Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, I'm just playing with them for fun, no profit.

Author's Note: Written for lj's scarletladyy for 2010's George Fest at lj comm hpgeorgecentric. Everlasting thanks to cheerleaders SeraphimeRising and bookaddict19, who kept me going while I was writing this.

Wishful Thinking

by Scribe Teradia

It started the night of the Yule Ball, when the grand majority of the male population of Hogwarts was quite forcibly reminded that Hermione Granger was, in fact, a rather pretty girl. Her appearance on Victor Krim's arm caused no shortage of muttering and whispering and even the occasional grumble, the latter mostly by one Ron Weasley. George, with Alicia on one arm and Katie on the other (Fred had finally gotten around to asking out Angelina, so George had gotten himself two dates in an attempt to outdo his twin, but he wasn't entirely convinced he'd won even though he'd been successful), had made some non-committal noise in response to a comment from one of the girls, affecting an air of indifference.

He was sixteen, a randy teenager with a girl on either arm and no right whatsoever to be coveting a third. She was fifteen, a goddess in silk and taffeta, a glittering jewel among the tacky costume gems that all other girls suddenly were in comparison. George could picture himself dancing with her, had it all planned out in his head, even: threading through the other couples on the floor and then discreetly out a side door he knew of that led to a corner of the gardens sure to be deserted at this hour where he could pull her close and kiss her...

Alicia and Katie elbowed him from either side, and reality reasserted itself. Hermione and Krum had taken a break from the dancing and were heading their way, and as much as George wanted to see something in the way she looked at him, it wasn't until she glanced at his sullen younger brother that he saw it. His stomach twisted as he realized that for all his wishful thinking it was his brother she fancied, but he consoled himself with the thought that there was plenty of time for him to convince her otherwise.

The following year, George promised himself every other day he'd get up the nerve to say something to her, but somehow he never quite managed it. There were the Wheezes to sort out with Fred, the practical aspects of purchasing and refitting and opening a shop, not to mention development and marketing of product, none of which would have been possible if not for Harry's donation to their cause. With the formation of Dumbledore's Army, he saw Hermione practically everywhere, admired from afar the way she filled out the denims she typically wore to meetings, though he liked it better when she wore the skirts that were part of the Hogwarts uniform. She was still fixated on his annoyingly clueless younger brother, which was vexing enough, but George had plans.

He often fantasized about catching her unaware in the hall, pulling her into a spare broom closet or other nook or cranny conveniently nearby. She always wore skirts, in his fantasies, and sometimes she protested at first while others she went with him willingly, but she always melted at his touch, at his kiss, pressing herself against him and silently begging for more. No one else made her so eager, no one else had ever been permitted to touch her, and he imagined himself running his hands over the curves that were every bit as soft beneath her sweaters as they looked, dreamed of dragging that fabric up and...

Fred smacked him on the back of the head, reminding him to focus, as they put the finishing touches on their final project for the year. George sighed and returned to the task at hand, banishing once more his thoughts and fantasies of the girl of his dreams.

The grand opening of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes turned out better than Fred and George had anticipated, although for vastly different reasons. At closing time, Fred was crowing about how much business they'd done, and the galleons they'd raked in, but George was too distracted by thoughts of a certain girl who'd dropped by to pay attention to his twin. When Fred's talk of profit margins and supply-and-demand finally became too much to bear, he excused himself on the pretext of double-checking inventory on what was left of their Peruvian darkness powder and fled to the storeroom.

Closing the door behind him, George leaned back against it and shrugged out of his robe, fumbling with his trousers in his haste. He could see Hermione clearly in his mind's eye, imagined himself approaching her where she'd stood before the shelves holding the love potions, front teeth worrying her lower lip, brow furrowed as she stared at them indecisively. His lips moved as the George in his head said something witty, taking her by the arm and escorting her back to the storeroom, where he could back her up against the wall and kiss her. She was shy and reluctant at first, but warmed to him quickly, her delicate hands shoving his robes aside and reaching for his trousers, fingers wrapping around...

