Author's Note:

This is quite a long chapter for you guys. I had a nice spring of inspiration. Things are moving ahead, plot wise at least. Hope you guys enjoy! please let me know if you have any comments :)

Disclaimer:

J.K Rowling owns all.

Love and War Chapter 16
Changes

Change. The act or instance of making or becoming different. Change was an occurrence, which evaded control. A happenstance, which had no fair warning. It was an inevitable result of war. Though, Change, however inevitable, was the last thing Fred Weasley expected from his twin brother, George.

Sure, Fred expected a maturing in his brother, especially after being a prisoner of war. Torture did have the tendency to smudge a person's natural glimmer into a jaded patina. Fred knew George would be understandably different in both actions and emotions since his return from capture and was not the least bit surprised to see the childlike lustre, which once dazzled George's face, had darkened into a mask of trauma. What Fred was not prepared for was the complete lack of reason, which seemed to embody George Weasley.

Even now, as he calmly presented the hard evidence to his brother, Fred could see George slipping to a stubborn ignorance, but Fred had to try. He had to push. It was his obligation as a healer to attempt to mend the minds of both George Weasley and Hermione Granger, and he would not quit until he did.

"George," Fred said with a heavy sigh. The makeshift office within Fred's sleeping quarters was borderline disastrous. Healing texts, all pointing to dangers and side effects that had to be addressed, were strewn about the room. "If you just calm down you'll see that this needs to be done soon. Your scan barely came out clean, if you remember. It had to be done twice for accuracy. She needs the treatment if these nightmares continue."

"She doesn't need treatment," George repeated the same stubborn line he had been for days. Six days of the same bull-headed ignorance. Six days of repeated nightmares, that, despite George's constant arguments, only increased with intensity. Hermione Granger was showing complete signs of mental deterioration and needed the potions. "This is just expected backlash Fred." The irritation was evident in George's voice as he dropped his face into the palm of his hands, and Fred could only watch with a mirrored annoyance. "You cannot grasp what it's like, Fred. You weren't there."

"I know you don't want to hear this, George," Fred started, pushing another text open to reveal more supporting research, "There is poison in her blood. She is only going to get worse, but we can stop it, George. If you would just listen—"

"Enough!" George bellowed, slamming the text shut with a powerful force. "She isn't some experiment, Freddie. This isn't some product we are testing. You want to help, I know you do, but listen very carefully when I say she is getting better."

"That might be true but, George," Fred began calmly, hoping for his brother to overlook his protectiveness for one moment and see some form of logic. "She may get better on her own."

"She is," George said with finality, "Her nightmares aren't there when I am." This raised Fred curiosity, and he immediately summoned some parchment and ink, taking hurried notes to add to Hermione's case file.

"What do you mean?" Fred pressed, hoping for a more concrete answer than just a dependence on the comfort of shared experience.

"We stop it together," George's voice was hurried, pulling out the information with a strange form of messy clarity, which oddly enough Fred understood. "For the both of us. The nightmares stop when I am there. We both sleep soundly."

But why? Why was that the case? Was it dependence? Or was it something more, something that, in the magical world, was very powerful? Fred tried to ask. He tried to pull the direction of George's rant to a place of productive insight but George was far to engulfed within his mind. "What if we do bring this up to her, and nothing is wrong, do you know what that'd do?" George paced erratically.

The pieces were finally starting to fall into place. Fred was finally starting to understand George's hesitation. "It'd kill her. It'd give her hope. Hope that a potion could take it all away. That it could be fixed and then, nothing. It won't change anything." George was spitting out his unfiltered rambles and all Fred could do was sit there immobilised. George continued his route back and forth across the cluttered office, hand running through his red hair nervously, tugging at the strands with manic anxiety. "She'd have hope only to have it ripped from her. It'll be just as it is now, hard to move past, because it is. For Merlin's sake, Fred, we were tortured."

George stopped suddenly, locking his gaze with his brother. George's blue eyes were as hard as steel, frozen dead with pain, as unwanted memories flooding forward in a grey blanket. It made Fred's blood go cold and suddenly he was very afraid of what George would say next. "I sat in the cell and listened to her screams above my head. I saw that fat bloody bastard drag her up the stairs. I felt the vibrations on the ceiling as they brought her to the brink of death and all I could do was sit there. I had to be dead with apathy, praying that my indifference would lesson her torture. I did as she asked. I sat there, I showed them nothing, but it was everything, Freddie."

