PIECES OF TIME AND LIFE

Pairing: George/Hermione, past Ron/Hermione

Rating: K+

Summary: It had not been an affair; there was nothing so grand and tragic about it.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author’s Notes: One-shot. Written for the ‘Hooked on a Feeling’ challenge at patentedcharms on LJ. Feedback is welcome – I’ve only ever written a drabble for this pairing before so I am honestly interested in hearing what people thing.

The bottle clinked as Hermione set it down next to Ginny on the smooth grey flagstones that made up the Weasley-Granger’s raised patio. Almost immediately, a bead of perspiration formed on the dark glass and slid down the side to christen the hot ground. Hermione was mildly surprised that it did not sizzle as it did so.

“Thanks,” the redhead said, reaching out to take up the drink as Hermione sat down on the step next to her. She instinctively mimicked the younger woman’s pose, stretching her legs out in front of her, but then went one step further by slipping off her sandals and sinking her toes into the grass. It was getting long; she really should cut it soon, before any prospective buyers came around to view the house.

Her chest tightened at the thought, a wave of sorrow rolling over her. This time last year, she had been newly married and in the process of buying her first home with her childhood sweetheart. Less than twelve months later, she was in the middle of a divorce, and the dream house that she had found for her and Ron already had a for sale sign standing in the front garden.

“You know, I never thought it would come to this.”

Hermione let out a wry laugh and inclined her head to one side. “You’re not the only one,” she said, and then lifted her bottle to her lips. The cider was sharp; it danced over her tongue and easily quenched her thirst.

Even with Ginny’s help, cleaning the house – clearing it – had proved to be a bigger, harder job than she had anticipated it would be. Truthfully, she had tried not to think about it too much, and as a consequence it had been left until the very last minute. Each new brown cardboard box was a carefully categorised, neatly packed, painfully extracted chunk of her life.

The truth was that she was in mourning. Not for the death of her relationship with Ron, but, rather, for the time that had been wasted while they had both figured out that love did not necessarily translate to lovers. It had been a startling discovery after so many years of hoping and planning.

And then there had been George.

Or, rather, there had been the longing for George – which was almost as bad – perhaps even worse, in some respects. It was sudden, and seemingly inexplicable, and it had delivered the final blow to her marriage. How could she lay with one man when all she could think about was his brother? The answer was in the fact that she was due to collect the keys for the small flat that she had found in London in the morning.

It had not been an affair; there was nothing so grand and tragic about it. They had barely touched – never kissed – and she had no idea whether George really felt anything for her at all. He flirted with everyone, or could do when he wanted to. Those little glances and teasing comments that he occasionally aimed at her could well have been standard fare. They probably were, since Hermione could not imagine him intentionally romancing his brother’s wife.

Except, that did not stop her heart from taking it seriously and pounding erratically whenever she was within ten metres of him – and it did not stop her from going out of her way to find excuses to visit the shop even though it was the last thing that she should do. Ron no longer worked there. He had moved on and started his training with the Aurors, three years late but just as he had always intended. She had no reason to call by unexpectedly, and she certainly did not have a reason to linger. The fact was that George was just as unattainable now as he ever had been.

The garden gate creaked, interrupting Ginny’s rambling about her latest training session with the Harpies. The redhead had known that Hermione was not really listening – that she had once again been thinking about the mess that she had made of things. But like the good friend that she was, Ginny had chosen not to notice, or at least make it obvious that she had noticed.

Both women now looked back over their shoulders and towards the person invading their well-earned break. Hermione half expected to see Ron’s lanky frame appear, or maybe even Harry. He had mentioned something about coming over to lend a hand if he managed to finish up his Ministry paperwork in time. Instead, she was greeted by the sight of George slouching around the corner, looking decidedly uncomfortable as he did so. It was a surprise, and not least because she had believed that he was supposed to be in Ireland for a business meeting that weekend.

His eyes swept over the garden before they landed on the seated pair, at which point he smiled broadly, flashing his teeth. To Hermione, he almost looked as if he was checking to see whether they were alone or not. Next to her, Ginny sat a little straighter and peered around Hermione at her brother. The pair shared a silent exchange, and then Ginny slapped her free hand down on her bare knee and pushed herself into a standing position.

“I’m just going to go and… finish packing that box,” she said, stepping up from the grass. Hermione spun around to glare at her, but Ginny was already making her way to the house, her back to the enfolding scene in the garden.

“Ginny never did figure out the whole subtly thing,” George said bluntly, his eyes following his sister in much the same fashion as Hermione’s had done only moments before. “People seem to think that it’s a family trait but it’s actually just Ginny - Ginny and Ron.”

