A/N: Well, kids, I'm back. Hacking away and renovating She'd Be Happy until it's as good as I can get it. Because yes, I did only write it two years ago, but when I was reading it just before it sounded like I was so much younger. So, because I have matured, I think the story has too (this does include slightly more mature language, so if you're uncomfortable with the occasional f-bomb, get out while you still can).
Also (I've copied and pasted this straight from my profile):
I wasn't going to post any of this until I'd finished rewriting the whole thing, but I'm stuck on Chapter 12 and every time another person favourites this story, a part of me dies thinking they could have read the better version. So now I'm posting what I've rewritten, and hopefully I'll finish the rest off soon! C:
So without further ado, I present to you the completely edited and partially rewritten: She'd Be Happy.
Chapter One: She was practically foaming at the mouth.
"Hello, George."
Oh good grief, not Romilda Vane. Why didn't he have a date for this party? He had a whole bloody week to find one!
George watched in silent agony as the much younger girl sidled up to where he was lounging and propped herself onto the arm of the battered recliner opposite. Her eyelids heavy, she gazed at down at him as she crossed her legs. The tight red thing she wore rode up her thighs. Urgh, as if returning to school wasn't bad enough.
"It would seem you have almost enough employees to run the store without you!" his mother had joked one morning. A week later: "I think I'd feel much better – perhaps – knowing that all my children have gone through a complete secondary education. To start off what will be a prosperous life, I'm sure..." And then, completely out of the blue (though he really should have seen it coming, what with weeks of such hints and encouraging smiles and even seemingly spontaneous extra servings of dessert): "What do you say, boys – would you like to go back to Hogwarts?"
He would have said no, really he would've. In fact, he would have opened his mouth and let loose a roaring string of passionate refusals (along with accusations of mental illness) if it weren't for Molly Weasley and her exceptionally baked pumpkin pies. And that watery, trembling look she worked so well. And the worst part? Fred was a sucker for a good slice of pumpkin pie as well. Why couldn't it have been plum pie? George might've been able to resist that. Possibly. And then he wouldn't be stuck on this bloody couch, staring at the horrifically caked face of Romilda sodding Vane.
"Hi Romilda."
She gave a high-pitched giggle and somehow, her dress managed to become even shorter. Any second now, George was going to become privy to the secret of Romilda Vane's choice of panties. And it was a secret he did not wish to learn. Merlin – okay, he wielded an irresistible rugged handsomeness. Okay, he told thigh-slappingly hilarious jokes. Okay he was intelligent, successful, suave, could beat a bludger right out of a Quidditch pitch and was possibly everything any women could ever want all bundled up into a tall, well-chiselled package. Okay. But that was no reason to choose George Weasley out of every other adolescent crammed into the Gryffindor Common Room. There was always Fred! And where was Harry? That kid should have created more than enough of a distraction by now.
George managed a strained smile as Romilda threw herself into another fit of hiccup-y giggles. He squirmed. He hadn't even said anything funny, and she was practically foaming at the mouth. Bloody hell, should he call Madame Pomfrey?
"Are you enjoying yourself?" she asked inquisitively once she seemed to have calmed down. Her eyes were wide and her mouth stretched into a wide, thin smile that she might have practiced in the hope of seduction, but really just made her look as if she were struggling on the toilet bowl.
"Of course," George replied, despite his uncomfortableness. "What better way for the seventh years to celebrate the start of their seventh and final year. Don't you think?" George frowned, as though something just occurred to him. "Wait, what year are you in again?"
If what he remember was right, probably fifth or sixth. Exclusive party his arse.
Romilda snickered nervously before pouting her lips into yet another Toilet Cubicle expression. She drawled, "What year do you think?" and leant forward just enough for her already plunging neckline to droop even lower. George's eyes shut of their own record before nineteen years of a polite upbringing pried them back open.
"Ohh, I don't know," George heard himself saying, though his mind was miles elsewhere. Maybe if he left now, she'd get the hint and leave him alone. Was that being too optimistic? He hoped not.
"Listen," he began, smiling apologetically, "why don't we schedule this game of Twenty Questions for later, because is it just me or is it really heating up in here? I could definitely do with a drink ..." Yes, splendid idea. Absolutely spiffing. He rose casually from his seat but barely got vertical before Romilda's manicured hands all but shoved him back down. He landed with an involuntary 'oof!'. Was it normal for a girl's hands to be so well-built?
