A/N: Right, so I totally left out a couple of things in my haste to share the last, and so apologize for two chapters in a row with author notes preceding the actual story. This is a very organic piece, very different from my other current WIP. Grief is very different for people, and the expression of and experience of grief varies as much as people do; yet, my experiences with profound, deep grief and in working with others who are grieving, there are many common themes. I think that is coming out here some. I can't say that there is a definite outline or story here, it's evolving very much on its own, and I'm not subjecting it to a rigorous editing or beta process. It is necessary to note here that as with my other stories, the rating and categorization is intentional and deliberate. This is not a charming or light fiction; it deals with complex themes and will most certainly contain language and scenes of an adult, sexual nature. This is not appropriate for young audiences. Please take note before continuing.

As always, this is only mine in so much as the flight of fancy conceived the plot; the characters and rights are not mine. I make no profit from this endeavor.

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Chapter 2

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Hermione waited until she was sure he was sleeping soundly, and then eased herself out of the bed. She was surprised at her reluctance, but for once she had been comfortable, and sleepy, two things that she found difficult since the war. Nevertheless, she was determined, and on a mission. And so she moved stealthily from her room down the hall to the loo. It wasn't filthy, but it wasn't exactly clean either. Within fifteen minutes, it was sparkling. At least, if George chose to drink himself sick again, there was a clean place to suffer the consequences, she thought to herself.

She checked on George then, and found him sleeping soundly, mouth open, snoring just a bit. He looked vulnerable, and for a moment, studying him, Hermione had a flash of seeing Fred in the Great Hall. She wondered how difficult it was for him, seeing his brother's face in the mirror. Maybe it was fortunate, in a twist of cruel fate or irony, that George had lost his ear before he lost his twin. People had stopped confusing them, had been better able to relate to George as his own person.

Or maybe, like everything else involved with this war, it was a bloody meaningless mess that they'd been stuck trying to clean. She was inclined towards that view at the present moment. Hermione studied George a moment longer, and then quietly let herself out of the flat and made her way cautiously downstairs.

The shop was decimated. The workroom was a disaster, though it appeared there was a good bit that would be salvageable. The sales floor was catastrophic; most of the shelves had been completely obliterated, and products were scattered everywhere. There was a particular viciousness with which the displays and fixtures had been ripped from the walls or destroyed. The smell was overwhelming, which Hermione didn't care to analyze. The doors and windows were broken, so Hermione began by repairing those. The doors needed to be stripped and painted again, but at least they were functional and could be closed. The window repair was a bit more tricky, and in the end, Hermione had to transfigure the remains of the Pygmy Puff cages into glass and fit them into the frames. Then, she began vanishing items as quickly as she could, until the store was empty of smashed, broken products, and reduced to the bare shelves.

It was more magic than she had cast in sometime, and it left her deflated and fatigued. She climbed the stairs again, grimacing at the state of the workroom, and knowing how much more delicate she would have to be around reactive ingredients. Back in the flat, she reset the wards and served herself another helping of soup. She was undecided; tired, disheveled, now sticky and sweaty, a long bath or hot shower sounded best, but leaving George alone in this state . . . she wondered if she could talk him into returning to the Burrow. It wasn't good for him to be alone, clearly.

Hermione had just cleared up the dishes for the second time, and was frowning over her options when she heard noise from the bedroom. She hurried down, to find the bed a mess, George tangled in the sheets and struggling against them, moaning to himself. It was a pitiful sound, leaving Hermione in no doubt about what haunted George's nightmare.

She knelt by the bed and gingerly touched George's cheek, and shook his shoulder. With a gasp, he sat up, panting. His eyes were wide, and he was sweaty. "Oh, gods," he gasped, over and over. Hermione freed his hand and clutched it tightly. George held on to it like he was clinging for life, the other arm flung over his eyes. Eventually, he fell quiet, and Hermione realized he was crying again. She let go of his hand, and scurried around to climb into the bed again. Once there, she drew George into her arms and simply held him, stroking his long hair away from his face, as tears rolled from his eyes. When the tears began to dry up, and George was reduced to sniffling now and again, Hermione pressed a kiss to his forehead.

