So this is it—where it all ends.
where it all ends
Maybe it was a matter of moments; maybe it was a million and one aeons when he finally realised that he'd made it. Maybe it was never; maybe forever; maybe it was what was in between. Maybe he was just not there—not yet.
But he could see it—he knew that he was getting closer, and closer, and closer, because he could feel it, he really could (but it just wasn't enough).
He could feel it, he could feel it, and yet he couldn't. Not just yet.
Words came in and out, jumbled-up, strained.
Who are you, Fred? Where are you going? What are you doing?
He couldn't see, and could barely hear, but he knew. I'm coming to finish off what I started.
His eyes met hers in a flurry as he walked over to sign his name on that DA sheet—something about Hermione was... was certainly different. Pen met paper; his eyes met hers, and yet hers didn't meet his.
No one would see them as remotely "friends", even if that was something they had agreed on. Since September, she'd had this... cold aura around her that Fred could not quite understand, yet he let it pass, because they were friends, and friends didn't judge.
And so he waited—he waited, with the patient on the brink of breaking, until everyone had signed, and let George, Ron, Harry, and Ginny walk off first.
"Hermione," Fred called out, in a feeble attempt to claim her attention—it worked. Momentarily.
"What do you want, Fred?" she replied, eyes piercing through him like daggers. "Can't you see I'm busy?"
"You... I... Hermione, um..." Fred was never really any good at this, so he went straight to stating the obvious—"You've been ignoring me." He waited for an answer, the patience even weaker than before—he waited, and waited, until she finally opened her mouth. He wasn't sure if he should celebrate, or hibernate.
"Oh, that is rich, coming from you," she laughed spitefully, and crossed her arms in defiance.
"I'm serious, is something up?" he asked. "Nothing changed between us since..."
Hermione rolled her eyes, and Fred was pretty sure she was going to leave. Once she was half a foot out the Hog's Head, she paused, and turned around. "Fred, can't you see? Everything—everything—has changed. You can't just expect that after we kiss, and tell each other we've fallen for each other, and all of that, everything will be immediately all perfect perfect perfect." Her look of vexation had seemed to be drained out, and replaced by a look of something in between sadness, and just utter fed up-ness. "That's not how it works. It's not how love works."
Silently, Fred nodded, and let her carry on.
"It's never going to end like that," Hermione sighed. "You know, you were wrong about a lot of things—but you were right about one. The more I'm with you—" She paused, and looked around the old pub. "—the harder it is to... to be just friends. The more I'm with you, the feeling... it only gets stronger. And you can't expect it to be alright, Fred. You can't—especially not after you broke..." Her words drifted off, and she started to leave again. "Stop trying to be the fixer."
In utter perplexity, and half a mind to go and kiss her senseless, like never before, he just... stood there, frozen, for several moments.
"Come on, I'm guessing they're waiting on us," Hermione started to walk out, but Fred picked up his pace, gently getting hold of her wrist just as the cold breeze hit them. He knew that he wasn't thinking (but he wasn't always a logical thinker), and he knew that it was all wrong, because he knew he'd hurt her, and he knew he'd played this game with her. But currently, it was all he could think of doing, and yes, it wasn't logical, and yes, it was stupid, but it was the only thing that would possibly get her to stop.
So he kissed her.
And for a few moments, he felt heaven on earth. She kissed back, with equal force, and latched onto him, weaving her hands into his red mane, kissing him again, and again, until he fell down, down, down...
Then she pulled away, and turned her whole head around, so much hurt on her face that even Fred could feel the pan.
"Hermione," he called out. "Look... I know. I know, I know, I know—I know that you have every single right to want to, I don't know, slap me, punch me, hit me... But I need to tell you this before I explode—I do want this, Hermione. Merlin... sweet Merlin... Hermione, please listen to me."
"Yes, I am listening," Hermione said.
"I've been a hypocritial, jealous jerk, okay?" Fred edged closer to her, and what puzzled him was the fact that she didn't move back—but she didn't move any further forward, either. "Hermione." This time, his voice was different—her name, he called it out like it was his lifeline, because maybe it was.
"Look, we can forget... never mind." Fred decided to leave her in peace, until—
"No." Her whisper was hoarse, and barely audible, but to him, it was everything. "I want this, too."
(Her kiss was his lifeline, too.)
The world would always puzzle him, because he just didn't understand how it all worked. Wizards didn't really work as, what Muggles would call, "scientists", and no one really taught him how the world spun round, how gravitational forces existed, and how it would be so easy for the whole of it—the atmosphere, the people, the green—to just crash and burn down. Just like that.
Fred heaved himself up, a brain all frazzled, and a head spinning faster than a crashing comet. He heaved himself up, and he held onto a tree for stability, except it really didn't help him, not in any way. It was dark, really, really dark, yet the lights were incandescent, and he couldn't do anything, but scrunch his eyes up, and avert his gaze from the non-existent light that was shining his way.
It took a few moments for him to adjust himself to this new world.
And then, nothing seemed to turn out quite right.
It was dark, it really was, and now, it wasn't so much the light blinding him, but the thought of him being here, in the past. It hurt, it all did, but he knew he couldn't helped it.
