Katie Bell comes to the apartment on a Sunday morning, when George is still asleep. She rings the doorbell, and nobody answers; but she knows this must be done, and, greatly daring, quickly whispers alohamora and opens the door. In retrospect, she's lucky not to have been cursed; but George hasn't been paying much attention to the maintenance of the apartment lately. The front room is a mess, and George is sprawled out on the couch, blanket pulled over him even though the nights are hot.
Katie's friend stands awkwardly in the door; Katie looks back at him, and he nods a bit encouragingly, then vanishes down the hall. He knows George, maybe once even as well as Katie does, but he's not a part of this. He should be, but he's not, and he can't bring himself to be.
Katie sighs. She is not the person for this job, either, but she's the best. So she carefully walks over to the couch, sidestepping all the clutter on the floor, and reaches out a hand to shake her old house-mate.
"Mmmfff?" he mumbles, stretching and turning and blearily blinking his eyes. "Whassup, Katie? Is't a game today, or is it Christmas? Actually, is there a difference? Haha."
"George," Katie says, a note of pleading in her voice that George has rarely heard. Not never, actually, for Katie was always more willing to do this kind of manipulation than Angelina or Alicia- but seldom, and only for either important things or utter silliness. But it wakes him up and clears his head a bit; he's not in Hogwarts, he's been out of Hogwarts for years, and… he's still dead.
"What happened?" he asks Katie, feeling that something sinister is going on, yet another bad piece of news.
"It's Lee," Katie tells him.
George springs up and darts over to grab the morning newspaper from the doorway. If it's bad, it'll be in the paper; the paper seems to post nothing but death lists and tearjerker articles lately. So far, though, George hasn't received the same shock as so many in the world, suddenly coming across a friend's name; he's had the news delivered in person. But he needs to look at the list today. Every day, thankfully, it's been getting shorter; and it takes him no time to find the Js.
"He won't be in today's," Katie says. "They found him last night, and brought him to St. Mungo's. He just died an hour ago. I'm sorry, I didn't want to leave him to fetch you, I thought there would be time…"
George's mind goes blank. He can't recall if he's ever heard of any of the people on the list, and he doesn't care. He stumbles back over to the couch, falls down on it, and closes his eyes.
Katie, close to tears, quietly leaves the apartment. Oliver is waiting in the hallway outside, and together they walk back to St. Mungo's. The nurses are already clearing up Lee Jordan's belongings, to make room for another patient, and Katie rushes forward to help. But when she comes across the old photograph of three boys- two red heads, one black head- she slips it into her pocket, right next to her overused wand.
George had been in the lobby of St. Mungo's the last time he had seen Lee Jordan, waiting impatiently for the healers to tend to his superficial arm wound so that he could go back out and fight. But the healers were busy, very busy, seeing to more serious patients and trying to prevent fatalities. So he waited, while Fred was still out there fighting.
Occasionally a dull boom sound could be heard from outside in the streets of London, and George jumped every time. His mind, it seemed, had never been so clear before. Even in the throes of invention, his train of thoughts had never rushed quite so madly. Every explosion, his train of thoughts had crashed, straight into a brick wall.
And then came the explosion, the particularly loud one, that set half the conscious, and a good many of the unconscious, patients to screaming. Five minutes later, with the rumble still echoing, Lee Jordan had come running into the hospital, dark bloody mass on his cheek.
"George!" he had said, breathing heavily. "Fred- dead!"
Even though George had been worrying about this, he hadn't expected it to actually happen; and he stared at his friend in shock.
"No," George said hollowly.
And Lee Jordan spontaneously pulled his friend into a strong grasp, black arm around the pale white neck. The gore from Lee's face wound clumped grossly in George's hair, making it look even lighter and oranger in comparison, but neither boy noticed; because Lee Jordan was pulled away by a domineering Healer, and George sat down right in the middle of the floor.
"George is here to keep you company now," Ron says to Harry. Harry doesn't move, of course. "In the hospital, I mean." Ron swallows hard and continues talking. "He's not going to be here for very long, though. I mean- you aren't either, of course. Hey, Harry, George told me to tell you something. He dares you to wake up before he's released, and if you're still asleep when he comes to his senses again he's going to do something terrible to you for rejecting his offer. Don't worry, though, mate, Mum'll never let him out of her sight again anyway." Ron awkwardly pats his friend on the shoulder. "I've got to go visit him now, and then home. Ginny'll probably be in any minute, okay? And Hermione plans to come tomorrow. So, er. See ya."
Ron leaves the small room, only to head for a larger one on a different wing of the hospital. This occupant is asleep right now, but only for the usual amount of time, a good night's sleep. Ron's not yet used to the sight of George in a hospital bed, like he is with Harry; it's not been long since they realized and brought him here.
Dean Thomas had been the first one to notice, which was unexpected. Dean had run into George wandering the old Hogwarts grounds, and after a few minutes conversation, had realized that something was very wrong. The younger man had quickly excused himself and flown to the Three Broomsticks, to floo to the Weasley house. Ron can still picture in his mind the scene he had walked in on; his old classmate hurriedly speaking to his parents. "I think George needs psychological help." Ron knows it must have taken guts for Dean to do that. He should tell Dean tomorrow what the situation was, how Dean had been right… and thanks.
George isn't really asleep, but he's pretending to be. Really, he's thinking about what he'll do when he gets out of here; because being here is boring. Maybe when he gets out, he'll go live with Charlie for a while. Charlie had come to fetch him from Hogwarts that afternoon, after all. George can't ever remember liking dragons more than the average teenager, but he supposes he can give them a try. But first maybe he should ask Charlie if the dragons have a sense of humor. Charlie'll probably think he's joking. And then I can tell him that senses of humor are serious matters not to be laughed at and see what he says.
George thinks it's about time he gets released, anyway. There had been nothing wrong with him, and even if there had been, he's perfectly over it by now. Perhaps staying in this place will drive him more insane than he was to begin with.
When somebody enters, it's the last person he ever expected, but he still instantly recognizes the voice: Percy.
"Hey, George," Percy says to his apparently sleeping brother. "I heard… Penelope told me… I'm sorry."
There's a pause, and George wonders if Percy expects him to answer, or if Percy is leaving, or maybe even if Percy has fallen asleep himself- has the silence been long enough for Percy to fall asleep? When was the last time he saw Percy, anyway? His anger at his brother seems less fierce than he remembers, and he doesn't think he can tease it back into full power again. Percy betrayed them… Percy got all stuck up… Percy tattled on him and Fred for scribbling all over Percy's brand new First Year Charms- what a snitch, how could he?
But Percy speaks again. "I can't bear to think that Fred died before I could say sorry to him, too, so you'll have to forgive me for him. Please?"
George feels a rush of anger- or is it just a rush of dizziness? No, George won't do that. He won't forgive Percy for Fred. Maybe he'll forgive Percy for himself, but for Fred, he'll hate Percy. Fred would want that. "Right?" He accidentally speaks out loud.
But Percy has already left, and thinks that the voice he hears as he steps over the threshold is just his imagination. He looks back, but he can barely see the wrapped package he left on his brother's nightstand any more in the dark.
George isn't sure what Fred would want to do about Percy, though he doesn't want to admit this to himself. And George knows that as soon as he gets better, he'll have to make a decision about Percy, and face the facts again, face the facts about Lee, about Fred, about everyone.
Maybe he doesn't want to get better, after all.