A/N: I so rarely write light-hearted stuff, but this is pure fluff. I love this pairing so hard, and yet there's little of it in the fandom. I've always felt that our girl needed a Weasley, but not necessarily *that* Weasley. The writing prompt for this was "A girl grows wings. Nothing else about her changes, and no explanation seems forthcoming about where the wings came from. What is more, they seem to have a mind of their own..."
Slight Drunk!Neville was wonderful to write. I should borrow him more often. Also! If anyone draws, I would love for someone to create something for this one-shot. It's probably the first time I've written something that felt so visual. I'd love you forever and owe you loads.
Anyway- enjoy!
Wings in the Morning
By: carpetfibers
George Weasley dimly heard the raucous assault on his front door from beneath three layers of blankets and a thick stupor. The pounding ran in sync with the gifted headache the prior night's festivities left him. He had vague memories of an unmarked bottle of wine, overly sweet floating cocktails and at least three shots of an iridescent faerie nectar that Neville Longbottom swore had been harvested only a week earlier.
He stumbled from his bedroom and past the kitchen, grabbing at the sober-up potion he must have left out for himself, and then swung his door open, glaring blearily at the feminine figure standing there. He took in the crazed jumble of near-curls, the flushed cheeks and the fairly burning brown eyes before registering a name with the face.
Hermione Granger: war hero, his baby brother's ex-fiancee, political activist, and current bane of his existence. It wasn't her fault, not directly, he supposed, but George had good reason to want to avoid her, and having her show up at his flat first thing in the morning looking like she'd just finished a long run wasn't helping.
"Granger," he greeted, voice cracking on the second syllable.
She barrelled past him without replying. Once in his den, she began drawing close his curtains and shutting any other doors that allowed in sunlight. Only when the room was fully drawn in shadow did she face him, her expression giving way from anger and falling way to something more like humiliation.
Concerned, George approached her carefully, finally noting the few other odd pieces of the tableau- the strange trenchcoat that hunched above her shoulders, what looked like a nightie beneath it, showing far too much of her tanned legs for his preference, and worn trainers that he thought he remembered from her Hogwarts days.
"You're acting very strangely, Granger. You want to tell me what this is about?"
"Don't even try to pretend at ignorance, George Weasley. I know very well who's behind this awful trick- and let me tell you, the days of letting you off after illegally testing new products on unknowing victims is long over."
"Granger- Hermione- I didn't do anything to you. I don't even remember half of what happened last night, not after Neville started passing around that faerie nectar." He took a few steps closer, pleased that she didn't immediately shy off. "Whatever is it, I'm sure it's not as bad as you think."
"I-" she bit down on her lip, her head bowing and sending her hair further askew. The temptation to help her push it back, to run his fingers through the tangles and let his fingers catch in the thickness of it was as cloying as ever. "I suppose it is kind of pretty, in a religious sort of way. . ."
Fully curious now, he took the two steps left between them and tilted her chin back upward. "Go on and show me then."
Still looking hesitant, she nevertheless nodded and then began shrugging out of the trench coat. Her bare shoulders distracted him briefly, and then she straightened, drawing his gaze back over her skin and to what extended behind her. He felt his eyes widen, felt his feet stumble backward, and then he was tripping over the rug and landing hard on his bum. He stared up at her, to her tousled hair and nervous smile, and to what could only be described as wings stretching far behind her.
Large, feather-laden and pure as newly fallen snow- George had seen pictures before, the occasional religious Muggleborn having tried to convert the heathen Hogwarts population, but never had he the opportunity to use the word so aptly. He quite literally had an angel in his flat, the picture made perfect with her dirty trainers and growing embarrassment.
"You have wings, Granger!"
Her blush spread past her cheeks. "I'm aware. Are you certain this isn't one of your new products?"
He shook his head adamantly, not quite ready to try at standing again. "Positive. Although, this is inspiring new ideas. Do they work- the wings that is- can you fly?"
George didn't think it possible, but her flush deepened, and he fought back the smile that tugged at his lips. Merlin, she was adorable like this, wings and all.
"I can't control it, but, er, if I catch the sunlight, up I go."
He was at the window before she could protest, and sure enough, as soon as he drew back the curtain and the morning haze parted enough to send sunlight pouring in, her wings extended and lifted her a good half foot from the ground.
"Close it, George! You know how I feel about fly-"
With the sunlight vanished, she fell quickly and mirrored his earlier position, a wince and glare fighting to control her expression. "Thanks," she said, flatly.
