It Meant Nothing

He was just nice to her. But then again, his whole family was. Mrs. Weasley insisted she eat more every time she visited. Ginny dragged her to her room the moment she arrived. Even Percy, in his own stiff way, always asked about her work. So Fred being nice to her meant nothing. It probably meant nothing that he was always the one who asked if she wanted tea. And that he somehow remembered exactly how she took it. One spoon of honey. A slice of lemon. Never sugar. It probably meant nothing that when she came into the shop, he somehow always had time for her. Even when the counter was four people deep. He did that for everyone. For Harry. For Neville. For Luna. Probably not for Ron. But that was different. Ron didn’t need charming. Ron was family. Fred liked Ron. Loved him, really. George and him, they both did. Which was exactly why it meant nothing. It meant nothing that Fred always seemed a little too pleased when she laughed at one of his jokes. Or that he remembered things she had mentioned only once, weeks ago, in passing. He even helped Ron pick the ring. Hermione had watched them whispering over it at the kitchen table, Fred grinning like the whole thing was the best joke in the world. He was just nice to her. That was all. And Fred was nice to everyone. Or at least that was what people said. If you asked anyone about Fred Weasley’s love life, they would probably roll their eyes and sigh like it was a full-time occupation keeping track of it. There was always some girl. Someone from Hogsmeade. Someone from Diagon Alley. Someone whose cousin knew someone who had once dated Fred for two spectacular weeks. The stories changed every time they were told. Oddly enough, Hermione had never met a single one of them. Not at the Burrow. Not at the shop. Not at any gathering that included half of wizarding Britain and all of the Weasley family. Which was strange, considering how frequently Fred was supposed to be “seeing someone.” Perhaps he was just discreet. That seemed likely. Fred was good at disappearing when he wanted to. Still. It was a little curious that the only time he ever seemed to stop moving entirely was when she walked into a room. Or that whenever there were too many chairs around the kitchen table, he somehow ended up in the one beside her. Not across. Not two seats away. Beside. Close enough that his shoulder brushed hers when he reached for something. And Fred Weasley was not, as a rule, a man who accidentally brushed into things. He also had a curious habit of asking her questions he didn’t really need answers to. "Need a hand with your coat?" "Is it too loud in here?" “Want the last biscuit before George eats it?” All ordinary enough questions. The sort anyone might ask. And yet Hermione was perfectly capable of putting on her own coat. Or of reaching across the table for the biscuits. Fred just… got there first. Which meant absolutely nothing. People were nice to their brother’s girlfriend all the time. Especially if she was practically family already. That was all it was. Hermione knew that. She was perfectly certain she knew that. Still. Fred teased everyone. Relentlessly. Ron suffered the worst of it, of course. He was mercilessly mocked for everything from his chess losses to the way he held a fork. George came second. Ginny was never safe for long either. Even their mother, on occasion. Hermione, however, seemed to exist in a small and rather singular pocket of immunity. Fred simply… didn’t tease her. Not once. At first she had assumed it was politeness. She was, after all, serious. And Fred Weasley had always possessed a strange kind of social intelligence beneath all the chaos. It would make sense that he understood she might not appreciate being the subject of his jokes. So he didn’t. He was careful with her in a way he wasn’t careful with anyone else. Which, of course, meant nothing. Still. Every now and then Hermione caught herself wondering what it would be like. Not the teasing itself. The challenge. Whether she would manage to keep up with him if he ever did decide to try. Fred’s wit moved at alarming speed. Most people barely survived it. Hermione suspected she might do rather well. It would be… interesting to find out. Purely as a matter of intellectual curiosity. Naturally. A harmless line of thought. An idle curiosity. The sort of thing Hermione was very good at dismissing once it proved irrelevant. Except for one small problem. George. Hermione had caught him looking once. Not at her. At Fred. It had happened in the kitchen at the Burrow, late in the evening, when most of the conversation had dissolved into overlapping laughter and someone had started arguing about Quidditch statistics. Hermione had said something — she couldn’t even remember what — and Fred had laughed. Not loudly. Just