First fic in a year and it has nothing to do with anything I've already started. What is life?

Enjoy greatly, R&R if you so wish. I have no ownership of Miss Rowling's fine work; I simply claim for myself a little pygmy puff of my very own, if she would so please as to allow such an expense.

Please be aware: I wrote this for my enjoyment. There are things I bring up in here that have no follow-up, because I forgot about them when it came to the final pages, to be honest, but they had no importance, anyways. Such is life.

George Weasley was finally getting the hang of things.

It'd been months since he'd dared to experiment with the creation of assorted potions and magical paraphernalia since Fred's passing, and after an assortment of catastrophic failures with the new material, George was finally getting back in touch with his inner prankster self. Without his partner in crime, admittedly, things were difficult—the ideas may have come from them both, but they were always inspired by one another—but not impossible, it was beginning to seem. George grinned to himself, red hair tousled in a messy bed of thick turmeric-shaded locks as he beheld one of his newer creations, which had been dead simple in the theoretical sense but actually quite difficult in application, especially since it kept making him into a forty-year-old pregnant muggle.

George grabbed up his wand, stuffing it into the pocket of his expensive and tacky tailored suit, grabbing up Fred's wand as well, stuffing it into the opposing pocket. The only habit he hadn't been able to get over as so far was keeping Fred's wand in the pocket of his wand hand; the twins regularly picked up each other's wands thinking it was their own, the wands responded the same anyways. He snatched the newly-created product with the glee that of a child, momentarily forgetting that he'd only just created said product, leaving it privy to volatile reaction to abuse, but the product remained compliant, choosing not to blow up in his face. Good thing, too—it'd be hard to show off if it'd blown up, after all.

George had been working in the bowels of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes for the past three weeks on said product, endlessly trying to make this invention work for him. He'd experienced so many in the way of failures—a potion that allowed one to grow fully functioning breasts (which Ron had freaked out upon seeing after George had snuck a drop or two into his breakfast), a charm that allowed one to read minds (which Ginny had quite enjoyed, actually, but Harry had not appreciated as it had intruded on his privacies, to which Hermione concurred), glasses that allowed one to truly see through any and all articles of clothing (which had failed only because it saw simply much too far and George now knew far too much of Percy's anatomy). The list was longer still, but George was never one to concentrate on his failures, which was why school had never been quite the twin's sort of scene as they failed all their subjects.

George Apparated from his Diagon Alley flat to the Burrow, appearing with a sharp pop in the middle of Molly Weasley's breakfast, shocking his mother into a shriek and forcing her to drop the pot of oatmeal atop Harry's unsuspecting head. Harry, to his credit, took it like a man; didn't even scream, but simply looked miserably over at George, or as well as he could with the warm oats obstructing his already shoddy vision. Ginny giggled from next to him, running her finger through the sweetened warm oats that now resided on Harry's face, sucking it into her mouth with a loud pop quite like the one George had made when he'd caused the situation in the first place.

"'S good, Mum," Ginny complimented before even looking at her humorous older brother, "So what've you got today?"

Although George now lived on his own in the flat he and Fred had bought together when they'd started their business, George was quite often appearing around his childhood home, especially nowadays; and usually came with a new creation in hand for the purposes of testing, because apparently in his eyes (according to his mother, anyways) his family had always been the best guinea pigs for his pranks, especially Ron and Percy due to their almost constant adverse reactions to whatever it was that had been made. Ginny usually loved whatever George made, and found a certain degree of pride that she got to help make the creations better in whatever capacity she could.

To an extent, the Weasley family grew to not only accept that George would be popping in and out of the Burrow whenever he so pleased with his creations, but grew to expect the visit, though it always freaked Molly out whenever her son would appear at randomized time, creating reliably hilarious situations for the Weasley clan to watch, meaning, quite simply, that this was not the first time Harry had found himself covered with some sort of food—he was just happy, this time, that it was not a pot of boiling hot soup, but rather oatmeal that had been sitting on the stove for a decent amount of time.

Harry took off his glasses, resigning himself to his fate as he sighed unhappily. It took him a while to get his hair under control and on his best of mornings, he still couldn't control it. Today his hair had been nothing but cooperative, and for what now?

"Good morning, George," Harry said down to his lap as the oatmeal dripped down the back of his neck, Ginny giggling endlessly next to him.