It was meant to be a comforting sort of gesture, something her mother had always done for her; what she couldn't explain was why she then went on to kiss each cheek, wet with tears, or why she pressed a soft kiss on his lips. It was purely instinctive, something she would be unable to explain, but she was the one to kiss first. Had she been with anyone else, it might have ended with that soft kiss, as a token between friends, a sweet, simple gesture.

But she wasn't with just anyone, she was with the surviving Weasley twin. Had he not been grieving, had he been thinking clearly, it's unlikely he would have done what he did next. Perhaps that is unfair, he and Fred had always been known for their spontaneity and their ability to think on their feet, so there is some chance he'd have acted similarly in a different situation, and wrapped his arms around her in such a way that she was effectively trapped in the bed and proceed to really kiss her. What might have happened was the furthest thing from Hermione's mind, however. Instead, she was completely engrossed in what was happening, in the kiss she was sharing with George, because oh yes, she was kissing him back as eagerly as he was kissing her. Tongues clashed and tasted and wrestled and stroked, lips moved amidst gentle nibbles and it was wonderful and encompassing. It was not long before they were winding themselves around each other, trying to get as close as possible, before George broke away from her mouth to trail hot kisses down Hermione's jaw and throat.

Hermione gave no thought to the fact that she was sweaty and gross, or to any fact beyond what George was doing to her at that moment, which was snaking a hand beneath her shirt and fumbling to reach her breast, and massaging it roughly when he did. She focused on kissing his neck, running her hands through his long hair, pulling him back into another long kiss until they were both breathless. All the while, George groped her body roughly, whatever he could reach, pulling her leg over his hip to better grind his growing erection against her. She had never done anything like this before and found herself desperate for the contact, a vague need urging her body to meet his in a parody of sex. George reached climax first, with a grunt, and that noise brought Hermione tumbling back to earth. Her body was still tense, her breathing ragged, her lips swollen, but consciousness flooded back in, and she was flushing with embarrassment and shame.

George took no notice, however. He nuzzled her neck, nipping at her earlobe, as he fumbled to undo the zip of her jeans. Torn between the unfulfilled longing and her discomposure, she lay still, and allowed him to proceed. In moments, his long fingers had slipped inside her jeans and her knickers even and she was quickly losing logical thought, as George found the spot that had been aching for contact, and began teasing it in earnest. He paid little heed to her whimper or sighs, and claimed her mouth for another scorching kiss. Hermione could feel tension building quickly low in her abdomen, her hips thrust against George's hand of their own accord. He kissed his way to her ear and as she thrust again, he whispered with hot breath into her ear, "Come on, Hermione, let it happen." And she bit her lip, and closed her eyes and then was shuddering as the tension exploded from her body in shock waves. It was all she could do to keep from moaning his name aloud.

She stilled, and tried to catch her breath as George withdrew his hand from her knickers. He muttered a charm over himself before turning to look at Hermione, with a lopsided smile, which she tried to return. Really though, she was overtaken by an absurd urge to cry. That was an incredible feeling, but she had never intended for anything like that to happen, not with George, and certainly not while he was in such a state. Still, he looked more relaxed than he had yet. He reached out to brush a curl behind her ear.

"I'm sorry," she said abruptly. "I didn't mean. . ." George put a finger over her lips.

"Thank you," he said in a low voice. "That's almost precisely what I needed." Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion. "A distraction," he clarified. "Not bad, as they go. Though next time, I suggest we lose the clothes, and try a proper shag." The smile she saw earlier peeked out again, and something approaching the amusement she was used to hearing in his voice washed over her.

"I feel like I took advantage of you," she confessed. "I never intended for, um, that to happen."

