Ancient Magic
After an unknown stretch of time Hermione peels herself off the floor and gets to her feet. She sniffs, wipes a hand over her face, and mumbles a goodbye to Healer Stroud before staggering towards the lifts.
Harry sits in the tearoom as promised, a half-empty tea cup and ragged copy of Quidditch Quarterly lying on the table in front of him. He looks up as Hermione bursts through the doors, his brow contracting as he catches sight of her.
He doesn’t comment on her puffy eyes or the dried tears painting her cheeks. He stands wordlessly, steps beside her, and leads her to the floo grates.
***
The floor spins upwards to meet Hermione’s feet, and she careens into the sitting room of the Burrow.
“Hermione!”
Mrs. Weasley and Ginny both rise from their seats, hurrying towards her.
Hermione reaches up and tries to brush soot from her hair. Her eyes sweep across the room, looking for anyone else hiding behind Mrs. Weasley and Ginny’s forms. She swallows a sigh, the acrid floo smoke singing her throat.
Harry crashes into the grate as Mrs. Weasley and Ginny converge on her.
“We were wondering when you’d be back—”
“How are you feeling? Do you need something to eat?”
“I’m fine,” Hermione chokes. She looks to the floor and shakes her head, willing the burning in her chest to subside. “Fine. I just—”
“Are you sure?” Mrs. Weasley peers at her, a wrinkle forming against her forehead as her eyes flit across Hermione’s face. “You still look rather peaky. Maybe we ought to go back—”
“I’m really fine,” Hermione says. She bites her lip and looks to the floor. “I think—I think I just need to sleep. That’s all.”
“The attic is all ready for you,” Ginny frowns. “But don’t you want—”
“I should sleep.” Hermione inhales and wills the burning in her chest to subside. “I’ll be just fine once I get some rest.”
Ginny opens her mouth as if to argue, but Mrs. Weasley smacks her on the arm.
“Of course, dear.” Mrs. Weasley pats Hermione’s cheek. “I’m sure you’re tired.”
Hermione nods gratefully, twisting her face into an expression she hopes resembles a smile. “Thank you,” she whispers.
Before Harry or Ginny can say anything more, or she can spend any more time dissecting their worried frowns, Hermione turns and flees towards the staircase.
She takes the rickety stairs two at a time, pulling the door to the attic bedroom closed behind her as she falls onto the mattress.
She is spent, wrung out. Her head aches, sinuses pulsing from the tears shed at the hospital. She rolls onto her side and brings a hand to her neck, catching the magpie necklace by the chain. She thinks longingly of the dreamless sleep potion at the hospital, the peace of oblivion.
She closes her eyes and tries to summon sleep.
***
Nighttime once again plays tricks on her, twisting the attic bedroom into a warped stage.
Hermione nestles into the pillows, letting her mind sink into the familiar setting. If she didn’t know better she might be able to convince herself that she had simply dreamed the last two months, that she had never left England and her parents remained blissfully in Australia.
She almost wishes this were true.
She rolls onto her back and prods the memories like a bruise. She thinks of the Darling Square Library, of her mum and dad bound within a small suburban house.
The memories press back, bubbling up from the trenches of her brain in the darkness. George’s grin as they traded newspapers while tucked away in the library, his hand on her hip in a darkened hotel room, the brush of his thumb over the back of her neck.
She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to count her breaths.
It had happened. All of it had happened.
***
When the memories become too heavy on her chest, Hermione rises from bed and slips into the hallway.
The Burrow is quiet. She doesn’t see another soul as she tiptoes down the stairs, doesn’t hear any whisperings coming from the darkened bedrooms.
She won’t be able to say, when asked, whether or not she knew George would be in the kitchen. She does not recall the thought crossing her mind when she made her way downstairs, but perhaps there was some quiet inkling, some glimmering hope that pulled her forward. Perhaps some power, some compass buried deep within her had set her direction without her even knowing.
In the clarity of daylight Hermione will shake her head and say these ideas are ridiculous. She went to the kitchen simply because she needed to be somewhere other than the attic, and the kitchen was the most logical place to go at two in the morning.
But at this moment she can’t help but wonder.
George sits at the table, a cup of tea between his hands. He looks up as she approaches, his expression clouding. A throbbing silence stretches between them.
George lifts the cup of tea, taking a slow, agonizing sip. Hermione’s eyes track the way his fingers curl around the cup, how his throat bobs as he swallows. Her lungs pinch, and she steps forward.
George sets the teacup down on the table, gaze floating to his hands. “How are you feeling?”
