"Morning Neville." Hermione groaned, standing from where she was stretching her muscles. They were still sore from her rehearsal this morning. Mistress McGonagall was a slave driver with the coming spring performance. It wasn't that Hermione wasn't grateful to be cast, she was. But that didn't stop her muscles from protesting.
"Mocha Cappuccino?" she questioned already pulling out the milk.
"Please. Also a pineapple café breve with a sprinkle of matcha on top."
Hermione screwed up her face. Café breves always concerned her. No one needed that amount of fat in liquid form. Add the matcha and pineapple and you had a perfect storm of creamy, sour bitterness. Only one person ever ordered that in the entirety of the city.
"Heading to Luna's then?" she asked.
"Yeah, helping her set up for tonight."
"What's tonight?"
She set about tamping the grounds while he poked at one of the garden gnomes pinned to the wall. Hermione was honestly shocked that Tonks had found a way to keep them all up there, damage to the structure notwithstanding.
"Party at the Rookery. Are you coming?" Neville looked at her hopefully.
He and Luna both attend the Pratt Institute for Architecture. It was the odd shape of Luna's family brownstone that got them talking in the first place. Luna had since moved programs at least three times, seemingly gathering just enough of everything to know nothing.
"The last time I walked into one of her parties there was an orgy in the living room," she scoffed as she began foaming the milk.
"You exaggerate."
"Tell that to Parkinson's bony ass. I did not need that haunting my nightmares."
"Well there will be no-" Neville paused. "There will be the standard amount of sex at this one. Really, just a regular house party. She even convinced The Last Laugh to play and you know they're always a good time."
Hermione chewed on her lip as she pulled the shot, watching the crema bubble to the top. She hadn't seen or heard from Fred since the long night spent at her place.
Her apartment was a microscopic one-room setup at barely two-hundred and fifty square feet. The only place to sit was the Murphy bed when it was pulled down and some crappy beanbag chairs she hadn't felt like pulling out. They spent so long laughing and snacking on cheap induction heated food that by the time Fred got his text the snow had shifted to a nasty sleet. She offered to let him wait it out and he agreed, playing some of her favorite pieces in payment.
After an hour of freezing rain and her downstairs neighbor smacking the ceiling with what could have been a broom or a steel girder, she cracked open a bottle of cheap wine and they set about waiting out the weather. She woke in the morning with her legs draped over his lap halfway off the bed and a pounding headache. He was laughing when she kicked him out, teasing her for being a lightweight.
George had been in the shop for a drink or two since then but was sans his twin.
Hermione could always identify the correct twin, even though they were biologically identical down to the last detail. It drove them crazy and they spent way too much time trying to figure out how she did it. She was surprised they hadn't caught on yet.
The first time she had been to the Burrow for Thanksgiving, George had fallen down the stairs and his home pierced industrial bar was ripped out, leaving a small notch of skin missing and blood all over the hall. It had never grown back right but she appeared to be the only one to notice. Even if hair covered whatever redhead's ear wandered in, they would inevitably tuck the strands behind their ear after a moment or two of standing still. Neither of them could keep their hands idle for more than a second.
"What's the occasion?" she asked.
"Lunar eclipse. Something about the great rabbit in the moon requiring a festival to prevent it from crashing to earth," he paused. "Harry and Ron will be there."
"I haven't seen them in ages!"
Hermione perked up immediately. She knew her friends were busy. Their twelve-hour shifts flipped every two weeks so that by the time they adjusted to the day shift they would be thrown on nights again. She would get scattered responses to her text but that was it.
"I can make sure we have those disgusting wine coolers you like," Neville tempted.
"You're one to judge when I am making this concoction." She indicated the half and half she was steaming.
"Luna is a woman of complex taste buds."
"Right. That's a way to put it. Should I wear a costume?"
" Wait, you actually want to come?" The look of shock on Neville's face rankled her. It wasn't that she was anti-social. She was just busy.
"You invited me," she deadpanned, handing off his cappuccino.
"But you never come. You're always too busy rehearsing or working or sleeping."
"Yeah well," She snapped a lid on the horridly sour, bitter, fatty drink and handed it off too. "Are you really a starving artist in the city unless you are running on three hours of sleep?"
"What is sleep?" Neville asked before laughing. "No costume but she had me buy fifty pounds of carrots so… I guess be ready for anything."
Hermione sent him on his way with his abomination. It had been a while since she had been out and she had spent too much time away from the world. She needed to get her quarterly socializing in. And maybe then she would see Fred and could chastise him for not visiting now that he was a jobless bum. That could be fun.
