Chapter 5: The Unwelcome Visitors
"What's up with you?" Ginny said as she poked Hermione in the ribs with the end of her spoon.
"What? Oh, nothing," Hermione sighed, idly stirring her porridge.
"Eat up, eat up!" Mrs. Weasley eyed Hermione's full bowl disapprovingly, before bustling over to the sink where she continued scrubbing at a stubborn food stain. "Where's Fred, still not up?"
"Honestly woman, you want your eyes testing. I'm only sat about two feet away," Fred huffed.
"Oh, sorry, dear, you know how confused I get between you and George first thing in the morning. I thought it wasn't like you to miss breakfast," she said kindly, before turning to face her daughter. "Ginny, will you go and fetch him, love?"
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Why can't he get out of bed himself?"
"Because he's a man," Mrs. Weasley replied simply.
"Yeah, well what's he going to do when he doesn't have a little sister to roll him out of bed every morning?"
"Get a wife, no doubt," Mrs. Weasley replied without pause. Ginny sighed and began to climb the stairs wearily while Ron and Fred guffawed incredulously. "And what are you two sniggering about?" She turned on them.
"Your faith in George's matrimonial prospects," Fred explained. "We all know I'm the better looking twin. Funny how blinding a mother's love can be."
Mrs. Weasley frowned.
"Oh come off it, mum. If you're after losing a son and gaining a daughter I don't think George is your best bet. More likely to lose your patience and gain a permanent lodger," Ron said.
"Whatever do you mean? George is a lovely boy," Mrs. Weasley sniffed as Fred mimed flapping blinkers on the side of his head.
"Mum, he's nineteen years old and never had a girlfriend. His idea of a chat up line is squirting stink sap into someone's ear and explaining that his sense of humour is his best quality. I think we can safely presume an uninterrupted bachelorhood; he's certainly already well-versed in the lifestyle," Fred grinned.
"For God's sake," Hermione snapped. "Do you lot ever stop sniping at each other?"
Mrs Weasley opened her mouth in an 'o' of surprise before quietly leaving the room on the pretext of hanging some washing on the line outside. She smiled to herself, pleased that Hermione was using this opportunity to voice her disapproval over Ron's treatment at the hands of his brothers.
Fred appeared to seriously consider the question, looking thoughtfully into space. "I seem to recall that we called a truce back in the days of Christmas 1989 that lasted for a record eleven minutes and thirty-nine seconds, but other than that…" he trailed off, grinning sheepishly at Hermione. "Some people actually think truthfulness is a virtue."
"And some people recognise that there's a vital distinction between tact and lying," she shot back.
"Ooh, a Cornflakes philosopher. I must say, I do enjoy our early morning chats, Hermione," Fred said as he laid his spoon down against the edge of his bowl. "Your razor sharp observations on the world make such a pleasant change from the effortless monosyllabic exchanges of Ron and the aforementioned evil twin."
Hermione frowned, unsure whether he was making fun of her.
"Ron, do we have enough milk left?" Fred said, without taking his eyes of Hermione.
"Er… just what's in the carton," Ron replied automatically. "Not enough to drown a fly in, but plenty for a black coffee."
"No problem. Me and Hermione will just nip out and get some more. I'll show her where it's kept for future reference."
Hermione raised an eyebrow at Fred in surprise while his gaze remained steadily focused on her. Ron, evidently thinking there was nothing unusual about this arrangement, merely nodded distractedly as he continued trying to fish the free toy out from the bottom of the cereal packet.
Fred was just rising to leave the table when a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder as his twin entered the room.
"Don't worry, since I'm up, I'll go." George smiled amiably, although there was a tenacious look in his eyes.
"Right you are," Fred said evenly. Hermione looked from one to the other, confused. The tension she could detect between them seemed rather disproportionate to the disputed task of milk collection. But then everything in this family centred around factional politics – one could hardly sit down at a table without upsetting some ritualistic status quo. Hermione had felt as though she had committed a diplomatic blunder on par with one of Prince Phillip's finer moments when she had inadvertently made a cup of tea in George's 'I'm special' mug.
"Coming?" George turned around at the door, addressing Hermione impatiently. She looked to Ron for confirmation, but he had just grasped onto the edge of a foreign body amid the brittle cereal flakes and was preoccupied trying to carefully manoeuvre it out, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. Rolling her eyes she rose and followed George out into the garden.
He walked ahead of her down the garden path until they had left the house a considerable distance behind, when he stopped and turned to face her.
"I just wanted to make sure that you hadn't told Mum about the diary."
