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St. Mungo's
George awoke to pain. The same pain. On his arm, in his chest. A headache. Like always.
He turned his head. He was at St. Mungo's. He heard the bustle of witches and wizards outside, rushing to see their own loved ones. He wondered if they were okay.
George closed his eyes, when he heard the whisk of a curtain.
"George," His mother stood at the door beside her husband and Percy. George couldn't help but notice that Percy looked angry; almost defiant.
"Oh, George," Molly scurried over to George's bedside. "George, how does it feel? Are you all right?"
George flinched, remembering what he had done. His arm was bandaged, but he could still feel the cuts burning underneath the binding.
"Molly, let's give him some time. I'm sure he doesn't feel like talking right now," Arthur said doubtfully, gazing at his son with sadness in his kind eyes. "He just needs some time."
Molly pushed George's hair back with her hand.
"We'll be back soon, sweetheart, we'll be right back in case you need to talk," Molly said. There was a trace of desperation in her voice. George could only nod.
He closed his eyes again.
More pain.
"That was really advanced magic…" Hermione's voice, just outside his room.
"I had no idea…" Bill's voice. Quiet with fear.
"What exactly was it? I mean, how did he do that?" Ron, confused.
"He used traces of the Cruciatus Curse."
"Traces?"
"When he made the cuts. They say that every so often now, his arm will seize up. Like it's under the curse. There's nothing they can do to stop it."
"And George knew he was doing this to himself?"
"That's what they say."
A pause.
"Things have really changed, haven't they?"
George couldn't take it. Of course things have changed! Of course things were going to be different! The Cruciatus Curse…George never imagined he would one day be performing it, much less on himself. And he had known he'd done it to himself?
When he was in that bathroom, slicing up his arm, he knew what he was really doing?
Pain. Anger. Fear.
Suddenly, George's arm burned and he cried out. He clenched his hand into a fist, trying to ease the pain.
"It's happening," He heard the nurse call as she rushed to his side.
"What is?" George cried, clutching his arm.
"What you're feeling now is the Cruciatus Curse. Be still, Mr. Weasley, be still for just a moment."
"I can't!" George felt like a child, squirming in pain. "I can't be still!"
"Just sit," The nurse replied. "Relax. It's the only way that it will stop."
George clenched his teeth and did as he was told. Every few seconds he would jerk as his arm burned even redder. After a few moments, the pain stopped. George was breathing heavily.
"What….what was that?" Ron asked, petrified.
"You're going to feel that for a while, George. Until the curse wears off." The nurse, a young African-American woman, stood up. "That was quite a curse you gave yourself."
George couldn't bring himself to meet the eyes of his family. More than anything, he felt embarrassed. He never imagined himself doing this. He was always the funny one. The one who didn't care.
And now he was injuring himself with advanced dark magic.
Things change, I suppose.
"You'll find it acting up in times of intense anger or any extreme, negative emotion."
"Will it ever stop?" Ron asked.
I hope it doesn't.
"Eventually, yes."
"Oh. Well, thank goodness for that." Molly sighed, putting a hand on her heart. She attempted a weak smile at George.
"You'll be okay, sweetie."
"Sure."
One word had never broken his mother's heart so much. George could tell by the way she tightened her lips and looked down at her hands on her lap. Perhaps it was the way George had said it; full of anger. Sarcasm. Hopelessness.
"Can I have a second alone, please?" George asked quietly. One by one, his family left the room. First his father, followed by Harry and Ginny. Ron left his mother's side. George couldn't help but notice the distance between Ron and Harry.
Finally, it was Molly's turn. She smoothed her skirt and straightened her fuzzy brown sweater that she had knitted herself. She was stalling.
More than anything, George wanted to apologize. He remembered when, as a child, he and his mum had gotten into a fight. It was over something silly. Molly had forgotten about it and invited George out for ice cream. But he was stubborn. He said no. Molly held out her hand to George, hoping that he would put his pudgy little hand into it. But he didn't.
He and his mum didn't speak for the rest of the night; George just sat in his room, sulking. Fred came up and made him laugh. But for the rest of the night, George felt badly for not apologizing to his mother when he should have.
Fifteen years later, George found himself in the same place. He watched his mother, who loved him so much, leave the room slowly; waiting for George to call her name. When he did, she would turn around eagerly, sit down, hold his hand, and talk to him. They would smile. They would forgive each other.
Things would be one step closer to normal.
But George never called out for her. He just watched her leave.
The curtain whisked open, and then closed. In those moments, George heard the rush of the hospital outside his room. Life was as busy as ever. He glanced to the side at the newspaper lying atop the table next to him. He hadn't picked up a paper in a month.
Suddenly, George remembered. He looked at his arm, which was still covered with a white bandage. Slowly, George reached a hand out to unwrap the bandage. He had just placed a finger tenderly on his arm when his curtain flew back.
"Hello again, Mr. Weasley. How are you feeling?" George peered behind the young nurse and saw his family waiting outside.
"Fine," George replied, shoving his arm back underneath the covers.
"Any more pain?"
George shook his head, still watching his family. There was an empty seat between Harry and Ron. George scoffed. They don't know how lucky they are to still have each other, George thought fiercely, angry at the two for being so ignorant.
"All right," The nurse said doubtfully. "Call me if there's anything I need to know. Oh, and it looks like you have another visitor," She smiled brightly, oblivious. George held his breath, but when she turned around, Lee Jordan appeared.
"Hiya, George," He chirped. He was trying to make George smile.
"Hey, Lee," George nodded. Lee took an eager step towards him.
"Your family let me know you were here. I wasn't able to catch you before the funeral, so…" Lee paused. "If you don't want to talk…I understand."
"He never does seem in the mood to talk," Percy suddenly appeared behind Lee. George rolled his eyes.
"I seem to remember you telling us to 'shut up and shove off,'" George sneered. "And now you want me to talk? Make up your mind, Percy. I'm too tired for this."
"Mum said that I should pay you a visit, so here I am. If you want me to leave, fine."
"Percy!" Ginny gasped, appearing at the curtain.
George was suffocating. The room spun.
"Please," he begged. No one seemed to hear him.
"Why don't you just leave?" Ginny demanded, fire blazing in her eyes. "No one needs you here. Certainly not George."
"Ginny," George choked. He felt the walls closing in on him.
"Fine by me. I'll be going."
"I guess I'll be on my way too…" Lee paused. "George, are you sure…"
"Stop! Please!" George sprang up from his bed. He grabbed the clothes sitting on the table next to him.
"I don't need any of you here! I just want to be by myself! So stop worrying, stop talking to me, stop trying to make me feel better!"
"George…" Ginny's eyes were glassy. George burst through the curtain into the lobby. His family was on their feet, but George didn't care. He pushed through them to the floor's bathroom, shut the door tightly, and locked it for the second time that day. He pulled on the clothes with such force that his t-shirt ripped.
George bent over the sink, breathing heavily. He turned his head slightly, away from the mirror. He caught a glimpse of his bandage and began to fiercely unwrap it, tearing it with his nails. As he got closer to his arm, fear rose in his throat. One tear. Two tears. Three tears.
When the bandage floated to his feet, George let out an immediate cry of agony, fell to his knees, and disapparated.
The word still burned red-hot, searing like fire on his arm;
Fred.