In George's Eyes

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Author's Note: I know some of you are wondering how it is possible for George to be playing Quidditch. I won't deny that it's extremely dangerous; however, George still can "see" shadows and light, and he has his heightened other senses to help him. Well, in any case, this is fanfiction, so the limits can be stretched a bit. ;)

10/04/11 – Edits. I tried to reinforce the realism of George's situation here, so expect a few changes to the plot in future chapters...

Chapter 11 - Breaking

"You're breaking me in

And this is how we will end

With you and me bent."

-Bent, Matchbox Twenty

·:·

George lay limp in his arms as Fred hefted him back up to his broom. If that had been a scare for Fred – whose heart thundered wildly against his ribs – it was nothing compared to what George must have been feeling.

Fred could feel his twin trembling in his grasp; George's face was ghostly pale, and there was a sheen of dried tears across his cheeks; when he blinked slowly, with a shallow rasp of breath, further water trickled from his eyes. Slowly, Fred coaxed him to clamber back onto his own broom, though he still maintained his firm grip around his brother as though afraid in a moment he would be wrenched away from him again. Perhaps George felt the same icy fear, for even hunched once more over his own broom, his fists remained clenched in the front of Fred's robes, his face half-pressed against Fred's chest. Both of them were gasping as though they'd just run a race.

After a long moment, George at last raised his head with a shaky breath. His eyes did not quite focus on his brother, but were fixated at a point somewhere over his head. Fred's heart wrenched at the wide, terrified look in George's eyes. Oh, George… what had he been thinking? Fred had an urge to viciously hit himself over the head with his bat, if only for causing that terrible fear in his gaze; Stupid, stupid Fred... God, what if he hadn't reacted so fast...? What if...?

Fred's silent berating skidded to a halt as his twin spoke.

"Not again. Please," George whispered hoarsely, averting his gaze once more. Instinctively Fred tightened his arm around his brother.

"We won't," he promised softly, then hesitating a moment; with an almost plaintive note in his voice, he finished, "I'm sorry."

George wasn't ready for this – why hadn't he realized that? It was so bloody obvious, yet he'd gotten overexcited when George started out fine. He should have listened to him instead of forcing him into this...! Why the hell did I take out the Bludger so soon? Fred's hands tightened into fists as he vehemently swore to do things right next time. Every time he blundered, he only made things harder for the both of them: first losing his patience with George, then the whole book incident, and now this...

I'm sorry, George, he repeated silently. Next time, I'll listen to you. Next time, I'll be sure you're ready first.

But then, glancing down at the pale and shaken boy clutching to the front of his robes as a child would a security blanket, Fred swallowed back an unwelcome feeling in his stomach. George couldn't even contact the Bludgers; he'd seen his panic, his wild guessing. As is ... would George ever be able to play again, never mind be prepared to?

Fred shook his head to dislodge that particular fear. He'd think of the long term when he had to – for now, however, he had larger issues on his mind. "George?" he pressed, gently.

"I want to go back..." George's muffled voice came from against his shirt. "Let's go back to the dorm, Fred..."

Fred, one arm about his trembling shoulders, could do nothing more than silently agree; shifting cautiously about, he kept one arm holding George against him, the other gingerly guiding their broomsticks downward. He cast his eyes across the darkening pitch and noticed shadows shifting down below; as they neared he made out red-robed figures, each armed with a broomstick. At their head marched a dark-haired witch who, even at this distance, looked decidedly displeased.

Fred uttered a low oath and George stirred against him, raising his head.

"What is it...?"

"The team's here," he muttered. "We'd better get down for practice before Angelina murders us."

George didn't answer, but a sudden tension gripped his shoulders; Fred swallowed hard. He didn't need to be told that George wasn't in any condition for practice. He forced his gaze away with a sigh.

"Lemme talk to her, all right?" he said quietly. George nodded faintly and loosened his grip on his robes enough to touch down on his own; he stumbled as his feet hit the ground and Fred instinctively threw out an arm, catching him by the sleeve; as soon as George was steadied Fred ran ahead to rejoin the team as they fanned out onto the pitch.

"Why aren't you in uniform?" barked Angelina as soon as he drew level with the others, her hands on her hips.

"So, no welcome, then?" Fred raised his eyebrows with an air of innocence.

Angelina was far too accustomed to their facade to retort and instead glanced past him. "Is that a Bludger up there?" she demanded, surprised; indeed the lone black ball arced high in the blazing sky. Fred had nearly forgotten about it.

