Author's Note:
This one shot came to me at work and I just had to write it out. I used five different must use prompts.
1. Ice
2. Coffee
3. Leg Cramp
4. Brick
5. "He thought the worst had happened."
Please let me know what you think. Yes, this is quite rough. I want to edit it again later.
Disclaimer:
I do not own Potter.
Accidents Happen
The cold December air stung, whipping in swirling gusts across the quidditch pitch. George Weasley thought he was going deaf as the Gryffindor Sytherin match reached a climax. The shouting of the crowd rose, Gryffindor fans cheering wildly, as Angelina Johnson scored another goal through the Sytherin post. They were up by forty points now, finally breaking the back and forth cycle of the game thus far.
Ice shards hung from George's ginger hair, cutting his cheek slightly, as he circled back to the Gryffindor defence line. His fingers clenched his bat tighter. A lingering pain ghosted down his arm while his leg throbbed from his minor fall earlier. That was not even the worst of it. Katie Bell had a fat lip, Oliver Wood wore a shiny black eye, and their seeker, Harry Potter, dealt with the aftermath of a broken nose. Injuries were the cost of goals in a game like this.
He bashed a bludger in the direction of the Sytherin chaser who was approaching their goal post, effectively interrupting the play, and he heard the crowd cheer. George's veins froze from the chill, despite the heating charm placed on the field, and he slowed his pace slightly. This was the last match before the winter holidays and it was a good one. Fast paced and deadly.
To his right he caught the glimpse of shocking red hair identical to his own. His twin brother, Fred, flew over the crowd, moving up towards the centre line to intercept the quaffle and toss it to Ginny Weasley. The youngest Weasley was filling in for Alicia Spinnet, who took a hard fall mid game, but his sister's youth did not hinder her talent. Effortlessly, Ginny moved the play up field, passing the ball to Katie.
The crowd broke into a thunderous roar, electrifying the air, making him jittery with anticipation, and George knew that Harry had his sights on the snitch. Even as Gryffindor fans boomed with celebration, the pleasure of this win was dulled by the sensation burning through him. As if an impending doom hovered overhead, halting his joy ever so slightly.
George had opted for coffee with his breakfast, instead of his usual pumpkin juice, and was suddenly regretting that decision. He was alert, wired, and his motions were becoming rickety with the excess caffeine streaming through his veins. Nevertheless, they had won. Harry circled the pitch in a lap, the snitch firmly placed in his hand, and George smiled widely.
It was then it happened.
The shout from across the pitch was George's only warning. He felt the bludger just narrowly miss his head, whizzing past him with such speed. Turning back, he saw Sytherin captain, Marcus Flint, hovering by the centre line. A smirk on his lips and a beater bat in his grip.
Then, he heard the silence. The hush lulling the crowd into quiet murmurs, as a whistle shrieked. George was shocked that such an obviously dirty strike was even attempted. Sytherins' plays were always very subtle. Just as dirty, but subtle nonetheless.
He was about to go and confront the captain when a cry for help interrupted him.
George stared down Flint, watching the chaser's eyes widen in realization, before turning towards the stands. A spectator was injured. Not something unheard of, after all accidents happen, but, after such a move, Sytherin would be one chaser short. Five game suspension, minimum.
He got there first, landing hard on the wooden bench, and began clearing students from the crumpled form. A Gryffindor fan. Her school robes embossed with the Gryffindor crest, her crimson and gold gloves poked out from under the sleeves, and her scarf draped around her neck loosely. Brown messy curls, tied in a plait, were contained by a crimson toque, falling to the side of her head.
Wait. Brown messy curls. Brown messy curls!
George felt his stomach clench, bricks weighing down, as he fell to his knees next to her. His leg, still sore, cramped as he leaned forward and turned her over. Hermione Granger. She was lying on the floor before him. Unconscious. George paled as he took note of the blood dripping for her forehead.
He thought the worst had happened.
"Hermione," he said and, shaking her shoulder slightly, attempted to wake her. It did not work. He had killed her. He had killed Hermione Granger. The witch who yelled at him for experimenting on first years. The witch who stuck around after hours to walk through the hallways with him. The witch who he fell in love with.
If only he let that bludger hit him, then George would be laying at the bottom of a quidditch pitch and not her. This was entirely his fault.
The soft thuds of landing players surrounded him but he did not move. He remained next to her, running his fingers through the loose strands of her hair. Rushed steps came barrelling onto the scene but he did not stand willingly. George felt two arms hoist him up to his feet, guiding him back to stand with his team. Swishes of magic blinded him slightly, but he never took his eyes off her. He watched through ginger fringe, refusing to let her go.
No. No, this could not be happening. Not her. Anyone but her. Merlin, take him instead of her. George felt his throat tighten. Madam Pomfrey was pouring a potion into Hermione's mouth. Professor Dumbledore had a sad look in his eyes. Hell, even Professor Snape looked mildly worried. Hermione Granger was too brilliant to be lost now.
A comforting pat drew his attention. George's gaze locked with his twin's knowing one before flitting around. The entire Gryffindor team was standing silently, unable to look away from the prefect as they waited patiently for Madam Pomfrey to finish. Across from his mates, the Sytherins were huddled. Their robes dirtied with mud and ice, their hair windswept and sweaty, and their faces lingering with, surprisingly enough, concern. All of them were remorseful that such an accident happened. All except for one. Marcus Flint.
