"Is George there?" Hermione asked, head in the fire grate. Looking up at Ginny, she watched as the girl balanced one of the smallest babies in the crook of her arm – she couldn't seem to remember if it was Louis or Molly or any of the other children's names she had heard in the last few weeks - while directing the plates around to set the table.
"Yeah, I think so," the redhead answered. "Aren't you coming over for supper though?"
"Yeah in a minute, I just need – can you ask George to come through? I need his help," Hermione asked, cheeks going pink at the tiny smile on Ginny's lips. She whipped her head out of the fireplace and waited impatiently for George to floo through to her apartment.
Hermione had made a point to start speaking with George more, to not be so awkward around him at family gatherings and dinners. The natural inclination to shy away from him or talk less around him had gotten to a point of irritation for her, and so she was striving to conquer it altogether.
A moment later, the fire glowed an otherworldly green before George stepped through into her living room. His shoes were made of shiny brown leather, and his gray suit slacks fell and broke at exactly the right place. His black tie was long and skinny and dark against the crisp white shirt tucked into his belt, making his slender height all the more evident. The white fabric stretched over his shoulders smoothly as he turned in the wrong direction to spot her and Hermione thought she saw a flash of colour on the back of his neck.
"Hermio – oh, hi," he turned again, spotting her by the front window.
"Hi," she remarked, schooling her face into a blank mask.
"Hi," he repeated, running a hand through his ginger hair. "Ginny said you needed me?"
"Yes, do you -" Hermione started, clearing her throat. "Do you know if I kept a journal or a – I mean where did I keep important things? Like my passport or…"
"Passport?" George asked, brows furrowed.
"Important muggle paperwork," Hermione commented dismissively. "For travelling."
"Oh, is that the little red book with the gold on the front?"
"Yes," she looked up at him again. "Have you seen it? Have you seen me put it away before?"
"Yeah it's in the bedroom closet," he remarked. "Are you going somewhere?"
Hermione shook her head.
"No, I'm just trying to figure out where things are and maybe – I don't know – I've just been searching through things and trying to figure this out," she answered. "Can you show me the closet…?"
George turned and lead the way back to the bedroom and Hermione cringed at the state of the room. She had been digging around under the bed and had pulled everything out to go through; the bed was piled with things like a duffle bag, some old ice skates, a stack of books and a random empty bowl with a spoon.
"Ah, did you find that under the bed?" he pointed to the bowl as he crossed the room.
"Yeah," Hermione nodded.
"Sorry, that's – that was me," George reached for the closet doorknob. "I like to eat cereal in bed and you hated that I left the bowl on the floor and forgot about it all the time."
George reached up to the topmost shelf in the closet after turning on the light and pulled an old shoebox down without having to stand on his toes and strain. He turned and placed it in her waiting hands, giving her a small smile.
"Hermione," he started as she turned away to set the dusty box on the bedspread, the image if his skin under the white shirt burned into the back of her eyelids. "Why didn't you just accio it?"
Hermione's face flushed hot instantly, the beats of silence stretching out between them.
"Hermione?" George prompted quietly.
"I, uhm," she started, "I haven't used my wand since… everything."
"Oh."
Hermione kept her eyes lowered, her lashes blurring her view of the pale floorboards.
"The – Ron – told me the Healers said that's totally normal, for witches and wizards to stop using magic; it's a biological thing – for healing." George had stopped a few steps away from her and he didn't come any closer.
"I know. I know it's an instinct. I know," she repeated.
"It's not really, ah, unusual for you to go wandless anyway," he commented with a single huff of laughter and a wide grin. "You enforced these 'magic detoxes' – you were absolutely mad sometimes."
Hermione inhaled.
His voice sounded so familiar. Not in the sense that she knew she had known him for over a decade. It was a smooth resonation in her chest, the kind she associated with men and how they spoke to someone with whom they were intimate. It was in the way he stood around her that made her feel like he was comfortable being at any distance from her. How he could take one more half-step in order to enter her personal bubble and not blink at it. How he must have done that hundreds of times with the other her.
"Have you uncovered anything interesting about the time you can't remember yet?" George asked, looking away and shifting on his heels.
"So far, just that Ginny had no idea she was helping me shop for lingerie for you one time -"
George huffed out a large laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling but his smile not quite reaching his eyes.
"Right, yeah, that was right before she spilled the beans and we had to come clean, I remember," he said.
"Right," Hermione sighed.
