In George's Eyes

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

12/05/10 – Edits.

Chapter 10 - Fall

"Help me if I fall

Don't let me go

You just give me the strength

To guide me."

-If I Fall, Matchbox Twenty

·:·

The rest of the week blazed by, and Thursday arrived cold and dreary. It was the day George had been dreading, though he hadn't mentioned it to either Fred or Lee. Both seemed certain that the worst was over, that life could continue almost as normal, filled with their usual flair for excitement and the laughter that rang the rafters of the common room. Of course, the two helped him through his classes and showed him how to perform new spells; as of yet, their deception had slipped beneath the radar of even their most finicky professors.

All the same, George still refused to go into the Great Hall, and so often spent dinner in the kitchens, where he could eat in peace. Falling into such a comfortable regime with Fred, George could almost delude himself in that same welcome security.

No matter, George's thoughts always seemed to return to dwell on Quidditch, and a sickly feeling arose in his stomach. He didn't want to go out onto the pitch that night and make a fool of himself. The team ... what would they think when they saw his pathetic flailing ... What would they say? Their captain's disappointed face loomed in his mind and George heard her say, shaking her head, "What do you mean, blind? We need you out there, George, the Cup's as good as ours this year..."

At lunch, he finally cracked and told Fred and Lee his worries. They were sitting in the kitchen as house-elves bustled noisily around them, each digging into a steaming dish of shepherd's pie.

Fred seemed to think over his commentary for a moment. "Well, it'll be dark, won't it? No one'll see you."

"It's not like that!" George burst out in frustration; Fred never seemed to get it. Sometimes he wondered how his brother could be so stupidly oblivious... With a long irritated sigh, George raked his fists through his hair. "I don't think I'll be able to fly, Fred. And how'm I supposed to hit Bludgers if I can't even bloody see them?"

"Relax," said Fred firmly, placing a hand on his shoulder; George's muscles had bunched up in tension, and he flinched slightly at his brother's touch. Fred pressed on, determined. "Remember, you're good at Quidditch, even on an off day, George. You'll be fine."

George just shook his head, his thoughts sinking back into icy despair. That was before, the doubtful voice echoed in his head. But now... His damp fists clenched on the edges of his seat and he wondered, wildly, if Angelina would take pity on him if he choked down some of their Fever Fudge after dinner. Probably not – the twins had already let slip their ingenious little sick-inducing treats earlier during October in offering to get her and Alicia out of a Defence exam, and they likely wouldn't have forgotten so soon.

"Tell you what," said Fred suddenly, drawing him from his thoughts with the earnest note in his voice. "Why don't we head out an hour early? We'll have loads of time to practice on our own. And I can tell Angelina to go easy on you – that you're still recovering."

George nodded mechanically, swallowing back his fear, which seemed enough to satisfy Fred for the moment. In the silence, however, George's heart drummed double its rhythm in his chest; the hour loomed closer and closer, yet there was no escaping his fate; George closed his eyes, pressing his fingers to his temples, where a familiar pulsing had started since that morning. If it turned into a bloody migraine right before the match, well, that Fever Fudge was looking pretty inviting...

With one ear he tuned in idly to Fred and Lee's renewed debate over a particularly dire History lesson that morning, trying futilely to distract himself from the rising sick feeling in his throat.

·:·

That evening, Fred and George descended the sloping snowy lawn to the Quidditch pitch almost immediately after dinner; the Great Hall had still been warm and clattering with chatter when they passed, assuring them of a good hour of time alone before the rest of the team ventured out to rejoin them.

Broomstick slung comfortably over his shoulder, his other hand clenched about one handle of the hefty Quidditch crate carted between the two of them, Fred glanced nervously across at his brother. He didn't need George to tell him he was worried; since breakfast George had seemed a bit jumpy – more so than usual, anyway – and Fred couldn't help but notice how earlier he had pushed aside his nearly-untouched dinner, mumbling that they should get started. Now, in the fiery light on the horizon, his face was aglow and ghostly; his freckles stood out garishly from his cheeks, and to Fred, it seemed, he was struggling not to throw up.

With a sudden need to reassure him, Fred broke the silence. "You're going to do fine," he said, even as his voice trembled a little – he fervently hoped George hadn't noticed. "Listen, even if you mess up, there's no one around to see it, all right?"

This news didn't come as particularly comforting to his brother, who shook his head slightly with a low sigh; his eyes directed at the snow crunching beneath his boots, George mumbled, "I'm going to resign after practice."

"No, you're not!" Fred stopped in his tracks, rooted to the spot by his negativity. "You're a valuable player any day! Angelina won't let you quit. Besides," Fred went on, appealing him with an earnest stare which George ignored in stony silence, "you can't expect me to play with a random someone else as Beater."

