Brixham House (On Temp. Hold)

3.5- Goon

February 2004

It's nearing the end of February when George finally gets the chance to thank Hermione for getting into it with his mother. 

Though, her arrival is unexpected, yet he appreciates it all the same. 

George jerks, slamming his head on the underside of the car's hood, before whirling around to find Hermione standing sheepishly by his muggle radio. Rose is strapped to her back in a carrier, sound asleep between her shoulder blades and Hermione carrying a woven basket in her hands. 

"Sorry." Hermione squeaks, gesturing to the radio that she had just abruptly turned down which had been what startled George in the first place. Secondly that Hermione was standing in his garage. 

"S'fine, just..sudden." George waves her off, turning back to the car to find he had dropped his wrench beneath the engine. He bent over the hood, plunging his arms in the depths of it's chambers. 

"What are you doing?" Hermione asks, shifting Rose slightly as she set the basket beside George's radio. 

George considers lying, truly. But he can't find it in himself to utter the words, so he settles on the truth. Damn the truth if he was honest. 

"Crashed it last night." George stated, summoning a pair of pliers with the wave of his hand all while keeping his gaze pointedly on the car. If he looked at her, he'd crumble. 

"Into what?" Hermione asked, finding a stool near a work bench. She shuffles over, carrying it back towards the radio and basket of baked goods. She settles it, brushes a hand to get rid of his wood working dust and settles on it, adjusting the strap of the carrier as Rose continues her faint snoring. 

George is surprised at the fact that she doesn't yell at him, or ask him for the pressing details of just what he had been doing to crash the car. Like his mother, or quite literally anyone else would have. 

"A tree." George replies, sending the pliers back in exchange for a screwdriver. His wrench now settled on the engine, streaked with oil from the puddle it had landed in. 

"Did the tree fair better than you then?" Hermione asks, twirling on the stool in a circle. George glances over, and sees her point to her own forehead most likely indicating the bruising that he had splotched across his own head. He knew he had done a terrible job of covering it up, but he thought the glamour would have at least held. 

"He didn't have insurance." George shrugged, it's a terrible joke but it makes Hermione smile all the same, bringing her twirling to a stop. 

"So the bar brawl, on Diagon and thirty-second, at that dingy bar I hate, you weren't apart of that?" George freezes, the screwdriver clanking against metal as it falls beneath the engine. Rats. 

"I didn't start it." It's the honest truth, but it doesn't seem to aid Hermione's concern. 

"Prophet's having a field day." Hermione comments, drumming her fingers on the tabletop. "Nothing about a car crash though." She finished, drawing her fingers to a halt. It's bait, an invite if he dared. 

"I have an anti-reporter ward around the house." George grunted, the words flying out faster than he could truly think about them. It was true, but he also doubted the reporters would even come knocking, they had learned that lesson long ago. 

He pulls away from the car, just in time to hear the stool scraping across the ground and turned to find Hermione walking towards the big garage door. She bends, grabbing a hold of the handle and heaves it up, grunting at the weight.