
A Tempest in an Iris
June fades to July, and takes most of the world’s color with it. The very air around them seems streaked with melancholy, the sun rising late each morning to illuminate gray streets. Hermione wakes one such morning with a sigh, her head throbbing as the screams and images that plague her in sleep leak away. She rolls over, checks the clock, and lets her head fall back against the pillow.
Another day of searching stretches ahead of her. Another day of endless apparition, dodging library staff, and stealing patron information. Another day of trying to buoy George and keep herself from falling beneath the wave of anxiety threatening to crest in her chest at any moment.
She pulls herself from bed and showers, imagining the scalding water pouring on her is burning away the last vestiges of her nightmare. She envisions streaking curses, her classmates’ blood, her own screams swirling down the drain, trailing off into some unknown ocean far away from her.
Skin prickling, she steps back into the room and tugs her clothes from the knapsack. She drags the layers against her tender skin, the jeans and t-shirt and jacket that will take her through the cooling day. She looks in the mirror as she dresses, trying to ignore the scars gleaming in the dim light.
The hotel lobby is empty when she exits the elevator, but Hermione is not concerned. She drops into an armchair by the window and takes a book from her bag, tucking one foot under her knee. George will join soon. This she knows without question.
As if on cue, no sooner does she think this than the boy in question appears in front of her, giving a grumbled greeting before dropping into the seat beside her.
She stifles a sigh. Evidently, it is not the cheerful George joining her this morning.
Hermione glances at him out of the corner of her eye, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. His hair has grown longer in the weeks since they left England, the ends beginning to curl gently against his jaw. His dragonhide jacket, the material creased and worn at the elbows, hangs stiffly from his shoulders, and dark shadows rim his eyes.
George takes a slip of parchment out of his bag along with a quill, hunching over the small coffee table in front of him with hardly a word in her direction. Hermione sighs again as she returns to her book.
She studiously makes her way through pages of theory on magical bonds and memory, looking up every few seconds as George fidgets and huffs in his chair. He scrawls a note, then scratches it out, leaning back in his seat and running a hand through his hair.
For nearly an hour they sit in silence. Hermione reads. George seems to spend equal time writing notes and expunging them, his expression darkening as he works.
The hotel staff put out breakfast, and other guests begin to trickle into the lobby. A gentle chatter bubbles up around them as people eat and talk and trundle their luggage across the tile floor.
George’s jacket rustles as he shifts in his seat, glaring at a couple talking loudly near the door.
Hermione ignores both him and the other guests. She adjusts her legs, shaking out a foot that has fallen asleep and curling up against the side of the armchair as she turns the page in her book. A sharp ringing makes her jump, and she relaxes as she hears the woman behind the desk answer the phone, her voice melodic and serene.
Looking down again, Hermione forces herself to reread the sentence on forged family bonds and their differences from blood family bonds. Beside her, George swears under his breath and scratches his quill across the parchment so viciously he rips a hole in it.
“Fucking —”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Hermione exclaims, clapping the book shut in her lap and whirling to face him. “What is the matter?”
George scowls at her. “Nothing,” he mutters, turning back to the parchment.
“Oh, don’t give me that.” Hermione rolls her eyes and tucks the book onto the coffee table, snatching the parchment from under George’s quill as she does so. “You’ve been fussing since you sat down. What is it?”
She turns the parchment over in her hands, eyes skimming over the contents. It is the same list she had seen in his room a few weeks earlier, crammed with somehow even more writing than before.
“Give that back.” George leans over the arm of his chair, reaching for the parchment.
Hermione turns away and curls back into her seat as she scans the document. “Why is this product list making you so upset?”
“I’m not upset,” he mutters. He rises, coming to stand in front of her, and reaches down to jerk the parchment out of her hands.
Hermione tightens her hold on the list, looking up to glare at him. “I’m not giving it back until you say why you’re in such a foul mood.”
He glowers at her, eyes flickering from her face to the small crowd of people eating breakfast across the lobby. He tugs the parchment in her hands again. Hermione refuses to let go.
