almost

What happened to Hermione plays on a loop in her head, but not in the way a memory would. She doesn't feel like she is looking back on something that happened to her as much as she feels like she’s reliving it. Over and over again. Always the same sequence. The same sensations. The same sounds and smells. Always in the present tense, so that her real surroundings fade away and she is at Malfoy Manor, sprawled out on the floor of the stale drawing room, frozen in abject terror. 

Always frozen. Always helpless. Always waiting for a rescue that might not be coming, or really just any end at all. Anything to make the pain stop. Make it stop. Make it stopmakeitstop makeitstop makeitstopstopstopstopstop. 

Both painfully in her body and outside of it, above, watching what happens to herself like she is watching a film. Like she’s in someone else’s painful pensieve memory. It is the opposite of Fred’s daydream. It is a nightmare and she cannot wake up from it, designed by someone who hates her, who wants her to suffer, and who has meticulously planned out her torture to most devastatingly ruin her. 

Bellatrix Lestrange’s hot, putrid breath fills her nose, condenses on her face, leaves her feeling as dirty as the vile witch above her believes her to be. Voldemort’s most trusted lieutenant is sharing the secret to insanity she had once shared with Neville’s parents with her, the lazy flick of Bellatrix’s wand at odds with the deep, horrible loathing she must feel to inflict this much pain. 

And Hermione is pleading, she is trying to explain, we found it, it’s a copy… I didn’t take anything, please, I didn’t take anything…

Then more pain, white-hot knives, all-consuming and piercing every inch so that it is indistinguishable from her skin, her muscle, her bones, her blood. This pain, this foul woman’s hatred is everywhere, and she is surely going to burst with it. 

The soundtrack to her nightmare is screaming, her screaming, burning and tearing her throat, reverberating inside of her, louder than any noise she’s ever heard in her life. 

Another knife, sharp and jagged, carving into her flesh. A shrill voice rings in her ears, rattles in the cavity of her skull, deep in her bones. Shrieking about a vault, a sword, and a dirty mudblood thief. Somewhere there is a growling noise; somewhere there is Fenrir, waiting for scraps. 

Darkness, a heavy weight falling on top of her. A great crash, a flash of light and a million glittering shards of glass. A grand chandelier reduced to rubble and her underneath it. The sound of Ron’s voice. Blissful darkness again.

Then Ron and Harry are being dragged forcibly to a dungeon and Bellatrix is telling them to leave the mudblood and it starts again. 

Yes, Hermione remembers more than she wants to from Malfoy Manor. But very little of what came after.

The first thing she is consciously aware of is Fleur, stricken but determined, helping her into an unfamiliar house. She remembers blood, apologising to Fleur when she gets it on the witch’s collar, "sorry" falling from her lips in a repeated refrain. 

The second moment is more lucid. She blinks awake to Harry and Ron, standing on either side of a bed she has found herself in, each boy gripping a hand. Ron’s face is red and puffy, Harry’s drained of all colour. 

Her throat is dry, rubbed raw, like she has swallowed shards of glass. Even if she had words, she doesn’t trust herself to speak. Instead she swallows painfully, a terrible noise grating in her throat.

Ron is the first to notice, squeezing her hand tighter. “Oh, thank Merlin,” he croaks. 

They explain that they are at Shell Cottage with Bill and Fleur and the other souls rescued from Malfoy Manor. They explain that they have lost their wands but are not wandless. They tell her that she’s safe now. 

She doesn’t feel safe. The last time she felt safe was… well, it wasn’t even real. And now, though the immediate danger has passed, she feels the echo of that fear inside of her that their words do not quell. 

Hermione realises with a start that this is precisely the kind of situation she has been saving her second daydream for, and she wants nothing more than for Harry and Ron to leave her in peace so she can use it right that moment. 

With a concerted effort, she moves her hand to fiddle with the charm that has given her so much comfort during this camping trip from hell, this impossible mission they’ve been tasked with. Her fingers brush at nothing but the cold, clammy skin of her wrist. 

It’s not there. 

Tears prick her eyes and a sob tries to escape her, but even that hurts too much. Ron sees and scrambles off to get her water, and to alert Fleur. 

