Chapter 3: Secret Lover
"Ow!" Harry said as Hermione smacked his wrist with a wooden spoon.
"That's what you get for trying to steal food," she said. "It's not ready yet. Hey! Ron!" While her back was turned, Ron had taken the opportunity to grab two still sizzling pieces of fried chicken that were draining on a piece of kitchen roll. With an unrepentant grin, he handed one of the drumsticks to Harry
"We're growing boys, y'know," Ron said.
"I need a more threatening weapon," she said with an annoyed glance at her spoon. "Maybe a rolling pin. One of those lovely marble ones. You two would think twice about crossing me if I was waving one of those things around."
The amused looks on their faces said otherwise. The confident little kleptos knew she would never purposely cause them genuine pain.
Shooting the boys a warning glare over her shoulder, she picked her way around the cluttered kitchen of Grimmauld Place to get some potatoes out of the pantry. In his spare time, Harry had been remodelling the whole house the Muggle way. For the past month he'd been attacking the kitchen with sandpaper, paint, tiles, grout, and varnish.
Every Saturday since the war, the three of them got together to eat dinner and catch up. They took turns cooking, but ever since Harry started working on the kitchen, the boys' contributions had generally tasted of sawdust. Even though it was Ron's turn that evening, Hermione chose to play chef. She didn't want George throwing her out for attempting to poison him when she took him a plate.
"I'm not going to be able to stick around for dinner tonight," she said. "I ran into a Muggle bloke I knew in primary school, and he invited me over to catch up." Smiling at Ron's instant frown, she patted his shoulder. "Don't worry, I'm leaving you plenty of food."
The boys continued to trail after her as I cooked, pilfering bites of food and laughing at her affectionate scolding. Ron's eyes lit up when she eventually presented him with a heaping plateful of fried chicken, sweetcorn, and mashed potatoes with thick lashings of gravy.
He was so easy to please.
After charming two Tupperware containers full of food to stay warm, she tucked them into a bag along with her scrapbook and a special pudding for George. She let her hands rest on the rough canvas of the bag, taking a few deep breaths to calm her sudden nerves.
It was time to face the music. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on an alley a few streets over from the address George had written down. Her insides seemed to compress, her bones elongating as the squeezing sensation of Apparition overcame her.
She could only hope she wouldn't disappoint Fred.
-oOo-
Hermione's first impression of George's tiny flat was that it didn't suit him. At all.
The walls were stark white, without so much as a single framed photo or piece of art to liven them up. The furniture was of the flat-pack, mass-manufactured Swedish variety, all of it in drab, solid colours without even a hint of an interesting pattern. The carpet was beige — hell, the whole flat was unbearably beige.
He had put none of himself into this place. As she looked around and examined his home, she found that even though George was standing right next to her, she still missed him. The person who lived there didn't seem much like the George she knew.
"I hope you're hungry," she said as she set her bag on the table and began to unpack the food without waiting for an invitation. "Ron and Harry ate the majority of what I cooked, but I managed to save quite a lot for the two of us."
"It looks good," he said, walking past her to fetch plates, glasses, and cutlery. With a curious tilt of his head, he watched as she piled food onto one of the plates and slid it in front of him.
"Make sure you save room for pudding," she said as an afterthought.
Nodding, he took a bite of mashed potato. "You said you had a long story to tell me."
Bracing herself, she launched into her rehearsed explanation of how Fred had contacted her via the Wireless. She'd decided against telling George of the request to make him laugh again, but she thought he would probably want to know about the rest. A sharp pang reverberated through her chest when his face fell as she told him of her failed attempts to contact Fred a second time.
"I don't know what the next step is," she said. "I'm not even completely convinced that I'm not going crazy. But now that I've found you, I'd like to visit you again. If that's okay with you, of course."
George pushed a piece of chicken around his plate with his fork before responding. "I think that would be okay. Are you sure that you want to put up with me on a regular basis?"
"Yes," she said, too enthusiastically. "I've been searching for you for two months. I deserve to pester you for awhile."
"As I thought." The ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. "Pining."
Laughing, she swatted his arm. When they turned their attention back to their meals, the silence was more companionable than awkward.
"George?"
"Hmm?"
"Why did you leave? Did you really just want to be alone?"
His posture went rigid. Remorse washed through her: instant and consuming. Snape had been right; she was full of entirely too many questions.
"Thought I'd give everyone a break from seeing my face." Raking a hand through his ginger hair, he sighed. "If I couldn't stand to see it, I reckoned they couldn't, either. Which is a damn shame, really, since I'm so incredibly handsome."