"Yeah, I'll get it in a minute," said Fred hurriedly, his mind on other, more important, matters. "Listen, Angelina, can I have a word?"

Her eyebrows shot up rather suspiciously, but she nodded. The two of them took a few steps away from their curious teammates.

"It's ... about George," he confided in a low tone. If possible, her eyebrows rose even higher. "He hasn't been feeling too well since the match, see..."

"How is he?" Angelina murmured, her tone softening sympathetically, glancing over to where George was still standing with the crate, looking a bit lost, clutching to both of their broomsticks.

"Well," Fred improvised deftly, "his injury really bothers him. He gets headaches really easily – he's been hurting all day, I think."

Angelina bit her lip, looking over at George again; Fred fought off a smile, knowing he was winning her over. Even with years of experience, she still couldn't fend against the Weasley charm.

"Has he told Madam Pomfrey?"

That question nearly threw him off guard; Fred sobered, and there was a note of truth in his voice when he professed, "Not yet."

She sighed, brushing her plaited locks from her eyes. "All right, I'll see what I can do. I was hoping to work on Ron's keeper skills tonight, anyway – he won't have to do too much. But you tell him to take it easy if he starts feeling ill again – I won't have him put himself out of commission any longer."

The strict demeanour of the captain they all knew returned in her last words, and Fred smiled slightly, sadly. If only she knew... "Thanks," he mumbled, "you know, from him."

Angelina smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder, voice softening as she added, "Try not to worry too much. He'll get better, Fred. You'll see."

No, he won't, thought Fred automatically, but he forced himself to nod as though bolstered by her words. "Yeah, thanks."

Her voice regained its businesslike tone as she ordered, "Now, you two go get changed. We'll start a warm-up." She glanced up at the Bludger still careening around the field and her lips twitched. "I presume you've already done as much?"

Fred nodded.

"I'll get the Bludger. But you had better hurry up!" At this Fred raced back to get George, grinning broadly at his good fortune. Mischief managed – your secret's safe for now, at least, George.

·:·

On the other hand, George was not looking forward to this practice session. He dawdled as long as possible in the change room, putting on his Quidditch robes, untying and retightening his leather gloves and boots. As he straightened out the guards on his wrists he heard the thump of Fred's footsteps pacing in front of him; George didn't look in his twin's direction.

"Come on, George. We have to stay in Angelina's good books for once," Fred chided him amiably.

"It doesn't matter if I'm resigning, anyway," George mumbled to his feet.

"I'm not letting you quit, I told you," Fred answered mulishly. "Besides, I told Angelina you're sick. She won't let you resign because of that."

His smugness was aggravating. "Shut up, will you?" snapped George, raising his head to glare in his direction. "You don't get it: I can't play Quidditch anymore. Or do you want me to make a fool of myself out there?"

"It'd be worse if you quit, trust me. Then everyone'd know something is up." Fred's voice had gone quiet, but George didn't have the patience to consider his twin's unusual demeanour.

"I'm surprised the whole team doesn't know already. I'd have thought Harry and Ron would've told them all by now," George shot back bitterly.

"They didn't tell anyone because I told them not to," Fred replied evenly. There was a faint rustle as he perched on the bench beside him, but George kept his eyes firmly on the floor. "Please, let's not fight like this. We're on the same side."

That shut George up; guiltily he recalled a distant conversation in the common room, and a promise. Fred was doing everything he could; and even frustrated as he was, it wasn't exactly fair to snap at him. George hung his head with a long-suffering sigh.

"Sorry."

"Truce, then?" said Fred jovially; George cracked a weak smile at his attempt to lighten the mood. "Good. Now, if you'd have cared to listen to me, we're not even working with the Bludgers tonight. So let's go out there and play for now, and worry about that little bother some other time. We've got until February, all right?"

George nodded, reluctant; but as much as he hated to admit it, there wasn't much else he could do in his current predicament. Giving up now would only alert the whole school to his little problem; compared to that, Quidditch was the lesser of two evils. He swallowed hard and leaned forward, pressing his hands to his forehead as he mustered himself for what lay ahead.

After a long moment like that in silence, Fred sighed; then he shifted forward in a rustle of cloak, and his fingers combed gently through George's bangs; the younger twin froze, a bit puzzled by this display.

