George's Head
Jedi Goat
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
Author's Note: It is my personal headcanon that some of the Weasleys are migraine sufferers. I am not one, myself, but being prone to stress- and weather-related headaches, I sympathize with those who are. On another note, Claire's Head is fantastic, being a very powerful and personal account of two sisters' coping with pain. I wholeheartedly recommend it. :)
If Fred had allowed himself to look back on it, he would have realized that George had always been the more susceptible of the two of them. Even at seven years old he noticed it, subconsciously, though it did not perhaps register with him at the time. That winter, if it had taken George twice as long to recover from a bout of flu as him, or if he complained an awful lot about headaches, it was nothing out of the ordinary.
It was a bright morning in mid-April when, for the first time, Fred really became aware of the differences between them. It was thoroughly an unspoken signal, in the way George turned away and quietly dressed without inviting their usual plotting of the day's pranks, but suddenly a feeling of foreboding settled like a rock in the pit of Fred's stomach.
The feeling transformed into an unnaturally tuned Wrongness when they scampered downstairs for breakfast and between servings of bacon and eggs George pushed aside his plate, muttering that he didn't feel good, his head hurt. Immediately Mrs Weasley frowned slightly, reminded that there was currently the usual spring flu going around the village children, and she fussed over George for a few minutes, feeling his forehead, asking if his nose was all right, if his stomach hurt.
George shook his head. "Head feels funny."
That was all; Mrs Weasley frowned nevertheless and coaxed him to take a spoonful of some nasty-smelling potion, just in case. As George made a face she ruffled his hair and kissed his forehead.
"There you are, dear. Just take it easy for a while, all right?"
Shortly afterward Fred decided he wasn't hungry, either, and the twins trooped out into the backyard. At once Fred ducked between the leafy garden plants, giving chase to the telltale giggling of the gnomes; he thought he caught a flicker of a potato-shaped head before the creature dove back to the safety of its hole. Nevertheless, stopping short, Fred realized he was alone; now worried he trampled back out of the garden.
George was lying in the grass on his stomach, head rested on his crossed arms; he was staring in deep focus at the blades of grass in front of him. Fred lingered a moment, hopefully, but when his brother didn't acknowledge his presence he flopped down next to him with a sigh.
"What're you doing?" he asked, imitating George's position and kicking his feet in the air, itching to be moving.
George stared straight ahead. "Look," he whispered. "Ants."
Fred looked. There were tiny black creatures weaving between the grass in an unfaltering line. He followed their trail to a distant hole in the soil, much like the gnome's, and now glanced impatiently back at his brother. "Wanna bother Percy?"
George didn't answer.
"Or, I know," Fred's voice grew louder with excitement, "let's build a fort, a big one! Like Hogwarts!" Bill and Charlie were at Hogwarts this year and the idea was thrilling for the younger Weasleys. George, however, only made a faint sound, his eyes narrowed as if he was thinking very hard.
"Maybe later, 'kay?"
Fred felt a prickling of different feeling at his insides. It wasn't like George not to want to play with him and he stuck out his bottom lip, hurt. His brother continued to ignore him, now idly picking blades of grass, and Fred shuffled closer.
"What're we gonna do, then?" he asked.
"Don't hafta do anything," George determined, plucking grass between his fingertips. Fred wriggled again, restlessly, and rolled over, getting an idea; he found the ticklish spot in George's side and prodded his brother. He had hoped to finally get his attention but instead George jolted away from his touch, letting out a sound like a hurt puppy as he clutched his arms around his sides.
Fred sat up, blinking down at him in confusion. "I didn't poke you very hard," he said, put out.
George didn't seem to care; he lay on the ground, blinking against tears. "...Mum, want Mum..."
As though forewarned by some uncanny sense of her own, Mrs Weasley appeared in the doorway, immediately hurrying over when she saw George lying on the ground. She crouched next to him, pulling him into her lap and humming gently as she would have rocking Ron or Ginny to sleep. "What did you do to hurt him?" she asked Fred sharply, brushing George's sweaty fringe off his forehead.
