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“You do realize, of course, that nowhere in the twin contract does it state that I am required to let your inactivity lull me into a coma.” George asserted. “Furthermore—”
“Furthermore,” Fred cut him off as he stirred the cauldron, “It has not been oblivion. It has been…”
“Seven years, three months, two days and four point six hours.” George rattled off, knowing the instant that Fred had fallen in love, or at least heavy liking with a certain witch, who despite being two years behind them in school was one year, five months, and 18 days younger, roughly, of course. They were approaching the first anniversary of the Final Battle, and their twenty-first birthday. “And I swear to Merlin, Fred, if you don’t do something, I will!”
“I’ve done lots of things.” Fred protested. He added the goldfinch flakes, the animal friendly sort because Hermione was right about animal testing within the potions industry, and since they’d switched to fair trade and cruelty free profits had gone up in the niche market by 87%. He also felt better about himself.
George snorted, “Right. Let’s see. Where shall I begin? The secret glances during DA and Order meetings? The blushes? The stupid jokes she laughs at anyway? Following her around on the map for years and never actually talking to her? The sappy expression on your face when she so much as reads the back of a cereal box?”
He took his twin’s expression, “No? Do you mean the coded messages on Potterwatch? That second kiss at the final battle after she pulled you away from that wall? The muggle cooking lessons? The extra detentions and points taken just to get attention from my favorite prefect—”
“Oi!” Fred broke in, “Would you shut your gob already?”
Only George knew about that, mostly because he could read Fred like a book. He knew what Fred's I've Just Been Kissing Hermione face looked like, after all, he'd seen it the first time.
“Touchy, touchy.” George tutted, passing Fred the powered aconite.
“Look, there was a basilisk faffing about Hogwarts!” Fred dumped the vial into the cauldron with vigor, “What else did you want me to do? I couldn’t—”
“Hang off of her like a limpet, calling out, ‘’Mione, let me protect you, even though you could kick my arse?” George continued, the very picture of drama, “‘Scold me, please, nag and scold, I live for it.’”
“I do not live for her nagging.” Fred snapped, pausing mid stir to reconsider his statement, “She doesn’t nag, anyhow. It’s more like excitable reminders.”
“Fucking hell.” George slammed his head on the wooden work table, almost knocking over the brew, “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He chanted, slamming knocking his forehead against the table, his words muffled by the table.
Fred was empathetic, though he wasn’t about to let on about it. Fred waited until he had hit his head a good ten times, and offered, “You might want to stop that, or it’ll be clear to everyone that I’m the smart twin.”
“Listen, you wanker.” George grabbed his attention, as Fred let the potion stir itself “This is fucking serious. There is a wizard at the Ministry.”
“There’s lots of wizards there. Dad, Ron, Harry, Percy.” Fred continued, reaching for their finished prototype, a speech to word parchment meant to make owling something quickly a snap. Naturally, there were also prank versions that put out silly messages once they arrived, in your voice, no matter what it had said when you sent it off. “Sometimes even we go there, though it is a pity.”
“There is some sort of Adonis hanging around Hermione.” George replied, pushing more variations of the parchment forward, “Some American with muscles and brains and, according to Ginny and Luna, he’s very invested magical species equality.”
Fred considered this as he carefully levitated the potion to fill the spray bottle, not really caring about some guy somewhere. If Hermione was the sort to be swayed by a quidditch honed body, good looks, brains, and empathy, she’d have looked his way ages and ages ago, after all. “I just talked to Hermione. She didn’t say anything.”
“Oh, Freddie my boy, Freddie my man.” George replied, shaking his head, “Since when does Granger notice the men who are interested in her? No, this one’s a smooth talker. Before she knows what’s hit her, she’ll be halfway to the altar and naming one of her kids Hugo.”
“Don’t call her Granger.” Fred insisted, ignoring George’s suppositions. He was always the one to behave absurdly. “You know she hates it.”
George returned, spinning the lid quickly over the spray bottle.“Well, I can hardly call her ‘Weasley,’ now can I?”
“Fuck off.” Two zingers in the span of two seconds was beyond the bounds of fair play. “And anyway, your source is Luna. She sees romance everywhere.”
“Luna, Ginny, and that savvy-savvy Lav-Lav.” George continued, “She pulled their cards, and they got the ten of wands and the four of cups.”
That said it all, now didn’t it? Ronnikin’s girlfriend was a bit vapid, but she had a good heart and was skilled at the tarot. She’d predicted a fire, and what had Ginny done that same day? Blown up the stove trying to bake biscuits the muggle way.
“Fuck me.” Fred murmured, his freckles standing out in stark contrast along the bridge of his nose, “What do I do?”
