Chapter Four: The Wonder of it All
Rubbing his hands together in anticipation, George looked up at the rickety, lopsided building that had been our childhood home. In the years since I'd last seen it, the Burrow hadn't changed at all. I was certain I even recognised a few of the potato-headed gnomes who cavorted in patches of clover and gnawed on the leaves of Mum's Flutterby bush.
"So," George said, giving Hermione a smile that seemed a few inches closer to his old grin. "Who's going to be our victim?"
Our last prank together had to be something big, something unexpected, something daring.
It was time for Operation M.
"How about Operation M?" Hermione dutifully repeated my words, linking her arm with George's as they walked up the winding dirt path together.
"Blimey," he whispered, staring at her in slack-jawed amazement. "You really can talk to…well. All right. I reckon Operation M will do nicely." Pausing, he glanced at his watch. "She should be getting ready to start cooking dinner about now; Dad will be flooing home soon. Wait here. I'll check our old room — there's bound to be something in there that we can use."
With that, he turned on the spot and vanished with a crack, choosing to apparate to his destination to avoid detection by Mum. Hermione wasn't alone for long; Percy popped into view at the edge of the property, a wide, enthusiastic smile lighting up his face when he noticed Hermione standing next to the house.
"Hello, Hermione," he said as he jogged up to her. I couldn't remember ever seeing Perce jog before. "What brings you here?"
"Oh, just helping George with something," she replied. "You?"
"It's Wednesday," he said, as though that explained anything at all. "I always have dinner with my parents on Wednesdays."
Damn. Things had certainly changed since the Battle of Hogwarts. It was sort of sweet to see that Perce had made such an effort to rebuild his relationship with our parents. I always knew that even as an adult, he'd be a huge mummy's boy.
"Are you going to stay for dinner?" Percy asked. A glimmer of hope flashed in his eyes, making my mind whir with suspicion.
"Um, I don't think so. I guess it depends on George. If not, then I'll see you at lunch tomorrow."
This was the first time I heard of their lunches together at work. Hermione's head filled with images of their daily ritual as an answer to my silent questions. Where she saw friendship and brotherly affection in his words and little touches, I saw something else entirely. Perce and I may not have been best mates, but I knew my brother well enough to be certain he did not view Hermione as an older, frizzier Ginny.
As if to confirm my hunch, when Percy said goodbye, he did his usual act of kissing Hermione's forehead and tugging on one of her curls. I cannot tell you how disturbing it was to be able to feel my brother doing this. Ugh. His lips lingered on her skin, warm and soft. I felt him draw in a long breath.
He smelled her hair! Talk about solid evidence. I may as well have caught him browsing china patterns for their wedding or doodling her initials next to his and sighing dreamily.
"Hermione! Hermione!" I said as Percy walked off towards the house. "Perce fancies you!"
What? she thought. Don't be absurd, Fred. We're just good friends.
The panic and doubt that coursed through her chest suggested that Percy's romantic feelings were not reciprocated. At the time, I couldn't find it within myself to feel very bad for him.
No, that came later.
Having found and dusted off some suitable supplies in our old room, George returned to Hermione's side. Motioning for her to be quiet, he led her around to the back of the house and tiptoed into the kitchen.
The sounds of Percy and Dad chatting about some dull thing at the Ministry floated in from the sitting room. Perfect. Our victim was alone. Mum stood in front of the stove, humming to herself and levitating handfuls of chopped carrots into a simmering pot of beef stew. There were perhaps a few more wrinkles around her eyes, more white hairs woven through the familiar ginger, but she still radiated the same sense of soft, somewhat overprotective maternal comfort.
I kind of wanted to ask Hermione to give her a hug, even though it would have spoiled our sneak attack. The effect losing one of her children must have had on her didn't bear thinking about. Better to focus on the practical joke that was unfolding, orchestrated by George.
It wasn't that we'd never played pranks on our mother before; anyone who knew George and me longer than a few minutes knew that prior to George losing his ear, we were forever tricking her into thinking I was him and vice versa. Startling her via apparition once we'd passed our tests was also a source of endless amusement. We'd just never done anything really huge where she was concerned. That was what Operation M was all about.
Before you start thinking any ridiculous thoughts, we weren't afraid of her.
Much.
No, our reluctance stemmed from our knowledge that when Mum reached a certain level of anger, her voice grew to such an intense volume that I swear she could shatter glass, rupture eardrums, and possibly cause an explosion of apocalyptic proportions. It was all for the greater good, you see. Well, and for the sake of our own hearing.
And really, didn't we put the poor woman through enough as it was?
With a nod towards the sink full of sudsy water, where a pan was being scrubbed in slow circles by a lazy dish brush, George pressed something cold and round into Hermione's palm.
"You'll know what to do?" he mouthed.
Glancing down at what appeared, to her, to be a green coin of wax, Hermione waited for my confirmation before she nodded. George grinned.