Fred sat in a stilled shock as he watched George collapse back into his previous seat. Tears were stinging to be freed from behind Fred's eyes as he watched George quickly wipe away the stray drops off his cheek. The silence echoed with George pain and it felt very much like a punch to the gut. Fred never expected this, not such a powerful explosion, but Fred still knew he was right. He still knew that precautions were necessary.

"Time may help," Fred began slowly, after he watched George's shoulders slump with the slightest calm. "And she may get better, but," Fred paused, waiting to gauge if George would have another explosion. "George, if there's any trace of lingering dark magic, it'll only intensify as time passes. We need to take the precautions and ensure that she won't get worse. That she won't get stuck in what happened, unable to get pulled out. Do you understand me, George?"

A weak nod was Fred's response and he took it as his cue to continue. "George, if Hermione has any traces of the cruciatus curse left in her, it could keep her, at least in her mind, in Malfoy manor." The burden of Fred's words seemed to sink George's shoulders in even more. Fred knew that George was finally grasping reason, at least slightly.

"Okay," George said, clearing his throat, before continuing. "Okay, Freddie, but, not now. Give it a bit of time. Just wait until after Bill looks at her wound. One thing at a time."

"After Bill?" Fred asked softly, knowing Bill was to arrive that afternoon, "Alright. We'll wait until tomorrow then." Fred watched with sad eyes as George rose from his seat and walked out the door towards the infirmary without another word. As the door to shut behind his twin, Fred finally let his strength wane.

He slumped forward; pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, rubbing the images that raced through is head away. When he looked up again to the empty room, twinkles lined his vision, but Fred did not care. Leaning his elbows on his knees, Fred rested his chin on his palms, knowing the medical potion he had been perfecting was near completion. The purple concoction, which bubbled downstairs on his infirmary desk, was almost done. Another six hours of simmering before bottling, and then it would be ready for administration. Fred had hoped to begin treatment tonight, but it would just have to wait until tomorrow, then he could really begin to heal Hermione Granger.

An out of body experience. That was what George Weasley attributed his actions to. With every fibre, he knew Fred was right, and yet, for the life of him George could not understand why he did not just agree with the evidence. Hermione's mental stability was hanging in the balance and all he could do was argue on whether she needed false hope. Merlin, he was a selfish prat. At least he felt like one.

It was as if he was watching from above. George floated in a dazed wonder, while, he, himself, acted on pretences that George hardly even believed. The stairways in Kingsley's Castle seemed to give him a form of clarity that finally brought him back to sense. With a clear mind, George realized it all. Fred was a brilliant wizard and George trusted his judgement without hesitation. Then why in Merlin's name was he fighting so hard? If Fred thought the scan should be done, then after Bill examined Hermione's side, George would not wait any longer.

His pace quickened as he reached descended the last flight of stairs knowing that Hermione would be waiting for him in the infirmary. The two had taken to sleeping in the infirmary until Hermione's wound was inspected. Thankfully, since Hermione's nightmare no one said anything against the decision. It was hardly arguable after that night, not to mention they were closes to all the medical supplies needed to keep the area clean, making it an airtight argument. It was uncomfortable, cold and very noisy, but, despite the cramped bed in the draft, George was not bothered one bit by the arrangement.

Each night he slept with Hermione pressed close to him. The cold air did not faze him with her warm body wrapped in his embrace. The noises coming from about the castle did not unravel him as long as it was not her fearful screams. And, though he still woke to inspect the dark before settling, her breath against his chest brought him back to the present each time, and that was a bliss he had never known before.

Pushing past the large oak doors he nearly sprinted to their shared bed where Hermione sat against the pillows, flipping through the pages of one of Fred's texts. The shorts she wore left most of her legs bare. His old long sleeve quidditch shirt was loose on her frame, causing her to roll the sleeves to her elbows. Her chestnut curls were tied up in a loose bun, a few strands escaping to fall before her face. Drawn between her teeth in concentration was her rose coloured, bottom lip as she read the dusky tomb. Her nose wrinkled slightly as she turned the page, a puff of dust blowing upward into the air. She was breathtaking. Absolutely breathtaking.