“You didn’t come see me at St. Mungo’s.”
She means to say it lightly, casually, but it comes out sounding like an accusation.
A muscle flutters in his jaw. He pushes the teacup across the table, ceramic screeching against the wood. “I thought you might want some space.”
“I didn’t.”
She slides into the seat beside him, her hands twisting in her lap.
“I saw my parents.”
George lets out a breath. He shifts in his seat, leaning against the chairback. “I heard.”
“They said you’d been to see them.”
He nods, runs a hand through his hair, still examining the table. “I thought—I thought they might want someone there. Someone they had seen before.”
Hermione catches her bottom lip in her teeth. “Why didn’t you come see me, then?” she asks, watching as his jaw jumps once again. “I wanted to talk to you.”
George’s mouth twists. He glowers at the teacup, fingers running up the ceramic side. “Just trying to delay the inevitable, I suppose.”
Hermione frowns. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“No. What did you mean?”
George turns, and his eyes land hot on hers. “Just leave it alone, Granger,” he mutters. “It doesn’t matter.”
Hermione’s frown deepens. She leans towards him, hand reaching out. “George—what’s happened? Ever since you came to get me—”
George tilts, shoulders angled away from her as his hands come to his sides. “Don’t make us do this. Just let it—”
“Don’t make us do what?” Hermione’s voice rises and she reaches out, catching his elbow and tugging him towards her. “Why are you being like this? George—”
“I don’t want to fight,” George bites out, ripping his arm from her grasp and lurching to his feet. He drags his hand down his face, taking a rattling breath. “I really don’t want to fight with you so just don’t—”
“I don’t want to fight either! So why—”
“Just leave it alone, Hermione. Get your tea and let us both get back to—”
“Just talk to me!” Hermione cries, getting to her feet and stepping towards him. She tucks her hair behind her ears and clenches her jaw, looking towards the stairs to be sure nobody has heard her shout. “Stop avoiding me and just bloody talk—”
“It’s not that simple—”
“It’s perfectly simple!” she huffs and reaches out again. “Just tell me—”
George flinches as her hand wraps around his and he looks down, fingers flexing. “I already said I don’t—”
“Well I don’t care!” Hermione straightens, chest burning as she glares at him. “I don’t care if you don’t want to. You’ve been avoiding me ever since you got me away from Yaxley and I don’t know why—”
“Because I don’t want to have to do this!” George explodes, the words coming out in a jagged whisper as he scowls at her. “I didn’t—fuck—”
He tears his hand from hers and runs it through his hair, a scarlet flush creeping up his neck.
“Look,” he says, his voice taking on a forced calm that sends a horrible iciness spreading over Hermione’s lungs. “I get it, alright? We’re home now, and you have your mum and dad and your life back. This is the part where I take a bow and make my exit, and I’ll do that but just don’t—don’t make us have this conversation.”
“George,” Hermione whispers. “That’s not—”
“Because I’m trying really fucking hard not to make this more difficult than it needs to be but it’s—”
“George.” Hermione leans forward, wraps her arms around his neck. George’s chest shudders against her, and his eyes lock onto hers. Hermione takes a breath, and angles her mouth towards his.
“Don’t.” George turns his head, voice pained. “Hermione—that’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.” She brings a hand to his cheek, gently bringing him to face her again. George takes a heavy breath in, gaze skittering.
Hermione runs her thumb through the hair curling around his right ear. “I mean it, George,” she whispers.
“Even then,” he pauses and closes his eyes. “Don’t—not unless you’re sure—”
“I am sure—”
“Not just sure today,” he snaps, wrenching away from her. “Don’t do that unless you’re sure about tomorrow and the day after that and—fuck—every day after this!” George’s jaw tightens. His eyes flash. “I won’t be some poor sod you kiss after the battle is done just to change your mind the next day.”
Hermione reels back, her eyes widening. “I wouldn’t—“
“Because that’s not bloody fair Hermione, and you know it—not when you know how I—that I—”
Hermione bites her lip. “That you what?”
George exhales. “Nothing. Forget it.”
“No.” Hermione tilts her chin up and steps towards him, standing as close as she can without touching him. “Tell me.”
George glowers at her. The flush creeps its way into his cheeks, spreading over his nose and his right ear.
Hermione bites the inside of her cheek. “Just tell me. Please.”
George takes a heavy breath, his chest rising and falling. “Fine.”
His shoulders tense, and he straightens, as though preparing himself for a physical blow. “I think I love you.”
