Chapter Text
Hermione Granger had a problem.
Or, more accurately, she had several.
The war, for one. The fact that Ron had fumbled her in ways so spectacular it would have been impressive if it weren’t so profoundly irritating. Harry, occupied with Ginny, locked into something that finally felt like stability, something real in the middle of all this, which meant that for the first time in years, Hermione was on her own.
But more pressing, more immediate than all of that, was the problem of sleep.
She wasn’t getting any.
She had been managing—if that was the right word for it—on Dreamless Sleep for weeks now. Treading the thin line between necessity and dependency with a level of precision that was probably impressive in its own right. Every night, a carefully measured dose. Every night, the rare mercy of sinking into oblivion without the restless churn of thoughts and half-formed strategies clawing at the edges of her mind.
It had been working.
Until Snape had put a stop to it.
He hadn’t snapped at her. Hadn’t sneered or condescended. He had simply leaned against the doorway of the safe house’s modest kitchen, arms folded, dark gaze leveled at her like he already knew the argument she was formulating in her head.
"Enough, Granger."
Just that. No preamble. No immediate explanation.
She had met his gaze, waiting.
"I know you understand the implications of prolonged use better than most. I won’t supply you any further. Figure out another solution."
And that was that. A definitive line in the sand, as unmovable as he was.
It had jarred her more than she cared to admit. Not the loss of the potion—she had known it was unsustainable, knew he was right, knew that if it wasn’t him cutting her off, it would have been her own bloody self-preservation instincts eventually kicking in.
No, what had jarred her was the concern.
Not grand or overbearing. Just restrained, matter-of-fact. You’re not taking care of yourself, and I won’t be complicit in this particular brand of self-destruction.
It was strange.
Snape did not coddle. Did not soothe.
But she had noticed, over time, that he had his own methods of keeping. That he had taken stock of her, just as he had taken stock of everyone else left standing in the ruins of what had once been an Order, and had decided—without discussion—that she was one of his.
And his did not break themselves down in ways they couldn’t claw back from.
So, yes. He was right.
And no. She wasn’t mad.
But that didn’t change the fact that she still wasn’t sleeping.
Which left her with what, exactly?
The wine sloshed low in the bottle, the last few mouthfuls of rosé shifting under the dim candlelight.
Alcohol?
It wasn’t a solution. But it was something.
The twins had produced the bottle earlier in the evening, self-appointed distraction committee now that everyone else was too busy or too wounded to sit with her. And, really, she didn’t mind. It was easy with them. They had always made things easier than they should be.
No pressure. No expectations.
Just this. Just the three of them.
The fire had burned low, the heat of it settling warm against her skin. She sat curled between them on the sofa, limbs heavy, wine humming through her veins. Not drunk, not really, but—
Comfortable.
Or, at least, as comfortable as she had been in weeks.
George shifted beside her, stretching his arm over the back of the couch. She leaned into him without thinking, the same way she might lean against a well-worn chair, or the side of the battered desk she had taken up residence at. Just part of the landscape.
You could, theoretically, drink yourself to sleep.
The thought came idly, detached.
You wouldn’t need much. Just enough to tip over the edge—
"Merlin, Granger," Fred’s voice broke through, amused and incredulous, "you’re thinking so hard I can hear the cogs grinding."
She blinked, pulling her focus back into the room. Fred was watching her, eyes dark with something like curiosity, lips curled in that familiar easy smirk.
"If we didn’t know better, we’d think you were solving a bloody equation," George added, voice lower, closer, spoken into the shell of her ear.
She exhaled, long and slow, tilting the wine glass in her fingers before finishing the last sip.
"Just debating my inevitable descent into alcoholism."
Fred snorted. "Oh, good. A much more respectable vice than a potions addiction. Really keeping your standards high."
She hummed, considering.
He wasn’t wrong. If she was going to slip into self-destructive habits, at least this one would be socially acceptable.
Still, she wasn’t quite ready to lean into it.
Yet.
Hermione swirled the wine in her glass, watching the way the liquid caught the dim light.
Enough, Granger.
Just like that. No preamble, no discussion, just a flat, immovable verdict. It shouldn't bother her—Severus wasn't exactly known for his bedside manner—but still.
"I still can’t believe he actually did it," she muttered. "Just—cut me off, just like that. Not even a discussion, just ‘enough, Granger.’ "
Fred, sprawled out lazily across from her, smirked. "Sounds about right. You expecting a heartfelt intervention? Maybe a warm cuppa and a nice long chat about your feelings?"
