Chapter 3 - August 1999
Two days later, Hermione and George headed out together in the early morning light. At first she felt awkward, as she'd never had a workout partner before. She wasn't sure if she should try to make conversation or if he would need his wind for keeping pace with her. Since he had mentioned a desire to "get back into shape," she was operating under the assumption that he was currently out of shape. However, less than half a mile down the trail, the young witch slowed down and allowed him to pull ahead so she could study him. In his much more appropriate apparel, Hermione could easily see that George was in terrific physical health. His fitted tee hugged his broad, muscular shoulders and lean torso, and his arms flexed as he swung them for momentum. His legs - she found her eyes gazing in admiration of George's bottom half - well, it was easy to see that every inch of his legs were toned. His years of playing beater had done him well, it appeared, and Hermione took in the sight appreciatively.
"If this is how you look when you're out of shape," she mused, "what did you look like when you were really fit?" George turned his head in her direction and pulled up alongside her.
"What was that, Granger?" he asked, an amused look in his eyes.
Oh no! Did I say that out loud? Hermione cursed herself.
"Er, um, I was just noticing that you seem to be keeping up really well, so I was wondering why you were so keen to work out with me, if you're already in such good shape." She hoped her light tone and big eyes would make her salacious thoughts seem less evident.
George winked at her, a sly smile curving the corners of his mouth, and said, "Well, let's put it to the test then. Race you!" And leaving a wide gap between them, he took off up the trail.
"No fair! You got a head start!" Hermione shouted, laughing, as she sprinted towards him. But George's legs, so much longer than hers, gave him an unfair advantage, and he stayed in the lead for another half-mile, until, clutching a stitch in his side, he slowed to a walk,.
"See, this is why I need to exercise more," he explained, wincing as he panted through his words. "Used to be a time that I could run five miles and feel no pain."
"Well, we're not kids anymore, George," Hermione admonished. She caught up to him and slowed her gait to match his.
"Touché," the ginger quipped. "No need to remind me of my advanced age." He smiled, his breath slowing a bit, the cramp subsiding.
"Oh yes, old man," Hermione teased, "Your age is definitely a detriment. I mean, how do you expect to woo young women with your hair turning gray and your wrinkles showing?"
Shocked, George stopped dead in his tracks and began running his fingers through his sweaty hair, trying to see the tips of his red locks. "What?! Gray hair?" he asked, honestly panicking. He looked back at Hermione, who had also stopped moving, only to see her bent double and shaking with laughter.
"Oh Merlin, you really are that vain!" she howled. "You should see the look on your face! Get over yourself - at twenty-one, do you honestly expect to be going gray?" She was delighted at pulling a joke, however small, on the most infamous prankster in the modern wizarding world.
"Ha ha, Granger," George, who was red in the face from more than just his physical exertion, growled. "At least I woo women; at least I try. Unlike you, a hermit at nineteen." His eyes twinkled playfully at her but quickly lost all mirth when he saw her face freeze over. She began walking quickly back toward the Burrow, retracing the route they'd been taking.
"Wait up! I was only kidding!"
He picked up the pace as she moved into a run, sprinting to catch her. As he pulled alongside, he reached his arm out to try to stop her, but he must have remembered what happened the last time he touched her, and he drew his arm back abruptly.
"Hermione, please!" he pleaded. "Stop running and let me apologize. I didn't mean anything by it!" There was an honest urgency in his voice that caught her off guard, and without thinking, she slowed down and turned to face him, her hands on her hips.
"Fine. You have two seconds. I'm listening." She crossed her arms over her chest and pushed her nose into the air expectantly.
He paused, clearly preparing his apology so as to avoid offending the sensitive witch.
"I'm sorry, okay? I thought you knew me well enough to know when I was kidding. I was enjoying our banter but I took it too far; I see that now. You're a pretty, brilliant young witch - of course I'd make a joke about you not being able to get a date. The blokes must get in line to ask you out!" His cheeks flushed, and Hermione briefly wondered if that was for more reasons than the exertion.
Hermione's brown eyes, which were originally glaring at George's cornflower blue ones, sank lower and lower as his apology turned complimentary.
Pretty? He thinks I'm pretty? she internalized. Her blush matched his as she considered his apology.
Get over yourself, a little voice in the back of her head chastised. That was not supposed to be the takeaway here.
But, the rest of the apology was equally kind, she reasoned with herself. Curiosity got the better of her and she raised her eyes, catching him looking at her at the exact same moment.
"Apology accepted," she stated shyly. "And George," she advised, "the next time you want to compliment a girl, don't begin with an insult!" And with that, she raced down the trail back to the Burrow, leaving him in her dust once more.
"You little…" George began, mouth hanging open at having been bested by the most serious person he knew. He headed back to the Burrow as well, at a more leisurely pace, and if she had looked back, Hermione would have seen the wizard admiring the view and enjoying himself every step of the way.
