Chapter 10 - October 1999
The morning after agreeing to move in with George, Hermione lay on her stomach on her bed at the Burrow, her face buried in her pillow. The severity of the previous night's decision was sinking in and giving the witch an overwhelming amount to consider.
How do I live with a boy? Do I really want to live with George? What would my parents think of this?
These questions swirled through her brain over and over as she pondered her next move. While she had spent several months in a tent with two boys a year and a half ago, she knew for certain living in George's flat would be vastly different. Yes, she'd shared tight spaces with Ron and Harry, but sharing a home and workspace with a boy...correction, man, I suppose, without the fear of imminent death or danger, she was certain would be even more intimate in some ways.
The organized witch had refused to leave the flat the evening their efforts to support Harry and Ginny had gone so ridiculously awry before making a list of supplies and sundry needed to facilitate the single wizard taking on a female roommate. Back at the Burrow, she spent that night and the next day cleaning out the room she'd shared over summers, holidays, and for the past year with Ginny.
Ginny. The thought of the ginger witch made Hermione shudder. Her dearest girlfriend had taken the mickey when she discovered Hermione was actually going to live with her brother.
"It's not that I don't support you moving out, 'Mione. After all, you can't possibly want to live with my parents forever. But, Merlin, living with George? How's that going to work? I mean, you're both so different!" Ginny mused.
Hermione wanted to be affronted, but that was true. She and George were diametric opposites in many ways. Hermione was buttoned-up, a planner, while George was spontaneous, a loose cannon.
And yet, Hermione mused, we work well together. After all, they say opposites attract - well, maybe not attract, in this case - but still, I think we'll be fine. And my parents, well, they would think it quite sensible to live closer to my work...at least, that's what she tried to convince herself. She reassured herself several times as move-in day neared.
George, on the other hand, barely even thought about the transition until the night before, when reality set in.
I'm going to live with a witch, he considered. And not just any witch, but the swottiest witch in the world. We're going to kill each other!
The mild panic attack deepened as he realized he had no idea how to interact with a roommate that wasn't his twin, whom he'd lived with from birth, or Lee Jordan, who had the pleasure of bunking with both Weasley twins in Gryffindor Tower for almost seven years.
What if she wants to bring a bloke home? Merlin, what if I want to bring home a bird? He shook the thoughts out of his head, cursing himself for even acknowledging the possibility those behaviors.
Stop. It's Hermione. She's an annoying swot. Well, she used to be. Now she's … she's...smart, and pretty, and helpful, and damn clever. Bollocks. This could be very bad...
~oOo~
Throughout that week, Hermione moved her belongings over to the apartment each night after work. Before she could fully move in, however, they would need to clean out the room she was to occupy, but seeing as that had been Fred's space, she was reluctant to force the situation. Thus, boxes and furniture cluttered the common living area as the week went on, making it harder and harder to function, until finally on Friday night, when George had locked up the shop, he entered his home and muttered in a frustrated tone, "Blimey, we have to clean this place up." Silently he realized that meant entering the hallowed space that was once Fred's room, and with that thought he poured himself some Firewhiskey and sat sullenly at the table, lost in memories.
Hermione came out of his bathroom a few minutes later, a short black dress hugging her slight curves, her hair pulled up halfway, stumbling as she tried to walk and put on a pair of heels at the same time. A red wrap lay over her arm and she held a clutch in one hand, and as she straightened up, George's jaw dropped at the picture before him.
"Have you heard Seamus arrive yet?" she asked breathlessly, walking to the door and opening it to look into the hall.
"What? No. Are you going out with him again?" The scowl that had become customary at the wizard's name crossed his face before he schooled his features.
"Yes, we made plans for tonight, and I was worried that I was running a little late. What do you think?" She twirled in front of him. "Do I look alright?"
"Fine, you look fine." George looked everywhere but at her. Internally, he scolded himself for becoming distracted by her.
"Oh, well, I guess 'fine' is good enough," Hermione said, sounding disappointed. She wrapped the red pashmina around her shoulders and looked earnestly at George once more. "Uh, George," she started nervously. "You can't, um, you can't see my scars too much, can you?" Her voice was barely a whisper, and he could sense her discomfort. This was the first time she had ever openly acknowledged the marks her long years of battle had left her with since the day he inadvertently saw them, and he knew deep down what a big risk she was taking.
George rose from his chair and crossed to her, taking his hands in his own and looking her arm up and down. Her glamour charm had worked well there, but the deep scar that jagged across her chest, acquired in the battle at the Department of Mysteries years ago, reached beyond the cut of the dress slightly.
"Even if they do show, you'd still look beautiful," he reassured her. "Don't be ashamed of your scars, Mi. They are a reminder of your survival, of your strength." He drew her into a hug and inhaled the vanilla-strawberries-parchment combination that was her signature scent. Quickly, however, he pulled away, stepping back as if burned.
Hermione blushed and looked into his kind face, relieved and flattered by his kindness.
"Mi?" she inquired.
"Oh, uh, well, I've noticed you make a face when people call you 'Mione, and as much as I appreciate your full name, sometimes I need to save a few minutes and call you something shorter, so…" George shoved his hand in his pocket and hunched bashfully.
