Disclaimer: Everything recognizable belongs to J.K. Rowling (and or Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream) and associates. No Copy Right Infringement is meant.
Of the Night
"I know the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started." - Ernest Hemingway
Hermione's POV – 28 July 1997 – Night after the mission of retrieving Harry from the Dursley's – Early morning hours
My hands quiver as I bring the last of my firewhisky to my lips. A little of the burning liquid sloshes over the rim but I pay no mind to it. Not one to really indulge in such pastimes, the stiff drink makes me a little wobbly. Unfortunately it has nothing to do with the horrid events of the last several hours.
Indolently, I set the glass on the wooden table, centered in the cramped kitchen, trying to make as little noise as possible.
The house is eerily silent, especially considering the trauma of the night and the deeply felt loss of Mad-Eye. The only thing to pierce my ears is the soft hooting of a nearby owl, the slight breeze of summer and the settling of the oddly-shaped house known as the Burrow.
Weak light filters into the partially curtained window as I study the scarred wooden table.
I can't help but wonder how many dinners Mrs. Weasley has served here, how many ailments she has cured, how many family councils she has sat through and how many antagonizing nights she has worried for the welfare of her large family.
Stinging tears comes unbidden to my eyes as I try valiantly to will them away. I dislike crying greatly, and I know for certain I am not a pretty crier. My cheeks become reddened, my nose runny, and my hair seems to become even bushier – for some odd reason.
Unfortunately it's always had a life of its own, I think off-handedly. Some things are inextricable.
My fingers pass roughly under my eyes as I swipe at the now fallen tears. Nothing seems to be happening my way tonight. However, the tears are the least of my problems.
After Kingsley and I escaping five Death Eaters, not to mention a flying Voldemort (sans broom), tears are actually a welcomed problem. They are so inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, though.
The clincher of our flight, the little detail Kingsley omitted from Harry and Remus had been my part of our battle. It hadn't been him responsible for the possible death of our pursuers', but the magic from my wand: A stunner straight to the chest.
But being in the heat of the battle, to knowing Harry and Ron were truly safe, to adrenaline coursing heavily in my veins, to George being cursed with Dark magic and to finding out about our former Defense professor, I had been thoroughly distracted. My reaction to an action had been shelved.
But now as the weak moon light filters in and my trembling fingers play with the empty glass, I can't help but think on it. I know it to be only the tip of the iceberg, and the arduous part of the war only truly beginning, but it doesn't preclude me from feeling sorrow and remorse.
I try to comfort myself with the belief of it being a war and people are bound to be killed (just look to Mad-Eye). Death Eater's philosophy is to kill first and ask questions later, especially those they think beneath them. But it brings little comfort to my overwrought body.
The sad part is: this war is going to take so much from each of us. And I shudder to think who we'll be at the conclusion. Who will even be left standing?
With a little more force than necessary, I push the empty glass away from me and thankfully sigh as it barely avoids toppling over the edge of the table. Thank goodness for small miracles, I guess.
"Drinking on your lonesome, Granger? And firewhisky no less. Oh, not very fitting for Prefect behavior. What kind of example are you setting for wee little firsties?"
I groan resignedly as one half of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes invades my solitude. More like my pity-party. I push my wild hair from my eyes and look up.
Just when I think I have a sharp, witty retort to throw back, more tears prickles my eyes. It shouldn't be so easy, being able to tell the twins apart. It feels like something is actually stolen from them: some mysterious phenom.
"Please, Fred, this isn't the time." A bark-like laugh escapes from his lips before he can even think stop it. The sound reminds me so eerily Sirius, only reminding me of more loss suffered.
"Sorry, Hermione," the red-haired jokester replies through his ending chuckles; yet I can detect the sincerity in his apology. "But you know me by now, love. What else would you expect from your resident Weasley twin? Well, besides blinding handsomeness and wit beyond belief, of course?"
A rogue giggle escapes my lips, only feeding the red-headed menace before me.
"Can't you be serious for once, Fred?" I ask mock-sternly, trying on my best McGonagall impersonation. I fail spectacularly, which I happily blame on the lateness of the hour and the firewhisky, of course.
His mischievous head tilts to the side as his full lips quirk up. What now, I can't help but think.
