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Even If I Shouldn't | Fremione One Shot

Fred Weasley x Hermione Granger

SUMMARY: A Gryffindor party, a prototype lust potion, and Hermione Granger trying very hard not to think about Fred Weasley in ways she shouldn’t. Too bad the magic had other plans. “S’that what you meant, ‘Mione?” He breathed. “Did you mean me?” She shivered. Everything in her screamed to pull him closer. “...Yes,” she whispered. Fred exhaled like he’d been holding it the whole time. And then, finally, he touched her—just his fingers brushing her wrist—but it was enough to ignite everything again. CW: MDNI 18+ | smut, truth or dare, but really only truth and the other option is to taste vomit and sell your soul to the devil, fast burn, this is why snape drinks, mildly dubious consent, tension, best friend's brother, partying, drinking A/N: hey guys, had a lot of chocolate and not a lot of sober. cant beluvee i didnt pst this sooer on tumblah. fremione huge WWWWWWWWW enjoy 11.7k words.

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It was wrong. So, so morally wrong, that what she wanted was not someone random, someone with no complications, but instead—her best friend’s brother.

She didn’t know when it started.

When her gaze started catching his fiery hair amongst crowds. And why her gaze lingered on him particularly, and not his twin, who shared his face but hadn’t carried quite the same charm Fred did; or mostly, how she felt when faced with it.

Maybe it was the way he had always been soft with her.

Fred joked a lot, more so than George. She always rolled her eyes at his antics, but she couldn’t deny that they made her chuckle every time without fail. And lately, she noticed her laughter dragged too long for it to be considered normal—and so was the feeling it left behind.

The glint in his eyes when he caught her each time never failed to make her stomach flutter, either.

Maybe it was more than that.

She didn’t want to admit it. Not even to herself.

But the way he’d lean just a little closer when he spoke to her, like she was the only one worth listening to—that did something.

Her heart always beat faster, traitorous and loud, whenever he said her name.

He had a way of making it sound like a secret.

“Hermione.” Like it meant something. Like she meant something.

And maybe that’s when it started—when she caught herself smiling before he’d even opened his mouth. When she started searching for him in the halls in between classes—just so she could catch his eye for half a second longer.

She told herself it didn’t matter.

But it did.

Especially now.

“Hey, Hermione,” Fred called out, his voice easy and bright—no cocky smirk this time, just that familiar glint in his eyes and a soft, teasing smile tugging at his lips.

Hermione was sitting in one of the Gryffindor common room chairs, Harry and Ron at a nearby table playing wizard’s chess. A few students were nearby, conversing with each other and relaxing.

Fred swiftly dropped into the seat next to her.

She paid no attention, and continued reading the book in her hands—one of the many among the pile she’d built up on the side table nearby.

“Figures I’d find you buried in books. D’you ever take a break?” Fred’s voice tilted, and in her periphery she saw him lean in to take a look.

Her heart fluttered against her control at his proximity. But she forced herself not to look up.

“Reading is my break.” She responded curtly, though a playful smirk tugged faintly at her lips.

“Should’ve known you’d relax with something exhausting.” Fred said, and she could hear the grin in his voice even without looking at him.

It made the corners of her mouth curl up. She finally glanced toward him, unable to stop herself. They locked eyes, and her breath caught for a moment.

He was really… too close. And his eyes, hazel, twinkling with light as they always did, captured her.

She briefly clocked his attire. He was wearing his v-neck jumper, with the signature white shirt adorned with the Gryffindor colored tie.

She’d seen him wear it plenty of times, but she couldn’t deny that each time he pulled it off well.

“That’s rich coming from someone who thinks a good time involves fireworks and a nosebleed.”

Fred chuckled at her retort.

“Why are you smiling like that?” Ron perked up from their chess game.

She was broken out of her daze at the words, heart pattering against her chest. Her head snapped toward Ron.

“Like what?”

There was a tightness in her voice she hadn’t meant to show. Her heart skipped again. Had she’d been that obvious? She didn’t even realize she’d been smiling a certain way at all—let alone in a way that someone could notice. Could Ron tell? Tell what she felt… toward Fred?

Fred leaned against the arm of his chair, arms crossed, and dropped his voice to a mock whisper.

“She’s charmed by my brilliance. Let her have this, mate.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, forcing a casual tone even as her pulse picked up. “You’re impossible.”

Fred grinned, unfazed. “And yet, here you are.”

Harry glanced up from the board, a quiet smirk tugging at his mouth. Ron, on the other hand, went still, his jaw visibly tightening.

“Whatever,” Ron muttered. “Why are you even here?”

“Oh, y’know. Just paying George a visit.”

“Right. So visit him,” Ron snapped, his attention turning back to the chess board.

Fred raised a brow. “Blimey, what’s got you so rattled today? Can’t I say hi without getting hexed?”

Ron rolled his eyes and made an aggressive move on the board—only for Harry to calmly slide his queen across the center.

“Checkmate,” Harry said, and the enchanted pieces sprang to life, slicing through Ron’s king with a sharp snap.

The tension broke just slightly, but Hermione couldn’t help feeling the heat in her cheeks, hyper aware of the way Fred’s eyes kept occasionally glancing towards her.

“Bloody hell! Did you practice over break or something?” Ron groaned, slumping back as his king toppled.

Hermione and Fred both let out a laugh. Fred’s eyes flicked to her—warm, lingering, and she didn’t dare move. The book rested forgotten in her lap.

He gave her a small, lopsided smile.

“You comin’ to our party tonight, Hermione?”

“What? Just to see you make a fool of yourself?”

“Ah, just another day for me, innit?” Fred smiled cheekily.

Hermione sent him a funny look, but chuckled against her control.

“Fine. Maybe.”

“I’ll take it,” he shrugged, the corners of his lips still turned up.

She’d known all about the Weasley twins’ parties—hosted late at night in the Gryffindor tower, but had never gone before.

It wasn’t her scene, and felt like she’d be too out of place in such a rowdy atmosphere.

It didn’t help that being near Fred only contributed to her intrusive thoughts about him, and if she wasn’t sober, she feared some of those thoughts might leak out.

And she couldn’t have that happen.

But his words… him personally asking her. Hermione’s heart fluttered.

Did he want her there? Did he like… spending time with her?

Or was he just being polite?

She dismissed the thought. She was reading too deeply into this.

“Probably’s gonna be deader than Headless Nick,” Ron muttered from the table.

“You wound me,” Fred said in mock offense, hand placed over his chest.

Ron just huffed, ignoring him.

Fred sent her a look briefly, before turning his gaze away.

“Well, that’s my cue. Later, Ronniekins—Next time try thinking two moves ahead, yeah?”

“Sod off,” Ron muttered, but it was half-hearted, seemingly more annoyed at himself than anything else.

Fred chuckled, that always present smirk never leaving his lips. He started to stand from his seat, but as he moved, his arm briefly brushed against Hermione’s—accidental, trivial.

But it affected her more than it should.

Tingles ran through her where they touched, spreading through her body. Fred hadn’t paid any attention to it, already moving off toward the stairs to the dorms.

He threw them a lazy wave over his shoulder, not bothering to look back as he rounded the corner.

But his presence still remained. Hermione still felt that light, insignificant touch on her arm.

Like a constant reminder that what she felt toward him would never go away, would never stop plaguing her.

She swallowed in an attempt to calm her beating heart.

Ron watched the spot where Fred had just disappeared, then turned to her with a frown.

“You know he only keeps going when you react like that.”

Hermione looked over, brow furrowed. “React like what? It’s just Fred.”