Molly, for her part, had taken the time to calm down considerably. She'd gotten a better handle on her temper towards George in the months since the war, knowing that George's random visits were his way of coping. She was worried about her boys, every single one of them, and she especially fretted about George's disposition these days. He was getting a better handle on his own temper, and was growing less and less likely to snap at people with each passing day. It was still hard to make George smile now, much more so to make him laugh, and if his way of getting himself to smile was to pop in randomly and spill some oats all over Harry, then so be it.

"George, do make yourself at home, dear," Molly said instead of flipping out on her son, "Harry, my apologies, dear."

"'S okay, Mrs. Weasley," Harry muttered, licking the oatmeal off his upper lip, "Tastes good."

"We should cover you in oatmeal more often," Ginny teased with a lecherous smile, making George guffaw as she ran a finger through the warm breakfast cereal again, "It's a good look on you. So sexy."

"That's quite enough, Ginny," Molly said with a huff, not needing to hear her daughter talking in such a way. Ginny giggled again, giving Harry a light lick. "Harry, we should get you cleaned up."

"Maybe that's a good idea," he mumbled, getting up from his chair unsteadily, "But before I go, does anyone want any oatmeal?"

"I'm good, mate," George said with a snigger, eyes twinkling in the wake of the mischief he'd caused. Ginny opened her mouth to speak, but the sharp look her mother sent her had her immediately quieted. Luckily, she didn't have to say anything: Ron came down at that moment, his eyes half-logged due to sleepiness before whipping wide open as he took in Harry's current look, immediately falling into raucous guffaws at his friend's misfortune. It happened frequently, Harry getting doused with food items, but it was the sheer range of the food that made Ron laugh, especially since it never happened to him (at least, not anymore). It was a nice change of pace, one that Ron appreciated after years of being at the brunt of the twins' jokes.

He clapped Harry on the shoulder before swiping a finger quickly through the warm substance. "Harry, I've told you, mate, smearing food on your skin is not eating. It's meant to be ingested, not spread on top like some sort of topical cream. It's food, not ointment."

George and Ginny began a fresh round of childish giggling, while Harry's face burned with embarrassment, although it went unseen due to the soggy oats still dripping down from his hair.

After all was settled down, they ate the now-cold breakfast, a towel draped across the back of Harry Potter's neck to absorb the water dripping from his hair, which was already beginning to settle into a mess, much to his dismay. Still, Harry did not complain about his misfortune, finding it to be a waste of his own time when he knew that George would not apologize until much later in the day, as it always was. George tuck into the cold scrambled eggs and toast with vigor, as if he hadn't caused mischief that morning, whilst Molly directed careful questions at him, making sure not to use any triggers in his words—meaning, she did her very best to not say Fred's name.

Fred had become a sort of taboo to say, around George at least. Each time it was said he took it as a sort of personal offense, as if someone was giving preference to which twin had been left alive. To say George had survivor's guilt put it lightly—for a long time, George had been ashamed that he'd been left alive. It had taken him months to get to the point to accept that he still lived, five months to be exact, and it would probably take longer for him to grow to accept that Fred wasn't. He still didn't react very well to the topic, so his family always made sure not to bring it up in whatever capacity. They only spoke of Fred when George was not around to hear—it was if they were hiding from George that they, too, missed his twin brother.

None of them liked especially walking on eggshells around George, but they knew the necessity. Just the wrong thing would result in catastrophe, nowadays around George. He was sensitive, overly so, and predisposed to eruption. The only one who didn't even try to walk around George's feelings was none other than Hermione Granger—but of course, who else? Hermione, from the get-go, had no interests in protecting George's feelings on the topic of the late twin brother for the sheer reason that everyone had lost something, not just George. People lost friends, family, neighbors, local butchers, down-the-alley barsmen—everyone had lost someone because of the Battle of Hogwarts. Lavender Brown's parents were without a daughter. Colin Creevey's parents, without a son. Teddy Lupin, the poor sweet boy, was without his own parents, basically a newborn still when they had been stolen from him.

And Hermione had lost people, herself. And she'd sat through every funeral, went to every viewing, prayed for every soul in the church of a god she no longer believed in. Hermione did all this and continued on with her life, because that was what she needed to believe that the dead would want of the living—to continue on with the lives they'd sacrificed their own for.

