Chapter Text
Whispers, Delusions, and Other Inconveniences
Chapter 1
There's a moment, as quick as a heartbeat, during the Battle of Hogwarts, when her priorities shift. She doesn't notice it straight away, too busy fighting for hers and others' lives.
Realisation dawns on her much later—for she tends to take a long time to process these things, let alone admit them to herself. Still, if she were to pinpoint an instant to blame it all on, she would indicate the moment when everyone was busy defending their lives against the Death Eaters, and she was digging fervently to free Fred from the wall debris that had fallen over him.
In panicked moments, Hermione feels like she's always been able to maintain control and act logically. She used to pride herself on this ability. And that side of her would scoff at seeing her, digging through chunks of wall instead of levitating them. Her hands are bleeding, skin splitting open in multiple points, but she keeps going. Logically, magic would have been faster—but she's no longer logical. She's no longer detached. Right out of the Chamber of Secrets, still pushing her way back into the heart of the Battle, she had just glimpsed Fred's unruly hair, only to see him swallowed by the wall. The instinctive smile on her face died, and she had bolted toward the heap of rubble, the urge to get him out winning over everything else. Even over her self-preservation instinct, since her shields had fallen the moment she crouched down and started to dig. When her fingers brush against soft flesh, she stops in her tracks, frozen.
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.
Shaking herself off, Hermione claws at his dirty shirt and, summoning all the strength she has left, drags him out to a clear area. People are scurrying around them, and chaos reigns over the place, but she doesn't seem to notice as she kneels beside him, panting heavily.
Tears pool at the corner of her eyes, blurring the painful vision of his body. His chest is deadly still.
Her hand flies to the back pocket of her trousers, only to find it empty.
"No, no—no." She panics. Where's her wand? How could she forget about something so important? She has no time to accio it. "—Oh, hell."
Clenching and unclenching her fists, she brings her hands to the center of his torso, right over his heart, and, unable to muster an alternative, starts CPR on him. She counts each push with fervent precision, her weight coming down on his ribs, then back up again. Down. Back up again. The rhythm only breaks to check, to feel, for any sign of breathing. Nothing comes. Even when her arms start to hurt and burn from the effort, and her breathing comes in short puffs, she doesn't relent. Sweat beads her forehead, her own heart beating painfully, but she's unable to stop, unable to give up, and surrender him to the list of people they lost.
"You can't—" Up, down, push.
"—die." Up, down, push.
They cannot lose him.
She can't. Hermione stops, breath laboured, lowers her ear over Fred's chest, but nothing comes. She shakes with the force of her exhaustion, or maybe it's just fear, she can't tell. Back again. Up, down, push, up, down.
"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. It drags her back, hands unable to reach for Fred anymore, away from his unmoving form.
For a second, she stays still. Processing. Then, a scream. She kicks and claws, but the grip doesn't relent from her shoulders, 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. She hears him sob, too, but her mind is blank, short-circuited. Logically, she knows he has every right to feel devastated—it's his brother who has been caught under the wall's bricks. It's his brother who came out as pale as a ghost, no sign of life on his usually cheerful face. And yet he chose to comfort her, to drag her away and abandon the flicker of hope that he would come back. He presses her against his shirt, tightening his grip around her, grief and guilt mixing in her chest. He smells of blood, and dust, and sweat. But she can't feel it. It's like she's made of marble in his hold, still, lifeless.
The world around them is frantic, screams of the Battle still color the air, but she feels suspended. It's like times decided to stop, with the realisation that Fred is indeed dead. Only when the texture of Ron's shirt under her cheek becomes wet and humid, and she feels dirt smeared on her skin, does Hermione realise she's crying. Weeping. She tries to tear her face away from his chest, to go back, to fight. She cannot give up. She has to—then, a subtle sensation of awareness snaps within her, a feeling that lasts at the same time an eternity and a fleeting moment, like a piece of a puzzle finding its proper place. And she hears it. Through her and Ron's joint desperation, through the mess going on around them, through explosions and cries, she hears it, feels him, and immediately knows.
Fred is alive.
The unexpected gulp of air she hears when he comes back to life springs her to action. She turns and escapes the arms that cage her, pivoting to the twin form on the ground, hastily crossing the distance between them in large steps, her gaze never leaving his face. Even though Fred's eyes are still closed, she sees the steady rise and fall of his chest when she lands on the ground, dropping her head to his chest.
Relief courses through her worn-out muscles like a balm, and lulled by that precious beat on her cheek, she closes her eyes. It drowns every other sound in the room, so Hermione doesn't hear Molly's gasp of happiness or Ron's loud cheers.
