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Hermione closed her eyes and inhaled the chilly northern air, let it wake her up and let it make her forget. It didn't do a good job of the latter. Her eyes still burned as she pulled her head back into the house and forced the window shut.
Stupid, stupid Ron.
Pinching the bridge of her nose, she turned away from the window and flung herself into her seat at the table. How many times will I say that? How many times will he be so, so stupid?
Her deep breath, almost against her will, was the loudest thing in the low-lit library.
How many times will I?
They had won the war. They were supposed to fall into place. They were all supposed to get an Order of Merlin, First Class. They were supposed to be happy.
Maybe it's only me. She raised her eyes from the table at the thought. It seemed plausible. Harry and Ginny were happy. Their relationship ran like a well-rehearsed dance. They never had a misstep. Even when the Ministry made their absurdity clear and kept the label of Order of the Phoenix members as fugitives, even after Voldemort's occupation ended and he died at Hogwarts, Harry and Ginny's relationship had never crumpled. It was as if the spaces in between—Ginny at occupied Hogwarts and Harry with Ron and Hermione on the hunt for Horcruxes—were only jumps, twists, and turns that were so crucial to the dance that without them it would not be a dance at all.
Hermione hated them.
She folded her arms on top of the table and dropped her head onto them. No, Hermione's life had not gone to plan. Nowhere near. The dust had settled and she watched Harry and Ginny embrace and she waited… waited… and waited… and now Ron was off snogging Lavender in the kitchen.
It wasn't fair. Where was their stupid dance? Hermione thought that kiss in the Room of Requirement had been the first step, a great step. But Ron had never initiated contact afterward, had avoided her when they were both assigned Grimmauld Place as their safe-house. Hermione had wondered, at first, if maybe he didn't feel the same as she did, if maybe he'd been kind to her when she threw herself at him after he said those wonderful things about evacuating the house-elves. But she had held on to her hope, clung to it in the night when everything seemed cold and empty, staring across the room at Ginny's empty bed.
Now this.
The door creaked open, and there came the whisper shuffle of feet across thick carpet. Hermione ignored it. Probably another fugitive coming in for a book to pass the time. She didn't believe for half a second that it was Ron coming to apologise. To kneel at her feet and cling to her legs and beg her to forgive him, because Lavender was a cow and he was unworthy and Hermione was the light in his eyes.
Not for half a second.
Was it a delusion that made her invest so much of herself into a fictional relationship? Had all those signs Ron given her, all those looks and touches and, Merlin, that kiss, all been—what? It couldn't have been just Hermione, it couldn't have. Ron was part of it; he had been there. And now he was snogging Lavender in the kitchen.
Crunch. Crunch.
Frowning, she lifted her head. She had to shift in her chair to find the noisemaker. When she did, she scowled. Then scowled harder when she realized the person didn't see her first scowl.
Fred, sprawled in the chair pulled away from the table, one elbow on the armrest, his hand occupied by his mouth. His other hand held an increasingly smaller bag of grapes.
His eyes were shut.
She had never seen anyone bite a grape in half, but Fred seemed to enjoy it, splitting each one and savoring each half. His face uncomplicated and quiet for once, he licked his lips and thumb for any juice that escaped, pink tongue darting out.
She glanced around the room, but besides them, it was empty. He wasn't performing for a grinning audience. Fred hadn't seen her lift her head; he probably thought she was sleeping.
Hesitant, she looked at Fred again. His expression—she had never seen anything like it from him. Quiet enjoyment, without teasing or pranking. Discreet. It felt like she was a stranger walking into somebody's home, a trespasser. Hermione couldn't look away.
His hand dropped to the bag and she jumped, quickly averting her eyes.
"Oh, hey, Hermione," Fred said. Crunch. "Want a grape? Kreacher finally snuck out."
"Oh. Good."
Vaguely, she recalled the trouble Kreacher had trying to leave Grimmauld Place for the market. It was the market all house-elves bought a household's groceries. The Ministry thought, by trapping Kreacher in, they could starve them out of the only known safe house.
They hadn't counted on the unregistered Floo-connected fireplace. Kreacher just Floo'd to one of the four other safe houses and exited from there. Hermione had been appalled by the existence of a house-elf run market, slaves making money for their masters, money that should rightfully be theirs to keep. However, Hermione knew she couldn't start a revolution if she starved to death. It was a heavy price to pay.
Most days she avoided thinking about her active role in slave labor. Instead, she thought about what Lucius Malfoy's face would look like when she helped to free his elves. That made any day better.
She tried, but couldn't avoid facing Fred for long. Her fingers twitched on her thighs as he held out a grape to her. The same hand that held the grapes to his mouth now open before her, his palm pale and callused, the grape a dull yet shiny green.
"C'mon," he said. "They're good. Nice and ripe."
She took it. He had been eating out of the same bag. It didn't feel or look any different from the rest. Fred's eyes on her were like weights as she considered the grape. Finally, he snorted.
"Here." He took the grape back and popped it whole into his mouth. Crunch. He handed her another one. "Unless you expect some elaborate ploy from me to get you to eat a trick grape," he challenged.
"It's not impossible," Hermione said. She rolled the grape between her fingers. "What about when you reset all of Ron's chess pieces so they wouldn't recognize him? That took time and planning."