George, more relaxed beside her, tilted his head in mock contemplation. "Merlin forbid Snape actually comforts someone. You’d probably drop dead from the shock."
Hermione huffed, taking another sip. "No, of course not. It’s just—" she paused, swirling the wine again, "—it’s a little galling, isn’t it? The implication that I wasn’t in control of myself. That I didn’t know when to stop."
Fred arched an eyebrow. "I mean... you didn’t stop, did you?"
George gave a thoughtful nod. "Bit of a key detail, that."
Hermione shot them both a glare, but it lacked heat. "I was managing it."
Fred hummed, clearly unconvinced.
"Right. And now you’re here, absolutely not thinking about drowning yourself in a wine bottle instead."
Hermione muttered something unintelligible into her glass.
"I hate that you two make valid points."
Fred grinned wider. "It’s our greatest flaw."
George, still watching her, let his smirk deepen just a fraction. "Well. One of them."
Hermione rolled the stem of her wine glass between her fingers, watching the way the liquid clung to the sides before slowly sliding down. It was ridiculous that Snape cutting her off had unsettled her. It wasn't even that she wanted to rely on the draughts—but knowing the option was gone left her restless.
No scolding. No lecture. Just an undisguised finality that left no room for argument. And worse? She wasn’t even mad.
"So," Fred stretched out in his chair, watching her with casual interest. "Now that your beloved nightcaps have been rudely stripped away, what’s the plan?"
Hermione scoffed. "That’s assuming I had a plan in the first place."
"Oh, we know you did." George leaned an elbow on the back of the couch, lazy but alert. "You always do."
"It just so happens that this particular plan went up in smoke," Fred added, clicking his tongue. "Tragic, really."
Hermione exhaled, half-laughing despite herself. "I love how you two act like I was a full-blown addict."
"Not an addict," George mused. "But definitely at risk of making it a habit."
Fred gave a slow nod. "And since we know Snape won’t be supplying you with your usual fix, we thought we’d save you some time and ask—what’s your next vice?"
She gave them a sharp look over the rim of her glass. "You’re both ridiculous."
Hermione barely registered George’s response.
"No, we’re proactive," he said smoothly.
And maybe she would have had something sharp to say in return—some witty retort, some dry remark—but she was suddenly too busy processing the fact that at some point, his hand had settled at the hem of her shirt. That wasn’t odd in itself. The twins were tactile; they had always been comfortable in her space. But this—this was different.
Because his fingers, the ones she hadn’t noticed, were now slipping beneath the fabric.
Sliding up.
Warm and slow against her ribs.
Her skin prickled as the realization settled, and then—
Fred’s voice, low and amused.
"Well. A better solution."
And his hand—God, how had she not noticed?—was on her knee. But not just on. Moving. His fingers gliding, inch by inch, up her thigh, deliberate in a way that sent something sharp and electric down her spine.
She froze.
Not out of fear. Not even shock, really—Hermione had survived too much to be shocked by anything anymore—but because she needed a second. A second to clock this properly.
Because it wasn’t just one of them. It wasn’t just a misplaced hand or an accidental touch.
It was both.
Fred, watching her with a glint in his eye. George, his palm splayed just under the curve of her ribs.
A coordinated advance.
Calculated.
Planned.
The weight of it pressed in on her, and she swallowed down the absurd urge to laugh, because of course they had planned this. Of course this wasn’t impulsive.
They had watched. Waited. Weighed their options.
And now they were executing.
Her fingers tightened around her wine glass as she exhaled, slow and measured, before asking—deadpan, matter-of-fact:
"Are you molesting me?"
Not is one of you molesting me.
Not what the hell is going on here?
No, it was very specifically you. Plural.
Because if she was reading this correctly, and she was fairly certain she was, this wasn’t just an accident of timing or proximity.
Fred leaned in, smirk lazy, eyes bright with amusement.
"Come on, Granger, what’s the harm? We’ve been taking care of you for ages. And besides, who better to get you to sleep than us?"
She stared. That’s—that’s not what he’s saying. That can’t be what he’s saying.
Except then—
George, ever the quieter of the two, ever the one to follow a joke just far enough that you start to wonder if he’s joking at all, cocks his head and hums.
"Think of it as an upgrade from your Dreamless Sleep. No potions required."
Hermione froze.
They were saying it.