Ron rolled his eyes, letting out a huff, as if what she’d said had just proven his point, then started resetting the chessboard, the clack of pieces a little too sharp.

Hermione sat back, staring at the open book in her lap. But she couldn’t focus on it anymore.

Her eyes drifted to where Fred had gone, then quickly snapped away.

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She didn’t know why she was here.

Students passed and went as she stood at the steps looming into the chaos.

Cups filled with liquid left unattended, scattered here and there on tables. Drunk students chatting, lingering in groups. Some danced to the loud music filling the large chamber—music she hadn’t heard until she entered the common room.

She knew the Weasley twins were smart. Even if they messed around a lot.

That’s why they hadn’t been caught for these parties before.

She imagined several Muffliato charms were placed beforehand, and a strict understanding that if anyone were to snitch, they’d face severe consequences.

“‘Mione! Didn’t think you’d come,” Fred shouted from nearby.

Soon, his familiar tall stature and signature red hair came into view.

She froze for a moment, not expecting to see him so quickly, but managed to recover. She couldn’t show how he affected her.

Couldn’t show how the nickname made her pulse race.

Hermione gave him a small smile as he jogged towards her, cup in hand. In the light, with him closer, she could see his reddened cheeks; clearly he’d been drinking. His movements appeared more sluggish, more loose.

“Hey,” she greeted, her voice almost being drowned out by the music.

“S’bit loud in here—you can blame George for that,” Fred laughed. He leaned in closer, probably so she could hear him better. “Want a drink?” He smiled, gesturing to his cup.

Really, why had she come here?

This was proving more difficult than she thought.

She wasn’t going to go, but the way Fred asked her, so kind, so expectant, she felt she couldn’t turn down the request.

But to be this close to him—drink with him?

It felt too intimate, even if it wasn’t supposed to be.

“Sure,” she mused, nodding her head.

He grinned, turning around for her to follow.

Hermione was swept through the crowd, Fred mouthing “S’excuse me, tryna get my friend a drink here,” to get people out of the way. And what made it worse was he kept looking back to see she was following.

Always looking out for her. Even now.

Her heart battered against her chest.

They finally reached their destination, a little corner in the common room where George was talking with Lee, both laughing occasionally at something they’d say.

“Look who came,” Fred spoke, and then suddenly their eyes were on her.

“Hermione!” George greeted, giving her a smile. Lee gave her a subtle wave.

She smiled, saying hello to them both.

“Now, what d’ya want? We got—” Fred moved to a table covered in liquor bottles. “Firewhisky and then er…” he picked up a bottle, “more firewhisky! Proper selection, innit?”

Hermione let out a small laugh.

It was quite the collection, and she had no clue how he managed to get so many. Surely not in an appropriate way—this was Fred after all.

“Oh, quite the options. I guess hm… maybe… firewhisky?” Hermione fake mused, tilting her head to sell the act. “Might be too risky, I don’t know…”

“Can’t go wrong with risky,” he smirked, already grabbing her a cup to pour the firewhisky.

For some reason, the words make her falter slightly, her heart fluttering. Curse her, but the words had an insinuation she knew she wasn’t supposed to think about.

Hermione’s heart thundered in her chest at the slight brush of their fingers as he handed it to her.

She felt all too sober to deal with this right now. To deal with being so close to him.

Everyone around her was drunk. So why shouldn’t she let go too? That’s why Fred had invited her, right? To let loose? To have fun?

Maybe it’d help to stop thinking for once.

She took big gulps out of her cup at the new found resolution, tongue darting out to lick her wet upper lip when she lowered it.

Fred watched her, eyes glinting with something she couldn’t quite place—amusement, or intrigue, perhaps.

She swore for a second his eyes flickered to her lips, but all too quickly they were back to eye level.

“Woah, calm down. S’not gonna run away from you,” Fred joked, laughing.

Hermione chuckled at the witty comment. He always found something funny to say. It was rather the opposite of her, where she shoved her face in books, took everything more seriously (more seriously than him, mostly), where Fred loved letting loose.

And she liked that about him.

It was why in his presence, she felt the temptation to do the same. He made her want to stop thinking about all her worries.

“It just might,” she chimed, playing into his joke.

Fred smiled, letting out a chuckle. He moved swiftly to grab the Firewhisky bottle, topping up her cup.

“You know, s’good look on you, ‘Mione. Should let loose more,” Fred commented, glancing up at her.

Her pulse raced.

That nickname again. It sounded entirely different coming from him. Made her feel entirely different.

“What? Trying to get me to be more like you, Fred?” Hermione mused.

He chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Who wouldn’t want that?” He sent her a cheeky smile.

“Oh, I don’t know, I quite like not blowing up the classroom every other day, honestly.” She countered, watching his every movement.

Fred laughed, but before he could say anything else, George leaned in, muttering something in his ear. He turned his attention toward whatever George said, laughing at the comment.

Hermione let her eyes wander. The room felt warmer, heavier, the air thick from the bodies packed inside.

And yet, she noticed something else.

Everyone here looked free. Unburdened.

A breeze drifted in from the cracked window nearby. She stepped toward it absently, letting the cold air hit her flushed skin. Fred joined her a moment later, drink still in hand.

“You’re always surrounded by people,” she said, eyes on the crowd. “Reckless, loud, brilliant people. It must be... nice.”

Fred shrugged, a crooked grin forming. “Suppose it is. But what, not your crowd?”

She shook her head, a soft smile on her lips. “No, not really. I think I just—I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I could be like that. Let go. Be drawn to… people like that.”

Fred tilted his head. “People like what, exactly?”

Hermione didn’t answer. Not directly. Her gaze turned back to the window, to the stars beyond. “The kind that make it easy not to think so much.”

Fred didn’t laugh. Didn’t joke.

When she glanced at him, he was watching her, too quiet for someone like him. Her heart skipped. Maybe she’d said too much. Maybe she’d meant more than she should have.

The air between them shifted—just slightly—but it was enough to make her look away.

Fred cleared his throat. “Right. Uh—‘m just gonna chat with a few mates over there, you alright alone forra bit?”

She nodded quickly, then asked casually, “Do you know where Harry or Ron are?”

Fred blinked, like she’d pulled them both back down to earth.

“Yeah—Ronniekins’ sulking in his room. Harry went to him, I think.”

Hermione nodded, thanking him, and turned away.

She didn’t look at him again.

But she felt it—how something hung unspoken between them now. And maybe that was exactly why she needed to find her friends.

She continued drinking from her cup as she surveyed the area, moving through the dense crowd toward the direction of the dorms.

As she neared the stairwell, she spotted Harry and Ron walking down.

“Hey! Was just wondering where you were,” she spoke, their gazes shifting up to her.

Ron shrugged, but his words were everything but careless, sharp and pointed, “Didn’t think you’d be enjoying this, ‘Mione,”

It was there she decided that the nickname definitely felt different coming from Fred’s lips.

“Oh, piss off, Ron,” Hermione rolled her eyes, sipping from her cup again just to spite him.

“Ignore him, he’s just being a right git,” Harry commented.

“Not my fault I didn’t wanna be here, you dragged me into this.” Ron argued, giving Harry a narrowed look.

But before Harry could respond, familiar blonde curls came into view—and that headband she always adorned herself with.

Lavender.

Oh lord. Here we go.

“Won-Won! Where have you been?” Lavender’s sharp, irritating voice was sadly not drowned out by the music.

But Hermione wished it was.

Lavender carried a similar cup to Hermione in her hands, her cheeks flushed like Fred’s.

“Hey, Lav,” Harry greeted her with a cheeky grin, and she knew he was teasing Ron; he never called her with a nickname.

