The Mistletoe Mishap
It was still early in the morning, the faintest hint of dawn barely painting the sky in soft hues of pink and orange as Hermione stepped out of her room. The Burrow, as always, felt like a refuge in the quiet moments before the chaos of the day began. The house was still and peaceful, save for the occasional crackling of the fireplace, the embers inside throwing off a soft, glowing warmth. Her footsteps were light, careful, so as not to wake anyone else. The wooden floorboards beneath her feet creaked in that familiar way, but the sound was more comforting than alarming. It felt like she was part of the house now, a quiet observer in the early hours of the day.
She’d woken up much earlier than she intended, her thoughts refusing to let her fall back to sleep after the night’s festivities. The laughter, the jokes, the never-ending energy of the Weasley family had left her feeling both content and slightly restless. A cup of tea, her own little solace, was enough to coax her downstairs in search of a little solitude. There was a stillness to the early morning hours that made the chaos of the previous night seem like a distant memory. It was the perfect time for Hermione to centre herself before the bustle of the day began in earnest.
As she quietly made her way down the hall toward the kitchen, the scent of warm wood and the faintest traces of cinnamon from the night’s festivities still lingered in the air. It was a time she cherished—the few moments of calm before everything became a blur of noise and activity.
But as she rounded the corner into the hallway, the silence was broken by an unexpected sight that made her pause mid-step. As her gaze slowly drifted from the mistletoe down to the figure standing directly beneath it, her stomach fluttered uncomfortably. There, his hands casually tucked in his pockets, stood George Weasley. He was watching her with an expression of amused satisfaction, his trademark grin playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Morning, Hermione," George greeted her, his voice carrying a lilt of amusement. His grin was wide and mischievous, the same playful gleam in his eyes that she had come to expect from him at all times. But there was something about this moment that felt different. Something in the way he regarded her, something in his tone, that felt more personal than the usual cheeky banter. "Seems you’ve found yourself caught under the mistletoe. Can’t say I’m surprised. It’s practically a tradition around here, isn’t it?"
Hermione’s heart gave an unexpected lurch. She hadn’t even noticed the mistletoe when she was walking down the hall, and now that she was standing directly beneath it, she realized she had unwittingly walked straight into one of Fred and George’s classic setups. Her mind raced as she processed the situation. It had to be one of their pranks, but this time, the mistletoe wasn’t just an accessory—it was on her, a stark reminder that there was no easy way out of this.
George’s grin widened as he took a subtle step closer, the faintest air of triumph about him. His eyes sparkled, alive with the energy of someone who had orchestrated yet another of his successful schemes. "What? You’re not going to get all shy on me now, are you? It’s only Christmas, after all." He tilted his head slightly, his smile softening in a way that made Hermione’s breath hitch. For a fleeting moment, she could have sworn there was a glimmer of something else behind his usual teasing—a vulnerability she rarely saw in him.
"George," Hermione began, her voice tinged with a mix of confusion and frustration, though she was doing her best to keep it light, "you—you—did this, didn’t you?" Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if accusing him, though the hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips despite herself. She hadn’t expected to be caught off guard, not by this, and certainly not by George. The Weasley twins were always pulling pranks on her, but this felt different—more deliberate, more... intimate.
George raised both hands in mock surrender, a playful glint dancing in his eyes. "Me? I’m just a humble bystander, Hermione." He made a show of looking around, feigning innocence. "It’s not my fault you happened to stumble right into it." His voice held that familiar teasing quality, the one she knew well, but his stance had softened, and his gaze lingered on her just a little longer than usual.
Hermione shook her head, her fingers self-consciously brushing against the sleeve of her jumper as she glanced around, searching desperately for some way to escape the situation. The walls of the Burrow felt impossibly close all of a sudden, as if they were closing in on her. She had no idea how she had ended up here, caught under the mistletoe in the early morning, heart racing and cheeks flushed with an embarrassment that seemed to deepen with every passing second. I can’t believe I’m standing here like this, she thought, mortified, her thoughts spiralling in every direction.
