On Sleepless Roads

Author's Note: I've never written Gemione before; I included some Fremione in an old fic but I like to think of Fred and George as relatively disparate personalities. In this story, George is a bit more grown-up, and this is in the context of his grief for Fred.

Summary: Oneshot, DHC, EWE. On the happiest day of one man's life, two people reflect on what they've lost as they find each other. HG/GW

Disclaimer: The HP universe does not belong to me.

ººº

Weddings were such traitorous things. They were a celebration of the unity of two people; of the end of loneliness — and yet they seemed to be good for little more than highlighting the loneliness of all of the guests there.

It was a bit crap, actually. Was anyone ever actually happy at a wedding? No. Unless they got a shag out of the night, everyone went home after weddings miserable, drunk, and depressed.

George Weasley had done his part for the evening: he'd tortured the groom (who happened to be his youngest brother, Ickle Ronniekins); he had given Ginny a fake black eye (and had narrowly dodged a well-aimed Bat Bogey Hex for that one); oh, he'd done all sorts of things. Now he could relax and take off the mask briefly. He let his cheeky grin fade; his skin felt heavy as it sagged. He knocked back another drink and he watched the blurred dancing couples silhouetted by the tiny floating golden lights, their laughter mingling with the bright music.

It had been just over five years since Fred's death. Sometimes, he had the peculiar sense that he was the one who had died, and Fred was the brother still alive. Sometimes, he felt that he was watching his life from a far-off cloud, out of sight and out of reach of sanguine reality. He'd been maintaining a plain life, as he had never properly grieved with his family. Instead of running to his mother's open arms, he'd run away from them — he'd run away from everyone. He had slipped into a routine, because routines were easy, and routines were manageable. There were no surprises that way, and therefore he was never confronted with anything he couldn't handle. So he could continue to pretend that he was fine, in hopes of eventually, one day, actually being fine. In the meantime, he could ensure that no one worried about him.

His gaze slid to his right. He wasn't the only person opting out of dancing: Hermione Granger was sitting at a table at the outskirts of the dance-floor, looking like she was putting a hell of a lot of effort into looking nonchalant and carefree. The corners of his mouth twitched as he watched her fiddle with her champagne glass, not daring to look anywhere near the newlyweds. This wedding had not done good things for her: her posture seemed more rounded. She seemed like a shadow of the Hermione he had grown up with.

"George," Bill greeted, dropping into a white folding chair next to him. "Merlin, Fleur loves to dance. Dunno how she does it, and in those heels too," he grumbled.

"Dunno, mate. Maybe what you need is a pair of heels too," George said with a smirk. Bill frowned, looking past George at something beyond his shoulder.

"Have you noticed Hermione? I feel terrible," he confided in a lower voice, nodding at Ron's ex-girlfriend.

"She's a big girl. She can handle it," George replied with a shrug. It was the truth — he didn't know Hermione too well, but he knew if there was anyone who could handle this — 'this' being having to watch the love of her life marry someone else — it was her. He recalled their Hogwarts days, and how Hermione had gone to such great lengths to stop him and Fred from selling and testing their products on the first years. It brought a genuine smile to his face. Hermione had always been something of a mother hen, and it was sad to see someone who had saved Ron so many times become so much an afterthought. Hermione deserved more than that.

"All the same," Bill began mildly, but Fleur had fluttered to their little corner, jabbering excitedly at Bill. Bill and Fleur were a hard couple to stomach even on the best of days, so George took it as his cue to flee the table. Once standing, he found himself weaving through the crowd to Hermione Granger. Have to make it look like I wasn't taking pity on her, he reminded himself. Hermione seemed to be the type to hold her pride in high esteem. It would humiliate her to feel like Ron's family was making her a subject of pity on a day like today.

