A/N: Sorry about the unexpected hiatus, besties - I was planning to take a break later this summer, but my existential dread spiral came knocking a little early (courtesy of SCOTUS).
In all seriousness, shit's pretty bleak across the board right now and if any of you ever want someone to talk to, or more accurately if you want a void where you can throw your thoughts with the chance of a reply because I don't check my inbox that often, you're welcomed to email me at wrathofmacy on gmail.
Take care of yourself, take care of each other, and come here to disassociate as often as you'd like.
Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming!
oOoOoOo
28 March 1997
"Are you sure you don't want me to say that I do something else? I don't mind – Lee's father is an automobile salesman. I can tell your mum and dad that I do that; it seems impressive, and he has a rather posh flat."
Fred was reclined on Hermione's childhood bed, arms behind his head and socked feet nearly dangling off the end while she eyed him speculatively from an armchair in the corner.
"Alright, fine. You can say that if you can name the make and model for literally any vehicle –"
"I —"
"— other than a Ford Angelina."
Fred hesitated for a moment and then shut his mouth, squinting at her.
"Why do you want to lie about what you do?" Hermione asked sincerely, getting to her feet. She set the book she'd been reading on the seat and strode across the room, crawling onto the bed beside him and resting on her heels. "I think wildly successful inventor and entrepreneur below the age of twenty is rather impressive in its own right, no?"
"I suppose," Fred grumbled. He rolled onto his side and reached an arm out, snaring her around the waist and pulling her down and backward so she was spooned into his chest. "I just… I've never done this before, Hermione. I want to do it properly, and I know it's going to be an uphill climb to begin with."
He wasn't wrong about that part, but if her parents were going to acknowledge someone magical as a suitor for her, there wasn't a wizard in Britain more charismatic or disarming. Hermione wiggled so she could look over her shoulder and see his face, earnest as it was, pawing a few wayward curls out of the way with a flicker of exasperation.
"No, no supposing. I don't walk around feeling stupidly proud of you all hours of the day just to go and tell my parents that you're an automobile salesman. They already know you're not a muggle, so I'm going to brag and you're going to learn to cope with it."
Fred chuckled in spite of himself as the grandfather clock downstairs tolled twelve. After dinner that evening Hermione had quickly retired to her room and tweaked the wards so Fred could apparate in and finalise prep for their lunch the next day.
Opportunistic and rational as the two for them were, they quickly concluded that it would be a wretched shame for him to go back to the flat and sleep all alone when she was just a few measly kilometers away.
"Fine, fine. I surrender – shower me with praise if you must. Now run through off-limits topics one more time."
Hermione raised her hands and began ticking them off on her fingers one-by-one. "Blood prejudice, any and all of Hagrid's pets, The Chamber of Secrets, my being petrified, Werewolves and the fact that we're friends with one, all of the dangerous aspects of The Triwizard Tournament, the rampant corruption in our government, The Order of the Phoenix, my nearly being hexed to death, and the ever-present threat of dark wizards taking over Britain and killing everyone that we know and love."
"That all?" Fred asked blithely, propped on an elbow and looking down at her with an arched brow.
"Mmm… no. Don't mention Liverpool, my dad is a Manchester fan."
"If I cock this up, I'm blaming it on you. It was an even ten until you threw that last one on top."
She snorted and then the smile on her face wilted a little. "I also – I also told them that we wouldn't do magic. Not that we were planning to, but I figured I should mention it just in case."
"What? Why would you promise something like that?"
"It just makes them a little uncomfortable," she explained awkwardly, feeling a rare flicker of embarrassment and trying not to squirm.
She saw that Fred wanted to argue, the defensive inclination bubbling up beneath the surface, but after a long second, he bit it back and nodded. "Alright, but if I'm made to hand-wash dishes, I'll be charging an hourly retainer."
Hermione grinned and rolled over to face him, exhaling in relief as she did so. Despite the stipulations and undeniably treacherous footing before them, she was a little surprised at how excited she was for Fred to meet her family; while their general disposition toward her life in the magical world was decidedly lackluster, increasingly so in recent years, they'd responded willingly enough to her proposing they have lunch with her boyfriend.
She supposed it might be in part because they wouldn't need to filter that event when they talked about it to their friends and colleagues, but she told herself that it was only a small part.
