Ehh. Not overly proud of this chapter. Could've been better.
Thank you, reviewers! You guys are making my days by giving me feedback! I hope this up to par.
"I wonder what's happening up there," Ron said for the umpteenth time that day, earning an eye roll from his sister. Ron hadn't done so much as step one foot away from the couch yet, and was now lazily strewn across it, booted feet up on the aged, worn arm of the familiar couch. Ginny was reviewing her tactics book for the semester to come, needing something to distract herself from the happenings of above. Harry, unlike the other two, busied himself in more useful means, like helping Molly with the dinner preparations, though she insisted many times that she could handle it and why didn't he just go and engage Ron and Ginny in a game of Quidditch or perhaps Wizard's chess?
"Well, I like cooking, actually. I'm quite good at it," he said with a smile, "The only thing my uncle ever complimented, actually, was my cooking."
To, which, Molly smiled warmly.
"Well, an extra set of hands is never unappreciated," she would keep saying, "Especially when the other children are perhaps too lazy to help."
"Working, Mum," Ginny mumbled, "I'm working."
"Me too," Ron said.
"Ronald Weasley, you're doing less work than that couch is," Molly chastised with a shake of her head before she smiled conspiratorially at Harry. "Though, truth be told, they are quite horrible in kitchen, particularly our Ginny dear. She's a devil on the field, but she's a toddler in the kitchen."
Ginny mumbled some sort of response, though she was too caught up in her notes to really pay her dear Mum any real mind, which Ron laughed at her for. Harry laughed as well, amused by the teasing and jovial sport that existed in their colorful little Burrow as always, but he did not laugh as hard as he wanted to. He was far too worried about what was going on upstairs, not just about Hermione, but about George, because he had an irking suspicion of what George had done to himself, because when Ginny had sent her patronus off to fetch Hermione, Harry had looked back for a moment to see Mrs. Weasley levitating the unconscious George up the stairs, feet first.
And his hair had fallen aside just a tad.
And he'd seen an ear that wasn't supposed to be there.
Hermione was quiet for quite a long while, so much so that George began to fidget from his place across the room, looking about awkwardly, like a trapped animal of some sort inside of a cage. He was afraid to set Hermione off just by breathing the wrong way right now which, considering the magnitude of what he'd done, he believed to be more than entirely possible. She'd cursed off his hair just because he'd misspoken (though, truth be told, it was still entirely his fault), and she'd slapped him (very, very hard) across the face when he'd finally showed her. And now?
He wasn't sure what could happen because now, Hermione Granger was crying that way again.
Like she had at Fred's funeral.
Full of anger, full of hurt, full of sadness, of regret, of pure anguish, and of deep, soulful longing; tears she'd tried so hard to hold back but when Arthur, Bill and Charlie had raised their wands up to the sky to project an array of colorful, exuberant fireworks that would've made Fred utterly proud, she'd lost it, right there, right next to Ron, who, like a dolt, wasn't sure what to even do about it, so George had to jump in and Apparate them both away to the closed WWW shop, where they had both lost themselves in their sorrows together for the first and very last time.
She'd screamed Fred's name for ages, grasping her cloak tight to her body, as if she were trying to choke herself with it, her unmanageable hair hanging uncharacteristically limply around her face, as if even it were too emotionally drained to even think about showing the distress that Hermione was already showing well on her own. She had fallen into a curled-up position next to the Toxic Chocolates, pygmy puffs floating down to land upon her head, her sadness affecting them as they, too, began to cry, small little tears with small little voices; as if they understood what it was that Hermione could never say. As far as he knew, pygmy puffs had no great resource for memory, but every time he was in the shop now, the puffs tended to look at him sadly, as if they, too, could not distinguish brother from brother, but they were indeed aware that two had become one by means of division.
George had lost his control when the pygmy puffs had begun to express their sorrow, collapsing to the ground as if he'd been shot with the killing curse, crumpling up in a gaggle of long spindly legs and slightly shorter arms, his hands fisted tight as he sobbed harder than he had about anything in his life, even that time when Percy got a particularly bad flu when he was about three and Percy'd been rushed to St. Mungo's for immediate treatment. It'd been the longest night of his childhood life.
