A/N: Here I am again, after a two-week-or-so hiatus. I'll blame it mostly on my new fascination with Lynsay Sands novels—for anyone who enjoys vampires, romances, or both, you should definitely check out her books. They're fantastic.

Anyway, I've returned with chapter seven. Thanks a billion to oceanwaters2006 and InoXXPig for leaving prank suggestions for me to work with. You'll definitely see them come into play in future chapters. You're awesome!

Chapter 7: Shifty

Hermione skipped down the stairs, assessing the outcome of her first prank. Truth be told, it probably could have gone better. The scratches on Fred's face were an unexpected consequence of her lack of planning—but of course, she hadn't taken into consideration how fickle Crookshanks could be. Or maybe she had, and that was the reason for involving her cat in the first place. All that aside, she supposed day one of the Operation was mostly successful. The desired result was to make Fred angry, and she'd certainly done that.

And yet, Hermione couldn't help but feel just a little guilty.

The feeling crept over her, settling heavily like an angry storm cloud. It was technically her fault that Crookshanks was so agitated; she'd bounced him and mussed his fur purposely so he'd be incensed upon his release into Fred's room. Well, it worked…almost too well. She didn't actually want to hurt Fred—she just hoped to give him a taste of his own mischievous medicine.

So she may not have been the best prankster in the world. It came down to lack of experience, really. In past years, there always seemed to be something better to do than honing her joke-playing skills. She figured things would sort themselves out—that is, if she decided to go on with her schemes. She'd tried to repress her guilt, but she was having second thoughts already. Hermione wasn't sure if Operation Bottled Rage was worth continuing. It seemed like a lot of time and effort for something as trivial as her personal entertainment.

She shook her head to clear her mind. It was something she needed to consider, but it could wait until later.

Hermione stopped at the base of the steps and looked around. It was oddly quiet in the house: Mrs. Weasley was apparently finished with the kitchen and had taken Ginny out to begin work on the garden shed. Hermione knew she would be expected to join them—if she didn't, Ginny would never forgive her. She started toward the door, but was halted almost immediately by a shout of pain. It came from upstairs.

"What now?" she mumbled quietly. There was only one other person in the house, so she had little doubt the cry had come from Fred. But why? Was he subjecting himself to some kind of painful experiment? Or had Crookshanks returned to finish Fred off?

With that thought plaguing her conscience, Hermione hurried back up the steps, only slowing when she came to the landing outside Fred's room. The door was wide open, but there was no sign of Fred or her cat anywhere within. She stood there a moment, stumped, until she heard another soft yelp. The bathroom. Hermione tiptoed along the short hallway, then peered into the slightly ajar bathroom door. Sure enough, Fred stood before the mirror, grimacing as he pointed his wand to his face.

Hermione burst through the door, horrified. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

Fred jumped a foot in the air, his wand clattering to the floor as he did so. He turned to face Hermione, and she cringed sympathetically. It almost looked as if the cat scratches marring his skin had deepened and lengthened—though she couldn't figure out how that might have happened in the five minutes that Fred was alone. One of the cuts had begun bleeding, leaving a trail of crimson down his cheek. He looked like hell.

"Fred," she began, but didn't continue. She wasn't sure what to say.

He seemed to have relaxed a little since her surprise entry, but didn't look incredibly pleased to see her. "You know, bathrooms used to be a place where one could go to find privacy."

"The door was open," she reminded him smartly. Fred sighed with exasperation, but didn't retort. Hermione went on, trying to soften her tone. "I heard you shout from downstairs and wanted to see if you were okay."

"I'm fine," he grunted. Hermione rolled her eyes. He obviously wasn't fine, judging by the bleeding wounds on his face, but he'd never admit to it. Typical male.

"What were you doing with your wand?" she eventually asked.

"I was trying to heal the cuts."

Hermione's eyebrows flew up, the faintest of smiles tugging at her lips. She didn't know why she found that answer so amusing. "I really don't think blowing your face off would help anything, Fred."

He scowled and turned away, looking into the mirror again. "Actually," he began with irritation, "I was trying a spell that Mum always used when we were younger."

"And…I suppose you got it wrong?" Hermione certainly hoped he'd gotten it wrong. Molly Weasley would have been a cruel mother if she used a spell to worsen the injuries her children suffered rather than heal them.

Fred rolled his eyes, grumbling. "So sue me. I never said I was a Healer."

"I guess not."

"They don't look any better, do they?" he asked miserably.

"No," she said. "They look worse." As she watched him wipe a drop of blood from his cheek, Hermione felt that nagging sensation of guilt claim her again. There was a look in Fred's eyes that made her sad—he seemed defeated, broken. She couldn't remember ever seeing those emotions in either of the Weasley twins. And, as she'd admitted to herself earlier, those scratches on his face were her fault. She had to take at least a little responsibility.

"Let me help," she suggested. Opening the medicine cabinet, she searched through the bottles until she found a simple antiseptic. They'd start with that.

"No," he said quickly, eyeing her warily. Hermione was almost insulted until he added, "That's going to hurt."

"Oh, please." She soaked a cotton ball with the disinfectant "Don't be such a baby."

