Crying after Curfew
The castle was eerily quiet at this hour, the only sounds the occasional drip of water from the high ceilings and the distant creak of the moving staircases. The stone corridors were cast in shadows, with the flickering torches barely cutting through the overwhelming darkness. It was as if the entire school had gone to sleep, and she was the last person awake in this ancient, sprawling building. The stillness felt oppressive, like the walls were closing in on her, and Hermione could feel a knot of anxiety tightening in her chest with every step she took.
Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, though not from the cold that seeped into her bones. It was more to hold herself together—if she let go even for a second, she feared the floodgates would open, and all the tears she’d been holding back would come rushing to the surface. She wiped furiously at her cheeks, but it was no use. The fight with Ron had been too much, too personal, and too raw for her to shake off easily.
It had all started innocently enough. A disagreement over their homework schedule—who was supposed to revise for what, which subject needed more attention—but, as often happened with Ron, it spiralled out of control so quickly that neither of them had time to realize what was happening. He’d made a sarcastic comment about her always being the one to take charge, about how she was always “the bossy one,” and, for a split second, she’d felt the sting of his words more sharply than she cared to admit.
But it didn’t stop there.
Ron, with his usual bluntness, had lashed out in a way that made her feel like she was being stripped bare, vulnerable in a way she hated. “You always think you know best, don’t you, Hermione?” he’d snapped, his voice rising. “Maybe I’m tired of it. Maybe I’m tired of always being second to your perfection. You act like you’re the only one who’s allowed to be right!”
She had opened her mouth to argue, to defend herself, but the words had gotten caught in her throat. He’d been angry—angry in a way she didn’t know how to handle—and it had felt like everything they’d built over the years was suddenly teetering on the edge of something fragile and broken.
And then, just when she thought it couldn’t get worse, Ron had said something that shattered the calm façade she’d worked so hard to maintain. “Maybe you should just admit it,” he’d said, voice cutting through the space between them. “You don’t really care about me, do you? You only care about being right. About always being the one with all the answers. I don’t need someone who feels better than me, Hermione. You make it so obvious.”
That was the moment she’d completely lost it, her temper flaring, her heart breaking all at once. Her breath had come out in short gasps, her chest tightening as the tears she’d been holding back threatened to spill. It was like Ron had torn open a wound she hadn’t even known was there, one that went deeper than homework schedules or arguments over trivial matters. It was about how, despite everything, she still feared that, one day, Ron might just realize that he deserved better than her.
She’d stormed out of the room, running without any clear destination, needing to get away. But now, as she wandered through the cold, empty corridors of Hogwarts, she couldn’t escape the echo of his words. The hurt and the frustration gnawed at her insides, mixing with the loneliness that seemed to grow in the space between her and Ron. Was he right? Did she come across as someone who didn’t care? Did she really make him feel second best?
Her mind raced, every step heavier than the last. She wiped furiously at her cheeks again, trying to stem the flow of tears, but it was a losing battle. The worst part was, she wasn’t even sure what she was hoping to find by walking through the castle at this hour. A moment of solitude? A place to clear her head? Or was she running from something that was always just out of her reach?
As she reached the next staircase, she heard it—the telltale sound of footsteps echoing through the corridor. Her heart lurched in panic. She froze, her breath catching in her throat. Filch? A Prefect? Professor McGonagall?
The thought of being caught like this—tear-streaked, trembling—was unbearable. She couldn’t face anyone right now, especially not a professor or a prefect. The last thing she needed was to be questioned about why she was out after curfew, let alone be caught in such a vulnerable state.
Instinctively, Hermione flattened herself against the cold stone wall, her heart hammering in her chest as she frantically scanned the dimly lit corridor. The faint echoes of footsteps bounced off the walls, making it impossible to determine where they were coming from. She glanced over her shoulder, considering her options: should she risk running, or find another place to hide? The winding corridors of Hogwarts seemed to stretch endlessly in front of her, and for a moment, it felt like the walls themselves were closing in. She had to get away, had to hide.
Just as she was about to slip behind a suit of armour to the left, strong hands suddenly grabbed her from behind, yanking her into the shadows. A sharp gasp tore from her lips, and she instinctively fought back, but her struggle was met with a quiet chuckle. Before she could even process what was happening, she found herself pressed into a small alcove, hidden behind an ancient tapestry. The cool, damp air in the alcove wrapped around her like a second skin, and she stilled, heart pounding in her ears.
The sudden, overwhelming presence of two figures next to her was both a shock and, somehow, a relief. The scent of parchment and fireworks clung to them—something familiar and oddly comforting. It was Fred and George.
"Easy there, Granger," Fred whispered, his voice low and playful, though there was an undercurrent of concern in it. "Didn’t mean to scare you. Well, not too much, anyway."