"Hermione, thank Merlin you're here," George greeted as he reached her table. He stood next to her, hands shoved in the pockets of his dress robes. Hermione looked up. "What is it about weddings that makes every married couple feel like it's their honeymoon?" he complained, nodding back to Bill and Fleur, who were now lip-locked. He had expected her to give him a verbal slap on the wrist for his disingenuous comment, as that was how Hermione operated, but to his disappointment all she did was heave a sigh and stare glumly out at the dance-floor.

"No idea. I'm tired though, I think I'll Apparate home," she said suddenly, rising unsteadily to her feet. He noticed now that she was looking very pretty in a floaty sort of periwinkle dress that somehow felt like deja vu, though he was not sure as to why.

"Nope, not allowed," he said, forcing his grin back on, and he grabbed her wrist. "No one's willing to dance with me, so I'm enlisting you!"

"Bother upon bother," Hermione complained as he dragged her through the dancing couples. Eventually they reached a relatively open section of the dance floor and George tried desperately to ignore how awkward and forced this all was. He didn't really know Hermione that well — even if he did harbor a secret respect for her; even if he did miss her policing of him and Fred back at Hogwarts; even if he did find her to be quite a pretty witch. Still, he set his hands on her waist, and with a loud sigh Hermione rolled her eyes and set her hands on his shoulders.

Like adolescents at a first dance, they swayed stiffly to the music. I never was the impulsive one, George recalled. Fred would have been better suited to the task of cheering up Hermione. The band was playing a softer, slower tune now that only added to the awkwardness. "You don't have to dance with me," Hermione finally said, blushing. "I saw you and Bill looking at me; I'm sure he put you up to it."

George knew he couldn't convince her otherwise. He tried to smile consolingly.

"I was going to anyway," he said gently. He wished he hadn't had so much to drink: his senses felt dulled and he wasn't as quick for witty conversation. Hermione was also known for her quips but apparently tonight she was similarly incapacitated. "You forget I'm the only single Weasley left. My mother's been throwing all sorts of girls at me all night. You're a human shield!"

Hermione gave a sardonic laugh, looking down at her feet for a moment, as she carefully directed them in a stiff box-step. How very Hermione of her, to lead the dance; to actually be one of the last people of their generation to know how to even do a box-step. Even if her movements were terse and stiff, he could feel the certainty beneath that — an underlying steely confidence in herself and her movements. She'll be fine, he thought fondly. Hermione would spring back from this with ease, even if she was obviously in fiery pain now.

"Any keepers?"

"Well, you know what they say about blokes who go to family events to meet women," he said with a wink, "...Though I reckon my second cousin Gail was looking mighty fine tonight."

When Hermione merely offered another listless laugh, George knew he was in trouble. Trying to be comforting, he twirled her and gave her hand a quick squeeze. Hermione smiled gratefully at him, and he was taken aback. She really was very pretty, wasn't she? He'd always noticed, but then, he'd also always considered her off-limits. Until a year ago, she had been Ron's girlfriend. Now she was just Hermione, and yet he still considered her off-limits, somehow. When she twirled, her dress floated around her a bit and her curls spun around her shoulders, and they shared a rare, small, private smile.

Hermione was grateful for, but humiliated by, George's attention. Still, it was nice that he cared enough. If the circumstances had been different, she might've been pleased to be dancing with such a worthy man. He was trying to cheer her up, she could tell that much. Really, the low lights and the soft music were all so romantic, and for a moment, she allowed herself to get lost in it, and pretend she wasn't heartbroken.

She could just barely scent George's cologne and she breathed deeply, trying to soak up the pleasure of dancing with a man who had good taste in cologne. He cleaned up nicely; his red hair was cropped close and he'd grown up in the last five years quite a bit. He pulled her close and she sank closer to him, closing her eyes and resting her chin on his shoulder. He had always seemed lightyears away from her in so many respects, and now she was feeling the distance keenly. He was a man, wasn't he? He was a man in the way Ron would never quite be. Ron was endearing; George was enamoring.

