Lumos

Chapter Fifty-Seven: "Inheritance" (II)

"If it gets too hard, you'll let me know, right?" Hermione ventured finally.

"Yes, Dear," he sighed and lilted an admirable impression of Mr. Weasley. Then, he glanced up at her with a grim, lopsided smile, which cleared when he started. "Godric. That hair's a nightmare."

George couldn't get used to the spikey blonde wig that Angie and Fleur had outfitted her in, nor the face changing glasses she'd propped on her nose.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Charming." She reached a tentative hand to check it. It hadn't slipped on her head, had it?

"Strawberry or Blackberry, Sweetheart?" he asked, waggling the jars at her.

Hermione shrugged.

Nerves prickled up her spine. There seemed to be a vast number of things to worry about during the appointment. And here, as well. Yes, Angie and Fleur were guarding them inside, and Arthur and Fred were poised in the street. Not to mention her parents, waiting with Bill and the children at the house, ready to send word for help should they return a minute late.

But anyone could creep up behind them, and all it would take was one stray curse. It made her all muddle-headed.

"Whichever you like," she managed in a faint voice. The trolley handle grew slick beneath her hands. Hermione glanced around.

Amelie, the wrinkled clerk at the till still watched them with interest on her little stool.

Hadn't she anything better to do?

Hermione swallowed back the hard lump in her throat and turned back to George. He wore a red shirt bearing a Swiss, muggle sporting emblem over a set of denims, and he looked for all the world like a muggle dressing up in their favorite team's football kit.

George gazed back and forth between the jars, then set them both in the basket. Then, he crossed behind her to stand at her back. "S'alright," he murmured, placing his hands just outside hers on the trolley handle. Immediately, the tight bunch in her chest eased a bit, like the warmth of his chest had coaxed it to settle.

He ducked in and whispered by her ear, "Hop up, and I'll give us a push."

Horribly immature.

Hermione did so anyway, bracing the toe of her hiking boots against the bar connecting the closer set of wheels. It placed her nearly at his height. He'd have to strain to fit his chin over her crown.

George stepped closer, until his chest brushed her back, and eased the trolley around to the next row. "I hope they sell sugar by the pound," he said.

They weren't anywhere near the sugar. The wheels squeaked as they glided by stacks of envelopes, bird seed, and sewing kits.

"Anyways, I reckon what doesn't kill you—well, sometimes it's just a thing that's almost killed you," George murmured. "We tell ourselves that it's making us stronger because we're scared."

George had supplied a stream of continued, casual honesty over the week. The conversations had been good, truly. It'd be harder to express the volley of emotions in her chest if there hadn't been space to do so. She'd noticed, though—the way he talked about all of it either hit like a breath of crisp breeze or crumpled her chest in with worry. This felt like a bit of both.

Relief at someone having said it, and panic, because... What were they to do?

Little tingles danced up her arms where they touched, another sign of their rebuilding magic. George pushed them around the endcap. "Here we are."

Hermione leaned back against his chest as he paused to frown at the pricing on a bag of flour. "What makes us stronger, then?"

He hummed a bit and nudged the trolley forwards.