"Then Hermione, love, feel free to use me whenever you like," he said, even drawing out an eyebrow waggle that would have gotten a huff and a glare under any other circumstances. "Really. I needed that." He stretched a bit, and then sighed. "What time is it?"

Hermione consulted her watch; it was teatime, and she said as much. "I've been here far longer than I intended to be. I don't want anyone to worry about me." She looked at George and bit her lip; his face fell at her words and the lost look returned again.

"Do you think. . ." he paused, hesitating. "Do you think, maybe, you could stay tonight?"

"I don't know that that's a good idea, George. I can only imagine how difficult it is to be here alone. Maybe it would be better for you to come back to the Burrow. Or maybe Charlie would be willing to come stay out here with you."

George shook his head. "I don't want them. The way they look at me drives me mental. They still see him, for an instant. Then there is so much sadness, so much pity, it's suffocating. Fred didn't want to be remembered that way. I promised him, Hermione. I can't be there and get on with my promise. But this is hard."

Hermione squeezed his shoulder in sympathy. "You don't do that though, Hermione. You could always tell us apart, always treated us as individuals. It's just easier around you. Around them, I'm expected to be devastated."

"Fred was your twin. You were individuals, but you took trouble to act interchangeably. You stuck together after Hogwarts, lived and worked together. It's no surprise that they still think of you as a package. And even if you promised him not to grieve for him, he was your brother, and more than just your brother. It's normal to grieve."

"I don't want to talk about it, Hermione. It's fine if you don't want to stay. Really. We're friends, but we've never been that close or anything. There's no good reason for you to stay. But I'm not going back to the Burrow tonight." George pushed himself up and off the bed, and strode out into the hall.

Hermione sighed, and then followed him. "That's not what I'm saying, George. I am your friend, I'm just worried about you, all right? Let me go back to the Burrow, and get some clothes, all right? I'll tell your mum I'm sleeping on the couch and helping you get the shop in order. It's true enough, anyway."

Before George could say anything else, she had disapparated. He blinked, shook his head, and rummaged through the food his mum had sent. There were preserves and fruits under preservation charms, a roast of all things, bread, biscuits, a chocolate cake. It was in no way different from what she had been sending since they left Hogwarts; enough food to keep him and Fred fed for a week, longer if they did some cooking on their own, which they always did. His face twisted and his nose prickled when he pulled out the jar of apricot marmalade. Mum always sent a jar for Fred, who inexplicably loved that shite. George never cared for it, sticky and overly sweet. He wondered if it was her habit, or if she thought they'd both loved it, or if she just hadn't considered when packing that Fred was dead and gone and George might not want a bloody jar of bloody apricot marmalade reminding him of the fact.

The crack of apparition startled him and he dropped the jar, cursing as it shattered on the floor. Hermione's arms were filled with a rucksack of clothes and toiletries and two big boxes from his mum, no doubt containing more food, lest he allow Hermione to starve to death in the next night or two.

She set the food on the table, and set her rucksack on the floor, before peering to see what the crashing sound had been. "Oh, I'm sorry, George. I didn't mean to startle you. And now the whole bottle is gone to waste."

George shook his head ruefully and vanished the mess himself. "Not your fault. I guess I'm still jumpy. 'S all right. I never liked that stuff, Fred did. I would've thrown it out anyway."

"Right. Well. Your mum seems pleased you won't be here alone, though she asked several times where precisely I'd be sleeping," Hermione said, more than a hint of question in her voice as well.

"Wherever you like, Granger. The bed's now more than big enough for the pair of us, but if you're not sleeping in there, I'm not either," he said stubbornly. "Anyway, Mum sent a roast over earlier, and it seems she's sent even more over now. How much does she think I can eat, anyway? You hungry?"

"I ate some soup earlier, but I could do with a sandwich, I suppose. Have you eaten anything?"

George shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Hermione. I'll make some sandwiches. I'm sure you'd like to shower. We'll just reverse roles, I suppose." He turned away from her at that point, and left with little else to do, Hermione shrugged and went to shower.

