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Christmas 1998 – The Burrow
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It was 3am on Christmas morning and everyone at the Burrow was asleep. Everyone except George Weasley. The entire family, plus Hermione and Harry, had agreed to spend the holidays together under one roof. It was the first Christmas since the war had ended and his mum wanted them altogether, not that George could blame her, he had barely let his twin out of his sight since they’d almost lost him. He knew he was being overprotective and likely driving Fred insane but he couldn’t help it, for one heart breaking moment when he’d walked into the Great Hall, he’d truly believed he was gone.
The occasional nightmares he had about that being his reality wasn’t what was keeping him awake though. In fact, he hadn’t even been to sleep yet. Up in his childhood bedroom he had waited until silence had fallen over the house before creeping down to the kitchen. He just hadn’t anticipated it taking him this long. He sighed as he vanished yet another batch of biscuits. They were fine, good even, but they weren’t perfect. He needed them to be perfect.
He didn’t understand why he couldn’t get them right. They were just a Christmas spiced biscuit: cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger; how hard could the recipe be? And okay it had been a couple of years since he’d had them, but he was one of the few Weasley kids who was as much of a natural in the kitchen as their mum was. He was in charge of all the brewing at the shop. He should be able do to this. Yet somehow the perfect Granger family Christmas biscuits eluded him.
George’s thoughts turned to the bushy haired bookworm turned war veteran that was asleep upstairs. Of the times over the years she’d shared her mum’s special Christmas biscuits with him. He wanted to do this for her, especially now with her parents away in Australia and all the uncertainty surrounding the recovery of their memories. It would be the perfect Christmas present. If he could just get the recipe right.
As he began to make his sixth batch of the night so far, this time trying to add a little powdered clove because why not? Nothing else had worked so far. His mind drifted back to the first time she’d allowed him to have some of the coveted biscuits. It had been the year of the Yule Ball at Hogwarts, the first year he’d really spent Christmas with her. They’d both been at Hogwarts the year the Chamber of Secrets had been opened too, but Hermione had spent most of the holidays in the hospital wing for reasons the trio had never disclosed. The Yule Ball though, that had been the moment it had all changed for George. When his little brother’s friend had become decidedly... more.
***
Christmas 1994 - The Yule Ball
***
The argument she’d had with Ron was loud enough for almost everyone in the vicinity to hear. George had looked for Fred when she’d stormed out of the Great Hall, but his twin was too caught up in dancing with Angelina to have noticed. George had come to the Ball with Katie and Lee with Alicia, although it was clear to him that his twin wanted his date to end with more than friendship. So, he decided to follow Hermione alone. Harry would probably side with Ron, although the poor bloke did have a lot on his plate with the tournament, and Krum seemed to have disappeared right when his date needed him. It didn’t sit right with George to just leave the girl alone after his brother’s vicious words.
He didn’t have to go far to find her. Hermione was sat on the staircase just outside of the Great Hall, her elbows resting on her knees and her head in her hands. He’d expected her to be angry, thought he could calm her down with a joke at Ron’s expense, maybe the promise of a prank of her choice against him. He hadn’t expected to find her crying. It stole any words George had planned right out of his throat, leaving him standing in front of her looking down at a girl who’d clearly put so much effort into getting ready for what he could only assume was her first date, only to have her best friend attack her for it. She could obviously sense his presence though, as without even looking up she huffed, “Don’t you think you’ve said enough?”
It was enough to shake him from his thoughts. “I haven’t even said anything yet,” he grinned as she looked up at him in shock.
“Sorry,” she murmured, “I thought you were Ron.”
He took the opportunity to drop onto the step beside her, close enough to bump her shoulder gently with his before putting on his best shocked face. “You know that’s the first time anyone has ever mixed me up with one of my brothers?” he held his hand to his heart dramatically.
His antics rewarded him with the ghost of a smile. “I’m sure it is George,” she said with such conviction he knew she wasn’t guessing. Wasn’t taking the 50/50 gamble most people did.
“How do you do that?” he asked softly.
A light blush rose curiously on her cheeks as she avoided his gaze. “I mean, I know you’re identical, but you’re not identical, you know?”
