August 3, 1995. Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

The last thing he had expected when he passed his sister's room was for Hermione to quite literally knock the air out of him.

"Oof!"

"Fred! I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

And fuck, she was pretty today. (This is when the air got knocked out of him.)

"Yeah," he wheezed. "I'll be alright. When'd you get here?"

"About an hour ago. You're sure you're not hurt?" Hermione asked, worry across her face.

Fred grinned. "As right as rain. Or as left as sun in England, take your pick." He crossed his eyes as he spoke, knowing she thought it looked funny.

"Well, you seem better."

Fred's smile quirked a little wider at her chuckle. He took the book from her hands — Ancient Charms of the Alps: How to Explore in Comfort — weighing it in his hands as they made their way to the staircase. "Your brick just took me by surprise."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I meant from the train last month. You didn't seem like yourself." Hermione's eyes darted slightly around his form, mentally comparing him to how he had appeared just a month ago.

"'Course not," He jumped over the last step and turned around to face her. "Half the time I'm George."

"Not what I meant," said Hermione. Her left arm grabbed hold of the ball-top of the post at the of the stairs. She let her body swing around with a smile, and Fred was suddenly very distracted by the thought of spinning her around to kiss her. Hermione continued, "You said you forgot your Deadly Spellz shirt. I thought you might be ill when you said that," she joked. "I see you got it back, though." She gently tugged on his shirt, and Fred mentally slapped himself to stop those thoughts. "Professor McGonagall?"

"Oh. Uh, no. Turned out I packed it after all," said Fred, remembering the lie he had told.

"That's good," she said. "I can't imagine you without that shirt."

By then they had made it to where his siblings had gathered, and their conversation was joined by Ron and Ginny.

He took his place beside George, ignoring his judgemental look. (Fucker.) It was only then he realized he still had her book. He slid it across the table. "Your weapon of choice," he teased.

Hermione rolled her eyes and continued her conversation, but there was a smile there that hadn't been there before, and that was a win in Fred's book.

June 1997. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

"Fuck!" cried Fred, looking down to see a new rip down his shirt.

"What's wrong?" George asked, shouting from the next room.

"Ripped my shirt. It caught on the prototype Umbridge," he said. "Fuckin' bitch on her stupid unicycle."

George appeared through the doorway, wincing when he saw the damage. "You want I should move it?"

"Please."

Fred then spent the next four and a half minutes trying to repair his shirt, eventually taking it off entirely so he could lay it flat.

"Can't repair it?"

"I'll get it."

"Y'know maybe this is a sign. You've had that shirt for longer than I can remember. Maybe it's time to bin it."

"I will never bin this shirt. It will follow me through to the grave, George. Mark my words." Fred pointed his wand's aim at George briefly, glaring at him.

"Sorry, sorry," he said, hands up in defence. "What were you doing that you ripped it, anyway?"

"It's those fucking Coruscant Quills."

George's brow furrowed. "Thought we shelved those?"

"Yeah, well…" he trailed off, but George wouldn't take pity on him and interrupt. "I thought Hermione would like them."

George exhaled loudly. "Mate…"

"Shut up."

"It's been years, Fred. Why don't you give that one up?"

"Think I haven't tried?" Fred bit back. "Fuck off."

"I'm just saying—"

"Say it somewhere else."

"Fred," George said, and Fred could hear the soft pity in his voice.

"Just— I love her; I'm not going to stop; and I'm going fix this blasted shirt; and make self-inking quills that write in colourful, sparkly ink; and nothing is going to stop me."

"Yeah, alright. Well I'm finished for tonight. I'll see you upstairs."

Fred waved him off, his shoulders sinking as the door closed behind George. He'd have to apologize later.

He looked at the shirt again. Hermione liked this shirt.

…Maybe it was time he binned it.

He ended up throwing it in his chest of drawers, hiding it under another shirt so he wouldn't be tempted to look at it.

September 19, 1997. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

The morning started off tense, like every morning since the wedding.

"It's her birthday today," Fred said, mostly to hear something other than George's shitty pop on the wireless and the overlapping ticking of various timers.

George's hand stilled over the pan on the stove. "… Think she's still alive?"

Fred stilled too.

"Sorry — forget I said that."

Something crawled up his throat, and Fred stood up quickly, his chair falling over as he did.

"Fuck you," he spat. "I'm brewing today. Don't interrupt." He made for the door that led down to the shop, only to be stopped by George.

"Fred!"

"Get fucked."

George's hand on his arm stopped him, halfway through the door. "Fred — Hey, I'm sorry."

He couldn't look at him, but he took a deep breath and forced himself to speak despite that. "I know. I know you're sorry. I just — Just don't interrupt, yeah?"

"Yeah," replied George, head bobbing in Fred's periphery, and his grip disappeared.

The prototypes for the Coruscant Quills went into testing that afternoon, and they indulged in a celebratory drink that evening, toasting everything they could name.