Chapter Text
Whispers, Delusions, and Other Inconveniences
Chapter 1
There's a moment, as brief as a heartbeat, during the Battle of Hogwarts, when her priorities shift.
The realization, though, dawns on her much later—for she tends to take a long time to process these things, let alone admit them to herself. At the time, choosing to free Fred from beneath the collapsed wall instead of defending her life against the Death Eaters, like everyone else, had only come naturally. An instinct.
Fred's unruly hair flashes before her eyes for a second, only to disappear, swallowed by the wall. The bricks devour his figure. For one impossible moment, she's no longer aware of her own heartbeat, cold shock settling over her limbs like a heavy blanket. The Battle rages on around her, but every sound gets sucked out of her ears, drowned by an unbridled fear that roots her on the spot.
"Fred!" The scream inflates in her throat, but her voice doesn't come. It's Ron, whose shouting snaps her out of her trance, and the next second she's bolting toward the heap of rubble, the urge to get Fred out winning over everything else. Even with her hands burning, bloodied and raw, Hermione keeps going. The ability to keep it together, even in moments of panic—something she had always taken quiet pride in—fails her. Her logical self would later scoff at the memory of digging through chunks of wall instead of levitating them. Magic would have been faster, logically. But logic, too, has abandoned her. She's no longer detached. Not when her fingers brush against soft flesh, and she jerks back, hands frozen mid-air as if in surrender.
Fred. His face, devoid of his usual smirk, is unhealthily pale and twisted in sorrow, lips closed in a thin, almost blue line. It takes the breath out of her lungs like a kick to the chest.
Tears pool in her eyes, but she wipes them away with her arm, shaking herself off. Clawing at his dirty shirt, Hermione summons all the strength she has left and drags him out to a clear area.
His chest is deadly still.
Her hand flies to the back pocket of her trousers, only to find it empty.
"No, no—no." Her pulse spikes. Where's her wand? How could she forget about something so important? "—Oh, hell."
Clenching and unclenching her fists, Hermione brings her hands to the center of his torso, and, unable to muster an alternative, starts CPR on him. Each push tears a sound from her throat, raw and unexpected, using her weight to force his ribcage down in one motion, then back up again. Down. Back up again. This rhythm only breaks to check for any sign of breathing.
Nothing comes.
Even when her arms start to hurt from exertion, and her breathing comes in short puffs, Hermione doesn't relent. She's unable to stop and surrender him to the list of people they lost.
"You can't—" Up, down.
"—die." Up, down.
They cannot lose him.
She can't. Her arms are shaking—in exhaustion, or fear, she can't tell.
"Come on, Fred. You can't." Her voice is desperate, broken, a plea so tired and shaken it surprises even herself.
Then, shaky hands engulf her shoulders. She lets out a gasp as a gentle yet firm pressure builds there, dragging her back until Fred's out of reach.
For a second, she stays still. Processing. Then, she screams. She kicks and claws, but the grip doesn't relent from her shoulders, not until she slumps and lets herself be tugged away, loud sobs shaking her form.
The same arms that tore her away now encircle her, snaking around her torso, and she finds herself pressed against what she realizes, a beat later, is Ron's familiar frame.
He presses her against his shirt, tightening his grip around her, but she can't feel it. It's like she's made of marble in his hold, still, lifeless.
Screams of the Battle still color the air, but it's a faint background noise. Dulled. Only when the texture of Ron's shirt under her cheek becomes wet, and she feels dirt smeared on her skin, does Hermione realize she's crying. Her hands push against his chest, in an attempt at freeing herself, to go back. Because she's not done. Because Fred can't be—but Ron is stronger; his arms root her in place, caging her. Frustration builds in her stomach. She cannot give up.
Just when she's able to put enough space between them to shout at Ron to let her go, Hermione stops. Ron's eyes lock onto her, searching her face. Her lips part, but the words die in her throat. A foreign awareness flickers to life within her, a feeling that lasts at once both an eternity and a fleeting moment, like a piece of a puzzle finding its proper place. And Hermione hears it. Through desperation, through the mess around them, through explosions and cries, she hears it, feels him, and immediately knows.
Fred is alive.
