Butterbeer and Chocolate for the Gryffindor's Soul

George stood very still, afraid to move. Yes, he managed to pat her back and strengthen his grip on her when it seemed necessary, but he felt...unprepared? Perhaps that was the word. It wasn't quite as awkward as before--he was slowly getting used to dealing with an emotional Hermione. And it wasn't really uncomfortable, either. "Uncomfortable" seemed too like "unpleasant". Holding Hermione was definitely not unpleasant...

George considered that thought for a moment. He couldn't be enjoying this. The girl was crying, for God's sake. Crying meant unhappiness (except when his mum was very happy--George never quite understood that), and unhappiness meant...well...not being happy. So that couldn't be it. What could it be, then? He pondered that interesting dilemma just as Hermione snuggled closer against his sweater. Perhaps it was not unpleasant because under happier circumstances it would have been pleasant...

He considered that unusual thought as well, and was unable to think of any conceivable circumstances under which he might hug Hermione. Well, perhaps after winning the Quidditch or House Cups, but that was more of a spontaneous group hug and didn't really count. Come to think of it, he usually never even talked to Hermione all that much. That is, up until this afternoon.

He smiled ruefully. On any other day, he would have raided the kitchens with the rest of the Quidditch team, but today he had decided that he felt entirely too wet, tired, and generally miserable to enjoy juggling armfuls of food while avoiding Filch and Mrs. Norris (not an easy job with the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team, even for an experienced food-stealer like himself). He had planned to change into dry clothes and warm up by the common room fire until the others returned, but then Hermione ran into him instead. And then, not only had he volunteered to help her--she accepted his help! Hermione! What were the odds of all that happening in a single day?

And yet... In a bizarre way it had been almost nice. Besides the fact that Hermione was rather distressed most of the time, of course. But just...being able to be somewhat serious for a change. It wasn't that George didn't enjoy fooling around (quite the opposite, in fact); it just was not humanly possibly to continually be in the mood to tell another joke or play another prank. There was more to him than that, but most people cared only to see the side of him that made them laugh. For once he didn't have to feel that pressure; no forced acting was necessary. But then, he had not been the only one that had taken off a mask today.

He looked down at the brown-haired witch whose head was still leaning against his chest. George suspected that his sweater would have a nice wet patch right around her eye and nose region--it appeared that she had forgotten about his handkerchief, which had dropped onto the floor. He smiled wryly. Apparently, today he had been chosen by some higher power to be a sponge.

She shivered slightly. With renewed concern, George tightened his arms around her. However, her sobs had stopped, and her breathing was becoming more even. The worst of the tears seemed to be over.