Lumos

Chapter Sixteen: "Ashes, Ashes"

George

March 1998

The fire in the hearth at Shell Cottage cracked and popped, lighting the room. Hermione's steady, slow breaths emanated from his shoulder, where her head had tipped after she'd gone to sleep. The others were speaking quietly in the kitchen, their voices a soft hum.

He could die happy, just like this.

He looked down at the curves of her face—the smooth bridge of her nose, the way her lashes fluttered.

"George—" she whispered, stirring. But her eyes stayed closed.

She was saying his name. His name. His heart sped in his chest.

What did this mean?

Someone shook his shoulders, and the scene tipped, the room spinning.

"George—" Fred peered over his bed, shaking him. "Wake up. I need your help with something. It's an emergency."

Reality crashed in. He wasn't at Shell Cottage. He was at Aunt Muriel's. They'd left directly after he'd tumbled from Hermione's mind—Ron's hard stare following their backs.

Staying wasn't a viable option, as much as it hurt to leave Hermione in that state. The cottage was small and already overcrowded, and they were needed elsewhere.

Leaving had felt wrong, though. He groaned, pulling the covers back.

Aunt Muriel's home was tucked away into the remote hills, a forty-five minute broomride from Ottery St. Catchpole and a three hour broom ride from Diagon Alley. But, somehow, it felt much, much father. Worlds away.

He missed the orchards. The bustle of the streets outside of their shop. Helping customers in person. He missed the remaining members of his family. He missed Hermione.

And Ron and Harry too, of course.

The thick hedges that surrounded the estate ensured that no prying eyes could see in and witness the troupe of Weasleys who'd migrated, but it also made George feel a bit as though he'd been caged in. When they'd arrived, hours after the incident at Shell Cottage, he'd been a bit worried that Aunt Muriel would turn the lot of them away. Her loyalty to blood was greater than the sway of her ill-temper, however.

This was only temporary.

He said it to himself many times a day, crouched in the tiny bedroom she'd allotted to he and Fred. The lighting was terrible, and they had no room to brew half their products. The mail service had been significantly pared back, but they managed to get a small trickle of orders out. The delivery times were long due to the security precautions they'd had to take with the owling, and but their customer base was understanding. Thusfar, at least.

It would go faster if they'd let Verity help, but neither of them was willing to put her residence at risk of discovery like that.

He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair.

"What's the matter?" he asked, pulling his trousers on. Fred fiddled with the buttons on his shirt.

"I need a witness."

George raised his brows. "What d'you mean?"

"You heard me," Fred said, straightening a tie around his throat. He plucked a suit jacket from his bed, slipping it over his shoulders. "Wear something nicer than that, please." He flashed George a grin and ducked from the room.

They snuck from the mansion quietly, mounting their brooms and turning about in the cold, morning air.

"You haven't told me where we're heading, Freddie," George called over the roar of the wind. Fred winked.