"Well, yeah, I s'pose." Fred tilted his head. "But if I keep eating the grapes to prove they aren't tricks, there won't be any left."
"True," Hermione said. She sighed. "It appears we're at an impasse."
"There's one way we could break it." Fred sat forward and reached out. She placed the grape in his open palm, smiling fondly at the familiar mischief tightening his lips. It was always so much easier to enjoy his mischief when they weren't in school. He considered the grape, turning it each way, holding it up almost as if he would ask it a question. She smiled wider at his teasing eyes. Then he brought it to his lips.
His eyes on her, Hermione forgot to breathe.
Suddenly, it wasn't funny. Not in the least. Her tongue thrummed in her mouth as if it had a separate heartbeat. His lips wrapped around the grape, pink against green, and Hermione's throat wrapped itself in circles. There was no teasing here—or there was, in his bright eyes, but it was not the friendly teasing she assigned to the twins.
No, from Fred.
She peeked a bit of his tongue; her face froze as if he had cast a Freezing Charm, and then his teeth bit into the grape. His fingers tightened on the end as he pulled the outside half away from his lips. Hermione, her hand still outstretched between them, shivered when he pressed his warm hand around hers, and then the grape half was in her palm.
"Eat it," he said, and how could this man have turned into a stranger within thirty seconds?
His eyes followed her hand as she brought the grape to her mouth. She ate it, not tasting anything but cold surprise and spicy lust, and it was better than any grape she ever had before. She swallowed. His hand still held hers. His eyes still held hers.
Expectancy entered the room like a third person. Hermione's throat hadn't yet opened. What did she say? What could she say? What had Fred meant by doing that? Was she reading too much into things as she had with Ron? What was this strange world she had entered, was Fred under Imperius, was he staring at her because she had grape in her teeth? Why did he look so strained? Did his joke fail? Was there really something in that grape? Maybe he had the antidote...
Hermione shuddered out a breath, and that decided Fred. He leaned forward—fast, so fast Hermione jumped back in her chair—and kissed her.
It wasn't like Ron's, full of adrenaline and fear and the possibility of defeat. Lightning, that was what she thought of. Lightning, Fred, and Fred, and Fred was kissing her, pressing forward until she was flat against the back of the chair. His lips stayed closed, no tongue. Open just enough for Hermione to know there was something she was missing. A tremble—so maybe a little fear. His fingers curled against her shoulders. Not quite holding her down, but holding her as if he thought she might put up a fight.
She wouldn't. Merlin, she wouldn't.
Then he pulled back, and started talking, rubbing his grape-juice stained fingers through his hair until it was as messy as Harry's, saying something about now was the time, figured you might go for it, just a laugh, don't worry about it, Granger, and Hermione felt as if she hadn't closed her eyes in weeks.
Hermione touched her lips. He had kissed her. Fred. Fred had kissed her. Why?
And she had to know, didn't she? She had to find out.
She threw herself forward before he could stand, clasping her hands against his chest, and Fred proved he could go with the flow, just wrapped his arms around her and pulled her further into his chair. He pulled her as close as she could get without becoming Hermione-in-a-Fred-suit. Her lips found his and she knew, she knew she had been wrong about Ron, and good riddance. Good riddance. She could taste the grape now, in all its green, grape glory, taste it on Fred's tongue as he lifted her up, pulled her down.
She had never been in this position before. There had been the kisses with Viktor and Ron, but this, practically writhing on someone's lap… no. Anyone could come into the library and she did not care. Fred's fingers were tight on her jaw, his other hand squeezing and pulling her forward, over him, against him. There was that hardness beneath her, something she had read about yet never felt. Until now.
It made her dizzy, and she only held tighter onto Fred.
Eventually—Hermione didn't count the minutes that passed—they pulled back. She could feel his breath on her chin and her chest moved as if she had just climbed a steep hill in forty mile per hour wind.
"What the hell," he said, and brushed his lips across her jawbone.
He leaned back and she took the opportunity to run her nails across his scalp. She had the pleasure of watching him shiver. "I hope that's a good 'what the hell.'"
"I just – I didn't imagine it going this way." He was almost cross-eyed as he looked at her lips. "More talking, for one."
"So you've thought about this scenario." Hermione bit her lip, because how had she never thought of that as the most attractive trait ever?
"Many a night." His hands squeezed her hips. Her eyes almost rolled back in her head. People had squeezed her hips before—Viktor, off the top of her head—but never had she been in their lap, her nipples skimming across his chest with each breath, and carrying a tight coil of warmth in her stomach like a longtime friend come home. He had thought about her. Multiple times. Not in a friend of my brother kind of way.
"I think." She paused and glanced between their bodies. "I squashed your grapes."
Fred laughed, thick and throaty, and his hands slid up her sides as his lipstongueteeth slid up her neck. She gasped as his thumb brushed under the edge of her bra, over her shirt. Lightning again, fizzling under her skin. Dangerous.
"Fred."
He nipped at her earlobe. His voice, husky with want, slid down her spine like maple syrup. "Come to my room?"
"Later," she said, curling her fingers through his hair. "Just this for now?"
"Just this?" Fred repeated in a shocked voice. Hermione tensed as frostbite spread through her veins. His eyes were wide and horrified. "You say it like it’s a bad thing when it is definitely"—leaning forward for a hard suck on her collarbone—"positively"—a flick of his tongue up her neck—"not."
