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Chapter Text

The once brightly painted facade of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes stared at Hermione from across Diagon Alley. She stood on the cobblestones, clutching her briefcase in one hand hard enough that the leather of it imprinted on the soft skin of her fingers.

As the senior officer in the Ministry of Magic’s Office of Wizarding Business Development, the heavy manila folder that landed on her desk this morning made her stomach clench. The weight of it in her briefcase now made her very empty stomach curl harder in on itself.

She’d bypassed lunch and holed herself up inside her office on the Ministry’s main floor pouring over the contents. Stacks of unanswered tickets, notices, and official looking reports stared back at her, ranging from, “violation of safety on storage of magical potions” to “unsafe working conditions for employees”. The last one plagued Hermione as she’d always thought of George Weasley as a man who’d been a fair employer, along with many other things. Though, she admitted, she saw little of any of the Weasley’s lately.

Harry and Ron had lunch with her once a month, if they were able to be pulled away from Auror duties. Hermione’s job in the Business Development Department kept her chained to her desk and, indeed, when she’d been promoted last year, her office had been fitted with an emerald green couch she’d spent far too many nights on since.

But that was the kind of dedication to her job Hermione would need to show if she wanted to be considered for Minister of Magic one day. Every job promotion let her climb one rung higher on the ladder of ascension, even if those jobs came with tasks such as this one.

Hermione sighed, forcing herself to focus on the job at hand. Though George and the rest of the Weasleys had once been great friends to her, she had little room for friends as pertained to her career aspirations. Sure, she sent holiday cards and exchanged letters with them often, but just like her monthly lunch with her once closest companions, Hermione had to make many hard choices. Her focus had to remain laser sharp. That was the only way one became the Minister of Magic.

Chewing on her bottom lip, Hermione stepped off the curb and crossed the street to 93 Diagon Alley. At the end of the day, outside traditional business hours, the street was not the bustle of traffic it would have been in the morning. She’d stood on the sidewalk long enough to see the front store lights click off. George had never emerged which could only mean he was inside.

Her heeled shoes clattered against the cobblestones and when she raised a fist to tap against the door, flakes of bubblegum pink paint crumbled and fell loose. A pit formed in her stomach despite her protests against such emotions. She must view this as business only. It was not a task she could pass off to a subordinate. At any rate, coming here herself was one small kindness she could grant George. It might lessen the sting of humiliation to have the news come from someone familiar. She hoped.

“George?” She tapped again, leaning forward to peer in the glass panes of the door. “George, it’s Hermione. May I come in?”
After a moment of no answer, Hermione took a deep breath and twisted the brass door knob in her hand. It turned easily, if a little loudly, as the hinges of the door creaked open.

“George? I was hoping I could have a word–”

Something scuttled across the floorboards, unearthing a plume of dust in its wake. Hermione flinched, wobbling in her heels and choking down a screech.

Movement to her left startled her all over again. She clamped a hand over her mouth, dropping her briefcase to her feet as she tried to hold back another scream.

The lighting inside was so poor it was hard to imagine the shop had once been a flurry of noise and color. The shelves now were barely half full and dust or cobwebs coated much of the merchandise, like it had been ages since anyone had ventured inside.

Bending to scoop up her briefcase, she held it protectively to her chest as another swirl of motion caught her eye. With one hand, she fumbled for the wand in the pocket of her pencil skirt.

She’d survived the Battle of Hogwarts, had faced dementors, lived through torture from Bellatrix Lestrange, and, not to forget, the terrifying lady who ran the ice cream shop down the street who kept violating food storage violations, and she would not be scared of a little noise in a dusty shop. Steeling her spine, she turned slowly in place, eyes narrowed.

“George!” Hermione called. When she received no answer, she stomped her foot on the wooden floor. “Oh, for goodness sake!” She lifted her wand and chanted, “lumos!”.

Instantly, the shop was bathed in a flash of light.

Her eyes widened and a gasp fell from her open mouth. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes looked…positively derelict and decrepit. The reports had been damning, but seeing it in person was something else entirely. Shame, hot and fast, whipped down her spine. She’d once been close to George and his family. She should have seen this. She should have dealt with it before now, before she was assigned the task of coming here to close down the shop that had meant the world to him.

“Hermione?”

A scruffy voice called from the rear of the shop, startling her yet again. She whipped her gaze from the stacks of half opened boxes piled on the floor amid the papers littered across the floorboards, to locate the voice. It was familiar despite the new layer of gruffness to it.

“George!” Dodging a box of discarded Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans that had been strewn along the floor, she trekked carefully toward the back of the shop where George stood behind the cash register, looking at her with a furrowed brow.

“Nox!” he said and waved his wand. The lights diminished again, only the soft street lights now burning outside painting the outline of his body for her to study. But those few moments had been enough.

A scraggly red beard grew on his face, his shock of red hair unkempt on the top of his head. Dark bags weighed down what were once bright eyes, always on the cusp of a joke or a prank. Rather than their normal vivid shades of violet or emerald, his robes were plain and dark.

“What are you doing here, Hermione?” George lowered his wand, stuffing it into some inside pocket of his robes. “The shop is closed.” He pointed around her toward the door she’d just invited herself into and to the sign that hung half crooked on the front of the door.

“I know, I know.” She swallowed the lump in her throat and lifted her briefcase to the countertop, working with the scant light as best she could as the light of the dying day grew dimmer by the minute. “I just needed to see you. I haven’t received a response from any of the letters that were delivered and—”

“Those were from you?” George crossed his arms, shying away from the counter and her briefcase. He leaned against the open door frame that she knew led to his personal living quarters up the spiral staircase. “I don’t recall your name on any of those official looking papers. A bit impersonal, innit? Why, if I’d known you were writing, I would have sent a love letter back straight away.”

His dry sarcasm stung and was a ghost of George’s former charm and wit.

“They came from my office, yes. And your response was required, George. Not optional.” She flipped open her briefcase and pulled out the folder.

George’s eyes bulged and then something like fondness flashed across his eyes. “Bloody hell! I’ve not seen a folder that big with my name on it since I was back at Hogwarts in Filch’s office.”

Hermione couldn’t stop the small smile that spread on her face. “You and Fred always were up to no good. You certainly kept Filch on his toes.”

George went ramrod straight, his arms dropping to his side.

“George?” Hermione eked out his name, peeling her eyes from the folders contents to study him. “It’s been nine years. Even still you cannot–”

“Don’t, Hermione. Just don’t.” He held up a hand.

“But we’ve spoken of Fred often over the years and I–”

“Hermione!” Her name was a sharp bark from deep within George’s throat and she flinched.

The nine years that had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts had been hard for much of the wizarding world, particularly the Weasleys. The grief of Fred’s loss had been what cemented the death of her budding relationship with Ron. It had been a mutual ending, of course. The excitement of their youthful feelings had been borne from the stress of a war they thought they were losing and at its end, even as victors, neither was interested in a romantic dalliance. At most, their entanglement was a bright light in those dark times.

George and his family had poured so much of themselves into this shop in the passing years, until George was sufficiently revived enough to handle it on his own. This was partially why she found the shop’s slow descent over the last few months so surprising. It was such a sudden downward shift. George had never fully recovered from the death of his twin, but this hollowed out version of him was something entirely different.

“Sorry,” she squeaked out. She hadn’t realized Fred’s name was now unspeakable again as it had been when his death was still raw. “I’m so sorry. Apologies, George.” She bowed her head, trying to placate him. Some of the tension between them slipped but it certainly did not dissipate entirely.

“Why are you here?”

Hermione cleared her throat and lifted her eyes back to his. “As I said, my letters have gone unanswered and it does appear that no effort has been made to restore order. Look here,” she removed a stack of notices, “you’ll see all the violations and the dates of notice to you. You were given a time frame to correct them–here.” She pushed a paper toward him but he did not move. “You didn’t return a single one of the documents requiring your signature—of which there were many! I even offered you an extensive plan of improvement but it, too, went unanswered and–”

“Hermione.”

She froze. She was not usually one to ramble. But this was different. This was someone she cared about. This was not the mean ice cream lady down the street and her heavy eye rolls and whispered nastiness. This was George. A Weasley.

“Why are you here?” he repeated.

“I…” she let out a shaky exhale. “George, your shop has been condemned by order of the Office of Wizarding Business Development. I’m terribly sorry.” She fought the urge to hang her head or wring her hands together but was saved the need to when George let out a loud snorting laugh.

“Excuse me?” She felt her ears go pink.

George laughed harder, moving to lean his head against a wall of brightly painted mint green. He clutched his stomach as his laughter filled the empty shop.

“What exactly is so funny, Mr. Weasley?” She stomped one heeled shoe into the dirty floorboards, indignation burning her cheeks.

“It is only that you sound so very like that little girl at Hogwarts, telling off the rest of us for goofing around or–or for pranking the teachers in the hallways. You sound–well you sound like that little busy body with her nose crammed in a book. You always did sound like a Professor. Only now, you’re old enough to look the part.”

Hermione’s lip turned up into a snarl. “That was needlessly cruel.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re here to close down my shop. My livelihood. My home. That feels a great deal crueler, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’m doing my job, George! Perhaps if you’d done yours, you wouldn’t be in this mess!” She grabbed her briefcase and slammed it closed, leaving the folder for him. She had copies of her own. “I have been lenient with you. I had my officers grant you extension after extension. This is your failing. Not mine. I tried. I really tried. Which is more than I can say for you!”

Hermione could not let herself carry the guilt anymore. She turned away from him, fighting the darkness as she moved toward the front of the shop. She had her hand on the doorknob when she heard a barely there reply.

“Wait.”

Chest heaving, she whirled. “What?”