So he walked on.
He walked on, because for now, that was all he could do. He passed some trees, and many more after that—he saw, in the corner of his eye, the vaguest outline of the Quidditch pitch, eight blocks all spread out, with colours he could just about make out.
And then he saw the castle—still gargantuan, and brilliant, in all its glory. Walls that once would keep them out from the evil spirits of the real world. Walls that once would make them feel safe, and protected. Walls that were only built up (just like defenses), only to be knocked down.
He fumbled around in his pocket for his wand, and with a small flick, and a small murmur, the tip of it lit up, and he walked on, in through the castle doors. He sucked in a breath as he wandered in, only hoping to the heavens that Peeves hadn't caught him out. Hogwarts, it seemed a little different—the pictures all seemed out of place, the stairs seemed to be moving at times too irregular, and it all just seemed so wrong wrong wrong.
And it was, because he hadn't come here to feel that rush of nostalgia running through his veins, but because he was here to bring back someone. He was here to bring back Hermione, not memories, yet they all seemed to be attacking him at once.
His footsteps led him to the Gryffindor sixth year dormitory, and still, he faced one problem—the Fat Lady, and the password. Staying out would mean chaos the next morning, and the sheer thought brought an unwelcoming shiver to his spine. Don't get caught. You can't. And the words he was reciting seemed to help with nothing, nothing at all.
He reached the door, and saw that she was asleep—he didn't want to wake her up only to be deafened by her screaming, yet he didn't have much choice—
The door, it was open. And so he climbed in, not once looking back. He could only guess why it was open—his younger self, and George, who were all about pranks back in sixth year. Possibly still, if the war hadn't ripped their lives apart, and burnt them like ashes to the ground.
He still remembered exactly where his old room was, and saw his younger self sprawled across the four-poster bed, and a younger George doing exactly the same, on the one beside him.
"I'm sorry," Fred murmured, as he brought his wand up to petrify... himself. It all sounded terribly strange, and in another world, he would probably have laughed at the fact he was petrifying himself, but nowadays, he had nothing to laugh about, did he? "Petrificus Totalus."
He moved his younger self into a cupboard, triple locked the door, pulled out some stripy pyjamas, and exhaled deeply.
He slipped into bed and pretended nothing happened.
At some point, he woke up (properly woke up, for there were many points in which he had woken up, because he had barely been able to sleep). The sunlight crept in, and hit them hard, but Fred ignored it, and tossed and turned, because that was what a Fred would usually do.
George fell off his bed, and that made Fred sit up, a little jolted. Once again, if he found the amusement in him, he would have laughed.
"You okay, mate?" asked Fred.
George nodded, got himself up, and then looked at him strangely. "Oh no, Fred, have you been taking the Ageing Potion?" He paused. "Again?"
Fred looked around, a little skeptical, a little confused, before realising that he'd forgotten to make himself younger—forgetting the stupidest of things, now, was he? "Oh. Yeah. You know, just for the fun of it. Couldn't resist—" He pulled out his wand, flicked it at himself, and then smiled. "Perfect. Maybe even more handsome than before."
"Yeah, right," scoffed George. "We've got a lot to do today, Gred."
"Yeah?" asked Fred, raising an eyebrow. And I need to find a way to make Hermione hate me.
"Yeah!" George pressed. "Pranks to pull, homework to leave unfinished..."
"Right," grinned Fred. "Just wait a sec." He pulled out a notebook, and a quill, and jotted down a few letter onto the scrappy piece of parchment. He read it over and over again, making the words burn into his brain.
Dearest Mia—
And then, even for just a second, Fred's brain froze—his world, his surroundings, all of it. And then it started moving again, much, much quicker than ever before, spinning, spinning, spinning. Everything became clearer, and then, he was only left to think about how in Merlin's beard he would be able to pull this off.
What was he supposed to do? Just tell her that he no longer wanted to be her friend, because "things were complicated". Or was he going to... flirt with another girl? Fred had never, in any point in his life (maybe minus the Angelina-and-Krum ordeal), seen Hermione jealous. Hermione was Hermione, and that was who she was. She was different to any other girl he knew, who'd glow a remarkable green if he moved so much as two feet within another female human being—that was one of many things he just loved about her.
He didn't know: all he knew was that this would have to be where it all ended. He had to break it, break it to an extent that it just couldn't be fixed any more. By time, by fate, by anyone. It had to be broken, broken enough.
And then the questions kicked in again—how? Fred decided that flirting with another girl would be his last resort, because just the thought made him feel so... unclean. Maybe in this time they weren't together, but to him, a few years didn't change much.
Correction: it changed bloody everything.
There were many wonders of life—many wonders of his life with Hermione. The simple bickering, and the fact that he could somehow heal it all with some kiss, and she'd be able to play that same affect. The walks, the ones where silence meant everything as they passed the strolls, and sat down by the green, green grass, looking over at the jewel the Burrow was.
And now, he'd have to break it all.
