The Tales of Beedle the Bard
The Burrow was too quiet.
Again.
The fire had long since burned to coals. Ginny had gone to bed hours ago, and even Molly—who’d spent the evening re-folding kitchen linens in an endless loop—had finally retired.
Only Hermione remained, curled in the corner of the sitting room, a blanket wrapped around her legs, her book unread in her lap. She’d tried to focus, tried to study, tried to tell herself that no news was still good news.
But every creak of the floor made her heart jolt.
And then—
A pop outside the house.
Hermione stood instantly. Her wand was in her hand before she even realized it, heart pounding. She moved to the window.
Two figures in the dark. Arthur’s tall frame. And beside him—
Fred.
Fred.
She bolted to the door, flung it open, and didn’t think—just ran.
He barely had time to process before she was in front of him, eyes wide and furious and wet.
“Don’t ever do that again.”
Fred blinked. “Hello to you too.”
Hermione shoved him—not hard, but enough to make a point. “You said it was routine.”
“It was supposed to be.”
Arthur gave a soft sigh. “I’ll just… give you two a moment.”
He vanished inside.
Fred looked down at her. “I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding,” she snapped.
He glanced down. “It’s not mine.”
“That’s not comforting!”
He smiled, exhausted. “We were ambushed. It wasn’t supposed to be anything—just a sweep for cursed items, some magical black-market junk. Then we walked into a building rigged with blood wards and a pair of Death Eaters who weren’t thrilled to see us.”
Hermione’s hands clenched at her sides. “You could have died.”
“But I didn’t.”
“That’s not the point!”
Fred’s expression softened.
“I thought—” Hermione’s voice cracked. “I thought if you didn’t come back tonight, I’d never see you again. And I haven’t even said—”
She stopped.
Fred stepped forward, closing the space between them. “Said what?”
Hermione stared at him, her face open in a way it rarely was—like the armor had finally split, and everything she’d tried to control was rushing out all at once.
“That I care,” she whispered. “That this is real. That I choose you.”
Fred’s breath caught. “Hermione—”
She pressed a hand to his chest, over his heart. “You scare me. How much you matter to me. How much it would break me to lose you.”
Fred didn’t answer. He just wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him like he’d been drowning and she was the only solid thing left.
They stood in the cold for what felt like forever.
Then Hermione pulled back enough to look up at him.
“Can I see it?” she asked softly. “The injury?”
Fred blinked. “It’s really nothing—”
“Fred.”
He sighed dramatically, pulling up his sleeve to reveal a long, angry cut along his bicep, shallow but nasty.
Hermione gently touched the edge of it, then conjured a salve from her wand, pressing it to the wound with care.
Fred watched her, quiet.
“You really were scared,” he said.
“I still am.”
Fred nodded once, then met her eyes. “Come on.”
She followed him upstairs this time.
No hesitation.
No hiding.
His room was dim, the lamplight low and golden. He didn’t make a joke. He didn’t tease. He just pulled back the blanket on the bed and waited for her to settle beside him.
They lay facing each other, knees brushing beneath the covers. Hermione’s hair spilled across the pillow, her hands tucked beneath her cheek. Fred reached over to the small shelf by his bed and pulled down a familiar, well-worn book.
She blinked. “Is that—”
“I found it in the library a few weeks ago. I’ve seen you reading it a hundred times.”
Hermione’s throat tightened. “The Tales of Beedle the Bard.”
Fred nodded. “Your copy had a page missing.”
She smiled, soft and surprised. “You remembered that?”
“I remember a lot of things,” he said, opening to a marked page. “You want me to read?”
Hermione gave a small nod, curling in closer. Her head found his shoulder naturally, easily. Like it had always belonged there.
Fred cleared his throat, then read aloud:
“There were once three brothers who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight…”
His voice was steady, warm, wrapping around her like another blanket. She closed her eyes and let it wash over her—the rhythm of the words, the cadence she’d once known by heart but had stopped allowing herself to revisit.
The tale was old magic. Deep-rooted. And somehow, it still mattered.
Fred read until her breathing slowed, and when he glanced down, she was asleep.
He didn’t move.
Just held her closer.
And kept the book open in his lap like he was holding something sacred.