almost

Being in a daydream charm is like being sucked into a pensieve memory, except brighter, everything in screaming colour, and decidedly more interactive. Hermione can feel the air breeze over her skin. She can smell the fresh cut grass. The sun is warm on her face. 

It's the warmest she's felt in months. The daydream hasn't even started yet, not officially, but it's already the happiest, too. 

She’s wearing a dress, the material soft and light, flowing around her and dancing in the gentle summer breeze. She thinks, in a moment of whimsy, that it's like wearing a cloud. It's a dusky blue; not one she owns or even a dress she's ever seen before. She doesn't know where it came from, but… it suits her. She feels pretty, and it's a welcome change from the clothes that are too thin and dark; the ones becoming steadily threadbare. 

Hermione is standing in the garden of the Burrow, and it feels like she's waiting for something. For someone. Instinctively, she knows to stay put. 

She doesn't have to wait long before there's a tap on her shoulder, and she turns to find Fred standing there, beaming at her, a bouquet of wildflowers held loosely in front of him. He thrusts the flowers forward and bows theatrically at the waist. 

"For you, m'lady," he sings. 

She giggles and curtsies as she accepts them from him. "Thank you, m'lord." 

He holds out an arm expectantly. She ignores it, launching forward to circle her arms around his neck in a crushing hug, feet coming off the ground as he catches her, teetering backward a moment before he finds his balance. Fred circles his arms fully around her waist, enveloping her in his strong, warm embrace, and then he's spinning her around and around and around. Her hair streams behind her, her dress is fluttering, and his laugh dances in the air like music. 

She buries her face in his neck, fighting tears. He feels real. She inhales and she doesn't know how he managed it, but it smells like him. Like burning palo santo wood and musk and grass and… Fred.

His arms tighten around her. Then, too soon, he's setting her back on her feet and releasing her from his grasp. 

Hermione is having noneof it. She winds her arms around his waist and burrows into his chest, holding tight like he might disappear at any moment. She feels his laugh rumble against her and it makes something tighten in her chest, squeezing her heart. His hands smooth her hair, arms coming around her shoulders and pulling her more tightly into him.  

"I know, love," he whispers, leaning down so his voice is close and his breath fans against her ear. "But it's only just started. I have a lot planned for you." 

She sniffles, and he tilts her head up with one hand, brushing her tears away with one warm, calloused thumb from the other. "Now's not the time for tears," he smiles sadly at her. "You'll have plenty of time for that later." 

Fred rubs up and down her arms soothingly, before sliding his hand down to grasp her own, tugging her along as she wipes at her eyes. His warm, dry palm slides over hers before he interlocks their fingers and gives a reassuring squeeze. I'm here, he seems to say. I'm here the best I can be. 

Now that she's over the initial shock of seeing him she notices for the first time that he's wearing the same dress robes from Bill and Fleur's wedding. They're a dark, royal blue that compliments her dress almost perfectly. 

"What did you have planned, exactly?" she asks dubiously. 

He grins at her over his shoulder, still pulling her along. "Now, you had to have guessed that it's a surprise, Hermione. You're going to have to try harder than that to get it out of me." Then he winks, and she feels another flutter, in her chest this time. 

"Okay…" she begins, forming and discarding several questions in her head before settling on one he might answer. "Where to first?" she tries. 

"The kitchen," he allows. "I think you could do with a proper cup of tea." Fred's hand tightens around hers and he tugs her gently forward, towing her into his side and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. They walk like that, side by side, the rest of the way to the Burrow. Fred slows his pace and matches her much smaller stride, and she thinks she could melt into him. Before they enter, Fred gives her an extra squeeze and kisses the top of her head before releasing her. 

"After you," he says, holding the door open and gesturing in a grand, sweeping motion before following behind her. 

The Burrow is exactly how she remembers it. An old floral sofa and overstuffed armchairs take up the living room. They pass the mismatched furniture in the dining room on their way to the kitchen. There the dishes are washing themselves in the sink, and the windows are open, allowing a breeze to sweep through and a sweet perfume to waft in from the garden. Hermione has deduced that it’s the day of Bill and Fleur’s wedding, based on their attire and the tent they passed on their way indoors – which means it’s the first of August, and Mrs. Weasley’s garden is in full bloom. 