She could already hear Fred’s voice in her head, echoing that mock-serious tone from the night before when he’d teased her about "unexpected kisses" beneath the mistletoe. She could almost see his wicked grin, his eyes dancing with that irrepressible humour of his. Of course, it would be George she found herself with under the mistletoe this time. Of course, she thought wryly, feeling the rush of warmth spreading across her face. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or groan at the absurdity of it all.
George’s grin only widened, clearly delighted by the flustered expression that had taken over Hermione’s face. It was one of those moments when he didn’t have to say a word to make her feel like she was in the most ridiculous predicament possible. The sheer satisfaction in his gaze made it feel as though he had orchestrated this entire thing just for the pleasure of watching her squirm.
"Oh, come on, Hermione," George said, his voice low and smooth, laced with playful mischief that seemed more like a soft tease than anything malicious. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes locking with hers as he took another subtle step forward. "It’s Christmas. You’re not going to leave a fellow Weasley hanging, are you?"
The words, meant to be light-hearted, hit her in a strange way. She stared at him, blinking, trying to process what was happening. Her mind was racing, her thoughts tangled together in a chaotic swirl. She was standing directly beneath the mistletoe, and though she hated to admit it, there was something unspoken in the air between them. Something that made her heart race and her palms sweat. The way George was looking at her, with that quiet, almost tender expression, felt more intimate than any prank she had ever experienced.
It was ridiculous, really. This wasn’t a real kiss. This wasn’t anything like that. It was just a prank. Just Fred and George’s way of making everyone uncomfortable—except it was working. It was working on her, and that thought made her feel more uneasy than she’d care to admit.
But George wasn’t moving. He wasn’t laughing or retreating to make this some harmless joke. He stood there, his eyes focused entirely on her, and for the briefest of moments, Hermione felt as if the world had narrowed down to just the two of them standing there under the mistletoe. The other sounds of the house—distant creaks from the upper floors, the crackle of the fire—seemed to fade into the background. It was just George. And her.
"So," George said, his voice dropping slightly, softer now, and less teasing. "What’s it going to be? I’m sure you don’t want to leave me hanging here all day."
His words, though playful, had an underlying warmth that caught her off guard. The teasing was still there, but it wasn’t the same. His tone was more sincere than she was used to, and it made her heart flutter in a way she hadn’t expected. Hermione swallowed thickly, her pulse quickening as she tried to steady herself. She wasn’t sure why she was feeling so nervous. She wasn’t sure why her breath was coming just a little too fast, her chest tight.
She could walk around the mistletoe, couldn’t she? Surely, she could just step out of the trap, sidestep the prank and get away from the situation entirely. But something about the way George was standing there, blocking her path, made her hesitate. The charm seemed to move with a mind of its own, like it had been enchanted to follow her around. She had a feeling the twins had designed it to ensure there was no escaping it. The mistletoe was a constant reminder that she was caught.
She could have laughed at the absurdity of it all, the unlikeliness of her being in this very position—standing under mistletoe with George Weasley in the quiet hours of the morning—but her mind felt too tangled, her thoughts too jumbled to do anything except stand there, frozen.
And then, despite herself, she found herself giving in. The odd pressure between them was too much to ignore. The air was thick with unspoken words and subtle tension, and her own curiosity about what this moment might feel like made her hesitate even further.
"Fine," she muttered, finally breaking the silence, her voice coming out in a rush, too quickly, as if she wanted to get the whole thing over with. She looked away, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment. "But this is just for the sake of tradition, all right? Nothing more."
George’s smirk softened, just a fraction, and for a split second, Hermione saw something else in his eyes—something that made her pause. It was a flicker of sincerity, something far deeper than the usual mischievous glint she had grown accustomed to. But before she could analyze it, George moved, leaning in slightly, his hand gently resting on her shoulder as he lowered his lips to her cheek.