"Ron was nearly back to normal last week," Hermione said, offering a change of topic and temporarily tabling her apprehension. They hadn't had time to exchange but one letter before she left Hogwarts for the Easter holiday and all she'd relayed in that had been the conversation she'd overheard with Harry. "He brushed me off for a little while after they got out of the hospital wing, but he seems like he's trying. He talked to Lavender too."
Fred looked a little skeptical, but he shrugged and nodded. "What about those two crazy kids? Are they going to work things out?"
Hermione thought for a moment and then shook her head. "No, I don't think so. They haven't broken up yet, but I think he's realising relationships actually take some amount of effort, and she's realising that she can do better. No offence."
"None taken, I've no doubt that she can. How about Ginny and Dean?"
"I sense a split on the horizon there, too. Ginny was never all that invested, and apparently they had a nasty row a few weeks ago."
"What was the row about?"
"No idea, but Harry seemed rather pleased to hear of it."
"I'm sure he was," Fred snorted. "Does he have any idea at all what he's getting himself into there?"
"I sincerely doubt it," Hermione laughed, "But, as with everything else, he'll figure it out as he goes along. After all, the boy has fought dragons; your sister is only moderately scarier."
Fred's hand, which had been resting on her hip, slipped under the hem of her shirt and fanned just below her ribs.
"This part is fun," he mused into the nape of her neck.
"Which part?" Hermione asked, a shiver rolling through her at the warmth of him behind her.
"The part where we get to lay about and judge everybody else's relationships. They should advertise that more."
"Who? The Bureau of Relationships?"
"Mmhmm," he hummed distractedly.
Sensing that the conversational portion of their time together was coming to an end, or at least succumbing to a very long pause, Hermione turned to look at Fred with a coy smile.
"So, do you want your birthday present early?"
oOoOoOo
Heart hammering in his throat and a cold sweat blooming on the back of his neck, Fred tugged at the lapels of his jacket one last time and then, before he lost his nerve, raised a hand and knocked on the front door of the Granger home.
All morning he'd had an unshakeable sense of unease, but Hermione had been practically bouncing off the wall with nerves and he hadn't wanted to make it any worse, so he'd swallowed it. Now he was choking a little bit.
It was silent for what felt like an eternity. He briefly debated apparating back to bed, where he'd been safely tucked away only a few hours earlier, when the door began to swing inward.
He could do this.
No dark wizards, no mortal peril, no crooked government officials, no underground resistance, no psychotic professors. It'd be easy in comparison to the rest of their lives, a regular stroll in the park. And there was still plenty left to talk about. Like… the weather. Yeah, the weather was good. Lee said that muggles like to talk about the weather.
Fred shook himself as a short, slender woman came into view. Her hair was the same caramel color as Hermione's but patently less voluminous and distinctly more coiffed.
"Hello," she greeted with a smile that was bright white and straight as could be, though not remotely as warm as her daughter's. Her appearance could be summarised by the word 'manicured,' and Fred concluded he'd be hard-pressed to find even a single stitch out of place. "You must be Fred."
"Right you are," Fred replied, remembering himself with a small jolt. "You must be Hermione's... sister?"
"Well, aren't you a charmer," she tittered, stepping aside and gesturing for him to come in. "Please, call me Emma. Are those for me?"
She pointed at the small bouquet of flowers hanging forgotten by his side.
"Uh, yes, sorry." Fred thrust his arm forward, nearly smacking her in the chin as she quickly took them with another, slightly less sure, smile. His cheeks heated as she shut the door behind him.
"Richard?" Emma called up the stairs. "Company!"
"Yes, yes, I'm coming," a voice called gruffly back, sounding a bit annoyed and none too eager. When he failed to appear though, Hermione's mum looked at him a little sheepishly and tipped her chin in the opposite direction.
"Hermione was just finishing setting the table, let's head in there."
Emma led Fred past the portraits on the mantle that, little did she know, he was already familiar with. He still found it distinctly unnerving that they didn't move, just stared outward from their frames for all eternity, but he thought better than to voice that.
It was also of bothersome note that not a single photo showed Hermione over the age of twelve.
