A/N: I know, I know. I have two other stories begging for completion. I promise they haven't been dropped. This has just sort of written itself the past couple of weeks. I'm about six chapters in; I imagine it'll be no more than ten. Expect a chapter every one to two weeks after this. As always, please read and review.

Disclaimer: I own nothing; it's all JKR's.

A Likely Story

one

She waited until the bathroom had emptied completely before leaving the stall and facing the mirror. The aria had ruined her eye make-up, the runny mascara cloaking her eyelids in a smear of black. She dabbed at her lashes, her eyes filling unwillingly with yet more tears as that last plaintive note struck through her memory again. She couldn't remember the last time an opera had inspired anything in her other than boredom and irritation. She disliked the superficial affectation these outings forced: the necessity of make-up and fine dress robes, too-tall heels and an over-abundance of hair straightener. She'd rather be at home, in comfortable jeans and a flannel, her feet warm from the radiator and her hands busy with a new book.

But Ron aspired to more than just wealth. It wasn't enough that he was a Quidditch success; it wasn't enough that he was a Pureblood wizard. He wanted prestige and history; he wanted class and stature. He seemed to think that attending the opera and owning a villa in Italy would provide him with that.

She thought it made him look desperate and silly.

Her face stared back at her, rubbed clean of the make-up. An unhappiness sat near her lips, a dip to the curve that felt weighted. She tried smiling, willing her eyes to brighten and her cheeks to dimple; the expression looked forced, and tiredly, she sighed. She wished they could go back six years, to when she worked two part-time jobs and he was still in the half leagues, his uniform and pads all second-hand and patched with time and wear. It was busy then, and hard, but she remembered being happy, a joyful, simple happiness that inspired her and filled her.

Now when she stood in the house they shared, her feet hesitant to step too harshly and damage the tile, she missed the brittle laminate of their first apartment, with its temperamental water heater and stubborn windows. She missed dinners of cereal, and breakfasts of leftover take-out. She missed--

The bathroom door barreled open.

"I can't believe you just up and talked to him! Did he really sign it for you?"

"Ruined my best lipstick, but yes." The two girls huddled over a napkin clearly inscribed with an all-too familiar signature. Hermione bit back another sigh, and tried to sneak past them, her hair a convenient curtain. The taller of the two, a bottle-blonde, stopped her three steps from the door.

"I didn't see that awful Granger girl near him for once. You'd think he go in for an upgrade by now." The girl flipped her unnatural blonde hair twice for good affect, her friend nodding emphatically all the while.

Hermione disappeared through the door, missing, more than anything else, the relative anonymity she once had.

~*~

His companion, as his mother always liked to designate them, was a leggy brunette with a name that sounded like some sort of dessert. He hadn't paid attention during the shared introductions, too distracted by the lack of dress she'd thrown on. Not exactly proper for a fun, family outing at the opera, but since he was attending against his will, he wasn't about to go out of his way to ensure his companion was dressed appropriately. He'd need something to keep him occupied during the three and a half hours of pure tedium.

The box seats were regularly reserved for the Weasleys now, what with the generous donation handed the opera company by his younger brother. It still irked him that Charlie had gone along with the idea as well, and by extension, he'd been roped into attending the monthly outings. He liked to think that Fred would have-- he shook his head, unwilling to allow his already troubled mind to delve into the maudlin. It was bad enough that if not for his girl-of-the-month, he'd never leave the lobby bar with its twenty-eight pages of reds, whites, and everything in between.

He drank slowly now from one such glass, letting the liquid linger over his tongue, his blue eyes watchful of the overly ornate mounted clock that adorned the wall. The intermission was a generous five minutes over, and he knew if left unattended long enough, his mother would ramble down and have at him. One would think, at his age, the days of being harassed into action by a mother would be long over. Sadly, the very opposite was true, and he thanked all that was holy and omnipotent that he'd moved out before Ron hit the big time.

