J.K. Rowling is a genius. I'm a poser. Nothing here is mine; I just enjoy playing with the other kids' toys. No infringement is intended.

A big thank-you to Hestia Jones (Natalie) for her awesome betaness. :)


No Contest


She wasn't sure what she was doing here, but from the moment she'd slipped out the door to the yard, her feet had known where they were going. The fifteen minute walk was a beautiful one; the sun was beginning to inch down in the sky and bright pink was rolling out over everything. She made her way to the back of the Weasleys' garden, and then turned onto a little path that curved behind the tree line. Before long she was there, and everything was quieter than it had been a moment ago. Sunshine spilled down onto the small grassy spot through a window in the tall trees. She stood a couple of metres back, staring at eleven letters cut into rock. It was beautiful, and yet, in Hermione's eyes, nowhere near a worthy enough tribute for a life so full of rambunctious joy.

There were flowers all around the gravestone, and something else that drew her attention immediately: a peculiar chair positioned just to the left of Fred's grave. It likely began as a standard lawn chair, but with non-traditional colors. The seat was a bright orange and the back an alarming shade of green. One of the arms contained a storage compartment with a drink holder, though she couldn't guess what else might be inside. Overhead were three large pieces of what looked like a strong plastic, joined at the center to form a kind of propeller-looking apparatus, just above the seat. She stared at it for a long time, growing more and more curious, knowing only one thing for certain: George was behind it.

She took a few steps and sat down in the grass just to the right of the stone marker, facing the chair. It was still hard to believe he was gone. The only time it really sank in for her was when George was around; there was certainly no way to ignore it then. And of course, she felt the truth of it when Ron was particularly down. Sometimes he would talk about it, often about seeing it happen. Mostly it was just a look that came over him, and he might meet her eyes. Then she would know, and he would know she did. Like tonight at dinner... George had joined them and had been even quieter than usual. They'd lingered at the table after the plates had been cleared, and she had noticed Ron's hands... large hands resting so near to hers on the table, one of them nervously turning a fork over and over with his fingers. She'd lifted her eyes to his face and seen it: he was worried about George. He was always worried about George. She understood it, even loved him for it, but oh, how she worried about him. He had sensed her eyes on him and looked at her, giving her a small grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. She'd slipped her arm around his back and brushed her fingers up and down a few times, unnoticed by any of his family.

When everyone moved to the parlor, she'd hung back, restless. She'd told Ginny she was going for a walk and slipped out the back door. And so she sat in front of a strange chair while Fred's name blared out sorrow and injustice into this lovely sunset; and she felt like crying. She loved this family; as different as she was from them, there were times she felt like she belonged even more with them than with her own parents. And yet no one would say she and Fred had been close. She'd spent a lot of time with him in intimate family settings, holidays and such, but now it was hard to think of a time when they had ever really talked. He was Ron's brother. How many times had she sat next to him during a meal, at both The Burrow and the Gryffindor table? Plenty of times, and yet she was convinced that were he here to comment, he would surely say that when he pictured Hermione, it was always with her hands on her hips, lecturing. The thought shamed her, and she pulled her knees up to her chest.

Of Ron's two best friends, she knew the family would consider Harry the fun one and her the... well, what was she? The responsible one? After all this time, she didn't really know for sure. Harry had given the twins his Triwizard winnings to start the shop; she, in turn, had threatened to write to Mrs. Weasley if they didn't stop testing their products on first years. She still felt she had been right about all of that, but now, watching the buttercups dance in the breeze in front of Fred's name... well, she wished she'd lightened up a bit. She wished Fred knew how much she had cared about him, how much she had respected his brilliance at magic, and how much she had appreciated everything he'd done for Harry. He'd helped him escape the Dursleys more than once, the last time at great peril.