Quietly, George settled on the bed, waiting patiently for her to finish the last words of the chapter. Her legs were outstretched, rested on his lap, as she leaned against the headboard of the metal frame bed. He ran his fingertips up and down the length of her calf gently, watching in fascination as her skin became prickled with goose bumps. Instantly, he felt the serenity he needed. The peace only her presence brought him. With both calm and clarity now seeping into his being, George knew now he was right in his decision.

The condition he had given to Fred was still wise. They had to take one thing at a time. The scan was necessary, George agreed, but so was patience. It would just become far too overwhelming for Hermione if they threw it to her all at once. That was the last thing George wanted.

"George," a soft flutter danced to the forefront, "did you hear me?"

"Hmm," he hummed, his fingers continuing tracing the path on her leg, "Sorry, love. What did you say?"

"I was just wondering if you were ready for lunch," Hermione repeated, closing the oversized book and gingerly placing it on the bedside table. "Ginny was here earlier and said your mum was making tomato soup and bacon sandwiches. Are you hungry?"

"Always am," he said with a wink, as they shifted so she could snuggled into the crook of his arm. George's arm immediately wrapped around Hermione's shoulders, as she laid her head on his chest, her arm slung across his middle. The soft chuckle, which escaped her lips, was a welcomed sound. "Not just yet though, hunger or not, I'd rather stay here for a few."

"Kay," her reply was wispy, filled with an at ease mirth. It allowed George to forget just for a moment that there was no war raging outside the castle walls. That in the isolation of her branding touch, Hermione and he existed in a place far from radical genocide. Far from the madness which evil created. Far from the chaos and torture of war. She had become his rock, his sanity. Merlin, she was everything to him now. Hermione Granger, with the chestnut curls and fiery amber eyes. Hermione, the smart and witty witch who showered him in an emotion more powerful than anything he had ever experienced. Hermione who never stopped to amaze him. She gave George Weasley freedom, and as he held her tight, he realized that freedom made him feel like he could achieve absolutely anything.

Once again Hermione found herself seated at the table within Kingsley's castle. A nice family meal with the Weasleys had become, surprisingly, a comfort in the last week. Large gatherings of people still made her slightly uneasy, though this time, the presence of her adopted family seemed to sooth any fearful sting.

Molly Weasley, the matriarch, was busy stirring the pot of tomato soup, while her husband Arthur, the patriarch, sat at the head of the table, sipping his afternoon tea. The looks she had received on her first meal back, pity and disbelief, seemed to meld into one of adoration and love. She still saw the lingering sadness in Molly's face, but it was hardly as unnerving as it had once been. Ginny, her best friend, who always sat by Hermione's side during meals, brought a strange type of relief with her, embellishing the gathering. It was warm and filled with love, reminding Hermione just how much goodness still remained.

Then there was Fred Weasley. His console and caring was one of its own. The long intrigued stares Fred casted at Hermione was slightly rattling, but it was not filled with pity or even sadness, which Hermione was thankful for. No, Fred's eyes were laced with a clinical examination, as if he was studying her every movement. As for what he was looking, she was not sure, but Hermione assumed it was related to the very intricate potion Fred was brewing in the infirmary.

The potion was fascinating to Hermione. She scoured all of Fred's medical texts, trying to find any sort of clue as to what he could be doing in that cauldron, but found nothing remotely close. Hermione could only assume it was his own invention, one filled with ground snake fangs, lavender, sage and aloe. The sweet smell seemed to follow her throughout the castle, even down here, immersed in the smell of roasted pepper and tomato soup, the aroma clung to the air.

It was quite soothing actually. Maybe it worked as an airborne vapour. Whatever it was, Fred seemed to be in a constant healer state of mind, and, as Fred's bright blue eyes watched Hermione, she felt a little like a distrusted mental patient. It was quite the opposite of how George looked at her.

George, her mind swooned at the thought of him. Merlin, she was definitely in deep now. If there was any lingering doubt that her infatuation with George was based on joint capture, it was definitely abolished. She was completely mad about him. George and she seemed to be connected by some sort of unmovable force, tethered by an invisible steel cable. The magic they shared was blissful. An intense nirvana.