“Harry,” she forces out hoarsely. “Bracelet… I need…” She is panicking. She can feel it in the way her throat constricts and her heart races. The way her hand begins to tremble in Harry’s. It’s gone. Not even the loss of her wand, an extension of herself, feels quite like this. Her wand she can replace. But this… “Fred gave…” Tears are leaking out of the corners of her eyes and her chest heaves painfully. 

Her friend, her best friend, squeezes her hand tighter, face sad but determined. 

“I’ll find it, Hermione,” he promises, grip almost painful now. “Don’t worry, Hermione. I’ll find it,” he repeats, but she can hear the uncertainty in his voice as he slips his hand out of hers, before slipping out the door entirely the moment Ron returns with Fleur in tow. 

Even this has overexerted her, and it takes all of her strength to drink from the cup Ron tips carefully against her lips, his hand supporting her head because she cannot even hold it upright on her own. He settles her carefully back against the pillows while Fleur rebandages her arm, already soaked through 

All energy spent, she drifts back into unconsciousness, fingers still feebly searching for a good luck charm that isn’t there. 

The next thing she’s aware of is warmth radiating from her wrist, a gentle pressure, and then a familiar weight. She blinks back to awareness, and there, on her wrist, is a muggle charm bracelet. And there, clasping it to her wrist, is Fred. 

She doesn’t know where Harry found it, or when she said the incantation or whose wand she used to do it. What she does know is that she is relieved to see his face again.

Even if it isn’t real.

He sets her hand back gently against the bed and begins to pull away, but she curls her fingers loosely around his hand before he can get too far. 

“Hello, love,” he says, grasping her hand in both of his from where he’s sat at her bedside. Hermione thinks he sounds sadder than the last she heard him, but his voice is still warm, with that special daydream quality to it that makes her heart feel like it will burst. 

“‘Lo,” she replies, voice a hoarse whisper. 

“A little birdy told me you were in need of a good daydream,” he says, and she manages a small nod. 

She swallows roughly, and Fred wordlessly tips water into her mouth from the glass on her nightstand. 

“I missed you,” she says once her throat is adequately hydrated. 

He squeezes her hand. “I missed you.” Fred bends his head down to their joined hands, lips brushing against her knuckles. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” she adds. 

“I couldn’t be anywhere else,” he says, gazing intently at her face, a solemn look in his eyes. 

She takes the time to drink him in, to memorise him. He doesn’t look like the last daydream Fred she met, the one Fred himself had constructed. 

That Fred was carefree, with a ready laugh on his lips and a trick up his sleeve. That Fred was idealistic and in love and in a world untouched by war.

This Fred is born out of Hermione’s imagination, and even in a daydream she can’t help but to be practical. His face is haggard and thin, pale and drawn, freckles standing out starkly. There are bags under his eyes and a weariness to him that she’s never seen before. Even his hair seems less bright, a crackling fire reduced to a flickering flame. He looks worried, she thinks. 

“What did they do to you?” The question seems to spill out of Fred, and he looks immediately sorry for having asked it. Even so, he doesn’t take it back. 

She bites her lip. Unsure how to answer. Not wanting to disclose too much. Even here, in her own imaginings. 

“Bill said you looked like you’d been tortured,” he says, a searching look in his frowning face as he glances meaningfully down at her forearm, shakes gently at her hand to demonstrate how limp and weak she is. 

“Hermione,” he says, a plea in his voice when she still doesn’t answer. At her continued silence, his face hardens. 

The next time he speaks, his voice has a steely quality to it that makes her flinch. 

“Hermione.” The frown is etched in deep grooves on his face, deepening with each second he stares at her bandaged arm, blood seeping through the white gauze and staining it crimson. 

“It’s my daydream… am I allowed to request that you don’t look so angry?”

“But I am angry,” he says, voice hard, jaw clenching, eyes blazing. 

“I’m okay,” she reassures, but it does not have the desired effect, and a vein jumps in his neck. Like his outrage is this live creature fighting for control, to escape. She sees the tension in every hard line of his face as he tries to hold it in check. “Really, Fred, I’m alright.” The words sound feeble even to her own ears. She feels the throb of the raw, open wound, the burn of her nerve endings, the deep ache of exhaustion in her bones. She thinks she winces.

“Like hell you are!” His voice is explosive, and he inhales sharply through his nose when she flinches again, trying to calm himself. The hand that still holds hers grips a little tighter, but not enough to hurt. Though his other hand, she notices, is clenched in a fist that has turned his knuckles white. “I want to kill whoever did this to you, and even that would be too merciful.” He says in a low voice that promises vengeance.