His hands slid back down her sides, away from her bra. She could breathe again.
"Good," she exhaled like a shaky bride on her wedding night. "It is very good."
They stayed in that chair for a long time. When night had fallen and Hermione finally stood up, groaning at the pain in her knees, the grapes were indeed squashed. Fred just grinned. At dinner, they sat at opposite ends of the supper table. Hermione's hand kept going to her collarbone, just below the edge of her shirt. Fred's glance kept landing on her.
She didn't think about Ron for the rest of the night.
She slept fitfully.
*
She arched her hips and woke up.
"Wow," she breathed. She didn't know what she had dreamed—she did, though, she did even if the dream had fled in the light of her bedroom—but good God, it was good. She had to rest a few moments, breathing deeply through her nose into the pillowcase, her thighs warm as she rubbed them together, and her knickers sticky and a little cold.
Shower, she thought. Then breakfast.
Would she have said that yesterday?
She allowed the smile that wanted to come out to her lips as she gathered her hair on top of her head and stepped into the shower.
When Hermione finished, she went downstairs and paused before the kitchen door. She could do this. She swallowed and spun around. No, no, she couldn't. How could she act as if yesterday hadn't happened?
She couldn't, that's how. And everyone would know that she spent yesterday snogging the tricks out of Fred. Her stomach plummeted as a new fear slid into her head like a personal Dementor. What if this was one of Fred's tricks? What if—and her appetite fled to France indefinitely—there were pictures hung in the kitchen? What if he told everyone how horribly she kissed? What if he said her breath smelled of turnips? What if her breath had smelled of turnips?
What if he ignored her?
No, she thought, taking control of the reins on her thoughts. I am not afraid of Fred Weasley and his schemes. I know ridicule. I can handle it. If they're really my friends, they won't make fun of me anyway.
Nodding to herself, she turned around. She checked her makeup in the mirror by the kitchen door—not a lot of makeup, she reassured herself, just enough to give her face some colour—and pushed open the door. She steeled herself for… a kitchen empty of all but Neville and Mrs. Weasley.
"Morning, dear," Mrs. Weasley said with an absent glance over her shoulder. Bacon popped happily on the stove in front of her while a skillet of eggs scrambled themselves on a different burner. "You're up early."
She looked at the clock above the sink and realised it would still be dark outside. Hermione sat down hard next to Neville, a sigh on her lips making Neville look up from the box on his lap.
"Hey, Hermione. What's the matter?"
Just that she had paid more attention to thoughts of Fred than the time on her clock. She frowned. That wouldn't do at all. She had learned from Ron. Up and until Fred said something to the contrary, she would treat this…whatever it was with Fred as a fling. No going heartsick, or longing for things he would never do, feelings he would never feel.
She nodded her decision to herself and turned to Neville. "Oh, nothing. Are those the singing violets we ordered?"
"Yep," Neville said happily, tilting the box to show her the humming seeds. "The greenhouse taught them loads of songs.
"Hopefully we'll have a good day to plant them."
Neville hadn't been hard to keep occupied, unlike some of the refugees Hermione shared the house with. Neville took to remodeling the back garden with gusto. When he Floo'd Harry at Shell Cottage to ask if he minded, Harry said he trusted Neville's expertise. That had sent Neville over the moon. Since then, he attacked weeds and untidy hedges with a vengeance. Hermione was often out there with him, happy to have some kind of routine.
Hermione thought part of Neville's enthusiasm came from finally being out in the sun with his hands in the dirt, after a year when practicing his favourite hobby had been dangerous with the Carrows about, so he threw himself into it now.
She looked at the sink. That had been the place she caught Ron kissing Lavender. Hurt tears rose, only to be swallowed down like an uncomfortably large pill. Would she ever stop hurting? She had kissed Fred; didn't that count for something? Even then, she considered kissing Fred would never heal those wounds. Mainly because up until she walked into this room, she'd been certain a horrible prank waited on the other side of the door.
She needed a healthy relationship. Fred was unreliable, unruly, and unpredictable. Healthy, he was not, other than the physical sense.
People started trickling in, puffy-eyed and yawning, about the time when Hermione would normally have sat down for breakfast. Mrs. Weasley had finished two batches of pancakes and told them the story of her third year experience with a breed of flesh-eating tulips. The smell in the room was enough to block her arteries. Hermione and Neville waited for the first people to sit down—a Hufflepuff third year who snuck away from the retreat lines at Hogwarts and a surly older Ravenclaw whose parents hadn't been contacted because they couldn't be found—before serving themselves.
Hermione tensed each time the door opened and smiled at Neville when he glanced at her in concern. Her shirt felt two sizes too small. Her hand kept fumbling her fork.
Really, she should be in St. Mungo's. Or a convent where men could not intrude on her—usually—highly logical mind.
Ron had made her stupid for three years. It had only been a day and Fred was making her as clumsy and awkward as first year Neville.
The fifth time the door opened, right after Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hermione stayed tense as Fred sauntered in. Unlike all but Hermione, Neville and Mrs. Weasley, Fred was freshly washed and awake, rubbing his hands together as he usually did before a prank.
