July 3, 1995. The Hogwarts Express returns to London.
"Oh fuck," said Fred, mid-conversation, and George's head quickly turned to the side, focusing in on his twin. Nothing seemed to be wrong, but Fred looked panicked.
"What?" asked Harry, eyes darting around behind his glasses, looking for a cause for alarm.
Fred only shook his head and said, "I think I forgot my favourite shirt. D'y'think McGonagall would owl it?" He looked toward George, his eyes still wide.
"The one with the Deadly Spellz logo?" asked Hermione, which Fred affirmed, though he didn't look away from George.
George played along, "Could always pop back once we get to the station; stretch those apparation muscles," he suggested with a grin.
Ron rolled his eyes and started to complain about how annoying they'd be this summer, successfully getting the focus off Fred.
Whatever was wrong with Fred, they'd talk about it later.
Fred dropped his trunk on his bed, making the mattress wobble slightly under the new weight. The old trunk popped open as it settled, revealing the violet logo of the Deadly Spellz t-shirt, which was obviously thrown in last. Fred stood in front of his bed and looked at the wall behind it without moving.
George sat down at the desk and studied him for a moment. It was time to talk about whatever got him anxious on the train. "Alright, Fred. What's wrong?"
Fred looked at the wall some more. Then —
"I'm in love with Hermione Granger," he said without preamble.
George snorted. "You're just now figuring out you like her? You're hopeless —"
"No, George. I love her. I'm in love with her."
"Oh," said George, "fuck."
Fred chuckled. "That's what I said."
"What are you — was that…!? On the train?"
"Yeah," Fred sighed, "she's just…" He didn't finish the thought, and the room fell quiet.
"Just…?" George pressed.
"Ruthless," Fred admits, "downright cruel, keeping Skeeter in a jar like that. And that's —"
"Terrifying?" George hoped Fred would agree with him.
Fred winced before he even spoke. "Attractive," he corrects, "Fuckin' hot."
"Oh," said George again, "fuck. You're in love with Hermione Granger."
Mid August 1998. Cleaning out Fred's room.
'This fucking sucks' is really all George could think as they silently sorted through Fred's things. Despite the number of people in their his flat, he'd never heard it so quiet. They'd always had the radio on, or Fred would put some terrible record on, and there were always experiments running and timers for the products, or owls flying about...
But now the only sounds were soft rustling and his mother's sniffling.
It was too fucking quiet.
Until it wasn't.
Until Hermione chuckled, and when George turned to look at her, she was smiling. "He loved this shirt," she said, holding up that stupid ripped t-shirt.
George suddenly understood why Hermione was a Gryffindor. (Not that he'd ever really doubted it.) She stood there, smiling and laughing, holding the t-shirt aloft like a sword — like a weapon that would chase away the stillness.
George smiled too.
Except then his mother grabbed hold of the fabric and started really crying, heaving great sobs.
And as much as George hurt, he knew everyone else hurt too."S'okay, mum. Here, let me take that," he comforted, prying the shirt from her hands. Ron, now standing next to them, put his hand on her back, rubbing circles, only for his mum to throw herself into his shirt.
With a sad look, Ginny took over from George and gently guided them out of the room.
George reached for Hermione, holding the shirt out to her. "Here," he said. "It's yours. What else do you want?"
"What else…? George," said Hermione.
He gave her a sad smile. "You're the only one who laughs when you think about him, have you noticed? So whatever you want — take it," he said. "He'd give you anything you asked for anyway."
The quietness returned, but George found he didn't hate this quiet as much. After some long minutes, Hermione spoke.
"Could I have his music?"
George blinked. "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?—"
No. No, that's not right. George stopped talking.
Instead, he started spiralling.
The spiralling didn't get far, since Hermione interrupted, "It might've. Ever the rebel, our Fred. But that's— I like punk too."
The air in his throat suddenly un-caught as Hermione continued.
"— 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…" she frowned suddenly.
George knew what she meant. "Don't tell me," he said, "I get it. Inside joke. Here." He 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.
It was funny, but George was suddenly much more okay with Fred's stupid crush and his stupid music and that stupid shirt.
But he there was also no way he was having an emotional conversation with Hermione Granger today.
"Kinda fucked," he said, "that ickle prefect Granger likes punk."
Hermione grinned. "Kinda fucked that you thought I'd like shitty pop music like you."
A startled laugh burst out of George, and he made a mental note that Hermione would always be welcome at number 93.
Later, George asked, "how's his music?"
After some thought, Hermione replied, "He had every record by my favourite band."
Sarcastically, George thought that was quite the coincidence.