Ron sent him a look.

“You don’t mind if I steal him from you guys, right?” She smiled, her eyes wide and way too expectant. Like they’d already said yes.

“Go ahead,” Harry said, lightly shoving Ron forward.

Ron sent them a desperate look as he was quickly dragged away by Lavender, her arm hooked around his; preventing him from escaping.

Hermione let out a laugh.

“He’s glued to her side for the night, I reckon,” Hermione mused, glancing at Harry.

He chuckled. “Definitely. He needs this, though. Don’t know what’s up with him today, right bitter and all.”

Hermione nodded, glancing around the room. She spotted the Weasley twins from far away, chatting with a group of people.

“Guess I should get a drink too?” Harry said.

Hermione gestured for him to follow, bringing him to the same spot Fred had.

She poured him Firewhisky in a similar cup, handing it to him. Then, she proceeded to chug the remainder of hers, placing the empty cup on the table.

“Ron’s right, though. Didn’t think you’d be here. Drinking no less,” Harry said, eyes darting over the crowd before landing back on her.

“Just wanted a change, I s’pose,” Hermione answered, the words coming out more slurred than she intended. It wasn’t a lie, not really, but it wasn’t fully the truth, either.

She had wanted a change; but deep down, she came to see Fred, too. Even though she knew she shouldn’t crave that, but did anyway.

Hermione rarely ever drank, either, so that meant that when she did, she got drunk a lot faster. It was nice, not having to drink so much to get that warm, happy feeling, but it also meant it more easily affected her.

Made her lose control easier.

Harry nodded, sipping from his cup.

“Harry! Hermione!” George’s voice rose above the music and chatter, calling from across the common room.

Their heads turned, spotting him waving toward them by the fireplace.

Hermione sent Harry a look, and he gave her a small smile, nodding for her to lead the way.

They moved through the crowd to where George was, finally reaching the spot. George was sprawled across the arm of one couch, Fred sat cross-legged on the floor with a drink in hand, Angelina, Katie, and Alicia deep in conversation across him.

Hermione’s eyes flicked to Fred—and found him already watching her. He winked, slow and unbothered, and gave a crooked smile.

Like their small moment earlier hadn’t happened.

Her chest tightened unexpectedly.

“Perfect timing!” George said brightly. “You’re just in time for the next round.”

Hermione blinked. “Round?” Her and Harry said at the same time.

Fred grinned and tipped his drink slightly toward her. “Truth or Hex. Our own special.”

George patted the couch. “Come on. Sit. Play. It’s dead simple. Tell the truth, or drink and take a dare. Loser charms their drink to taste like something horrid.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, amused. “Sounds safe.”

“Only emotionally scarring, I promise,” Fred said, glancing at Harry before turning back to her.

Harry dropped into the couch next to George. Hermione hesitated for a second, scanning the seats. Only one spot was open—next to Fred.

Her pulse quickened as she moved to sit, careful not to brush against him. Still, their legs ended up barely an inch apart.

Fred leaned slightly closer, voice low and teasing. “Nervous, ‘Mione?”

She didn’t look at him. “Hardly.”

But she was—only not about the game.

“Good,” he said. “Because you’re up next.”

Hermione's throat bobbed, forcing her body to remain still. Forcing herself to not focus on their proximity.

“Alright,” George clapped his hands once. “Hermione’s up. Truth or Hex?”

Hermione looked around the circle. George was grinning wide, the girls looking similarly eager, Harry looked half-curious, half-concerned, and Fred… Fred had that maddening sparkle in his eye like he always did.

She straightened her posture. “Truth.”

George grinned. “What’s something you think about more than you should?”

Hermione opened her mouth to argue that the question was stupid, that it didn’t mean anything, but Fred was already watching her, analyzing her every movement.

They locked eyes, and she faltered.

She tried to think hastily, think of anything that wasn’t him, but she couldn’t.

“I—” She reached for her drink instead. “Dare.”

“Ooooh,” George said.

Fred still watched her, an unreadable expression on his face.

George rubbed his hands together, clearly delighted. “Let’s see then… I dare you to swap drinks with someone.”

“That’s it?” She asked, suspicious.

Fred raised his cup. “Mine tastes like vomit and regret. Your move,”

Hermione narrowed her eyes but took it from him anyway, ignoring the flutter in her chest when their fingers brushed for the second time that day.

She sipped. Grimaced. “Merlin, what did you do to it?”

Fred laughed. “Told you.”

The rounds continued. Angelina picked truth, Hermione asking her to tell one of her most embarrassing moments, which really wasn’t—unless you considered a voice crack in Transfiguration class that prompted McGonagall to ask if she was ill, a ‘most’ embarassing moment—and Katie had taken a dare.

“Describe your most recent dream… but make it scandalous.” Angelina said, smirking.

Katie let out a laugh, shaking her head. For a moment, Hermione thought she might just drink, but then she started to speak.

“Alright,” Katie grinned, clearly not as bothered as Hermione guessed. “Most recent dream… I was late to practice, broomless, and Madam Hooch made me do laps around the castle—naked.”

Laughter erupted around the circle.

“Oh, but that’s not the scandalous part,” she added, leaning forward. “Fred was there too. Said he’d ‘escort me for morale’. Very noble.”

Fred choked on his drink, coughing out a laugh. “What can I say? I’m a giver.”

Hermione forced a small smile, but her fingers tightened slightly around her cup.

Fred glanced at her in her periphery—too quick to be anything, but just sharp enough for her to wonder about.

The game continued on with the rounds. Then, Fred was next.

“Truth or Hex?” George asked, eyebrows raised.

Fred swirled his drink slowly, like he had all the time in the world. “Truth.”

“Truth? Brave choice, Freddie. Alright—” George leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “—if you had to snog someone in this room right now, who would it be?”

A few of them let out low oohs and chuckles. Angelina gave Fred a look, and Alicia raised her eyebrows, amused.

Fred didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted to the cup in his hand. He swirled the Firewhisky, then flicked his eyes up.

Right to Hermione.

But just as soon as it landed, it was gone, his head turning to George.

It was a split-second glance, but it landed like a blow. Her heart stuttered. She tried to keep her face unreadable, even as heat crept up her neck.

“Dunno,” Fred said, drawling his words. “Bit of a tough choice, Georgie. Might need ‘nother round to be sure.”

Laughter sounded from the group. George groaned dramatically.

“Cop out, that is.” he muttered, nudging Fred’s shoulder with his hand.

Hermione forced a laugh, but her fingers curled a little tighter around her cup. She wasn’t sure what bothered her more—Fred’s look… or the fact that she’d wanted him to say her name.

“Drink up, then.” George urged, nodding toward his cup.

Fred obliged, taking a huge gulp. His face distorted, wincing at the taste.

George just watched with a wicked grin on his face, then hummed. “Alright then…” He mused, brow furrowing, clearly in thought.

Fred, after recovering from the drink he’d just paled from, leaned back casually, hands flat on the floor to support himself. He looked far too pleased with himself for someone who’d just dodged a truth question.

“Can’t decide?” Fred taunted. “You’re usually much quicker, Georgie.”

George held up a finger. “Don’t rush the creative process.”

He looked around the circle of Gryffindors—half-empty Firewhisky cups, scattered cushions, flushed faces from too much laughter. Then his eyes landed on Hermione.

His grin widened.

“Granger,” he said. “Why don’t you decide?”

Hermione blinked, and Fred straightened next to her. “Me?”

“Yeah. You’ve got that sharp, scary brain. Do your worst.”