It is a promise she does not want him to keep. 

Her fingers reach out to brush against the crease in his forehead, thumb rubbing gently to try to smooth it. “I don’t want you to do that,” she says in a small, trembling voice. “You would have to leave to kill someone. This is my daydream. I just want you to stay.” 

She won’t cry. She won’t.

His face softens slightly; he exhales through his teeth, a long hiss. “I don’t want them to steal anything more from us. Be it time, or innocence. You’re not a murderer, Fred Weasley, not even a hypothetical one. I won’t let you be.” Her voice cracks despite her best efforts, and he deflates even more. 

She’s surprised to see the sudden tears welling in his eyes, to hear him sniffle as his head bows over their still joined hands. 

After a moment, he straightens. “What do you want then, Hermione?” he says quietly, and she knows how helpless he feels, because she feels that way, too. 

Her lip trembles as she contemplates his question, and Hermione feels again just how tired she is. Tired of fighting. Of resisting. She just wants to give up. Pack up and go to a home she doesn't have. Any composure she has gained since her arrival to Shell Cottage collapse as she speaks through a sob, voice shaking. “I…c-c-c-can’t… h-h-hold… m-m-m-me?” 

Her words are nearly incomprehensible, not even grammatically a question, but Fred understands her request. 

Fred climbs into the bed behind her so her back is against his chest, legs spread out on either side of her. He wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her as close as possible, and rests his chin against her shoulder to whisper in her ear reassuringly. “I’m right here.” He interlocks their fingers with his free hand, lifting their joined hands to kiss the back of her knuckles again. “I’m not leaving.” 

There, enveloped by him, Hermione allows herself to feel everything she’s pushed down and compartmentalised, locked behind a well-guarded door in her mind. For months... years, maybe. In Fred’s arms, Hermione heaves wracking sobs, Hermione cries, Hermione breaks. 

She can do that here. Now. Because in Fred’s arms, Hermione feels safe.  

After a time, when Hermione’s run out of tears and is resting bonelessly against him, Fred whispers in her ear. Not platitudes. Not reassurances. Fred does not promise her everything is going to be okay. He does not tell her that she is okay, or strong, that she will get through this like she has everything else. He does not even say he is sorry this happened to her, because how they feel about everything that has happened can’t be reached with words so simply, concisely, maybe even at all.

Instead, Fred says, “Do you want me to plait your hair, love?” 

“You know how to plait?” she asks in a tired voice, tilting her head back to look up at him. He nods. “Huh,” she says.

“What?” asks Fred, amusement creeping into his voice. It is this, more than even Fred’s embrace, that makes Hermione feel hope perch somewhere in her soul and begin the first tentative notes of a song. 

“You just learn something new every day, I guess,” she says, the suggestion of an exhausted smile beginning to curl the edge of her lips. 

“I do have a sister, you know. As her favourite brother…”

“Bill’s her favourite brother,” Hermione interrupts.

“As her favourite brother,” Fred continues, as if she hasn’t spoken, “I was duty bound to learn the lost art.”

She scoffs. “It’s not lost. Any primary school girl could teach you.”

Fingertips ghost gently against her sides as Fred presses a soft kiss to her cheek, then her temple, lips lingering there.

“Do you want your hair out of your face or not?” he asks teasingly. 

“I think you want it more than I do, seeing how it's in your face,” she counters.

“Touché."

Laughter, or something like it, rumbles out of Fred. 

Maybe it should feel out of place. Wrong. 

But it sounds sweet to her ears. It warms her from the inside out; a spring thaw after an endless, unforgiving winter. She has been so, so cold. 

Fred conjures a comb. Starting from the bottom and working his way up the lengths of her hair he begins to carefully, methodically detangle the strands. He parts her hair down the middle, and presses another soft kiss to her exposed neck before he begins to plait her hair into neat French braids. 

She thinks Fred makes her feel the most cared for she’s been since she was a child. Since before Hogwarts, before she knew she was a witch and started making it her life’s ambition to keep Harry Potter alive. It makes unwanted tears leak out of the corners of her eyes. Tears Fred notices and brushes away wordlessly before resuming his task. 

When he’s done, he places a plait over each shoulder before wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face into her shoulder. He sighs, breath ghosting over her skin and causing goosebumps to erupt in its wake. 