And so, no, Hermione did not pity George like the other members of the greater clan did. It was a primary reason why Hermione tried to stay away from the Burrow for a primary portion of the time now—due to her inability to pity George, she oftentimes found herself unconsciously stepping all over George's feelings, like some sort of cruel bully, and given that George often showed up unannounced and without prior warning, Hermione had deemed it unsafe for her own sakes, having grown tired of Ginny trying to convince her to pay George kindnesses instead of criticisms.

George knew not of this, however; Molly having figured that it'd be just another thing that would set the poor soul off. It wasn't that Molly didn't agree with Hermione's points, she actually did. She was right; everyone had lost someone, and it hadn't been just George who'd lost Fred, it was every single member of the family. From Percy to Arthur, they'd all lost their little Freddy. They would all have to live with the fact that they'd lost someone so dear to them—and, despite all his mischief, Fred had been very, very important to them all.

Molly, so enraptured in her thoughts about the current predicament the Weasley clan found themselves in, had drifted off of the conversation, eyes locked on the clock behind George's head as she fell into the depths of her mind. George shifted about, uncomfortable with the Weasley matriarch's staring as he tried to focus instead on the conversation which Ginny and Ron had been oh-so-kind enough to pick up in her stead, though it was quite difficult to ignore, as one could easily imagine—who can ignore their mother when she's apparently staring through your very head, as if your existence is but a nominal thing?

The entirety of the family was unaware of George's mentality, thinking he was so involved in his own self-pity that he was somehow now rendered ignorant to those around him, which was simply not the case. George was utterly and completely aware of his family's current turmoil, how they all suffered through their losses. He remembered that for a solid week after the battle, Ron would refuse to leave his closet because he could swear he saw Lavender Brown sitting upon his bed, calling for her Ronnikins.

He remembered that Bill would sometimes have to grab onto something, usually Fleur, and hold on very, very tightly as he remembered the utter shame of not being able to save the lives of Tonks or Remus, whom he had fighting alongside.

He remembered that Harry would (and still) woke up screaming, trapped in a seemingly never-ending nightmare as he was left to remember all the deaths that had occurred on that day.

He knew that Percy, Perfect Prefect Percy, was actually afraid to come to the Burrow for shame of being unable to protect his own little brother, and having to see the person who caused him more guilt than anything: George himself, as George, as we all know, looked exactly like Fred in every single way.

And he knew that Hermione, little nerdy Granger, suffered with having lost Fred without ever being able to tell him the truth: that she'd loved him.

George knew Hermione's secret, a secret he'd kept even from Fred himself—because there were just some things that Fred needed to find out from another besides himself. In this world, George figured, there were two people placed on the earth who were simply meant to be together, and Fred; he'd gotten lucky—he'd found that person. To the common observer, it appeared that Fred and Hermione were mismatched to boot—Granger loved learning and all things academia, but Fred preferred pranking and misconduct. Granger was short, almost as short as Harry, whilst Fred was nearly the same height as Bill, who was the very definition of 'bloody tall'. Granger was overly sensitive, prone to tears and anger, whilst Fred was calmer, more likely to go with the flow and laugh at the negative than anything.

They were polar opposites, and like all polar opposites, they attracted to each other. Another studious type of soul would've only bored the daylights out of Mione, whilst another jocular prankster would've quickly only grown to irritate Fred. Hermione needed Fred in order to remember that she needed to enjoy the moments and laugh, and Fred needed Hermione in order to recall that he was more than simply pranks. They worked together brilliant, in George's humble opinion. They needed each other.

And now Fred was gone.

He could understand why Hermione had been snappish the last time he'd seen her—and she was right; him acting miserly wasn't going to just bring Fred back, but he couldn't help it. It was overstated to the extreme by others, but it was true; Fred was truly George's other half. He liked to imagine that it would've been quite the same situation if it'd been reversed; if he had died and Fred had lived (well, not truly liked to, but simply did with quite frequency). Hermione might've been Fred's romantic soulmate, but in every other way, he was George's soulmate as well. And he'd let it overtake him. Let it consume him. He'd let himself forget that others had lost someone they loved, too—and Hermione had, too. She'd been through so much for the sake of all the world, both muggle and magical alike, and despite her sacrifice, things had only been taken from her.

George swallowed down more cold eggs, moving a hand to his pocket, touching Fred's wand, wishing so damned hard, for the umpteenth time, that Fred had been allowed his life.