All eyes turned to her. She felt the heat of it immediately—Fred’s most of all. His stare bore into her, though she could only see it from her periphery, too afraid to catch his gaze. She didn’t know what he was thinking, and that scared her most of all.

“Okay,” she said coolly, more-so than she felt. “He has to stay completely silent for the next two rounds.”

Fred raised an eyebrow, like he’d misheard her. “What, no talking?”

“No talking, no gesturing, no jokes. Just… quiet,” she said, finally glancing at him. His eyes held hers, and a glimmer of intrigue flashed through them. “If you can even do it.” She added, shrugging, though her heart battered hard in her chest.

The room broke into laughter and groans.

She’d expected Fred to as well, and he did a little, the corner of his lips curling up just slightly, but he didn’t move, faltering more than she’d expected him to.

“Fine. Challenge accepted.” He said finally, shrugging, imaginarily zipping his lips with his fingers.

Hermione smiled lightly, though her chest remained heavy.

It’d been the only thing she could think of that didn’t sound like she cared more than she should. A bit of quiet she admittedly needed, too. Just for a moment.

Just to keep herself steady, keep herself from him.

The game moved on, Harry opting out of his truth, downing his drink Hexed with a charm George had chosen, something along the lines of a rotten egg, choosing dare and having to perform a short singing performance (which admittedly damaged her eardrums), while Alicia chose truth.

After they’d finished, George flopped backward onto the couch, tossing an arm over the backrest.

“Well, that was anticlimactic. Thought someone would cry or snog someone unexpected by now.” George sighed.

“You’re losing your edge, Georgie,” Fred quipped, finishing the last sip of his drink, which had been removed of its charm.

“Or maybe you’re just too predictable,” Katie teased.

Laughter again.

Out of the corner of Hermione’s eye, she saw someone approach. She turned to look, spotting Lee. He ducked in next to Harry, the three of them now messily pressed together.

His face was slightly flushed from the alcohol, his smile lazy and loose. “Oi! Thought you’d have fun without me?”

George grinned, easily jumping into passionate conversation with him. They started talking about… Quidditch? Hermione had stopped tuning in near the start, her gaze now focused on the fireplace.

Fred leaned toward Hermione, voice quieter now. “You—”

She turned her head, catching the movement but not his words. “What?”

Their eyes locked, and Hermione’s breath caught.

He leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing hers, warm breath ghosting near her ear. “I said—”

“Fred,” Angelina called suddenly, and Hermione’s head moved swiftly as if taken out of a trance.

He didn’t answer, still trying to speak to Hermione, clearly not hearing her.

Angelina exhaled sharply and stood, moving closer to them. “Fred, are you—oh—!”

She faltered, foot catching on the rug. The drink in her hand sloshed as the liquid flew forward.

And landed right on Hermione.

George and Lee fell silent. Everything felt too silent.

But the music hadn’t stopped. The distant chatter hadn’t stopped.

Just them, at this moment.

“Bloody hell, Ange!” Fred exasperated, and she saw him look at her from the corner of her eye.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry—” Angelina spoke, but Hermione couldn’t even listen.

She sat frozen, her eyes locked onto her now wet clothes, drenched in the familiar and sharp smell of Firewhisky.

“Hermione—” Fred said.

“I’m fine. It’s okay,” she cut Fred off, glancing up to Angelina. She was expecting to see sympathy, regret, but she was met with an impassive face.

Too stoic to be truly apologetic.

“I’m just—gonna get changed.” Hermione stammered, turning her eyes back to Fred.

His eyes were wide, laced with concern. She gave him a sheepish smile, trying to reassure him she was fine.

“Alright, but don’t get lost,” Fred joked, his lips curling slightly, but it fell flatter than usual, not reaching his eyes.

Hermione forced a chuckle, her mind too preoccupied to think properly, then quickly stood to maneuver around the couches—trying to get away quickly.

She didn’t know why she came.

Maybe this hadn’t been a great idea.

And Angelina… It looked like she’d done it on purpose.

As Hermione walked away, she heard Fred from behind her.

“You can be a right duffer, Angelina,”

He sounded annoyed, more-so than usual. Was he just mad at Angelina? Or was he mad that it had happened to her?

No. She couldn’t think like that.

That would never be the case. It was clearly the former.

But some small part of her was elated that he maybe was being protective.

Hermione shook her head, weaving through the crowd, running up the stairs to the dorms. Finding hers, she quickly shut herself in, letting out a deep sigh.

This wasn’t how she wanted the night to go. But she shouldn’t let it bug her.

She quickly changed into a new set of clothes, the sound of music muffled from down below.

It was okay. She’d return, and it’d be fine. Everything was fine.

Hermione opened her dorm door, and stepped back into the hall.

A sound to her right—where the boys dorms were—came from down the hall. It sounded like someone moving, and was then followed by chatter.

She walked closer to the other side, peering down the hall, trying to see what was happening, only to find a staggering student mumbling to themselves. They leaned against the walls, before struggling with one of the doors, finally getting it open, and shut it behind them.

The hall fell into silence once more.

Hermione sighed, but it was then she noticed the door to what she knew as Fred and George’s dorm, was wide open.

Her brow furrowed. Of course. Just like them to forget to close it.

She walked down the hall, hand raised to the door frame to close it, when her curiosity got the better of her.

Just a peek wouldn’t hurt. Right?

She leaned in, examining the room.

It was just like she imagined, cluttered and messy, bed sheets crumpled, random magical objects (surely to be used in pranks, knowing them) scattered across bedside tables.

But something caught her eye.

A singular, familiar Firewhisky bottle laid on one of the tables.

She guessed it was either Fred’s or George’s; just another one in their extensive stash.

Hermione stepped forward unconsciously, picking up the bottle.

She was still too sober for her liking, even with how much of a lightweight she was. And she knew the twins had plenty more downstairs.

So taking this one wouldn’t hurt right?

She didn’t want to go down feeling this sober—didn’t want to seem so out of place when everyone had been rather sloshed.

Plus, Fred had said he liked seeing her let loose. And she liked that… a little too much.

She wished he said more about what he liked about her.

She shook her head, forcing the thoughts away. They needed to stop. She needed to get him out of her head. Or she just needed to stop thinking at all.

So she opened the bottle, taking a swig without a second thought.

The warm liquid coated her throat, warmer than she remembered Firewhisky being. It also tingled, making her wince, her lips smacking together unconsciously.

But the feeling never went away. It only amplified.

A surge of heat went through her body, spreading down her throat to her arms, to her stomach, down her legs.

To the center of her thighs.

Footsteps shook her out of her thoughts, and her head snapped to the door.

Fred stood by the doorframe, eyes examining her.

“Snooping, ‘Mione?” He smirked, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“No, I—” She started, stunned, heat warming her cheeks at being caught.

His eyes moved from her gaze downward, landing on the bottle in her hand. They flickered to the bedside table she’d gotten it from, then back to her hand. His eyes widened.

“What—Hermione, did you drink that?” Fred cut her off, his eyes focused on the bottle in her hand.

“Sorry, your door was open so I—”

“No. I don’t—” Fred spoke, his voice sounding weirdly… worried? She couldn’t quite place his tone. “Just, did you drink it?”

Hermione’s brow furrowed. She wasn’t expecting him to react like this.

Was he mad she’d drank his Firewhisky?

But it didn’t seem like that. This seemed like something else.

Before she could form words, her core fluttered again. A gasp left her mouth.

She knew that feeling. All too well.

Nights when she’d grown heavy with lust—touching down there to relieve herself.

It was the exact same.

Her eyes locked with Fred’s again. They were still wide, but something in them had changed. He seemed… more urgent than before.

