A/N: So, I had never intended on posting this so soon, but I am just so excited about it. I am stepping out of my comfort zone here with writing an angsty piece and I hope you all enjoy it as much as I have been writing it. Once again, thank you so much to my amazing beta, Frogster. You are the best ever! I can never forget my amazing Alpha, Courtney. Without you, I wouldn't have the confidence to attempt writing this story. And a special thanks to CJRed, who took a look over the first chapter, thank you so much. And another HUGE thank you to the amazing Mr. Benzedrine for making the beautiful manip for this story. Without all of you, this wouldn't be possible.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, only the plot that deviates from the original story.

XoXo,

Elle.

Chapter 1

George had thought that working today would be a good idea. That it would keep his mind off of what the day actually meant. For a while his efforts had actually been successful. There had been a steady stream of customers, plenty of laughs and questions about the products. But the best part had been that no one had looked at him with pity. It was as if they had all known that he was trying to avoid the memories that today would bring.

So seeing Hermione suddenly appear in front of his shop as he was closing and then collapse in a dead faint had scared George out of his wits. He hadn't seen or heard from his little brother's best friend since the war had ended, and to see her in such a state...he was unsure of what to do, aside from get her out of the street.

St. Mungo's was out of the question. George knew from Ron and Harry that Hermione hadn't been out and about in the wizarding world since the war had ended. She had taken refuge back in the world she was raised in. If George took her there, Hermione would be plastered all over the Daily Prophet by morning. The Burrow was too crowded. Besides, she had to have come to him for a reason.

He finished warding the shop and turned to her. Levitating her unconscious form from the damp brick pavers, he floated her up the stairs at the side of the building that housed the joke shop.

He and Fred had bought this building because it had a two-bedroom flat above it. Their plans had been to run the shop and live above it-if the war hadn't intervened and taken his twin from him. They had managed to live there from the time that the shop had opened until the war reached its apex.

George hadn't been back up here since his brother had died, but he was out of options and had no choice. With his wand currently keeping Hermione afloat, he fished the brass key from his trouser pocket and fitted it into the hole, twisting the mechanisms open. He inhaled a slow and deep breath, holding it in as he swallowed thickly around the lump in his throat. This was going to be painful, he knew.

His hazel eyes were hidden behind his lids as his fist closed around the knob. George turned the cold metal until it wouldn't twist anymore and held it there for a moment longer. He slowly released the breath he was holding as he pushed the door open wide. To be honest, he was afraid to open his eyes or take another breath in. What if it still smelled like Fred? What if Fred's favorite teacup was still sitting beside his chair? What if the jumper mum had made for him was thrown haphazardly across a lampshade, the F clearly visible?

But he couldn't keep Hermione hovering out here forever. She would wake up eventually and he wanted her to be comfortable. All George had to do was make it to his bedroom and then he could close the door.

When his lungs burned with the need for air, he drew in a tentative breath and was relieved to find that the apartment didn't smell overwhelmingly of Fred. Instead, it smelled of the Burrow. Summoning his Gryffindor courage, he opened his eyes and was assaulted with a pain in his chest, his heart squeezing painfully. There, just beside the plush green leather chair, was Fred's favorite teacup, just where he'd left it.

George closed his eyes in a rush as once again wetness clung to his eyelashes. It had been exactly five years since his brother had died and it hurt just as much now as it did then. He had lost his other half.

But right now, he had to get Hermione inside and comfortable. He needed to get her awake and talking, he needed to find out what had her in such a state and why, of all people, she had come to him. George opened his eyes again and levitated Hermione carefully through the door, leading her to his bedroom.

He opened the doorway, swinging the door wide, and maneuvered her through, watching her curly hair dangling in the air. As he lowered her onto the bed, he noticed that the bed had been made and the sheets were different from the ones that had been on it previously. There was no dust on the side tables, or any of the furniture in the room and George smiled softly. His mother had been here cleaning without his knowledge, keeping the place up. It probably helped with her own grief.

George got Hermione settled, pulling a throw blanket over her legs and lifting her hands to rest on her stomach. It was then he noticed the wedding set on her finger and frowned. He didn't recall Ron ever mentioning that she had gotten married and George knew that his brother and Hermione had kept in touch over the years, as had she and Harry, and he hadn't mentioned anything either.

A frown creased George's brow as he twirled his wand in his fingers. There were tear tracks down her cheeks, and her eyes were puffy and red. Clearly she had been crying and he wondered if there had been a big fight with her mystery spouse. George thought about his owl down in the shop and chewed on the idea of sending an owl to Harry and Ron. But something stopped him. Hermione could have easily gone to either his brother or Harry, but she had come to him. There had to be a reason.

George heaved a heavy sigh, lifted his wand to Hermione's chest and muttered quietly, "Ennervate."

The light flared from the tip of his wand and her chest lifted from the bed. A gasp left her lips and her eyelids fluttered as if she were going to open them, but she fell back onto the mattress, still unconscious. George frowned. That should have worked. "Hermione?" he called to her, nudging her shoulder lightly.

No response came, just even breathing. He repeated the spell, with the same results. "Hermione! Wake up." Still nothing.

George was at a loss. He had never experienced anything like this. He couldn't go to his mother with this; she would go mental. The smartest person he knew was lying unconscious in front of him. Harry and Ron were out of the question until he knew why Hermione had come to him.

He sat, watching Hermione for a few more minutes, still unsure of what to do. He summoned a bowl of water and a washcloth, rinsing the dust and grime away from her face. George decided to wait two hours. If she didn't wake up on her own, then he would call for someone, anyone he knew that might be able to help Hermione to regain consciousness.

George really wondered what had happened to Hermione to bring her to him, of all people. He sincerely hoped that she wasn't in any kind of trouble, or Godric forbid, danger. He'd help her if she was. She was like family, a sister, to him and he would never abandon his family if they were in need.

He turned to dip the washcloth in the water again, wringing the excess water out. As George turned back to Hermione and lifted the cloth to her temple, he watched as her brow dipped into a frown and a whimper left her lips. "Hermione?"

She didn't rouse at the mention of her name, but fell back into a motionless repose. George brought the damp cloth across her brow again, his eyes roaming her face. She looked the same; the freckles dusting her upturned nose and cheeks. The long, light brown lashes curled naturally, resting against the apples of her cheeks. But she had aged since the war, everyone had. It was evident in the lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

George glanced at the golden wristwatch on his arm-an hour to go. He hoped he'd be able to conjure a Patronus; otherwise he'd have to leave to go down to the shop to get to his owl. "Please wake up, Hermione." He let a sigh slip past his lips as he returned the cloth to the basin once more. George spent the next hour watching her rest in her unconscious state, wiping her face every few minutes and praying to anyone who would listen that Hermione would wake up.