That night, though, the night of Fred's funeral; it was definitely longer.
And now, this moment, it felt as if it were taking the metaphorical cake.
It was no great secret that George had feelings for the witch, least of all to George himself. For him, it'd been so long ago that he'd fallen for the witch that it felt like all of his life, but in actuality, it'd been in fourth year, a year after having actually met her but not having really talked to her for longer than a few moments, when Hermione had hugged George for selflessly going to rescue Harry from the hell that was Privet Drive, and he'd seen her actually, unabashedly grin for the first time, at him, and though her teeth were quite funny, in a weird way that he blamed wholly on his lack of appeal to the opposing sex at the tender age of fourteen, he'd found it to be quite beautiful.
Then he began to notice Granger, all around the school. At the age of twelve, she was just beginning puberty, beginning to fill out in areas that George hadn't been looking towards before and, much to his anguish, he found himself seeing it all too often for his liking, not just around the common room, but in his secret-hiding spot in the back of the library that was too close to the restricted section for much of the student body's liking, in his back-hallways stairwell that he and Fred liked to scheme, in his reserved spot in Madame Pomfrey's emergency wing (though, admittedly, she hadn't landed herself there on purpose, or so he hoped, it'd be quite worrisome that she was looking to get herself petrified by a giant disgusting snake).
Point was, he saw her with far too much regularity for his own comfort, and then, to make matters worse, she began to spend holiday with their family. Imagine that torture! Waking up and going to the bathroom only to be surprised by a little Granger who, in one of Bill's old shirts he'd left behind, revealed to George that she was quite fit, at least in the leg department. Or he'd be going down on Christmas morning, bright and early only to find Hermione on the couch, watching one of Fred and Ginny's many destructive, yet beautiful collaborations, a jumper on that could only be made by Mum and Ministry pajamas that could definitively only belonged to Percy on, laughing in delight at the display.
And then the worst possible thing had happened.
Fred had gone ahead and fucked her in sixth year.
He hadn't talked to Fred in a month when he'd done that, because Fred had been fully aware of his little crush on Hermione and there were just certain lines that Fred, as his brother, just wasn't supposed to cross. He hadn't even found out from Fred, not directly, he found out from Lee Jordan, (who'd found out from Katie Bell, who had gotten a suspicion from Lavender Brown [who had noticed a difference in her bed springs and, when she'd enquired her dormmates about it, Hermione had blushed sheer scarlet and stuttered something about a change in sleeping patterns, perhaps, a curious statement that had apparently been in the back of her mind when she'd caught Fred and Hermione awkwardly greeting the Tuesday after in the common room]), because their friend did not know how to keep his mouth shut.
Fred had tried to explain himself, of course, tried to tell George why he'd done such a thing, but George wouldn't have any of it whatsoever. It was chaotic enough, with the Triwizard Tournament going on, that Fred and George's brief falling-out had gone unnoticed by pretty much all except for Lee and Wood, the latter of which had noticed, in a bloody instant, the difference in Fred and George's playing, now that George was purposefully hitting the Bludgers towards Fred's head. He always missed, of course, but it was not for a lack of trying.
It had been Wood, with Lee and Angelina's help, that they'd locked the twins in a broom closet in the out-of-bounds fourth floor corridor, where they were expected to sort out their issues or Wood would be looking for two new Beaters for Gryffindor, because he wasn't going to sacrifice a game over Fred and George. So, begrudgingly, Fred and George had talked; though to begin conversation George had punched him square in the nose, giving a slight iota of difference to the two of them that, despite Madame Pomfrey's healing, Hermione had still noticed.
Fred had grunted, grabbing at his gushing nose.
"Well, I guess I deserved that," Fred acquiesced almost instantly, much to George's annoyance.
"Why her?" he'd spat at his twin angrily, "Any other witch, it could've been any other witch that you could've shagged, but why would you pick the only one whom I…" George trailed off, too angry to finish his statement.
Though dark in the closet, Fred could easily read him.