He runs a hand through his hair, expression blazing as he watches her. “I love you and you know that. And if you don’t know it then you should. So don’t—don’t stand here and think you’re doing something nice by giving Georgie a kiss if you’re not going to still want to do the same tomorrow.”
“George—” Hermione shifts, standing on her toes and returning her hand to his cheek. She pauses, lets her breaths mingle with his for a bloated, frozen second.
“I think I love you too,” she whispers. “And if you didn’t already know that then you should.”
George swallows audibly and shakes his head, tilting his chin towards the ceiling. “Then how could you have put yourself in front of Yaxley like that,” he says, the words cracking between them. “You had to know what that would do to me.”
Hermione takes a quivering breath. Her fingers trail up his jaw and around the mottled skin where his ear used to be. “It was the only thing I could think of to make sure you and my parents would be safe.”
“You had to know—”
“I knew you would be angry,” Hermione whispers. “But I did it anyways, because I—I couldn’t stand the thought of anything happening to you. You have so much to give and you shouldn’t—”
“You forced my hand,” he scowls, chin dipping so his gaze is once again level with hers. “You didn’t give me any bloody choice, and I would have—”
“I know you would have.” She bites her lip, fingers weaving through his hair. “That’s one of the reasons I did it. Selfish as it was, I couldn’t stand the thought of coming home to a world that didn’t have you in it.”
George’s hands settle around her waist, and Hermione leans forward.
“I love you. And I’m not going to change my mind,” Hermione says softly, her hand flattening against the back of his neck. “It’s not like how it was with Ron.”
George’s mouth pinches. His fingers dig into her sides. “How?”
Hermione tracks her thumb against the nape of his neck, tilting her head slightly to the side as she tries to memorize the precise texture of his skin. “I kissed Ron because I thought I was going to die,” she says. “But this—” her eyes come up and lock on his, and she takes a breath.
“I know now that I’m going to live. And if I’m alive I want to be with you. That won’t change.”
“How can you know that?”
He says it so plaintively, so quietly, that Hermione feels the surface of her heart crack.
She tilts onto her toes, her palm against the back of his neck, and presses her mouth gently to his. George’s response comes seemingly without thought, his hand twisting in the fabric of her shirt and his lips parting slightly against hers.
The kiss is different than she thought it would be. She expected passion, a fiery meeting of mouths amidst a burning battle. Instead it is slow, gentle: two souls whispering to each other in the night, unsure if the other will still be there come morning.
“You are the most wonderful person I’ve ever met,” Hermione whispers as she pulls away, her fingers scraping gently against his skin. “When I thought I would—that I would be leaving you behind, I didn’t want to—I couldn’t bring myself to hurt you more than I already had.”
Her eyes flicker over his face, across the freckles that dust his nose and the premature lines carved into his forehead. She feels a familiar rush of light flood her chest as she curls her fingers against his neck.
“But now I’m back home, and my family is with me, and I’m alive, and it’s all because of you. You’re so—“ she pauses and swallows, watching George’s eyes track the movement.
“You make me laugh when I don’t think I’m capable of it,” she says softly. “You make me like myself more, and you make me believe the world can be better than it is. You’re—“ she meets his gaze, her other arm coming up to wrap around his neck and pull him closer. “You’re the person I wanted to see most when I woke up at St. Mungo’s and you’re the one I wanted with me when I went to see my parents.” She bites her lip and drops her eyes for a moment before bringing them back up to meet his. “I don’t know how, but you’re the reason I was able to disarm Yaxley. You make everything, everything you touch better, and that includes me.”
George’s hand flattens against her back, the heat from his fingers seeping through her shirt. “You didn’t need me to do anything,” he rasps. “You were already brilliant on your own.”
Hermione smiles. “So were you.”
Some invisible force lifts, and the space between their bodies vanishes. George’s hand flexes against her back and he pulls her towards him, his other hand coming up to catch her cheek as he crushes his mouth against hers.
Hermione lets out a soft squeak of surprise which he swallows, his hand coming to her hair, tilting her face up to meet him.
“I’m still so angry with you,” he murmurs against her mouth.
“I know.” Hermione’s arms tighten around him, and she bites down gently on his lower lip. George lets out a groan that travels down Hermione’s throat and curls in her lower belly.
His fingers thread deeper in her hair, and his mouth moves insistently against hers. “You were going to just leave me here—let me go mad—”
“I knew he wasn’t going to kill me,” Hermione gasps, her back arching as George’s hand skims down her spine. “And I knew you would come find me. I had the necklace.”
