Hermione wrapped her scarf tightly around her neck as she walked down her parent's street; white flakes fell around her, sticking to her hair and jacket. In the couple of months since Ron's burial, she found herself visiting her parents more and more. They knew of the War, but they had no idea exactly how extreme and heinous it had become. And she'd conveniently forgotten to mention how exactly she was involved in the whole thing. So going back home for her was like going back to a simpler time, when there was nothing to worry about except exams or reading.
She hurried along the sidewalk as the wind slowly picked up, grabbing at her clothes. She was on her way to Harry flat; she hadn't heard from him in a couple days so she decided to drop by and see how he was doing.
Hermione looked around to make sure no muggles were looking and then quickly Disapparated. She Reapparated in an alley behind Harry's building, on the other side of town. The sky was growing darker, the air moister, and the wind was picking up. She shuddered and hurried inside.
As much as she hated Grimmauld Place, Hermione much preferred it to this. It was much more private at least, and there were always an old face. But Harry refused to stay there. Too many bad memories he said. The memories followed him, though, even if he refused to admit it.
After climbing several flights of stairs and walking through a small maze of hallways, she stopped at a white door, two golden stickers that read 4 and G peeling off the door jam. She took off her hat and rapped lightly with her knuckles.
No response.
Hermione knocked again, louder and longer. Still nothing. She tried the knob. Locked.
Glancing up and down the corridor, she pulled her wand from her pocket and tapped the brass handle. It clicked softly and she slipped inside.
"Harry?" she called, closing the door behind her. "Harry, are you home?" She took off her jacket and tossed it on the sofa with her scarf and hat. The living room was empty, as was his small study.
On the other side of the kitchen is the hallway where both the bedroom and bathroom branched off. The bedroom door was cracked opened, a sliver of light escaping and cutting into the carpet. Hermione heard a moan and a thud, followed by a soft glug of liquid escaping from a bottle.
Her mood darkened at once. "Not... a-bloody-gain," she growled, teeth gritted so hard she thought they would shatter. She balled her hands to fists and stomped down the hallway, the heat of ire rising in her chest. Angrily, she threw open the door.
An old scene lay before her: empty bottles littered the floor and dresser, the stale smell of cheap beer hung in the air. The mirror that hung above the chest of drawers was smashed, a few bits of glass clung to the frame.
And sprawled unceremoniously on the bed was The Boy Who Lived, glasses askew on his face, eyes closed. Another pathetic moan escaped from his lips, his head rolled lazily on his shoulders.
Sympathy was the farthest emotion from her mind. "Harry," she strode to the side of the bed and shook his shoulders harshly. "Harry, wake up!"
He let out a whimper and grabbed Hermione's wrists, weakly trying to release his shirt from her grasp.
"Yeah, couldn't care less if you've got a headache. Brought it on yourself. Wake up."
Harry groaned again, this time his eyes fluttered opened and he cast her a groggy look. "Hullo, Hermione. How are you this fine morning?" He ran his tongue over his lips and yawned.
Wrinkling her nose as his breath made it's way to her face, she released him and stood up straight. "It is three in the afternoon, Harry. Get up." She folder her arms across her chest and glared down at him.
"Yes, well... I don't really care, actually." He moaned as he pushed himself into a sitting position. He pushed his glasses up his nose and looked at her. "Whatcha doing here?"
"I was worried about you. You can't just go days without sending me an owl or something. I worry."
"I am truly, very sorry."
"It seems as though you've managed to keep yourself occupied," she said, righting a few of the bottles atop his dresser. "You've had a bit more than you usually do, I see." She sighed and picked up a shard of glass. "What did the mirror say to tick you off this time?"
"It keeps saying what a stupid git I am for letting Ginny slip through my fingers." He found a bottle with something left in it and drained it. "Like I don't know that already; I don't need a stupid mirror to tell me."
Hermione pulled out her wand and repaired the mirror with a wave. "So often do you think you're going to do this? Do you think that getting drunk and smashing things up is going to help? Going to change anything? Bring anyone back?"
"No, that would just be stupid. I do this for fun."
"A hangover is your idea of fun?"
"Oh Hermione, I'm not hungover. I'm still drunk!"
"That's it! I am not dealing with this! I'm calling Fred, and he can handle this. I am not in the mood."
"Too late."
She ignored him, took out her cell phone and punched in Fred's number. She'd insisted they all get one. It was easier and safer than owls or fireplaces. (And it was a tether to the 'safe' non-magical world, but she wasn't about to admit that.)
