Author's Note:

SO SORRY this took so long. I was very distracted with work and other obligations that i couldn't put all my attention on this. I LOVE george's part in this. I love writing from his POV. hermione's section in this isn't that good. THIS CHAPTER IS EXTRA LONG TO MAKE UP FOR THE LENGTH IN TIME IT TOOK ME TO POST THIS. So there may be some grammar stuff (more on hermione's part than george's cause i worked longer on george's part). Please enjoy. Let me know what you think I love feedback.

Disclaimer:

Rowling owns all.

Love and War Chapter 9
Reflections

The early morning chill swooped through the overgrown bush surrounding Malfoy Manor. A mist had fallen over the forest during the night, cloaking its inhabitants within a thick veil of invisibly. Howls of hungry wolves chasing after their prey's soft pattering steps echoed through the night. Hoots of wild owls lurking in the trees' low set branches kept a close eye on the nearly nonexistent forest floor. The rushing sweeps of air under fairy wings dusted the woodland with an intoxicating type of magic. And amongst the wild, a small canvassed tent sat, hidden by spells, wards, and mist, left to exist in a blissful solitude.

The clock had just struck three thirty when George Weasley's eyes suddenly snapped open, immediately categorizing every potential danger. He scanned the darkness thoroughly like an x-ray; his eyes rounding the blackness in a way similar to the one he used to within the dungeons of Malfoy Manor. The path was simple, beginning on one side of the dark and moving across to the other in his state of weary consciousness. This was what he had to do to ensure his and Hermione's survival.

A pattern of hardly sleeping as he prepared for whatever new threat waited. A way in which he could care for Hermione's injuries. A guide of constant awareness set to keep them alive. A blueprint he was determined to stick by. It was familiar, something he had done every couple of hours, and although he could have slept soundly until the sun peaked over the tree tops, it was a guide that had, apparently, transferred with him to this new safe dwelling.

Safe. George had loved that word all his life. Security brought a surprising harmonious sensation to the normal dangerous demeanour which George revelled in. It took over his soul when it existed around him; elating him to this peaceful paradise. He felt it when he avoided his mother's wrath for playing a prank on Percy, as he hid in the secret alcoves of Hogwarts' while narrowly eluding Mrs. Norris' watchful eye, during his flight into the bright sun after escaping Umbridge's iron rule and when he first joined the Order of the Phoenix. It was a feeling he nearly forgot the meaning to amidst the terror of war. But, as the darkness of the dusked terrain swirled with the dim glow of moonlight, the events of the prior day played before him and definition came back.

Only then did he register the soft fluffy pillow below his head and the scruffy wool blanket which covered him. He realized the wind, which carried the scent of elder wood, was cooling the air and allowing it to contrast against the burning body heat beneath the blanket cocoon. The warmth of the sleeping witch in his arms, her touch sending an electrical current humming through him, drew him into the comfort of consciousness. Only then was George reminded of their new, heavenly, reality: freedom.

Even breathing in the fresh air felt good. It tasted like the past before the war. The lingering flavour of Quidditch matches, house cup victories, successful pranks, and warm summers with family doused his palate with a sugar rush of sweetness. These times of happiness, the ones he cherished most, not just to bring forth the protection of a full grown patronus, but to steer him through the darkest of times, eased him through his strife. Happy tears stung behind his eyes as all the cheerful moments before the hardships of battle, along with the few joyful ones that mingled with the present war, poured through him.

With a sigh, George rolled onto his side, taking in the features of Hermione's form. Like the many nights he spent with Hermione before, George watched and noted of all her actions; studying her, the same way she studied her books at Hogwarts. The deep breaths that filled her lungs now were much steadier as she snuggled closer to his chest. The curves of her face were fuller and bright as more colour tinted her cheeks. The pained expression, which her features once scrunched into, was now gone.

She looked calm. So peaceful with her cream coloured skin glowing in the soft light from the moon as it cascaded through the tent window. Her wild chestnut curls were tamed to frame her face which rested against both the pillow and his shoulder. Merlin, she was not just calm, she was absolutely, terrifyingly, breathtaking.

Running a thumb across her cheek he smiled noticing the purple bruises had cleared up slightly in her slumber. A few days of rubbing bruise balm and all the marks would disappear fully. It was a relief to know that some of the physical reminders would vanish from Hermione's flesh; the less visible signs, the less pity people would give her. His fingers continued to trail down her arm, feeling the tingles of her essence rush through him, before moving up the side of her torso where the Death Eater's branded her.

