Ghost we live with
The worst part wasn’t the pain.
It wasn’t the curse that had slammed Hermione into a wall, or the aching in her ribs, or the dried blood in her hair.
It was the quiet.
The post-mission silence always hurt the most—when the world kept turning, but her head was still filled with screams and what-ifs. When her body was bandaged but her mind kept crawling back to that moment—Fred, shouting her name. Her own name, like it meant something more than survival.
She lay curled beneath the quilt in Ginny’s room, staring at the ceiling. The others were downstairs. She could hear murmurs through the floorboards. Fred had helped her up the stairs after the mission, his hand warm at the small of her back, like he was afraid to let go.
He hadn’t said anything.
Neither had she.
And that unsettled her more than any injury.
A knock came, soft and familiar.
“It’s just me,” Ginny called gently.
Hermione sat up slowly, wincing as her ribs pulled tight. “Come in.”
Ginny slipped inside, carrying two mugs. “Mum made hot chocolate. Said you wouldn’t sleep otherwise. She’s right, obviously.”
Hermione huffed a quiet laugh. “She usually is.”
Ginny settled beside her on the bed, passing her a mug. The chocolate was thick and sweet, laced with just a bit of calming draught—Hermione could taste it. She didn’t mind. She was too tired to fight it.
“You scared me,” Ginny said after a while, not looking at her. “When they brought you in… you weren’t waking up. Fred looked like someone had punched the air out of him.”
Hermione didn’t know what to say to that. She stared down at the mug in her hands, her voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t see it coming. The curse. I was stupid.”
“No.” Ginny’s voice was firm. “You were brave. You always are. But that doesn’t mean you have to be made of steel.”
Hermione stayed quiet. Then, softly: “It’s getting harder. Not knowing where they are. Not knowing if they’re alive.”
Ginny’s eyes filled before she could blink it away. “I know.”
Hermione looked up sharply. “Do you think about him?”
Ginny didn’t need to ask who. She nodded. “Every night. Every time I see the Prophet. Every time the Order talks about a mission and he’s not mentioned, and I think—is that a good thing or a bad one?”
Hermione reached for her hand, and Ginny squeezed hers tightly.
“I used to be so sure,” Ginny said, eyes shining. “About him. About us. But now I wake up and wonder if I’ll ever get the chance to be sure again.”
Hermione swallowed. “You still love him.”
“I do,” she whispered. “But I miss him more.”
Hermione let that sink in. Because it was the same for her—different names, different context, but the same ache. She missed Ron, her best friend. Missed Harry. But her heart was… somewhere else.
Ginny gave her a side glance. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“What’s going on with you and Fred?”
Hermione stiffened.
Ginny smirked faintly. “He’s not exactly subtle, you know. Not with you. And you… you’re different around him.”
Hermione opened her mouth. Closed it again.
“I don’t know,” she said finally. “It’s not like I planned it. It just happened.”
“And now?”
“Now I feel like I’m standing on a cliff. And if I lean forward, I don’t know if I’ll fall or fly.”
Ginny nodded slowly. “That’s exactly how I felt about Harry.”
Hermione let out a soft laugh, then quickly sobered. “Is it selfish? Wanting something that’s just for me when everything else is so… broken?”
Ginny leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “I think wanting something good is the most unselfish thing we can do right now. We have to keep parts of ourselves alive. Or the war wins before we even lose.”
Hermione blinked back sudden tears.
“Fred’s a good one,” Ginny said gently. “He hides it behind jokes, but he feels things deeply. And he’s terrified of losing people. Always has been.”
Hermione looked down at her hands. “So am I.”
“I know,” Ginny said. “But maybe being scared together is better than being scared alone.”
Hermione didn’t reply. She just pulled Ginny into a hug that said everything.
⸻
Later that night, Hermione found herself standing outside Fred’s room. Her blanket draped over her shoulders like a cloak, bare feet on the old wooden floor. She could hear the creak of the house settling, the wind brushing the window panes.
She didn’t know what she wanted to say. Only that not saying anything felt worse.
She raised her hand and knocked once.
The door opened almost instantly.
Fred stood there, rumpled, barefoot, a book half-forgotten in his hand. His eyes met hers, searching, soft.
“Hey,” he said, voice low.
“Hi,” she said.
Neither of them moved.
After a second, he stepped aside.
She walked in.
⸻