She doesn’t understand how no one can tell them apart, even their own mother at times. It seems so obvious to her which twin is which.
Fred is sharper than George, more angular. His hair sticks out from his head in unexpected places – the nape of his neck, behind his left ear. He fidgets when he stands still and has a habit of tapping his fingernails against his teeth when he’s deep in thought. He is the first to tease Ron when Luna sits next to him at breakfast. He is the first to jump to her defense when Malfoy throws his barbs. He has quick fists and a quick tongue and often finishes other peoples’ sentences, as if he’s guessing the answer on a quiz show.
The first time he kisses her, his mouth tastes of peppermint and his impatient hands seem to be everywhere at once. The second time he kisses her she notices he has a spiraling constellation of freckles on his right temple, and the smell of him clings to her sweater for hours afterwards, tangy and crisp, like green apples. She is always surprised at how quickly his hands find their way under her clothing. Surprised at how quickly he finds the spots that have her mewling and twisting against his fingers.
George, though. George is slower, softer, sweeter. His hair swoops over his eyes and is constantly pushed back by an absent hand. She often finds him hunched over a notebook, scribbling ideas for Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes almost illegibly and running the feather of his quill over his lips. He never makes fun of her for studying too much, and he often brings her apples or custards or hot chocolate when she is in the Gryffindor common room, surrounded by a veritable mountain range of books.
His kisses are dreamy and languid and seem to go on for hours. He is so absorbed in exploring her mouth that several minutes usually pass before it occurs to him to likewise explore her body. Sometimes he forgets completely and they spend small eternities kissing as he rests his hands on her collarbones or idly winds her hair about his fingers.
Whenever he pulls his mouth from hers, he never fails to press his face against the juncture of her neck and shoulder for a long moment. She feels his lips smile against her neck, hears him whisper her name almost reverently. She breathes in the lemony scent of him and rests her hands on the sides of his ribcage.
“Don’t tell George,” Fred demands as he inches her skirt up her thighs and runs a questing fingertip along the edge of her knickers before reaching his destination. “I’d rather Fred didn’t know,” murmurs George, mouth against the sensitive skin behind her ear, body pinning her to the wall, hips rolling against hers, the rumble of his voice sending tremors through her. And for once Hermione is all too glad to keep secrets.