George did know. Him and Fred had catalogued every little difference throughout the years. But not everyone seemed to notice that his lip curved upwards whereas Fred’s was straight, or the bump on his nose that was slightly larger due to a bludger to the face, the scar above Fred’s eyebrow or the mole on his own neck. Of course, they did everything they could to appear identical. George slouched where he was just a fraction taller than Fred and they’d had quite the time of it when their voices had broken at different times. So even though it was completely obvious to them, it wasn’t often somebody else noticed, and he couldn’t help but look at Hermione slightly differently because of it.
Instead of responding he nodded, a small smile on his face before he nudged her slightly again. “He doesn’t mean it, y’know? He’s just... jealous.” It was a truth that was obvious to the rest of the Weasleys, who had lived with Ron’s possessiveness their whole lives. Ron had a crush on Hermione even if he didn’t realise it himself quite yet.
She scoffed and George thought she was going to deny it, instead she surprised him by saying, “I told him if he wanted to ask me to the Ball he should have done it before somebody else did,” before continuing in a small voice, “I don’t want to be a last resort.”
“You weren’t,” he replied immediately, “when did Krum ask you? They day they announced this thing?”
He got another small smile in response that for some reason made his heart beat faster. “Not quite. He’s not here now though, is he?” tears glistened on her lashes and George instinctively put an arm around her shoulders. “It’s stupid,” she shook her head and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, but she didn’t pull away from him. “In my head I had this picture of a perfect date, we’d eat and dance and it’d be a break from the tournament and,” she waved her hand around, “everything. We’d take a walk around the grounds and maybe even kiss under the mistletoe,” she let out a watery laugh, “see? I told you it was stupid.”
George sprung to his feet, his heart pounding similarly to how it did before a big prank, although this was far from a joke. He stood before her and bowed low, holding a hand out. “Miss Granger, will you do me the honour of accompanying me for a walk around the grounds of this fine establishment?” She quirked an eyebrow up at his posh accent. “I may not be an international quidditch star, but I am the best beater Hogwarts has seen in at least a generation, check the statistics if you don’t believe me,” he added with a wink.
She laughed lightly, her hand reaching out to take his but she stopped, a frown crossing her features. He worried she thought he was joking, playing a cruel prank, his reputation come back to bite him. “Don’t you have your own date to get back to?” she asked instead.
“Me? Nah, I came with Katie, but just as friends. I’m sure she’s already found a strapping young European lad to keep her entertained. If not, Lee won’t mind keeping her and Alicia company,” he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, making another blush grace Hermione’s cheeks. He found he rather liked it.
“Well,” Hermione took his hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet, “then I’d be charmed to accompany you, kind sir.” She adopted the same posh accent he had making him laugh aloud.
He held his arm out in the most proper manner he could muster, smiling when she linked her arm with his. George led them past the Great Hall to the grounds that had been lit with twinkling lights like fireflies for the evening. As they stepped outside, he pulled out his wand and cast a warming charm over them both. Hermione shivered as his magic washed over her and subconsciously tightened her hold on his arm. It was funny to describe something as feeling like magic, but George couldn’t think of any other way to describe it. Maybe it was the Yule Ball? The atmosphere of it? Maybe it was because it was Christmas? But he was certain his skin had never tingled where Hermione had touched him before. Her smile had never warmed his heart, her laugh causing butterflies in his stomach.
They walked in silence for a while, both enjoying the beauty of the Scottish winter, the lights glinting off the fallen snow covering the tops of the bushes. Eventually Hermione broke the quiet between them. “I don’t... like him like that, you know? Ron, I mean.”
George didn’t let his surprise at her words show. He’d always assumed she returned his little brother’s affections. “No?”
She shook her head, coming to a stop as they reached the edge of the lit area, extracting her arm from his leaving George feeling cold despite the warming charm. “I thought I did. I mean it was a nice idea, falling for one of my best friends, but in reality...” she trailed off, folding her arms as she looked up at him.
“It wouldn’t have worked?” his voice was soft as he shifted his feet, trying to fight the urge to step closer.
“No, I don’t think it would have,” she responded just as softly.
The tension between them was palpable, at least it was for him, and he was struggling to work out what had changed. It wasn’t that she suddenly looked pretty, she’d always been pretty despite what other kids in her year had said. Maybe it was because this was the most serious conversation they’d ever had? Maybe she liked this side of himself that he kept hidden?