"I tried being serious once, love, but the real one threatened to hex my bits off and feed them to Moony on the next full moon if I didn't stop." Fred's wink is all kinds of smoldering. I wondered if he even knows the easy affect he can seamlessly create.
I shake my head, scolding myself for such inane thoughts. That is the firewhisky talking. I push aside my silly, girlish thoughts and replay what my late-night companion had said. What in Merlin's crusty knickers had he been referring to? And instantly the lights click.
"Fred," I whine, "That was truly uninspired. Even Percy could have come up with that. Honestly!" I snort.
I try and hide my inelegant giggle as Fred's jaw drops open. He looks entirely too cute; like a little spooked puppy.
"Wow, Granger, talk about hexing a man's bits off. To call me out on my lame joke, understandable; but to compare my skills to Percy, it's all but unforgiveable. Blasphemous, I say!"
I laugh heartedly, thanking whatever powers that be for the little levity reprieve. The heaviness breaks up a little in my chest, and I find it easier to breathe. But of course I should have expected that from either Fred or George.
Silkily I take a page from the prankster's book and throw a saucy wink back at him.
His eyebrows all but disappear in his long, ginger locks. Slowly a smirk appears on his handsome face. Yes, unfortunately, I always thought the twins handsome. A girl would have to be blind not to see their physical appeal (and yes . . . their mental appeal, too, my traitorous libido reminds me. Goodness, are they near genius with all they have accomplished) or have the thickness of Trelawney's glasses. But I digress.
"Why, Granger, I do declare you sloshed on firewhisky is quite alluring. The drink seems to take the schoolmarm straight out of you."
Again, I snort. Perhaps there is a little truth to his words.
Snobbishly, I throw my chin up. To think, I sloshed. However, I can't help the flush creeping over my cheeks. This is all ever so embarrassing.
"I've never been sloshed a day in my life," I extol with as much dignity as possible. "And for you to insinuate otherwise is defamation to my character." Take that, Fred Weasley, I think impishly.
"Alas, I spoke too soon." My chin retreats as I bite my lip to keep from giggling. The effect Fred has on females should be criminal. I may fancy Ron, but he could stand to learn one (more like a hundred) lesson from his brother.
I shake the fluff from my head and narrow my eyes playfully at the scoundrel. "'ear, 'ear," I can't help but retort. If George can pull such a lame joke, than who am I to refute his comedic genius?
A lost look haunts Fred's face before it disappears. I quickly question my observation skills, wondering if I truly saw such a misplaced look on his visage, but I know it isn't made up.
"Oh goodness, Fred, I'm terribly sorry," I'm quick to apologize. I never want to put that look on to his face again, nor see it there. Stupid me, had to cross some blatant line.
Without realizing, my quiet companion slides over to my side of the table and comfortingly slips his left arm over my shoulders. Angrily I think it should be the other way. Fred had almost lost his other half tonight, and here he is consoling me. How is the mood able to shift so dramatically?
Sharp, jagged sobs erupt in my chest. Not only do I ruin everything, but I may have killed a person tonight.
"Shhh, Hermione. Come now, love, . . . what is all this?" I try to will the tears away and only succeed in wiping boogies on poor Fred's shirt. My humiliation is set in stone tonight. Even the boy-Arthur wouldn't be able to pull it out of stone.
"I go too far. It is a terrible fault of mine. And I'm sorry, Fred. I shouldn't have senselessly reminded you of George's accident tonight. And I claim Ron has the emotional range of a teaspoon."
Thoughtful rumbles of laughter tickle my cheek where it lays on Fred's chest. His heart and lungs sound healthy and strong. Unconsciously I burrow (no pun intended) deeper into his chest, allowing his warmth, his mirth to fill me. It is terribly selfish, but I cannot stop myself.
"Firstly, there is no need for an apology, we were joking about. No harm done; and you didn't go too far. I'm actually impressed with your dry humor." I weakly slap Fred's chest as I giggle between my little hiccupping sobs. "Secondly, one couldn't even successfully drown in the deepest depths of my baby brother's emotional range. Ickle Ronnikins is rather dense in that regard."
"Fred," I try and admonish, but he is successfully pulling me from my despair. "That is unfair."
"Perhaps," he concedes, or so I think. "But he is my brother, and I have to call truth where I see it, Granger. Regardless of familial obligation. It doesn't stop me from calling Percy a big-headed git, now does it?"