“Hermione, you can’t…I mean, I can’t. I can’t lose this place.” George followed her pathway, dodging haphazard boxes of inventory and wayward merchandise strewn along the floor.

“I tried, George. I’m sorry but–”

“Please.” He gripped her by the shoulders, his hands loose but firm. And trembling, she realized. “Please. I cannot lose the shop Hermione. The shop is all I have.”

“I understand. I do. But I have to do my job and you were given sufficient–”

“You don’t understand.” His voice lifted into something fierce that rattled her to another level of attentiveness. His eyes locked with hers and the weight of his emotions pinned her into place. “The shop is all I have left of him.”

Understanding hit Hermione square in the chest along with a wave of grief so hard she thought she might have bowled over had George not still been clinging to her. As though he only just realized he was touching her, he dropped his hands to his sides, the fingers curling into fists.

Something hung heavy between them, whether it was magic or grief or tension, Hermione could not say.

“Please,” he continued, “Aren’t you high up in the Ministry? If you could give me another extension, I’ll fix everything. I’ll—I’ll get it back up and running. Everything by the book.”

Hermione wasn’t entirely sure Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes had been by the book back when it was functional, but she kept that thought to herself. She looked over him, at the half empty shelves and unwashed floors. This shop had once been a pillar of Diagon Alley. The charm of its presence had soothed so many in the wake of the war and the loss it brought with it.

It had, at one time, healed so much of the wizarding community with its lightness.

But not George, it would seem. Whatever wounds she thought scabbed over had been torn open and were raw and painful once more. Or perhaps they never healed entirely the first time.

Hermione had thought he’d found his way after a time. He’d never precisely been a whole man, but he’d been standing on his own two feet. But now his grief had crawled back into the daylight, emerging out of the cracks George had failed to cover up.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

George’s shoulders slumped with relief and moisture pooled in his eyes, evident even in what was now only scant, pale moonlight.

“I can guarantee a month. I’ll see if I can manage more. But a month is all I can promise. I’m sorry it is not a lot.”

“It is enough. It will have to be.”

Hermione let him escort her the rest of the way out, her heels crunching over what sounded like broken glasses as she walked. When she reached the door, she turned to face him.

How had he gotten so close? At this little distance, she had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes. The twins had been the tallest of the Weasley clan and not even grief had stooped this man.

“But I’ll be overseeing your progress myself.” She pointed a finger at him and saw his lips twitch. “I’m risking a lot by giving you this extension and I won’t let you mess it up.”

“I don’t need help, Hermione. I can manage on my own.”

“You can?” She gestured to the mess of his shop behind him. “Clearly, that has been working so well for you. Look,” she pinched the bridge of her nose, “I know you’re going through a lot–”

“You don’t know–”

“–and it is none of my business. But I don’t want to see this shop closed. It was hard enough for me to come here tonight. Please don’t make me close you down a second time.”

“Does that mean I’m closed down?” His eyes widened.

She nodded. “Until further notice, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes is closed.” She leveled him with a stern look as she stepped off the threshold and onto the cobblestone curb. “For renovations. We can get started this weekend. Goodnight, George.”

Relief slackened the tension in George’s shoulders.

“Goodnight, Professor,” George called after her as she began the long walk back to her office to start on the extensive appeal to save his property. His voice was quiet, but she heard it all the same.

This should not have been her concern, but she could not stop herself helping him. Not when she understood the pain in his eyes. Not when she recalled his loss.

It reminded her far too much of her own loss.

*     *     *

Arriving at her office, Hermione fumbled in her lower desk drawer for the familiar picture frame she kept tucked away. Sliding onto that emerald couch she knew she’d spend the night on, she ran her thumb over the picture of her parents' faces.

Her grief was of a stranger sort. Her parents lived, after all. But they were no longer her parents. Her memory spells had made sure of that. There was no reversal for spells of such strength. So they lived–but their memories of her died and in that way, it felt as if her childhood had died with them.

Tears ran down her cheeks and she swiped at them with the back of her hand. She knew, without a doubt, that were she to see her own reflection just then, it would mirror the very look she saw in George’s eyes earlier that night.

Chapter Text

The ministry cafeteria was opulent with its emerald green columns, mimicking that of the main floor. Before the war, the cafeteria had been open for pedestrians, but now boasted only employees of the Ministry due to current safety standards. The Ministry didn’t want non-employees in the building’s private cafeteria, learning routes and outlines of the massive network of the building's inner sanctum.

Hermione wondered whether anyone knew how easily her and Harry and Ron had infiltrated the Ministry as mere children during the war. Polyjuice potion had so many uses, it was quite astonishing, really.

“You alright, Hermione?” Ron’s voice lowered into a quiet concern.

Hermione hadn’t realized she’d been pushing the leaves of her salad around on her plate without taking a single bite. 

“Yes, of course.” She met his eyes and forced a smile. She sat across from Harry and Ron, both dressed in Muggle clothing to prepare for some raid or another later this evening. 

“Must be exhausting shoving all those papers around that big desk of yours,” Ron teased, offering her a half smile. He bit into a sandwich the size of his head.

“It’s been a bit busy, is all. A dozen new business grants just came in this morning, Knockturn Alley’s main business owner is refusing to acknowledge his latest slew of violations, and of course the ice cream shop has–”. She stopped mid sentence, realizing she was rambling, but also choking back what she’d been about to say about Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. But…that was not her information to share. George clearly hadn’t told his family of his dire straits and she knew better than to gossip about work.

“It sure makes you miss the days at Hogwarts, huh?” Harry said, leaning back in his seat and patting his full stomach. 

“Sure. It was a lot easier for you two when you were copying off my papers.” She smiled at them as she teased, pushing her uneaten plate away. It had been two months since they’d last seen one another. Auror work kept them away so often.

“Hey! I wrote my own papers!” Ron declared, swallowing his latest bite of sandwich. Hermione smirked and lifted an eyebrow. “Okay, so I didn’t write all my own papers. But I think I turned out alright. Right, Harry?”

Harry smiled, his always unkempt black hair falling into his eyes. He wore it longer now, to cover the scar, she assumed. “Alright, indeed.” He clapped Ron on the back. “In fact, we’re better than alright.”

“We are?” Ron gave Harry a puzzled look. He turned to Hermione. “What’s he on about, Hermione?”

She shrugged, sipping at her tea. “I haven’t seen either of you in weeks. I wouldn’t know a thing.” Curiosity pushed her forward, leaning across the table. “You have something to share, Harry? Another Death Eater uncovered?” 

A flicker of jealousy pricked at the back of Hermione’s mind. Accolades came so easily when your work was revered by all. Aurors deserved the fame, of course. But Hermione felt her own work was important, too. Even if Ron referred to it as nothing but paper pushing.

Harry turned to Ron. “We’re better than alright,” he said, “because you are going to be an uncle and I am going to be a father.”

“Ginny’s pregnant?” Ron looked shell shocked and he dropped what was left of his sandwich onto his plate where it promptly fell apart. 

Happiness floated up from Hermione’s stomach, but something else too. More of that jealousy perhaps. She was not an aunt to Harry’s child, as Ron would be his uncle. Her friends' lives were moving on without her. And she wasn’t sure how much of a role she had in them these days.

“Congratulations, Harry! That is wonderful news!” She reached out to take Harry’s hand, but he’d already turned to thump Ron on the back again. Ron looked torn between happiness and the understanding of just what Harry had done to get his sister pregnant.

“Mum will be thrilled,” he finally said, looking a bit green. 

Privately, Hermione thought the Weasley’s could use a little joy in their life. Bill and Fleur had children, but lived a bit further away. A child so close to home would thrill Mr and Mrs Weasley. 

“Ginny has called a family meeting for Saturday to announce to everyone else the exciting news. You’ll have to come, Ron. Only, don’t let on that I’ve told you the news or else Ginny’ll box my ears. Meet us at the Burrow around noon, alright?”

Hermione did not receive an invitation, but gave them both quick hugs as they walked away, Harry draping his arm over Ron’s shoulder as he regaled him with more of his newfound excitement. Hermione, instead, took the elevators back to her office where she buried her nose in another long report and pretended away the hurt.

*     *     *

Friday evening came far too fast, as though the weekend simply refused to be acknowledged. It didn’t help, either, that long after the 14 employees she oversaw left for the day, she was tucked away in her office, buried in work. None of it was particularly time sensitive, but neither could she simply leave it undone. That was not the sort of work ethic that would be favorable of a future Minister of Magic.

The hours passed in silence, the little bit of light from her desk lamp all that illuminated the space. So absorbed was she in the latest list of violations from Borgin and Burkes, that she didn’t even hear approaching footsteps before a rap of knuckles sounded on her open office door.

“George?”

George Weasley stood in the doorway, his head nearly brushing the top. Like she sometimes did when George was around, she imagined the shadow of his twin. It was wrong to see him alone, even all these years later. Twins were meant to come in pairs, a fact George no doubt felt heavier than anyone else could even imagine.

“I didn’t expect to find you here so late.” He shot her a tiny smile that did not reach his dark brown eyes. He lifted the voluminous folder he held up for her to see. It was the one she’d left at his shop. “I signed them all. Read them, too. Helped me fall asleep, they did. I tell you, these things are so boring you should bottle em’ up and sell them as a sleeping draught.”

Hermione laid down her quill and pushed her chair away from her desk. “You came all the way here to make fun of the language in our official reports?”

“I came all the way here to drop off the signed notices. There’s an address here for your department’s after hours drop box. I figured if I came later–”

“You wouldn’t have to see me?” she finished for him. She accepted the folder he laid on her desk, unable to stop the smile that spread. She was surprised he’d taken the time to not only read them, but to sign them. The drop box was attached directly to her office door so it was no wonder they’d crossed paths. 