She gasps—loudly, like someone who held their breath for too long. Or maybe it's Fred. She can't tell. Maybe they both do. At the sound, Ron's grip falters, and Hermione breaks free from his hold, running back to Fred's unconscious body on the ground. She doesn't acknowledge dropping to her knees beside him. Her mind's too busy with the realization that his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm.
That he's breathing.
The relief hits so hard it sucks any semblance of strength from her, and Hermione sinks her head on his chest, deflating. His heartbeat, feeble under her cheek, drowns every other sound in the room, even Molly's gasp of happiness and Ron's loud cheers.
There's nothing more comforting than the rhythm under her.
Fred is alive.
She raises her head to stare at his peaceful face, watching the color slowly return to his face and lips. A smile pushes its way through the tears, her cracked lips burning for the stretch.
For the second time, hands reach for her shoulders, but this time, Hermione gives in immediately, letting herself be dragged on her feet by Molly Weasley.
"You saved him!"
The woman's shout of happiness is contagious, and as she suffocates her in a firm embrace, Hermione peers over her shoulder and finds herself surrounded by smiling, familiar faces. Only then, even as War still rages on with battle screams echoing through the corridors, even in the corner of the Castle where a wall has just tried to lengthen their list of lost friends, she allows herself to feel that hopeful spark blooming in her chest.
Fred is alive.
-
Yet, he doesn't wake up.
Fred doesn't awaken days after his admission to St. Mungo, nor in the following weeks, nor after the healers declare him out of peril, but not responsive to any stimulus.
He doesn't emerge from his unconsciousness when Percy—who also was there when the wall exploded on the twin—crumbles in a weeping mess at his bedside, surrounded by his family.
Fred doesn't come out of the coma, not even to witness the Ministry gathering to celebrate Shacklebolt's election as Minister of Magic. Even in the middle of the sumptuous champagne party they've thrown, Hermione swears she can hear him joking about the choice.
"Kingsley as Minister? Gosh, what a plot twist."
She chuckles to herself when Fred's words ring distinctly in her head. But laughter is short-lived, breaking in her throat when she meets Ron's weird stare. His eyebrows knit together, but he doesn't question her, and Hermione simply shrugs in response, hiding her embarrassment in her champagne flute.
He's been distant after the Battle, to the point that it feels as though he's avoiding her. Hermione keeps telling herself it's fine, that he's too preoccupied with Fred to care for her, too. Still, they haven't really been talking, and he doesn't know she's been hearing more and more of Fred. He doesn't have to; she doesn't need another person to tell her she's having some kind of PTSD—Harry's worry is already enough for her to manage.
She misses her friends, though.
Even when she leans with her back against the wall, alone with her glass of champagne, Hermione doesn't let Ron and Harry out of her sight.
Later that same day, as attention fades and the event seems to die out, Kingsley takes the Golden Trio aside to inquire about their future—he wants to know their expectations and whether they wish to return to Hogwarts or pursue different paths. He doesn't insist on an answer the same day, but Hermione hears the urgency in his tone nonetheless.
"I'd like to take my NEWTs." She confesses to her friends.
Harry nods like he expected something like that coming from her.
"But 'Mione, after everything we've done?" Interjects Ron, surprise tinging his words. "We're War heroes now. Why go back?"
She shakes her head no; for someone who has broken the rules several times in the past, this time she wishes to stick to a standard and worn-out path—ordinary, at least academically speaking. She's looking for some semblance of normalcy in her life, to slow down and enjoy an eighteen-year-old's problems just for once.
Ron seems to understand her silence and doesn't push her forward.
"If that's what you wish, 'Mione, I think you should do it." He says, shooting her an apologetic smile.
He and Harry both agree on becoming Aurors almost on the spot, and the decision lifts and drowns her mood at the same time, a mixture of pride and loneliness consuming her.
As she speaks to the Minister in a far corner of the room about going back to Hogwarts to complete her education, she spots the Weasley family over his shoulder, crowding Ron over his decision to pursue an Auror career. Her gaze halts upon meeting a pair of blue eyes already watching her, and she's sure the Minister hears her stumble on her words. Her chest clenches painfully, breath hitching in her throat, at the reminder that George is there alone—a hidden, cruel hint at the fact that Fred is not there. As if she could ever forget about it.