"Mi." Hermione tried it out. She was pleasantly surprised that he had paid enough attention to notice that she disliked the common nickname. Her lips curled up at the corners.
"Okay, you can call me Mi. Just you, though. But wait - 'save a few minutes?'" Realization set in at the joke her expense and she swatted the redhead playfully.
George dodged her slaps easily and the two chuckled at their light-hearted banter.
"Thank you, George," Hermione spoke quietly, her face returning to its more somber state as she remembered the origins of their conversation. "Thank you so much for being a wonderful friend, my best friend, these days." Her caramel eyes shone with tears momentarily.
"Hey, no crying before the date even begins, alright?" George answered gruffly, trying to change the mood. "Save it for after the git screws up and you come crying home to little old Georgie." They both chuckled, and at that moment, the sound of someone apparating was heard in the hall.
Hermione smoothed her dress and her expression turned to one of anticipation. As she walked away from George and toward the door, George muttered quietly, "You're my best friend, too, Mi."
~oOo~
The following day, Hermione woke a little later than usual, having returned from her date in the early hours of the morning. She stretched and a delicious smile spread across her face as she recalled the romantic evening. Again the pair had eaten dinner in Muggle London and taken a walk in the moonlight, but this time they had returned to the flat Seamus shared with Dean, who was otherwise occupied for the night, and Seamus surprised Hermione with dessert followed by a round of Muggle board games.
After admitting defeat, Seamus had spread a blanket across their laps and they cuddled against the couch, snogging deeply until Hermione broke it off and suggested it was best she head home.
Blushing with pleasure at the memory, the smitten witch rose from bed and headed to the loo. She dressed and grabbed breakfast quickly, bid Molly and Arthur goodbye, and apparated to George's flat. They had agreed to finish the moving and unpacking today, and she would feel guilty if she left George to do too much of it alone.
When she arrived, muffled sounds drew her attention to the one place in the apartment she had never ventured - Fred's room. She walked to the door, found it slightly ajar, and listened noiselessly. George was inside, and she didn't want to disturb what she correctly assumed was a difficult moment.
"Freddie, Freddie, Freddie, look at all this junk, you packrat," George was muttering, and she could hear the shifting of what sounded like papers. "You kept everything!"
Sensing that his mood was lighter rather than darker, Hermione pushed the door open wider, tapping gently to draw attention to her presence.
"Good morning, George. Sorry I overslept a little. How's it going?" Her voice was soft as she surveyed the space. The walls were painted garishly in bright blue and orange stripes; a full-sized bed and a large wardrobe took up most of the space; and George was seated at a roll-top desk that faced the window, pouring over piles of papers that were loaded with notes and drawings. Strewn across the floor were clothes, objects, and more papers so that the entire place looked like a minefield with no clear path to walk.
He brought his head up when she entered, and he could tell she was trying to gauge his emotional state; for that, he was thankful. She was a very compassionate person, it was one of the traits he loved most about her. Wait, loved? He dropped the papers he was sorting into his lap in surprise at his own thoughts. Covering his reaction quickly, he pointed down and smiled in wonderment.
"Look here, Mi! It seems Fred was working on a few ideas of his own," he began, and she was pleased that his voice offered no hint of betrayal at his brother's secrecy, only awe at his genius.
"Here, he started figuring a pimple-popper charm. You know, where the victim develops pimples that pop themselves at random times. And here," he flipped to another page excitedly, "he was trying to work out a self-tickling feather, but it seems his prototypes were either too delicate or too forceful." He shook his head in amazement and then said thoughtfully, "I wonder why he kept these to himself?"
Hermione knelt down beside the chair George was sitting in and looked over at the notebook.
"Maybe he didn't feel ready to present them to you? At least, not until he worked the kinks out?"
George smiled at her. "Makes sense. We both did that quite a bit as business grew - came up with an idea, determined its feasibility, and then proposed it only if it was a viable option for the business. Of course, mine were usually more ingenious," he boasted playfully.
"No doubt," Hermione laughed in agreement. "Of course they were, oh master of pranks."
George carried a few of the pages of the many reams of papers he had been looking through into his own room and returned at once, ready to tackle the rest of his twin's belongings. The two spent the morning sorting and organizing, determining what George wanted to keep, what he thought his parents or siblings might want of his late brother's, and what should be donated or discarded. By lunchtime, the room was sparse, the unwanted furniture had been shrunk and removed to a donation center, and George and Hermione flopped unceremoniously onto the bare mattress, tired by their efforts.
"If you want, I can finish the room by myself this afternoon. It only needs the rest of my stuff moved in. And, if it's alright with you," she paused and chewed on her lip, "I'd like to change the color of the walls." She looked over at the redheaded man beside her.
George smiled and sat up, looking down at Hermione with gratitude. "That sounds great. But the walls? You don't love this stylish color combination? I can't believe he didn't make it into Witch Weekly's most fashionable flats!" He made the joke as he looked around the very empty room, and his voice took on a hollow tone.
"He really is gone. I mean, he's been gone for a while now, but this, this is so real."
