Disclaimer: I own nada. Oh and just for clarification, this is a George/Hermione fic—I just need her to be with Ron for the first couple of chapters for the story. Don't worry!

Chapter 2: Well intended idiot.

"What do you mean you're not coming to my practice?" Ron said as his head snapped my direction. "You promised you would!" His grip on my hand became painfully tighter, as if he were trying to force his emotions through that small contact.

"Yes, Ron, but my examinations are coming up…" I trailed off. I did need to study—but the truth was I just couldn't bear the thought of being around Ron if he happened to mess up—he would be so angry and surly—I shuddered. Ron was most certainly not pleasant during those times, and with only me to deflect his disappointment…

"Hermione, everybody knows you're going to pass your bloody exams! What I need to know is that you still support me. Am I not good enough for you?"

"You know I always do, and of course you're good enough. I just can't today!" His face bore an expression of disappointment, eyes scrunched up and lips etched into a frown. I'm sorry, Ron. I tentively reached my arms toward him—any contact for comfort.

All at once, his expression changed into one of stone cold harness. "I don't need your pity," and pushing me away from him with such force that I fell of the couch and onto the floor, he stalked straight out of the Head's common room, slamming the door—not looking back, even once.

I closed my eyes for the briefest of moments, not focusing on the pain of my shoulder, nor the numbness of my hand, but only the weight left behind his exit.

Picking myself up off the ground, I proceeded to make my way to grab a book and a scarf. It was an unseasonably cold morning to be watching Quidditch.

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The sky looked a dark ominous color, threatening a large storm even as I made my way down the path.

Flashes of red and gold splayed out on the Quidditch pitch. The chasers tossed the quaffle to each other quite expertly, while the new beaters—Seamus and Dean—put on a decent effort in the bludger department. The Gryffindor team practiced how they played: seamlessly. Harry alternated between shouting out tactics and gazing at Ginny until he was caught by a fellow team member, in which case he would most sheepishly wink at her and try to focus on scouting instead. They're so in love. It looks so…easy.

Finding a secluded area away from the pitch, I sat somewhat shakily on my nana's quilt, clutching a book. Steadying my breath, I opened Spells to Charm your Patients Socks Off and attempted to lose myself in its pages. After a few unsuccessful attempts, the book fell from my hands onto the ground.

With a crack of thunder, the sky began to weep, raining in a fine mist—not enough to warrant canceling practice, but enough to keep one uncomfortable in its icy embrace... I looked at the lake and found myself wondering how cold its depths were. Would it be cold enough to dull the pain?

I sat there looking at the lake, looking but not really seeing, entertaining notions that my soul but not my mind could comprehend.

"You do realize practice has been finished for over an hour right? Or were you just hanging out, hoping to get a glance at this piece of perfection?" said a teasing voice.

I glanced up, somewhat startled, only to find George standing above me. Something in my look changed his light-hearted expression, however, and he sat down next to me, fixing me with a disconcerting stare. He was close—close enough for me to feel the warmth of his arm and smell his cinnamon aftershave. I felt my thoughts scatter, like ants before a storm.

My mind is confused enough already, and there's something about George's presence that always seems to throw me off guard…

"Hey, what's wrong Hermione? Is it my prat of a brother?" I broke his gaze, focusing on the lace of my sneakers. Well that was scarily accurate. "Well—," I paused, trying to find anything but the truth to tell—any lie to tell at all, but found myself unable to with his open, honest face. "Sometimes," I admitted.

"Ah. Well that is a problem." I chanced a look and found him staring at me thoughtfully. "I guess the best thing I can tell you is that Ron means well, however he comes off. Do you want to know why I didn't play Quidditch this year?" I froze— Fred.

"I just couldn't bear the thought of playing a sport that I had played my whole life with Fred—suddenly without him. We were a dynamic duo, each one half of a whole. I still can't bear the thought sometimes…" His green eyes reflected so much anguish, I found myself grabbing his hand. Distractedly, I thought about how perfectly his hand engulfed mine.

He hadn't spoken of Fred to anyone since his funeral. He glanced at our intertwined hands and half-way smiled.

