Chapter Text
The sun was rising, dousing the whole of the Burrow into a yellow, almost golden light. Hermione Granger stood by one of the kitchen windows, a mug of steaming tea in her hands. The fields surrounding the house were coloured in golden light, too, and she briefly thought to herself that the world had no place being so beautiful after all that had happened.
She supposed that this was life though, the world kept spinning on, whether you liked it or not.
Grief had fallen over the house ever since they had all returned, making it hard to breathe. Mr. Weasley was barely home these days, spending his time at work, trying to get some order back into the chaos the war had left behind. Percy was right there with him, in fact Hermione was sure that she hadn´t actually seen him in the house for over a week.
Bill and Fleur were still around, doing their best to help Molly in the house, but Hermione had a feeling they wished they´d be far away from this place. She understood the sentiment, even though she actually enjoyed Fleur´s company, something neither of them would have thought possible a few years ago. The other woman had the ability to drag Hermione out of that funk she usually got herself in at some point, when her mind started to go into overdrive, and she couldn’t stop turning certain thoughts over in her head.
What if we had gotten there earlier? What if we had destroyed the Horcruxes earlier?
It was of no use, she was well aware of that, but that didn’t mean that she could change it so easily.
Meanwhile Charlie was back in Romania already, though he sent almost daily letters, checking in with everyone. Hermione wasn´t sure if those letters contained anything other than descriptions of his attempts to take care of dragons, but maybe that was his way of coping.
Ginny was out of the house most days, seeing friends and practicing flying. It almost felt like she was trying to outrun, or outfly, the events of the war, and Hermione couldn´t blame her.
Then there was Ron, who had barely left his room in the past two weeks, while Harry couldn´t sit still. He wasn´t exactly keen on going out and dealing with everything, but he, much like Hermione, couldn´t just sit around, waiting for the pain and grief to suffocate him. So he´d gone to Grimmauld Place to sort things out there. Hermione remembered him saying he wasn´t sure if he wanted to live there, but it was legally his and he needed to at least make living there comfortable.
Hermione had offered to come along, but she´d seen the answer to her proposal in his eyes. So she had made him promise to write, should he need any assistance. It had been two days though, and there had been no letter so far.
And then there was George.
Nobody had seen him for days on end. Hermione suspected that he barely ate, or slept, because a few days after they had all returned to the Burrow, she had run into him late at night, on her way to the kitchen. His face pale, with dark circles under his eyes, he had almost seemed like a ghost, his sudden appearance making Hermione jump a good foot into the air.
He hadn´t spoken, just looked at her for a moment, as if he needed to remember who she was.
She hadn´t seen him again after that, and even though part of her itched to go and check up on him, she knew better than to intrude. They´d always gotten along, but she probably wasn´t the person he wanted comfort from. In fact, nobody in this house seemed to quite know what they wanted, which was understandable, but also a little unnerving.
“Hermione, dear, you´re awake.” Mrs. Weasley´s voice pulled her from her thoughts, and she turned around to find the other woman standing in the kitchen door. She had learned that Molly Weasley was, by no means, perfect but she was trying her best to hold it together for the rest of her family, even with her husband gone, and half of her children not even bothering to show up for breakfast or any of the other meals.
“I was just making some tea, and seeing if maybe Harry had sent a letter.” She then replied, raising the mug to her lips to take a sip, as she leaned against the windowsill.
“I take it he hasn´t?” Molly in return asked as Hermione watched her pull a frying pan and some bowls from one of the cupboards.
“No,” she eventually confirmed the older woman´s suspicion with a slight shrug of her shoulders. “But he´s always been bad at writing letters. Not as bad as Ron, but still.” Hermione thought back to the summers when she had written letters to both her best friends, telling them about her time in France and all the new books she´d been reading. Ron had never actually replied, if she thought back on it now, but Harry had at least attempted to keep up the correspondence.
“Well, I am sure he´s just fine. Probably got a little overwhelmed with the fact that the entire place needs redoing. It´ll be easy once he knows the right spells.” Molly continued to busy herself in the kitchen, and something was telling Hermione that Harry would probably prefer not using magic at all. It would take him longer to paint the walls and redo everything, but at least it would keep him busy, and she figured they all needed something to occupy their time. Maybe she could eventually convince Ron to go and help him after all.
“There was a letter for Ginny, and something from Gringotts for Bill, oh and…” Hermione trailed off for a moment, her pause enough to make Molly stop and turn to look at her.
“What is it, dear?” she asked, the frying pan for the eggs and bacon still in hand. Hermione wasn´t thinking about breakfast, however. Instead she could feel her stomach twisting ever so slightly.
“There´s…a letter for George.” She eventually continued, and Molly´s face fell ever so slightly, before she regained control.
