaned from her lips as she tossed on her side for the ninety-ninth time when suddenly, there was a tapping on the window beside her. It was a beautiful tawny owl, sitting there expectantly on the sill – a stocky, round little thing with feathers of dusty whites and browns, and inquisitive umber eyes. Hermione glanced over at Ginny who remained in slumber, and quickly she unlatched the window, opening it for the owl who hopped in.

"And who might you be?" Hermione cooed softly, retrieving the pouch of owl treats she had stored in the end table drawer. The owl hooted with pride, dropping a rolled piece of parchment onto her bed. "Is this for me?" she asked it. It made a happy, sort of whistling, clucking noise in response to the yummy treats. Hermione unrolled the parchment at once, eyeing Ginny who stirred within her blankets yet did not appear to awaken. She noted the owl sticking around for a reply letter and Hermione began reading:

Dear Hermione,

This little lass here is Georgie and I's newest pal. We were going to name it Arden originally, but when we realized she was a girl, we liked Arwen better. Welsh origin that is, but who am I kidding? You knew that already. Isn't she cute? I'll be popping by tomorrow, like I promised, but I would love it if you could still come over to the flat sometime. Maybe a night this weekend? You're all I can think about. Please send a reply.

Fred

P.S. I dreamt of you.

Hermione's heart fluttered within her ribs, fingers trembling as she drew out a quill and parchment to write back. She still was completely confounded that hot-shot Fred Weasley fancied her; confounded that they kissed, that he touched her so sensually. It was indescribable, incomparable. Her toes tingled and curled beneath her as she etched bashful words of flirtation in her near perfect script.

When she was finished, she rolled up the letter and gave it to the tawny owl who clutched it protectively between her talons. "There you go," she whispered. "Thank you, Arwen." Hermione patted the majestic, cooing creature atop its crown and then it was off flying through the night air.

-o-

Fred rapped his fingers incessantly against the desk inside he and George's cluttered, but mostly organized office. He wondered if he had made a mistake. He hadn't exactly thought it through, but what if one of his siblings saw what he had written to Hermione? Or worse, his mother? He knew Hermione was keen and careful, but anything could happen and sending that letter had been extremely risky.

He and George had agreed to purchase an owl, at least one, to make their lives a bit easier with running a full-time business. However, Fred of course, had his own agenda, and was ecstatic to be able to communicate with Hermione through letter. He had never a reason before now, to reach out to her outside of social gatherings. They had been friends, but never close. Never intimate. Sure, he might've played coy with her occasionally, and every so often slung his arm 'round her shoulders but it had never crossed a line.

Oh, the line had been crossed now, and Fred had no desire to turn back. Although, he was beginning to feel nervous that perhaps he'd come off as too desperate for her. What if Fred scared Hermione away? That would shred his soul to pieces.

The whole thing so far had seemed consensual, mutual. She had not appeared disgusted, nor upset with him, but women were strange, mysterious beings and Fred would never underestimate what went on inside their brains, especially that of Hermione Granger's. He had learned such lessons plenty over the primitive years of his wily adolescence and he did not want to fail like that with Hermione. She was something very special, and he was not the only one who knew it.

His little brother was in denial of his feelings, but Fred knew, they all knew, that Ron fancied Hermione. How could he not? Even Percy had been sweet on her. He pondered as well, on what ever became of the dunce, Viktor Krum. Fred learned through observation that Krum and Hermione had spent quite a lot of time together, but the flame, if there had ever truly been one, had burnt out quickly.

When Ron eventually figured out what was going on – and he would – there could be a chance that he'd never want to speak to Fred again. Ron was known to hold grudges, and Fred was certain this would be one of those instances. Maddeningly enough, this did not want to stop Fred from pursuing Hermione. Call him selfish, which he definitely was at times, but he could not throw away this opportunity. He just knew he would regret it, spending his whole life wondering 'what if?'.

