Author's Note: For The Twin Exchange's January challenge. Prompt: soup, New Year's, and the quote "Don't be thick." Not Rowling.
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George had been planning for this New Year's party since the calendars had barely been flipped to November, and it was going to be amazing. The best. No, better than the best. It was going to be the party people talked about for years, with jaws slackened and eyes glassy. It was going to be a night to remember.
A few weeks ahead, he began his preparation. He had created special pranks and products that would go into use at the party, to the user's knowledge or not, and were bound to shake things up. He planned everything, from the food to the ambiance to the guest list, and knew that he had created the perfect party. But then, disaster struck. It was the worst thing that could possibly happen to a Weasley, especially a Weasley twin. And it was an especially heinous punishment in light of the party that was occurring that night. He lost his voice.
He had tried everything, desperate to get it back in time. But, as the clock ticked down and the start loomed ever nearer, he realized there was nothing he could do. He might know an impressive amount of magic, but healing the inflammation of the throat was not a specialty, nor was it something he even vaguely knew how to do. As he paced around his room in relative silence, he debated his options.
Go to Saint Mungo's.
'Well,' he thought to himself, 'it's a bit trivial to be rushing off to the hospital. Additionally, Mum always said that you have to wait out a cold.' He frowned and moved on to the next option.
Cancel the party.
'There's no way in hell I'm doing that!' he thought vehemently. 'I worked too hard for too long for this party and there is no way some bloody cold is going to stand in my way!' He paused in his furious path around the room and frowned again. 'So what option is next?'
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George greeted his guests as he walked around the store, which had been cleared and enlarged for the night. To some he nodded and to others he beamed, shaking hands fervently and clapping many a back, but after the first half hour or so, he began to feel less than well. Pulling out a self-inking quill from the inside pocket of his stylish blazer, he pulled the scrap of parchment from his trouser pocket and wrote a quick note. He walked over to Lee, deftly avoiding those he knew would want to chat, and handed him the note.
Lee read it quickly and his bright smile fell as he looked up at his best friend. "Aw, mate, that's bloody awful. And you worked so hard on this!" He nodded sympathetically as George croaked, "I know!" "Well, you head on upstairs," he said, handing the scrap of parchment back to an obviously dejected George. "I'll take care of everything down here. You need to get your health back, mate."
George shuffled away, the slight sag in his shoulders telling of how much this was affecting him.
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As Hermione walked up to the store, she fidgeted with the folds of her jacket. She had known about this party-in-the-works for months now, but had been pleasantly surprised when George had invited her, and even more surprised when he did not include Ron and Harry into her invitation. Yes, they had also been invited, but he had extended an invitation to her not by owl or as a passing comment, as he had done with many of the other guests, but personally.
Hermione slowly walked around the sitting room, picking up all the loose scraps of wrapping paper that were strewn across the floor from unwrapping presents. Molly had gone upstairs to change into the new robes Arthur had gotten her, Arthur was enjoying a cup of tea in the kitchen, Fleur was nodding off in an armchair, her six month old baby asleep in her arms, and the rest of the family was outside in the snow. She didn't know why she didn't join them in their snowball fight; it would be great fun, but she supposed she was just not in that state of mind currently. As she moved towards the crackling fire, her arms full of crumpled up paper, she felt a hand rest softly on her shoulder. She whirled around, startled, dropping a few balls of paper as she did so. She heard a chuckle and the man bent down to retrieve them. As he stood back up, Hermione realized it was George.
"George, you gave me a fright!" she said, smiling.
"My apologies," he replied, a lazy smile playing beneath his sparkling blue eyes. He threw the papers into the fire and watched them catch flame before he looked back at her. "What's a nice girl like you doing inside on a day like this?" He winked.
"And I thought you were clever enough to come up with your own lines," she laughed.
"Oh right, that's not one of mine," he said, feigning consternation.
"Well, what are you doing inside? Shouldn't you be pelting someone with snow?" Her eyes widened and she turned from throwing papers into the fire. "You're not here to do that, are you? Because your mother-"
"I'm not here to bring the snowball fight inside, although that idea is inspired," he cut across, a mischievous glint lighting up his eyes. "I am here to ask you something."
"Haven't you already?" she teased.
He waved his hand in the air, as if to swat away her comment. "Details are unimportant. You have heard of my New Year's party, yes?"
"Naturally," she said, a small smirk playing on her lips. "It's all you've been talking about for the past month and a half."
"Are you coming?"
