The Fallen Found

She woke up in a bright room, morning light beaming thru the glass panes and bouncing off her white dovlet and the white privacy barriers the hospital had set up.

If she wasn't in pain, she may have thought it looked as though she was awaking on a cloud. But clouds didn't hurt like she did. Her head was screaming. Her body ached in ways it hadn't for years. It was as though she had emerged from camping with the boys all over again, her joints stiff, any movement a sharp one. You're wrong, you never hurt this much during the Horcrux Hunt. Right now all she could think of was a headache pill or some of the pain medicine from the dental clinic.

She closed her eyes, willing herself—albeit vainly—to get some more sleep. She listed to her surroundings. There was the hustled footsteps of what she assumed was a nurse running from one station to the next. The mumbled chatter between staff on another patient a few beds over. Had she been taken to a Swiss Hospital or was she back home? How long had she been out? The voices sounded English—she must have been moved. That couldn't have been easy, the Ministry must have been involved.

She could only imagine the tabloids. "Golden Girl of the Golden Trio whisked to St. Mungos following Muggle Ski Trip" "Granger Danger: Life Threatening Avalanche nearly claims War Hero." Rita Skeeter had never forgotten, nor forgiven, the gag order Hermione had her under after the Triwizard tournament. She could only imagine Skeeter's "Has Been Hero causes avalanche in renewed cry for attention" splashing the gossip section of the Daily Prophet. It wouldn't be long before the letters from the biographers came to her table back at school. Merlin school— she didn't want to miss her N.E.W.T.s… not again. She refused to be a twenty-year old seventh year.

"Are any of them up yet?" a familiar voice asked from beyond he barrier.

She opened her eyes, attempting to turn her head toward the voice. The footsteps had drawn closer and then suddenly stopped. She could see the mop of ginger hair sticking up, veiled by the barriers. "Is she up?" he asked from the other side, entering before he could hear an answer. There, standing with an orange box with purple strings stood George Weasley, the permanent smirk on his face reviving itself as he saw she was awake.

When Fred had died, that smirk had gone away for a while. It had almost became a scowl. As though he was disgusted with himself every time he looked in the mirror. Even that mischievous spark that danced in his eyes had disappeared as though extinguished.

In full honesty, it was only now, over six months after his death, that George's smirk had started to resurface. It wasn't a smirk so much as it was an upward pull of his lips. She and George had grown closer in the weeks before her return to school. Ron was helping out at the shop and she'd poke around and look over some of his inventions; she'd listen to him as he thought aloud. She knew it was because he was still getting used to his own voice, and not the chatter of his twin bouncing ideas right back. So she'd ask him questions, tell him about little muggle tricks she had liked growing up. She sensed he liked her because she didn't give him the kicked puppy, lost a twin, and an ear look others did. She figured it didn't help saying "I'm sorry about Fred" or "You doing ok George?" every time she saw him. She'd made it a game of sending him bad jokes thru the post and he'd return with sugar quills and day dream fancies "To help with your N.E.W.T's" he would write back. She didn't care for the jokes, but she did care for George.

But she hadn't seen this George yet. He seemed-whole. His expression now was one she hadn't seen since Bill's Wedding when Fred had talked of Billius and family traditions. This was the Weasley Twin she knew and had grown up with. The twin she had once threatened to write to Molly about.

His eyes weren't weighed down. Grief carved wrinkles were absent from his face.

Even the mischievous spark was back untarnished.

"Welcome back to the world of the living Granger," he smiled, setting the box of Weasley Whizzbangs on her bed tray, folding his arms and looking down at her as though she had done the prankster proud by opening her eyes,"You gave us a good scare."

"Have you stolen some of my drugs?" Hermione asked, trying to lift herself up against her pillows. The pain seemed to have a second opinion as she raised her elbows to lift her up, "Don't get me wrong George, I'm happy to share. You seem in a happy mood—"

"You chased Umbridge out of the castle, pursued by a hoard of centaurs, of course I'm happy," he winked, leaning back into the chair next to her bed "Walked back into the castle after we got word on you three and Peeves gave me a damn salute. I could bloody well kiss you Granger."