Outside of the bedroom, in the hallway, she heard a familiar jingle.
"You have got to be kidding me," she moaned, snapping her phone shut.
Sure enough, when she opened the door to the bathroom, there was Fred curled up in front of the toilet in all his glory. Hermione resisted the sudden urge to kick him.
"Fred... FRED!" she barked. His head shot up and slammed into the porcelain. Cursing loudly, he sat up and leaned against the commode, rubbing the back of his head.
"Hermione? What are you doing here?" he asked groggily.
"Well, I was worried about Harry. But it seems as thought you've been helping him through his crisis. So, how is getting thoroughly smashed working?" She crossed her arms and glared down at him, eyes flashing and boring holes into his own.
"I am not smashed, Hermione."
"Oh, you just enjoy sleeping in front the toilet then, is that it?"
"I had a few drinks, and that was it. You're blowing –"
"Save it, Fred. This is ridiculous! Look at yourself; you are passed out on the floor of a bathroom. I bet you haven't opened the shop in days, have you?"
"That has nothing to do with –"
"Of course it does! For the love of Merlin, Fred," she threw her arms up in the air in exasperation, "you can't expect to move on with your life if you stay in a rut like this."
"Oh, come off it, Hermione. You are the last person who should be lecturing me." Using the bathtub as leverage, he climbed to his feet. "Yeah, I drink more often than I should. Yeah, sometimes I go a couple days without opening the store. But at least I'm doing something. At least I'm messing up my life instead of not living one."
"I have a life!" she cried angrily. Tears of anger sprang to her eyes unbidden.
"Going to your parents house every other day is not a life! Wandering around muggle bookstores and pawn shops buying books you'll never read isn't a life. You have half a dozen filled bookcases in your living room alone, and I bet you've read barely a third of them."
"I don't want to get into this right now." She turned and walked out of the bathroom. Fred followed her.
"You go shopping fifteen minutes before the grocery closes. You work as a receptionist in a shoestring law firm. You were the top student at Hogwarts, Hermione. You had dozens of job offers. But you live in your own unknown little world completely cut off from everything you were. If it weren't for me and Harry, I'd bet all my gold in Gringotts that you'd be living as a complete muggle."
Hermione stopped walking and whirled around. "Oh, and your life is so much better?" she snapped. "Maybe I should take a page out of your book. Go to a different pub three times a week. Pick up anyone that'll have me and go to a motel. Leave them taxi fare on the night stand and disappear before they wake up."
"Don't talk about things you have no idea about."
Her hands balled into fists, long fingernails biting into the flesh of her palms. "I don't know what I'm talking about? You aren't the one who's ever lost the people he loves. But jumping into bed with every bawd that gives you a passing glance won't fill the void. Neither will drinking until you pass out with numbness."
"Maybe I'll jump on your bandwagon, then: I'll flutter around like I have a purpose, and just pretend I don't have feelings. Honestly, the way you act makes it seem as though you never loved Ron in –"
Fred was cut off mid-sentence as Hermione's hand connected with his cheek with a solid smack. He looked at her with wide eyes, jaw slack.
"Go to Hell," she growled.
Before Fred, could say anything, she had Disapparated.
Hermione sobbed beneath the burning torrent in her shower. She let her tears flow into the beads of water clinging to her face, undistinguishable from one another. She cried until her skin was red and raw; until the water turned to liquid ice; until there were no more tears in her.
She turned of the shower, toweled herself dry, and changed into a fresh set of pajamas.
She felt like shit.
Her fingers traced over the crescent shaped grooves in her palms. I didn't think he'd gotten to me so badly. With a sigh, she flipped the light switch and walked out of the bathroom.
Fred's words echoed through her head as she made herself a snack in the kitchen. How could he even think that I never loved Ron? she thought as she spread peanut butter on a slice of toast. That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard. She tossed the toast on a plate and went into the living room.
Ripping off a corner and chewing slowly, she looked over the bookcases that lined the walls. Fred was right; she hadn't read any of these.
Then why did I buy them?
All of a sudden, she wasn't so hungry. Leaving the dish on the coffee table, she headed into her bedroom.
A train rumbled on the nearby tracks, jolting everything in her flat. Ignoring it, she knelt in front of her dresser and pulled open the bottom drawer. The whistle blew as she reached underneath a small pile of old pants and pulled out an old maroon sweater. She settled back against her bed, running her hand across the knit R on the front.