"Is it too much?" Hermione asked sitting up beside him and putting her arm around his back. "Do you not want me to move in here?"
George shifted, moving closer to her small body, and she put her other arm around his front, embracing him tightly. He brought his arms around her shoulders and rested his chin on top of her head. Hermione felt his tension lessen as he breathed into her hair deeply.
Did he just smell my hair? She wondered, attempting not to physically stiffen at his unusual action.
"No, Mi, of course not. It was my idea that you live here," George said quietly, bring her back to their conversation. "I just feel overwhelmed by Fred today, is all. Thank you." He drew back and looked down into her deep brown eyes, pausing to scan her face with an intense look Hermione had never seen before. With a start, he jumped up and strode out the door purposefully, calling over his shoulder, "Why don't you work on changing the wall color while I make us some lunch?"
~oOo~
That night, Hermione settled into her new surroundings. She knocked on George's bedroom door hesitantly but determinedly and called his name.
"George?" the door swung open, and she saw the redhead laying on his stomach across his bed, looking between his inventing notebook and the papers he discovered in Fred's room.
"Yeah?" he asked in a distracted tone, not bothering to look up.
"Uh, I'm all unpacked, and," she paused but straightened up and pulled herself together, "and I want to celebrate our first night as housemates, so I'm going to shower and then I'm going to take you out for supper!" She smiled brightly, working her face hard to appear excited and not at all apprehensive.
"Sounds good," he said, a slight surprised tone to his voice. "Just, ah, let me know when you're ready to go and I'll be ready."
"Okay! Casual dress," she said over her shoulder as she headed to the shower.
"Damn, I was just pulling my dress robes out," he chuckled.
Less than an hour later, the duo were apparating into Muggle London.
"Where are we, Hermione?" George asked.
"You'll see." She took his arm, looped hers through his, and walked down the sidewalk to a restaurant whose sign read "Calcutta Street."
Inside, a Bengali woman led them to a cosy booth in the back corner that would afford them just enough privacy for her to answer any questions about the muggle world that George might ask. A waitress approached them and asked what she could get them, and Hermione confidently ordered two servings of the kosha mangsho. George sat in stunned silence, having no idea what he was about to eat.
Excitedly Hermione whispered across the table, "Do you trust me?" She wiggled her eyebrows at her dinner companion in the manner he typically did at her.
"Not entirely," he replied hesitantly. "I've pulled too many pranks on you over the years not to worry at least a little bit that this could be some sort of payback."
The bushy-haired witch smiled proudly. "Perhaps I'll get back at you someday, George, but tonight, we're celebrating moving in together by dining on what is quite possibly the best food on the planet."
"That's quite a boast, young lady; care to make a wager?" George paused for a moment. "If I don't like the meal, you have to pay for it, but if you're correct, and I do find it delicious, perhaps even the best meal ever, then I'll buy?"
"You would pay?" Hermione repeated. "But then, my friend, this would feel like a proper date, which it obviously is not." She snorted a little, joking about the wager, not realizing the hurt feelings her flip comment had caused. "I accept your terms, Weasley," she finished, still not aware of the pain in George's chest.
Oh, wow, he thought. She was really quick to make sure I knew this wasn't a date. Geez, she goes out with Seamus twice, and it's like she's a dating pro. Speaking of…
"Alright, Mi," George began, attempting to play it cool, "how are things with Seamus?"
His friend blushed to the roots of her hair, and a small smile instantly played on her lips.
"They're good, I think," she answered shyly. "Last night we had dinner and took a walk, and then we went back to his place." She frowned a little suddenly.
"What is it?" George prompted, though he was unsure where this conversation was headed.
"It's just, well, you know I've never really dated much -" Hermione paused and looked down at her hands.
" - I just don't want to come across as too inexperienced for him. I can imagine what he is probably expecting, having taken me out a couple of times, but I don't know if I'm ready to share that with him." She couldn't look George in the eye at this admission, and her fingers shredded a napkin on the table in front of her.
"Mi," George spoke softly in a comforting tone, "listen to me. Anyone who has known you since school knows you haven't exactly had much time to play the field and are thus inexperienced in, well, those areas. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, no matter what the bloke you're with wants. If Seamus ever tries to push you too far too fast, or if anyone does, for that matter - " his voice became a growl and his eyes darkened with anger at the thought.
Hermione put her napkin pieces down and placed her small hands on top of George's larger ones in the middle of the table.
"Thank you," she said. "Though I'm not asking you to be my bodyguard. I'm really asking you for a man's perspective. Do you think he'll think I'm a prude because I'm a twenty-year-old virgin?" Her eyes dropped to her lap in shame.
George stopped breathing. A virgin? Of course she was, he just hadn't ever thought about it before. If she hadn't really ever dated, when would she have ever…
He squeezed her hands. "I wouldn't overthink it," he reassured her. "Whoever you do decide to, uh, to give your, well, you know, sleep with," he fumbled - it was his turn to be embarrassed - "they'll feel privileged that you love them enough to share the most personal part of you with them. Now, I am guessing our meals here." And he straightened up, removed his hands from the table, and watched as bowls of spicy mutton were placed in front of them.