Author's Note: I am sorry I've been so long. I've been so busy with rehearsals and filming for my university's play and such. I hope you like this chapter!

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PostScript: I also want to apologize for not having replied to your reviews like I usually do. I haven't had the time but I appreciated every single one of them.

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George had been feeling under the weather lately. He was currently taking a nap on the couch, but awoke with a start when the flat door opened and slammed shut. He heard footsteps rush past him and another door slam a moment later. Even half-asleep and most certainly groggy, he knew what this meant – Malcolm. He had been dealing with this for three months now, and was quite used to these (usually) nonverbal outbursts by now. It had started a month into Hermione and Malcolm's relationship.

George was busy scrubbing his arm, his head ducked in concentration, as he fought to get rid of this unsightly goop that was stuck to his forearm. It was grayish, sticky, and smelled slightly of petrol and old soup, totaling up to a combination that seriously displeased him. He was too busy scrubbing his arm raw to hear the door open, but jumped as it slammed shut, smacking the back of his head hard on the counter above him.

"Bollocks!" he cried, his soapy hand shooting to the spot where an egg was already starting to form. "Hermione, I-" He whirled around, ready to yell at her, when he saw she was not even in the room, but her crying could be heard through the crack left when her bedroom door had refused to shut. He was most certainly thrown. He didn't think he'd ever seen Hermione cry outside of funerals or at the end of the war. Should he go and comfort her? Should he give her some space? He was unsure of how to handle this; he had never had much practice. Growing up, Ginny rarely cried, and when she did, he and Fred would just tell a few jokes and she'd be back to normal. How was he supposed to deal with a crying – no, make that a sobbing – Hermione?

"Oww!"

He looked down in surprise to see that he had, in the midst of his thought process, scrubbed off the sticky substance and had now rubbed his bare arm scarlet. Scowling slightly, he grabbed one of Hermione's cheery yellow hand towels that was hanging off the arm of the ice box and quickly dried his arms before throwing it onto the table and walking quietly over to his flat mate's room. He peeked in through the barely-opened door and saw a sad sight indeed. Hermione was lying on the bed, her whole body seemingly wrapped around the pillow she was hugging tight to her chest, her face buried in the soft cotton, muffling her sobs. He knocked softly on the door.

"Hermione?"

He heard the crying halt for a moment, as if she was holding her breath.

"Hermione, I know something's wrong. Can I come in?"

He heard a few loud hiccups, a sign that Hermione was trying her hardest to hold back her crying.

"I'm fine," she said, although her nose was plugged, so the words came out "I'b fide."

"Hermione, I'm coming in."

He pushed open the door and walked over to the bed to face Hermione, who was now sitting up, although she still clutched the pillow close to her chest, as if it was her anchor to sanity. He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at her.

"Hermione, what happened?" She sniffed loudly and her bottom lip began to wobble. "Was it someone at work?" She pressed her lips together, trying to hold back her tears. "Was it Malcolm?" Her eyes immediately began to well with tears and her cheeks suddenly flushed as her resolve seemed to give way. This was definitely it. "What happened, 'Mione? What did he do to you?"

He moved to put his hand on her shoulder and she practically fell into his arms, her face pressed against his chest, shaking as she cried. A little taken aback, George missed the first couple words she said, and by the time he had realized she had been trying to talk, she was crying so hard that all of her words her unintelligible. More than a little confused but knowing that the one thing Hermione needed now was a friend to just listen and be there, he held her to his chest, slowly rubbing circles on her back and stroking her hair, mumbling words and phrases that were meant to soothe, although he wasn't sure which of them he was trying to soothe or even why. They sat there for a good ten minutes until she seemed to have cried herself out, and was simply left snuffling and occasionally letting out a hiccup or a dry, shuddering sob.

"Hermione," he said softly as his fingers ran through her curly hair, "What happened? You can tell me."

She didn't move from where she sat, practically on his lap and pressed up against his chest, her arms tight around his waist, but she spoke up, her voice raspy and low from crying.

"We had a fight."

George was tempted to bring out his sarcasm and say, "Yeah, I sort of figured that out," but he knew this was not the proper time and it would probably just upset her more. He instead chose to stay silent and let her continue when she felt she could.

"I don't even remember how it started anymore. It was over something so stupid. But we both said awful things and it was just terrible and I just…it…it just hurt." She started to cry quietly again, her hands holding bunches of his damp shirt, and he continued to rub her back.