"George! Are you even listening?"

George snapped to attention, blinking owlishly at his younger sister, who shot him a stern look she must've picked up from their mother, who had long since returned from her own thoughts and now fixed George with a look of her own. Ron and Harry were smartly keeping their heads down, wishing to keep themselves from gaining the same sort of disapproval, whispering to each other about Quidditch in order to play ignorant to the current mood.

"Hmm?" George asked, knowing better than to pretend he'd been listening.

Ginny huffed at him, whilst Molly shook her head. "I said," Ginny began, clearly enunciating as if George had suddenly developed a sort of mental deficiency, gaining a small snigger from Ronald, which had earned him a sharp look from Molly, "So what have you come with today for testing, George?"

George blinked again, this time quite normally in comparison to before, before he forced a smile that the family members around him could, sadly, see easily through, though not a one of them said a word of it. He was excited, truly, but he was also prepared for the inevitability of failure, as he had been doing with such a frequency as of late. Without Fred, it seemed, inspiration was just so hard to come by, and he felt as if it would be some sort of shame to their good name as the founding fathers of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes if he couldn't even figure out a new product without him. With a trembling hand, he went into his pocket, pulling out the new product he'd been working so hard on.

Ginny stared at the object in his hand, squinting and wrinkling her nose.

Molly furrowed her brow, as if quite confused by the thing within his palm.

Ron gaped at it, his mouth hanging open, showing quite a lot of unchewed food.

And Harry, the Chosen One, was the only one who dared to voice the question so obviously on all of their minds:

"Um, George," he said tentatively, "Just what is that?"

George sputtered, as if flabbergasted by the fact that no one could figure out what he'd been trying to make. To him, it was blatant as anything, but truth be told, not even a mischievous Marauder would've been able to figure out quite what was held in the center of the Weasley's hand. It wasn't massive in size, nor was it small; it looked like a chunk of firm pink foam, if one could have such a thing, and it seemed to sparkle green somehow in the daylight that streamed through their window. To Harry, he was sure that it was some potions gone horribly, horribly wrong, and to a certain degree he was correct—George had, in fact, used quite a lot of potions when he'd created the little ugly monstrosity; his imaginative block had left him quite desperate and willing to use whatever to make that thing before him.

"What do you mean, what is it?" George asked, brow furrowed deeply.

"The question itself is pretty clear, mate," Ron mumbled, aware enough now to begin chewing once more; Ginny nodding in agreement, a rarely-seen thing if there ever was one. Molly simply kept a worried glance on George, as if he'd finally gone mad.

"Well, try it!" George said indignantly, sticking his hand out and close to shoving the thing in Harry's face. "Try a bite?"

"You want him to eat it?" Ginny squawked. Harry eyed it warily.

"It smells like sweaty socks up close, George. You've been carrying that in your pocket?" Harry said softly.

"Have you gone mad?" Molly cried.

"I mean, Mum, I've always been a bit mad," George said with a flippant shrug, "Now don't be a chicken, Harry! I'm sure it tastes just fine. I've been working on the odor."

"Your words don't make me confident."

"I'll say," Ron muttered.

George sneered at Ron. "Would you like to give it a try, Ronny boy?"

Ron blanched. "I'm fine…" his baby brother muttered, turning his attention back to the food that wasn't quite settling well anymore—which George took pride in. It took quite a lot to ruin Ron's formidable appetite.

Harry was beginning to turn slightly green at the edges. "George, it smells utterly bad," he said tightly, "It's almost like it's changing scent."

George winced. "Ah, yes. Well, it does that. Haven't quite figured it out yet. Now take a bite."

Molly glared at George. "Harry James Potter," she said sharply, having perfected chastising all the children, even Harry, "If you take a bite of that, chosen one or not, you will rue your decision!"

Ginny giggled, the only one who wasn't taking this so seriously. "Harry, just take a bite. I'm sure you'll be fine. George wouldn't intentionally kill you."

Ron moved to speak up again, but apparently thought the better of it when George shot him a glance.

"Besides," Ginny continued with a glint in her eye, "It'll just mean George's the chicken, not you."

George started, sitting upright now as he stared, stunned, at his baby sister. "What's that?" he asked, withdrawing the product from under Potter's nose, much to his relief.