For a time I am lost in my mirth, Fred's warmth and the sadness of the night. This man's gift far outstrips his penchant for mischief (which is saying A Lot).
"So why are you really up so late, Hermione? Drinking, no less?" Fred finally asks me when the silence between us become deafening. Not that it is uncomfortable.
I want to keep the answers hidden deeply within me. Perhaps if I ignore the awfulness of this senseless war, it will cease to exist. But I've always been a pragmatist (to my eternal consternation).
"I had one more glass – sans the one I had earlier," I answer, trying to get away with his easier question. "I'd hardly call that drinking."
"And as to the other inquiry?" I sigh wearily, not wanting to answer.
"I'm making sure Harry doesn't disappear without me," I answer bluntly. There is no other way to say it. "I've known him for almost seven years, and if there is anything I have learned it is my best friend is beyond headstrong. Once he has an idea, one cannot put him off it."
"I've had a run-in myself with this most favorable trait," Fred jests. I sorely want to ask what happened, but hold my tongue. If he wanted me to know, he would elaborate. My foot has already been well acquainted with my mouth this night.
"Well, suffice it to say, I cannot let him run off alone. It isn't vanity or pride when I say he needs me. But I also need him, too, Fred," I bravely admit.
My life and my concern have been centered about Harry for so long I sadly don't know any other way to be. I know once the war is over, and he finally defeats Voldemort (for I know he will), I'll have to learn a new way of being, if I survive that is. Some may think Harry my project or me mothering him, but they miss the lining in our relationship: I love him beyond words, beyond measure.
"You are thoroughly Hufflepuff, aren't you, Granger?" Again my laughter is inescapable. His gift to comfort is unfathomable.
Fred and George may have thought I never liked them (my threatening them with their mother), or their products, but they had been terribly wrong. I may not have appreciated them testing unknown products on first year students, or the ultimate aim of their products (helping students skive off class), but I couldn't deny how incredibly smart and talented they were – and are.
And unbeknownst to Fred (and every other Weasley for that matter) I was attracted to his amazing talent, unlimited creativity, easy camaraderie with his peers and yes, his handsomeness. To name a few.
"Make fun all you please, but I know you secretly envy my seemingly bleeding heart. But alas, I bleed true Gryffindor, you prat," I banter.
I pull away from his chest, wanting to see his silly face. Though our queer conversation has been that of a muggle rollercoaster tonight, I know he is now smiling. He is truly the embodiment of joviality.
A surprised breath catches in my throat. To think that I could ever figure this man out would be laughable. I think that is part of the twins' appeal. They may seem flamboyant and over-the-top in their pranks and schemes, but there is a deep mystery to them. So much of their success as pranksters had boiled down to stealth, not getting caught and the element of surprise.
And now as I intently, shyly study Fred, I can see the mystery lurking behind his hazel depths. Never will I wholly understand him. And there is such a fun excitement to that notion.
"Fred?" I whisper for no apparent reason. Only that my voice has deserted me. I feel out of my element and the intense look on his handsome visage is unreadable.
"Hermione?" he counters just as quietly, as tenderly.
"I don't understand."
The moment seems to sneak up on us. Our breathing is heavy and the air is too thick. My cheeks embarrassingly flush and my teeth begin to nibble on my lips. Fred is barely a foot from me, but it feels as if his heady breath is caressing every inch of my face.
I drop my chin, trying to hide my inexperienced reaction to him. This is all mad.
Quick little breaths leave my surprised parted lips as gentle fingers stroke the right side of my cheek. I can't understand what's happening, my brain seems complete mush. The moonlight and brilliant stars shining in through the window aren't helping. Not to mention the adrenaline and arrant emotions of earlier this evening.
Shivers run naughtily over my skin and flutter in my belly. With all my Gryffindor courage (which isn't much at this point) I look up through my lashes, still a little frightened by this bewildering moment.
His eyes are impossibly dark and his adorably freckled-face pale. His long, auburn hair falls rakishly into his eyes, but he makes no move to push it back. His tapered fingers are still reached towards me, filling the small space between us. According to my flipping stomach and squirmy thighs, he cuts an impressively stirring image.
"Do you feel it, Granger?" Fred finally asks, breaking the profuse silence. "This thing?" His hand gestures between our still figures, the only thing breaking the stillness is my chest rising and falling rapidly.
