Author's Note: It feels so good to be writing again! I had a lot of writer's block with this one and basically had to scrap my first draft/save it for later chapters. (Nothing wrong with recycling, right?) I had wanted to skip ahead a little and feel like story was moving forward, but ultimately, I found that the period I was going to skip ahead on just couldn't be missed. I wish this was a little longer after not posting anything last month, but here it is. Hoping everyone is doing okay!

Thank you as ever to SunshineKatz for beta-reading. Any remaining mistakes are all me.

Chapter 9: Forest of Dean

The air was crisp. The sun was on its way down.

The toes of his boots skimmed the treetops as he cut it a little close, wheeling around. There was plenty to like about living and working in the city—but he'd missed flying.

He was glad he'd turned down Hermione's invitation. The thought of being cooped up indoors tonight, surrounded by witches and wizards was just too much. Especially those witches and wizards, on today of all days. It was better to be alone.

He let his mind drift, losing himself in the feeling of wind on his face and the sheer exhilaration of being airborne and on his own. Two years since it all ended. Seeing her didn't bring it all back like it once had. But to see a mother who lost a son… To know he opened the gates and let the Demons in… He couldn't face them. Not tonight of all nights. He supposed if Hermione didn't come to her senses soon and leave him, he'd have to spend time with them eventually. If they didn't find her parents, the Weasleys were all the family she had.

Feeling like he was starting to suffocate he took himself higher, spiraling towards the clouds, trying to outrun his thoughts.

Hermione didn't bring back the dark days. Laughter and touch and a sense of purpose permeated their time together. The odd thought of the missed opportunities of their school days drifted by sometimes, but on the whole...he could keep sixth and seventh year at bay around her. Other things still drew him back in sometimes.

Longbottom had invited him for a pint tonight. He'd said no. He was so different it was hard to reconcile the boy he'd once bullied with the man who was so sure of himself. Forgiving and gentle at unexpected times, but knowing he had a will of iron underneath. His friendly working relationship with Longbottom was something he'd never have expected. But it was a good surprise as far as it went.

Where Hermione existed, Weasley and Potter would never be far away. He grimaced. Potter hadn't been so bad this week at the match. If he had concerns about Hermione and Draco…well, he'd hidden it well enough. He hadn't seemed interested in raking up the past. The past floated through Draco's mind. He wondered vaguely just how bad Potter's life with the Muggles had to be for his repeatedly near-fatal Hogwarts exploits to be an improvement. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. That was all right—it wasn't as if Potter was likely to want to sit down and hash it all out with him. They'd both moved forward.

The Weasel…he wasn't so sure about. The Weasel might stir up trouble. Still, the wizard had shown more restraint last week than he would have once upon a time. Well, he wouldn't start any fights with the ginger. He'd done his best this year to keep his nose clean. He'd keep on doing it.

He ran his fingers through his hair and started another loop.

Fidgeting with the handle of her wand, Hermione looked at the gathered crowd. The Ministry had been after Harry for two years to commemorate the battle of Hogwarts. Harry had refused. Where was the Ministry two years ago? Where was the Ministry when children were forced to fight wars they didn't start? Maybe it wasn't fair to ask. There were good Aurors. Kingsley was a good man. But then again life wasn't fair and she wasn't in the mood to be fair. It wasn't the day for a party.

May 2nd was a time for reflection and Harry would do it with the people he loved who knew loss—the only people he needed to see today.

As Hermione looked around the room. It was as warm and inviting as it had always been, and if everyone was a little quieter than they might have been three years ago...they were still family. Harry sat with his arm around Ginny, chatting with Neville. Neville had been up in the air about coming, but Hermione was glad to see him. Luna seemed to be having a quiet conversation with George and Charlie. Molly had Victoire in one arm and was looking over Teddy.

A newspaper lay on the table, but no one was looking at it.

