Gloomy Sunday

Long after Fred died, George took to humming.

All things considered, Hermione could have chosen anything else to notice about him: his bright hair, his dark eyes, his sweetly tired expression. Instead, for no particular reason, all she could think about was the soft hum he made under his breath whenever his attention was diverted.

"You have a nice voice," she told him distractedly one day, as he tapped his fingers on his kitchen table.

George glanced over at her; the tapping paused, and the humming stopped completely. He tapped one finger to the side of his head, where his hair had grown out to cover a lack of an ear. She knew he could hear her anyway. He just liked to pretend.

"I think you have a nice voice," she repeated, and his lips curved up pleasantly into one of those almost-smiles that was so prevalent these days. It was always something wry, or something ironic, or something only half-amused. 'Happy' hadn't been on his list of smiles for a long time now. Not that she blamed him.

"I'm a regular Beethoven," he told her self-mockingly. "Just wait until I lose the other ear."

Hermione shrugged back at him, an almost-smile threatening to break out on her face too. George managed to joke about his losses so easily. He set people at ease these days, talking about hidden, painful things with an open easiness they all envied. No one ever accused him of irreverence. They all knew which grave he visited every Sunday.

Hermione felt perfectly vindicated in hugging people tightly when she saw them these days. It was a reminder that there were souls still living, heat still being given. She'd never been able to bring herself to touch George, though. He was so comforting as he was - she was afraid that if she let him know she was there, he'd have to break down and become just another sad face. Perhaps that was selfish. No, it was, certainly.

"What are you thinking about?" George asked her, setting aside a mug of coffee. "You look so serious. Well - more serious than usual." He leaned across the table to tug at one of her twisted curls with his fingers, startling her. Every time she thought she'd safely established their boundaries of comfort, he went and broke them. Maybe it was conscious on his part.

"Well?" he said, raising his eyebrows. "And don't lie. I hate lying."

Her smile turned up a little more, barely. It was still a better smile than she'd managed last week. "You liar," she said.

George chuckled, and tugged at her hair again. "Stop being a dodgy little muggle. What are you thinking about, this instant? Say it now."

He asked people the strangest things. It was only his fingers on her hair that made her respond truthfully. "You never go to church on Sundays."

The almost-smile died abruptly. His fingers curled around her hair, though, refusing to let go.

"Sorry," she said, the discomfort hitting her belatedly. "I was just wondering. The church is right there, after all."

"No," he told her. "You're right. I asked." He paused, looking speculative. Then: "You want to come with me this week?"

Hermione stared at him, at his fingers on her chestnut hair. He was too whimsical. Did he ever think before speaking at all?

"You're dodging the question," she said, lifting her own hand to pull his fingers away. His face changed peculiarly as their hands touched. "...yes. I'll come."

His whimsy was catching.

"Good," he said oddly, his fingers curling around hers. "Besides... you never asked me a question."

He didn't look lost - but she could feel it in his touch. A sense of aimlessness that simply hadn't gone away in the least. One of these days, she was going to have to do something about it, instead of pretending it didn't exist.

0-0-0-0-0

On Sunday, they walked to the church in the country, to the graveyard where they'd quietly buried their most treasured casualties. George let her head, his taller form deferring quietly to her straighter and more self-assured pace, in spite of the fact that he'd been this way a hundred times before. His slim form seemed almost to bend beneath the pouring rain, like a dying willow or a wilting leaf. Hermione felt herself slowly becoming the solid rock of the two of them, and it frightened her somewhat.

The wrought-iron gate was short, barely to the shoulders - it passed next to a warm, candle-lit church, with large, aching windows and a sense of indiscriminate welcome. It was a place to soothe the soul. They passed it by.

The gate gave way to muddy grass, and a paved gray walkway through the standing stones. Names passed by, inconsequential, and Hermione wondered momentarily whether George had ever cried over one of those unknown names. She'd done it before, herself, without quite understanding why.

Their steps meandered away from the path, then, trudging through the streams of water and over toward a quiet spot near the fence. The stone there was small. It had no epitaph. It had been unanimously agreed that George should be the one to write one, but he never had.

"Here," Hermione said, as though she were truly leading him there for the first time. She came to a stop in front, her hair dripping and her eyes wet. Her certainty began to drain away slowly, now that her determined walk was done.

George stopped behind her, eyes descending to the name silently. He said nothing.

The pause between them dragged uncomfortably, broken only by the dull pitter-patter of the rain. What did one do at a grave, after all? Stare for hours? Cry? Sit down and speak, as though the dead could hear? These weren't things done in the presence of another, even a close friend.

Time dragged on interminably, neither quite willing to be the one to suggest leaving first. Eventually, the blurred sound of latin choir songs drifted over from the church, suggesting a fervent, joyous service.

George turned to leave.

Hermione stared at the name for a few more seconds before following him, her hair clinging to her neck like strands of sea-weed.

"Why don't you go in?" she asked him. "We're wet. It looks warm."

He kept his eyes to the ground, his legs now leading them, though his form was still bent with quiet injury.

"They'll try to make me feel better by explaining things," he told her softly, his hands pushed tiredly into soaked pockets. "I don't want it explained to me."

Hermione felt her face fall to an expression they both knew - a mixture of pity and understanding, and unspoken wishes. I wish I could comfort you. I wish I could say something good. I know it's impossible.

She reached out for his arm, fingers closing around the material there. Her weight tugged him forward, to allow for another arm's embrace.

And George bent himself further, to press his face to her shoulder.

"I'm sorry to try to make you feel better," she mumbled, resisting the urge to wipe a weed of hair from her neck. "I can't think of anything else to do."

His arms wound around her. She felt his eyes close.

"It's all right," he said, his mouth curving up. "God would only have to disapprove of me anyway."

"And I don't?" Hermione said archly, her fingers tangling in his hair.

"I gave you permission to disapprove of me," he responded, and she felt his lips brush over the skin of her neck. Her body gave a shudder.

He wasn't asking her to let him break. He was asking her to let him fix them both.

"I really like your voice," she whispered, letting herself speak the first thing that came to mind.

"I really like your hair," he replied.