She emerged much cleaner some time later, glad she had thought to clean the loo earlier that day. George was sitting in the lounge, feet on the coffee table, plate resting on his lap, chewing quietly. He tilted his chin towards the plate resting on the coffee table. Hermione took his hint and settled beside him, sitting cross-legged on the couch, resting the plate on her knee.

Once George had swallowed, he said, "Hope this doesn't bother you too much. To be honest, we almost never ate at the table. I added some hot mustard, but if you don't like it -"

"No, it's fine, George, really. Thanks," Hermione cut him off. They ate in silence for some time, before Hermione found a topic she considered a safe one.

"So, uhm. What did you and Fred do here, by yourselves? In the evenings, I mean. It's very quiet."

"Yeah, usually it is, down here anyway, since this side of the Alley is almost entirely retail. If we weren't brewing potions or replenishing stock, you mean? That took up a lot of time, really. It's going to be rough getting things built up all over again. If we weren't working on stock, we were inventing or researching. Sometimes we went out with our mates, Angelina was over a lot when she and Fred weren't fighting. Really, we were pretty quiet."

Hermione raised a sceptical eyebrow. "That surprises me, I guess."

"It shouldn't. We were the same when we lived at home. You were around often enough to know that," George sounded faintly amused. "It takes a lot of time to do everything we do. Did, rather, I guess."

There was an uncomfortable silence until Hermione cleared her throat. "With just two people, I'm sure that's true. I expect it will be a lot of hard work to reopen. Did you ever write your potions recipes down?"

George swallowed past the lump in his throat and nodded. "Course we did. We created a lot by messing about, testing ingredients and strengths. But for mass production, you have to be precise. I keep good notes while inventing and once we've tested things correctly, I add it to the book. Fred charmed that thing a hundred different ways, it's pretty indestructible."

George set his plate down, no longer interested in food. Hermione chewed slowly, conscious of the sound of her eating filling the room. She swallowed and suddenly said, "What was the best prank Fred ever played on you?"

George raised an eyebrow at her, almost in disbelief. "Are you serious?" he asked.

"Yeah. Tell me."

"Right. Uh, mostly we didn't prank each other. Have to trust each other to pull off the big pranks, and not be worried about getting hit yourself. But we did every now and then, when we got bored. And our birthday was a total free for all. I think the time he really got me was our twelfth birthday. . ." George seemed to loosen up some as he told Hermione a story she'd never heard before about Fred and a wicked sense of humor. By the end, he was smiling, and chuckling.

"I got him back though. It was a lot more subtle, but I managed to turn his feet purple. Stayed that way for two weeks. Course, no one else knew, 'cause he wore socks and shoes, but it was good enough for me." He looked at Hermione, who was smiling, resting her chin in one hand as she listened to him. "Why did you ask me? No one seems to want to talk about him."

Hermione shrugged. "I'm interested. He's gone, and it hurts a lot right now. But he lived a pretty full life. Why not remember that and honor it? Remembering hurts a bit, but I think it feels better too. No one ever talks about my parents either. It's not the same, because they are alive at least. But people are afraid to mention them, afraid to hurt me more. I'd rather they did, because it feels like a taboo topic."

George nodded his understanding. "And you aren't sure what you are allowed to say, because you don't want to make other people uncomfortable. But it's this huge aspect of your life you can't say anything about. I start to say something about Fred and everyone freezes. Only, he was my other half, and we did everything together, so not mentioning him means not mentioning practically anything."

Hermione blinked to clear the sudden wetness in her eyes. "Right. Yes, that's how it is. It's not bad enough I've lost them, it's like I've lost all my history with them as well," she said softly. "Only it's worse, because they aren't dead. And I know how lucky I am -"

George cut her off. "No, you've still lost them. They're alive, but the essence of them, your relationship with them is gone. It's ok to be sad about that. I'm sorry I haven't asked about them."