There was a slight flutter in her abdomen as she came to this conclusion. From the first years that she'd been aware of George and Fred, they had already been turning into men, even as she was still — painfully, seemingly perpetually — a girl. They were already using aftershave and deodorant; they were already flirting with girls. George, even with all of his mischief and silliness, had a self-possessed masculine quality and he always had. Perhaps it was what had always — and still did — made him seem so unreachable. The impossibility of it all had once been secure, back in her Hogwarts days. She'd enjoyed telling off Fred and George; she'd felt too self-aware and too on edge around them because they had already been men and she was just a little girl trying to boss around a pair of men. Yet she had always been able to retreat, no harm could come of it.

Now that they were older, things were different, and more fluid...and therefore more potentially dangerous.

George may have had the same blue eyes as Ron, but whereas on Ron they looked innocent and boyish, on George they glimmered with amusement and the promise of fun. Hermione began to tense as she reflected on the differences between George and his brothers: this was a dangerous place to go. Only pain would come of developing a crush on George, and as she spied Ron dancing with his new wife (Luna, in fact) over George's svelte shoulder, she recalled that she already had had enough pain for the next decade at least.

George held his breath; he didn't know why. Hermione was so close now, so that her hair was tickling his nose and the shell of her ear — surprisingly soft — brushed his cheek. Now that she was in his arms, he was surprised to find how satisfying it was to hold her.

The song ended. "Thanks," Hermione said, stepping away hastily, effectively ending the spell. "I'll just head home now. Just have to pick up my things that I left in Ginny's old room."

"I'll head out with you, it's dark anyway," George agreed, and followed her out of the reception tent. The tent had been set up a ways away from the Burrow and they walked back in the balmy night air, awkward and strained silence strung like fading lights between them. He was beginning to regret offering to walk her there, as they had absolutely nothing to talk about, and neither of them were feeling like their usual selves. He didn't know how to react when he glanced over and saw Hermione's eyes were a bit wet in the moonlight. Perhaps it was better to ignore it?

The kitchen was eerily dark and silent.

"Thanks for walking me back," Hermione said awkwardly before running up the stairs to grab her things. George nodded, feeling uncomfortable even in his own childhood home. He heard Hermione's heels clacking back down the staircase; he turned away from the kitchen. "Tell Ron and Luna congratulations for me, if you get the chance," she said apologetically. She turned to go but stopped abruptly. "And, um, I really appreciate the gesture and all."

"Gesture?"

Hermione looked pained. "Dancing with me and all," she clarified. "I know it's not fun and—" she stopped short, looking away. George felt terrible. Now she was crying in earnest. "I'm sorry," she said wetly, turning away again and covering her eyes. Distantly the sounds of the wedding were audible; it felt lonely and forgotten, here in the darkness. "Tonight was very difficult for me," Hermione explained, apparently trying to pull herself together.

"Yeah, Ronniekin's dancing always had that effect on me too," he agreed in a poor attempt to cheer her up. Her shoulders shook slightly and he couldn't tell whether it was from crying or laughing. A funny tightening was happening in his chest and he knew that now was not the time for joking. "I didn't know you felt that way about him," he said gently. "I always thought he was the one chasing after you."

"I thought that too," Hermione said ruefully, finally turning to face him. Her cheeks were wet and her makeup was smeared beneath her dark eyes. "Guess I was wrong!" Her tone was wobbly and forcedly jovial; she held up her hands in a what are you going to do? sort of gesture.

"Hermione Granger — wrong about something? Impossible," he teased, but his voice was quiet. In spite of everything, Hermione broke into a watery smile, and without preamble, she threw her arms around him.

"Thanks. Really. You're too good of a man." Her voice was muffled by the fabric of his robes, and tentatively, George returned the hug. "You've changed so much," she began, stepping back and retrieving a tissue from her beaded clutch, "but I'm happy to see the old you lurking."

"The old me?" He meant to sound jesting but his voice caught awkwardly, caught on a hopeful precipice. Hermione's smile broadened.