“Well, it just so happens that we have this form…” George brandished a folder, which Fred grabbed, and tossing off his work robes, set off down the Alley.
George chuckled. Since when Hermione or Fred care about tarot? No matter what the girls had discovered, George knew that he had just given his brother a tiny push. They would make their own choices.
George was simply determined that after all these years, they would finally talk it out already. Or kiss it out, whatever.
He wasn't the picky twin.
Hermione Jane Granger hated manning the window at the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. It was the second largest department in the Ministry, and she absolutely hated answering the same questions over and over when she could be impacting more sweeping changes. Still, she wanted to do this from the ground up. Anything worth doing was worth doing right, carefully and with intention.
“Yes,” She might say, “You do have to provide notice if you wish a ghost to vacate your home. They have tenant rights.” Or, she might insist, “No, you cannot melt down galleons for potion work. It violates a goblin treaty. I am sorry you felt angry at Gringotts, but they were well within their rights to withhold the gold once you announced your intentions.”
All in all, it was deadly dull. People didn’t even have the good grace to come to the window and complain today. Hermione blamed the rain. Wizards, it seemed, never remembered they had wands.
Hermione tried not to brighten when she heard well known footfalls. Hermione shut her window before they rounded the corner, and behind the wooden slats, pressed a cold hand to her warm cheeks. She waited exactly twelve seconds, when the man arrived at the window, and then another four. She opened it, “Hey! I didn’t see you there.”
“‘Mione.” Fred returned, “I’ve got this form…”
Hermione spied Mrs. Crumplegrout coming along, and whispered quickly, “Come in, before she gets here.”
Fred grinned. Hermione’s heart flipped over. She ignored it, and went to the small side door by the window, and pulled it shut behind Fred just as Mrs. Crumplegrout came into the vestibule. She would forever go on about her gnome infestation. Hermione counted that as a close escape.
The voice that tickled her ear sent shivers down her spine, “Mischief managed.”
Hermione stepped away and found her voice, “Fred…”
Fred debated kissing her. He only didn’t because he didn’t think he could get the words out to ask her, first. Still, he knew he had to try. He swallowed.
And just like that, the moment ended with the slam of another door.
“I’m back from lunch, Hermione.” A voice called out, “It seems dead around here today.”
American, with those vowels and inflection. The American Adonis, then.
Hermione jolted, and shoved herself away from him. It said more than George’s teasing ever had. Something ached inside of Fred.
Hermione spoke, tucking her hair back. “Uhm. Well. Right.”
Before he could reply, say something, anything, a tall, Black man with a wide smile and artfully cut robes and glasses entered. He dropped a messenger bag on one of the desks in the room, next to Hermione’s, Fred noted, and stopped short when he saw Fred.
Damn right he should stop in his tracks. Fred extended his hand, “Fred Weasley.”
“Keegan Matthews.” He smiled, “Hermione talks about you a lot.”
“What does she say?” Fred smiled, not liking the smile on the man’s face. It was too symmetrical and sparking by half, “That I’m adorably lethal? That—-” I’ve got a twin, which means I’ve got an airtight alibi, if you make her sad. Watch yourself.
“Fred.” Hermione’s tone was the barest cover for a laugh he saw brimming in her eyes. Mr. Wonderful here could work side by side with her in this room, and talk about Elven welfare, but he could make her laugh and smile.
“Hermione.” Fred took in her barely restrained grin, the way it lit up her face. Her wild hair was neatly restrained, but strands had escaped, and there was ink in those stands, and along her cheek where the strands had brushed her face. It took everything he had not to reach out and touch her. It was then that he realized he’d made the ink that she’d used. He’d touched something that now rested against the pale slope of her cheek.
“George.” George interjected, popping into the space beside Fred.
Hermione jumped, whirling toward him. Fred saw her reach for her wand. He brushed his fingers against her. Fred’s own heartbeat slowed.
Hermione stepped backwards, towards him. Fred didn’t move, although he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to close the gap between them and bracket her arms with his as their hearts slowed.
“Ah!” George crowed, shooting him a triumphant look, “I timed it perfectly.”
“George!” Hermione began, “You know there are restrictions against—”
Section B of Ministry Guidelines outlined access. Apparition to offices was strictly forbidden.
“Leave off, Hermione.” George replied, “I wanted to get the correct form to Freddie here. All he has is a piece of parchment that has a recorded conversation on it. That’s our new invention, you see, prototype mind, you tap your wand to it, and the parchment repeats whatever it heard. So much faster than writing.”
Fred waved his wand, and watched as the parchment broke apart into bits and vanished. He glared at his brother, knowing full well what was on the damn parchment. When they were alone, George was absolutely getting an earful, and he was absolutely going to find out that those leftovers he’d wanted, well, Fred had just vanished them. Samosas don’t go to fucking wankers who tricked their twin.
