A/N: Sorry for the update delay! Apart from lack of inspiration for this story (which is totally unforgivable, I know) I had some technical difficulties. So I'm doing my best to update as many stories as possible, to get back on track! The best way to get more chapters? Review, review, review!

-C

Michelle woke up in a cold sweat on the floor of Professor Dumbledore's office feeling dazed and nauseous. Her fingers gripped at the carpet aimlessly as she tried to sit up. Each try led to her arms giving up and collapsing her back to the ground.

"Miss Simpson?" asked the kindly voice of Albus Dumbledore. "How do you feel?"

Tears stung at her eyes, but she managed, with a helping hand, to sit up enough to prop her back against the leg of his desk and look up at his bright blue eyes, swimming with concern. Or was that her head spinning?

"I feel very strange," she finally managed to say. He conjured her a glass of water and pressed it into her hand. After several slow sips the room came more into focus and she said, "Not bad, exactly. But...very strange. Did it work?"

She tried to think of what it was she was asking about. Some sort of memory exchange.

"Tell me what you remember of your assault."

Michelle closed her eyes, expecting to see the face of Everitt, a name she recalled from other memories, but instead she saw a hazy, unfamiliar face of a much older boy, sneering down at her, a green-and-silver tie around his neck loosely. She gasped.

"There's a boy," she muttered. "Slytherin. I don't know his name... Will that be a problem?"

"You two were never...formally acquainted, so I don't think so," Professor Dumbledore said sadly. "And you cannot recall the original memory at all?"

Michelle nibbled on her lip, searching the recesses of her mind for a hint of a previous or conflicting memory, but she could find nothing. She shook her head, opening her eyes again.

"Does this mean it's worked?"

"Probably," Professor Dumbledore said slowly, helping her to her feet and shoving a tin of biscuits into her face insistently. "But that does not mean that there will be no consequences for this. As I said, it has never been done before to my knowledge."

Michelle shivered for a moment, unable to control the muscles that did it. She was being watched with pitying eyes as her body processed the ramifications of this new memory, what it meant for her.

"If you would like," Dumbledore said, "I can arrange for you to receive counseling...again. This is, in essence, a new traumatic memory. It might be easier for you to deal with if you have someone to help you through it."

Michelle had been through more than a few counseling sessions in her other life, after nearly every hospital visit. It was standard, when foster children came in with severe injury. When she was very young, she'd poured her heart out to the counselors, thinking they could help her. But then she realized that they didn't care any more than her foster parents did. Either way, they were getting paid, and it was a lot more work for them, moving her to another foster home when she was alive and more-or-less well.

After a while, she just stopped speaking, or saying anything other than her practiced remarks. She didn't want to waste her time on something like that in her new life.

"No, thank you," she said softly. "I...I don't think it would be a good idea, or even especially helpful, considering...my odd condition."

Michelle was almost certain that Dumbledore could see straight through her excuse, but he nodded after a moment and said, "Yes, I suppose that would complicate things. Well, if you ever need to talk about it, my dear, please do not hesitate to come to me."

He escorted her back down to the hall, with the intention of taking her all the way back to Gryffindor Tower, but the Weasley twins were still standing there in their dressing gowns, pale and nervous.

"I shall leave you in their capable hands then, my dear," Dumbledore said, sounding amused, leaving the stunned trio in silence as he turned to go back to his office.

"How did it go?" Fred asked. "Are you okay?"

"I feel a bit sick to my stomach," she said truthfully. "But I think I'm okay."

"D'you want to stop at the hospital wing?" George asked, lacing his fingers in hers. Michelle shook her head, though, and hugged him, letting him wrap his arms around her. She felt a strong sense of fear, but fought it. George cared about her, and wasn't going to hurt her.

"I just want to go back to the tower."

They went to the tower in silence, the boys tense with wands out as George gripped Michelle's hand. And when they got back to the tower, he sat down on the sofa with her and Fred went to bed, gauging rightly that they needed a bit of time alone.

"Do you feel a bit better?" he asked.

"It hurts," she muttered, leaning her head on his.

"What does?"

"I...I don't know."

Saying that her head hurt would only lead to questions she wasn't prepared to answer, so she just sat there with her head on his shoulder, letting him wrap his arms around her, and eventually, sleepily, whispering, "I'm sorry for ruining your birthday."

"Don't be," he muttered back. "You didn't. You had a memory, and I've been with you all day. Nothing could have been better. Except maybe if the memory had been a good one."

Michelle wished it were all that simple, but she fell asleep before she could feel guilty for deceiving him.