"I said I wouldn't, didn't I?" Hermione replied coldly, inexplicably annoyed. She supposed it explained his enthusiasm for milk collection.
"Yeah well words are cheap – lots of people let their mouths write cheques that their bodies can't cash."
"Well I'm not one of them. I mean what I say."
"You just don't say what you mean." George mumbled quietly, although his words carried perfectly in the still morning air.
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Hermione huffed, placing her hands on her hips.
"Oh nothing," George said dismissively as he began striding down the garden path toward the front gate.
"And you're a fine one to talk!" Hermione shouted after him, running to catch up as he struggled with the rusty gate latch. "Hiding behind clever words and silly pranks, living half a life through your twin. Unless you really are that shallow. Although I for one don't believe that for one minute."
George looked taken aback. Not angry, as Hermione had expected, just stunned. He considered her words for a minute, juggling all the potential replies in his head, yet finding that none of them seemed quite appropriate.
"You listen too much, Hermione. You need to talk more," he said calmly.
She watched in silence as he slipped out of the gate and bent down to pick up a couple of milk cartons from a wooden box in the hedge. When he straightened up she saw that he was grinning.
"See what I mean?"
"It takes two to talk – one to speak, and one to listen," Hermione replied tartly. "And don't try to pigeon hole me as some poor, alienated soul. Just because I don't go around shooting my mouth off to anyone who'll listen it doesn't mean I don't have real friends who I can talk to."
"What, like Ron?" George shot back.
"Yes, like Ron!"
"Someone whose interests are less than platonic, someone who listens with his eyes half-closed?"
"Well it's better than talking to someone whose entire being is half-closed. Shouldn't Fred be interjecting at this point, saving you the trouble of entertaining an independent thought by speaking on your behalf?" Hermione said nastily.
George lowered the milk cartons in his arms, looking at Hermione thoughtfully.
"Hermione, one day I just might surprise you," he said, head cocked to one side as he regarded her carefully.
She felt herself going red, his easy amiability highlighting her harsh words. The truth was, he already had surprised her - on many accounts. She remembered back to this morning, feeling his surprisingly lean body pushed against her own, and felt an uncomfortable heat roll through her body. But a part of her couldn't hold back her sharp tongue, which seemed to spring so readily into action in his presence. There was something about him that put her on automatic defence, in a manner which none of the other Weasley family members could invoke. She felt… uncertain in his presence, as all intelligent conversation seemed to elude her.
George broke the mounting silence by reaching out and touching her arm, smiling gently. "Look, I'm going to take Malfoy's diary over to Tonks today. Will you cover for me and tell the others that I've gone into town-"
"-for a drink?" Hermione suggested sarcastically. "There's no way I'm trusting you to something like that by yourself. What's to stop you just telling me that you've handed it over to the Order of the Phoenix and keeping it for yourself?"
"Er, if I suggested Weasley code of honour would do you believe me?"
Hermione shook her head decisively, several loose curls swinging across her face. "Is that the code of honour I played witness to so often in school? No offence, but no thanks," she said, smiling as she lowered her head demurely.
"Aw, I'm not so bad – honest!" he joked, cuffing her awkwardly on the arm. Her flesh tingled where he had touched her with an uncomfortable prickling sensation that spread to her ribcage.
"So," Hermione said, suddenly turning serious again. "How are we going to get there?"
George felt himself withering under her keen gaze, as though all his layers were being peeled away. There was something about that enthusiastic sparkle, the same animation he had noticed when she was explaining something excitedly to an uncomprehending Ron, that was somehow infectious and enchanting. He supposed that was how she got Ron to follow where she led. And now he was succumbing to exactly the same ploy.
"Well – I – I guess I was going to Disapparate," George stuttered, raking a hand nervously through his tangled hair. Hermione fought the strange impulse to reach out and pat it down. She had been in Molly Weasley's house for too long. Her eyes remained fixed on a particularly unruly patch as he continued. "But obviously you haven't got a license yet. So I suppose we can travel by Floo Powder."
Hermione nodded. "That makes sense. If you tell Fred the plan, I'll think of a story to fob Ginny and Ron off with."
"Who said anything about Fred coming?" George frowned, quickly breaking eye contact and stalking back up to the house.
"Well, I just thought…"
"That I'm incapable of doing anything by myself?" he suggested bitterly. "Hermione, you're such an only child," he said, turning round to face her and looking her up and down measuredly.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"That you don't understand the importance of private possessions," he shouted over his shoulder as he re-entered the Weasley kitchen.