Fred swore under his breath, striding across the room.

Hermione blinked, swaying slightly where she stood. Her heart hammered against her ribs, her skin starting to flush and burn.

“Okay, listen to me,” Fred said in a low voice, reaching for the bottle. His fingers brushed hers, and the contact alone made her shiver. He hissed through his teeth, yanking the bottle away and setting it down on the desk behind him. “That wasn’t Firewhisky, ‘Mione.”

She stared at him, brain moving sluggishly, the heat in her growing stronger.

“What… was it then?” She asked, voice hoarser than she’d meant it to be.

Fred ran a hand through his hair, tugging slightly at the ends. “It’s a prototype. George and I—we’re working on some… uh, enhanced drinks.”

“Enhanced,” Hermione repeated dumbly. Her knees wobbled.

Fred cursed again, stepping closer instinctively. His hands hovered like he didn’t know where to touch her—or if he should.

“It’s not dangerous,” he said quickly, like he needed to reassure her. “It just… it, uh—” He glanced away for half a second, like even he was embarrassed. Fred, being embarrassed? It was unlike him, she thought. “It heightens want. Lustful… want. You weren’t supposed to drink it, Hermione.”

Another wave of heat rolled through her, stronger this time. She clenched her fists in the fabric of her jeans, trying to anchor herself, but it was useless.

The only thing she could think about was Fred.

His scent, his closeness, the way he was looking at her like he wanted to fix this—but also like he wanted to run.

And, Merlin’s beard, what had he just said? It heightened… lust?

She had just drank a lust potion… and now she was in front of Fred.

Losing herself in his presence.

Her heart raced, fear rising for a moment, only to be replaced by that warm, fluttery feeling again.

Hermione swallowed thickly. “I feel…” She couldn’t finish.

“I know,” Fred said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know. Shite, okay, we can fix this. You just have to sit, breathe, it’ll pass—”

But the way his voice had wrapped around her name, the concern in his eyes—it didn’t help.

It made it worse. It made her want to close the gap between them and bury her hands in his hair.

“Fred,” she whispered, a little brokenly.

He froze.

She took a step closer.

Fred stepped back like he’d been burned. His eyes darted to the door, the noise from downstairs creeping up the staircase. Laughter. Footsteps.

Panic flickered across his face.

“We can’t stay here,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “Anyone could—” He broke off, moving toward her quickly. “Come on.”

His hand closed gently around her wrist—warm, careful, but firm—and Hermione let him pull her along. She stumbled after him, her body tingling everywhere his skin touched hers.

They crept into the hallway, Fred poking his head out first, scanning the common room below.

Too many people. Too loud. Too dangerous.

He cursed under his breath again, pausing for a moment, before guiding her down the stairs anyway—the only way out of the noise, of the people, of the chaos.

They passed people quickly, but Hermione didn’t dare glance. Fred just continued leading her, pushing her through.

They stumbled out into the Hogwarts halls, the painting behind them falling shut.

He continued moving, further and further away from the common room.

She didn’t know where they were headed. She couldn’t think.

All she could feel was his hand on her, and this heat that swelled from below—how much she wished he’d touch her somewhere else.

Fred rounded a corner, yanking open a door to a classroom without hesitation. He pulled her inside, shutting the door behind them with a quiet thud. Darkness swallowed them whole, only thin slivers of moonlight cutting through the old windows.

He pulled out his wand, murmuring Muffliato in a rushed, urgent breath, before slipping it back into his trousers.

Hermione moved to lean heavily against the wall, breathing hard. The potion was burning through her now, sharp and hungry, and Fred felt like the only solid thing she should cling to.

He paced once, running a hand through his hair again, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “bloody hell.”

Hermione’s chest heaved. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him.

“Okay,” Fred said finally, stopping a few feet away, like he didn’t trust himself to get closer. His voice was rough. “You’re gonna be fine. It’ll wear off. Just—just stay put. Stay here.”

She pressed her head against the wall, trying to find something cool, something to ground her.

It didn’t help. Nothing would.

Because Fred was looking at her like that.

And she wanted—Merlin, she wanted—

“Fred,” she breathed, half-pleading, her hands fisting uselessly at her sides.

He swore again, this time louder, and turned away from her like he couldn’t even bear to look at her.

“Fred,” she whispered again, the sound wrecked and small.

He stood with his back to her, hands gripping the edge of a dusty old desk like he could anchor himself there, like if he moved, he would do something he’d regret.

Hermione’s heart thudded against her ribs. The heat inside her was unbearable now—curling, clawing, needy—and she didn’t know how to hide it.

Her hands shook as she pushed off the wall.

She barely remembered crossing the room.

Only that one moment she was staring at the broad set of his shoulders—and the next, her fingers brushed against the back of his jumper.

Fred flinched like she’d burned him.

“Hermione—” His voice cracked. He twisted to face her. “What—”

Her lips parted. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Only feel.

The potion thrummed under her skin, in between her legs, drowning everything else.

“Please,” she whispered. Her hands slid up his chest, clumsy, desperate. “Help me, I—make it stop—”

Hermione couldn’t even think about what she was saying. Everything had changed so quickly, and the potion gave her no room to question whether this was right or not.

She just felt her need for him.

And it was stronger than ever.

Fred’s eyes widened, his jaw tightening, his whole body stiffening.

“Hermione…” he said roughly. “What… do you feel right now?”

Hermione paused, peering into his gaze. That lovely, hazel hue stared back at her.

“I…” Hermione’s voice trembled, overwhelmed at the warmth and want coursing through her. “I feel… warm, and—”

“No—what do you feel about me right now?” Fred cut in, his hand hovering over her shoulder, hesitant.

Hermione’s cheeks warmed, the rational part of her waking at his words, at the blunt statement. But her mouth opened before she could even think.

“I want you,” she breathed.

She barely recognized her own voice—wrecked, pleading.

The truth, the dark secret she’d been hiding, pushing down for so long, was out. Just like that. So easily.

It felt like she wasn’t in control. Or really, that the potion was just unleashing everything from her she didn’t want to reveal.

Fred’s breath caught, his eyes darkening.

“D’you really mean that?” His tone was low, breathy. The hand that had been hovering started to inch closer, like he was losing control over himself.

Her body throbbed. Ached. Burned.

“Please,” she begged again, pressing closer, fists twisting in the fabric of his jumper. “I can’t—Fred, please, just—”

Fred made a low, broken sound deep in his throat.

Like he was in pain.

“You don’t get it, Hermione. The potion—” Fred paused, swallowing harshly, “—It’s not just… normal want.”

Hermione’s hands continued to move over his jumper, his body trembling under her touch.

“What do you mean?” She managed to ask, her voice soft.

“It only reacts to someone if there’s already… something there,” he added quietly, gaze flicking down to her lips before returning to her eyes.

Hermione’s stomach flipped. She pulled away swiftly, the movement taking every bit of control left in her.

It was at that moment another wave of heat coursed through her. Her legs pressed against each other against her control, panic surging within her.

“Fred,” she said, barely audible, “you should go.”

“I know,” he said. But he didn’t move. “I—bloody hell, just… Can you tell me one thing first?” His hand ran through his hair, antsy, like he wasn’t really sure whether to be saying this.

Hermione gulped, peering into his gaze. The room felt too warm, her skin too sticky, the need present in her all too encompassing.

Every nerve felt like it was on fire.

“Was it me?”

Hermione’s brow furrowed, confused on what he was asking.

His fingers passed through his hair again, “What you said. What you think about a lot,”

Hermione froze, finally realizing what he was saying. Truth or Hex. What George had asked her.

