George was dirty, and not in a good way.

At first it seemed fine, maybe even endearing—a pile of spellbooks there, a mound of dirty balled up socks there—but in time, it just became grating. Granted, it probably hadn't been Harry's wisest move to shack up with his new boyfriend so shortly into their relationship. It was wise, he thought, to hold onto Grimmauld Place in case this ended. And he always knew it would. But he didn't know how to do it, which was unfortunate, considering he was going to have to be the impetus.

By all accounts, George was completely satisfied, even still a bit starry-eyed, in regards to their relationship. And in some sense, Harry didn't blame him. The sex was brilliant, the banter was great, and the daily routine was kind to both of them, particularly George: shagging in the morning, working during the day, Harry taking a break to cook in the late afternoon, dinner, a film or Top Gear reruns, another shag, and then bedtime. It was comfortable, sure, but all those habits, the messiness, the refusal to discuss anything serious without turning it into a joke, and the lack of willingness to leave the house or shop with any kind of regularity. They'd only been together two months, but to Harry, it felt like he'd been putting up with it for years.

And that was how he found himself in Hermione's living room, sipping a cup of tea laced with amaretto and explaining his perceived problems to the only best friend he still had in England. Ron had moved to California with Oliver after school ended, and Harry and Hermione had hardly heard a word from him since. Hermione herself was supposed to be on research holiday with Draco, but that had been called off abruptly only days before. When Harry asked if they were still together, Hermione shrugged.

"I don't think so, no, judging by what we called each other last time we were together," she said, and that was the end of that discussion. "We're here to talk about you, though, Harry."

"Right. Well. I think you understand the situation. George is great, but probably not great for me."

Hermione nodded. "He's holding you back, right? There's so much more you could be doing than helping run the shop and making dinner."

"And shagging. We still have shagging," Harry added. Hermione rolled her eyes and he grinned. "Sorry. Just looking at the bright side here."

"Do you agree, though?" she asked.

"Yeah, I suppose. I dunno, though. I just looked at him one day and thought, 'This really isn't right.'"

"That's almost exactly what happened with Draco and me," said Hermione. "We were talking about the physical properties of the lethifold and the body it leaves behind post mortem—"

"Of course you were."

"And then he looked at me with the oddest expression and commented that the only person he knew with worse hair than mine was you—"

"Oi! Why'd he have to say that?"

"And then I told him that he should go back to slicking his back so people can see just how rodent like his features are, and I don't even know where that came from, Harry, I don't!" she said hastily as Harry laughed over her words. "And then he said there was somewhere he needed to be, and I asked where, and he said, 'Anywhere but here with you,' and he gathered his things and he Apparated and that was the end of that."

"I'm really sorry, Hermione."

"It's fine," she said. "And I actually mean that. It's like he meant nothing to me all of a sudden."

"That's how I feel about George, and that's what gets to me," said Harry. "He still thinks he loves me, but how can he when I don't feel anything more than entertained by him?"

"The sex is entertainment, then?"

"Well, for lack of a better descriptor..."

"You can be quite a prat sometimes, Harry Potter."

"Oh, I know that. Your former love has told me that on more than one occasion."

"That sounds awful, doesn't it?" Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Draco Malfoy, my former love."

"This is still all your fault, you know," said Harry, summoning a butterbeer from the fridge, opening it up, and taking a swig. "You and that damn fan fiction."

"I know, I know," she said wearily. "I tried to stop it and you know that. And thanks for asking for the butterbeer."

"Hey, we both have an open refrigerator policy and you know it."

"I do." Hermione looked at him fondly. "So are you going to break up with George, then?"

"Kind of seems like I should, doesn't it?"

"Is it odd to you that we both lost interest in our respective boyfriends around the exact same time?" Hermione asked slowly, as though she was figuring something out as she spoke.

Harry shrugged. "Maybe."

"I mean, we're looking at the exact same day. You said Tuesday, right?"

"Right."

"Very odd, really," said Hermione, narrowing her eyes. "Do you think..."

"No idea, Hermione." Harry put down his bottle and picked up his wand, which had been resting on the table next to him. "I'm going to go home and break up with my boyfriend now, if you don't mind."

"Good luck."