Despite this, the kitchen is empty, and no one is bustling around inside the Burrow. Fred flicks his wand toward the wireless in the corner, and muggle music begins to fill the air. “The Bee Gees?” Hermione asks, confusion evident. 

Fred grins from where he’s fiddling with the kettle, flicking his wand again to summon mugs from the cupboard. “Dad’s got a collection of old muggle records. I figured that would be more comforting to you than the Weird Sisters or old Celestina Warbeck.” 

Both of their noses scrunch in distaste, and Fred barks out a laugh.

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” she says. Her heart clenches again, because he wasn’t wrong. “The Bee Gees are my mum’s favourite,” Hermione adds. Something bitter and sweet rises in her throat, and she swallows it down with the tea Fred hands her. 

It is her favourite, prepared exactly how she likes it, and it is precisely the right temperature. In the back of her head, a thought bubbles to the surface. How did Fred know?

“Oh, is it? We used to listen with dad when we were kids. I was always pretty fond of them myself.” Hermione grips her tea tighter and does not immediately respond, and Fred notices. He tugs the mug out of her hands and sets it on the counter behind her. 

“The Way it Was might be a little too on the nose, though,” she admits quietly. 

“Ah, I was afraid of that,” he said, and with another flick of his wrist the music is changing again, another Bee Gees song. Hermione recognizes it, startled when she realises that it’s the same one her mum used to hum under her breath on Sunday mornings, making breakfast while she watched from the kitchen island.  

“How Deep is Your Love?” she says.

“Three metres, at minimum” he says, without hesitation. Then, before she can answer, or even fathom what that means, he asks abruptly, “Tell me, Hermione. How do you feel about dancing?” 

“What?” she startles, shaking her head. She looks up at him, at his patient and kind face, at his eyes filled with understanding. At his wide, earnest smile.  “With you?” she asks, a slow smile spreading across her face. “I could think of worse fates than to dance with you, once upon a dream.” 

Hermione feels a sense of deja vu as she thinks of another dance, in a moonlit garden, and a song from her youth floats to the edge of her consciousness. A melody she didn't know was even there to remember, but seems like it was made for Fred and this moment about to transpire between them. 

And I know it’s true, visions are seldom what they seem… But if I know you, I know what you’ll do…You’ll love me at once, the way you did once, upon a dream…

“Excellent,” he says, and it is clear to Hermione that he has not gotten her muggle film reference. Part of her, insanely, thinks she’d like the opportunity to remedy that. She giggles, and his smile is so big it takes up the whole room. 

Fred sets his mug down beside her forgotten one and wraps both arms around her waist, lifting her unceremoniously off the floor and spinning her in a circle again. The music seems louder now, filling the whole sun-drenched kitchen. 

And the moment that you wander far from me

I wanna feel you in my arms again…

Hermione shrieks in surprise, hugging tightly around his neck. He sets her down in one smooth motion and then he is twirling her in a circle, her skirt rising and swishing around her. Fred pulls her into him, grasping one of her hands to his chest, the other circling around her waist so they are pressed flush together. 

Fred radiates a comforting warmth that she can feel at every point that their bodies touch, and she rests her head against him in an effort to get even closer to that warmth, to climb inside of it. Her forehead grazes his collarbone, and they begin to sway. 

And you come to me on a summer breeze

Keep me warm in your love

Then you softly leave…

The swaying becomes more exaggerated as they side-step, back and forth, until she’s giggling again. He spins her out and then back into his side so they are hip to hip. Fingertips press firmly into her right hip bone, holding her steady against him, and her hand comes to rest over his. Her left hand is in his, held out in front of them. He’s much better at this than she expected.

Hermione has to crane her neck up to look at him, he’s so impossibly tall. He tilts his head down and she is pulled into the kaleidoscopic depths of his irises, powerless to do anything but stare back. “Hi Fred,” she says, the first real grin spreading across her face in she doesn’t know how long. 

His answering grin is soft, tender. “Hi Hermione,” he says quietly, the smile as much in his voice as it is on his face. She’s so enraptured she doesn’t realise, at first, that they’ve temporarily stopped moving.

How deep is your love?

How deep is your love?

I really mean to learn…

She thinks she is. Learning, that is. And Hermione has always been a quick study. Tentatively, then almost desperately, she grips his hand that’s wrapped around her, and Fred gently squeezes her hip in answer.