The door heaved against his back, and George slid aside with a groan before he realized what he was doing. Fred's head appeared in the opening, his eyebrows slowly arching as he took in the sight of his twin, and George's face heated as he realized what the warm stickiness on his fingers was. He watched as his brother looked him up and down, then flicked a gaze up at the ceiling before uttering all of four words: "I'm not cleaning that."

Fantasy temporarily shattered, George rolled his eyes and drew his wand, his mind already racing and thinking ahead to his next brilliant scheme.

Bill and Fleur's wedding was a beautiful ceremony, well worth the effort that Mrs. Weasley had put into it, and the reception was still under way when George lured Hermione away from the rest of the guests and into the house. Once inside, he pulled her into the linen cupboard, the one place he could practically guarantee they'd remain undisturbed, although he was a little less than gentle about it. She was still making eyes at his brother, after all, and the sodding git was starting to make eyes back (encouraged by Fred, of all people), and he was determined to show her once and for all that she'd chosen the wrong brother.

George cut off her protests with a fierce kiss, one hand holding her wrists while the other tugged her wand free of the concealed pocket at her waist; he'd divested her of her suspiciously heavy handbag earlier, but a witch like Hermione would want to keep her wand more easily accessible, he knew. He dropped it to the floor and pulled at her skirt, hiking up the pale violet fabric, and her muted whimpers turned to moans when his fingers grazed along her leg. The scent of her arousal hit his nose an instant before his fingers encountered bare skin, slick with moisture where he'd expected her to have knickers, and she gasped into his mouth; he wanted to taste her, but there was no time for that, he'd wasted too many precious seconds already. Letting go of her hands, he jerked open his robes, tugging his trousers down just enough to bury himself in the liquid heat of her, and he let out a groan...

There was a bang at the door, and George's delicious fantasy evaporated, leaving him alone in the linen closet with only the messy aftermath for evidence. He was about to snarl at whoever it was to go away when the bang came again, followed by Fred's voice, "George! Put yourself back in your trousers and come on, already, we have to get out of here! The Ministry's fallen, it's only a matter of time before You Know Who sends his lackeys looking for Harry, and we're not liable to get preferential treatment from them."

As George surveyed the linen closet, he hastily grabbed for his wand to clean up after himself, Death Eaters be damned. He'd sooner face a dozen of them than his mum's wrath if she saw what he'd left behind.

Over the next few years, George entertained a wide variety of fantasies about Hermione, and it turned out there was no shortage of situations for his imagination to toy with. He thought about her ditching the boys in the tent and coming to him after a broadcast of Potterwatch, all sober brown eyes with a hint of sparkle at his wit. There was even a series of visions during the time they learned the trio had been captured by the Malfoys; at times he was the rescuer who was repaid like many a white knight in popular fiction never was, and once he'd even been taken prisoner, as well (although that one had been rather scary, featuring Bellatrix Lestrange and Narcissa Malfoy taking turns goading him into various positions with Granger, and even George was disturbed by the depths of his own depravity at one point).

Then came the day she married Ron. It was a much smaller ceremony than Bill and Fleur's, and this time it was Hermione in the white dress, and George was in the midst of a delectable daydream when Charlie knocked his elbow and broke his concentration.

"I could be wrong," his elder brother drawled, looking far too smug, "but I'm fairly certain it's bad form for anyone other than the groom to be picturing the bride naked on her wedding day."

"I'm not-" George started to protest, only to get The Look from good old Charlie.

"Give it a rest, George. At least for today. Unless you really want our beloved youngest brother hexing you into next week. He's not as dumb as you make him out to be."

And that was that.

Years later, when Ron and Hermione finally admitted they were making each other miserable more than they were making each other happy and staying together for the good of the children seemed to be doing more harm than good, George found that he wasn't all that keen to try making another pass for Hermione. It wasn't that the years hadn't been kind to her so much as his interest had finally waned, and he'd thought for sure he was finally cured of coveting what didn't belong to him.

Until the day Ron brought his new girlfriend, Pansy Parkinson, into the shop, and he was lost all over again. Pansy smoked, she drank, she played poker and chess and had a razor sharp wit that kept everyone on their toes.

"Don't even think about it," advised Charlie, who happened to be there the day that George was imagining her sinfully-red lips in places he had no business imagining them.

"Too late."

The End