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ethrosdemon ||| Harry Potter
War: Interlude
by ethrosdemon
naturallycalm@yahoo.com
"'Mione, have you thought about personal hygiene lately?" Hermione suddenly feels prickles at her scalp and the strong odor of human sweat encasing her. George's bulky shadow blocks out the half-hearted, late-summer, Surrey sun coming through the Burrow's kitchen window.
"Personal, as in me?" The shadow bobs, and a shaft of sunshine hits her, warming her torso where only coolness had been.
"Geddup, then." Arms under hers, and it was Fred lifting her, shifting her to her feet and half carrying her, somewhere.
"I have…" She doesn't struggle, really, but feels that she has to tell them that there are people who need her more than she needs a shower. So much time lost, and all they cared about was her stench.
"Places to be?" Says Fred.
"People to meet?" Says George.
She just lolls and tries to explain. All that comes out is a half-sob. Their hands don't slip, and she's not half-carried anymore. Simply bundled between them, Fred with her torso and George with her legs. She ignores it all, and remembers.
Not Molly in the garden, shrivelled and anything but herself. Hermione remembers October in Scotland. The scent of pine and crisp, crisp hope in the air. Another year to live, to learn, to be very young at Hogwarts. She doesn't remember worrying over grades or love unnoticed. Instead there is only tomorrow and possibility in the thin, sweet air.
She remembers Harry, all hair and glasses and wry, tellingly-ancient grin. Ron with pointy elbows and swift temper. Ginny with copper hair and whispered humor. She remembers youth.
And suddenly, she's in a tub. The scent of lavender and closeness. Her body submerged and voices sparring over banality.
"You wash her; I don't want to die by Ron's hand."
"Bugger off. This was your idea."
Two voices, almost identical, but not. Hermione's lived with them long enough to hear the burr to Fred and the tremor to George. She splashes her right hand against the static placidity of the bathwater to alert them to her awareness.
Her eyes blink rapidly in the humid haze, and she focuses on one face, then the other. Identical if unknown to the viewer. Completely unique to anyone with eyes.
"Who took off my robes?" Two faces so much like Ron's, but selves so unlike him. No blushes, just stifled laughter and four raised brows.
"Our house elf." Fred spreads his palm across the top of her crown and shoves her head under the water.
"Wanky, the house elf," says George as he hands her soap and a cloth when she emerges from the swift dunking.
"How long was I in the kitchen?" She tries to sound normal, but normal was so long ago it comes out heavy and tender instead.
"Do you want it in days?" George is working through the kinks in her hair, clinging, purple scent of French summers in the lather.
"The funeral was yesterday." Fred reaches behind him and gives her a glass. She takes it, fingers slippery with bubbles. Cool glass between her fingers, she automatically calculates four days. Wizards have rules about burials.
Funeral scenes flick through her mind, from the most recent back, back, one to the other. Mourning robes and incense, incantations for remembrance and banishing of lingering spirits, she spirals down.
"Don't do it." George's fingers tug sharply in her hair.
"Did you take Divination?" Fred produces a bottle, and her glass is suddenly not so empty.
"Not for long." She doesn't think enough to find this strange. Oddity has no place now. Life is what it is, disjointed and sudden, passing too fast to judge.
"Long enough to know you can't figure it all. You had no idea it would happen." Fingers on her scalp and a hushed, broken voice behind her head.
"All we have is now; if you keep wishing it was different, they win." Loud gulping in the close confines of the bathroom, and she thinks the bottle is feeding two other glasses besides the one in her hand. The comforting words aren't just for her, but that doesn't make them any less genuine.
The bathwater has grown cold, and she considers telling them that, but instead, she stands. Her hair dripping cool water down her back, she takes in the image of Fred and George crouching besides the tub in the tiny bathroom. Shoulder to shoulder, their pale faces gazing up at her in acceptance.
She reaches both of her hands out, and two hands reach up to grasp them.
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