"I – I didn't do anything!" Fred cried, leaping to his feet. "Tell her, George, I didn't do anything!" He looked desperately at his twin for confirmation, for the previous secretive grins they would exchange when they were the only ones aware of a devious prank. But George was not looking at him, his wide blue eyes glazed with tears.
Fred drew a sharp gasp of breath and suddenly, horribly betrayed, he ran back into the house, ignoring his mother's urgent call after him.
The step creaked and Fred held his breath, standing very still near the third landing, hearing whispers coming from the half-ajar door. Fred clenched his fists, gathering his courage, and rounded the doorway; he stood there a moment with a defiant tilt to his chin, staring down Mrs Weasley where she bent over George's bed.
"Oh? What is it, dear?"
Fred drew a steadying breath and repeated the words he had heard his twin say, so often. "My head hurts too."
Mrs Weasley crossed the room and crouched next to him, gingerly feeling his forehead. "Just a headache?" Fred nodded, lowering his eyes. "One side or both, dear?"
He stumbled over that question, chewing on his lip before deciding on, "All my head."
Mrs Weasley smiled kindly and kissed his forehead. "You'll be all right, Fred," she murmured. "Wait for me in the kitchen and I'll get you some potion."
Fred shot a quick, disappointed glance in the direction of his brother's bed before she steered him from the room. He hesitated outside the closed door, however, clenching and unclenching his fists.
It wasn't fair. Mum always made such a big deal about George when he was sick! And Fred was pretty sure his twin was lying about the headaches half the time, just to get the attention; after all, there was nothing wrong with him, Fred wanted to shout. Nothing wrong at all. Or he would have known. Wouldn't he?
Another whisper broke through his thoughts and Fred froze, tiptoeing nearer to the door to listen.
"Is Fred gonna be okay?"
Mrs Weasley's warm voice answered. "Of course he will be. Don't worry about him, Georgie. Try to sleep a little bit."
"But it hurts ... my head hurts and my tummy hurts," George mumbled.
"I know. I'm sorry you had to inherit this from my side of the family."
George sniffed. "What's a in-herit?"
"It means I had these, too, from when I was about your age. These headaches are called migraines, George."
"It go away?"
Mrs Weasley sighed softly. "Not for a very long time. They've mostly gone, after I had you, your brothers, and your sister. But don't worry about it ... sleep, Georgie. I'll bring you some more potion later."
Footsteps padded across the room and Fred hastily fled to the next landing, watching as Mrs Weasley disappeared out of sight below, followed by the creak of the step below their landing. He breathed out a sigh and trooped back, uncertainly, to their door.
He didn't know what a migraine was, then, but it sounded scary. Bill and Charlie and Percy had never said anything about their heads hurting, or about migraines. Only George, and now Mum, too.
Fred pushed open the door a crack and peered across the darkened room. He sighted the flare of George's hair, half buried beneath the blanket pulled over his head. Taking a deep breath he tiptoed a little closer, then closer, until he stood over his brother's bed.
"George?" he whispered.
Fred had half expected him to be asleep already, but George stirred, enough for him to know that he was listening, even if he continued to hide beneath the blankets.
"Are you mad?" Fred wanted to know, anxiously breaking the silence. "I didn't mean to hurt you, to give you a my-grain."
"Didn't give me it." George's voice came out muffled.
Fred was a little reassured by that statement and crawled up on the bed beside him, tugging at the blankets. George stilled.
"What're you doing, Fred?"
"We can have the my-grain together, that's what we're doing today," Fred decided matter-of-factly.
After a moment's thought George nodded slightly and released his hold on the blankets, allowing Fred to squeeze into the space next to him. They curled there in the space the two of them had long outgrown, their foreheads nearly touching, George squinting slightly in the glow of morning light through the half-closed curtains. There were silent tracks of tears down his cheeks and Fred knew, quite simply, that George would not allow himself to cry in front of anyone else, not even their mother. Something broke inside of him as he realized, suddenly, that the quiet plea had never been for attention.
Decisively Fred pulled the blankets over both of their heads and they nestled together in the silent, dark womb, eventually lulled to slumber by the sound of one another's warm breathing.
The End.
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