HI!
Currently a one-shot that will eventually be part of a George/Hermione story I am planning. Please tell me what you think! This is a response to a HarryPotterFanFiction Challenge "No Words" In which there is to be no spoken dialogue between the the two characters. I quite like it, hope you all do!
Much love, and happy reading.
MaraudingManaged
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The Burrow was dark as one o'clock in the morning approached. The gentle ticking of the clock on the mantle was a steady pulse, marking the time passing audibly for the time could not be seen. George Weasley was counting each tick as a mocking reminder that time, and indeed the world, continued to move forward whilst he was held quite firmly in one moment that he could not release himself from. That moment when his twin left him... no, was torn from him, so cruelly.
Bitterness swept down his spine and burned in the pit of his stomach, akin to molten iron poured into a mould. George was made for this bitterness, he was that mould, and only his brother, only Fred would ever ease that burden. The living room of the Burrow was dark still – the embers of the fire long burnt out, the candle blown out by choice. George could not see the point in the lightness, the brightness of it all. What was a victory if the one you loved most was not there to share it?
One month was not long enough to move on, and yet it seemed that his family thought it was long enough to get over their grief. Oh, his mother wept still, but the others didn't seem to care. Bill was with Fleur, Ginny with Harry, Ron seeking out Hermione and persuading her to go out with him. Every one of them had something else to occupy their thoughts, where George had no-one. They avoided him, he noted – avoided his gaze, even his very presence. The pity his family, his friends had for him was sickening, and he couldn't stand to be around them either if that was how they were going to behave.
The quiet but sharp creak of the stair alerted George to the fact someone was going to come upon him on their way to the kitchen. He had no desire to move, so he sunk further into the chair, swilling the heavily scented brandy in his glass. Alcohol held a little comfort, and so long as he was drunk, the happy memories of Fred could flow unbidden, and the pain was dulled for a short time. The long swig of the burning liquid caused him to tip his head back with a gasp – every night he drank, and yet he still forgot the pleasure-pain of the fiery path the drink took.
The door swung open, thudding on the thick fabric of one of the settees, and George settled himself down to expect a whispered lecture; or even worse, a pitying glance and a gentle expression of sorrow. Fierce anger would be more favourable, under the circumstances, because it would be easier to deal with on a personal level, but if any sadness was reflected when they spoke to him – if they spoke to him – then George had already decided he would leave without a response. When Hermione; Mione, as he had long since started to call her just to irritate her, he was mildly surprised and a little interested at what she had to say. Lit by the glow of a bluebell flame caught in a jar, she looked pale, tired, but eerily beautiful. It was not a common beauty, George acknowledged, but it was the beauty of someone who knew what they were doing – who they were, and how they wanted things to be. The mass of hair that usually surrounded her like a halo was braided neatly, only frizzing a little, and her expression was one of determination. It was a look George had seen before, when he and Fred had been selling skiving snackboxes, and this girl... no, woman, was not one to be messed with. The shadows cast onto her face flickered as she eyed him, one slender hand resting on her hip.
Hermione Granger was a sensible girl, and though she never prided herself on being able to read others, she was at least intelligent enough to know when something was wrong. She had known that every night George came down to drink, and it worried her to no end because not a single person in the house could help him, or was willing to. Well, she was willing – more than willing, really- to help him through, if he would accept it.
It had been difficult to get any time with the man that was once so full of laughter and good humour, and so she had taken to observing him when he was unaware of her presence, and listening for his movements at night. Ron had been pursuing her with great enthusiasm since the end of the battle – their kiss still firmly lingering in his mind, no doubt. It wasn't that she wasn't attracted to Ron – he was handsome and charming in his own way, and he was one of the few that could force her to think of other things than school by laughing at her, of all things, but she was desperately unsure. Many a time she had asked herself how he would react if she told him that she wished to run to become Minister of Magic? He would laugh, tell her it was a silly idea, and she should find something else to do with her time – Elfish welfare, perhaps. And surely if she achieved it, he would be jealous and pout over the fact that she had a position of such power, reminiscent to the way he had felt about Harry during the Tri-Wizard tournament. Either way, he would not be happy for her, and Hermione wondered if she could endure such a relationship where she felt mocked and belittled, and where they bickered constantly as they did now.
She watched George, and he watched her back. Eyeing the half-full glass of amber liquid, she raised an eyebrow. No more, no less – there was nothing to be said about the matter that he could not think of himself. With a twisted smile, the man in front of her bowed his head in greeting, and Hermione wondered just what he was thinking. Placing the bluebell fire on the fireplace, Hermione turned back to watching him for a while – her face a careful expression of blankness.