A mind still only half-conscious, he looked down at the first two words on the note, and frowned. He was here to finish off what he started. And that meant going back to the beginning—the very beginning. The beginning, as in Hermione simply aiding him throughout the simplest of assignments; the beginning, where those assignments were one of the things that made him pick up the oddest things about this extraordinary girl; the beginning, where picking those details had made him see her in a new light, and had brought him to love her so much it hurt.
If you could do the honour of meeting me at the library at 6PM today, then I would be most grateful, for I am in need of a few "pearls of wisdom" on the ever so humble subject of my Herbology task.
Sincerely yours,
Frederick (and unfortunately, Gideon) Weasley
He threw both the note and the pen down, and proceeded towards the cupboard where he had locked himself in. If he needed things to roll like he wanted them to, this Fred would have to forget, too. This Fred would have to believe that no, he didn't love Hermione, and no, she didn't love him back.
He vaguely recalled a time when Hermione had read to him a book about 250 Things You Musn't Do To Receive The Dementor's Kiss, and he was pretty sure that replacing a memory with a false one was definitely at least number thirty-eight.
But he did it anyway; he had to.
He brought up his wand, and conjured a simple spell. Hermione's voice echoed in not only the Fred he was jinxing's ears, but he himself. He couldn't quite make out the conversation they seemed to be having in this new world, but he could pick out the words, "bookworm", and "conceited".
Fred had managed to distract George with Angelina, and he'd found a way to escape to the library, at six, to complete alleged Herbology homework.
He'd spent a lot of time thinking. There were many things he wouldn't regret in life, like all the kisses he'd shared with Hermione, like all the pranks he'd pulled with George. There were many things he wouldn't get again, either, like another kiss with Hermione, or another "I love you".
If he hadn't told her—if he'd just kept his stupid little mouth shut, thought all packed away and hidden in his stupid little head, none of this would have happened. Yes, he didn't regret one moment spent with her, and yet he did, because it was not supposed to end like this.
After this, inevitably, he would die. There were some things even the most lenient of Fate's demands could not be changed. Fate didn't work like that. (Nothing really works—not anymore.)
Hermione would cry, maybe even just feel some unforeseen numbness, like he'd felt for Luna, and all the others who'd died, but he'd not known so well—she'd cry, but she'd get over it. She would get over it, and pick herself up, and move on, because yes, Fred certainly did mean something to her, he was her friend, but either way, she'd get over it.
He looked over his life.
Fred was just Fred, and Hermione was Hermione, and much, much more. She deserved much, much more.
Fred was flying. Through the clouds, the lights, past the sun, tumbling through the leaves. He was flying, and then suddenly, he was falling
down
down
down.
"Hey," Hermione's cheerful giggle filled the place.
"H-hi," he stammered. "Sorry."
"So... homework?" she asked.
Fred looked straight at her, and tried to speak. I love you, I love you so much, Hermione, and I'm sorry, oh sweet Merlin, am I sorry.
"Fred?" she laughed (Fred detected some nervousness, or maybe that was just him).
"What?" he replied coolly, in a voice he only hoped had any resemblance to naive, seventeen-year-old Fred. "What?"
"You... asked me to help you with some... assignment?"
He swallowed, and choked on the truth, all the lies settling in, like they always did. "So you came," he laughed, convinced that she was unconvinced by his utterly convincing way to be so damn unconvincing. "You came... You—you believed me. Oh, Merlin, isn't that gold. Just you wait 'til George hears about this!"
"What's so funny?" She seemed irritated, if a little... hurt? He didn't know. (He didn't know much then, and didn't now.)
"You came here thinking," He paused, letting out another (fake) laugh. "You came here thinking that... oh god... You came here thinking—you came here... You think I'd actually."
"Fred." One word. One name. One voice. (One lifeline.)
"You're a bookworm, I'm a Fred. It doesn't work out. Sorry, Princess."
I'm sorry, I really am—I need you to trust me, Mia, that this, it has to happ—
"I'm a bookworm," she nodded bitterly. "And you're Fred. You're the same conceited, arrogant Fred you always are." She took a pause, one that seemed deafening, for her words only echoed in his mind on repeat, a constant loop; a constant reminder. "And you're words? They—they don't affect me."
Fred looked at her, but didn't answer. His words were gone. Just gone. Hermione looked in between confused, and angry, and a hundred more undistinguishable, but above all, Fred knew what he'd done. He'd hurt her. And even if it was for the best, just... just seeing her like that made him want to scream, and stop, and tell her the truth.
And so she left, and Fred was left, alone, drowning in his guilt, his regrets, everything that had led them right into this situation.
(Some things are just better off that way. Packed away, hidden. Unspoken.)
He was still falling
down
down
down.
He could barely breathe, and yet the air was so... so... overwhelming. Powerful.
He could see every crack, every fallen rock, and yet he was still moving; still falling
down
down
down.
This story is over. It's over. And it's a bit hard to wrap my head around, you know? Aside from Writer's Block, and rather delayed updates, I've become really attached to this story—I'm definitely going to edit all of this, sooner or later. Above all, I'd like to thank GardenOfSnow and her Fremione video, which gave me the inspiration to write this. Thank you :) (And also the hundreds and hundreds of suggestions for each chapter.) :)
Thank you all, too! I hope you enjoyed caught in a landslide!