"Just ... be careful, all right?" Fred said gruffly, and for a moment George could see through his cool composure: Fred really was worried about him. This wasn't a game anymore; they had both realized that now. Flying blind ... George swallowed hard. Anything could happen.

"I think I have to do this, Fred," he mumbled, hoping to reassure them both with the words. Idly he wondered what had changed his mind; but even if his heart was pounding a mile a minute, he couldn't stand to have Fred so scared. Because Fred was never scared: not of pulling a dangerous prank, not of their Mum's wrath, not of anything. George went on, his voice hesitant. "I have to show that I – I can get back up there, after what happened. I can't let anyone find out."

Fred exhaled shakily. "God, Georgie, you have no idea how you scared me back there ... This is all my fault, I took out the Bludger, I thought..." George shook his head, cutting him off.

"But I accepted," he pointed out, his voice steady now with focus; he reached out, touching a hand to Fred's arm. "That makes me responsible for – for whatever happens." He stumbled slightly on those last words, wondering if he would regret them. To cover it up, George bent to retrieve his bat.

"All right." Fred took a deep breath. "Let's play Quidditch!" he finished in forced cheerfulness as, shouldering their brooms and bats, they headed out of the change room and into the growing night.

·:·

The Gryffindor team was already up in the air when Fred and George reached the field. Together they mounted and shot off into the air, George carefully tailing the sound of Fred's cloak. Soon a myriad of other sounds assaulted his senses: the team, scattered around him, the faintest movement rippling wind through their robes. Panic rose up in George's throat; what if he couldn't find Fred again in the sea of sound?

"All right!" Angelina was shouting off to his left; George drifted toward her voice, listening closely to try to deduce the others' positions. He was acutely aware of even the faintest rustle or silhouette, and even though the daylight was dying, he could still faintly decipher the shadows around him from the darkness. He swallowed hard; how long, though, would that weak light last?

"Let's start out with a sort of relay," Angelina announced. "We'll pass off the Quaffle leading downfield. The last person will score and then switch to the head of the line. Got it?"

At her command, the team took off, and George, remembering previous such drills, imagined each player adopting their positions a seventh of the way down the pitch. Listening, he thought he could hear them peel off one by one, the whistle of wind dying to a murmur around him; but the sound was too faint to be sure, and a sick feeling rose in his throat.

Fred, where are you? I need...

"All right?" murmured a voice in his ear. George started; it was Harry. The fifth year had been flying alongside him for the last few meters; George could nearly feel his stare boring into his head.

"Yeah..." George said, swallowing hard.

"Er – I'll be right after you," Harry explained, his voice hesitant. "Fred's right before." George nodded, grateful for the cue; Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. "Yeah, you should stay right about there."

George stopped short at his suggestion and heard Harry fly off, only the rustle of his robes breaking the stillness. He focused on the direction he had left in, brow furrowed, knowing he'd have to aim there. Then George made a half-turn away, hoping he was now facing Fred; but over the distance he couldn't hear him.

George clenched his teeth in concentration, sweat beading on his brow. All or nothing, now.

·:·

Down at the goal posts, Angelina started off the Gryffindor chain. She flew forward with the Quaffle under her arm, tossing the ball off to Katie as she drew near. Katie shot away down the field and passed to Alicia. The third Chaser roared in on Fred; he caught the Quaffle and turned.

As he flew up to George he saw his brother tense; Fred bit back his own apprehension and aimed a light, easy throw at his arms – a simple catch for anyone. George fumbled the ball only slightly with numb fingers before twisting around and flying toward Harry. Fred watched with bated breath; this was it.

George paused several feet before Harry, and he hesitated as he lifted the Quaffle, trying to judge the distance by sound alone. A moment later he released the ball, throwing it a bit too high; Harry leaned back and caught the far ball on the tips of his fingers. Fred breathed a long sigh of relief, noting over George's shoulder the same gratitude washing over Harry's pale face.

Not bad, George.

Wheeling about, Harry zoomed toward Ron and tossed him the Quaffle; Ron fumbled it a lot worse than George had, cursing as it nearly slipped through his grip. Normally Fred would have winced and wondered how Ron could possibly be related to them. This time, however, he was thankful for Ron's mess-up, even if he knew it was selfish of him. It would keep the others focused on him instead of George, at least.

"Go score, Ron," Harry told him reassuringly. Beet-red to his ears, Ron swung around the hoops and tossed the ball through.

"Let's keep moving!" ordered Angelina from downfield. "Ron, come down here and let's start again."