“Fine,” George snaps. He sits back in his chair with rather more force than necessary and gives her an ugly look. “Fine. I can’t figure how to get any of the sodding things to work properly and I don’t know why. Happy?”
Hermione purses her lips and returns to the parchment, reading through the notes with more care. “Not any of them?”
George makes a disgruntled noise, and Hermione makes a face.
“Alright, sorry. Just asking. ”
George mumbles something under his breath, and Hermione decides it is probably best she doesn’t hear it. She inhales heavily as she turns the parchment in her hands, lining up the ripped edges.
“I don’t know why you’re so keen to look at it,” George mumbles from his seat. “It’s all rubbish.”
Hermione shakes her head, eyes sweeping over the remaining legible notes scribbled on the parchment. Wand movements, ingredients and their measurements, pieces of magical theory all written out together, some connected by arrows or hasty circles.
“It’s not rubbish,” she murmurs, leaning closer to examine a series of bullet points listing steps for what looks like a complex tracking charm. “Some of this—I don’t even know where you found this, George.”
George shrugs, leaning over her shoulder to look. “It’s just copied from different books,” he says. “Nothing too impressive about that.”
“It’s still an astonishing amount of work.” Hermione reads over the parchment one last time, and then hands it back to him.
George takes it, frowning again as he leans down and stuffs it in his bag along with the quill. Offending list out of sight, he sinks into his chair and scrubs a hand down his face, sighing so heavily Hermione worries he might deflate.
She bites her lip, eyes drifting over his shadowed eyes and pinched mouth. She makes up her mind as she takes her book from the coffee table, placing it in her bag as she stands.
“We’re taking a day off.”
“What?” George’s hand drops to his side and he peers at her.
Hermione picks up her bag and straightens, eyes coming down to meet his. “We aren’t going to the library today,” she says, “because we’re taking a day off.”
George eyes her and sighs sullenly. “You don’t need to spend a day trying to help me make some joke shop products work, Hermione.”
“That’s not what I’m suggesting.”
“Then what are you suggesting?”
Hermione shifts her feet and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “A day in muggle Sydney. Playing tourist.”
George’s eyebrows rise. “I thought we didn’t have time for that?”
Hermione frowns. “A break will do us good. You said it yourself a few weeks ago, everyone needs time to have fun and relax.” She adjusts her bag on her shoulder, eyes dropping to the ground before catching on his again. “And I thought you wanted to see the city?”
“I do.” George leans back and studies her. “Alright,” he says at last, shaking his head. “We’ll take a day off, then.”
Hermione nods and lets a tentative smile curl at her mouth. “Are you ready to see muggle Sydney?”
“After almost two months here?” George runs a hand through his hair. “I suppose it’s about time we got around to it.” He casts a disparaging glance at the bag at his feet. “It’s not like I’m getting anything useful done here anyways.”
She bends down and scoops up the offensive bag, stepping in front of George’s chair. “Let’s go, then” she says, holding out her hand towards him. “We have a big day ahead of us.”
George throws her one last baleful look, taking a sharp breath in as he gets to his feet. He puts his hand in hers, seeming to put as little pressure as possible against her palm. “Do we need to get the guide books?”
Hermione lets her fingers wrap around his and shakes her head, giving what she hopes is a reassuring smile. “No,” she says. “I know just where we should start.”
***
She apparates them to a dim alley off a bustling street and leads George by the elbow to the squat building sitting against the water.
George’s eyes widen slightly, face brightening as he looks over at her. “The aquarium?”
Hermione nods, trying to stifle a smile. “I thought you’d like it.”
She approaches the window and buys two tickets, leading George into the building alongside a stream of school children.
George swivels his head around the lobby, taking in the various signs and exhibits. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“They have exhibits of tropical reef fish,” Hermione says. “We could start there?”
He turns to look at her, a faint smile at his lips. “That works for me.”
They make their way to the exhibit, and Hermione rocks back on her heels as they join the crowd staring at the clownfish and blue tang and harlequin tuskfish.