That was nearly three years ago, why are you talking about that? Perhaps the medical staff had given them all something, had pity on George, the maimed Weasley hero, and gave him some painkillers too. Oh another tabloid, WWW Owner hospitalized for painkiller addiction…

"Are we still in Switzerland or did Harry and Ron get the Swiss Ministry to send me back?" she asked, looking at her surroundings a bit more carefully. She knew she had been here before. It looked more like the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts. The ceiling had a style that was much older than the new hospital they had driven by on their way up the mountain.

George looked at her confused, the cheerful tenor of his voice lowered as he hesitantly placed his hand on her head, "What number did they do on you?"

"It's alright, I'm fine," she brushed off, shirking in pain as she did. She wasn't used to this from him. Perhaps dating his little brother, she was likely to get these occasional outburst of affection? No—even then this was too foreign. What had been key in George and her's friendship was not being overtly affectionate. This was wrong. "I learned my lesson, don't worry."

"I doubt that," George answered, shaking his head as he took his hand away, a soft chuckle in his words "And I'd expect you to do the same if you could again. You're a good friend Hermione."

"Oh yeah, ditching Harry and Ron at a ski for beginners class , that's a marvelous idea. Skiing by myself for the first time in years on the lone side of the mountain, knowing quite well that there was an avalanche watch—even better."

The crease between his eyebrows grew together again, his carefree eyes going dark as they had when his twin had died. He was starting to look uncomfortable, as though perhaps he was out of place and he needed to call for Madame Pomfrey. Was she here? Obviously if she was back at Hogwarts—but she still didn't understand. Why take her back to Hogwarts? Why not St. Mungos? This was a muggle injury, she could have gone to one of the NHS hospitals and been just as well of.

"Hermione, you weren't skiing. Don't you remember?" His hand hesitated again, lightly resting on her own. This time it felt as though he was trying to steady her, but she wasn't sure why. "The Healers said they had given you some medicine that may have altered your memories," he sighed. His eyebrows puckered for a moment and then relaxed, as he explained "Hermione, you went with Harry and Ron to the Ministry to save Sirius last night —remember? You were dueling a Death Eater when he attacked you and knocked you out. You dueled Dolohov—"

That was three years ago—

"George, that was years ago, not yesterday" she said, growing frustrated, "I remember. It was the summer before you two opened the shop."

The crease momentarily gave way to a look of shock."We haven't been— We open next week. How did you—"

No, that was three years ago—

Her temples were pulsing. It felt as though there was a sudden wave of heat hitting her and she felt clammy. When we had taken down Umbridge and brought Dumbledore back to Hogwarts—that was three years ago—

Before he died, before the Horcruxes, before—

She looked at George again, avoiding his eyes and focusing in on his ears. He still had two.

"George—your ears…you have two ears—"

"So do you Hermione. Hopefully you've still got something between the two of them," he said, clearly uncomfortable. He had sat up from the chair, "Let me call for Madam Pomfrey, eh? Get you some potions, help with the pain, make you sleep again-"

She tightened her grip on his hand and she knew. She knew that he was just humoring her earlier. He hadn't wanted to throw her off guard, let her call him whatever, after all she had either come out of an avalanche or the attack. Two ears, the spark—he has the freckle on his adams apple—

"Fred? Is that really you?"

((*))

Fred Weasley had been born on 1 April 1978 in Ludlow City, Shropshire. He and his twin, George, where actually three weeks early. His mother had gone to visit friends who were about to depart to Canada out of fear of the Dark Lord who had been rising in the country for the past decade. When the two were brought back to St. Ottery Catchpole a week later, they were welcomed by three older brothers and their Uncles, Fabian and Gideon Prewett, who had agreed to watch their nephews whist their sister and brother-in-law returned with the newborns.