"I wish I could explain it, Forge," Fred had said quietly, shamefully, "I really do."
"You can speak, can you not? Use your language, man!" George barked at him.
Fred had flinched at him, but nodded enough for George to see it. "I… um… you've talked about her, a lot, George. For a while now, you talk about her really quite often, and it made me curious as to why a little nerd like Granger would hold your interests. So, I, um…" he had coughed slightly, awkwardly, "I got curious, y'know, 'cause she's held your interests for so long, and I wanted to see what the fuss was about. Maybe, if I could, I'd help, y'know, set you two up."
George growled. "Why did you fuck Granger, Fred?"
Fred sighed. "Well, I've been watching her, and watching her, and naturally, I began to… take notice of the little things you'd described. The frustrated hair-tugging, the nervous studying, the stressful weekends, the concentration in her face; I'd noticed it, George, because of you, and I… I began to… to like her, too. And not like I did before, but, proper, actual liking. And, well, fuck, George," Fred had breathed, "You saw her that night. She was utterly breathtaking. I was so happy that for once we didn't arrive at the same time. You would've hexed me right then for that reaction I had. And then I found her later, crying because of Ron, and I… I just…"
He paused, George didn't know for what, but found out just moments later when Fred's broken voice continued, "I'm so sorry, Georgie-boy, I really am. I'm a proper idiot, and never, ever, should I have ever thought to even touch 'Mione. But… I couldn't help myself, mate. I fell for her, too."
"George?"
The Weasley boy blinked owlishly, having been so lost in thought about the past that he'd forgotten about the present, finally focusing in on a puffy, red-eyed Hermione eyeing him with an unreadable expression. Knowing she had his attention, she'd wordlessly patted the space besides herself and, despite not wanting to intrude on that space, he did as commanded anyways, sitting beside her, nervously wringing his hands in the way that, unbeknownst to our dear George, Hermione quite liked, though admittedly, she wasn't paying much attention to that either, at that very moment. Instead, she focused on the features of 'his' face, as if searching for something in the spotting of freckles on his pale skin. He shifted about uncomfortably after a while, not used to anyone trying to inspect his face for prolonged periods of time.
She finally exhaled a heavy sigh, closing her eyes nice and tight.
"Please, George, I would like you to explain now," she said quietly.
George's throat tightened up, as if it could physically stop him from telling her, but he powered through, biting the inside of his mouth.
"One of the projects Gred and I were working on before… well, everything, it was supposed to erase the need for polyjuice potion, which is expensive as anything and far too complex for standard production, and provide a tasty and need-fulfilling option without the requirement of brewing said potion or the need for hair. The user would simply need to take a bite, picture the person they wanted to become, and one, two; you'd become that person, even growing or losing body parts as required. I hadn't touched the project in months, but I was so sure I could finally figure out the problem and make Gred proud of me," he said slowly, carefully choosing his words, watching Hermione's face carefully as he spoke, "And I was sure I'd gotten it today, so I brought it round here, figuring I could try using Harry or Gin, and, she, well…"
"Coerced you into using it on yourself," she supplied.
"Quite," he coughed out awkwardly, "Anyways, it did work, technically, but I was sure I'd been thinking about turning into Victor Krum because, honestly, it would've been hilarious to see Ron's face at that, but… I guess that I…" He trailed off, looking away now. "When I came to, I saw myself in the mirror and I'd known in an instant that I was no longer George."
"You're Fred," Hermione whispered.
George nodded. "I'm Fred," he agreed sadly, "And I'm so ashamed of it."
Hermione's eyes snapped open, fire burning.
"You should be," she spat at him, "Fred needs to be let go, George."
George's—or Fred's, were they?—eyes widened in fear of that. All of his life, it'd always been Fred and him. They were Fred and George, or George and Fred, or the Weasley Troublemakers, or the Hellspawn; whatever the case, it was never Fred or George as separate entities, independent of each other. They'd never experienced more than a few minutes apart from each other, because even in each other's dreams, usually the other brother would be alongside for the adventure. Separation had never even been a thought for them, not even when George had wanted to beat the daylights out of Fred for sleeping with the very girl who was glaring daggers at him.