Not that his own personal success was any less remarkable, just less substantial. Between the sponsor deals, commercial developments, and the new subterranean resort complex Ron was backing over in Asia somewhere, Ron had reached permanent celebrity status; he had his fingers in everything. Personally, George had better pursuits for his energies than playing Mr. Wizard Weekly for forty-three weeks and counting. And presently, he planned on playing some of those very energies out on the very bare, and very enticing shoulders of his companion.

Even if her name was something ridiculous like Tiramisu.

~*~

She took her seat carefully, mindful of the potential wrinkles that might ruin her dress robes for a future occasion. Not that Ron would allow her to wear the same thing twice, no matter how much she might fuss about it. There had been a time when she welcomed a solid row with him, the make-up afterward more than evening out whatever negative energies might have been expended. Their bickering had always been the good-natured sort, the kind of word-trade that only the best of friends, the dearest of partners dealt in. He was too busy now for that sort of diversion; everything was too serious. He was either at the Floo, or attached to his mobile. Even when she called it, teasingly, by its once name, fellytone, no laughter followed, no lazy smile showing crooked teeth.

None of the little things that she loved about him.

"We're going to The Repast afterward," he told her, his voice low and his chin inclined. He settled back into his seat in the row behind her, leaving no time to solicit her opinion, whether she approved or disapproved.

She nodded her agreement, not caring enough about the choice in restaurant to force an actual discussion, and removed the shawl that covered her shoulders. In the darkness, the cold air cloaked her skin, sending goosebumps down her throat and over her arms. She relished the chill, enjoying the small rebellion. It amused her how old-fashioned Ron could be, and he disliked it when her clothes dared to show some of her actual shape and figure. He'd never made the mistake of trying to forbid her from dressing as she wanted, but his reluctant compliments were enough to influence her clothing choices nevertheless.

When they had first graduated and moved into their tiny, one-bedroom apartment, she had introduced him to the afternoon matinée, with its half-off ticket prices and tenth-run films. They would find seats in the far back, clothed in the darkness, their hands free to roam, their mouths free to search. Their giggles and hushed breathing would vanish into the film's dialogue, and not even the askance glances thrown their way afterward would discourage a repeat the next Sunday. Idly, Hermione wondered what he would do if she were to suddenly claim the seat beside him, and her hand were to wander to the left, moving just so--

The aria was still too fresh in her emotions to dare that probable rejection.

~*~

He fumbled in the darkness, not daring to illuminate the small space with his wand. He didn't think the two glasses of wine he'd managed to down during the intermission were sufficient enough to blame on to avoid the inescapable verbal lashing he'd receive from both his mother and sister should the light distract the lead soprano from her warbling. He rather thought any halt to that noise would be an improvement, but his opinion was rarely requested during the post-opera meals. At least Hermione would laugh at his jokes, but she was usually so depressed the sound barely passed the half-hearted range.

Hardly an accomplishment for a joke shop owner and inventor extraordinaire.

The stage brightened long enough for him to make out the beckoning paleness of his date's oh-so-invitingly-bare shoulders. His seat had been stolen away from him, and reluctantly, he sat behind her, ignoring the shushing sound that came from his left. He stared at her back, deciding that he was pleased with the intermission-decision to let down her hair. The girl had a thin sort of face and all those pins and such holding up her hair did little to fill it. He liked his girls to have a bit of flesh to them, and she was a bit on the skeletal side. Didn't detract entirely from her appeal, plainly, as he'd brought her along. Too bad the darkness hid her legs from his prime view-point; from his position, if he straightened his posture, he could have caught the break in her knees and the red of her toe-nails.

The gloom masked her from his gaze, and reluctantly, he slipped back down to his usual seated sprawl. The soprano was joined by a chorus of other warblers, and George tried to guess at the time remaining. He was regretting his lack of courage in the lobby; anything would have been better than another hour of this. His date shivered and her shoulders trembled delicately; he decided that perhaps his momentary weakness wasn't entirely a loss. He glanced once to his left; Ron was apparently occupied with the stage below. How someone with as base an interest level as his younger brother's could also enjoy the opera was beyond his understanding. A glance to his right secured that the darkness gave him sufficient camouflage for his current intentions; still, he paused the brief seconds necessary to mutely run off the notice-me-not charm.

