Dedication
I am a silly little punk boy, and I am hoping I am bright enough for you. This is a confession made of fear.
zero: green
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one: green
When Hermione sat on the stool, the sorting hat falling over her eyes. She was nervous. How could she not be? What if there was a mistake, that she wasn't magic at all? What if she got sorted in with those mean boys from the train?
But she needn't have worried.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
Gryffindor. Huh.
She could be brave. Valiant, perhaps. Like Lucy.
By the time she made her way to the Gryffindor table— the one notably covered in shining red and gold — the next person was already bouncing off the stool and headed towards the green of the Slytherin table. It sort of seemed to Hermione that she'd fade away. Not even the two other previously sorted first-years (Brown, Lavender; and Finnegan, Seamus) greeted her. She supposed she'd be alone again, like in "muggle" school, reading in the shade of a lonely tree, instead of elbowing with the others for the swings.
"Hey, I'm George—"
"and I'm Fred;"
"or is it the other way 'round?"
Hermione blinked. Twins.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Hermione. You're friends with Lee, right? The boy with the tarantula?"
"And you're the girl with the tarantula facts. Lee said you'd be joining us."
"Oh, is he in Gryffindor too?"
"'Course. It's the best house, don't you know?" They gave her matching, blinding grins, and Lee smiled at her too, from where he sat with another friend of his farther down.
Being at Hogwarts was looking to be brighter already.
two: green
When Hermione was lonely, she'd sit in the common room to read, instead of the library. Somewhere where she could be bothered, if anyone felt inclined to bother her.
Lee, Fred, and George did. They'd catch her eye, and they'd grin or make faces or gesture passably to a prank playing out.
It was fun, pretending they were friends; but it was over in a sunblink, a flash. They didn't really talk.
Luckily, trolls exist.
three: yellow
When, a year later, she had grown into her Lucy-ness, she had said: "no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in; they got in on pure talent."
And then.
Then she learnt that not only was this new, magical, world against her, but there was a specific word to call her. She'd been called slurs before, but this was different. She'd thought she'd finally fit in here.
When that word was heard, though, hell broke loose. Ron was hit by his own backfiring curse, and Fred had lunged, trying to give Malfoy a shiner. If it weren't for the rest of the team holding him back...
It occurred to Hermione how dangerous he could be if he wanted to be.
What a hotheaded punk.
four: yellow
When she needed to brew a ministry-regulated potion, and didn't have the ingredients, she made a plan.
Theft was a sort of a plan. Unfortunately, there were no books in the library about how to steal and how to not get caught. (She'd checked. Covertly, of course. She didn't want to blow her cover.)
So she approached him.
"Hey Fred," she said, layering on the sweetness in her voice.
He only raised his eyebrows, so high they nearly disappeared into his fiery red hair. He looked at her curiously. "That's terrifying. What do you need?"
"Help," she sighed, "I need to steal something and I need to not get caught."
He hummed, looking at her with a strange sort of fire in his eyes. "Distractions are always a good way to go about things."
"I don't know if I can organize a distraction like that. Harry and Ron are terrible liars."
"Ah," he said, "but people make the best distractions when they don't know they're distractions."
She hummed, her head tilting without her permission.
"Ha! I'm corrupting you already; George said it would take another few years, at least."
Hermione rolled her eyes, avoiding his burning gaze like it was set with radiation. "I set Professor Snape on fire ten weeks into first year. It's you who could learn from me."
And wasn't that a scary thought.
five: yellow
When they landed, Fred offered Hermione his hand, helping her up from her first portkey trip. They made it to the tent, and Fred watched as Hermione taught his father how to use muggle matchsticks to start a fire.
His face lit up, like the match.
And then, of course, the quidditch match lit up too— screams and curses and smoke from the fires stung the air, and then it was just her and Harry and Ron and then just her and Ron and a great many terrible thoughts blew through her mind—
But then they were safe, and there was some dumb joke, the sort that is so bad that you want to forget it, and so you do. But he was joking, and the air seemed clearer. Calmer. Candescent.
Hmm, thought Hermione, like sunshine.
six: orange
When they needed, absolutely needed to, they partnered together in the D.A. Neville was usually Hermione's partner, because she was his age but patient and kind enough not to rag on him; and he was automatically paired with George.
But when Lee had a falling out with Katie (his usual partner), and needed to take George, or when Harry stepped in to help Neville, or when George had a rather peculiar case of turquoise boils across his hands and finally gave in and went to the hospital wing, they practiced with each other.
Fred was brilliant with fire-related spells, anything with flashes or explosions, but Hermione's bluebell flames could keep up, even if they couldn't burn like his could. They fought well together, and Fred made their lessons fun, if destructive.
