Chapter 4: Under the Covers
George managed to pull himself up into a slouched sitting position by swinging his feet back onto the floor.
"Now," he began, leaning closer to Hermione and propping his hands on the back of the bench as though trying to grip onto something steady. "The thing you gotta understand 'bout men, is they only realise they want something when they see that someone else wants it. Take me and my dear family, for instance. Nobody wanted that maggoty old chess set of Granddad's until Ron dusted it down a few years ago. All of a sudden there was claims and counter-claims of ownership stretching back centuries. That is, until Ron stormed off screaming that he didn't want the cruddy prehistoric thing anyway and we suddenly saw ourselves for the first time, squabbling over something that none of us really wanted. But we don't grow out of it, no, we just transfer this… possessiveness onto progressively larger and more precious objects. Which is where you come in."
"I do?" Hermione gulped, scanning George's face with an almost comical puzzlement.
"Yeah. You land slap bang in the middle of World Ron-happy-bloody-go-lucky-Weasley. You've set the cat among the pigeons, upset the apple cart, made hay not war – no wait… scratch that last one - but anyway, to cut to the chase, to make a long story short, to put a-"
"Will you stop talking in meaningless idioms?" Hermione interrupted, glowering at him from beneath her fringe as she folded her arms crossly. "You're talking in circles," she snapped, before scowling at her unintended irony.
"Apologies, dear lady; 'twas not my intention to perplex your good self." He took a mock bow, before continuing. "As I was saying - so eloquently, I believe - your brief sojourn here has occasioned a veritable transformation in Ronald's little heart. It pit pats to a different beat now, it pit pats to the beat of sweet lurve."
"What on Earth are you talking about?" Hermione said, slapping George's hand away irritably as he began beating out a disjointed rhythm on the back of the bench.
"Well, in the words of that renowned lyrical poet Donny Osmond, 'they called it puppy love' – oh yes, Ronald Weasley has finally realised that the great love of his life was under his nose all the time. Except, it's forbidden love, isn't it?"
"What, you don't mean…" Hermione gasped in shock, before hissing incredulously under her breath, "Ginny?"
George looked at her, dumbstruck for a second, before erupting into such violent laughter that the whole bench shook with the force of his mirth, causing Hermione to clutch onto the table for support. Every time she thought he had managed to compose himself he would look up at her and splutter into another fit of laughter.
"Aw, priceless!" he said finally, wiping a tear away from the corner of his eye. "I know Ottery St. Catchpole isn't exactly cosmopolitan, but it's not quite reached the stage where the only virgins are ugly twelve years olds who can run faster than their brothers. I was actually talking about you, you sick minded individual!"
"Me?" Hermione pointed a hand incredulously at herself.
"Oh come off it, I thought you were supposed to be the brains of the bunch."
"We're. Just. Good. Friends." Hermione growled between clenched teeth. She was used to justifying her friendship with Ron to the likes of Lavender Brown, but she had not expected George to start yet another speculation society on her non-existent love life.
"Oh sure, that's what Bert and Ernie said. Well, in their case it might have been true… but I digress. The point is-"
"That that bar is rampacked!" Fred broke in, placing Hermione's drink in front of her before sliding into the seat opposite George with a glum looking Ron trailing behind.
"Ginny told me to go away. Said I had a face like a slapped arse. Apparently that impacts on the success of her date," he explained sulkily.
Hermione stared at him, as though seeing him for the first time. Same flaming red hair as ever, same childlike blue eyes, same vivid freckles stretching in a band across the bridge of his long nose; same as always. Except. Except, if George was to be believed, behind that same old face there was a secret ambition, a secret desire. Yet when she looked into his eyes all she could see was the reflection of her own frightened face.
"You alright 'Mione, you look a bit peaky?" He frowned, leaning forward slightly.
Ron had noticed and acknowledged a female emotion. Someplace, an ice-skating excursion was being organised in Hell. George was right. The bastard. She kicked him roughly in the shin under the table, shooting a venomous glare at him. His eyes widened in shock and pain, before, biting his lip, he turned to her and shot a sickly sweet smile in her direction, eyes twinkling playfully.
