Before the Fire Comes
The storm started at dusk.
Not a literal storm—no thunder, no rain—but something deeper, quieter. The kind of stillness that presses behind your ribs, like the world is holding its breath before something breaks.
The Burrow felt wrong.
Too still. Too watched.
Hermione noticed it first, standing in the garden the morning after the Tinworth trip. Her skin prickled. Her magic—usually calm, steady—was restless beneath her skin.
Fred noticed it too.
By evening, the perimeter wards trembled.
⸻
“Someone’s been here.”
Bill stood at the kitchen table, a map spread in front of him, wand glowing faintly over the ink. “Subtle. Skilled. They didn’t breach—but they tested it. Enough to make the outer charms flicker.”
Arthur paled. “How close?”
“Fifty yards.”
Molly pressed a hand to her chest. “We have to move the children.”
“We are the children,” Fred muttered.
But no one laughed.
Hermione stared at the map. “Do we think it’s them?”
Kingsley nodded from his seat in the corner. “They’re watching. Planning. This place has always been symbolic—a light in the dark. Voldemort’s people would love to snuff it out.”
Ginny crossed her arms. “So what do we do? Burn it down ourselves?”
“No,” said Arthur, voice sharp. “We fight smart. We prepare.”
Hermione lifted her chin. “We start now.”
⸻
That night, Hermione helped Bill rework the wards while Fred and George buried protective runes under the floorboards. Ginny enchanted mirrors. Molly packed go-bags and tucked them behind every cupboard door. The house was still warm, still cluttered—but something was different now.
It felt like they were saying goodbye without admitting it.
⸻
Fred found Hermione sitting on the stairs after midnight, exhaustion in every line of her body. She was cradling a steaming cup of tea in both hands, her hair damp from the rain that had started an hour earlier.
“You look like you’re running on fumes,” he said.
She gave him a tired smile. “That’s because I am.”
He sat beside her, close but not quite touching. “You’re scared.”
“Of course I’m scared,” she said. “A year ago, I was worried about my NEWTs. Now I’m casting defensive enchantments and preparing escape routes in someone else’s childhood home.”
Fred hesitated. “Do you ever wish you could go back?”
She looked at him. “To Hogwarts?”
“To before. When things were… easier.”
Hermione was quiet for a long time. “Sometimes. But I don’t think I ever felt easy, even back then. I’ve always been bracing for something.”
Fred nodded. “Same.”
She turned to him. “That’s why this—what we have—it scares me.”
“I know.”
“Because it feels like the first thing that’s not braced. It just is.” She looked down. “And if I lose it, I don’t know what I’ll become.”
Fred reached for her hand. “Then don’t lose it.”
Hermione looked up.
“I’m here,” he said, “until you tell me not to be.”
She gripped his hand like it was the only solid thing left.
⸻
The Burrow didn’t fall that night.
But it changed.
The next morning, smoke rose in the distance. A Muggle town nearby, raided and half-burned. Ministry response was slow, scattered.
“It’s getting closer,” Bill said.
“We need to leave,” Arthur added.
Molly didn’t argue.
⸻
That afternoon, as everyone packed in silence, Hermione stood at the top of the stairs and looked down on the life she’d borrowed for the past year. The Weasleys’ warmth, their laughter, the safety between battles—it had all felt like a spell holding the world back.
Now, the spell was breaking.
Fred came up behind her, suitcase in one hand.
She turned to him, heart tight.
“This was the first place I ever felt like I belonged.”
Fred set down his bag. “You still do.”
“I don’t want to leave it behind.”
“You’re not,” he said. “You’re carrying it with you.”
Then, carefully, like he’d been holding back for weeks, he took her face in both hands.
“I love you,” he said.
Hermione froze.
“I know it’s a risk,” Fred continued. “I know we could lose everything. But I won’t leave without saying it.”
Her eyes burned. “Fred—”
“You don’t have to say it back.”
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then she said, very quietly: “I’ve been trying to figure out what I’m still fighting for.”
Fred’s breath caught.
Hermione touched his chest, over his heart. “You. This. The chance that we could have something after. That’s what I’m fighting for.”
And then, finally—finally—she kissed him.
It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t perfect.
It was everything.
⸻
That night, they didn’t sleep.
They lay in his bed, fully clothed, the walls around them packed and bare.
Fred read from Beedle the Bard again, even though she already knew the words.
Hermione tucked her head under his chin, her fingers curled in his jumper.
And they waited for morning.
⸻
One more to go, hope you’re excited!