Author's Note:
I have decided on a few things with this story. To increase the speed of posting, I will be updating with scenes as opposed to chapters. This chapter and the next to follow, for example, were meant to be one chapter. This will mean instead of four chapters left, there will be more. I am not sure as to how many... This will make it easier for me to write.
This chapter is a bit fluffy, but there are some heavy chapters to come as well. There still is the final battle after all. I very much enjoyed writing this one. Please let me know what you think!

Thank you again for your patience and support. It means so much, you guys are great and I am eternally grateful for it.

Disclaimer:
Rowling owns Potter.

Love and War Chapter 21
Clarification

In the last months, Hermione Granger had woken up in a haze far more times than she could count. Each was thoroughly unsettling. Not knowing what would be waiting past the darkness was a terror. A mist made her vision blurry, leaving her vulnerable to any hovering threat, and, with a war raging around her, defenceless was one position she would rather not be. But, as her gaze settled on the shaggy redhead beside her, Hermione felt being vulnerable was an all right place after all.

Her fingers threaded through George Weasley's hair, running in the soft strands as she trailed a path down to his neck. He looked uncomfortable, slumped forward in his armchair with his head on her bed. Obviously, George refused to leave her side, resting on his forearms as he watched over her, even in slumber. Dark circles marred his face, making it appear hollow, and, though he was asleep, Hermione could see a conscious worry fighting for dominance.

Merlin, he must be exhausted.

"He finally passed out about fifteen minutes ago." Hermione jumped, nearly screaming out. The familiar voice startled her out of her skin, and she placed her free hand to her chest in an attempt to slow the rapid beating of her heart.

The shadows of the infirmary highlighted the night, and Harry Potter used it to his advantage. Moonlight trailed in through the high arched windows, streaming through the ward. It glinted off his glasses, twinkling just for a moment before the dark smothered the reflection. Swallowed by the gloom, Harry nestled in a chair on her left, guarding her bed.

Well, he certainly got better at being unseen.

"Harry," Hermione let out a relieved breath, glad to see her best friend was relatively unharmed.

"How are you feeling?" Harry was avoiding her eye as he asked timidly, his voice wavering just so, and any relief she felt quickly vanished.

She knew this Harry Potter. Oh yes, Hermione knew him. This was the Harry Potter, who let his thoughts get the better of him. This was the insecure young Harry Potter, who was afraid of the realities of war. This was a child inside the brave Harry Potter, who selflessly blamed himself for the wrong doings of others. Yes, she knew this Harry Potter very well.

"Fine," she lied smoothly, though she was far from it. The first sign of that had to be seeing things that were not real. The second was casting a curse at her dear friend. Ron Weasley's motionless body haunted her but now was not the time to show her emotional trauma. Not when the chosen one was feeling guilty.

"And the potions?" Staring out the castle window, Harry fidgeted nervously in his lap. Her fingers were trembling as well but with suppressed pain instead of remorse. Her skin was pale, and her lips border-lined on blue, but, with a gentle smile, she braved on, and attempted to remain nonchalant.

"The potions are a breeze." That was another lie. The potions were vile; who knew that antidotes would be just as difficult at the poison itself. Fred had warned her but, obviously, she was not prepared enough.

The curse was leaving the same way it came in: with excruciating magic. She felt the toxic fumes stinging her wounds on exit as the poison evaporated out of her body. The taste was bitter, and the effects burned, leaving her insides a charred mess. Fever ripped through her veins, chills swelled up her spine, and air was difficult to breathe in but, Harry did not need to know this.

"Don't do that," he whispered, his hand rising to wipe a tear off his cheek.

Leave it to Harry to suddenly become observant. "Don't pretend it's all right, that this is all right. Merlin, Hermione, what you went through."

"Harry," Hermione said softly, trying to reassure him in some way, but words eluded her.

"I am so, so sorry." Hermione was taken back. Never had she seen Harry get this upset. Ginny always informed her after the fact, but Hermione never witnessed it firsthand. The breaths leaving him were ragged with tears, his apologies coming in chopped pleas. This was a new voice, one entirely different than the strained tone she was used to. Emptiness surrounded his tone, the vowels vibrating with violent devastation and the words withering away to silence; he sounded utterly defeated.