Before either of them could say anything else George felt something wet touch his face. His nose scrunched as he looked up to the sky, laughing as he realised it was starting to snow again. How cliché. Hermione giggled as another flake landed on the tip of his nose.
“Thank you,” she practically whispered, as though not wanting to break whatever spell had fallen over them, “for cheering me up.”
“Happy Christmas Hermione,” George smiled down at her, his heart doing a strange double beat as she reached up and brushed some snow from his long hair. He didn’t even think about how much he hated it that length, how he cursed Fred every day for making them grow it out ‘to look more like Bill’. All he could think about was how it would feel to have her fingers tangled in his shoulder length locks.
Suddenly she froze and for a crazy moment George thought she’d heard his thoughts. Instead her eyes fixed above his head, widening. His eyes followed hers to the mistletoe that was nestled amongst the garland that draped along the outside of the building. He couldn’t be sure if it had been charmed there by some student looking for a secluded spot for some fun, or by Dumbledore himself, the old wizard’s sense of humour was hard to figure out sometimes. George’s heart picked up it’s rhythm now as he glanced from the mistletoe to Hermione and back again. His brain whirling at a million miles a second, before eventually deciding to just go for it, he could always play it off as a joke if she turned him down, he was good at that.
“Do you still want that kiss under the mistletoe?” he asked, his voice rougher than anticipated, more serious than the joking tone he’d been aiming for.
Hermione seemed stunned for a moment. Her lower lip pulled in between her teeth in a way that his sixteen year old body couldn’t help but appreciate, before she nodded, that blush appearing on her cheeks again. His stomach swirled as he took a slow step closer, his heart beating hard against his chest as he leant down, realising at the last second that she’d risen on tiptoes to meet him. Her nose was freezing as it brushed against his, snowflakes dotted her hair and the shiver that ran through him couldn’t wholly be attributed to the cold that had begun to creep back in. Her lips were warm though, and soft as they pressed chastely against his, unsure in the way they moved. George lingered briefly letting his lips move slowly over hers, once, twice, before pulling back.
She seemed breathless as she stared up at him, a hand lifted to gently press at her smiling lips before she too took a step back. “Merry Christmas George.”
The next morning Hermione had taken the seat opposite him at breakfast. Ignoring Ron, and Harry by association, after their fight. She’d produced a tin of her mother’s special Christmas biscuits and offered him, and him alone, to have one. She told him how her mum made them every year and because she couldn’t be home that Christmas she’d sent her a tin of them. How it never felt quite like Christmas without them.
***
Christmas 1998 – The Burrow
***
They never did discuss their kiss under the mistletoe the night of the Yule Ball, but it had been the start of something between them. Something that continued to grow over the years. That had culminated over holidays gone by into George standing in his mother’s kitchen attempting to make those very same biscuits that Hermione had first chosen to share with him, what seemed like a lifetime ago.
The sixth batch he made came out no better than the previous five, and the cloves had given them a strange medicinal taste. George vanished them with a flick of his wand and began to wrack his brain again for what ingredient he could be missing. He even debated waking Fred to get his opinion but ultimately decided against it. His twin had been having enough trouble sleeping since waking up in St Mungo’s after his brush with death, George didn’t want to be the one to wake him unnecessarily. Although Fred had become his and Hermione’s quiet cheerleader over the years. First questioning him about the goofy look on his face when he returned to their dorm on the night of the Yule Ball. George had brushed it off as nothing even as Fred had grilled him. Then when Hermione had shared her biscuits the next morning his eyes had gone wide and he’d cornered George as soon as he could to pry the information out of him. He’d often asked over the years why George hadn’t brought up the kiss and his answer had varied over time. At first it was because she hadn’t mentioned it, like there was some unspoken agreement between them only he hadn’t agreed to it. Then it was because Ron would only get jealous. Then they left school and the war ramped up and a million other little reasons why he’d never brought up the fact that that night had changed things. And yes he’d dated, because he wasn’t going to put his entire life on hold for a witch who wasn’t interested, but it had never felt the same as that kiss under the mistletoe.
For as many times that Fred had silently been championing their potential relationship from the side-lines there had also been times when he had been glad nothing more had happened between them, like their final year when Hermione was especially uptight about their product testing. Although George had still enjoyed the angry blush that would dust her cheeks even then. He had almost been in agreement with Fred though, that he’d dodged a bullet with his little crush, when the Christmas of 1995 rolled around.
