A/N: If you still had this fic on alert from years ago, you're probably confused by the alert for this chapter. I recently decided to go back and edit some of my older fics, and this was one of them. I should be posting a chapter every other week as I work my way through it, and I'll be adding some new scenes/changing some plot points as well. If you decide to stick around and read the new version, I hope you like it as much as the old version. :)
Chapter 2: Reunion
Groaning, Hermione hurled Location Spells by Bianca Bogglehurst aside and rubbed her temples in slow circles. It may as well have been one of Lockhart's books for all the good it had done her. Another lunch hour wasted looking at the exact same spells she had already seen in every other book.
What good is it to only have spells that look for a person's magical trace? she thought. Bloody arrogant purebloods probably thought no one would ever have cause to search for a Muggle.
Two months had elapsed since her search for George began, and she had yet to find so much as a hint of his personal magical signature anywhere. Either he was dead (a notion she did not allow herself to entertain) or living like a Muggle and eschewing magic. During the weekends, she patrolled various Muggle London neighbourhoods, showing a photograph of George (which was charmed to be motionless) to everyone who would spare a few seconds to listen. Her second port of call was an Internet cafe, where she searched international address databases for any listings under his name.
Nothing. Not even a false lead.
She had even attempted one ill-fated spell on the Weasley family clock. George's hand was always pointed at home, work, or travelling, so she thought she might be able to use the clock to find the locations of his home and workplace.
The clock hadn't liked that at all. Hermione had a difficult time explaining the earthshaking noise to Mrs. Weasley.
Why didn't Fred tell me where to find George? she thought. Surely he would know — he knew plenty of things about Percy and me. Being so secretive and making me work it out for myself is positively Dumbledorian of him.
"Granger," a familiar drawl startled her out of her self-pity. "Who are you looking for?"
"None of your business."
"Well, you must want to find them pretty badly. You've been working on it nonstop for weeks. The bags under your eyes are getting bags of their own, and that rat's nest you call hair is even more unruly and frightening than normal. You look a bit like a reanimated corpse. And—"
"For the love of...just leave me alone, would you? Can't you see I don't want to talk to you? I never want to talk to you. For once in your life, do both of us a favour and shut up."
So much for their post-war fights consisting of harmless teasing. Balancing work and side projects was beginning to make Hermione revert to the bundle of stress she'd become during third year, minus the Time Turner.
Malfoy's playful sneer disappeared from his face, replaced by a cold, stony look of indifference. Retreating to his own cubicle, he lapsed into silence. Throughout the rest of the day, not a single word passed between them.
As relieved as Hermione was to get some peace, she couldn't help feeling a twinge of guilt.
The next morning, she found a stack of old, unfamiliar books on her desk. It wasn't until she saw the piece of folded parchment propped against them that she realised they hadn't been left there by mistake.
The heavy paper was held closed by a monogrammed wax seal. The elegant effect was rather ruined by the drawing that identified it as being addressed to Hermione: a bucktoothed stick figure with a wild mane of snakes for hair. Clever.
Granger,
These might help your little quest. Don't read too much into the gesture. Helping you from dying of exhaustion at your desk is purely selfish. People would suspect me of foul play if that happened, you know.
Try to keep the books in decent condition. They were Snape's.
DM
After Hermione read the note a second time, she pinched herself, half-convinced she was dreaming. His disclaimers aside, Malfoy had just done something that was undeniably nice.
Maybe she had gone insane. Hearing dead people on the wireless, a Malfoy who did favours for a Mudblood — lunacy was the most likely explanation.
All morning, her fingers itched to leaf through the books. Their mysterious, timeworn leather covers with faded gilt lettering were like a siren song. Lunch hour had never been so slow to arrive. When the clock finally struck noon, she had to make a conscious effort to hold back a squeal of delight.
Opening the topmost book, she smiled at the familiar, spiky handwriting in the margins. After seeing the state of Professor Snape's old Potions textbook, she should have known his books would all come with a hefty dose of his opinions. As she turned the pages, she got whiffs of a spicy fragrance — the scent of his old classroom. It almost felt like she would see the billowing of black robes and a disapproving sneer at any second.
Fifteen minutes into her break, she found it: a spell that relied on an item belonging to the person to be effective. There was no mention of magical signatures at all. Snape's running commentary informed her that the more recently the item had been touched, the more accurate the spell would be.
Hermione ran downstairs to the floos at a speed she had never before been able to attain in heels. Within minutes, she was in the flat over Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, searching through the dust and cobwebs for something that George might have touched just before he left.
Even though she'd never set foot inside the twins' flat, she would have instantly known whose home it was if someone had dropped her there. It was so...them. Brightly coloured, striped wallpaper that reminded her of a sweet shop covered the walls. Although the floor hadn't been cleaned in nearly a year (possibly longer), she could see several scorch marks through the grime — undoubtedly put there by the twins' experiments. Instead of a sofa and chairs, several large, comfy bean bags in different colours were scattered around the living room. In one corner, a jumble of cards were laid out for a game of Exploding Snap that had been cut off in the middle.
Photos from happier times hung in a collage of frames over the fireplace. Hermione spotted the members of the Order, the Weasley family in Egypt, the Gryffindor Quidditch team as it was during Fred and George's fifth year, and — to her surprise — a picture of her with the twins. Matching, unrepentant grins curved their lips while her mouth moved in a silent lecture and her prefect badge gleamed on her chest. Lee Jordan must have taken it at some point during one of her tirades about their behaviour.
"Prats," she said with an affectionate smile.
A lump formed in her throat as she moved to the hallway. A long mirror hung on the wall, its reflective surface hidden by a tattered sheet.
"Oh, George," she whispered.
