Three
Ron
Eight shiny eyes set upon him, unblinking, stealing the air from his lungs.
"Harry..." His voice is barely a squeak.
He tries to move, to run, but his feet are frozen to the forest floor. He watches as barbed, spindly appendages begin to crawl his way slowly. Something to his left skitters. A dog barks somewhere in the distance.
"H...Harry?"
A chorus of whispers fills the air around him, echoing malicious intent. Feed. Feed. Feed.
Something sharp brushes his hand. and he glances down to see-
"Get the fuck off me!"
Ron wakes with a shout, breathing hard. The air in the tent is chilled and he pulls his blanket tighter around him, settling back onto the cot with a sigh, his heart still racing. He sees Harry sit up from the other side of the space, rubbing his eyes.
"Spiders again?"
Ron shivers, nodding.
"Bloody fucking spiders. Again."
He stares at the ceiling of the tent, breath slowly returning to normal. They'd been in Wales for almost a week, sleeping in the cold and tracking a band of stray Death Eaters. He's ready to go home to the Burrow. To his bed. To the woman asleep in it. He sits back up, casting a tempus charm to check the time. Half past six. He runs a hand through his greasy red hair, cursing the lack of a shower for the last few days.
"Mate, you're gonna need to bone up on your concealment charms so we can get a night in a real room. We stink."
Harry laughs, standing and throwing on his jeans and a black knit jumper.
"Not my fault you won't stay in a muggle inn, Ron."
Ron's lip curls slightly. He didn't have anything against muggles, really, but their lack of magic made them frustrating to exist around without giving them away. He stands, stretching, before casting a quick scourgify to remove the grime and oil from his skin and clothing before sliding into his own jeans, tossing on a dark blue tee and a black hoodie.
"Let's just wrap this up so I can go home to my bed and my bathtub."
George
"Merlin, Hermione, this stinks."
He wrinkles his nose, wincing slightly as Hermione gently smears a poultice over the scar where his ear once was. This formula makes up the third attempt this week, and she swore up and down it was the one. He prays she's correct, when every mixture is more foul smelling than the last.
She chuckles quietly, working with a determined focus.
"It's the ground Chizpurfle shells, I'm afraid. Reeks like the ocean, but it should help the collagen re-solidify."
He shrugs with a laugh.
"Whatever you say, doc."
They'd been talking more this week. Laughing. She'd taught him about ingredients in potion making that he'd never considered, and even helped him with his new Instant Darkness Powder formula. He hadn't brewed anything since Fred died, hadn't touched his cauldron or his research books, but something about having someone there to bounce ideas off of was inspiring him again.
He cringes as she touches a sensitive patch of scar tissue right over the opening to his ear canal. It had taken him a day or two to work up to letting her touch the scar, and another couple to shake the fear that she'd recoil from the sight and texture of the tissue. Hermione, to her credit, has a hell of a poker face. If the scar bothers her, she doesn't let it show.
"There, that should do the trick. We'll leave this on for a couple days and then re-apply it if there's tissue growth."
She runs her hands under the faucet, scrubbing the thick concoction out of her nails. His throat bobs as he swallows, nodding.
"Thanks. Again."
His fingers reach up and brush the soft gauze she'd magicked to the side of his head. The sound of Molly's joyful shriek echoes up the stairs into the bathroom, and he chuckles.
"That'll be Ginny, I suppose."
They both stand and make their way down the stairs, entering the kitchen to see the youngest Weasley being suffocated in a hug.
"Blimey, mum, you'll snuff the poor girl out if you keep at it like that."
Ginny looks up at him with a grin, pushing out of Molly's arms to give him a quick hug. He awkwardly rests his arms around her before taking a step back. He looks up at the figure standing behind her, his mouth going dry. His little sister whirls, dragging her guest into the light.
"Brought you a present, George."
He licks his lips, feeling a flush creeping up his neck as he nods.
"Hi, Angelina."
Hermione
There's a ringing in her ears as she watches George and his ex-girlfriend awkwardly greet one another. Ginny chatters, and Hermione only catches the end of her ramble.
"...and since she's coaching this year, I figured what better place to spend Christmas than the Burrow?"
