Thanks for all the feedback! On we go!


"Why isn't she here yet?!" Ginny shrieked worriedly, pulling at her hair by the root, making Harry wince at the painfully high volume she used. "I sent the patronus nearly an hour ago now!"

"Maybe she didn't get it," Ron suggested half-heartedly, which earned him a venomous glare from the youngest of the Weasley clan, "Maybe it got lost."

"Oh, yes, Ronald, that surely must be it," Ginny responded sarcastically.

Harry looked at her. "C'mon, Gin, you know he was joking. Calm down, please."

"You're scaring us," Ron added unhelpfully.

Ginny shot a withering glare at the both of them before stomping out of the dining room, her hands fisted tight at her side much like as a petulant child than a girl of her age and experience, thankfully sparing the either of them from her infamous hex. Both boys sighed, having grown quite tense due to Ginny's growing impatience and worry with the current situation and, yes, relieved that Ginny had left the room. They had both been too afraid of offending her.

Ron made eye contact with his best friend, his eyes wide as he let out a sigh.

"You're basically marrying my mum," he told Harry.

Harry chuckled softly. "Gin can't cook, though."

Ron chortled. "Yeah, that's true, too." He cast another worried glance towards the doorway, seeing Ginny cast yet another patronus to go fetch Hermione. He sighed again, the humor being sucked out of him once more. Molly was upstairs with George, the door locked until Hermione arrived, making Ron feel powerless, unable to help his big brother. "What a mess, eh?"

The question had been rhetorical, but Harry answered nonetheless. "I'd rather be dealing with Death Eaters." Harry frowned. "Things are far too complicated."

"Yeah, because you're stupid when it comes to feelings," Ron reminded him.

"Also true. But I think fighting the Death Eaters was, still, easier," Harry said defensively, putting his chin down on the old wood of the dining room table (and not even pursuing the frankly pointless venture of calling Ron out upon his hypocrisy; it was just too cheap of a shot, in Harry's opinion anyway). The remains of breakfast, the plates of cold food and the assortment of pots and pans, were still on the table, waiting to be charmed into washing, but Harry lacked the energy or desire to do so, though on a usual day he would in a heartbeat if it meant he could alleviate Molly of some of the work. However, today he just couldn't: he was too worried about George.

A small part of him wished that he'd just done what George had asked and bit into the suspicious foam-like mound that now sat undisturbed on the floor where George had dropped it, ignorant to the misery it was causing, but he had a feeling that the result would be quite the same as the current outcome, which left him with a feeling of nagging guilt without any sort of foundation for such. Harry sighed unhappily, turning pointedly away from the disgusting product that left George in such a dismal state, which Ron more than easily noticed. Skilled in his ability to percept Harry's feelings, he sighed, turning his gaze towards his bespectacled friend.

"Not your fault, mate," Ron said for what had to be the twelfth time. Or maybe it was the thirteenth? It was beginning to blur together.

"I know," mumbled Harry for the umpteenth time with an angry little huff.

Ron sighed again. "Harry, George's done much worse to himself before," he reminded him, "Remember that time that George's spell rebounded back to him and he set his eyelashes on fire? He went to St. Mungo's because of that one. Even Percy teased him for it. Percy!"

Harry snorted. "I remember," he mumbled softly, "but that doesn't stop me from worrying about him. This time Fred's not gonna stumble out of the bathroom after plucking out all his eyelashes in solidarity."

Ron was forced to concur, but thankfully, the distinctly sharp snap of Hermione's Apparition stopped him from voicing such a truth, because probably it wouldn't have helped at all. Harry and Ron rushed to their feet, the latter nearly dislocating his ankle as the boys sprinted out to meet Hermione, who was quite angry they came to realize, seeing as she was chastising Ginny.

