Ravenclaw, Year 1 stand in, themed, hotel key, wc: 2014
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I turn over, light burning into my retinas a little too brightly, and the bed a little too uncomfortable. But that's what happens when living in the twin's inexpensive and ultimately undecorated flat above the shop. The curtains are thinner, and the beds are less comfortable, but the company is absolutely superb.
My gaze falls on Fred's wooden chest of drawers, which is - just like the rest of the flat - old and worn out. There are burning marks on one side, remnants from their experiments when the piece of furniture still had been standing in their room in the Burrow. The topmost drawer always creaks when it is opened, and I often try to convince Fred to fix it, but he won't. He loves this almost antique piece of wood with all its scratches and shortcomings. He knows the story to every single notch and burn. A lot of memories in this chest of drawers.
"Morning," Fred mumbles beside me, stretching one arm out into the oblivion, yawning, and letting it rest again on his bare chest. I watch his breathing, the slight twitching of his nose, eyes only just open, thick with sleep. His red hair glows coppery in the morning light that is slanting through the curtains.
Silence hangs between us, but not the awkward kind. The restful, peaceful kind of silence that only allows the warmth in the room to grow. "How did you sleep?"
"Mmf," I reply, face half-buried in cushion. "Too early to talk."
Suddenly, a resonating crash from outside the door, and clattering of pots and pans. George. I know what's coming next before he bangs open the door, disturbing the moment and my delightful sleep-in.
"MOOOOORNING LOVEBIRDS!" he shouts, and sings something utterly ludicrous about the blackbirds in the morning, and a sunshine yellow glow in the sky. I swear to Merlin, if he continues to do this, I will hurt him. "How are we all today? Well rested? Good! Glad to hear it," he babbles on. When I look up, glaring in the direction of the idiot whose appearances matches that of the man I love, I notice he is covered in glitter and ash. Something has clearly gone wrong, and we are about to be in the middle of it. "Sorry to disturb your peace - especially you Hermione, beauty sleep is so necessary - I just thought you should know that the apartment is exactly like me. Covered in black soot and glitter. And that maybe, you should cover your ears, should you want a restful day."
With those final words, he salutes and disappears from the room.
A burning rage fills me immediately. Completely unlike me, and undoubtedly ugly to behold. Face red, fists clenched. Furious, I turn to Fred. The point is, this is not the first time this has happened. George is a constant reminder that we don't live alone, and that we don't have time alone, and that we certainly do have the blessing that is solidarity from the craziness of the store. Everything is gloopy, glittering, sticky, salty, blue, red, or any colour of the rainbow. My clothes have been shrunk, enlarged, twisted, churned, made orange, and covered in sequins for pranks or experiments. Honestly, as lovely and charming as it may be, I am so sick of it.
"Are you going to do something?" I demand.
"Should I?" Fred asks in return, obviously bewildered.
"You are impossible."
"Are you on your period?"
His words make me even angrier. This has nothing to do with me but with his brother making a mess of everything he touches - way too early in the morning! But of course, he doesn't mind. He's just the same, after all. "Just shut up," I snap.
I fling back the covers of the bed, suddenly too warm. The curtains are annoying me as well, so those are opened. What's the point of trying to recover a day that's completely wasted. No point, no point at all. Fred just stares at me as I throw myself around the room, furious that I'm so furious with everything.
"Hermione -" he calls after me, but I'm already slamming the door to the bathroom and pulling on clothes just so I can escape. This apartment is far too crowded, and there are only three people. George seems to take up the room of about fifteen thousand house guests, sometimes. It's claustrophobic. "Hermione, come on, open the door. What's your problem?"
"My problem, Fred," I bite back, "is that we are denied every opportunity to just be. We never have any time to ourselves. It's impossible to be together if we're constantly looking out for false doors… I don't know. I can't think right now."
Fight or flight mode is engaged. I can't do both. My chest feels too tight, and I can't breathe. It's going to have to be flight. I only need to get out.
My heart is pounding hard. The door practically bursts from its hinges in my haste to get away, forcing Fred back from it. He doesn't say a word, shocked. I feel as though my hair is flying in every direction and that I must look positively insane.
"I'm going to stay at my parents house for a couple days," I tell him. I direct my wand to the wardrobe. "Pack."
Bag in hand, sweeping hair from my face, I storm through the apartment. Tears threaten at the corners of my eyes, from frustration more than anything - because maybe Fred should be leaving with me, and we should be living our lives outside of his brother. Apparently, that would be too grown up for him.
Three days pass, and nothing. Three days of thinking I should have stayed there, endured the loud noises, the banterous arguing, and the laughter. Three days of thinking I should have just asked George to be more considerate, rather than leaving in my ridiculous, towering rage. Maybe I should even have apologised? I don't know. Maybe I'm not quite there yet.
I miss Fred.