It was then Arwen had returned to his window. Fred's mind turned to mush, his insides churning as he greeted his owl friend and unrolled the letter:

Dear Fred,

Arwen is very lovely. I am delighted to meet her. You were right about the name. I did, in fact know of the name Arwen and have always liked it. Have you, by chance ever heard of the muggle fantasy author J.R.R. Tolkien? He wrote numerous books about this incredible world called Middle Earth. He writes of a beautiful elven girl named Arwen. To answer your main question, spending time with you at your flat this weekend sounds brilliant. If you must know, thoughts of you and your touch is practically all that fills my mind and I wish I didn't have to wait until tomorrow to see you again. It is merely hours, yes, but feels much longer than that.

I fear if you owl again, it might wake someone. We were lucky this time, but when do you think our luck will run out?

Hermione

P.S. Did you actually? I'm so flattered. Care to divulge?

As Fred's gaze perused her words he felt a great relief wash away any doubts he had about her interest in him. He had never heard of the author she had mentioned, but the little she shared sounded intriguing. Fred was never an avid reader, having multiple other hobbies that took up his time and attentions but for some reason Hermione made him want to dive into a book straight away. Not even just to be able to have a drawn-out, analytical discussion about different subjects with her, but also to simply get lost in a story. Reading a novel or two, here or there, could benefit Fred in the long run. Art was there to admire and inspire, and perhaps engrossing himself into some good stories would give him some, well, some good ideas.

Hermione was right. There was rarely a time when she wasn't. He probably should not owl her back tonight, though he very much wanted to. He had loads to say, but he could wait. Fred was patient when it mattered most. Whatever he did, he didn't want to fudge this up but somehow, he knew he would. He was consistently a very lucky fellow, but luck could only stretch so far.

His mum was going to slaughter him.

-o-

August 10th, 1996

"Come on, you all," Molly Weasley bleated by the open front door, calling up the stairs for her kin. "Ron? Ginny, are you ready to go?"

"Coming, mum!" Ginny yelled back down, irritation in her brow and stalked back to her room, addressing Hermione. "Could I please borrow that pretty brown skirt of yours?"

Hermione looked up from the book she was feigning to read, "Yes, of course."

"It's just that Davey is coming along. You remember Davey, don't you?"

Hermione chewed her lip, recalling the nature-loving, dark-haired boy who lived at the next property over – David Willoughby. "Oh yes, I remember," Hermione met the boy last summer before the Tri-Wizard Tournament. He had liked to climb trees and play the guitar, and he was attractive. She could see why Ginny would like him. Davey kind of looked a bit like Harry. The Willoughby's were muggles, however and had no idea of the Weasleys' true identities.

Still, Mrs. Weasley enjoyed going out to town with Mrs. Willoughby, who she happened to have loads in common with. Rhonda Willoughby was a little younger than Molly, but she too, had a slew of children, the youngest being seven. Molly loved to give Rhonda advice, and was prone to lending her help when she needed it. It was no surprise that the Weasley children intermingled with the Willoughby children in turn, and during the summer holidays, they all had every so often, run along to go play outside with each other.

"Mmf," Ginny theatrically held her hand to her heart, "He is divine. I want to impress him."

Hermione giggled, "It's in the closet, just there," she pointed to the brown tuft sticking out of the doors to Ginny's closet.

The red head squealed, "Thank you," and then fetched out the skirt. "Are you sure you don't want to come?"

"Uh, yes," Hermione said slowly. "Yes, I'm sure. Sort of just want to sit back for now,"

"Are you alright?" Ginny pressed, concerned. Ginevra was very intuitive and could tell when Hermione had something to spill. Hermione, who was not a great actress, had tried her very best to come across as nonchalant, but Ginny had been sending her looks of suspicion since Sunday afternoon. She was onto her already.

"Yes," Hermione replied, nodding enthusiastically. "Absolutely. Do I not seem it?"

Ginevra shrugged, "Mm, I don't know. You've just been quiet, I guess."

"I guess," said Hermione.

