Michelle shivered as she sat on the Hogwarts Express for the first time, sitting beside George while Fred was off taking care of some 'business' with Lee.

"Do you think... I mean, my parents..."

She didn't know how to word what she was saying, so Michelle fell silent, looking down at her hands, just afraid.

George kissed her forehead sweetly and said, "Relax, sunshine. Your parents love you, and it won't matter to them that you don't remember anything."

"But I don't even know my parents," she whispered, horrified. "That must be terrible for them."

"It's not your fault," he reminded her for the hundredth time that morning. "They understand."

She hoped he was right, cuddling a bit closer to him to stave off the cold. They didn't have too far to travel from the train station, George assured her, so she didn't wear her heaviest jacket and packed it instead. This was a stupid thing of her to do, since it was a very long trip from Scotland to London, even on a magical train.

"Your hands are freezing," he said, shocked, taking them in his. "Why didn't you dress more warmly?"

Michelle just shrugged, trying not to protest when he let go of her hands and stood up. He fumbled through his trunk for a moment and pulled out a Weasley sweater, the one with a large G on the front, and tossed it at her. She blinked up at him, realizing that the knitted sweater in her hands smelled just like George and she wondered when her nose had started recognizing what George smelled like.

"Put it on then," he told her, latching his trunk again and sitting down beside her as she fumbled to pull on the sweater, realizing that it smelled even more like him on the inside as she tried to pull her head through the hole at the top.

George laughed, helping her get the sweater on, and when she finally pulled her head through, hair frizzed and up in all directions, she realized just how close his face was to hers and her breath caught as she realized the intensity with which he was watching her. Before Michelle had a moment to think about it, his lips were pressed to hers, gently, sweetly, his fingers smoothing her hair down at the same time. She found that she was kissing him back and enjoying it.

Before she really had much time to think on this feeling that was building inside of her as she kissed George Weasley, there was the sound of clearing a throat and the parted, looking up to find Fred standing there, sliding the compartment door closed behind him, an eyebrow raised expectantly.

"Care to explain?" he said firmly.

Michelle could feel a blush covering her cheeks as she looked at George, not sure what they were going to do. She didn't know the nuances of this world, the things that differed between Fred and George, the social dynamics she had fallen into.

"So, Michelle and I are dating, sort of," George said slowly.

"For how long?"

"Start of term."

"You were going to tell me when?"

"Um, probably around now, actually, but then she lost her memory and-"

"And you thought you'd lost her, right. Well, good to see I rank so high."

"I wasn't telling anyone else until she decided it was a good idea, though, and that could have been ages, or at least until Wood's gone."

Wood...

Oliver Wood. Michelle felt a guilty feeling in the pit of her stomach. Was she really keeping the relationship a secret because of her crush on Oliver Wood?

Fred also looked annoyed at this statement.

"You realize that's ridiculous," he said slowly. "I mean, everyone knows you're mad about her anyway. Why wouldn't you just tell us?"

George didn't answer, just shrugged and kissed Michelle's cheek, hugging her closer, and she got the very distinct feeling that she was the reason they'd kept it quiet, that it had been her idea, her condition, and that George had agreed to it because he wanted her so badly that he would have agreed to just about anything she asked.

But Fred didn't push it.

The rest of the trip to London was fairly uneventful, although George held Michelle's hand the whole way, which she thought she rather liked. It was a strange sort of thing, a sweeter gesture than she was used to. She'd seen couples walking down the street holding hands and she had always wondered what the draw was to that sort of gesture. She realized, though, fingers laced in George's fingers, that it was a feeling of safety and security and caring.

And those were feelings Michelle had never felt strongly or even at all for as long as she could remember.

When they pulled in at the station, George and Fred took care of their things, and Michelle's, insisting that she needn't carry her own heavy bag. Michelle was a bit annoyed, but as she followed them out in the line waiting to go off the platform, she waited nervously, wanting to grab George's hand for that comfort again but knowing she couldn't. Why had she ever decided to go secretive with this again? Couldn't she make him change their status now that she didn't care about this Oliver Wood?

"C'mon," George said coaxingly to her. "It's our turn."

Michelle really didn't understand the point of waiting to get off the platform in groups of twos and threes and fours, but she followed them through the archway and found herself in the main part of King's Cross station in London, a place she was a bit familiar with, but when she turned for one last look at the train she saw nothing but a brick barrier between platforms nine and ten.

Confused and befuddled, Michelle was about to ask about the confusing situation when a voice she didn't know called out her name and she turned to find a kind-looking man and woman waving happily at her and the twins.

