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*
The tents glow gold and warm, and Fred's belly contains a little more firewhisky than anticipated.
Everything swelters pleasantly hot.
(Not as brilliant in quality, though, as Madam Rosmerta's finest oak-matured mead.)
Once dodging the wildly eager hands of the few Veela cousins, becoming bored, he heads past the great white marquee in their orchard. Rows of delicately golden chairs. A long, velvet-purple carpet. Fred notices Great-Aunt Muriel questioning "Cousin Barny" and snickers to himself.
Need to piss…
With everyone back outside, celebrating Bill and Phlegm… Fleur, Bill's wife, Fred drunkenly corrects himself… the back door of the Burrow remains open. No more old Wellington boots and rusty cauldrons. He thumps the new Flutterby bush and their nicely swaying leaves.
The kitchen, unlit.
Fred moves through, blinking at a soapy pan wobbling away from other dirty dishes and rinsing itself.
One of the chickens cluck on top of a living room sofa, freed from the outdoor wire enclosure.
Crookshanks, hidden in the shadows, eyes it yearningly.
He mewls a protest when Fred stumble-shoos him with a newly polished shoe.
Bloody arsed firewhisky…
Fred makes a wrong turn, half-expecting it, ending up inside of his mum's scullery.
He can see much more clearly with Hermione's wand alight. Her lightweight, lilac-coloured dress brighter. Hermione looks down at herself, softly pinching the flesh of her thigh and driving a syringe in. The needle vanishes in. She's injecting herself with… is it medicinal?
A nude, plump thigh distracts Fred.
Hermione's thigh.
But only for a moment.
When she has capped back the emptied needle-syringe, Fred decides to interrupt, his pale and freckled cheeks unusually warm —
"Oi, you! Hermione Granger!"
Having already dropped her lilac and finely pearl beaded hem, she scowls. Hermione's own cheeks flaming.
"For goodness sake, haven't you learned to KNOCK — "
With a pronounced gesture, Fred raps loudly onto the door-frame.
"Ss'that what Harry whss'esplaining?" he mumbles, oddly reassured by Hermione's expression less souring. "For your hormones?"
"Yes. If you must ask."
Hermione places her things into a small beaded bag, her entire chubby forearm disappearing in.
(Ah. Dissendium spell? Or an Undetectable Extension Charm, Fred supposes.)
"Whh'nnot use magic? You… you're gifted enough."
Very rarely Fred wonders if he should open his mouth and express a thought. Even if it nagged at him. Fred does wonder this time. Hermione's fingers bunch together. She slowly shakes her head, and Fred budges and opens his mouth, hoping to apologise —
"I prefer it this way," Hermione whispers, smiling absently. "The long way round feels as if I have earned it. Somehow."
Fred's lips thin together.
"Rubbish," he croaks, ignoring Hermione's sharper intake of breath. "You deserve to be… who urrr are. Thss… thasss Hermione Granger."
When big brown eyes go noticeably wet, Fred stumbles in further.
He determinedly embraces her.
She squeaks, clutching onto Fred's middle with both of her hands, but doesn't pull away. Hermione's cheeks flame redder.
Jauntily, Fred pats the back of Hermione's sleek and shiny hair.
"Now… whrrs the loo?"
*