The kiss was quick, almost chaste, but in its simplicity, it sent a jolt of warmth rushing through her. His lips brushed against her skin with a soft pressure that lingered longer than the actual contact itself. It wasn’t anything like the romantic kisses she had read about in books or seen in movies, but something about the gentle nature of it—the kindness, perhaps, or the sincerity—felt more significant than she was prepared to admit.
It was over before she had a chance to fully comprehend what had happened. As soon as his lips left her cheek, she blinked in surprise, her mind struggling to catch up with the unexpected turn of events. For a long second, she just stood there, stunned into silence, trying to make sense of what had just occurred.
George, however, was already retreating, a small but genuine smile playing at the corners of his lips. His eyes were sparkling once more, but there was a softness to them now—something that hadn't been there before.
"See?" he said softly, his voice quieter than usual. "Wasn’t so bad, was it?"
Hermione blinked again, her heart still racing, her thoughts swirling in confusion. She tried to collect herself, to regain some semblance of control over her emotions, but it was difficult when she felt so... unsettled. She wanted to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come.
Instead, she took a small, unsteady step back, her gaze dropping to the floor as she tried to compose herself. The warmth of the kiss still lingered on her cheek, a faint, tingling reminder of the moment, and it made her feel both embarrassed and... something else, something she couldn’t name.
"Right," she muttered, her voice shaky as she turned to walk away, eager to regain some distance from the moment. "Well, I should probably go make that tea."
George’s amused smirk returned, but there was something more genuine behind it now—something that made Hermione feel like she had just stepped into something much more complicated than she had intended.
As she walked around him, trying to keep her composure, she couldn’t shake the strange warmth that seemed to radiate from the spot where his lips had briefly touched her cheek. The sensation was almost electric, as if the touch had left behind a lingering trace of something she wasn’t ready to acknowledge.
She couldn’t decide whether she wanted to laugh, cry, or just disappear altogether, but as she headed toward the kitchen, one thought kept looping in her mind: This Christmas was going to be far more complicated than she had ever expected.
Hermione made her way to the kitchen, the weight of the kiss still lingering on her cheek. She tried to shake off the fluttering sensation, convincing herself it was just the result of a prank, a silly moment that would pass. She needed to focus, to distract herself from the sudden awkwardness that had settled in her chest. A warm cup of tea would do just the trick—simple, comforting, and completely unrelated to any embarrassing moments involving the Weasley twins.
The kitchen was peaceful at this early hour, bathed in the soft glow of the firelight, the quiet hum of the house somehow soothing. She made her way to the kettle, filled it with water, and set it on the stove, the familiar, mundane task offering her a welcome distraction. She opened the cupboard to grab the tea leaves, her mind still whirling from her interaction with George. It had been just a kiss on the cheek—nothing more—but it had felt strangely significant, as though something had shifted between them. She frowned, trying to force the thought from her mind.
Just as she was about to turn and grab a mug, the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoed from behind her.
Before she could react, the faintest rustle of movement caught her eye. She turned instinctively, her heart sinking when she realized where she had unwittingly found herself: directly beneath another sprig of mistletoe. Her stomach twisted with an uncomfortable, familiar sensation, but before she could do anything about it, the sound of the door opening broke the stillness of the kitchen.
Fred Weasley walked in, his trademark grin already spreading across his face as he saw her standing there, caught under the mistletoe once again. It was too late for her to move now—the charm seemed to hum softly, as if confirming that she couldn’t escape the situation.
"Well, well, Hermione," Fred said, his eyes sparkling with the same mischievous gleam she’d come to expect from him. He crossed the room with the kind of casual confidence that only he and his brother possessed. "Seems you’ve found yourself in another pickle. Under the mistletoe, no less. Just like George, eh?"