They’re not just saying it, they’re suggesting it. Proposing it like it’s just another one of their half-mad ideas, like it’s something they’d already considered, already discussed.
The weight of that realization slams into her so fast she’s suddenly, violently aware of the fact that she was curled between them on the couch, that George’s arm is still draped over the back of it, that Fred is still sprawled comfortably across from her, all ease and audacity.
She has to get up. Now.
She shoves herself upright, stepping back, putting distance between them.
"Excuse you," she says, voice edged with disbelief. "I am not that sort of girl."
Fred’s brows lift, and there’s an unmistakable glint in his eyes, like he’s delighted by her outrage.
"That sort of girl?" he echoes, mock-wounded. "Granger, if you’re about to tell me you’re some prim and proper thing, I’m going to be deeply disappointed."
She let out an incredulous breath, a half-hysterical laugh bubbling up despite herself. "Are you two—" she gestures vaguely, "—actually suggesting that I let you tag-team me?"
Fred grins. "Oh, she gets it."
Hermione gawked.
Then, before she can even begin to untangle the sheer audacity of the moment—
Fred, casual as anything, says—
"Ron fumbled you. You’re not sleeping. We can take care of that."
And— what.
Her eyebrows shoot up so fast she’s surprised they don’t fly off her face entirely.
What is the ‘that’ in this sentence?
She doesn’t want to ask.
She does want to ask.
She absolutely does not want to know how far they’ve planned this.
( She absolutely does. )
There’s a beat where she just looks at them, at the steady, deliberate way they’re watching her. Because this is deliberate. This isn’t some offhanded joke, this isn’t boredom, this isn’t entertainment.
This was a proposal.
And then—because of course it’s George, because he’s always the one to land the final hit with that low, smooth certainty—
"We certainly can't do any worse."
And that’s it. That’s the moment it stops being outrageous and starts being real.
Her mouth opens, closes, then opens again. She shakes her head sharply, blinks at them.
"What," she demands, "exactly is the ‘that’ you’re referring to?"
Because surely they don’t mean—
Surely they aren’t actually—
Fred tilts his head, considering. George, infuriatingly, just looks at her, utterly at ease.
"What do you think we mean?" Fred asks, and there’s that damn grin again, that thing he does where he knows he’s got the upper hand and is enjoying every second of it.
She crosses her arms, summoning all the sharpness she can. "I do not do casual."
It’s firm. It’s definitive. It’s a line in the sand.
Or at least, it should be.
But George merely nods, thoughtful. "That’s fair."
"Completely reasonable," Fred agrees, and then, with a casual stretch, "Good thing we’re not offering casual, then."
Hermione gapes.
"I—what—"
George leans forward, elbows on his knees, watching her with the quiet patience of someone who already knows how this conversation is going to end. "We know you, Granger."
"We know what you’re like," Fred chimes in, tilting his head. "You don’t half-arse anything. Not work, not friendships, not relationships. So why would we expect you to half-arse this?"
Her stomach plummets.
Because she had assumed, of course she had, that this was some lark, some ridiculous idea they were kicking around just because they were bored and she was there.
But it isn’t.
They’ve thought about this.
They aren’t trying to get her into bed just to see if they can.
They’re proposing something.
Something real.
Something that makes her pulse hammer in her throat because she had not, had not, even considered—
"You—", she swallows, "You actually discussed this?"
Fred’s grin softens into something almost genuine. "Course we did."
"For a while, actually," George admits, watching her carefully, like he’s waiting to see whether she’s about to bolt.
She should.
She really, really should.
And yet—
Her eyes narrow, sharp and searching. “For a while?” she repeats, tilting her head.
Because what , exactly, does that mean?
How long have they been discussing her like this? Like she’s some joint venture? Some—some shared asset to be deliberated over?
Fred lifts a shoulder in an easy shrug. “A bit.”
George, ever so helpful, adds, “Long enough.”
She stares between them, utterly incredulous. “And what, exactly, did this— discussion—entail?”
There’s a brief glance exchanged between them—just a flicker, but she catches it. Some silent conversation she’s not privy to, some unspoken thing passing between them, and it’s—
It’s infuriating.
“Oh, you know,” Fred starts, far too casual. “Just logistics.”
"And a bit of diplomacy," George adds smoothly.
She blinks. “Diplomacy.”
Fred nods, completely serious. “Big word, I know.”
She glowered.