Ginny giggled, smirking at her big brother as she leaned her chin on her hand, knowing she had the upper hand. Even Mrs. Weasley now kept her mouth shut, stunned by the display. Even Ginny, it seemed, had her limitations to the willingness to be a test subject for George's magical products—and she was more than happy to see her brother get his just desserts. The Weasley matriarch hadn't to do a thing, either, much to her relief, so she let go, instead asking her youngest boy if he would like a new plate of food due to his pale complexion, which he nodded to blankly as he took in the happenings before him.

"George," Ginny began with a drawl, "Hermione told me a story once about a muggle inventor, called Bruce Banner." Harry furrowed a brow at her, while George stared blankly, not knowing anyone named Bruce Banner—but then again, he was not a muggle, and Ginny was using that to her advantage. "Bruce Banner used test subjects to a certain degree, but you know what he ultimately tested on?" Ginny took a pause, mainly for dramatic effect. "He tested on himself, George. He tested on himself, and he didn't even know the projected outcome."

Harry's frown deepened. "But, Gin—" he began before Ginny placed her hand over his mouth.

"Now, George, answer me this. If some muggle named Bruce can test his own product on himself, without any sense of what to expect, then why can't you test your perfectly harmless and, I assume, final product on yourself?"

George stared at his sister, beyond confused but, mostly, embarrassed. He didn't know much about muggles, so he had no way to know if Ginny was lying or telling the truth, but in the end, he figured, it didn't quite matter. What did was that he basically just got told off by his seventeen-year-old sister and now he felt embarrassed and, for the most part, belittled. She had just belittled his title as an inventor; something that he took none too lightly.

Not skipping a beat, George took a honking bite out of his creation, relieved that it at least tasted like the bubblegum he'd wanted it to, despite it not smelling that way. George found it easy to gulp it down, though Harry was apparently incredulous to the fact, judging by the disgust that easily showed in his expression before it melted back into nervous concern. He began twiddling his thumbs, looking from George, to Ron, to Ginny, and back to George—Mrs. Weasley had whisked off to the kitchen to make more food for Ron.

"George," Harry said slowly, "What Gin has neglected to mention is that Bruce Banner wasn't really an inventor, and the thing he tested on himself ended up turning him into a big, green monster ruled by rage and violence."

Ginny, apparently, was not aware of this, judging by her comically wide eyes as she sucked in a breath, whilst George nearly stopped breathing. Ron, for his part, began to cackle, amused.

"Oops," said Ginny dumbly.

Hermione Granger found herself in the midst of a muggle mystery novel when she received the patronus.

She'd decided to take a day trip to muggle London, a place she'd visited all of her childhood ignorant to the magical underbelly that had lay in wait for her. A small part of her longed for those days, the innocent days of being unaware of the world of magic and danger that had been awaiting for her, though she knew that the life she would have otherwise lead would've been empty, meaningless; droll and uninteresting for the higher aspirations that Hermione held for her life.

Still, however, Hermione gave in once every so often and found herself amongst the muggles, her wand tucked deep into the recesses of her impossibly infinite pocket, finding herself caught up in the bright lights and swift pace that the muggles around her currently undertook. A small part of her wished to catch the tube to her old childhood home, where she'd spent many an afternoon holed up in her bedroom, listening to the sounds of the busy whilst she read.

Hermione found herself in depths of a Sherlock Holmes tale, curled up in the corner of one of her favorite little coffee shops, a hot cup of tea right beside her, her wild locks of curly, frizzy hair pulled up high and tight into a messy bun that was really more of a large tangle of hair that had some women wincing in pity to see, not a touch of makeup or cosmetics upon her already beautiful face. Hermione got over the phase in which she wished to change everything about herself, deciding once and for all that she was just fine the way she was. She was finally, after an entire lifetime of trying, satisfied with herself the way she was, unruly hair and all.

She tended to dress more for comfort than for style, which even in the wizard world earned her weird looks when people beheld her loose, oversized woolen sweater, baggy t-shirt and grey heather sweatpants, but she learned to ignore it. It didn't make a difference, anyways, not one lick of it. If people couldn't see past the exterior, then, in Hermione's mind, they probably weren't worth her time, anyways. Harry and Ron, the entire Weasley clan at that, had taught her that lesson.

