It had been an exhausting week. Hermione had spent the last three weeks sorting through the mess of George’s accounts. Even though she had no financial training, and despite her failure with the S.P.E.W accounts, Hermione knew what she was doing. By the following Monday after she had moved in, she had written up her plan of action while simultaneously setting up her own S.P.E.W office within the WWW premises.
She knew that with most of her time caught up with helping George, S.P.E.W would have to take the back-bench for a while. However, it was comforting to know that her dream of the emancipation of house-elves from their wizard-controlled oppression was no longer left floundering on the floor. She had an office space and, for the time being, that was certainly enough. She would wait to build up her own finances before trying to re-establish S.P.E.W and helping out someone she considered family was the right way to do it.
Hermione could hear George down in the shop, clattering about and she frowned. What is he doing? Crookshanks appeared at her doorway with a low hiss and stalked over to the bed. Hermione leaned down and picked up her cat, placing him on her lap. Absent-mindedly, she stroked his fur while listening to George’s clatter down below. With a frustrated huff she stood up, sending Crookshanks tumbling to the floor with a snarl, and followed the upset cat from the room. She hurried downstairs, pulling her dressing gown tightly about her as she entered the unheated shop.
There, standing on top of the till, was George, rummaging about on the shelves above him. Hermione made her way through the towering shop displays until she was level with the till. She coughed.
“Oh, hi, Hermione,” said George without turning around. Instead, he leaped down onto the floor and started scrabbling around beneath a dusty cabinet. A look of fierce concentration set solidly on his freckled face, his hands continued to search, scratching and scraping against the wooden floorboards.
“Er, George, what on earth are you doing?” Hermione asked perplexed, although she did not understand her confusion at all. Hermione had already decided long ago that nothing a Weasley twin did would ever surprise her. Images of vomiting, fainting and profuse nose-bleeds on first-years came to mind but she shook the memory off like an irritating fly. That had been the year she and… Ron were appointed as prefects. Hermione shuddered. It had been a few hours since she had last thought of him and it scared her. Often, it felt like a relief to be so busy that she did not have time to dwell on Ron and yet in the moments before sleep, when everything seemed so incredibly real and raw, she would sometimes cry. She would cry about a fading memory she had just remembered”the feel of his lips against her hair, the time he had laughed so hard that he snorted pumpkin-juice from his nose. It was silly and logic told her that it was only natural progression but she couldn’t help it. The tears came no matter how hard she tried to stop them.
“Aha!” George exclaimed, brandishing a grimy piece of near-blackened fabric in his left hand, a look of utter jubilation spreading across his face.
“Ugh,” Hermione sniffed, there was a nasty odour emanating from the rag. “What is it?”
George sighed with contentment and pulled up a trouser leg to reveal his right foot, complete with winkle-picker shoe and yellow sock. He winked at Hermione and pulled up the other trouser leg to show a shoed foot but naked ankle.
“Nothing like the reunification of a pair of lost socks,” said George, grinning.
Hermione opened her mouth to enquire whether the sock in his hand had ever truly been yellow but stopped abruptly noticing the shadow creeping across George’s face. His mouth crumpled into a despairing frown and his eyes sagged. Then, just as suddenly, an awkward grin twisted his lips upwards, an apologetic look in his eyes.
He shouldn’t feel guilty for grieving… Hermione thought and then stopped herself. Is that not my own problem, too? Not wishing to make the moment more awkward however, she replaced her own expression of pity with disgust and incredulity.
“How long has it been down there?”
“Oh, I dunno. Couple of months, maybe?” George shrugged.
“And you’ve been wearing one sock for all that time?”
“No… but it’s the only holeless one I have left! That bloody cat of yours has eaten all the rest!”
Hermione scowled and put her hands on her hips. George stared defiantly back. He was not the first Weasley to complain about Crookshanks, Hermione remembered. She looked away unsure of what to say next.
“So,” she began tentatively. “Do you wash it?”
“What, the sock?”
“Yes, the sock!”
“Well, yeah,” George spluttered, his eyes roaming the room nervously. “Occasionally…”
Hermione chose to say nothing, but pointed her wand at the limp, dirty sock which still hung in George’s hand.
“Tergeo,” she said firmly. “There, now the other one. Quick, quick!”
George rolled his eyes and pulled off the other shoe.
“Why didn’t you just use Accio again? Do you have something against that particular charm?” she asked.
George frowned.
“No,” he replied. “It’s just more interesting this way, don’t you think?”
Hermione suppressed a groan and proceeded to clean the other sock.
“Well, they still need a proper wash but that should keep the smell at bay for a day or two. Well, maybe not two but you’ll have enough time for me to knit you some new pairs.”
George stared at her surprised.
“You really can do everything, can’t you, Hermione?”
Hermione flushed with pleasure and turned away. How pathetic, am I? she thought. This is George, for Merlin’s sake! She walked back toward the staircase.
“Well, I’m tired. Goodnight, George. See you in the morning,” she said.
“Yeah, night, Hermione,” said George behind her, much closer than she had realised. “See you in the morning.”
And without turning around she hurried back to her room.
He didn’t hear her coming down the stairs, he didn’t even sense her presence until he heard her small cough.
“Oh, hi, Hermione,” he said, his hands still scrabbling about the shelf. There was no sign of it. He could feel his wand sitting snug in his jean pocket but he ignored it. He turned around suddenly and jumped down from the till.