“George Weasley.” She interjected. Hermione was truly polite. Fred would just as soon toss them both out on their asses and watch the clock until Hermione realized she had ink on her face. Hermione stepped away from him, away from George, and said, “Keegan Matthews.”
Keegan offered a hello, sitting down on his office chair. If Mum were here she’d snap at him to sit up before he tipped over. Hermione, he realized, was resisting the urge to do the same. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too, mate.” George gave a jaunty wave.
Fred did not like the look in his eyes. He looked back to Hermione, whose eyebrows rose. Fred knew she was asking him to get them both out of here.
“Didn’t you say you had a form?” She pressed, reaching out for a familiar packet George pulled out of his jacket.
“Keegan is studying to become a lawyer, and he’s on an exchange program for his internship hours this year.” Hermione turned to her desk, reaching for a stamper. As she looked over the form, she looked up to Fred and noted, “Isn’t that fascinating? He goes to Yale, the wizarding law school branch, of course.”
Fred thought what was fascinating in this room was the way her nose wrinkled when she read their patent application for the Auto-Parchment. It needed a better name, but it was clear by her expression that she liked the idea.
Keegan replied, “You’d be a far better lawyer than I’ll be, Hermione.”
He rose slightly in Fred’s estimation. Hermione would absolutely excel at anything she chose to do. She was wasted as a junior staff member in this office. She’d been offered a promotion into a managerial position with her OoM, but she was a just person, whose honor was often incomprehensible. She believed in earning her stripes. The fact that she’d earned them on the battlefield, she said, was immaterial. One day she was going to end the legality of species-based discrimination, and she wanted to do it from the ground up. Fred knew she would, and he prayed he was there to tell her how proud he was of her.
He rather thought he’d be a good Minister for Magic’s husband. He could smile and wave. He’d happily retire from pranking after making a few more million to stand at her elbow at balls and public appearances and speeches, and make her laugh when the stuffed shirts weren’t looking their way. Hermione didn’t know it yet, but that was his ten year plan, or a good portion of it.
Hermione stepped back gently to let him sign the various places indicated. These patent applications always came in triplicate. Hermione fast-tracked their applications. She said it was her rebellion against the red tape and the oppressive power of bureaucracy. She said it kept her sane, made her feel like she was occasionally wild and free, and not a ministry drone.
Fred wanted to foster those emotions between them. He had to admit to being sad, sometimes, that it was thoughts of circumventing the long filing process and not of him that made her feel that way. Just the sight of her in those prim skirts and blouses made his heart race like he was on the back of Harry’s latest broom.
The worked through the papers, tuning out George’s banal conversation with Keegan. It was dead easy to tune out someone who sounded so alike himself. Besides, when he was quiet, he could focus on Hermione and watching her scan his summation of their work. It was a gift he never forgot to appreciate.
Eventually, Hermione stamped the last form as received with a loud thunk, and put the folder in the outgoing box underneath some other documents. Fred winked at her, just to watch her swallow a laugh and turn slightly pink along the edge of her crisp cotton Liberty blouse.
George continued along with something, “We’d love it if you came.”
Keegan looked at George and and said, “Sure, Fred, I’d like that!”
“George.” Fred interjected, “Have you been trying to pass yourself as the better looking twin?”
“Shut it.” George replied, in good humor as Keegan apologized, “Well, we ought to be going!”
“Hermione—” Fred asked, “Have you eaten yet? We could…”
She nodded, reaching into her desk for her purse.
George grabbed his arm, “We’ve got a prototype waiting, Freddie, she’ll eat tomorrow.”
And then, before he could so much as protest, or whip out his wand and stun his idiot of a brother, George had side-alonged them both away.
Fred had a habit of showing up to quiz night at least thirty minutes. Interestingly, Hermione had the same habit. Through unspoken agreement, they had learned that coming earlier was easier than trying to talk about their week with all of the others around, or trying to keep awake and alert until closing. This half an hour was literally the best part of Friday.
This week, George was bloody well mucking it up. Fred slid into the booth only to find George already there, in a matching plaid shirt, cuffs folded back, no less. “Go transfigure yourself something else.” Fred insisted, by way of greeting.
“No can do, Freddie.” George replied, “Angelina says I look nice in this.”
“Fuck’s sake, George.” Fred sighed, knowing that Angelina would be late. She was late for everything. She’d probably be late to her wedding, not that Fred blamed her. If he was marrying George, he’d flee to Wales and take up an assumed identity.
Fred took a quick look around.
George snorted into his pint. “You’ve got 7.2 minutes.”
“I hate you.” Fred replied affably, sliding from the booth to walk up to the bar and order his own pint and a glass of white wine.