"You were always the quieter twin, and I felt that Fred encouraged you, you know." She looked down, tapping her foot slightly. "Your sense of humor is a bit...more intellectual, I think. More reserved. I've always appreciated it. It seemed like you've been sad for a while now, and perhaps...hiding. But it's nice to see your real self shining through."

When she looked up, their eyes met. George had to grip the countertop behind him; no one had openly spoken about Fred since he had died. It was a satisfying pain that pierced his chest; he hadn't realized how much he'd wanted to hear Fred's name spoken aloud again. Hermione's face fell. "Oh, Merlin, I'm so sorry, George — I hadn't meant to upset you!"

"No — you didn't. Really." He offered her a small smile. "It feels good to talk about him," he added honestly. "I was thinking tonight about how much he would have enjoyed all these weddings, and how much trouble we'd've gotten into."

Hermione was grinning in earnest now.

"I can't imagine how much you must miss him." Her eyes were still wet, and he longed to comfort her as she was comforting him. In spite of her words, he still had the notion that she was in pain. George hated seeing people in pain. He had an uncontrollable impulse to make people laugh and smile; there was nothing he liked more than that moment: the brilliance of the smile first lighting up the face.

"Well, Merlin knows why you miss Ron. I'd say good riddance," he replied, chuckling. Hermione giggled a bit, and their eyes met again, and then suddenly, they were laughing. And then they were laughing so hard they were clutching their stomachs, tears in their eyes. And then Hermione was grasping his shoulder with one hand as she screeched with laughter.

"I — I don't know what's so funny!" she gasped. George drew in deep breaths, trying to stop laughing, but it kept coming.

When the laughter had finally died down, they were staring at each other again, grinning and occasionally letting out stifled giggles. The dizziness of the champagne and the bittersweet memories welled up in George, and he found himself leaning back against the counter, regarding Hermione heavily — had he not been so tipsy, he would never have had the audacity to look at a woman like this.

"Didn't you wear that dress before?"

Hermione went bright red to her hairline and looked down at her shoes.

"Y-yes, actually. I was quite pleased to still fit into it. I wore it to Bill and Fleur's wedding. It was...sort of a petty move, actually. I was hoping Ron would remember it."

"It looks nice," he said softly. Hermione looked up, and again their eyes met, and lines of electricity connected them. And then, all of a sudden, they were reaching for each other, lips crushing and limbs tangling as George backed her into the opposite wall, knocking over a kitchen chair in the process. Her fingers wound in his short hair, urging him closer, and his fingers dug into her hips, relishing the perfect softness of her flesh and the satisfying wetness of her lips and tongue. She sighed against him and he pressed against her, his eyes closed.

He knew he'd regret this later. Hadn't he just been thinking of how off-limits Hermione was? But for now, he didn't care. She tasted like the champagne and she was all delicious softness and he hadn't been this affected by a girl since...well, he couldn't remember the last time there'd been this much friction.

"W-we can't stay here," she said against his lips. George nodded but continued to kiss her, getting lost in the sensations.

"We can go to my flat. If you want," he murmured, tracing a path to her neck, his teeth grazing the delicate skin. She let out a mewling sound that made his blood rush.

"Let's go," she sighed breathlessly. When George pulled away, her hair was mussed and wild, her cheeks were flushed, her lips red and swollen, and her chest was rising and falling as she drew in deep breaths. He knew what he wanted, and he was going to take it.

He grasped her hand and pulled her outside. The sounds of the wedding were fading, until they were left with only the noises of the humid summer night. She squeezed his hand as they stopped just outside of the ward boundaries, and he turned them on the spot.

They reached outside of his door, at the top of the stairs leading up from the shop, and in the darkness of the hall they kissed again, breathless and desperate. With one hand, George held her close to him, and with the other, he fumbled to open the door.