He shrugged. The robes he wore were threadbare on the shoulders and looked like they hung on by only a few threads. All of him, she thought, looked a little threadbare. “I figure it’d be easier for us both.”

“Look, George.” Hermione rounded her desk, leaning against it and folding her arms over her chest, not at all unlike a supervisor talking to a subordinate. She forced her features to soften, her arms to unravel. “We are going to have to work together if we’re going to save your shop. I got the extension approved, but only just. You have a stack of violations as tall as Ginny that need to be addressed if you want to be back in business. That means we are going to be working together quite a lot.”

“I told you I can handle it on my own.” George did not meet her eye.

“Not with my name authorizing this extension you won’t. If you can’t get your shop back up and running in time, it’s my name on the line. Failure is not an option.”

George ran a hand through his disheveled red hair making the long strands stand on end. “I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I,” she admitted. “I’m swamped with my own work. But Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes is a staple of Diagon Alley. It deserves to be restored. It is okay to need help. It is also okay to accept help. Fred would want–”

He held up a palm and she fell silent until he dropped it back to his side, bowing his head.

George was silent for several long minutes. She swallowed the half a dozen other things she might wish to say to convince him and waited for him to make up his own mind. Finally, he nodded, like he was accepting his fate.“Alright. Fair enough. But are you sure you can handle all the work it's going to require? I mean…you are quite…busy. It’s almost midnight and you’re still at the office. On a Friday evening, no less.”

Hermione glanced up at the clock on the wall. Good heavens, it really was nearly midnight. She groaned, reaching up to scrub her palms against her tired face. Kicking off the heels she’d been in for far too long, she slumped against her desk.

“I’ll manage. I always do.” Not much had changed in those regards. Hermione sometimes thought longingly of the time turner she’d used in her third year at Hogwarts that had allowed her to carry an exceptionally heavy class load. They’d all be destroyed in the war. Shame. She could use one now to get all her work done.

“Don’t you have a staff you can push this stuff off on? Or at least, you know, help? Like you said, it is okay to accept a little help.” He looked around her shop, eyeing the massive looming shelves and the orderly filing cabinets lining the back wall that were taller than she was.

“I don’t need any help.” Her reply came out so rapidly it was half hissed. “My office is in perfect working order. I have full confidence of the Minister himself as pertains to my work performance and–”

George held his hands up, palms out. He glanced at the couch on the opposite wall and the solitary pillow and neatly folded blanket on one end.

“Just don’t let that get too comfortable, Professor. Or you’ll forget what your bed at home feels like.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “I know how to do my job. I don’t need your advice, Weasley. ” She didn’t like how angry her voice became when she felt the need to defend herself.

“Don’t you? I hear my advice is pretty good. Or, at least it was at one point in time.” He stepped backwards, toward the exit. “If you ever forget what your bed feels like, you’re welcome to come and take a feel of mine.” He waggled his eyebrows at her in that mischievous sort of way she remembered but none of the twinkle was in his eyes that used to live there. 

She cocked her head at him and laughed. “Not even in your wildest dreams.”

“Hey, now. Careful, Professor. You don’t know a thing about my wildest dreams.” He shot her a salacious wink and a pair of finger guns before doing an elaborate twirl on his exit out of the room. None of it felt authentic. None of it harkened to the boy she’d once known. It was a ghost version of his former self, but it was nice to see it emerge in any form.

“I’ll see you tomorrow! Bright and early!” She called after him. “Be ready to work!”

She could hear him whistling a jaunty tune, the sound of it whittling away to nothing as he walked further away and she regaled herself to yet another night away from home.

Rather than turn and curl onto the couch, she forced herself back into her chair and pulled another stack of reports toward her. The hours ticked by but she could not let herself drift to the waiting couch. As she worked, she thought how much she hated that George was right. 

She did miss the feel of her own bed. 

Furthermore, she missed the feel of home she no longer felt she really had.

Chapter Text

Hermione did a quick change into a pair of more comfortable clothes (among the many items of clothing she kept in her office) before walking through the abandoned emerald tiled Ministry headquarters until she’d made it all the way to Diagon Alley. 

The birdsong of dawn lifted her spirits as the shops around them slowly woke for the rush of weekend shoppers. Before heading to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, she made a stop at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour and to the ice cream lady already inside. 

“Good morning, Marla.” Hermione offered her cheeriest smile but the surly women stocking waffle cones on the long front counter did not return it.

“I guess you missed the sign that says ‘CLOSED’, Ms. Granger?” Marla narrowed her eyes at Hermione before turning back to her stocking. She’d inherited the shop from her grandfather, Florean, when he’d retired last year. And much to Hermione’s displeasure, she was not nearly as on top of keeping her shop up to code as Florean had been.

“Oh, yes. Of course. I was hoping I could pop in for a couple of your apple tarts. The ones you sell with the ice cream, you know.” At one point in time, they'd been George’s favorite. She only knew because he’d always had a box of them on his kitchen table, back when she’d been invited into his private home above the shop.

“As I said, we’re not open. Sorry. Close the door on your way out.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “I do hope there are no hard feelings about the notices coming from my office, Marla. It is my job to see that order is 

maintained by all wizard or witch owned businesses.”

Marla whipped her head up to face Hermione, her silver streaked hair flying around her face. “Oh, and what valiant work that must be, hmm? You stomp all over the hard working business folk all while you sit up in your fancy office.”

“What? No, I–”

“You think you’re so much better than the rest of us? I bet you sleep real good at night, too.”

Hermione blanched. She slept horribly at night. Mostly for reasons just like this. It was her job to make sure businesses complied with safety regulations set forth by the Ministry, but the job came with very little thanks. But if an outbreak of salmonella emerged from one of them many eateries in Diagon Alley, Hermione’s office was the one who took the blame. If poorly stored potions or tonics later performed terribly, or worse–blew up in their purchasers faces–Hermione got the hate mail. There was simply no winning.

She found honor in the job, though others did not. Hermione took pride in her safety measures despite the backlash she so often got. Despite the sleepless nights. Despite the countless hours of unpaid work. She cared and that was both her biggest strength and her biggest fault. 

Marla, however, saw none of Hermione’s caring as she urged her out the door and waved her wand so that the lock latched into place.

Undeterred, Hermione crossed the street and walked a few blocks to Sugarplum's Sweet Shop. They didn’t have apple tarts, but they had an apple flavored shortbread she thought would be similar enough. And they were happy to take her coin despite the early morning hour.

“George?” The front door to his shop was open when she strolled in half an hour later. She flipped the sign to ”CLOSED” and walked toward the back, resting the box of treats on the counter. She called his name a half dozen more times but he never emerged.

“George, if you’re there, I’m coming up!” She felt the need to announce her presence despite the assurance that she was indeed alone. Climbing the spiral staircase that led up to his private chambers, she continued calling out his name. 

She hesitated on the threshold at the top, teetering in place. What if he was injured and needed assistance? Or what if he wasn’t and he flew into a rage at the intrusion?

She poked her head around the corner. His living space was a mess. Not so much so as the space downstairs, but messy in the way of seeming almost…catatonic. 

Stepping into the room, she craned her neck, looking for that shock of red hair. “George,” she called, “if this is a prank or you’re going to jump out and scare me, I’d rather you didn’t.”

George did not emerge. She bypassed the overstuffed couch and armchair and opened the door nearest her. It smelled like George–like apples and sugar. The bed was unmade, a pile of familiar bottles lining the floorboards. She knew those bottles. They were from the Leaky Cauldron and she had a sneaking suspicion she might find him there.

Turning on her heels, she walked back down the hallway. She was almost to the spiral staircase when she stopped at a familiar door. One she hadn’t been inside in years.

Fred’s room.

Unable to help herself, she put a hand on the doorknob and twisted. 

The inside was pristine. A pair of Quidditch robes lay neatly folded on the end of his bed as though Fred might walk in and get changed to go play with some friends at a moment's notice. His room was the mirror image of George’s, but untouched with a layer of dust. The bed was made, the papers on his desk stacked in orderly piles. And all of it deeply, deeply sorrowful.

A pang of grief and sadness washed over her as she pulled the door closed. Guilt clawed at her as she jogged down the staircase and toward the Leaky Cauldron, like she’d pierced the veil of something heavier than she could even understand.

The streets had started to grow busy from weekend shoppers and Hermione had to dodge witches and wizards as she hurried down the pathway. She hadn’t been to the Leaky Cauldron in years. Well, outside of their annual inspection. 

Hermione didn’t drink, had never touched a drop of alcohol. Sometimes her coworkers brought her food from the Leaky Cauldron, but otherwise it remained mostly an enigma to her. Tom, the barkeep, at least knew her well enough to wave her down when she entered.

“Ms. Granger. Not time for our annual inspection again, is it?” His gaze flicked to the mess on the counter where one of his employees was scrubbing dirty ale glasses.

“No, not yet, Tom. I’m just here looking for a friend.”

Tom’s shoulders slumped with relief as Hermione scanned the room. It was easy enough to spot George from that mop of red hair and that fact the building was scarcely full of anyone other than those who worked there.

“The Weasley? He’s been here all night.” The older barkeep eyed her. “Didn’t realize you were still friendly with the Weasley’s. I heard you snubbed the younger one all them years ago.”

Hermione scrunched her nose at him. “Ron? No, we’re just friends.” She stepped away when he seemed eager to pry more gossip from her and dodged the many table corners on her way to the one in the back where George sat, snoring loudly as she approached.

Pushing on his shoulders, she dipped her head closer to his ear. “George?”