Anger furrowed his brows, knitting them so close together his vision blurred slightly. How dare they mark her, especially with such vile filth? This souvenir would take the longest move on from, not just emotionally but physically. The skin had hardly healed. It still dripped with fresh blood and after all the time that passed George assumed the wound would have scabbed further. He was beginning to worry that it would never be fully mended. And even if it could, the words of hate would scar her flesh forever; white jagged letters spelling out the disgusting falsehood that Hermione probably believed. She was the smartest, strongest and most beautiful witch George had ever seen but because of this lesion, his Hermione would be weakened.

His Hermione. Merlin, he liked the sound of that. Not once had George Weasley expected to wake up next to Hermione Granger. His little brother's affections were always a constant reminder in his mind, but now. Merlin help him, George hardly cared for Ronald's attraction to Hermione. Those feelings had lost all meaning when George's eyes locked on her helpless form laying still on the dark cell floor; when he held her as she shook in fear and pain; when he carried her through the forest and tended to her injuries. No, Ron had no claim over her, not after he left her to the hands of the Death Eaters.

Expelling a calming breath, George relaxed a little. Ron Weasley may have been incredibly dimwitted but he would never purposely put Hermione through this torture. So, George reluctantly shifted the blame to those bastards. And those bastards would pay with their lives. George would personally find each and every one of them, rip them apart limb from limb while relishing in the taste of their blood as it filled the air. The Order's sweet victory would mean the ultimate defeat of the Death Eaters', but it was not a sufficient enough justice. Death was justice.

Whoa there Georgie, his twin's voice boomed against the walls of his mind. Don't lose your head now. Although being away from Fred for so long pained him, George still felt completely connected to his brother. So connected that George knew the words which mentally chastised him had been the exact ones Fred chose. George was getting caught up in his anger, something both Fred and himself would not let get the better of him again. The last time resulted in a perfectly played painful prank on the entire Slytherin House. He needed to calm down so he could process all the emotions filling him, especially the ones Hermione's presence seemed to trigger.

George slowly disentangled himself from Hermione's grasp, grabbing another blanket to cover her and placing a kiss to her cheek before heading into the shower. The hot shower water beat down his back, washing away the aches of his muscles, the grime of the manor and the dried blood of his wounds. He had been so wrapped up in caring for Hermione's lesions he had forgotten all about the large gashes on his back from his capture. The water stung at the scabs but soon the sting turned into a relaxing sooth and he leaned his forehead against the cold slick tile in relaxation.

He stood under the spray for a long time, watching as his fingertips turned wrinkly from the moisture, allowing his mind to drift off into the strengthening connection between Hermione and himself. A connection that rivalled the one George shared with Fred. He found it strange how something so traumatic brought forth this new sense of completion to his life. Just being around Hermione, even in these circumstances, made him feel so content, as if her existence turned him into a whole; it was an elating feeling but at the same time absolutely baffling.

Never had he felt as if a part of him was missing, not with Fred in the picture. But now, it felt as if he had reasons beyond his twin for existing; for fighting for a better existence. Fred joined the Order almost instantly upon departing school. He said he was for Angela. To give her some sort of hope of peace. George hardly understood then how Angela merited this fight filled Fred, and being the responsible twin, George joined the Order too to protect his brother. But his heart was never in it. Not until Hermione was captured anyway.

Ever since the young witch was taken, George began to have terrible nightmares. Visions of the gruelling pain which she suffered. He hardly slept at night as they played constantly in his mind. Then he had been captured, and his mind snapped. Never had George felt so responsible for someone. It warmed George to know that Hermione was protected now. That she was safe and maybe happy. It was the only sensation he wanted her to ever experience and harm was the last. The very idea of someone laying a hand on her, not only made him lurch with anger, but it fuelled this jealousy he could not comprehend.

Each time the image of Ronald coming and whisking Hermione away into a snog-fest of reunited love entered his mind, George's stomach flipped violently, his fists clenched at his sides and the massive desire to pummel his brother into nothing filled him. Hermione did not belong to anyone, certainly not to George, but a sense of belonging came to him when he was with her. As if his place was to stand next to her, even if it was under the spray of this very shower.