There was one memory in particular that she had not been able to get out of her mind for several days now: the incident on the Quidditch pitch during her second year. The story had become legendary because of the dramatic conclusion: twelve-year-old Ron vomiting slugs while defending her honor with a broken wand. She couldn't help smiling at the picture her mind conjured, but Ron had not been the only Weasley there that day. Both Fred and George had had to be physically restrained when Malfoy had called her a Mudblood. The twins were made of the same stuff Ron was, and it was good stuff.

As she leaned forward to pick up a petal from one of the buttercups, she felt someone watching her. She looked up, shaking herself from her thoughts. "George!" she said, startled. Why she was surprised to see him, she didn't know. He had a chair here, after all.

"Hello," he replied. He stood there with a sheepish look on his face and his hands stuffed in his pockets; for the first time ever, he reminded her of Ron.

She moved to rise. "You want to visit, of course. I'm sorry, I'll just go."

"No," he said quickly. "Don't."

They held each other's eyes for a moment while Hermione decided whether she should go or stay. She thought George looked uncomfortable, but he also appeared as though he meant what he'd said.

"He likes visitors," he said simply. "We go for a bit of attention, you know."

She couldn't help smiling at this understatement; she lowered herself back to the ground, this time sitting cross-legged. George sat down, too... several feet away from the gravestone, but facing it straight on with his legs stretched out in front of him. She and George had not spent enough time alone together for lengthy silences to be comfortable, and yet she wasn't sure what to say.

"I like your chair," she finally managed.

"Yeah, it's cool, right?" He perked up, proud of his invention. "To tell you the truth, you aren't supposed to see it. I usually move it behind those trees when I leave, and then Vanish it. But I must have forgotten when I left yesterday." He gave her a look. "So this is a real treat for you."

"I won't say anything," she told him, studying the chair again in earnest. "You've both always been brilliant at magic."

He tried to smile at this, but Hermione realized it must be hard--always hearing Fred and himself complimented as one person. From his expression, she thought it made him hurt more, but at the same time, comfort him somehow. They had learned one thing since May: Grief had no rules, and plenty of contradictions.

"You spend a lot of time out here," she commented. He looked too much at ease now for it not to be true.

"Yeah," he responded. "I've never seen you here."

She looked embarrassed--whether for not having been here before, or for being here now, she wasn't sure. "This is the first time I've come here since... well, since the first time."

He just nodded, leaning back and letting his weight fall into his arms. "So how come you're here now?"

She sighed and pulled her knees up to her chest again, considering the invitation. "You have enough of your own, George. The last thing I would do is add to your burden."

He just looked at her. He looked at her so long she began to feel her cheeks reddening. Then he tilted his head to one side and said, "You miss him."

A lump formed in the back of her throat, and she felt a familiar pressure behind her eyes; all the memories and regrets she had been turning over before he'd come rushed again to the front of her mind. "I've lost nothing compared to you," she nearly whispered.

He laughed, but it was a hard, joyless one. "I'm in a bad enough place these days to agree with you." He said these words as if he were disgusted with himself.

"You should," she told him, meaning it. "It's true."

He finally looked away from her; and when he did, his eyes went straight for Fred's name, spelled out before him in perfect block letters. "It's not a contest, Hermione."

"I suppose that's true," she conceded. "But I still don't think I should be calling attention to my own feelings when everyone else..." she trailed off. "I don't even want to tell Ron, really."

"Well, now you have to tell me," he said, and she saw a spark of mischief in his eyes. The expression was so foreign to Hermione after all this time that for a moment she thought she'd imagined it. "How can I resist knowing a secret that you won't even tell my kid brother?"

She chuckled under her breath. "It's not like that."

"What is it like?" Just like that, he was sober again, the new George.

She turned away from his gaze. "I do miss him." She rested her chin on her knees and stared down at the grass. "I mean, of course I've missed him all this time. I've been sad, devastated really, but I think I've mostly been feeling it all on behalf of everyone else, you know?" She glanced at him; he was really listening. "Ron, and you... Ginny, and your parents... and that's as it should be. I wanted to be here to help in any way I could." She paused then for several moments; he didn't rush her. "But these last few days, I've been remembering things."

