I'm so sorry, you guys, it's been a long wait again. I made this chapter extra long to make up for it. This was so much fun to write and made me so giddy that I could just kick my legs. I meant to update yesterday evening, but I got the worst migraine of my life and went to bed before I could finish.

As a side note, someone please give me suggestions for dates that George could take Hermione on. I have so many ideas for Muggle ones, but none that involve magic, and it's driving me insane. The only other one I can think of is a flying lesson, but I did that in another story and I don't want to do that again. There's already some overlap in this with Fred and George's relationship and personality, and I want to keep the rest of it totally separate from the other. Any suggestions would be sorely appreciated.

Anyways, I hope you all had safe and happy holidays. Happy New Year!

Bookcozy: I feel like Fred and George's intelligence is just so easily brushed away. They are such underrated characters, even outside of their comedic relief. Also, Eugene was my favorite to write. He's a chaotic, charming thing. Based on the end of your review, you'll like this chapter! The wooing is starting.


Chapter Nine

Hermione,

You cannot actually be considering getting married. We understand that this is a world that you have grown to love, but this law is entirely unacceptable and barbaric. After everything that you've been through…after all of the sacrifices that you've made for them…this is not the way. At some point, you must admit that this is a world that is not worth being part of anymore.

Come home. We can figure out everything else later.

We will not support this decision if you do not come home. Being married is a commitment and not something to be taken lightly. It certainly isn't something to disregard simply because you are comfortable with the Weasleys. They have been kind to you over the years, and we can never repay them for that, but this is not acceptable.

It's time to say goodbye, Hermione. We raised you better than this.

Mum and Dad

Hermione sank onto the bed, her eyes blurring a little as the words washed over her.

She'd known they'd be upset, and she didn't blame them — she didn't think. Things between them had been tense lately, but she'd hoped for some level of understanding from them, some admission that they understood how difficult of a position she was in at the very least.

Because up and leaving was easier said than done. It didn't change the fact that she'd be considered a criminal in the eyes of Wizarding law, and she wasn't entirely certain how seriously the Ministry was taking the threat to send them to Azkaban for not complying with the law.

She didn't want to find out either.

It didn't change the fact that she'd have to leave behind a group of people who had put their lives on the line to protect her rights to exist in this world. It didn't change the fact that these people had become like her family, as difficult and painful to leave behind as the world she'd come to love.

It was more than just loving this world, although it was her biggest reason for staying. Any decision she made would end in misery for her. To brush it off as though she were taking the easy way out or that she wasn't considering the consequences at all was entirely unfair.

We raised you better than this.

She sobbed lightly, burying her face in her hands.

Their favorite words to use when she disappointed them, and it had always worked. She'd had a horrible time of disappointing her parents when she'd been younger. So much of her inability to break the rules had been developed for the pure sake of wanting to impress them. Her parents had been such chronic rule-abiders themselves that she'd developed a sort of anxiety any time she stepped out of line. She kept her grades high, she followed the rules, she didn't talk back — it was the way of things, just to not hear those words echoing back at her.

And she'd succeeded too. She hadn't heard them in so long. Not even when she'd returned their memories — though, to be fair, they'd not said much to her after the fact or she imagined that they would have.

And how was she supposed to explain to them that she hated every moment of what she was dealing with, but still wanted to go through with it? How did she tell them that she was miserable and heartbroken over losing Ron? That she had to marry his brother instead?

How did she explain that she needed them now more than she ever had before? That she was terrified of the entire thing — more than she'd ever been terrified with Voldemort — and that she could barely make sense of her own feelings?

She couldn't tell them.

Because she'd erased their memories and they were so angry with her and they wouldn't understand. They wouldn't understand any of it. To her parents, everything was black and white, and while she was happy to know that they cared about her enough to be upset on her behalf, this entire situation was painted in shades of grey.

She startled when there was a pounding up the staircase, wiping at her eyes hastily, just as Fred and George came to the door, knocking on it to announce their arrival, despite the fact that it was open…and that they'd practically stampeded up the stairs.

"Hey, Granger, sorry to bother you, we just needed to find our —" Fred paused, blinking at her.

She tried very hard to pretend like she hadn't just been crying. It was ridiculous at this point that she cried all of the time, and she didn't want to talk to either of the twins about it at the moment. Based on the half-glance that Fred gave George, however, she wasn't successful in hiding it. Fred spotted a box of their old things in the corner closest to the door, and jumped forward hastily to grab it.

"Well, would you look at that?" he said cheerily, making his way toward the door and shoving George further into the room. "Just what I was looking for! I'll be off then."

"Very subtle, Fred," George snorted with an eye roll.

"I know, right?" Fred said, grinning as he disappeared down the stairs.

George shook his head, looking amused, before he stepped further into the room as if he simply belonged there. Which, considering it was his old room, Hermione imagined that he did.

"You spend your day off holed up in here all day?" he said, looking around at the papers she had scattered on every available surface.

It was Wednesday, the slowest day of the week at the shop — so the twins said — so they had simply opted to close the store on that day, as well as Sunday, though Hermione suspected that was only to be at home on Sundays for family dinners.

Although truthfully, the way the two of them worked, she was surprised they weren't puttering about their workroom despite this fact. They lived and breathed their work, even on their off days, which was part of the reason that Mrs. Weasley had been having such a difficult time getting them to come home when they'd been swamped.

Though perhaps she shouldn't be judging, considering. Hermione had opted to look over the documents Kingsley had given her, rather than going for a swim in the pond with Harry and Ginny. Partially because she'd never been much of an outdoor person, and research was more relaxing to her, but also because Ron and Romilda were out there too, and she had no desire to be around the two of them.

As it was, she was surrounded by documents on her bed, and she hadn't changed out of the pajamas she'd worn the night before. Which she was distinctly aware of now was a tank top and a pair of sleep shorts.

She flushed slightly, tugging on the hem of her shorts anxiously to make sure they were at the right length. George's eyes tracked the movement, but he didn't say anything, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms across his chest, raising his brows at her expectantly.

She sighed heavily, but opted to answer, grateful at least that he wasn't asking her about her tears.

"I was looking over the law," she said as though he couldn't guess that himself. "It's important."

George made a noise that she couldn't really tell was understanding or mocking. Before she could get up in arms about it, he was speaking to her again.

"Did you find anything?"

"No," she said, frustrated. "They've made it very difficult to work around unless we all stage a coup."

Which was irritating on more than one level. She'd never not been able to find a solution to the problem before. It was driving her spare because she wanted there to be a solution. There had to be a solution somewhere.

"Well, I've broken the law before —" he started, and then laughed at her horrified look and clarified. "Blackmailing Bagman," She relaxed a little, afraid he had been about to tell her he'd committed arson or something more serious. "But I think that's a bit far from a coup. So I suppose you'll have to get used to me for the time being."

She snorted, trying to force herself to smile at him, but it just wasn't happening. Too much of that letter was floating around in her head still and she couldn't even begin to ignore it.

George gave her a probing glance.

"What's going on, Hermione?"

She shook her head, working desperately not to sniffle because that would just tell him that she had been crying, and it was getting embarrassing at this point. She had cried in front of him far too many times already.