George mumbled a few incoherent words before he lifted his head. His eyes were blurry, dark circles even deeper purple than the last she’d seen him. His red hair was greasy and hung limply in his glassy eyes. 

And he smelled like the bottom of a fire whisky barrel. 

“George.” She poked his shoulder, bending down to be more level with him. His eyes focused on her at last. “You made a commitment, remember? What were you thinking staying out all night?”

George waved her off, pushing away from the table and rising on wobbling legs. “You’re not my Mum, Hermione. I don’t need you fussing over me.”

Hermione blew out a puff of air that ruffled her loose brown curls. “I’m not fussing over you. I’m fussing over me. If I don’t get your shop back in shape before your extension is up, my neck is on the line. And I can’t do it alone.”

George shoved a hand into his robes pocket and drew out a sizable amount of lint. Shuffling around his palm, he pulled a few coins from the lint balls and shoved them onto the dirty table top. 

Hermione watched him teeter on his long legs as she rounded the table and made toward the exit of the Leaky Cauldron and back toward Diagon Alley. 

Something about his haggard look moved her and guilt squeezed her chest tight. He was right. She shouldn’t have chastised him. That wasn't what a friend would do. She doubted they were friends, but she could still treat him with the same kindness afforded to such a relationship. 

They were at the door when she reached for his arm, pulling him to a halt. He craned his neck down at her and then to the place where her hand lingered on his arm. 

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “It’s none of my business what you do with your time. I only want you to know how important this is to me, okay?”

He shrugged out of her touch. “I know, I know. Wouldn’t want to risk your precious little job. Come on.”

His words burned like acid but she followed him silently back to the shop. 

Sliding out of his robes, he threw them over the checkout counter. Even beneath the smell of sweat and alcohol, that sweet smell of apples and sugar that was the essence of George wafted to her. 

“What’s this?” He gestured at the box of apple shortbread on the counter. 

“Oh. I brought you a treat. Apple-flavored shortbread. I remember how fond you were of apple tarts and this was the best I could do.” Hermione shrugged out of the thin jacket she wore to ward off the chill of an impending winter and laid it beside George’s rumbled, discarded robes. 

“Still feuding with Marla, are we?” George opened the box and shoved a bite the size of Hermione’s fist into his mouth. Hopefully it might soak up some of the fire whisky floating around his belly. 

She nodded. “No worse than several of my clients. You can imagine I’m not always very popular among business owners.” She cleared her throat and moved to the closest shelf, swiping a palm over the layer of dust on the merchandise. The shelf was a towering display of chocolate frogs. 

Behind her, she could hear him gobble up another piece and was glad he would not be able to see her contented smile. How long had it been since George had been taken care of? Molly Weasley was a stalwart caretaker, but she had a growing family now and given the sharp demise George had undergone, it was entirely possible she hadn’t yet noticed her son’s current bedraggled state. 

With the start of the school year long over and no more Hogwarts students in their home, Molly and Arthur had little reason to venture into the heart of the wizarding world’s business district. It was likely they hadn’t seen George or his shop enough to take notice of its state. 

“These are all expired!” Hermione reached up on her tiptoes to the shelf above her head. “The ones on the lower shelf have gone bad weeks ago. Oh! You cannot sell these, George, it is a violation of code 11–”

Hermione shut her mouth when George loomed over her, reaching above her to the shelf just out of reach. He swiped the nearest chocolate frog and peered at the package. 

“I’ll fetch a garbage bin,” he said, entirely unaware of just how in her space he was. George and Fred had always been that way–larger than life somehow, like they didn’t know how much their presence commanded attention. She could feel the heat of him against her back, and then he was gone.

“We’ll toss the lot,” he called as he came jogging back over with a large trash bin. “Better check the rest of the candy. And, uh,” he rubbed the back of his neck, “I’ll take a look at the fireworks section. I guess it’s a good thing I only sold the one shelf of edible items.”

Hermione peered at the shelf a few paces down. “Love Potions are considered under the classification of edible items, George. When were these brewed? Can I see your log book so I can cross check the reference ID from the potion maker who sold you those? These Daydream Charms and Skiving Snackboxes will need to be checked, too.”

George groaned, rolling his eyes. “You would be a miserable business partner. No fun at all.”

Hermione deflated, dropping her arms to her side. George, who’d turned to swipe the rest of the candies from the shelf into the bin, did not notice. 

All her life Hermione had been ridiculed for being a rule follower, even when the rules were created to keep others safe. Even after the war, Harry had been celebrated as the war hero-deservedly so. And then Ron joined the Aurors and his name grew in esteem, too. Nobody seemed to recall precisely how much Hermione had done for the wizarding world. She wasn’t concerned with the recognition, of course. Her job was of a quieter sort. But to be forgotten by so many for acts so great…it made for lonely nights and haunting memories she endured alone.

Drawing in a deep breath, she forced the insult to the back of her mind as she turned to the revolving display of Love Potions. Picking one of the glass vials up, she peered at what was usually a pink liquid, only, inside the contents had gone stodgy and solid and were now a deep, deep shade of crimson. The serial number from the Potion Master who’d sold the item to George was clearly visible but she’d have to check the logbook to make sure they were within their expiration date. In this case, however, the entire display had turned the same crimson color and there was little need to cross reference anything.

Unstoppering the vial she waved it under her nose and then let out a throaty cough as the putrid smell hit her. “These have certainly gone bad.” 

George appeared with a loose bin bag and held it out to her. “In they go.”

Hermione took them off one by one until the display was empty. 

“Can I take a peek at your logs?” she asked after they’d cleared half the Daydream Charms that were clearly beyond expiration.

Tipping his head back, George let out another dramatic groan. He led them to the counter and pulled out a voluminous tome that, when it hit the wooden counter, made an audible thump so loud Hermione jumped.

She flipped to the most recent page near the back. The last entry was dated in July. 

“You haven’t made a log note in almost three months? That can’t be right. You have clearly received shipments of merchandise in that time.”

“I’ve been busy,” George muttered, leaning onto his elbows on the counter opposite her.

Hermione’s brow furrowed together as she flipped to the front of the book. If she went back far enough, she would be able to see when the downfall of recording keeping had started. The writing on this page was neater, the letters written in a more flourishing handwriting.

She was just running her finger over the signature at the bottom of that first page, as was required by her office, when George yanked the book out from under her and slammed it close.

“So I’m not good at the record keeping side of running a business. I’ll learn. And if I don’t, I’m sure you’ll come all the way down from that lofty office to whinge at me about it.”

Hermione’s heart thumped in her chest. Those had been Fred’s log notes. It had been his name signing off on that first page, written in such a lovely, vivid emerald ink that she could just picture him swirling the signature with his own hand. George still used the same book all these years later. 

“I could procure you a new log book. If that would help,” she blurted out. 

“This one is perfectly fine.” He pressed it to his chest for a moment before sliding it back to whatever hidden shelf it lived in behind the counter.

Taking a glance at the clock behind the counter, Hermione’s eyes widened. “Oh! George, you’d better hurry along to the Burrow. You’ll be late if you don’t leave now. I can keep working here for the afternoon.” It was nearly noon and Harry meant to make the announcement of Ginny’s pregnancy any moment. 

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“You–you don’t want to go? But Harry said he’d invited the entire family.” She distinctly recalled since she had most definitely not been invited.

George stepped around the counter, moving to a small display case of Bertie Botts Every Flavor beans and slamming them into the trash bin with such force the bag nearly ripped. He didn’t even pause to check the expiration dates, though Hermione was not about to point that out.

“He didn’t invite the whole family, now did he. How could he?” 

Slam. Slam. Slam. Each box of jelly beans thudded against the bin like tiny, sugary projectiles.

“Oh, George…”

“Don’t ‘ Oh, George ’ me, Hermione. I don’t need your pity.” He moved on to a shelf of extendable ears, which Hermione was quite certain were still perfectly good to sell, but George seemed determined to empty the entire shop in his rage or his grief–Hermione wasn’t sure which consumed him currently. Perhaps both. “I’m not going to the Burrow to play happy family with a bunch of people who have moved on without me. Without him .”

“They haven’t moved on without you or Fred. I don’t think that–”

George hurled the bin to the ground, spilling half the contents. Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth as she stifled a shriek.

“I think I can finish the rest of this without you, Ms. Granger.”

“I want to help. I can–”

“Thank you, Ms. Granger. I’ll have the shop cleared by tomorrow. We can start with empty shelves.”

“But you don’t need to throw everything–”

“ Goodnight , Hermione.”

His words were so full of raw emotion that Hermione froze and went silent, her mouth still open for rebuttal. It wasn’t night, not even close, but she took the obvious sign of her dismissal. 

She warred with herself as she went to her tiny rental home in Hogsmeade, wondering if she’d made the right decision by leaving him in such a state. And then, as the day drew on, she wondered whether the other Weasleys’ would be bothered to pause their celebration to go and check on him.

Somehow, she knew the answer already.

Chapter Text

Sunday morning broke before dawn, the vivid pinks of the rising sun greeted Hermione as she jogged through the fields surrounding Hogsmeade. She liked living here so close to Hogwarts. Hogwarts was the closest thing she’d had to a home now and being so near it lifted that tiny pit of loneliness in her just the slightest.

Was the pit of loneliness inside her what George, too, felt? And what, she wondered, had brought on the sudden downward spiral?

The early years after Fred’s death had been hard on him, of course. His brothers made sure the shop was up and running even though they grieved too, but how could their grief compare to that of a twin walking the world without his reflection? It was his own shop that brought George out of his melancholy. He’d poured himself into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes–had seemed to find solace in running the place that had been him and his brother’s dream.