Images of Hermione's naked form blocked out all coherent thought. Her body pressed in between the white tile wall and himself. Water cascading down her hair, making a trail across her collarbone and down the valley of her breasts before it spilled over her abdomen. Her hands raking gently through her wet locks and a smile gracing her lips as she whispered his name in ecstasy. George had to turn the water fully cold before finally shutting off the tap and stepping out into the steamy mist.

The cry which echoed through the now silent tent caused his heart to drop into his stomach and immediately George sprung into action.

"Hermione," he called out, walking down the hallway towards the bedroom, oblivious to the cool air that brushed past his damp flesh. Another whimpered shout came barrelling through the silence and he broke out into a run. His towel was long forgotten on the floor, his hair was still soaked with warm water that dripped down his back and his feet slipped slightly on the dark hardwood, but George hardly noticed. Instead he rushed down the hall and burst through the door with urgency.

Relief flooded his mind when he saw their temporary home was not housing any unwelcomed intruders. However, after finally finding a focal point, the relief dissipated. A shaking Hermione tossed and turned on the bed before him causing George to tense in concern. Her body was thrashing violently; sweat dripped off her brow and soft whines left her lips.

"I don't know," she whispered before she yelped and he knew that she was reliving everything. "I don't know where," She continued to whisper and he grasped her hand, rubbing his thumb against her palm, trying his best to comfort her through the terror of memory.

"Hermione love, please wake up," He pleaded, trying to find her an escape from her own mind. He expected these kinds of nightmares, but when they slept soundlessly together he thought Hermione would not be affected by them. Now he grasped how truly stupid he was for being so hopeful. She trembled in pain, her body bowing upwards under the blanket and he tried again with more force. "Love, wake up."

"Not George," she murmured and his eyes widened.

His name. His name. She just muttered his bloody name. He never expected that. Sure, he often hoped for his name to be muttered from one of her dreams, but definitely not in ache and alarm. "Don't hurt George." Her head lobbed back and forth, the tears running down her cheeks in a constant stream.

"Hermione," he said sternly and finally her eyes opened with a flutter of hesitation. She gasped for air, the breeze shocking her damp skin as her eyes searched for George's face.

"George," the gaze still fogged over her vision, clouding her eyes.

"I'm here love," his hand stroked through her hair gently and she turned into his touch, bringing herself closer to his chest, not caring for his lack of dress. He immediately climbed into the bed and held onto her shaking form. "It's over."

"Soon?" her voice was so soft, barely audible, as it repeated the question she had asked him in their old hole. The dread was fresh and present. The dread of the pain, of the dark, and of the room which once resided above their small hole of a dwelling. She had forgotten in the midst of her nightmare, but George would not let her go back. He would never let either of them go back there, not even emotionally.

"Not soon," He shook his head against her forehead and she whimpered slightly. "It's over now love. We aren't there anymore." His whispers reassured her, attempting to bring her back into the present. Their freedom.

They laid in a hushed silence both savouring the physical comfort of the embrace. He felt Hermione relax into him, her body fitting snugly into his in a position that was so natural, it felt like home. Her scent filled his lungs and her skin was soft underneath his rough palms; all he wanted to do was lean down and capture her lips in a heated kiss, sending her all the support he could not voice, but Hermione was much too vulnerable.

George did not want to take advantage of her fragile state with a physicality that she may not be ready for. A physicality that could potentially frighten her more. No matter how breathtaking he realized she truly was, no matter how connected they seemed now after their imprisonment or how hard he was falling for her, George would have to restrain himself. Hermione would have to initiate it; whatever it was.

Lucky for him, at that moment her eyes drew him out of his musings. Her amber pools dimmed into a dark smoky glow and were blanketed with an emotion George could not place. He imagined her reaction to be the same when she gazed up to met his blue orbs as they turned stormy grey from a rather vivid memory. But for some reason that lingering heat still burned like hot coals as the mist of memory descended between them.

"You were out for days Hermione," the sombre voice cracked through the silence, their eyes however, remained locked intensely. Hermione stiffen against him but George could not stop, the words were pouring out of his mouth without control. It was as if her eyes drew the sensations out of him; like drawing snake venom out of a bite. "Days. Y'know how terrified I was? I thought they killed you."

"I'm sorry." She whispered so quietly that George might have missed it. Might being the operative word.