George stands slack-jawed, eyes tracking the movements of a particular little clownfish across the water. Hermione is reminded of her own reaction the first time her parents took her to the Louvre, that feeling of wonder at all the marvels around her, the urge to plant herself on the museum floor and never move.
They move on to another exhibit, now watching great sharks swim to and fro, their teeth glinting in the overhead lights. Hermione stifles a shriek and steps away from the tank as one of the beasts rams its head against the glass.
George steps back beside her, shivering slightly as he considers the shark in front of them. “Some of these are scarier than chimeras.”
Hermione slants a glance at him, rocking back on her heels. “You’ve absolutely never seen a chimera.”
George makes a face. “Not up close. But close enough to tell you, that bloke right there staring at us through the glass is scarier.”
Hermione stifles a laugh and shakes her head, deciding not to ask any further questions about how close George may or may not have gotten to a chimera.
George catches her by the elbow, still glancing uneasily at the shark. “They put an unbreakable charm on the glass here, right?” he whispers, bending down so only Hermione can hear.
She shakes her head, glancing towards the group of school teachers and their charges standing nearby. “They couldn’t, now could they? It’s run by muggles.”
George’s grip on her elbow tightens, and he casts another look at the glass. “Right. Well, that’s enough sharks for me today.”
They make their way slowly through the aquarium, pointing out the different corridors and creatures around them, oohing and aahing appropriately. They see penguins waddle and swim, watch great rays flap about a tank, and laugh at the jellyfish flopping about. They go to see creatures of the deep sea, giggling and shuddering at the magnificently ugly beasts in front of them.
George walks through the space with his hands in his pockets, looking with equal curiosity at the animals behind the glass and the special effect lights installed in the tanks and the muggle children running across the building. Hermione bites her lip and tries to push down the pride welling up in her, the rich pleasure tickling her chest for having so successfully diverted George’s mood.
As midday approaches and they have exhausted all the offerings of the aquarium, they make their way back to the main doors. Hermione tries unsuccessfully to deter George from the gift shop and he spends nearly an hour peering with great interest at the souvenir t-shirts and books and glass tumblers available for purchase, exclaiming every so often at the array of products available.
When at last he acquiesces and agrees to leave they push through the front doors and step out onto the sidewalk, squinting as their eyes adjust to the light.
“Well,” George says as they step away from the doorway and Hermione tugs a guide book out of her bag, “I didn’t know so many fish are terrifying. I’ll never look at the school lake the same way.”
Hermione snorts, fingers flicking through the pages of her guide book. “Was the lake not already frightening? It has a giant squid in it, for heaven’s sake.”
George shrugs. “She’s a sweetheart, though. Wouldn’t hurt a soul unless she feels threatened. I’m more worried now about what sorts of fish other than the giant squid are living there.”
“It wouldn’t be the fish I worried about.” Hermione grimaces. “I’d take a clown fish over a grindylow any day.”
“A clown fish, maybe. One of those wobbegong shark things? Absolutely not.”
Hermione rolls her eyes and returns her attention to her guide book. “We should figure out what we want to do next,” she murmurs. “There’s plenty to do that’s fairly close, and we can always apparate if we want to go somewhere that’s too far to walk to.”
George runs a hand through his hair and comes to stand behind her, peering at the book over her shoulder. “Did you have a plan for the day?”
Hermione shrugs, turning to glance at him. “A loose one. I was thinking we could go down and see Darling Harbour since it’s so close. I don’t know how interesting it will be with it being winter, but it’s still supposed to be nice. From there we could go further north to see the Harbour Bridge and the Sydney Opera House. And if we have time maybe we could make our way over to the Art Gallery of New South Wales before going back to the hotel.”
George’s mouth curls into a lopsided smile, his eyes flickering between her and the book in her hands.
Hermione feels her cheeks warm, and she hastily snaps the guidebook shut. “We don’t have to do all of it,” she says quickly. “They’re just suggestions.”