Hermione dropped her gaze before Fred noticed her. She tilted her body toward Neville and swallowed the rock her pancake bite had become in her mouth. She didn't have to look at him to track him around the room. Dread gathered. He was coming toward her. He passed and Hermione breathed—only to have her fork shriek against her plate as she felt a tug on her hair.
She jerked upright and stared, shocked, as Fred pulled out the seat beside her and sat.
His eyes glinted as he nudged her shoulder with his, tempting her to join the joke. "Looking good, Granger."
What should she do? Should she smile? Wink? No. No sultry looks. Whatever that was. She would end up stuck that way. She should say something witty. What was witty? She knew a joke about a porcupine. And Fred was waiting.
"Neville has singing violets."
"Yep!" Neville said, breaking apart Hermione's awkwardness but not erasing the surprised look Fred's face sported. Neville grinned, oblivious. "Wanna see?"
Fred stared at her and she stared back. A moment passed, and then Fred said, "Yeah, mate."
Instead of taking the box Neville passed under her nose, Fred slung his arm over the back of her chair and leaned toward her as if she was sharing a secret.
Hermione thought calming thoughts. Thoughts that did not contain Fred's finger making swirls on the back of her neck. Felix Felicis. Mint-flavoured floss. Vacations in France. Then she glanced up and Fred's face was close, and his gaze was not on the box but on her and as she watched—when he knew he had her attention, she noted for later—his gaze dropped to her lips.
Embarrassment rose to her cheeks. Her whole head was hot, even her chin and behind her ears. What was Fred doing? Neville was watching! Oh, Merlin, Mrs. Weasley had noticed! Calm thoughts: Hogwarts, A History. The library. The smell of rubber gloves that always reminded her of her parents' office. Post exam dissections. Soap and fresh breath—no, that was Fred.
Mrs. Weasley was still watching.
"Very good," Fred said, still not looking at the box.
Neville pulled it away and, after a noticeable second, Fred dropped his arm and faced the table. The only indication that she held her breath came as her lungs rejoiced when she inhaled. She didn't glance at Fred or Mrs. Weasley. She focused on her plate as if it would grade her on how much she left on it.
Glad didn't describe her feeling as she finally left.
*
Hermione wiped her forehead and sat back. Neville's neck and face were taut with strain as he dug his fourth hole. She didn't envy him. This had turned out to be unexpectedly hard work. Hermione had dug two and a half holes before she had to have a break.
The violets needed deep holes to sing in for the acoustics, but that normally wouldn't have been a problem. London had had several hard rains in the past two weeks that would make most dirt easy to move and push. The Blacks had other ideas though. The spells on the ground were interwoven with nasty spells that blocked the natural order. The ground was dry and had the consistency of brick spackle. They would have to reach below the spells—a good few inches—before they could plant.
The Blacks were not her favourite people at the moment. Not that they had ever made her top ten list. These spells were old.
"How's Harry, then?" Neville grunted.
Well, if he could pretend this wasn't hard work, she could, too. Hermione pulled her gloves back on and picked up her trowel. "You would know better than me."
Neville chucked a piece of gravel out of his hole. "Bloody – he's having fun with Ginny, I guess. More space there."
"More alone time," she agreed. Grimmauld Place, because of all the bedrooms, had a lot of bedrooms and thus more refugees than Shell Cottage. Bill and Fleur's place had a spare sofa; Grimmauld had a whole study to block off and rename a bedroom. She shook her head. Ginny had given Mrs. Weasley the excuse of seeing Bill and Fleur, but Neville was right, it was all about space.
Mrs. Weasley had been especially mothering in the aftermath when Fred had almost died because of his head wound. He hadn't been able to see a proper healer until a week after the battle for fear of being arrested. The effects on Mrs. Weasley had become extreme. Mrs. Weasley had gone so far as to lay out Ginny and Hermione's clothes for the day.
Since Fred's recovery, she had calmed, but Ginny had yet to return with Harry.
"They deserve it," Neville said. "Kinda nice not to have him here, though. Have you noticed?"
"The way we're treated like lepers? Yes."
Neville snorted. "I think the proper term is celebrities."
"Same thing, isn't it?" She attacked the ground extra hard, scowling. "They're just waiting for the Ministry to catch us, you know. We'll go away first, you, Ron and me. They're scared that if they associate with us they might catch it."
"Good thing the Ministry isn't trying too hard, then, isn't it?"
"I envy your optimism," she said, pausing to push back a chunk of hair that had slipped out of her ponytail. She didn't worry about the dirt. She needed a shower regardless.
"Oh!" Neville sat up with a grimace, his hand against his neck. "Cor, that hurt! I need to take a break. How about you?"
"Go get some ice," she told him, eyeing his expression of pain critically. "I'll just finish this one and meet you in the kitchen."
"Come in if you want," Neville said, standing. Hermione nodded and watched him walk back toward the house. She hoped he hadn't overextended himself too badly, not when he had looked forward to this day for a week. Bloody Blacks.
As soon as the door shut, she sighed. Harry deserved the peace, but Hermione was rather lonely with Ron snogging Lavender and Neville her only real company. She didn't count Fred because his current presence was inconsistent. And he made her feel strange and unintelligent—rather like his brother.
Bloody Weasleys.