It's like George can read the thought on her face, because he nods imperceptibly in acknowledgment, offering his attention back to Ron and breaking the moment.
The first time she visited Fred at St. Mungo's, her hands were shaking. She remembers that feeling of dread that had settled on her stomach upon seeing him there, unconscious on the hospital bed. She remembers the smell of smoke, ashes, and dust that invaded her nostrils, a memory of the Battle. Her ears had ringed with the sound of her heartbeat, and the room had spun so violently she had felt nauseated. That hadn't stopped her from staying there the whole visiting time. Until it had slowly faded away.
She had come back the day after. And the one after that.
Since then, she has kept visiting almost every day, wanting to make the most out of her time before she departs for Hogwarts. Each time, his face remains frozen in a peaceful slumber, and Hermione hates how her eyes linger on his expression, her mind mocking her with the expectation that he will wake at any moment. That he would scrunch his nose, eyelids fluttering open, and he would simply smile, with that small crooked grin he'd always wear around the Castle. The idea has her smiling to herself, but as much as she lets her mind linger on fantasies, it doesn't happen. The frequency of these thoughts doesn't make them less painful.
His family, too, is growing increasingly restless as the weeks pass.
Molly and Arthur come and go, each day more tired than the other. Even if they try to keep everyone's morale up, Hermione sees it deflate in private moments during each visit. She can't help but notice the hunch in their shoulders, like a burden set itself there, impossible to lift. It's in the small gestures, like when Molly stops bringing food for him in the hope he will wake up when she's there, or the way Arthur silently retreats into himself every time his wife speaks to Fred. The doctors are still hopeful and, overall, nice and welcoming, but the Weasleys' optimism seems to be fading.
Ginny is often with them, and dear Merlin, how Hermione gets happier when she is. The redhead is a beacon of light in the unsteady situation, and their friendship has grown even stronger during the time they spend there, so much so that Hermione is almost excited to be together at Hogwarts.
She and George cross paths almost every day. The twin bears the sign of this suffering even more than the rest of his family, looking more tired every time their eyes meet in the corridors of St. Mungo. Hermione observes the dark circles under his eyes getting more and more evident, his cheeks dauntingly hollow, and his complexion drifting towards a greyish shade. She doesn't dare imagine how he must feel about it, how deeply it must hurt to have someone with you all your life taken away from you. She frowns at the thought, reminded of her own disastrous situation.
She hardly has had any time to reflect on it, which is both a result of the circumstances and something she tries to avoid despair, but it hits like a stone when she does.
Her parents—lost.
She even tried to reach out to them, only to find out she's nothing more than an outsider to their perfect life in Australia. She is not able to reverse the curse yet. But it's all her fault. Her nails dig deeper into her palms, and she blinks the tears away. Taking a deep breath, she sends the emotion straight into her parents' box, buried deep back in her mind. Her eyes clear up, void of all the suffering.
It's something she learned right after the War ended, when emotions would get out of hand. Those tiny boxes had begun to gather in one corner of her mind, almost like a nest. Once they became too many to ignore, Hermione started labeling them. Shelves followed. Then corridors. Before she realized it, she had built herself an entire Library.
Occlumency.
Thanks to that, when she's sitting with George in Fred's room, her voice is steady, unwavering. Maybe just a bit colder than intended.
"You need to rest."
"You're the one to talk, Granger." George scoffs, shooting her a single glance, eyebrow quirked, before diverting his gaze toward Fred on the bed, as he cherishes the steaming cup of hot coffee tightly between slender fingers. She has tried countless times to tell him off, to encourage him to go spend some time with Angelina and get his mind off the damn place, but he has been immovable in his determination—he wants to be there when Fred wakes up. He wants to reopen the shop together. And Hermione cannot fault him; she knows her face must be a mirror of his own. She, too, cannot let go of her daily visits, and so she takes a step toward the window right behind George, sighing in resignation. Hermione will continue to encourage him to live his life between visits, but for now, she relents.
"You know, I feel like I never thanked you properly for saving my brother's life." At those words, she huffs, annoyed. They had gone through various versions of this conversation during their visits, yet there he goes again. Hermione shoots him a frustrated sidelong glance before leaning against the window, arms crossed on her chest. She refuses to face George in fear tears might betray her, so she just stares outside. People come and go with their lives, but they stand there, in silence, watching, waiting. Paused. Her answer comes flat, as if reciting a script she has already reviewed many times.
