Chapter Text
George doesn't really notice it, not at first.
His ordinarily razor-sharp powers of observation are dulled, hidden in a haze of grief. Despite the fact that it's been over a year now, it's only natural - his other half is gone. The forever kind of gone.
So when he pores over a blueprint for a new tricksy trinket, muttering to himself over its shortcomings, and Hermione suddenly bends over the designs to offer him a solution, he doesn't think twice about it.
He barely raises an eyebrow when he rummages through a drawer of parts, cursing at the piece that was supposed to be here and isn't, and the item in question suddenly appears in his hand. (When he raises his head to look, he sees a mane of bushy curls disappearing around a corner.)
He doesn't lie in bed at night, awake and wondering why on earth, when he was bemoaning a new potion gone wrong to Ginny, Hermione interrupted him before he'd even finished the ingredients list to explain that, no, George, the pixie wing powder does not assist the item in levitating when it is being neutralized by the ground hound's tooth you've included for lasting power. When he opens his mouth and begins to object, she cuts him off again with a shake of her head - yes, George, I realize that as far as alternatives go, ground fairy wing powder is, on the other hand, too potent for the relatively small elevation you're aiming for, but if you'd just include a dash of ground cat's tooth, it would mitigate the side-effects of the hound's tooth and allow the pixie wing powder to serve its original purpose effectively.
No, none of these things manage to ruffle his feathers in the slightest.
It isn't until he does it to her that he begins to understand what's happening.
He's at the kitchen table in the Burrow on a Sunday morning, munching on a biscuit and flipping idly through the paper when she storms in through one of its multiple doors, looking frazzled.
"Oh for heaven's sake, where is-"
"It's on the left armchair in the living room." He doesn't even pause to glance up from the parchment in front of him.
"Why on earth would-"
"Harry was skimming through it out of curiosity, but Ginny distracted him and he forgot to put it back."
He can practically feel her eyeroll. "Thank you, George."
She's been gone for a full two minutes before he even pauses to think about the exchange.
He spits out his tea when it finally hits him.
George tosses and turns over the idea for the next week, scouring memories of past exchanges and gazing at every new one with eyes that have been opened.
He holds out his hand for a tool; Hermione gives it to him without ever removing her eyes from her book.
She loses something; George finds it and she hasn't even told him what's lost.
He needs to scour sources not available in his and Fred's personal collection of books and parchments; Hermione's already checked it out for him from the library before he has any idea what it is he's even looking for.
George wonders if she's been doing it on purpose - and if she has, should he be angry? No one could ever replace Fred in a million years; perhaps he should say as much to her. But then, he knows Hermione better than that. He knows she would never believe that the space in his heart reserved for his twin could ever be filled by anyone else. If she is being intentional about it, he thinks - and there is, as of yet, no clear indication that she is - it is perhaps instead to take the edge off his grief. The work that he and Fred had begun together is now more important to him than ever before, a legacy of the time they shared while Fred was still alive. If Hermione is endeavoring to help George make that legacy live on, then he will welcome her efforts with open arms.
One evening, not long after George has reached this conclusion, the young woman in question comes into the Burrow looking glum; George hands her a cup of chamomile tea with a teaspoon of honey (it's been allowed to cool just a minute or two) and tells her, before she's said a word, that really, her supervisor is an incredible imbecile and that her department wouldn't be up to its ears in paperwork if the idiots in charge would only listen to her plans for optimizing their efficiency.
She offers him a grateful smile in return, her hands curling around the mug.
"You are such a boor, Ronald," Hermione remarks crossly. "Just because she already knows how you feel about her-"
"-It doesn't mean you never have to say it. Or show it," George agrees. "You could always-"
"-give her chocolates, flowers, take her to a muggle theater for a romantic film-"
"-bring her 'round the block on your broom, Merlin knows you're a bloody good flier after all these years-"
"It's the thought that counts! Human beings are insecure creatures, you need to-"
"-remind her, make her feel like the love is still alive and all that."
This time, George is fully aware that he's doing it, but the bug-eyed look on Ron's face is certainly more than enough confirmation that it's not just in his head.
"Bloody hell," Ron whispers. "It's almost like..." Then his mouth clamps shut and he shakes his head quickly, switching trains of thought to continue arguing with them regarding the finer points of courting a girl.
"All right, I know your taste in color schemes is generally outlandish to begin with, but Merlin's beard, George, that is dreadfully garish."
George looks up to find Hermione eyeing his newest prototype with obvious distaste. He puts his hands out, palms up. "What's wrong with orange, green, and purple?"
"Perhaps it wouldn't be quite so awful if you'd at least bother to adjust the saturation so it's not blinding!" Hermione points her wand at the object and mutters something under her breath. Within moments, the orange and green have faded into more muted versions of themselves, leaving the purple as the brightest of the three colors.
George has to admit that it does look somewhat better. He comes over to stand beside her, picking it up and giving it a closer examination. "Not half-bad, Granger," he says, turning it over in his hands.
"Yes, well, the muggle world teaches rather more about design and color theory than the wizarding world," she replies dryly, leaning her back against the wall. "I know you're not overly fond of unnecessary reading, but there are some excellent books on the subject, if you'd be interested."