~oOo~
A week later, George sat on the couch at the Burrow, his brow knit in concentration
as he deliberated the notebook in front of him. The rest of the house was silent, one of those rare moments where everyone was out, leaving only two at home. He was so focused that he didn't hear the slight creak of the floorboard as Hermione entered the room. In the meantime, Hermione was so engrossed in Hogwarts, A History that she didn't realize at first that she wasn't alone. Just in time to avoid walking directly into the back of the couch, she looked up and saw a mass of messy red hair sitting atop a bent neck that was hunching over something on the owner's lap.
George, she smiled to herself. What is he doing?
She crept around the side of the couch to glimpse George's face, and was taken aback. His expression was one she had rarely seen on a Weasley twin's face. He was frowning. The downturned corners of his mouth and the creases on his forehead were so unnatural that Hermione grew concerned. What could possibly be causing his face to look like this? Of course he'd done far more than frown before - losing his twin had left him absolutely bereft, and his always-twinkling eyes had lost their luster for a long time, but recently he seemed to be finding his own way back to the funny, fun-loving side of his personality, so seeing him looking upset right now alarmed Hermione.
Looking down, she saw what his attention was focused on - a well-worn notebook. While she wasn't close enough to read the writing, she made out what appeared to be Arithmancy algorithms, drawings, and annotations that could only be one thing - potion formulas. George was studying the notes he and Fred had made through the years, she realized. It warmed Hermione's heart to see him so hard at work, so she attempted to tiptoe backwards out of the room to leave him in peace.
BANG! THUD!
"Ow! Bugger! Ow!" Hermione moaned, rubbing her elbow where it had banged the corner of the doorway. She quickly bent down to pick up her book, which she had dropped on impact. She stood back up and found herself face to face with George.
So much for being subtle, she sighed inwardly.
"George, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to bother you!" the distracted girl began, but she was cut off.
"Granger, are you alright?" George reached out slowly, so that she could see his intentions, and put his arm around her shoulder, guiding her to the couch. "You hurt?"
"I'm, I'm fine…" her words trailed off as he took the book from her hands and straightened her injured arm out, then bent the elbow to ensure it still worked. His touch was so gentle and soft that her breath hitched in her throat. She lost her focus as he pushed up her sleeve to see if she was bruised. As she realized exactly what he was doing, however, she returned to herself and jumped up, abruptly pushing her sleeve down and stepping away.
"I'm really okay, George - it was just startling. I didn't mean to interrupt you. In fact, my clumsiness was a result of my attempt to leave you alone, and you can see how well that went." Her attempt to be self-deprecating and funny was weak even to her thinking, so she simply ignored the look on his face that clearly told her he had seen the marks on her arm.
The marks on her arm. They were the scars left over from exposure to Dark magic, and they were permanent. Scattered over various areas of her body lay small, shiny patches of skin that from a distance were indistinguishable, but up close couldn't be missed. The Cruciatus curse and other hexes used by Bellatrix Lestrange as well as the vicious Dark magic she had encountered while hunting Horcruxes had left these reminders forever on her body, no matter how much she tried to forget what she had been through. For months after, lightly touching the scars proved painful, but time was finally providing healing relief. The physical signs would never go away, so Hermione had tried to keep them covered by using glamour charms. Today she had forgotten, it would seem, and thus anyone who came as close to her as George had wouldn't be able to miss the ugly blemishes that littered her once-smooth skin.
The embarrassed witch fled while George sat gaping. Her feet instinctively drew her up the stairs and into her shared bedroom, the door shutting loudly. The look on George's face told her he understood what he had seen. Tears sprang unbidden to her mind as she cursed herself for letting her guard down. The defensive witch paced back and forth to regain her composure.
Ok, so he has definitely seen the scars, but so what? she reasoned. After all, he's got a hole in the side of his head. He knows all about war wounds. And it's not like he looked disgusted or anything. More like, surprised, is all. She took a deep breath. It wasn't the end of the world for George to have seen her as she truly was, but it was unnerving to know that someone had accidentally broken through the barriers she'd constructed since the war to protect herself. Just as Mad-Eye Moody once insisted on "CONSTANT VIGILANCE" as his mantra, Hermione had adopted the concept of "COMPLETE CONTROL" as hers, and for the past year, it had protected her, walling out any dangers that vulnerability could lead her into. But George Weasley had been penetrating that wall. Over the past few months, every time she came into contact with him, she lost her focus. She allowed him to distract her from her studies, from her workouts, from her strict lifestyle. And the biggest surprise was that she hadn't regretted it. But why? What was he offering her that she was missing?
Oh, I don't know, fun? A little voice nagged inside her head. When he's around, you have fun! It pointed out to her.
Yeah, but so what? Another voice reprimanded. Fun is temporary; fun gets in the way of the important things, like succeeding on your N.E.W.T.s and staying in shape.
She argued with the second voice. You received all Outstandings on your N.E.W.T.s last month, and you are in better shape now than you have ever been in your life. So what's wrong with a little fun? And besides, what about George's problem? What about his lack of inventiveness? What if you focused on someone else right now, instead of mooning over your scars and your past?
In answer, Hermione headed back downstairs to the living room, convinced it was her job to fix George.
