"Hermione," George whispered.

"George," Hermione whispered back.

The room, and audience, around them was silent and dark with the exception of shuffles coming from the actors. On stage the full figured woman dressed up as a Viking's wife opened her mouth and began the song. Someone behind them hushed them but on stage, the blond opera singe warbled on, oblivious to the conversation happening in the second row.

Hermione kept her eyes on stage but turned her head slightly to the left in the direction of George, letting him know that she was indeed listening. Her eyes darted quickly to his face, closer then she expected, when he laid his hand gently on her shoulder.

Though any lights were shining directly onto the stage and the mourning Viking's wife, she could clearly see George's face, looking exasperated and bored. Past his shoulder, she could see Henrietta, his date. Her eyes were fixed on the stage, a delicate handkerchief in her hand. She sniffed once.

Hermione turned her attention back to George, hiding the disdainful expression that had threatened to brake out onto her face at the display of the flighty, overemotional muggle girl from the local village. The awed look George had held at the beginning of the night when they'd picked Henrietta up was gone and as Hermione watched him, waiting for him to speak, his eyes darted to the exit twice before finally settling back on Hermione's face.

"Kill me," he murmured so quietly Hermione barely heard him. But his lips twitched in a self-deprecating smile and Hermione pressed hers together firmly to restrain the giggle that attempted to escape.

She leaned in closely to George, her lips brushing against his shaggy orange hair.

"I told you so."

"What are you two whispering about?" Harry demanded from Hermione's other side. He leaned around Hermione to get a better look at George.

"This is doing my head in," he confessed, not bothering to keep his voice low. Hermione shot a quick glance at Henrietta but the girl was oblivious, staring up at the stage, lost in the story of the adulterous Vikings.

Hermione took a moment to study her. She was about their age, early twenties, but her personality and the way she dressed made her seem younger; like a school girl of just fifteen or sixteen. Tonight she was dressed in a bright pink long tight dress. It was cut low at her back exposing soft creamy skin. Her blond hair hung in gentle waves over her shoulders and her big brown eyes seemed even larger as they filled with tears watching the Viking leave his wife for his mistress. She was pretty, Hermione supposed. In a very generic way.

Harry laughed and shook his head. "Hermione told you so."

George grimaced and settled back into his chair. He hated to be wrong, especially against Hermione, so he gritted his teeth and looked to Henrietta. Hermione wondered if he was determining if she was worth it. Apparently the answer was no for not even a minute later, George was on his feet, muttering his excuses. As soon as he had cleared the row of seats, he bolted up the aisle.

Hermione and Harry put their heads together and snickered, ignoring the 'shushes' from the other patrons.

"When will he learn to listen?" Harry wondered.

Hermione shrugged and rolled her eyes.

Next to George's empty seat, Henrietta seemed oblivious. She sniffed again and wept along with the Viking's wife.

Hermione sighed and hung up the dress in her crowded wardrobe after a quick cleaning spell. She surveyed the clothes a moment before moving to her vanity table and sitting down in front of the gilded mirror. Another agonising night. Another failed attempt to set George up with whoever had taken his fancy that particular week. Another heartache. Hers. When she had agreed to be George's 'matchmaker' it had seemed like a fun idea. A silly bit of frivolity to distract her from her stressful job at the Ministry. A fun way to regularly check in with the Weasleys when she may have otherwise let work weigh her down.

What she hadn't counted on was falling for George herself. Hermione gave her reflection a disgusted look before violently tearing the brush through her hair. In her eyes, she was no better then a swooning countess from the nineteenth century, straight out a trashy romance novel. She was such a sensible young woman and she hated that she was force to resort to hiding her feelings and acting as George's personal dating service when she would much rather be setting something up between them.

But whenever she came face to face with him, all the sensible and logical thoughts flew straight out of her head leaving behind a nervous and self-conscious Hermione. Not that anyone would see this. To anyone watching her she would continue to regard George as little more then a jokester who thought of nothing to flit from one woman to the next.

From the floor above her the notes of Poison's 'Every Rose Has its Thorns' drifted down to her. Hermione checked her watch. 11 o'clock. Right on time. Despite herself, she laughed. The couple above her were hardcore eighties fans and every night at eleven o'clock the song would start up followed by… Hermione pressed play on her own stereo as the rhythmic squeak of the bedsprings started up.

She shut off the light and climbed into her large bed. As they usually did, her thoughts drifted to George. These nights after the dates were the worse. During the week she could force her mind to work, friends, rent and bills but on the weekends, after the dates, she couldn't help but analyse everything. Tonight had deteriorated a lot faster then usually. Hermione would like to tell herself it was because of the new dress she had been wearing but she reluctantly admitted that George's distaste of Opera had been the deciding factor.

She had warned him that any girl who was that enthusiastic about the Opera was not likely going to be the love of his life. But he had spoken so earnestly about love being able to overcome any major differences that she had simply smiled blindly at him and agreed to indulge him in his latest whim.

Hermione rolled onto her side, her self-loathing growing as she realised that this wasn't the first time George had managed to wrap her around his proverbial little finger. Alas, she seemed to not be able to deny him anything. And he did it all without being aware of anything. Not a thing. For all she knew, he still saw her as Ron's little sister. The not-quite-girly third of the Golden Trio.

A hesitant smile twisted her lips as Hermione remembered the astonished look on both Harry and George's face as she met them at the Burrow before picking up Henrietta. It was a similar look from the Yule Ball in Fourth Year and Bill's Wedding before what would have been their Seventh Year. Always the face of shock. An insulting compliment, as if they could never quite get their heads around that fact that she was indeed a beautiful, vivacious young woman.

Ron had. He'd seen it. True, it had taken him awhile, but he had seen it. Then he'd seen one of Ginny's friends and… well, that was neither here nor there. He was happy and she was happy for them. She would always love Ron, but she had long accepted that the love she felt for him would never had translated into a physical relationship. They could no doubt love each other, but theirs would have been a passionless union.

Hermione shook away thoughts of Ron and instead focussed on George's appreciative inspection of her appearance from earlier in the night. With those pleasant thoughts in her mind, and the silence of the night - after the bedsprings stilled and both stereos switched off - in her ears, she happily drifted off into pleasant dreams featuring an intimate dinner for two, no matchmaking, just love.