Author's note:
I started writing this a while ago, but I figured I would post it now. This takes place years after the war.
The Disappeared
Chapter One
Arriving In Nowhere
The ticking registered vividly in her mind. The pained grunts, the angered crowd, the sickening thuds all echoed through the dingy bar, but it was all blurred. Except for the ticking. Out of everything, the tick-tock tempo of the wall clock stood out sharply as it kept time, and Hermione Granger could only count as the seconds passed.
God, how had she even found herself in this place? It was deafening, dirty, and, most of all, dangerous. She should have stayed outside, but it was so cold out in the late November night, and Hermione figured the barman would let her use a floo. No such luck. The only thing left to do was buy a drink and wallow. The shot of whiskey in her hand felt heavy, the weight of it suddenly made the situation a reality. One moment Hermione was walking towards the tavern in morbid curiosity, and the next she was amidst a crowd of rowdy patrons watching an underground boxing match. This was not happening. It just could not be happening.
But she was transfixed. Her vision was focused on the centre of the room, the sight before her drawing all her attention. The gore, the grime, and the glamour was grotesquely alluring. She shivered with anticipation. Typically, Hermione shied away from violence, but this was different.
He was different. George Weasley would always be different.
His back was to her; one arm raised above his head and the other reaching for his drink, but Hermione recognised him immediately. The way he leant against the caging in wait for the next fight. The way the sweat trailed down his spine with each breath. The way his fingers twitched against the bottle as he took a deep swig. And, though his face was hidden, Hermione knew without a shadow of a doubt, that the stormy blue eyes were frozen tides of stoic apathy.
Muscles tense, curls wild, chest bare. Her heart raced, beating against her ribs with manic rhythm. George never looked so rugged.
The announcer stepped in the ring, and the jeering worsened. The man was short and squat with dark hair thinning at the crown of his head. His sideways smile was sly as it slid up his cheek as he brought a microphone up to his lips. It became a wash of moments then. George was announced as reigning champion and the crowd cheered; half in glee and half in anger. Someone threw a beer bottle at the cage, the glass shattering with a crash of impatience, and Hermione jumped. The mob of rowdy men roared at the sound but hushed slightly when the announcer introduced George's opponent, Bubba.
A burly bald biker with a braided beard stepped into the cage. There was no way that George Weasley, master prankster and her former childhood friend, was about to duel with this brute. It felt unreal. Yet, George stepped forward and into the spotlight before her, a natural sight, but Hermione felt the twisted unease creep up her spine. Oh, it was real. And wrong. So very wrong.
This spotlight was more of a shadow, faded and empty, as it hung on a wire above the cage. A single bulb on a chord, a pendulum over his head, a silent tempo. Where was the blinding light? The one that eradicated everyone into the dark and left him encased in the heavenly glow was forgotten. The drawing magnitude was erased, and in its stead, a dim incandescent bulb swung, asking for nothing but blood.
His blood. This was not happening.
Quickly, Hermione gulped her drink, and with a hiss, she wiped the traces of liquor from her lips. The sting felt good, warm in her stomach, but she was still chilled. The beating of her heart drummed in her ears, and with eyes wide Hermione watched.
George was fluid grace, agile and quick, as he dodged another swing. The biker was large but slow, and apparently quickly tired. Something that George took advantage of. He kept moving, circling the ring with fists raised up for quick defence. The biker staggered to match the movement, throwing out wild punches, occasionally making contact with George who effortlessly glided them away. The crowd was growing restless with the pace of the fight and yelled out their disdain with colourful curses, but it did little to change George's plan.
Bubba stepped left abruptly breaking from the set arc, and for the first time since Hermione saw him that night, George smirked. His arrogance was on full display in that split second; the facade of ice cracking just slightly with an impending victory.
George parried quick and landed a right hook to the temple of the taller man. A groan escaped the biker, and he stumbled. George unleashed another punch. The left jab sent Bubba back in the other direction, only to meet the right jab again. It was an onslaught. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. And then finally an uppercut.
That was it. It was over. The biker fell back landing on the cage floor with a thud. The room was silent before bursting out into a mighty roar. Hermione was not quite sure whether it was in displeasure or satisfaction, but she hardly cared for anything except the relief that soaked through her.
George stood over the body, bloodied but victorious.
The announcer made his way through the drunken men, unlocked the cage, and stepped inside once more. The short, dark-haired man raised George's hand up above his head, and the horde hollered. But George did not seem phased.
He did not seem anything really. That one moment of smug emotion faded back into a blank mask. An entirely new type of indifference. It was apathetic instead of carefree. His eyes were piercing shards of frost and stared ahead at the bar. His lip was split in a gash and started to swell. His blood was running down his chin and dripped red onto his chest. He looked like a raw version of the boy she knew.
A boy broken into a man. He looked nothing like the George she remembered.
Hermione dropped her gaze to her lap. Coming here to wallow was probably not a good idea, she knew that. But with George before her now, the coincidence of this moment only highlighted the idiocy further.
"Well, what do we 'ave here?" Hermione shuddered as a slimy voice hissed in her ear.
A man with hallowed eyes and a creepy sneer leant against the bar top next to her. He was leering and, though he was thin, he looked frighteningly fierce. She looked away, picking up her drink in an attempt to ignore his company. "Pretty little bird ya're. I bet ya're pretty on your knees too." She flinched at his words but attempted to remain unmoved.