What’s something you think about more than you should?

Of course it was him. It was always him.

That’s what terrified her, and also excited her.

She hated that her eyes always searched for him in a crowd, but even then, when she finally caught sight of him—the flutter in her stomach made all the worry wash away.

She let out a whimper against her will, unable to force any words.

Something in Fred seemed to crack, the last thread of restraint slipping from his fingers. He took a careful step forward, watching her the whole time.

Hermione’s breath hitched. She didn’t move.

“I didn’t want to think it meant more,” he said, his voice low. “But tonight, you looked at me like that and I just—”

He stopped right in front of her, chest rising and falling hard, lips parted like he was about to say more but didn’t know how.

Hermione’s hands clenched at her sides. Her pulse thudded in her ears. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this,” she said, voice trembling. “I didn’t—I can’t—”

Fred leaned in slowly, cautiously, until his mouth was near her ear. His breath brushed her skin, and her eyes fluttered shut.

“S’that what you meant, ‘Mione?” He breathed. “Did you mean me?”

She shivered. Everything in her screamed to pull him closer.

“...Yes,” she whispered.

Fred exhaled like he’d been holding it the whole time. And then, finally, he touched her—just his fingers brushing her wrist—but it was enough to ignite everything again.

Fred’s fingers lingered, unsure at first, like he was waiting for her to pull away.

She didn’t.

Hermione’s hands moved back to his chest, eager to touch every part of him.

She leaned in before she could stop herself, her forehead barely brushing his. Her breath trembled. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted, voice nearly silent.

Fred’s hand slid up to her cheek, warm and careful. “I know this isn’t right,” he murmured. “I know I shouldn’t want what I want—”

“But you do.” She finished for him.

His words matched exactly how she’d been thinking for the past months. The whole situation still felt so surreal to her, that her and Fred were even in this position to begin with.

But she didn’t want it to stop.

“I do,” he breathed.

He leaned in, pausing for just a second, his breath ghosting over her skin like a dangerous promise.

And then, finally, closed the distance. Their lips met, soft at first—almost questioning.

But then Hermione kissed him harder.

It was too much and not enough, messy and desperate, all the tension from the night spilling over. His hands buried in her hair, her fingers fisting his jumper, holding on like if they stopped they’d have to face the reality of what they were doing.

The taste of him, the feel of his mouth against hers—it was everything she’d dreamed of. She gasped against him, overwhelmed with emotion.

Hermione barely registered when Fred backed them into a desk, his hands curling under her thighs to lift her onto it. She let him, never breaking the kiss.

Each part his hands touched had her nerves fluttering, each sensation heightened from the potion. But really, she knew it was because it was him touching her.

His hands gripped her hips, dragging her flush against him.

The kiss deepened. Heated. Desperate.

Hermione gasped into his mouth, the heat between her legs pooling, unbearable now.

Fred kissed her back like a man drowning—devouring, desperate—before yanking away, breathing ragged.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped, forehead pressed to hers. His hands shook where they held her. “Hermione—Fuck, tell me to stop—”

“Don’t you dare,” she whispered back.

Fred let out a low, desperate laugh, almost disbelieving. Her eyes met his, noticing how fierce and glassy they were with need.

And then he kissed her again, harder this time.

Hermione whimpered into the kiss, clutching at his jumper, yanking him closer.

She needed more. More of him. Needed him to touch her, claim her, anything to end the ache burning through her.

Fred pulled back again, breathing hard, forehead resting against hers.

“This is wrong,” he rasped, voice low and broken. “You—you’re Ron’s best friend. I shouldn’t—”

Hermione shook her head frantically, trying to chase his mouth again, but he held her still, his hands trembling against her waist.

“Fred, please,” she whispered, the words spilling out without shame. “I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”

His breath hitched, like her words knocked the air from his lungs.

“You don’t mean that,” he said, voice rough. “Not really. Not like this.”

He searched her eyes, like he needed to believe her—but didn’t trust himself to.

“I do,” she insisted, her hands gripping the front of his jumper. “I swear it. Fred, I—” She broke off, chest heaving.

Her whole body screamed for him, but her heart ached too, heavy with the truth she’d never dared to say.

“I like you,” she choked out. “Even if I shouldn’t.”

Fred’s hands fisted in the fabric at her hips, like he was barely holding himself together.

“You’re not thinking straight,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut. “The potion—”

“No, it’s not—it’s not just that,” Hermione gasped, desperate for him to believe her. “Please. Please don’t make me beg. ”

Fred opened his eyes, and the look he gave her nearly undid her—all wrecked, all wrong, all hers.

“If I touch you now, Hermione—there’s no going back.” He said, voice low.

She nodded, barely. “I know,” she breathed. “But I don’t want to go back.”

Fred swore under his breath, sending shivers down her spine as she waited for him to answer.

He stared at her for a long, awful second.

And then, as if fully resigning himself, he closed the distance again, kissing her.

Slower this time. Deeper. Like he was memorizing every part of her he wasn’t supposed to have.

His hand cupped her cheek, thumb trembling as it brushed against her skin.

“If you want me to stop,” he murmured against her mouth. “Tell me. I’ll stop.”

“Don’t you dare,” she repeated.

And Fred groaned, low and wrecked, before pulling her into him.

His hands moved, skimming down her sides, hesitant at first—like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch her. His fingers dug into the curve of her waist, holding her like she’d disappear if he let go.

Hermione gasped against his mouth, nails tracing up his chest, tugging at his jumper, desperate to feel more.

Fred cursed under his breath, breaking the kiss to stare at her—flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes blown wide and glassy.

Just searching. Looking at her, examining her.

Hermione met his gaze, her body unconsciously rubbing against his, desperate for some relief.

He kissed her again—rougher this time, tasting the small whimper she gave—and pressed his hips against hers.

She let out a sharp breath as his arousal touched her, hard and hungry, like he’d been holding back far too long. Her hips rolled forwards, finally seeking some of that relief she’d been begging for.

Fred let out a low groan, but didn’t break the kiss. His hands started to roam over her, slipping under her sweater, caressing her skin.

Everywhere he touched burned, sending jolts of pleasure to places she hadn’t even known could ache like this.

Hermione matched his actions, but faster. Her fingers hooked on the bottom edge of his jumper, twisting it upwards.

Fred broke away from her mouth, and his hands replaced hers, messy and quickly, as he pulled it up and over his head. It fell on the ground nearby, discarded.

Hermione took in the span of skin, eyes wide, hazy almost at the sight. His chest heaved, and she couldn’t stop her hand from going forward, tracing down the middle of his ribcage, moving in time with his breaths.

Fred’s breath hitched as her hand trailed down further. Right when she met his waistline, his hand gripped hers firmly, strong but not painful. Her eyes swept upwards quickly, meeting his gaze.

“Not yet,” he breathed, voice hoarse, but the corner of lips still managed to curl up.

Hermione let out a whimper, confused and overwhelmed with the absolute need to touch him further.

“If you touch me now, I’m liable to combust,” Fred said, his voice a mix of desperation and amusement. He gave her a crooked smile, his grip on her wrist tightening just slightly, as if to steady himself. “And that’d really ruin the mood.”

“You did say ‘can’t go wrong with risky’,” Hermione said breathily, her free hand lightly brushing across his chest. “I’m just taking your advice.”

Fred grinned further. “Curse you for being so smart,” he huffed, his voice strained.

Hermione let out a small chuckle, matching his grin.

“But you like it,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice breathy. His hand let go of hers and moved to press her down further on the desk. “But let me have one shred of self-control, yeah?” He said with a cheeky smirk.