Hermione wanted to say more, but George had already sat himself down at the table and immediately been drawn into a heated debate between Fred and Mrs. Weasley about whether Pop Tarts constituted a healthy breakfast. She sat down opposite him and kicked him under the table, shooting him a meaningful look. He glanced at her quickly, mouthed 'later', and then jumped in to defend the nutritional worth of flavoured cardboard.
Hermione sighed, letting the conversation flow around her like a warm breeze as she stared contemplatively out of the window. What had George meant about private possessions – surely he can't have believed that strongly in the sanctity of such things if he had wantonly stolen another's diary? It was not his to covet. She realised that he was just like Harry; always running off and doing the opposite of what everyone else said, completely impossible to control or predict. Men.
A spirited mid-morning downpour meant that Hermione spent the rest of the morning in the Weasley kitchen drinking copious amounts of tea. When the clouds parted some time before midday Ginny popularly suggested walking into the village for lunch.
"Sorry, but I've got to go to Diagon Alley for some broom repair," George said authoritatively, shooting a quick side-ways glance at Hermione.
"Oh you can get some next time you go in," Ginny said, pouting and opening her eyes wide at George.
"No, I need to go while I remember."
"S'alright o senile one, I'll accompany you to make sure you don't get lost on the way and forget your name." Fred grinned, punching his twin playfully on the arm.
"No, no, it's alright. I don't mind going by myself."
"I'll go with George. I need to do some last minute Christmas shopping," Hermione said quickly, taking a step away from Ginny and Ron and toward George. He looked down at her and nodded slowly as she stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him, facing the potential opposition.
Fred looked quickly from one carefully composed face to the other. "Suit yourself, old boy. We'll see you later." With a wave he threw his old Gryffindor scarf around his neck and walked out of the back door, quickly followed by a skipping Ginny. Ron took one last baleful look at Hermione before following suit.
"Phew, that was relatively easy." Hermione smiled.
"Was it?" George turned to her angrily. "Couldn't you have made up an excuse for staying here, like not feeling well or something? Honestly, I thought you were supposed to be a clever Gryffindor."
Hermione frowned. "What's wrong with you?"
"Don't you think the others are going to be a bit suspicious about your sudden enthusiasm for my company?" he said, stalking angrily over to the coat stand by the back door.
"Er… no. You're Ron's brother," she said simply, staring at him wearily. She watched him struggle with his cloak, at first putting it on inside out and then getting his arm tangled in one of the slits. He patted down his hair irritably. Ah, so that was it. "Look, I'm sure being 'seen' with me isn't going to tarnish your precious reputation. It's not as if anyone would honestly think you'd entertain a lustful thought for a skinny know-it-all now, is it?"
His head shot up, and he looked at her quickly through narrowing eyes as he walked over to the fireplace where he stood with his arms folded impatiently, looking pointedly at the Floo Powder. Scowling, Hermione walked over and picked up a handful of the dry grains.
"Twelve Grimmauld Place!" she shouted, dropping the powder into the flames. Spinning around at an alarming speed she saw flashes of open grates pass before her until, nauseously dizzy, she was spat out into the kitchen at the other end. Steadying herself, she walked over to the nearest chair and flopped down, waiting for George to reappear. Sure enough, he span out a couple of minutes later, still scowling.
"Well?" he said irritably. "Have you called Tonks yet?"
Hermione had just opened her mouth to reply when she heard a stiff door handle being pulled and turned around to see the door leading to the hall fling open with considerable force. Framed against the dim light was a tall, forbidding man swathed in severe black robes. His jaw hardened as his cold eyes took in the two teenagers occupying the centre of the room.
"To what do we owe this pleasure?" Snape said coldly, sneering down his hooked nose.
"We're looking for Tonks," George said, taking a decisive step toward his ex-teacher.
"She is not in," Snape replied, looking from George to Hermione with growing disgust, as though examining two particularly gruesome specimens from Hagrid's pet collection.
There was a pause as Snape folded his arms confrontationally and George waited for him to continue. When he did not elaborate, he cleared his throat lightly. "Could you tell us where she is then, Severus?" he said, deliberately stressing his name.
Snape's eyes glittered dangerously, but unfortunately he could think of no rule that prohibited the use of forenames as a term of address. Yet his narrowed eyes left no doubt about his obvious disapproval and Hermione's sharp intake of breath served to emphasise George's daring.
"Nymphadora is engaged in work for the Order. As she is not expected back any time soon, I suggest you take yourselves, and your no doubt fascinating greetings, elsewhere."
