Five
George
"Okay, okay, I've got one. Would you rather only be able to read the same five books for the rest of your life, or have every book ever be written by Rita Skeeter?"
Hermione's nose crinkles in disgust.
"What about textbooks? Surely she wouldn't be responsible for textbooks."
He chuckles, winding a hand in her curls and gently scratching the back of her neck as her head rests on his chest.
"Yes, even textbooks. Every child would learn from Hogwarts, An Approximate History."
Her small noise of condemnation forces a smile to his lips as he presses a kiss to the top of her head.
"It's just a game. Pick one, angel."
The nickname brings a blush to her cheeks as she ponders the question.
"I guess I'd have to go with the same five books for the rest of my life. Just don't ask me to pick which five, or we'll never leave this bed."
In reality, they'd barely left his bed since arriving at the flat two days prior, following Ronald's failed proposal. His younger brother hadn't so much as sent an owl to confirm she was okay, seemingly content in the knowledge that his girlfriend hasn't come home. George had sent a message to the Burrow the morning after Christmas to let Molly know where they are, to apologize to Angelina for leaving so abruptly, and to ask Ginny to please feed Crookshanks for a bit. He buries his nose into her hair, breathing in the scent of his shampoo.
She smells like me.
It's late in the day, and the warm golden hour light spills into his room through the large bay window along the far wall. They lay curled up under his heavy comforter, lazily tracing soft shapes along one another's bodies.
Hermione
"I've got one."
She looks up at him, her face spread in a roguish grin.
"Would you rather have every bathroom you ever own, in perpetuity, be haunted by Moaning Myrtle, or have to host Filch for two weeks of his choosing every year until he croaks?"
The rumble of his chest as he chuckles is quickly becoming a familiar comfort to her. She feels his breath against her hair as he thinks out loud.
"Well, now, not like Myrtle hasn't seen it all, at this point. Would be nice to not have to worry about her peeking in on every shower activity, though."
She blushes at his reference to what has very rapidly turned into their favorite pastime.
"Might be nice to catch up with old Filchy once a year. I do miss coming up with new and inventive ways of scaring the old codger half to death."
She can practically hear the grin in his voice.
"Definitely Filch for two weeks a year."
Hermione giggles at his logic, tilting her chin up to nuzzle into the side of his neck sweetly before resting her head back on his chest. A comfortable silence falls between the two of them as they both drift to their own thoughts. She laces her fingers between his, bringing his hand into her view to study it. Little burn scars cover his knuckles and palms, and one long silvery scar runs down the side of his wrist. She traces a gentle finger down the smooth line of tissue.
"How did you get this one?"
George
His breath catches in his chest at how delicately she brushes her fingers along his hand. He swallows hard, picking their intertwined hands up to look at the scar in question. He smirks, chuckling quietly.
"Fred cracked a bludger at me during practice one day, and it damn near took my hand off. Pomfrey told me to take it easy, but I played later that week and blew it back open. Couldn't keep it from scarring after that."
His stomach twists in a knot as the image of Fred comes to mind, face lit in a laugh before twisting in horror as George's hand had dropped, useless, to his side. He'd cracked jokes with George all night in the hospital wing, refusing to leave and racking up a couple week's worth of detentions for both of them. He squeezes Hermione's hand gently, throat suddenly tight. Her sweet voice is a murmur against his neck.
"I know you miss him, George."
Nothing gets by her.
He clears his throat, pressing his face back into her hair and whispering.
"More than you can imagine, angel."
He sighs, pulling her into a tighter embrace.
"Sometimes it feels like missing a limb, except instead of phantom pains, there's an ache in my chest that just doesn't go away."
His eyes water and he wipes at them, trying to collect himself. They fall back into silence for a moment before she breaks it.
"We could go see him, you know. I'd do that with you."
George's chest tightens with emotion, his voice coming out in a choke.
"I'm just not ready, yet. I can't walk back into that castle knowing what's waiting for me."
He feels her gentle fingers brush slow circles on his chest.
Hermione
It does feel like missing a limb.
Her thoughts drift as she softly rubs his chest in the quiet dusk. After the sun has dipped below the buildings outside and the light filtering through the window comes from the streetlights, she sits up with a sigh.
"We should eat something, George."
She looks down at him, noting the faraway look in his eyes, and rests her fingertips under his chin to tilt his gaze up to her's.
"I can cook, we can go somewhere, we can order in, but we can't subsist on sex and whatever snacks have survived in your cabinet for eight months."