"I… I know," George breathed out, shocked by the suggestion still, "I've been told. But…"
Hermione arched on dangerous eyebrow. "But?"
George fidgeted. He really didn't like being still; made him antsy.
"But… it's always been… been me and him, hasn't it? It's not like we were apart for longer than a bathroom trip, 'Mione. Everyone always confused us, even our parents, and it's not their fault, it's none of their faults, but it's hard to let go when one of the very few people to see any figment of individuality in Fred and I is six feet under, and that person was Fred." He shifted. "Mum still says Fred's name when she's talking to me, sometimes. Dad does it, too. Everyone does, 'cept for you, and I have to pretend that I don't notice because they think I have a short fuse."
Hermione paused in her rage, tempering down a bit. "Y… You know?"
He nodded. "Not daft; just lazy. Of course I know. And I don't know how to tell them they don't have to dance around me anymore. I've said Fred's name loads of times right now, and I think you have too, and I haven't flipped out, have I?"
Hermione contemplating this, gradually simmering down. "No, you haven't," she realized quietly.
He hung his head now, shyly looking at her from under Fred's unusually thick eyelashes. He was glad he got the thinner ones. How could Fred ever see with those shrubs attached to his eyelids?
"I also noticed that you've been avoiding me, Hermione," he admitted sadly, watching the young witch stiffen, and then look away with an unreadable expression.
"You could've said something," she mumbled.
"I wanted to give you space," he said, "You lost Fred, too."
Hermione paused. "I always suspected you knew," she said, reading right into George's words.
"Found out the first time from Lee. Caused a bit of a riff between Gred and I. The other times… direct from Fred himself, in detail," he said, somehow managing not to add the excruciating he'd wanted to put in there.
Hermione's face didn't change, but he knew by the tips of her ears that she was reacting.
"Does he not know privacy," she breathed, annoyed, before going back over his words with a deep frown developing. She looked back at him, curiosity in her features. "What do you mean, you and Fred had a falling out?"
"I believe the word was riff," he said half-jokingly, earning himself just the smallest of smiles, his sense of humor finally coming back to him, "And I mean that I… didn't… take the news very well is all."
Hermione kept pressing, but of course. "And what does that mean?" she inquired.
George sighed, unsure of how to approach this—be vague and eventually have to answer anyways, or answer bluntly, and get his expected outcome of shock and rejection, which he did not want in the slightest. He was happier with the little witch not knowing about his deep, practically life-long crush on her, and he would keep it that way, except now he had inadvertently pushed himself into a corner in this situation. He couldn't even lie; he knew Hermione could sniff out a lie like Harry could find trouble. If Fred were here, he'd maybe be able to talk enough nonsense that Hermione would leave it alone, but Fred wasn't, truly wasn't, it was just him and his dream witch, and he had a decision to make, a decision was completely and utterly sure would leave him nothing but heartbroken in the end. So, George came to his decision, his first truly major decision on his own, and headed down the road he was sure would only lead to disaster.
Hermione was sure George was going to try and come with a fib of some sort, or maybe try to joke his way out of it like he would used to, but much to her shock, George hadn't even tried. She didn't know what caused this, and honestly, she hadn't a care in the world, either—all that mattered was that George was suddenly kissing him as hard as he could, as if he could sear her lips into memory with the kiss.
And Hermione found herself… utterly disgusted, she found, but not for the reason that one would expect. See, although the pictures and the possessions of Fred Gideon Weasley had her heart going through something like a meat grinder every time she laid eyes on them, she knew well enough to know that hers and Fred's time together, it was done. There would be no more secret trysts, or secret snogs, or quiet flirting, or outright affection anymore. Those days were gone—but she had plentiful opportunity to do them with George as he was, but not in the form of her late lover. She was ready—she wanted George now, body and soul, like she had for far too long. However… she didn't want him… like this. Not while he was Fred. She wanted George when he was George, and that way only.
George, on the other hand, had noticed right away a concerning lack of response from the witch and pulled back, breaking off the kiss before Hermione had really a chance to respond.