With their joined hands he twirls her under his arm again as the music crescendos around them, tucking her safely back into his chest in time with the music quieting, tempo slowing. She winds her arms around his waist, and he kisses the top of her head.

Fred spins Hermione one last time before dipping her low, hands firmly around her waist as hers come up over his shoulders, hugging behind his neck. “Hermione,” he whispers, breath ghosting against her lips. As the music begins to fade out she thinks he’s going to kiss her, and she thinks that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

Cause we’re living in a world of fools

Breakin’ us down

When they all should let us be…

The kitchen door bangs open abruptly, startling Hermione. Her arms release from around Fred’s neck as she jumps, and if it wasn’t for his arms tightening around her and pulling her upright, she knows she would have fallen straight onto her arse. 

Hermione can’t help the flush crawling up her neck at the intrusion. 

“You have impeccable timing, you know that?” says Fred in a voice that sounds torn between amusement and exasperation. 

From the doorway, George laughs, but strolls into the room as if his twin isn’t even there. “Hello, Granger. You’re looking lovely as ever,” he says, bowing low and kissing her hand, eliciting a giggle. Suddenly Hermione is glad for the interruption. Fred isn’t the only one she’s missed.

“George,” she says on an exhale, forgoing an answering curtsy to tackle him in a hug. She’s embarrassed to find tears in her eyes as she pulls away. “It’s good to see you.” 

He is sturdy and whole, not holey. When he sees her notice, he tugs playfully on her left ear with a smile and she smiles tearily back. 

“George, mate, I love you, but get out of my bloody daydream,” Fred grumbles from where he’s been forgotten in the corner. 

He smirks and winks at Hermione before looking over her shoulder toward his technically older brother, though Fred’s not exactly acting like it. “It’s my daydream charm too, you numpty. I’ll make an appearance if I want to.” George looks back down to her and squeezes her shoulders, a fond smile on his face. “Just wanted to say hi, is all. I’ll leave you lovebirds to it.”

She knows that it’s not real, on some level, but damn it if she can stop herself from blushing at his teasing anyway. Feeling indulgent, and some secret part of her liking the sound of it, she doesn’t even try to deny it.

George leaves with a jaunty wave, a spring in his step, and a rude gesture from Fred when his back is turned. 

“Anyway,” says Fred with a roll of his eyes, turning to focus his attention back on her. “He’s completely ruined the moment, so on to the next, I suppose, if you’re ready?” 

Fred inclines his head toward the door.

“Ready for what?”

“That depends on you. Are you done dancing?”

Her head shake in the negative is immediate and vigorous. Already she feels distinctly colder with the absence of him, and she thinks she would be content to spend the entirety of the daydream wrapped up in his arms. 

“Good, because the ball’s not over yet, Cindy Ella.” 

“Cinderella,” she corrects automatically. 

Fred shrugs, “Whichever one turns into a pumpkin at the end.”

“She doesn’t turn into a pumpkin,” she starts to explain.

“Oh, is she the frog, then?” Fred says earnestly, like this is a perfectly plausible guess. 

Hermione fights a grin before realising that there’s no need, and lets it unfurl to stretch across her whole face. Fred’s answering grin is toothy, goofy, and so warm she feels it to the tips of her toes. "Close enough," she says, rather than waste more time in her fairytale demystifying muggle ones.

Fred once again interlocks their fingers, swinging their arms between them as he leads her outside into the garden, where by some magic there is now a dreamy sunset painting the horizon. The fluffy clouds are pink and orange and purple, offsetting the gradient of blues in the darkening sky beyond them. The garden is lit with twinkling fairy lights, and soft music once again languidly rolls toward them on a warm breeze. 

Around them are familiar faces, but the party is much smaller than it had been in reality. She spies all of the Weasley brothers, Ginny, Harry, Fleur and her sister Gabrielle, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Otherwise, none of the guests are in attendance. They look light and happy, and she feels heartened to see them all together again. 

“Why the wedding?” she asks as they begin to dance again, no one paying them any mind. 

“Ah,” he said, like he had been waiting for this question. “I admit it may have been a little self-indulgent. This is what it would be, if it was up to me. Which it’s not, at least, not anywhere but here.” He smiles down at her. “How’d I do?” 

“You’re right,” she says, “I like this version much better.” 

He frowns. “Did we at least get to dance?”

