A Hand to Hold
Hermione stood outside Percy’s flat, her fingers clutching the strap of her bag, and she exhaled sharply. It had been a long morning spent mentally rehearsing every little detail of their cover story. She had gone over it again and again until the words felt almost like her own thoughts, no longer separate from reality but integrated into her mind like fact. It seemed almost absurd, really, this whole idea of pretending to be a couple.
She had survived so much worse—curses, Death Eaters, battlefields—but somehow the thought of walking into the Burrow, pretending in front of all the Weasleys, filled her with an inexplicable sense of dread. The Weasleys knew her. They had always known her as Hermione Granger, the best friend, the confidante, the one who had stood with them through the hardest of times. They didn’t know her as anything else. And the idea of her relationship with Percy suddenly morphing into something else, something more, seemed… foreign.
She hadn’t anticipated this side of the situation when she’d agreed to help him. But now, standing at his door with her hand poised to knock, it was suddenly very real.
With a deep breath, she knocked.
The door swung open almost immediately, revealing Percy in a crisp, pressed shirt and a soft, dark sweater. He looked calm, composed as ever, his demeanor exuding the same quiet confidence he had always had, and yet Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something different beneath the surface. There was an unreadable look in his eyes, an expression that suggested he, too, had been mentally preparing for this moment in ways they had never discussed.
“You’re on time,” Percy said simply, stepping aside to let her in.
Hermione raised an eyebrow, though she didn’t miss the small shift in his tone. “Of course I’m on time,” she muttered with a small roll of her eyes as she stepped over the threshold. “Unlike some people, I actually plan ahead.”
Percy’s lips twitched, just barely, and there was a quiet, almost imperceptible chuckle in his response. “Yes, well, that’s fortunate. Today requires nothing less than absolute precision.”
She exhaled, her gaze sweeping around the apartment. It was pristine—no surprise there. Percy had always been meticulous, and it looked like he’d gone the extra mile to ensure every corner of the flat was in perfect order. Everything was precisely placed: the books neatly aligned on the shelves, the parchment stacked in orderly piles, the desk clear, the coffee table spotless.
But what immediately caught her attention was the teapot sitting on the table, along with two cups placed just so.
Her tea.
She blinked, her stomach stirring for an inexplicable reason. There it was, just as she liked it: strong, with just the right amount of milk, no sweetness, but perfectly comforting.
“Is this—” she began, her voice slightly unsure.
Percy, in his usual calm manner, simply nodded. “I thought you might need it. You’ve had a long week.” His voice was unbothered, like this was a simple gesture he performed every day without thinking.
It hit her again—this wasn’t just any cup of tea. This was her tea. The tea she had made clear, years ago, was the only way she could drink it. It was just a cup, but for some reason, the gesture made her heart beat a little faster. She wasn’t sure why, but she wasn’t going to question it, not now.
“Thanks,” she murmured, trying to push the sudden wave of warmth that rushed over her out of her thoughts. She picked up the cup, feeling the weight of it in her hands, and took a careful sip. Perfect. Of course it was. It was like he had known exactly how she liked it, even though they had never really discussed it beyond a passing comment.
“Ready?” Percy asked, his gaze now fixed on her, expectant. There was no trace of humor in his eyes, no teasing as usual. This was business.
Hermione swallowed the last of her tea and set the cup down. “Ready,” she replied, trying to ignore the flutter in her chest.
Percy gave a small nod, his eyes flickering briefly to her before he took a step closer to her. It was then that it hit her fully, the realization of what was about to happen.
Side-along Apparition.
They had agreed on it the night before, planning out the details for today, but the moment hadn’t truly sunk in until now. The second she stepped toward him, she understood what it would feel like to stand so close. Apparition required physical contact, something she hadn’t thought much about in the flurry of planning. She wasn’t nervous about Apparition itself—she was more than familiar with it—but this, the fact that it would be with Percy, would require them to stand much closer than they had before.
Percy didn’t seem to be hesitating. Without a word, he reached for her arm. The touch was firm, steady, and, as his fingers wrapped around her sleeve, Hermione felt a strange rush of warmth travel through her body. She forced herself to look at him, and for the first time that day, there was something a little less calculated in his eyes, some flicker of uncertainty, or maybe it was just the way their hands touched. It made her stomach do something odd.
“Hold on,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, almost a whisper.
Hermione nodded, her hand resting lightly against his. She tried to breathe normally, to stay composed.
And then, with no more warning than the soft pull of his grip, the world tilted.
Whoosh.
She was falling—no, being pulled—through a narrow space, like a rush of wind pulling her along. The sensation hit her with a force she wasn’t prepared for, her body lurching forward. The walls of reality seemed to bend and twist around her, stretching and distorting until they were nothing more than a blur of colors and sounds.
Her stomach lurched violently, the familiar sensation of Apparition twisting through her like a wave crashing against the shore. The feeling was nothing like flying; it wasn’t graceful. There was no soft glide. It was more like being squished, compacted, squeezed into a shape she wasn’t meant to fit into.
Her chest tightened, her heartbeat speeding up as she braced herself, but she could feel the steady presence of Percy beside her, his grip never wavering. It wasn’t just a physical sensation; it was like an anchor, keeping her grounded amid the dizzying movement. She clenched her eyes shut, hoping the lurching would stop soon, that the world would straighten out again.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it ended.