that quick, bright laugh he had when something genuinely delighted him. Hermione had turned her head at the sound. And George had been watching him. Not smiling. Just… watching. George noticed Hermione looking. His expression shifted instantly — something softer, almost sympathetic, directed not at her but at Fred. Then it vanished, the familiar Weasley mischief snapping back into place like a mask. "Careful, Fred," he said lightly. "If you keep laughing like that she'll start charging you for entertainment." Everyone laughed. Fred the loudest. Hermione laughed too. But something about that look had stayed with her. Because it had not been the expression of someone enjoying a joke. It had been the expression of someone who already knew the punchline. She didn’t know why it bothered her. And yet it did. The thought lingered longer than she liked. Later that evening Hermione found herself asking Ron, as casually as she could manage, “Did you notice anything odd about Fred tonight?” Ron looked up from his plate. “No,” he said after a moment. “Why?” Hermione opened her mouth. Then closed it again. “Oh. Nothing,” she said quickly. Ron shrugged and returned his full attention to the food in front of him. He did not ask again. Hermione found, somewhat guiltily, that she was rather glad he didn’t. Ron was not curious about things that did not involve food, Quidditch, or other subjects he personally considered important. Under normal circumstances that trait could be mildly frustrating. This evening, however, it was extremely convenient. Hermione did not think about it again for several days. Work was busy. There were papers to finish, meetings to attend, and more than enough problems in the wizarding world to occupy her mind. By the time she returned to the Burrow that weekend, the whole thing had almost slipped away entirely. Almost. The Weasleys, by some ancient and unbreakable family tradition, were playing Quidditch in the back yard again. Equally by tradition, Hermione had absolutely no intention of participating. Fred had said so himself earlier that afternoon, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Can’t stand this weather,” he had complained. “Too hot to breathe.” Hermione had disagreed at once. She rather liked summer heat. It was infinitely preferable to cold, damp English winters. So while the rest of them argued about teams and broomsticks, Hermione wandered outside to stand in the sun with Ginny. They talked for a while, lazily watching the wind move the tree branches. It was, Hermione had to admit, quite hot. A little while later Fred appeared beside them. Hermione blinked at him. “Weren’t you the one who said you hated the heat?” she asked. Fred glanced at the sky like he was evaluating the weather personally. “Not so bad now,” he said. It was, in fact, as hot as it had been before. Ginny snorted. Fred lingered there for a minute or two, making some comment about Harry’s flying that caused Ginny to laugh. Then, just as casually as he had appeared, he wandered off again. That was all. Nothing particularly strange had happened. And yet— Hermione found herself thinking about it again later that evening. Because the truth was, she had not been standing anywhere especially interesting in the garden. Which meant Fred had not come outside for the shade. Or the view. Or the weather. He had simply… come outside. A few days later, Ron mentioned it casually one evening, in between bites of dinner. “Fred was asking how your projects at the Ministry are going,” he said. “Something about the legislation you’re working on.” Hermione felt a small, warm flicker of satisfaction. It was nice when people took an interest in the things that mattered to her. And apparently that was not all Fred had asked. “Oh,” Ron added with a grin, “and he wanted to know if you’ve already planned the honeymoon.” Hermione blinked. “He asked you that?” Ron laughed. “Not exactly. He asked if you’d already planned everything.” Ron seemed to find this highly amusing. Which, to be fair, made sense. Both he and Fred were perfectly aware that if anyone in the relationship was planning things in advance, it was very unlikely to be Ron. Still. Hermione found herself frowning slightly. It was one thing for people to ask about their honeymoon. That was normal. It was another thing entirely for Ron’s brother to ask whether she had planned it yet. Not where they were going. Not when. Just… whether she had planned it. It was a very small difference. And yet the more Hermione thought about it, the stranger it seemed. The more she thought about it, the more she began to feel that she really ought to talk to someone about it. But to whom? Ron was obviously out of the question. Harry was not someone she wanted to involve in this sort of speculation. Ginny might have