“No, no, it’s a good plan.” George shakes his head, still smiling at her. “Nothing less than I’d expect from you.”
“You look—”
“I’m just marveling at your reading retention and organizational skills. You’re a regular genius for charting an efficient path.”
“Right.” Hermione drops her eyes to the ground and stuffs the guidebook back in her bag. The warmth in her cheeks deepens and spreads across her jaw. “Well, if it’s alright with you then we can start towards the harbour.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” George steps to the side and gestures for her to move in front of him. “Lead the way,” he says with a wink.
Hermione rolls her eyes and flicks her hair over her shoulder. “It’s not hard to get there,” she mutters. “We just walk towards the water and follow the pavement.”
George grins. “This is your plan we’re going with, Hermione. Wherever you go, I follow.”
***
They spend an hour walking near Darling Harbour, peering at the shimmering water and admiring the view of Sydney’s skyline in the distance. They debate what sorts of fish live near the harbour and how far a person would have to swim in order to find sharks like those held in the aquarium, and stop for lunch at a nearby cafe.
The afternoon marches on and they apparate further north to see Harbour Bridge and the Sydney Opera House, George babbling all the while about the wonder of muggle innovation. Hermione, after explaining for the second time the concept of muggle engineering and architecture, takes him by the elbow and apparates them to the art gallery.
The Art Gallery of New South Wales feels like a welcome reprieve after a day spent in the bustle and noise of the city. Hermione takes a deep breath in as they enter the first room of the museum. The shining wood floors, gentle stream of whispers, and gilded frames on walls weave together into a comforting blanket about her body.
They make their way quietly through the gallery. Hermione suspects George is pretending to examine the paintings around them, but finds for the moment she doesn’t particularly care if he finds them interesting or not. She is back in an art museum, surrounded by beauty and craft, and it feels like being enveloped in a hug.
She comes to stand in front of an oil painting of a young woman posing with a dog, the small plaque on the wall listing the creation date as 1898. She lets herself relax.
She hears George come to stand beside her but doesn’t turn to look at him or say anything. Instead, she studies the painting. The young woman’s blonde hair falls behind her in gentle wisps completely unlike Hermione’s wild mane. The painted skin looks like cream, gleaming against the gray shadows. Yet it is the woman’s eyes that Hermione cannot look away from, the blue and gray and green pigments all mixing together to form something that looks like it is in motion, that seems to contain a lifetime of feeling and impressions within. A tempest in an iris. A soul within a portrait.
She examines the gentle mosaic of color, the visible texture left behind by the artist’s brushstrokes. She thinks of the paintings at Hogwarts, full of movement and sound. She wonders, briefly, what this woman would say to her now if she were able.
A feeling Hermione can hardly name, some potent mixture of sadness and relief, rises in her chest as she stares into the painted eyes of the woman in the portrait. She at once wishes she could talk with her, and is thankful such a thing is impossible.
Some things, Hermione thinks, are better left a mystery.
As though reading her thoughts, George bends down beside her and whispers, “It’s odd looking at these and not having them move.”
Hermione shrugs, still staring at the portrait. “I think it makes some of them better,” she says. “It’s nicer, sometimes, to just enjoy something because it’s pretty, and not get it all mixed up with how it acts and talks and thinks.”
George crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head to the side, and she knows he is considering this.
“It seems like it’s not very—not very useful if all you can do is look at it,” he says at last. “If there’s nothing deeper there.”
Hermione bites the inside of her cheek. Her eyes skim over the plaque on the wall again, which gives only information about the painter, and none about the subject.
“I think some things are useful just for being beautiful,” she says softly. “For making you feel something and making you stop for a moment to think about how beautiful they are. And,” she glances at him, “not everything has to have a deeper purpose or be immediately useful to be worthwhile.”
George’s eyes latch onto hers, and Hermione fights the urge to look away.
“You used to accuse us of not doing anything worthwhile,” he says in a casual voice, turning back to look at the painting. “You said once we only ever did things that were flashy and of no real value.”
Hermione swallows, her chest burning as she turns away from the painting to look at him fully.
