Chapter 9: The Storm

George's home was dark: shades drawn, lights off. With a bit more dust, it would've looked like the flat above Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes — like it hadn't been touched in months. Frowning, Hermione stepped over a wayward cushion on the living room floor. Was he asleep? It was a Saturday, sure, but it was almost noon.

"George?" she said. "Are you home?"

"I'm back here."

She found him in his bedroom, lying in a nest of rumpled duvet. The shattered remains of a wireless set littered the floor, along with a discarded wand.

Oh, no.

"Hey," she whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed. Any further comments froze on her lips. What could she say? Nothing would be enough. So, she stuck with the simple greeting, adding in gentle fingers combing through his hair.

When George finally spoke, it was in a voice she hardly recognised — gravelly and harsh.

"I nicked it from the workroom," he said. "Since it was the one you used, I thought maybe..." His voice trailed off, his puffy eyes clenching shut.

With her heart thudding in her ears, begging her to get this right, she kicked off her shoes and lay down next to him. One of her hands found its way to his cheek. As he leant into the touch, their legs twined together. A quaking pretzel of a broken boy and a lost girl. Fingers brushed her hips, held on too tight.

"All I got was the Weird Sisters and Celestina Sodding Warbeck." George shook his head. "I don't get it. He talked to you."

"He wants you to heal." It didn't seem like an adequate answer, but it was all she had. "Do you honestly think you'd be able to move on if he did speak to you? You'd chain yourself to the wireless set, waiting for it to happen again and hating every moment that didn't bring him back."

He laughed. Sort of. "Yeah, that'd be a real change."

"George..."

"Sorry. I didn't mean that. I don't hate every moment. That time you let me use your tits as a pillow was brilliant. Patronus worthy."

"George Weasley. Honestly." Smiling, she wriggled towards the headboard and held her arms open. "The things I do for you. C'mere."

This time, his laugh was almost genuine. It came out muffled behind his hand as he rested his good ear over her heart.

"You're slipping," he said. "Can't believe you fell for that one."

As they lapsed into silence, his breaths slowed and deepened. Unsure if he had fallen asleep, Hermione spoke in a whisper.

"He'd never shut up if he thought it'd help you heal, you know. Maybe someday he'll surprise you with your very own Potterwatch broadcast, but not now. Not yet. Not while you're living a half-life in a boring flat with Lee and me as your only friends."

"You reckon?"

"It's what he fought for. What we all fought for. The chance for a better life. And what kind of a life is it without the surviving Weasley twin playing pranks on the whole of the Wizarding World? If you never slip another poor, unsuspecting child a Canary Cream or Ton-Tongue Toffee, well then Voldemort may as well have won."

With a soft, wet laugh and a shake of his head, George tilted his head up to kiss her cheek.

"You're never going to quit bossing me around, are you?"

"It's what I'm here for. Why do you think Fred contacted me?"

"He couldn't have sent someone a bit easier? A good shag would—"

His words cut off with a laugh when Hermione swatted him in the face with a pillow. Nudging him off of her, she sat up and dusted her hands together.

"Tidy yourself up," she said. "We're going out."

"We are? Where?"

"I haven't decided yet. Somewhere Muggle, of course. We'll take the Tube."

-oOo-

Camden Market teemed with people. To keep from getting separated, Hermione held George's hand as they wound their way through the various stalls.

"Hmm," she said, pausing to examine a striped throw that reminded her of the wallpaper in the twins' Diagon Alley flat. "I think this one for the living room, definitely."

"Are you redecorating?"

"No. We are redecorating. I'm buying you some very belated housewarming gifts."

"You don't have to do that."

"Well, obviously I don't have to. I'm doing it because I want to. Don't worry, I'm just buying two throws — one for the sofa and one for your bed. I'll let you pay for the artwork."

"Artwork, eh?"

"If I have to stare at your blank walls much longer, I'm going to start falling asleep when I visit." Wrinkling her nose, she picked up a second throw. "It's high time you make your home look like you actually live there. Now, do you like these?"

After selecting throws and art, George and Hermione wandered through the streets of London arm in arm, pleasantly full from the falafel wraps they had for lunch. Their pockets were stuffed with their magically shrunken purchases.

As they started up Primrose Hill, a sudden, torrential summer rain sent everyone around them scrambling for shelter. Instead of agreeing to George's request to step into a nearby pub, Hermione took a flying leap into a puddle and sent water splashing all over him. Laughing and ignoring his shouted threat of revenge, she ran up the hill. Within seconds, he caught up and tackled her to the ground.

"Hi there, Hermione," he said, grinning. "Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?"

Barely able to speak through her fit of giggles, she squirmed beneath him. "Get up!"

"I'm quite cosy right here, thank you." Dipping his head, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Y'know, this is the second time you've kept me out in the rain like this. If you wanted to have a wet t-shirt contest, you could've just asked."

Cold water seeped from the muddy grass into her clothes, plastering the fabric to her back and legs. She couldn't draw a full breath, thanks to the combined forces of stomach-aching giggles and George's crushing weight. Rainwater dripped into her eyes.

One slow smile from him, and everything else became nothing more than a murmur in he background. Hermione's focus narrowed on his lips, close to hers.

Laughter slid into quick, shallow breaths. As she watched his gaze flit from her eyes to her mouth and back up again, every tired word she'd ever read about hearts pounding, worlds stopping, and butterflies dancing in stomachs raced through her mind. Racing heart: check. World screeching to a halt: check. Fluttering in her belly: oh, definitely. George shifted closer.

Oh, God. He was going to kiss her.

Oh, God. She wanted him to kiss her.

Their noses touched. If she moved her head just a few inches, his lips would meet hers. All she had to do was drum up the courage. Simple. People had first kisses every day. She'd done it before, hadn't she?

George's weight vanished. Standing up, he cleared his throat.

"We should probably head back," he said.

Well. So much for that.