They looked quite a bit like Michelle, with light hair and skin, and the woman had a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose that bled onto her cheeks, just like Michelle. It was strange, eerie, but Michelle could absolutely picture these people as her parents.

"I... Mum?" she asked, stunned. "Dad?"

"I suppose you don't recognize," the woman said sadly. "Professor Dumbledore warned us about the memory loss. It's pretty bad?"

"Yeah," Michelle said, blushing at the lie. These people were her parents. She didn't want to lie to them. "I don't remember anything at all."

Fred put a hand on her shoulder, pushing her toward her parents a bit more, and the man she knew was her father wrapped his arms around her in a hug and she was surprised to feel like it was something familiar and pleasant. She clutched at the shirt of this father, feeling for the first time what it was like to be hugged by a parent.

Was she really going to go back to her old life, if Dumbledore found a way? How could she, when the life here was so what she needed and wanted?

"It's good that you're coming home for the break after all," her father sighed, hugging her tighter. She realized that he was holding back tears. "You had to convince us to let you bring the twins home with you this Christmas. I wanted you to stay at school, work on your studies, but I can't tell you how happy I am you're home."

"Honey, let her go, you're not letting her breathe," Michelle's mother said with a laugh. Michelle's father let go reluctantly, kissing her on the forehead gently before passing her over to her mother to be hugged again, a bit less forcefully and a bit more warmly. "All right, dear, are you ready to go home?"

Home.

Michelle nodded numbly, looking over at George, who was grinning at her as her father took her bag from George, who was still carrying it. She and the twins followed her parents out to the parking lot to a surprisingly attractive red Volkswagen Golf. The front seats were pushed forward so that the boys and Michelle could climb into the back, putting her in the middle. They were then returned to the upright so her parents could get in, her father passing her bag back to her before closing his door and starting the car.

Her foster parents had never had a car. She'd never had a foster father who'd carried her things, or hugged her, or said they were happy that she was home.

In fact, in all the time she could recall of her life she'd never really felt like she had a home.

Michelle was so stunned by the kindness and the warmth and the normalcy that was enveloping her that she just sat there in the car as her parents talked with Fred and George about school, work, silly things Michelle had done that year before losing her memory.

"And then she absolutely had to wear the boots, of course," Fred said, rolling his eyes.

"Of course," her mother laughed.

"And we were right, of course," George said, laughing.

"She fell-"

"-flat on her arse!"

Even Michelle had to laugh at that. She'd really never had things to be silly over like that, but she'd seen girls when she was at school who had worn all sorts of ridiculous outfits for no reason other than being told by their parents that they couldn't or shouldn't.

"Oh, Michelle," her mother sighed, but then she burst out in laughter. "You really are just like me."

"Really?" Michelle asked, stunned and pleased all at once.

She was just like her mother. It was a thought that brought her an immense amount of peace.

"Yes, your mother actually did the exact same thing when we were young," her father laughed. "It's silly, really, but I've known plenty of young girls who behaved similarly. Your mother had this friend in school..."

And Michelle just grinned, listening to her father detail a story of his school days and the silly things teenage girls would do.

"And then I finally agreed to go out with you, yes," her mother said, smiling wryly. "All right, well, let's let the kids out so they can go get warm!"

Michelle hadn't even realized the car had stopped, but when George gave her his hand to help her climb out of the car she blinked, surprised, handing him her bag, which he flung over his shoulder before holding his hand out for her again and he helped her get out of the Volkswagen, steadying her on her feet as she looked around.

It wasn't a large house, but a house it was, cute and sweet on a small little neighborhood street with a Tudor exterior in browns and whites and a nice little rose garden in the front, from the look of the snow-covered bushes. She would have liked to have seen the place in spring instead, when the flowers were in bloom and the street wasn't full of drab, gray light from the overcast sky.

"C'mon, then," George said, closing the car door and looking at her pointedly. "Inside before you freeze, love."

"Right," Michelle whispered, still trying to wrap her brain around this being her actual home.

Going up the steps that led up to the front door was even more surreal than standing there, looking at the house and when she stepped into the sterile white entryway she took off her shoes, following George's example and then following him out into a living area where her mother was setting out biscuits and tea for the five of them.

"I'm sorry to say that the boys will have to share a room," Mrs. Simpson said slowly. "I know you know that, but I wish we had a big enough house to offer you each a room of your own."

"Really, it's fine, Mrs. Simpson," Fred assured her. "As we've said before, we've shared a room all our lives. We would even know what to do with ourselves if we had to sleep in a different room from each other."