George had just opened his mouth to reply when Hermione stood up and spoke uncertainly. "Please, Professor, perhaps you could help us?"
He looked at her disdainfully, as though wishing he were in the more regulated environment of his Potions classroom where he could deduct points from Gryffindor for any irritating interruptions.
"I dare say I can," he said tight-lipped.
Hermione stepped past George and walked toward Snape purposefully, causing him to take a hasty step backwards.
"It's just-"
"We don't know what to get Lupin for Christmas," George broke in, yanking Hermione to his side by the wrist. She looked up at him angrily and tried to discretely tug his hand away, but his grip was too strong and his fingernails dug warningly into her flesh.
Snape looked from one to another with mounting disgust, sneering unpleasantly. He made to leave the room, until, seeming to change his mind, he turned around to address them. "Perhaps we could all benefit if you brought him a leash," he said nastily, attempting a cruel smile before sweeping from the room and shutting the door oppressively behind him.
"Why didn't you let me tell him?" Hermione hissed as soon as he was gone.
"Oh I'm sure he'd just love that – a Weasley handing him a stolen Malfoy diary. He'd think Christmas had come early."
Hermione considered his words. "But what are we going to do about Tonks?"
"We wait," George said decisively. "She can't be gone that long, and since we've been invited to Christmas Eve drinks here we'll at least see her then."
"I suppose," Hermione said reluctantly, lowering her gaze to her feet. George's hand squeezed convulsively, suddenly making her aware that it was still wrapped around her wrist. Now, as she felt the heat seep through her skin and travel up her arm, flesh goosepimpling in reaction, she wondered how she could have failed to notice. She looked up to find two blue eyes looking intensely into her own. "I-erm…" She cleared her throat, trying to dissipate the growing tension, and looked at him pleadingly, willing him to use some of his famous Weasley patter to fill the awkward silence. She wasn't very good in such situations, horribly aware of her social ineptness; she relied on people like George to take the reins of conversation.
Yet he merely continued staring dumbly at her, unable to move, never mind speak. His mind had been telling him to release her wrist for the last few minutes, but his body kept finding excuses. He didn't even know why he wanted to hold on; why even the thought of letting go seemed like a painful wrench. He could feel the hairs on the back of her wrist prickling, her pulse hammering against his hyper-sensitive fingers. Was he… scaring her? He looked into her wide eyes, sensing fear, yes, but also something else; something that he had never seen there before, that he couldn't place. He tried to let go of her wrist, but his hand merely travelled up her arm, slowly stroking the tender flesh of her inner arm.
Hermione jolted upright. Was… was George coming on to her? The idea seemed laughable, yet, looking up into his softened, scared eyes, she detected an uncertainty that George Weasley the class clown had certainly never exhibited in the Gryffindor common room. And his fingers, roughened at the tips through countless experiments, were trailing delightfully up her arm with a maddeningly light touch. She had had to take the initiative with Viktor, yet this situation was riskier, less certain. It was up to George to steer the course.
Quite unsure what he was doing, but emboldened by the unmistakable signs of response in Hermione's flushed face, George slowly threaded his other arm behind her, resting his hand awkwardly on the small of her back. She stiffened, then arched her back under his touch, thrusting her body reflexively toward him in an alluring 's' shape. Suddenly, he pulled her clumsily toward him, breathing heavily as he lowered his lips onto her upturned face. She bristled as his lips pressed roughly onto her own and forced them apart, so that his tongue probed searchingly into her mouth. Placing her hands tentatively around his warm neck she returned his kiss gently, encouraging him to lessen the pressure on her lips. Learning quickly he slowed, easing as he began to enjoy the taste and feel of his first kiss. It was like falling into warm treacle, sinking into the embrace of female curves. So this was what Fred had been talking about!
'Not Bad,' Hermione thought to herself, 'Not bad at all.' Kissing Viktor had felt so mechanical – perfectly pleasurable, but not like this dizzy restlessness that rushed to her head like champagne bubbles. There was something about George's obvious tentativeness that was terribly endearing.
Noting his growing confidence, she decided to step it up a gear and pressed herself into him, deepening the kiss as she began grinding insistently against him. He returned her kiss hungrily, and, as though suddenly aware that he possessed a pair of hands, began running them up her sides. In response, she lowered her hands from around his neck and ran them over his chest, purring appreciatively into his mouth. She was just tracing them toward his navel when he pulled away suddenly, gasping as he gripped her around the upper arms.
"Sorry," he panted. "I'm sorry, Hermione," he repeated, eyes lowering in his flushed face.
10