As I go to answer him, I can't find my voice. My mouth is dry and my tongue feels like it's pasted to the roof of my mouth. All I can do is nod stupidly.
Merlin above, can I feel it. This incomprehensible, enigmatic thing between us. I wonder if there is something in the firewhisky; perhaps it's gone bad. Or maybe the rascally twin is having me on with one of his jokes. But his solemn face speaks otherwise.
My teeth start to bite on my bottom lip again; I'm unsure what else to do.
The decision is taken from me, thankfully (scarily is more like it). I never been under the romantic notion that time stops and the earth ceases from spinning simply because someone of the opposite sex is about to kiss me. But in this moment and in this thick stillness, I can come closer to the understanding. My shaky thighs sure agree.
I can all but count each freckle, each laugh line surrounding Fred's eyes as he comes closer. Less than an inch separates us as he finally stops.
My mind wants to demand why the sudden pause, but my heart overrides the decision. It is beating too loudly for me to even hear the ramblings of my mind.
Little breathy sighs leave my mouth and I can't help but wonder if it is actually me making those noises. My cheeks flush even more at the embarrassing reaction to this mysterious prankster.
I break away from the inanity of my mind and focus on the moment. The answer to my earlier inquiry is written clearly in those deep hazel eyes: do you wish me to continue?
Do I? I can't help but ask myself.
Oh, yes. More than I can even realize, something lazily answers for me.
Without pause or thinking of the consequences for once, I lean forward and take the initiative. I'm not a Gryffindor in name only.
Soft, pliable lips immediately enchant me. I can't think, only feel. This is such a departure from my rational self, and once more the other Hermione (the one whom likes wilder things) is set loose.
This feral Hermione feels no remorse, no fear as she leans even more into the kiss and releases inhibitions.
Her companion responds in kind and starts to respond. She can still feel his surprised gasp of breath on her swollen lips when she initiated the kiss. Excited tremors run the length of her spine, only electrifying her further.
As if they have been doing this their entire lives, their lips start to move in sync, like some perfectly choreographed dance. Neither is shy, neither takes charge nor can neither recall how it started; only that it's happening.
Brave, languorous hands stretch forth and explore her righteous curls. She can swear the curls have doubled in size, responding to the magic of this impetuous kiss.
Never realizing, she leans further into him as his fingers tenderly caress each wild strand.
Chest meets chest as each breath is felt both on their exploring tongues and on their raising lungs. The sensation of feeling him so close, so intimate only heightens her recklessness.
Her tongue becomes bolder, exploring, as it rolls languidly over every crevice it can reach. Her companion moans intensely as he craves more of her intricate and thrown-out inhibition attentions.
"Yes, love. More," he silkily demands. Each word vibrates deliciously on her lips and protruding tongue.
Her fingers reach out and wraps instinctively around his neck. Her fingers dig into the soft flesh, kneading relaxed muscles exquisitely.
His longish hair becomes caught between fingers, tugging slightly. It gives him no pain, only more of an intense pleasure.
Though the pace is nice and wonderfully erotic, she starts to crave a little more. His smoothing her hair, licking her lips, blowing into her mouth, biting into the mind-blowing spots on her neck is making her frantic. The space between her thighs calls for more action.
As if he can sense the wildness within her craving more, her companion starts to take charge. It only thrills her more, knowing she is making him want her thusly.
The bench enthrallingly squeaks as his chest pushes into her, asking more than demanding her retreat. Happily she gives in and lowers herself onto the wooden bench.
Something in the back of her mind starts to niggle, asking if this is right, but it's quickly pushed away. This Hermione doesn't really care for consequences; only action. The thrill of the action only adds to the exquisite anticipation.
A heady weight settles over her as he is finally lying on top. She can't help the whet mewls which leave her swollen, occupied lips.
Eager and experienced lips start to become more frantic as they trail over every piece of exposed flesh. A light summer tank top gives his lips ample of skin to sample, to kiss, to suck . . . to skillfully, sinfully bite.
Enticingly warm fingers slip under the strap of the tank and ever-so-slowly pull down. The sensations working inside her, outside her, all over her are so strong. All she can do is respond in kind, wanting to be a willing, stimulating participant. Inhibitions may be lost, but her thirst to prove herself is still very much alive.