It was kind of like a firestorm.
seven: orange
When they left in a blaze of glory, as one might expect from the Weasley twins, they burned bright, flying off into the sun.
They were rather brilliant, those two.
eight: red
When she finally saw the shop, she had one thought: What an eyesore.
Because it sure was something.
It was blinding, is what it was.
Bright and orange-violet and bursting with waves of happy people.
It was incredible, and she couldn't help herself, despite the literal eyesore one of their errant products had caused.
She really hadn't expected to be punched by that telescope while sorting through boxes. Some sort of label would be nice. Or perhaps some sort of non-permanent bruise. She wasn't looking forward to sporting the shiner for much longer than she had to. It had been three weeks already!
So she was kind of furious, spinning herself deeper into her rage, even if the shop was brilliant. Eventually she couldn't help herself: She swept up the daydream charm and proclaimed: "This really is extraordinary magic!"
"For that, Hermione, you can have one for free."
Fred was beaming, and the bright magenta burned her eyes a little bit more, seeing it clash so spectacularly with his hair.
And then he asked, "what's happened to your eye, Hermione?"
"Your punching telescope," she said bitterly.
"Oh blimey, I forgot about those," said Fred. "Here —" and then he gave her a tin of bruise paste and promptly made himself scarce, which was probably for the best. The shop had a lot of products that could be used in revenge, and Hermione was sure that if she managed to pull one over on the twins, they wouldn't even think about charging her.
But the bruise disappeared within the hour, and Harry got sidetracked following Malfoy, so she decided to forgo her plans for revenge. Just this once, mind.
it had absolutely nothing to do with how light the shop had made her feel. How she forgot about all the darkness for a few minutes.
nine: red
When the Order needed polyjuice potion for Mundungus' plan, it took a lot of wheedling to allow Hermione to help brew. In the end, she ended up brewing it all herself, mostly because she'd lamented about how terrible the written recipe was, how it measured leeches in units of leeches instead of ounces, which would be more accurate. She even voiced her concerns about their timeline (having only three weeks when polyjuice took four to brew), asking about the specifics of what they were doing to pre-stew the lacewing flies...
Basically, she'd annoyed her way into the Order.
She was not, however, allowed to brew alone, so a rotating guard was assigned to her while she was in Arthur's study to brew. (She thought this was excessive). Except that the guards ending up being Hestia Jones and Fred.
Hestia was overly cautious, always peering into Hermione's cauldron and asking silly questions, ("Are you sure it's supposed to...?")
But Fred lounged about the study, kicked his feet up, the colour of his work robes scorching her eyes, and started up debates on potions theory without fail.
It was nice talking about potions with someone who could keep up. She told him as much.
"Keep talking about phlogiston theory and no one will believe you're as dim as you pretend to be. They'll start with the 'brightest wizard of your age' shit."
He beamed, his laughter sounding through the quiet of the study, and Hermione turned back to her potion.
ten: red
She swung around a few times with Victor; and Ron, Charlie, and Remus all asked her for dances. None of them were superb dancers, but they made the night fun. Tonks even metamorphed into a taller, more chiselled version of herself, though they didn't manage to dance much what with Tonks' left feet.
(Hermione idly wondered if Tonks morphed herself to different heights too often, and that was why she was so clumsy.)
So when Fred asked her to dance, she thought it'd be more of the same— sloppy footwork, poor form, but plenty of sunny laughter.
But that boy did love to give a good surprise.
He flashed her a grin.
So she picked up her feet, letting them move in proper, practiced steps. Letting the wind guide her as much as Fred as he lead her in an arcing dance.
eleven: violet
When they were running through the castle battlefield, she saw people die.
She'd seen death before that, of course. She'd even killed before.
But this was different. This was sun-bleached stone shattering inwards, falling over Fred. Her friend, Fred.
The wall fell, and the fog obscured the sunrise, and everything was dark and destroyed and...
and dead.
And there was nothing she could do.
(So she kept going. Lucy would.)
eleven+: violet
When it was all over, after the end, they all kept a little closer.
"Hey 'Mione, we're gonna go play quidditch; you good here?"
She looked up from her book, still distracted by charms theories. "Hmm?"
Ron only smiled indulgently at her. "Quidditch," he repeated, "but you're good in here?"
Her eyes darted to the window, appraising the sky beyond. She snapped her book shut over her finger, decisive. "I'll come watch; well... I'll come read," she allowed.
He smiled at her again, helping her up and walking with her to the door.
"Don't forget your sun potion, Ron."
"Oh hell—" He ran back to get a jar from a cupboard, "Do you want some?"
"I'm alright."
"Right. Thanks, 'Mione. I always forget; you remember: I was burnt for that big remembrance do last year. Bloody lobster."
"Well, I don't burn, so I don't have to remember. So I can never really forget."