"—are you aware that the Ministry is going to be sending me angry letters for the next week? They'll possibly issue me a court date, seeing as I'm still not out of school quite yet—and no, before you even think to ask, I will not be taking the full blame for this predicament you've landed me in. Are you aware of all the memory charms I had to cast today because of your patronus, Ginevra Weasley?!" Hermione screeched at the younger girl, waving her arms about like a mad woman, or like a mother, spitting and fuming flames of outrage at Ginny's well-intentioned, yet senseless actions. Ginny had her arms crossed petulantly across her chest, as if waiting for Hermione to finish her rant, which, when Hermione got started, was a while yet if she had anything to say about it, which she apparently had. Harry winced in sympathy for his girlfriend, but moved to do nothing—he had long since learned that silence was quite the virtue in cases like this, lest Hermione turn her anger onto him instead.

Ron, on the other hand, had not quite learned such a lesson, shaking his head dismissively and stalking forwards whereas Harry had smartly hung back a good few meters.

"Hermione, what's taken you so long?" he called, drawing the attention of the young woman, who was never slow to respond.

"What's wrong," Hermione began in a definitively angry tone, her hands quivering slightly, "Is that your sister has just got me into far too much trouble on what appears to be a whim, sending a patronus to fetch me which, if I were in Diagon Alley or Hogsmede, would've been just fine but, however, I was in the middle of muggle fucking London!" She ended with a screech that had Harry wincing from his place. Hermione didn't swear unless she was especially infuriated.

Ron scowled. "Well, what was she supposed to do, eh? We needed you."

Hermione's eyes flared. "I had to use Obliviate an entire coffee shop, Ronald! At least thirty people! And then more because, no, the patronus had some sort of sense of manners and stayed outside the shop window! Are any of you truly aware of just how busy London can be? At least a hundred people saw that patronus, if not more!"

"Yeah, well, that's not important, Hermione—"

"Not important!" Hermione gasped, her hand wrapping tighter around her wand, a reflexive motion that Harry knew meant that Hermione was quite ready to hex Ron for his rudeness. Leaping into action; he moved in front of his foolish friend, his heartbeat racing wildly in his chest as he fought to control the rampant worry running through his veins. Hermione looked to Harry, ready to implode on him too, but the look in his eye had gave her pause.

"Hermione, George's home," Harry said quickly, taking advantage of the moment, "And I'm not sure, but I think he's done something utterly stupid."


When George had ingested the product, just before Harry's horrible revelation, he immediately felt a sort of queasiness rise in his stomach, a certain kind of unsettlement that had him shifting about awkwardly in the old rickety chair which, due to the recent events, he had immediately attributed to a sort of anxiety caused by Harry's knowledge. It was quickly rebutted not even a moment later, when nausea rose heavy and hot in his throat, his body wishing to expel the product in the swiftest of ways, a motion that George had obliged his body by doing, projectile vomiting nocuous baby pink fluid, a hue not unlike the edible charm, all over no one else but Harry 'That Unlucky Bastard' Potter.

Which had deeply disappointed Harry, but quite amused Ginny and Ron, though the humor was quickly dissipated when their older brother began to dry heave, having felt nowhere near done upchucking; his mouth feeling like it had been filled with cotton. Ron smacked George hard on the back, as if he thought George had actually something stuck in his throat, an honest reaction that, for once, no one judged him for, though more accurately, however, there simply wasn't enough time given to do so when George began to flail about uncontrollably, his eyes rolling up into the back of his head quite suddenly as his spasms had him falling out of his chair.

Now, if Hermione had been there at that moment, immediately she would have known what to be done, but as it was Ron, Ginny and Harry at the moment, and none of the three of them having any sort of experience with seizures (not that Hermione did, but surely she'd read something about it, you would figure), so for a good moment the three of them sat stupidly staring at George as he tossed about on the dining room floor, the smelly pink fluid dripping off Harry's twice-ruined hair.

