Chapter 6: Muggle Studies

"They're blue."

"Yes, they are. Well spotted."

"Why are they blue?"

Hermione snuggled deeper into the thick, puffy duvet that she'd stolen from George's bedroom. Rain trickled down the windows, chilling the air of his draughty little flat. The misty, drizzly weather that kept them huddled indoors only served to heighten the sense of nostalgia woven into the act of watching old cartoons. But for George's questions, she would've felt five years old again.

"Because that's just how it is," she said. "Smurfs are blue. Scooby Doo villains wear a mask. Jem is truly outrageous. It's the natural order of things."

Wriggling closer, he snatched a corner of the duvet for himself. "All right," he said, rubbing his chin. "That's fair enough. But is that blonde one the only girl of the lot?"

"Yeah, if memory serves. At least at this point in the series."

He snorted. "And my co-workers gave me strange looks when I asked them who the Smurfs were. One woman for a whole village of men? Who knew Muggles were so kinky?"

"It's not kinky, you pervert. It's Smurfy. And hush up. You have a lot more cartoons to watch if you want to blend in with the Muggles. Not to mention books to read."

"Aha! I knew you'd break out the books eventually."

"You asked me to help. Just be glad I'm not making you write essays. Yet."

Chuckling, he kicked off his shoes and propped his feet on the edge of the coffee table. Hermione let out a startled laugh when the duvet fell away to reveal his mismatched socks: one black, one baby pink.

"Why do you have one pink sock?" she asked.

"Oh, that." George shrugged. "Laundry mishap. My neighbour had the audacity to move away."

Hermione blinked. "What on earth does your neighbour have to do with anything?"

"She did my laundry for me."

"Why? Did you pay her?"

"Well, no. Not with money, at least." He waggled his eyebrows. "But she fancied the hell out of me, so..."

Her jaw dropped open. "George Weasley! Tell me you did not trade sexual favours for a laundry service."

"I didn't!" Clutching his sides, he laughed until tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. "Oh, you should've seen your face. Priceless. I wish I had a camera. The last time you looked at me like that... oh, Merlin. I thought you were going to threaten to tell my mum on me again." Once he caught his breath, he nudged her ribs with his elbow. "No, Hermione. Rest assured, I didn't sell my body in exchange for clean clothes. There may have been... implications, though. Just a bit of flirting, with the suggestion that maybe someday..."

She groaned. "You're awful."

"Hey, I wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to get out of housework. She liked the attention, so we both won. It was all perfectly harmless. Until she left, anyway. The bloody washing machine hates me."

"Did you read the instructions on the detergent?"

"Err, will you believe me if I say yes?"

"Not a chance. I've known you too long."

"Damn. I feared as much."

Springing to her feet, she tugged on his hand. "Come on. We'll still be able to see the TV from the kitchen. You can have two Muggle lessons in one: childhood cartoons with a side of laundry."

He grumbled. "Should've known you'd try to get me to do extra credit."

Hermione sat on the counter next to the washing machine, tapping her fingernails against the cabinets beneath her swinging legs. When George reentered the room, she couldn't see his face behind the enormous heap of dirty clothes in his arms. Without ceremony, he dumped them onto the linoleum floor.

"Right," she said. "You'll want to start by sorting them by colour. I'm guessing you skipped that step before. One pile for brights, one for darks, and one for whites."

He wrinkled his nose. "Mum never did that."

"Your mum uses magical washing powder. She doesn't have to worry about one red shirt turning the whole wash pink. Go on—" She clapped her hands, "—get to work. I'll supervise."

"Oh, yeah?" Kicking the laundry aside, he brushed his fingers over her knees and placed his lips next to her ear. "You sure I can't convince you to help?"

His deep voice and warm skin made something in the pit of her belly clench pleasantly, but she did her best to scoff and make her voice sound derisory. "Is this what you did to convince your neighbour?"

"Nah. I never had to touch her. Lots of smiling and innuendo did the trick."