It was the year they’d been dragged out of school in the middle of the night and shipped off to Grimmauld Place. Their dad had been hurt, bitten, while on duty for the Order. The mood in the old Black house had been sullen. Harry had been hiding, convinced he was responsible for the attack. Ginny and Ron were equally as worried about their friend as they were about their dad. Their older brothers weren’t much help. Percy never showed up, Charlie couldn’t get back from Romania without it looking suspicious and Bill flitted in and out so much he might as well have not been there. Sirius Black himself seemed pleased to be surrounded by people but the family’s mood didn’t exactly lift his spirits any. Then, two days after the school holidays officially started, she turned up at the door.
Hermione had received word from Dumbledore about what had happened and had cancelled her trip with her parents to spend the holidays with them instead. She’d taken the Knight Bus by herself across the country. It also brought the second instance in which she shared her Christmas biscuits with him.
***
Christmas 1995 – Grimmauld Place
***
It was Christmas Eve and George had taken up residence in the library of Grimmauld Place. He had needed a break and this was the last place his mum was likely to look for him. He’d told Fred to run interference whilst he researched for some product ideas, the books in the Black library would definitely have been kept in the restricted section if they were at Hogwarts. And while he did have a small stack of books in front of him, he hadn’t been doing much more than flicking through the pages. What he’d really needed was the time to just breathe, for a second alone to catch his breath, he felt like he’d been running on pure adrenaline since Professor McGonagall dragged him and Fred from their beds and told them their dad had been attacked.
They’d been to see him once in St Mungo’s and were due to go again the following day so they could at least see each other for Christmas, so logically George knew he was healing fine. But that didn’t change the fact that he nearly died. It was the first time the war had actually felt real. Which was ridiculous when they had spent the summer in hiding at Grimmauld, when he and Fred had argued that they were old enough to join the Order and fight. He didn’t think he’d properly realised what it meant before, that they could, and probably would, lose people they loved along the way.
The door to the library opened slowly and George was hurrying to hide the books he’d had in front of him when he realised it was Hermione who had entered, carrying a steaming mug in one hand and a battered metal tin under the other arm. She jumped slightly when she noticed him, the liquid in her mug sloshing dangerously to the side.
“What are you doing in here?” she asked with a frown.
It was a little suspicious to find him in a library he supposed, but instead of answering he closed the book he hadn’t been reading and shot back, “What are you doing in here?”
She paused before setting her things down on the low table he’d hastily pushed his books off of and took a seat next to him. She stuck out her hand, a teasing smile he didn’t see often enough on her face, “Hermione Granger, bookworm,” she introduced herself.
George laughed before grasping her hand and giving it a shake. The familiar chills he seemed to get whenever his skin touched hers ran up his arm, even as he tried to remind himself he was supposed to be getting over his crush. He didn’t seem to notice that her hand lingered in his a few seconds longer than normal before reaching over to grab her tea. “George Weasley, mischief maker,” he tilted his head with a grin.
A heavy silence fell over them as Hermione hugged her warm drink to her chest. It was probably the first time they’d been completely alone since the Yule Ball, since they’d kissed, and George couldn’t help but replay those memories in his mind. The soft hesitant feel of her lips on his.
“Are you okay?” her soft voice pulled him from his reverie, breaking the silence.
He was about to lie. To give an answer that everyone expected from him but one look in her eyes made him pause. Made him choke down the I’m fine. His mouth opened and shut a few times before he swallowed, “My dad almost died,” he said softly. “I know he’s gonna be okay. And I know he was doing an important job for the Order but... it’s just...” he trailed off, losing the ability to articulate what he was trying to say.
Hermione nodded, hesitating before taking one hand from around her mug and reaching out to squeeze his hand. “It feels real now, doesn’t it?”
George could only nod as his heart began pounding in his chest. The sofa they were on was small, more like an oversized armchair than an actual sofa, and they had already been sitting closely before she leant forward to squeeze his hand in comfort. Now their knees bumped together where she’d reached for the hand that was on his lap. The pressure of her squeeze seemed to be letting up though and in a moment that had to be madness George flipped his hand over and linked his fingers through hers. She gave a sharp inhale as her eyes snapped up to his.