been the obvious choice, except that Ginny was both Fred’s sister and Ron’s sister, which complicated matters considerably. Luna briefly crossed Hermione’s mind. She occasionally gave extraordinarily insightful advice. Unfortunately Luna also possessed a rather relaxed attitude toward secrets. Hermione was not entirely confident that a confidential conversation would remain confidential for long. There was, of course, George. For a moment she considered him. But Hermione dismissed it almost immediately. Even if there was something to notice — and she was not at all convinced there was — George would hardly be the one to betray his own brother’s secrets. Which left her where she had started. Quiet. Thinking far too much. And, increasingly, spiraling. There was, technically, one other option. Hermione disliked it immediately. She disliked it more the longer she considered it. She could always ask Fred. But she didn’t really know what she would ask him. Or how. And even if she somehow found the courage to voice the suspicion forming slowly in the back of her mind, Hermione was not at all certain that Fred would tell the truth behind it. If there was a truth. All she had were small things. A gesture here. A glance there. The sort of lingering look she had only recently begun to notice. Which raised a rather uncomfortable question. Had they only started recently? Or had they always been there, and she had simply never paid attention before? Hermione could not decide which possibility was worse. Fred was, undeniably, attentive to her. More attentive than most men she knew. But at the same time he was not most men. He was Fred Weasley. Which meant he was funny, quick-witted, and perpetually plotting something with George. It also meant he could be unexpectedly thoughtful, in quiet ways most people never noticed. And when the situation demanded it, he could be ruthless in defending the people he loved. But never cruel. Never unkind. That same warm, effortless kindness that seemed to run through the entire Weasley family. It was, after all, one of the very first things Hermione had loved about Ron. Perhaps it was simply a family trait. Which explained everything. Or so she told herself. Still, if she were to ask Fred something… How would she even begin? So, Fred, I’ve noticed something rather strange about your behaviour lately. No. Absolutely not. Perhaps something lighter. Are you always this attentive to your brother’s fiancée, or is it just me? Hermione closed her eyes briefly. No. Definitely not that either. That sounded almost as though she wanted it to be true. Which was certainly not the case. She could, of course, ask the question plainly. Ask him whether he liked her. Not as a friend. Not merely as Ron’s fiancée. But as a woman. The thought alone made her stomach twist. Because even if she asked, she was almost certain of what the answer would be. There was nothing there. Nothing at all. All those small moments she had been replaying in her mind — the looks, the questions, the odd little gestures — they probably meant nothing. She was imagining patterns where none existed. Hermione Granger had always had a mind inclined toward analysis. Sometimes, perhaps, too much analysis. She was happy with Ron. They loved each other. Why would she risk disturbing that over something so uncertain? No. It would be far wiser to give it a rest. To stop turning the idea over and over in her mind. Not to stir the pot. If anything, this was probably just a rather embarrassing case of pre-wedding anxiety. It happened to people all the time. There was no reason at all why it could not happen to Hermione Granger as well. If she asked him, and if he chose to answer honestly, then perhaps he would tell her the truth. If he made a joke, she would know he was deflecting. Fred rarely joked about things that mattered. If he answered seriously and said no — she would look foolish. Feel foolish. He might laugh and tell her she had imagined the whole thing. That she had been reading far too much into a few harmless gestures. And then the story would inevitably spread like wildfire. Hermione Granger had apparently decided — two months before her wedding — that Ron's brother might be in love with her. It was not the sort of conversation one forgot easily. Hermione was not a shy woman. But she was not prepared for that particular kind of humiliation. Especially not from someone who was about to become family. And then there was the third possibility. The smallest one. The most unlikely. That she asked him… and he simply said: Yes, Hermione. I like you. The moment that sentence fully formed in her mind, something strange happened. All the thoughts stopped. Hermione was sitting on her bed, her feet tucked into soft slippers, vaguely aware that she had been trying to decide