They returned back to The Burrow in high spirits; Ginny gushing over her male companion, Ron keeping up an excited monologue about the trouble with Muggles, while Fred and George acted the part of travelling minstrels, singing slightly odd sounding Christmas Carols as they trundled down the deserted snow-covered lanes. Only Hermione seemed to notice the cold, huddling her gloved hands beneath each armpit as her teeth chattered painfully.
As soon as they arrived home she muttered a brief excuse to the Weasleys about not feeling very well before tiredly climbing the rickety staircase up to her room on the third floor. It was nice having a room to herself; if not slightly odd awakening each morning to find herself surrounded by Bill's assorted paraphernalia. Bored eyes stared down at her from peeling posters torn out of teenage magazines, a shrine to Bill Weasley's adolescent tastes. But she would rather be alone with his… unconventional taste than face the thought of conversing with another Weasley right now. How was she going to look Ron in the eye come the morning? Worse, would George tell Ron that she knew? Oh God, this was all too terrible.
Overwhelmed, she flopped onto the bed and buried her head in her hands, lacing her fingers through her hair in exasperation. It was not that she didn't like Ron – she loved him, but, without wanting to sound terribly hackneyed, she couldn't get around the fact that she loved him like a brother. How could someone with whom she had battled through giant chess sets and basilisks and deranged Death Eaters possibly hold any sexual attraction? Plus there was his whole predilection for knitted jumpers bearing his initials. Seemingly Mrs. Weasley didn't aim for the sexy angle when knitting her annual Christmas sweaters. Perhaps she was aiming for the runner-up prize of 'has a great sense of humour'. Which Ron did have. He was a nice boy. But what they had, it transcended such cheap nonsense. They knew each other too well. But now he had gone and ruined it, and it was hopeless, hopeless! She flung herself onto the bed and heaved great dry sobs, hiccuping as she tried to catch her breath. Harry needed his friends more than ever, yet here they were, about to be torn apart by some silly, trivial hormonal rift.
She awoke sometime later, unsure how long she had been lain curled on top of the bed clothes. The tingling sensation in her legs quickly crescendoed into sharp stabs that stretched every nerve in her body. She jumped out of bed and started pacing around the cluttered room, trying to work the pins and needles out of her feet. As the exquisite pinpricks became more insistent she threw Bill's old and worn dressing gown around herself and slowly crept down the stairs to the kitchen, hoping for a distracting glass of milk.
Bleary-eyed and limping she tiptoed into the kitchen, and was just about to walk toward the humming refrigerator when she noticed a figure slumped in the rocking chair beside the fire. Creeping closer, fearful of disturbing the prone Weasley, the dying embers of the fire suddenly caught two white orbs shining in the shadows of George's face. He was still awake then, and – she tiptoed closer – reading.
"You not tired?" she said quietly, approaching the hearth.
George perceptibly jumped, hastily tucking the book he had been looking at underneath his thigh. Really, she knew he thought he had an image to maintain but she was hardly going to shun him as a social pariah upon discovering him reading a book that didn't contain pictures.
"Er no, couldn't sleep."
"What's that you're reading then?" She pointed to a black corner that was protruding from the side of his leg.
"Nothing," he said, too quickly, his eyes travelling rapidly down to the visible edge of the book, then back to Hermione again.
"Well then, you won't mind me having a look at it, will you?" She had still not forgiven him for his earlier revelation, for shattering her idyll. Besides, what she had seen of his reading material had looked suspiciously like a diary; a slim, rectangular shape bound in crackly leather. Ginny was the only Weasley she had ever known to keep a diary and she felt she owed it to her friend to investigate her brother's intrusion. "Accio book!" It flew into her hand as George sank lower into the chair, his face turning a deep shade of crimson.
She had been right – it was a diary. Inscribed on the front in a gold copperplate type were the words 'Mine Thoughts of Consideration', followed below by two tiny initials composed of a flourishing 'D' and 'M'.
"George, is this what I think it is?" She frowned, hands trembling as she examined the cover of the diary more critically.
"Depends what you think it is. If you think it's a rare Peruvian nose flute, then I'd say no. If, however, you think it might just be the secret diary of Draco Malfoy, aged sixteen and three-quarters, then you could possibly be on the right track."
"Where on earth did it come from?" Hermione breathed, stepping closer to the slow-burning fire to better examine the artefact cradled in her hands.
"Let's just say that Malfoy can be very clumsy and George Weasley very dextrous. I mean, what kind of a fool parades a thing like that in their robe pocket through Diagon Alley – it's practically begging to be liberated."