"Things about Fred?"

She nodded, noticing at once the hungry expression on his face. God, how he must miss his brother, that he would look like that at the mere prospect of hearing something about Fred that he might not already know. A wave of grief not her own washed over Hermione as she began to speak again. "When we first visited your shop, he overheard me complimenting the magic used for one of your products, and he--"

"Which product?" he interrupted.

She looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "You're kidding, right?"

He gave her a sheepish grin, and she indulged him.

"The Daydream Charm."

"Ah, yes... brilliance. My idea, that one."

"Well," Hermione continued, "he heard me saying the magic was really impressive, and he just... he gave me one." She smiled at the memory and shook her head a little. "It was really sweet."

She glanced back up at George, and found his face shrouded in sadness again, just that quickly. Hermione did not have experience with the weight of grief George was suffering, and yet the more she observed him, the more she realized that grief wasn't what she used to think: a sad friend that never left your side. Grief was mean. And it was a lot more than a slow-moving cloud of gloom hovering over you like a permanently rainy day. It was violent. It grabbed you by the back of your neck with no warning at all, and made you feel what it told you to feel. It whispered condolences in your ear and pretended to be a trustworthy companion, but the next moment it could slam your face into a wall and walk away. There was nothing slow and steady about it. Grief was cold and fierce, billowing in strength and fury, and it ravaged its victim's emotions. George had wanted to hear this memory, had been desperate toward it, but now, having heard it, he was utterly devastated. Yes, Hermione was learning what Grief was: a liar and a thief.

"I'm so sorry, George. I shouldn't have told you."

"No," he said weakly. "It's good. I just... I didn't know that." He visibly swallowed and then met her eyes again. "Tell me more."

"George."

"You seem sad. When I remember stuff like that, the cool things he did for me... it always makes me feel better."

Hermione couldn't help wondering if George had said this to anyone else.

"That's because you gave him as much as he gave you." Her face was a mixture of encouragement for George and regret for herself. "All I ever did for him--well, you, too, for that matter--was try to stop him testing products... and tell you both to quit messing around all the time. I was always the one raining on his parade. I was nothing more than an obstacle to everything you both wanted." She looked at him desperately, needing him to understand. Maybe if George could forgive her, it would feel as if Fred had. "And what you wanted was such a good thing. You've brought so much joy and laughter to so many people. I'm just ashamed of myself, I suppose. And now it's too late to tell him how sorry I am."

He gave her a sad smile. "If you hadn't reigned us in, Umbridge would have expelled us before we could indulge in our grand exit."

This did not comfort her, but she couldn't help smiling at the memory. "It was an amazing exit."

He grinned, showing his appreciation for the compliment, and then said simply, "He considered you a friend, Hermione... maybe something between a friend and family, you know?" Then he gave her a knowing look. "Though I've got a feeling it will be just plain family before too long."

Her cheeks went red at the implication.

George looked at the gravestone again, staring at Fred's name. "When you three were gone... we were all so worried, especially Mum. Sometimes it seemed she was barely there, kind of like now, to tell you the truth. Once in a while Fred would remind her that you were with them. One time, we were sitting in our flat talking about you lot, and he said to me, 'If they didn't have Hermione, I don't think I'd ever sleep'." George looked at her for a moment before turning his eyes back to the stone. "We knew you were all brilliant at magic, but Harry and Ron can both be impulsive. You... you think." He closed his eyes, remembering. ""Hermione won't do anything stupid," Fred would say to Mum. And I reckon he was right."

She felt warm in her chest, and there was that prickling behind her eyes again.

"And it wasn't just in the context of the war that Fred thought you would be good for Ron." His eyes bore into hers; if possible, she grew even redder. "It's been obvious to anyone with eyes that you fancied each other, and Fred was always saying what a git Ron was for not doing anything about it." His voice grew serious. "Abusing Ron may have been our favorite pastime, but neither of us would ever want someone for him who was anything less than perfect."