"Well, regardless, I wish I could offer it at the very least," she replied, pushing the plate of biscuits at her daughter with a smile. "Eat, dear, you look very peaky. Has she not been eating well since her injury, boys?"

George shrugged.

"Not as much as usual, no," Fred said slowly, mixing some sugar into his tea. "But we're all a bit on edge about this Petrification thing, and she's lost her memory on top of that all."

"Yes, what's going on with the Petrifications?" Mr. Simpson asked casually.

The twins shrugged.

"Only a cat and a couple of younger kids," George said, handing Michelle the sugar. "Dumbledore says they'll be fine once they get the mandrakes old enough to make a potion to revive them. That could be a while though."

"In the meantime everyone's freaking out like the sky's falling," Fred snickered. "I dunno, they did Petrify a ghost, though. That's got to be tough."

Mr. Simpson nodded, wincing.

"Why don't we talk about something more pleasant," Mrs. Simpson said firmly to her husband. "Michelle, dear, are you sure you don't want another biscuit?"

Michelle shook her head.

"Maybe later," she muttered.

"Not too much later, dear," her father said with a grin. "Your mother's made quite a spread for dinner in honor of your arrival."

The very idea that someone would cook a dinner in her honor was making Michelle's head spin with disbelief. Why would anyone bother with so much work just for her?

"Oh," Michelle managed to say. "Thank you."

"I made your favorite," Mrs. Simpson said, smiling proudly. "Curried lamb and rice."

That was her favorite? Michelle couldn't recall ever even eating lamb, and her experience with curry was only from shady fast-food Indian joints with poor reputations and customers with even poorer reputations.

But she did like curry, so she was sure she would at least enjoy the rice. And the boys seemed pleased, so even if she didn't like it, someone would be eating it. And they'd already established that her appetite had shrunk, so if she didn't eat much she had an excuse that didn't insult her mother's cooking.

She needn't have worried, though. The curried lamb was the most amazing thing she'd ever tasted, and she said so, twice. Mrs. Simpson was clearly pleased with her daughter's praise and George looked relieved that Michelle took three helpings of the dish. She hadn't thought that she was under-eating at Hogwarts, but suddenly she couldn't get enough of the food that was put in front of her.

Dessert was chocolate pudding, which Michelle wasn't as crazy about, but she realized that it was more for the twins than for her. She ate it happily, a bit relieved that her mother had gone out of her way for Fred and George and not just her. Somehow it took away some of the pressure she felt.

After dinner, Michelle let her mother lead her up to her room, and Michelle blinked, wondering how it was possible that the room could be so absolutely her. She'd never had a room of her own before, but it was exactly like what she'd imagined when she was young, staring at the ceiling and praying that someone kind and loving would adopt her and take her out of the city to some pretty house in the country.

The sheets and walls were pale blue, the carpets a fuzzy shade of navy that looked exceedingly comfortable. There was a window overlooking the small little garden of a backyard, which was more than she could have dreamed of, even when dreaming of her house in the country. There was a closet and a mirror and it was all hers, twice as big as even the largest room she could remember ever staying in.

"It's beautiful," she breathed, and she hadn't realized that her mother was still standing there until she heard Mrs. Simpson sob softly.

"I'm sorry," Mrs. Simpson sniffed. "It's just that you've been begging me for years to redo your room to be more Gryffindor, and it's like you appreciate everything like it's the first time you've seen it all. It's... it's terrifying that you've forgotten everything, but there's a strange beauty in it as well."

That was a good way of putting it, Michelle thought. There was something incredibly beautiful about rediscovering everything in her world, even though for Michelle it was actually discovering it for the first time. It gave her a fresh appreciation for everything.

Her mother left the room several minutes later, after showing her where she kept all of her clothes and make-up and things, just in case she'd forgotten that, too (which of course, she had, as she'd never known in the first places). She wouldn't have needed too, though, as Michelle realized that she would have guessed it all in those places to begin with. The other version of herself had a very similar logic and organizational pattern, which was refreshing. There was at least some familiarity in the chaos of someone else's life.

Before she had a chance to really get settled, though, and just after changing into a pair of pajama pants and an old t-shirt, there was a tentative knock at the door.

Michelle answered the door and froze, surprised.

"George?" she muttered sleepily. "What- what are you d-"

His lips stoppered her words swiftly, sweetly, briefly, and he pulled away just as suddenly as he'd kissed her, his eyes twinkling apologetically.

"I don't want to keep you up," he whispered, "but I needed one last kiss. Good night, sunshine."

And then he wandered back up the hall as though it hadn't happened at all.

And he kept her up anyway, if not as he'd meant.