"No," the hand that not tangled in George's hair reached for him, gripping Harry's wrist in order to grab his attention. Green eyes shone with glassy tears. Emotion and compassion breezing through the forest in the orbs; the leaves rustling with sadness and the wilderness depressed with shame. "Harry, I want you to listen to me carefully. This is not your fault."

"Oh, come off it, Hermione," Harry snapped. "You could've died and cause of me. I don't even know how you did it, but all of a sudden I was apparated to some forest and I knew what you'd done." He heaved a sigh, falling silent for a moment, and Hermione tightened a squeeze to his wrist before allowing him to pull back.

"I had every reason to," she whispered. Continuing the repetitive strokes through George's hair, she felt him inch closer to her touch, and Hermione settled her oncoming tears. The action calmed her. His presence comforted her. It reminded her of who she was protecting when she protected Harry, told her of the freedom she was fighting for and, most importantly, reminded her of the love that would always guide her. "I've made my own decisions in this war. Who I fight, what for, and who with is entirely my choice, and the consequences of those choices are not in any way your fault, Harry."

"I know that, it's just—."

"Stop blaming yourself for everything," Hermione interrupted firmly, "I don't. No one does. So, you shouldn't."

"George does," Harry nodded his head over to the sleeping wizard who devotedly remained by her bedside.

The bed dipped slightly next to her thigh, George's face blank, as his fists clenched slightly, and she scoffed. Harry thought he had George all figured out, and it was disturbingly inaccurate. One looking at George could see how troubled he was by what happened at Malfoy Manor, both to him and to Hermione, but that fury was not aimed at Harry. Not really. "He blames me and Ron for what happened."

"He does not," Hermione had determination laced in her voice, blanketing the air with finality. Earlier, George's ocean blue eyes had burned with an icy ferocity, that protective passion steaming through him, and fuelling Hermione with new strength, but it was not because of Harry. No, the one in his crosshairs had claws, and fur.

Hermione closed her eyes as memories began surfacing; real memories, not delusions. The hands that had gripped at her, at him, the vile woman who had tormented her nights with wicked curses, the werewolf who had marked her with sharp cuts; all of it flooded in a muddled horror. George Weasley was certainly angry, but the real reason was alive in a death eater stronghold. "The only people who George blames are death eaters."

"If I'd known I would've come, y'know I would've."

Hermione knew. Of course, she knew. Harry was her best friend, her brother, her family. Just looking at him, face buried in his palms as he pleaded with her, Hermione could see he would not have abandoned her. It was the same reason she had protected him, and always would. No matter what, Harry was her blood now, and protecting one another was all part of the package, but Hermione was far too stunned at his begging. She only managed a responding nod, hoping that it was enough.

The conscious pair lapsed into a calm quiet. The sounds of a simmering cauldron and the ticking clock echoed through the hospital wing, and Hermione watched George sleep. The goofy grin he wore brought her joy as he shifted slightly. He really was incredible to look at. A strong jaw accented by light stubble, broad shoulders made more powerful by a defined back, muscular arms just meant to hold her safe. And it was then Hermione realized fully that this man, his love and soul, it all belonged to her. Her heart swelled up with the utmost pride.

"I've never seen him like this before," Harry let loose breaking the moment, "I'm pretty sure he'd do anything for you."

Hermione smiled shyly, glancing over at the serene face again, watching him doze on. Her fingers traced the bone down his cheek before running through the hair behind his ear wound. Of one thing Hermione was certain, George Weasley loved her.

"I know," she was wispy and subdued despite the aches in her body, the loose strands of her curly hair falling forward to conceal her blush.

"He's a good man."

"The best," she said, smiling wider as she watched George twitch in slumber. His lips curved into a subtle smirk, as if he knew Hermione was complementing him. Oh, she loved him. He was air to empty lungs, water to thirsty mouths, and sun to empty skies. "I don't think I've ever loved someone like this before."

I am glad you had the chance.

Looking up at Harry's face, she felt the words. They danced through the air, the ones unspoken louder than ever. That was what Harry wanted to say. The letters were in his eyes, watching her with a reserved happiness, even as he said, "I can tell." This war was taking its toll on him, and it broke her heart. Being away from her friends for so long, Hermione was pulled away from the stress and into a different kind of terror. She was isolated in it, lost to the world, but sitting next to Harry now, looking at the haunted shame which embodied him completely, Hermione knew what had to be done.