Molly had come into such a scene, which had been just a few breaths after George had vomited upon Harry; finding herself with a visage of the savior of the wizarding world coated with pink substance, her precious and only daughter staring dumbly at Harry, and with her youngest and least self-sufficient son staring dumbly at his older brother.

"What're you all doing?!" Molly had barked, as if any of the three capable party members would be able to answer her before she was grabbing George by the shoulders, hoisting him up so he sat nearly upright, therefore stopping him from accidentally choking himself with the pink dribble that ran down his chin. "What did he do?"

Ginny was the first to speak, eerily calm despite the fact that her brother could've just died, "I'm not entirely sure, Mum, but I think he's going to become a hulking pink rage monster… kind of like Bruce."

"Except a touch more feminine," Ron supplied, "And ginger-y."

"What in the hell are you talking about, Ginevra? And just who the hell is Bruce?!" Molly screamed.


Hermione stared blankly at the two youngest of the Weasleys, her face clearly displaying incredulity that she possessed now that the three sat before her finished spinning their tale, which was intended to explain what had happened, but only served to make Hermione question their intelligence. Her arms were crossed over her chest, an eyebrow arched high as she gave them all this blank stare, deeply unsettling all three of them, particularly Harry, who was more than aware that the look was usually always paired with some sort of rant.

However, they seemed to luck out, Hermione too emotionally drained to even desire to yell at them, seemingly deflating right before their eyes, tire showing quite easily in her stance, sighing as if she had the weight of the world upon her shoulders. It took her quite a while to speak, so long that it had even Ron worrying about her stress level, eyeing her warily.

Ginny sighed heavily herself, although carefully—after all, she was still unsure if Hermione was still ready to hex her for the patronus she'd sent.

"Hermione, we're sorry for springing this on you all of a sudden," she apologized sincerely, pushing up off of the crowded couch, taking careful steps towards the bright young witch, ready to parry off a spell or two at the drop of a hat. Thankfully, she had no need for this air of caution—Hermione simply cast a tired look at Ginny, all fight dissipated.

"No, it's fine," Hermione finally said softly, "It's not your fault, after all. It's George's." Ginny winced on behalf of her older brother, but didn't speak. Hermione looked down at the ground, virtually staring holes through the aged, over-worn wood as if it had done something to personally earn her wrath. Ginny could see not just tire in Hermione's eyes, but also sadness—worry. Worry for George and his burgeoning stupidity.

Ginny would have to be an unobservant idiot with the scope of a pebble to not know that Hermione had feelings for George. Circe, even Harry and Ron knew, and they were quite well known for their beyond-stunted emotional observance abilities. Most of the entire family had figured it out, with the exception of her father (because Ron had to inherit his oblivious nature from somewhere), even Charlie; who was never even home! The Weasley clan proper rooted in favor of George and Hermione getting together, especially Ron, since it would mean that his older brother would be happy and Hermione would be around more often and officially and properly a part of the family, like everyone knew Harry would be someday as well.

However, Hermione seemed intent on keeping the interactions she had with George to a minimal degree, even before George's embarrassing string of failing charms and spells, and she was quite keen on keeping her mouth shut about the topic, so much to a degree that the aforementioned oblivious Weasley patriarch even noticed the change in her behavior. Hermione was usually outright about most things, particularly honest when it was needed (and, frankly, when even it wasn't) and didn't try to skirt around things, especially the way she seemed to with George nowadays, and the entire family had noticed that. Whenever George's name was even mentioned, Hermione would shirk away in some sort of way, finding something else that needed attention paid, like the hem on her uniform skirts or the immense amount of hair that Crookshanks seemed to be leaving behind lately on her furniture.

"So, what's wrong with George? Did he become the Incredible Hulk?" Hermione asked, the hint of a fake smile tugging at her lips.

Harry squinted. "By the way, I had no idea you read comic books."

Hermione looked at him. "It's still a book, Harry," she reminded him, "A picture book, maybe, but a book nonetheless. Who am I to reject stories of any kind?" She turned back towards Ginny. "Well?"