Hermione's lips quirked up a bit. "You've had things on your mind. No one does, George. It's all right. None of you really knew them, anyhow. It's only that sometimes it's hard to remember they were real, that my life with them wasn't just a dream." Hermione drew her knees to her chest and hugged them, making her look both vulnerable and defensive. George cocked his head and looked at her, studied her for a moment.

"Tell me about them. What was your favorite memory of them?"

Hermione smiled. "There were too many good memories. I think when we learned I was a witch was a good one. I don't suppose you've ever heard this story, have you?" George shook his head, and Hermione proceeded to tell him about her visit from Minerva McGonagall when she turned eleven to explain her magical abilities and invite her to attend Hogwarts. Tears shimmered in her eyes at one point, but mostly, she smiled, even making George laugh at her parents' incredulity at the situation.

Silence fell over them again briefly, but it was less strained or heavy than before. Hesitantly, Hermione reached across the space between them and rested a hand on George's knee. "Just so you know," she said quietly, "you can always, always talk about Fred to me. I'll always listen."

George curled his hand around hers, and squeezed it, perhaps a bit harshly, and swallowing hard, said, "Thank you. For, uh, everything. I don't want to be alone right now if I'm not drunk. I don't think I could handle it."

"It's fine," she whispered. They sat together like that for a long while, until a yawn cracked Hermione's jaw wide open.

"Oh, I expect you're pretty tired. Bed, then?" George released her hand and stood up.

"I suppose. Are you sleepy, then? You slept for a long time this afternoon."

"I was drunk for three days. I could use some quality rest," he admitted.

"Right. Well, uh, if you're sure about sharing the bed. . ." Hermione trailed off and her cheeks tinged pink, remembering what happened last time they shared the bed.

George gave her the same lopsided smile he had after that incident. "Hands to myself, I promise, Hermione." She blushed fully at that point, earning a small snort of laughter from George. "I won't sleep in there by myself. I don't care otherwise."

"Fine. I'm just going to go change in the loo then." Hermione scampered down the hall, still feeling the heat on her cheeks from her embarrassment. She refused to give it any more thought than that, because she was simply here to help and comfort George. By her presence, that's all. If she happened to be perhaps a smidgeon attracted to him (because, if she were honest, his kisses were the best she had ever had), well, that was entirely beside the point. Berating herself, she removed her bra and pulled on the tank top she normally slept in and dug out the pyjama bottoms she preferred from her bag, and hurriedly shoved her clothes back in their place in her bag.

George was waiting for her when she opened the door, leaning against the wall across the corridor. The lights in the lounge and kitchen had been extinguished, and the only light was from the loo and George's wand. He looked sheepish.

"I didn't want to go in by myself," he admitted. Hermione only nodded and took his free hand in her own, and they walked the rest of the way down the hall together. She heard George take a deep breath when they reached the bedroom, but he stepped through just fine, and gave a little sigh. Hermione released his hand and set her rucksack down in the corner of the room and turned a little shyly to George.

"So, uhm. Good night, then," she said with half a smile. She fiddled with her hair for a moment, feeling uncertain. George lit a single candle, and set his wand beside it before turning back to her. Unexpectedly, he touched her cheek and then kissed her forehead softly, and wrapped his long arms around her in a full, warm embrace.

"Thanks again for staying," he whispered. "Good night."

He released her, and quickly climbed into bed. She walked to the other side and did the same. They lay apart from each other, an appropriate amount of space between them, both quiet. Hermione was tired, her eyes were heavy, but she couldn't ignore the near presence of George. He was no closer than Ron or Harry had been on their trip through the wilds of England, but she was far more aware of him.

For his part, George was conflicted. The weight of the day, and his binge, and his sadness was pressing down on him. It was easier than it had been, with Hermione there. But she wasn't Fred. Her quiet breathing was a completely different volume and rhythm. Her little movements caused different sounds. And she was right beside him, which was terribly distracting. He'd shared a bed with a witch more than once, but never quite so platonically. Right, their little interlude earlier had been anything but platonic, and maybe that was part of the problem. He'd said it was a distraction, and it was. A bloody good one. But he'd never given particular thought to Hermione as female before, and certainly not a sexual one at that. Until today that is. And now he couldn't stop bloody thinking about her in a sexual context.