Hermione exhaled sharply, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. The tightness in her chest only seemed to intensify with every passing second. She had been on edge ever since the argument with Ron, and now, caught in this narrow, dark alcove, the emotions she had been desperately holding back were bubbling up to the surface. Her hands trembled as she wiped at her eyes, knowing that she needed to keep her composure. She didn’t want to appear weak, not even in front of Fred and George. Not that they’d ever make her feel that way, but it wasn’t how she wanted to be seen.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed in a whisper, the words coming out sharper than she meant. She shifted slightly, but the tiny alcove left her with nowhere to go. She was practically pressed between the twins, their warmth enveloping her, their presence overwhelming. She couldn’t help but notice how much closer they seemed now, their proximity far more intimate than anything she had expected.
"Dodging Filch," George murmured, his breath brushing against her ear, so close that Hermione could almost feel his words on her skin. “Same as you, it seems.”
Fred leaned in even closer, his face just inches from hers, as he observed her more closely, his teasing expression softening into something more serious. He seemed to notice everything in that moment—the way her shoulders were slumped, how she couldn’t quite meet his gaze, how her breath still came in soft, shaky bursts. The usual mischief in his eyes dimmed for a moment as he gave her a penetrating look, something deeper and more concerned than his usual playful demeanour.
“But something tells me you weren’t sneaking around for fun,” Fred added, his voice gentler now, though still with that signature twinkle in his eyes.
Hermione’s breath hitched in her throat. She turned her head sharply, trying to hide the fresh wave of emotion that threatened to spill over, but it was too late. Even in the dim light, they could see it. They could see everything.
George’s usual smirk faded into a more serious expression, his brows furrowing as he shifted closer to her. He was the first to speak, his voice unusually gentle. “Hermione,” he said quietly, his tone filled with concern, “Why are you crying?”
The question hung in the air for a long moment. She felt the weight of his words in the pit of her stomach, and her breath caught as she swallowed the lump in her throat. She stiffened, her chest tightening as the emotions she had been pushing down all night came rushing back. She didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to let them in. Not now. Not like this.
But she couldn’t hold it in any longer.
A shaky breath escaped her lips before she could stop it, and she let out a strangled whisper. “Just… had a fight with Ron,” she confessed, the words coming out ragged and small. “A bad one.”
Fred and George exchanged a glance over her head, their eyes meeting in silent understanding. A silent conversation passed between them, one that Hermione couldn’t quite follow, but somehow she didn’t need to. It was as if they both understood, as if they knew exactly how much Ron’s words had hurt her, how deeply the argument had cut.
Without another word, George moved first. His hand, warm and reassuring, slipped around her shoulders, gently pulling her closer to him. He didn’t rush her; he simply offered a steady presence, a silent promise that he wouldn’t push her, wouldn’t force her to talk if she wasn’t ready. It was exactly what she needed in that moment—comfort, not questions.
Fred followed suit, his presence steadying as he leaned in just a little, offering warmth and support without overwhelming her. His usual cheeky grin softened, replaced with an unspoken understanding. “He’s an idiot,” Fred muttered, his voice laced with genuine frustration. “But you already knew that.”
Hermione let out a quiet, watery laugh at the words, shaking her head slightly as the tears continued to fall. “Yeah,” she admitted, her voice thick and fragile. “I did.”
George’s hand gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, his other hand lingering on her arm as if anchoring her to this moment, to this small space where, for a brief moment, everything else in the world didn’t matter. “Want us to prank him?” he asked, his voice lightening. “Something classic? Maybe dye his hair green? Or make his robes disappear mid-breakfast?”
Hermione sniffled, the smallest of smiles tugging at her lips as she felt the first stirrings of something akin to normalcy. “Tempting,” she murmured, leaning just slightly into George’s hold. “But no.”
Fred tilted his head, considering her response with an exaggerated air of mock seriousness. “Alright, but if you change your mind, we’ll be happy to make his life mildly unbearable for a while.”
Hermione felt her body relax ever so slightly, the warmth of their presence washing over her in a way she hadn’t expected. They weren’t rushing her, weren’t expecting anything from her. They were just here—two boys who understood, who saw beyond the tears and the tension, who made her feel like she didn’t have to carry the weight of everything on her own.
For a long while, they just sat there, cocooned in the small alcove, hidden from the rest of the world. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable; it was soothing. Hermione had spent so much of her life trying to be strong, trying to shoulder everything on her own, but in this moment, she let herself sink into their quiet comfort. She let herself feel. Let herself be weak.
George nudged her lightly, a gentle reminder that he was there, that they were both there. “You okay now?”
Hermione nodded, though she wasn’t sure how much of it was the truth. But in that moment, it felt real enough. “Yeah,” she said, her voice softer than she expected. “Thanks.”
Fred grinned, the mischievous glint returning to his eyes, though it was tempered by something tender. “Anytime, Granger,” he said, his voice lighter now. “Now, how about we make our escape before Filch finds us and decides to give us all detention for the rest of the year?”
George smirked. “Not that we’d mind detention with you, of course.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, but a genuine warmth settled in her chest. For once, she wasn’t alone. “Come on, before I regret hiding with you two.”
With that, the three of them slipped from behind the tapestry, moving like shadows through the castle halls. They moved quickly and quietly, bound together by a shared sense of camaraderie and something unspoken that lingered between them—an understanding that didn’t need words to be felt. As they crept through the dark corridors, their soft laughter echoed, a sound of comfort and trust in the stillness of the night.