"Hi, Mum!" he said, popping out from our hiding place behind the table. Some diced onions fell to the floor as Mum jumped, raising a hand to her mouth and letting out a startled squeak.
"George!" she said, the kiss she planted on his cheek belying her scolding tone. "Goodness, don't sneak up on me like that! What brings you here? Are you hungry?"
While George distracted Mum with chitchat, Hermione moved according to my directions, creeping towards the sink, keeping just out of Mum's line of sight. I was surprised, pleased, and a little proud when, without hesitation or silent reprimands, she chucked the green coin into the dishwater. George faked a coughing attack, drowning out the sizzling, hiccuping sounds that erupted from the sink as the coin dissolved.
What is this thing? Hermione thought.
"We never did come up with a name for it," I replied. "I guess George didn't continue with it after I was gone. We were still in the midst of testing it when we had to move to Muriel's, and our progress just sort of fizzled out when we got there. Y'know, there was a distressing lack of willing test subjects at my great aunt's place. No first years at all! It was dreadful."
Hermione didn't manage to stifle her responding laugh well enough to avoid alerting Mum to her presence. Mum beamed at her, opening her mouth to issue a greeting and, I'm sure, an invitation for dinner, but confusion flickered over her face before she could make a sound. The dish brush and pan skittered across the counter, thrown by a thick, iridescent green bubble that doubled in size every second, filling the sink and spilling over onto the windowsill.
For a few moments, the room was cast in an eerie green glow as light from the widow filtered through the bubble. Approaching it with caution, Mum reached forward and gave the bubble a prod with the tip of her wand. It shimmered and quivered, letting out a low rumble that almost sounded like a growl.
Before Mum could leap back, the bubble popped, drenching her with green slime and making her look like she'd stood in front of a giant as he sneezed. Her indignant, disgusted shout brought Dad and Percy rushing to the kitchen.
"Molly," Dad said, making a nervous, futile effort to straighten his lopsided glasses — a move that Perce unconsciously mirrored a second later. "What on earth—"
"Here, Mum," George said, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a white handkerchief with rainbow stitching along the edges. "You can clean up with this."
"Do not accept one of those handkerchiefs if George offers you one," I told Hermione as she wrinkled her nose and wiped at a few flecks of ooze that had splattered onto her arms and face.
As Mum scrubbed at her skin with the bit of cloth, the slime vanished, only to be replaced by a rainbow coloured stain that I knew would take at least a week to wash off. George's lips twitched, and I knew a big belly laugh was threatening to overpower him and break free.
"Err, Mum," Percy said. "You might want to—"
"Oh!" Mum exclaimed, cutting off his warning as she caught a glimpse of her Pride Parade-ready arms. "George Weasley! Did you…?"
To my complete bewilderment, instead of shrieking lectures and pointless questions about when George was finally going to grow up, Mum's response to the prank consisted of flinging her arms around my twin's shoulders as tears welled up in her eyes. Chuckling, George patted her back, heedless of the muck that transferred from her clothes to his.
"What the hell?" I asked as Hermione turned to see bemused smiles on Dad and Percy's faces. We'd just executed a messy, unnecessary practical joke against Mum, and Perce was smiling? I couldn't wrap my mind around it.
He doesn't do this sort of thing very often anymore, Hermione explained. Now and then, sure, but nothing like the two of you used to get up to.
Well, that was just absurd and wrong. George without pranks was like Hagrid without frightening beasts. It didn't work.
Hermione gave in to Mum's repeated requests to join the family for dinner, barely managing to contain her laughter as she sat across the table from a still-slimy George and talked with the new, more colourful version of Mum. Once they were stuffed full of hearty stew, George and Hermione wandered outside to disapparate, while Percy stayed behind to finish up his conversation with Dad.
"Hermione," George said, touching her shoulder as they stepped from the warmth and chatter of the house into the cool, hushed stillness of the night. "Err, thanks."
She smiled. "My pleasure."
"Goodbye," he murmured.
All three of us knew he wasn't talking to her. I couldn't bear replying in kind; the word rang with such hopeless finality. It was bloody depressing. So, I asked her to say something else. With a quiet laugh and a shake of her head, she complied.
"Take care of yourself, Your Holeyness."
George grinned.
-oOo-
As soon as Hermione entered her flat and locked the door behind her, she began stripping off her clothes. Her perfunctory attempt to clean up using the bathroom sink at the Burrow had not been much of a success; globs of green slime still clung to her like barnacles. She didn't give much thought to my presence in her head until she entered the bathroom and turned on the light.
Bless whoever decided to install a full-length mirror in that bathroom.
Hermione's eyes clamped shut in an instant, depriving me of my lovely view of her naked body, but the damage was already done. I let out a long, low whistle, delighting in the furious blush that flooded into her cheeks. Keeping her eyes closed, she turned on the shower and stepped under the hot spray.