“I was wrong,” she says. “I didn’t understand.” She bites her lip and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “You—the shop—you make people happy,” she murmurs. “You give people hope. There’s nothing flashy about that.”
George’s eyebrows rise, and though he opens his mouth he doesn’t reply. He runs a hand through his hair, momentarily revealing the mottled skin and dark hole on the left side where his ear should be. Hermione waits for him to say something, but he merely shakes his head and looks away.
Hermione turns back to the painting, considering again the swirl of color in the blonde girl’s eyes.
“Tell me why you can’t get the products to work,” she says.
George glances sideways at her. “Why?”
Hermione does her best to give a nonchalant shrug. “Maybe I can help.” She turns and tries to smile. “I’m rather good at research, in case you didn’t know.”
A woman meanders towards them, a museum brochure in her hands as she peers at the painting. George gives Hermione a look and steps away towards an empty corner of the gallery. Hermione follows.
“I don’t think you’ll want to spend your time working on some silly joke shop items,” he says in a low voice when they are a safe distance away from the woman. “You’d hardly approve of some of them.”
Hermione frowns. “Try me.”
“Fine.” George sighs and leans closer. “We had an idea for love bites. Chewing gum with a bit of uninhibited attraction potion in it. It’s a fast-acting potion that requires continual ingestion, so the thought is that the potion would be in effect while the person is actively chewing the gum, and then would wear off shortly after they spit the gum out.”
Hermione purses her lips. George gives her a knowing look.
“I told you you wouldn’t approve.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know why you continue to sell these love potions. The whole idea seems dodgy.”
George shrugs. “They sell well. And we make it a point to only sell potions we think are relatively harmless. We’re not marketing Amortentia or any of the really powerful ones that completely override someone’s senses. Nobody should be flinging themselves off the astronomy tower because of this. It just—” he flicks his eyes to her, “lowers people’s inhibitions. Gives them a bit of confidence to do what they really want to do.”
Hermione scowls. “You’re still making people think they fancy someone they might not want anything to do with.”
George rolls his eyes. “Low power love potions don’t manufacture attraction, Hermione. I know you know that. And you know—” he gives her a wry smile, “I think that’s what people dislike the most about them. It’s not the possibility that they will be forced to fancy someone they hate. It’s the fact that somewhere, deep down, they always were a little attracted to that person, and now they have to live with that knowledge.”
Hermione opens her mouth, then closes it, unsure of how exactly to respond to this. She swallows, shakes her head slightly to clear it, and refocuses her thoughts.
“So what problems are you having with these love bites?”
George grimaces. “I can’t get the dosing right. If I go too low they’re completely ineffective. Too high and not only do the effects last for a while after the person spits out the gum, but the gum tastes rotten.”
He runs a hand through his hair again, face darkening as his shoulders drop. “There has to be a way to figure it out, something I haven’t thought of. I just don’t—” he breaks off, glaring at the hardwood floor.
Hermione reaches out and puts a hand on his arm. “You’ll find a way to make it work,” she says. “It’s taken you a while to get products right before, hasn’t it? And you’ve always managed it.”
George tugs his arm from her grasp and shoves his hands in his pockets, still scowling. “It’s not like that now, is it?”
“Well, why not?” Hermione presses. She steps closer, eyes scanning his slumped posture, the returning lines and shadows on his face. “You can do it, George. You’ve done it before. You can—”
“I haven’t done it on my own,” he bites out, turning and glaring at her. “I’ve never done any of this by myself. And I can’t get it to work.”
Hermione pauses. She breathes in and takes a tentative step closer. “You don’t have to reopen the store, you know,” she whispers. “If it’s eating you up this much. You could do something else.”
George gives a humorless laugh and looks at her, his face seeming to sag. “I’m not good for much else, am I?” He drops his head, running a hand over the back of his neck before he peers back up at her, the dark blue strands in his eyes twisting around the lighter shades. “All I’ve ever been good at is making silly products for a joke shop, and I can’t even do that right now.”