"When are we leaving?" she asked, and Harry's eyes widened. He looked like an animal caught in a trap until the shock wore off. Then the irritation set in.

"You are not going anywhere," he said with fierce conviction. "Me and Ron are leaving tomorrow night."

"Not without me," hers was just as fierce. "You said it yourself. You need a researcher."

"We aren't doing this, Hermione," Harry's anger radiated off him, the heat scalding her worse than the antidotes, and Hermione swore that George was shaking with a mirrored anger. "Think about this before you get all fixated. You're still undergoing treatment, there's no way," he gestured to her, the light sweat which clung to her skin, and the rickety trembles which radiated through her muscles, making his point, "you can't do this on the run."

"But I could still help."

"Not like this you can't," he pressed, "let yourself rest, Hermione." A part of her knew that fighting the decision was useless while the other part did not want to admit it. She was about to argue again, push to have her way, but Harry grabbed her hand in his, asking her to see reason. "I promise you that once you're better I won't argue if you come back, wand raised, and ready to give those bastards hell," pausing he let out a breath. "I can't lose any more of my family. Neither one of us can."

And there it was. The flaming arrow into a vat of petrol. An explosion of grief igniting with a splash through her body, smothering her with longing. George was no longer throbbing, his heat suddenly taking on a tender sensation as his presence managed to soothe the sting of Harry's sentiment. The sacrifice Hermione had made was her parents, and now Harry was the only family left, along with the Weasleys.

Harry was right. If she went back out on the hunt, Hermione would do more damage than good. And yet, she was a born fighter. Her inner warrior raged within her, dying to bring an end to injustice. She could not let them down, not a single one of them. If that meant fighting through pain to bring down evil, then she would, because winning this war was what Hermione Granger was meant for.

"I've got to do something," she said, looking up at Harry's determined gaze. He was stuck in his mindset, keeping her, his adopted sister, out of jeopardy. "I can't just sit here and do nothing." Her mumbling dropped to a soft whisper, as her psyche rapidly raced for solutions. But she could not stop her focus from remaining on the events of the evening.

The whole incident in Kingsley's sitting room weighed hard on her shoulders. Two curses had come to mind when she thought Greyback was standing before her, and not knowing which she spoke aloud scared her. She was definitely not in control of herself, not fully at least. Hermione was a loose cannon.

Holding back a groan, she felt a rather large shiver of pain rush through her. She tightened her hold on George's locks briefly, anchoring her to a reality beyond the painful wave.

It would be better if you helped them from here.

George's voice suddenly boomed off the canyons of her skull, reverberating through her bones. His words rang an alarm bell within. It was not in Hermione to surrender so quickly. It was not in George either, which is why he so readily understood her desire to fight. The logic, however, was inescapable. Going on the road was a huge risk.

It would be better if you helped them from here.

He had said that to her, whispered it against her hair when she had expressed desire to rejoin the fight. Communication was almost symbolic of power in this war. It was difficult to achieve covertly, and, if it could be accomplished, an advantage to be gained. All they needed was a way for communication.

It would be better if you helped from here.

Yes, but how was that even possible. Letters were unreliable; easily traced and far from immediate. Telephones, both mobile and lined, were primitive; widely known and anything but inconspicuous. No, what they needed was instant and covert.

The corner of her mouth tugged upward, her lips forming a grin; instant and covert were certainly within their grasp.

"Maybe it would be better if I helped from here," Hermione said suddenly, her eyes gleaming with brilliance. Oh, she was on to something.

"Your rest is nonnegotiable," Harry was apparently not catching on.

"No," she started, "I mean, I could helpfrom here."

"Hermione, stress is not—"

"Just hear me out," Harry still, patient though eying her sceptically. "I could research here. It'd be ideal considering how extensive Kingsley's library is. The only thing we need is a way to communicate my findings."

"I suppose," Harry was intrigued, but still sceptical. "But owls are being intercepted left and right."

"I wasn't suggesting owls," she said with a smile. "George was telling me of a product her and Fred invented while in Hogwarts. A parchment that let you write notes to each other without the knowledge of your professor."

"I'm listening," Harry sat up straighter, moving the chair closer to her bedside as if the proximity would add protection to their conversation. He obviously did not take into account the set of unconscious, and slightly damaged, ears next to them.