00000000000000000
The Rookery was not, in fact, a place that housed corvids. Instead, it was a single tall, thin brownstone on a loud street full of characters that Hollywood wished it could scoop up and plant on the big screen. The namesake of the building came from the tall, illegally built additions of crenellations giving it the appearance of a chess piece. Halfway down the block, Hermione could already hear the music thumping. People spilled out onto the sidewalk and street alike, flipping off cars as they stumbled about.
She tugged her coat tighter, trying not to slip as she made her way down the sidewalk. She popped up on top and knocked twice with the eagle head knocker. The copper eyes flipped open, cerulean blue irises peering out at her.
"I take and take but leave nothing behind."
Hermione thought for a moment.
"Imperialism?"
The drunk voice laughed wildly and threw open the door. Hermione was blasted by the heat of too many bodies and not enough open windows. She slipped inside and hung her coat on the rack inside a secret panel by the hall tree. She smiled to herself at the carrots hanging in every window.
As expected the room was packed. The cacophony of several different conversations ran through her ears like a river of words. Some laughing, some crying, some altogether too drunk. She barely made it three steps in the door before a promised wine cooler was shoved in her hand by the familiar face that had quizzed her.
"Miss Granger, as I live and breathe. How is my graceful little ballerina?"
Theodore Nott was remarkably tall for a dancer. He would have never made it in ballet but in his homeland of Jazz he barely squeaked by. He was always the first to smile and his easy going demeanor made him everyone's best friend.
"Stop it, Theo. You'll spoil a girl."
She kissed him lightly on the cheek before taking a sip of her over-sugared Kool-Aid with alcohol. She first met Theo during an ill-conceived collaboration between the ballerinas and the jazz dancers organized by Flitwick, their program head. It was supposed to be a rendition of West Side Story that ended with a bit too much real blood peppering the stage to work. Regardless she came away with a new appreciation for the other schools of dance but she still thought ballet was the best.
"You're worth spoiling after that lovely Christmas performance. Draco bitched for weeks after you got cast as his opposite."
"Malfoy always bitches."
"Isn't that the truth." Theo agreed, sipping on his own mystery drink. It was a bright neon pink that appeared to be radioactive.
"Where is the broken record? I've been here for five minutes and he hasn't called me poor yet."
"Shoving his tongue down Parkinson's throat in the corner." He made an equivalent face of disgust at his friend's antics. "Luna was looking for you though."
Luna was solely responsible for the variety of people in attendance. There was someone from nearly every creative school in New York, and it made for a wild collaboration of people including a good many famous alumni from past years, like Theo.
"I'll go find her."
"Gossip first." Theo smiled as he led her through the crowd. "I heard the Weasley twins dropped out. What have you got for me?"
"You are such a drama whore," she scoffed. "Yes, they dropped out. No, no one is pregnant and yes, I am horribly disappointed at them for throwing their lives away."
"Hey, I dropped out too you know," he responded, shouldering past a gaggle of heavily made up fashionistas. "Move it. We're VIP here."
Hermione laughed as they scowled, whispering horrible things in each other's ears. She could guarantee that they had no idea Theo was a star Hollywood choreographer that could get them all life-changing internships in various costume design departments. According to his last tweet he had just had lunch with Ryan Reynolds after teaching him how to step-ball-change for the next summer blockbuster.
"That was different. You already found a job," she said.
"Details. Details. Do what you love and money will come."
She sipped her drink as they descended to the basement. The room opened up into an arched dome that no doubt spilled across the neighboring plots. It used to be an old speakeasy back during prohibition and when Xeno got ahold of the property he dug it out and restored it to its former glory.
Just across the heads of the crowd, she could see the twin flashes of red as they mirrored each other in a perfectly synchronized jump. George picked at his bass while Fred's hand danced across his guitar and Lee screamed something angry and dark into the mic. Angelina rounded it off, slamming on the drums as she provided back up vocals.
It was hard to believe that they were all classically trained as they made the room riot. She couldn't help but smile as she caught the look of absolute rapture plastered on Fred's face as he slammed his back against his brother, shouting the chorus in tandem.
Hermione quickly found herself deposited off to the right of the stage in an old booth. Ron greeted her with a tight smile, purposefully trying to ignore the way his sister was curled up on Harry's lap attempting to suck the air out of his lungs.
"We got shot at today," Ron shouted over the din. "You would think he got hit with how much she is clinging to him."
"Young love," she yelled as she settled next to him.
Luna was doing some sort of interpretive dance on the table that did not match the music at all but was still beautiful all the same. Hermione was just starting on her second wine cooler when the music cut off, Lee breathing heavily into the microphone.