"You would let me know if something was wrong, wouldn't you?" Ginny's captivating stare bore into Hermione's, searching for a clue. Hermione felt caught off guard but collected herself.

"I – yes. Yes, I would. I promise," she told the younger girl, not exactly believing her own words. "You are the only friend I have, really. A friend who is a girl, anyway. You know how the others feel about me," Hermione was directly referring to the girls they were forced to share a dormitory and common room with, in Gryffindor Tower. A few of them, not naming any names, had been less than kind to Hermione over the years.

"Yeah, well they are missing out. You are a true friend, Hermione,"

Hermione blushed, "Awh, thank you, Gin. So are you," and as Ginny stepped into her shoes and grabbed her bag, Hermione bid her friend adieu. "Have a great time," she waved and Ginny threw her a wink over her shoulder.

Then Harry and Ron were at the door, peering in at her in confusion, "You not coming?" Ron queried but Hermione shook her head.

"Not this time," she said. "I'm, uh, getting to this really good part in my book. Want to bring me back a raspberry vanilla scone? I'd be ever so grateful,"

Ron rolled his eyes, "Come with us and get it yourself," he countered as he twirled out of the room but his demeanor had portrayed that he was jesting.

She scoffed and Harry smiled, "Don't worry, we'll get you one," he told her and followed Ronald down the stairs.

Just as they were bounding out the door, Fred apparated onto the front yard with a pop.

"Oh hello, my dear," a bouncing Molly greeted, standing on her tiptoes to peck her very tall son on his cheek. "We were just leaving. Did you want to come with us?"

"Where are you going?" Fred asked curiously, noticing that Hermione was not amongst the departing.

"Just down to the market with the Willoughby's for a while, shouldn't be too long now. Hermione's still inside if you just want to wait for us,"

Fred put on a cool mask of indifference, "Uh, yeah. I'll just wait here for ya," he said. "Don't feel much like walking around."

"Alright then. See you shortly,"

As Harry and Ron walked by, Fred patted Ron on the back and Ron returned him a friendly smirk. Fred swallowed hard, attempting not to feel so guilty.

"See you Fred," Ginny had said, sporting Hermione's long brown skirt and sauntering with an air of conviction. He wondered what sort of quest she was on. He knew that look in his sister's eyes. She was out to flaunt it for somebody. Probably David "Davey" Willoughby, the wanker. Ginny was going to tire of that muggle boy faster than you could say Quidditch.

Hermione had seen through the window that Fred had arrived. A shiver of excitement ghosted her bones and it catapulted her from the bed. She made her way down to greet him, but he was already right there, coming up the stairs. "Oh, hello," Hermione breathed, a little short-winded.

"Hello, lovely," he grinned, a coquettish cock of his brow and Hermione's cheeks instantly warmed. He moved aside, as if to let her pass. "Need to get down?"

"Nope, I was only coming to welcome you inside," she told him plainly, her movements wracked with little jitters. Fred really did make her this nervous. Her insides twisted with the fear of the unknown, but as he caught her eyes, she somehow felt safer. In his gaze, she was safe. She never felt like this with Viktor, during the moments she had spent with him.

Fred's stare seemed to drink in her facial features, her mouth, the skin at her neck. He stepped onto the landing, brushing himself against her shoulder before turning back around to peer down at her. He was biting his lip, a surreptitious hand against the wall by her head. The tawny of his heavy eyes darkened with sensuality, and twinkled with mischievousness. "Pink suits you," he said finally and Hermione realized she had not been breathing.

"What?" She blinked down at her casual day wear, the grey-heathered joggers and rose-pink henley. "Oh, heh, thank you. Look," she said, pointing to his chest. "Your shirt matches my trousers,"

Indeed, Fred's tee was precisely the same marbled light grey as the sweats she wore. "Well, would ye look at that," he murmured, his accent taking an Irish quality to it. "You'd think we might 'a planned it."