When he got back, there sat Hermione, George, and Adonis. Fred groaned inwardly. He sat the glass down in front of her, and slid into the booth. “Hey.”
Hermione took up the glass after greeting him with a smile and an unneeded thanks. She took a healthy swig from the wine glass, which made Fred stop short of drinking his own drink and stare at her with wide eyes.
Typically, she nursed one glass of wine each week, because she went from sober to tipsy within half a glass of wine. She, when very occasionally drunk, cursed her liver enzymes and demanded they create a potion to let her get suitably pissed on shots and hard stuff. She had no tolerance for anything strong. Typically therein, Fred replied that she was quite pissed enough before he poured her into her bed and passed out himself on the sofa.
But she was an adult now, in her first year at her firs real job. She could get pissed if she wanted to. Fred named himself the designated apparitor, and set aside thoughts of a few more drinks. George produced some nibbles from somewhere and pushed them in front of Hermione with the warning, “Slow down there, Hermione.”
She swallowed, half the glass gone, “I’m sorry if we lose tonight, really. I forgot to pick up some sober-up.”
“Any particular reason you’re…” George asked, making a gesture.
Hermione began, and Fred prepared himself for a nice rant. “That twice-damned Swinson! ‘Miss Granger, I need this on my desk by Monday.’ when he knows I’ve been working on a proposal for Goblin education. I haven’t even gotten dinner. I can’t wait until I can fi—”
Fred knew why she’d stopped. She didn’t trust Keegan not to run his mouth. Hermione had a five year plan, though, and sacking Swinson was one of the early goals. Fred leveled a glance at their new American buddy.
Keegan blinked, drinking something, his face bland.
Fred understood the message.
Damn it.
He didn’t want to like Keegan. And yet, as their booth expanded and people filled it in, Fred found himself liking the man. He made polite conversation with Ron and Harry.
Keegan talked divination education in the States with Lav, and when Hermione was too mellow to care about the other team cheating, Keegan bested them fairly. Naturally, even buzzed, Hermione was at least at five times faster and ready with answers, but it was Keegan who kept things going when Ginny took six months on one single question.
Dread grew in Fred’s stomach.
The game had long since moved on, with them electing not to play another round. Hermione was nestled against him, her ample curves warm against his side. He knew she had her flats off under the table, simply because her tights encased feet were pressed against his denim clad legs. Trust her to have cold feet pressed into a booth full of people. Soon they would have to part, to go, to leave.
It was then that Fred noticed Hermione look at him, something soft and considering in her eyes.
Fred couldn’t help the murmured question, “What?”
“You know…” She began, soft and mellow and not at all her strident self, “The Auto-Parchment. It’s going to help so many people.”
“People who talk but have ghastly handwriting?” Fred joked.
“Shut up, Fred.” Hermione ordered with a smile, “No. People with disabilities. People with arthritis, elderly people who have various diseases leading to tremors. People who lost their hands in combat. People with low to no vision who can’t afford those magical machine things, but know auto-quills are shit. Kids who want to send letters to Father Christmas without anyone reading them.”
Fred murmured, looking into her expressive face. “I hadn’t thought about it.”
“That’s why you have me.” Hermione was affable and mellow when she was tipsy, but she was also very blunt. “We give each other’s work meaning, don’t we?”
There was no help for it. Fred smoothed back her wild hair as Hermione’s vivid tea colored eyes shut. Fred didn’t drop his hand.
And then, from across the table, Ron kicked him.
Fred glared, “I should have given you away at birth, Ronald.”
“George was just telling you that you’re going to have to crash somewhere. He and Angelina are going.” Ron replied, “And you’re nattering on about social justice with Hermione.”
Hermione interrupted, which was a shame, because Fred wanted to ask why, if they were going, was George standing at the bar, and Angelina was…coming out of the loo. Oh.
“I’ll make sure Fred gets home in one piece.” Hermione’s eyes opened, “I’m getting tired.” She looked from George to Fred, “You don’t mind my flat?”
Her flat was horrible. It was barely big enough to stand up in, and there were books and cat hairs everywhere. It was better than drowning in Amortentia. Fred loved her flat. Fred forced himself to shrug, “Your sofa’s fine.”
“That’s because it used to be yours.” Ginny broke in, sharing a look Fred could not read with Harry. She looked to Keegan, “Harry and I are going with Ron and Lav to meet up with a bunch of people. Do you want to come?”
Keegan agreed easily, for which Fred was glad. He wasn’t bringing Keegan back to Hermione’s flat, that was for certain. Hermione didn't like strangers in her space.
Things settled, Fred ended up with a slightly sobered Hermione on his arm when they ended up in her flat. Fred made sure she didn’t fall over as she insisted upon cleaning her teeth, washing her face, and braiding her hair. It ended up a bit uneven and lumpy, but she looked downright ethereal.
