Chapter Text
The Letter, Christmas Day, 2006.
Hermione Granger stared into the fading fire. The hearth at the Burrow had always been her favourite place to think. Tonight, Ron sat opposite her, the glow from the embers throwing shadows across his face.
“Time’s nearly up on our deal,” he said quietly. It was the first thing he'd said after the others had gone to bed. Hermione wondered if this was the reason he was still sitting with her.
“Have you decided?”
Hermione let out a thin breath, her eyes fixed on the dying glow.
After Harry and Ginny married, she and Ron had made a childish deal: to marry each other if neither of them had found someone by New Year’s Eve, 2006. At the time, it had seemed so far into the future — but now, with only a week left, her someone didn’t look at her that way at all. She’d hoped to never speak of it again. But she knew Ron was right.
She sighed. “Don’t push. It’s all I’ve been thinking about. But he doesn’t want me, Ron. The other day he told Ginny I was his best friend.” Her voice tightened. “See? No chance. Not for me.”
“Are you sure? Because he steals glimpses at you all the time?”
“Fred’s not shy. He would have asked me on a date – like that.” She snapped her fingers. “No, Ron, it’s a pipe dream.”
She dropped her gaze to her feet for a moment—just to steady herself. Then:
“What did Gabrielle say?”
She already had a good idea, but she let him speak. Partly to hear the words aloud, partly because she knew Ron needed this moment to feel important.
Ron sighed. “She let me down gently.” Ron’s shoulders lifted, then fell. “’Said she likes me… But maybe later. After her studies.”
“Do you want to wait for her?”
Ron shook his head.
A silence settled, warm and heavy as the fire sank lower.
“Alright,” Hermione said at last. “Let’s do it.”
Ron looked up. “Valentine’s?”
“Yes.”
This time, she didn’t waver. Hermione met his eyes across the low glow of the fire. She reached out her hand.
“One condition. Not a word to anyone. Anyone. If your mum hears even a whisper, she’ll have the wedding planned by morning.”
Ron’s mouth curled. A reckless, grateful grin.
How daring of him — how foolish of them both.
They both grew quiet. After some time, Hermione felt the need to let him know he didn’t have to sit up with her.
“I’m sorry, but I need some time alone.”
Ron jumped to his feet and said good night.
When he was gone, Hermione stared into the fire, the flames shifting and sighing in the grate. She caught herself wondering why she was so eager to move on with her life — to find what came next, to hold her own baby in her arms.
The fire crackled softly, flames still dancing above the bed of ash. She found herself staring, as if the answer might be hidden in the glow — or in what was left behind. A laugh escaped her before she could stop it; Professor Trelawney would be proud to know she was searching for her future in a pile of burnt wood.
A gentle tapping at the window broke her thoughts. She looked towards where the sound came from and found herself looking into the wide green eyes of an owl.
She walked over and opened the window. An icy wind hit her face, and she was glad the owl seemed to understand they should hurry inside. She shut the window and cast another heating charm on herself.
“Poor thing,” she murmured as she found a treat for him. “Eat this — and there’s water in the bowl over there.”
The owl hooted softly, took a few bites before he fluttered up to perch beside the Weasley’s owl.
“Who are you bringing news for?” she asked, but the bird had already closed its eyes.
The letter was addressed to her. Hermione carried it back to her seat by the hearth, turned the envelope over, and carefully opened it. Inside was a photograph — of her and Fred.
She stared. Picture Fred smiled at picture Hermione, and then they turned to smile at each other. They leaned towards each other and kissed. Not a friend’s kiss, but a lover’s. Hermione’s breath caught. She knew she could never kiss a friend like that. Could this really be…?
In the front of the picture there was a sweet girl. She and Hermione had matching red dresses. The girl had the same bushy-brown hair as she had. Her daughter?
She looked into the envelope for a letter.
No note.
Was it a joke?
She knew one thing for certain: this had never happened. She would have remembered — because the picture showed her secret dream come true. Only Ron knew about that.
She flipped it over. On the back, in Fred’s unmistakable handwriting, were the words:
Dec. 25, 2026. xoxo Fred.
How could Fred know?