The quiet chuckle that pulls from him is a small victory, and she smiles softly. Crawling out of bed, she pulls on her jeans and one of his t-shirts.
"Come on, you need a beer. We're going to the Cauldron."
She reaches a hand out, pulling him out of bed and into a hug. His breath ruffles her hair as he murmurs.
"I suppose we can't hide out here forever."
Her hands pause at his hips, thumb gently brushing a small circle into his side.
"No, I suppose we can't. Eventually we have to deal with everything."
With Ron.
She shakes her head, taking a step back and tossing him his pants.
"For now, let's just get some food. Anything else can be handled tomorrow."
George
He dresses quickly, hands shaking slightly from hunger.
When was the last time I ate a full meal?
Food had dropped low on the priority list for George after the war ended. He'd replaced hunger with cigarettes and sulking quietly. He sees the way Hermione's eyes pass over his body, a brief but concerned glance, and doesn't want to continue the habit. It's just...hard. Shrugging on his jacket, he opens his bedroom door to the darkness of the rest of the flat.
"Angel?"
Her head lifts in his direction as she ties her boots, cheeks pink from the nickname. A smirk crosses his face, making her blush has quickly become his favorite thing.
"You ready to go?"
She nods, walking out into the den. He closes the door and follows close behind, one hand pressed gently into her lower back as they leave the flat and descend the narrow stairs that lead to the back door of the shop. Soft voices of customers echo through the wall and he cringes internally.
I'll have to go back in there eventually.
Shaking his head, he guides them out onto the street, shivering slightly in the December chill. The streetlights cast a soft glow over the snow lining Diagon Alley, the occasional person passing by avoids eye contact. A young witch, seemingly in her late teens, comes up to them nervously, wringing her hands.
"Are you Hermione Granger?"
Hermione
Fuck.
She plasters a soft smile onto her face, looking over at the girl. She can't be much younger than herself, but her energy is nervous. Revering. Hermione hates this part of being in public.
"Yeah, that's me. What's your name?"
The girl shifts nervously from foot to foot, avoiding eye contact.
"M-Martha. Martha Carvintine. I know you probably don't remember me from Hogwarts since I was three years under you, but I just wanted to say...um...thank you. I guess. For everything you did."
She feels George's hand return to the small of her back, his thumb rubbing in slow circles as if he can feel how uncomfortable the interaction makes her. She reaches a hand out to shake with the young witch.
"You don't have to thank me, Martha. We're all just glad it's over."
She pauses awkwardly, dropping Martha's hand.
"I take it you're on break this week? Classes start up again Monday, right?"
Martha shakes her head, eyes still cast down.
"My parents pulled me out of school. They don't think it's safe anymore. I work in their shop, now."
Hermione's brow furrows. She does some quick mental math.
"You mean you're not in any classes? You're only sixteen."
The young girl's face reddens as she shakes her head again.
"Dad says I don't need it to work for them. I know enough to get by."
Martha looks like she's said too much, finally making eye contact with Hermione.
"I've taken enough of your time, I don't want to intrude. Just wanted to say thank you."
They watch as the girl scurries down the street. Hermione stands, shocked.
"George, they took her out of school."
Her hands shake as she looks up at him, repeating herself quietly.
"They took her out."
George
He nudges her gently.
"Come on, angel. Let's get out of the cold."
They continue down the street, ducking into the Leaky Cauldron and finding a table. He shrugs off his coat, draping it over the back of his chair before making his way over to the bar. Returning with two pints, he sets one in front of her and sits, sipping his drink quietly as he looks her over.
"You alright?"
Her glass rests in her palms as she looks around the dimly lit tavern. He sees her throat bob as she swallows, brown eyes cloudy in thought.
"Hermione, look at me."
He sees her reverie break as she looks across the table at him. Reaching a hand out to grab her own, he brushes his thumb across her knuckles thoughtfully.
"You're not responsible for how other people handle the fallout. You've done more than anyone could have asked from you, and you deserve to rest."
She moves a lock of hair behind her ear, tucking her lower lip between her teeth. He wants nothing more than to pull her into his lap in that moment. As she squeezes his hand, she takes a deep breath before responding.
"I just can't imagine denying a child an education. Especially a young girl. She doesn't deserve that."
The corners of his mouth tug up into a smile.
"That's because you're a good person, angel."
"Angel, huh?"
Hermione's face goes white as she pulls her hand back, staring over George's shoulder.
Fuck. Not now.
He turns, looking up into familiar blue eyes.
"Ronald."