"All we'd need to do is add more security to it, work out the kinks, and we could instantly have a line of communication." Hermione grinned widely, letting her solution become a victory as she watched Harry's lips mimic hers. "I'm sure Fred and George would help with that, maybe even the marauders themselves."

"And you're sure you're up for that this?" Harry pressed his argument. His eyebrow rose, watching the quivers in her hand as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't want you to push yourself harder than necessary."

"I'm sure, Harry," somehow, despite her timber teetering with unsteady breaths, despite fever burning her body with chill and pain, Hermione managed to sound reassuring. "I am fine."

"Ok," he said, leaning back into his seat, and the small curve on his face grew in size. "But only if Fred approves it."

Satisfied in her solution, Hermione was beaming when she felt George stir.

Finally, he decided to join them. Just as she decided she wanted to invest herself so deeply in this war once again. Perfect timing. George twitched slightly as he moved, and Hermione tensed for a moment. He would never oppose her decision, he would offer full support, but George would be worried about her beyond belief. And with good reason.

Hermione was not completely better, neither mentally or physically. There was a very substantial chance that she may not survive to see the end of this fight, and that was an outcome that scared George so deeply. Hermione knew because the thought of his death invoked the same reaction in her. The thought of living without him, it chilled her to the bone.

He shifted his weight to turn his face the other direction. With the crinkling of his nose, George let out a huff of air. She ran the tips of her fingers down his forearm, hushing his sleep disturbance, and linking her fingers with his. Groggily he stirred again, eyelids crunching before opening slowly.

"Hey you," Hermione said playfully, relishing in the boyish joy which glinted in his eyes.

"Look who's up." Sleep made his voice hoarse, thick and rough, stirring her away from anxiety. Bringing their linked hands to his lips, George kissed a series of pecks on her knuckles before releasing her to stretch out his arms. The rising of his shirt let a glimpse of the defined abs free for just a moment, sending Hermione rushing through a whirlwind of desire. Why was he so far from her? "How are you feeling?"

"Never better," she swallowed hard, feeling herself heat up as he ran his fingers through her curls before cupping her cheek. She nuzzled into the palm, enjoying the cool skin ease the heat into another burning swell.

"Merlin, Hermione," he whispered, jerking his hand away to press the back of it against her forehead, "you're burning up."

"A-am I?" she sputtered. Was her yearning that apparent? Was it manifesting physically?

"Yeah," Casting a glance over to Harry, George motioned across the room. Oh, this was beyond embarrassing, "Potter get me a cold washcloth will you?" Hermione closed her eyes, hoping to shut out the moment entirely, but Harry's echoing steps left her flushing bright red. "You sure you're feeling all right, love. You're red."

"Yes," Hermione cleared her throat, cold damp cloth pressing against her forehead, drawing her eyes open. "I'm all right. Just peachy, promise."

"Maybe you should get some more sleep?" Harry suggested.

"Yes, that probably is wise." Hermione would sleep through it all if she had to. Anything to take her away from this embarrassment. She was mortified.

"I'll leave you two alone then," Harry rose from his seat, leaning down to pull Hermione into a tight hug. "We'll talk tomorrow morning," he said quietly along with a muffled express of relief that she was now safe, and with that, he left. The footfalls faded down the corridor as he made his exit, drowning the ward in silence.

"Love," George asked, and her eyes immediately locked with his blue ones. "Is this helping? Should I go get Fred?"

"I promise you I am fine," her hand wrapped around his wrist, tugging him, and the wet cloth, from her forehead. "Please, stop worrying."

"Can't help it," he whispered seriously before giving her a wink. He tossed the towel to the side with a snort, "plus, if I stop, you'll probably get yourself back in this awful place. One of us has to be the responsible one in this relationship."

"Is that what we are in now? A relationship?" She bit her lip as she averted his gaze, nervously taking in the bedspread covering her legs. The stark white sheets were suddenly very intriguing despite the curial moment. Yes, they shared a very real unwavering love but the clarification of what exactly they were to each other suddenly made Hermione very nervous.

Either they were bound by the experience of joint capture, their time forever linked to the duration of the war, or they were gifted with unyielding devotion, love gracing them for the rest of their days.

"I would assume so," with a chuckled, he placed a finger under her chin grabbing back her focus. "I mean, a Prefect stormed up to me declaring her undying love. I can't let an opportunity like that pass by, now can I?"