That bloody bastard was smirking triumphantly. Hermione was severely injured by Flint's dirty play and he had the audacity to smirk. George saw red.
His veins boiled with rage, his hands clenched into fists, and his lips curled into a snarl. With tunnelling vision, he snapped. George charged at the enemy captain, cocking his fist back and landing a solid punch to the boy's jaw. Flint flew backwards, losing his footing, and George used the advantage. Pressing a knee to Flint's chest and gripping his jersey in is left fist, George landed punch after punch.
"Mr. Weasley!" Professor McGonagall yelled over the sickening snap of bones beneath flesh, "you will stop that this instant."
George was too far gone. The blooding rushing past his ears deafened him to anything other than his anger. He felt his teammates gripping at his back, pulling him away from the fight, but George did not want to stop. Not with Hermione hurt like that. That bastard would pay for this. He pushed against Oliver's grip, trying to escape, only to feel Fred place him in a hold.
"Let me go," George screamed, while Flint struggled to stand back up. "I'm gonna kill him. Let me go!"
"Calm down," he heard his brother say, trying to draw him out of the brawl.
But he did not. He struggled harder against their hold, freeing himself for an instant, but when he attempted to charge at Flint once more, Oliver intercepted him. Both Fred and Harry gripped his arms, locking them behind his back, and George could not suppress the fury that coursed through him. He had almost shaken off his team when something registered.
A whisper muttering his name. A weak one softly shocking his system. Her whisper calling for him. George deflated immediately, Marcus Flint forgotten.
"George," Hermione's hushed prayer echoed in his ears. He collapsed by her side again, his knees taking the brunt of the fall with a thud, and gripped her hand in both of his. Hermione's eyes were closed, blood still staining her face, but her lips moved faintly. Everyone hovered around them, trying to see what her state was, but George was isolated in the moment. Alone he waited for her to wake. Madam Pomfrey's request to bring her to the infirmary went unheard, along with Oliver's plea of leniency on George towards the quidditch season. Everything faded into a white noise, his ears ringing with anxiety. He dropped his head, holding his breath, and she said his name once more.
"Hermione," he answered, trying to get her out of where she floated, but her eyes remained shut on her scrunched face.
"When will you learn to control your temper," she said flatly, a smile tugging at her lips, telling him she was not really mad. Slowly, she raised one eyelid, her gaze landing on his before the other lid followed suit. "Honestly, your fists are not the solution to everything. I should take points off for that."
He chuckled inside a sigh, his cheeks aching at the size of the smile gracing his face. George brought her hand to his lips, thanking everything magical that Hermione was finally awake. She moved then. Sitting up, she wrapped her arms around his neck, nuzzling her face into the crook under his jaw. He looped his arms around her, bringing her closer into his embrace.
"Don't you ever do that again," George spoke softly into her hair, muffling his voice to anyone other than her. "Never, ever again."
"I won't." Hermione promised into the hug, his heart rapidly thumping heart finally easing its pace.
"I don't know what I would have done," he continued.
"I know," a smile dazzled her face as George pulled back suddenly, "me too."
"Let me look at you," his hands gripped her shoulders, steadying her, as she swayed back slightly. George looked her over quickly. He glanced about her face for any other contusions and let lose a sigh of relief left him when he found none before pulling her into another embrace. "You're alright."
Hermione laughed as George pressed his lips to her forehead, his breathing a little uneven against her skin. His hand combed through her hair, the strands tickling at his nose. Hermione was breathing. She was breathing steady. Merlin, she was awake, alert and alive. There was no greater feeling.
Her lashes fluttered as she peered up to meet his eye and then George smirked. A mischievous one, carefree and cheerful, casting a spark in his blue eyes. Flint had nothing on the Weasley twin smirk. A beautiful creature like her, resting in his arms, was reason after all. It was enough to make George skyrocket with happiness. Not to mention Gryffindor had just won.
Swooping down he claimed her lips in a sweet kiss of victory. She could not miss the implications of this. The passion that lingered in this. The love he conveyed with this. Hermione hummed gently her grin pressed again his, responding to him with zeal, and George knew the meaning had not eluded her.
Hermione Granger loved him too.
"Alright, alright," Fred's voice boomed over the moment, "nothing to see here. Just a bunch of nutters dealing with head injuries." With a burst of laughter they broke apart, George resting his forehead against hers for a moment to catch his breath.
"Lift to the infirmary, love?" Her nod rocked against his, brushing their noses together. He gave her another quick kiss, before scooping her up into his arms.
"George!" Harry struggled to contain his laughter, while his younger brother Ron burst out into giggles. George's words sparkled laughter into the students crowding them. Her shriek was ignored as he looked over to Madam Pomfrey and the Headmaster, both of whom were watching him with amusement, his violent actions seemingly forgotten.
"Poppy, my girl here will be needing some medical attention."
"Right this way then Weasley," the healer replied with a suppressed chuckle of her own.
The dirt turned to cobble as he passed the doorway, Hermione's head resting on his shoulder. The crowd buzzed with life as he marched toward the castle, whistles and catcalls in his wake. Gryffindor won, George's wrong doings were pardoned, and the witch in his arms loved him back. Overall, good match. Good match indeed.
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