“Yeah,” he whispered in answer to her question, and to distract her from the fact he was holding her hand, “the war has always been a story. We knew it was bad, but we didn’t know, and now He’s back and... I guess... I guess I’m scared,” he admitted quietly before scoffing at himself, “some Gryffindor I am.”
Hermione squeezed his hand again, from their new position of interlaced fingers, “You’d be stupid not to be scared,” she said forcefully before her voice softened, “and I know you’re not stupid George.”
“Coulda fooled me,” he smirked but inside his stomach swarmed with butterflies at her compliment, “with how much grief you’ve given us over our products.”
She rolled her eyes, seemingly not bothered by the fact he’d started rubbing his thumb in small circles on her hand. “There’s a difference between thinking you need safer testing methods and thinking you’re stupid. You know your products are brilliant, you don’t need me to stroke your ego.”
He fought hard not to make a joke about stroking something else, he didn’t want to ruin the moment that was happening, didn’t want her to pull her hand away. Because against all odds she’d actually made him feel slightly better. It was smart to be scared, it meant he could be prepared, not go running into a situation dangerously overconfident.
Despite his best efforts to control his smirk at her unintentional innuendo he apparently didn’t do well enough, as a violent pink blush spread across her cheeks. “Oh, don’t be so crude,” she scolded as she attempted to pull her hand back.
George made the split-second decision to grab the retreating appendage with his other hand, leaving hers trapped in between while he continued to rub the pad of his thumb in small circles. “I didn’t say a thing.”
“You thought it,” she grumbled but her hand relaxed in his again, although the blush didn’t leave her cheeks.
“Ah, but apparently so did you,” he teased with a smile.
Hermione took a sip of her tea, relaxing back into the sofa as their joint hands moved to rest in the space between them. “What were you reading?” she asked after a moment of comfortable silence.
“Nothing.” She frowned at him, looking at the books he hadn’t hidden well at all. “I mean it. I was supposed to be doing research for a couple of product ideas but I couldn’t concentrate.”
“What products?” she asked. “Maybe I could help.”
“You want to help me do research for products for my joke shop? Are you feeling alright?” George placed the back of his free hand playfully against her forehead.
Hermione rolled her eyes as he laughed. “Just because I don’t want to skive off of classes doesn’t mean you’re not making anything of merit. Not everything you make is a joke.”
“No,” his voice was impossibly soft now, “it’s not.” It wasn’t often people saw him as more than just a prankster. “We want to start a line of protective wear. Hats, cloaks,” he explained, “we just don’t know where to start. A combination of runes layered with charms seems like the best bet but we’re a little out of our depth with the rune part,” he shrugged. “It’s not something we thought we’d need so neither of us bothered taking it.”
“Well, lucky for you I’m taking my Ancient Runes OWL,” she leant forward, finally unlinking their hands to set down her tea and pick up the book on runes he had picked out.
George couldn’t help but miss the feel of her hand in his, but as she shifted closer to rest the large book across both their laps, he found he didn’t care too much. Hermione pulled a piece of parchment seemingly from nowhere and began noting down important bits of information. It was impossible not to marvel at her as she worked, putting in as much effort as though it were for her own exams. His heart warmed as she selflessly wrote down note after note for him.
It was probably ten minutes later, in which George had spent the majority of the time daydreaming about wrapping his arm around her shoulders and attempting a repeat of their mistletoe kiss, that she looked up from the parchment she was using and reached for the metal tin she’d brought in with her. As she cracked open the lid the scent of Christmas spices filled air.
“Biscuit?” she held the tin out in offering.
“Granger special Christmas biscuits?” he asked, dipping his hand into the tin and pulling one out.
“Mum packed me a tin of them when I told them I wouldn’t be coming skiing with them. Wouldn’t be Christmas without them,” she smiled.
“Do you wish you’d gone with them?” he asked.
“No,” she paused, “not really. I’ve never been a fan of skiing and you... I mean, I was needed here more.”
That pretty blush graced her cheeks again and George tried not to read too much into it. Instead, he settled back against the sofa, biscuit in hand and book across his lap with the girl he most definitely still had a crush on.