He helped her to her feet, resisted the impulse to touch the feathers and instead brought her to the stools that lined his small kitchen bar. Her nightdress hiked up a good inch or to as she took a seat, and George internally recited the many reasons he shouldn't notice these sorts of things, the list always beginning and ending with the same inescapable fact: just seven months earlier she was happily engaged to ickle Ronnikins. Their reasons for ending it were unhappy ones, and that Ron had moved on to more than one eagerly waiting witch hadn't made that transition any easier.
But Hermione Granger was an honorary Weasley all the same, and George's mother had taken him and Percy and Charlie all aside and had them promise to watch out for her as they would for their sister. He'd crossed his fingers in his pockets while nodding his agreement, but he didn't think his mother, or really anyone else in the family would take it particularly well if he suddenly declared his amorous intentions.
It was far too incestuous, for all that he'd never once even felt remotely brotherly toward her. The feelings he carried for the clever and lovely witch were not even slightly familial.
"I don't know what to do now," she confessed. "I was convinced it had to be a new Wheeze or some other sort of prank that I hadn't considered other possibilities."
"Just because it didn't come from me doesn't mean that it's not still a prank. Fred and I might have set fairly high standards, but our exploits have brought out many the copycat."
Her expression grew soft at the mention of his twin; he tried not to relish the feel of her hand on his as she squeezed his fingers once, warmly. "You two certainly set the mark pretty high. Did you know that Professor Flitwick still has that piece of your swamp on display in his classroom?"
"Yeah," George said, unable to stop the smirk that stretched his lips. "He owls every now and again, asking for the charmwork."
"You try to hide it behind the humor, but there's a pretty brilliant mind in that thick skull of yours." She grinned at his mock pout, and he enjoyed the way her laughter filled his kitchen.
"All right, though, your wings. . ." He stood and motioned for her to turn his back to him. "I'm going to see how they're attached. Let me know if any of this hurts."
Ever so gently, he brought his fingers to where her wings first drew out from her skin, drawing his hand carefully under the soft feathers. He heard her deep intake of breath and paused. "Did that hurt?"
"Er, no. . ." she managed, her voice pitched low in such a way that he felt his stomach clench. "The opposite, really. It felt, er, quite nice."
"Which part? When I touched here," and he pressed his hand against the bare skin of her upper shoulder, letting his warmth soak into hers. While she shivered at his touch, she shook her head all the same. "Then how about here-" This time he drew his palm down and along the outer edge of the wing, the downy feathers ghosting along his skin and leaving behind pinpricks of sensation.
He heard the low moan, the soft exhalation, and closed his eyes, counting once again. "That- that's where- I mean, it's just a bit sensitive."
The glow of her cheeks stretched to the back of her neck, to where a small freckle, small and round and lovely in its imperfection lay, interrupting the sun-kissed expanse of her skin. George wondered, masochistically, how she might respond if he pressed his lips there, licked and bit his way to her throat and to her mouth.
"Interesting," he commented, unable to disguise the husky thickness of his voice, and then rushed to continue, not wanting to force her interest or inspection. "But not too helpful, I think.
"What do you remember from last night?" he asked, after a moment more spent studying the patches of skin her nightgown offered him where her wings broke through the cloth.
"Nothing!" Hermione admitted with a groan. "That's the worst part. I remember Harry bringing out that mystery wine, which I definitely did not touch. I remember what happened last time I drank something Harry offered."
George grinned; he remembered it as well. The alcohol's generous use of rose thorns had turned Hermione's normal affection levels to eleven, and half of the twenty odd guests had been gifted with open-mouthed kisses. He'd been one of the few she somehow missed in her fervent display of love and goodwill.
"I was quite put out, you know," he told her, only slightly pretending at disappointment; the feeling was genuine. "You went from Ginny to Luna to Neville and then skipped right over me for Percy. It's hard not to take that sort of thing personally."
"It's bad enough that I forced myself on my friends that night, George- if I had included you, I-" she stopped with a shake of her head, drawing her thoughts back. "It doesn't matter. As it is, I definitely didn't drink Harry's wine."
"What about those floating blue drinks?"
"The bluebell flamers?" He nodded, and she continued. "I don't think so. I mean, I do favor the more girlie drinks, but I'm not a fan of drinking something that's on fire. Even if it is magical."
"Then that leaves Neville's faerie nectar."
She let her head fall against the bar counter, her wings spreading to bow forward with her motion. "I really hope that's not the case. Do you think it was actual faerie nectar?"
George shrugged. "Does it matter?"
She straightened and whipped around, her frown warning him of an incoming lecture. The large wings that bent behind her head ruined the effect, though, and he grinned back at her unabashedly. "Of course it matters. Real faerie nectar has all sorts of strange properties when mixed with wizarding magic. It can cause your skin to glow, hair to grow, spontaneous singing, overwhelming happiness, uncontrollable dancing, and even brief, but passionate infatuation. There's a reason people get addicted to it, you know. It's magical, but in a party-favor sort of way."
