Unbelievable! What in Godric's name could have caused Professor McGonagal, with all her sage wisdom, to assign a project like this. She must be going mental or senile, maybe both.
Hermione looked up from her notes, hoping that no one had magically heard her thoughts. The a fore mentioned assignment, detestable as it seemed, was a real, to-be-graded project due on Monday. It was a multi-level, 4-7th year's project. It entailed going to Hogsmeade with an assigned partner to learn diplomacy. As noble as the idea of leaning how to get along with someone who you usually do not, may be. Why did she, Hermione Granger, have to be paired with George Weasley? One half of the Weasley Twins, someone who could care less about grades, and not to mention the aging potion fiasco during the Try-Wizard tournament.
"Oh, 'Mione," purred a voice from behind her, George's voice.
"What? George," she snapped, a bit harsher that she'd intended.
In spite of her tone, he took it in stride and with a grin he replied, "What time should I pick you up for our date?"
It only took a fraction of a second for her to answer. (You may credit that to many years of practicing witty retorts on Malfoy.)
"George, I'm not going on a date with you," she replied in a tone that could only be described as McGonagal-ish.
"How very undiplomatic of you. May I remind you that 'refusal to participation in this project will ear you an automatic Troll'," he said in his own imitation of Professor McGonagal. (I wonder if there is a Minerva McGonagal impersonation contest?) Hermione hardly managed to not roll her eyes.
"Fine, I'll-," she attempted to reply and to assure him (and herself, somewhat) that this was not going to be a date. However, George thought it pertinent to cut her off.
"Fantastic, I'll meet you at the Three Broomsticks at 2," he finished.
She tried to say more, but he had slipped into the Great hall, leaving her alone in the empty entrance hall.
That Saturday, Hermione Granger sat in a booth at the Three Broomsticks. George Weasley was nowhere to be seen.
Figures, he would do this. No responsib-
Hermione's thoughts were silenced as George walked through the door.
"Finally! Where were you?" she asked with an austere look on here face. George ignore the question, slid into the seat across from her, and made a gesture toward Madam Rosmerta.
"We need to work on our assignment. I've already taken the liberty of writing up a couple of question and answer worksheets to complete-," as important as these worksheets were to her, she stopped when Madame Rosmerta set down two glasses that were filled with something that was definitely not butter beer.
"What-what is that?" she asked, slightly stuttering.
"Firewhiskey," he answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, "Rosie is quite fond of Fred and I."
"But...that's illegal. We'll get expelled!" she chastised, whispering slightly.
"Hermione, don't be a prude, this assignment isn't about getting to know each other. It's about getting out of our comfort zones," he replied, smoothly sliding one glass in front of her.
His response surprised her. First of all, George had actually thought intelligently about a school project. Secondly, that he was kind of right. Hermione must of had a momentary lapse of reason or had been imperio-ed, because she actually took a sip. Although, she had to cough for more than a minute to be able to breathe again. A treacherous grin spread onto the lips of George Weasley, never a good sign...
Ow, my head is killing me. Where am...
Oh, my dorm. Why am I here.
Hermione opened the curtains that surrounded her bed. A daily prophet that was sitting on the dresser indicated that it was Sunday. She couldn't exactly remember how she had happened between the Three Broomsticks and now. Hermione got ready and stormed out of the dorm. George had some explaining to do.
"Blimey, 'Mione? Why are you poking at me?" asked a very confused George.
"I need you to pay attention," fumed Hermione, further adding to George's confusion, "What did you do to me yesterday?"
"Me? I did nothing! You, however, were very naughty," he replied with a smirk.
Diplomacy. Don't. Kill. George.
"Alright, what did I do?"
"Hmmmm, I don't think I'm going to tell you," he teased.
"Just tell me...how much did I drink," she asked hesitantly.
"Only 2...or six bottles," his answer was met with a groan from Hermione, but she quickly recovered.
"Well, if I had to get out of my comfort zone, so do you," she said as if she had accomplished something monumental, "You will help me write this essay in the library at 4 pm, today."
George mad a valiant effort to argue with her, but this time it was Hermione slipping away to leave him to his thoughts.
That afternoon Hermione was, once again, waiting on George. But, it didn't take to much time for him to show up.
"I'm surprised, I didn't think you knew where the library was," she jabbed playfully.
"Ah, I'm wounded, but Fred and I frequent the library quite often. Did you know that there's a pool hidden in here, no? I would have thought you would have noticed, seeing how you almost live here," he said equally playful. (Sorry, if you don't get this Doctor Who reference.)
"Great, start working on an outline."
The pair of Gryffindors worked in silence for quite a while. George, with an ever-present, smug expression on his face, jotted down words onto his scroll. Hermione, however, was trying to stare a hole through his head.
"You know, Hermione, if you wanted to ask me something, you could just do it," George's voice echoed off of the walls of books that surrounded them.
"I know that you're not telling me something. You will tell me what we did last night," Hermione replied, her voice rising enough to get the attention of Madam Pince, who promptly shushed them.
"Will you at least give me a hint," she begged.
"Nope," he answered, not even glancing up from his paper, but smiling a bit wider.
"Please, one little hint?" Her voice was giving way to desperation.
He seemed to ponder this for a moment.
"Let's just say that you really showed your fondness for me," he answered suggestively.
It was clear to Hermione that George was not going to tell her anymore. But, the question had multiplied for Hermione. What the hell had she done.
Stupid George and his stupid unhelpful hints.
Hermione stepped out of the showers of the Prefect's bathroom, wrapped a towel around herself, and hurriedly ran a comb through her tangled hair. She began to throw on clothes, but quickly stopped, noticing a small mark on her left buttock. She turned around in front of the mirror, craning her neck to get a better look.
OH. MY. GODRIC...
Hermione's eyes met a small, obviously magically animated tattoo staring right back. The small image began moving from her buttock onto her hip. Her memories from the night before flooded back. George's hint suddenly made sense.
George decided that a bath sounded like a lovely idea. Thank Godric for knowing the password to the prefects bathroom. Interesting design, the prefects bathroom. The girl's and boy's sections were actually just one room, divided by a disillusionment veil. You couldn't see to the other side, the veil just acted like a mirror. The room was completely silent, well, it was until the silence was broken by a certain Gryffindor witch.
"A WEASEL, Merlin's pants...A weasel...I'm. Gonna. Kill. Him."
I guess she finally noticed.
George chuckled to himself, as a small tattoo of an otter danced across the skin between his right peck and collerbone.