On the first anniversary there had been portraits and bios in the Prophet, commemorating those who had been lost. This year the Prophet had a blank front page under the headline: A Moment of Silence. It was all that needed saying.

Hermione had chatted with Arthur for a time and sat in with George when Luna and Charlie had drifted into another conversation. Food was ready for anyone who wanted it, but on this night the family floated around the first floor, not anchoring itself to the table. The empty place at the table would have haunted them tonight of all nights.

Ron sat with Bill and Fleur, though he was fidgety. He'd tried to volunteer to work tonight, but Kingsley wouldn't hear of it. When the house got too stuffy for Ron he went for a walk in the garden. He'd tried to approach Hermione once or twice this evening but every time, whatever he wanted to say seemed to die on his lips. To be honest, Hermione wasn't sure they could have the conversation he probably wanted to—not here, not tonight.

Teddy was fussing and Harry walked around the room with him, telling him stories about his mother and father in a voice too low for anyone else to hear.

Watching him for a moment with a fond smile, Hermione suddenly found herself alone in a corner of the room. She drifted into the kitchen and helped herself to a little ham and green beans, giving her mouth something to keep busy with as she leaned against the counter. She had invited Draco here tonight—she didn't think it was a good night to be alone.

He'd declined.

She could understand—these weren't his favorite people at the best of times. And tonight was hardly the best of times for anyone. Still, her thoughts strayed to him even as she settled at the sink to take care of the first round of what would be many rounds of dishes tonight.

George found her there. After watching her for a moment, he came to stand beside her and picked up a cloth to dry what she was washing.

"We could do it by magic, you know," she said conversationally, putting another dish in the rack.

He picked it up and buffed it dry. "We could, but the sooner done, the sooner these poor hands would be itching for something else to do."

She looked sideways at him.

"I'm not drinking tonight." There was a pause. "Fred always said...well, always is a stretch. It was hard to picture one of us making it through without the other. We always assumed it'd be both of us or neither. He wouldn't want me stumbling around here making an ass of myself. I am sorry about the other night."

"Fred wouldn't have wanted it," she said gently.

His nostrils flared. "How do you know what he'd want? We talked about everything. But sometimes it feels like we talked about nothing. We always thought there'd be more time. We only talked about this once." He fingered his mangled ear. "The night I got this, he came to me. Georgie, he said, I need you to make me a promise. What's that Fred-o? I was so tired. It had all always felt like another game until that point. But the stakes came home to us. Any of us might not make it through—Mum, Ginny, dad... I need you to promise me that you'll keep laughing, even if I'm not here to laugh with. I haven't felt much like laughing lately. And I made him promise to keep making people laugh."

They washed the dishes in silence a little longer. Hermione wasn't sure he'd say anything else. Finally, the last dish was dry and George pushed his shaggy hair back with wet fingers and asked, "Would you help me with something?"

"Absolutely."

They levitated the clean dishes and silverware back onto the table for the next round of people who found themselves ready for a bit of a bite. George motioned her to follow him and they made their way quietly up the stairs. His breath hitched as they approached the door to his old bedroom, but he opened it anyway.

The air smelled slightly stale, with a faint tinge of gunpowder. There was no doubt that the neatly made beds were Molly's work, but it was one of the few things in the room that had appeared as though it had been touched in quite some time. Hermione had never spent much time up here when they were growing up—you didn't know what you might blow up or get turned into if you touched something.

George knew what he was looking for and pulled a box out from behind one of the beds, kneeling on the floor he dug it out. "I wasn't sure if I was going to use this tonight. I wasn't sure if I could bring myself to. But I brought it anyway and I asked Charlie to stash it here."

Hermione came a little closer, looking into it. The box was crammed full; some of the bits and pieces in it were obvious, others not so recognizable. "What is it?"

Scrubbing a hand across his face, George sat back on his heels and looked up at her. "When things were bad—really bad—sometimes Fred and I would blow off some steam by working on this box. We'd go ahead and set it all off when everything was over and we could all celebrate. And then—" His voice cracked and he broke off.