But something had shifted for George. He would always be a half man without his twin, but now he was something even less. He was barely functioning. His sorrow was turning to rage. His despair was tinged with an air of simply giving up. 

As Hermione bathed and changed into clean clothes, she realized that by undertaking this task with George, it was not only his shop she’d be fixing. She didn’t know how to fix the hole in his heart–she doubted anyone ever could. But, she thought, she could at least help him bear it. He could yell at her all he wanted. Hermione was used to being yelled at, after all.

“You came back?” George stood in the center of his shop, broom in hand. 

“I’m much harder to scare off than you think, Weasley.” She grinned at him as she took in the shop. True to his word, he’d cleared the entire store’s merchandise. Every shelf, display case, and countertop was empty. 

George rubbed the back of his neck. She thought he was about to apologize, but instead he offered her the broom. “I’ll grab some rags and start dusting. You’re a bit nearer the floor than me so I think sweeping might suit you better. I’ll handle the tops of all the shelves.”

Hermione nodded, watching him closely. He was a hard man to read, but she was certain something like relief slid across his face, softening the hardened lines grief had placed there.

“You really did throw it all away. It’ll be expensive to fill these shelves up. Can you manage?”

“You prying into my finances, Professor?” George shot her a half hearted wink over his shoulder as he ran a rag along the shelves nearest the storefront windows. Two of those windows had large splintering cracks and would need to be fixed prior to opening. A fresh paint job would help, too.

“No, I–”

“Don’t sweat it. The merchandise, I mean. I’ve got some stuff in storage and I can put new orders in for most of the potions.”

Hermione just nodded and began to sweep. Only a few minutes in and she was coughing in the thick air as she stirred up all the debris on the floor. She pulled up her sweater, exposing her stomach, and covered her mouth and nose with the thick fabric. George whistled while he worked, stepping back every so often to examine his progress.

“Let’s open the windows and doors. It’s getting a bit stuffy in here,” Hermione said, coughing again. Her voice was muffled through the thickness of her sweater, but she raised her volume enough that she hoped her words were clear.

Turning to face her, George’s eyes slid down to that line of exposed flesh at the bottom of her stomach and Hermione instantly dropped her sweater. George shot her a grin like the terribly unbothered person he was, and went to do as she said. 

The chill of the air welcomed them and she pushed the pile of dust and cobwebs toward the door until the breeze picked them up and carried them away.

“Alright, what’s next?”

His cheerfulness surprised her. So much so that she couldn’t help but say, “you’re different today. It’s nice.”

Rolling the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows, George shrugged. “I don’t have a belly full of fire whisky today.”

She instructed George to show her where he kept his cleaning supplies so they could gather what was needed to begin mopping the floors. “Do you often have a belly full of fire whisky?”

“Sometimes it’s full of treacle pudding. Other times, it’s just full of shit. Like the rest of me.” He tried to wink, but Hermione wasn’t buying it.

“Why do you do that?”

He straightened as he heaved two buckets of warm, soap water out to the sales floor. “Do what?”

“Deflect difficult questions or situations by making silly jokes.” She took one bucket and dashed its contents across the floor, drenching her shoes as she did. Before taking up one of the pairs of mops he’d found, she removed her sneakers and socks. 

George sighed, following her lead and removing his socks and shoes until both their bare feet were slapping against the wet floor. “Are you always so perceptive?”

“Being perceptive is what kept me alive,” she replied coolly, focusing on the lines in the hardwood as she moved so she didn’t have to look in his eyes.

“I reckon that’s why Fred died. He was dreadfully unperceptive.”

Hermione nearly dropped her mop when she whirled to face him. A wild grin splayed across his face, his red beard grown so thick that the grin seemed somehow larger than normal.

“That’s not funny.” She stomped her bare foot into the hardwood. The war and its consequences and losses were still so visceral. Leave it to George Weasley to joke about something so serious.

“Isn’t it? I’m just supposed to be the funny guy, right?”

She narrowed her eyes on him as her grip on the mop tightened so hard she felt wooden splinters press into her palm. “You’re doing exactly what I said right now. You’re joking around to pretend away the realness. To pretend away bad memories and all that hurt you’re carrying around. Well, George, you aren’t the only one who lost someone in the war. And you know what else? I cared for Fred, too. Not as much as you, of course. But I still cared. And I still lost.”

They stood there, barefoot in a puddle of dirty mop water, eyes locked for so long she wondered whether he’d kick her out again. His chest rose and fell rapidly and color darkened his cheeks but finally, when the suspense of not knowing his reaction was about to break her, he nodded once. A barely perceptible tilt of his head to acknowledge her words.

He began to mop again, turning his back to her. She watched the muscles in his back work as he moved and wondered how such a large man could splinter in half from a tiny crack that had never healed. Or was it that the crack Fred’s death had rendered was too big to ever fully heal over?

“If we’re going to continue this partnership for the next month, I think we should establish some rules.” His voice was thicker than it had been previously and she wished she could see his face, but he just kept on mopping.

“I’m listening.”

“No talking about Fred,” said George.

“No talking about the war,” added Hermione.

George nodded, though he could not have known she was watching. “Agreed.”

“Agreed,” she repeated.

He turned around to face her, perhaps understanding she’d never stopped watching him. “And,” he added, leaning onto his mop. “No falling in love with me, okay, Professor?”

She rolled her eyes. “Just when I thought you were going to be serious.”

George pressed a hand over his heart. “Oh, I am serious. You’ve already sampled one Weasley. Everyone knows how irresistible we are. Something about the red hair, I think.”

A tiny laugh eked out of her despite her attempts to stop it. She slashed her foot into the standing water, sending a tiny splashing wave in his direction. George dodged the water and made kissy faces at her.

“Come on!” he teased, stomping one foot into the water and splashing her until she shrieked as she laughed, trying to jump out of the spray of water. “Ron is the bottom of the Weasley pyramid. Perhaps you’ve always wanted to sample from the top, eh?”

Laughing, she slung her mop in a wide arch across the sodden floor, soaking the ends of his pants. “You know what? I think you’re right. What is Charlie up to these days? Perhaps I’ll send him an owl.”

George gripped his chest like a dying man, miming an exaggerated broken heart. “You wound me, Professor.” She dodged the next tiny wave he hurtled her way. “Alas, Charlie is more fond of dragon scales than he is a witch’s wiles. I think you’ll be left sorely disappointed.”

“Percy, perhaps? His office is so near mine. It would be a convenient arrangement, don’t you think?”

George snorted. “Imagine the babies you two would produce. Brains too big for their heads. They’d have to walk around like this.” George bent at the waist, dipping his head toward the ground, letting his tongue lull out. 

“You’re a lout!” she half shouted, the words coming out on the end of a giggle. She dropped her mop and was about to reach down to where his head hung and shove it into the puddle at his feet when someone cleared their throat loudly.

“Ron?” George’s head still hung at an unnatural angle as he addressed his youngest brother from where he stood in the open doorway of his shop.

“So this is why you couldn’t be bothered to come down to Mum and Dads yesterday? You were too busy cleaning?” Ron stepped into the room, steering clear of the biggest puddles. His eyes darted from George to Hermione and their bare feet and back.

“Renovating, actually.” George stood back up straight and Hermione took a step away from him.

“George and I are working on his shop so that it doesn’t–”

“We’re renovating. Hermione has been nice enough to agree to help me. We’re going to give the ole’ shop a facelift,” George interrupted sharply, looking only at Ron.

“Ginny was devastated you weren’t there,” Ron continued, taking in the empty shelves. “She cried for half an hour. Mum says that’s the pregnancy hormones, ‘course. But still. You ought to go make amends. Pregnancy lasts a long time, mate. Better to spend it on her good side, know what I mean?” Ron picked at some of the peeling paint on the door. “How come you didn’t tell us you were renovating?”

“Surprise,” George blurted out as Hermione opened her mouth to speak. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Yeah?” Ron shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, it is certainly a surprise. I don’t even recognize the place. Reckon you’ll be finished before Christmas shopping starts up?”

“Thirty days,” Hermione said. George shot her a warning look.

“A month? Blimey, that's a lot of work. I wish I could help, George, but I’ve just got an assignment in Peru that leaves tomorrow.”

Ron got assigned to more and more out of country cases lately since he was one of the only unmarried Auror’s on the force. For fairness, there was a rotating schedule but Ron took as many of the exotic cases as he could. He didn’t seem to mind the time away from home.

“So that’s it, then? You wanted to pass along Mum’s heartfelt and angerful words and then tell me all about your vacation to Peru? I’ve got work to do, Ronald.”

Ron stiffened, mimicking Hermione’s own sharp intake of breath as she, too, went still.

The youngest Weasley brother cleared his throat. “I came to invite you to Sunday dinner at the Burrow tonight. Ginny and Harry stayed the weekend. At least consider showing up for Mum and Ginny, won’t you? Mum’s made shepherds pie and Ginny requested pickled eggs, so that’s gross but you don’t have to eat that and–”

“As I said, I have work to do. Perhaps another night.”

Ron turned to Hermione, pleading in his eyes. “Talk some sense into him, Hermione, please? If I come back without George, the Weasley women will rip me to shreds. Have a heart, George!”

Hermione took a step back, reaching down for her socks and trying to dry her feet as best she could. “Uh, this is a family affair. Perhaps I’ll leave you two to sort it out.”

“When did you stop being family? You’re half the reason this one is still around after the war!” George gestured to Ron. “How come you aren’t yapping at Hermione about missing Ginny’s announcement?” 

Ron’s ears went pink. “I…well. You see–”

“You didn’t invite her?” George stood to his full height.

“George, don’t. It’s fine.” Heat rose to Hermione’s cheeks as her chest tightened.