"Have you… have you read it?" She swallowed hard, pressing the covers of the diary together with her forefinger and thumb, trying to resist the temptation to open it.
"Course I have – I think you'll find that morals and theft are usually two mutually exclusive qualities. He, erm, certainly has some interesting things to say," he paused briefly and swallowed hard, before continuing in a low voice, "About you."
"Oh I bet he does. But I can assure you I've heard it all before; about how I'm a dirty m-mudblood, and a disgrace to the Wizarding World. It would have been more gallant of you to have remained silent," she sniffed airily.
"Well, there are a few, erm, entries about muggleborns at Hogwarts. But that's not what I was referring to. There's some other stuff he writes in there, stuff about-"
"I don't want to know," Hermione interrupted, holding a hand up to stop him mid-flow. "I don't possess the sort of ego that enjoys hearing one's faults analysed by another."
"I'll take that back then, shall I?" George rose from the chair, sending it rocking wildly on the stone floor as he walked over to Hermione and stretched his hand out expectantly.
"No. I don't think you should have this." Cold, dark eyes regarded his own.
"Aw come on, Hermione, it's not your place to act as my conscience. I think acting as the voice of reason to one Weasley is task enough for you. But I don't owe you anything." Despite the level tone of his voice his eyes flashed dangerously.
"I'm not concerned about your morals – believe me, I didn't even know you were aware such things existed – I'm more worried about the inherent stupidity of stealing a Magical object from a notorious dark Wizard family. Particularly after our last experience with a Malfoy diary." Hermione said rather pointedly as George averted his eyes. "You can't keep this."
George looked up, sulking. "And why not?"
"Because it might upset little Malfoy junior." Despite the heavy sarcasm in her voice, George looked up hopefully. "No, you idiot," she snapped "Because it could have all sorts of sensors and defensive charms put on it. It's like bringing a ticking bomb into the house. A ticking bomb that can act as a secret surveillance system. I bet Lucius is practically rubbing his hands with glee; saved his hands from getting dirtied.
"Somehow I doubt that Draco has made him aware of the existence of this diary."
Hermione raised an eyebrow questioningly.
"Let's just say that they're not exactly the smiling family on the Cornflakes packet."
"George, how much of this have you read?" She weighed the diary up in her hand, sensing the heaviness of compressed memories.
"Oh, only the good bits. There's this one bit where he's queuing up outside Snape's classroom and he hexes Harry good, but then…" he trailed off slowly, suddenly noting Hermione's discomfort. How could he be so insensitive; of course she wouldn't find getting her teeth hexed amusing. He could be so stupid at times – particularly around her.
"I don't think you should read anymore. I think I should keep this."
"You mean you want to read it too?" he shot back accusingly.
"No," Hermione replied frostily, shooting him a significant glance, "I mean I need time to think about how in the world I can get this back to Draco, without him noticing that it's missing in the first place.
Yet that was not the recurring thought that kept her dreams waiting and rest increasingly elusive. She had far more pressing thoughts on her mind as she lay tossing and turning in the unfamiliar bed. Like the fact that she couldn't face the thought of spending the rest of the holiday in Ron's company, pretending for all that time.
The next day she rose early, waking to the wintry sunlight streaming in through the skylight window above her bed. She dressed quickly, throwing on yesterday's jeans and a warm woolly jumper. She examined her reflection critically in the dusty mirror propped against the far wall of Bill's room next to a neutered guitar. She looked… practical; neither fussy nor drab. She was still a little too thin after her first term of applied N.E.W.T.s work, but her trousers sat rather nicely on the jutting angles of her hipbones, even if her face did look a little too stretched. Mrs. Weasley had stated it her mission to feed her up over Christmas, so she doubted that it was anything worth worrying too much about.
With a quick reassuring glance under her pillow at the stolen diary she pulled on her cosy slippers and padded down the stairs. She was just walking along the second floor landing when she felt a hand grab her own, pulling her into a dark, musty room.
George stood in his pyjama bottoms, smiling wanly. There were crease marks on his chest from the bed clothes, and the two rosy blotches on his cheeks made him look like a small, bed-weary toddler. He actually looked quite endearing with his crazy bed hair.
"Shh!" he hissed as he reached an arm behind her and closed the door, trapping her in the gloom.