Ginny frowned. "Not really," she said, her brow furrowing, "He started upchucking and the like, but didn't become a creature. Actually… I'm not quite sure what happened, to be completely honest. Mum shooed us off, and I sent the patronus, then we had to get that gunk off of him and the shower just wasn't cutting it, and—"

Hermione put up her hand, a universal sign to cut off the verbal upheaval that arose from Ginny's mouth. Ron sniggered a bit at that but didn't say anything. Harry shoved him in the side, none-to-gently, making him grunt out.

"So is he upstairs, I can assume?" Hermione asked, quite rudely at that, but none of the three of them made any comment.

Ginny sighed, and nodded. "Yeah. With Mum."

Hermione nodded, and then gave them a large, incredibly fake smile.

"Then I should probably see what's happened then, shouldn't I?"


Mrs. Weasley was opening the door before Hermione was even completely up the stairs, a worried, but grateful look advertised plainly on her face.

"Oh, Hermione, dear," Mrs. Weasley said, holding out her arms, "It's been far too long. Come, come."

Hermione smiled, sincerely now despite the unhappier turn of events that seemed to have occurred, and obliged Mrs. Weasley with her wish, allowing the mother of seven children to envelop her in a tight hug that could only befit a woman who had to give affection to a large assortment of children. She truly missed Mrs. Weasley; she was what made the Burrow a home for Hermione to even turn to, a home away from her own real home, where she was not just understood, not just accepted, but treated as nothing less than just a normal person, which, when one remembered exactly what Hermione had come from. She had been picked on relentlessly in the muggle world, not just for the 'random accidents' that occurred around her from the ages of six to eleven, but mostly for her dorky, bookish nature, as well as her lack of socialization skills—the bushy hair and the bad teeth had, to some extent, been completely a cursory issue (but one she still got made fun of for, mind you), and found no acceptance in the peers she found in that world. Of course, she'd also very nearly not made any relationships in the magical world, either—truly, if it had never been for that troll that nearly bludgeoned her to death, she would never have been able to call either Ron or Harry friends, not even mention the rest of the Weasleys and her Hogwarts family.

She returned the hug with a tight embrace of her own, which pleased Mrs. Weasley greatly; she was used to giving hugs, not receiving them, for the most part. She gasped happily, somehow managing to tighten her grip, choking a small, delighted laugh out of Hermione. Her mum hugged her like this sometimes, usually when she was gone for months at a time whilst at Hogwarts, but not so much anymore. Hermione almost cried at that thought.

"Hello, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione choked out.

"Oh, now, now, you haven't a reason to cry, sweetheart," Mrs. Weasley said, pulling back and giving that patent warm smile of hers, "One of my boys has only just gone and done something quite stupid once again. Nothing out of the ordinary, now, is it?"

Hermione laughed lightly. "Yes, I guess when you put it that way, it is nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, it's almost refreshingly normal."

Mrs. Weasley laughed. "Quite," she said before her smile faded a bit, "When are you going to stop calling me by the old family name, now, Hermione? Molly would be just fine. I wouldn't even argue if you were to call me Mum. Actually, a variety of names would do, just not Mrs. Weasley; it makes me feel quite old."

Hermione smiled. "Apologies, Mrs. Weasley, but old habits are quite hard to break," she said, "But I assure you that I'm making all the efforts possible."

Mrs. Weasley smiled at full-tilt once more. "I hope so," she said gently before looking towards the now-closed door. "Now, I don't think Ginny quite knows the fuller extent of George's issues and, to be entirely honest, I'm not sure, either. He looks… well, the same, to be honest."

"The same?" Hermione asked, brow creasing. "Why would she call me if he's exactly the same?"