This was only proved when Fred threw himself to the ground beside her. She jumped and his eyebrows quirked when he saw the trowel pointed at him. Cheeks pink, she lowered it and frowned at the ground.
He waited for her to talk. She didn't. Finally, he said, "'lo."
Hermione paused and quickly pretended she hadn't. She rammed the trowel into the spells with renewed strength.
Sprawled in the space Neville previously occupied, Fred peered at her work with neighbourly nonchalance. "Nice hole," he said, tone turning uncertain. He seemed to notice the rest of the dug up ground. "What's this? This is all the work you two've done?"
"Not our fault."
"Oh?"
"It's because the Blacks hate everything, including nature," she said, puffing with exertion. She paused to wipe her forehead and swallow at her dry throat, trying to elicit some moisture. She dropped her hand and removed her gloves to shake out the gravel. It seemed to grow inside her gloves every time she pointed her trowel at the earth. Another spell those hateful, hateful people devised to show their utter scorn for life.
When she looked up, Fred was holding out her jug of water. Hermione unscrewed the cap and drank.
Fred watched.
"Do I make you nervous?"
Luckily, he waited for her to lower the jug, because otherwise she would have spit all over him. Hermione looked down and focused on screwing the cap back on, the hairs on her neck rising as his gaze never let up. She lifted her head. She destroyed a Horcrux. She watched Ron snog Lavender. She was not afraid.
"Very," she said.
His cheek dimpled. "Good."
"How is that good, exactly?" Annoyed, she thrust the jug away from her and yanked her gloves back on.
She couldn't see the emotion in his eyes in the sunlight, but she thought there was worry in the lines of his face. He sat up halfway, dirt falling off his back like cake crumbs. Voice low, he asked, "Do you regret it?"
"What – I, no." She closed her eyes, horrified at herself. Why did his presence—his voice—wind her up so much? This hadn't been the case yesterday morning. Maybe it was a potion specifically attuned to her. She wouldn't put the brilliance past him. She took a breath and opened her eyes. "No. I don't regret yesterday. Not… not exactly. I'm worried."
"Worried," he repeated. She nodded, unwilling to elaborate. His head tilted as he studied her. "Worried about what?"
Worried that I like you too much. Worried that I don't know if I like you enough. Worried about running into Ron. Worried because I can read dead languages better than I can read you.
But she couldn't say any of that. How would it look, Hermione Granger, Know-It-All, Brightest Witch, etc., admitting he compromised her intellect?
She glanced away. "Just worried."
"Worried."
"Yes," she snapped. "Is that so horrible?"
He reached out and brushed some dirt off her thigh. Except it didn't feel like a casual gesture at all, done out of friendliness. He had intent, as did his eyes. His hand lingered on top of her leg. "I'm still glad," he said. "Makes me remember there was more than one person in that chair with me."
She didn't know how he could have forgotten. She hadn't.
He leaned forward, pale eyelashes trembling and her breath disappeared—
The backdoor slammed.
While Hermione jumped, Fred leaned back slowly. Her heart thrummed overtime when his gaze swept over her flushed face and he grinned, liking what he saw.
Merlin help her.
"Walk me to the door," Fred said as he watched Neville walk closer.
Hermione nodded and stood. Neville gave her an odd glance, but didn't comment, just nodded as they passed each other, Hermione a step behind Fred. She couldn't find a desire to turn him down. Just followed helplessly, as if a thick rope in the middle of a tsunami attached them.
They reached the back steps and Fred stopped to the side. Hermione leaned against the brick wall, and folded her arms to hide her uneasiness. Standing in front of her, Fred crowded her, his thigh almost between hers. She leaned to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of Neville, to see if he saw any of this, and Fred tutted. He put his hand on the wall beside her head. Blocking her in.
It felt all very… seventies movies.
"He's not looking," Fred said. "I want to talk more about this worried about me thing."
She was glad her arms were already folded. "I'm not going to inflate your ego for you."
"Pity."
He grinned when she scowled. The movement of his shirt over his shoulders as he shifted distracted her. She never appreciated a Beaters physique – a Keeper's, yes, because first there had been Oliver Wood and then Ron, but this was the first time she had ever noticed a Beater. His large, sure hands, his muscled shoulders, his shirt tight over his chest. He made her tongue go thick with the need to lick every inch.
"Think I fancy you like this," he said. He elaborated at her raised eyebrows. "Flustered."
"Fred Weasley, I—" She stopped herself in time. She was about to say something extremely embarrassing. Nagging, as Ron always called it.
Fred's grin just grew. "Fancy me? Dream about me every night? Want to do dirty things to my naked body? Tried to sneak into my room last night?"
The last one wouldn't have worked. He was sharing with Neville and another boy. Hermione and Ron were the only ones in the entire house with a room to themselves because no one wanted to share with them. Though possibly Lavender was kipping with Ron now.
The pause had grown too long as she stared at Fred. His eyes glittered, pleased with himself with every second that passed.
She snapped, "Yes. All of it."
The insufferable pleased expression dropped off his face. Hermione's lips curled as his cheeks pinked with something other than heat.
Fred's eyes narrowed. Quickly glancing over his shoulder for Neville, he leant forward and pressed her against the wall. His lips crushed all breath out of her, made her dizzy as he pulled back, again with that pleased grin. She thought he earned it this time.