what to make for breakfast the next morning. But for several long seconds she could not think about breakfast. Or work. Or the wedding. The words still echoed in her head. Yes, Hermione. I like you. The thought did not feel pleasant. It did not feel terrible either. It simply felt… right. As though every small observation she had been turning over in her mind suddenly slid into place. As though the strange looks, the questions, the attentiveness all finally had a shape. And with that realization came a strange, almost unsettling sense of relief. She was not imagining things. She was not inventing patterns that were not there. For a moment Hermione sat very still. Because once that possibility existed, none of the other explanations fit quite as well anymore. Which meant something rather inconvenient. She did not actually need to ask Fred anything. She already knew the answer. The real problem now was something else entirely. Not noticing it. *** Fred Weasley had always known one slightly inconvenient thing about himself. He was, unfortunately, a romantic. Not the sort people usually meant when they said the word. No poetry, no dramatic sighs under moonlight, nothing like that. But still. He had always been rather certain that one day he would fall in love with someone properly. And when that happened, he intended to do it thoroughly. He wanted the whole ridiculous business. A wedding that involved far too many Weasleys in one place. A house that was never entirely quiet. The kind of mornings where you got up earlier than necessary just to make breakfast for someone who hadn’t asked for it. All of the evenings where you came home with something small and unnecessary simply because you had seen it and thought of her. He suspected he would also be embarrassing about it. The man who used stupid pet names in private and then denied it fiercely in public. And if she called him something equally ridiculous in return, he would absolutely tease her for it. Relentlessly. While secretly being unbearably pleased about the whole thing. That was the trouble with Fred Weasley. Most people assumed he didn’t take anything seriously. In reality, when he did take something seriously… He tended to take it far too much to heart. Which, in hindsight, was probably where the trouble had begun. Because Fred had been one of the first people to notice Ron’s feelings for Hermione. Ron had never quite said it outright, of course. Ron rarely said anything outright when feelings were involved. But he had said enough. Enough for Fred to understand. Possibly before Ron himself fully had. Hermione Granger, after all, was not especially difficult to notice. She was brilliant, stubborn, infuriatingly principled, and — if one bothered to look past the mountain of books and righteous arguments — rather pretty. Fred had always thought Ron was being a complete idiot about the whole thing. Not in those exact words, naturally. But the message had been fairly clear. If you like the girl, mate, you might want to do something about it before someone else notices what you’ve got there. At the time it had seemed like perfectly reasonable advice. And for several years that was what Hermione Granger had been to Fred Weasley. His brother’s obvious, inevitable future disaster. Until the slightly unfortunate day he realised he had begun noticing her himself. The way she argued like a lawyer in a courtroom. The way she frowned when thinking. The way she could dismantle one of Fred and George’s more questionable inventions with terrifying moral clarity. Fred had assumed the interest would pass. The way these things usually did. Unfortunately it hadn’t. Which was mildly inconvenient. Because by that point Ron was still hopelessly in love with her. And Hermione, obviously, was hopelessly in love with Ron. Which meant the situation had a line. Fred had always been very good at knowing exactly where the line was. And that one, unfortunately, ran straight through the middle of his own chest. Over the years Fred had become good at hiding things. Practice helped. The first year or two he had managed quite successfully by convincing himself it would pass. Just a crush. One of those inconvenient little attachments that appeared out of nowhere and disappeared just as quickly if you gave them enough time. He had waited. Time, unfortunately, had been unimpressed. Three years after the war the feeling had shown no particular intention of leaving. Which meant he had tried the other sensible options. Work more. Go out more. Avoid certain family gatherings if Hermione was likely to be there. Occasionally attempt to be interested in some perfectly nice witch who was not Hermione Granger. That last strategy had been especially unsuccessful. None of it worked. The particular thirst he had developed over