"Well, I nearly had the same question myself, but then George behaved most oddly. He looked in a mirror and… well, he began to cry," Mrs. Weasley said slowly, "Had quite the breakdown, actually, and he won't talk about what. But… he's been asking for you, anyhow. Calling your name. I put enough charms and spells on the door to keep the children from hearing him, considering that it isn't really their business." Hermione kept growing visibly confused, more incredulous by the passing moment, and Mrs. Weasley to backtrack. "Erm. Perhaps it's best you see it for yourself, dear."

"But, Mrs. Weasley, surely—"

"Hermione Granger," Mrs. Weasley said testily, using that no-nonsense tone of hers to stop Hermione in her tracks, "Now, I haven't the faintest why in the blue blazes you've been neglecting our owls or 'forgetting' to come around for supper, and to be quite blunt, I don't care either. But you have been dancing around my Georgie for months and either he's too caught up in himself to see it or he'd rather ignore it, and it doesn't matter, but I will not have it interfere with the closeness I have to my family, and yes, Ms. Granger, that most indeed includes you, because it doesn't matter worth a bit that you're not related to us by any sort of blood; you're family in my eyes, and no matter what stupidity you unwisely choose to allow yourself in, you'll always be family. As Arthur and I always said, there's always room for more Weasleys, after all."

Hermione stared at her, unsure of quite what to say to that. She'd known that Mrs. Weasley felt that way, it was as clear as day in the way she mothered and fawned over her and Harry, not just as her child's friends, but as her own children. She would yell at Harry as much as Ron sometimes, especially like a couple of winters ago at the Burrow when Harry joined the Weasley family in their annual game of Wintertime Weasley Whirlwind Quidditch and they were all utterly stupid and had forgotten their cloaks. Merlin's beard, she'd never heard screaming like that. She'd never done anything like that to her own Mum—but, then again, she'd never once ever considered the idea of mischief or chaos before she'd become a Hogwarts student.

"Now, Hermione," Mrs. Weasley said, drawing back Hermione's attentions with a thumb on her cheek, wiping away the tear Hermione didn't even know she'd let go, "On you get. Make my baby boy stop crying now; he's far too old for baby tears."

Hermione, despite her sadness, couldn't help but laugh a bit at that.

Mrs. Weasley gave her that motherly smile of hers before she pulled her wand out of her robes, flicking it almost flippantly at the door, which unlocked with a succinct little click before looking sweetly back at Hermione. "Now, breakfast was quite a failure of an activity, so I'm going to start on dinner quite early today to make up for it… I should be done by four this evening, please, it would mean a lot if you would join us for it, to us all." Mrs. Weasley's smile brightened just a tad before she Apparated off, possibly to find the three children downstairs, or, more than likely, to go off to the kitchen while she yelled at them during her charm casts for their methodology of fetching Hermione, because, after all, an owl would have done quite nicely.

Hermione took a deep breath before she stepped inside through the doorway, prepared for the very worst to happen, though Mrs. Weasley had been quite clear that nothing had really changed about George in what Hermione could only presume was the appearance.

How wrong Mrs. Weasley had been.

In an instant, Hermione had been able to tell something was completely and utterly different about George, without even the ability to see his face. He was hunched up in a corner of the room that, once upon a time, Fred and George had shared in their time at the Burrow, his fingers woven tightly into the strands of thick red hair, so tight his knuckles were almost white. He was groaning softly, whimpering almost, his entire body shaking, quivering, as if he had a nasty cold of some sort. His robe was strewn across what obviously used to be Fred's bed; the flannel sheet-covered mattress still containing the imprint of the last time Fred had ever slept in that bed, a feeling that had bile rising in Hermione's throat to see. She had loved Fred, after all—still did. Always would.

"George," Hermione whispered, shutting the door behind herself and resetting the charms Mrs. Weasley had put up, deciding that the nosiness of the people of the Burrow was not something George needed right now.

George twitched in her direction, not turning full around towards her. "'Mione," he mumbled almost incoherently, "Why're you 'ere?"