Something in Hermione’s chest coils, the pressure radiating painfully around her ribs. She returns her hand to his arm, finger pressing lightly into dragonhide leather.
“George—”
“It’s alright,” he says, mouth warping again into a grimace. “It’s probably for the best I don’t get all these working right away. Once they’re done—” he looks to the ground and then back at her. “Once they’re done I’m on my own.”
He looks so lost, so resigned, Hermione doesn’t know what to say. The hand on his arm drops, and she wraps her arms quickly around his shoulders, pulling him towards her.
She can feel George hesitate, his shoulders tensing and his breath slowing before he wraps his arms around her torso and squeezes her into his chest. Hermione holds the hug for a second, a single breath in and out before she releases him and steps back, the flush returning to her face.
“Sorry,” George mumbles, crossing his arms and looking away from her. “You didn’t have me come here with you to listen to me complain about the store.”
“Don’t you dare apologize,” Hermione says fiercely. “You should be able to talk about the shop. And trouble with—with products.” She catches his eye and forces her face to form a tight smile. “And anyways, I’d rather hear you talk about the shop than have you keep everything in and drive yourself mad.”
He quirks an eyebrow, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. “Grown fond of my company, have you?”
Hermione shrugs, her smile growing deeper, softer. “I suppose so.”
George straightens and shakes his head slightly. “We should do something tonight,” he says, arms untangling as he looks about the gallery. “Go somewhere to help us cheer up.”
Hermione arches an eyebrow. “Any ideas?”
“No.” The lines on his face fade, a dim lightness returning to his smile as he looks at her. “But I think I know where to start.”
Hermione nods and holds a hand out, gesturing towards the gallery door. “Lead the way.”
***
They apparate back to the hotel and Hermione follows as George strides into the lobby.
“Wait here a moment,” he says to her over his shoulder as he moves towards the reception desk. Hermione stops and watches, eyebrows knitting together, as he approaches the desk and puts on a cheeky smile.
“Hello there,” he greets the woman at the desk, grinning broadly at her. “I was wondering if you could help me. The two of us,” he gestures between himself and Hermione, “were looking for a recommendation for a place to have dinner tonight. Somewhere we wouldn’t go every night, if you know what I mean.”
The woman glances between the two of them and gets a knowing smile on her face that Hermione doesn’t like one bit.
“You’re looking for a romantic night, then?” she asks loudly.
“Oh, yes.” George gives a vigorous nod, no doubt entertained by the idea of himself and Hermione sharing anything that could be called romantic. “Yes, that would be best. She’s hard to impress, this one. Standards a kilometer high.”
Hermione rolls her eyes and bites her tongue, making a mental note to ignore all that had happened at the gallery and kill George Weasley when this conversation is over.
The woman behind the desk scribbles something on a slip of paper, chattering in a low voice as she does so. When she’s done she hands the paper to George, who thanks her and turns back to Hermione, looking rather pleased with himself.
Hermione scowls as he rejoins her. “You’re horrible,” she hisses.
George shrugs. “She’s been smiling at us every time we walk into this lobby since we got here. Might as well give her a little excitement for the evening.”
“What did she suggest?” Hermione asks, nodding towards the slip of paper clutched in his hand.
“A little Italian place around the corner,” George says. “If you’re alright with going somewhere a bit more high class than we’ve been doing.”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “I’m perfectly alright with going somewhere nice,” she sniffs. “But I’m going to insist you pay since this was your idea.”
George’s smile widens. “Happy to.” He checks his watch and makes a face of exaggerated distress.
“My goodness, darling,” he exclaims, laughing as Hermione’s face turns mutinous. “We’d best get dressed. We’ll want to be arriving at the restaurant within an hour if we’re going to avoid the rush.”
It takes all of Hermione’s self restraint not to throttle him.
“When do we need to leave?” she asks primly.
George checks his watch again, rocking slightly on his heels. “Can you be ready in half an hour?” he asks, more serious now. “I wasn’t entirely joking about beating the rush. Even with a confundus, I don’t know how busy this place will get.”
