Ashes and Embers

The sky burned at dawn.

Orange bled into red over the hills beyond the orchard. The wards pulsed like strained heartbeat drums—warning, warning, warning.

They were out of time.

⸻

The Burrow had been many things.

A safe house. A second home. A place where Hermione learned how to laugh again.

But now it was a target.

Bill stood at the edge of the field, wand raised, eyes scanning the trembling horizon.

“They’re coming.”

The words dropped like stone into still water.

No panic. No shouts. Just motion. Quiet and sure.

Fred was at Hermione’s side before she even reached the staircase.

“You have everything?” he asked, already knowing she did.

She nodded. “You?”

“Only what matters.”

He held out his hand.

She took it.

⸻

In the kitchen, Molly passed Ginny a pack of protective amulets, her hands shaking.

Arthur pressed a final spell into the old grandfather clock, the hand labeled “Weasley Family” now pointing to “In Mortal Peril.”

No one spoke about it.

Remus and Tonks stood by the fireplace, wands ready. George passed Fred a knowing look—one only a twin could give. No words were needed.

They were all saying goodbye in the language of war.

⸻

They took different exits—spreading out as planned.

Hermione was assigned the orchard path. Ginny and George through the back field. Fred with her—he’d made sure of that.

The last thing Hermione did before stepping outside was touch the old kitchen table. The one where Ron used to eat five slices of toast before Quidditch, where she’d once spilled ink and Fred had charmed it to sing Celestina Warbeck songs at dinner for a week.

A thousand memories pressed behind her ribs.

“Ready?” Fred asked softly.

She looked at him.

“I don’t know if I ever will be.”

He nodded. “Then we go anyway.”

⸻

They ran through trees as the world cracked open behind them.

Somewhere, spells collided. The wards screamed.

The Burrow—their Burrow—was fighting.

They reached the forest edge and ducked behind an old stone wall. Fred cast a wide concealment charm, then pulled her down beside him, breath ragged.

“Plan’s still on,” he said. “We regroup at Shell Cottage.”

Hermione nodded, her eyes scanning the trees.

And then—

A sound. A distant one.
Like something collapsing.

Fred stiffened beside her.

She turned.

Flames.

Not from the house, but from the sky.

A magical flare—green-tinged. Death Eater signal.

They’d breached the line.

Hermione reached for his hand without thinking.

Fred laced their fingers together. Tight.

Neither of them said this could be it,
but both of them knew.

⸻

“We can’t stop it,” she whispered.

“We’re not meant to stop it,” Fred said. “We’re meant to survive it.”

“And after?”

Fred looked at her.

And smiled.

“After, we build something new.”

She blinked, breath catching. “Do you believe that?”

“I believe in you.”

Hermione leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his.

The forest trembled around them.
The air smelled like smoke.

But here, in this quiet, they were still themselves.

Not soldiers.
Not survivors.

Just Fred and Hermione.

⸻

They didn’t say goodbye.

They didn’t make promises.

But when the spell wore off and they had to run again—when they would split off, taking separate paths toward Shell Cottage, Hermione paused.

She looked back at him one last time.

Fred smiled like it wasn’t the end.

And she smiled back
because she refused to let it be.

Then she turned, and ran toward the trees.

⸻

The Burrow would burn.

Ashes would scatter across the field.
The war would rage.
People would fall.

But somewhere,
in the middle of it all,
a spark had survived.

And sparks,
if protected—
if fed—

could become fire again.

⸻