The edge of normal
⸻
The smell of toast and tea drifted through the Burrow, but it did little to dull Hermione’s exhaustion. She moved slowly down the stairs the next morning, blanket still draped over her shoulders like a shield. Her hair was tangled, her thoughts worse.
She’d barely spoken a word to Fred before slipping out of his room at dawn, cheeks flushed, breath still shaky from the dream. He hadn’t tried to stop her. Just handed her a mug of water, brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, and said: “I’ll be here.”
She hadn’t even said thank you. She wasn’t sure she could’ve.
Now, as she stepped into the kitchen, she was immediately met with a wall of noise.
“—but why were you even up at that hour—”
“—I swear, if it was Fred she was talking to—”
“George, leave her alone—”
“Oh, I will,” George said, grinning, “after I confirm whether or not there’s been scandal under our roof.”
Hermione froze in the doorway. Ginny caught her expression first.
“Shut it,” Ginny snapped at her brothers. “She had a nightmare. She couldn’t sleep.”
That wasn’t the whole truth, and Ginny knew it—but it was enough.
Hermione offered a tight smile. “Morning.”
“Morning, love,” Molly said brightly, bustling over with a warm plate. “Sit down, sit down. You look pale. You need food.”
Fred looked up from the far side of the table. His eyes found hers immediately—worried, steady, warm. She looked away too quickly.
“Toast?” George asked innocently. “Or something heartier to recover from your dramatic midnight escape?”
Fred kicked him under the table. George yelped.
“Oi! Just making conversation!”
Ginny sighed. “Honestly, you’d think none of you had ever seen a girl walk down a hallway before.”
“Not one that glowed like she’d seen Godric Gryffindor himself,” George muttered.
Fred gave Hermione an apologetic smile, mouthing: Sorry.
She fought the urge to laugh and instead sat beside Ginny, clutching her tea like a lifeline.
Across the table, Arthur lowered his paper. “Anything from Harry or Ron?”
Molly shook her head. “Nothing since last week’s owl.”
Hermione felt that familiar pang in her chest. Even with Fred, even with last night, there was always a part of her that floated elsewhere—waiting.
⸻
Later that morning, she found herself in the shed with Fred.
She was looking for potion ingredients—he was, allegedly, organizing the disaster that was their field kit. In truth, they were both hiding.
“You okay?” he asked as he helped her sort through boxes.
“I don’t know,” Hermione said. “They’re teasing, and it’s fine, I know that. But I feel like I’m suddenly the center of something I didn’t mean to start.”
Fred leaned against the workbench, studying her.
“I can make a joke,” he said slowly, “or I can be honest. Which do you want?”
Hermione looked up. “Honest.”
“I wanted you to come back last night,” he said. “And I’m glad you did. But this—whatever this is—it’s not a punchline. Not to me.”
She stared at him, heart thudding.
“I’m not trying to complicate your life,” he added. “I just… I like being the person you come to. Even if it’s just for a nightmare.”
Hermione didn’t know what to say. So she stepped forward and pressed her forehead lightly against his chest. His arms came up around her without hesitation.
“I’m scared,” she whispered. “Of all of this. Of getting used to something good, only to lose it.”
“Me too.”
They stayed like that for a long while—two people in a garden shed in a war, holding on to something that hadn’t yet broken.
⸻
That afternoon, Remus and Kingsley arrived.
They brought reports—movement near Ottery St. Catchpole, a Death Eater cell testing the perimeter protections. There had been a skirmish the night before near Godric’s Hollow.
They were preparing for an assault. No one said it aloud, but they all felt it.
“Start packing go-bags,” Kingsley said to Arthur quietly. “Just in case.”
Fred and George took Hermione aside after dinner to teach her a new counter-jinx they’d picked up from Tonks. It involved far too much wand flicking and ended with Hermione accidentally lighting George’s sleeve on fire.
“Bloody brilliant,” he said, patting it out. “You’re ready.”
Hermione laughed, breathless and warm.
Fred watched her with something like awe.
⸻
That night, Hermione returned to her own room.
She stood at the door to Fred’s again, hand raised.
Then she let it fall.
She needed to want him in daylight, not just when the dark closed in.
Instead, she pressed her hand lightly to his doorframe.
“I’m still here,” she whispered, so quietly that not even magic could have carried it through.
And then she turned and walked away.
⸻