That was, until he heard snoring from her bedroom. Making up his bed on the sofa, Fred shared a look with Crookshanks. “Sorry mate, but I’m knackered. Up you go.”
Crookshanks gently padded onto the floor, and once Fred had visited the loo, cleaned his own teeth with his toothbrush he kept here, and changed into a spare quiddich t-shirt he kept in the tiny cupboard, along with track bottoms, he tucked himself into the pile of blankets.
Within a few seconds, he felt a head butting where his hand rested, and a foot on his thankfully empty bladder. He petted the bushy animal with fondness, “Yeah, I like you too, Crooks.” With that, the animal curled up on his chest, and they slept.
On Saturday, Fred ate Hermione’s admittedly slightly overcooked eggs and toast, did the washing up, and went with her to wander around jumble sales and old bookstalls.
It was just the sort of Saturday that was at once, normal, not exceptional, average in this barely post-war world, and yet, was everything he lived for and had never even known to wish for.
It was the best sort of freedom.
His glowing domesticity went to shit on Sunday. Fred resisted the urge to pull a George and bash his head on the table. The look on his mother’s face was priceless. Somehow, Ginny and Ron and Harry had invited Keegan, and hadn’t told a soul.
Ginny had quipped, “If you two had emerged from Hermione’s flat once, we would have done.”
Fred had only just resisted telling her that they’d gone to a jumble sale, and had bathed Crooksy. If she wanted to be immature and play tricks, she had another thing coming. You didn’t blindside a prankster.
Mum had, of course, sought to keep the peace between her brood and welcome yet another person into the fold. “Why, of course it’s alright for Hermione to bring a friend home, anytime she likes.”
Hermione’s eyebrows had risen, and then she had said, “Well, actually, if you want to be technical, I brought Fred home.”
And so now, now, they were left with Mum’s expression changing in the span of an instant. Fred looked at Hermione, looked at the joy and mirth evident in every line in her body, and gently shook his head once. Ever since Hermione had pulled him out of the way near a falling wall during the final battle, Mum had been hearing bells. George had heard them years ago. Fred had been hearing them for roughly Seven years, three months, two weeks, six days, twenty one hours, and forty-one minutes.
Eventually, Mum would get used to it and appreciate what he had with Hermione as much as Fred himself did. After coming so close to losing everything, he wasn’t about to invalidate what he had out of a yearning for more. Their entire family had survived. How much luckier could they get?
Mum understood. Her exclamation that had been building on her lips was quite restrained. Fred knew the feeling. “Well, however anyone gets here, there’s always food on the table.” Mum heard Harry and Ginny squabbling over something, and called out, “Harry, Ginny, stop whispering in the corner and go get your father from the shed. It’s time to eat.”
And so, when Dad tramped inside, they with Weasley abandon, put to. In tandem, people shared their news. Bill was up for promotion, Fleur was getting a newspaper column in France. Charlie was healing a nasty burn in Romania, Percy the Prodigal was getting ready to propose, but he made them swear to keep their traps shut. Angelina and Fred were going to her parents next week, so they weren’t to expect them. Ron was about ready to punch his work partner in the face, and his work partner said he had no cause to complain. If he was going to eat the last chocolate frog, well, then Harry was going to put him down for on-call first. Ginny and Harry were flat hunting, much to Mum’s concern.
She was saying, “If you want to save money, you could always live at home, you know. It’s rather quiet.”
Fred knew just what Ginny was thinking. He knew that Harry was tempted by the idea, but Ginny had put her foot down about it. Repeating herself, she insisted, “Mum, no. Don’t you and Dad want a bit of solitude?”
Dad agreed, “You know, I’ve been thinking about turning the twin’s room into a workshop.” He continued, “I’m very close to discerning the function of a rubber duck. My collection is outgrowing the shed, even with enlargement.”
George agreed, “I’m thinking about doing that to Fred’s room, too.”
A stinging hex hit George gently. Fred watched the small light hit him in the chest. He called foul and looked to Fred. Fred denied it. He hadn’t even so much as thought about it. He looked to his left, then, knowing he’d find backup there, and saw Hermione examining her plate absentmindedly. “I was considering Gamp’s laws. What’s going on?”
Fred saw the glint in her eyes and knew she was completely and totally faking having tuned out the conversation. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. His brilliant, bold, righteous lioness had hexed George, and not a soul suspected her. She was a Goddess.
Quite willing to do his bit, Fred feigned outrage and indirectly took the blame, or credit. His bedroom was not messy, he insisted. Down the table, he heard Harry mutter, “You’d have to be there to mess it up.”