He didn't have to continue. When all the dust settled there was no Fred to celebrate with.

Hermione squatted down next to him and a hand hovered over the box. "What do you need me to do?"

George looked at her. His mouth was a thin line, but a little twitch appeared at the corner. He nodded—ready to do this—and gave her the game plan.

In less time than she would have expected, Hermione was circulating through the kitchen and living room with the family again, chatting, and making strategic, unnoticed deposits in the corners of the room. Well, she hoped they were unnoticed. George would so hate it if he wasn't able to fulfill the plan.

As she was about to make her last deposit behind the stuffed armchair, Ron found her again. He cleared his throat, opened his mouth a couple of times, swallowed, and finally managed to get a word out. "Hermione."

"Ron, could you excuse me a moment, I've just got to—"

He took her forearm as she turned. "I've got to know. What are you doing hanging around with him? After everything he put you through?"

Hermione snorted. "You're one to talk. You may be one of my best friends, but you gave me your share of painful memories. Can we catch up later, Ron?" She did her best to slide her arm out of his hand without effect. She did not want to still be standing here when this went off.

"Look, we've been skirting around this all night and you should talk to me. Even if we're not dating, I care about what happens to you. I'm just worried…"

She softened a little. "There's no Imperius curse, no blackmail. I understand you're trying to be a good friend. A good friend needs to trust my judgment in this—you've trusted me for bigger things than this." She made a split second decision and gave him a sisterly kiss on the cheek. "Trust me when it comes to Draco, and trust me when I say you need to let go of my arm, right now." By her count they had less than a minute before everything would start.

He blinked, stepping back slightly in surprise and his gripped loosened enough for her to get her arm free. She slipped her hand down to the chair cushion, made her deposit, and was already starting to retreat. Ron's eyes went from the chair to Hermione, not sure what she'd left, but aware that she'd done something. He hesitated, thinking about looking to see what it was. He caught her eye and a meaningful glance towards the middle of the room. Understanding, he moved away from the chair.

Within about twenty seconds, the most unbearable stench he'd ever encountered permeated the room as smoke rose up in the corners and drifted into the middle. A Dungbomb would have smelled like roses by comparison. Everyone was gagging. Bill and Percy both had their wands out but they didn't seem to be making a difference.

Molly's voice was shrill as she said, automatically, "Fred! George! What have you done?"

Arthur had his wand out by this point and flicked it to open the window, raising a handkerchief over his nose. "I don't see him. Come on, outside, everyone, let's get some air."

Ron looked around and didn't see Hermione anywhere. There was Harry, carrying Teddy. Fleur had Victoire, and Ginny was close behind. Percy looked like he was about to vomit.

As the whole crowd made their way into the backyard, a record started to spin and voices played.

"Welcome, welcome. Our Putrid Pustules will put Zonko's Dung Bombs to shame."

"Thank you for volunteering as the first official product testers."

"Well, volunteer might be too strong a word."

"Voluntold? Volunteered?"

"Moving on."

"As recompense for the fact that you'll probably have to burn your clothes—"

"Well, Perce, we'd recommend burning your socks on sheer principle—"

"We invite you all to sit back, and enjoy the celebration."

Mushroom seats burst from the ground behind each of them and provided a place to sit. It was a good thing they did, or some of them might not have been able to keep their feet. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that the second voice on this recording belonged to Fred.

Hermione was pleased that the mushroom spell had gone off without a hitch. It was certainly an unusual transfiguration. She stayed crouched in the shadows, waiting for the next phase.

They started setting off the fireworks George and Fred had made so long ago, creating a scarlet curtain, and drawing it aside. The recording of Fred and George was still playing.

"Well, I don't know what it will all look like. I hope Perce stops being such a stuffed head." An image of Percy appeared with his head swollen.