"I already told you, there's no thanking needed. You can't possibly know if I saved him," she turns to Fred, on the bed. "Not until he wakes up."
As if sensing her turmoil, George deposits the cup on the nearby night table, and in the silence of the room, she hears the shuffle of his feet on the floor as he comes to stand beside her. His reassuring presence warms the chill of guilt running down her arms.
"Don't." His tone is clipped, almost angry, and Hermione turns to face him. She finds him already staring, his eyes hard and set. "I—We wouldn't even have a bed to visit without your help. Had you arrived moments later, it would have been too late. Had you stopped a moment earlier, he would have been on the lists of names we lost in the Battle." He pauses, cranes his neck until their faces are at the same level, forcing her to look at him. "You saved his life. Regardless of this situation. And I won't hear otherwise."
Hermione hugs herself, casting her gaze down, for she cannot stare into his eyes—too similar to Fred's, she absentmindedly declares—and a small smile is the only answer she manages, because she's afraid the silent tears that gathered in her eyes at his sentiment will spill if she tries to voice her thoughts. But of course, George isn't done.
He kneels in front of her, a devious smirk on his face as their eyes finally meet.
"So, I, George Fabian Weasley, hereby declare that I am forever in debt to you, Hermione Jean Granger, for saving my brother's life. You can ask any favor from me—besides marriage, because the spot's already taken—" Hermione frowns in confusion. George's not married. "—and are free to come and go as you please from whatever area of the joke shop, apartment included—" he winks at her "—for the rest of our lives."
She chuckles lightly, her smile for once wide and relaxed. She has come to appreciate George's ability to lighten the mood even more now that time seems to slip through their fingers too fast to catch, and hastily made decisions have dominated their lives as the world spins at twice the speed. For some time, right after the Battle, she feared he'd lost it with Fred unconscious, but it slowly returned when he was around, brightening the atmosphere each time.
She just hopes he isn't using it to divert attention from his mental health.
Eventually, George leaves her, claiming a break from the visit to go find Angelina, and his earlier comment about marriage suddenly makes a great deal of sense.
She stares at the door he just closed behind him, as if trying to decipher the puzzle that the twin is, then huffs, and focuses back on Fred.
His even breath is light as a feather, and Hermione curls down, leaning on the bedside, closer. She takes more liberties now that he can't see her, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the outline of his own. The room has become a neutral place where she can be at peace—so much so that sometimes she speaks to him, too. Her friends left her; there's only one person she can be honest with, right now, besides these small moments with Fred, and it's Ginny. But they don't see each other as often as she would like.
Her chest constricts at the thought, and she leans back into the chair, exhaling while she blinks toward the ceiling.
Will Ron be able to visit this week? Or would rarely seeing him and Harry become the new normal, thanks to their Auror training program?
"George and Angelina really make a good couple, don't they? Been rooting for them since the Yule Ball, you know."
Hermione jumps on the chair, and her eyes snap instinctively to Fred, her heart picking up a furious pace in her chest. He's still unconscious, yet the voice she heard—she's sure about it. It's his. Gaze spanning the room, Hermione finds nothing out of place, nor anyone who could have spoken the words, and frowns.
Is she so sleep-deprived she's hearing things? Her eyes train back to the twin, silently watching him. Her fingers drift, grazing the skin of his forearm lightly first, and then with a firmer touch—nothing happens.
"Ok, I got it, now can you please stop the theatrics and open your eyes?"
Her voice is tentative, and right when she thinks he could be waking up, Ginny bursts through the door, opening it with such force it slams against the wall.
The redhead glances at her, then at Fred, her eyes dropping to her hand on his arm.
Still holding the door wide open, she seems to hesitate.
"I—I thought—" her eyes bounce between them, and Hermione retracts her hand, settling it on her lap. "—I thought I heard you talking." She lets out a breath, then closes the door softly behind her and leans on it, sadness seeping into her green eyes. "I thought he had woken up."
Hermione feels on the verge of crying—she's so fragile these days, almost falling apart multiple times in that short span of time—and just shakes her head no.
Even after they leave him for the night, Fred doesn't wake up.