"Nothing, I'm just stressed about the law," she said weakly. It was only a partial lie — or not even really because her parents were upset because of the law, so in a very circular way, it was the truth.

George didn't say anything for a long moment, watching her idly as she avoided eye contact. She'd never known George to let something go, but she also hadn't known him to care much for emotional displays, so she sincerely hoped that his distaste would outweigh his tenacity.

That had been a stupid thing to hope on her part.

She stared at him in surprise when he walked over to kneel in front of her, tilting his head to the side curiously as if he were trying to figure her out. She tensed when he reached forward to wipe a stray tear from her cheek before resting his hands on her knees.

He was very close to her now. She wasn't sure he'd ever been this close to her before. He smelled nice. Like cinnamon maybe? Or was it nutmeg? She didn't cook, so she couldn't really tell. And the gunpowder scent was masking some of it.

She stared at his hands on her knees as if she didn't understand what they were. They were large and his skin was warm and it was very distracting for some reason.

"Anything I can help with?" he said, as if offering her help was merely second nature.

And damned if it didn't make her want to cry again. She shook her head again, afraid that if she spoke, she might actually embarrass herself by crying into his shoulder or something equally awkward. He gave her a disapproving look that almost made her want to laugh; disapproval on George Weasley's face felt as out of place as a grin from Moaning Myrtle.

"This isn't going to work if you don't trust me, Hermione."

She hesitated.

It was true although everything in her body was screaming at her not to trust George Weasley with a single thing in case it was a prank or a trick disguised as a danish that would turn her into an ostrich.

But he looked sincere and she didn't see how he could possibly turn a horrible letter from her parents into some sort of sordid prank, so she fought her base instincts when it came to him, and held the letter out to him without a word.

He raised his eyebrows but took the letter from her with one hand, leaving his other on her knee. She cleared her throat awkwardly, trying not to squirm from the heat that radiated from his touch.

Was she out of her mind? Maybe she was coming down with something?

She focused on something else, choosing to watch his expression for clues to what he was thinking instead. He read quickly, letting out a low whistle under his breath.

"That's quite the guilt trip," he said bracingly, looking up at her. She still wasn't entirely sure she could speak without crying yet, so she just nodded. He eyed her curiously for a moment. "Do you want to leave?"

"I — no!" she said immediately. "It's not — that's got nothing to do with it. I just don't want them to be…disappointed in me. I mean, I'm sure that sounds ridiculous to you, but —"

"Why would it sound ridiculous to me?" he said, his brows furrowing. She gave him an exasperated look.

"Well, it's you, isn't it?" She said as if it were obvious. "You and Fred have always just done your own thing without worrying about what other people thought. Your mother could yell herself hoarse and neither of you cared if she was disappointed in you, but I can't do that. I can't stand the thought of them being upset with me. Of them being disappointed. I hate it."

He was silent for a long moment, his face blank, and she couldn't tell what he was thinking at all. It wasn't like him to be so quiet and she shifted awkwardly, suddenly under the impression that she'd said something wrong, but she couldn't for the life of her figure out what it had been.

When he spoke again, his voice sounded the same as it normally did, but there was an undercurrent of offense in his eyes.

"You know, when Ron was made a prefect," he said, keeping his gaze uncomfortably steady on her own. "Mum was ecstatic. She said, 'how wonderful…that's everyone in the family!' As if Fred and I didn't exist at all." She winced at the thread of vulnerability that entered his voice before he managed to clear it. She remembered that day. She'd been so ecstatic for her own badge, so surprised that it had been Ron with the other badge, and not Harry, that she'd barely even thought twice when Mrs. Weasley had said those words to him. "We're not immune from how it feels to disappoint someone, and if you think disappointing our mother came without some level of grief, you'd be wrong. We grew up our whole lives listening to people tell us how we'd amount to nothing because we couldn't take anything seriously. How we were wasting our intelligence because we didn't get more than three O.W.L.s apiece, which was deliberate, mind you." Her brow furrowed because she didn't understand why they'd deliberately only get three O.W.L.s, but he continued before she could ask. "Just because we learned to shut the noise out doesn't mean that we didn't hear it. And much as I love my mother, and understand that she was worried about us being okay, she wasn't afraid to voice the same things as everyone else. So, yes, Hermione, I do understand what it feels like to be a disappointment to your parents."

The words floored her.

"You never said — I mean, I wouldn't have thought —"

"Because we always brushed it off? Made jokes about it?" he snorted derisively. "It was easier. Nothing I said would have changed anyone's opinion of us anyway. We say something seriously and people give us doubtful looks or ask if we're only joking. It comes with the territory. We accepted that a long time ago, and we accepted that we couldn't please everyone. We learned to use that doubt as fuel for our dream instead. Sometimes doing what's best for you isn't always what's best for everyone else. That doesn't mean you shouldn't do it."

She didn't know how to respond to that because he'd never said that to her before, and she could feel the shame coating her throat, making it difficult to respond.

She'd been one of those people once. Even if she hadn't said it to his face, she'd thought all of those things at one time. She'd complained about them to Ron and Harry and anyone else who would listen. She'd silently agreed with their mother when she scolded them. He'd annoyed her to no end when she'd been in school because he didn't take anything seriously.

But he'd proven her wrong, hadn't he?

He'd proven them all wrong and he'd smiled the entire time. He knelt before her now as someone who had kept his optimism and humor intact after a war where they'd all lost friends and he'd nearly lost his best friend, his other half. He knelt before her as a man who was unequivocally himself, intelligent beyond what she'd imagined and wildly successful despite all of the things they'd thought of him before. He was trying to make her feel better even though she'd thought all of those things about him at one point herself, and she —

Merlin, she wanted to cry. This time for an entirely different reason.

"I'm sorry, George, I —" Her voice came out shaky, and she cleared her throat in an attempt to relieve it. She sighed heavily. "I feel like I say all the wrong things with you somehow."

There was a spark of amusement in his eyes again, and she relaxed a little. That expression she was familiar with.

"Don't worry about it," he said, so easily accepting her apology despite the fact that she'd been entirely insensitive.

This time, in the shop when she'd implied he didn't take anything seriously…and any other time in the last 10 years that she'd known him. And, of course, she'd always known him to be kind…sometimes….but such open and easy forgiveness over something that clearly hurt him was such an oddity to her. She'd always held a grudge. She'd always held on to anger a little too long. So had Ron. But here was George…just letting it roll right off of him for the sake of moving forward. He spoke before she could find the words to convey how truly sorry she was, even if he was just going to accept that response so easily.

"It's a bit of a relief actually, to tell you the truth." When she gave him a bewildered look, he grinned widely at her and shrugged. "I expected it to be me putting my foot in my mouth. You being a bigger prat than me just might be the best thing that's ever happened to me."

She scoffed, punching him in the shoulder and rolling her eyes when he laughed at her.

"Why'd you have to ruin it?" she said in annoyance, crossing her arms.

"Good arm, Granger," he said, grinning. She tried not to feel too good about herself. "You just looked a bit sad, is all, and it's not really that bad. How would you have known that if I hadn't told you? We've learned to ignore it, and Mum, for all of her ridiculous ideas, has always given us everything we ever wanted, so it wasn't so bad most of the time. Outside of the shouting bits. I'm really not saying it to make you feel badly, love…I'm just saying that running away isn't really the answer here. Well, if you wanted to run for the hills then I suppose that's your choice, but you don't, do you?"