Hermione’s cheeks flamed with a sudden rush of heat. She hadn’t been paying enough attention when she walked into the kitchen, and now she found herself in yet another embarrassing position. The very last thing she needed was for Fred to make a big deal out of it.
“I—I didn’t mean to!” she stammered, her hands awkwardly adjusting the cup in front of her as she tried to break the tension. "I was just making tea, and—"
Fred raised an eyebrow, cutting her off with a casual wave of his hand. "No need to explain," he said smoothly, his voice laced with playful amusement. "We all know how the mistletoe works around here."
Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Fred was already stepping closer, a wicked grin still firmly in place. Before she could react, he paused just beneath the mistletoe, his eyes locking onto hers. The room seemed to shrink as the weight of the charm settled between them, the unmistakable magic of the mistletoe making it impossible to avoid.
“I’m afraid,” Fred said, his voice taking on an exaggerated, mock-serious tone, "that there’s no way out of this one, Hermione. The mistletoe’s magic ensures it. Once you’re caught, you can’t escape. And I’m a Weasley, after all," he added with a wink. "We never leave anyone hanging.”
Hermione, who had been so focused on getting away from the awkward situation, felt a shiver of unease run down her spine. The idea of Fred kissing her—however casual or innocent it might seem—felt different than with George. She wasn’t sure why, but her heart was beating faster now, her stomach fluttering with a strange mixture of embarrassment and something else she couldn’t quite place.
“Fred,” she began, her voice a little shakier than she intended, “you don’t have to—”
“Oh, but I do,” Fred interrupted her with a mock pout, his grin widening. “I’m a gentleman, you know. I simply cannot allow you to remain in such a compromising position.”
Before Hermione could make a retort, Fred had already closed the distance between them, leaning in with a dramatic flourish, his hand gently brushing against her arm. The moment his lips made contact with her cheek, it was as swift and unexpected as George’s had been, but this time, something about it felt more lingering. The kiss was light, playful—yet somehow, it carried with it a weight that George’s had not.
The warmth of Fred’s lips left a trace of heat on her skin, and for a split second, Hermione could do nothing but stand frozen in place, her mind racing. Her thoughts scattered, as if her brain couldn’t keep up with the sudden shift in the atmosphere. Fred pulled back just as quickly as he had leaned in, his expression still mischievous but with a slight softness behind it. There was something in his eyes—a kind of quiet satisfaction, as though he was savouring the moment.
“See?” he said, his tone more teasing than anything else. “It wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Hermione could barely speak. Her mouth had gone dry, and she was sure her cheeks were as red as a beetroot. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Fred’s kiss had been so fast, so playful, yet it felt different than anything she’d ever expected. It was nothing like the friendly, carefree teasing that typically defined her interactions with the twins. There was an odd sweetness to it, something that made her heart pound faster.
“Well,” she finally managed, her voice quiet, “I suppose that’s… that’s tradition, too, isn’t it?”
Fred’s grin softened at her response, and for the briefest moment, she saw something more genuine behind the mischief. “You’re a good sport, Hermione,” he said with a wink, stepping back and giving her space. “Now, I’ll leave you to your tea. But you’re still under the mistletoe, just so you know.” He paused, his eyes twinkling as if to emphasize the point. “So… I’m just saying. If you’re planning on getting out of here, you might want to think about making a wish.”
Fred made a show of turning and walking toward the door, but Hermione was still frozen in place, trying to process the whirlwind of emotions that were suddenly swirling within her. She couldn’t help but feel a strange, fluttering sensation in her chest, like the ground beneath her was shifting with each passing moment. She had kissed George, and now Fred. They were just pranks, yes—just part of the Weasley twins’ relentless teasing. But why did it feel like there was more to it?
As Fred disappeared from view, Hermione shook her head, trying to shake off the lingering thoughts. She looked back up at the mistletoe, the magic still hanging in the air. Somehow, she had the distinct feeling that this Christmas, beneath the twinkling lights and the enchanted kisses, things were about to get even more complicated.