Just the thought of Ron made her wince, remembering the mistake of a snog she'd given Ron at the Battle of Hogwarts, the snog that she desperately wanted to pretend never happened. Ron had initiated the kiss, and she was so elated that she'd done nothing to stop it, finally figuring that she had Ron. Of course, this wasn't the case—the snog wasn't so much as passionate and romantic more than panicked and slobbery, like she was kissing a cousin or, worse, her dad. She'd been wrong about something, quite the rarity actually: she was not in love with Ronald Bilius Weasley.

It was Fred who'd had her.

She had lost her virginity to Fred in a mistaken blur in fourth year, the night of the Yule Ball, which was known as the Night of Many Mistakes by most Hogwarts students. On a rush of elation, endorphins and rock 'n' roll, many students found themselves doing things with people they'd never expect to, Hermione no exception. She'd thought she would've done with Krum, of all people, but never Fred, who had been at the ball with Angelina Johnson. Fred had ditched his date when he'd found Hermione crying at the foot of the stairs in the Great Hall, sending Angelina off with George, and stayed with Hermione despite the fact that she refused to tell him what was wrong for the longest time. The ball ended at midnight, but she did not speak until nearly one-thirty.

When she finally got her distress off of her chest, Filch had come about and yelled at the pair of them for being in the way, forcing them to retreat to the Gryffindor common room, where Fred had continued to talk to her in order to calm her down, refusing to let her go to bed in anything less than high spirits, which was quite in character for the Weasley twin. Fred and George were both like that; despite their usually jocular nature they were both quite protective, especially over Hermione, who, despite being a killjoy sometimes, they both quite liked. Fred cared about her, deeply, and so he refused to sleep himself until Hermione was happy.

It had been two-forty, whereabouts, when Fred had kissed her. Neville Longbottom had come in, from where they weren't sure because, again, the ball had ended at midnight, asking them in a dopey sort of voice if they had a good night, but obliviously, he hadn't stuck about for the answer, instead moving through the common room with a certain kind of swagger towards the dormitory he shared with Dean, Harry, Ron and Seamus; a swagger which Fred had no hesitations in making fun of him for once Neville was out of earshot. Hermione had been aghast, she remembered, though slightly amused truth be told; smacking Fred lightly on the arm as punishment. Fred had only continued his relentless teasing behind Neville's back, which, as Hermione had only realized in the years to come, he'd done on purpose to gain more contact with Hermione. They had begun to wrestle, Fred grabbing at Hermione's hands to stop her from slapping him, which had drawn them close, so close, close enough that Hermione found herself nearly in his lap, their faces barely centimeters apart.

Fred had kissed her then, catching her by surprise; a small, closed-mouth pursing of lips pressing gently against her own in front of the roaring fire of the Gryffindor common room, snatching Hermione's very first kiss. Hermione had been shocked into silence, unable to respond until Fred had managed to snake his tongue into her mouth, forcing her into reaction.

Things had progressed steeply from there. The next morning, thankfully, Lavender and Parvati hadn't returned to the dorm yet, so they were spared of Fred's pale, bare bottom glistening in the early morning light that streamed through the window of her dormitory, his head nestled in the crook of Hermione's neck as he spooned her from behind, his ass towards the door, the blankets of the bed far across the room, along with the ripped remains of Hermione's once elegant, now ruined ball gown and Fred's equally demolished, formerly handsome tuxedo.

It was a mistake they'd promised not to make ever again.

It was a mistake they'd made thrice more: once when Umbridge had begun her punishments [torture] on the twins for their mischief, once again when Ron and Lavender became an item (which meant, yes, Fred had to sneak into the castle; it was Hermione's wish) and once more at the Shell Cottage before she left again with Harry and Ron to Bellatrix Lestrange's vault at Gringotts. Three of those times (if we include the first time, which we are) were actually done in Lavender's bed, but only once was of a vindictive means, which she admittedly regretted now, but then, she figured that it was just giving Lavender her just desserts.

She wasn't quite sure, now, how she couldn't figure out then that she felt beyond a love of siblings for Fred; couldn't figure it out before he'd been taken from her, but now, it was more than easy to see. With Fred, she was more able to be herself, more easily than even with Harry or Ron, because, and bless Harry and Ron, on a certain level Fred was just more capable at keeping up with her mind. Fred liked learning, too, though his learning was always more for pranks than for academic reasons, and he was often in the library, reading in a corner with George right beside him propping each other up. Hermione had taken to joining them from time to time, usually leaning against Fred's chest or with her head in his lap.