"No," she said softly.

"Good," he said as if they'd decided something. "Then ignore it. Or write them back and tell them to sod off —"

"George!"

"Kidding, I'm kidding," he said, laughing and holding his hands up in placation. "Don't say that. Or at least don't tell them that I told you to tell them that or they'll never like me."

"Charming," she deadpanned with an eye roll.

He either didn't recognize the tone or simply didn't care about it because he grinned at her proudly.

"I am, aren't I?" he said rhetorically. She refrained from pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation. "Anyway, we're not wallowing about it. This is the situation and there's nothing to be done about that. You know, until you kill yourself finding the answer in these documents —"

She snorted.

"Try not to sound so broken up about the possibility, won't you?"

He laughed.

"You're funny, Granger, have I told you that?" he said, eyeing her appreciatively. She pretended she didn't notice, clearing her throat pointedly. He shook his head, not even appearing at all self-conscience about it, coming to a stand. "Anyway, get dressed, Hermy —"

"Not you too, George," she groaned painfully. He laughed when she threw herself backward across the bed in exhausted irritation. "I can't handle the both of you doing it. One is enough."

"We come as a pair."

"I swear to Merlin, George, I will quit." She frowned, suddenly realizing what else he'd said "And why am I getting dressed?"

"Because we're not wallowing," he said, as if this were an answer to all of her questions. It really wasn't. At all. "Fortunately for you, cheering people up is what I do best. Now get dressed, you slouch. I'll wait for you downstairs."

"I — what? Where are we going?" she said indignantly, sitting up on her elbows to gape at him. "And who said I wanted to go anywhere? I'm perfectly comfortable right now."

His eyes were sparkling as he looked down at her. She knew he was going to say something wildly inappropriate when he smirked at her, arching an eyebrow.

"Never thought I'd say this, but you look good in my bed, Granger." She jumped up from the bed as if it had caught fire, her entire face flushing a deep shade of red at the implication. He laughed at her. "Oh, good, you're up! How's about getting dressed then? I'll be downstairs."

Oh, she could just throttle him.

She considered it for longer than she'd have preferred, glaring at the doorway even after his laughter had faded down the stairs. Eventually, she huffed, searching for something to wear before stomping into the bathroom.

He was ridiculous, he really was. But she found herself far less irritated with him than she might have normally been after he'd confided in her earlier that people didn't take him seriously. It was the softest side of George Weasley that she'd ever seen, even if he did go right back to goofing off.

She wondered briefly why he'd told her any of it. Because he'd been trying to make her feel better? Because they were getting married? Because he wanted her to know that he understood what she was feeling?

He'd never have told her such a thing five years ago, but then she supposed they'd both changed quite a bit in the last five years, and circumstances were different now.

She sighed heavily, still feeling guilty about the fact that she'd played into something that had so obviously bothered him. She'd never have guessed it, and she wondered if Fred felt the same way. He seemed a bit more chaotic around the edges than George, a bit more callous, a bit less conscious, but they were so similar that she had a hard time imagining that he didn't.

Even if George had said it wasn't a big deal, she felt like it was. He'd so easily forgiven her both times she'd been insensitive, but she'd make it up to them anyway. Somehow.

She'd have to be more careful around them, she decided. She couldn't change the past, but she could be more mindful in the future. She didn't want to perpetuate that feeling for either of them, especially if she was going to marry one of them. She'd have to be more conscious of her actions. She could do that.

When she'd finally determined that she looked decent enough to be seen in public, she made her way back downstairs. He hadn't told her where they were going, so she'd opted for comfort and gone with well-worn jeans and a flowy black tunic top. It had a modest split v-neckline, swiss dot fabric, and ruffled sleeves so she wouldn't look horribly out of place if they went somewhere that required something more than a T-shirt, but it was also light and breathable so that she wasn't overdressed and felt relaxed and comfortable. And, because she was a bit afraid of exactly what sort of thing George could have planned, she slid on white low-top sneakers just in case she needed the sort of footwear required to make a run for it.

He was waiting in the kitchen, his back to her, helping his mother peel potatoes at the sink for dinner. She was surprised to note that he was doing it by hand, rather than using magic, but more surprised that his mother was next to him doing the same with carrots and parsnips. She hadn't known any of the Weasleys to do much without the use of magic, and the sight of it confused her at first until she saw the gentle smile on Mrs. Weasley's lips.

There was a calm, contented air about her as she worked next to her son, and she had the impression it was the companionship that set the unhurried pace between them.

Something in her chest tightened at the sight of them as their conversation drifted over to her.

" — I just worry about you two, is all," Mrs. Weasley was saying. "Are you eating enough?"

George chuckled, setting down a potato and grabbing another.

"Yes, Mum," he said gently, placating her. "You send us food every other day with enough food to feed half of England. And before you ask, yes, we drink plenty of water and our laundry is clean. Mostly."

Mrs. Weasley sighed sadly.

"You're all growing up on me," she said. "I couldn't get you and Fred to do your laundry for the life of me, and now you've done it without being nagged at."

George snorted.

"Yeah, well, coming home to piles of dirty laundry isn't exactly a comfort," he said, eyeing his mother out of the corner of his eye. Hermione had no idea why she didn't announce herself. This felt a bit impolite — like she was eavesdropping — but there was just something so sweet and comforting about watching them together. "And I don't know what you're so sad about. You'd think after everything we put you through, you'd be glad to be rid of us."

"I'll never be glad to be rid of you," Mrs. Weasley said firmly, giving her son a look that brooked no room for argument. "I miss you boys every day. Even if you did make me want to scream into my pillow at night."

She caught George's grin before he turned back to the sink and blocked her view of his expression.

"After all that shouting you did at us, I'm surprised you had the energy to scream into your pillow."

Mrs. Weasley sighed again, laughing under her breath.

"Some days I didn't," she said before looking over at her son with a guilty expression. "I was too hard on you boys, wasn't I?"

"Mum —"

His words came out sounding more like a gentle admonishment, but his mother didn't listen.

Now would have been a fantastic time to interrupt. She really should interrupt.

But still, she didn't.

"I shouldn't have been so hard on you," she said, peeling the carrots very absentmindedly now. "I heard you talking to Hermione upstairs —"

"You were eavesdropping?" he said indignantly, his head twisting to look at her beside him.

"I wasn't trying to," his mother said, sounding like she was about to scold him despite her own behavior. He snorted, shaking his head. "I was going to give her her laundry, and you do talk a bit loudly, dear."

"You're caught eavesdropping, and yet you manage to make it sound like I'm the one in trouble," he said, his voice thick with amusement rather than resentment.

Hermione wondered how he managed to be so laid back about everything. She envied him for it. She'd never managed such a thing.

"Yes, well," his mother said primly, trying to bring the conversation back around. "I just wanted you to know that I regret that now. After everything with Percy —"

"That wasn't your fault," George said, sharply. His mother sighed, patting his arm affectionately.

"I know, dear, but I don't want you to feel like I don't love you," she said. "I just worried about you two and I was afraid that you weren't thinking things through and —"

Her voice was wavering now, and it sounded thick with unshed tears. George paused what he was doing to wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her into his side for a hug.