Hermione did not respond. She could feel her cheeks beginning to burn as her heart beat faster and curiosity raised its head.

“I rang the front doorbell but no one answered. I figured that you must be back here. I hope you don’t mind.”

She hesitated, and then shook her head. Pushing herself to her feet, she smiled, brushed off her hands and said, “Of course not. It’s a nice surprise.”

He raised his eyebrows, his expression clearly sceptical. “It is?” At her questioning look, he added, “It’s just you haven’t been by the shop recently. I thought that maybe I’d done something to upset you…”

She shook her head quickly, before he even had the chance to finish speaking. A short, almost relieved laugh escaped her as she noted his concern. “I seem to remember being there a couple of days ago.”

“It feels like longer.”

“It does? I thought that you would be fed up of my by now.”

George tilted his head slightly to one side, as if in deep thought. “Well, maybe a bit. I missed the sandwiches, though.”

“Was that the first moment that you realised that I wasn’t there?” she teased.

“They left a big hole in my life,” he agreed, playing along.

“A big hole in your stomach is more likely.”

“That too.”

Hermione laughed. “Well, I’m afraid to say that I have nothing in - if you’re here looking for food, that is.”

“Damn.”

“You know, some people would say that you should be able to feed yourself by the time you get into your twenties.”

“Some people have never tasted my cooking.”

She smiled at him, taking in the way that his eyes danced. “You’re not really here for food.”

“No, I was drafted.”

“Drafted?”

“Ginny sent me an owl this morning telling me to get my arse over here today if I knew what was good for me.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, did she now?” she exclaimed, while silently cursing her friend. Out of all the people in her life, Ginny was the only one to guess that there was anything more to her break up with Ron other than the fact that they had grown apart. While she did not know the particulars, the younger woman was apparently observant enough to at least start to put the pieces together. It was a wonder that she had not said anything. But then, it was obvious now that she must have been too busy plotting.

George nodded. “So here I am, reporting for duty. If possible, I’d prefer light work with a magical solution.”

“I’m afraid I’m all out of ‘light work’. You can help me pack up my books instead.”

George gave an exaggerated, pained sigh. “I suppose it will have to do.”

Ginny left around three o’clock, much as Hermione had thought she might after she had discovered the other woman’s involvement in George’s unexpected appearance. At five, they ordered Chinese food to be delivered, and ate it on the floor in the living room since the kitchen was filled with boxes. Hermione dug out another couple of bottles of cider, and then two more when those were finished. They watched the cricket highlights on the small portable television that Hermione’s father had insisted that she have when she moved into the house – George admitting having developed a liking for the game after being dragged to a match by one of his Muggleborn friends from Hogwarts. Then they moved upstairs to finish off the job that Hermione and Ginny had started earlier in the day.

“You know, no one would know if you just shrank these,” George said. He was on his back, half hidden under her bed while trying to work loose one of the bolts.

“I’d know,” she replied, glancing over at him with a smile. It widened into a grin as she saw the position he was in, and the way that his shirt had ridden up to reveal the flat plain of his stomach.

She looked away, feeling her cheeks grow warm. “Besides, most of them are going into storage, and you know the larger an object is, the less stable shrinking charms are over time.”

George gave a grunt and collapsed back, his elbows making a thumping sound on the bare floorboards as he did so. Half of one hand appeared as he tapped the wrench he was using on his stomach.

Hermione looked away sharply, realising that she had once again been staring. The cider that she had imbibed after her dinner seemed to have had more of an effect than she had been aware of.

“It’s not coming loose,” he said finally. There was a shuffling sound as he slid out from under the bed and into a sitting position. The latter was done with a small grunt.

Hermione paused, halfway to the doorway. She placed the box she had been in the middle of carrying out into the hallway on top of the newly emptied dressing table, and then moved to stand by his legs. Dropping down onto her knees, she held out her hand and said, “Let me take a look.”

George raised a sceptical eyebrow but handed the wrench over anyway. He shimmied over to one side slightly in order to make room for her. “You know there is this little thing called a wand…” He fell silent at a look from Hermione.

It was not until she was on her back that she became truly aware of the full awkwardness of her position, and the way that it made iher/i shirt ride up. She put the thought out of her mind, and tried to concentrate the task at hand. The wrench in her hand felt hot from being in George’s grasp. She fixed it on the bolt and twisted, putting her shoulder behind the action. Her tendons grew taut, her muscles became strained, and she sucked in deep breaths as she attempted to do what George had not been able to.

Finally, with a huff, she lowered her arms and glared at the stubborn bolt. It had hardly moved at all, and it certainly did not look like it was going to give way any time soon.