Fred shot her a glare. "I'm not a baby," he defied in a low voice.

"Then prove it," she challenged lightly. When he said nothing further, Hermione touched the cotton ball to one of the bleeding scratches on his cheek. He hissed as soon as she made contact. "Come on," she soothed. "It's better than putting an eye out with your wand."

He grunted. "Says you."

"There's something to be said about doing things the muggle way," she said patronizingly. "It helps us appreciate how lucky we are to have magic."

He murmured something in apparent disagreement, but didn't fight as she continued cleaning his scratches. She wiped away the few droplets of blood, running the cotton ball over his eyebrows, cheeks, and nose. She hadn't realized just how many cuts there were until she'd volunteered to clean them. She'd also never realized how intense Fred's gaze could be. He stood watching her, almost unblinking, for several silent moments.

Finally, he asked, "Why are you helping me?"

"Because you needed it," she answered without thinking.

He sighed. "I know what you're trying to do, Hermione."

She froze, meeting his eyes. "You do?" she asked with uncertainty.

"Yeah." He nodded and lightly pushed her hand away. "You're playing nice so I won't take my revenge out on your bloody cat."

Her mouth opened and closed in mild surprise. She half expected him to say he knew all about her pathetic attempts at scheming—after all, he had seemed more observant since ingesting that potion. But, luckily, it looked like her pranks were safe. For now.

"I said I was sorry about that," she said, shaking her head. "I never meant for Crookshanks to attack you." That part, at least, was true.

"I'm having trouble believing your sincerity these days," he admitted casually.

Hermione set the cotton ball down and furrowed her brow at Fred. "What exactly does that mean?"

"It means you used to be trustworthy. Nowadays—you seem different to me. Shifty. Almost like…well, not you."

Hermione felt as though she'd been punched in the chest. Did Fred really think that she wasn't trustworthy anymore? Integrity had always been top priority for her, even before she'd found her place as a Gryffindor. She'd always held honesty and fairness in high regard, and it was troubling to have that aspect of her personality questioned—even if it was Fred Weasley doing the questioning.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she replied softly, unable to meet his eyes. "But I don't know what you want me to do about it."

"It's just my opinion." His tone was more relaxed than it had been in days. "I don't really care what you do."

"Then why are we having this conversation?"

Fred shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows? Why do people do a lot of the things they do?"

It was a strange question, and Hermione glanced up to share her puzzled expression. She became twice as puzzled, though, when she saw the tiniest of smiles upon Fred's face.

"For instance," Fred went on, taking a step closer to her. "I have absolutely no idea why I'm about to do this."

And then he lowered his face to Hermione's, pausing briefly before connecting them in a kiss. She stiffened in surprise, and before she could react, Fred lifted a hand to rest on the side of her face and pulled away. Hermione stared at him, totally at a loss for words. Had he just kissed her? It was so brief, she was almost sure she imagined it.

"I should probably apologize for that," he said, removing his hand from her cheek. His eyes hardened again, and there was no playfulness left in his appearance.

He didn't offer her a proper apology, though. Instead, Fred squeezed around Hermione to get to the door. "Thanks for helping with my scratches," he said, then disappeared into the hallway.

Now, that just wasn't fair. Hermione remained frozen to her spot in the bathroom, eyes wide and glued to the ground.

"Oh, and Hermione?" Fred called. She whipped around as he reappeared in the doorway, looking awfully solemn for someone who'd just stolen a kiss.

"Yes?" She was amazed at how dry her throat felt.

"Could you please leave me alone for the next few days? I've got a lot of work to do, and I can't afford all the interruptions."

Taking her stunned silence for agreement, Fred nodded curtly and vanished again. Hermione had never felt so many emotions at once—though it was easy to identify the most prominent: disbelief. Did Fred really have the audacity to ask her to leave him alone? After she'd just tended dutifully to his wounds? After he'd kissed her for no apparent reason?

"Ugh!" she groaned angrily, stomping her foot. This man—no, this redheaded child—had no tact at all! Where exactly did he get off telling her that she was shifty? In her opinion, it was a million times worse to insult someone's ethics than to behave a tad bit differently. And worse yet, he'd kicked her—or perhaps kissed was the better term—while she was down! That was inexcusable.

Hermione huffed as she recalled the guilt she'd experienced earlier. She actually felt bad that Fred had gotten hurt. Of course, he probably wanted her to feel guilty. He was laying it on thick in obvious hopes that she'd come begging for his forgiveness. And that was simply not happening. She had a brief moment of doubt, unsure if she was willing to continue—but she was finally able to overcome it. There was no room for guilt or doubt in the pranking business.

"Could you please leave me alone for the next few days?"

His words echoed in her brain, making her lips twist into an evil grin. Sure, she could leave him alone…but she couldn't guarantee that his order forms wouldn't go missing, or his books wouldn't be misplaced…or even that his pumpkin juice wouldn't be replaced with lemon juice.

She scampered down the stairs, concentrating hard on how to improve her next few pranks. It didn't seem to matter anymore that Fred's rude, brash behavior had come about because of a failed potion. To Hermione, this was war, and it was personal.