Band Tees (You're Fucked.)
December 24, 1994. The Yule Ball.
She was just returning from the ladies', trying to find her date, when someone bumped into her.
Sturdy, with red hair and freckles — she recognized him instantly.
"Oh, hi Fred," she heard herself say, even before she had double-checked that he was the twin she though he was. "What's that behind your back?"
"Nothing," he said with an easy grin. Contraband, Hermione's mind supplied. Alcohol.
"I'm not that gullible, Fred."
Fred grimaced, "Don't suppose you'd fall for the plausible deniability spiel either …?"
"No. I—" Hermione frowned. She didn't want to have to be the responsible one. Just for tonight. "Actually yes. Just for tonight, mind." And once she said it, she knew it to be true. Tonight she was a teenage girl, and she would have fun and dance with her date and smile and laugh and she would not worry about whatever it was that Fred would be putting in the punch.
"Planning on partying?" He asked with a grin.
The newly dubbed Fun-Hermione smiled back. "Sort of, though the Weird Sisters isn't my style."
Fred nodded. "I know what you mean. I'm partial to the Deadly Spellz, myself, so the Weird Sisters are kinda—"
"—Boring? Yes!— No. Sorry, I didn't mean that," she also hadn't meant to interrupt, but every time someone finds out that she's muggleborn they drag her off to listen to the Weird Sisters — 'the pinnacle of wizarding music' and Hermione was so tired of them. She continued, "they're a good band. They're just… A pop band, I guess."
"Yeah," was all Fred said. Hermione hoped she hadn't offended him.
"The Deadly Spellz are cool— not my favourite, though,"
"What's your favourite band, then?"
"I like—" She closed her mouth abruptly, and narrowed her eyes. This demanded secrecy. "You can't tell anyone they're my favourite; it'll ruin my image— promise me, Fred."
"Sure, Hermione. Promise."
"I'm quite partial to the Stoned Warlocks." She couldn't bear to meet his eyes. He was going to laugh, she knew it.
He makes a strange sound from his throat. An "oh fuck," escapes him, and she chuckles at it, and then, "You?! Sorry, I mean…"
Her smile tenses, feeling the teasing on its way, "I get it."
"You're just… the Stoned Warlocks. Wow."
Hermione shrugged. It kind of seemed like he wasn't going to say anything else. "You won't tell, right?"
"Right. I'll take it to my grave. Promise." He grinned, drawing an 'X' over his heart. Then, having glanced over her shoulder, added, "I think your date's looking for you."
She turned to look, smiling as she saw Viktor. "Oh, yes. Thank you." She picked up the skirts of her dress and started walking away, only to turn back towards Fred. "Have fun spiking the punch!" She winked, nodding in the direction of the bottle Fred was still hiding behind his robes.
He sent a cheeky wink back her way, and shouted, "Have fun dancing!"
And forty minutes later, Hermione raised her glass of punch in his direction before taking a sip, and — And boy, was that strong. She met his eyes again, and had the most familiar urge to swear at him.
Early July 1997. Hermione arrives at the Burrow.
Hermione arrived at the burrow, ready to collapse into bed. Altering your parents' memories and changing their identities could really take it out of you.
What a fucked day. What a terrible, fucked day.
Unfortunately, Murphy's Law was still in effect. She shivered, standing outside the door.
"Sorry, Hermione. We're waiting for Ron to get his pasty fuckin' arse down here for your security question."
"It's fine, George," Hermione said, even as Molly yelled from the kitchen about his language. She could almost hear him roll his eyes.
"Is that Hermione? What's wrong?"
"Ron's not down yet."
"Fucker."
"George!"
"That one was Fred! Merlin!"
"Alright, Hermione, I've got your question. Budge up, Georgie."
After a bit of shuffling, Fred's voice was much clearer as he spoke through the door, dramatic flair and everything. "What… is your favourite band?"
Hermione grinned.
George squawked, "What kind of a security question is that?"
Hermione only laughed, ignoring George for the moment. "You promised you'd take that to your grave, Fred Weasley."
Fred opened the door, grinning as he rushed her into the den and next to the warm fire.
"And you know my favourite band too, right?"
The warmth from the hearth enveloped her hands. "You only wear that stupid shirt every other day."
Fred grimaced. "Ah, not anymore. Ripped it too much, I guess. Couldn't repair it."
"I could try, if you like? Maybe I could fix it the muggle way…"
Fred caught her gaze as she turned away from the fire. "Really?"
"Sure, I—" Hermione was interrupted by George.
"Wait — What the fuck?" Another yell from Molly sounded through the house.
"What?"
"That was a security question?"
"Of course," said Hermione, "Fred's the only person on Earth who knows my favourite band."
Puffing his chest out proudly, Fred added, "And I promised Hermione I'd take it to my grave, of course. Inside joke. This is Hermione."
George still looked absolutely bewildered. "What's so top secret about your favourite band?"
Fred grinned, "It'd ruin her image."
"What?"
Hermione only shook her head with a smile. Some things were just meant to be secrets.
Then — "Hermione! Hi. Sorry, I was taking a nap. Right, question. Uhhh…"
Oh, Ron.
Mid August 1998. Cleaning out Fred's room.
Hermione chuckled despite the somber air of the room. When the others turned to look, all she could manage was, "he loved this shirt."
And there it was: the fabled Deadly Spellz t-shirt, with a rip crawling up the side, one of the sleeves barely hanging on.
"I should fix this."
Except then Molly burst into tears, grabbing hold of the shirt, and Hermione only offered a small, sad smile before she turned and prepared herself to dig into whatever else was in Fred's chest of drawers.
George's hand was suddenly covering hers, holding the shirt out to her.
She saw Ron and Ginny over his shoulders, leading Molly through the door for a breather, leaving her alone with George.
"Here," George said. "It's yours. What else do you want?"
"What else…? George," Hermione questioned, reaching out for his arm.
"You're the only one who laughs when you think about him, have you noticed?" He gripped her hand. "So whatever you want — take it. He'd give you anything you asked for anyway."
"He —" Hermione cut herself off, let the silence of the room take over. Long, quiet minutes dragged on and they both thought. Then — "Could I have his music?"
"Music? You really want his shitty punk records? I mean, I love the guy, but would it kill him to listen to something on the radio?—" George cut himself off suddenly, recognizing his words. The present tense.
Gently, Hermione answered, "It might've. Ever the rebel, our Fred. But that's — I like punk too."
George make a choking sound. Sort of like he was trying not to laugh.
"Grunge, a little more. I mean — That was the joke. Fred was the only one who knew my favourite band, because we had the same taste in music. He liked the Deadly Spellz and I like…" Hermione frowned, not sure if she should or could tell someone who wasn't Fred.
George made the choice for her. "Don't tell me," he said, "I get it. Inside joke. Here."
George hauled the crates of records out from under the end of Fred's bed, letting Hermione drop the ripped shirt on top of one before enchanting them to stack themselves up near the floo.
"Kinda fucked," proclaimed George, "that ickle prefect Granger likes punk."
"Kinda fucked that you thought I'd like shitty pop music like you."
A startled laugh burst out of George — either because of her statement or the way she phrased it or — well, no one ever thinks Hermione capable of cursing, do they?
The next week, at the Burrow, there was a quiet moment in the living room after Bill dragged Ron and Charlie outside — Charlie was cheating at chess again — and some of the others moved either outside or to the windows to watch.
Hermione and George didn't move.
"How's his music?" George asked once the silence felt comfortable. She let it linger a little longer as she thought of a response.
"He had every record by my favourite band," she settled on saying.