"Er, right," he repeated, bending his elbows awkwardly and pointing his thumbs over his shoulder to the bedroom doorway. "Shall we – do you want to go? It's nearly supper."
Dinner went successfully and smoothly, Hermione again remaining largely quiet and passive in order to enjoy the details which had not changed in the last four years.
The August sun was hot and stifling, making her apartment feel intensely claustrophobic and humid. She propped all the windows open and prayed for a breeze while she stood under cool water in the shower, the stream of which was pulling the curls from her hair until it was slicked long and heavy down her back. The tackiness of the day clung to her skin stubbornly and she used a loofa to slough it away.
The apartment felt empty most of the time. Empty of personality - or perhaps full of personality that had been erased, the home the other Hermione had built waiting with a pregnant pause for its owner to return.
Perhaps that was too dramatic.
She had better keep the hyperbole in check.
When she emerged, long damp hair already kinking with curls, she sat down on the green sofa and chewed on her inner lip.
The mass of glittering and frosty glass phials waiting for her attention had been weighing more and more on her mind. So far she had looked at a few that had been largely inconsequential. Lavender had sent her what appeared to be the girl's favourite conversation she had had with Hermione, while allowing the girl to pluck her eyebrows at Hogwarts. Hermione, of course, remembered this from her own point of view as well, but it was a nice reminder of a moment shared.
She had stayed away from anything sent by anyone with the last name Weasley, of course.
Ron had left her one and as she stared at it, she wondered what he thought most important to show her.
"Well, it's been a few years now…" Ron's voice trailed off and the memory Hermione looked up at him.
Hermione could tell from the way this Hermione's hair was wilder in its braid, the way this Hermione's skin was more tan and the way her freckles stood out under the summer sun, that this Hermione was the Other Hermione, or just about.
"I know that," she paused, "I know that. I just don't think that's a good enough reason."
"I love you," Ron responded. "I thought that was reason enough."
"I love you, too," memory Hermione nodded gently, letting the silence fall again as she turned and looked out over the apple orchard.
The rows and rows of trees were laden with the fruit, the fresh scent sweet on the breeze when one deigned to pass through. The late summer sun was hot and the ground baked hard, tufts of grass brittle and dry.
"…But you're not in love with me, are you?" Ron questioned in a way that sounded far more like a statement than an inquiry.
"Something is different for sure," she nodded. "It's been a long time coming, I think."
"You," Ron stated. "You're different."
"That's a fair assessment," was all memory Hermione said. "We all change."
Hermione's eyes were shimmering, the memory shaking in front of her eyes as she watched the beginning of the end - or rather, the end of the end, for her and Ron. Her gut was tight and heavy, tensed and leaden.
"Race me," her own voice demanded suddenly.
"What?" Ron asked, confused.
"Race me up the hill; I want to see the sun set over the river!"
The other Hermione jumped down from the porch bannister, face wide with a smile as she bounded down the back steps.
"What?!" Ron called after her, but she was already racing, racing, pounding over the grass and into the field beyond the yard.
"I'm winning!" she shouted back. "I thought you said your 'athletic abilities' were improving?"
"What'd you use quotes for?" Ron's voice followed after her, as well as his bounding steps and Hermione knew he was racing up behind her, gaining on her with his long legs.
But she didn't look.
She was captivated.
By herself.
But this was not her –
This couldn't be her.
This girl was strong and powerful, her legs pumping fast and hard to propel her at breakneck speed towards the crest of the hill. This girl's ribs expanding and contracted smoothly, this girl's forehead grew damp with sweat, this girl's knees and elbows didn't fly out at odd and awkward angles. She took the incline head on, arms pumping and sneakers kicking up dry dust as she raced up the hill.
When Ron finally caught up to Hermione, she was standing at the peak of the hill proudly, chest heaving, looking quite pleased with herself as she gazed down at the valley below. The sun was sinking and sliding down to the horizon, the sky vibrant with colour.
"I just want more," she panted. "There's nothing wrong with getting married and having a gaggle of kids and living in the countryside, Ron, I just don't want that. And I know you do."
"Hermione…"
"I won't be happy. And I'll make you miserable, you know I will. I want you to have what you want – it just isn't going to be with me."
The breath felt like it was being crushed out of her lungs, the weight of an anvil settling over her sternum.
"So that's it then?" Ron asked her, their silhouettes dark against the background. His voice wasn't strained; he didn't sound like he was about to cry or get upset.
"Yeah," Hermione sighed with relief.
A/N: HI.
More stuff, right?
We're gonna keep finding stuff out about The Lost Years, don't worry.
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