"I'm so sorry, Hermione," he said softly. "It'll all be okay. Don't worry; it'll all be okay."

He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and stretched his arms above his head before he stood up wearily. Here we go again. As he walked the relatively short distance to her room, he totaled up how many times he'd find her in a state of hysteria, whether it be angry or sad, due to Malcolm. This would be number seven.

"Hermione, I'm coming in," he said loudly through the solid ash door. He no longer bothered asking if everything was okay. They had passed that mark after the third fight, during which she had slammed the door so hard it had actually splintered. Asking if he could come in had also passed the day she had been so angry she had blown a hole though the wall. A fireball seemed like enough reason to come into his flat mate's room unannounced. He opened the door and immediately ducked to dodge an air-born alarm clock that was soaring right at his head. Right before it got to him, it suddenly froze in midair, then soared back into her hand before promptly being thrown again.

"I have never seen such a tidy way to throw possessions around."

She whirled around and her eyes locked onto him without seeming to really see him. "Who does he think he is? He can't tell me what to do!"

"No he can't!" George had no context, but he generally assumed this was a safe response.

"That wanker doesn't get to tell me who to be friends with! Who does he think he is, my mother? Not that my mother did that, but that's hardly the point."

"Who are you not allowed to be friends with?"

"You!"

George blinked. There was a beat of silence. "I'm sorry…what?"

"He said I shouldn't be friends with you and I shouldn't live with you."

"Why?"

"Because it's not normal living with a guy that you're not in a relationship with and we're too different and it's not healthy and all this other bunk. I mean, how ridiculous can he be?"

"Wait…and why can't we be friends?"

"Because he doesn't like you," she replied simply as she paced. She was going to wear a hole into the floor from all the pacing she had been doing in the last several months.

George snorted. "He doesn't like me? He's met me twice. I don't think I've said more than five sentences to him and he's only ever said like two to me. How does he have a bad-"

"He says you're immature and untrustworthy and you're using me and-"

"Using you for what?"

"Hell if I know!" she shouted. "I have no idea where this is coming from, but this constant jealousy is so bloody irritating!"

"Yeah, I mean-," he paused, her words finally registering. "Jealousy?"

"That's clearly what it is! It's ridiculous! I am allowed to have my own friends and my own place to live, even if I do live with a man instead of a woman. It's just so frustrating! He doesn't want to meet any of my friends and when he does by chance, he immediately decides he doesn't like them for the strangest reasons. It's complete bollocks!"

"Yeah, it really is." He paused as he watched her throw a porcelain figurine at the wall. He cringed slightly at the splintering sounds of it shattering before she immediately repaired and summoned it. "Hermione, why do you even stay with him?"

She paused in the middle of throwing the figure again. She pulled her arm back from its extended position and stared at the little cat in her hands. It was black with little white paws, reminiscent of Balthazar, who was currently taking a nap in George's room. Apparently tearing up George's favorite underpants was tiring work. She ran her finger along the statue's back, stroking the sculpted fur and watching the painted yellow eyes as if they would tell her what to say.

"I care about him," she said, he voice quieter than usual.

George had heard this reasoning before. I care about him. He cares about me. It was no big deal. Just a bump in the road. He didn't have to be thoroughly acquainted with Malcolm to know that he wanted to wring the man's throat for making Hermione act like this. It was frustrating seeing Hermione, one of the strongest women he knew (next to his mom and Prof. McGonagall), going back every time after she and Malcolm had a fight. It was not like he physically hurt her or did something horrendous, but he broke her heart over and over, without regard to the fact that it broke easier each time after because of all the previous damage he had inflicted. He might be a clever man, a handsome man, whatever Hermione said, but he was not a man in George's eyes. He was a boy – a boy who played games, broke his toys, and expected them to get fixed in time for his next play date. George was going through his now traditional inner monologue, ranting about how terrible Malcolm was for her and cataloguing every way he would hurt the man next time he came face-to-face with him, when he caught Hermione's last words, which he had almost missed, being so wrapped up in anger at how his Hermione was being treated.

"I like feeling wanted; feeling loved. Even if we do fight."

Hermione turned back to her dresser and set the statuette lightly on top, staring at it for a few moments longer while George watched her, silently pleading her to realize that he cared for her and that she didn't need Malcolm. She had George.