"I know, Mum, don't cry, for Merlin's sake," he said gently.

"I just love you boys," she said. "I need you to know that. Maybe I didn't express that well enough but —"

"Mum, I will put a Canary Cream in your dinner if you don't quit it," George scolded. She swatted him with the dish towel she had on her shoulder, laughing lightly. "We know all of this already. We love you too. There's nothing to be upset over; you did what you thought was best, and that's that."

Mrs. Weasley smiled at him gently, reaching over to pat him fondly on the cheek and sighing happily.

"I'm so proud of you, Georgie," she said. "Even if I did almost break my neck in that store of yours the other day," They both laughed, returning to their work in silence. "That's all I'm trying to say. You're a good man."

"Course, I am," George said cheekily. "Look at who raised me."

The air in the kitchen lightened considerably and Hermione was opening her mouth to announce herself — after she'd pretended not to hear an entire, very emotional conversation between them — but Mrs. Weasley spoke again.

"So," she said facetiously. "How are things going with Hermione?"

George paused what he was doing to look back at her, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Were you softening me up just so you could stick your nose in my business?" he said, sounding oddly proud of her despite the situation.

"No, of course not!" Mrs. Weasley said, flushing red. "But I figured I ought to take advantage of the situation while it was here."

He chuckled again, shaking his head at her as if he were disappointed.

"My own mother," he said dramatically, hand over his heart. "I'll never be able to get over this betrayal —"

Mrs. Weasley rolled her eyes, smacking him on the shoulder with her towel again.

"I don't know what I'm going to do with you, George Weasley," she said with a huff.

George staggered as if the towel had injured him greatly, and his mother turned with her hands on her hips at the same moment that he realized Hermione was standing in the doorway.

She flushed red, hoping he didn't know how long she'd been standing there.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. George narrowed his eyes on her suspiciously and she tried not to shift from foot to foot. That would be highly suspicious behavior, wouldn't it?

"Oh, Hermione, dear," Mrs. Weasley said brightly, saving her from being caught in a lie. "You look lovely today. Doesn't she look lovely, George?"

George rolled his eyes to the ceiling and Hermione's cheeks darkened at the pointed way his mother was eyeing her son, clearly intent on shoving them together even though that was already happening, whether they'd chosen it or not.

"I think I can handle this on my own, Mother," he said in amused exasperation. Looking back at Hermione, he said, "Ignore her. Are you ready?"

She nodded, stepping toward him, but his mother brightened next to him.

"Oh, you're leaving?" She said, looking between them. "Together? Where are you going? Is this a —?"

George snorted.

"Calm yourself, woman," he said, grabbing Hermione's wrist and tugging her toward the door before they could be bombarded by more questions. "We're running errands for the shop."

His mother clicked her tongue at him disapprovingly, her hands on her hips.

"It doesn't sound like you can handle this on your own," she replied pointedly.

He snorted, waving her off and promising to have her back by eight. She followed after him, curious what they were doing for the shop, but before she could ask, they ran smack into Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Romilda. Hermione's entire body tensed at the sight of them.

"What the bloody hell is that?" George said, sounding disgusted and disapproving as he looked at his sister. "What are you wearing? Where are your clothes?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow — she didn't see what the problem was.

Ginny was clad in a dark green bikini, but it looked just as normal as any other bikini and there was nothing inappropriate about it. It covered exactly what it should. Unlike Romilda, who was in danger of spilling out of her bright red triangle top.

Hermione gritted her teeth, forcing her attention back to Ginny, who rolled her eyes at her older brother.

"It's a swimsuit," Ginny deadpanned.

"I'd hardly call that a swimsuit," George snorted, crossing his arms as if he intended to drag her back into the house unless she listened to him. "I can see your skin."

Hermione coughed to hide her laugh, covering her mouth with one of her hands. Harry shared a wide-eyed look with her and avoided eye contact with George completely as if he might not see him standing there if he stayed totally still and silent.

Ginny took the opposite approach, straightening to her full height, her eyes sparking in warning.

"It's called a bikini," she said as if her brother were quite possibly the densest person around. George merely raised an eyebrow, smirking at her as if she were cute. Hermione closed her eyes in exasperation; she could see this going a number of different ways and almost all of them ended up with George coughing up bat bogies. "It's supposed to show skin. But I suppose women might not want to wear one near you, considering you're such a pillock, so I suppose you haven't seen one before."

"I've seen —" He paused, shooting a glance in Hermione's direction before he snapped his mouth shut, seeming to think better of whatever he'd been about to say. She pretended not to notice, even when Ron looked between them suspiciously. "That's not the point. What are you going about wearing that thing for?"

"It's used for swimming," Ginny said slowly as if she were explaining things to a toddler. "Which we were just doing. That's why Harry's in a swimsuit too." George narrowed his eyes on Harry at the reminder. Hermione giggled before she could stop herself when Harry turned his head to look around, deliberately avoiding the area that George occupied. "You wear them so you don't get your clothes wet —"

"Oh, so you have other clothes then?" George said rhetorically. He placed his hands on his sister's shoulders, steering her toward the house. "Why don't you go put those on, and Harry and I will have a nice chat out here —?"

Harry gave Hermione an alarmed look at the thought, and she couldn't help it; she laughed. She laughed so hard that she bent at the waist.

It was just so ridiculous. He'd faced a giant snake, dragons, Death Eaters; he'd lost all of the bones in his arm; he'd faced Voldemort more than a handful of times, but a conversation with an overprotective George Weasley was the thing he was most terrified of.

She couldn't help it. She didn't understand that at all.

"I'm sorry," she said, waving her arm in an attempt to ward off the laughter. "I'm sorry. This is just so ridiculous." She grabbed George by the arm when he was too busy being distracted by her uncontrollable laughter and tugged him in the other direction, away from his sister. "You look great, Gin, ignore him. He's an idiot —"

"A lovable idiot, she means," George said proudly, letting her pull him toward the end of the drive. "She forgot to add that bit. And you do not look great, Ginny, you look like you need more clothing."

"Quit being such a caveman, George, she's not a child —" Hermione said, tugging his arm again.

"Where are you two going?" Ron demanded from beside Romilda.

She came to a stop so quickly that George tripped over her with a curse, catching them both before they went toppling over.

Ron had not spoken to her in…a month? Maybe it had been less than that, she couldn't remember, but she'd tried to avoid him, especially when he was visiting with Romilda. But he was looking at her now with anger and betrayal in his eyes and it made her chest cave in. She felt like she needed to apologize or something, which was ridiculous because she didn't. She hadn't done anything wrong, and they were apparently only going to run errands for the shop, even though it was their day off, so it wasn't like she and George were doing anything untoward.

Her gaze clashed with Ron's and she froze up completely under the emotion on her face. She could feel it again, that sorrow and grief and anger and guilt that was a near constant in her chest and stomach.

She didn't know what to say. She had no words —

George's hand came to rest on the small of her back and she jumped in surprise, turning to look at him. There was a moment of gentle understanding in the deep blue of his eyes, and his hand slid up her spine, forcing her to straighten her back, that same encouragement still banked in his eyes. His words from when they'd had dinner at Grimmauld several weeks before came back to her now as he wrapped a casual arm around her shoulders.