"It could explain your wings," he pointed out.
She looked doubtful. "I've never read of wings as a side effect, but I suppose…"
"Nothing for it then, except to floo up Neville." Ignoring her instant attempt to protest, he pulled her over to the hearth and then crouched down to lower his face to the flames. A dash of green powder, and then he called out cheerfully, "Neville Longbottom!"
Through the floo, they heard the sound of first a crash and then a distinctly female giggle. A few more thuds and then Neville's sleep-smudged face pulled through. "Hallo George, Hermione. Lovely morning, yeah?"
Hermione's frown deepened as she crouched down beside him. "Neville, are you quite awake? I need to ask you something."
"You can ask me anything at all Hermione Granger. Did you know I once fancied you? Used to have these dreams where you would tie me up with parchment and if I recited the twelve uses of dragon's blood correctly, I'd get a kiss." Neville smiled beatifically through the green flame, and George tried not to laugh as Hermione paled considerably.
"I- I had no idea. Well, that's, er, that's very interesting." She struggled to compose herself, not wanting Neville to confess to any other direction his dreams might have taken her. "I need to ask you about the faerie nectar you brought last night. Was it genuine?"
Neville looked guilty, his lips falling into a smaller smile as he glanced once behind him before returning to full view. "Partially," he admitted. "I diluted it with a bit of 4M and a touch of ashwinder water."
George stilled. "4M? As in my Mysterious Midnight Moon Madness?"
"Yeah. It's lovely stuff, George, really lovely. I take a bit some nights and just have the best sort of dreams. Hermione Granger, did I ever tell you that I used to fancy you?"
"Yes, Neville, you did. Parchment and kisses, I remember. Now, Neville, is there a specific reason you mixed the three together?" Hermione's eyes had taken on a sheen that meant she was fast at work, comparing possible interactive properties, although George knew there was no way she'd know about 4M. It was hardly the sort of thing she'd go for.
"Professor Snape thought I was bollocks at potions, but I'm ace at the ingredients. It's all about balance, you know, and faerie nectar mixed in with a bit of daydream and stabilizer leads to great fun."
"Fun?" George prompted, his hand having taken Hermione's in an effort to provide comfort. She looked increasingly close to crying, and he rather hoped Neville would get on with it before she let loose.
"Oh sure. It's simple enough. I know not everyone has good dreams, so I used one of mine. I saw this painting last year, in Paris at one of their Muggle museums, and it looked so pleasant: sheep and loads of plump women wearing nothing at all. They were bathing and it seemed quite peaceful, and I figured we all deserved a bit of a pastoral romp, you know. And! Cherubs, I mustn't forget the cherubs." Neville brought a hand into view, vaguely outlining what might have been a misshapen potato. "Cherubs, you know? These smallish babes with flittering wings, all white and featherly, sort of like yours there Hermione-"
Neville blinked once and then again, a degree of sobriety creeping in as he finally seemed to notice the two large white wings hanging from his friend's shoulders.
"You have wings, Hermione!"
She was not amused. "I've been told."
"And-" George broke in quickly, drawing Neville's attention back to him. "And, she would very much like to not have them. What's the cancellation spell?"
"Uh, no spell. . ." Neville replied slowly, still trying to wrap his mind around the product of his intervention.
"There better be a second half to that statement," Hermione muttered darkly, her fingers twitching dangerously close to her wand.
"It's time-based, just a for a few days, but-" Neville hurried on as Hermione clutched up her wand, a spark dripping from its tip. "- I included a trigger. I thought it'd be nice, like those Muggle stories."
George felt something in his chest trip, a prescient warning of something fateful about to fall, and his ears buzzed with something strangely giddy.
"I thought I'd make it like Sleeping Beauty, yeah, or Snow White? A kiss to wake from the dream."
The tight string that was his heart snapped, once and hard, and he couldn't look away from her as Neville went on, mumbling about the fancy charmwork and Luna's handiness. He was still talking when Hermione used her hand to push his face back through the floo. Her expression gave away nothing of what she was thinking.
George stood, feeling far more nervous than a man of twenty-seven years ought to feel when faced with a pretty girl and the best excuse in years to kiss her. He wasn't sure whether he should hex the man, or thank him, but either way, Neville had create an opportunity George was certain he'd never have.
Assuming Hermione went with it, of course.