George was surprised, yet again, by the witch in front of him as she knelt on the floor by his feet, her hands clasped in her lap as she looked up at him. What was she thinking? What in Merlin's name did she want? Surely she had more in mind than to watch him. Her breathing was quite heavy, as if her chest were tight... and then he noticed her eyes.
They were fixed on his, resolutely forcing him to look at her. Bright and dark together, the look could not be denied and his blue eyes turned to hers in an unwilling response. Pain, understanding, empathy, fear... every single emotion possible flitted across the dark canvas as plain as day, but was then replaced by a carefully executed non-expression. Something was bothering her, and as George made to take a drink of his brandy her thin fingers danced on his hand, stopping his movements as he looked at her hand in surprise. With her other, she removed the glass from his hand, and George was so stunned that she touched him to offer any protest. Her other hand remained, and he grasped it tightly – a lifeline to humanity, if nothing else.
Hermione was not one to give up on a person, and she was equally surprised when George moved swiftly to kneel in front of her, his hand returning the pressure she had exerted on it. The other moved to her face and she swallowed, closing her eyes as his fingers clumsily traced over her features, over her ears and down her neck. The shiver it caused was not something she cared to deny, and instead she leaned into it, a ghost of a smile on her face. His touches were not hurried or desperate like Ronald's – instead they were awed, as if George had not come into contact with a person for a long while. Worshipful, what must have been an unintended romantic gesture on his part; yet how she wished it was not unintended.
His sigh made Hermione open her eyes, and she felt almost sick as his head hung low, eyes closed tightly so that his brow furrowed as if frowning. He did not want pity, he just wanted someone to be there, and instead the whole family had left him craving what he needed. Raising a trembling hand, Hermione touched George's face and felt the hot streams of tears. His broad shoulders shook and without a second thought or care, she pulled him to her in a fierce hug, his head resting on her shoulder as he changed his position to accept it. Without a word, she stroked his hair and arms as his tears, now unrelenting, left damp patches on her skin where her nightdress did not cover.
George was lost in memories of pranks, and talks, and a brotherly bond so unbreakable that he could not speak, or even think coherently as sobs ripped from his chest through his body, and Hermione held him all the closer. She had offered no words of pity, or anything other than herself; just being as she was made all the difference to him. His arms found her waist and shoulder, and he clung to her desperately until he had cried all he could. George had always been the more sensitive of the two, and balanced out his brother, who had acted rashly on occasion – making sure pranks didn't go from funny to dangerous.
The gentle sensation of being held by a woman hit George like a train, and his whole body could not help but react to it as Hermione placed a soft kiss on his head. His arms tightened around her, fingers once again exploring her neck; but he continued their path downwards over her side and hip. The gentle movement of her hand stroking his hair and back stilled and she drew a breath – apparently she had not expected such attention.
Hermione fought the urge to draw him closer, her heart pounding in her ears as a calloused hand skimmed the bare part of her thigh – stopping at her knee where the rest of her legs were folded underneath her. Ron had never excited her like this, had never dreamed of touching her so gently or with the reverence which was clearly visible in George's eyes as he sat straighter, faces close together, breath mingling and heartbeats racing.
He was handsome, on such a close inspection. Wide, clear blue eyes trimmed with auburn lashes, much less of a nose than Ron, and a strong jaw. Lips that were full and moving as if he were speaking, yet no words came out. Shifting again, George leaned around and unbound her hair, letting it free and watching as the curls, both tight and loose, sprung back into the golden-brown halo.
Long ago, George had developed a fondness for Hermione's hair, and he wound one hand into it, using it as a way to hold her close. Now, he realised in a haze that was not all drunkenness and not all arousal, he had ignored that fondness, passing it over as familial, like the love he had for Ginny. Now, holding her, feeling her so close to him, he knew with an absolute certainty that was not the case. Hermione was not a sister; no, she never could be, not now, it was too much to be near her and try to keep his thoughts on them just being potential brother and sister material.
He was going to speak her name, his lips moved in the right shape, but nothing came out. So much he wanted to tell her, but in that instant he couldn't. Breathing heavily, George removed himself completely from her and grabbed the tall glass of brandy, taking a long swig before closing his eyes, his mind screaming for him to get away. This was not how he should be acting, how he should be grieving for his brother. He would not rebound and chase such a creature as a way to clear his mind and get over his brother's death – that was beyond cruel and Hermione deserved more than that. He was attracted to her, in this very moment, but he could not distinguish between the alcohol and his own emotions. He wondered what Fred would do in his situation, what would he have done?
Taking Hermione's face in his hands, his thumbs brushing her cheeks, he looked into her eyes again. There was a resolution there, one that told him innately that she was there for him no matter what. She might not understand, but she wanted to help him, and again he wanted to cry; how could anyone care so much, after a life of facing You-Kno... Voldemort, and living with the prejudice given to her blood. How was she still so strong, so willing to learn and help?