Her hand fell softly by her side, and desperate for something to hold onto, something to ground herself, she gripped at the edge of the classroom desk.

Hermione’s heart skipped at his boldness, at the weight of his words. She’d thought countless times—hidden, wrong thoughts that she’d forced deep down—about what Fred would be like when he was being intimate.

But nothing compared to seeing it in person—the way his face flushed, his eyes half-lidded and locked on her, as if she were the only thing that existed.

Fred leaned forward, capturing her lips once more in a heavy kiss. Every bit of her urged to do more, but she found herself listening to his words despite the want to disregard them.

Something about Fred taking control made her ache in ways she didn’t have words for.

She vaguely registered his hand tracing the side of her zip-up sweater, moving further up, right to her shoulder.

His mouth left hers, and started slowly, painfully trailing down the side of her neck, kissing as he went. Hermione shivered with each touch, small breaths leaving her mouth, her eyes falling shut in response.

He kissed her shoulder, then started to move further in, right above her breasts. Hermione’s hands left the side of the desk to tangle themselves in his hair. Fred let out a groan in between the kisses, pressing his hips against her once more.

Right when his lips met between her collarbones, he paused for a moment. Hermione’s eyes flickered open, meeting his. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight, his hair tousled from her fingers having run through, and his gaze—

It was dark, searching, and he briefly glanced down at her zipper, where his hand now was. It became clear to her what he was asking, and Hermione nodded quickly, his hand starting to pull downwards.

The sound of her sweater being unzipped resonated loudly in the otherwise quiet room.

The fabric fell open, the only thing between his bare skin and hers now a tank top she had haphazardly thrown on. Fred’s fingers hooked under the shoulder strap, agonizingly slow, and Hermione let out a quiet whine, growing impatient.

Fred let out a low chuckle, but didn’t move faster, like he enjoyed getting the reaction out of her.

It was so… him. He always did enjoy spurring a reaction, and it came as no surprise that he enjoyed it in situations like this, too.

“Tsk. So impatient, Hermione.” He teased, grinning against her skin.

“Can you really blame me?” Hermione huffed out, but she met his grin regardless.

“No, but don’t they say slow and steady wins the race?” Fred hummed, sending her another cheeky smirk.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but just to spite him, tugged harshly on his hair, earning a low moan from him. His jaw fell slack, his eyes widening, before he quickly recovered, a sinister grin forming on his lips.

Fred swiftly grabbed his wand out of his pocket, muttering a quick Evanesco under his breath, his smile never leaving his lips.

“Won’t be needing this—” Fred said with a cheeky smile, but paused before he could finish talking, smile faltering as he took in her appearance, as if he just realized what he’d done, “—anymore…” He finished, his voice low and breathy.

Hermione’s breath hitched as cold air hit her flushed skin, only to realize she was now completely naked from the waist up, her hands falling from his hair absentmindedly.

His eyes roamed over her, dark and heady, as if committing every part of her to memory. Her chest heaved with ragged breaths as she let him examine her.

The lust potion had previously triumphed over any amount of shame or embarrassment, but in this moment, she couldn’t deny she felt a little self-conscious.

She’d never… done this with anyone before, and being here with him, having him see her like this, was a little more overwhelming than she thought it’d be.

But her worries washed away as Fred spoke once more.

“Beautiful,” he breathed out, chest heaving like hers. “Hermione, you’re beautiful.”

Her stomach fluttered at the words; at how earnestly he’d said it, how enamoured he looked, and from that alone, Hermione felt inclined to believe him.

She didn’t respond, not really sure of what to say, and just watched as his hand moved forward slowly, his fingertips finally brushing against her breast.

Hermione’s back arched in response, her skin tingling where he touched. Fred met her response by letting out a low, ragged breath, and then placed his hand fully over her breast, grasping lightly, hesitantly, as if he still couldn’t believe what he was doing.

But he quickly grew more confident, and so did Hermione, as she felt another wave of heat course through her, fabricated but also so, so pleasing.

She pressed up against him, her impatience nearing its peak, and let out his name in a wrecked, desperate voice.

“Fred, please,”

He let out a groan and leant forward, his free hand starting to palm her other breast, while his lips wrapped firmly around her nipple and sucked, hard.

She felt the pleasure immediately, letting out a whine, her hands moving to hold onto his biceps to feel more of him—to be closer to him.

He pulled away after a short moment, letting out harsh breaths as he took in the sight of her. Hermione’s legs wrapped around his, dragging him flush against her.

Fred let out a stuttered breath as her hand moved to his arousal once more, pressing in lightly.

She liked this side of him, liked how good it felt to be teased with, especially because it was him, but she’d become too warm—needed him too much now. She couldn’t wait anymore.

Her gaze met his, pleading, and he seemed to understand the desperation within her as his hands quickly replaced hers. He started unbuckling his belt, the clang too loud, too emphasized, but it was all she could focus on as she held her breath.

Fred gave her a look as he fumbled with the buckle, like his hands wouldn’t work right.

Hermione tugged at his belt then to help, clumsy and urgent.

“This is mad,” he said, his voice eager. “This is—insane—”

“Don’t care,” Hermione gasped. “Want you.”

His trousers fell quickly when the belt became undone, leaving him only in his underpants. Hermione couldn’t help but stare at the bulge pressing against the fabric, gulping as she realized how real this situation was.

What they were really about to do.

She didn’t realize how much she’d been staring until Fred’s hand went under her chin, tilting her head up. “Eyes up here, Hermione,” Fred smirked.

Her cheeks warmed at his words, but before she could even respond, Fred’s hands moved downwards, curling into the waistband of her jeans, tugging them down, and lifting her legs to toss them across the room.

Hermione didn’t dare move, eager for what he was about to do next.

He leaned forward and captured her lips, rushed, messy, like the few moments he hadn’t been kissing had been too long for him to handle.

She felt his hand slip under the fabric of her knickers, finally brushing against the spot she ached the most.

Fred swore against her lips, pulling away slightly to look down at where his hand touched. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” his voice came out heavy and ragged.

Hermione let out a whimper, head falling back unconsciously. She could feel how wet she was, and could only imagine how drenched his fingers must be.

Her body was thrumming with need, and the more he touched her, the worse and better it got.

The hotter, the heavier.

She felt ruined already—undone by his hands alone.

Hermione felt his hand against the back of her neck, and then she was dragged forward, kissing him again, wet, unforgiving—filled with everything that brewed between them.

And then his finger entered her, curling up just to hit that spot—that spot that had every part of her trembling.

“Hm? ‘Mione, does that feel good?” He breathed against her lips with a teasing lilt. “Right there?”

That nickname again. It’d always been different when he used it, but now it had changed again.

It’d become more heated. More breathy. Less innocent.

Far, far from innocent.

Hermione’s head fell back once more, as “please” and “yes” fell from her mouth against her control. Fred responded by adding another finger, the heel of hand pressing against her clit.

The combined pleasure had loose, wrecked breaths falling from her lips.

“You’re driving me crazy,” Fred muttered, and curled his fingers just right, pulling a wanton moan out of her.

“Please, please—Fred, ah, I need you—” She rushed out, her mind in a haze, “I need—”

Fred removed his fingers and tugged harshly at her knickers, letting them fall to the floor. He let out a curse, and Hermione’s gaze met his face as he took in the sight of her.

Like he couldn’t control himself, he brought his thumb to her clit, teasing it lightly, his gaze entirely focused as she unravelled once more under his touch.

“You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?” Fred managed out, his voice hoarse, his teasing touch never stopping.