They fell inside the dark flat, and he nearly killed himself when he tripped over one of his half-finished inventions. It let out a bang and set his robes on fire, and they laughed hysterically as Hermione put it out, lecturing him on basic magical safety. This prompted him to do an impression of Mad-Eye Moody discussing the importance of not sticking one's wand in one's back pocket, and then they were howling again.

Still laughing, George pulled her towards his bedroom. They didn't turn on the lights; they fell in a tangle of limbs onto his bed, and any last vestiges of coherent thought ceased as they fell into each other's skin.

ººº

George woke up to the bedsprings creaking. Blearily he sat up, rubbing his eyes, and clutching his head. He had a vicious headache and his limbs ached with exhaustion. He groaned as he tried to piece together why he felt so bloody awful. There was the wedding...and then he was talking in the Burrow's kitchen with Hermione, and then...

"Fuck."

He saw Hermione shut the door to his bathroom hastily, a flash of naked leg disappearing. Even without seeing her, he knew this was bad. The awkwardness filled the flat noxiously. Despondently George flopped back onto his bed, massaging his temples.

He had shagged Hermione Granger last night.

He mopped his face with a hand as he tried to recall where he'd left his hangover remedy potion. That would be a start... His gut twisted uncomfortably. He wasn't ready to face Hermione, and judging by the fact that she was still in the bathroom, she wasn't ready to face him either.

With a sigh he sat up and felt around for his shorts. Under his pillow he always stowed his pajamas, and from there he snatched a tee shirt he always wore to bed. He pulled on the clothes and stumbled towards the bathroom and pressed his ear to the door. It was rude, but these were drastic times.

It didn't sound like she was doing anything. He knocked softly before turning the knob, to find Hermione hunched on the toilet seat, a blanket wrapped around her form, her dress and shoes folded on her lap. Her hair was wild and her makeup was smeared around her eyes. If things hadn't been so terribly awkward, he would have found it to be a sultry look.

"So," he greeted, leaning against the sink. Hermione let out a huffy sigh.

"So," she agreed.

They stayed in silence for a moment, avoiding each other's eyes. Freddie would be laughing at you now for acting like such a Hufflepuff, he scolded himself.

"Um...you want breakfast? Coffee?" he ventured uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his head and looking down.

"That's alright. I really should be going. I have...um...well, I should just go."

She'd been about to try to come up with an excuse and hadn't been able to. George nodded and backed out of the bathroom to let her change.

He stood in his bedroom, looking at the hopelessly mussed bed. Memories came flooding back, and he shut his eyes. It had been fun — really fun — but now... What the hell had he done?

Hermione came out of the bathroom, fully dressed in her outfit from the wedding. Her dress was wrinkled and her hair was so tangled in the back that it looked like it might need to simply be hacked off.

"Right...I'll see you to the fireplace —"

"That's alright, I know where it is," she said hastily, still avoiding his eyes. She ducked out of the room, and he heard her heels clacking on the floor before the tell-tale poof of Floo powder, and her voice uttering her address, and then she was gone.

ººº

The days passed with George writhing in guilt. A depression he had only recently fought off returned, and he allowed Verity and Lee to manage the store while he hid in his flat, pretending to work on the accounts. Why did he fuck up every possibly meaningful connection with everyone he met lately? Real relationships were like water slipping through his cupped hands. He and Hermione could have been friends, or more, if he hadn't thrown himself at her.

Worse yet, apparently Ginny had spotted them snogging in the kitchen and had, predictably, told everyone. And now his brothers were Flooing him and Owling him like lunatics, demanding details. George ignored every means of communication. Everyone always expected him to be upbeat and silly, and he didn't feel he could manage it. That, and he didn't want to admit to the sordidness of what had happened.

Her words from that night kept replaying in his mind: "Your sense of humor is a bit...more intellectual, I think. More reserved. I've always appreciated it."

She had noticed him. She had seen him as George, not as part of Fred-and-George. Moreover, she'd talked to him about Fred.