They rounded the corner into the kitchen, which in turn looked into the dining room, and the tension in Fred's shoulders eased some as Hermione came into view. She looked… well, still really nervous, but she mustered a stalwart smile anyway.
"Hi," she greeted brightly, coming to his side as her mum went to get a vase from the cupboard beside the sink. He noticed Hermione rub her palms on her trousers and resisted the urge to wrap his arms around her.
"Hello, love," Fred replied, dipping to drop an exceptionally chaste kiss on her cheek. Emma glanced over surreptitiously and made a quiet sound of approval as she began to clip the stems on the pink and purple tulips.
"These are just lovely," she mused aloud, tracing a finger lightly over a vibrant petal. "They must have been difficult to find so early in the season; mine won't be in bloom for another month, at least."
"They're actually from my mum's garden," Fred explained. "A few well-placed charms keep away the frost."
Hermione stiffened a little at his side, but he stayed focused on the older woman in front of him. Merely talking about magic hadn't been proscribed.
"Is that so?" She asked, brows arching in surprise.
"I could do a bit of spellwork on your garden, mum," Hermione interjected. There was a hopeful edge on her voice, like she hadn't had the opportunity or nerve to offer in the past. Either way, it made his chest ache a little. "If you'd like, I mean. Maybe not so dramatic as blooming a month early, though. The neighbors might take notice."
"I thought you couldn't do magic outside of school," Emma said, taken aback.
"That was just until I was seventeen," Hermione clarified good-naturedly, but Fred's brows drew together in confusion before he schooled them again. Sure, he'd agreed to no magic that day, but how could her mum not know something like that? Had Hermione not done any magic in front of them over the winter holidays, or since she'd been back the past week?
Emma glanced uncertainly between them and the flowers before nodding in a sharp movement and plastering another blinding smile on. "Right, of course. Well, we can certainly discuss it. Why don't you go and get your father, sweetheart? He's up in his office and I'm sure he'll stay there all day if we let him."
Hermione gave Fred's hand a squeeze as she passed him, heading back to the front parlor and, by the sound of it, up the stairs.
"Can I help with anything?" Fred asked after a long beat, standing self-consciously beside counter.
"No, I've got it in hand. Have a seat." Hermione's mum gestured at a stool that Fred hadn't noticed, and he gratefully took it while she fixed a tray of drinks nearby. "So, I know your father works for the government, and you and your brother own a business. What is it that your mother does?"
"She uh, mostly keeps house," Fred said a little sheepishly. "Seven children and all, there's plenty of house to keep."
"I thought Hermione said your youngest sister was nearly the same age as her. Are there grandchildren in the mix?"
"No, not just yet," Fred said, knowing what she was getting at. In reality Molly Weasley did quite a bit of organising and relaying information for the Order of the Phoenix, but that was on the list of prohibited topics. Thus, he tiptoed and tried not to be insulted on his mother's behalf. "There's still plenty to do, though. Gardening and washing and cooking, and she frequents my great-aunt Muriel's to help with the same."
"Well, isn't that… quaint. I think I'd go a little batty if it weren't for my work."
The disapproving edge on her tone reignited the sense of discomfort that had been tugging at him earlier.
There was a pregnant pause and Fred glanced toward the stairs, as if he might be able to will Hermione back down them. When that didn't work though, he cleared his throat and turned back to Emma, who looked up expectantly.
"So, odd weather we're having."
oOoOoOo
"Did your friend leave?" Emma Granger asked as her daughter walked back into the kitchen.
"Yes," Hermione replied tightly, her jaw sore from nearly two hours of clenching. She'd just watched a dejected Fred apparate out of the back garden and she felt as if her blood was near boiling point. "And you're well aware that friend isn't even a remotely apt description of our relationship, so I don't know why you insist upon trying to use it to demean me."
With Fred gone – though he might very well be waiting upstairs – and Hermione's father once again ensconced in his office, far from any remote chance of needing to speak to her, there were no holds barred between Hermione and her mother.
She and Emma had become gradually more volatile in the rare occurrences where they did interact just the two of them, and that day was no exception. For a long time she'd chalked it up to mere adolescent conflict, normal mother-daughter arguing, but that very obviously wasn't the case here. Hermione was livid.