"I might make an appearance," she replied in a lofty voice, but her smile faltered when she saw he was watching her earnestly. "Wait…you're serious?"
"Of course I'm serious."
"Wow…um…this is new," she mumbled. "Are you saying you'd like me to be there?" She looked up to see him watching her, an emotion she couldn't pinpoint playing across his face.
"Yes, Hermione. I'd like you to be there."
"Oh." That was rather unexpected. "Well, then I'll be sure to be there." He smiled at her and she realized, rather late, that she had thrown all the paper away a while ago and was now simply standing close to George.
"See you there, Granger." He smiled and began to turn, but suddenly turned back. "Oh, and one other thing..." Before Hermione knew what had happened, George had thrown a handful of icy snow in her face and run off, cackling madly.
As she got closer to the store, she heard the rumble of music and many voices, and, as the store came into view, she again fidgeted with her coat. She had not known what the proper attire was to the party, and had voted on dressing up rather than down. She was not usually seen in dresses and heels, usually preferring sweaters and trainers, but tonight she had made an exception. As she walked in the door, her ears were assaulted by the sheer volume of the talking and music combined. She was more than a little flummoxed and was immediately seized by the fleeting and immature urge to turn around and head back to the quiet and privacy of her small flat. Just as she began to feel as though she should act on that urge, Lee Jordan materialized from the crowd, his caramel eyes dancing and a bright smile on his face.
"Granger! So glad you could make it!" He moved forward and gave her a brotherly hug.
"Hello Lee," she said, grinning; she had always found his happiness infectious. "Where's George?"
"Well, I'm not supposed to tell any of the guests, strictly speaking, but since it's you-"
"What happened?" she cut across, her brow furrowing slightly in worry.
"Our host has caught cold and lost his voice." He grinned as he caught Hermione trying desperately to fight the smile that was starting at the corners of her lips. "Yes, it is funny in a way, as it is George we're talking about."
"Where is he?"
"Upstairs," he said, jerking his thumb towards the back of the store. "The apartment should be open."
He smiled at her and she headed off, weaving her way through the throng of partiers. She finally got to the back rooms and quietly let herself through, closing the door behind her before heading up the stairs to the flat above. She knocked twice before opening the door but, knowing George could not yell, she let herself in anyways. She scanned the room and found him. Actually, she found a mass of blankets on the couch, from which the top of a head of ginger hair could be seen.
"George?" she asked quietly as she headed over. She heard a faint moan and headed forward quietly, stopping in front of the heap of blankets and pillows. "George? It's Hermione."
The blankets moved suddenly, covering his hair and thus his whole head disappeared under green plaid. She laid her hand softly on where she had last seen the top of his head. "George? Are you okay?"
There was a wracking cough and the blankets tightened around him, leaving Hermione with the fleeting impression of a child trying to hide from his parents when told to get out of bed. "Enough. I'm training to be a Healer and you very well know that. Let me see how you're doing," she said in a stern voice, hoping that this tactic would work better than quiet concern.
There was an audible sigh, and the blankets shifted, revealing George, his short hair ruffled, his cheeks flushed and the corners of his mouth turned down. "Thank you," she said softly. She put her palm to his forehead and her lips pursed. "George, how long have you been feeling like this?"
He grimaced as he tried to talk, managing the words two days before squeezing his eyes shut and swallowing hard. She felt a stab of sympathy and leaned forward, her hand resting softly on his cheek. He looked over at her, surprised, and she pulled her hand away, feeling she must have upset him. "George, you have a bad fever. Go and take a cool shower and after, I'll work on getting you to feel better." She smiled at him, earning a small smile in return that immediately turned into a grimace as he coughed. He stood up, pushing the blankets off of him, revealing his now-rumpled charcoal trousers and white dress shirt. "You didn't even change?" she asked, rather incredulous. He shot her a look of exhaustion that silenced any further comments before shuffling off in the direction that Hermione assumed was towards his bathroom. As Hermione heard the shower begin to run, she looked around the room. 'Well, this won't do,' she thought to herself. She headed over to the coat rack, hung up her green trench coat, and, with a flick of her wand, began tidying up the room.
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By the time George made his way back into the living room, Hermione was washing cutting boards, a soup already bubbling on the small stove. She didn't notice his reappearance until he showed up next to her with a piece of parchment and a quill. She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to see What are you doing? "I'm making you a soup. It will help with your throat."