The loneliness was overpowering. He felt drained and ghostly, and it wasn't just this thing with Hermione — it was like the floodgates had opened, and now he could only sit at his desk limply, staring numbly at scroll after scroll of numbers that, supposedly, had meaning.

Nothing seemed to fit anymore. He wasn't himself, but he didn't know how to find himself, and he kept ruining every good thing he managed to stumble across. And he felt like a selfish prat, because he'd moped at his own brother's wedding, for Merlin's sake. He was disgusted with himself.

He toyed with the idea of reaching out to Hermione, but dismissed it. She obviously didn't want to talk to him, and he wouldn't force her.

ººº

It was two weeks after That Night when Percy, of all people, came banging down his door.

"George, it is me. I know you are in there, so please open up," called Percy bossily through the door. His banging and pounding echoed throughout the flat, and finally, George resigned himself to the fact that he'd be having a visitor. With a sigh, he mastered himself, and fixed a smile on his face. He opened the door to see Percy in his Ministry robes and glasses, polished and priggish as always. "Ah, thank you. I was worried I've have to use some sort of entrance-breaking spell, and I didn't want that to soil my otherwise flawless record." Percy preened for a moment before forcing his way in.

"Oi, Percy, don't just stand there, come in, why don't you?" George called sarcastically after him as he shut the door for his brother. Percy was standing in the middle of the room, surveying it, looking disgusted.

"Come into the kitchen," he ordered before sweeping over to the stove and rummaging through the cabinets. George arched his brows but, nevertheless, decided to play along and obediently sat at the kitchen table, which was covered with paperwork he had been trying to work his way through. Percy put on a kettle of tea and was doing something with eggs. "You haven't been eating nearly enough — that much is obvious. You should be ashamed of yourself. No Weasley deprives themselves of food — you of all of us should know that."

"...Right. Why are you here, Perce?"

Percy continued cooking, his back to George.

"You know, I see Hermione Granger quite often at the Ministry," Percy said in an airy voice. "She's quite pretty, isn't she? Very nice, too."

"Perce, I shagged her. You don't need to sell her to me — dunno why you would, actually," he interrupted flatly. Percy finished cooking the eggs and was now moving onto bacon.

"The thing I always noticed about Hermione Granger," Percy continued loudly, ignoring George, "is that she was a bit too...clever, I suppose, for Ron. I always thought she needed someone sharper, more perceptive. And I always thought she was a bit like me, in that she needed someone to help her lighten up sometimes...without being too goofy." Percy loaded two plates with bacon and eggs, and with a wave of his wand, poured two glasses of orange juice.

They sat down to the bacon and eggs and ate in silence, as it sank in: Percy had come here to try and help. Wonders would never cease. George could quite easily recall a time when he and Fred had loudly and openly discussed all of Percy's flaws, had called him all sorts of names for abandoning the family... And now here he was.

"Thanks. Really," muttered George, picking at his eggs. Percy was beaming.

"George, I do think you should pursue Hermione Granger, even if things did turn out a bit...awkwardly," he declared, adjusting his glasses. "You need each other, and I think you fit well together. You've grown up a lot since Fred's death, and I think she could bring out the best in you."

"And what makes you think that?" George sniggered as Percy polished his glasses with the edge of his robes.

"You went to cheer her up at the wedding, even though anyone could see you weren't exactly in the best mood."

He plunged into shame. I thought I'd been hiding it so well, he despaired. His face paled.

"I didn't mean to —"

Percy held up his hand abruptly.

"George, do not apologize. Frankly, I'm relieved that your little cheery charade is collapsing. It's high time you moved on with your life, and sometimes we need others to help us do that."

After a bit of idle chatting, Percy left with the warning that he'd be dropping by once a week, at random, for dinner or lunch and there was nothing George could do about it. Just before Flooing back to the Ministry, he remarked that Hermione generally worked late Friday evenings and that 'someone really ought to do something about that.'