It hadn't matter how hard she'd tried; how impressive Fred's success, how respectful his tone, how complimentary his commentary on their meal.
Of course things had started off well enough but, despite her initial optimism about the lunch, Hermione had swiftly realised that her parents accepting Fred was a pipe dream, and a childish one at that. Because accepting Fred would mean accepting her, which it was becoming clear wasn't likely either. And she had only herself to blame for not only leading him to believe that to be possible but setting ridiculous stipulations around the whole affair in the first place.
"I'll not have you speak to me that way," her mother replied in a terse tone, scrubbing the dish in front of her vigorously without looking up. "You know how we feel about… that sort of behavior."
"Say it."
"I thought you said you would speak with him before coming over here —"
"Say the bloody word, mum."
"We don't ask much of you –"
"Say it!"
"Fine, magic!" Emma snapped, hissing it like an offense and rounding on her daughter. "You said that neither of you would do magic here. Your father -"
"It was one spell!" Hermione half-shouted, hating the way her fingers trembled and her eyes stung around the edges. "One, sodding, stupid spell! All Fred did was fix a broken glass. You knocked it over, and it broke, and he fixed it. He's probably done it a thousand times. The proper response is traditionally thank-you, not treating him like he kicked a toddler. And dad – dad barely acknowledged either of us were here to begin with!"
"We simply aren't comfortable –"
"What about my comfort, mum? It's still my house too. Do I not deserve to be comfortable here?"
"Of course, don't be absurd, Hermione. He seems like a nice boy, but –"
"Wizard."
"I don't know why you insist –"
"Because it's what we are! Fred is a wizard, and I am a witch."
"You're our daughter –"
"I'm a witch!"
With only a moment's thought, Hermione flicked her hand out and the dish her mother had been holding over the soapy water was suddenly clean and dry. Emma gasped as she looked down, dropping the plate on the edge of the sink where it shattered.
This time Hermione didn't make any move to fix it, and the shards of China made little pinging sounds as they hit the floor, leaving a resounding silence in their wake.
And as she looked in her mother's eyes, shocked but still so like her own it was almost eerie, she reckoned with the facts before her in a way she hadn't before. That her parents, these goliaths that were supposed to know everything, that were supposed to love her and accept her no matter what, were devastatingly imperfect. And that sometimes love, no matter how much you wish it not to be, is conditional.
It was different, seeing it all through Fred's eyes that afternoon rather than the warped scope she'd become accustomed to. The role she'd learned to play, the lines she toed; the ways in which she made herself small.
She wasn't sure if it was fear or resentment or disappointment, or a combination of all three. At this point she wasn't entirely sure her parents had wanted children at all, let alone a magical one. But it didn't matter; she was done trying to be the daughter that they wanted. It was time to be the woman — the witch — that she was.
"I'm going to stay with the Weasleys until school resumes," Hermione said, her voice hollow and tired even to her own ears. Exhausted from six years of trying to please people that would never be satisfied.
She didn't specify which Weasleys, and her mother didn't ask.
"We're having Easter dinner with the Michaelsons on Sunday. You're expected to be there, I RSVP'd weeks ago."
Hermione breathed a heavy sigh and shook her head, snorting in disbelief. She ground her palms into her eye sockets for a moment before relenting and lowering her hands. "Fine."
When she looked up, her mother wouldn't meet her eyes. They were fixed, unmoving on the tulips Fred had brought, arranged meticulously in a crystal vase on the counter.
"I love you," her mother said abruptly, with an almost frantic edge on her voice as Hermione turned to leave the room. "I do. I just… I just wish that I understood you."
Hermione turned back with a sad smile on her face and a lump in her throat. "That makes two of us, mum."
She began to walk and then stopped again. She took a deep breath and whispered, pointing in the direction of the broken plate, "Reparo." The plate made a quiet scraping sound as it fixed itself.
Perhaps if they'd met in another life as equals, discussing Shakespeare and sharing a love of French wine and old music, things might be different. Her father wouldn't withdraw and her mother wouldn't put on airs and they'd make for happy companions.
But here, in this life, there was too much history, far too many lies, and too much damage to repair.
Fred wasn't waiting upstairs when she got to her room, but it didn't take long to pack her things; Crookshanks had stayed at the school, content to traipse about the grounds for a few days now that the weather had broken, so she had only her trunk and knapsack in tow.