Oh, such simpler days were they! Days, seemingly endless, spent simply reading in the shockingly cozy silence of the library, next to two of the most unexpected partners… oh, how she wished she were there now, the adventures of Mr. Holmes in hand while Fred and George researched charms.

Speaking of the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle adventures, they no longer seemed to have her attentions. Hermione sighed, disappointed, putting the well-worn copy of The Sign of Four down on the small table besides her and instead choosing to nurse her warm mug of herbal tea between her two hands, taking a large drink from the contents, a happy smile growing on her lips despite the sadness that tugged at her heart. She looked out towards the hustle-and-bustle of London, watching the people rush about needlessly to little jobs that Hermione herself would never have to hold, endless little nine-to-five's that left them tired and stressed and ignorant to the true nature of the very world that was right at the edges of this bubble the muggles had developed.

Somewhere in this bustle were her own parents, whom, after tracking them to Australia and returning to them their memories, returned to their average day routine, although their relationship with their daughter was now stressed as they had realized just how much Hermione had shielded them from all these years. Hermione still came around for lunch with her parents, sometimes, but mostly, she stayed in the wizarding world, coming to the muggle world only rarely now. She wanted to give her parents time—time to come to terms with the person their baby girl had grown up to become, time to understand the things she'd been forced to do in order to keep the people she loved safe—because it was never like she'd wanted to make her own parents actually forget her, to erase herself from their lives like a bad stain on an otherwise spotless shirt.

Hermione sighed unhappily, curling in a little tighter, taking another gulp of the warm tea. She wanted to go home—not to her flat, rather, to the Burrow; which had become a safe haven for her over the past seven years, the Weasley family having adopted her as their very own. She wanted to go home to Harry and Ginny's quiet giggling and stupid, lovesick smiles, to Molly's fantastic cooking and Arthur's doleful muggle-induced oblivion, to Ron's aggressive eating habits and annoying snoring.

But, mostly, she wanted to go home to, surprisingly, George.

Now, before it can be mistaken, let it be pointed out that Hermione hadn't fallen in love with George as some sort of substitute for Fred. Hermione wasn't that kind of person; she wasn't so flippant. Despite how scarily similar the two were, Hermione had always identified Fred and George as two separate entities, though more often than not they came together; a set. Fred was Fred—arrogant to a near fault, yet sweet, caring; fiercely loving and protective down to his very marrow. And George was George—also arrogant, yes, and also as jocular, and just as fierce with his affections, but with his own set of idiosyncrasies that distinguished him.

George had this way of wringing his hands when he was nervous, as if they were beginning to ache and scream at him, which she found out later was actually the case, as George admitted; a byproduct of years of Quidditch. He also liked to nibble at the inside of his cheek, mostly out of boredom than nervousness, as if he always needed some way to captivate his mouth when his words were not being thrown out of it. He liked salmon more than cod, which was the reverse of Fred, something that had led to quite a bit of arguments, as Hermione was later privy to. He also had a problem with recognition sometimes; it took him just a bit longer to learn peoples' names than Fred had, and also made it harder for him to retain information, which was a primary reason that school had never quite held his interests, whereas with Fred it had more to do with a certain degree of laziness and rebellion; but for a few select subjects, like potions, George was able to suck in the knowledge like a sponge (and if it hadn't been for his lack of attendance, he would've surely been at the top of Snape's class). When he focused on something, more often than not one of his many inventions, he would tie his formerly long hair back and off of his face, his brow furrowing just the slightest as he lost himself in tinkering and creation.

There were many other things that made George so different from Fred, so many things that even the rest of his family hadn't come to realize, with the exception of Charlie, who Hermione had come to learn was possibly one of the most perceptive people she'd ever met, but Hermione found herself without a moment to think about it when she heard the coffee shop erupt into an intrigued buzz. Head lifting up in confusion, she found herself confronted with Ginny's patronus right outside her window, which was causing quite the scene due to its very form: a horse.

A horse configured of pure light and magic itself.

Outside of a coffee house.

Staring at Hermione, as if saying, Well, you're in quite the inconvenient place.

Hermione cursed her luck, drawing her wand and quickly casting the Obliviate charm amongst the small crowd and shoving the novel into her pocket, racing out of the shop without so much as paying for the tea which, when she recalled this act much later, would lead her to send the shop nearly double the charge, with a handsome tip.