"D'you mean to tell me there are entire books - multiple entire books - dedicated to telling you how to pick a color?"
"And, more importantly, how to put colors together appropriately so your design looks more like a charming toy and less like a nightmarish abomination."
"What if I want it to look like a nightmarish abomination?"
"Then you should be capable of making a conscious decision for it to look that way instead of it merely being the consequence of ignorance."
"They say ignorance is bliss, and I'd like to remain the blissful old bloke I am."
"Yes, I'm certain your bliss will be utterly impenetrable, even by poor product sales."
"Sales are doing just fine, thank you very much."
"Novelty won't last forever," Hermione informs him, rolling her eyes. "Your product capabilities are excellent, and as of yet, unparalleled. But the moment a competitor with prettier packaging starts contributing to your niche market, you're going to run into trouble."
George runs a hand through his hair, nonplussed. "You think there'll be much competition?"
Hermione's expression softens, and she straightens from the wall, moving back to stand next to him. "Admittedly, I'm no expert on the wizarding business world, but I've seen plenty of how it works for the non-magical. The moment something new and innovative seems to be doing well, copycats appear left and right to put forth their own versions, and it's any combination of factors that dictate who performs well and who doesn't. Design, marketing, location, and goodness knows what else." She shrugs. "I just think that if you intend your business to be long-lived - and I know that you do - you should stack the odds in your favor as well as you can."
George lets out a puff of air, ruffling his bangs, and rubs his eyes. "You make a fair point," he concedes, turning and leaning back until he is half-sitting on the work table. "But when I've got to come up with new ideas, and design them, and make them work, and run the store... figuring out how to make them pretty becomes a bit..."
Hermione gives him a sympathetic smile. "I certainly know the feeling of needing more hours in a day," she says with a soft laugh, and the look on her face tells George she's enjoying some private joke. "And that said, it certainly couldn't hurt to consider hiring someone with an artistic flair."
"Do we know anyone with artistic flair?"
"Your mother?" Hermione remarks in a tone that drips with sarcasm before she can think better of it.
Just as she begins to look mortified, George bursts into laughter. "Oh, yes, my mother, maker of fashionable Christmas sweaters, true lover of practical jokes, the perfect product-design assistant. Why didn't I think of it sooner?"
Hermione seems to have recovered herself. "I know, you're usually quite good at thinking outside of the box."
"Box? What box?"
"You know, like coming up with creative, original solutions."
"So we're standing outside of a box and thinking about non-boxy things, then?"
"There is no box, George."
"But you said-"
Hermione throws her hands up in defeat, and George simply grins at her. "In ANY case," she continues a moment later, "I'm more than happy to lend a hand in the meantime, at least enough to keep your hare-brained color schemes in check."
George stretches and rolls his shoulders, letting out another sigh. "And I supposed I'd best have a look at some of those books of yours at some point or another."
At this, Hermione takes a turn to grin. "Oh, don't be so sour about it. I'll go through and make you annotations and everything. You know, point out the highlights and perhaps add notes from other books."
George puts his hand on the top of her head, pushing down slightly. "That'd be just peachy - if I wanted to read a book that was twice as long as its original copy."
She ducks out from under his hand, laughing. "Believe it or not, I have learned the difference between 'notes for myself' and 'notes for other people.'"
"All right, I believe you, maybe, but we've-," and then he catches himself, "-I've always been more of hands-on sort of learner, you know?" He pretends his heart doesn't crumple in on itself just then, choosing to forge on ahead. "Good old trial-and-error."
If Hermione notices his slip, she doesn't let on. "Well, I certainly think you've got the 'error' part down pat," she says with a wry twist to her mouth. Before he can protest the teasing insult, she's turning around to scan the room for something; when he follows her gaze, he realizes she's taking note of the assorted dirty plates and cups and silverware that lie scattered about the room. Thinking he's about to be scolded for being a slob, he's completely taken by surprise when she instead says, "George, none of these dishes look like they're even from the past twelve hours or so. When was the last time you ate?"
"Erm..." he says helpfully, and scratches the back of his neck. "Yesterday... probably?"
Hermione makes an exasperated noise. "D'you have anything edible in your flat?"
"Erm." he says again. "Probably not."
Hermione pushes up her sleeve and glances at the watch on her wrist. "Right, pub food it is, then," she says, turning smartly on her heel and heading for the door.
George watches her blankly for a moment, looks down at the prototype, then looks up at her again.
She's standing with one hand on the doorknob and the other on her hip, eyebrow raised. "Come on, then, Weasley," she says, sounding halfway between vexed and amused. "Don't make me tell your mother you haven't been eating right."
George is at her side seconds later, scowling. "Don't even joke about that, woman. I've had a hard enough time getting her to stop suffocating me as it is!"
"Don't give me reason to follow through," she replies pointedly, opening the workshop door and pushing him out of it.
"All right, all right, I'll pick up some groceries later," he mutters. Then, all at once - perhaps encouraged by the discussion of food - his stomach seems to wake up, and he puts his hand to it with a groan. "Blimey, I am hungry."
Hermione laughs. "Alas, these mortal bodies," she says, shaking her head as they exit the front of the store.