AN: Thank you all for the lovely reviews! They really encourage me to keep on writing. I hope everyone had a great New Year. :)

Man, the more I write this the more I realize I am terrible at writing romantic moments. If anyone has any suggestions I will gladly take them into consideration-I'm starting to feel completely lost with this story.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

As the summer passes by, I begin to panic a little bit.

Okay, a lot.

It's just…I thought I had more time. I was supposed to have at least two more years at uni, and now suddenly I'm a professor. I still feel so young. I mean, yes, I was sort of forced to grow up early, what with the return of the Dark Lord and all, but I still don't feel prepared. At all.

You, know they say your first five years as a teacher are spent just trying to stay afloat.

I need to be at Hogwarts by August 15, two weeks before the beginning of term. I spend the last weeks of July in a panic, declining all social invitations, putting all projects, and basically hardly leaving Ginny's room for two weeks straight. I don't even go to Hogwarts—Vector has officially retired and gone to her family home in Romania.

Ginny's room is in a state of disarray, which also testifies to my stressed state. Normally I'm a very neat, tidy person, but there are papers and folders and all manner of things strewn about the room. I know where everything is, of course, but I very nearly yelled at Molly for the first time in my entire life when she came in one day while I was eating breakfast and attempted to "straighten things up".

The only time I emerge from my cave is for Sunday dinners. I haven't been to Fred and Angie's for weeks, and every Sunday there's always the concerned expressions and questions if I'm alright.

I know I'm pushing myself too hard. I know I look pale and sickly and skinny. But if I can just get this done, everything will be fine.

Until I start teaching, that is.

The third week of July marks two weeks since I lost my sanity. I stagger downstairs just before Molly serves dinner, knock down a couple aspirin without a word to anyone, and promptly fall asleep in Arthur's big, cushy armchair. To say this is a phenomenal feat is no exaggeration—I am surrounded by no less than thirteen Weasleys, Percy and his wife Penny having joined us tonight.

I have a glorious dream where I'm back at Hogwarts studying for my OWLs—how wrong I was in thinking those days were stressful! It's the most relaxed I've felt in a long time. I'm nice and warm and cozy. In fact, even in my dream-like state I come to the decision that I'll just live in this lovely armchair for the rest of my life.

So it's understandable, I think, that I am extremely put out when someone starts shaking my shoulder in an attempt to wake me.

"Go away," I mutter in the harshest tone I can muster, which is really more of a moan, and the words aren't exactly intelligible.

"Hermione," a low voice says softly. The voice chuckles. "Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey."

At the sound of that horrifying statement my mother used to wake me up with every morning in the summers—I really think she did it just to annoy me into the land of the living—I have to at least open my eyes to see who it is.

George Weasley is crouching in front of my very comfortable throne, giving me a gentler form of the IG.

It's more powerful than usual, I think due to the gentleness. My heart nearly stops beating within my chest.

For several moments I remain perfectly still and entirely incoherent, not daring move an inch lest some tragedy befall us all because I can't control myself when such power is wielded by such a person. From this very armchair I could, theoretically, bring the whole house down around us. I don't move until finally George's smile dims a bit and my powers of locomotion and speech are restored.

"Whd'yawan?" I mumble sleepily.

Well, they are being restored, I suppose I should say. After experiencing the most powerful IG to date, I think it's reasonable that it takes a bit longer than normal for me to return to my typical, logical self.

At my words, which obviously show to the full extent the intelligence with which I acquired a master's degree, George grins again, though not as widely. "You awake then? I really can't tell—you and I've been chatting on and off for the last ten minutes."

My eyes widen. I have absolutely no memory of the ten minutes he speaks of—what could possibly have passed from my lips during that time?

Upon seeing my look of horror George chuckles. "Don't worry, we just talked about Every Flavor Beans for a little while. Apparently you could live on lemon-flavored ones ' 'til the day I just die, Georgie', but the olive-flavored ones are 'simply abomnable'."

I can't help but blush and snicker all at once. "Well, apparently I'm very passionate about Every Flavor Beans when I'm asleep," I quip as I pull myself into an upright position and settle my feet firmly in front of the chair. George remains crouching in front of me and takes the liberty of resting his elbows on my knees.

Okay, fine—I would have thrown the liberty at him if he'd asked.

"You feelin' better?" he inquires, his expression suddenly becoming concerned. "Apparently you needed a nap. You're working yourself too hard, Hermione, even harder than when we were at Hogwarts as kids."

