Smarts and Mischief / Fremione Fanfic

Three.

The wait for a shower wasn’t nearly as long as usual and though she didn’t understand why, Hermione didn’t bother to ask. As soon as George, the last to shower, had exited the bathroom, she made her way in with her small basket of toiletries. Her cheeks still burned from her encounter with Fred in the kitchen. Her scar had quickly become one of her biggest insecurities. Not long after realizing it would never go away, Hermione had found herself wondering how Harry had dealt with his so easily as a child. Suppose his was a great deal easier to hide, though. His hair was always untidy and shaggy and covered most of his forehead. If he’d needed it covered, he could have managed. Hers? Hers was out on full display across the soft skin of her forearm. From time to time, it still ached, almost like she could feel Bellatrix dragging her wand across the flesh. The young woman worked in silence to start the shower, staring at the ceramic wall of the shower but not really seeing it at all. No, she was still seeing the pain and worry that had painted itself on Fred’s face. Had he wondered if she’d done it to herself? She would never. That simply wasn’t the kind of person Hermione was, never had been.

When the bathroom had effectively filled with steam and Hermione was sure the water was exactly as hot as she needed it to be, she shed her clothing and stepped under the heavy stream. She knew it was inconsiderate but for a while, Hermione only stood under the pelting water, eyes closed as it soaked through her hair and burned her skin. Any icky feeling she’d felt in the kitchen needed to be burned away. No shame, no embarrassment, no pain. The hot water helped, she’d found that out long ago. But again, the look on Fred’s face flashed across the backs of her eyelids and she found herself sinking to the floor of the shower. Maybe not the cleanest place to settle but she found that her legs could no longer support her, nor could she keep the dam together to keep back the tears. Quiet sobs began, Hermione reaching for her rag and beginning to scrub at the disfiguring mark on her arm. How awful. Logically, she knew this wouldn’t work, knew that it hurt, but she couldn’t stop herself. Oh, how desperately she wanted it gone.

She didn’t stop until the skin was raw, her tears no longer flowed, and the hot water hurt far more than she meant it to, at which point she finished off her shower and, wrapped in her towel, headed back to her room. Again, upon exiting the bathroom, she found herself passing Fred in the hall but this time, she couldn’t meet his eyes. He had seen her greatest shame, her biggest insecurity, and while that should have made them closer, she found herself far too embarrassed. He didn’t speak, either. Only watched her leave before taking his turn in the bathroom. Back in her room, she took her time to dress before settling into her chair, curled up as tightly as she could manage, Crookshanks found a spot as close as possible to his owner and curled up, falling asleep quite quickly. Hermione didn’t sleep. She stared out of the window in front of her, lazy fingers running over the sleeve of her sweater that now covered the mark on her arm. Hermione didn’t move for a while and even when Mrs. Weasley came to call her to dinner, she quietly declined, offering an excuse of not feeling very well. Maybe that wasn’t an excuse, though. She didn’t feel well, though it was more mentally and emotionally than feeling ill. Reluctantly, the older woman left the young witch to herself, shutting the door behind her.

If you asked her, she couldn’t have told you how long she sat there, all she knew was that when she finally brought herself back to earth, the last rays of daylight had long disappeared over the horizon and the stars were shining brighter than she ever remembered seeing them. Still, she found she wasn’t hungry and instead crawled into bed, her cat remaining in the chair where he’d been asleep for the past several hours. Heavy eyes faded closed and soon, Hermione herself was fast asleep, tucked in the comfort and security of her own bed. This. This was good and safe. This home, this family, was the one place Hermione knew that she was safe and protected. No one under this roof would ever let any harm come to her. No one in this family would ever let anything happen to her. And then she remembered.

Not even Harry had been able to keep her from harm.

When her eyes opened again, she was back on the cold floor of Malfoy Manor with Bellatrix hanging over her. She could see and smell the long, curly, dusty hair hanging around her face. She could feel the hot breath on her skin as insults and questions were hurled at her, questions she didn’t have the answers for, either. And Hermione? She was screaming. She could feel the tears pouring down her cheeks and was acutely aware of people watching. The Malfoys and the snatchers that had brought her and her friends to this cold, loveless building. She knew that wherever Harry and Ron were, they could likely hear her screams and do nothing about them; figured they probably felt a little guilty, too. So she fought and squirmed and cried, hoping to get away from the dark witch's grasp but to no avail. No, now she could feel the horrible slur being carved into her pale skin. The same sharp pain, the same sting. 

Brown eyes closed and then opened again and she found the only real part of anything she'd just felt was the tears and the raw feeling in her throat from her screams. Her eyes had barely been open a second when the door to her room burst open and one of the twins was settled on the bed beside her, an arm around her shoulders. Fred. It had to be. The cologne or aftershave or whatever he was wearing gave him away.  She couldn't speak, not right away, no, she was too busy sobbing and clinging to the male that had joined her. He didn't speak either, instead shushing her quietly and tightening his hold on her shoulders. It was silent in the room aside from her sobs and his shushing until finally the sobs died down and Fred felt he could speak.

"What happened? What's wrong? Talk to me. I'm here, you're safe, but you gotta talk to me so I know how to help you," he said quietly, pulling her ever closer to rest his chin atop her head. Hermione remained silent. Though she knew it shouldn't have been the current focus, she found she was fixated on the fact that Fred had been the one to rush in. Fred. Not Ron. Not Ginny. Not Mrs. Weasley. No, it was Fred. That meant something. It had to mean something. Everything meant something in life, Hermione had learned. No matter how inconsequential something seemed, there was always a meaning. Finally, however, she pulled in a deep breath, reached to wipe her eyes, and spoke. 

"Nightmare. Bad one. I was back in Malfoy Manor. Bellatrix was…"

Fred stopped her, tightening his grip again and shaking his head. "You're here and you're safe and she's dead. Dead and gone. Can't ever hurt you again," he reminded her, his voice taking on the same tone it had the day before in the kitchen. There was comfort to be found in his voice, she realized. In fact, Hermione now found herself latched to his arm, the tears slowing, the sting in her scar fading slowly. That was almost enough to shock her just enough to distract her from the way he buried his face in her hair. Before she realized it, she was working to match her breathing to his, quiet and slow, careful and deep. Whatever she knew Fred to be, this was a side of him she wasn't used to, but, oh, how nice it was. Hermione liked it so much, actually, that she didn't even mind as his hand slipped up her shoulder, under her hair, up her neck, and moved to cradle the side of her face. Long fingers curled and twisted to rest under her jaw, pulling her face to his before he spoke again. "You're here with me. I would absolutely never let anyone hurt you." And it was with those words that he leaned in, lips pressing against hers in an almost shockingly gentle manner. Fred Weasley? A gentle side? That was unexpected but, of course, she wasn't complaining. No, instead she was returning his kiss, a hand closing around his wrist in hopes to keep his hand exactly where it had come to rest. The kiss lingered, leaving Hermione breathless and still when he finally pulled away and moved to stand, headed for the door.

"Get some more rest. Tomorrow will be better, 'Mione."

Then he was gone, leaving Hermione to drift back off to sleep with the taste and warmth of his lips still lingering against her own, her heart pounding in her chest. Fred Weasley had kissed her.

How unexpected.