She gives him a tight-lipped grimace that is trying very hard to be a smile. It is not succeeding. 

“Right,” he says bracingly, holding her closer. “I suppose we’ll just have to make up for it now.” 

They dance for what feels like hours, song after song, until night has long since settled around them.

“Okay,” she mumbles into his chest eventually, when their dancing has become more of a very long hug that Hermione is reluctant to end, barely even swaying anymore. “What next?” 

He smiles into her hair. “It’s not technically rule-breaking, but do you want to do something mum definitely wouldn’t approve of?” 

“You know, I am feeling a little rebellious.” 

That’s all the encouragement Fred needs before he’s dragging her off to the makeshift bar in the tent, mischievous glint in his eye. She unsuccessfully suppresses a fit of giggles as he attempts to steal a bottle of Firewhisky out from under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Weasley. Fred shushes her dramatically when Molly nearly catches them, which sets her off even more. Then he’s putting a hand over her mouth and pulling her backwards into his chest, ducking down behind the table when her muffled squeal and continued giggling causes his mum to turn in their direction. 

“You’re terrible at this,” Fred stage whispers, and she collapses into him, silent now only because of how hard she is laughing, unable to catch her breath. He grins at her, shaking his head at her in amusement. “We’re going to have to make a run for it, so I’m going to need you to pull it together, Granger.” 

Her whole body is shaking with mirth, tears leaking out of the corner of her eyes, as she breathlessly shakes her head. 

“Amateur,” he mutters under his breath, grabbing her hand and pulling her along, as she stumbles gracelessly after him to hide behind the low stone wall of the small vegetable garden. 

Fred pulls out the cork with an audible pop while Hermione regains her composure next to him, clutching the stitch in her side and gasping with laughter. 

“Are you quite finished?” he asks, the mock sternness in his voice undermined entirely by the pure delight alighting his features. 

She nods, wiping at her eyes. “God, I haven’t laughed like that in…”

“Ever, I think,” Fred finishes. 

“In ever,” she agrees with a nod. 

Hermione adjusts so she is sitting upright, leaning against the wall, the side of her body pressed against Fred’s, body burning with heat at all the points of contact between them. 

The lanky red-head beside her takes a practised swig from the bottle before passing it to her.

She accepts it, but looks at it questioningly. “Can I get pissed in a daydream? I’ve never drank anything stronger than butterbeer before. I don’t even know what it feels like to be tipsy.” 

“You’re such a prefect,” Fred admonishes. 

Her glare is not as sharp as it was when she actually was a prefect and Fred does not look the least bit chastised.

“I’m losing my touch,” she pouts. “Anyway. Daydream magic. Hypothetical drunkenness.”

“It’s magic, Hermione,” he says as he spreads his fingers wide, wiggling them and waving both hands in a wide arc in front of his face. “You’ll feel pleasantly buzzed, or a little sloshed even, if that’s what you want. Depends on how much you drink. But don’t worry about not having prior knowledge of what it feels like. The spell will do all the work for you, and I made sure it’ll stop before you get to the point of regret.”

She contemplates the bottle a moment longer before taking a decisive swig. Then promptly coughs and sputters as it burns down her throat. “You couldn’t have made it taste better?” she asks incredulously as Fred laughs. 

“Wanted to give you an authentic experience,” he shrugs, taking the bottle back from her. 

Despite the initial unpleasantness, already Hermione feels shot through with heat and something like courage. She doesn’t hate it. 

“Are all your daydream charms this lifelike?” she asks, struck once again by the vividness of everything. She feels the cool, damp grass underneath her and the gentle wind rustles the trees and caresses her face. She feels the flush in her cheeks from the Firewhisky, or maybe from Fred’s intense gaze. “I can’t imagine you’re selling something this extraordinary for only a handful of galleons.” 

“Not all of them, no,” says Fred quietly. “In fact, it’s just this one.”

She takes another swig from the bottle, a pleasant fuzzy feeling starting to creep around her hard edges. “How long did it take you?” she asks just as quietly.

“Long enough,” he hedges. 

Hermione twists her lips to the side while something like guilt begins to twist in her gut. “How does it work?” she asks, thinking of the impossibly lifelike sensations, of how it feels like she is really at the Burrow, talking to Fred, when distantly she knows that she is alone in a tent in a forest very far away. “It feels so real. You feel so real.” 