"Thank you, thank you. We are The Last Laugh. As you may have heard, two of our lovely bandmates, the twins, have decided to say 'fuck you' to the establishment and gone rouge." He paused giving the boys a moment to bow dramatically as the crowd cheered. When it didn't die down he swiped his hand through the air dodging the bottle that was thrown at his head. "Someone get that asshole out of here before I let Angelina take it there."
"Keep the blood off the bar!" Neville shouted as the man was swiftly kicked up the stairs by the crowd.
"Fucking tourist. Anyways, our guitarist, my dear Freddie boy," He paused again for the expected cheer. "-has got some new stuff for you. Ready yeah?"
"Ready!" the twins responded.
Fred then pulled out an electric violin, hooking it to the amplifier and tossing his guitar to Lee who swiped it out of the air and threw the strap over his shoulder.
"Right then. One, two, three, four!"
The music slammed against the speakers. A nearly visible sound wave shot through the room and echoed off the walls in a surge of power that left Hermione gasping for breath. The strings screamed, playing harshly with Lee's vocals as the bass and drums barely held the whole thing together. It was wild and chaotic and messy and wonderful !
Hermione could find something to appreciate in all music. It was impossible not to love the creation of sound, no matter the source. But this was a different sort of composition that set her nerves sparking and made her blood catch fire.
The Last Laugh played a few more songs, swapping instruments and vocals like a well-oiled machine, handing off the reins to whichever bandmate held out their hands. By the time they finished out the set, Hermione had joined the crowd in a press of bodies and alcohol, leaving her ears ringing and her skin broiling.
The band packed up quickly, opening up the stage for an impromptu open mic night, now that the main act was done. Before making her way back to the table Hermione needed some air. She fought her way up the stairs to the fourth floor, jumping over the missing step that went all the way down into the kitchen. She waited until the hall was mostly clear before pulling a latch in the old veneer of a wall paneled and popping it open.
She slid onto the hidden balcony and leaned over the railing to watch the people below her riot in the streets. Someone had stolen traffic cones and blocked off the ends of the road and people openly congregated. Spoken word poetry was shouted out of circles. Drunken renditions of Shakespeare broke out on the sidewalk with sticks and trash used as props. Even the noncreative types were happy, whipping snowballs at anyone who moved.
There was something magical about Luna's parties. Everyone came away with something after a night like this. She wouldn't be surprised if most of the great works of the next decade were conceived right here, in this house.
She jumped as the false panel opened, Fred sliding through the crack in a hurried motion. He was still breathing heavily and his skin steamed against the cold of the air. His leather jacket was thrown over one shoulder, the glint of the studs matching the hoops through his ears. His hair was tipped with sweat and his face was flushed with pride and endorphins.
When she saw him like this she knew that, if the world were fair, he would absolutely make it big. The intense passion that flowed through him refused to be ignored. He would take the stage by storm, knocking things apart as quickly as he built up new ones.
But the world wasn't fair and for every one thousand bands in New York, only one was as good as The Last Laugh. And out of those, only one out of every ten thousand actually went the distance. Passion meant nothing in a game about luck and connections.
"Hey."
He jumped, unaware she was there, and spilled the amber liquid in his cup onto his ripped jeans. The action made her laugh as he turned to her.
"Oh thank god. A rational woman. Any chance I can convince you to hang off my arm and scare away the she-demons."
"Oh dear. Women are attracted to you. How hard your life is," she teased.
Fred scoffed and came to a stop just close enough she could feel the waves of heat from his skin. It was nice against the frigid air.
"They aren't attracted to me. They want the idea of me."
"'Sexy musician covers a lot of the men present," she chided.
"Yeah, but groupies asking to be double teamed by you and your twin is a bit more selective innit?"
She choked openly on her drink, beating her hand against her chest as he laughed at her.
"That was crude," she spat still trying to gain control of her breathing.
"But also true." He seemed to think for a moment before his smile cracked wide. "Did you just call me sexy?"
"No," she coughed. "I called the idea of you sexy. You ruin it as soon as you open that big mouth of yours."
He frowned and swiped her drink from the balcony.
"I am not drunk enough to keep up with your witty commentary." She openly laughed when he sputtered, the pastel pink liquid splashing onto the snow in front of them. "What on earth is that?!"
"A wine cooler. They aren't so bad when you aren't coming off of a bottom shelf whiskey." She nodded towards his drink.
"It tastes like pink. How can something taste like a color? God my teeth itch!"
She continued to laugh until the winter air finally wicked the last warmth from her overheated skin. She shivered against the snow and stole her drink back.
"It's too cold for this. I'm-"
Before she could move she found herself under his coat, all but swimming in the heavy leather that still held his body heat. He smiled softly at her before leaning against the balcony.
"Stay. It's just sad if I am drinking alone."