Remember who you are, Hermione.

Something sparked in her chest, and she let herself bask in that resolve for a moment. She looked back at Ron and raised an eyebrow.

"I don't see how that's any of your business," she said, her voice coming out much stronger than it would have several seconds before.

George winked at his brother.

"Don't worry, Ronnie," he said happily. "Me and my fiance here are just off to spend some time together. Don't wait up."

Before she could decide how she felt about his deliberate attempt to upset his younger brother, he'd apparated without warning. She stumbled forward when they landed in an alley, the sounds of the hustle and bustle of the city permeating from the street.

"George!" she said, shoving him in irritation. "You shouldn't apparate without telling people first! I could have splinched myself!"

He looked over her carefully as if he were making sure that she hadn't done exactly that, but she was too annoyed to find that endearing.

"I didn't think it was a good idea to stick around and risk the inevitable temper tantrum from Ron," he said by way of explanation, seeming satisfied that she hadn't been injured. "I'm trying to cheer you up, not make it worse."

"What you said to him was mean," she said, crossing her arms across her chest.

He rolled his eyes, grabbing her wrist and tugging her toward the street.

"He'll get over it," he said, not sounding sorry at all. She huffed, pulling them to a stop.

"George —"

He sighed heavily, turning to face her and not releasing her wrist. He gave her a hard look.

"He's a prat, Hermione, and he has no right to look at you like that when he's the one behaving like a child," he said unapologetically. "And I'm sorry for apparating without telling you — and for upsetting you, even though I'm not particularly sorry about pissing Ron off — but I'll make it up to you if you just come with me."

She didn't know if it was his defense of her after Ron's behavior or if she'd entirely lost her mind, but she let him tug her to the entrance of the alleyway, although she was still very angry at him. The area they were in was entirely unfamiliar to her, but she refused to ask him questions when she was so irritated with him.

Or maybe she ought to ask him questions? Would that irritate him more or less than if she didn't ask them at all? She didn't know him well enough to answer that question and that annoyed her.

He came to a stop on the sidewalk outside a building that was painted in a garish purple color with white lettering across the top that read Arcane Arts Emporium. The paint on the building was peeling and the window displays were old, dusty, and covered in cobwebs. It looked abandoned.

"Tell me you aren't planning on breaking in here," she said, eyeing the building cautiously.

He snorted.

"Would you come on?"

She tried her level best to keep him from tugging her toward the door, saying his name in a repeated panic because she really did not want to be arrested for breaking and entering — or trespassing — and she didn't care at all what he needed from this place for whatever ridiculous idea he'd had for the shop. If he thought that this was going to cheer her up, he had another thing coming.

He was much stronger than she was, though, and he tugged her into the store with very little difficulty.

She went to shove him again — or maybe hit him, she hadn't yet decided — but the sound of the bell over the door distracted her entirely. In the very next moment, her entire heart had stopped beating, her breath catching in her throat, and she forgot about him entirely.

It was…heaven.

It was her version of heaven anyway.

The shop had not been abandoned at all, but had merely been charmed to appear so, likely because they were in an area frequented by Muggles. The inside of the building was somehow bustling and quiet at the same time and spanned several floors. Wall upon wall of cherry wood bookcases, floor to ceiling, took up nearly the entire floor in front of her. They were filled to bursting with books, some looking brand new and others appearing old and frail, their bindings coming apart from wear, their pages appearing yellow as opposed to white, clearly well worn and cherished despite their age. There were sliding ladders along the bookcases so that patrons could browse books that were even at the very top of the shelves.

One wall of the first floor had been taken up by a bar made of the same dark cherry wood as the bookshelves on either side of it. The shelves behind it were backlit by some sort of white light and were filled with bottles and bottles of liquor, magic and Muggle alike. The shelves were made of glass, but the outer wooden edges of the shelving almost looked like they'd repurposed another bookshelf. Bottles floated down to the hands of the bartenders below as they poured drinks for the patrons in front of them.

There was a large smattering of tables in the center of the room before the bar, some of them filled with patrons who were chatting amicably about books they'd found and purchased. Another section of the room was filled with side tables and comfortable, high-backed armchairs. Some were designed to relax while reading, but others had wizard chess boards between them, frozen and ready to be played.

Somewhere above her, she thought she could hear someone playing Gobstones, the distinct sound of marbles knocking together and a disgusted exclamation as someone was squirted with the putrid liquid that filled them. There was a winding staircase of dark cherry wood on one side of the room that led up to the other floors, and craning her neck back, she could see more bookshelves above her past the balustrade that looked over the bottom floor.

There were hundreds — no, thousands — of books in the space. She'd never quite seen anything like it before. She'd never loved anything at first sight, but she was fairly certain she was in love right now.

"You haven't had a stroke, have you?"

She turned slowly to face the man next to her, who was looking at her with unrestrained amusement. She blinked at him, feeling giddy and lightheaded as the smell of parchment flooded her senses.

"I don't understand," she said hoarsely. "I thought we were running errands for the shop?"

He gave her a dry look.

"On our day off?" he said. "I just didn't want to tell my mother what we were doing. She asks too many questions."

She'd grant him that. The questions she'd started to ask before he'd cut her off had made her nervous as it was. Maybe she'd accepted his explanation to his mother so easily because she was desperate to think that this wasn't a date, but no matter what she'd expected, it certainly hadn't been this.

"I just thought this place would cheer you up," he said when she didn't do anything but gape at him. "Katie told me about it, and it seemed like the sort of thing that you'd enjoy —"

She cut him off by throwing her arms around his neck and squeezing him so tightly that she was afraid she might choke him by mistake. There was a moment of surprise from him before he reciprocated, chuckling warmly in her ear.

"Thank you," she whispered tearfully. "Thank you, George. It's perfect."

No one in all her life had ever done something so nice for her. She'd long since accepted that her love of books and literature was just not shared with her friends. Harry would have died before he'd gone somewhere like this, and Ginny was more of an outdoorsy person, though she'd probably have sacrificed it if she'd asked her to go. But she didn't like making people do things with her that they didn't really want to do.

Ron never would have brought her here. He'd have avoided such a place in an attempt to prevent himself from having to suffer through hours of distracted bliss. Or, if he had brought her, he would have spent the entire time trying to get her to play wizard's chess and complaining about the smell or how much he hated being around books. It would have ruined the entire thing for her, and she supposed that there was still time for George to do the same thing, but just the fact that he'd even considered bringing her here was enough. She didn't care if he decided that he didn't really like the place or if he left her in the store alone to peruse.

She'd come back here her entire life and remember that he'd been kind enough — thoughtful enough — to have shown her this place simply because he thought she'd like it.

George released her, and gave her a push toward the staircase.

"Go on then," he said, grinning at her widely. "I'll get some drinks and come find you."

She wanted to be polite enough to say that she could wait — it was such a large store, and who knew how long it would take him to find her — but she couldn't do it. It had been so long since she'd been in a bookstore. Her parents loved to read, and she'd always gone to bookstores with them, but, with them not speaking to her, she hadn't been to one in awhile. All of her favorite ones were too painful to visit without them.