Hermione remembers that the Johnsons had fled during the war, but realizes now that they hadn't returned. She shakes her head, trying to clear the buzzing to greet her former classmate.
"Good to see you, Angelina."
She smiles tightly at the girl before turning to Ginny, giving her friend a hug.
"Where's Ron?"
She stiffens at the mention of his name, clearing her throat awkwardly.
"He's been on a training mission with Harry in Wales for about a week. They should be back tomorrow."
Ginny gives her an odd look, as if she can read the discomfort on her face, but lets it go as she turns back to George and Angelina. Hermione excuses herself quietly, making her way back upstairs to her room.
His room.
She sits on the bed and sighs, running a hand through her curls, looking around. Her books sit piled in a corner, her clothes peeking out of the dresser he'd given her. Everything else is decidedly Ronald. The quidditch posters on the walls, the photos of him with his family, with Harry...her eyes fall on the frame next to the bed. He'd given her the photo of the two of them when she moved in, a snapshot Colin had taken of them in their second year.
Just get through Christmas.
She has no idea how to handle this. Ron will be home in a day, uprooting the quiet routine she'd developed this week. Her morning tea, her potion brewing, the research she'd been conducting with George for a new product. He'll kiss her. Sleep next to her. Touch her.
A wave of nausea washes over her. Ever the feminist, Hermione had never allowed anyone to explore her body without her explicit consent, but she just can't say no to Ron. Maybe it's the guilt. Maybe she feels obligated, living in his house and sleeping in his bed, but either way, it's a betrayal of self.
Angelina looks great.
She rubs her face between her palms, laying back on the mattress and staring at the ceiling that doubles as George's bedroom floor. Is that where she'd be staying? Would they...?
Hermione swallows, shaking her head.
It's none of your business, Hermione.
Still, the thought tugs at the edge of her mind, like an itch she can't scratch. A knock at the door shakes her out of her reverie, and a grinning freckled face pops into the room.
"Why are you hiding?"
Ginny strolls into the space, wrinkling her nose as she flops onto the bed next to Hermione.
"You know, you're allowed to decorate in here, right? Merlin knows he could use the help."
They both chuckle, falling into a comfortable silence. Hermione turns her head to look at her friend.
"How are things at Hogwarts?"
Ginny sighs, turning on her side to face Hermione. She reaches a hand out and gently tugs one of her curls, letting go to watch it spring back into place.
"Hogwarts is...I don't know. It's all wrong. Parts of the castle are brand new, others are still partially rubble. McGonagall is doing the best she can as headmistress, but you can tell it's wearing on her. There are so many new ghosts..."
Her voice trails off as she chews on her lower lip quietly. Hermione smiles at her.
"Only a semester left, Gin. You can do it."
The youngest Weasley rolls her eyes with a groan.
"I don't even know why I need NEWTs. I'm already being scouted for the Harpies. What is Herbology going to teach me about dodging bludgers?"
Hermione laughs, shaking her head.
George
"You could come with me, you know."
George shakes the memory from his head slightly, leading Angelina upstairs to drop her bags off in his room. She sets her heavy leather duffel down and perches on the edge of his bed, looking around.
"It looks the same."
He cringes at her words, knowing the meaning behind them. Half the room remains untouched, covered in a thin layer of dust that has settled in the past seven months. The sheets on the other bed are rumpled in the shape Fred had thrown them into the morning of the battle. A drawer in his dresser is cracked slightly, where he'd rushed to grab a sweater to protect against the chilly May air. An empty mug sits on his desk, tea long gone. George clears his throat uncomfortably.
"So, Ginny said you're coaching this year?"
He sits at the chair in front of his desk, putting a bit of space between them. Their relationship had ended shortly after the battle without any animosity. George had been numb and withdrawn. Angelina needed to find her parents. She'd begged him to go with her, but he just couldn't. He glances up, his hazel eyes meeting her deep brown. She smiles softly before responding with a nod.
"Yeah, Hooch got injured during the battle and her back can't handle flying anymore, so she retired. Minerva offered me the position after I spent the summer trying to hunt down my folks."
He frowns, eyebrows furrowing.
"You never found them?"