He nodded before scribbling on the parchment again. This time it read More importantly, what are you wearing? She looked up from the paper to see a small smile playing around his lips, his eyes brighter than before, despite his flushed face. She looked back at the soup, trying not to blush. "I didn't know how to dress for the party. I assumed up was better than down." Her hand unconsciously and unnecessarily smoothed the skirt of her curve-hugging raspberry dress. She heard scratching and turned to see another note: It's a lovely color on you. She shot him a reluctant grin. "Who knew you could still flatter without your voice?"
He grinned and headed to the couch, wrapping a blue striped blanket around his shoulders and leaning heavily against the arm of the sofa, his face falling back into a look of discomfort. She followed and sat next to him. "Alright. Let me take a look at you." He turned obligingly and subjected himself to her tests, her poking and prodding, and her requests that he say 'ahhh'.
"Well," she said finally, "you as always are unique. You don't have a sore throat so much as inflamed vocal cords. Probably from you wagging your tongue too much. I can stop the swelling and start the healing, but it won't suddenly get better magically." He smirked at her and she rolled her eyes. "Okay, that was a bad way of phrasing that, I admit. What I'm saying is that you can't rush down to your party immediately. You're still not one hundred percent. Okay?" He nodded and she started to work. She could tell by his expressions that it wasn't the most comfortable of processes, which she could understand, but she knew it would be helpful in the end. "Alright," she said as she finished. "Now you need to lie down for a while. I'll bring some soup over – it will help soothe your throat." She bustled off, not knowing that her bum, rather than her words, was the focus of her patient.
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"Come on." He shook his head furiously. "Come on!" He shook his head again. "George!" she said harshly, you need some soup. It will help with your throat." She fought, trying to get the bowl near him without him knocking it out of her hand. "Don't be thick, George! Just eat the bloody soup!" He paused and looked at her in surprise.
"You cursed," he whispered, so quietly it was almost unintelligible.
"Yes, I did. Now will you please eat?"
He gave her an appraising look before smiling. He moved his hands from underneath the blankets and took the bowl out of her hands. Without so much as a grimace, he started to eat. He looked up at her and grinned. She pursed her lips, as if trying to bite back an angry retort.
"You're infuriating, you know that?"
He winked.
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It was half past eleven, and George was lying on the couch reading quietly while Hermione dozed off in the chair next to him. She had been upstairs with him for three hours now, never once mentioning a want to return to the party downstairs, for which he was grateful. He knew he was stubborn when it came to illnesses and he usually wanted to be alone, not liking people fussing over him, but he appreciated Hermione's presence. He of course was thankful for the spellwork she had done, which had his throat feeling almost back to normal, but he was most thankful for the fact that she was here, taking care of him. She had come up, made him soup, taken care of him, and kept him company, all without being asked. He didn't know what had made her do it, but he was appreciative all the same. He was almost positive that she did not know about his feelings for her, the feelings that had slowly been burgeoning for a while now, and he wasn't sure what to make of how she seemed to feel about him. He watched her sleeping peacefully for a while, smiling softly as her lips twitched, as if she was trying to smile while she slept, but as soon as she seemed to rouse from her sleep, his eyes flicked down to his book. He heard her breathe deeply and yawn before sitting up straight.
"I'm sorry. I must have drifted off. How long was I asleep?" she asked as she stood up and stretched, her raspberry dress lifting a couple inches. Half hour?, his parchment said. They both looked at the clock and were taken by surprise – it was two minutes to midnight, two minutes to the New Year.
He patted the spot on the sofa next to his and began to scribble on the parchment again. He showed it to her a second later, once she had sat down next to him.
"'What's your resolution?'" she read out. She bit her bottom lip, thinking for a moment. "I think I'll resolve to take more chances. The good kind, of course." She grinned and looked at him. "What about you? What's your resolution?"
He looked at the clock. Thirty seconds to midnight. "I resolve to get you sick," he said, his voice raspy and deeper than usual.
"What?"
Before she had time to ask any more, George moved forward, placing his hands softly on her cheeks, his fingertips buried in her curly hair, and kissed her softly on the lips. He broke the kiss and moved his face back from hers. She stared at him for a moment, not saying a word. "Please say something," he said, wincing slightly as the words sliced at his throat.
"I don't mind getting sick," she said quietly, a shy smile playing around her lips. He beamed and moved forward again, kissing her fiercely as he buried one hand in her hair, the other searching out the small of her back, ecstatic that she was kissing him back. She smiled into the kiss, sufficiently breaking it.
"You do realize I expect you to take care of me if I do get sick, right?"
He grinned. "Don't be thick, Granger. Of course I'll take care of you." And he truly meant it.