“Nice try, Hermione,” he says, the humour coming back into his voice. “If you want the trade secrets you’re going to have to marry into the family.”

“That’s not so hard, given how many of you there are,” she says after a moment, not pressing daydream Fred any further. “Who do you think? George is the obvious choice, but Charlie has his merits.” 

“Oi!” says Fred, clutching at his chest. “You wound me, Hermione.” 

“I meant as your best man,” she winks, and is pleased to see the tops of his ears flush red. 

“I’m not a serious wizard, Hermione,” he says with a seriousness that directly contradicts his words. “But I wouldn’t joke about that.” 

Now it is her turn to flush. “When did you know?” she blurts, embarrassed even though she knows how silly that is, given the circumstances.

“That I fancied you?” 

She nods.

“Seventh year, when you threatened to write mum,” he says without hesitation. “I thought it was just because you’re very attractive when you’re hot and bothered, which you usually are when you’re scolding me.” He grins fondly at her. “And if you remember, you did a lot of scolding that year.”  

It takes a concerted effort to swallow. “This seems like a lot more trouble than it’s worth just because you think I’m, er, attractive.” Her face is on fire, and she takes another swig for deniability. “When did it… when did you know… erm…?”

“That it was more than a passing fancy?” He leans into her, tucking her hair behind her ear and smiling gently down at her, making her insides squirm. “When we were starting the shop and you were still off at Hogwarts, but it didn’t go away. Then when I saw you in person again it was… you were better than I remembered, or imagined even. That’s when I knew I was in trouble.” 

“More trouble than usual, you mean,” she amends, trying very hard to keep her voice even.

“Right,” he agrees with a nod, moving to gently cup her face. “You’re more than I bargained for, Hermione Granger.” 

“Fred,” she says with sudden urgency. “Fred, I’m sorry I didn’t notice.” 

He shakes his head and laughs. “I was trying very hard to make sure you didn’t. Don’t apologise.” 

Her face is stricken, she knows it, and Fred must see it, because he moves to cup her face in both hands and says, “You have absolutely nothing to feel guilty about, Hermione. I promise.”  

“I…” she starts to object, and Fred gives her a warning glance that stops her short. “Okay.”

He kisses her forehead and grabs the bottle from her, leaning back against the wall and taking a swig of his own. 

It lasts all of thirty seconds before she sits upright with a start. “I didn’t do anything for you!” she says, turning to him with wide eyes. “After I knew! You told me how you felt, and you gave me this gift, and I didn’t even… write you a letter, or… or anything!” 

“Hermione,” he breathes, grabbing both her hands from where she is flailing them about, holding them still. “You already made one of my dreams reality. And in case you forgot, you’ve been pretty focused on saving the world.”

She worries her bottom lip with her teeth, unconvinced. “I could have made time,” she whispers.

“We’ll have time,” he promises. She wants to believe him, but it feels like a dream even more impossible than this one. 

Perhaps sensing this, he passes her the bottle again and they sit in a silence that allows her to make out the song drifting over from the wedding tent just as it's fading into another. 

It’s never quite as it seems…

‘Cause you’re a dream to me, dream to me… 

“The Cranberries? This doesn’t seem like a Mr. Weasley record,” she muses.

“That’s because it was a gift from Bill,” he says. “Well spotted.” 

“I’ve been known to solve a puzzle or two in my day,” she shrugs. Though, she thinks wryly, she didn’t solve this puzzle, the Fred one, nearly fast enough. 

A new song, a familiar one, starts to drift over the wall, grabbing Hermione’s attention and pulling her out of her thoughts. She giggles when she realises which song it is. “Laying on the dream imagery a little thick, aren’t we?” she teases, leaning her head against his shoulder.

“It’s romantic,” Fred protests, pinching her side as she squeals. “Unless you don’t want it to be. Then I’m just leaning into a theme and you can read into that however it pleases you most.” 

“It most pleases me for it to be romantic,” she admits. 

“Thank Merlin,” he says. “That would have been mortifying otherwise.”

She laughs. “Hard for you to be embarrassed when I’m pretty sure you have no sense of shame.” 

“Too right you are, Hermione!” he agrees, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pulling her into his side, beginning to hum along.

She finds herself joining in, singing softly under her breath, buzzing pleasantly from the alcohol and Fred’s proximity. “This is my favourite version of this song,” she tells him.