"What he means," George cut in, ignoring Fred’s smirk, "is that it had to be both of us. Or neither."
Her breath catches.
Her mind races.
Because—because—
"That was actually a—" she swallows, "—a point of negotiation?"
Fred snorts. “You’ve met us, Granger. We don’t share toys. Either we both got to keep you, or neither of us did.”
And oh, her face is on fire now, because what the fuck, what the actual fuck, this isn’t just something they kicked around in passing, they actually talked about this, seriously, like—
Like it was always going to happen.
She folds her arms tightly across her chest, fingers digging into her sleeves like she can physically hold herself together.
"And you—" she stops, starts again, "You came to this agreement when, exactly?"
George hums, tilting his head. "Sometime after we found out you stuffed Rita Skeeter in a jar."
Fred nods. "Yeah, that was the moment."
She blinks. “What—?”
"Oh, come on, Granger," Fred says, smirking. "That was pure villainy. Right under Dumbledore’s nose, too. You had that bug locked up for a whole year, and you never so much as slipped up."
George grins. "We were impressed. And a little terrified."
"But mostly impressed."
She stared between them, trying to process that apparently, that was the moment they both decided they wanted her.
"And—" she exhales, "you both—just— what ? Were interested at the same time?"
Fred shrugs. "More or less. But then there was Ron."
"And neither of us were going to be the one to step on that landmine," George adds. "So we backed off."
Fred smirks. "For a while."
Her stomach twists. "And now ?"
George spreads his hands. "Now he's out of the picture, and we've come to an agreement."
Her breath catches.
"Which is?" she asks, slow, wary.
Fred leans in just a fraction, voice low and sure—"That we’re not going to fumble you, too."
Hermione fell silent.
For a moment, the only sound in the room is the quiet crackle of the fire. She should say something, anything, but her brain was still catching up. Because up until five minutes ago, she had friends. Just friends. And now—now they’re sitting there, calm as anything, offering this.
"That is an obscene proposition." Her voice comes out steady, sharp.
Fred grins. "Obscene? Maybe. But impractical? Unreasonable?" He shrugs. "Not in the slightest."
George leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Triads have existed since time immemorial, Granger. It’s a perfectly acceptable arrangement. In some cases, even preferable."
Her lips parted, her pulse tight in her throat.
Old magic.
That’s what they’re saying. That’s what they’re offering. Old, rare magic.
Circe help her, they understood her.
She swallowed, her mind scrambling. Sex magick, binding magick, ancient, powerful ties—
Ron would have never entertained the thought. But the twins weren’t just entertaining it—they were laying it out in front of her, polished and tempting, like they already knew she wouldn’t be able to let the thought go.
George watches her, lazy and knowing. "You’re curious."
She scoffs, folding her arms. "I am not."
Fred grins. "Liar."
Hermione tilts her chin up, arms still folded. "You’re both out of your minds."
George hums, unconvinced. "Hardly."
"Do you honestly expect me to believe that you’ve given this serious thought? That you’ve sat down and discussed, in earnest, the logistics of—" She gestures at them, words failing her. "—this madness?"
Fred raises a brow. "You’re assuming it’s madness because it’s unusual. Not because it’s unreasonable."
Hermione scoffs, shaking her head. "It is unreasonable. And ridiculous. And—and completely unfeasible—"
"Why?" George asks, tilting his head. "Break it down for us. Point by point."
She opens her mouth, then closes it again. They’re enjoying this. She can see it. And worse—worse—they’re treating it like a debate. Like something to be negotiated.
And that’s when she realizes: they knew exactly what they were doing when they brought up old magic.
They baited her.
"You’re deflecting," she accuses.
Fred smirks. "Am I? Or am I making a very sound argument?"
Hermione scowls. "Even if, for the sake of argument—"
"Ah," George interrupts, "so now we’re arguing? Not dismissing? Interesting."
Her nostrils flare. "Even if, for the sake of argument, it wasn’t completely insane, that doesn’t mean—"
"Good, good," Fred interrupts smoothly, leaning back against the couch, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. "So we’ve established the reasoning is sound. Now, we’re just negotiating terms."
Her jaw dropped.
Hermione made a sharp, disbelieving noise in the back of her throat. "And you think what—? That we’d be happily skipping about, hand in hand, in what—a throuple ?"
She practically spits the word, like saying it out loud makes the whole thing even more absurd. And it is absurd.
Fred doesn’t even blink. "The arrangement between us would be ours alone. Nobody has to know a damn thing unless we decide otherwise."