"Wait just a second," Romilda was saying, her voice breathless and exhilarated as if she'd just done a lap of the entire campus. "Were you planning on setting a date to continue it? Because we wouldn't want any confusion now, would we?" She giggled, still speaking with a slight pant.
Continue what? When had George implied he wanted to continue anything with – oh. Oh for the love of Merlin's great hairy arse, not a Twenty Questions date! George stared at his tormentor incredulously. How could he possibly get the message across without her deteriorating into a blubbering, squealing mess of mascara and fake nails?
She was awaiting an answer, and George's usually quick-thinking was really letting him down. He let his eyes roam slightly, relying on his peripheral vision to find everything and anything to get him the hell of there.
Why did adolescent parties always have to be so sodding loud? Music pumped from bewitched speakers the size of Hagrid's head, and as if that wasn't headache inducing enough, the incessant talk and laughter of enthusiastic Gryffindors definitely did the trick.
Hermione stood at the drinks table, bitterly watching the horribly happy people chatter away like chattering chatterers, obviously having the time of their pathetic little lives. Parties were stupid creations. Designed for those who had nothing better to do with their lives than be a nuisance. Wankers, the lot of them.
Her eyes travelled to a mass of dancing bodies at the foot of the boys' staircase. Yes, there was Seamus and Neville – and a random person – Ginny and Harry, Ron and Lavender – a random person – Pavarti and –
Hermione spun around abruptly and screwed her eyes tight shut, fingers clenching the table edge. She'd made a vow and was going to stick to that vow. She'd promised herself she wasn't going to think about him, and so she wasn't. She wasn't thinking – wasn't thinking – wasn't thinking of Tyler Chete.
Tyler Chete.
Tall, rough-palmed, brown-haired, green-eyed, cute, polite, smart, everything she'd ever wanted Tyler Chete. Everything she'd ever wanted – ever needed – for a whole blissful year and she'd thought so much longer. But Tyler Chete – Tyler Chete – he'd loved her, hadn't he? Yes, he had. He'd told her. She'd told him, too. She'd loved him over the holidays too. Never thought of anything or anyone else. But Tyler Chete – Tyler had loved someone else over the holidays.
Tyler Chete was history.
Ginny was right – it was a great idea for her to come to this party. This party would do her some good. This party, she'd forget all about him and she'd just have some fun. Let her hair down, literally and metaphorically. Fun was good. Fun was – fun.
Hermione allowed herself to slowly turn back around. Keeping her back to the makeshift dance floor, she looked for someone with whom she could spend her Fun Night with. Of course, her companion would have to be someone fun, yet not someone who was going to get her so inebriated she could no longer spell the three-letter word. Her search was fairly narrowed down.
Ew, what was Romilda Vane doing here? Hermione did a double-take upon noticing the unwanted guest. She smirked. Eating some great roll of red stuff, by the looks of it. Ooh, and talking to George! Hermione smirked, feeling sorry for the twin as he squirmed under Romilda's intense gaze. How she still managed to look so serious while stuffing that great delicacy in her gob was a feat Hermione commended. Her mind was running a factual documentary on it when Romilda guffawed suddenly and a Hulk-sized drop of the mystery redness plopped onto her exposed cleavage. Hermione turned in an effort to hide her snort and proceeding sniggers.
When she looked back to the awkward couple, Romilda was hastily scrubbing at her chest, red-faced and giggling nervously. Hermione caught George's eye, who was taking advantage of Romilda's bent head to scour the area for any means of escape. Upon locking with hers, his eyes instantly widened and he desperately mouthed "Help me!"
Hermione giggled. It was his fault for sitting by himself, really. He'd just gone and created the perfect little prey in himself. Hermione poked her tongue out at him, earning herself a glare. "Please!" he mouthed again, though it was less of a plead than a threat by the way his eyes glinted with warning.
Hermione grinned before making a huge performance out of rolling her eyes, shrugging and miming "Okay."
George grinned in triumph and opened his mouth to signal something else when Romilda's head snapped upright and he jumped back into his casually attentive position, leaving her to plot his rescue on her own.
Knowing there couldn't be much time before Romilda jumped George altogether, Hermione quickly poured out two drinks. Hopefully George would catch onto her hastily put together scheme without the need for too many facial queues (because everyone knows that obvious facial queues are the demise of all otherwise ingenious plans). Hermione pulled her dress about her body so that she looked a little less single (or was frigid the word she was looking for?) and a little more desirable. Taking the two drinks in her hand, she walked – no, sashayed – slowly but purposefully towards George and Romilda.