Deadly serious, Fred returned, “If the Boy Who Lived has something he wants to share with the class, he might want to speak up.”
Harry opened his mouth, but Dad cleared his throat.
They shut up. They’d all did their bit to take down a Dark Lord, and they were still all afraid of Dad clearing his throat. It was absurd, but true.
Equally absurd but true was Keegan’s easily charming his entirely family. He had kind words for Mum’s cooking and debated the merits of petrol powered vehicles with Dad. Fred new that mum was seconds from pulling out her knitting needles. He swore he heard Lav and Angelina and Ginny giggling in a corner over Keegan, not that he paid them mind.
No, Adonis had only eyes for Hermione. He related every conversation he had back to her, and asked her honest questions that had them debating the best way to implement changes Kingsley was working for in the Ministry.
When Fred made a suggestion, Keegan turned narrowed eyes upon him, “Why don’t you work for the Ministry?”
“Fred? Work for the Ministry?” Ron exclaimed, laughing outright. “Fred?”
Percy, wiping dishes like a suck-up scullery maid instead of using his wand like a sensible person, chastised Ron. “I myself have often said that the twins and their intellect are wasted in their entrepreneurial pursuits. They would be ideal ministry workers.”
Fred couldn’t contain his indignation, “Yes, because I should want to make the world a better place hampered and limited by a low salary and rules, instating of improving people’s quality of life by doing whatever the hell I want and making good money.”
Percy huffed. “But you both are brilliant, and you’re…”
“Perce,” Hermione interrupted him gently, “Just this week the twins filed a patent application for a prototype that will enhance communication capabilities for all sorts of populations.” Hermione explained the parchment at Mum’s behest, using words to express something that had originally begun as a prank as something that was highly innovative and transformative.
“And I’m sure…” Percy replied archly, “That you know all of this because you, yet again, violated departmental protocols and accepted their paperwork, bypassing two lengthly though critical steps in the patent review process.”
Hermione nodded, “It’s already been checked for existing patents and completeness of application.”
“Hermione.” Percy sighed, knowing that they had worked together to put together the application. Both he and George could do it in their sleep, but it was nice to spend time with Hermione.
“What are they going to do, send me to Kingsley, where I’ll smile and promise never to do it again with my fingers crossed behind my back?” Hermione returned, “I turned down millions. The least they can do is look the other way when I file patents.”
“That’s not very ethical.” Keegan suggested, surprise clear on his face.
Fred fixed him with a look. Hermione was far more ethical than he would ever know.
George shrugged, “You should see Percy pontificate when she stages protests and chains herself to lampposts calling out for equality. He’s comic gold.”
“If you’re let go…” Percy’s concern was genuine.
Hermione nodded. “My five year plan takes that into account. If I’m fired, I’ll go and work at the shop and start my grassroots advocacy firm.” She planned to start the agency one way or another within ten years, regardless of her employment. Hermione continued, explaining her reasoning, “The master’s tools, after all, will never truly dismantle the master’s house.”
She grinned at Fred. “Power should always be in the hands of the people.”
“Still not hiring you at the shop, ’Mione.” Flattery would get everywhere, except a job there. She was wasted at the shop, “If you want to study pranking as political action, you may do so from afar.”
“As I must do everything when it comes to you.” She replied with a sigh.
Fred laughed outright, his heart giving a painful twinge. If only she knew she was speaking his mind. Never one to let her have the last word, Fred grinned jauntily, and glanced at George, to avoid letting Hermione see the pain in his eyes, “Pranking as political activism, the theories this woman backs.” Fred never let her know just how much her theories about the roots of their passion for pranking made him glow inside. It was easier to tease her, tease her like she had just tested him.
“Next she’ll be claiming that she was the one to design those Consent (Pranking) is Sexy products. She just wants to get a job to take all the fun stuff off the shelves so the firsties can’t skip out on Apprentice Longbottom’s lessons.”
“More like so the fifth years can’t use your stuff to get his attention!” Ginny called from the sitting room, “You should hear about all of the furtive glances on their parts, and the blushes! Oh the blushes!”
“Oi!” Ron called out, “Now you’ve gone and made Hermione blush!”
Fred swung his gaze back to Hermione, wondering how his eyes had ever left her. She was bright red. What had he said? What did Ginny know? What did George know?
Hours later, he was still mulling over his conclusions. Had Hermione really developed that slogan and let someone else take the credit? They were really cool pranks and promotional items that sometimes read Consent is Sexy and would read various slogans about pranking and fun. The idea, of course, was to ask before pranking, which also applied to other sorts of fun. It had grown as a product line, all focused on pranks that fostered conversation. They were a huge hit with couples, who loved the questions games, and the other things that let them have fun while and prank each other while learning more and firming up communication.