“Who´s it from?”
Hermione, who´d placed her half empty tea mug on the table, went over to where she had placed the post she´d collected from the door step this morning. Ginny´s letter was on top, and Hermione could tell that it was from Dean Thomas. She put it aside, along with the letter for Bill, until she only had the letter addressed to George in her hands.
It looked more formal than the one Ginny had received, and even though some people had written to George over the last couple of weeks, Hermione wasn´t sure if he had opened any of the letters.
“Constantine Nickleby.” Hermione eventually read, glancing up to see Molly looking at her, still.
“Oh…that´s one of their suppliers for the shop. Or…manufacturers I´d say.” Hermione had wondered whether or not George would go back to opening the shop, or if that was something he couldn´t imagine doing. She would have asked, but it seemed like such a small matter compared to what the man was going through.
“He must have taken up his business again. He´s probably wondering if George wants to continue their business relationship.” Hermione could see the shimmer of tears in Molly´s eyes, and part of her wished she could say something, but there was probably nothing that could make her feel even remotely better.
After all, what did you tell a woman who´d lost her son? It didn’t matter that Hermione had lost close friends, she couldn’t possibly image the pain of losing a child that you had born and raised.
“I´ll take it upstairs and slide it under his door,” she eventually offered, feeling her chest tighten ever so slightly. It was getting harder to breathe again and there was nothing she could do about it.
Molly nodded, picking up the kettle from the stove. “Be a dear and bring him a cup of tea, will you? He needs to stay hydrated.”
Hermione nodded, waiting until Molly had poured a cup, before grabbing it with her free hand. Molly´s own hand lingered on hers arm for a moment, and she offered her a kind smile.
“Thank you.” She then whispered, and Hermione could see the tears that had formed in her eyes once again.
“Of course,” She replied with a nod, feeling her chest tighten a little more, as she turned to walk up the steps. For a brief moment she wondered if George had locked his door. She wasn´t planning on using a spell to get inside, but Hermione would rather not leave the tea in front of the door, where everyone passing by could knock it over.
The house was quiet still, apart from the faint rustling of kitchen utensils downstairs. She could feel a knot forming in her stomach as she raised her hand to knock on the door, but of course there was no response. Not that she had expected one.
Using the hand in which she was carrying the letter, Hermione eventually turned the doorknob, honestly surprised that there was no resistance.
The door swung open, revealing a darkened room, and she hesitated for a moment, but then called out as quietly as possible. “George? It´s me. Hermione. I brought you some tea…and there´s a letter for you.” With no response still, she eventually stepped into the room. The windows almost looked like they were painted black, some kind of spell probably, not letting any sort of light in. The floor was covered in piles of clothes, books and some other things Hermione couldn´t quite make out.
There were two beds on opposite sides of the room that she could make out. However, one was empty, making the knot in her stomach feel ever heavier, but the other one wasn´t. The figure who sat on it was crowded against the wall, and even though she couldn´t see the other´s face, Hermione knew she was being watched.
“Your mother says the letter is from…one of your manufacturers. For the shop?” Hermione began feeling a little more uneasy with each passing second, and she had to force herself to stay still so she wouldn´t shuffle from one foot to another.
“I don´t need it.” George´s voice travelled through the room, and it sounded almost foreign to Hermione. She hadn´t heard him speak in a long time, and maybe it was her mind playing tricks on her, but he sounded different.
“Maybe…it´s important though. Someone should take care of the shop. At least check if everything´s okay.”
“Who cares?”
Hermione was aware that the anger and defeat in the other´s voice wasn´t directed at her, not directly anyways. Still, she could feel her chest tighten again, and it was becoming harder to breathe once more. Leaning over to place the tea on the nearest free surface, she didn´t want to approach George, but instead respect his personal space, she turned the letter over in her hand.
“Someone should. You…you two put so much into this. It would be a shame to let it waste away.” Of course she was aware that, as much as her argument was reasonable, grief could cloud someone´s mind, and therefore their judgement.
There was some rustling then, and Hermione could see George´s figure moving in the darkness of the room. For a moment she wondered if he was actually going to kick her out of the room, and she almost took a step back. She wasn´t here to stir up any memories, or make things worse. In fact, Hermione was desperately trying to make things better, but she had no idea how.
In a sudden movement, something slid along the floor with a loud clank then, coming to a stop in front of Hermione´s feet. She was glad that she had already put away the tea mug, otherwise she might have dropped it right there and then.
Blinking against the darkness once more, she slowly bent down to inspect what had been tossed at her. For a moment she seemed confused, but then her mind made the connections necessary to understand.
In front of her, tossed there by George, was a set of keys.