“Hermione was once your closest friend. And Harry and Ginny’s. You didn’t think she might like to come celebrate?”

Staring at his shoes, shame coated Ron’s freckled cheeks. “I didn’t think, Hermione. I’m sorry. Harry and I should have invited you–we know how important family is to you. I forgot about your parents.”

“What about her parents?” George rounded on Hermione. “What about your parents?” He repeated.

“Nothing,” Hermione mumbled, stumbling as she shoved her shoes on.

“She obliviated their memory. During the war. They don’t know her anymore,” Ron explained. “You didn’t tell everyone else?”

Hermione shook her head. “Only you and Harry. During the war. I didn’t want it to get out and Voldemort to think they were still out there somewhere.”

“Even all these years later, you’ve not spoken of them? Hermione…” Ron reached for her but she dodged his touch.

George stepped between her and Ron. “I’ll accept your invitation.”

Relief flooded across Ron’s face. “You will? Oh, thank Merlin’s beard. Ginny was going to castrate me if I came back without you.”

“Yes,” George continued as though Ron hadn’t spoken. He put a hand on Hermione’s shoulder and tugged her into his side. “But I’m bringing Hermione with me.”

Chapter Text

“Ouch!” Hermione blurted out the second she apparated just outside the Burrow, several hours later. George landed painfully close to her and she would have been knocked to the ground if he hadn’t reached out to halt her fall with a hand pressed to her back.

“Alright there, Professor?” He asked, grinning at her as his hand splayed against the small of her back. 

Hermione realized she’d reached out and clutched on to him when she’d started to fall. Her hands were buried in his sweater, but it was the heat of his hand that kept her attention. Panic rose in her chest for a moment. The intimacy of such a touch scared her. But the closeness brought out bad memories of painful touches for a witch long since dead. But George’s touch…it felt nice. 

How long had it been since Hermione had been touched by anything other than a curt handshake? The tiniest, gentle brush of his body stirred emotions inside of her she’d forgotten about. She had to fight down the real urge to throw her hands around his chest–she didn’t think she’d be able to reach his shoulders–and squeeze him into a hug. George would think her crazy. 

“Sorry,” she coughed out, unwinding her hands from the fabric of his sweater. “I think we just apparated a little too close together.”

“You have excellent taste. I, too, favor this patch of dirt beside the toadstool garden. After you, M’lady.” He released her, bowing theatrically at the Burrow a few yards away. Molly and Arthur had left the wards up even after the war had ended and Hermione could feel the pulse of the protective magic from where they stood. No one would be able to see them from here. Thankfully, she thought. No one would have seen the disappointment on her face the second George released his hold on her and that tiny touch of human connection drifted away.

“Are you okay, George? I mean, to go in here and see your family. I know things have been hard for you lately.”

“Plenty of things have been hard for me lately.” He waggled his eyebrows at her salaciously and she swatted him on the shoulder.

“I’m serious. I don’t think you should do this if you’re not ready.  And I certainly didn’t need you to invite me. But I appreciate it. Honestly. Thank you.”

George blinked slowly, nodding down at her from where they stood. They didn’t touch anymore, but he was so close she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes. So close she could feel the heat of him where his chest was level with her face.

“You’re helping me and you didn’t have to,” he said, his voice soft. “You deserve someone to do the same for you. I didn’t realize how much my family had drifted away from you–I didn’t understand how much we probably meant to you. But I do understand loss, Hermione. I know you do, too. I can’t bring your parents back, but I can share mine with you. It’s a poor imitation of a parent's love, but it's what you deserve after what you did during the war. Ron told us about what happened at Malfoy Manor.”

He reached out for her, his hand stopping an inch from running his fingers into her hair, almost like he was debating with himself.

“Rule number 2: no talking about the war, remember?” She sighed, fighting away the memories of those days. “And it’s not a poor imitation. I know your family cares for me. Or they did at one time. I became so busy with my job. It was easier to pour myself into work. Business is a distraction, you know?”

“A distraction from what?” He dropped his hand and she released the breath she’d held from wanting him to reach out and hold her—though she had no business wanting something from a platonic friend. She was so starved of human touch that she was projecting that loss onto George and that was unfair. She took a step back.

“A distraction from memories,” she said when she was a safe distance away, her arms folded over her chest. 

When she closed her eyes at night, or in the moments of silence in her office late at night, her mind wandered to that dungeon in Malfoy Manor. Bellatrix’s laugh was imprinted in her memory and sometimes she woke from sleep, sure she heard it piercing the walls of her house or even her mind.

It was natural for the friends and family she’d cultivated to drift away when she could not even bear their touch. Hermione hadn’t the strength to confront those memories, so instead she dove into her work and did the one thing she was good at – achievement. Studying. Working. Reading. Always staying busy.

“You two coming inside or what?” The sound of Ron’s voice followed the loud crack of his apparating on the scene. He came and thumped George on the back. “Glad you made it, mate. Mum will be dead pleased. And Ginny will be so excited to tell you her good news, Hermione. Mind you, pretend I didn’t already tell you, alright?”

Hermione smiled at him but didn’t offer a verbal response and she felt some of the tension leak out of her at the smile he offered in return. That smile had once meant something to her. Now he was the ghost of a friend. A passing face in the halls of the Ministry. He’d never married, though spoke often and loudly of his many romantic dalliances. But he’d moved on and so had she. But she just hadn’t expected to be left so far outside the relationship they’d cultivated between Ron, Harry and her.

Ron turned toward the Burrow, hurrying his pace no doubt once he smelled Molly Weasley’s cooking. Indeed the many crooked smokestacks on the Burrow’s cozy home were putting out smoke, warm and inviting as she remembered it being the last time she was here–Harry and Ginny’s wedding over six years ago.

“Ready, then?” George stomped down the path toward his home leaving Hermione to follow wondering how she’d let herself be so lost to those who once knew her best.

*     *     *

“That is so wonderful, Ginny! I’m thrilled for you and Harry. What wonderful, wonderful news!” Hermione smiled at Ginny from across the table, clutching her cup of tea. Dinner had been served but barely one bite in and Ginny had burst at the seams to tell the good news. Harry departed, taking a box of food with him, to answer an urgent owl for the Ministry but Ginny was so pleased with George’s appearance she hard minded her husband's absence. 

“Thank you,” Ginny said, pressing a hand to her flat stomach. “It makes you think about all that stuff in the past, doesn’t it? Voldemort is gone and here we are–” she turned to her mother and leaned her head on her shoulder, “together and growing by the day!”

“You’ll grow so big we’ll be rolling you out of here by spring,” George said from his place on Ginny’s other side. She nudged him with her shoulder. “Just in time to pop out a couple lightning scarred Potter babies, eh, Mum?”

“Oh, he or she will have red hair, sure enough. The Weasley genes are strong ones right dear?” Molly said, standing to collect empty plates and dishes and smiling at her husband. Hermione rose on instinct, gathering her own empty plate. “Sit down, dear. You are a guest. I’ll handle this mess. You visit with the others. Off to the sitting room, the lot of you.”

Molly waved them off with their tea cups until Hermione was planted on the tiny, slanted and slightly understuffed sofa between Ron and George.

“What’s all this I hear about you renovating your store, George?” Arthur had aged more than most over the years, his scraggly white eyebrows were barely tinged with the faintest traces of red. 

George sat his tea cup on the side table, undrank, and leaned back into the sofa. When he draped his arm over the back of the couch, Hermione wanted to melt into the unintended snuggle he offered. What a silly word: snuggle. Yet, she dreamed so fervently of it. Of all the things to wish of, Hermione only wanted touch. But yet, the idea scared her. After the torture, she couldn’t bare to be held. Yet she craved it now. It was a twisted joke her mind seemed keen to play on her.

“Just a bit of tidying up, Dad. Nothing major.”

“Ron tells me you’ve cleared out the entire storefront. You’re not moving on from the joke shop, are you? Because I may be retired but I’ve still got friends in high places at the Ministry. And Percy–I’m sure between the two of us we could find you suitable work somewhere.”

George had gone rigid, his body so taut Hermione wasn’t sure he was breathing.

“Almost 15 years I’ve been in business, Dad. I’m not interested in another job. This is the one I want.”

Hermione was happy to hear the conviction in his voice. Based on his personal appearance and the state of the shop she’d stumbled in earlier this week, she’d wondered whether he did want to continue its business.

“Of course, son.” Molly swept into the room, wearing a handsewn dress of various shades. She leaned against the arm of Arthur’s chair. “But look at the work your brothers do. Perhaps you want to try your hand at something more…serious?”

“Now, now, Molly. Running a business is serious work.” Arthur turned to Hermione. “I’m sure he would fit right in with your office, Hermione. What do you think? A former prominent business owner working in the Office Of Wizarding Business Development sounds like a grand idea.”

Hermione swallowed, her teacup feeling heavier in her hands. “I think that George should do what makes him happy. Shouldn’t we all?”

“Well of course, dear. But–” Molly started.

George rose, cinching his hand around Hermione’s wrist. “I need to escort Hermione home, now. I promised I’d see her safely back to Hogsmeade, you see. She has a big, important meeting tomorrow–lots of important business-y stuff that needs tending to–and she wanted to turn in early. She was afraid to be rude so I’ll do it for her: goodnight, family.” 

Without another uttered word, he dragged them from the Burrow, picking up speed until they were past the wards. George laced her fingers with his and with a loud CRACK the burrow disappeared and they were stumbling onto the cobblestones of Hogsmeade, the piercing blackness of night enveloping them in a cloak of darkness.

The second her feet were on solid ground, George removed his hand and took two giant steps away, which on his long legs felt like half a kilometer. Hermione managed to keep herself upright, but only barely, as she wobbled on the uneven ground.