George didn't answer to his feeble attempt at humour, for at that moment they arrived at the tall stadium. The colourful stands were brushed with a coat of snow; yet high above still gleamed the proud golden hoops, three on either side of the pitch, and despite himself Fred's heart gave a leap, as it always did in anticipation of taking to the air.

"Right, then," said Fred, as he stopped short near the center of the playing field; he and George deposited the crate with a thump, from inside the Bludgers offering a disgruntled grumble. Fred didn't miss George's sudden twitch, or how his white knuckles clenched tightly to his broom handle. Fred found it suddenly hard to swallow and directed his gaze at his feet. "Let's start by just flying around for a bit ..." he offered, "... you know, a warm-up."

George didn't protest, and shuffling about in the snow adjusted the tilt of his broomstick, then throwing one leg over it; Fred followed suit, his mouth dry, and for a moment hesitated before calling them both to take off.

He hated to do this. George was obviously terrified – did they have to try flying again so soon, when the scars were still so fresh in both of their minds? Hell, really, what was keeping him from letting George claim sick for this week's practice, and thus take the time to recuperate his strength? Fred shook his head, discarding his doubts with a long sigh.

It's the only way, he reminded himself. George had to fly again, or else the team would suspect something was seriously wrong. Besides...

George needs this, too. He needs to fly again – to live again, and not in bloody fear of everyone and anything. But suddenly that plaintive thought seemed a lot more like a selfish excuse. He should be protecting his brother, not forcing him further out of his shelter than George felt prudent...

George, as if sensing his thoughts, turned back to him. "Let's get this over with," he said quietly. His jaw clenched with determination, though his wide blue eyes told Fred otherwise. "Please."

Fred nodded, then caught himself, clearing his throat to rasp out, "All right." He gripped the handle with both hands, seeing George tense across from him on his own broomstick. He offered a feeble grin and hoped the jovial note carried to his voice as he called out, "Let's go!" He kicked off from the firm ground, snow showering off his heels, and shot several feet straight up in the air.

The brush of air felt good on Fred's face. He closed his eyes briefly, allowing the familiar rush that came with flying to seep through him, a buoyancy rising in a bubble in his chest; he had a sudden mad desire to crow a laugh, to race the wind itself. Energized, he reopened his eyes and glanced about. It was a rather calm evening; the sky was darkening, the first glimmers of stars visible in the deep velvet overhead, and a light breeze toying his bangs.

He turned his broom and looked over at George. "All right?"

His twin nodded, clinging tightly with whitened knuckles to his broom; he didn't seem to be able to speak.

"Right," said Fred, hoping once they started moving that terrible fear would leave George's wide eyes. "Let's do a few laps."

·:·

Saying George was terrified was an understatement.

All week, even without seeing, he'd been able to make his way around by touch and hearing alone, and he'd always been able to right himself if he accidentally ran into something; and if Fred was beside him, he was always able to warn him, to stop him with a subtle tug on his sleeve, if he started veering off course.

Up here, however,who-knew-how-bloody-high-up from the ground, he had absolutely nothing to rely on to guide him around. If he collided with the towers, or spiralled into the hoops, or dove too far... George forced the unpleasant images from his mind. He momentarily closed his eyes, taking deep breaths to center himself past the fear, past the pain, past the memories. Focus. He could do this; he had to.

Reopening his eyes, George then strained his vision, searching for some telltale shadow or light to guide him. It had to be near sundown; bright splotches flared across the darkness. It wasn't much, but...

Then he heard it: a loud flapping off to his left.

It dawned on him then. Fred's cloak. He could imagine his brother floating next to him, waiting for him to follow, impatiently itching to fly. Some of his former confidence returning with that kindle of hope, George turned and slowly eased his broom after his brother.

·:·

They started out slowly, circling one end of the pitch. Fred kept an eagle's eye on George's progress in his shadow, but so far he seemed to be doing quite well. He followed Fred in his laps around the field, always taking the turns only a split-second after him, guided by some signal in his brother's presence. The only problem was when Fred stopped; each time, George would almost crash into him. He didn't have the heart to critique George on this, however, and it did not deter greatly from his progress.

"You're doing great!" Fred called out after one such stop. They were now drifting side-by-side near the goal hoops at the far left end of the pitch. Grinning, Fred clapped a numbed hand to his brother's shoulder. "And you said you couldn't fly!"

"I can't fly alone," elaborated George, eyes downcast, "but I can hear you and follow you."

"Well, that's fine," said Fred reassuringly, his spirits swelling at how well George was progressing. I knew you could do it, mate. "There'll be six of us here for you to follow."

