Chapter Twelve
Hermione stepped out of the hearth and without brushing off the ashes, she fell on her couch. It had been a long day, and she could still feel Malfoy's lips on hers, her lips replaying the memory over and over. As her brain cleared she couldn't believe that she didn't do anything. She should have hexed him. Anything.
With a curious device in hand, George came into the lounge. He brightly smiled and sat next to her. He handed her the tiny box.
"Touch the lid," he advised.
"Last time I touched one of your experiments, I was punched in the eye." She walked around with a black eye and bad feelings toward him for a good deal of that day.
"I gave you salve for that. Go on. Give it a go."
She kept her face away from the box, as if it would explode. It very well could. Ginny had said that she heard explosions from his room growing up, and if she needed to state once more, there was the incident with being clouted.
He took it from her. "It won't sock you." He pressed the checkered lid, and out popped a stuffed and brightly colored scarlet phoenix. From inside out it sung a Siren's song that didn't fill her with sorrow like Dumbleodre's, but with joy. It erased her worries and concerns magically. Suddenly, she wasn't thinking about Malfoy's unusual behavior.
George's face was close to hers, his shoulder using hers as a prop. He looked down at her, smiling. She couldn't help it, she beamed back. It was perfect, sitting there with him, comfortable and safe, and she was getting high off of the song, and she was noticing things. The way his crimson hair brushed his brow, how it curled in the back, and the brightness of his brown eyes. They weren't as dull as she had thought long ago. George was undeniably handsome.
"That's like a Muggle toy," she said after he closed the lid. "I had one when I was little. You cranked its handle and it would sing a tune and it would pop open a clown or a doll. I cried the first time. It pops when you least expect it."
"Sounds like a lovely toy for a child. Do you like it?"
She didn't want to hurt his feelings. "I don't think these will sell very well..."
"No, no, but it's fun. I made it for Victoire. Think she'll like it?"
That was right, his niece Victoire's second birthday was approaching. With all the haste of her cases she had nearly forgotten. "I'm certain she'll love it."
He pocketed the toy in his robes and nodded at her. "You look like you had a hard day."
The kiss came flooding back to her. "You have no idea," she muttered.
"Should I open the box again?"
"Didn't you learn anything from Pandora," she joked.
"Who's Pandora?"
"It's a Greek tale," she yawned. "A woman's curiosity causes her to open a box of secrets. It reveals the whole world to her. She saw everything, and she died from grief."
"She only saw the bad then?"
"The bad outweighed the good."
"If you're the one who sees the cauldron half empty."
She noted, "you can be quite insightful, George."
"I think you do see the cauldron half empty."
"That's not true. Besides, what's inside this hypothetical cauldron?"
"There's that curiosity. Are you like Pandora? Do you want your face melted off?"
"Melted off? She didn't get her face melted off," she corrected gently.
"She didn't? Ah, that's a shame. It would've made that story more interesting."
"The story was interesting," she differed hotly.
"Can't tell. You told it."
She smacked his side, and he rolled over, laughing. He grabbed her bare waist (her blouse had ridden up) and brought her closer to him, his nose grazing her cheek. She had never been so close to George, they had kept their respective distances in the past, and so she hadn't noticed the light freckles. Unlike Ron's that were splattered, George's was neatly arranged over the bridge of his nose and across his cheeks, one escapee taking refuge near his right eye.
They suspended in their position, both of them realizing their predicament, both realizing that, yes, they had never been that close. George was relaxed, nonchalant, but Hermione was tense. It was George that was looking at her like that. The look that was whispering a secret to her. It whispered, "something is going to happen now."
George's nose moved over hers, and their lips met. It was a kiss like any other. It was tasteless, but it spoke intelligibly of other things. George put passion into it, something she didn't know he had for her. His thumb rubbed circles on her waist, right above her pants. She stood still as his lips danced on hers, inhaling his smoky and light scent.
"Now you know," he said in a feather's tone that graced her skin.
"What?" It was such an perfunctory question, but she knew of no other way to state it when her mind had been reduced to the jumble it was before.
"You know, Hermione, for being the smartest Witch of your age, you are clueless. I've fancied you for ages." When she didn't respond, he resigned, "I'll leave you to your thoughts, then."
Hermione sunk into the couch, burying her face into its crevice. She was kissed twice that day. First Malfoy then George? What was her life becoming? An impossible love triangle only meant for mediocre writers?
Her head was swimming with the days events. What she needed was a good sleep. Perhaps she would wake up with some solution, but which solution she really wanted was lost on her.
She had known George since she was eleven. They were friends. She had dated his brother. She had stayed summers at his house. She was there when his twin died. How could she have not noticed any feelings that he had for her? That was an easy answer: She was too busy noticing Ron.
Malfoy, though? What was Malfoy doing kissing her? How long had he liked her? How come she didn't pay any attention to that? That was also easy to answer: They were enemies. They were on opposing sides of the war.
If anything was for certain, it was that she needed help. Or a new roommate and assistant...