You think you're safe, Mud blood? A familiar whisper echoed. Her mind was drifting again, back to the memories that haunted her. She could see the light stone floor morphing into the dark hardwood she feared. The bright sun from the kitchen window began to spin into falling shadows. It was all pulling her to the dark she evaded, pulling her back to capture, but as if on instinct, warmth slung over her shoulders.

Glancing to her left, she melted in George Weasley's ice blue eyes. His fiery hair was unruly, standing in multiple directions. It was much shorter since they returned to safety, a pleasant change she could get used to. His red beard was also gone, clean-shaven, though his midday stumble was burning through his skin, accenting his strong jaw. He was far too alluring. The way he looked at her with such adoration, with such passion, it brought her back. Each time her terrors, both night and day, came barrelling through, George was there, drawing her to a welcomed warmth. Any time her mind slipped in the slightest, George was there, winning the battle between light and dark. He was her rock, he was her sanity, and as he smiled down at her, she felt maybe she was his too.

"How much soup would you like dear?" Molly asked, ladling a large helping into George's bowl as she addressed Hermione. Her eyebrow was quirked upward in question, probably waiting to see if Hermione would actually speak to anyone other than George. Hermione tensed slightly, unsure on how to approach the answer. Though their presence had been comforting, Hermione had yet to speak to anyone, other than George, not since her nightmare. They would speak, and she was just sit there, unsure, like she was now.

"Just a little bit mum," George answered for her, sensing her discomfort.

"Alright, dear," Molly's voice was laced with pride, despite Hermione's lack of response, and Hermione knew why. George was definitely a son to be proud of. He was strong willed, determined, and devoted. He was caring and brave. He was smart and completely committed to standing by Hermione's side through this adjustment, and any mother would be proud to call this man her son. "Eat up, before it gets cold."

That was odd, Hermione thought, noticing the flash of Molly's eyes as they lingered on her. Could it be? Was that a look of pride? Was Molly proud of her as well? But, Hermione hardly understood why any form of pride would be directed at her. What had she accomplished? She had gotten captured, she had been tortured, she had been rescued by George Weasley, and what's worse, she refused to speak to anyone other than George since returning home. These were hardly elements to be proud of.

Gingerly, Hermione raised a spoonful of soup to her lips, relishing in the warmth it filled her with. George's arm tightened around Hermione's shoulders, his fingers running up and down the length of her arm, as it always did when they ate. The reassurance this simple action brought allowed her to focus on the taste instead of continuing down the self-loathing train of thought. She savoured the flavour of sweet tomato and fire roasted bell peppers, finishing her bowl quickly, and moving on to her sandwich. She was in the process of taking a bite when a green glow filled the kitchen.

The rushing sound of a floo entrance pulled her back to her surroundings. Glancing back, she watched as Bill Weasley emerged from the fireplace, wiping the dusk off his pants, and taking a seat next to Fred at the table.

"Hey mum, dad," he said while Molly fixed him a plate of food.

"How are you, Bill, dear?" Molly asked as she floated the large helping towards her son, the plate teetering with several sandwiches and a bowl of soup.

"Just fine," Bill nodded in greeting toward everyone at the table, a warm smile spreading across his lips, taking away from the long scars that marred his face. "There was an arrival at the cottage," he swallowed his bite of sandwich before continuing, "They will be arriving here."

"An arrival?" Hermione's voice rang through the kitchen, clear as a bell, before she could even stop herself. The surprised looks on everyone's faces should have stunned her as well, but she was fixated on Bill's comment. Bill nodded and Hermione broke her gaze, staring down into her lap.

An arrival? Shell cottage was only a transition point to Harry, Ron and she as they hunted for horocruxes. The order wanted an untainted landing zone, one not constantly used to ensure secrecy. Hermione sat still, sandwich untouched expect for one bite, unsure what this arrival could mean. Had the two collected all the pieces of Voldemort's soul? Had they been injured horribly after Hermione sacrificed herself for them? Had they come to take her away back to the mission?

Hermione gulped, eyes wide, before glancing to George who had stood from his seat. She could not go back out there, not with her escaped prisoner status. She could not put Harry and Ron in more danger despite how hunted they already were. She was not ready for the isolation and fear of the mission, not yet, and she was not ashamed to say it. Meeting George's eyes, she realized that maybe she was far more damaged than she thought.