The school was more crowded on Easter holidays, according to Angelina. Michelle's parents told her that they wanted her to stay at school and spend some more time with her friends, who were all staying, and she thought that was very generous of them. But instead of studying more, as she perhaps should have done, Michelle found herself spending more and more time alone with George, mostly just cuddling and light kissing.

On Easter sunday, while others were out enjoying the beautiful day, George had Michelle up in his dormitory, playing chess on his bed and holding hands.

"I love you," he said, grinning, leaning over the chess board to kiss her. Michelle did tense slightly, but she melted into the kiss as usual. She found herself relieved that he was so understanding about her reticence, because she hadn't wanted to hurt his feelings.

The pieces below them began to protest for the interruption as George shifted slightly, letting his hand caress up her jaw and gently pulling her closer as it settled at the nape of her neck. Michelle hardly noticed as she enjoyed the feel of his gentle fingertips, the softness of his lips. She wondered if this was why people loved, if this was what it felt like to really be intimate with someone who truly cared about her.

George didn't seem to be paying much attention to the protesting pieces, either, because a few moments later he knocked them all over trying to get closer to her, his cracked lips trying to part hers.

Michelle let George pull her closer, let her lips part a little bit, but he didn't push her further than that. Her hands moved of their own accord, up his neck and into his hair, feeling the gingered silk slipping through her fingers, tickling her skin. Despite the memories she'd had replanted into her brain, Michelle found this whole feeling, this whole moment, to be remarkably right. George wrapping himself around her was safety, and being pressed against him was exhilarating.

She half-thought he was going to want to go further, but to her surprise, he stopped, pulling away, placing kisses on her neck and collarbone before curling up with her on top of the covers, holding her tightly but chastely to his chest. How could he start something like that and just...stop? Michelle twisted her neck around to look up at him and his lazy, drooping eyes, but all he did was smile tiredly at her and kiss her nose.

Perhaps he thought he was protecting her, or maybe he wasn't as ready as he'd thought. For a split second, Michelle wondered if she should tell him she was ready, but then, was she? Whether or not it was her own genuine memory, she had traumatic memories, and her body had experienced the trauma as much as her mind had. And in her mind, the experience was fresh. Perhaps it was best to wait a bit, after all. Michelle rested her head on George's shoulder.

"What happens," she said softly, "if I can't pass my exams?"

George sat up a bit, frowning.

"Why, d'you think you won't?"

"I'm just nervous."

There was nothing "just" about her nerves, though. Michelle might have felt wonder and astonishment at Hogwarts and magic and everything entailed in her courses, but she was not practiced at studying. She'd never had to care about grades before, and now that it mattered she felt lost. Her friends were good at teaching her the basics, helping her "relearn" things, but to actually take the tests at the level they were at?

"You'll be fine, love," George said, kissing her temple. "This year the exams don't matter, it's next year you've got to worry about O.W.L.s. If you fail an O.W.L., you don't have to go forward in that class. I don't really need a lot for what Fred and I want to do, so I've learned those courses well and I'm ignoring the rest. D'you know what you want to do?"

Michelle had sat down with Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall about career options, since hers was an unusual case. Because she knew so little about the magical world, and magic in general, it was decided that she should attempt the best grades possible in everything she was taking to give herself options moving forward.

"I don't know," she said honestly.

"Then if you don't have something to lose, what are you afraid of?" he asked, brushing a bit of hair off her cheek and smiling down at her.

She closed her eyes and reached up, grabbing his fingers and squeezing them slightly.

Failing. She was afraid that now she cared about something, now she had something that made her happy, she wouldn't be good enough. She would lose it. She would be bad at magic.

"Nothing, I guess," she said, laughing nervously. "Silly, but...I don't know."

George kissed her lips gently, barely a hint of pressure applied.

"You're going to do just fine," he whispered. "You're coming along well in all your classes, all the teachers say so, and I reckon Dumbledore has to be able to find someone more useful next year for Defense." Michelle laughed breathily. "By the time it matters, love, you'll be fine." He kissed her forehead and shifted back to resting on his pillows.

She tried to believe him and curled up into him, letting him Summon a blanket from Fred's bed to wrap around them. The blanket was strange because it didn't smell of George, while the rest of the bed did, but she didn't mind too terribly, and the warmth soothed her to sleep in his arms.

Even when she worried after she woke about all the time she'd wasted not studying she didn't say a word to George. He was probably right. Everything would turn out fine in the end, and after all, she had all summer to study.

A couple of weeks later, Michelle kissed George just outside the Quidditch changing rooms, letting him push her slightly against one of the stadium's outer walls and deepen the kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and it was only when Fred cleared his throat when George pulled away from the kiss and gave her an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, Sunshine," he said, tapping her nose. "Wood's getting angsty."