Never mind the fact that Percy of all people was disgruntled with someone working overtime, George was still stunned. He cleared off the table and washed the dishes mechanically, before pausing and looking around his flat. It was dark, and dusty, and old mugs of tea lay on the coffee table, and the shades were all pulled down, and... Without really thinking of it, he began transporting all of the old dishes to the sink, and washing them out. He went to the windows and pulled up the shades, and watched in wonder as dust flew everywhere, illuminated by the sunshine from outside.

Hours passed as he cleaned more enthusiastically than he ever had before in his life. He used his mum's spell for getting the dust out of the carpets and he washed his bed linens and washed the windows til they shone. Eventually, he made his way to his desk, and spent another hour tossing old papers, and sorting the ones he had to keep. He was appalled at all of the bills he hadn't paid yet — not for lack of money, but simply for lack of attention.

One of the drawers at the bottom of the desk was filled with half-conceived ideas for joke products, and going through them, he was amazed. He had once been so creative...where had all of that gone?

At the very bottom of the drawer was a single scrap of parchment, with what he knew immediately was Fred's handwriting. It was more loopy than his, and a sudden bout of sorrow closed around his throat, making him rasp for air that would not come. George knelt on the floor, staring at the scrap. It was a silly cartoon that Fred had done of Hermione scolding them, back at Hogwarts. A bubble of choked laughter erupted from his throat, even as tears streamed down his cheeks. He had no idea why he'd saved it, or how and when it had found its way here, to the bottom drawer of his desk.

His impulse was to shove it back to the bottom, to try and forget it, as the searing grief tore through him. And yet, recalling how openly Hermione — and, just now, Percy — had talked of Fred...

...Perhaps it was time to stop running from the pain, time to stop burying it underneath half-hearted jokes.

George stood and went to the kitchen, and magically attached the parchment to the refrigerator, where he'd be sure to see it. And then he turned around, startled by the level of light in the apartment. It smelled strongly of cleaning potion and it was so bright...he hadn't seen it look so cheerful in such a long time.

"'Scuse me, George?" Lee called through the door that led into the shop. He knocked once, and George hurried to the door to open it. Lee was on the landing, looking startled. "Oh. I didn't think you'd answer, mate!" He narrowed his eyes and stood on his toes to look past George. "What happened to your flat?"

"What, haven't seen a clean flat before?" George teased. Instead of laughing or supplying a snappy retort, Lee balked. "What?" George asked, feeling self-conscious. Lee shook his head.

"Um. Nothing. Sorry." He looked lost for a moment. "I just was going to ask if I could head out a few minutes early. Date tonight."

"You've got a date and didn't tell me? Who's the bird?" George followed Lee down the stairs to the shop; Verity was stacking things, as per usual. Lee still looked extremely confused.

"Er, I suppose I didn't mention it." He scratched his head. "Alicia, actually," he admitted. George broke into a wide grin, and clapped Lee on the back.

"Don't make too much of a fool of yourself. Better get moving — Merlin knows how long it'll take to fix that," he smirked as he gestured to Lee's clothing, earning a hesitant, uncertain chuckle from Lee. Verity had halted in her stacking, and was looking at George like he'd lost his mind. Lee left the shop, whistling 'Cauldron Full of Love' off-key.

George watched Lee go, and a thought struck him. "What day is it, Verity?"

Verity gaped.

"It's — er — it's Friday, sir," she mumbled. "Oh, um...I didn't tell you, because I reckoned you were busy, but... a girl came by. That friend of your brother and Harry Potter, sir." She gestured with her hands. "Big hair."

George fought off the urge to smack Verity.

"Hermione came by?! When?!" he demanded. Verity shrank back.

"Round lunchtime, sir."

"Verity, you can close up the shop early. I've got to be somewhere," said George. He sprinted back up the stairs and fetched his coat. He had a moment of vanity and hurried to the bathroom mirror, and was shocked to find that he had nearly a full beard. No wonder everyone was looking at me funny. At that thought he chuckled, and had a moment of wishing he could mention it to Fred. He had to stop as he gripped the edge of the sink, scrunching his eyes shut and waiting for the moment of unbearable grief to pass. Would these moments ever stop attacking him?