"Mum," George said, holding a hand out to Hermione and pulling her up. "We are going upstairs to the infirmary." Looking around the room, Hermione realized that both Bill and Fred had already left and she suddenly felt very nervous. Bill's presence was more than just news.

Her hand instinctively clutched her ribcage protectively. Her wound. Bill was here to inspect, and hopefully mend, her wound. Every morning, Fred helped replace the bandage on her still unhealed wound, something Hermione had gotten used to. George helped change the bandage at night. Those two pairs of eyes were the only ones regularly privy to the jagged bloody words carved in her flesh. Feeling the skin stretch on her side as she reached for the railing, Hermione shivered as she quickly kept pace with George up the stairway.

The pain was starting to blend with her, each movement she made creating a new form of strain on the wound, and Hermione was worried. There were no signs of improvement. Not one. No scab, no clot, nothing but fresh blood resting at the surface. Blood replenishing potions had become a daily requirement just to ensure that she would not bleed out. Though, Hermione was anxious about another person inspecting it, she was more afraid of Bill being unable to mend the tore flesh.

As George and Hermione neared the infirmary, she felt a bubbling fear settle in her stomach. Her eyes met George's once more, letting the calm pools wash over her with support. George trusted his brothers, and if George had faith, then Merlin so did she. With a shaky hand, she reached for him, smiling shyly as their fingers intertwined. A silent promise of unity. Together they pushed through the infirmary doors. Together they walked, hand in hand, to where Bill and Fred had already settled. Together they sat on the bed, George's arm taking its place around her shoulders. As long as Hermione was next to him, she knew that they could overcome any obstacle. This check up was just the first of many hill to climb.

"Alright," Bill started, a casual smile gracing his lips. "Let's get to it, shall we?"

"Love," George turned to Hermione, his reassuring gaze turning the boil in her stomach into a gentle simmer. "Bill has to look at your side now, okay?" Hermione nodded, reaching for George's left hand and gripping it tightly. The fingers on his right hand proceeded to roll up the right side of the Ireland quidditch shirt she wore, holding up the fabric so Bill could remove the bandage.

Hermione shut her eyes when the laceration was exposed to the cool air, the jagged letters visible. She heard the deep breath that Bill took through his nose as he examined the wound. She heard Fred roll a table of supplies over, the clattering of metal instruments echoing through the hall. Instead she focused on the beating of George's heart as she pressed closer to his chest, trying to hide from the moment.

"How long has this been here?" Bill said, his voice devoid of emotion, as he flipped through the notes Fred had taken on the injury.

"I don't know," Hermione barely whispered, and in truth she did not. She was unconscious for a long time towards the end of her capture that time seemed to blur, at least for her. George on the other hand, answered clearly right after her.

"Almost four weeks," Hermione felt her heart sink. Four weeks? A month? She has been walking with this evil reminder for a month. No. No, that could not be.

"Four weeks and no scabbing?" Bill turned to Fred, "Were there any other attempts to heal it, any other potions, besides what you listed here?"

"No, but by the discolouration it's pretty evident which potion is needed." Fred replied, his voice filled with sympathy as opposed to Bill's stoic tone. Fred really was meant to be a healer, Hermione thought.

"Hermione," Bill began again, drawing her attention. She looked over to him nervously, afraid of what more information they needed. "I know you probably don't want to remember this, but," Bill paused, as if gauging whether to continue, but at Hermione's nod, he pressed on. "What did the use. A knife or a wand?" Hermione somehow knew that this would come up. A tear slid down her cheek and she turned her head into George's shoulder, mumbling her reply. George immediately tensed, rage coursing through him as he finally realized who had caused this devastating wound. It was obvious no one other than George had heard her, as she met the curious gazes of both Bill and Fred before looking down.

Bill looked on, waiting patiently for an answer. George's jaw cracked as he clenched his teeth.

"Claws." More tears began to drip down Hermione's face, dripping off her chin in a slow stream. There was no shock in Bill's face. He had seen these wounds before, Hermione knew that. Fred on the other hand, his eyes blazed, much like George's, with a silent rage.

