"Reverie," Fred/Hermione/George, R Title: Reverie Author:kethlenda Characters/Pairing: Fred/Hermione/George Summary: Hermione tries out Fred and George's Daydream Charm, with surprising results. Rating: R Warning(s): PWP Originally Written: 11/05. (Can we tell I had a huge stretch of writer's block there for a while?) Notes: This one's for inell.
Hermione often found it hard to sleep. It was just a side effect, she decided, of thinking too much. She couldn’t understand how her friends managed to sleep like logs even in the face of terrifying circumstances.
And these definitely counted as terrifying circumstances.
Ron would take the mickey out of her if he found out that she was more frightened by the prospect of dropping out of school than by the specter of Voldemort. He still teased her about how once, years and years ago, she had said he would be killed, or worse, expelled.
It’s not so much that she couldn’t keep her priorities straight, that she really thought leaving school was a fate worse than death. It was just that it was hard to wrap her mind around the idea of death. Even a future without school was almost impossibly strange, so difficult to imagine. Death, that was beyond even her mind. She didn’t want to think about death.
So she thought, instead, about how nothing would be the same again, how she would never again walk the halls of Hogwarts. Even when she was a little girl, ignorant of her magical talents and lying peacefully beneath this same warm quilt, she had dreamed of a life spent among her beloved books. Prep school, college, then she had planned to become a teacher herself.
And now, she faced a very different life, one in which bravery and nerve would count more than knowledge, where her encyclopedic mind would only be of use when it held a bit of trivia that might help to bring down Voldemort.
Well, the hat put me in Gryffindor. Maybe it knew something I didn’t. Still don’t, not for certain.
And then there was Ron. Merlin, it was so confusing. She had spent most of the year wanting to slap him, hurt him, fired by dark impulses she didn’t half understand. But then at the funeral, he had been beside her as always, like a friend, but the hand that caressed hers had not been a friend’s hand.
She sighed, exasperated, and threw back the quilt. Surely there had to be some sort of sleeping spell in one of her books. Something to calm the endless spinning and writhing of her mind long enough to let her rest up. She would need it. In the morning she was meeting with Harry and Ron to discuss Horcruxes and the destruction thereof. She would need her wits about her, and no amount of Pepper-Up Potion could replace a good night’s sleep, not really.
It was still a little girl’s room, and surveying it in the dark, Hermione felt misplaced in it for the first time. This was where she had played with her Barbie dolls as a child, read her treasured copies of Anne of Green Gables and Little Women until the covers disintegrated. This was where she had opened her Hogwarts letter, delighted as she read it, realizing at last why she had seemed so different from the other kids. It certainly explained how she always seemed able to slow down time when she was on the last ten pages of a book and had to be somewhere in five minutes.
Then, a few years later still, she had lain here in this girl’s bed and read and reread Viktor’s letters, hugging them to her chest, not that she ever would dare tell Ron and Harry that!
Was she really the same girl, now?
Enough pondering. Enough. It was half past one, and if she didn’t drop off soon, she’d regret it in the morning.
Rummaging through her school things, she came across a small cardboard box. What was this? She took it out of her trunk and held it up to the ray of blue streetlight that streamed through her window. There was a silly romance-novel picture on the box, of a handsome hunk and a lovely damsel locked in an embrace on the deck of a ship.
“Blimey,” she whispered, smiling in spite of herself. “It’s Fred and George’s daydream charm.”
She reread the instructions. Inside, promised the gaily colored box, was a patented incantation guaranteed to sweep the user off into a thirty-minute fantasy. The twins had hoped, of course, that she would use it in class. They hadn’t known Hermione very well.
But now, with no class in session, it was worth a try. Maybe it would distract her long enough that she could relax. Hermione opened the box, feeling a bit like Pandora.
The box was empty. She turned it on its side, tapping on the box, wondering if this was another one of the twins’ jokes.
A small piece of parchment fluttered out of the dark recesses of the box. Hermione caught it in her hand. So this was the incantation.
She took a deep breath, hoping this would work properly and not turn her hair green or something, and whispered the cryptic words to the night air.
At first, she thought nothing was happening. But then a mist began filling her room, silvery and sort of sparkling. She grinned as it enveloped her. The boys were good.
When the mist cleared again, the first thing she noticed was the heat. It was a sultry, languid heat, laden with humidity. She looked up and saw a blazing blue sky, and a sun so bright it hurt her eyes. All around her were swaying palms. Beneath her hands she felt hot sand, and laughed as she sifted it through her fingers. A warm wave licked at her bare feet. A desert island. Brilliant. Smiling, she closed her eyes and looked up, and let the sun kiss her face.
"There she is!” shouted a male voice.
Hermione turned to face the voice and opened her eyes, expecting a dashing pirate perhaps, or maybe a loincloth-clad noble savage.
Instead she found herself facing Fred Weasley. A few steps behind him, jogging to catch up with his brother, was George.
“You!” shouted Hermione, feeling her cheeks burn. “What are you two doing in my daydream?”