Thinking back, she could see what he meant. Just after the war, catching a glimpse of George from the side with the remaining ear before had made her heart leap up into her throat more than once.
Perhaps that was why Fred made her find George on her own. Searching for George had occupied her thoughts and gave her a constructive outlet for her grief. Now, she could look at him from either side and just see George.
"Well, I'm glad to see your face again," she said, "even if you are a prat who makes all manner of false accusations about things like pining after you and snogging my former dorm mate."
"Ah, but I still maintain that dream was prophetic," he said with a waggle of his eyebrows. "I'm sure Professor Trelawney would agree."
"Yeah, and she's always so accurate." Opening her bag, she pulled out George's dessert. "Jam tart?"
She couldn't watch as he nibbled at the Jack Russell Tart. Her face would've given her away in an instant. Only when she heard the tiny pop and high-pitched bark that signalled his transformation did she dare to glance up from her staring contest with the table. Grinning, she scratched him behind the ears. Just in time, too, because with his larger build, the effects of the potion didn't last long. As he shifted back into his natural form, he blinked at her in silent amazement.
"Did Hermione Granger just play a prank on me?" he asked after a few moments. The question seemed to be directed to the room, more than her.
"I did. Aside from work and looking for you, that's what has been keeping me busy. Percy and I have been developing new items for the shop."
George's eyes grew wide. "You're joking."
"I'm very serious. We wanted to help out."
"So that's why you've been talking to him so much. I meant to ask about that. I know you both like rules, so I had this horrible thought that perhaps you were going out." Laughing, he tilted his chair back on two legs. It came slamming back down a moment later, accompanied by a choked gasp. "Wait! You said you talk to Malfoy a lot, too. You're not—" His face twisted into a grimace, as if the mere idea of voicing the words was distasteful to him.
"No! We work together at the Ministry. His cubicle is next to mine. The only relationship we have is one of mutual annoyance."
George snorted. "The Ministry gave Malfoy a job? I guess they haven't improved much since my departure from the Wizarding World."
"They ordered him to take the job, actually." Leaning forward, Hermione helped herself to a second glass of the wine that had been George's contribution to the meal. "It's his punishment. He and I are part of a temporary office that provides aid for people who were displaced by Voldemort. We do stuff like find homes for orphans, try to rehabilitate the house-elves of Death Eater families — things like that."
"And I'm guessing you work with the elves?" George's tiny smile reappeared — presumably at the prospect of teasing her about S.P.E.W.
"No, that's...well, that's Malfoy's job. The elves, um. You see, there were a few incidents when I tried to talk to them. The poor things have been so abused. They just couldn't accept that they have a right to freedom."
His smile broadened until it was almost one of his old grins. "They threw a fit when you tried to trick them into taking clothes, didn't they?"
A laugh bubbled up her throat, helped along by the giddy sensation provided by the wine. "Maybe."
Chuckling, he patted her shoulder in mock consolation. "So, what other products have you made for the shop? I can't believe Percy is helping you."
"You'd be surprised. He even cracks a joke from time to time. Not often, mind you. He dominates most of our conversations by babbling about regulations and how I should go about moving up in the Ministry, but every now and then he does try to make me laugh. Usually at Ron's expense." After fishing the scrapbook out of her bag, she dragged her chair across the squeaky linoleum until they were sitting side by side. "And these are the products we've been making for the shop. I took some pictures for you."
The first photograph brought a smile to George's face: a very angry, pink-haired Percy.
"We just recently perfected that one. There were a few, err, mishaps during development. Poor Percy walked around like that for a week before it wore off. He even went on a date."
At the mention of Percy's date, George threw his head back and shook with laughter. "How long is it supposed to last?"
"An hour. Which it does, now."
He wrinkled his nose. "An hour of pink hair? That's it?"
"The colour depends on the situation. They're little sweets that look and taste like parma violets. We call them Paramour Violets. When you eat one, it makes your hair change colour to reflect the feelings you have for any person you see. The more intense the colour, the stronger the feelings."
"Oh?" He smirked. "And who was old Perce looking at when his hair turned this rather bright shade of pink?"
"Well, it was me—" she swatted his arm, faking a scowl at his waggling eyebrows, "—but pink means platonic affection. Once we got it working properly, it turned the same colour when he looked at Ron."
"Aww, Percy loves Ronnie," he said with another soft laugh. "What are the other colours?"