"Alright," she chirped, cutting into whatever nonsense Romilda was blabbering on about. "I've got a punch for me, and a butterbeer for you, babe." She handed the drink to a slightly stunned George, fighting the urge to cringe at her own words. After all, she couldn't remember the last time she'd called anyone 'babe'. Nevertheless, she continued, "Drink that one slowly okay, because I don't want you passing out on me tonight. I've got other plans for you," she lowered herself onto the couch – so close she was practically in his lap – and winked at him cheekily. Again, a large part of her shuddered on the inside but she quickly assured that part that it was okay. She was just helping out George. Just helping out a friend.
Romilda was glowering at Hermione so openly that it made her almost want to throw her hands into the air and give a weeping confession, but George was already slinging a warm, heavy arm across her shoulders.
"Thanks love," he said, pulling her close and placing a quick, chaste kiss on her cheek. Beyond her control, Hermione's entire face coloured at the contact. He was really getting into the role, wasn't he? But she could push those uncomfortable thoughts from her mind, because she was only doing this for a few moments. Only enough for her to help him out. Only enough for Romilda to get the sodding hint and take her short dress and fake tits to Slytherin, 'cause they sure as hell weren't wanted here.
With that heart-warming thought in mind, Hermione beamed up at George. He smiled warmly back, sea blue eyes twinkling.
"So, who's this?" she asked, turning her smile to Romilda Vane politely. The younger girl looked like she was going to throttle Hermione at any second.
"Oh," started George, as if she'd completely forgotten she was there. "You remember Romilda, don't you? Romilda Vane?"
Hermione widened her eyes theatrically, feeling as if she should be nominated for an Oscar she was just so good at this.
"Oh yeah!" she cried, widening her smile. "Romilda!" Then she frowned, "Wait, but you're not in seventh year, are you?"
Hermione found herself fighting a smirk as Romilda went a bright red. "Yes, well –"
"Don't worry, we won't tell anyone," she said, a bit surprised she was being so nice. George's arm was still around her shoulders and she cuddled up to him, thinking that choosing Romilda to have fun with was the best idea she had had all day. But not because she got to cuddle up next to George. Because really, she was still quite apprehensive about the whole situation. It was the look on Romilda's face that made Hermione feel like bullying should be a recognized sport all around the globe. She looked like she was having difficulty deciding whether she should smile at Hermione or just stare her down like a bull. Hermione would have been more content with the glare, actually. After all, tonight was her night of fun.
"Hey, sweetheart," George interrupted Hermione's thoughts; "Romilda and I were just talking about organising a little gathering to play Twenty Questions," he said. "You'll come, won't you?"
"Actually," said Romilda swiftly, standing up. "I don't think I'll be able to make it. Sorry. I'll see you around then…"
"...And then there were two," breathed George, as they were left with nothing but an empty armchair as an audience to their performance.
"Wow," remarked Hermione. "We're good."
"Oh yeah," George smiled down at Hermione. "You and I; we're bloody brilliant."
Hermione had never actually noticed how nice George's eyes were. They began in a dark, oceanic blue around the pupil before fading out into a lighter shade, only to be cut off by a green ring. That same green reappeared in random flecks throughout the iris, as if someone had sprinkled green glitter over a shimmering blue lake. Wow.
"Oi, George! Fou's gonna stuff ten whole chocolate frogs in his mouth! He's already got four in there already… it'll astound you how far apart those lips can stretch!"
George abruptly lifted his arm off Hermione's shoulders as Fred came loping up to the two from behind. Hermione felt her face heat as she pushed herself upright (she had been leaning quite heavily against George) and shuffled along the couch until she was a respectable distance away from him.
"Absolutely astonishing, that boy," George agreed as Fred grinned at Hermione in greeting. "Well, thanks for helping out with that little… we'll call it a nuisance, shall we?" George said to Hermione, rising from the couch. "You saved not only my night, but possibly a night of complete boredom for you too, and therefore I expect I'm freed from any blackmail or mockery that may result of this… fiasco, and we shall never speak of it again – deal?" Hermione glared at George but it was wasted as he deflected it with a cheeky grin and waggling eyebrows. "Deal."
"You slippery little git!" she called over the couch as George followed his brother to a large crowd of seventh years gathered near the Portrait hole. He squinted as he turned around and cupped a hand to his ear.
"What's that?" he shouted with a blithe smile spreading over his face. "I – I can't seem to hear you over all this ruckus! What a shame…"