Five Years Ago

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  • Published: 25 Mar 2016
  • Updated: 25 Mar 2016
  • Status: Complete
Spoilers! If you haven't finished the Harry Potter-series, don't read this story.

Five years ago, she would have been celebrating this day. However, this was not five years ago, this was now, and instead of celebrating, she had been reduced to a sobbing mess curled up on her bed.


1. Five years ago

Five years ago, she would have been celebrating. They would have been celebrating.

She would have woken him up with one, two, three kisses on his cheek, chin and forehead. She would have brought those scrambled eggs of hers he loved so much, to their bed. She would have eaten some toast herself, cuddled up against his side. They would watch a movie, with his arm around her shoulders, or her hip perhaps. Their legs would be intertwined, nice and snug under the warm covers. Lazy kisses filled with stinky morning-breaths would be shared.
They wouldn’t pay much attention to the movie. It would just be background noise. Instead, they would be too caught up in each other, the warmth they shared, how their limbs were entangled and just how much they loved each other.
After dozing in and out of sleep for an hour or so, she would go take a shower. He would join her.
They would stand pressed against each other, letting the water run over them. Perhaps have sex — definitely have sex.
Some years, they would do it slowly. Be tender and sensual with each other. He would brush over her cheek, tell her she looked beautiful while kissing her nose. She would hug him tight with her arms around his neck, breathe into his skin and kiss him all over his chest and shoulders and neck. The pace would be slow, and he would be gentle while she whispered sweet words into his ear.

Yet other years, they would be rough. Hair-grabbingly, teeth-clenchingly, passionately rough.
He would waste no time, and he would kiss her lustfully on her mouth, their tongues swirling along with each other — before she had even turned on the water.
They would get in and start grabbing on each other, feeling every piece of skin that was within reach. Not much time would pass before he had her bended over with her hands on the wall for support, thrusting mercilessly in and out of her. Instead of her whispering luscious and caring bits of speech to him, he would mutter dirty words, words he would never say to anyone else than her, words that could get him banned from public places, words his own Mother would have slapped him for saying, into her ears.
And he would soon have her shuddering, knees giving out beneath her, so that he would have to keep her from falling, while he shot out his own release inside her.

They would turn off the water, step out and get dried using the same towel.

She would get dressed, but he would hang around their flat for hours just in his underwear.
It would annoy her, she wouldn’t understand why he didn't put some clothes on. However, she would also enjoy the view.

They would exchange gifts. She had often gotten him new supplies for the shop, or perhaps a new notebook for his ideas. One year, he had given her a beautiful necklace. It was not often she wore jewellery, especially not necklaces, as she found they got tangled in her hair. This one was however charmed to be unbreakable, it would never get stained or lose its colour, and most importantly, it would not be able to get caught in her hair.
She had never taken it off since.

He would finally get dressed, after many reminders from her that they had a fancy dinner reservation in just two, one, a half hour!

They would take a Muggle taxi to the Leaky Cauldron, and get a nod and a smile from Tom, the barman, when they walked through the pub to the backdoor, he knew what day it was. And they would have to walk quickly through the famous Diagon Alley to make it in time for their reservation.

It would be a fancy, French restaurant, it was always the same one, owned by Fleur Delacour’s parents. The Delacours would have made sure to reserve the table in the corner.
The menu would already have been picked out for them. It was a fixed one, just like their table.
While waiting for the food, they would talk, but also sit in silence. Both was as comfortable as the other.

When they talked, they spoke about new books she had discovered or read, or perhaps how her own book was coming along. They would also talk about his interests. The shop, new products that were being developed and pranks he had played on his brothers and sister. He never grew out of playing pranks. Even when he didn’t live with the rest of his family, he managed to play one on some of them every once in a while.
They would talk about Quidditch too. She tried to understand it for his sake, so that she might be able to hold a stimulating conversation about it with him, but she never caught onto it. She had very little interest in it.

And all too sudden, the meal would be over. There would be nothing left to eat from their menu, and the restaurant would have almost emptied.

They would exchange handshakes and hugs and kisses on the cheek with the Delacours, while thanking for the lovely meal. The Delacours would wish them congratulations, and say they hoped to see them again soon. 

They would leave, holding hands and walking as close together as possible, without falling over each others feet.

The Leaky Cauldron would have been filled up, opposed to the Delacour’s, by the time they reached it. They would walk through, perhaps exchange pleasantries with Tom, before walking out on the streets of Muggle London and hailing a taxi. Hands would be held and thumbs would gently nuzzle over the others knuckles, while the car was bumpling over the uneven brick roads, that lead to their flat.

He would push in the keys to their door, and before he could turn them around, she would have locked her hands behind his neck and kiss him. He would be too caught up in it to unlock the flat, but finally be able to twist the key and push it open without looking, only having eye for her, and take her into the flat where he would push her down onto the couch.
She would slowly start undressing him, unhooking the buttons of his shirt and trousers, while he ran his hands under the hem of her dress. The dress would be pulled off and thrown into the pile where his now discarded clothes were also lying. They would have sex again.
The way they did it once again would once again alternate between the years, sometimes tender, sometimes rough, but always the opposite of what they had done in the morning.
And she would collapse on top of him, or perhaps he would on top of her, and he would stay inside her, both of them to lazy to move.

They would kiss and cuddle, feeling warm and flustered and sharing the moment between them.
If he had been on top, he would roll off her, and instead spoon her, locking his arms around her waist and giving her neck- and ear- and shoulder kisses. 
If she had collapsed on top of him, she would tangle their legs and draw gentle patterns on his chest, her mouth almost constantly connected to his skin.
And they would drift off to sleep on the couch, him first and her following not long after, knowing that the next day would be just as full of love and devotion and passion as the one that had just passed.
And they would be happy.


Yes, five years ago Hermione Granger and Fred Weasley would have been celebrating their anniversary. But Fred was also alive five years ago. Now he wasn’t, and instead of celebrating, Hermione was curled up into a ball on her side of the bed, crying, sobbing, snotting and sniffling.

She was waiting for George to arrive, so that he would curl up next to her, on Fred’s side of the bed and start crying with her.

When George was lying next to her on the bed, with his face turned to hers, it was almost like seeing Fred again. If she tried, she could imagine that it was Fred, and not George, and that it was morning, that they had just woken up, that he would lean over and kiss her tenderly, and then scoot closer to her, to wrap his arms around her waist.

But George never did such a thing. And Hermione didn’t want him to. Because George was not the same as Fred, he was completely different, and she could never bring herself to kiss his face, to wake up next to him, to have sex with him, to cook him her scrambled eggs, to love him like she loved Fred, because George was not Fred

She doubted she would ever be able to bring herself to do any of those things to any other than Fred. Five years had passed, and not once since he had died, had Hermione wanted anyone else. Because nobody came close to him. Nobody had made her feel loved like him, nobody had accepted her like him, nobody had brought out in her what he had brought out and nobody, absolutely nobody had made her feel such strong love for another person.

Because nobody was him. And she wanted nobody else.

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