“Sorry. I didn’t know which house was yours.”

“It’s fine. I can walk. I don’t mind.”

“Nonsense,” George said, sweeping his hand down the main street of the tiny wizarding village. “It’s dark and the hour is late. I cannot let a damsel in distress find her own way home.”

“I’m not a damsel nor am I in distress.” She laughed. “And I happen to be in possession of a wand. I’ll be fine.”

George stepped back to her, urging her forward with a hand pressed between her shoulder blades. Something about the pretense of touch in the cover of darkness made her palms sweaty and she tried, and failed, not to fidget away. 

George dropped his hand, eyeing her warily. “Maybe I’m just a creep trying to subtly find out where you live.”

Hermione moved down the path and George joined a respectable distance away at her side. “You’re not a creep. Nor has subtlety ever been one of your strong suits.”

“Is that so? I feel I am quite the enigmatic man.”

“Running from dinner was not precisely subtle,” she pointed out.

George sighed. “They wanted me to come to dinner. I came. I ate. I patted my baby sister’s belly and congratulated the guy who knocked her up. And then I left. I did as was asked of me.”

They walked in silence for several minutes, the sounds of night time creatures and the breeze-blown leaves all the noise between them. 

“This is me,” Hermione indicated to a tiny house on the end of a tiny back street. It boasted a solitary window and one magical lit light on the outside of her home that gave ample enough glow to show her George’s freckled face.

“Quite the mansion.” George let out a low whistle. “I always thought you might be one of those wizarding folks who took up in a muggle village. It surprised me when Ron told us you’d moved here years ago.”

Hermione leaned against her door, staring at him from where he stood on the street several arm lengths away. “Why does that surprise you?”

“Well, you’re muggleborn. Thought you might want to be closer to what you were used to, you know.”

She shook her head, reaching for the doorknob that she unlocked with a tap of her wand and several whispered charms. She kept her home well warded, still. 

“Hogwarts is the closest thing I have to a home now. I like living nearby.” She nodded behind him where, just barely able to be made out, the lights of the castle shone from so far away, yet close enough to see from her bedroom window at night.

An unplaceable sadness lingered on George’s face as he watched her re-ward her home. He stepped closer, stopping where the protective enchantments kept him at bay. He could cross them, if he wished. Now that she’d shown him her home, he was immune to the wards. But only George. No one else knew exactly where she slept. Not even Harry or Ron.

“You should know something, George.”

“I know lots of things.”

She smiled. “There is no timeline for healing.”

George tilted his head at her, lifting one red eyebrow. “You own a mirror in that house of yours, Professor?”

She shook her head.

“Take a look in it sometime, alright?” He stepped back, the darkness swallowing him. “See you after work tomorrow? So, what’s that…probably two–no, three in the morning?”

She laughed long after George disappeared into the darkness of Hogsmeade.

Chapter Text

A dull throb thudded at the base of Hermione’s head. The dim lights of the meeting room were better than the brighter ones elsewhere, but the neverending cacophony of voices ringing from one end of the table to the next did nothing to staunch the slowly increasing pain building against her skull.

“The department is overfunded. The numbers do not lie!” A mouse of a wizard chirped from his chair. Hermione often wondered if the head of the Financial Department was part goblin. He looked the part and, with his stiff pockets, reminded her so much of the goblins at Gringotts.

“Overfunded?!” A wizard at the end of the table pounded a closed fist on the table and the resulting slam made stars burst in Hermione’s vision. “We had fourteen raids just last week! I’d like to see what your department funds are going to! Aren’t you the office with the largest employee base? That could be considered a grave misuse of funds by some, Delfinius!”

Rage drew the tiny wizard up. Delfinius bleated out a slurry of retorts, most of which were unintelligible. Or perhaps that was Hermione’s migraine making his words blur into a never ending nonsensical sentence. 

“Ms. Granger. What say you?” The voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt silenced them all. Shacklebolt had retained his position of Minister of Magic since the war. He was going on his tenth year and whispers of retirement could be heard all throughout the Ministry. 

“My department’s funds are sufficient for the work we do. I have no need to request stretches in the budget, though I would like to advocate for an increased wage for my interns in the new fiscal year. They deserve to earn more than just recognition.” The words spilled out of her, though she pressed her fingertips to her closed eyelids as she spoke. Business came naturally to her. That part of her brain worked mostly on auto pilot these days. 

“See now. Granger advocates for her subordinates while you two argue over sickles and knuts. All of you will turn in your quarterly reports by the end of the week with recommendations for cuts and increases wherever necessary. I’ll take them all into consideration as we move into the new fiscal year. Now then, can we go home for the evening before Granger’s eyes pop out of her head?”

Several of the witches and wizards shot her sympathetic looks as they departed, eager for the respite of their homes. A few of the looks were less than friendly.

Hermione flinched when Shacklebolt’s large hand patted her on the shoulder. He gave her an understanding look when their eyes met and he backed away. 

“You’re bone weary, Granger. You need to get some rest. Take some time off. Administration tells me you haven’t put in for a single vacation or sick day this year. Or the past three.”

He slid into the chair across from her and she scrambled to pack up her briefcase. “Are you finding time for yourself? You have to take care of you, Hermione.” He pointed at her chest. “You can’t take care of others if you aren’t well. What is it the muggles say? Something about oxygen masks and airplanes? Either way, I want you to prioritize yourself, okay? I’d rather have you present and functioning at these meetings than barely hanging on because you worked another 75 hour work week.” 

“I’m fine, sir. I enjoy the work.”

The Minister shook his big head. “This isn’t about work performance. I need to see that you can take care of yourself as well as you take care of your department. It’s an important part of leadership, Granger.”

Hermione pierced at him through the haze of pain in her head. “Leadership, sir?” 

“Yes.” He nodded, rising to make his way to the door. “Keep my recommendation in mind, will you? At least take tomorrow off. Go home and clear up that headache. And rest. Okay?”

She could not hold back her wince. She hadn’t realized her discomfort was so obvious. She thanked him as he disappeared into the darkened corridor before following after him. As he turned up to the elevators, she headed to the floo powder grates. 

The idea of travel by floo powder or apparition did not appeal to her. The last time she’d had such a bad migraine, she’d apparated home and promptly blacked out. She suspected something about magical means of travel heightened the pain.

Eyeing the floo grates, she looked back in the direction she came knowing her office couch was so close by. But if she didn’t go home now, she knew she wouldn’t rest tomorrow and something told her Shacklebolt would be watching.

Hermione settled on exiting through the old phone booth, even though she knew it would take her to the Muggle world. From there, she could perhaps take a bus as close to the nearest muggle village to Hogsmeade. Perhaps by then her headache would have diminished enough to allow her to operate without the threat of unconsciousness.

Only two blocks later, unfortunately, and her vision started to blacken at the edges. Panic and fear laced through her so quickly that she was rendered nearly motionless.

She turned and walked to the one place she knew would be open for her. The Leaky Cauldron. In the time it would take her to catch a bus, she could already be back at the Leaky Cauldron, paying for a room. 

  Tom welcomed her in, leading her into the bar so he could check his log books for room availability. Hermione’s hearing was spotty and she knew she was moments away from unspeakable pain. The kind where she would welcome the reprieve unconsciousness would bring her. 

“Hermione?”

Despite the tunnel vision and ringing in her ears, she knew that voice. 

“Ah, Mr. Weasley. My barkeep can help you just down that way. I’m working with Ms. Granger at the moment, sir, and can’t be of assistance.”

“Are you alright?” George’s face appeared in front of her—blurry, but still plenty clear enough to see the wrinkles in his worried brow. 

“Gunnabesick!” Before she could manage more warning, Hermione bent over at the waist and spewed out the little bit of lunch she’d managed to scarf down earlier that day. 

“Oi! Fetch a mop!” Tom called, grumbling under his breath as he eyed the mess she’d left on his floor. Hermione clamped her hands over her ears at his raised voice, dropping her briefcase with another unpleasant assault to her eardrums. 

“I need a room. Please. Tom. A room. Any room.”

A flash of red hair came back into her view before she slammed her eyes closed again. 

George’s voice rang in her ears. “That won’t be necessary, Tom. I’ll see Granger home.”

Tom grumbled something about the loss of a paying customer but stalked away, nice enough to stomp loudly with each step in a manner that forced sparks of pain behind Hermione’s closed eyes. 

“Can’t apparate,” she breathed as a hand brushed her shoulder. She flinched. She knew she should turn him down. Pay for a room. Sleep it off. But what was it Shacklebolt had said? She needed to take care of herself. Maybe letting George help was part of taking care of herself. At the least, it felt a far deal better than sleeping off a migraine alone in the Leaky Cauldron with their questionably stained sheets and dirty water glasses. But it also felt…vulnerable. Could she trust him when she was at her weakest? Maybe this was all part of some elaborate internal test and she was supposed to be having an epiphany of some sorts about her loneliness or her trauma or her constant lack of emotional support. She couldn’t be bothered to examine any of that further due to the earthquake rattling between her ears.

“I’ll take you to my place. That okay?”

She nodded, hardly believing her boldness, and the hand on her tightened. 

“Is it okay if I pick you up, Professor? I can carry you.”

“I’ll…walk.”

George stepped closer. She felt him though her eyes remained closed. “You can walk as well as I can juggle—which is sadly a skill I am lacking.” Though her eyes were closed she could hear the smile in his voice before it softened and he said, “I’m not going to hurt you, okay? You can trust me. It’s me. George. Your friend.”

She nodded as panic bubbled in her stomach. But not even the panic could staunch the tiny flicker of excitement at the use of the word “friend”.  