***
Christmas 1998 – The Burrow
***
George creamed together butter and sugar, a light brown sugar for that subtle treacle-y taste, by hand for the seventh batch of biscuits. Maybe that was where he’d been going wrong, using magic when the original recipe would have been made by hand. He cracked in an egg and measured out the spices he was certain about, a teaspoon of cinnamon, half a teaspoon each of nutmeg and ginger, and whisked the lot together. But what else? Vanilla? Possibly.
He cast his mind back again to the last time he had eaten them. The Christmas holidays of 1996. He’d left school already, in a blaze of glory the previous year and his time spent with Hermione had dipped dramatically. Leaving school and starting a business would do that, he supposed. Although there had been that summer, after the battle at the Ministry and before the trio started their sixth year, that she had spent more time than usual at the Burrow. He’d moved into the flat above the shop by then but he couldn’t deny the fact that he’d made it to a few more family dinners while she’d been there. Then there had been the incident with the punching telescope and her telling Fred their daydream charms were brilliant magic. It had put his twin firmly back on team Hermione, even if watching him treat her bruise so tenderly had made him seethe with jealousy. A fact Fred had mocked him for repeatedly afterwards.
But there had been no more hand holding, no stolen kisses, not that he had really believed that would happen, it had been so long at that point since anything like that had happened that his crush was seeming more and more unrequited. Then the Christmas of ’96 came, what would have been his first opportunity in months to even see her, and she didn’t visit. Her and Ron were apparently in some massive fight and she’d chosen to spend the holidays with her parents. Not that he begrudged her spending time with her family but he couldn’t help how his heart sank when he realised he wouldn’t be seeing her, probably at all until the following summer.
It was Christmas evening and him and Fred had returned to their flat when there was a tapping at the window. They’d shared a confused look before Fred let in the owl at the window, taking the parcel it carried and giving it a treat before it flew away. George remembered the grin that spread across his face so clearly as he’d read the tag before passing the gift over. She’d sent him his own tin of biscuits. Keeping the tradition they hadn’t meant to start alive. George had shared the special Granger biscuits with Fred that year, smiling softly to himself at the fact Hermione had sent him a present when he knew she hadn’t exchanged gifts with Ron or Harry. Not that he was happy that she’d fallen out with her friends, more it was the first time in a long time that his feelings didn’t seem quite so one sided.
That had been the last time he’d had the infamous Granger biscuits. The following year, the Christmas of 1997, had been during the height of the war. George had been at his aunt Muriel’s, the safe house housing the majority of his family, and Hermione had been Merlin knew where. Of course he had since learnt about the trio's time on the run but at the time he’d been clueless. It was that Christmas that he finally realised his feelings for Hermione went beyond a mere crush. It was all he could do to try and keep his mind off of her but he failed miserably. He made a promise to himself that if they all made it through the war, that he’d tell her, how much he had worried when she was gone, how much he’d missed her, and how the simple act of sharing her biscuits had become one of his favourite things about Christmas.
Obviously he hadn’t done any of that. He’d told himself it was because his family needed him, Fred needed him, and then the shop needed rebuilding and Hermione was going back to Hogwarts and... he was a coward. Afraid of rejection from the girl he’d fallen for, one Christmas at a time. So instead he was doing this. Spending hours in the middle of the night trying desperately to make the perfect Christmas biscuits, because surely, surely, she would understand then. This wasn’t just about doing something kind or making her happy, the perfect Christmas present, it was about so much more.
George had pulled nearly every ingredient out of the pantry by that point. The surfaces were covered in flour from his previous attempts and the scent of spices lingered in the air. He leant against the counter dejectedly, head resting in his hands as he stared down into the bowl of half finished dough. So lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs, the soft padding of slippered feet into the kitchen. He heard her though, voice soft and tentative as she said his name.
“George?”
“Hermione,” his head snapped up, his body rigid like a deer caught in headlights.
“What are you doing?” she blinked the sleep from her eyes as she took in the state of the kitchen. He opened and shut his mouth hoping that an excuse would materialise. “It smells like Christmas,” she said softly, wistfully.
“It was supposed to be a surprise,” he admitted, stepping away from the counter as though his body was drawn to her. “I was trying to make your mum’s biscuits. You always said it didn’t feel like Christmas without them.”