“I could say the same about you,” she breathed out, surprised she could still form a coherent thought.

He let out a chuckle, breathless, like all the air had been taken out of his lungs.

He moved his hand, and met her gaze, before tugging his own underpants down, his arousal now in full view to her. His hand wrapped around himself, his jaw tightening as he tugged once like he couldn’t stop himself, like he was desperate for relief.

Hermione swallowed as she took him in, this being a first for her—only ever seeing stuff like this in textbooks hidden away at the back of the library—and felt it could never compare to the real thing.

The tip was red in color, inflamed, and curled up against his stomach.

Fred cast her a look—dark, destroyed—before pressing himself against her core, thrusting forward with a rugged grunt.

Hermione let out a moan, gasping as he brushed over her clit.

He thrust forward again, his hands finding her hips once more, grasping, holding on like it was all that was keeping him stable.

And then, finally, he lined himself up at her entrance, pausing for a moment. Holding himself still, fighting himself even now.

“Last chance,” he rasped, voice barely a whisper. “Tell me no.”

Hermione looked up at him—the one she’d wanted for longer than she could admit—and pulled him closer with trembling hands.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Fred groaned, deep and guttural, and pushed in slowly, inch by agonizing inch.

Hermione gasped, head falling back against the desk, clutching at his shoulders as he filled her. The pleasure immediately ran through her, satiating the burn that continued to relent.

It was too much, yet not enough.

Fred moved slowly at first, careful, letting her adjust, murmuring curses against her skin. But when he picked up the pace, his breath became rougher, harsher.

“Bloody hell, Hermione—feels s’good—so fucking good—”

She could barely breathe, barely think, only feel—him moving inside her, him pressing kisses against her throat, her jaw, her mouth.

It was messy, desperate, beautiful.

Everything she’d wanted for so long.

He held her like she was something precious even as he moved faster, thrusts growing rougher, needier.

“You’re—” Fred groaned, burying his face against her neck, “killing me—”

Hermione moaned, nails digging into his back, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper.

“Fred,” she gasped. “Don’t stop—please—”

He didn’t.

He just thrusted into her harder, groaning against her skin, losing whatever last shreds of control he’d shown before.

The sound of skin against skin, the creak of the old desk under them, the breathless gasps spilling from Hermione’s mouth, filled the room.

Hermione clung to him desperately, her hands buried in his hair, her mouth pressed to his shoulder as little broken whimpers fell from her lips.

Fred kissed her—messy, bruising kisses that missed her mouth half the time, smearing across her jaw, her throat—like he couldn’t get enough, couldn’t stop even if he tried.

“Hermione—” he muttered against her skin, “—you’re perfect—”

Every drag of his hips against hers lit up her nerves, made her dizzy, made her want more. Her body arched into him without thought, chasing every touch, every deep thrust.

Fred was gripping her like he was terrified she’d disappear if he let go.

Her voice cracked, raw with need as she let out a moan, and Fred growled low in his throat, slamming into her harder, deeper.

Hermione cried out, pleasure spiraling higher and higher, tightening in her belly until it was almost unbearable.

Fred kissed her again, swallowing her sounds, thrusting into her with a ragged rhythm that was getting sloppier, more frantic.

“You feel—fuck—you feel so good,” he gasped against her mouth.

Hermione was close—so close it hurt—but she didn’t want it to end yet, wanted to stay like this, wrapped around him, forever.

Fred must have felt it too, because he slowed, dragging out each deep, rolling thrust, making her whimper and sob against his lips.

The heat coiled tighter, higher, building unbearably between them.

When he finally drove into her harder again, Hermione shattered, body clenching around him, a broken, desperate cry ripped from her chest as she came.

Fred followed with a strangled groan, thrusting into her a few more times before burying himself deep, finishing inside her, shuddering as he collapsed against her trembling form.

They clung to each other, breathing ragged and uneven, Hermione’s heart hammering in her chest.

Fred kissed her temple, her cheek, her jaw—frantic, soft kisses—like he still couldn’t quite believe she was there.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, overwhelmed—not just from the lingering effects of the potion, but from him.

From the way he was holding her.

Like she was his.

Then, Fred pulled away slowly, eyes still locked on her, his hands twitching. Like it pained him to do so.

He moved to search for his trousers on the floor, pulling out his wand from them, muttering Scourgify under his breath, followed by another spell to redress them, the clothes flying swiftly, carefully, back onto their skin.

But the absence of her undershirt and bra—vanished by his magic—reminded her of what they’d just done.

Hermione lay there, spent, chest heaving, breath uneven. Her skin felt flushed, raw, and she could feel every inch of her body, suddenly too aware of everything.

She blinked up at him, dazed, still coming down from the sort of euphoric high, but already that haze of desire was starting to clear—replaced by something else.

Something heavier, though not unwanted.

Fred’s hands were shaking as he leaned forward, brushing hair out of her face, his fingers trembling against her skin. He kissed her temple like he couldn’t stop himself.

“’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely, uncertainty lacing his tone, like he wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to say.

Hermione blinked up at him, dazed, still riding the last of the potion’s effects, but the edges of reality were quickly returning. The heat in her belly, the frantic need that had driven her to this moment—it all felt like a dream, a feverish blur.

But she didn’t regret it. Never would.

She managed a tiny, tired smile, a little breathless but starting to steady herself.

“I’m not.”

Fred gave a wrecked laugh, burying his face in her hair, clinging to her like he was afraid the world might come crumbling down at any moment.

Fred pulled away slowly, breaths still heavy, his hands lingering on her for a moment. Hermione swallowed, blinking up at him, her chest rising and falling too quickly.

A heaviness settled deep within her, despite the fact that this was what she’d wanted for so long. She couldn’t place it at first, but she knew now—she’d become suddenly aware of the consequences their actions might have.

The very consequences that’d prevented her from pursuing this in the first place.

Who she’d done this with.

Fred. Her best friend’s brother.

“Hermione?” Fred’s voice was soft, hesitant.

She ran a hand through her hair, still trying to catch her breath. “I... I can’t believe we just did that.”

Fred’s brow furrowed, concern flickering in his eyes. “Are you alright?”

“I… yeah. I am,” she said slowly, as if testing the words. “But it feels like I shouldn’t be.”

He gave a small, nervous laugh. “Because of Ron.”

She nodded, guilt twisting in her stomach. “He’d lose it. If he knew.”

Even though they both had acknowledged it, had known that was a complication, it felt all the more real now that she actually had to deal with it.

Fred looked down, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. He would.” Then, more quietly, “But I’m done caring about what he might think,”

Her eyes shot up, searching his face.

“‘Mione… I like you. Even if I shouldn’t,” his lips curled up slightly as he referenced her earlier words. “But I can’t deny it anymore.”

Hermione felt a small smile tug at her lips, feeling a little more certain at his words.

“I’ve tried to ignore it,” she admitted. “Tried to tell myself it was nothing. That it would pass.”

Fred didn’t speak. He just watched her, quietly waiting.

“But it hasn’t,” she said softly. “And I don’t want it to.”

Something in his expression relaxed—relief, maybe. Hope. He took her hand, gently this time, like he was afraid she might still pull away.

“I want this,” she whispered, eyes locked on their hands, her voice steadier now. “I want you.”

Fred let out a breath he didn’t seem to realize he’d been holding, then leaned in, resting his forehead against hers.

It was unspoken, but they both knew. The rest—the complications—could come later.

Right now, all that mattered was the small, reassuring smile Fred gave her before leaning in, kissing her again. Soft. Certain.

And filled with everything neither of them had been able to say.

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