Carefully, he traced the tip of his finger along her neck, slinking past the hollow of her throat and down to the slight plump of flesh that rose above the dress's bodice. Her shiver forced an amused grin to flash in the darkness. Keeping his eyes on the curve of her jaw, he lowered his lips to that expanse of smooth skin, and lingered there, tasting and dipping, his chest swelling with satisfaction that his ministration should evoke such a drastic response. The girl was positively shaking, even as her neck inclined to provide him with yet more canvass to work with, and with his mouth, still curved, he made his way slowly up that generous arch, breathing in the faint scent of her perfume. The scent, a flowery mix, tickled at his nose, a distant familiarity to it buzzing at the back of his brain.

He paused, revelation dawning, and nearly fell from his chair in his immediate reaction to pull back, to step away from the shoulders and throat that most definitely did not belong to his companion. Caring not a whit for his mother's future rapprochements, George fled from the box, wanting only to get away. He stumbled into the open air of the empty corridor, the back of his hand pressed to his lips, and his face achingly hot. The wallpaper glared at him, accusingly, as if knowing of his-- Unintentional, he insisted silently, unintentional!-- misdeed.

Merlin help him . . . he inhaled slowly, willing his heartbeat to slow and his body to reclaim itself. Of all the people to mistakenly manhandle, he'd chosen the one female he'd long since trained himself to think of as anything but. She was taken property-- and Circe help him if she ever heard him refer to her as property-- she was off the market, forever. Under no circumstances was she ever to be a consideration.

Ever.

But George couldn't erase the lingering sensation on his lips. Her perfume, some vague concoction of drowned flowers, a cheap fragrance she probably wore out of habit, rested at the forefront of his memory, niggling and bothering in a way that no amount of rubbing at his nose could lessen. Her hair, a variance on the same scent, chased from behind as well, and even in the manufactured air of the hallway, he couldn't be rid of it.

His forehead rested against the pebbled wallpaper, its texture cooling his too warm skin, and his blue eyes stared at the floor, the black of his shoes a stain against the etched marble. He would simply have to forget and avoid her in the meantime. Once he could box her back away into the compartment labeled, 'Do Not Touch, Do Not Consider,' he'd be just fine. It was an unintentional slip, and hopefully, she would have no idea that it was his lips that had kissed her, his hands on her skin.

The theater doors opened, and the hall was flooded with the exiting patrons. Still braced against the wall, George steadied himself and waited, willing that she would emerge completely ignorant of his involvement. First his mother and father, behind them his sister and Harry. Bill and Fleur next with Charlie on course for the closest usher handing out post-program favors, and then Ron-- he avoided his younger brother's eyes, guilt rising to join the rest of his emotions; she was attached at his arm, her cheeks flushed and her shawl hanging from her wrist. Her shoulders stood nakedly in the full light of the corridor, and George forced himself to exhale twice, slowly.

She smiled, the expression one of a quiet, private sort of pleasure, and he watched as she traced the same stretch of skin he had minutes earlier with the tips of her fingers. She walked past him, no pause of embarrassment or awkwardness belying any potential awareness she might have of his culpability. She walked past him, her head inclined away from him and toward his brother's. She walked past him, and the disappointment rankled.

"Where were you?" His companion sounded annoyed.

"At the bar." George pushed off from the wall, ignoring the expectant hand dangled his way. "You'll find your own way from here then, right?"

He ignored the outraged reply as well. His gaze, attention, and completely unwilling self were focused on a single form in the hall's crowd. Merlin help him. . . Hermione Granger needed to return to her box of non-sexual, of non-gender, of invisibility. She was his brother's girl, she was his brother's true love, always and forever, happily ever after, and all that.

And he, George Weasley, was most definitely not a consideration.

one end