George laughed, but couldn't say anything as he shook his head. Her own hands rested on his thighs, and he shuddered as they stroked. Letting out a harsh breath, his hands went into her glorious hair and pulled her to him as he leaned back to rest on the chair. They were close again as he moved his legs completely from underneath him, and she was sat almost completely in his lap. In that moment, looking into her eyes, he felt again the survivor's guilt and his own grief and he instead hugged her close, tears welling again. As much as he hated to cry, he could not hold them any longer, not when he was being offered so clearly support and comfort. George did not know what else she was offering, but Merlin help him, he would take it.
Hermione could barely think as she was held against this... this insane, wickedly funny, guilt-ridden, grief-stricken man. Had this been Ron, she would have upped and left, but she could not leave George. He was everything she should not be attracted to – she could not fancy this man in any way, shape or form. But she couldn't stop the tingle when they touched, skin to skin; and she couldn't stop the way her heart melted as she looked into his eyes, and how it craved to weep with him as she let herself be held. This was against all her principles, he was against all her principles, but with an unusual certainty she knew he would not laugh at a single one of her ambitions. He would support her, feel free to agree or disagree with her, yet would taunt her into laughter without being cruel. They would be at least equal.
Hermione didn't quite realise the moment he started kissing her; only that he had, and she never wanted him to stop. She knew he was drunk – she could taste the alcohol on his lips and tongue as they moved languidly against her own, drawing her closer and closer to him. He was still crying as he kissed her, and she wiped away the damp tracks as she returned the kiss, not knowing whether to laugh or cry herself.
And cry she did as they separated, gasping for breath. The stress and grief from the end of the war, the emotions she had kept well under control in her usual steadfast demeanour broke through each and every barrier she had.
George recognised her tears, and understood them in part. She had lost those whom she had considered friends in the war – role models such as Lupin and people she quietly admired, such as Tonks. Other friends in Gryffindor more than likely, but he hadn't paid attention after seeing Fred. Nothing anyone said to him for a full two days after registered.
Wiping her eyes, Hermione pressed her hands against his chest and pushed herself back so she was sat up straight. This was not right. As much as she wanted it – and oh, Merlin, she wanted it – she would not do this when he had been drinking. If he fancied her when sober, she would be there for him. She was not engaged to Ron, not even his girlfriend as such, so if there was someone better suited to her than him, then what would be wrong about pursuing it? She stood as George laid back, resting on the chair with his eyes closed, but they flew open as he felt her move.
George watched her pace around the room, her eyes wide as the bluebell fire made her glow with a silvery aura. She looked a goddess in that light, and his mind was as clear as day quite suddenly. George felt like he had come into contact with a bucket of very cold water, but still the feeling didn't change. A burning, a yearning for something that he knew was not his, or rather, should not be his.
Hermione could not stay, a blind panic overtook her and it nearly broke her heart as she watched George reach out from her from his position on the floor. Standing at the door, she bit her lip before returning to him, kissing him fully on the lips before running out of the room and up the stairs, not looking back.
George heard a door slam, and her sobbing as she reached her room. He didn't stop her – he hadn't even tried. What use would it have been? He would see her tomorrow night, and the next, and the next. He knew she would come back, just as he knew the next time, he would be sober. No more drinking – he was not an alcoholic, and tomorrow he would be down for breakfast. Lifting the jar of flame, he looked at the clock; 2am, and he was feeling the beginnings of exhaustion. With a sigh he mounted the stairs two at a time, opening the door to his room.
Hermione was sat at the end of his bed, eyes red and lips swollen, but never more in his life had George appreciated anyone anymore than he did Hermione Granger at that minute. Unbuttoning his shirt he climbed into the bed, leaving the covers open for him to join her, and she did so with little hesitance. Her body felt so small against his, tiny but strong, her back to him as his arms cradled her. Pulling the covers around him, he slipped the fire under his bed and laid back, watching the blue streak across the room and to the opposite wall underneath Fred's bed.
It was in that moment that George realised they hadn't spoken a word to each other the whole time, and with a chuckle he noted that they had still perfectly understood one another. The girl twisted in his arms to face him, apparently realising the same thing; and with a long, soft kiss she buried her head in his chest, sighing. They would make this work – Ron would never be right for her, never in a million years would they work as a couple. George respected her, Ron laughed at her. There was gentle-hearted teasing, but then their was cruel mocking – something that Ron did unintentionally. George would rather her be laughing with him, than have her flustered or embarrassed. Hermione looked up at him again, eyes shining with a hundred different emotions, before she gave way to her sleep, and George couldn't agree with her more.
Oh yes, they understood each other perfectly well. Not a word was needed.