"Don't be sorry love." His response was quick, almost immediate. "I just—I needed to tell you that." His fingertips brushed against her cheek and George felt it. The pull he attempted to resist, it strengthened; the magic that coursed through their bond seemed so intense that he wondered how the tingles blasting through his veins like a wild fire, burning him alive from the inside out, were silent. "I've never been that scared in my life before, but we're out now."

"I know," She said with a wistful smile, if she had heard the blaze within his body she gave no indication. The cracking of expanding wood drying out under the heat of her branding touch, the passion suffocating him as he breathed in the thick clouds of hot air and musky smoke; it was enough to make him go mad with want.

"And you know what that means don't you?" His smile matched hers; the calloused pad of his thumb traced circles on her jaw line and accidentally brushed against her soft lips. He hardly managed to suppress his groan as the tender flesh met his touch again an instant later. He was fighting a losing battle.

"Hmm, freedom?" Hermione pulled herself closer into George's arms. Her sweet breath brushing against his neck and he felt his reserve struggling. He pressed his forehead against hers, the need to breathe her in starting to overpower his sense of logic.

"Not quite yet love," The timbre of his voice was husky and low as he spoke. It took all of him to hold his body back from acting out, from following the path her presence pulled him down. "We've still got to make our way out of this bush, which is why you are going to take a bath before the sun rises."

"I like the sound of that," this time George could not contain the gentle groan as he heard Hermione's words purr pass her lips. The soft patterns her nails traced into his chest were disorienting and George was sure that she was flirting with him. But he would not base his affections on flirtation right now. Not when he made a vow to himself. No, he had to wait for action, even if it killed him. "But I can't really stand that well."

"That's fine," he pulled back, looking behind him to the hallway. If he let himself get immersed within her any longer all his strength would be lost. He completely missed the way Hermione's smile faltered slightly or how her breath hitched in anticipation but the haze of her fervour was clouding his senses. "I'll draw you a bath and then we will start moving."

"Ok," Although her voice agreed, it lacked the same contentment it had earlier, which may be why neither of them moved from their position. George needed to linger within the comfort of her and Hermione, he assumed, was too weak to go just yet. His hand slowly dropped to Hermione's lower back, mimicking the motions of her fingertips as they continued to run up and down the plains of his chest, and time inched by before Hermione dared to break the moment.

"Hey George," Hermione spoke timidly, pulling herself away from his grip slightly. "I was scared too. Th-they threatened you," the sudden sob that shook through her vibrated against George's chest and he tightened his hold on her waist. The shudders of her body grew more powerful as her words stuttered out rapidly. "I was alone. I thought-I thought you were gone. I can't lose you George."

"Shh love, you haven't lost me," her tears dripped down her face, landing on George's skin, and although the fire of her touch cooled greatly in her confessions, it still felt like a sizzling heat burning the flesh above his heart. "I'm right here."

"It's going to be all different," The ambiguity would have confused anyone, even her two closest friends, but George understood. Just like he would when they got back. That was the whole point. The family would not understand a thing. The looks of sympathy and all the support they would push onto both Hermione and George would just make it all worse. It would prevent them from forgetting anything. It would just bring the reality of the past to a constant forefront.

George almost wished he could live in this tent for the rest of his life just to avoid it all. He was sure Hermione felt the same way, but that was wishful thinking. Running away would not aid anything either. This was something they needed to face head on and work through. It was something that needed the full force of both of their legendary Gryffindor courage. It was something they needed to do together.

"I won't leave you."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Steam slowly lifted from the surface of the soapy water, blending with the bright autumn sunlight which trickled through the skylight overlooking the large tub. The dripping of the tap echoed across the black and white tile floor, keeping time to the tune of birds chirping outside. The cool marble rested against Hermione's back, taking the edge off the hot bath water, and she hummed in content. The early morning sun just started to creep into the tent and, although she was reluctant at first, the bath was the perfect way to start off this new chapter; her freedom.

The water felt great against her skin. It was warm and clean; the lingering traces of vanilla oil smoothing her flesh into the soft texture it once was. It was the feeling she missed the most: cleanliness. She once heard a muggle song describing the superiority of cleanliness, equalling it to godliness, but until that moment she had not understood the full meaning.

Being treated like nothing and being covered in dirt for so many weeks, months actually, only to be rewarded with fresh air and a gigantic white marble tub made Hermione's mind numb. If she could spend the rest of her days in the warm bath, Hermione was sure she would slowly be rebuilt from the shattered pieces of her broken self. Even the cuts, bruises and injuries seemed to be healing rapidly under the water and Hermione could only assume George mixed the bath with some sort of potion.