"But I don't expect miracles." The image burst and turned into a set of dice rolling around.

"Let's lay some odds."

"Right you are. Odds that McGongall has the most badass battle magic we've ever seen?"

"Oh, seven to one. Old girl's definitely got some tricks up her sleeve." An image of McGongall appeared, shifted into her cat form, and then into a lion. "Odds that Malfoy will get turned back into a ferret."

"One in twenty against. We won't be lucky enough to see that twice." The lion dwindled into a ferret and then grew into Malfoy. "Odds that we get a Quidditch World Cup next year?"

The image of Malfoy broke apart into fourteen players on broom sticks. "They haven't missed that in centuries. We'll get our World Cup."

And the World Cup had played last year.

"Odds we're going to win?"

"The Cup? England hasn't fielded a team in centuries."

"Not the Cup. The War."

"Oh that. We can't lose."

An image appeared of the seven Weasleys, standing proud. And then a phoenix appeared in front of them, blocking them out with its wings.

The phoenix shot upward and then rained down on them in scarlet and gold streamers. The record started playing an upbeat Weird Sisters song, the sort of thing you might dance to.

No one was dancing.

Molly was the first to her feet, looking around. "George?"

George came forward from the shadows. His face was wet. "We had always imagined there'd be drinking and dancing after." Before he could say anything else, his mother's arms were wrapped around him and she was shouting for someone to bring out the punch—it had a liberal amount of alcohol in it.

Hermione watched the crowd gathering around George. It had taken two of them to set off all the fireworks at the right time to line up with the recording—not to mention her planting the stink bombs while he was arranging things outside. She still wasn't sure why they couldn't have just asked everyone outside, but then again, that wouldn't have been very Fred and George of them. As usual, the magic they'd set up had been impressive. It was a shame that Fred wasn't here to see their vision pulled off, to know they'd won. Percy was standing a little away from the others and Hermione could just make out him talking to himself.

"They knew I would come back…I didn't know…how did they?"

Hermione shook her head. Ron would never admit to being anything like Percy, but they were more alike than either of them would have ever admitted to. She could see Luna, Neville, and Harry standing a little bit away from all the redheads. Luna and Harry had gone in for the punch while Neville carried Teddy in one arm. Andromeda had taken Victoire while Fleur wrapped an arm around her mother-in-law in the huddle of gingers.

As much as she knew she'd be welcome in this crowd, Hermione was ready to slip away. There was somewhere else she needed to be.

As Draco skittered to a stop on the leafy ground, a voice said, "I had thought I might find you here." He turned to find Hermione, settled on a quilt with her back against a tree. She'd been watching for him. He rubbed his face and shouldered his broom as he approached her.

"I thought you needed to be with Potter and the Weasleys tonight?" His tone was neutral.

She snorted. "You said I needed to be with them and you wouldn't come with me."

"They wouldn't have wanted me there. You know I'm right."

"I wanted you there. Tonight isn't a night for any of us to be alone." She turned her hand palm up on the blanket beside her.

He gave in and sat down beside her, twining his fingers in hers. As much as he felt guilty to have her here when Potter and the gingers needed her, it was hard not to want her here with him. She rested her head against his shoulder and they sat in silence, watching the stars. He breathed deep and detected something…unpleasant. He didn't say anything, but took another couple of breaths.

Hermione noticed. "You're not imagining it. I tried to get out before they went off, but…it clings. George says the smell should dissipate in about twelve hours or so."

He kissed her on the temple. "Why do I feel like there's a story here?"

"Oh, there is. Do you really want to hear it?"

He did. He listened, feeling her head against him as he breathed, taking it all in. He was glad she'd been there tonight—it was where she needed to be. But he was gladder she was with him here now, even if he was selfish for it. His fingertips rested on her hip until the stars started to fade out. She'd fallen asleep, but he stayed awake, watching the night for any danger and savoring having her here with him.