When the World Gets Quiet
Fred was gone before breakfast.
Arthur had woken him at dawn—urgent, low-voiced, and serious in that rare way that told everyone not to ask questions. By the time Hermione stumbled down the stairs, bleary-eyed and still in her dressing gown, they were already gone.
Molly was at the stove, stirring tea and muttering to herself about supply lists.
“Where’s Fred?” Hermione asked, trying not to sound like the question mattered as much as it did.
Molly didn’t look up. “He left with Arthur. Ministry trouble. Nothing dangerous, supposedly.”
Hermione nodded like that was enough.
It wasn’t.
⸻
By mid-morning, Hermione found herself outside.
She hadn’t meant to be, really. Her legs had just carried her past the cluttered kitchen and Ginny’s music upstairs and out into the early chill of the Burrow’s garden. The air smelled like damp grass and old magic.
She was standing by the fence near the pumpkins when she heard footsteps behind her.
“You’ll catch cold out here in that jumper,” Molly said gently, stepping up beside her, a warm scarf in hand.
Hermione accepted it with a soft smile. “Thanks.”
They stood together for a while, watching the gnomes chase each other across the dirt.
“I always worry when Arthur leaves,” Molly said eventually. “He always says not to. But he forgets—he’s not the one who has to wait.”
Hermione nodded. “I understand.”
“You care for Fred.”
It wasn’t a question.
Hermione didn’t answer right away. “It happened slowly. And then all at once.”
Molly smiled faintly. “That’s how it always happens.”
“I’m not sure what we are,” Hermione admitted. “It’s not… defined. And I’m scared that if I name it, I’ll break it.”
Molly didn’t speak. Just let her talk.
“I’ve never had this,” Hermione said quietly. “Not in the middle of war. Not with someone who makes me laugh and keeps me awake and looks at me like I’m… something more than what the world needs me to be.”
Molly’s voice was soft. “Do you love him?”
Hermione’s breath caught.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But I could.”
“That’s enough,” Molly said. “For now.”
Hermione turned to her. “How do you do it? How do you love someone and not fall apart every time they walk out that door?”
Molly looked out over the garden, her face weathered by years of love and worry.
“You don’t not fall apart,” she said. “You just learn how to hold the pieces.”
Hermione swallowed hard.
Then, softly: “I’m not used to needing someone. Not like this.”
Molly touched her arm. “That’s not weakness, Hermione. That’s choosing to keep something human in you. Even now.”
They walked a slow loop around the field, quiet most of the way. Hermione didn’t have answers, but something about the walk—about Molly’s calm, constant presence—helped her breathe a little deeper.
⸻
Back inside, the house was too still. Hermione wandered through it like a ghost, half-expecting Fred to pop out from behind a door, wand in hand, making some awful pun about “missing him already.”
But he wasn’t there.
By late afternoon, she’d curled up in his chair by the fire, book unopened in her lap, blanket tight around her shoulders. Ginny passed through once, said nothing, but left a cup of tea on the end table.
Night settled.
No owl.
No word.
Just the kind of silence that hummed in her bones.
And Hermione, feeling everything she’d worked so hard to push away, whispered into the empty room: “Come back.”