"Oh, come on, Hermione," I said, laughing as she fumbled blindly for her bottle of shampoo. "Are you really going to bathe with your eyes shut?"
Well, what would you suggest I do?
Oh, damn. Talk about a loaded question. I had all sorts of wonderful suggestions for her, but I wasn't sure how she'd react to most of them. On the plus side, at least she couldn't slap me.
"Open your eyes," I said. "I can't promise not to look, since that's under your control at the moment, but you really have no reason to be embarrassed."
She scoffed. Easy for you to say. You're not the one who's exposed.
"Hey, that's not fair. You know I'd show you mine if I could."
Laughing, she opened her eyes, but kept them focused on the boring white and black tiles inside her shower. The mirror had already fogged over, denying me any hope of another glimpse when she faced the clear shower curtain.
You could, you know.
"Could what?"
Err, nothing! That was just one of those fleeting thoughts that crop up. You know, the kind you'd never repeat to anyone, but you still can't help thinking?
"Not really. I generally say what I think. Come on, tell me. What is it that I could do?"
When you picture something in your mind, I can see it too.
Her face flamed with another blush as my earlier words came back to me: "You know I'd show you mine if I could."
Well, hell. Either I was imagining things, or Hermione had just asked me to perform a mental striptease.
Groaning, she turned off the tap and wrapped a fluffy, sky blue towel around herself. I'm really starting to hate this not having a filter thing, she thought.
On impulse, I decided to try an experiment. I knew that anything I said would likely only serve to make her more embarrassed. Ordinarily, a blush from Hermione would amuse me and make me try my best to get it to intensify, but the fact that she couldn't keep any of her most private thoughts from me tugged at something in my conscience.
Yeah, I have a conscience. I know. It surprised me too.
Instead of words, I went for actions — or as close to them as I could get in my current state, at least.
I thought back to our last kiss — the one in the Burrow's kitchen, the night before Bill and Fleur's wedding. I pictured her standing there in the moonlight, frizzy hair tumbling over pale shoulders and dark eyes shining with nervousness. I remembered the exact sensation of her mouth moving under mine as her hands clung to my pyjama shirt and the length of her body pressed up against me.
Fred?
"It's been far, far too long since we did that."
It has, she thought, letting out a sad sigh. Drying herself off as she went, she wandered into her darkened bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed.
"I knew I should've shagged you when I had the chance," I said, wondering if she could see me smirking at her from inside her head.
Her inelegant snort of laughter made her whole body shake. With a quiet tsk noise, she pulled the covers back and wriggled beneath the cool, smooth sheets.
It did not escape my notice that she was still naked.
What makes you think you would've had a chance?
Well, there was a challenge if ever I heard one. Chuckling, I returned to the memory of that last kiss. Within a few seconds, it shifted from memory to fantasy. I knew that we hadn't gone any further than my thumbs brushing against her breasts that night, but in my mind's eye, I hoisted her onto the counter, standing between her legs and cupping her chest as I kissed my way down her neck.
I couldn't help but feel triumphant when heat rushed through Hermione's abdomen. It certainly seemed like I would've had a chance.
"I wish I could actually touch you," I murmured. The mental image of myself unbuttoned her pyjama top, revealing a tempting, pale strip of skin that begged to be kissed.
Me too, she thought, her inner voice breathy and soft.
"So," I said, allowing a bit of teasing laughter to enter my voice since I'd distracted her from her earlier embarrassment. "You wanna see me naked, do you?"
Oh, I've only wanted that for the past decade or so, she thought before she could stop herself.
I dragged her attention back to the fantasy, unwilling to let her start to feel bashful again. I concentrated on removing my own clothes and forming as detailed a picture as I could of what I'd look like without them. Somehow, she started joining in, yanking the pyjamas off of the mental image of herself, pulling me closer, and crashing her mouth against mine. She had an astonishingly vivid imagination; I could almost feel what it would be like if our naked skin was actually pressed together.
It felt like we would go up in flames at any moment. I thought I'd go crazy from the ache of wanting her — or her wanting me; I wasn't sure whose desire we were feeling. Either way, it was definitely mutual.
"Hermione," I whispered, once again feeling relieved that she couldn't slap me. "Touch yourself."
Thank Merlin, after only a moment's hesitation, she did.
I told her in words and pictures what I wished I could do to her as her hands slid over her body. When she finally let go completely, my name fell from her lips in a gasping moan. I thought there was probably no sweeter sound in the whole world.
"Um," she said, speaking aloud to me for once. "That was…"
"Yeah. It definitely was, wasn't it?"
Warm, satisfied, and content for the time being, she curled up on her side and let out a tiny yawn. I pictured myself in her bed, pulling her into my arms and giving her a long, slow kiss. Her lips — the real, physical ones — curved into a smile.
"Goodnight, Fred," she said.
"Goodnight, love."