Nevertheless, he shaved, and realized he needed a haircut sometime soon quite desperately. Also, now that he looked at it, his shirt had a hole in the sleeve and his paints had a purple stain — whose origin he almost didn't even want to know.

So he went to change, but then realized he couldn't quite recall the last time this week he'd showered. Disgusted with himself, he showered hurriedly, and reveled in the sadly unfamiliar feeling of actually being clean. He brushed his teeth and put on clean clothes, and flew out the door, knocking over Verity's stack of Decoy Detonators. Just as the shop door closed behind him, a series of loud bangs went off, followed by some relatively colorful swearing on Verity's part.

Diagon Alley was packed with couples and families, all getting ready to eat dinner. The sun was just setting — it was a lovely, lively sight. On a whim, George stopped at a florist before it occurred to him that Hermione was a Muggleborn...perhaps she'd prefer Muggle flowers?

He left Diagon Alley, fingers crossed that she'd still be in the office. At Charing Cross road, he stopped at the first florist he saw, and bought a bouquet of wildflowers, thinking roses too cliché. He Apparated to the Ministry's Muggle entrance, and practically broke the telephone booth in his haste to get inside.

The Ministry's main vestibule was a flurry of activity as Witches and Wizards scurried to the Floo exits, desperate to get home early or perhaps hit the pub before heading home. George was going against the tide as he pushed his way towards the front desk to have his wand identified.

At long last, he had reached Hermione's floor. He knew she worked in the Creatures department, and this was confirmed by the fact that when the elevator doors opened, he came face-to-face with a very frazzled-looking Hermione, who was bearing a sheaf of parchment and muttering crossly to herself.

"-Oh! George," she stammered, fumbling with the parchments. He felt himself grinning, and he reached forward and yanked her into the elevator. The doors closed and he pressed the button to freeze them so they wouldn't be interrupted. "What is the meaning of this, George? I need to hurry and find out if Collins is still here —"

George held out the flowers, silencing her immediately. With wide brown eyes, Hermione stared down at the flowers, completely taken aback.

"I'm sorry for all of the weirdness. I was wondering if you wanted to go on a date with me at some point," he said quickly, before he could lose his courage and not do what he had come to do. Hermione flushed bright pink as she hesitantly accepted the flowers.

"W-what a coincidence," she replied in a high voice, as she looked at the flowers. "I stopped by your shop today to say just the very same thing, but you weren't in." She looked up now. "I'm so sorry for how I acted. It's just that I was so..."

"Me too. Don't worry. Really," he interrupted, smiling at her. "It was such a weird night."

"It was. I feel so ashamed of my behavior. Especially since..." she flushed a darker color now, "I always sort of had a bit of a crush on you, I suppose." She smoothed back her hair. "This is so embarrassing."

"I had a bit of a crush on you, too."

They were smiling at each other now giddily. How had life managed to turn around so completely within a single day? Hermione was beaming up at him, and it seemed to give him some of his old confidence. Impulsively, he tilted her head towards his with his hand, and pressed his lips to hers. She gently returned the kiss, as memories of the night of the wedding came rushing back.

He wanted Hermione and, in one way or another, always had. He just really liked her — it wasn't some sort of red-hot, searing attraction like that between his sister and Harry (blegh, gross) and it wasn't that swoony, undying devotion like between Bill and Fleur (again, gag). He simply really liked her, and now he knew that she just really liked him too. "Now, Miss Granger," he said, pulling away from Hermione and looping his arm through hers, "You have simply been at work far too long, and I'm going to have to steal you away for a bit."

So Hermione unfroze the elevator and it slid downward, and they leaned in closer, the flowers between them, tickling their chins, as he pressed his lips against hers again.

End