Her eyes misted over and George’s heart lurched, fearing he’d made a massive mistake, but then she was stepping towards him. In an instant she was in his arms, her face buried into his chest as his arms wrapped around her instinctively. The hug took his breath away. His cheek rest against the top of her head as he relaxed into it, his whole body seeming to sigh with relief. They hadn’t hugged like that before. A casual arm thrown around shoulders but never this. George’s hand trailed up to cup the back of her head, cradling her to his chest. This felt different.
Hermione moved back a fraction, just enough to be able to meet his eyes and George’s heart was pounding at the proximity. “You’ve always been so sweet to me, ever since the Yule Ball,” she paused as if realising she’d mentioned the forbidden topic. “Why were you trying to make me these biscuits George?”
The question was direct and his stomach squirmed slightly, “I thought... I thought it’d make you happy,” he answered softly, once again taking the cowards way out with half truths.
Her eyes seemed to search his, he wondered if she found what she was looking for because her hands tightened slightly against his chest. “Please,” the word came out as a whisper, “please just tell me.”
He’d never felt this drawn to her before, and he’d felt drawn to her plenty, but the air between them crackled with possibility. His blood thrummed in his veins as he dangled on the edge of that possibility, daring himself to take the leap. Slowly, impossibly slowly really, his hand came up to cup her cheek. Her eyes closed briefly as she leant into his touch, giving George the courage to carry on. “It’s like you said, it’s not Christmas without them. Just like it’s not Christmas without you. Last year,” he shook his head to rid the emotion from his voice, “I realised I don’t want to spend another Christmas without you.”
“And the biscuits,” she teased lightly, her hands drifting up to his shoulders.
“Obviously,” he smiled, “I really did want to surprise you though, I just can’t figure out the recipe. I wanted to make you happy.”
“You always make me happy George,” one of her hands moved tentatively to the back of his neck and even though her intentions were clear he could hardly believe it.
“Should I conjure some mistletoe?” he asked cheekily, partly because he enjoyed teasing her, partly to be completely sure he knew where this was going.
“I don’t think we need it this time, do you?” her hand tugged slightly at the back of his neck.
George bit his lip slightly as he shook his head. Still a little in disbelief that this was actually happening. Would it be too cheesy to call it a Christmas miracle? Before he could think anymore Hermione lifted up on tiptoes just as she had done four years ago, only they weren’t teenagers anymore. Their kiss before had been sweet, nervous and inexperienced. This was years in the making.
He brought his other hand up to cup her face completely as he complied with her hand pulling him towards her lips. They were just as soft as he remembered but where there had been hesitancy before, now there was confidence. He hummed as her lips moved against his, not stopping after once or twice. His hands moved to pull her closer, their bodies flush as the kiss deepened. She moaned softly when his tongue swept over her lower lip before letting him in, tongues caressing each other until they were both breathless.
When they finally parted Hermione looked up at him with a slightly dopey smile that he knew mirrored his own. “You taste like Christmas,” she bit her lip at the laugh he let out.
“That’d be the six batches of biscuits I’ve tested so far,” he smiled, no longer minding so much that he hadn’t managed to figure out the recipe.
Hermione laughed lightly in return before giving him a conspiratorial look, “Do you want to know the secret ingredients?”
“You know the recipe?” he stepped back slightly in surprise, taking in the almost mischievous look on her face. It was one he definitely wanted to see more of.
“Of course I do, I would help make them every year,” she shrugged.
“But I thought they were your mum’s special Christmas biscuits?” he asked, ever so slightly put out that she could have made them herself any time she wanted.
“They are, they’re a family tradition, she used to make them with her mum. And I always pictured one day I’d make them with my kids,” a slight blush dusted her cheeks, “I’m not much of a baker though, mostly I just enjoy licking the spoon.”
The faint blush darkened and George had to close his eyes briefly at that mental image. “Well, good thing for you that I’m an excellent cook. Just let me know the recipe and I’ll let you lick whatever you like,” he flirted boldly, enjoying her reaction. Embarrassment mixed with a darkening of her eyes that betrayed her desire.
“Well,” she cleared her throat quietly, looking around at the mess of a kitchen, “it looks like you’ve got it right so far. Butter, sugar, one egg?”
“Mmm,” he hummed in agreement, “light brown sugar. Cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger.”
“Can’t forget the ginger,” she gave him a teasing look. He really could get used to this side of her. “So the secret ingredients,” she paused for dramatic effect, “a teaspoon of cocoa powder and just a pinch of chili powder.”