In a huff of frustration, he rolled over, and studied her in the faint candlelight. Her eyes were closed, but he didn't think she was sleeping. Her breathing was too irregular.

"Hermione?" he whispered.

Her eyes opened a crack, and she turned her head towards him. "Yes, George?"

"Can I ask you a personal question?" he asked softly.

"Sure," she said sleepily.

"Are you a virgin?" he asked without hesitation.

Her eyes popped open. "Why on earth are you asking me that?" she said, a hint of heat in her voice.

"Because I want to know, obviously." He pushed himself up on an elbow and looked at her, his face curious, but not mischeivous or malicious.

"Of course I am. When would I have had opportunity to shag someone? Your brother and I danced around each other for years, and the only other bloke I dated was when I was fifteen. I wasn't ready to visit a broom cupboard with Viktor, let alone shag him." Her cheeks were scarlet with embarrassment.

"Ok," was all George said as he laid back down. It was Hermione's turn to roll over and look at him.

"Ok? What does that mean?" she asked, confusion in her voice.

He turned to her again so they were now facing each other and gave a half-shrug. "It means all right, thanks for the answer. It was a factual question, Hermione. I'm sorry if I offended you."

"No, no I'm not offended. I'm just, I dunno, confused. Why do you want to know? What difference does it make?"

"None, I suppose. We were just rather intimately involved earlier today. I was thinking about it. Made me wonder, so I asked."

"Oh," was all she said. "Wasn't it obvious?" she asked after a moment's hesitation.

"Hmm? No," George said sounded puzzled. He tilted his head to look at her more closely. "You're embarrassed."

"Yes," Hermione responded, not meeting his eyes.

"Why would you be?"

"Well, it's an embarrasing topic and an embarrassing thing to admit and I've never done anything like what we did with someone else." Now, her fingers were twisting round the sheet, fidgeting.

"Everyone starts out as a virgin, Hermione. It's not a big deal. I won't tease you anymore about shagging though," he said, a half smile on his face.

"Oh, no," she said quickly. "That's ok. I mean, I don't mind. Rather, I mean -"

George gave her a full smile now. "What do you mean, Hermione?" He sounded rather as if he were trying not to laugh.

Taking a deep breath, she said, "I mean, it's fine. I, um, actually, well, enjoyed myself this afternoon. So. I don't mind if you tease me. I guess it's probably weird for you though. I'm probably like another sister or something." Hermione stopped rambling and bit her lip and closed her eyes, waiting for the humiliation she expected to come. Instead, George brushed a curl out of her face, tenderly. She looked at him, and his face was unreadable. Dark, a hint of pain in his eyes, but closed off, though a faint smile remained on his face.

"No, I don't think of you as a sister. Not at all," he said. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. I did too."

They were quiet for a time, looking at each other. Hermione was unsure what to do or say, or what she wanted him to do or say. George was hesitating, looking at her, beginning to appreciate how pretty she was, seeing her vulnerability. He wasn't himself, but then, he would never be himself again. Still, there was something holding him back from closing the distance between them, and kissing her again. It wasn't desire, that was there, but some other unspoken, unnamed apprehension.

And then Hermione yawned. She tried to hide it, but it was clear that she was fighting sleep, watching him, waiting. The moment, whatever it might have been, had passed. "Budge up over here, Hermione," he finally said, his voice low. She scooted closer to him, and he wrapped an arm around her. "Now go to sleep, yeah?"

Within a few moments, her breathing became slower and deeper. He held onto her, and felt the pit of sadness and loss in his stomach unclench just a bit. She wasn't Fred, and it was all different, but at least he wasn't alone. That was the thought echoing his head as he too succumbed to sleep.