She shakes her head with a sigh, leaning back onto her elbows and looking out the window into the frosty afternoon light.
"No. Wherever they are, they've made it pretty impossible to find them. If they're still alive."
He watches her blink away a tear, then sits forward, reaching for her hand. It's comfortable, warm and strong.
"I'm sorry, Angie."
She squeezes his hand, looking him over before chuckling.
"George, what on Godric's green earth is that terrible smell?"
Hermione
She can't sleep. In the dark silence of the house, the soft laughs in the room above her echo through her skull. They've been up there for hours, having skipped dinner.
None of your business, Hermione.
She groans, rubbing her hands over her face before climbing out of bed. She picks up an oversized shirt off the floor, throws it on, on and pads down to the kitchen. She's stopped in her tracks by the figure at the table.
"Ronald?"
He looks up at her, clearly exhausted. His hair is limp, and a bruise under his eye has begun to bloom and darken. He nods in her direction with a slight smile.
"Hey 'Mione. I didn't want to wake you up."
She walks over to him, leaning down to inspect the bruise.
"I think you fractured your orbital, want me to fix it?"
He nods, and she pulls her wand out of the mass of curls piled on top of her hair in a bun. Casting a couple charms, she watches him flinch, then relax. The dark purple fades a bit to a ruddy green-yellow. He reaches for her, pulling her into his lap and burying his face in her shoulder, breathing in her scent.
"You look good in my shirt."
She curses herself internally, glancing down at the Chudley Cannons jersey. She tries not to wear his things, especially if he's home. He places a kiss to the back of her neck and she shivers. He chuckles, misunderstanding the response.
"Want to go to bed?"
She bites her lip, taking a deep breath as she stands. She wipes the expression from her face, replacing it with a neutral smile when she turns to face him.
"I was going to make some tea, actually. Why don't you go take a shower and climb in and I'll be right up?"
He smirks, nodding.
"I'll see you up there, then."
She watches him climb the stairs slowly, clearly more injured than she'd realized. Maybe he'd be too tired tonight.
Never too tired for you, 'Mione.
She cringes, starting the kettle and waits for the water to boil. Her thoughts race.
After a while, she hears the shower upstairs turn off, and the floorboards creak as he walks into their room. She finishes her tea, ascending the stairs and takes a deep breath before walking into the space, closing the door behind her. He's wearing a pair of dark red boxers decorated with snitches, laying on top of the covers and staring up at the ceiling. When she enters, he turns to look at her with a raised eyebrow.
"Is there a girl in George's room?"
Her chest tightens as she glances up at the light peeking through the boards in the ceiling, soft giggles streaming down into the room. She nods quietly, perching on the edge of the bed.
"Ginny brought Angelina home for Christmas. I guess her parents are still missing."
Ron grins up at the ceiling.
"Good, maybe a solid shag will knock him out of this funk."
She cringes, thinking about the scene taking place above them. Her head fills in the blanks of the unknown. Warm brown hands against pale flesh, dark braids entwined with copper locks, and those fucking giggles. Jealousy slowly takes root in her chest.
She knows what he likes, too.
She shakes her head, laying down next to Ron. He pulls her head onto his chest, gently running his fingertips up and down her arm. All she can focus on are the two people above her, doing Merlin knows what. Ron brushes a kiss across her forehead, his hand traveling down to rest on her hip. His other hand tilts her chin up gently and he presses his lips to hers softly. She closes her eyes, and for just a moment it isn't Ron she's kissing.
"Should we cast a silencing charm?"
She shakes her head.
Fuck it, if they're going to be up all night, might as well give them something to listen to.
"I don't think they're concerned with what we're doing right now."
Ron grins, rolling her onto her back as he rests his forearms on either side of her head.
"Naughty little witch."
George
Angelina hadn't changed a bit. They had been talking, swapping stories and laughing late into the night. At one point, she stands, walking over to where he sits in his desk chair, and leans over, brushing her lips against his. He rolls back quickly, flinching. She backs away, sitting on the mattress and assessing him.
"George, it's okay. I get it. I'm just here for the holiday."
He shakes his head slowly.
"I'm sorry, Angie. I'm just not in a place where I...you know?"