But this one was all hers now, and she wanted to see all of it as soon as possible, and the thought of waiting in a line for drinks was abhorrent. And he really didn't look altogether upset, so she agreed. She was too excited, and she might have squealed slightly as she turned and raced away from him up the staircase. If his laugh was any indication, she absolutely had.

He must have thought her crazy, but she didn't care. She let her hand glide against the wooden bannister as she raced up the stairs. She'd start at the top and work her way down. She'd have to figure out a system that would help her remember where she'd started and stopped so she didn't miss anything the next time she came in. She decided to start on the left, sitting down cross-legged in front of the furthest bookcase and beginning her perusal.

Everything in her life faded to nothing, all of those loud, overwhelming thoughts fading to white noise as she made her way slowly across the shelves. They had a wide range of books, some Muggle, some magical, some that were so old that they were written in Latin, others written completely in Runes. She'd never been happier, and when George finally found her, and she'd begun to stand, he'd waved her off.

"Stay," he said, handing her a cup of cocoa. Mid-summer, it felt like a ridiculous choice, but it was very cold in the building, and the humidity was low in order to keep the books in their best condition, so she accepted the drink gratefully. "Don't let me stop you from basking in whatever swotty bliss you're feeling right now. I can occupy myself."

She hesitated again, but he seemed genuine, so she settled again, watching as he disappeared down the stairs with his own drink, that looked distinctly like something much stronger than what she was sipping.

By the time she'd finished with one bookshelf and moved to the next, she caught sight of him across the room in an armchair. He was partially blocked by the balustrade that lined the entire floor, but he looked relaxed, one of his ankles crossed at the knee and a book of some sort in his hands. She told herself that she'd only browse a bit longer and then she'd go over to join him — he had been the one to bring her, and it felt a bit rude to ignore him. She must have become enraptured with the shelves again, however, because she'd run out of cocoa, and he was there with another, waving away her apologies and taking the seat he'd occupied again. And she had no self-control when it came to books, apparently, because she let him without much complaint, letting herself get lost in the shelves again.

She pulled some of the books from the shelves idly if they caught her eye, careful (with the oldest books) to touch as little of the pages as possible to avoid getting the destructive oil of her fingers on the delicate pages. She made a note to bring gloves next time so that she could read them more easily.

She loved all of the book. Every last one of them. They were beautiful, all of them — Pieces of an author's soul left permanently etched on paper for the world to read. She loved them, no matter how ridiculous or frivolous. She could spend months here. She could spend the rest of her life in this bookstore, and she'd still likely not have made a single dent. And, Merlin, would she have happily died here.

She had no idea how long it was before George approached her again, but she'd pinned her hair up with a claw clip she'd conjured and she was barely halfway down the row of bookshelves that lined this wall.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you and your one true love, but I promised Mum that I'd get you back by eight and if I bring you back hungry, she'll have my hide."

She paused what she was doing, looking down at him from her spot on the ladder in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

He chuckled at her warmly, his eyes sparkling, and wiggled his fingers at her to entice her down from her position. She sighed forlornly, and conjured parchment and a self-inking quill that she'd gotten from his shop. In tidy, looping cursive she wrote the place where she'd stopped. Third floor, bookshelf number 4, third row from the top.

"It's nearly six-thirty, Hermione," he said good-naturedly, lifting her from the ladder and setting her on her feet once she was close enough to him.

Her jaw unhinged.

"I — what?" she said, thunderstruck. That meant they'd been here for hours. That meant she'd ignored him for hours and he'd just…he'd let her. He hadn't even complained once. "George, I'm sorry, I thought that it had only been an hour or two. Why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged, leading her back to the table he'd been occupying. The book he'd been reading was gone now, and there was a tray of finger sandwiches and bottles of water floating next to the table. She slid into the chair opposite him and nearly groaned. It wasn't exactly the most comfortable thing in the world to have stood on a ladder or sat on the floor for the last several hours, and though she hadn't noticed it much while she'd been distracted, she was noticing it now. She could have sank into the cushions.

"You seemed happy," he said, answering her question now that she'd relaxed. "Didn't feel right to disturb you."

She gave him an apologetic look.

"Yes, but you brought me here and I — well, to be totally honest, I sort of forgot you were here," she admitted guiltily. Ron would have been offended, started a fight about how she didn't care enough about him to wonder if he'd been enjoying himself; George surprised her by laughing lightly.

"I brought you here for you to enjoy it, Hermione," he said idly, grabbing a sandwich from the center of the tray. "It wasn't about me. Besides, I occupied myself just fine. And I didn't even have to blow anything up to do it."

She shook her head at him fondly, her chest warming a little.

"I'm very proud of you, George," she said, laughing when he grinned at her proudly. "You're really not upset?"

He gave her a confused look.

"Why would I be?" he said. "Making people happy is what I do."

She blinked at him, grabbing a cucumber sandwich to hide how much that sentiment made her want to cry.

"Well, thank you," she said when she managed to get her ridiculous emotions under control. "It was very sweet of you."

"What can I say?" he said cockily. "It just comes naturally."

"You're ridiculous," she snorted, selecting another triangle from the tray, this one turkey and cheese. "So, what were you reading?"

He relaxed back into his chair.

"A few things," he said, tapping the middle square of the chessboard with his wand and sending all of the pieces back to their respective sides. "First it was some book of Muggle fairy tales. I thought it was going to be a book about fairies, but it turned out to be wildly disturbing —"

She raised an eyebrow. Most of the fairy tales her parents had told her had been about fairy godmothers, enchanted pumpkins, princesses who could attract animals with their voice.

"How so?"

"Well, there was one with a horrible stepmother and her revolting daughters —"

"Cinderella," she said, nodding in understanding.

"Sounds like the name of a disease, if you ask me," he said seriously and she pursed her lips to keep from laughing. "Anyway, this Cinderella bird, she goes to the ball with some sort of magic from her mother's grave — which is ridiculous on the face of it — and she loses her glass slipper. Which also doesn't make much sense unless maybe they'd used a Strengthening Charm on the glass, which I assume they didn't because this is a Muggle story, right?"

She grinned around her sandwich. She hadn't eaten this much in weeks, but she was so relaxed and he was so easy to talk to that she didn't even think twice about how much she couldn't bear to eat.

"Right," she said in amusement.

"Well, this prince bloke — the stupid sap — he goes about the whole kingdom trying to find the girl who fits in this shoe. And we'll simply ignore how preposterous it is that she's the only person in this whole bloody kingdom with that size of shoe for the sake of time, but her crazy sisters…one of them cut off her toes to get them to fit, Hermione," he said, looking so horrified that she had to cover her mouth to keep from giggling. "How mental can you get?"

"Oh, George," she said, shaking her head with a laugh. "Those are the original stories. The ones they tell to children are much nicer."

"I'll take your word for it," he said doubtfully, grabbing another sandwich. "I almost couldn't stomach the thought of dinner."

She snorted, eyeing the way he immediately went in for another sandwich the moment he'd finished with his other.

"And yet, somehow, you manage," she said dryly. He narrowed his eyes at her playfully, and nodded toward the game board.

"You know how to play?"

She gave him a hesitant look.