Fred and his brother always shared a special connection to these Uncles, despite never having clear memories of them. Their mother had named them in their honor, Fred Gideon and George Fabian. Despite their deaths when the twins were toddlers, they had grown up with their mother telling them stories, especially those of their mischief. When these were confirmed during their first year at Hogwarts, they carried the uncles trunks, a golden "W" trying to cover up the former "P" of the Prewetts. When the brothers had to go thru detention records, the bond grew deeper and more respectful, a near reverence towards their long dead heroes. As the darkness returned to the country, Fred knew that he and George would, like their uncles before them, fight for a resistance.

And they had were proving themselves. Although they hadn't the experience of their younger brother who had been fighting Voldemort since he was 11, they were causing mischief wherever and whenever they could. Their joke shop, finally purchased now that they had the stock to supply it, would serve both as morale and an act of deviance. That's what they had said hours ago as they celebrated at their flat above the apartment, toasting their success and christening the floor with the mead that had spilt over their cups.

But they hadn't had the chance to drink that mead.

Not a moment after they had clinked glasses their father's patronus arrived. Your brother and sister have been in an accident. Meet us at the school.

Ron and Ginny didn't get in accidents, he had told George, grabbing their cloaks, "They're proving themselves for the Order," he had sworn under his breath, hoping he was wrong.

Sometimes he thought he and George hadn't been the best examples on safe living. Avoiding recklessness-He and George usually ran to it. And apparently, if you were friends with Harry Potter, you ran towards that same recklessness just as fast, with open arms. Regardless of the consequences.

When they got to the school, a wave of relief hit them at the sight of Ginny angrily bantering with a healer in Mungos robes. Pomfrey had called for some help, and apparently the intern had gotten stuck with Gin. "He can't set an ankle to save his life," she said thru grit teeth, before asking "Have you seen Ron yet? They won't let us—"

The relief drew away like the wave of a growing tsunami. There were five privacy barricades that had been set up, a sixth being assembled around Ginny. Two had five people milling about, but only one had five including a tall man with thinning red hair sticking out above. "We'll give it a look Gin, take it easy on him."

His father came out as they drew near, telling them what he and their mother knew. Mum had woke Dad up when she went to bed, hitting him to say that Ron and Ginny were "In Mortal Peril" on the clock, and that they needed to get to the school immediately. He had just put on his robes when Remus appeared on their door step with a cut below his hollow eyes, telling them he would explain along the way—they were needed at the school.

Ron, Hermione and Harry had gone to the Ministry that night with Luna, Neville and Ginny, thinking Sirius was in danger. It was all a rouse by Voldemort to lure Harry out, for what, they weren't even sure. Other than it was a threat. That if Voldemort had been victorious, he would've killed Harry and the rest and taken the weapon their dad had been attacked for at Christmas time.

"Ron was attacked by some specimens from the Department of Mysteries. They have it under control now but there was a time when we first got here—" His father didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. His father would only have called if he thought there was a real threat towards one of his children's lives. Especially the two babies of the family.

"What about the others? We've only seen Ginny?"

"Dumbeldore's talking to Harry. They have Neville giving an account to McGonagall right now and he'll be back for some medicine before they let him sleep," his father explained, rubbing his temples. "The Lovegood girl is asleep in the barrier next to Ginny, she had minor injuries. Your mother's still with Ron. Hermione though—"

He turned to the barrier at the end of the way were there had been heads assembled and moving quickly. "Neville says she dueled a Death Eater when her, Harry, and Neville were trying to escape. The description he gave—it sounds like it was Dolohov."

That name was never spoken in their house growing up. It wasn't until he and George had dug into the archives one day, researching their uncles that the name first appeared, linked with their deaths. He had always imagined the face of the man that had killed them. Antonin Dolohov. His face in his imagination always twisted. Always dark. Always waiting for the moment where he could steal joy again, especially form the Weasleys.