Every time Oliver Wood was mentioned, Michelle felt a bit uncomfortable. Nothing could hold a candle to how much George meant to her, but there was something about Oliver that made her feel guilty, perhaps the fact that seeing him made her flushed and excited.

He gave her one more quick peck on the cheek and he went into the changing room. Harry came rushing down with his broom in hand as she headed for the stairs to take her up to the stands. Michelle didn't know who she would sit with, since all of her friends were in some way or another associated with the match. Perhaps she would find Granger and Ron. She began looking through the crowd, knowing that eleven would hit any moment and the match would begin properly.

"Ron!" she said, waving as he looked around. "Where's Granger?"

"She was in the library," he said with a frown. "I don't know. She does that sometimes. Were you looking for somewhere to sit?"

"If you don't mind," she said sheepishly, and he motioned for her to take a seat next to him. "Where do I usually sit during matches?"

"I haven't really noticed," he said, a little bit sheepishly. "Oh, here they come."

Michelle and Ron applauded loudly as the teams took to the pitch. Oliver took a practice lap while the Hufflepuffs stood in a bright-yellow huddle. Madam Hooch released the balls, holding the red on Angelina had drilled into her head as the Quaffle. To Michelle's confusion, Professor McGonagall walked onto the pitch with a megaphone as several other Gryffindor players were mounting their brooms.

"Something's wrong," Michelle said, and Ron nodded, getting up and pushing through the crowd. She followed him, heart pounding.

"This match has been cancelled," Professor McGonagall announced. The crowd was displeased, shouting and hissing, and Michelle had to struggle to keep up with Ron, who was trying to get to the pitch. She saw Oliver dismount.

Michelle couldn't hear what he was shouting at Professor McGonagall, but she could guess that it had something to do with the Cup, with the fact that he thought they should play through literally anything. He was ignored, however, and Professor McGonagall continued, "All students are to make their way back to the House common rooms, where their Heads of Houses will give them further information. As quickly as you can please!"

The last thing Michelle noticed before looking for George and losing Ron altogether was Professor McGonagall beckoning to Harry.

Michelle waded through the throng of students, finally reaching George, who had seen her coming and stood still until she reached him. He kissed her gently, lacing his fingers in hers and they caught up to their friends, who were waiting for Lee to make it down from the commentator's box. As soon as they were all together, they joined in with the crowd and headed up to the castle.

"I thought Oliver was going to cry," Alicia said softly. "I've not seen him that upset since Harry was unable to play for the final match last year."

"Why wasn't he able to play?" Michelle asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"No one really knows for sure what happened," Katie said. "There's lots of rumors, all pretty wild, but whatever it was he got badly injured doing something really brave. He was unconscious in the hospital wing, and then he won sixty points for Gryffindor for...what was it?"

"Something about sheer nerve and outstanding courage," Fred snorted. "So basically, something that proved he belonged in Gryffindor, as if there were ever a doubt."

Michelle let George's hand squeeze hers slightly as they reached the steps to the castle.

"You're all upset that the match can't happen, aren't you?" Michelle asked softly.

None of them said anything, merely exchanging nervous looks, but she didn't need them to answer. She might not have known them her whole life, but Michelle had always been fairly good at judging the moods of people she got to know, and she felt that she'd known these new friends for years. Upset wasn't quite right... Devastated would be a better term.

Nearly every Gryffindor was settled in the common room, upperclassmen sitting on furniture – chairs, sofas, even tables – while younger students stood on walls or sat on the floor. It took several minutes of tense, near-silent waiting until Professor McGonagall arrived with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley in tow, both looking quite pale.

"Something's wrong," Fred whispered as she pulled out a roll of parchment to address them with, her hands shaking.

But to Michelle, there was a pretty obvious indicator that something was terribly wrong indeed: Harry Potter, the boy everyone thought of as something of a legend and hero, the boy who had only ever missed a Quidditch match because he was unconscious for some unspeakable act of bravery, looked like all the blood in his face had been sucked away.

If this had to do with the rumors that Harry was the heir of Slytherin, the awful rumors that he was controlling all of the attacks, he wouldn't have been brought back to the common room, and Michelle was fairly certain that Ron wouldn't have been allowed to follow them to...wherever they went after the match was called off.

So this was something else.

Her eyes scanned the room, looking for something that was missing, something off. She knew that something in the room wasn't right, and as Professor McGonagall unrolled the scroll, it hit her like a blow to the head.

Hermione Granger never made it to the pitch, and she wasn't sitting among them.