The tears that had moments before been pressing the back of her eyes were now flowing freely down her still-red cheeks.

"Fred liked you, Hermione. You're brilliant, and you've always been a great friend to Ron. Who cares if you were a pain in the arse about the rules?"

She glanced at him through her tears, and found him grinning; he was only teasing. She laughed and mopped her face as best she could. "How is it that you, the Chief Mourner, are somehow able to console the little brother's girlfriend?"

He leaned back on his arms again and stared up at the darkening sky. "I have magic powers."

She laughed quietly, and stood up. She walked over to him, and crouched down just near his shoulder. She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek before saying, "Thanks." She saw his one ear turning red, though he acted as though he thought nothing of it. Then she ruffled his hair as she had once done Harry's, and turned to leave.

"No worries."

She grinned and turned back. "George." He craned his neck around to meet her eyes. "Don't mention any of that 'family' stuff to your brother, all right? We both know he'd take five steps back before you finished the sentence." She heard him laughing as she turned back toward The Burrow. As she reached the bend in the path that would render Fred's grave invisible again, she glanced back one more time. George had settled himself into his chair and a little light had come on toward one side of it. The propellers were slowing circling above his head and a fine mist seemed to be falling down around him as he sat with his eyes closed, looking completely content. She did not know when she would have another heart-to-heart with George, but she made a note to ask about that mist. He really was quite brilliant.

By the time The Burrow was visible on the path, it was nearly dark and Hermione was shivering from the cold. Golden light poured from the windows onto the lawn, welcoming her back home. She saw the silhouette of someone in the light of the open back door, and recognized the unruly hair as belonging to Harry. He was looking off to her right, raising his arms up in a question.

"I can't find her." It was Ron's voice, and he sounded worried. Her eyes found him in the darkness; he was heading back toward the house, but from a path that went off into the trees in another direction. He had been looking for her.

"Hermione." Now it was Harry, looking her way and causing Ron to spin around and lay worried eyes on her.

"Hi," she said as they met halfway in the middle of the backyard. She heard the click of the door closing; Harry had gone back inside.

He looked her over, relief evident on his face. "Remember that morning in Grimmauld Place, when we woke up to find Harry missing?"

"Yes, that was awful. We were sick with worry."

He gave her a pointed look, and crossed his arms.

"But... didn't Ginny tell you?"

"She said you went for a walk. But then it got cold and dark, and..."

"But it wouldn't be dangerous on the property, would it?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "No, but..."

She stepped closer. "What?"

"I'm just..." He shoved a hand in his pocket. "I guess I'm still a little jumpy," he finished, looking embarrassed.

What had she been thinking? Of course, he was jumpy; this whole house was full of people who were just waiting for the next awful thing to occur, even when there was no real threat anymore. She had worried him--quite a lot from the look on his face.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking." She walked into him and hugged him around his middle, breathing him in. He responded, holding her a little more tightly than he normally did.

He pulled back. "You're shivering. I brought you this," he said, holding out her caramel-colored sweater, and helping her into it. He put an arm around her as they began to walk slowly back to the Burrow. "Did you walk out to Fred's grave?"

She jerked her head up to look at him, surprised.

"You came from that direction," he said simply. "There's not much else out that way."

"I did," she said, leaning into him as they walked.

He didn't ask her why, though she knew he was curious. It was strange to her, but all the reasons not to talk to Ron about it seemed so much less reasonable from this side of her conversation with George. She stopped walking.

He took another step or two, then turned to face her with a question in his eyes.

"I miss him, too." The words were so easy now, so sensible. "I've been feeling it only for everyone else all this time. I realize now... I miss Fred all by myself, you know?" He took a step toward her. "Do you think that's strange?" she asked him.

He closed the distance between them completely and brought his left hand up to rest on the side of her face. "Of course not. You were friends."

"Yes," she said with a smile, really believing it now. "We were."