She gave him little to work with, though, as she stood and paced briefly, her lips pursed in thought. Her brown eyes considered him carefully, as though she was weighing a far harder choice than going another few days with wings that launched her in the air in sunlight, or a quick kiss with a semi-attractive, unrelated male.
At least he hoped she thought him semi-attractive. She seemed to like the red-haired, blue-eyed type, and he had both in spades.
"So…" he started, deciding on a brave front, "I guess I'll get that kiss after all?"
"I-" Hermione stopped pacing, her gaze cautious. "You don't have to. I mean, I'm overdue a vacation, and staying a few days indoors and away from the windows wouldn't be too bad."
His ego, fairly nonexistent when it came to her, shriveled further. "I can't say I've ever been rejected quite that soundly," he tried to joke.
"It's not a rejection, George," she explained, "I don't want to force you into something you'd rather not. I mean, you've said it before- I'm pretty much like a sister to you."
He didn't miss the bitter edge to her voice, and it gave him pause. "I believe I can say with 100% certainty that I've never once referred to you as a sister."
"Well, that's definitely how you treat me!"
George watched as her wings expanded, knocking over his kettle and catching one of the prints on his wall. Grimacing, she tried to rein them back in, but they only stretched further, her feet lifting from the floor. She reached out for his hands, and clutched them tightly as he pulled her back down to the ground, tucking her in closely to prevent further lift-off.
"You think I treat you like a sister?" he asked, enjoying the way her eyes skittered to the left and right in an effort to miss his gaze.
"Yes," she said, a stubborn strain to her words. "I see how you are with other women, and you're not like that with me."
"Other women?" he prompted, a warmth clouding up through his stomach and taking root in his chest.
"Well," and she pursed her lips, finally lifting her eyes to meet his sparingly, "Like Angelina- you always give her a hug when she's the Burrow. And you flirt. A lot."
"But I don't with you?" He felt her slight tremble as his hands reached for that spot along her back where the feathers met skin and watched as her eyes shuttered close as he deliberately ran his fingers along the downy softness of her magicked wings.
Her eyes flew open, and the tremble reached her lips as she seemed to become aware, at last, of what so humored him. "You never touch me at all."
George let his hands pass up over her shoulders, along her throat, before cupping her cheeks gently between his palms. His fingers traced the edge of her brow, carding through her tangled hair and then finally drawing her closer still. "For such a clever witch, you're not very quick to the take, are you?"
She opened her mouth to protest, or perhaps grumble, but he gave her no chance at either, taking instead the way of the daring and dashing and bringing his mouth to hers. He let his lips rest gently there, soft skin touching softer skin, and waited for her to respond- to push forward or pull back- and when she began, finally, to move against him, her mouth drawing in his lower lip between her teeth with a sudden and unexpected enthusiasm, George showed her exactly why he was so careful to not touch her.
He tasted deeply from her, drawing in her breath and finding better purchase with her framed against the wall, the print be damned. The nightgown made his exploration all the easier, and she moaned into his mouth as his fingers found the thin lining of her cotton bra, the stretch of her taut breast peaked and tender to his ministrations.
Breath escaped him and he grew dizzy as he realized that each of his touches, each of his not-so-gentle cataloging of her skin and scent and shape was returned: her hands found his hair and roamed along his back, her nails drawing both pain and exhilaration as they tugged and pulled, drawing him closer. He felt himself harden along her thigh, and then her hand found him there, the touch confident and ensnaring.
The sudden rush of blood and sense forced him to take pause, and George looked down into her flushed face, lips plump with his efforts and eyes glittering, and he couldn't help but laugh, hugging her close and missing entirely that in their two minutes of passion, her wings had retreated and disappeared.
"Do you still think I see you as a sister?" he asked, feeling light and heavy, his chest warmed and his lips bruised.
"God, I hope not," she laughed.
"Hermione, I can truthfully say that I've had the very antithesis of brotherly thoughts about you for almost ten years now."
Her grin widened and her fingers played with the hair at the back of his neck. "Did any of those thoughts feature parchment or dragon's blood?"
"No," he assured her. "But there was one dream that involved a poorly knit blindfold-"
Hermione frowned, and George felt a moment of panic, wondering if he had pushed a good thing too far. It was enough that he'd somehow managed to get the object of his affections to return some portion of them. He needn't scare her off with some of his more lurid teenage fantasies.
But then her mouth was at his ear, her lips deliberate in her mock-whisper. "I'll have you know that I'm an excellent knitter. Any blindfold of mine would be impeccably made."
He laughed again, spun her around, and then bent to remind her of what had left them both so breathless moments earlier. Both were far too distracted by the other to notice, minutes later, that while the wings had disappeared, the inclination to leave the floor hadn't.