Tears sprung to Hermione's eyes as she pulled the sweater over her head. The wool was rough against her skin. She bunched the material around her nose, but the smell of Ron was long ago lost under the musty smell of time.
The whistle faded and the shaking stopped, and Hermione closed her eyes as floods of memories washed over her.
"No," she whispered, pushing the images out of her mind. "That's all done and over with."
Leaving Ron's sweater on, she crawled onto her bed. She grabbed her wand, flicked the lights off, then blindly tossed it back.
"And I would not be living as a muggle," she said aloud, her voice echoing through the empty apartment.
Without slipping beneath the covers, she curled into a ball and slipped into what she hoped to be a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next morning Hermione woke with a start as a series of harsh raps sounded off her front door. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and made her way groggily to the front hall.
Yawning, she pulled open the door to find Fred standing there, fist still in the air.
"Erm... morning, Hermione. Did I wake you?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact you did. What do you want?"
"I just wanted to apologize for last night."
"You couldn't do this at any point later during the day?" she asked, yawning again.
"I'm opening the store in a little while, and I'm not sure how busy it'll be..." He trailed off as his eyes wandered down to her chest. "Are you wearing Ron's old sweater?"
"Uh... yes." She shifted uncomfortably under his stare. "Well, don't just stand there in the hallway, come in,"she said, stepping back. He pushed past her and made his way to her kitchen. Hermione closed the door and followed him.
"Look, I really wanted to say I'm sorry," Fred started, settling into a chair at the table. "I don't know why I said those things."
"Coffee? Tea?"
"No thanks. Listen, I thought about what you said, about all the girls and drinking. I know I should back off, but I... I just don't know what to do with myself nowadays. I have no inspiration for new candies; I barely sleep at night. So I go out."
Hermione put the kettle on the stove and sat down in the chair next to his. "I know that it's hard, Fred. And I shouldn't have been nasty, yesterday; you don't deserve that. But with Harry and you, and it's all the time... I can't keep playing the mother."
"You don't have to!"
"But I feel like I do!" She ran both her hands through her tangled mass of hair and sighed. "I mean, who else is going to take care of the two of you? You're doing alright - and I use the term 'alright' very, very loosely - but Harry just keeps slipping, and I can't lose him, too."
Fred covered Hermione's hand with his own. "I know that you care about him. I know that you hate feeling helpless. But this is something you have no control over. You can tell him not to drink. Hell, I tell him that he drinks too much. But the same lines over and over again isn't going to change anything. This is one of "learning experiences" our mothers warned us about when we were young. If it get any worse than this, we'll intervene. Until then, he's an adult who will come to his own conclusions sooner or later."
A small, sad smile found it's way to her lips. "Fred Weasley, when did you become so wise?"
"Lots of "learning experiences"... lots of them." His thumb gently rubbed the soft skin on the back of her hand as he offered her a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
His smiles never quite reach his eyes these days, she thought sadly.
The kettle whistled shrilly, bringing them out of their lull. Hermione pulled her hand from his and stood up.
"Well, I should get going," Fred sighed rising from his chair. "Those delights aren't going to sell themselves, you know."
"Hold on I'll walk you out," she replied, turning off the stove and setting the kettle on a different burner.
"You know, Hermione," he told her as the reached the door, "you don't need to be a stranger at the store." His hand wrapped around the handle. "The wizarding world won't be thrown into a frenzy if you make an appearance in Diagon Alley."
"I know, I know." She reached past him and pulled open the door. "Maybe I'll make an appearance later on this week."
"I'd like that. Maybe you can help me out with some new candies. I'm always open to new suggestions."
"How about something doesn't have the chance of landing a student in detention?"
"Hmm, probably not. But I like that you suggested it."
Hermione laughed, and a real smile finally lit up his eyes. "You need to do that more often. Sadness doesn't suit you as well."
"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind." She raised up on her tip toes to give Fred a quick kiss before wrapping her arms around his neck. "Please take care of yourself," she whispered. "I need some stability in my life once in awhile."
He licked his lips and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her off the floor. "I will, as long as you aren't a stranger to Wizarding Wheezes."
She pulled her head back to look him in the eyes. "I promise."
"Good," he replied, cocking his head and smiling. "And now I must be off." He set her back on the floor.
"I'll see you soon."
"You'd better." And with that, he disappeared down the hall.
Hermione shut her door and smiled to herself, running her fingers along the collar of Ron's sweater. The Weasley Boys always had a way of cheering her up.