George, her mind hummed as she dunked her head, feeling the soap bubbles drip off her face and hair as she remerged. Just the thought of him caused her flesh to tingle with happiness and her muscles to instantly relax. The way he smiled at her, the way he cared for her, the way he was interested in her thoughts and opinions; it was more than she ever deserved. Feeling this happy was just something so foreign, so new, she had no idea whether it was even real.

The blissful happiness that was the past two days, living happily in this tent, was such a contrast to her past few surviving months. She almost thought she was going bipolar; but yet here she was. In a tub, surrounded by heavenly magical water, living in a tent with a man who she never would have expected to make her this content.

It was the moments of joy, the ones where she relished in the emotions George was able to bring out that sent her into a spiral of confusion. Every time she thought of George, and how incredible he made her feel, Hermione instantly felt a pang of guilt. The thought of Ron and how, what seemed like, the entire world was rooting for them to be together caused Hermione to shrink back in a type of terror.

Sure she loved Ron, but Hermione always felt this lingering insecurity with him. She never felt safe in his arms, not fully. He was always so willing to let her get hurt, or be the one to cause pain. She had discovered during her capture, and possibly before that, how she really felt. Ronald Weasley was nothing more than her best friend. And she was starting to fall for his brother.

For Merlin sake, George Weasley was the prankster older brother of Ron, her best friend. Someone who was not interested in her. George was brilliant, something she always knew about the twins. And sure he was incredibly handsome. And caring. And she always kind of fancied him, but what chance did she have with him. Especially after everything now, she was damaged. Her skin was marked with scars to prove that. Even with his own scars and injuries, he was still on such a higher level than her.

And yet, his gentle touches, the way his lips always lingered against her skin when he kissed her chastely on the forehead or cheek, the way he spoke to her. It was as if his emotions were conveying some hidden attraction, but that just could not be. No. They experienced something together, something tragic and traumatic, and sure only they would be able to understand the events that transpired, but that in no way meant he was attracted to her right?

With a soft sigh Hermione, let her inner musings rest for a moment, as she took in the sight of her skin. It was still adored with purple and black marks, but they were shrinking greatly in size. Since George placed her in the bath, the swelling had reduced by half the size. The injuries surrounding her ankle was so small now that, as she massaged the tender flesh with her wrinkly fingers, she could probably walk on it. Maybe not for the full day of hiking through the thick forest, but enough so George would not have to carry her through all of it.

The sun was shining through the skylight, blanketing the tile floor of the bathroom, and heating the foggy room in a way that signalled Hermione it was time. Time to start moving and making their way home. It was time to go home. Gripping the side of the tub, Hermione attempted to stand, and reach for the towel, but her weight was too much for her ankle. She hissed in pain at the soft amount of pressure and quickly sat back down in the tub. George had managed to get her into the tub; it would only make sense that he would have to pull her out now.

She reluctantly looked over at the towel, then the door, and then her ankle. She would definitely be able to walk on it with a bandage keeping some of the pressure off, but getting out onto the slippery tile floor would prove to be too much. Pulling some bubbles over her bosom and glancing back to the door, she admitted defeat.

"George," she called out, marvelling at how her voice was not as hoarse as before, so she called again just to hear the change. "George, I need your help please."

"Hermione," he responded almost instantly, tapping on the door of the washroom. "Are you decent?" he asked as he walked through the door into the mist, covering his hand to his eyes. She saw his fiery red hair first, a classic Weasley trait, but her eyes wandered, taking in all which was uniquely defined to him, George Weasley.

The stubble of his beard accented his square chin and his rugged manliness. The fluid movements of his legs however, showed his grace. The muscles of his beater build were visible through the thin t-shirt, which clung to his form with the moisture. The angular features of his face wrapped in the palms of his hands may have been hidden but still eluded to his handsomeness. It was enough to cause this overwhelming desire to mix with the clean water surrounding her.

"Kind of," She smirked, attempting to channel the type of flirtation which she had seen Lavender Brown use. In truth, the bubbles were covering most of her, and since George had seen her nude not more than an hour ago she figured it was a very truthful answer. So why was George's eyes comically wide as he gazed at her. "I need your help getting back out."