She stared at him dizzily as she got her breath back. "Should I expect a lot of that?"
"Come on, Granger, you're a smart girl."
She would need to prepare herself for the axis dropping out of her world multiple times a day, then.
He pushed off the wall, away from her, and started up the back steps. Her mouth dropped open. He wasn't even going to explain. Well!
"Hey, Fred?" He turned, his face smiling as if he'd expected her to call him back. She sniffed, put her hands on her hips and her eyebrows raised in question. "This morning… just good?"
She flounced back toward Neville before she could see his reaction. She thought it would be a good one.
*
He caught her on her way to supper, freshly washed up from her day outside. He made her regret she hadn't seen his face earlier. If this was the reaction—dragging her into the library and blocking the door with his body, his hands gripping her to him—then she made a new note into her mental catalogue:
Tease Fred more often.
*
Hermione glanced at the door, warily biting her lower lip. Fred saw where her attention was and, shucking off his shoes, said, "I put a new product on the door. We'll have an hour, two, tops, before anyone comes looking for us."
That… that did not make her feel any better. Her stomach clenched harder. "They won't develop horrible boils, will they?"
His smirk said it all.
"Um, so." Hermione checked the mattress, as if some part of her believed it wouldn't be there even with the back of her knees pressed against it. She swallowed the fear in her throat, the terrible sense that this was wrong, so wrong, and she should get out now. Fred had removed his socks and she averted her eyes when he tugged his shirt over his head. Only when he shook his red hair out did she look back. Ron did that too.
"So?" Fred's eyes swept over her still-dressed state. Hermione's hand raised to play with the button of her dress. She didn't unbutton it.
Fred reached forward and caught her fidgeting hand. With a soft, pleased smile, he rubbed her arms. She bore it. It seemed an awful time to bring up the terror-laden heat bubbling underneath her skin.
"It's okay," he murmured, reaching up to caress the side of her neck. "We don't have to do this."
His voice made her relax, but it was like relaxing over the volcano's edge. You could still look down and see those red flames jumping up at you.
Hermione did want to do this. Somewhat. Kind of.
I didn't want to fight Lord Voldemort, either, she reminded herself.
But that was another thing entirely. Voldemort had to be taken down. Losing her virginity—losing it to Fred was like—no, was comparing Voldemort to her virginity. It wasn't a comparable model.
"Hermione?"
"I'm fine," she said, thickly, and reached for his neck. He bent down willingly, eagerly, and Hermione allowed her shoulders to relax as they kissed. Fred had a habit of making tiny mmf noises into her mouth when they kissed. She had asked "what?" several times before, believing he was trying to say something, but he answered every time that he wasn't. It appeared to be an involuntarily noise and, combined with the way his hands never failed to drag her closer, it was as if he couldn't get enough, wanted to crawl inside her skin.
Hermione had no problems with this.
Her body fizzed with warmth and tingling delight pooled below her belly—up and until Fred began edging her toward the mattress.
She went, willingly, but all of her composure and ease was gone, all of her comfort and most of her desire. They fled under some obscure rock and Hermione's breath was uneven as Fred pulled back. So was his, but she didn't think it was from the same emotion.
This wasn't Ron. This wasn't the love of her life. Not that Ron is, she reminded herself, but that seemed a distant concern for the part of her brain running around with its knickers on its head.
This was a fling. Did she want to give this precious part of herself away to some fling? When it was almost certain to end in disaster? When he didn't love her, didn't even pretend to like her beyond someone to spend his time with while he was cooped in this house without his twin?
Fred sucked on her neck. She gasped as all of the dizzying heat from before rushed back. Fred lifted his head to admire the red mark she guessed was forming.
"What was that for?" She was still a little breathless.
Lifting one shoulder, his lips quirked at her. "You always did look good in red."
Someone who, despite everything, made her feel beautiful without trying. Someone who encouraged her bookish qualities. Someone who urged her to find fun in everything she did.
And, she added as he growled and pulled her dress strap away from her shoulder with his teeth, making her giggle, someone she liked. Really, truly, liked. Someone who could be her Ron, without all of Ron's qualities.
Merlin, this was difficult.
This is someone you will remember for the rest of your life, she told herself. If you go through with this, this will be listed under your 'first time' memory.
Can you stand it?
As Hermione sat up, Fred backed off, his eyebrows raised in confusion. His erection wasn't a match for his gold-lined pants. She bit her lip as she looked away.
"Hermione?"
One strap was hanging off her shoulder, while the other was firmly in place. She reached up, covering her chest. Fred shifted back a second time. The tightness in her chest died.
The volcano was still there. But she had no reason to fear. She had a net. She only had to use it, that and her miles and miles of dizzying courage.
"Hermione?"
She pulled down the other strap so they matched. When she looked up at Fred from underneath her eyelashes, his face was tinted pink, as if he had been in the sun too long.
"Impatient," she murmured, bold and Gryffindor.
Fred's throat bobbed as he nodded. She had never seen this look from him, or maybe she had never noticed it before. Like she was the newest WWW chain and he couldn't wait to step inside.
Bad analogy, she thought, but shook her frown off as her fingers slipped to her buttons. Tightness existed in her chest still, but it wasn't the suffocating, tiny room and too much dust kind from before. When she breathed it came out shaky. Fred's, just as.