They were good sellers, and educated people even without whacking them over the head. Why give up the credit? And if so, did she really think pranking was sexy?
Well, thought Fred, there was only one way to find out. A small demonstration of pranking power for good always made her smile.
He pulled out a new invention, one that projected written words in beautiful designs, and went to get a sharp quill.
Hermione burst into the shop three days later after closing, a whirl of righteous indignation. Her face was bloodless, save for two splotches of brilliant color on her face. She looked at George, a single glance, and said, “George, get out.”
Fred set down his stirring rod and took one step away from the workbench. He was using George’s, and honestly, he wanted to know why. She fixed him with a look of unholy rage, “Do you think I am stupid?” Her teeth were clenched, “George. Out.”
When Fred looked to his own workbench, George was gone, his own potion in stasis. Traitor.
Fred feigned nonchalance in the face of emotion that was even now, sparking her aura against his. In any other setting, he’d have no problem fantasizing about taking over his workbench, with her power a forcefield around her. Now, though, now didn’t seem the right sort of indignation. It seemed more decapitation than copulation, but that was just Fred’s impression. “Well, you wanted me alone, what are you going to do with me?”
“I—” Hermione warded the door, and the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling, “Am going to have the truth.” She brandished a scroll, an achingly familiar scroll. “Did you leave this on my desk?”
Before he had finished affirming that he had left a scroll on her desk, said scroll came flying at his head. He literally had to duck in order to avoid it smashing into his face. Her aim had improved. “Muggle Jesus, ’Mione, if you didn’t want to that museum in Marseilles, I think a ‘No, thank you, Fred. I’ve plans, but you’re lovely for asking.’ would have sufficed.”
“It is not ‘Muggle Jesus.’” She informed him, “The expression is either Jesus, or Jesus Christ. If you’re going to lie to me, at least you should be careful of the details.”
Fred thought back. He’d simply used one of their new prototype scrolls. You wrote a message in it, and it projected it above the parchment, some with fireworks, some with hearts and flowers. There were all sorts of fonts and themes. It was meant to be a visual alternative to howlers of all sorts. Now that Hermione had made a point about accessibility and universal access, which is what she called stuff like their Auto-Parchment, they’d had a few ideas.
This was a test of one, and it had failed, clearly. “What did it read?”
Hermione inhaled, “It didn’t read anything! Have you really—”
With a mingled awareness of shock and hope at the softness of Hermione’s voice, Fred had a good feeling about what had happened.
With shaking fingers, Fred summoned the scroll. He opened it, and his voice filled the room, as his soul filled with dread, “It has not been oblivion.” The short pause in dialogue had Fred searching out Hermione’s eyes. “It has been…”
He heard George’s voice, replying as he knew it would, “Seven years, three months, two weeks, two days and four point six hours.” George rattled off, “And I swear to Merlin, Fred, if you don’t do something, I will!”
What had George done? What had George done?
Fred went to speak as did Hermione. They were shocked into silence, it was readily apparent on Hermione’s face when more dialogue continued. But instead of George’s voice, Ginny’s whisper filled the space between them, where the scroll that held an Auto-Parchment shook in his hands, “Think George believed us?”
Lavender’s voice assured her, “I am a fantastic actress. And I did tell the truth. Keegan is one sexy man. All we have to do is—”
Fred went to speak, but Hermione hissed, “Shhhh!”
He shushed.
Luna made a hmm-ing sound. “I see no issue with a little subterfuge but pushing Hermione towards Keegan is so passè. They’re friends, we’re adults, and I hate tropes. Though, we should invite him along. He’s got North American nargles.”
“Right then.” Lavender agreed, avoiding a speech about transatlantic nargles, “Give me the quill. I’m best at impersonating them. Right. So.” They heard the scratch of a quill, as Lavender turned her attention to what she was writing, Dear Hermione, you must allow me to tell you how…” She paused, “No. Here, Ginny, you try.”
Fred did not look at Hermione. He’d once written her sappy Austen quotes, too, but like any sensible person, he’d binned them and set the bin on fire.
Ginny took the quill, for Fred heard the clattering of the inkpot, “I think it should simply give her the facts and allow her to draw her own conclusions. I think she already has, and is waiting on Fred to make a bloody move.” He heard a sigh, “Dear Hermione, remember our first kiss? I want you to be my first and my last.’ Ta-Dah! Totally genuine emotions and sappy enough to sound like him.” Ginny exclaimed, “Our work here is done, ladies.”
Fred didn’t like how well his sister knew him, or how well he was getting to know the crack in the planks on the floor.