"Mmm." Hermione hummed dreamily, consumed by the low, heady vibrations of Fred's voice; consumed by his enticing earthy scent, the closeness of his lips. Long fingers reached up, dragging softly along her temple, across her cheek, her jaw. She could not help but close her eyes from the blissful sensations, a small smile on her mouth.

Fred savored this fleeting instance from above, memorizing the perfect curves of her face, each tiny speckle on her nose. His fingers brushed behind Hermione's ear and into the curls at the back of her neck, pressing her smaller frame closer to him. He rested his other hand just at her hip, fitting her against the wall. Breathless, Fred felt he was gasping for air as he erased the space between them, languidly melding his mouth over hers.

Hermione moaned from the contact, the slow and sensual softness of his kiss – a deliciously velvet kiss from supple, wettened lips. He tasted like sugared, black tea. Her head was lolling backward as she got lost in his riptide, his saccharine tongue swirling with hers. Fred's fingers found hers and their hands intertwined into the wall. Then he whimpered slightly, as if his mind were in agony, before releasing her mouth and allowing his head to rest upon the nook of her shoulder.

Fred's body quivered, his hips rolling against hers as he sighed and bit the inside of his cheek. Merlin, he could barely snog the witch without wanting to fuck her senseless, and he wanted her to know it. He was certain from the tiny gasps escaping her, from the way she ground herself back onto him, onto the solid tent beneath his lounge shorts that she could feel it.

"Umf, damnit," Fred groaned quietly, gently feathering kisses onto the shell of her ear and Hermione let out a strangled cry from the invigorating assault. She involuntarily bucked into him again and Fred grabbed her jaw with both hands, plating his mouth onto hers for another – this time very eager – velveteen sugar-kiss.

Even if she tried, Hermione would not be able to fight away the deep-seated carnality of her never before untapped lust. He had her magic buzzing and clamoring like a fiercely rung bell. She positively ached for Fred, and keened kittenishly with the frictions of his long hardness pinning into her. He ran an ardent hand down her spine, grazing along the pertness of her bum. Then, Fred smoothed those same fingers over the back of her thigh before drawing it up around him, crushing all he could of his prodding prick further against her womanly mound through her sweats. His teeth nibbled briefly, Hermione's bottom lip, suckling upon it and then broke away.

"Hermione, you wonderful, gorgeous creature," Fred muttered by her ear, the tips of his digits dancing across the swell of her breast. "I never needed anything more, than the way I need you right now."

"Fred," Hermione mewed, disgruntled because she too, felt the same. Yet somehow, even though this felt so right, Hermione knew that it was also in a scandalous sense, wrong. The two of them would stir up trouble among their community, surely. Ginevra would likely be disgusted with her, wouldn't she? And Hermione didn't even want to think about, couldn't fathom what Ronald, nor Mrs. Weasley would think of this.

Ever still, the secretiveness of it, made this all the more enthralling.

They had to stop, for now. They should not be getting up to this sort of dangerous activity at the Burrow. It really was the last place for a burgeoning romance to ensue. "I know," he grumbled, as if he could read her mind. "We shouldn't be doing this here."

"Right," replied Hermione, every fiber of her skin on fire. "We'll just wait, wait until –"

"This Friday night," Fred finished, brushing swiftly his lips to hers in a chaste bond. "I originally thought Saturday but with the shop and all, it's just not going to work. Come see me Friday. Please,"

"You don't have to beg me, Fred," she said. "I want to come,"

His nose nudged against hers, "Oh you will," he implied boldly. It took Hermione a second to realize and then her mouth hung open in delightful surprise. "Yes, you know what I mean. You're gonna get it."

-o-

AN: Literally, the worst place to end it but I am severely impatient and I wanted this chapter out now, now, now! I hope this was enough, and I hope it was enjoyable. Please, let me know what you think! I am going to update as soon as I can, but you know me, juggling what feels like twenty fanfics and a book series at once. Eh, its all 'me own fault. Thank you for reading, toodles!