George’s hand reaches the base of her spine and slips under the hem of her shirt. His palm flattens against exposed skin, and his mouth moves to her jaw. “I was always going to come find you,” he says, the tremors of his voice shaking her from the inside out. “As long as there was a chance—”
“I know.” Hermione brings her hands down to cradle his face, tilting it up so his eyes are level with hers. “I would have done the same for you.” She pulls him closer, and recaptures his mouth with her own.
The hand under her shirt slides down, and before Hermione registers what is happening George turns, lifting her onto the scrubbed wood table.
“Oh—“ Hermione squeals as he again descends on her. His hands move back under her shirt as his mouth tracks a burning trail down her neck. Hermione sighs and arches her back, stifling a cry as he bites down at the junction between her neck and shoulder.
She tightens her arms around him and brings her legs up to wrap around his hips. One hand at her back slides down, following the curve of her hip along her backside and down her thigh.
Hermione thinks wildly that she wants to feel his hands on every inch of her body, to be coated in a layer of his fingerprints.
George brings his mouth back to hers, skimming his tongue over her lower lip as his hand caresses the underside of her thigh. She tightens her legs around him and rolls her hips.
“Careful, love,” he pants into her mouth, grip tightening on her.
“Let’s go somewhere else,” she breathes, her hand coming up to run through his hair. “Somewhere more private.”
George pulls back slightly, brow crinkling as he considers her. One hand comes up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear.
“Are you sure?” he asks, eyes flickering over her face.
Hermione nods and kisses him again, letting her hands drop to his shoulders. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure of anything.”
George watches her for another moment, fingers retracing their route along her leg.
Hermione wraps her arms tight around his neck and tilts to kiss the skin just below his right ear. “Take me upstairs,” she whispers. “Now.”
George doesn’t waste another moment before obliging. He pulls her from the table and onto her feet, taking her hand and tugging her up the stairs. The door to the attic bedroom closes behind them, a hasty silencing charm is muttered, and George pushes her backwards onto the mattress.
“Oh—” Hermione breathes, every organ in her body seeming to tremble. George stands before her, leaning over the edge of the bed to kiss her.
Hermione leans back and pulls him down. George’s knees hit the mattress, and he hovers over her, one hand sliding under her shirt again. Hermione shifts and his fingers move further, calloused pads traveling up her side and meeting the edge of her breast.
She lets out a ragged gasp and brings her hands to the hem of his shirt. “Off,” she murmurs, tugging at the fabric. “Get this off.”
“So bossy,” he mumbles. “Are you going to threaten me with detention now if I don’t listen?”
His fingers brush over her nipple, and Hermione lets out a whine as she tugs at his shirt again. “Why do I feel like you’d enjoy it if I did?”
He laughs and sits up slightly, pulling the shirt over his head in one motion and tossing it carelessly to the floor. He is back on her in an instant, lips against her jaw. “Your turn.”
Hermione doesn’t stop to let herself feel embarrassed before she pulls her own shirt off. George groans, hot breath sweeping over tender skin as he plants kisses down her neck, along her collarbone, and down to her navel.
Hermione’s stomach trembles, heat pooling as George moves down her body, his hands and tongue forging a flaming path. Hermione’s toes curl. Her breaths stutter.
George presses his mouth to the skin below her navel, and his hand dips under the waistband of her shorts.
He looks up, eyes dark, and raises an eyebrow.
Hermione jerks a nod, raises her hips. Her shorts join their shirts on the floor, and every muscle in her body coils tight as George’s fingers find her skin once again.
Her body vibrates, a thread deep inside her thrumming so that every particle hums in unison. She can hear her cries fill the room, can feel George’s fingers kneading her.
The waves crash over her and George shifts, his mouth coming back up to press hot kisses to her ear. Hermione reaches up, hooks her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips, and pulls him as close as she can. She thinks she can feel the edges of their bodies blurring, can feel him being absorbed into her bloodstream with every rocking pulse at her center.
The pressure and heat build, build, build until Hermione is sure she cannot endure it. And then, a cord is cut, and she is tipping, hurtling towards some unknown glorious abyss before she shatters.
She is weightless, suspended in time: a single shard of glass flying through the air, catching light and refracting a rainbow across every surface in her path.
She rocks her hips against him and George groans into her shoulder, his fingers still strumming her as she falls apart. Hermione lets her head fall back, weaving her fingers through his hair, and thinks she finally understands how some people can believe so fiercely in God and true love and ancient magic.
If such a feeling, such transformation, is possible with nothing more than a touch then why not?
Why shouldn’t the rest of it be true as well?