Chapter Three: Dying Wish

I'm not going to lie. Prior to my untimely death, I imagined being inside Hermione several times. It was to be expected, really. I cared about her, I enjoyed our occasional furtive kisses, and she had nice tits.

While I was technically inside her after the incident in the Death Chamber, it was unfortunately far from the way I envisioned. No naughty bits connecting, no breathy moans, no orgasms — all in all, it was a bit crap.

Reeling and off-balance, Hermione clasped a hand over her mouth as image after image of the two of us together raced through her head. In addition to sharing her physical sensations, I could feel her emotions and see her conscious thoughts. Pangs of longing and sadness swirled around with a healthy dose of love and nostalgia as she remembered my teasing, my kisses, and my laughter.

If I'd been corporeal, my heart would have warmed at how very much those memories meant to her.

"Hermione?" I murmured, my voice quiet and hesitant within her mind. "What happened?"

We soon found that explanations were a lot easier when sharing headspace with someone. In a matter of minutes, I was caught up on my fate at the Battle of Hogwarts, what Hermione had been trying to do with the Veil, and where it all went wrong. As she left the Death Chamber to begin writing up her report for the day, an alarming thought occurred to me.

"Oh, God," I said. "Please tell me I won't be subjected to kissing Ron while I'm sharing your body. We might lose our lunch if that happens. I won't be able to control my nausea."

Hermione laughed. No, you won't have to go through that, she thought. Ron and I…

The scene in her mind shifted and wavered, changing to one just after the war. I saw her and Ron huddled up together on his narrow single bed at the Burrow, bathed in an orange glow from his lurid, Chudley Cannons-inspired walls. Smiling, he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear (a move I'd wager he learnt from the book George and I bought him) and pressed his lips against hers.

She felt nothing. Well, not nothing; there was awkwardness and platonic love by the bucketload, but no passion. Judging by his disappointed frown, Ron felt the same way. For all that they'd danced around each other for years, when they finally got down to some serious snogging, there was just no chemistry.

"We waited too long, didn't we?" he asked.

"I think so," she replied in a defeated whisper.

And that was that. A sad smile graced Hermione's lips as she allowed her mind to drift back to the present.

If I was tempted to do a mental victory dance around her brain, no one can prove it.

I wanted Ron to be happy, of course, but if he could find that happiness without shagging my erstwhile kissing partner, then wasn't that better for everyone involved?

Any elation I felt faded in the next instant. She tried frantically to suppress certain memories, but trying to not think about something is a surefire way to make sure it overwhelms all of your other thoughts. Occlumency didn't work; I was already ensconced inside her head.

Incidentally, at one point, I held far more knowledge about the work of an Unspeakable than any civilian should, thanks to my privileged position in Hermione's brain. Her shrew of a boss saw to it that everything that didn't have to do with my adventures in returning from beyond the Veil was erased, though, damn her.

Part of me still wishes she would have also done away with the images that Hermione tried to keep from me that day.

Who or what was the subject of these forbidden thoughts, you ask?

Oliver fucking Wood.

I saw a rapid-fire sequence of Oliver flirting with Hermione when they ran into each other after she went to see Ginny and the rest of the Harpies play against Puddlemere United; Oliver kissing her the way only I had ever kissed her; Oliver, ugh, moving his body between her naked thighs and whispering gentle words of affection as he took her virginity.

"And I thought he was a pain in my arse on the Quidditch pitch," I grumbled.

Sorry you had to see that, she thought with a rueful chuckle.

If she could feel my irrational jealousy, she didn't mention it. For her part, she mostly just felt embarrassed, though I could sense some lingering resentment and fondness for the prat.

To this day, Hermione and Oliver are still friends, but his first love and main priority will always be Quidditch.

It's long over; don't worry, she added. I don't intend to kiss anyone in the near future.

"If I had a body of my own, that would definitely not be the case," I said.

Her face heated with a pleased blush.

Yeah, I still had it.

"Hey, Hermione," I said. "Before you start trying to fix this, I have a last request. There's someone I'd like to see…"

-oOo-

A flash of dingy blonde hair caught Hermione's attention as she ascended the stairs to the flat I used to share with my twin. To our mutual surprise, Luna Lovegood skipped through the front door, her clothing dishevelled and a lazy, dreamy grin plastered on her face. During my absence, she'd morphed from an odd, gangly girl into an odd, gangly woman.

I think I would have recognised her even if it had been ninety-seven years instead of a mere seven.

"Luna?" Hermione said, fixing her friend with an incredulous stare. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, hello, Hermione!" Luna replied. "I was just having some sex with George."

Blimey.

Narrowing her eyes, Hermione internally scolded me for my sudden fit of laughter. I couldn't help it. I only wished I could see the expression on Hermione's face. I bet it was priceless.

"I didn't know you two were going out," Hermione said.

Luna tilted her head to one side in confusion. "We don't go out. He floo-calls me, and I come over. We stay in his flat and just—"

"I see," Hermione interrupted.

"Hey now," I said when I felt a burst of protective irritation rush through her body. "He's not doing anything wrong. They're both adults."