The next moment she was lifted off the ground. Groaning, she turned her head into his warm chest, burying her face in his robes to block out more of the damned light trying to kill her. There was the scent of apples and sugar, melting into her from all around. He was so close. 

She was vaguely aware of being carried, which was a shame because she would have liked to have enjoyed the moment more. The last time she’d been carried…a shiver of fear rushed up her spine. The last time she’d been carried was when she’d been brought to and from the dungeons at Malfoy Manor. At the order of Bellatrix Lestrange. The panic of that thought drew her throat half closed, her breath coming faster and faster.

What simultaneously felt like a moment and hours later, she heard George whisper “ nox ” before depositing her onto the softness of a couch. 

“I need a bucket!” George barely pushed one in her hands before she was leaning over the cushions, retching. She wasn’t sure if it was the memories or the migraine that turned her stomach that time. 

“I’ve got some healing potions around here somewhere.” 

Hermione cracked an eye open and watched George methodically sorting through a cabinet across the room. He’d removed his robes and was down to a t-shirt and slacks. His home had such few belongings, it didn’t take him more than a few moments to pause his search, his forehead knotted in worry.

“Won’t help,” she croaked. 

“Murtlap essence? Essence of dittany?” He leaned on his heels to look at her, beautiful, sweet hope on his long, freckled face.

Hermione blinked, trying to force a smile but was fairly certain it came out a grimace anyway. “There aren’t any magical cures for headaches. I usually resort to the Muggle methods. Check my briefcase. I keep some pills in there.”

“Pills?” George repeated the word as if he was tasting the first bite of a new-to-him dish. He moved toward her briefcase and flicked it open. When he handed her the bottle moments later, he clutched a glass vial in his other hand. 

“What might this one be, Professor?” He winked at her. “A Euphoria potion? A little Felix felicis, perhaps?”

Too tired and in pain to be ashamed, she downed the migraine pills dry and then gingerly laid her head back into the couch cushions. “Draught of Peace.”

“Oh?” 

Hermione laid an arm across her eyes and breathed deep, willing the medication to kick in and relieve her of this agony. “For the bad days.”

“Oh.” He said the word like he understood. He probably did, Hermione knew. She closed her eyes and saw the ceiling of Malfoy Manor, Bellatrix Lestrange looming atop her. He closed his eyes and probably saw his twin dying before him. Draught of Peace, on those terrible days where she was inside her memories more than out of them, gave her a respite from facing the ghosts of her past. 

Hermione heard the soft clinking of glass followed by the click of her briefcase as it snapped closed. A moment later, the warmth of George’s body flooded her pain riddled one. 

Sneaking a peek, she saw how he sat on the floor in front of the couch, his back braced against the furniture upon which she now laid. His head was level with her waist so that, minutes later, when he tilted his head back and closed his eyes, his hair tickled her belly through her sweater. 

“What are you doing? You should go to bed. I’ll be asleep soon. As long as these pills do their job.”

“You shouldn’t have to do bad days alone.”

“And what about you? On your bad days?” Her chest tightened at the sentiment. He didn’t leave her. Not like the others. 

“I don’t have bad days anymore.” He exhaled, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “I just have days.”

*     *     *

Hermione woke to inexplicable horror. 

Hands gripped her around the throat, tiny hands with nails like claws. 

And that laugh—her laugh. High and loud and full of undulating joy. 

“Little bitty Granger,” Bellatrix Lestrange whispered into her ear, said so lovingly and soft it was as though they were the sweet benedictions shared between lovers. “A filthy mudblood. Potter’s whore.”

Another cackle poured from her mouth full of brown teeth. Long curls of greasy black hair fell around Hermione until it was only her and Bellatrix and the rest of the world melted away. 

And then came pain. 

“ Crucio !”

Her own screams filled the room so full of noise it shattered her eardrums. Burning acid clawed up her throat as her spine arched into the pain, her body an endless abyss of hurt. 

My wand. I need my wand. 

Fingers gnarled from agony, Hermione reached out, feeling for the familiar weight of her wand. Grasping air, and nothing, and then…her wand!

She tugged, but it would not move. It was unnatural in her palm. Heavy. Thick. And she was dying. 

“Hermione,” Bellatrix said. But it was not her voice though her dry, black-painted lips moved. 

“Hermione. Wake up. I’m here. Hermione!” 

Snapping bolt upright, Hermione's eyes flew open. It wasn’t Malfoy Manor around her. Suffocating her. Hurting her. It was…she catalogued the unfamiliar room, blinking rapidly to force the world to make sense. Tears fell like ice on her heated cheeks as she forced herself to focus. The lumpy couch beneath her. The flop of red hovering above her. Not the dark curls of Bellatrix. 

And not a wand in Hermione’s hand. But…Oh, god. 

Her hand was clutched tight around George’s index finger. He knelt on his knees beside the couch, facing her. 

“Ya know. I’ve been told my fingers are magic, but I don’t think they’ll be much help for casting Unforgivable Curses.”

Hermione unclenched her hand from his finger and swung her feet off the couch until they pressed to the floor, humiliation burning her cheeks. It was still dark out and she was grateful for what little the darkness veiled. 

“U-unforgiveable curses?” Her heart beat so fast she was sure it was about to fly out of her chest. She pressed a palm flat to her heart, willing it to calm.

George slid back onto his bottom, resting on the floor in front of her. “You were shouting the killing curse.”

“I was?” Her hollow stomach plummeted. Trying to cast Unforgivable Curses in her sleep? Had that always come with the nightmares?

Nodding, George slid his hands into his lap. “Yeah. I heard you crying. It woke me up. I thought it was the pain–the headache, you know? I was going to fetch some more of those pills for you. But then you starting mumbling. S’alright. I won’t tease you for your poor pronunciation.”

She slid her eyes closed and pressed shaking fingers to the bridge of her nose. “I’m sorry I woke you. It can’t be that far off from dawn. You should try to go back to sleep.”

“You were screaming, Hermione. You sounded like Lupin in the Shrieking Shack. You sounded like you were…in pain.” George’s voice was more serious than she’d ever heard it before. When she opened her eyes, she found his brown ones peering at her with a heavy intenseness. 

She swallowed the lump in her throat and slid off the couch, resting on the floor in beside George with the cushions pressing into her back. Folding her hands in her lap, she let out a shaky exhale. “The nightmares are so real. It’s hard…it’s hard not to feel like I’m right back there.” She drew her knees to her chest and pushed her forehead onto them, hiding her face. The darkness helped ease the admission of her shame, but it was the sharing it with George bit that made it possible to speak at all. He was scarred by the war in similar ways. He knew pain as she did.

A silent minute passed and then Hermione heard some shuffling and felt a warm body press into her left side as George settled down next to her, his body pressed into the couch as hers was.

“I’m sorry my mother killed Bellatrix”

Hermione popped her head up and looked at him, swiping at the wetness on her cheeks. “What? But she deserved to die. She was a monster!”

He nodded and then turned down to look at her. “It should've been you that did it. You deserved to kill her. My mother did a kindness to the Wizarding World when she ended Bellatrix, true enough. But it should have been you.”

She sniffed. “Is that how you feel about…your brother?” She couldn’t bring herself to say his name.

He shrugged. “Fred died in an explosion. I’ll never know whose wand cast the spell that ended his life.” He blew a puff of air out of his nose–a tiny, snort of a laugh. “It’s probably a good thing I don’t. They’d die a death so slow that their mind would go long before their body. And I wouldn’t use my wand, either.”

A shiver ran along Hermione’s whole body and George reached behind them to pull a blanket from the couch and drape it over their legs.

“Who was the snatcher that brought you in? I don’t think I ever heard.”

“Rule Number 2,” she breathed, her lower lip wobbling. “No talking about the war.”

He shrugged his lanky shoulders again. “We’ve broken both our rules already. Maybe tonight, we just pretend the rules never existed. And when the sun comes up, this conversation didn’t happen.”

Hermione relished the warmth of his body far too much, but that tiny voice in the back of her head screamed at her to pull away. That part of her still raw from the hours of torture and pain. The part of her that said it is easier to push away than it is to let anyone in. She shoved that voice down and took in another deep breath.

“It was the same man who gave your brother, Bill, his scars.”

George stiffened. “Greyback? 

“Yeah.”

“Bloody Hell, Hermione. Fenrir Greyback and Bellatrix Lestrange? You’re a bloody strong witch, you know that? I doubt few others could have survived that.”

“I’m not sure I did.” She brushed her nose across her sleeve. “Physically, I lived. But a part of me will always be in Malfoy Manor.”

George turned to face her, lifting a hand out like he wanted to rest it on her drawn up knees, only to drop it after a moment of hesitation. “Bellatrix Lestrange died. Fenrir hasn’t been seen since the war. Dead, most likely, if we’re lucky. And you lived, Hermione. You lived.”

“Rule number 2,” she blurted out, brushing away more of the tears that didn’t seem to want to stop falling. She couldn’t stand the pity in his voice or the sorrow in his eyes. It was bad enough that he knew those things intimately, but she could not bear it if he tried to carry pieces of her own trauma when he struggled so badly with his. “I’m invoking rule number 2.”

George sighed and ran his long fingers through his hair. “Good timing. The suns almost up.”

They sat side by side in George’s mostly empty living room and watched the sun rise, filling the room with rays of pinks and purples. The soft light cast a glow around them, bathing George and his freckled face and red hair in a halo of orange and yellow. Her chest loosened, her legs unwound and lay across the floor. That roaring in her ears trickled away to a dull hum and Hermione was very glad, indeed, that she had lived. 

She’d hated to have missed such a splendid sunrise.