The Quiet Between the Storms
The Burrow had always felt like a safe place.
A sanctuary of knitted jumpers, mismatched furniture, and the smell of fresh bread that lingered in the air even when nothing was baking. But war had a way of seeping into even the warmest corners, and now, the house creaked with unease more than comfort.
Hermione sat curled up on the window seat in Ginny’s bedroom, a thick, worn book resting on her lap. She wasn’t reading. Her eyes drifted over the same paragraph again and again, the words blurring together without meaning. Outside, the orchard stretched into twilight, bare branches trembling under the chill of late October.
She hadn’t heard from Harry or Ron in sixteen days.
Every morning she pretended to be fine, and every night she folded herself into this window like it was a spell of protection. Like sitting still might somehow make the world outside pause too.
The door creaked behind her.
“You’re going to burn a hole through that page if you keep staring at it like that.”
She turned her head slightly. Fred Weasley stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He wasn’t smiling. That in itself was unusual.
“I wasn’t really reading,” Hermione admitted softly.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “No kidding.”
Without asking, he crossed the room and sat beside her on the window seat. The cushions were narrow, and his knee brushed against hers. She stiffened, just slightly, then made herself relax.
It wasn’t unusual for Fred to talk to her. He’d been doing that more lately. Since the Order had started using the Burrow as a safehouse again, he’d been around more. Quieter than usual, but present.
“Everything alright?” he asked.
Hermione let out a breath through her nose. “Is anything?”
“Fair point.”
They sat in silence for a while. The kind that was heavier than quiet should be. The kind that held the weight of things unspoken.
She didn’t mean to say anything. Not really. But the words fell out anyway.
“I don’t know if they’re okay.”
Fred didn’t ask who. He didn’t need to.
She turned to look at him. His face was shadowed, but there was something open in his expression. Not pity. Just understanding.
“I keep telling myself they’re smart,” she continued. “That they’re together. That Harry always finds a way. But…”
“But you’re scared,” Fred finished for her, gently.
Hermione blinked. “Yes.”
Fred was quiet for a moment. Then he shifted, resting his forearms on his knees and looking out the window. “I know it’s not the same,” he said, “but when George and I were on our first mission for the Order, Mum didn’t sleep for three nights. She kept trying to make scones at 2 a.m.”
Hermione gave a soft, surprised laugh.
Fred glanced sideways, catching it. “That’s better,” he said.
She looked down at her hands, twisting the edge of her jumper between her fingers. “I just feel useless here.”
“You’re not,” Fred said firmly. “You’re holding up the bloody Order with all those plans and counter-spells. Without you, half of us would be walking into cursed doorways and drinking poisoned tea.”
Hermione smiled despite herself. “That was one time.”
“One very memorable time.”
Silence settled between them again, this time warmer.
Fred tilted his head, studying her. “You know,” he said casually, “if you ever want to talk—or not talk—I’m usually around. Doing something terribly important. Like rearranging socks or making Mum nervous.”
Hermione looked at him, really looked. His eyes were tired. There were new lines at the corners, stress maybe, or grief. But there was still that same spark beneath it. Still Fred.
“I’d like that,” she said softly.
He nodded. “Good.”
And just like that, something shifted. Not a lightning bolt. Not fireworks. Just a small, quiet thing. Like a door being left slightly open.