"I know," I nod. "I'm nearly finished—I just needed these past couple weeks to wrap everything up. I should have it all done by Wednesday."

"Good," he says with a small smile. "Then you can come to dinner on Thursday." He gestures to the small table next to me, upon which sits a plate loaded with shepherd's pie and two bread rolls. "Thought you might like some food, so's you don't waste away on us."

"Hermione!" Fred suddenly exclaims as he and Angie walk over hand-in-hand. "You've finally decided to grace us with your presence!" He waggles his eyebrows at me. "I do hope you and Georgie engaged in some intimate pillow talk in his attempts to wake you."

I blush and drop my eyes to where George's elbows are still resting on my knees.

"Pillow talk?" George asks. "What's that?"

I glance up to see Angie elbow Fred rather violently in the gut, but it doesn't seem to faze him. "Pillow talk, my dear brother," he continues in a rather pained tone, "refers to 'the conversation exchanged between two sexual partners for the purpose of bonding', typically taking place in a bed, or really wherever…events of a sexual nature occur, I believe you defined it, my love." He looks at Angie pointedly before turning back to me and shrugging. "We watched a Muggle movie by the name. It was…enlightening."

George has been silent throughout Fred's entire explanation, and I hesitantly meet his eyes to see his reaction. He just winks at me and rises to his feet to look Fred in the eye, saying, "Well, Freddie, I was attempting to flirt with the fair Hermione over the choice topic of Every Flavor Beans, but your sudden presence has put a bit of a damper on things."

My sudden intake of breath catches on the touch of honesty in his voice.

Fred actually looks rather apologetic at his brother's words, but he continues, "Georgie, that's no topic over which to woo a lady." He tugs Angie closer with an arm about her shoulders and says loftily, "Quidditch is a far more romantic choice." Angie rolls her eyes.

I gape blankly at the three of them, still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that George is talking, rather seriously, about flirting with me.

Both brothers seem to come to their senses just then and look back at me. I can see a blush working its way over George's neck. Fred just smirks.

Finally, after several moments of awkward silence and staring, Angie comes to my rescue. "You coming to dinner tomorrow night, Hermione?"

I sincerely hope the depth of my gratitude toward her is shown through my gaze. "Yeah, around 7?"

She nods. "I was hoping you would help me wax my legs."

I blink stupidly. This is by far one of the strangest nights of my life, and after a lifetime of Harry Potter that's saying a lot. Every Flavor Beans, George flirting with me, shaving Angie's legs…

"Umm…"

She laughs and puts her hands around her belly. "I can't reach now that I've got this basketball in front of me. And this guy," she nudges Fred, "managed to practically slit my ankle open with a razor last time I asked for his help. I have more than enough wax, so you can do yours too if you want."

I smile, nodding as Fred protests that it certainly wasn't his intention to nearly bring his pregnant wife to an early end. "Sure! So do you want me to come early, or we can do it after?"

"Let's do it after dinner. Fred and I are going to spend the day finishing up the nursery." She finally puts an arm around her husband, who's been holding her close to him this whole, awkward time. "You ready to go then?"

"Sure thing, love," he says amiably. "And Hermione," he continues, turning back to me (I knew that amicability was too good to be true), "if you need any help at all with waxing your own legs after you've done your work on my dear wife," he winks and nudges George, "I'm sure George here would be more than happy to assist you."

"Fred!" Angie exclaims, elbowing him again in the gut as she fights back a laugh.

Mortified, I look up to see George blushing again and glaring pointedly at his brother, who is just as pointedly ignoring him. "Come along, Angie!" Fred says, leading his wife away abruptly. "It's long past the young one's bedtime."

"Sorry about that," George says with a small smile. "Fred thrives on innuendo."

I grin. "And you?"

"Sarcasm."

I chuckle and come to stand in front of him. "Well, thanks for the food. I'll see you tomorrow night."

"See you then," he says with a wink. "Don't work yourself too hard."

"I won't," I promise with a small smile. "Thanks for…" I blush, "taking care of me."

"Always," he says softly, taking my hand and squeezing it gently. The honesty in his tone, as well as the intimate physical touch, is enough to render me mute as he walks away.

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I may be a bit hit and miss for the next week or two as I'll be one vacation. Poor Hermione-I'm writing with a certain empathy to the stress of a teacher, as that's my major. I still have two years myself, but I'm already starting to freak out a bit about how little time I have left.