Wet, pillowly lips replace errand fingers as they wonderfully explore new flesh, hot skin, and the starting of a swell. His tongue licks at every inch, needing to take in each stimulating flavor. Her skin must have been made for feasting on.
Hands start to join in the melee as they travel from her now bare shoulders to the infinitesimal round of her stomach. Her tank is pulled up as wanton fingers take in the wonderful softness of her tummy.
Erotic moans happily meet his ears as he caresses so desirably her uncovered flesh. He only knows the captivate nature of her skin, her soft murmurs, her own exploring hands under his shirt and the furrowing of her hips.
Everything is above and beyond his unexpected expectations.
This Hermione is no slouch in their discovery of each other. She is as lost in the sensations they are causing each other as he. She has no need or want to be found.
With wanton deliberation her fingers push up the fabric of his shirt, trying to match her in undress. She can't explain, but the need to feel his skin on her exposed skin is indelible. The need to feel his lips, the wetness from his mouth marking her is maddening. The need to push into his weight laying on her is essential. The madness swirls chaotically within her mind, her pulsating blood, thumping heart. Everything wants to feel, to reach some kind of completion that only between her thighs can relate.
It calls out to her so loudly. Push his shirt up . . . feel his hot, sweaty skin as it moves so brilliantly over your own . . . wrap your legs around his slim waist . . . feel his hip bones dig so delectably into yours . . . push back, feel the hardness so magnificently between your thighs . . . tug hard on his hair; it works him beyond reason . . . rut into him frantically . . . breath heavily, your breasts feel beyond amazing smashed down by his hard chest . . . scratch his exposed skin . . . moan whetly as he sucks hard at your skin, touches your tits, pushes back into your rutting apex . . . he talks oh so dirtily into your ear- the things he says and promises (Mmm).
Don't stop . . . don't stop . . . don't ever bloody stop.
Exhilaratingly, she pushes one last time as she finally reaches that ultimate stimulation. There is nothing else to do. Sensations of unreached magnitudes crash over her. As she goes to scream out, his lips seal over hers, capturing everything she offers him. Her abandon is beyond exquisite. Breathtakingly it sends him over as well.
Both are breathing so heavily, so enlivening.
"Hermione," she hears whispered tenderly in her ear. So much emotion is put into her name.
Something comes back as something feral is pushed back.
As if awaken from a numbing slumber, I start to feel things beyond orgasmic. My cheeks redden hotly as I think about the abandon I showed him, the wantonly behavior I displayed on his mother's kitchen wooden bench. My mortification starts to take over. The stickiness coating my knickers doesn't help, either.
My mind can't help but replay every scarlet action I displayed. There is a reason I stick so close to the rules – besides my bookworm tendencies. I've always know this other side to me; this side which throws caution to the wind and enjoys the thrill of unfettered inhibitions.
Before I can work myself into a crying, shameful frenzy, Fred's level voice pulls me back, anchoring me to sanity.
"Don't go there, Hermione." He is still breathless. "What we did wasn't appalling. We found comfort in each other, love. There is nothing to ever feel sorry over."
I blink, trying to remove the stinging from my eyes. Never have I known Fred to read me so skillfully, without even having to look at me, to boot.
As I try to calm myself, Fred lessens some of his weight from me as he pulls back. Wandlessly, he sweeps his right hand over our flushed bodies and removes the cooling wetness from between my legs and from my cotton sleep bottoms.
As he rights our thoroughly rumpled clothes, he gives me a roguish wink, attached to a sweet wobbly smile; which only intensifies my pinking cheeks.
"There, a little better now." I can't help but give him a grateful smile in return. I hope he can read the thankfulness and appreciation I feel for him and the beyond thrilling experience he's given to me; despite my rather embarrassing licentiousness.
I can't even begin to fathom what we experienced here tonight, how it even began and how I could never regret it. I may feel guilt at my actions later on, but never can I regret it because we did find comfort in each other.
His body still lying on top of mine is so fulfilling.
We seemed to reach a peak together that was unsought. The intensity of the night has now rushed up to me. I feel it so profoundly inside me.
Perhaps it's the wild artifice of the night, or the magnitude of what we experienced together, or because of so much she has given him tonight I can't help but give him this truth as well.
"I might have killed someone tonight," slips from my tongue, so suddenly. And though I feel some invisible burden fall from me, having shared my immense weight, I still feel the stinging prickle of guilty tears. I might have killed someone, I can't help but think. I don't even know the outcome.
