Lumos

Chapter Twelve: "Sectumsempra"

George Weasley

July 10, 1997

George lifted his wand tip from Hermione's temple. A series of translucent wisps followed his movement, casting a flickering, blue light over her face before he filtered the replicated memories into small, glass vials.

Hermione sat on his workbench, her eyes closed, biting her lips together the way she always did when she was concentrating hard on something. George couldn't help but smile at her expression. She had jumped at the chance to contribute to this product's development. Honestly, the project was more for Hermione than any of their customers, but she didn't have to know that.

"Beautiful," George said. "Future Hogwarts students will thank you for your help."

"I didn't believe you at first, when you said you were making a study aide," Hermione said. "It seems a bit off-brand for your shop."

George sorted the glassware, thinking over his answer. "Pranks are only small experiments on the human condition, Granger," he said. "And isn't that a form of higher learning?" Hermione snorted, swinging her legs and hopping down.

"It's only an experiment if you write down the results," she said, crossing her arms and looking around the room in interest. The shelf of books on the opposite wall caught her attention, and she wandered over to them.

"Fiddlesticks," George murmured. "Years of study, down the drain." He lifted his apron from his shoulders and settled it back on the hook next to his station.

"I've been meaning to ask," Hermione said softly, fingers trailing over a thicker volume. She turned to him. "You've done a fair bit of research for all of this. Do you know anything about the Obliviate spell?"

George paused, blinking. "Why do you ask?"

Hermione pulled the volume down and paged through it, in seemingly feigned interest. "My parents," she said, and George understood.

"Do they know?" he asked.

Hermione replaced the book. "No. They don't understand how much danger they're in," she said, and her voice was so quiet that George could hardly catch her words. He rolled his sleeves up and scrubbed a hand through his hair. Hermione turned and watched his movements, waiting.

"That's tricky," he said. Hermione turned back around quickly, and George saw her shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly.

"I'd have never guessed that your backroom was so expansive," Hermione said, circling the workshop. She was changing the subject. Why? George leaned a palm against the worktable. While a normal wooden frame would show the wear of countless explosions and experiments gone wrong, all that had been swept away through magic. Furthermore, the quartz surfaces on their worktables were resistant to cracking and fairly impossible to burn. Human beings, however, were not so. Human beings scarred far more easily than they should.

Hermione peered around the workspace to the racks of storage. Some of the heavy shelves used to stand in their bedroom at the Burrow, holding quidditch supplies, stray jumpers, and Zonko's merchandise, but now they held mail orders, extra inventory, and materials needed for assembling products. It was a familiar touch that made the workshop seem more like home.

"I suppose you've got to have the space, given everything you do," she said, walking back to the bookshelf. She looked happy, but she had those dark circles under her eyes again. She had hardly stopped reading all summer; she shed books everywhere she went—the dinner table, the Burrow's living room. Even now, Secrets of Magical Defense lay tucked beneath her arm, as though she were reluctant to let a moment slip by without cramming an extra bit of information into her brain.