What We’re Not Saying
Breakfast at the Burrow used to be chaos.
Waffles flying, George charming the spoons to stir on their own, Ginny groaning about early mornings while Arthur read the Daily Prophet upside down. Molly would bark orders, Fred would crack jokes that made Ron choke on his juice, and Percy would roll his eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in his head.
Now, it was mostly quiet.
There were still eggs and toast and tea, but the energy was subdued. Laughter was rare. And every time someone was late to the table, Molly’s eyes darted to the door like she was bracing for news no mother should ever hear.
Hermione sat at the far end, sipping tea she wasn’t tasting, reading a report from Kingsley about a possible ambush location in Wiltshire. Her eyes were puffy from lack of sleep, her quill tapping lightly against the table.
Fred dropped into the seat beside her, too casually to be an accident.
“Morning, sunshine,” he said under his breath.
Hermione didn’t look up. “It’s barely even light out.”
Fred smirked. “So dramatic. You’d think you’d been up all night worrying about dark wizards or something.”
She shot him a tired look, but there was the faintest curl of a smile at the corner of her mouth. There you are, Fred thought.
From across the table, George raised an eyebrow.
Ginny, sitting beside him, narrowed her eyes at Hermione, then at Fred, then looked positively delighted.
Fred noticed the shift and gave her a subtle shake of his head. She winked back anyway.
George leaned in with a smirk. “So,” he said loudly, “Hermione, how’s that report on the ambush site? Need a second set of eyes? Or maybe just Fred’s eyes specifically?”
Hermione blushed immediately. “I—what?”
Fred turned to George. “You’re hilarious, really. Have you considered stand-up comedy? Maybe a solo act. Far, far away from me.”
Ginny bit back a laugh. “I think it’s cute.”
“We are not—” Hermione began, but her voice was too shrill, too defensive.
Fred sighed. “Nice going.”
George held up his hands. “Hey, just trying to lighten the mood.”
“You’re going to suffocate the mood if you keep pushing,” Fred muttered, and Hermione stood abruptly, tea sloshing in her cup.
“I’ll be in the garden. Alone,” she added, eyeing Ginny pointedly.
Fred gave her a beat before following.
Molly, watching the entire scene unfold from the stove, glanced at Arthur, who raised his eyebrows over his paper and said quietly, “Told you this would happen eventually.”
⸻
Hermione was pacing near the vegetable patch when he found her.
“Sorry about that,” Fred said, hands in his pockets.
“You don’t have to apologize. They’re not wrong.” She paused, chewing her lip. “I just hate being watched. Like we’re some joke.”
Fred’s face softened. “We’re not.”
“I know.”
There was a pause. Wind tugged at her curls.
“Are we…” he began, but trailed off.
Hermione turned to him. “What?”
“Are we something?” he asked. “Because if we’re not, that’s fine. But if we are, I’d like to know. Before my siblings start planning the wedding.”
Her laugh was startled. “I’m not sure. I mean, everything’s just… so much. And we’re—” She gestured helplessly at the house, the sky, the war around them. “I feel like we’re standing on the edge of something, and I don’t know if stepping forward means falling or flying.”
Fred took a step closer. “Yeah. Same.”
And then the charm bracelet on Hermione’s wrist buzzed—a silent signal from the Order.
She glanced down. The color had shifted to deep red.
Emergency.
⸻
They met Kingsley at the apparition point outside Ottery St. Catchpole.
The mission was supposed to be a sweep—check an abandoned safe house in Cornwall for hex traps, rescue anything salvageable, and get out. Standard stuff. Boring, even. But that’s what made Fred’s stomach twist.
Boring didn’t exist anymore.
They split into pairs. George and Tonks covered the back. Hermione and Fred went through the front door.
The house was cold, the magic inside rotten and sharp.
“Anti-Disapparation field is up,” Hermione whispered. “We’ll have to walk out if something goes wrong.”
Fred’s grip on his wand tightened. “That’s encouraging.”
Hermione rolled her eyes but gave him a look that was almost fond.
They moved carefully, checking each room, sending soft blue light ahead of them. In the sitting room, Fred found a half-burned book on the floor, singed at the edges. He bent to grab it.
“Fred—wait!”
But it was too late.
The moment his fingers touched it, a curse detonated.
A violent, concussive blast of magic exploded from the book, slamming both of them back into opposite walls. Fred hit the ground hard, head spinning. His ears rang. He tasted blood.
He tried to move—but couldn’t.
Across the room, Hermione was slumped against a cabinet, motionless.
No.
No.
Fred forced his limbs to respond, crawling toward her. His arm felt broken. His vision swam. But he didn’t care. “Hermione.”
No response.
“Hermione!”
He reached her, hands shaking, barely breathing. Her face was pale. A cut on her temple was bleeding. But her chest was rising.
Alive.
Relief hit him so hard he nearly sobbed.
He pressed trembling fingers to her wrist. Steady pulse.
“Hermione,” he said again, softer now. “Come on. Please.”
Her eyes fluttered open.
She blinked, confused, then winced. “Ow.”
Fred let out a laugh—sharp, ragged. “Thank Merlin. You scared the hell out of me.”
“I told you not to touch it,” she muttered.
“You really are back.”
She gave a weak smile. “You okay?”
“No,” he said honestly. “But I will be. If you are.”
He brushed her hair back gently, and her hand came up to cover his. Their eyes met—and the world around them shrank to the space between heartbeats.
Fred wanted to kiss her.
Desperately.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he leaned his forehead against hers, exhaling shakily.
“I thought I lost you.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered.
Not yet, she didn’t say.
⸻
Back at the Burrow, Molly clucked and fussed over them for an hour straight before finally letting them rest. Hermione was lying on the couch, bandaged and groggy. Fred sat on the floor beside her, not willing to leave.
George came into the room, took one look at them, and said quietly, “You didn’t kiss her?”
Fred glared. “No.”
George nodded. “Good.”
Fred blinked. “Wait—what?”
“Because if you had, and then something happened, it would’ve haunted you. Let it build. Let it mean something.”
Fred looked back at Hermione, sleeping peacefully now.
“It already does.”