And yes, while I was initially awake looking out for my headstrong best friend, I was also overcome with such heavy guilt. I now give it to Fred.
Even after the completion I felt with him was altering, I still lack the courage to look into his eyes. This truth is so much greater.
My shameful face stays hidden in his shoulder. As he tries to pull his weight from me, I stop him. My arms tighten around his neck, impeding him from moving. I can't bear to face him. I don't want him disgusted with me – for some unbeknownst reason.
"Shh, love," he sweetly consoles me. I wonder if he thinks me ever so guilty; at fault for possibly taking a man's life. Little shuddering hiccups leave my lips as I try and control my tears and breathing. I finally start to cry myself out, taking comfort in his warm skin, hot breath on my throat, skillful hands carding through my hair.
And like the sweetest balm to my soul, Fred's words wash over me; both surprising and comforting to me. "I know, Hermione," he slowly confesses. This time I can't help but to let go of his neck and take in his handsome visage. His fingers immediately start to swipe away my errant, hot tears.
"H-How," is all I can manage.
"I heard Kingsley trying to comfort you earlier. Right fine job he did of it too. Here you are, getting my beautifully unblemished skin wet." Slowly, but with a deep compassion settling into his eyes, he winks. This is yet again his attempt to try and comfort me, to take away some of my pain and make it his own. This is how he knows to reassure. And unreservedly I take it.
"If you're unblemished, H-Harry is as ferrety albino as M-Malfoy," I jest back. Deep rumbles are felt on my chest as Fred leans in and smothers his mirth into my neck; his hair tickles my skin. I can't help but feel a wonderful glow in making him laugh so heartily.
"You're beyond measure, Granger. Absolutely beyond." My already flushed skin reaches alarming rates. I wonder if he can feel the raging heat pouring from me. Most likely, stupid.
"T-Thanks," I can't help but shakily respond. To what I'm thanking him for, I can't really know – only that I feel it so terribly deeply within me. It beats exquisitely in my heart.
"Anytime, love." His eyes bore into mine, telling me so eloquently the things that aren't said, the things reverently left unspoken. My hands reach up and push back his sweaty locks. I can't help but love the feel of his hair between my fingers, the slight weight of him still lying on me and the intense look in his hazel orbs.
"Anytime, Granger!" he repeats once more, emphatically, softly.
A gentle smile touches at the corner of my lips as I pray he can read the same message he's given to me in my own eyes. The words will forever be stuck in my heart.
Tenderly, I pull him back down, wanting to feel the full weight of him astride me. And though the wooden bench is hard against my back, I don't care. It only reaffirms the completion I have startlingly and so very happily found in him tonight. Truly an unanticipated (yet gratifyingly) balm to my aching soul . . .
I can't help but think of Shakespeare's – and Fred's phantom-sweet joking voice inside my mind calling me a schoolmarm – A Midsummer Night's Dream (so aptly titled). Nearing the end of the play, Puck's epilogue is so poignant –
"If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber'd here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend:
if you pardon, we will mend:
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call;
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends."(V, i. 440-455)
This night has been beyond my imagination in regards to the red-haired prankster, but never will I regret it. Though I don't know what will happen or if anything will ever come of it, I never wish to pretend it was a dream.
I close my eyes and simply feel. Fred breaths out as I breathe in. "And this weak and idle theme . . ."
Well, it was so much more than "but a dream."
For a while the guilt abates and Harry stays asleep and the adrenaline slips listlessly from my body. The faint summer breeze whistles softly outside as the weak light of the moon still shines in through the curtained windows.
Author's Notes: Hope you liked this little one-shot. I'm actually proud of myself; I never thought I could write one – seriously. I always want to give every little detail to a story and find it so very hard to condense my writing. But I really like how this turned out.
This little plot bunny has jumped around my head for a while and I finally wrestled it into some kind of order. I love the thought of Fred and Hermione, so I wanted to add my own little piece to their ship. Hope I did it a little justice.
Anyhow, if you have the time or inclination, please review. I'd love to know your thoughts, comments, disagreements; all are welcome. I've been suffering major writer's block on so many levels that finally getting something out there again feels amazing.
Hope all is well with everyone. Much love!
Posted: Wednesday, 22 May 2013