the years was not the sort that could be satisfied once and neatly forgotten. It had to be managed differently. With the steady, almost ridiculous comfort of knowing that Hermione was still somewhere in his life. Alive. Brilliant. Arguing with someone about something. Happy, if possible. Fred had discovered, somewhat to his own surprise, that this would have to be enough. The real low point, Fred privately suspected, had been the moment he realised he was actually looking forward to their annual conversation near the Christmas tree at the Burrow. One conversation. Once a year. Which, all things considered, was genuinely pathetic. Fred was not especially fond of feeling pathetic. So eventually he had adjusted the strategy. Stop avoiding her. Stop pretending to be interested in other women out of sheer stubbornness. Stop behaving like a man attempting to outrun something that was clearly faster than him. Instead he would simply behave normally. Which, for Fred Weasley, meant smiling, joking, working far too much, and keeping certain thoughts where they belonged. Work helped. Work was simple. You made something explode in an entertaining way, people laughed, everyone went home happy. There was, of course, another small problem. Hermione, unfortunately, also appeared in the shop from time to time. And Fred and George had always been rather generous with endearments. “Love,” “darling,” “sweetheart” — the things they threw around with reckless enthusiasm. Customers got them. Friends got them. Complete strangers occasionally got them. It was a family habit, really. Their mum had been doing it for years. So nobody thought anything of it. Fred could lean across the counter in the shop, hand someone a product that might or might not explode, and say “Here you go, love,” and no one would blink. It was harmless. Normal. Which was, unfortunately, why it worked. Because every now and then he found himself saying it to Hermione. And no one noticed anything at all. Not Ron. Not George. Not Hermione herself. Just another careless word in a sentence. Just another joke, half-smile, easy tone. Only Fred knew that for the briefest moment the word stopped being a joke. And then, very quickly, became one again. Because by now Fred was a professional. Outwardly, the feeling was nothing more than a small ember somewhere inside him. Warm. Perfectly manageable. It simply stayed with you for a while and then, eventually, burned itself out. Fred had repeated that explanation to himself often enough that it had started to sound almost reasonable. Once or twice he allowed himself to imagine it. Not seriously — just the passing thought a man entertained when no one was looking too closely. What he would say. How he would say it. Not a joke this time. Something honest. Something dangerously close to the truth. In that brief, foolish version of the universe Hermione Granger did not merely laugh at his jokes. She laughed when he pulled her closer. When he wrapped an arm around her shoulders as though it had always belonged there. For a moment the thought felt almost unbearably good. And then, almost immediately, it became unbearable in another way. Because the next image that appeared in his mind was Ron. Ron looking exactly the way Ron did when something truly mattered to him. Not angry. Not shouting. Just… quietly miserable. Fred had discovered there were many things he could live with. Being the reason for that particular expression on his brother’s face was not one of them. Besides, the truth was painfully obvious. The version of the world where Hermione chose him did not exist. If it had been possible, it would have happened already. Fred did not even bother asking himself whether he should have tried. Whether he should have competed with his own brother for her attention. He already knew the answer. That game had been lost long before he had realised he was playing it. Fred did not need much imagination to understand why. He had seen the way Hermione looked at Ron. Not constantly. Not dramatically. Just in those small, careless moments people rarely noticed. He had seen enough to understand. The way she waited for Ron to finish speaking, even when she already knew what he was going to say. The way she corrected him under her breath when he mispronounced something. The way Ron, without even thinking about it, reached for the book before she asked and passed it to her. The sort of quiet familiarity that only appeared when two people had already decided, somewhere along the way, that they belonged together. Fred had watched them argue for twenty minutes about something completely ridiculous and then sit side by side like nothing had happened. He had watched Hermione explain something complicated while Ron listened with the kind of stubborn attention he rarely gave anyone