Lavender squealed. “Do you mean to tell me that they—”
“Yep.” Ginny popped the last letter, “It’s Hermione’s big secret. She lets everyone think it was Krum, even Fred, not that he cares who she’s kissed in the past. Victor never kissed her.” Ginny informed her friends, “She said he was keen, but he respected that she wasn’t. She was already gone, if you ask me. Personally, I’d have shagged him six ways to Sunday.”
Thankfully, her closing comment helped him to look away from Hermione. Their gazes had flown together when Ginny confessed what they both knew to be true. Hearing your little sister gush about some guy was enough to make any man look away, and any woman color and roll her eyes.
“Oh yes. He does seem very dominating.” Luna agreed in that dreamy way of hers, which did rather disgust him, considering that she was dating Charlie.
Hermione snorted, but it was a watery sort of snort. That told Fred so much, and he looked to her, knowing that they were going to talk now, no matter what the damn Auto-Parchment revealed. Nothing mattered other than the fact they need to do their own disclosing, in their own words.
Hermione’s throat worked, “Fred, I—”
“’Mione.” Fred breathed.
George’s voice took over, something in his explanatory tone bidding them to listen as they stood in the cramped workroom, staring at one another, unblinking and unmoving. “Luna, Ginny, and Lavender tried to prank me. What they didn’t know was that when they caught me at the door listening to them gush about Keegan, I left a auto-parchment behind. Information is power.” He continued matter-of-factly, “Freddie, I finally developed one of these things with a pause button and attachment capabilities. Sorry about needing another patent.”
They shared a look, an unfathomable look of understanding, as George addressed Hermione in the same direct tone, “Hermione, here’s an attached note. This is what Fred meant to put on your desk. You have to listen to the whole thing before you can unstick and see the attachments. I’m betting you didn’t before you came here.” He sighed, “It’s a prototype, they all have bugs. We should really let you open attachments at any time, shouldn’t we? Considered yourselves pranked.”
With that, Fred’s original note fell to his feet in a shower of delicate flowers. It landed between them, the words projecting up on the ceiling.
After reading them, Hermione had a ready reply, “I think we should go to Marseilles, but if it’s all the same to you, I think we should skip the museum.”
Fred grinned, “What should we do, instead, ’Mione?”
She smiled, “We have a counter prank to plan, of course.” Hermione’s tone was too prim by half, “Why else would we spend a weekend in a hotel overlooking the sea in France?”
Fred reasoned, that later, later he’d tell her that he’d planned a day trip. Her idea was unquestionably better. Instead, he began, “Hermione…”
They met in the middle of the room, his hip bumping his work bench. “How much did you listen to alone?”
Hermione almost never admitted to jumping to conclusions, though Fred knew it was something he loved about her. She was so level headed, but when she really cared, she sometimes leaped. “Just George telling me that you’ve loved me for almost a decade, and neither of us did anything about it.”
Fred protested, “Hey, I’ve done lots of things!”
Hermione tilted her head, “So have I!” She smiled, likely knowing they would have it out about who had done more of the courting later, she stepped closer, into his personal space, and looked up into his eyes. Fred nearly shook with the truths he saw in her depths.
“It’s my turn, now. Fred…” She repeated a question he’d asked her once when they were young, and had dreamed of hearing on her lips, “Can I kiss you? I promise it’s not a prank.”
He remembered that day, she’d been so shocked, that her consent had been both a rushed whisper and a clutching at his uniform robes in the library. This wasn’t a library, and there was nothing stopping them from being together like this until they day he died. There was no war, no waiting, nothing but the same answer, one that he meant for always, “I’ve been waiting for you to ask me.”
Hermione laughed, almost as though she was surprised he remembered, when he remembered everything about her, about them, and rose up on her toes to press her mouth to his. This time, this time, though, there was shyness, no awkwardness, no furtive glances around the library to make sure no one had seen. Now, the same feelings of love and rightness were uplifted by the heady joy of having found their own way, together, having chosen to come together, free of anything else other than want and love and passion and friendship.
Her lips were still chapped, though, as they had been that long ago day in the Charms section. Fred knew that when it came time to tell their children, because he knew Hermione had factored at least three into her ten year plan, about the forces that had given him the best and most precious person in his life, he knew he would emphasize that Mummy and Daddy had always seen right through pranks that had come their way and chosen each other in a sensible and logical way, never mind the details.
As for the girls, they’d better watch their backs. After all, they had two pranks coming their way. George, Fred decided, would get a small pranks. It was as close to a thank you as Fred would ever give him. Even the Prankster in Chief needed a wingman now and again. Not that he would ever tell George that, of course.
In the shop, dusting down the shelves, George wondered how on earth some of the worst pranks of their lives, some of the most ham-fisted and inelegant pranks, had turned out to be the most elegant and beautiful.
Ah well. That, he decided, was a line for the best man’s speech.