George's bedroom was much like Ron's: an ode to Quidditch through the medium of home decor. He'd left his old Cleansweep behind, propped up in the corner. Imagining George keeping his feet on the ground for such a long stretch of time seemed absurd — almost impossible. He was a Weasley and a Quidditch player; he was built for flying. Hermione ignored the sickening, rolling sensation in her belly.
He was not dead. He promised he would come back.
As she rifled through his wardrobe, she struggled to keep her movements quiet. She had no idea how to explain her actions if anyone from the shop below came up to investigate. The clothes George had left behind were so small that he couldn't have squeezed into them past his third year. None of it would work for the spell. Frustrated, she let her gaze wander to his rumpled bedclothes.
Of course!
After grabbing one of his pillowcases, she flooed back to the Ministry and ran up to her cubicle. A mere ten minutes of her lunch break remained. Reading through the spell twice and practicing the wand movements ate up three of those minutes. Steeling herself, she spread the pillowcase on her desk.
"Reperio Erus."
A weak blue light spread upwards and formed into an image of Europe as seen from the air. Crossing her fingers, she held her breath as the wavering picture focused and began to zoom in — first on Western Europe, then on the UK, then on Southern England. Eventually, it settled on Northern London and its suburbs — a huge area to search, but easier than scouring the entire world.
Hermione touched the floating image, relief washing through her body. George wasalive.
"Found him, then?" Malfoy said, smirking when Hermione gave a startled jump.
She nodded. "The general area, at least. Listen, Malfoy—"
"If you do something stupid like apologise or thank me, I will hex you. Just return my bloody books and call me a ferret or some other terribly unoriginal name. Don't spoil this by turning it into a tender moment. My stomach can't take it."
"Very well, you utterly repellent excuse for a human being," she said with a poorly suppressed smile. "Here are your bloody books."
With a satisfied nod, Malfoy drew his wand and made sure Hermione saw him cast Scourgify on each volume.
"Now," he said, "explain to me why Percy Weasley came to work today with ears the size of dinner plates."
She grinned. "Not a chance."
-oOo-
Chewing her thumbnail, Hermione stared at a map of London.
If I was George, where would I go? she thought, passing a finger over the northern portion of the map and willing one of the places to call out to her. And then, much to her surprise, one did. It almost shouted.
Cockfosters Tube Station.
It didn't require much stretching of her imagination to picture George stepping onto a Piccadilly Line train, seeing the electric sign that said, "This train is for COCKFOSTERS," and giggling to himself. With her destination decided, she gathered up her Muggle money and George's photograph before setting out for the nearest Underground station.
The first half of the day was uneventful, passing by with slow, deflating disappointment. One of the people she approached thought George looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't be certain. Around noon, she ducked into a bookshop for a break, her hopes feeling just short of pulverised.
Wandering around the nonfiction section, she breathed in the comforting scent of paper and ink. She passed a few minutes debating whether she should buy a new book on automotive repair for Mr. Weasley, weighing his potential glee against his wife's potential ire. In the end, Mrs. Weasley's wrath won out.
Just past the car books, around a corner and a few feet down the neighbouring aisle, she saw the back of a redheaded man with a stocky Beater's build. She stopped, her heartbeat thudding in her ears. As he turned to place a book back on its shelf, revealing his face in profile, Hermione gasped.
Finally.
Without a care for her surroundings, she ran towards him at full speed. George dropped the books in his hands, his eyes widening as she flung herself at him and wrapped her arms around his chest in a fierce hug.
"George! Is it really you?"
"Last I checked." Placing his hands on her shoulders, he held her at arms length so he could look at her face. "What are you doing here?"
"Err, this is a bookshop. Do you really have to ask why I'm here?"
His soft gust of laughter ruffled the hair at her temples. "I suppose not."
Releasing him, she bent to help retrieve the books he'd dropped. "What are you doing here? I never thought I'd run into George Weasley in a bookshop, of all places."
"Shush. I have a reputation, y'know. Can't have something like that getting out." From the serious look on his face, she knew he was talking about more than the fact that she'd caught him looking at a "For Dummies" guide to mobile phones.
"Don't worry," she said. "Your secret is safe with me."
The tension eased out of his body with the release of a long sigh. "Good. I'd hate to be forced to tell everyone about that time I caught you practicing snogging techniques with Parvati Patil in the Gryffindor common room."
"That never happened!"
"Damn. And here I was hoping it was a prophetic dream." Inching closer, he raised an eyebrow. "So, what does bring you here? I don't believe for a second that you just happened by. Did you really miss me so much that you had to stalk me?"
She rolled her eyes. "No. I mean, yes, I missed you, but there has been no stalking. It's...a long story. I can't really tell you here, though. And you won't want to go to a place for our kind, of course. Hmm." She pretended to consider her options, but she'd planned her speech two months ago. "Oh, I know! I'll bring dinner over to your house tonight."
George frowned. "I don't know..."
"Oh, come on. I already said I won't tell anyone. I would invite you to my flat, but Harry and Ron tend to just walk in whenever they please. I'm a good cook, and I could really use the company. I've been so busy lately that it seems like the longest conversations I have are with Percy and Malfoy."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. I've been rather pre-occupied with work and various side projects. So, what do you say?"
Chuckling, he shook his head. "Well, how can I turn you down now?"
She dug through her handbag, carefully blocking the photo of him from his view, and handed him a scrap of paper and a pen. He muttered something under his breath as he used her back as a table to write his address.
"There you go," he said. "It's not far from here. Come over around 7, I suppose."
Grinning, she stood on her tiptoes to press an impulsive kiss to his cheek. "It really is good to see you."
"I shouldn't wonder. Percy and Malfoy? Pitiful. Just pitiful."