"Yes, but I don't like to," she said. He grinned at her. "I'm not very good."

"Bodes well for me then," he said with a wink. She rolled her eyes, and opened her mouth to refuse, but he continued, "One game. Any time you take out one of my pieces, you get to ask me any question you want."

She paused, settling back in her seat and eyeing him with interest.

"Any question I want?" she said. He nodded. "And you have to answer?"

"I do," he said, raising an eyebrow. "But the same goes for you." That she didn't like. When she hesitated, he grinned at her wickedly. "Not scared are you, Granger?"

"Pawn to C4," she snapped, not removing her gaze from his.

He chuckled, the sound deep and satisfied, that mischievous sparkle that she was so accustomed to seeing lighting up his eyes once again.

"You're so much fun, Granger," he said, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table, one folded over the other. "Pawn to D5."

She winced when it immediately attacked her pawn and dragged it off the board before retaking its place. She waited with bated breath, praying he wouldn't ask her something horribly embarrassing —

"Favorite food?"

She blinked at him, her body relaxing all at once.

"Fish and chips," she said easily. "That's really your question?"

He grinned at her over his water bottle, looking very relaxed.

"Just warming things up, Granger. Mine's Cottage Pie…in case you were wondering. Go on."

She sighed, focusing on the chess board in front of her. George wasn't as bad as she was, but he wasn't as good as Ron, and she relaxed a little when she managed to capture one of his pawns after a few more moves.

"Favorite color?"

"Chartreuse yellow," he replied immediately. She blinked at him.

"That's oddly specific," she said, eyeing him oddly. He grinned. "Mine's —"

"Purple," he said, nodding before moving one of his knights, which immediately took out her last pawn. She didn't even notice because she was looking at him in total surprise. "I pay attention, Hermione. I told you that. Tell me a secret."

She jolted.

"A — a secret?" she stuttered as if she didn't totally understand what he was saying, her hand shooting to that spot on her arm to make sure the concealer hadn't worn off.

"Something you've never told anyone," he said, nodding.

She bit her lip, trying to think of what she could tell him.

The first secret that came to mind wasn't something she wanted to share with anyone. Ever. So she searched for something else instead, something that wouldn't be so horribly embarrassing or vulnerable to admit.

"This one time, I was playing Scrabble with a girl from my primary school, and I let her win because I didn't want her to think she was stupid."

He blinked at her.

"Which is bad?" he said, perplexed. She straightened indignantly.

"Losing on purpose is intellectually dishonest!" she said. He snorted, rolling his eyes.

"Right," he deadpanned. "That's not what I'm looking for here, Hermione. Let me give you an example: Last night, I woke up from a nightmare — they come and go sometimes after the war," he said by way of explanation, and she nodded, surprised he was telling her this. "And I was so upset about it that I climbed into bed with Fred."

She stared at him.

"I — you did?" she said, having lost all train of thought completely. "Why?"

He shrugged, running a hand through his hair and looking a bit embarrassed.

"Don't know," he said honestly. "We've always done that. Since we were kids, you know? Mum always thought it was something about the magical bond we share, if you believe in that sort of thing. It's sort of hard to explain. Most of the time, I can handle things on my own. Just shoulder it and move on or brush it off. Other times it's like…like I'm drowning, like I'm alone. Being near him is just…like a constant? That's not the right word," he said, sounding frustrated by his inability to explain it to her. "He's the only person in the world who knows what I'm thinking without needing to ask. The only person in the world who understands me, down to the core of me. He doesn't expect me to be something I'm not or to put on a smile or a joke. He's my best friend and my other half. It's like a pull in my brain when I'm upset and everything just feels…safe when he's nearby." He'd focused on something behind her while he was talking, but he looked at her then, and she shrank back at the pain in his eyes. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't saved him. I mean, I would have been…fine, right? I'd have done what I needed to, maybe, but I don't think — I mean, how do you move on from something like that? Losing your other half? The thought of it makes it hard for me to breathe sometimes. We knew it could have happened — we planned for it, even, just in case. With the shop and everything, I mean. But I don't think I really thought that —" he cleared his throat roughly. "I'll never be able to repay you for what you did for him, Hermione. For keeping him here with me."

There was such pain in his voice that it ripped out her heart and shredded it to pieces. She took a shuddering breath, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, and shook her head.

"I don't expect you to," she said quietly. "He's important to me too. Not in the way that he is to you, obviously, but he — the world would be so much darker without him in it." She cleared her throat, understanding what he was asking her for and trying to brace herself for the admission. She didn't want to tell him all of it, but…he'd given her a piece of himself, and she could do the same thing. She could tell him some of it. "But I understand what you're going for here," she said, trying to distract him from that uncharacteristic grief on his face. "When Harry, Ron, and I were on the run, we learned about the Taboo, but there was one night…"

She took in a shaky breath, her fingers rubbing incessantly over that mark that she was so ashamed of, over and over again. He noticed the movement, but he said nothing, and he didn't push her to speak, didn't ask her questions or make her feel like she needed to rush through the explanation. It helped a little to take it at her pace, to have no expectations.

"There was one night that Harry was so upset that he said his name anyway," she said eventually. "It was an accident, of course. It wasn't his fault what happened after, but — the Snatchers came and they took us back to Malfoy Manor with all of our things. Bellatrix recognized one of them, thinking that we'd stolen it from her, you know, and she just — she sort of lost it. Fear of Voldemort, maybe. Panic about what he'd do if he found out we had it. Anger that she thought we'd managed to steal from her. Maybe she felt all of those things, I don't know, but she — she knew I was Muggleborn. So she — well, you know what she was like," she said shakily. There was a rage burning in his eyes, but she couldn't look at it head on or she might not admit what she'd intended to admit to him. Suddenly, she wondered if it was worse than telling him about the scar. She wondered if maybe she should be more ashamed of this next part than she was of the mark on her skin, but she kept talking before she could second guess herself. "She told me that she was going to make me wish I was dead. And if you'd asked me if I thought that was possible three years ago, I'd have told you it wasn't. I'd have told you that I never would have wished such a thing. But while we were there and she was — there was a moment…there was a moment that I wished I was."

And there was something thick and hot that burned her throat as the words came out of her mouth, as if they were being pulled from the very depths of her insides and her body was fighting against releasing them. It coated her skin with shame that made her want to scratch at her skin as if she could simply itch it away.

She'd never even told Ron that before, but that's what George had intended. For her to tell him something she hadn't told anyone else. She didn't think he'd ever told anyone other than Fred about how devastating it was to have almost lost him.

She jolted when he curled a finger under her chin and forced her to look up at him. There was no pity there, and some of that tightness in her chest eased. It was just rage and pain and understanding that was reflecting back at her, and she trembled slightly at the sight of it.

"You're the strongest person I've ever met, Hermione," he said firmly, as if he could simply will her to believe it with his conviction alone. "She was a horrible, disgusting excuse of a woman, and you beat her. You walked away. There's absolutely nothing to be ashamed about, do you understand me?"

She nodded, squeezing her eyes shut when a tear escaped. He wiped it away with his thumb, the touch gentle and soft in a way she wouldn't have imagined from a man who spent his days playing Quidditch and causing explosions in the workroom.