“Given up yet?”

“Oh shush,” she replied.

George chuckled and, as Hermione shuffled out from under the bed, held out a hand to her help her stand. She grasped it and allowed him to haul her to her feet. As she stood, she found herself face to face with him, looking him almost directly in the eye. Their clasped hands, trapped between their two chests, were the only things standing between them.

George’s amused expression faltered; his tongue darted out to wet his lips. As she watched, his eyes flickered down to her mouth.

“Hermione…”

Hermione took a skittish step backwards – away from him – only to let out a startled gasp as the backs of her legs collided with the edge of the bed. A cascade reaction occurred. Her legs gave way, causing Hermione to tumble backwards. Refusing or unable to relinquish his hold on her in time, George followed a heartbeat later. They landed heavily, George crushing her against the bare wooden slats. An explosion of air was forced from them simultaneously, and then Hermione coughed.

There was silence, and then an ominous creak filled the air. She was left squealing a moment later as the middle of the bed fell through.

“Ow,” she said, and then felt her cheeks flood with heat as she realised what position they were in. Her legs were parted, bent at the knee as they hung over the still solid frame of the bed, and George was laying awkwardly between them. His face was pressed half on her stomach, and half between her breasts.

She let her hands fall to her sides. Tilting her head back, she peered up at the ceiling and the pink light fitting that Molly Weasley had once presented her with while patiently waiting for George to move. Eventually - after what felt like entirely too long – he pressed the palms of his hands against the floor on either side of her and pushed himself up into a kneeling position. His new position did little to ease her embarrassment over her continuing one – especially when a smirk started to curl his lips.

Pursing her lips, she said, “Just move!”

George shook his head, causing his hair to fall forwards slightly. “Um, no, I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, and then watched in astonishment as his laughed in response. Over the years, she had managed to instil a degree of wariness in Harry and Ron where her current expression was concerned. George, apparently, was still immune to it.

She lifted a hand and pressed it against his chest as he leaned closer. “What do you think you’re doing?”

His smirked widened, entering his eyes. “I believe it’s called taking advantage of the situation.”

And with that, he leaned down and kissed her.

“Why?” she asked an indiscernible amount of time later. They were seated, backs against the frame of the bed, having disentangled their limbs from the wreckage within it. Their new position had allowed a much preferable type of entanglement – one that finally slaked the thirst that had been plaguing her. Her lips were still tingling from their last kiss.

George shifted against her side. His fingers tightened around hers where they were clasped on his thigh.

“Remember when you came to the shop the Saturday before last?”

“Of course.” The memory was vivid in her mind – like most things connected to him. George had been struggling to compile a large order on time while still looking after the shop. His assistant had failed to turn up, and Hermione had listened to him rant colourfully, without pausing, for a full twenty minutes. He had been less than complimentary about her presence, as well.

“I was in a foul mood but you just stood there and let me get it all out. About halfway through my tantrum it dawned on me that you probably should have thumped me by that point. You didn’t though – you just listened and then volunteered to help me out.”

“It was perfectly understandable,” she said. “You were busy, and I turned up unexpectedly…”

He shook his head. “The thing is, while you were manning the counter, I sort of came to a realisation. It dawned on me that I need you in my life, Hermione. I want you in it. You’ve pretty much been a constant in it for a long time now, and the thought of you disappearing on me now the divorce is virtually over is sort of…” He hesitated before continuing. “Well, it’s sort of painful actually. It wasn’t until I talked to Ginny that I found out you might feel the same way.”

“I do,” she said softly. It felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Her heart fluttered uncertainly.

“I sort of figured that when you didn’t attempt to castrate me when I kissed you,” he replied, prompting her to chuckle.

“Or when I touched your boob. Or when I…Oi! Stop it. That’s domestic abuse that is.”

She rolled her eyes at him, and settled against his side once again. “I doubt this is going to be easy. Some people might not be as understanding as Ginny.”

“You mean when Ron finds out and decides to kill me?”

Hermione winced, but George laughed.

“Don’t worry. I can handle Ronnikins. He’s too scared of me telling Mum some of those deep, dark little secrets of his. Come to think of it, I bet he’s pretty scared of what you could come out with as well.”

“This is serious,” she protested, stifling a smile as she did so.

“Too bloody right it is. We’ll have to exchange notes.”

“George!”

He grinned at her, and then placed a quick kiss on the crown of her head. “Stuff ‘em. Stuff anyone who dares to say anything – Ron included. I’m not going to waste any more time.”

Tilting her head back, Hermione smiled up at him once again. She couldn’t help but agree with him. She had already done enough time wasting for a lifetime.

THE END