"Purple for romantic affection, white for indifference, and black for hatred. To test the last colour, we had to give one to Ron and take him into my office. Malfoy was a bit confused, to say the least."
Smiling to herself at the memory, she turned the page to reveal a photo of Ron with his ears growing progressively larger as Lavender's mouth moved faster than a Golden Snitch.
"We don't have a name for this one, just yet. There are still a few kinks to work out. It's a potion that makes your ears grow bigger when you aren't listening. We sneaked some of it into Ron's pumpkin juice and told Lavender to talk to him about fashion. She's your latest employee, by the way."
The next page showed Draco eating a saxophone shaped chocolate. It was, by far, Hermione's favourite of the moments she'd captured in the scrapbook. As she and George looked on, Draco's features slowly softened and became more feminine. His chest ballooned up, forming into a pair of breasts large enough to rival Madam Rosemerta's. He poked them experimentally a few times, watching them jiggle. And then, much to Hermione's amusement, he got the idea to look down his trousers. The expression of pure, unadulterated fear that spread across his face at what he found (or, to be more accurate, what he didn't find) made her feel as though she could cast a wandless Patronus.
"Sax Change Chocolates," she said in between gasps of laughter. "They change your gender for an hour."
"Bloody hell, why didn't you give me one of those instead of the dog thing? I could do with a more ample bosom." Patting his flat chest, he shot her a wink. "I might even be persuaded to let you practice snogging a girl with me instead of Parvati."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "How generous of you."
"As long as I get pictures of the event, I'm not fussy."
After polishing off the wine, they moved to the living room, where she perused his bookshelf with a smile that was equal parts fondness and amusement. Almost all of his books were instructional volumes from the "For Dummies" series.
"I had to figure out how to behave like a proper Muggle, somehow," he said. "What I remembered from Muggle Studies was pretty useless in the real world. Though, really, I think I should get my final grade changed to an O for remembering anything at all."
"I can imagine. What have you been doing with yourself, when you aren't reading Muggle instructional manuals?"
"Working as a groundskeeper at a nearby university. Thanks to the gaps in my knowledge of Muggle devices, I had to do some quick talking when I first got the job. Apparently, not knowing what a lawn mower is or how to operate one will make people slightly suspicious when you claim to have a Muggle degree in horticulture."
"Funny, that."
"I know. People are so strange."
Turning to face him, Hermione leant against the bookcase. "I wonder how many of your co-workers thought you were completely insane."
He shrugged. "No more than would have otherwise. They just got there faster. Hey, do you have one of these mobile thingummies?" Digging in his pocket, he produced a small, silver mobile phone. "I just got mine the other day. Yet another thing Muggle Studies didn't teach me. Apparently you're a freak if you don't have one. It's like a wand to Muggles, I guess. I was thinking we could use them to arrange when you want to come pester me."
"I do have on, actually. My parents prefer to communicate via phone. They got tired of trying to explain why owls kept showing up at their dental practice. It won't work when I'm at the Ministry or in Diagon Alley, but you'll be able to get in contact with me when I'm in my flat. What's your number?"
George snatched her phone out of her hand the second she produced it from her handbag. "Give me that. I'll put it in myself. I'm getting good at using these."
Biting back a giggle, she watched him stick his tongue out of the corner of his mouth. Pressing buttons on her phone seemed to require his utmost concentration. After he finished putting her number into his own contact list as well, he turned to her with a triumphant grin.
"Very impressive," she said. Glancing at the time, she added, "Ugh. I should probably head home."
"Do you want to come over tomorrow? You can sample my fabulous Muggle cooking skills."
"Hmm. Should I be afraid?"
"For your life? No. I doubt my cooking will actually kill you. For your taste buds? Maybe. You'll have to risk it and see."
Hermione laughed. "Well, it wasn't for nothing that I was sorted into Gryffindor. I'd love to."
When she hugged him tightly and kissed him on the cheek just before preparing to disapparate, he hugged her back. There were no timid, unsure pats on the back like before; it was a genuine embrace. It left her with a warm, victorious feeling that followed her all the way to her own flat.
Later that night, she realised there was no listing for George Weasley in her phone. Frowning, she scrolled through her contact list, half-worried that he'd lied to her in preparation to disappear again. But then, near the end, she found an entry that could only have been put there by George.
Secret Lover. He put himself into her phone under the name Secret Lover.
She didn't correct it. George playing any sort of prank was reason to celebrate. Mild as this joke was, it filled her with cautious hope that she would succeed.