And that was what she should have focused on. Fred wasn't some horrible boy who would use her up and discard her. Fred wasn't taking anything from her today. Fred wanted Hermione.
And it wasn't world-defying love, or the slow-burning one she held—had held—for Ron, but it was enough. For right now.
Hermione's choice.
She unbuttoned the first button. The second. Fred started helping by the third, and when the dress was off, he pressed her back onto the mattress and touched her as if he had never touched skin before.
Reverently. Exploring. Leaving wet marks after his path. Another red bruise on her stomach that Hermione would later touch and still feel his lips there, sucking.
Hermione's choice.
She made it. She could live with it.
He reached her knickers. Hermione had chosen them that morning knowing—something would happen. She hadn't quite imagined that something would be Fred's fingers curling under them and slipping them off. Or just how the sight of him admiring her naked body would disarm her. Take her breath away.
There was warmth and Merlin, she never felt this before, like her psyche could be torn open and put back together again with just a look from those blue eyes, and a razor-edge flash of pain-pleasure as he dragged his tongue over her.
"It's - I - Merlin!"
"Hm." Fred pulled away a centimeter, just enough for her to feel his hum against her skin. His eyes twinkled at her, and it was so incongruous, where he was and that bloody smile, that she could only bite her lip.
He said, "Saying the wrong bloke's name is usually frowned upon, you know."
"Oh." His fingertips traced the insides of her thighs. She tried to speak a second time. "Oh, is it?"
"Especially dead ones," he said with a grin. She didn't get to relax as he leaned forward, tongue swirling around her clit and things got a little blurry for a moment, blurry and sharp as she gasped, her top half arching off the pillows.
"Steady," Fred murmured, his hand pressed flat against her stomach, holding her down. She gasped some more, staring at the ceiling in shock. She didn't know it could be like that. He didn't pull back, kept on, and his tongue - down there was so foreign, pinned her to the corkboard of pleasure. She never thought of sex as this, like lightning during a stifling rain shower.
She found her mouth saying, "Please, F-Fred, please," working without her, out of her control, as his fingers twisted inside her and his tongue ruined her for future men.
Pleasure spread through her body like rain soaking through the carpet, but most of it stayed pooled in her stomach, taut and heavy. Then air, cold and sharp. Her hands reached for him as he crawled up her body, made her think he was made of bees for how her skin buzzed after contact. Or maybe that was just the high. What was the difference?
Weighing her breast with one hand, he leaned down and licked up the moisture he'd collected from her quim. Wasn't it supposed to be the other way? she thought hazily. As Fred drifted to her other breast, teeth sliding across her skin in a way she hadn't anticipated from him, Hermione realised it didn't matter. This was how Fred did it, it was right. Fred was reality.
He lifted up and slanted his lips over hers. Once, twice, moth kisses without any weight. "Helga's hat," he murmured between kisses. "You are the best thing."
Her fingers curled over his shoulders. He vibrated—no, trembled—with tension.
"I think"—she swallowed—"ditto on other witch's names."
Fred didn't even respond to the joke, however tremulously it was offered. He shifted his body to the side of her and his broad palm swept down to her outer thigh, kneading and squeezing. The knowledge that he was hard couldn't be ignored now, his prick tight against her thigh, his restless hips making it move against her leg. His blue eyes were fraught with hunger when he pulled his eyes away from the sight, and his voice brimmed with more than hunger, raspy and raw. "Can I?"
She nodded. Unequivocally.
His pent-up breath released, he pressed his face into the blanket, flushed skin next to her neck. His next words were muffled into the pillow. "I have potion in my jeans pocket. Far, far away from nude you. This is an impossible quest. I might die." Her chest trembled. He turned his head so he was murmuring right in her ear. "You're laughing at me, aren't you?"
"I took one already."
A surprised pause. She smiled, feeling, well, very Freddish.
Fred sat up and gave her his trickster grin, like she had just pranked Mrs. Weasley. Or—she gasped as his hand dipped between her thighs again—like he was planning on doing very naughty things to her.
Which, she thought, considering the closed door and the state of their apparel, was quite the point.
Fred's grin quirked. "Planning on something, were you?"
"Not as such," she said. She tried for cool. Came out restrained. His thumb started repeating the swirls his tongue had made.
Her hips arched. "Fr- I want. I—"
"Spread your legs," he said, that rawness back in his eyes and voice.
She did, kicking aside the sheet that tried to tangle her, her knee in the air. That relieved some of the ache, some, as her hips twisted, seeking, for friction.
Pulling down his briefs took but a second. Then his hands were at her thighs, spreading her wider, open before him. The waistband of his pants dug into her leg as she looked up at him, mouth dry. A smattering of freckles across his chest looked like multiple Big Dippers and his breath hissed out as her fingernails moved over his stomach. She couldn't quite look lower as he positioned himself. Felt him, thick and cool in a way that contrasted with her hot cunt.
She caught Fred pausing, gazing at her face. She tilted her chin back, tried to swallow back the fear. "Kiss me?"
He did, deep and gentle. His thumb tickling her nipple. His hips moving forward, forward, until her nails pressed into his ribs.
"'kay?"