She was standing directly beside him, her hands clasped together, eyebrows raised. He only glanced at her briefly before leaping to the floor. He reached out beneath a particularly low cabinet, relishing the exhilarating apprehension of what he would find beneath.
“Er, George, what on earth are you doing?” asked Hermione from above. He ignored her, continuing to probe the unknown darkness.
“Aha!” Yes! His hand gripped something damp and there it was. His sock.
Finally. He stood up, holding the mouldy fabric out with pride as if he had just won the Triwizard Cup.
“Ugh,” said Hermione wrinkling her nose. “What is it?” George sniffed the air, there was nothing off, not as far as he could tell. The sock would be fine.
George winked and pulled up both of his trouser legs. It had been a while since he had worn a sock on both feet. He had caught that ball of ginger fur in his room on numerous occasions and could have sworn the animal did it out of spite.
“Nothing like the reunification of a pair of lost socks,” said George, grinning. He stopped. No, there is nothing like it, he thought. He had been so caught up with Hermione’s plans for the shop over the past few weeks that his usual melancholic routine of missing Fred and Ron each aching minute of the day had somewhat disappeared. Sometimes he could go hours before the thought of that missing part would creep up behind him and leave a gaping, painfully raw hole in his chest. But it wasn’t the pain that got him”it was the guilt. The guilt that, perhaps, life could go on without his brothers. It was such a preposterous thought and it frightened him so much.
Something flickered in Hermione’s eyes and he quickly rearranged his expression.
“How long has it been down there?” she asked.
“Oh, I dunno. Couple of months, maybe?” he said, giving a small shrug.
“And you’ve been wearing one sock for all that time?” George felt the sudden urge to laugh at the incredulous look on Hermione’s face.
“No… but it’s the only holeless one I have left! That bloody cat of yours has eaten all the rest!” He had meant it as a joke. Crookshanks had always been a point of contention within the Weasley household. Mum didn’t like the cat because he always went after the chooks. Ron… George suppressed a sigh. Ron had always used Crookshanks as an excuse to deny his attraction to Hermione. And the other brothers, well, Percy was always partial to the animal. Perhaps it was the arrogance and pomp both seemed to share.
Hermione scowled and put her hands on her hips as if she knew exactly what George was thinking. In fact, she probably did. Nothing that girl did should have surprised George. She was undeniably brilliant.
“So, do you wash it?” Hermione asked, her scowl quickly fading.
“What, the sock?” asked George.
“Yes, the sock!”
“Well, yeah,” George spluttered, his eyes roaming the room nervously. “Occasionally…” He had not, in fact, washed the sock for over four days.
Hermione pursed her lips and George took a tentative step backwards as she raised her wand.
“Tergeo,” she said simply and George relaxed somewhat. “There, now the other one. Quick, quick!”
George rolled his eyes and pulled off the other shoe. Ah well, he thought. I guess it was starting to pong a bit.
Hermione looked at George with a curious expression as she tucked her wand in the pocket of her dressing gown. “Why didn’t you just use Accio again? Do you have something against that particular charm?” she asked.
George frowned.
“No,” he replied. “It’s just more interesting this way, don’t you think?”
The truth was, George still found it hard to sleep. Each night the voices would come. A soft shadow of Fred’s laugh, the sound of Ron as he indignantly denied his crush on Hermione. It was impossible to ignore them in the dim light of the witching hour. Often he would put off going to bed by finding some trivial task such as searching for a lost sock, or sorting through his and Fred’s old collection of The Spicy Sorceress.
Oh, he reminded himself. I better hide those away before Hermione finds them. That could be awkward.
“Well, they still need a proper wash but that should keep the smell at bay for a day or two. Well, maybe not two but you’ll have enough time for me to knit you some new pairs,” said Hermione.
“You really can do everything, can’t you, Hermione,” said George, smiling is surprise. She’s going to knit me socks!
Hermione turned away suddenly but not before George caught the blush spreading across her cheeks. He bit his lip and stepped towards her. She really is rather pretty.
“Well, I’m tired. Goodnight, George. See you in the morning,” she said, her voice muffled.
“Yeah, night, Hermione,” said George behind her. He wanted to reach out and touch her.
But without turning around she hurried back up the stairs. At the sound of her door softly clicking shut, he turned back to the shop. Bending down he put on his new-found sock, flicked his wand at the lights but did not go upstairs. Instead, he sat down upon the lowest step, resting his head on clenched fists. A warm shiver trickled down his spine.
He had first noticed at Christmas as he comforted Hermione in Ron’s bedroom. He had felt her soft curves pressed against his side, watched the small pucker of her lips as they trembled with tears, inhaled her frizzy…
Stop it! This was Hermione, Ron’s girlfriend. His brothers girlfriend, for Merlin’s sake! He felt sick and instinctively clamped his hand over his mouth. Vomiting would be more desirable than thinking about Hermione in that way.
I’m tired, he thought. This is just some form of sleep-deprived delirium. All I need is a good night’s sleep and my thoughts will be clean and chaste tomorrow morning.
With that George stood up and moved slowly up the stairs. Pausing outside Hermione’s room he could hear her moving around getting ready for bed and the contented purr of Crookshanks. He closed his eyes briefly, his hand twitching toward the doorknob.
No.
George stepped back and continued down the hallway. Let’s hide those magazines, then.