"Anyway, Ron knew how much that would tear me up, so he tried to protect me. He tried forcing me to play with Lee, the closest equivalent he could think of to Fred, and he even dressed Lee in matching robes, with "Honorary Fred" stitched on the back." I felt George take a sharp intake of breath at remembering this. His thumb was rubbing my hand, somewhat absentmindedly. I can't believe he's sharing this with me…

"One day, I couldn't take the pitying stares from everybody. If it's one thing that will make you remember that someone's….not here anymore, it's the way people look at you. So I just quit. The game I loved so much wasn't worth playing without Fred anyway. Ron put on quite a show, really, yelling about how 'inconsiderate I was' after 'all he had done for me.' It was really the icing on the cake."

"Oh George," I murmured, "I'm sorry.." I bit my lip to keep it from quivering.

"So the moral of the story is that Ron is a well meaning, idiot."

"With the emotional range of a teaspoon?" I asked with a hesitant smile. "Exactly," he said. It was only after he stopped speaking that I realized our proximity. I could feel his gentle breath on the side of my face. I could count the freckles on his tan face. And his eyes—his eyes were bewitching. I could look forever into those eyes.

"Well Hermione, if I knew how much you liked looking at me, I would've come over here much sooner," George winked, eliciting a blush. I promptly dropped his hand. "George! You're—,"

"Handsome? Dashing? Dare I say it—a man capable of knocking your socks off?"

"I was going to say audacious, unbearable, and—"

"You like it!" he smirked, "And who am I to deny a lady her pleasure? Don't stop on behalf of modesty. I am more than happy to oblige," and grabbing my hand, he lifted me up, crushing me into a hug and making a big show of giving me kissing noises that were more than obnoxious.

My shoulder gave a sharp twinge at this contact, and wincing I stifled a groan. George, being the observant, sweet guy that he is, instantly let go.

"I'm sorry Hermione, did I hurt you? I—," he gazed at me, once again concerned. Why does he care? Why is he being so nice to me?

"No, don't worry about it," I cut him off, "I fell on it earlier. One of my clumsier moments, I guess." Again, I couldn't make eye contact. If I did, I would be sure to lose everything. Not many people have the power to call me on my fabrications, but I'm sure George would be one of them. I can't ever let this out—least of all to him.

"I see, so what you're saying is you are horribly injured and must be administered to?" he winked. He leaned in closer, slipping his arms around my waist. His breath tickled my ear as he added, "Like I said, I am more than capable of obliging a lady in need." My body was betraying me, staying immobilized. I couldn't move if I wanted to—and I'm not so sure I did want to move. I shivered once again—from the rain, from the contact. He was so warm, and I found myself moving into his embrace, despite everything. "Don't worry," he said in a voice that was throaty and filled with something I couldn't place, "I'll be gentle."

I felt myself moving suddenly, as I was suddenly flipped over George's shoulder in one deft movement. From my new airborne angle I could only see the back of his head and hear the smirk in his chuckle.

"George! Put me down this instant!" I spoke in my best Head Girl's voice. It sounded particularly waspish even to my own ears.

"Oh Hermione dear, not even using that adorable authoritarian voice could convince me to let you down," he laughed. He thinks it's adorable? "You forget that I made a career of defying authority." He jostled me an extra bit with his cheekiness.

"If you don't put me down, I'll—"

"Stop enjoying yourself?" he quipped.

"What, no—that's not what—," I stammered. I tried to ignore the blatant stares as we came closer to the castle. This is mortifying.

"Don't worry, Hermione, I know you act like you don't like my random acts of tomfoolery, but I can see right through your façade!"

That's what I'm afraid of…

Trying to deflect the subject off of me, I asked, "George, what made you want to talk to me today? Not that I'm ungrateful that you did, on the contrary I was….drowning."

"Do you really want to know?" I murmured my assent. "It was because you were…. the only person I've ever seen look…. sadder than me at a Quidditch pitch." He stiffened slightly under me and I knew he was thinking of Fred.

"Oh."

"And because I couldn't let you off the hook for voluntarily dropping a book to daydream! Our bookworm really is making a run for the wild side," he mocked.

"George? Just shut up."

"Fighting words. If that's how you want it…" Oh no…

He shifted me so he was now holding me bridal style. "I shall carry you across the threshold of the Great Hall while shouting about your willingness to discard a book so closely before exams all while dancing an Irish jig."

"You wouldn't dare!"

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I will continue writing, but may I please have some reviews? I feel like a beggar at this point, but my only two reviewers are Shidoni8 and ilovefireyredheads (thank you, I appreciate it!) Yet I've had over 500 viewers… that's kind of sad.

I need the reviews—just tell me what you think in a quick few words. This is so I can tailor to your expectations and take suggestions and whatnot!

Always,

F.G.