'Do you want to make a move?' Hermione asks, leaning her head into Fred's shoulder as they sway to the music. Her feet burn in the best way from all the dancing, but they've been careful not to show too much affection while they're here since, technically, it's a work event. She's ready for it to just be them. 'We could get ice cream and walk around Muggle London.'

Fred's huffed laughter tickles the rim of Hermione's ear, and the hair on the back of her neck stands up. 'Sounds perfect.'

As they pull apart and make their goodbyes, she notes that Ron and Macey's conversation seems strained. Hopefully it's just a small hiccough that they can straighten out; she doesn't have strong opinions on the witch either way, but if she makes Ron happy, she has Hermione's approval.

More interestingly, Harry and Luna are still on the dance floor. They've moved on from choreographed dances to something fluid and spontaneous that is constantly sending them both into fits of giggles. Harry's long since stopped caring what others think of him — occupational hazard of all that media scrutiny — but it's nice to see him let go like this. Highlight of his evening indeed.

'They're having fun,' Fred says without judgement, seemingly following her line of sight. 'Do you think they…'

His raised eyebrows finish the thought that his words left off.

She blinks. Harry and Luna have known one another so long that she's never even considered it, but then people could have said the same about Hermione and Fred. Now Fred mentions it, though, Harry always laughs harder and freer when Luna's around, and there's a sparkle in his eyes that she once feared he lost forever. 'Would it bother you if they do?'

'Are you kidding? Ginny would love it, plus it means I'll be able to pick Luna's brain for more ideas for the shop.'

'Always the pragmatist,' she says dryly, and he snorts.

'That's me. Down to earth and serious.'

'As long as you're serious about ice cream, I'm fine with that.'

She leans against Fred's arm as they gingerly walk out the front door of the Ministry of Magic, gingerly wincing whenever she steps on the blister forming on the underside of her foot. Despite the discomfort, she can't wipe the smile from her face, and she isn't in any hurry to try. As precious as their time together in secret was, there's something freeing about being able to dance and hold his hand in public.

She suspects her stomach will be soaring somewhere on cloud nine for the rest of the weekend.

A few hours later, the last of their ice creams has melted and her shoulders have begun to prickle with the midnight chill, but she's still in no rush to head home. They've found a nice bench under a streetlight, watching cars zip past as people come and go from nightclubs and parties. Their conversation has jumped around like a pinball machine, from discussing the gala and the latest happenings in their lives to daydreaming about the future before finally settling on trading puns and quips.

Hermione has never been great at them; before Fred, she always saw herself as too literal to be funny. But it doesn't hurt that he's never heard Muggle dad jokes before, plus the more time they spend together, the more naturally humour comes to her.

She swirls her spoon around in the golden goop left in her takeaway cup as she leans back against the wooden beams. 'Knock, knock.'

'Who's there?' he asks, the words coming quicker now than the first few times she introduced him to this format.

'Cows go.'

'Cows go who?'

She smirks. 'Cows don't go who. They go moo.'

'That's terrible,' he says, but his eyes dance with amusement under the warm glow of the streetlight. 'Okay. Why do painters always fall for their models?'

'No clue.' She shakes her head. 'Why?'

'Because they love them with all of their art.'

'Good thing you're not a painter, then, or I might have reason to feel jealous,' she teases. 'What did the pirate say on his eightieth birthday?'

'Arr? Shiver me timbers, my bones hurt?'

Hermione can't contain the snort that slips out at his words. 'No. Aye matey!' She lets the words run together so they come out sounding like I'm eighty.

'Of course he does.' Fred reaches out for her hand. Eyeing the last bit of ice cream mournfully — it's no good now, unfortunately — Hermione sets the cup aside and entwines her fingers with his. Their hands fit together so naturally, and she can feel every callus worn in from years of wielding a Beater's bat multiple times a week. 'Alright, one more, but this one's serious. Ready?'

'Hit me with it.'

'Knock, knock.'

'Who's there?' she asks, hoping for his sake that it goes better than the last time he tried a knock, knock joke. It was a good first attempt, but it's an acquired skill, and —

'Owl.'

'Owl who?'

When he replies, his voice is surprisingly soft, and the full meaning of serious hits her like an avalanche. 'Owl always love you.'

She exhales sharply, and her fingers tighten around his. It sounds less like a punchline and more like a promise, and if that doesn't encapsulate the Fred Weasley she's come to know and… care for, she doesn't know what does.

'I've loved you for a while now, but I wanted to wait until we went public,' he admits, and she's grateful that he's clarifying, even if she doesn't need it, even if her silence is less because of him and more because of…

The words have never come easy for her. She knows her parents care for her, but there has always been distance there, first because of the unexplainable things she was able to do and then because they spent several months each year apart.

But sitting on that bench, staring into those familiar blue eyes — full of life and love and fire — it feels like the most natural thing in the world to say, 'I love you too.'