As she walked past her father's office door, which was shut, she paused. There was a photo outside of it, on the opposite wall, of Hermione sitting in the dentist chair at their office. She was maybe four or five, smiling, all gangly limbs and buck teeth while her dad looked on from behind her.
She raised a tentative hand and knocked.
"Come in."
Hermione reached out and turned the knob, stepping into the room. Richard Granger was in his chair in the corner, a large book open in his lap and a glass of what appeared to be scotch beside him. The walls were lined with shelves that looked ready to burst and the overcast sky outside shone a grey hue across the scene.
"I'm leaving to stay with my friends for the rest of the holiday," she said without preamble.
Richard looked up, surprise flickering briefly in his eyes before he nodded. While her mother had a temper that rivaled her own, even if she did bury it under a carefully manufactured façade, her father responded to conflict by acting as though it hadn't happened.
"I see," he said evenly. "Well, have a good time, then."
"Thanks, I will." Hermione stood motionless and looked at him for a moment. His hair, nearly as curly as hers, was more salt than pepper these days, and the frown that had been commonplace in her youth now seemed perpetual, with heavy lines framing his mouth. She realised with a start that her father looked old. "Hey, dad?"
"Hmm?"
A million different responses rushed through her head as he looked up at her again. All of the things she wanted to say, needed to say in that moment. Words of anger and of grief and of accusation. Words meant to wound him in the same way his slow withdrawl from her life had wounded her.
She wanted to tell him about what a wonderful person Fred is. How happy he makes her, and how brilliant he can be, and how he tried so hard to impress them despite knowing it would be difficult. How they didn't deserve to know him.
But when she opened her mouth to speak, none of that passed her lips.
She just cleared her throat. "You should read Rosemary Ashton's new biography on George Elliot; I think you'd like it."
Richard blinked owlishly behind his spectacles and then nodded. "Right. Thank you, I'll do that."
Hermione took a deep breath, nodded back, and then turned to head down the stairs, shutting the door behind her without looking back.
When she got to the kitchen her mother was nowhere in sight, and their car, that was normally parked in front of the house, was gone. Hermione went into the back garden, tugging her coat tight across her chest and pulling up her sleeve to prod her bracelet with her wand.
"Can you come and get me?" she asked it, watching as the tiny words etched themselves in the metal and then disappeared.
A moment later an underdressed George popped into the garden a few feet in front of her, nearly landing in a birdbath.
"Where's Fred?" she asked, concern immediately flooding her.
"At home," George assured her quickly, rubbing his hands together to warm them. "He's worked himself into a bit of a state and I didn't want him to splinch himself. Or you."
Hermione sighed and dragged her trunk over to grab his elbow without further comment. They apparated into the alley behind the shop, which was closing early that day and the next for the holiday, and Hermione led the way inside and up the stairs.
When she entered the flat, George chivalrously lugging her trunk behind them, she immediately spotted Fred seated on the sofa with his head in his hands and an open bottle of firewhiskey on the table in front of him. Despite the dreary atmosphere, something in her relaxed at being back. She may have left her house, but this was her home.
He looked up as she kicked her shoes off with twin thuds beside the fireplace. He opened his mouth and started to say something, but she just shook her head to silence him and crossed the room.
Dithering for second, she snatched the bottle of firewhiskey and took a hearty swig, hissing as it burned her throat on the way down. Then she leaned forward, grabbed Fred's chin and forced him to meet her gaze, their noses nearly touching.
"I don't want to talk about it right now," she said levelly. "But the short version is this: I love you, you didn't do anything wrong, my parents are inherently unhappy people, and I'm staying here until school resumes, save for dinner on Sunday. Alright?"
Fred swallowed, his throat bobbing and his eyes still concerned. But after a second of searching her eyes, he nodded. "Alright."
Hermione leaned down and pressed her lips soundly to his before drawing back, turning, and plopping onto the sofa. She took another sip of whiskey and then handed the bottle to the right so he could do the same as he reclined beside her.
George still stood in front of them with his arms crossed, having watched the whole scene with a single raised brow. He simply stared for a second before heading past them for the back hall and calling in front of him, "Angie, we have company!"