Hermione nods. “Not a problem.”
And so it happens that a little over thirty minutes later Hermione finds herself walking into a small Italian restaurant near the hotel, dressed in a simple black dress and her hair pulled into a knot at the base of her neck.
George, dressed in a blue button down shirt, quietly confounds the stout man at the door asking for their reservation. Hermione bites down a sigh as the man’s face grows dreamy, then confused. She follows wordlessly as he leads them through the darkly lit space towards a small table tucked in a corner.
“Enjoy your evening,” the man says airily as he walks away.
Hermione takes her seat across from George. She tucks her bag, which he had helpfully transfigured into a silver beaded clutch, on the floor near her feet, and allows her gaze to wander around the restaurant. It looks much the same as the mid-tier restaurants her parents would sometimes take her to, designed to foster intimacy with its dark wood and flickering candlelight.
A sommelier appears alongside a waiter carrying two glasses of water, which they deposit on the table. The sommelier asks if they would like some wine, if they have a preferred kind, if there is a particular region they like.
“I think we’d like a bottle of something,” George says, raising an eyebrow at Hermione. “What’s your preference?”
Hermione glances down at the wine list in front of her, voice catching as she orders a bottle of French Pinot noir. Her mother’s favorite.
The sommelier nods and vanishes, reappearing a moment later with the bottle. They uncork it and pour a thimbleful into one of the wine glasses, offering it to Hermione to taste. She raises the glass and takes a small sip, closing her eyes briefly as she thinks of her mother sipping the same drink on holidays and weekends, the way she would swirl the contents and smell it at a restaurant before drinking.
“That’s great,” Hermione says, nodding towards the sommelier. “Thank you.”
The sommelier nods and fills both of their glasses before stepping away.
There is a brief, fragile silence as Hermione and George both lift their glasses and drink. Hermione feels the wine burn its way down her throat and into her stomach, and takes another gulp before returning her glass to the table.
“I’ve never had wine like this before,” George says, rotating the glass in his hand and examining it. “It’s different than the stuff they sell at the Leaky Cauldron.”
Hermione nods. “I imagine it’s made differently.”
George sets his glass down and leans back, unperturbed by the pause in conversation. He rests an arm on the tabletop and twists to look towards the front of the restaurant. “That chap at the front was a good sort.”
Hermione follows his gaze, her stomach roiling as she catches sight of the man, his face no longer dreamy but drawn. “I hope he’s alright,” she says softly.
George peers at her and turns back. He wraps his hand again around his wine glass, gently swirling its contents.
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
Hermione’s eyebrows rise. She reaches out and picks up her own glass, taking a tentative sip. “I suppose so.”
“Why does it bother you so much when we confund people?” George asks. “You mentioned having to do it even before we left. It’s not a surprise. But you—” he shrugs. “You really seem to hate it.”
Hermione breathes in and takes another sip of wine, trying to organize her swirling thoughts into words and sentences.
“I know it’s not the same as what Voldemort and his followers were doing,” she says at last. “But I don’t—”
She looks up through her eyelashes and finds George watching her intently, his head tilted to the side and his face soft.
She drops her gaze to the table, her fingers twisting around the carefully folded napkin in front of her. “I don’t want to be someone who just bewitches anyone who’s in my way,” she whispers. “Especially when they don’t have the power to defend themselves.”
George nods slowly. “I can understand that.”
Another silence yawns between them, broken only by the appearance of their waiter chirping merrily about specials and asking if they have had a chance to consider any appetizers. Hermione hastily picks up the menu, realizing she hasn’t given a moment's thought as to what to order.
George turns to the waiter and orders the calamari to start, asking for a few more minutes to decide on entrees.
“Absolutely,” the waiter nods. “I’ll get that ready for you right away.”
As the waiter turns, Hermione glances around the space, casting about for a topic of conversation that won’t lead to either of them growing melancholy.
“You were right about getting here early,” she says to George. “It’s already nearly full.”