With a small pop, the rush of dizziness vanished, and Hermione found herself standing in a patch of cool, crisp air. Her breath came in sharp, quick gasps, and for a moment, the world around her spun, the sensation of Apparition still settling in her stomach. Her eyes fluttered shut as she tried to steady herself, fighting the disorientation that clung to her like a haze. But as the vertigo faded, she forced her eyes open, and there it was. The Burrow.
It stood before her just as it always had—quirky, leaning slightly to one side as if defying the very concept of perfect architecture. It was like a house made of dreams and magic, held together by sheer force of will and the care of the Weasley family. The roof was slanted, the walls a little crooked, but it all felt so right. The garden sprawled around the house in a disorganized, colorful mess of overgrown flowers, scattered patches of grass, and gnomes who darted out of the bushes at every opportunity, giving the scene a touch of chaotic life. The faint hum of laughter filtered out from the house, a sound that felt like home to Hermione. It was the Weasley’s trademark warmth, the sort of place where time slowed down, and the world felt a little less heavy.
But before she could fully take in the familiar sights, she felt Percy release her arm, and the absence of his touch left her feeling strangely hollow for a moment. It wasn’t that she minded—she hadn’t really expected him to hold on forever—but the loss of that contact had an effect she couldn’t quite place. It felt... strange. She glanced over at him, but Percy’s demeanour was calm as always, unaffected by the transition.
And then, just as she was about to speak, she heard the unmistakable sound of a door creaking open.
“Well, well,” came a voice, rich with mischief and unmistakable familiarity.
Hermione's heart skipped a beat at the sound of George Weasley’s voice. She turned toward him, and sure enough, there he was—arms crossed over his chest, leaning casually against the doorframe, his eyes gleaming with an expression she knew all too well. He looked like trouble, but then again, that was George for you.
“Look who decided to grace us with their presence,” he said, his smirk widening ever so slightly. “Our dear, beloved brother and his—” He paused dramatically, eyes flicking from Percy to Hermione, a raised eyebrow making his intentions clear. “—girlfriend.”
At that, Hermione felt Percy stiffen beside her, his posture suddenly more rigid, more controlled.
“Hello, George,” Percy said, his voice as composed as ever, his tone measured and almost too careful. “Good to see you.”
“Oh, I bet it is,” George replied with a knowing glint in his eye, his gaze flicking from one to the other, taking in every detail of their interaction with the sharpness of someone who never missed a thing. “Hand-holding? In broad daylight? Publicly? Who are you, and what have you done with Percy Weasley?”
Hermione glanced down at their intertwined hands and froze. Merlin’s beard. She hadn’t even realized. It was like a reflex, an automatic gesture that had slipped by unnoticed in the heat of the moment.
She felt the heat of her cheeks rising as she considered pulling her hand away, but Percy didn’t let go. Not immediately. He just looked at George, his jaw tightening ever so slightly, and met his brother’s gaze with a coolness that left no room for humor.
“I don’t see how it’s any of your business,” Percy said evenly, his voice firm, though there was a subtle tension in his posture.
George whistled low, his eyes glinting with a mischievous delight. “Oh-ho, someone’s protective. You do realize you’re talking to me, right? Your favorite younger brother?” His grin grew, practically bursting with laughter at his own joke.
“I wasn’t aware I had a favorite,” Percy responded smoothly, his voice betraying nothing.
Hermione, despite herself, had to bite the inside of her cheek to suppress the laughter bubbling up inside her. The dynamic between the two brothers, despite the years that had passed, was as sharp as ever. They’d always been able to needle each other, even as adults. Percy, with his careful composure, and George, with his chaotic energy—together, they were like fire and water.
Before George could fire off another retort, a loud, familiar voice rang out from inside the Burrow, cutting the tension like a knife.
“Are they here? Oh, finally! Bring them in, George! Lunch is nearly ready!”
George sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes as though this whole situation had been the biggest inconvenience of his life. But there was no hiding the twinkle in his eyes. He was thoroughly entertained, and no doubt enjoying this more than he let on.
“Saved by the Mum,” George muttered, stepping aside and waving them in with an exaggerated flourish. “Well, come on, then. Let’s see how long you two last before someone asks when the wedding is.”
Hermione shot Percy a wary look, wondering if George’s remark had hit a little too close to home. But Percy merely gave her a quick, unreadable glance before nodding, his face as calm as ever. His hand was still wrapped around hers, and he made no move to let go.
With a small, almost imperceptible sigh, Hermione followed him inside, stepping over the threshold of the Burrow with a sense of both excitement and trepidation. The warm, familiar smell of roasting meats and vegetables wafted over them as they entered, and the sound of voices and clinking plates echoed through the house. It was chaotic, just as she remembered, but it was also filled with warmth. Home.
And as they walked into the heart of the Burrow, hand in hand, the chaos of the Weasley family was waiting. Ready to descend on them with a thousand questions, a thousand jokes, and a thousand eyes watching for any slip-ups in their performance.
“Here we go,” Hermione murmured softly under her breath.
Percy didn’t respond, but she could feel his presence beside her—calm, steady, unwavering. He was ready. They were both ready. They had no choice but to be.
Let the chaos begin.