She nodded into his shoulder. She couldn't speak. This was almost worse than riding a dragon. At least she had some control there, control over just when she jumped off its back, control in the chaos. This. This wasn't. It felt like getting stuck behind a heavy piece of furniture, awkward and uncomfortable, and quite unsure what to do with your limbs.
She kept her unattractive thoughts to herself. She was sure Fred wouldn't appreciate being labeled a sofa or a washing machine.
Fred groaned, shuddering, and dropped his head. A moment passed where she barely heard him breathing.
"Are you laughing?"
"No," she said, grimacing at the ceiling.
Fred's voice came out weak but suspicious. "Your voice came out squeaky there, dove."
Another flush spread across her face, but this wasn't an aroused one, but embarrassment. She covered her face with her free hand. She swallowed. Maybe if she pretended otherwise, he wouldn't notice.
"Maybe that's my sex voice."
Chest shaking, he lifted away from her. He sat up. She pressed her lips into a white line, aware of his movement inside her but wrapped up in her embarrassment. Fred gave a dramatic sigh. "You're an expert already. I should have expected this."
"Should have," she agreed, and then forgot to analyze exactly why she was embarrassed as he lightly thrust. That was different. Before, it was pressure, sharp and painful, but this was movement, sliding against her walls. Her abdomen tightened as he cupped her thighs and pulled her hips toward his.
"Oh," she whispered. There was a spot inside her, something almost like she needed to go to the bathroom but—"Oh, oh, oh."
The rain was back, relentless. His fingers dug into her thighs, the sheet crumpled under her back, and her hands further assaulted them by curling into them as Fred's hips snapped forward. Again and again.
This was sex.
Her hips searched out more of that oh. His hands sliding up her body, leaving icicles in his wake, he pressed forward, warm chest to warm chest.
Her hand lifted to twist in the hair at the back of his neck. He groaned and pushed himself back enough to talk into her right breast. "Think I'm gonna break the name rule."
She hit his shoulder lightly. "You're supposed to be making this romantic for me."
He glanced up her body at her. "Hey! I thought I was the one being romanced."
His teeth flashed with his grin and she giggled. So this was what being an adult feels like, she thought. Teasing her—she paused—lover as he grinned back up at her, then watching as he took her nipple into his mouth. She didn't have to define this, just enjoy it.
She liked his weight on top of her, shifted her hips to welcome it. It felt a lot more comfortable than his prick inside her, still, and her body instinctively trying to force him out. She smacked his arm again.
If only he would move, she would feel good again.
"Careful, Granger, or I might think you have a fetish," he said. He must have rested enough, because he sat back. His gaze swept over her body, laid out under him, and she flushed hard. His eyes had a dark, heavy look, heavy like his cock inside her. She wouldn't be able to see anything else when she closed her eyes.
Her head dug into the pillow as he thrust, hard. Her mouth opened, indistinguishable words stumbling out as the mattress squeaked with their motions. Her hips lifted to meet his, dragged by his hands.
Closing his eyes, his breaths came hard through his nose. He started making those noises again, tiny, sexy mmfs as his fingers dug into her hips.
There was pleasure there, tingling along her body like a singular rain drop sliding down her spine. His hands, those noises, the messy sheets, his cock… She pressed her palms flat to the headboard, ached forward, ached for him, ached for the eye of this storm.
It came like thunder. Slow and growling, rumbling under her skin, down her veins toward the juncture of her thighs, as tumbling as the waves in the sea. The mattress squeaked, but Fred's breaths were louder, closer, his moans like a wet finger pressed against her clit.
"Please, please." Her hips twisted helplessly, her nails pressed against the headboard. A whine sounded at the back of her throat as he ground his thumb against her clit. "Pleasepleaseplease."
He groaned, "Merlin," as she came.
As they rested beside each other, Hermione's legs between his and her hand wrapped around his elbow, Hermione said, "Fred?"
"Mmf?"
He had his face pressed into the pillow, his sweaty hair a dark red. She grinned, leaning forward to touch her lips to his shoulder.
"Should I be worried?"
Her leg slipped out from between his as he shifted on the pillow to look at her. His eyes were lazy and unfocused, his voice thick with rest. "What?"
"Merlin?"
A pause.
"Oh, you're a horrible witch," he growled, "using a bloke's words against him like that." He pulled his arm away from her. She rolled away from him on the mattress and he chased, until they ended up in a painful, laughing lump on the floor.
The dances stops when the music stops. This music, Hermione was sure, wouldn't stop for a long time. After all, as Ron had failed to find out, once she had her man, she would do everything to keep him.
The music hadn't stopped yet.
*
Hermione shook her long, gray hair out as she pulled out of the Pensieve. Objective does not quite do it anymore, she thought with a touch of regret. Memories were all she had of Fred now and though viewing them through her Pensieve brought her some relief, it stirred up more longing.
She looked toward the mantle, covered in picture frames, arms of her children and grandchildren and, just recently, her great grandchild.
And Fred.
She smiled as she looked away. Soon, love.
A witch always knows when her time comes. Hermione could feel the coming day weighing her down.
The ink was fresh and came out of her quill like Fred's touch on her young skin.
Dear Rose and Hugo… This is the beginning of your dear old Mum and Dad's dance.
She glanced at the Pensieve. Something like Fred's mischievous grin grew on her lips.
Maybe she didn't have to show them everything.