"Sorry," he said quickly, running a hand through thick hair, "I'm so sorry."
She winced. "George, I…"
"Do you even see George right now, Granger?" he asked, without any bite to his words, surprisingly enough for Hermione, but she was quick to read the expression on his face: he was too heartbroken to think about anger. Anger had never been the twins' thing, but it had especially not been George's. Fred was the one who got madder quicker (which, with the twins, was quite a relative thing), and Hermione had a theory that it might have something to do with in which the order the two had been born; Fred always claiming he was the older one.
"What? Yes," she was quick to respond, but George was, unfortunately, far too upset to hear it.
"Ah, you do, I knew it. Not even you could see the George in me. I can't even see the George anymore, sometimes," he said, sorrowfully, "Fred got minutes without me. Five whole minutes, did you ever know that?" Hermione knew exactly what he was talking about: the exact thing she'd just been thinking about. "But, for me, I… it's always been Fred, innit? Always been Fred. All my life, and there's always been Fred. And who's George, anyhow? They only knew about the one baby, but magic, it's got its ways of surprising you every single day, hasn't it? You get one baby and, guess what, there's an extra one. Funny that, hmm?"
He was growing erratic, not frustrated, but definitely could blow his top at any time, which Hermione was frantic to avoid, but she knew that when George got this way, there was no stopping him, really. Fred had told her that much.
"George, I… I didn't…" she began before George cut her off.
"Please, Hermione, you can stop. I've done quite enough to muck things up already, I know. All I can do is muck up anymore, apparently," he said, looking away now, "Because it's only going to ever be Fred for you. You're not going to wanna settle for his twin. His freakish twin with one ear. Not when you've had the real thing. I get it."
He stood up now, moving away from the bed.
"Perhaps it's best you leave now, 'Mione," he whispered quietly to her.
Hermione's heart ached. "G—"
"Please, no more," he said so softly that Hermione wanted to go back in time just to kiss him back, "I think I need to be on my own for a while, Hermione. Go on. I'll come down for dinner, even, when I'm ready. Wouldn't want Mum to come up ready to rant at me for holding the two of us up; it's for the best that I be on my own for a while."
Hermione opened her mouth, but suddenly, she thought better of it. There was nothing she was going to be able to say to George, at this point, that was going to change his mind. She bit her bottom lip, chewing it until she actually drew blood, before standing up, fisting her hands at her side, doing her best to not cry. She'd cried too much today already, and she was quite sick of it. She wasn't going to cry about this, not if she could help it.
She was going to go downstairs and help Mrs. Weasley set up the table for dinner.
Then she would dig in, with Ron at her right side so she could turn to left towards Mrs. Weasley and ignore her son's animalistic eating habits.
She was going to laugh so much her head hurt, and eat so much her stomach ached, and George would come down, acting like his old self once he got a handle on himself, and they'd continue to laugh until Ron got physically sick because he always overstuffed himself, and then she'd stay for a few more hours to chat with Ginny and laugh at Ron's stupidity and offer Mrs. Weasley help with the dishes, although usually Harry was quick to help her, and George would still be his old self, making Ron engage in an argument that he wouldn't know was pointless.
And then she'd wish them a good night, and Mrs. Weasley would give her another hug and beg her to come around again, and Gin would come and thank Hermione for coming on such short notice, and again apologize. Harry would hug her, too, and maybe Ron if he hadn't gotten lazy yet, and maybe George if he hadn't left before her.
And she'd come home, with the memory of a beautiful night on the road to rejoining her family-away-from-home, and for once she wouldn't think a lick about any of her problems before going to sleep that night in front of another rerun of Muggle television shows.
That was what our dear Hermione Granger wanted to do.
But she didn't.
She instead Apparated away from the Burrow that very instant, landing in her childhood backyard before collapsing into a mess of tears, not caring if any Muggles had seen her, clenching onto the cleanly cut grass as if it were her one anchor to the world, crying again in the way she didn't want to.
This was how her parents had found her and, despite their residual anger with Hermione's actions, they began to console their heartbroken baby girl.