"I-I" he coughed, trying to cover up his cracking voice as he attempted to regain composure. Hermione bit her lip nervously, trying to decipher George's lack of eloquence, something that never lacked before. The concept of George Weasley, suave ladies man, struggling in front of a naked woman only caused Hermione's emotions to mentally slap her.

He was only suave to get what he wanted, and obviously that was not her. Swallowing hard and clearing his throat, he finally mustered a response. "I'm sure I left a towel somewhere in here," he winked and lifted the towel Hermione attempted to reach for before.

"Thanks," she replied, a blush creeping to her cheeks, and George just nodded. The less speaking, the less she could make a fool of herself in front of him. Gripping George's forearms, Hermione steadied herself onto one of her feet and George wrapped the towel around her. The fluffy white cloth, drying her wet skin, and rubbing the remains of the potion water further into her injuries. She sighed inwardly as he lifted her over the edge of the tub and carried her back to the bedroom placing her delicately on the bed.

"So um, Malfoy managed to get some clothes we could wear," He said rubbing the back of his neck in what almost seemed like embarrassment. "There are some sweats and underwear which I laid out next to you actually," he gestured to the neat pile of folded black and green clothes which sat comfortably on the bed, and Hermione smiled. "I'll let you get dressed."

"Actually," She paused rubbing the sensitive flesh of her ankle soothingly, "could you wrap my ankle up in a bandage, I think it is safer for me to change when I am able to stand on it." Her giggle caused him to smile, before nodding and grabbing the compression bandage from the medical supplies provided.

Kneeling down in front of her, George gently gripped her calf, raising her ankle to rest on his thigh. His fingers brushed up against her soft skin, the touch of his rough pads sending a shiver to shoot up her leg and coil in the pit of her stomach. It was electric; almost like static making her skin prickle with goose bumps, but at the same time there was something so smooth about it. It washed over her like crashing waves pulling her into the current of his passion. It was definitely not the reaction Hermione was expecting from this type of innocent care.

Still she found herself immersed with in his stare. His eyes darkening as they gazed into hers, never breaking the contact, only drawing her in further. No he was just gauging her reaction, ensuring she was in no pain as his fingers wrapped the fabric tightly around her injury.

"Not too tight?" he asked, pausing his actions midway. His voice was low, hushed and sweet, but the tide had not fallen yet. It had only risen to Hermione, who blushed under his gaze. She shook her head no, words failing her as he watched her. Taking a soft gulp Hermione broke the connection by closing her eyes in an attempt to remain unfazed by his expression, but even with her eyes shut she felt it. His eyes on her, drowning her in the pools of passion.

What was wrong with her? She never felt this strength of want before. Not with any of her past entanglements. Especially not with Ron. Instead a different Weasley's face danced behind her closed lids, keeping that very connection which she so desperately tried to avoid alive. The hidden unknown emotion which lingered in the depths of his orbs unhinged her, sending her spiralling into another wave of silent pleasure.

"Why don't we get the Weasel up here, maybe that would loosen your tongue," the sinister voice of Bellatrix Lestrange sung, and Hermione's eyes snapped open. No, she could not just invade her thoughts whenever she felt like it. She was not under her hold anymore. Glancing down she noticed George still watching her, as he secured the bandage. He had not noticed the tricks of her mind.

"George," Hermione began, her voice cracking slightly. He was done wrapping her ankle, and yet his hold remained on her. Whether in concern or desire, Hermione hardly cared. She loved his feel. The haunting words still plagued her, but his essence was clouding her in happiness and Hermione needed that.

It was then she released what this all was. Yes of course. Hermione was so attached to George she was blinding herself. Yes that had to be it. "Th-Thank you." She managed to say, opting to leave her flashback out, though a large portion of her rebelled against both that decision and her conclusion.

"N-No problem" he stuttered after Hermione pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek, "I'll be waiting outside in the kitchen. We should eat before we leave ok?" She watched him walk out before grabbing the sweat shirt. She was in the middle of pulling the soft material over her head when it hit her.

George Weasley was blushing. She had kissed him and he was blushing. I can't just be imagining this, she thought, confusion taking a forefront once again. She was unsure what George may have been feeling, and she was unsure what her attraction fully meant. All she knew for certain was when her lips met his cheek, the whirlpool she was stuck in finally dragged her down and the hideous voice which had invaded her was forgotten.

She was drowning in George Weasley and there was no escape now. But the strange thing was Hermione Granger was ok with it.

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