Coming here was definitely not a good idea.
"Don' be scared now, darlin'. I'll take good care of you." He reached out fast, gripping her chin and Hermione whimpered at the force.
"Back off, prick," the rough timbre cut through the stale smoky air, and Hermione instantly felt the fear ebb away.
"George," she sighed his name out like a prayer. Somehow she missed him approaching. Part of her wished she had been warned of his proximity, but the other part of her, the more rational part, could not care less. George found her, and just when she needed him most.
"It ain't non' of yer business," the man said strongly, but Hermione felt his fingers twitch with a slight apprehension. George was known here, he was respected here, and this slime was very aware of that fact. But he was determined. It was evident he was not going to give up easily, but it was just as obvious that he would eventually.
"Considering she's claimed, then yes, it is my business," another twitch flittered against her chin, the hold on her increasing before George added, "unless you would like to challenge that claim in the ring."
It was then she felt the tension in the air rise. She swallowed hard, nervous that the jerk holding her would accept the challenge. How did she willingly put herself in a bar where women were fought over like prizes?
The moment lasted a lifetime, but finally, his grip relented. With a shove, Hermione was sent backwards on the stool, and into George's chest. George made no move to steady her. He made no move at all. As if he expected the reaction, and it made him look far more menacing than her former captive. George was no gentleman. Not anymore. He showed no weakness and certainly no compassion. The man stepped forward, eying him, searching for something that Hermione did not know of.
"Wasn' me type anyway," he said darkly, still anticipating a reaction. But George remained indifferent. There was no surprise on his face, no emotion, no concern, and the man was left with no advantage. Looking back at Hermione, he spat on the ground below her seat, before walking the length of the bar and disappearing into the swarm.
A breath released from her throat and Hermione gazed at her rescuer.
"George, I—" she began, but George interrupted instantly.
"Get up." His tone was full of finality, and Hermione was on her feet in an instant. He motioned to the door with his head, and she took the cue. Giving the barman what she owed before walking towards the exit hurriedly, Hermione moved with speed, not even sure George followed. But he did.
Hermione was already outside and halfway through the parking lot when he emerged from the roadhouse. His speed was much more relaxed. She all but ran from the savage joint, while George calmly strutted through the building like he owed the place. Considering he was the night's champion, he kind of did. Slowing to a halt, Hermione took in the sight of him. A black t-shirt stretched across his once bare chest, a leather jacket fitted on top. His hair was longer than she remembered, but the wild, unruly strands were the same bright ginger. And his eyes, cobalt and rime, and shattered with silver green shards, were narrowed with a silent fury.
Suddenly, Hermione felt more exposed than she had when that creep lusted over her. The trench coat she wore fell to her knees, black boots meeting the hem. A black sweater dress rested on her mid thigh, exposing a strip of skin on her legs. Her hair was loose, waves falling down the sides of her face. But under George's stare, she felt naked.
Blushing slightly, Hermione looked down to her feet, nudging the pebble on the broken pavement with the toe of her boot.
"Thank you," she said softly when he met her in the empty lot. "I don't know what could have happened if you didn't interfere."
"What the fuck are you doing here?" The curt tone with which he spoke frightened her.
"I-I" she stuttered, nerves getting the best of her. Glancing up, she met his hard gaze, before looking away from the nothingness she saw. "I don't know."
"You don't know?" The annoyance was evident, the words dripping with malice.
"I needed a drink," Hermione explained.
"And a random pub at the end of Knockturn Alley was your pick?" he bit out, making her flinch. Hermione remained silent, her heart fluttering with anxiety. Oh, how she missed that sweet whisper. She longed for it, but George was so cold now. His voice laced with venom and condescension. This was not the way George used to speak to her. "I never pegged you for stupid, Hermione."
"I had nowhere else to go," she muttered recalling the event prior. The crisp fall air brushed by them, swirling the soft silence. Hermione shut her eyes, feeling the tears escape from the corners and roll down her cheeks. She made no move to brush them away. This was certainly not her choice. She hardly picked this place as her destination. It just so happened to be where her 'so-called' friends left her without her wand. She was stranded, and with a man whom may as well be a stranger now.
Hermione chanced another look. George's hand fidgeted, his thumb running up the length of a silver lighter. A cigarette was tucked behind his ear, his hair curling around the tobacco. His scrutiny softened into a study, looking at her with sadness that seemed so foreign to this new version of him. A version without his twin by his side. But he watched her like she was a puzzle and he was fitting the pieces together in his mind.
"Anywhere is better than here. Go home, Hermione," he said sternly, about to turn around, but stopped. He must have noticed something. "Where's your wand?"
"In Leeds, probably," her voice was dejected, broken, and hollow. Much like her eyes as they held his. The words echoed across the deserted London alleyway, and George visibly froze, the pregnant silence tightening with a contraction as her admission washed over them.
They were locked in a heated gaze, pulling each other back into a familiar place that was far from normal. Running his bruised fingers through his hair, George broke the connection. Scanning the lot before fixating on his bike on the far end of the bar, he sighed in defeat. He could not believe this was happening, neither one of them could.
"Come on," finally bringing himself to look at her again. She eyed him curiously. There was something different about him suddenly. The way he was watching her with a hesitant compassion, it was like the tender George from years past was back. Just a glimmer of him shone before the blanket of indifference fell again. But it was enough for her to follow after he said, "You can crash at my place tonight."
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