George made a small noise in his throat that wasn't quite agreement – but Fred wasn't prepared to argue on the subject. Now drifting slightly away from him, Fred wheeled his broom around to face the empty length of the pitch, the moaning wind cutting across their path and ruffling his hair. His tensed muscles itched to race full-out and test the limits of his broom; that was the thrill of flying, to move as swiftly as the feral birds that arced and cart-wheeled in the sky.

That won't help George, you idiot, Fred admonished, shaking himself from his sudden reverie. Nevertheless the feeling still prickled his fingertips; his gaze wandered to his twin, hovering unknowingly beside him. Well... It's worth a try, isn't it?

Longing won over common sense and with a small grin itching his lips he implored his brother. "Mind if we speed things up a bit?"

Frowning slightly, George considered this notion; he, too, turned about and faced into the wind, sightlessly staring down the field. Finally he murmured, decisively, "Straight down the pitch. You go first."

Fred's grin widened, and he promised himself to thank George later for granting him this small liberty. He leaned forward, unable to resist yelling, "Race you!" as he shot off, as quickly as a lit firework blazing into the darkening sky.

Fred hurtled down the pitch, nearly flung flat over the handle of his broom, his fists cold against the wind's lashing fingers, his cloak whipping out behind him. His eyes narrowed against the pierce of wind against his face, roaring in his ears, and suddenly he was laughing at the pure rush of adrenaline. His thoughts and worries were left behind as he raced away, for once completely, absolutely free...

A sudden red streak in the corner of his eye made him start, and with his eyes streaming he spared a glance sideways; he did a double take, a grin tugging his lips. George was beside him now, matching his wild gait, and quickly gaining further; he was staring straight ahead, a look of intense focus furrowing his face, his teeth digging into his lower lip. Fred bit back a shout of congratulations – he couldn't distract him, not now.

Then George pulled ahead, hurtling down the field. Fred grinned in spite of himself at the challenge, throwing himself flat onto his broom. They raced neck to neck for the opposite end of the pitch. From down below they were nothing more than blazing streaks of red – twin firecrackers. Neither had any thought on their mind but the wild rush of the chase.

As they came in range of the hoops, Fred peeled off first, straightening to ease his course; George heard him and copied the gesture, a bit more slowly. For a moment they hung there, fighting to catch their gasping breath in the frigid air. Fred couldn't help himself and reached over, catching his arm around George's shoulders in a half-hug. His eyes were shining in wild exhilaration. "That was bloody brilliant!"

George, despite himself, offered up a smile. "I did it, Fred... I did it... I beat you!"

Fred shook his head and laughed, reaching over to ruffle George's windswept hair – ignoring his squawk of protest. His heart was lightened even as it was pounding with adrenaline; still grinning, he gasped, "I think we can work with the Bludgers now."

George faltered, Fred sensing his brief moment of hesitation through the arm still comfortably wrapped around his shoulders. His expression softened slightly as he bolstered, "We'll start with just one. You'll hear it a mile away."

"What if ... what if it hits me...?" George murmured, gaze dropping. Hesitation made him fall back into his fear; but Fred's mind was still clear with the exhilaration, the pride in George's eyes as they finished their race. He knew, in a rising feeling, that they had to do this; that George could do this, because the old George Weasley wouldn't give up, wouldn't back down for anything.

Fred reached over and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "I'll be right here, all right?" George nodded, and Fred, catching the steeled look back in his eyes, turned and dipped into a dive; he sensed more than saw George on his heels, imitating his every adjustment. Fred landed first, absorbing the impact in his knees as his boots sank into the snow. Though he slowed his broom, George still hit the ground much harder and unevenly; Fred instinctively caught his shoulder as he stumbled, righting him. He didn't miss the flicker of a shamed grimace pass over his twin's face, but he tried to ignore it.

Fred cleared his throat and turned away, assured George could take care of himself for now. "I'm gonna take out the Bludger now."

Fred left George standing there, stepping over to where they had earlier abandoned the crate. Swiftly he kicked it open and examined the contents: two black Bludgers framed the Quaffle, humming darkly from within their constraints; the container bucked occasionally as they struggled for freedom.

Suddenly, staring at them for the first time since the match, an unprecedented wave of feeling arose in his throat and he swallowed, thickly. One of these ... One of these foul weapons had done this to his brother... He chose the leftmost one and as he crouched over it, working at the latch and fumbling slightly with fingers numbed by cold, his eyes roved unconsciously over it in search of bloodstains. He saw nothing incriminating, but even so, an ill feeling stirred in his stomach, and he began to regret his earlier fervour. Was this such a good idea after all, to make George face this so soon? Now he understood why his twin was so afraid.