“Really?” he frowned, he hadn’t remembered a chocolate taste at all. But then a teaspoon in the whole batch wouldn’t really affect the taste too much, and it was most likely only there to enhance the chili, which would explain the certain kick they had that didn’t seem to come from the ginger alone.
“You're cute when you’re figuring things out,” she said softly, sounding almost embarrassed.
“Lucky it doesn’t happen often then,” he teased but internally preened at the compliment.
“Now we both know that’s a lie,” she said, closing the small distance he’d created, “I used to watch you, you know? Sat across the common room, bent over some product or another with Fred. You were so intense, so focused, I always liked seeing that side of you.”
“Yeah?” his fingers linked with hers as he pulled her the last inch towards him.
Her head tilted back to look up at him and she gave a small nod, eyes darting to his lips before she spoke again, “You were my first kiss, you know?” He hadn’t known, he’d theorised, but never had the confirmation until now. Some primal part of him glowed at the knowledge. “It’s like... every kiss since I’ve been comparing to that one.”
“And how have they measured up?” he asked, voice low with desire as he touched her hip, pressing his body against hers.
“They haven’t even come close,” she admitted breathlessly seconds before George captured her lips again. More passionately this time, lips and tongues meeting in a hot and heavy dance. Her hand grasping his hair in the way he’d imagined all those years ago. She whimpered as their lips parted this time and George had to hold back a groan at the sound, leaning in to peck her lips once more.
“You never brought it up, what happened at the Ball. The kiss,” he attempted to tuck a wild curl behind her ear but it fought back valiantly.
“Neither did you!” she replied in a tone more reminiscent of the Hermione of his youth. “I just figured it didn’t mean anything. That you were just being nice.”
“Oh Hermione,” George sighed at how clueless they had both been, “it meant everything. That was the night everything started to change,” he smiled, no longer fearful of rejection. “I meant what I said earlier, I don’t want to spend another Christmas apart, I want to be with you. I want to make these impossible biscuits every year and eat them while they’re still warm, curled up by the fire. I’m in love with you, Hermione Granger, bookworm.”
He watched as she smiled in recognition of the way she’d introduced herself that time back at Grimmauld Place. Her eyes misted over again as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I love you too, George Weasley, mischief maker.”
*
It was still dark when Fred awoke that Christmas morning and he was certain he was the first one awake. Which was perfect as he’d planned on sneaking downstairs and setting up a prank for George. It wasn’t often the twins pranked each other, but he needed a drastic measure to stop George’s fussing. He wanted to prove to his twin that he was perfectly fine and he didn’t need another mother hen hovering over him constantly. It was as he sat up that he realised George’s bed was empty. Damn it! What on Earth was he doing up already?
Fred crept quietly down the stairs, careful to avoid waking the rest of the sleeping family. The low light from the crackling fire was the only sign of life, but still Fred stayed silent, moving with stealthy footsteps over to stoke the flames.
Seeing George asleep on the sofa by the fire wasn’t a surprise, he had to be somewhere, although until that moment Fred hadn’t had a clue why he was out of bed. What was a surprise, and also the explanation to his question, was Hermione curled up beside him. A grin spread across Fred’s face at the sight. Finally. Her head was leant on George’s shoulder and his tilted to rest on hers. One arm was around her shoulders and the other held her hand loosely. And there, in the small space between them was a plate piled high with biscuits.
Fred carefully levitated the biscuits out from between them, pinching one for himself before storing the rest in one of his mum’s tins. As he took a bite a memory rushed to the front of his brain, of sitting in the flat sharing the tin of biscuits Hermione had sent to George. Had his twin made these for her? Smooth Georgie, smooth. He took one more look at the couple, and it was clear to see that they were a couple now, before gently covering the pair with a blanket and backing away to where the Christmas tree sat in the other corner of the room.
He made sure to stay silent, barely breathing as he charmed every single one of George’s presents to shower him with glitter upon opening. It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy that his twin had finally gotten the witch he’d been pining after for years. Quite the opposite, he’d always told Georgie to just go for it, that they’d be perfect for each other. But it was a stroke of luck to find everyone still asleep and really, there was no need to waste a good pranking opportunity. It was Christmas after all.