"Yeah, you miss him because you love him, you dunce," I mutter into the suffocating silence of my parents' house. They were gone for the weekend, all waving and smiles and floral shirts. I didn't tell them that they looked like the world's silliest tourists. My mother was pleased to be going away. My father was pleased that she was pleased. It's all a strange situation; but they're happy, so who am I to judge.
Maybe that's the approach I should have taken with George. But don't I deserve to be happy as well?
Three loud cracking knocks on the front door disturb my contemplative peace.
"Hermione, come on, it's been months!" Fred calls from the other side, his voice muffled by the wood and plastic obstruction. He likes to exaggerate. "Years even - I haven't seen you since the dark ages!" I stay silent, hoping, almost, that he will take a step back and leave me alone for a little while longer. "Granger, I have a surprise for you - don't leave me hanging like this! It's a good one, trust me. And it's not like last time, I haven't shoved a snake inside a tuna can. Nothing weird. Muggle, normal, happy surprise. I promise!"
Gingerly, untrusting, I slide back the catch on the door, unaware my feet had been taking me closer to his voice.
"Does it help if I admit to being an idiot?" Pause. "No? Okay. I'll just… Okay." His voice trails off. Falling for his trick, and knowing that I am, I haul open the door with bleary eyes and a stubborn frown adorned to my features. "Ha! You are there!" he exclaims.
"Of course I'm here, you dolt, what do you want?" I ask quickly, drinking him in. He looks tired, but nothing I haven't seen before. The tiredness that comes with an inventor who primarily likes to invent at 2am.
A broad, almost smug smile splits his face. "I have plane tickets." His chest literally seems to swell at his words, and although I was resolved to stay firm and unwavering, something inside of me melts.
Excitement. Thrilling excitement rushes through me. I don't let it show on my face though, concerned he will think he's won me with those simple words. Though I love him, I definitely do not think that I will allow him to think he's forgiven. Plus, it's not exactly his fault either. I fully blame George for not knowing what boundaries are.
"They're for Paris," Fred teases, grinning.
I cross my arms in front of my chest, trying to look threatening. "Don't kid with me, Fred Weasley."
"I'm not," he insists. He gives me those irresistible puppy dog eyes. "Heck, I even booked a hotel. Spent time picking one out - months, decades, millenia. Maybe we could get away from all the madness, from family -"
"Especially family," I interject. Fred laughs. Then his face settles into something easier, something calm. And I know that he's being serious, that maybe I don't need to worry about pranks, or having nerve around every corner, or innumerable odd tricks he or his brother could play on me.
"I know that things have been a little… difficult lately. But I want you to know that you're such a wonderful and huge part of my life, I don't want to let go of that. Not yet. Not ever, if you'll have me." And, as if - and certainly - by magic, he whips a three foot bouquet from behind his back. "Got some water I can put these in?"
I sigh heavily, then grin. Suddenly, I'm very glad he came, and all the anger I had tried to hold onto vanished. "Come in then, you plank." And, as I turn my back to him, pure, unadulterated happiness bubbles up inside me.
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Exactly one week later, Fred is boarding a plane for the first time, and I am in my absolute element. My parents took me abroad a few times before and throughout Hogwarts, so I am not unaware of the jolting sensation of the plane pulling upwards into the sky. Nor am I unfamiliar with the screaming children, the hot, damp smell of airplane food, and the churning turbulence that accompanies us.
Paris is stunningly beautiful, even from the sky. Fred points out everything he recognises - the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe (though he pronounces this in such a way that makes me think he knows nothing more than how to spell it). I smile the whole way there, so beyond happy that I can hardly think.
When we arrive at the airport, the wind scorches our backs, sun blinding in the broad daylight sky. I can't help but feel that this is the most spectacular, horrendous, wonderful holiday I will ever have. Fred at my side, already with a thousand times more freckles than yesterday. Being here, out of the way of inventions and the madness that is home, is like a breath of fresh air.
Fred holds my hand, though I know I'm sweating, all the way to the hotel, through the brief but mesmerising conversation with the receptionist, and receiving the hotel key to our room for the next week and a half. It acts as the gateway to our wonderful and delightful vacation of freedom. It may seem small and insignificant, this key - tiny, gold, and rusted from years of use and disrepair - but it's most definitely the only third wheel I need in this relationship.
The view is expansive and glorious before us. Paris, a most excellent city.
I revel in the daylight for what feels like years. I swear this is the only place in the world where the morning sunshine is tempting, almost playful, luring you to sit down in one of the little cafés at the street corners to enjoy a strong coffee and croissant. Freedom. Paradise. Utter bliss. I could not imagine being anywhere better, not with anyone better. Here, right now, with Fred Weasley in our small bubble of wonderment, is exactly where I want to be.
I certainly could not imagine it any other way.
Maybe I can live with George, if I can be allowed this level of -
"Hermione?" Fred asks into the silence. I nod, quietened by happiness. "Everything alright?"
"Absolutely."
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