The sheer pragmatism of that answer nearly knocks her off balance.
She expected laughter, maybe even some flippant teasing about how of course they weren’t serious—how they just wanted to get a rise out of her, how they’d had a bet between them on how long it would take for her to start sputtering.
But this?
They meant it. They actually meant it.
And suddenly, she doesn’t know what to do with that.
Fred shifts first, pushing up off the couch in one smooth motion, stepping into her space like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His voice is low, steady. "Tell me this wouldn’t be easier than having to decide between us."
Hermione barely has time to react before he adds, "You like us. You’re comfortable with us. Hell, we’re independently wealthy men—"
She scoffs, cutting him off before he can finish. "Oh, please. Like that’s even a factor."
But it comes out weaker than she’d like. Because damn him, he knows what he’s doing—knows that logic is her first instinct, that she’ll try to outmaneuver him in debate before she even lets herself feel anything. And sure enough, as soon as she’s biting back at Fred, George is moving too.
He steps in behind her, quiet, smooth, and far too close. She barely registers the shift before his voice is in her ear. "We’d keep you happy," he murmurs, his breath a whisper against her skin. "You know we would. We know what you like."
Her breath catches, and suddenly the room feels very small.
The heat of their bodies brackets her on either side—too close, too familiar, too much. She’s always been comfortable with them. Perhaps too comfortable.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Because she wasn’t disagreeing.
Oh, they planned this. That much is abundantly clear now.
Because the moment she bit out "You're both insane," with barely any conviction, Fred’s left hand was already sliding from her shoulder, trailing down her upper arm with the kind of ease that spoke of familiarity.
And George’s hand was under her shirt.
Her breath stuttered.
Warm fingers grazing her skin, teasing, just enough to make her ache with the realization that this is actually happening. Her face is flushed, her body betraying her, and before she can muster a proper protest, Fred’s right hand is tipping her chin up, guiding her to meet his gaze.
“You’re interested,” he murmurs, voice smooth, knowing. “But you’re not sure.”
His thumb traces the line of her jaw, firm, possessive.
“So why don’t we give you a taste before you decide?”
And then he kissed her.
Soft at first, coaxing—like he was letting her come to terms with it, letting her make the choice to lean in. And Circe help her, she did.
George’s hand slid higher, fingers brushing over the lace of her bra, and then—oh—he’s squeezing so gently, teasing, a slow deliberate pressure that sends heat curling through her spine.
She gasped into Fred’s mouth, dizzy with lust, with the sheer overwhelming intensity of it—two bodies against her, two sets of hands mapping her skin, playing her reactions like a finely tuned instrument.
It continues for a moment—just long enough for her to settle into it, to start feeling comfortable with the way Fred’s tongue is teasing against hers, with the way George’s other hand was now flirting with the waistband of her knickers, his fingers inching lower—
And then—
They both pulled back.
Gone. Just like that.
Leaving her standing there, lips parted, breath uneven, body still thrumming from where they touched her.
Fred smirks, smug as anything, while George leans in just close enough to murmur—“Something to think about, yeah?”
And fuck. Because now she was.
Hermione’s breath hitched, a mixture of frustration and confusion flooding her chest. She had just opened her mouth to protest, to say something— anything—but then Fred’s hand on her chin and George’s closeness, their words, it was all too much. She couldn’t focus. She couldn’t think.
Her gaze flicked between them—Fred, with his mischievous grin, eyes alight with certainty, and George, who was leaning in, his breath warm against her ear, his hand still lingering dangerously low. They had plans. No doubt about it. And she hated the way her body was responding, the heat pooling in her stomach as her mind screamed for control.
“No,” she bit back, the word coming out sharper than she intended. “This is bizarre and obscene.”
Fred’s grin didn’t waver, and George’s lips quirked up, as though they’d been expecting this reaction all along. They were calm, sure of themselves in a way that unsettled her.
“Storming off won’t make it go away,” Fred teased, his voice almost… sugary.
Hermione’s pulse spiked at his tone. “You—”
Before she could finish her sentence, she was already turning on her heel, her steps sharp as she stormed toward the stairs. The sound of Fred’s and George’s laughter drifted after her, mocking her indignation in that infuriating way that only they could manage.
She didn’t even bother looking back, not as she hurried up the stairs, her heart pounding in her chest. She reached her room in record time, slamming the door with a satisfying bang behind her.