There's not a single thought more important than the one that's taking up all her mind at the moment. Not a sound more comforting than the rhythm under her.
Fred is alive.
Fred—
She raises her head and stares at his peaceful face, watching the color slowly return to his face and his lips—earlier tinged with a deathly blue—now a rosy pink. A smile pushes its way through the tears, her cracked lips burning for the stretch.
"You saved him!"
Molly's shout of happiness is contagious, and as the woman forces her to her feet, suffocating 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 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. Yet Hermione swears she can hear him, even in that room full of all the prominent figures of Britain's Magical Government, joking about the choice.
"Kingsley as Minister? Gosh, what a plot twist."
She chuckles to herself at the thought, the small laughter dying in her throat when she gains a weird stare from Ron. She shrugs, and his eyebrows knit together, but he doesn't question her, and she sips the champagne from the flute to hide the embarrassment. Behind him, the press engulfs Harry with questions, and when Ron tries to drag him away, he's swallowed too, taken away from her, again. She takes a step back, happy the journalists haven't noticed her. She can't spot Rita Skeeter in there, but sure wouldn't risk it. Unlike Ron, Hermione doesn't revel in the attention she got in the first days after the Battle of Hogwarts, and she prefers a lower profile, empty from gossip and articles. That's why she and Harry avoid public unless it's strictly necessary, while Ron seems to enjoy it, glowing under the flashing lights that the Daily Prophet provides.
She misses her friends, though. Even more, she misses enjoying their company outside without having to worry about an article or all kinds of questions. Even when she leans with her back against the wall, 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 later to her friends.
Harry nods like he expected something like that coming from her.
"But 'Mione, don't you think we're overqualified for them?" Interjects Ron, surprise tinging his words. "We're War heroes now, you could aim for something more."
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, 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 keeps visiting almost every day, wanting to make the most out of her time before she departs for Hogwarts. Yet, his face remains frozen in peaceful slumber, and Hermione hates how each time her eyes linger on his expression, her mind tells her he could wake up at any moment. It's the way her heart flutters with expectation, the way her hands start to shake and her lips tremble as she thinks about receiving one of his hugs, that's hurting her the most.
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 up everyone's morale, she sees them 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 remain positive and, overall, are 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 all that uncertain 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. The only person she had expected to see heartbroken, even more than the rest of his family, is George. And he is, for she has noticed George looking more tired every time their paths cross in the corridors of St. Mungo. He might be the more ill-looking sibling, she thinks as she observes dark circles grow under his eyes, his cheeks becoming dauntingly hollow, and his complexion drifting towards a greyish shade. She doesn't even try to imagine how he must feel about it, how deep it must hurt having 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 achieve to avoid despair, but it hits like a stone when she does.
Her parents—lost.
And 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. When she speaks, 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 irremovable 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 her shoulder against the window, arms crossed on her chest, while she looks outside. Frustration bubbles up in her throat because while people come and go with their lives, they stand there, in silence, watching, waiting. Paused.
"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. "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 the moment she tries to voice her thoughts.
"So, I, George Fabian Weasley, hereby declare that I am forever in debt with you, Hermione Jean Granger, for saving my brother's life. You can ask any favour from me—besides being my wife, because I do have someone else in mind at the moment—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."
Hermione laughs at that, for she has come to appreciate George's ability to lighten the mood even more, right after the end of the War, when it felt like time slipped through their fingers too fast to catch, and hastily taken decisions dominated their lives as the world spun around 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. Reminding them there's still normalcy, even in this situation.
She just hopes he isn't suffocating and hiding his real feelings to help everyone else, but she couldn't blame him if he did, for she's doing the same to stay lucid and present.
Eventually, George leaves her, claiming a break from the visit to go find Angelina, and his earlier comment about having someone to marry in mind suddenly makes a great deal of sense. Hermione, ever the hopeless romantic, blushes and sits beside Fred.
His even breath is light as a feather, and Hermione curls down, leaning on the bedside, closer. She takes more liberties now that Fred can't see her, her fingers tracing the outline of his fingers absentmindedly. 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.
Oh, how she misses her friends. Her chest constricts, 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 the Auror training program that has just started?
"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, 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, searching his face for any sign of a prank that would totally be Fred's style. Her fingers drift to his arm, grazing the skin of his forearm lightly first, and then with a firmer touch—nothing happens.
"Ok, Fred, I got it, now you can 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 more force than necessary.
The redhead glances at her, then at Fred, her eyes dropping to her hand on his arm.
Arm still on the wide open door, she seems to hesitate.
"I—I thought—" her eyes still bounce between them, and Hermione retracts her hand, settling it on her lap, sheepishly looking at Ginny. "—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.