His words came back to haunt him. I'll be right here. He had been there the last time, hell, he had been right beside him. Even then, he had been helpless to prevent George's injury...

Fred shook his head, forcing such black thoughts from his mind; he couldn't hold himself to blame, he reminded himself for what seemed the hundredth time. For how many years had they gone about so naive to danger, laughing and bantering as they knocked the growling Bludgers between one another? And yet all it took was one accident to make them cringe and cower in fear...

With a long sigh Fred resigned himself to his task. He had to keep his promise, or George would think he was being a pansy ... No, all he could do was hope, fervently, that he could protect him this time around. Swallowing hard, he unlatched the Bludger and instinctively jumped back as the black ball rocketed up into the sky.

The die was cast.

·:·

George stiffened when he heard the Bludger tearing off, like a low rumble of thunder against the still night air. A chill went down his spine, though he fought vehemently against the fear threatening to choke him. He didn't want to do this, oh, God, he didn't...

Footsteps crunched nearer over the snow and George shifted toward the sound, forcing himself to raise his head and plaster on something of a grimacing smile. Inwardly, though, he wanted nothing more than to run back up to the safety of their dormitory and cower beneath the blankets, as if he were six years old again and a thunderstorm raged outside.

I don't want to die... The thought floated unbidden through his mind, and abruptly icy fear gripped his chest. Oh, God, Fred, please...

"We're going back up." Fred's usually confident voice sounded a bit uncertain this time, and that made George's stomach churn with unease. He shut his eyes tightly as they both shuffled, mounting their brooms; then he heard Fred kick off and hastened to follow suit.

Wind rushed by as his stomach jolted in a familiar fashion, reminding him that he was now drifting ten, twenty more feet above the ground. George forced back his sickened thoughts and concentrated; he could hear the wind whipping against Fred's clothes, and something else: a distant grumble of thunder, weaving in and out of his range of hearing as it shot across the pitch.

Panic rose up once more in his throat and all his muscles were screaming for him to move; to get out of the way! He struggled to take a long rasp of breath, his mind working furiously to pinpoint the location of the sound – which was growing louder by the moment. His heart thundered as quickly as that of a cornered rabbit, a raptor swooping down on his position.

"It's coming," said Fred from his right, his voice anchoring him to the present; he grit his teeth, hefting the bat that Fred wordlessly had passed into his hands. He hovered, listening, calculating as the sound roared in from his left.

Now!

George chose his moment and reacted, swinging out as viciously as he could. His flailing met only air; he'd missed the Bludger entirely, which hurtled by inches in front of his face a split-second later, the heat grazing his nose. George jerked back in surprise, almost losing his grip on his broom in the process. Panting, he clung tight to the handle with sweaty palms, glancing about with deadened eyes for his brother.

It would have been comical, had it been anyone but George. Fred smashed away the Bludger that came raging at him and looped around George, his brother tilting his head to follow his course. "A good first attempt," Fred tried to reassure him, his own voice trembling a little. "Here it comes again, now."

George didn't answer him; his gaze was set stonily ahead, where he could hear the whistling arc of the Bludger slowing and reversing back in their direction, the buzzing growing steadily louder, like an angered bee. He swallowed hard and raised his bat.

All right. He would hit it this time. He'd have to time it just right ... wait an extra moment ... He could do this, goddamnit!

The Bludger zoomed nearer ... and nearer – and in a sudden panic George registered without conscious thought that it was coming too fast, too close! His mind flashed with unpleasant images: God, it'd crash into him head-on...!

Losing his timed focus, George swung wildly at nothing; the air radiated with heat as the Bludger, unencumbered, roared in on him –

In a last act of wild desperation George threw himself to the side, intending to perform a Sloth Grip Roll to get out of the way. He misjudged his mad grab for the broom handle, however, and only one hand caught its mark; he let out a wild yell as he felt the world spin around him. The Bludger whooshed harmlessly overhead in a blaze of heat, but George hardly noticed: he now dangled upside-down from his broom, clinging on with one slipping hand.

He swung his other hand up, groping fruitlessly for a firm grip; and then sweaty fingers relinquished their hold. George let out a yell as he was suddenly falling –

Wind roared in his ears, his eyes were streaming; all too well he could see himself slamming into the ground, nothing left but a pancake; what a terribly pathetic end for a Weasley. All because he'd been so stupid as to think he could fly...!

At first George hardly took note as his descent slowed, then stopped entirely; strong arms closed around his middle and pulled him back upward. The wind's roar still echoing in his ears, George clung tightly to his saviour, unable to do anything else, hardly able to think beyond the trembling of his limbs.

"It's all right!" Fred shouted over the roaring wind. "I've got you, George. Just hang on!"

To be continued...

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