"What is it?" she whispered back irritably, feeling around in the dark for the door handle. Disorientated, she felt her palms press against the warm surface of human flesh and realised with embarrassment that she was touching the Quidditch-toned pectoral muscles of Ron Weasley's older brother. She stepped back quickly, banging loudly into the door.
"Quiet – you'll have mum in here!" George hissed, pulling her away from the door and toward the centre of the room. "I just wanted to ask you if you'd decided what you were going to do with that thing I picked up in Diagon Alley."
"Not that it's any of your business, but I intend to give it back to its rightful owner," she sniffed, not having given a moments thought to what she was going to do with it at all.
"You can't do that! It's a waste. If you're not going to let me have any fun with it then the least you can do is put it to good use and hand it over to the Order of the Phoenix – it might have some useful information in it."
Hermione bit her lip; it had not occurred to her that the diary might contain anything more illuminating than adolescent angst. "I suppose that's a good suggestion. I'll give it to Molly." She made to leave the room, causing George to grab her around the upper arm. She felt his fingers dig painfully into her flesh and winced.
"Are you mad?" he hissed loudly, "She'd flay me alive! No, we have to hand it over to someone who wouldn't ask too many questions." He paused. "And good God you're skinny!" he exclaimed, suddenly aware that his hand had completely encircled her upper arm. He dropped his hand to his side.
"Yes, thank you for that assessment," she snapped back, before returning to consider their situation in silence. "Got it! Tonks. We can hand it to her to present to the rest of the Order. She won't ask any awkward questions about it."
"Good idea. And we only need to go to Grimmauld Place to track her down now that she's inherited it from Sirius. Maybe if we-" He broke off suddenly, straining as he heard the sound of creaking floorboards – a sound he easily identified as an attempt at stealth. "Mum! Quick, hide! She can't find you in my room at this time in the morning!" He ran over to his bed, dragging her behind him.
"Under the duvet!" he hissed, pushing her onto the bed and pulling the covers over her head before diving gymnastically onto the bed beside her, just in time as the door burst open. Hermione flattened herself against George's slim body, trying to give the illusion of a single figure in the bed. She dreaded to think how this would look if Mrs. Weasley noticed the sudden expansion in George's girth. This would be a foul way to repay her kindness with a betrayal of trust.
"Morning, George. Thought I heard voices," Mrs. Weasley said, the suspicion in her voice deflating as she surveyed the empty room.
Hermione could feel her heart beating rapidly against George's bare back as she pressed herself into him, feeling his body heat seep through her jumper. She curved her body around his own, hooking her legs behind his and placing an arm around his stomach to stop herself from rolling off the side. She cringed as his stomach muscles tensed under her touch – did he really find her that repulsive?
"Musta been talking in my sleep again," George replied cheerily.
Mrs. Weasley sniffed the air a couple of times, as though trying to detect a falsehood, before leaving the room and shutting the door tightly behind her. Hermione listened as her footsteps retreated down the stairs.
"Phew, close call!" George grinned, turning around to face Hermione. Her hand, still draped around his middle, fell onto the side of his hip. She liked the feel; lean and hard, as though housing a powerful strength. She'd always thought of George as a joker, never realised that physically he might have the potential to be a dangerous opponent.
"Yeah," she croaked, blushing as she felt his feet accidentally tangle in her own. She could feel sweat building up on the fingertips, but her burning hot hand refused to move. George wriggled down in the bed until he was face to face with Hermione, causing her hand to brush the length of his side as it came to rest on his chest. She could feel his heart thumping through his rib cage.
He stared at her impenetrably for a moment, an odd sort of look in his eye, before speaking very quickly. "We should – I should… I think it's time for breakfast." Yet he didn't move, just carried on looking at her with that same strange expression, his hand hovering over the small of her back.
She wasn't so thick-skinned that she didn't recognise a hint when she saw one – even from someone who was obviously trying to be nice about it. She kicked the covers off roughly, wondering what had come over her as she climbed clumsily out of the bed.
George watched her leave, shutting the door delicately behind herself. He could still feel her warmth clinging to the patch of bed she had lain on. Lowering his head to the pillow he smelt a sweet scent of autumnal leaves.
He Grinned. He certainly hadn't expected the first girl he lured into his bed to be Hermione Granger.
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