"Fenrir." Bill stated knowingly, before rummaging through his bag, pulling out a small vile. The light twinkled off the silver liquid, one Hermione knew was Wolfsbane. With an eyedropper, Bill prepared a few drops of the potion, his hand steady over Hermione's side. "This may sting for a moment," he said before pressed down on the rubber plunger, dropping two drops of Wolfsbane on the bloody 'M'.

It stung. Quite a lot actually, but it quickly turned into nothing. There was no pain anymore, not even when she took a deep breath and the skin stretched. Immediately, the wizards and witch, watched as the wound begun to scab. With another drop, it had closed, healing into a silver white scar, much like the scars marring Bill's face and neck. With sad eyes, Bill continued his work on the rest of the word, the letters healing into matching scars spelling out clearly Mud blood. When he finished, he repacked the potion and pulled out a small jar of white cream, placing it on Hermione's lap.

"What is it?" She asked gently, finding her voice again. Bill's sadness was mirrored in Hermione. Knowing that she would bear this scar for the rest of her days caused a weighted defeat to settle on her shoulders.

"Aloe and ground winter's breath," Bill said, "My own creation. It may help reduce the brightness of the scar, but I will be honest, this," gesturing to his face, Bill continued, "will never fade entirely." Hermione could only nod as she lowered her shirt, feeling George's arm tighten around her shoulders as she moved a little closer into his embrace. Merlin, how glad she was to have his support right now. "It's good to have you back, Hermione. This, it'll only make you stronger. It's a badge of honour. You may get cravings for red meat, but don't let it set you back."

It was the good-natured honesty of Bill's words that caused her to chuckle into George's chest. The sound was almost foreign to her in this situation, but Hermione found she was relieved. Relieved that she could even laugh in here, after this tremendous feat.

I will never forget your smell, kitten, that dreadful hiss bombarded her thoughts once more, causing Hermione to crash from the high she was on. Glancing over she saw a shadow take shape in the corner, a sharp tooth sneer gleaming in the dark, lighting up the face of Fenrir Greyback. She nearly screamed as she shut her eyes.

"Thanks for your help Bill," Fred's voice cut through her terror. Fenrir is right there, she thought, her voice lost on her once more, but Fred was carefree in his speech. Not even a suggestion that evil could be lurking. How could he be so calm about this? "Couldn't have done it without you, wolfsbane is very rare now, with all the attacks happening."

Opening her eyes slowly, first one, then the other Hermione glanced around the infirmary. Taking in the sight of Fred shaking Bill's hand. George still sat beside her, his eyes burned ice cold with an anger as he attempted to reign in his rage, remaining a calm support. Most importantly, Hermione saw Fenrir's disappearance, which baffled her. Was he not just there? Standing by the potions table, his teeth curled in a venomous sneer. Hermione felt like she may have lost her mind.

"Right, so," Bill stood, pulling his bag off the ground and slinging it over his shoulder. "There is more." Hermione looked up, Bill standing over the bed right before her, holding out a charmed letter to her. The familiar scrawl made Hermione's blood blaze with excitement and anxiety. "The arrivals will be needing some assistance with mission, Hermione, I know you're familiar with it."

"No," George's voice burst through the air, his anger building and lacing his words with a shaky fear. Hermione felt as if the earth fell from under her. She was falling, knowing exactly what these arrivals would need from her. "She is not going with them again, Bill."

"George," There was a tremor in her speech, but she hid it with determination, halting George's rage. "Bill, please continue."

"They gave me this to give you," Holding out the letter once more to Hermione, she finally grabbed it from his outstretched hand. The folded piece of paper weighed heavily in her palms and Hermione could not stop the trembles in her fingers. Her mind was clouded with emotion. They needed her to leave again, that's why Ron and Harry were coming back. They needed her to give them everything. Hermione was sure she may be going crazy, she was convinced Fred thought so at least, was that really best for Harry and Ron? A crazy person who sees delusions of the past? A person who could not even admit to herself that she was teetering on the edge and seeing things? That would just put everyone in danger.

"When should we expect them?" George asked, taking over for Hermione, his strength seeping into her skin. Could she really leave George behind?

"By eight tonight." Hermione could not hear anymore. A loud rush passed her eyes, blocking all coherent sound. They needed her. Harry and Ron needed her. They needed her to give them everything. They needed her to give them the little bit of strength and sanity she had left, but if she went back out there, if she left again on that mission, Hermione was certain that none of them would come back alive.

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