[Authors Note: A big thank you to Opaque-Girl for pointing out my little mix-up with the name of George's daughter! I fixed it.]

JUNE

'12:28 am'. Hermione Weasley pushed the stack of parchment to the far edge of her desk. Two minutes weren't going to matter. Not tonight. She had already stayed the extra shift due to last months mix-up of the May paperwork for Azkaban and St. Mungos that still wasn't sorted out properly; and the word 'exhausted' didn't even begin to cover it. Her body ached from sitting in her desk chair for so many long hours, but Hermione was used to it. Working for the Ministry of Magic was a bitch. There really was no other way to put it. Hermione was more than ready to call it a night as she stood and smoothed out her black pencil skirt. It was getting a little tight around her hips and such; it seemed that she had gained a little extra weight in the past months, but not enough for her to have made the time to go shopping for some new clothes. Or maybe it was that she wasn't ready to admit to those extra pounds.

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Hermione heard the television on inside as she wearily made her way up the front steps. Ever since her father had given them the Grangers old television set, Ron had been fascinated with it. Like father, like son, to say the least. Upon entering their two-story house, Hermione saw that her husband was, as she'd guessed, on the couch in front of the TV. But he was asleep. Head lolled back and snores slowly increasing in volume from his parted mouth; dead asleep. It didn't make her angry, for she had stayed rather late at work, and the scene in the dining room showed that Ron had been up waiting for her for a while. There was dinner on the table, for just the two of them-Rose had been fed earlier, of course-with two wine glasses and a crimson candlestick. The food had gone cold, and the candle long melted down and gone out. This brought a sad smile to Hermione's lips as she looked back over her shoulder at the sleeping redhead on the couch. Her hand wrapped around the frail stem of one of the wine glasses, bringing it up. But before the tart liquid touched her lips, Hermione changed her mind. Tonight called for something stronger.

She knew well enough what a devoted-yet-paranoid father Ron had become the moment Rose had gazed up at him with her amber eyes. He didn't like the idea of keeping alcohol in the house, save for an occasional bottle of wine or champagne for when the mood called for it. As worn-out as she was, when Hermione entered their bedroom, it was to remove the crisp, petal-pink button-up she'd worn to work, replacing it with a tank top of a softer material. The tank top was a warm honey color, and it complimented her amber-brown eyes and softly-tanned skin quite well. She didn't change out of the skirt, but switched her three-inch-high pumps for a set of light-brown sandals with a slight wedge heel; not enough of one to be uncomfortable, especially after what she'd just taken off. After donning a thin coat from the closet in the hallway, checking in on the peacefully-sleeping young Rose, and giving Ron a gentle kiss to the forehead, Hermione made her way back outside.

It wasn't very far to the muggle bar downtown, and the cool air outside was refreshing to Hermione's dust-caked lungs. Choosing to walk, she started on her way. Once inside and out of her light jacket, she sat at the bar counter and ordered a drink that most people gave her odd looks for ordering; milk and whiskey. She sat there quietly; sipping her drink and trying to keep away the thoughts of the mess of paperwork still left to handle at work.

"Hey there, pretty lady!" The all-too-familiar voice of Hermione's brother-in-law rang out behind her, a smiling George Weasley sliding smoothly onto the stool beside hers at the counter. He was as tall and handsome as ever, with a head full of fiery hair that was always a bit too long; but since the death of his twin, his weight had taken a noticible plummet; he still had that spark that he and Fred had been infamous for...but nowadays, it was a bit harder to find. Dimmer, maybe. Though the button-up he wore was in usual flambouyant Weasley-twin nature, being mottled patches of deep purples and bright reds, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. And his pants! Those awful purple pants.

Hermione heard herself laugh. It was a quiet, tired sound, but a laugh nonetheless. She spun slightly in her barstool to face him better. "Hello there, George. Should I even ask what brings you to a muggle bar like this? Shouldn't you be frequenting places like 'Elphaba's Boot' and 'Broken Wand'?"

There was that trademark grin, even if only for a moment. "Actually, dear Elphaba herself had me thrown out a bit ago!" He chuckled, shrugging his bony shoulders. "So I decided to try the muggle scene for the rest of the night."

"I see," Hermione nodded absentindedly. The whiskey had finally started to dull the pounding of her head. She swirled the last few sips around in the bottom of the glass, then looked back up at him. "So how has everyone been at The Burrow? I'm sorry we haven't been around very much, really. But between my work, and Rose..." She trailed off with a shake of her head. "She's getting so big though; you should see her! You and Angelina should come for dinner when I have an evening off. You can bring the kids, I'm sure Ron would love to see Freddy and Roxanne. It has been some time, after all..." She watched George nod, so tired she hardly really saw it at all, as he took another drink from his glass, ordering another for them both and sliding hers over to her.

Only silence followed, hovering between them for a few minutes; akaward, sticky.

George's dark-circled eyes raised from the bottom of his already-half-empty glass to study her face for a few moments. "You look tired, Hermione." He reached up to her face, brushing aside one of her chestnut curls. His knuckles grazed her cheek, but just barely. His breath carried the strong scent of mingled alcohols to her nose with his words; she chose to ignore both the comment, and the gesture.

"Where's Angelina?" Hermoine looked around for his tall, lean wife, not seeing her anywhere nearby. She took a long drink from the new glass.

"She's not here." George replied nonchalantly. Watching her from over the rim of his glass, he blew absently at a lock of his famous Weasely hair that clashed oh-so-horridly with the silk shirt he was wearing.

Something about him didn't seem right.

'Something about me didn't seem so right either.'

"To escape the world, I got to enjoy this simple dance

And it seemed that everything was on my side."

'Blood On The Dance Floor'

[Michael Jackson]