else. And Ron — hopeless, loyal Ron — looked at her sometimes as if the entire world had unexpectedly become much more interesting simply because she was in it. Fred recognised the look immediately. It was the sort of look a man never quite intended to give away. The sort that slipped out when you forgot, for a second, that anyone else might be watching. Fred had caught himself doing the same thing once or twice. Which was precisely how he knew what it meant. Fred had become very good at pretending. Most of the time it worked. Except once. George found him in the old kitchen late at night. The flat barely looked like theirs anymore. George had been living with Angelina for two years, and the place had the strange hollow feeling of somewhere people used to belong. Fred was sitting on the floor with his back against the cupboards. At first George thought he was laughing. Then he realised he wasn't. Fred’s shoulders were shaking, and his face was buried in his hands like he was trying to press the whole thing back inside. “Bloody brilliant,” he muttered hoarsely. George closed the door. “Evening,” he said. Fred let out a broken breath that might once have been a laugh. “George,” he said, without looking up, “I think I might actually be losing my mind.” George leaned against the counter. “Bit late to worry about that.” Fred scrubbed his face hard with both hands, like he was angry at it. “I’m serious,” he said. His voice cracked. “I’m—” He stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I’m sick of myself, George.” George didn’t answer. “I’m sick of the fact that she doesn’t need me,” Fred went on, the words tumbling out now. “And I’m even more sick of the fact that I still want her to.” George frowned slightly. Fred gave a short, humourless laugh. “Not as a friend. I mean properly.” There was a pause. Then Fred said: “But not at Ron’s expense.” The silence in the kitchen shifted. George looked at him for a long moment. “Oh,” he said. And then he pushed himself off the counter and sat down on the floor beside him. Fred dragged a hand through his hair and stared at the tiles. “I tried,” he muttered. “Merlin knows I tried. I thought it would pass. You know, one of those stupid things you grow out of.” A breath shuddered out of him. “Except it bloody doesn’t.” For a while neither of them spoke. Then Fred said: “Sometimes I think it would’ve been easier if I’d stayed under those ruins at Hogwarts.” George turned his head sharply. Fred shrugged weakly. “Dead men don’t have to compete with their brothers,” he said. The words hung in the kitchen. “Don’t be stupid,” he said automatically. Then just reached over and pulled Fred against his shoulder. Fred let out one last broken breath and stayed there for a moment like someone who had finally run out of strength to hold himself upright. After a while he wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Right,” he muttered. “That was deeply embarrassing.” George snorted. “Massively.” Neither of them mentioned it the next day. Some stories resolved themselves eventually. You did not need to interfere, if you simply waited long enough. Fred had been present for most of the important steps. The arguments. The ridiculous misunderstandings. The long, complicated conversations that somehow ended with the two of them sitting side by side again. And eventually, of course, the wedding. Fred remembered standing beside George, watching Ron try very hard not to look terrified in front of half the wizarding world. Hermione, on the other hand, looked exactly the way he might have expected. Calm. Determined. Completely focused. At one point during the ceremony she laughed at something Ron whispered to her. Fred noticed that too. Not because it was important. Just because he had always been good at noticing things. It was, all things considered, a very good wedding. The wedding Fred had once imagined having himself. Large. Loud. Full of Weasleys. Hermione Granger married Ron Weasley that afternoon. And that, as far as Fred was concerned, was the end of the matter. Fred Weasley had always known exactly where the line was. And he had never crossed it. Not in the real world, at least. *** Two years later... The Burrow was loud that evening. Ron and George were arguing over a chess move. Someone laughed across the table. Hermione sat with a book open on her lap. After a while she realised she hadn’t turned the page. Across the room Fred was leaning back in his chair, listening to George. Hermione glanced up. Fred looked back. For a second they simply watched each other. Then Fred smiled. Not the wide, reckless grin he used before saying something outrageous. Just a small, quiet smile. He held her gaze for a moment. Then he turned back to George and continued the conversation. Hermione returned to her book.