Pressing her lips together to hold in a grin, she gave his shoulders a light shove. George didn't budge. He trailed his hands up to her hips, tickling the stripe of skin above her waistband and planting a loud, messy kiss on her cheek. An involuntary gasp of laughter burst from her mouth.

"Ooh, what if I pout and give you the sad, overworked house-elf look?" he said, sticking out his lower lip. "Is this doing anything for you?"

She rolled her eyes. "Just sort your laundry."

-oOo-

"Hmm," Hermione said, picking up a punnet of blueberries and holding it side-by-side with some blackberries. "Maybe if we mix these? And do they have any cranberries? It needs to be a bit tart. Maybe some lemon juice or something..."

George scratched his forehead. "I don't know. I don't think anything is going to come close to the flavour." Lowering his voice to a whisper to avoid being heard by the Muggles swarming around the supermarket, he added, "Can't we just use bimbleberries?"

"They're inedible unless cooked with your mum's methods, so if you still want me to teach you how to cook like a Muggle-"

"Yeah, yeah. I do. I just really fancy a slice of bimbleberry cake. It's my favourite."

"Hmm. Well, until we work something out, what about your mum's treacle tarts? That recipe will be easier to adapt."

"Maybe. I..."

His voice trailed off when someone off to Hermione's left gasped. There, standing next to the packets of crisps and holding a shopping basket full of tomatoes, bread, and chicken, was Angelina Johnson. Her shoulders sagged and tears glimmered in her eyes as George turned towards her, his movement revealing his missing ear.

"Babe?" a Muggle man said, rounding the corner. "Hey, you okay?"

"I... I'm fine," Angelina said, her lower lip wobbling just once before she regained her composure. "Just ran into some old school friends. Nice to see you again, George, Hermione."

With that, she grabbed her companion's hand and vanished as quickly as if she'd apparated. George's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around the shopping basket, his knuckles going bone white.

"Well, I'm sorted," Lee said, beaming at George and Hermione. He sauntered up the aisle with an armload of red, cellophane-wrapped boxes of condoms. "That's my shopping done for the week." Frowning at George, he added, "You all right, mate? You look like—"

"Lee," Hermione breathed, "shut up."

George's jaw clenched. For a few, stomach-sinking moments, Hermione thought he would lash out and hit something. Instead, he handed her the basket and let go of a ragged sigh.

"I don't really feel like a lesson today," he said. "Some other time."

Before she could begin to think of how to respond, he marched away.

"The hell was that about?" Lee said. "You going to go after him?"

"Yeah. I think so."

With a bit of juggling and only one dropped box, Lee managed to shift his mountain of condoms to one hand so he could pat her shoulder.

"Well, good luck, Carl," he said.

"Thanks."

After giving Lee the much-needed basket, she dashed out into the street and ran the few blocks to George's flat. Her rapid knock was met with no response, but the brass doorknob turned under her fingers without the aid of magic.

She found him sitting on the edge of his unmade bed, his elbows resting on his knees. Unsure if he wanted her there, she hovered in the doorway until he spoke.

"Sorry for storming out. Guess I wanted those bimbleberries more than I realised."

"George..."

"Just c'mere, would you?"

That was the only encouragement she needed to all but tackle him with a tight hug, as if she thought she could squeeze him until there was no room left for sadness. Somehow they ended up sprawled on top of the mess of pillows, sheet, and duvet. His head rested on her chest, his ear pressed just over the steady thrum of her heart. Untold minutes trickled by in silence. Just as she began to drift off to sleep, his shoulders shook — not with tears, as she originally thought, but with laughter.

"What's so funny?" she said.

"I was just thinking of the first time we ended up here — how I told you that I only snuggle with friends who have breasts."

She cleared her throat. Given his position, the action made his head bounce.

"And?" she said.

"And I'm not going to say. You'll make me move if I do."

Swatting his arm, she tried to swallow her responding chuckle without much success.

"I should probably get home," she said, a bittersweet ache building in her chest when his grip tightened. "Unless you want me to stay?"

"Well, you do make a pretty good cushion." Lifting his head, he shot her a half-grin. "Yeah. Stay."