“There are other versions?” asks Fred. 

“The Mamas and Papas didn’t write this song,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “There’ve been approximately a million covers of it.” 

“Huh,” Fred says, leaning his head on top of hers. “What’s a cover?”

She shakes her head, ignoring his question in favour of singing along again.

But in your dreams, whatever they be,

Dream a little dream of me…

The song fades out and another takes its place as they pass the bottle back and forth, talking about everything and nothing, until Hermione thinks she has passed the point of tipsy into drunkenness. Fred confirms it when he laughs at her, taking the bottle out of her loose fingers, and says, “You’re cut off, Granger.” 

“M’fine,” she protests sleepily. It’s the drowsiest, the least alert, Hermione has been in months. 

“Uh huh,” Fred says, not the least bit convinced. “I think it’s time to call it a night.”

“Don’t wanna,” she mumbles stubbornly, burrowing into his side. 

“Time for bed,” he says, ignoring her objections and sweeping her up into his arms. He carries her into the Burrow, until she begins to squirm, insisting she can walk by herself, thank you very much. 

“If you say so,” he laughs as she leans heavily against him. “Overgrown toddler,” he adds under his breath, and she elbows him in the ribs. 

They arrive at the staircase and he follows behind her as she meanders her way slowly up the creaky, uneven stairs. 

“Fred,” she says as she stops suddenly. Feeling unexpectedly frantic and startingly sober, she turns abruptly and stumbles. He catches her by the waist as she instinctively steadies herself against his shoulders. Standing several steps above him, they are eye level, and for the first time she doesn’t have to crane to see him properly. 

“Careful,” he says, grip tightening. 

“Fred,” she repeats, as though nothing has happened to interrupt her. The impending conclusion to this daydream looms closer, and she feels time tick with increasing speed. Her heart hastens to match it, thumping with a sudden panic. This wasn’t enough time. She wants more time with him. “Fred,” she says in a strangled voice, choking on the tears suddenly clogging her throat. Her hands tighten around his shoulders.

“You could stay, you know,” he says calmly, before she can articulate these thoughts swirling in her head, and the unhurried way he speaks soothes her growing panic. 

“I can?” she asks in a small voice.

He nods. “You don’t have to go now, Hermione.” 

A tear rolls down her cheek and splashes on the front of her dress.

“Okay,” she agrees. 

The pad of his thumb catches her next tear as it falls, wiping it away. His hand slides back until he’s cupping the back of her head, thumb now brushing gently against the edge of her jaw.

“Fred, I want to kiss you,” she says suddenly, and she’s surprised how much she means it.

“Well, you won’t hear any protests from me,” he laughs.

“Right,” she exhales, breath as unsteady as her feet, fingers nervously toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. 

His eyes are searching and he must find what he’s looking for because he leans in to gently press his lips against hers. 

He is so impossibly warm, she thinks as she presses closer, moving her lips slowly against his. Fred’s grip tightens around her and she forgets that it’s not real. 

None of this is real. 

He pulls away first, and the way he’s looking at her makes her heart swell and fresh tears brim against her eyes. She blinks them away. 

Hermione doesn’t know how she never noticed how he felt about her. It seems so obvious now. 

“Come on,” he says, grabbing her hand and walking her up the stairs. 

Fred leads her to his room, to the bed she once slept in, when it was empty except for some old boxes and a few abandoned punching telescopes. 

“Here,” he tosses her an old Quidditch jersey. “You can sleep in this.”

A flush climbs up his neck as he turns around so she can change. When she turns back around he’s dressed in pyjamas, laying in bed under a homemade quilt, a sleepy, happy smile on his face, like they’ve done this a thousand times.

She wants to do this at least a thousand times, Hermione thinks as she settles against him, back pressed against his chest, his arm a warm blanket draped over her waist. The bed, the jersey, the man wrapped around her. It all smells like Fred, Fred, Fred, and she feels a forgotten feeling, lying there enveloped in it. Safe, she thinks, as she blinks slowly and drifts to the edge of consciousness. She feels safe. 

“You can stay,” he reassures one last time before sleep overtakes her, pressing a soft kiss to the back of her neck. And here, in this version of this night, where there is no war, where there are no Death Eaters or Voldemort or Horcruxes, where Hermione has no obligations to anyone but herself... she does.