She was almost disappointed when he pulled away to sit back in his seat, but she followed his lead, wiping at any residual wetness on her cheeks.

"Thank you for telling me," he said gently before making another move with his piece. "I'd really prefer that we end on a happy note though, if you don't mind."

She nodded, smiling weakly at him, and going back to their game. She didn't mention that she didn't imagine that was possible after everything they'd just bared to the other, but she should have known better. If there was anyone in the world who could lighten the mood again, it was him. It took a moment, and the heaviness lingered for several more moves, but he had her grinning again before she even realized she'd started to.

A plethora of easy questions — favorite candy, favorite song, favorite book, favorite place (which she'd readily admitted had to be their current location). When one of her pieces took down one of his again, she was perfectly calm again.

"Did you have any pets growing up?" she said curiously. "My parents wouldn't let me have one until Crookshanks, and they weren't very happy about that. Ron never mentioned that your family had any."

He grinned.

"Yeah, well, he wouldn't," he said with a chuckle. "We weren't allowed to have pets after an…incident with Ron's Puffskein."

"I'm afraid to ask."

He laughed, eyeing the game board in concentration.

"Fred used it for Bludger practice one day," he said, much to her horror. "Mum said none of us were responsible enough for pets after that."

"Oh my God!" she said, horrified. "That's — that's horrible, George!"

"It would have been fine if he'd used a pillow like he said he was going to," George said, sounding unconcerned. "But he got frustrated that it wasn't working very well and got a stick instead. A tree limb, more like. Knight to D1." She gaped at him, totally bewildered by how he could just move on from the subject so easily, but he looked up at her with so much arrogance that it made her spine straighten before she even knew what he was going to say. "Checkmate."

Her head snapped down to look at the board. Her King was trapped and there was no way around that. She huffed.

"I will never manage to win this game," she grumbled in irritation. "I can recite Hogwarts, A History by memory, but I can't win a stupid chess match."

George snorted, checking his watch.

"I don't think those two things are much the same, love," he pointed out, coming to a stand. "C'mon while I think of my last question. We're cutting it close to when I said you'd be back."

There was a pang of disappointment that the evening was ending, but she followed after him anyway, taking a last longing look around the store. They were halfway down the stairs when he finally spoke again.

"What do you think is my most attractive quality?" She tripped, and he was forced to catch her around the waist before she ended up rolling all the way down the stairs. He chuckled, setting her back on her feet again and continuing their trek down the stairs. "This ought to be good then."

She worried her bottom lip, thinking about what she should say to a question like that. He'd said quality, so she didn't think saying a particular feature would suffice, and she didn't want to embarrass herself if she said he had a very nice jawline and he told her he meant in terms of his personality. There would be no coming back from that.

Although, to be fair, he did have a very strong jaw. He was always clean cut, but there was stubble there today, and it gave him a more relaxed, devil-may-care appearance. Which was really beside the point.

And definitely not something that she even noticed, so she didn't know why she was thinking about it now.

But as far as character traits went, she…well, she didn't know. Her first instinct was to say he was intelligent, but that seemed weak somehow. Anticlimactic. She considered how close he was with his family, but that didn't feel right either. His sense of humor was something anyone in the world might have said, and she wanted to be a bit more personal than that.

"Well?" he prompted when they made it deep into the alleyway that they'd originally appeared in. The night was comfortably cool, and the sun had set, but the city was as loud as it always was.

"Your ambition," she said finally, settling on the thing that had first attracted her attention that first day she'd come to the shop to speak with him about their arrangement. Both of his eyebrows shot up this time, and he didn't even bother attempting to hide his surprise. She shrugged. "I admire hard work, and you and Fred aren't afraid of that. You built an entire company from the ground up, even when everyone told you that you couldn't. And I've seen the way the two of you get when you talk about the shop or your products; you do something that you love, and you're very good at it. You proved everyone wrong, and it's sort of…inspiring."

He stared at her for a long moment before his face widened into the brightest grin she'd ever seen. She was used to seeing amusement or arrogance or cheekiness on his face, but there was something so genuinely happy and prideful on his face at the moment, and there was something prideful in her chest that she'd been the one to put it there.

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Granger," he said, practically puffing up with pride. She smiled up at him with a shrug.

"I mean it," she said honestly. "And for what it's worth, I — I'm sorry that I was one of the people you had to prove wrong. I know you said it was fine earlier, but I…well, I wish I'd noticed how much you cared about this before."

He held a hand out to her expectantly, and she took it, bracing herself for the pull of apparition. When he didn't do it immediately, she turned to look at him, meeting his expectant gaze with curiosity.

"Don't mention it, Granger," he said sincerely. "I always thought you were a swotty know-it-all pain in my arse, and you're changing my opinion there too, so we all make mistakes, don't we?"

Her face scrunched in indignation, but he apparated before she could scold him from ruining the moment between them. When they landed, she was laughing and swatted him on the chest with the back of her hand.

"Prat," she said, trying her best to sound exasperated, but she was afraid it came out more fond than anything else.

They'd ended at the long drive toward the Burrow. The sounds of the city faded to near silence, the frogs from the pond and the blowing trees around them the only sounds she could hear now. It was dark now, only fireflies and the light of the windows lighting their walk back up the drive. George threw a friendly arm around her shoulder as they made their way back.

"Your independence," he said suddenly. She looked at him in confusion. "Your most attractive quality," he said by way of explanation. She nearly tripped in surprise, trying to read the expression on his face. Was he joking? She'd always gotten the impression that men found her independence more annoying than anything else. "You said that our ambition was inspiring before, but I don't think you really needed any inspiration to begin with. You've always done anything you set your mind to, and you didn't need anyone else's help or opinions to do it. On the contrary, I find that other people's opinions tend to make you want to do something even more. I admire that about you. You'll do great things, Hermione. No disrespect to your parents, but they have nothing to be disappointed about."

They'd reached the porch now, and she blinked to clear the tears from her eyes. God, why was she so emotional today?

"Thank you, George," she said softly, turning to give him a hug. "For everything."

He grinned at her when she released him, taking several steps backward without removing his gaze from her.

"Although, for the record, I think your laugh is a very close second," he said charmingly. "You don't do it nearly enough."

He winked at her and then disappeared with a CRACK, leaving her standing there gaping after him. She blinked, staring at the spot he'd disappeared from for several minutes before she grinned widely and entered the kitchen.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were waiting for her at the dinner table, and their conversation came to a halt at the sight of her stepping through the door. She was pink-faced and her eyes were sparkling with the sort of life that she hadn't felt in a long time, and Ginny's mouth widened into a knowing grin at the sight of her friend's smile.

"Soooo," she said smugly when none of them spoke. "How was your date?"

Hermione didn't even bother telling her that it hadn't been a date. It didn't matter to her what they thought. She just wanted to go to her room and bask in the residual happiness from the day she'd had. It had started out horribly, and yet here she was…grinning from ear to ear in the Weasleys' kitchen.

"It was…wonderful," she said before making a move for the stairs.

She missed the knowing look that the three people at the dinner table shared between them. She didn't care to wait for their response at all, deciding that she was just going to spend the rest of the evening curled up with a book until she fell asleep.

Who'd have thought that she'd have had one of the best days of her life with the likes of George Weasley?