"No, I suppose not." Hermione was grinning widely, unable to suppress the happiness that flowed through her. Any doubt she may have had vanished with his evident bubbling joy. He loved and wanted her. George Weasley fancied her as his, and that made everything else, the pain, the tears, and the embarrassment, worth it.

"Absurd to even think otherwise," George's hand cupped her cheek, his thumb drawing circles on the skin. The feeling was disorienting, making her dizzy with excitement.

"Unfathomable," she scoffed, "walking away from that."

"Wouldn't dream of it, love." And before she could think of a retort, his lips claimed hers in a heated kiss. His hand tangled in her hair, pulling her close, and she responded with zeal.

"George," she whimpered against his lips. The gap between the chair and the bed was much too great. Something had to be done. Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck, gaining a bit of height as she sat up on the mattress. Climbing from the blankets, she pushed George back into the chair and settled sideways on his lap. Her legs draped over his, her fists clenched the front of his hunter green sweater, and his arms wrapped her into his embrace.

"Are you cold?" George mumbled as his fingers traced a shiver up her spine. She responded by swiping her tongue against the seam of his lips, making him groan.

There was no better sound.

Leaning back further into the arm rest, Hermione hummed against his tongue. Her hands began to play with the hair at the back of his neck, nails scratching the skin slightly, before she felt his weight shift. His forearm rested next to her, holding George above, and her flush against his chest. Her mind fogged with yearning, enveloping her within a cloud of cushion and George.

The controlled touch he commanded masterfully grew more frenzied. His fingers travelled from the bare skin of her lower back to the midriff of her front, making her arch into him. With a groan, he kissed his way down the column of her neck, moaning against her skin when her hands trailed down to the hem of his sweater.

It did not belong on his skin. That sytherin piece of wool denied her the flesh she longed to caress. Hermione tugged at the fabric, dragging it upward, and George pulled back to remove the very offending shirt before resuming the kiss.

The muscles on his back tensed against her touch while the moans were coaxed from her lips by his. Her nails dug into his shoulder when he bit her lower lip. His hands bunched the fabric of her t-shirt when she sucked at the skin on his neck. Their breaths grew ragged when their kiss finally pulled apart. Oxygen was paramount it seemed.

"'Mione," his forehead rested against hers. Dark longing and twinkled joy lingered in the confines of his eyes, immersing Hermione in a molten heaven. Leaning up, she kissed the skin on his collarbone, nipping at the thin flesh as he let out a low growl. "I'm hanging on by a thread here."

"I love you, George," she whispered, and George grinned. Her lips tingled, most likely as swollen as his as he stole another kiss. This one was softer, melting sweetness onto her palate, and she sighed.

This was nirvana. Hermione was certain there was nothing better than kissing George Weasley.

"Don't get any bright ideas now, love," George said against her lips, moving them so they could lie on the bed instead of the cramped chair. "I want you to remember I belong to a Prefect."

"A loony bin, that's where you belong," Hermione's laugh cascaded across the ceiling as she swatted his chest playfully, allowing him to pull her into his side.

"What a harsh thing to say," his voice was suddenly serious, and Hermione only laughed louder. "Loony bins are quite pleasant actually." Letting out a bark of laughter, she moved closer into his chest, the path his fingers danced relaxing her into a calm stupor.

Nuzzled under his arm was another one of those 'nothing-better-than' moments. Her head rested on his chest, his heart beating at a steady rhythm, and Hermione felt content in the harmony the tempo brought. "I love you too, Hermione." George's lips pressed against her temple.

Laying next to him, George's skin against hers, the warmth lulling her into inevitable exhaustion, Hermione was at peace. Her eyes drifted closed, her breathing slowing and sleep tugged her into its waiting hold. But she could not sleep. Not yet.

"George," she asked into the silence only to receive a sleepy grunt in response. "You'll prepare that parchment won't you?"

"The one to 'communicate your findings'?" George quoted.

Of course, he knew. And Hermione was correcting in assuming George was aware of everything.

The sneaky trickster loved having the upper hand in the ways of information, his mischievous side shining fully in his actions. And yet, no matter how devious he could be, George Weasley was the most honest man Hermione Granger had ever known. She trusted him entirely, with her heart, her mind and everything in between, including the war.

"Don't worry, love," he said, nuzzling her hair with his nose. "I'll take care of everything."

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