In response, she treated me to a bevy of images starring George and an astonishing array of girls. Personally, I thought it was rather impressive that he managed to pull so much with only one ear. He was still almost as handsome as me, naturally, but what woman wants to look at a big, gaping hole on the side of a bloke's face? That's just not attractive. If you ask me, he should've received some sort of trophy for his accomplishments.

Hermione disagreed, of course. She reckoned it was an unhealthy method of coping or some such nonsense.

Clearly, she'd never experienced the healing power of really amazing sex. How could she have? Oliver probably stuck to the missionary position like it was mandated by his religion. Anything that required too much concentration would mean he couldn't keep one part of his mind free to go over Quidditch stats in bed. Luna, on the other hand…well, no one that weird could be satisfied with vanilla.

And she looked quite bendy, too. Well done, Georgie.

"He's rather good at it, you know," Luna said. "I suppose he's had quite a lot of practice, hasn't he? It seems to make him happy. Well, I should get going, or I'll be late for dinner with Daddy. Bye, Hermione!"

Blinking owlishly, Hermione watched her go. I expected her to pound angrily on the door and deliver a lecture to my brother as soon as he opened it, but as soon as Luna was out of sight, Hermione simply turned the doorknob and let herself in.

"Hermione," I said. "Since when are you familiar enough with George to just walk into his flat without an invitation?"

Had she been one of the witches who paraded through his bedroom? She did seem rather fond of Quidditch players and Weasleys, after all.

Her responding thought was soft, washing over my consciousness like a sympathetic caress.

Since you died.

I was hit by a wave of Hermione's feelings for George: a funny blend of sisterly love, concern, and exasperation. She tried to keep the memories from me again, but they came in spite of her best efforts. Horrified, I cursed my position as a captive audience and watched her visions of George's struggle to carry on after I was gone.

Hermione had taken it upon herself to look after him. She was even more vigilant than Mum at making sure he was eating, cleaning, and not sitting around the flat, wallowing in his misery.

In the more recent memories, he seemed better; he drowned his sorrows in a multitude of women and played pranks on Hermione at every opportunity. She reacted to his jokes much as she had when we were in school: with scolding and exclamations of fury, though I could see she was secretly amused most of the time.

"Thank you," I said, hoping she could feel my gratitude for how she'd made it her mission to help my twin navigate his all-consuming grief.

You don't have to thank me, she thought. But you're welcome.

Now, how are we going to do this? she asked, wringing her hands together. I can't actually tell him that you're in my head, you know.

"Just do what I tell you to do, and he'll get it," I replied. "Trust me."

I do.

"George," she called. "Are you home?"

Clad only in a pair of faded grey pyjama trousers, George emerged from the back of the flat. Seeing the mirror of my own face appear nearly a decade older than I remembered it was beyond bizarre, but even more disturbing was the lack of enthusiasm behind his smile. He was a shadow of the laughing, carefree brother I knew.

"Oh, he looks so sad," I said. "Hermione, quick! Show him your tits!"

Startled, she let out a strangled laugh. George quirked an eyebrow.

"All right, Hermione?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine." Behave yourself, Fred.

"What?" I asked, feigning innocence. "It'd cheer him up, and you did say you'd trust me and do what I say…"

Within reason! And he just got a show from Luna, in case you forgot.

"Ah, yeah. Fair enough. Okay, let's see…"

Under my direction, Hermione led George to the sofa, perched next to him, and said, "George, do you remember that time you and Fred turned Percy's hair pink with Muggle hair dye?"

A slow, bittersweet grin spread across his face. "Of course. Ron tell you about that one?"

"No. What about that promise you made to Fred to repeat the experience with a more permanent charm on Percy's wedding day if Percy ever found some woman who was—" she hesitated, grumbling internally at the words I wanted her to echo, "—stupid enough to marry him? Remember that?"

Fred, I wish you wouldn't make me say things like that about Percy. He's really missed you, you know.

"Perce knows I tease him out of love, and this is all in the name of helping George realise that I'm behind what you're saying," I said.

"Yes, I remember," George said slowly, preventing Hermione from responding to me as he stared at her in complete bewilderment. "But how did you know about it? Fred and I only ever told each other."

"If you could talk to Fred just once more, what would you say?" she asked

"Hermione," he said, his voice brimming with wariness. "What's this about?"

"I can't say."

"Can't say? What the…hmm. Something to do with work?"

"All I'm allowed to tell you about work is that I've been working in the Death Chamber."

Running a frustrated hand through his shaggy hair, George stood up and began pacing back and forth.

"I don't know what I'd say to Fred," he muttered. "Nothing would be…y'know…enough, I guess."

As uncomfortable as he looked while baring his feelings to Hermione, I still understood what he meant. If I'd been in his place, words would have failed me. They could never be adequate.

"This is my chance, though, isn't it?" he continued, nodding when Hermione made no reply. "You're trying to tell me, but you can't actually say it."

"Maybe you wouldn't have to say anything to Fred," she said, standing up and placing a gentle hand on his bare shoulder. "You could just do what you two do best. One last prank?"

I didn't whisper Hermione's solution from my place in her head; she came up with it all on her own. How sexy is that?

If I hadn't adored her before, that suggestion would've tipped the scales in her favour.

A brilliantly genuine grin dawned on George's face. "Perfect," he said.

I had to agree.