"Is she still ok dad?" George asked, his thoughts having gone the same direction. He didn't say dead. George would never assume Dead.

His father nodded, his eyes returning to the present."They brought her back. She'll have nightmares for a while, but without her they wouldn't have been able to make it out."

The tsunami wave rolled back with relief. They were all safe. All of them had made it through. Hermione had made it through.

He and George had left not long after that, promising to be back in the morning with some "Cheer Up, the world's falling apart but have a lolly" bags. He imagined it would take a life altering battle for Hermione to accept a joke shop gift, but perhaps Dolohov inspired nightmares would do the trick.

((*))

He could feel Hermione's grip tighten as she said his name a second time. Her eyes like her voice was soft, as though she wasn't quite sure who she was seeing. "Fred—is that really you?"

"If you'd rather George swing around your death bed I can grab him," he said, trying to shake her off. But the look in her eyes, something was different. And it was unnerving. It was as though her eyes where digging in with the strength of her hand. His own being pinched. "What is it Granger, you're looking at me like I'm back from the dead?"

Her grip loosened on his hand and she pulled away. "What's the date?" she asked, closing her eyes tightly, as though she was dreading the answer she already knew.

"12 June, I'm sure if you had an assignment—"

'What year Fred?" she asked, eyes open and alarmed, "Tell me, what year?"

They need to up her potions, he thought, Dolohov made her more unpleasant than she normally is.

"1996. Same as when you woke up yesterday,"

"You don't get it—" she looked around trying to peak above the netting of the barriers but shrinking back at the pain, "Yesterday Harry Ron and I were in Switzerland—" she adjusted her weight carefully to alleviate the pain, "We were skiing with my parents—they had just come back from Australia—"

"Yesterday you were marching into the forest with Umbridge, you're probably just having a dream from the medicine. It sounds like you're going to have to take a few for a while… Not near as bad as Ronniekins but side effects—"

"It was 1999 Fred." she emphasized, her head throbbing, "It was 1999 and you were—"

Her hesitation lingered in the air. As though she didn't want to admit the words to either of them."It can't be 1996. It just can't."

He took her hand again, "Fine," he said, "For this moment, and this moment only, its 12 June 1999. I'm Fred Weasley and I'm hear to deliver two years worth of birthday and Christmas gifts to my dear friend Hermione Granger who has been in a coma. They're older models, we're bound to invent better jokes in three years time but let me tell you back in 1996—" he gave a low whistle " These were hot off the press."

He tugged on the string and out poured some the reusable hangman and a collection of treats they had created. The old ones he used to test in the common room. That she had nearly written to Molly about. Chocolate Frogs. Sugar Quills. "They're wonderful," she said, trying to hide the frustrated tears that he could see were pooling up.

Not on to a great roll if the jokes were making patients cry rather than laugh. Not a good omen.

((*))

"You can pick out you're own stuff when you come to the shop this summer, we'll have loads more," he said, leaning into the chair. He removed his hand from hers as he spoke vividly of the shop. How they were painting it in the morning, and that they were going to be looking for employees to help man the register so they could stick to inventing in the afternoons.

She tried to focus on his words but they were being drowned out as her mind raced over what had happened, and what was going to continue to happen.

It was 1996.

Fudge would be disposed by Noon.

Tonks and Lupin would waste one of the last years of their life fighting a relationship that would end before their first anniversary.

Dumbledore would be dead in a year.

They hadn't gone on the hunt for horcruxes.

It was 1996, they didn't know what a damn horcurx was. Harry's just finding out now he was the prophecy. He won't know about a Horcrux until next Christmas…

Voldemort was still alive…everyone was still alive…

Fred stopped from his chatter and looked at her sternly, "Hermione, are you alright? You're pale—I'm going to get a healer—"

It was 1996. And Fred Weasley didn't know that in three years time he'd be back at Hogwarts, buried in a marble tomb.