At that, Ron hurried across the pitch, and the chain began again. During his turn, George missed his shot on net; he was a bit rattled, but continued nonetheless; to both his and Fred's relief, Angelina made no comment.

After the relay exercise, they all took turns shooting on Ron. From the look on his face, George was glad he couldn't see this; Fred didn't blame him. Between Angelina's cross commentary and the bolstering remarks of his teammates, Ron was not having a very good game. Fred winced as their younger brother hovered around one hoop, leaving the other two defenceless; several times already he'd fumbled and dropped the ball, to their captain's annoyance.

"Honestly, Ron, focus!" Angelina called as George flew toward the goal posts for his turn. Fred wordlessly pressed the ball into his hands, and George gave him a mutter of thanks.

Fred looked on as his brother faced the hoops, his expression tensed with concentration; Ron faced him, hanging over the rightmost hoop. His face was red but there was determination furrowing his brow; he wouldn't make a fool of himself in front of the twins, who had incessantly mocked his Quidditch skills since the beginning of the year.

After a moment George picked a direction – at random it seemed – and threw the Quaffle with all his might. Ron lunged; with a solid thud he caught the ball, grinning slightly as he realized what had happened.

Angelina flew up beside the twins, her voice making George jump: "Finally a catch, Ron, but you really don't have to go after a miss." George turned away, his face burning; Angelina moved off to talk to Katie and Alicia.

"Hey," Fred said quietly, offering a weak grin, "at least you're not a Chaser, you know?"

George didn't answer to that; but as Angelina called them down to the ground in the last feeble glow of sunset, he mumbled, "That's one practice down, at least..."

·:·

The sick feeling had not yet left his stomach by the time the twins retreated to the seventh year dormitory that evening; as they shuffled about, George could still feel the chill lingering in his fingertips; he was shaking, though it wasn't from the cold. George sank down on the edge of his bed, hands over his head, distantly listening to Fred and Lee bustling about the room around him.

"Oi, Lee, have you seen my pants?"

"Why the hell would I have your pants?"

"...Good point. Oi, George, have you –" Fred stopped short; both boys had suddenly gone silent, the air thickly steeped in something like guilt. George didn't answer them; his head pulsed, and in a sudden lurching motion he got to his feet, crossing the room. Fred and Lee's eyes lingered on his back as he shuffled into the washroom, fighting the sick feeling steadily rising up in his throat.

Less than a minute later found him hunched, his head over the toilet, expelling what little he had eaten that day. His throat burned; his eyes stung and he blinked hastily, scrubbing the back of his fist over his jaw.

"George ... are you all right?" Fred's voice, softer this time, came from the doorway; gone was his laughter, now concern underlying his tone. Footsteps slapped against the ceramic floor and then there was an arm around his shoulders, steadying him. Lee's voice in the background requested, nervously, "D'you need the hospital wing?"

"No." Despite his pale countenance, George's roughened voice was firm. "No ... I'm not going back there ... not again..."

Neither of them answered to that statement; George could hear the slightest hitch to his brother's breathing and knew, though he said nothing, Fred was terrified. Goddammit.

Resolute, George closed his eyes and, levering himself against Fred, forced himself to his feet; his head spun a moment and he dragged in a sharp breath; nevertheless he pushed off from his brother's support, feeling along his left for the countertop for balance as he made his halting course toward the door.

"I'm fine..." he rasped after a moment. "Just ... something disagreed with me, most likely. Don't worry about it."

"George, are you -?"

"Yes," George snapped, hating that uncertain note in Fred's voice. In front of him, he heard Lee shuffle out of his path; George hesitated a moment before stepping out into the dormitory, regretting his viciousness a little. With a long sigh, he surrendered.

"Good night, Fred."

Fred echoed him, reluctantly. "G'night George."

His brother didn't concede anything further, only sinking into bed with relief that, at long last, this hellish day was over. He buried his face in his pillow, his neck still prickling as though someone was watching him as the other boys quietly moved about, heading to their own beds. He knew exactly who it was. George lay still a long moment, a helpless, frustrated emotion rising in his throat.

I don't want you to worry about me, Fred. I hate it – I hate knowing you're like this because of me. I hate being just a burden to you. He took a shaky breath, lifting his head enough to listen to the sudden deadened silence of the dormitory, dark around him. He swallowed back the sour taste in his mouth, uttering out a whisper that he knew no one would hear.

"Fred ... I'm sorry."

To be continued...

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