With a need to alleviate the tension, Hermione breathed a laugh. "Because you've gone and done something stupid, haven't you? I mean, you caused yourself a seizure, George."

George flinched at that rather than finding humor, which made Hermione rife with guilt. She bit her tongue gently, moving closer to the Weasley boy, who shirked more into the corner, if possible. She paused, raising a brow in confusion at his behavior.

"George? What is it?"

"D-Don't," George mumbled, obviously pleading gently with her, "You can'."

Hermione always hated confusion. Never quite sat well with her.

"Why not? You've been asking for me, I've heard." George winced at that, and she put her hands on her hips. "So, George. Would you like to explain why that is? Because I did not come all the way from London to deal with this kind of behavior, George Weasley, and I will absolutely not tolerate it. Now, your mother is cooking supper and we need to be down there by four o'clock, and we will be there, so I want you to man up right now, George Fabian Weasley, and I want you to tell me right now!"

George flinched again, which was quickly grating upon Hermione's unusually thin nerves, but she'd been having quite a busy few hours, what with the utter nonsensical chaos George had seen fit to cause in her otherwise contented day. Hermione rolled her eyes, sitting down carefully on the edge of Fred's bed, trying her best not to cry at the thought of him. Instead, she focused her mind on George's predicament, which entailed George apparently pouting in a corner like some sort of pre-pubescent girl.

Which, of course, Hermione told him quite clearly.

George hadn't flinched that time, much to Hermione's relief in fact, but he did respond with a quietly spoken profanity-filled statement that had Hermione's eyes widening in shock.

"Excuse me?" Hermione said quietly, threateningly, withdrawing her wand from the inside of her jacket, her hair seeming to crackle at the threatening level of magic disturbance she was extruding which, if not for the charms she'd re-casted, would've unsettled the family members down below. "Would you like to repeat that, George F—"

"Oh, get off it, Hermione, you're not my Mum; what right do you think you've got to throwing around my middle name as if it's some sort of trump card? It's laughable, the authority you think you've got," George said quietly, but just as threateningly as Hermione had been, "It's like you think you're actually part of the family. It's amusing, that a mud—"

Hermione's sudden Hair-Loss curse struck George square in the back of his head in a stream of ugly purple light, the Weasley crying out when the curse took immediate effect, his hair falling out in thick clumps to the ground, as well as in the tight fisted grip George had on his ginger locks. Tears streamed down Hermione's cheeks in outright anger, shocked by George's sudden slurs towards her magical background. Now, she'd known that it would take many years before the prejudices the different types of wizard and witch had towards each other, if not centuries, but she had hoped that, at least for a little while, she was done hearing it. It seemed not to be the case, however—and what was worse, it was from someone that she loved.

"H-How," Hermione stuttered out, "Dare. You. How do you… how dare you. How dare you?!"

"I-I—" yelped George, "I didn't—"

"Didn't? Didn't what?" Hermione said shrilly, "Didn't mean it? Did that just accidentally slip out? Is that what you're trying to tell me? That you accidentally called me a name that you know full well hurts me, after I've come all this way just to sort out your mess?" Hermione shook her head. "How dare you, George?! All I'm doing is trying to help you, you ungrateful prat, because, shockingly, we all still worry about you, because you've basically off your forsaken rocker!"

"Hermione, let me—"

"Let you, what? Explain?"

"Y-Yea—"

"And what would you say, exactly? That you've been bewitched by some Slytherin bird with a nice rack and a great trunk, and that she somehow spelled you into saying that? Or perhaps, maybe, is it your newest cockamamie experiment that's taken you and turned you into a sorry excuse for a man, least of all a Weasley?! Your mother raised you far better than that for me to ever believe such silly lies, and I consider it an insult that you would think that I would ever be stupid enough to ever—"

"Hermione, I just don't want you to see what I've done!" he yelped out, now scrambling into a standing position, his back still to Hermione. Hermione paused, though pointed her wand quite threateningly still, quite prepared to lose him hair in other nasty places. George sighed heavily, his shoulders falling in defeat. "I… my family wouldn't be able to tell. Merlin, even Mum didn't know, because she was never quite able to do what… what you did. And if you do what you do, then you'll know, and you won't see me, and that's not what I want. I…" He fisted his hand tight, the scars from Umbridge's torture still showing on the back of his hand. "You'd be ashamed."