"Or the inspiration to be the next Kurt Cobain," she responded before resettling against the stone.
"Couldn't you have picked an alcoholic that didn't shoot himself?"
"The Great should emulate the Greatest."
She winked at him and he slowly shook his head with a smile. A comfortable silence fell between them as they watched the production of Twelfth Night get interrupted by a neighboring fight scene between the Capulets and Montagues which quickly dissolved into a vicious snowball fight.
"You said I was a waste of talent."
His voice was more serious than she had ever heard it. When she glanced over he was staring off over the rooftops, watching as the ever-present skyline built up around them.
"No," she corrected. "I said it was a waste… to throw away your backup option like that."
He nodded numbly, not tearing his eyes from the sprawling lights in front of them.
"Do you think we will make it?" he asked in an almost silent whisper.
She paused, searching for words that were both helpful and honest.
"If life is fair," she decided. "You are all incredibly talented and have a presence that sets you apart from every other band in this city. If you do make it big you will shake the palace to its foundations."
"But?"
"But it's a numbers game," she sighed, pushing her bare hands into the snow piled on the railing. "You can do everything right and still fail."
"I know." Fred ran his hair through his hands, shaking off the ice and snow that had settled on it. Finally, he glanced at her, a haunted look on his face. "You were right you know."
"I usually am." She couldn't help the surge of affection when he smiled.
"George would follow me to the very end. When I dropped he asked if he should too. I didn't even think before answering yes."
"You do everything together, why stop now?"
Silence fell again and she wrapped his coat tighter against her shoulders. He was probably freezing by now.
"I wish I could be like you," he said. "I saw you dance the Nutcracker. You were fucking fantastic."
"That show was sold out for months, there was no way you could possibly have-"
"Ron gave me his ticket."
"That asshole!" she groaned, resisting the urge to stomp down the stairs and punch the youngest Weasley male. Hermione had called in a favor when he asked to come to the show and he just pawned it off on one of his brothers.
"Go easy on him. He had to work."
Fred smiled as he patted her hand. After a moment he rested it there, long past when he should have pulled away. She didn't say anything, feeling like she was on the edge of something important. Besides, she wanted to hear what he thought about the performance.
"Well, I'm glad someone got to see it at least. What did you think? I know I missed at least two steps-"
"See that's why I'm so envious of you," he interrupted and she snapped her mouth shut. "You are so happy up there. You are constantly picking apart your performances to be better, to strive for perfection. This isn't your backup option. It's your dream and you are just doing it! That's what I want. It's what I'm doing… but no one seems to understand it."
Hermione paused, letting the words settle over her. After a moment she flipped her hand, curling her fingers around his palm.
"It's hard being different from what everyone else wants you to be… Especially when you had to fight so hard to get there in the first place."
Hermione got it, she really did. She hated being trotted out in front of the ancient benefactors of the school to spin and twirl for them in private performances that made her feel like she could never have enough clothing. She was sick of listening to retired alumni whose bones gave out at thirty and were forced to marry or starve. It wasn't fair or kind but it was dance, and she knew what she was signing up for when she first put on those slippers.
"Did I make the right choice?" Fred asked with none of the easy confidence he always had.
It felt wrong to see him like this, alone and melancholy. Whenever he was with George he was part of a pair, a matched set that only varied by the lot numbers printed on the bottle of the ceramic. It occurred to her that he probably hated that too, being part of a duo that only found value together.
"Are you happy?"
"More than happy... I love it."
She could tell by the way his eyes sparked and the dreamy smile that graced his face that it was the truth. She rested a cold hand against his cheek, sharply inhaling at the still-burning warmth of his skin as he looked down.
"Then it was the right choice."
Something flickered across his face. The icy blue of his eyes and bright red of his hair were a stark contrast against the blanket of white around them. She moved to pull her hand away but he reached up to grab her wrist. Her breath caught as he stared down at her, like she was something rare to be treasured.
When he pulled her to his chest she blamed the cheap booze. When he dropped his lips to hers she blamed the intimate conversation. When her mind blanked and she wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him back she forgot to blame anything at all.
Pineapple Café Breve with Matcha:
Look... During my days as a barista I've seen it all. I don't judge, like what you like. But seriously, don't ever try this.
Winecoolers:
Drunk in a bottle. Sugary soda paired with alcohol.
West Side Story:
A musical with a LOT of dancing based around opposing gangs (who dance). It's... weird. But theater kids tend to love it.
Kurt Cobain:
I... I shouldn't need to say this but I am getting old. The legendary singer songwriter of Nirvana fame. He killed himself at the height of the bans' popularity.
Capulets and Montagues
Referencing the families from Romeo and Juliet.