“We’re here—“
“—to fulfill your deepest fantasies.”
“Your wish—“
“—is our command.”
“Just bugger off,” she huffed. “Where are the pirates, anyway?”
“Everybody’s experience with the Daydream Charm is different,” said George, shrugging apologetically. “It’s a new product, you know, a bit experimental…”
“Nothing experimental about it,” said Fred. “If she sees us here, it must mean—“
“Shut up, Fred. We’ve only got thirty minutes; do you really want to spend it bickering?”
“Oh, you two,” said Hermione, and started walking off. She hoped the pirates were a little further down the beach.
“Wait!” said two voices in unison. She heard footsteps, rapid footsteps, and then they caught up with her. They threw their arms around her, one on either side.
“Oh look,” she said witheringly. “It’s a Weasley sandwich. And I’m the peanut butter. Lovely.”
“Exactly,” said Fred. And grabbed her bum.
“Oh!” she said, jumping back from him.
Straight into George’s arms.
“See? I told you I was the sexy one,” George teased his brother.
Hermione tried to wriggle out of George’s grasp, but then she felt his hands caressing her breasts. It felt…well, rather nice, actually. And after all, it was just a daydream. What could be the harm in just going with it?
“She’s got nice ones,” said George, pinching her nipples.
“And lucky for us, she’s got two. Move over, old chap. You never did know how to share.”
Fred claimed one of her breasts and covered her mouth with his own. She allowed herself to relax into the kiss. He broke it only to pull her pajama top up over her head, and then kissed her again as he took her bared breast into his hand. Meanwhile, she felt a hand exploring under her bottoms—-from the angle she guessed it had to be George’s hand, and she leaned against him as he ran his hand through her curls.
Her breath was coming raggedly as the two of them lifted her, as easily as if she only weighed three or four stone, and laid her gently on the warm sand. She had to close her eyes to shield them from the bright sun, and somehow it was even hotter not being able to see who was doing what.
Someone roughly tore her pajama bottoms and her knickers off, and she felt a tongue licking her in soft waves, as rhythmically as the tongues of seawater that lapped at her toes. The other twin’s mouth kissed her lips, leaving her gasping for breath. The pent-up tension of all that whole year seemed to shatter in a moment as she came, clutching at one twin’s hair with her hands and gripping the other with her thighs.
As she lay spent, she opened her eyes, gratefully feeling her body go limp, and heard Fred tease George again. “Remember what I said about sharing. My turn.”
“We’re out of time,” said George with a shrug and a grin.
“Selfish bastard.”
“That’s me.”
“Ah, well, if she wants more, she knows where to find us.”
The mists swirled in again, and when they receded, Hermione was lying sprawled on her bedroom floor. Her pajamas were still on, but they were rumpled into disarray, and she was still feeling the jelly-muscled aftershocks of orgasm.
“Merlin,” she whispered. “George and Fred were—“
Oh my God.
Rage bubbled up within her. They must have rigged the incantation somehow, programmed it so that the daydreamer would visualize them. She wondered how many other unsuspecting women had been hoodwinked by those charlatans, those utter wankers!
Still dressed in her flannel pajamas, she focused on the mental image of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, steeled her nerve, and Apparated straight to Diagon Alley.
The twins were bleary-eyed as they opened the door. “Why, Hermione, how nice of you to drop in,” said Fred. “But don’t you think maybe two in the morning might not be the best…”
“Come on in,” said George, waving her in the door.
“What brings you to our humble commode?”
“You,” she said. Her voice came out sounding much like a snarl. Good. “You lot, and what you did with those Daydream Charms.”
“Customer dissatisfaction?” said Fred. “Preposterous. We worked our arses off on that product, it’s airtight.”
“What seems to be the problem?” asked George.
“I saw…I saw you! And you! In my daydream! How did you fix it so that you lot ended up in my daydream! Of all the despicable, vile, reprehensible—“
She ran out of steam then, unable to think of another word suitably descriptive of what the twins had done, not at two in the morning with her body and mind still reeling from the fantasy. She just stood there, hoping her expression was sufficiently stormy to get the point across.
“Ah,” said Fred, a smile and a blush creeping across his freckled face.
“What are you smiling about, you, you…”
“Well, you see,” explained George, who was quite as red as Fred now, “that charm doesn’t create the daydream. It only draws on your own…hidden desires…and, er, immerses you more fully in them.”
“So, if you saw my brother and me—“
“It must mean that you, er—“
“—wanted to.”
Hermione’s jaw fell open. She wanted to tell them off again, but she felt her own cheeks flaming as she remembered a furtive thought here, an embarrassingly naughty dream there, and realized they were right. Infuriatingly, insufferably right.
“So, would you like to show us what you saw in your daydream?”
“For quality control purposes only, of course.”
They nodded their heads in tandem toward a messy bedroom that lay in darkness beyond the parlor. She saw two beds, unmade but looking quite inviting somehow.
“What do you think?” asked Fred. “My bed or my brother’s?”
“Yours, I think,” said Hermione. “And I do believe it’s your turn.”