Hermione was quite confused now, lowering her wand slightly, contemplating his words. She still hadn't the faintest what was going on, but her heart was already dropping into the pit of her stomach, as if anticipating the outcome, somehow. Maybe, in some part of our dear wickedly brilliant Granger's mind, she already knew what it was that George had done to himself, but she didn't want to even think about it.

"George," she said softly, lifting her wand again to point at the back of George's now bare scalp, "I'm going to give you your hair back. And then, we're going to approach this like two civilized people, okay? You may not hide anymore."

George somehow managed to chuckle. "I'm not sure I have a choice, 'Mione."

Hermione shook her head, despite the knowledge that George couldn't quite see it well in his predicament, so she vocally responded, "No, George, you haven't."

Growing George's hair back was quite easy, taking mere moments for it to flourish back into full thickness, followed by George raking his hair through his fresh head of hair, though he winced when he made contact with his scalp.

"Give it a day," Hermione suggested, "Sorry."

George chuckled again. She quite liked that better. "To be honest, I deserved it."

Hermione shrugged. "You did."

George continued to chuckle before he hushed down, returning back to seriousness. "Please don't yell at me, eh, 'Mione? I'll explain what happened, but please, don't yell at me?"

Hermione sighed. "I make absolutely no promises, but I will do to try," she responded, sliding her wand back into place for good measure.

George took in a breath. "I guess that's all I can ask for, isn't it? It'll do, I guess."

The Weasley, who'd always been one for the dramatics, had apparently decided against any at that moment, which was a grace that Hermione could never thank him enough for, as Hermione found herself looking at quite the shock, her mouth gaping open like a fish, sure that if she'd still had her wand in her hand, she most likely would've dropped it, because suddenly, George's nonsensical rambling made far too much sense far too quickly, at least for Hermione's liking, because she could immediately tell just what he'd done.

The differences were subtle, minute, but just like always she was able to see them, from the particular crook in his long nose to the flakes of amber in his brown eyes, as well as the particular way his lip was shaped which was, not altogether different from George's, but at the same time, it was on a whole different planet. And his ears, oh, his ears. He had both of them. How had she managed not to notice such a change?

The hair, she thought in the back of her mind. George's hair had grown long and shaggy, much like his hair had been in his sixth year, but only to hide the fact that he now only had one ear, and she'd been too angry to even notice such a thing when she'd cursed his hair off. Hermione raised her hands to her mouth, unable to stop the sob that escaped her, moving closer to George, breaching the gap between them. He swallowed dryly, with that throat that wasn't truly his, fidgeting, bouncing on his toes, as if prepared to run away if absolutely necessary.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, his lips opening and closing in a shell-shocked way as Hermione continued to get closer and closer, already visibly worried about the ranging possibilities in Hermione's many responses, which, for the most part, included her breaking her promise and yelling at him, and hexing him, as well.

What he had not expected, however, was a slap across his face, swift and hard against his left cheek when she struck, agonized tears now streaming down her face. George didn't let out the groan he'd wanted to, knowing that he'd fully deserved it for what he'd done.

When she finally spoke, her words were full of disgust. "Of all the things, George Weasley," she said lowly, "Of all things you could've done, how dare you… how dare you…" She couldn't even say it with a ball forming tight in her throat. She staggered back, until the back of her knees touched Fred's bed, and this time, she didn't care about tact, flopping down as she openly began weeping.