He wrings his hands nervously, glancing up at her. Truth be told, there was only one person he thought about when he was alone at night.
Pathetic.
Angelina leans forward, squeezing his knee gently.
"We can just be two friends hanging out for Christmas. There's nothing wrong with that."
She casts a quick tempus and chuckles.
"Come lay down. We don't have to do anything, but you're not sleeping in that chair and I won't disturb your alter to Fred."
He cringes slightly, but stands, shucking off his sweater and changing into a pair of flannels before climbing into bed. She closes the space between their bodies, resting her head on his shoulder.
"Is this okay?"
He nods, wrapping an arm around her and burying his face in her hair. She smells like shea butter and lilac. He smiles and pulls her closer.
"Thanks for understanding, Angie. You're a good friend."
They lay quietly in the darkness, silent save for the sound of their breathing. A soft moan cuts through the air from below. Then another. Angelina tilts her chin up to look at him, eyebrows raised.
"I take it Ron is home."
George blushes, shaking his head. He stares at the floor for a moment, confused, as another moan splits the air. He closes his eyes, trying not to picture the activity happening below.
Brightest witch of her age forgot a silencing charm? Unlikely.
Angelina giggles in the dark, nudging his ribs.
"She's faking it."
He looks down at her incredulously.
"What makes you say that?"
She laughs again, covering her mouth.
"Nobody who's actually enjoying themselves sounds like that, George. She must really be putting on a show for the poor guy."
Another louder moan drifts up through the floorboards, followed by a soft voice chanting Ron's name. George rubs his hand over his face, closing his eyes again before sitting up and casting a silencing charm on the floor.
Ron
His eyes slowly open to the early dawn light with a grin. Merlin. Hermione had been happy to see him last night. Images flash in his mind of her riding him, her head thrown back and her eyes closed. He rolls over to wrap an arm around her, realizing she's gone. His brow furrows. She never wants to stay in bed in the morning, opting to spend time alone in the kitchen, or sharing tea with George. He sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes as he climbs out of bed. He throws on a pair of jeans and a sweater, making his way down to the kitchen.
Hermione is sitting at the heavy oak table, mug nestled between her hands. Another sits beside her, steaming.
"Didn't think you'd be up this early after last night."
He grins cheekily at her, sitting down and picking up the mug, taking a sip. His nose wrinkles.
"Blimey, that's sweet. Does George like any tea with his honey?"
He watches as she eyes him carefully, and reaches for her hand.
"You okay?"
Hermione
She hadn't slept. Like usual, Ron had rolled over and passed out snoring as soon as he came, while she lay silently staring up at the ceiling.
She'd kept her eyes closed the entire time, picturing a different set of slender, elegant hands gripping her.
This morning, she'd wandered down to the kitchen to make her tea, unsure if she should make the second cup. George never slept this late, but he had yet to come down the stairs. When she finally heard footsteps, it had turned out to be Ron, who now sits next to her. Sipping tea that isn't meant for him. Noticing that something is off.
She shakes her head, pasting a soft smile onto her face.
"I'm fine, just tired."
Ron grins, clearly pleased with that answer as he takes another sip of the tea. They sit in a silence that for him is comfortable and for her is loud. Her ears ring as she chastises herself internally.
You're making it worse.
She shouldn't have fucked Ron last night. She knows that.
They probably heard you.
Ron stands, depositing the mug into the sink before kissing her on top of the head.
"I've gotta head to the Ministry, but I'll be back for dinner."
She watches him grab his dark Auror robe off the hook before stepping into the fireplace and chokes down a sob.
You're a horrible fucking person, Hermione.
She sighs, wiping at her eyes and bringing her knees up to her chest, resting her heels on the edge of the chair as she sips her tea. A short while passes, and she hears soft footsteps coming down the stairs. She looks up and meets a set of hazel eyes.
George looks her over, then nods a greeting and steps outside onto the back porch. She stands with a groan, filling the kettle with more water and waits for it to boil. As she pours him a cup of tea, she feels his presence behind her. Smells the mixture of cedar and smoke. He leans over her shoulder, his mouth an inch from her ear.
"You didn't have to fake it for my benefit, 'Mione."
Fuck.