“Now what, darling?” he sighs. “What’s next on your daydream agenda?”

She yawns widely, and Fred huffs a laugh, warm breath in her ear. “Maybe a real dream,” she admits. 

“That’s my cue,” he says, starting to slowly untangle his limbs from around her.

“No!” 

He pauses. “No?”

“Can you stay?” she asks, childlike, holding as tight as she can to his arm to arrest any attempts to move away. Her voice feels so small. “Until I fall asleep?”

He nods even as he continues to disentangle himself from around her, Hermione impeding his efforts as she clings to him the best she can. “Lie down, love” he directs her. Fred gently arranges their limbs so they’re in the same configuration as the last daydream, careful of her injured arm. He spoons her from behind, heavy, warm arm blanketing her where it rests over her middle. His deep, sleepy breaths send a pleasant, comforting heat tingling down her spine with every exhale. 

“Fred?” she says sleepily, as she begins to drift off. 

“Hmm?” he hums from behind her. 

“Thank you for being here.” 

“I should be thanking you for that,” he says quietly, and it’s clear his meaning is quite different than hers. 

She turns in his arms to face him, sleepiness temporarily giving way to a sudden, desperate urgency. There are things she needs to tell him while she's got him. Hermione shakes her head, loose fists coming to press lightly against his chest. “There’s a lot I want to thank you for,” she says. “In person, the first chance I get. But I’m going to do it now, just in case.”

“Hermione,” he starts, and she cuts him off with the warm press of her lips against his. 

“Fred Weasley,” she whispers against his lips. “Thank you for finding a way to stay even when I had to go.” 

“Hermione…” he tries again, her name on his lips soft, like a prayer. She stops him with another kiss. 

“Thank you for the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever gotten. Thank you for the dances, and the daydreams, and the jumper that’s kept me warm in more ways than one.” She kisses him again. “Thank you for making me feel safe.”

She buries her head in his chest and feels hot tears slide down her cheeks. She breathes him in, that smell that evokes sun-drenched kitchens, warm fireplaces on a rainy day, dazzling fireworks and mischief; the smell she suspects she might find in Amortentia now, if there were any around to test that theory. “Your arms feel like home,” she mumbles as more tears leak out. 

“I thought you said you didn’t know how you felt about me,” he says. “If I didn’t know any better…” 

“Fred,” she says, tilting her head up to look at him again, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “I don’t know how I could live that daydream without falling at least halfway in love with you.” 

“I was going to say I’d think you fancied me,” Fred says teasingly. “But I think I can get on board with love.” 

“Haven’t changed your mind then?” she asks. “Not even when I’m about to drool all over you?”

“Nah,” he says quietly. “Love does funny things to a bloke. Somehow even drooling looks cute on you. Endearing, even.”

She presses another kiss to his jaw, his neck, his collarbone, sleepiness creeping back in like a fog.. She blinks slowly, feeling her eyelashes brush against his skin.

“A little spit is worth it to get to see you again,” he adds, kissing her forehead. “I missed you,” Fred says. “Merlin, Hermione, I missed you so much. I’m so glad you’re…” There is a long pause as he fumbles for the end of his sentence.

Okay. Not hurt. Surviving. She mentally supplies, but none of these things are exactly true. 

Alive. 

“Here,” he finishes. 

“You’ll stay?” she asks again, fighting a losing battle to keep her eyes open. “Until I fall asleep?” she adds, even as she drifts off again. 

She is already fast asleep before she can hear his answer, so profound is her exhaustion. And so Hermione Granger does not hear Fred Weasley whisper, 

“I can stay.”

She does not hear the door open hours later, or see George come to shake Fred awake, illuminated by the light streaming in from the hall. She does not feel him carefully extricate himself from her bed or his fingertips brush the flyaways from her forehead or the press of his lips to her temple. 

She does not hear George regretfully inform his twin, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. We have to go. Now.” 

Hermione Granger misses all of this. 

And so, when she wakes up, it is with the same bittersweet longing that comes from knowing that Fred Weasley did not actually share those stolen moments with her, but that he made the effort to give her that comfort anyway. She feels again that she could love this man, if only she was given the opportunity. If only she had the gift of time. 

Then Hermione Granger notices that her hair is braided into two neat plaits.

And she thinks maybe she already does.