Indeed, nearly all the tables around them are now occupied. An elderly couple sits at the table behind George, each with a bottle of wine in front of them. Other tables hold couples huddled together against the dim light and groups of young adults who clearly have come directly from their office jobs. A dark haired man sidles past the waiter and takes a seat at the table beside them, no doubt waiting to meet a wife or colleague for the evening.
“I told you,” George grins at her. “And think how much duller our evening would have been if we’d just gotten takeaway and gone back to the hotel.”
Hermione smiles, shaking her head as she takes another sip of wine. She can feel the rapidly firing pistons within her brain begin to slow as the alcohol works its way into her system. Thoughts soften and slow, her shoulders begin to drop.
“It is nice to just be able to relax,” she murmurs. “And not think about everything.”
“There’s plenty of time to think and worry during normal working hours,” George says sagely.
Hermione settles into her seat, her wrists coming to rest on the tabletop and her eyes floating languidly over the restaurant. The waiter flutters around the tables, alternately checking in and taking orders and refilling waters. He reminds Hermione of a dancer, gracefully executing each choreographed move.
Across from her, George chatters about their day, recounting the most impressive tropical fish and feats of muggle engineering.
The waiter arrives a few minutes later and sets a plate of calamari between them. They put in their dinner orders and Hermione unrolls her silverware, tucking the napkin onto her lap.
“This looks lovely,” she says, leaning over and inspecting the calamari. “I don’t remember the last time I’ve had fresh seafood.”
“Well, enjoy it,” George says, popping a calamari ring onto his fork. “And who knows? If we stick to our current schedule we’ll still be here in another two months and will be due for another meal like this.”
Hermione heaves a sigh and presses her lips together, calamari dangling limply from her fork. “I know,” she mumbles.
George grimaces. “That was a joke. Sorry.”
Hermione attempts a smile. “You’re not wrong though. This is all taking so much more time than I had thought it would.”
“We’ll find them, though.” George reaches out and takes her hand, squeezing gently.
“I hope.” Hermione presses her fingers against his and bites her lip.
“We will,” George’s jaw sets and he catches her eye. “Really. There can only be so many Wendell and Monica Wilkins hanging about Australia. We’ll find them, and we’ll get them home.”
Hermione nods and drops her eyes to examine the tablecloth. She chews the inside of her cheek, aware that George’s hand is still wrapped around her own. She should let go.
Instead she squeezes tighter, unwilling to part with the warmth.
Her neck and face warming, she looks again around the restaurant. The elderly couple both sit hunched over the table, spooning soup into their mouths. The table of young coworkers laugh raucously, the tabletop in front of them littered with cocktail glasses. The man beside Hermione still sits alone, leaned towards her as though trying to listen to their conversation.
The man’s eyes flick towards her and land squarely on Hermione’s face. She freezes.
She knows this face, those eyes.
She shakes her head and turns away. Her mind is playing tricks on her, making her think she is seeing remnants of the battle. She has had too much wine and it is clouding her thoughts.
She glances surreptitiously over her shoulder. The man has turned to look at the table of young professionals. A sneer curls his features.
Hermione takes a sharp breath in and straightens in her seat, ripping her hand from George’s.
The man’s hair and stature look different than she remembers, but she knows that sneer. She knows those dark eyes watching the muggles with cold dismissal. She has seen those eyes alight in a courtroom while interrogating Mary Cattermole. She has seen that twisted sneer as the man in question grabbed hold of her while she escaped the Ministry of Magic.
Yaxley sits beside her. Hermione does not know what this means, but it cannot be good.
She snatches her bag from the ground and holds it in her lap, wondering how she can retrieve her wand without anyone seeing. Across from her, George frowns, the lines on his forehead reappearing as his hand sits on the table halfway between them.
Hermione leans across the table, trying to keep the panic from spreading across her face.
“We have to go,” she hisses. “ Now. ”
George’s eyes skate across her face, his frown deepening as he shifts in his chair. “Wh—”
And then with a deafening bang the roof of the restaurant comes crashing down upon them.