[Hey guys, it's me again. Just wanted to tell you guys all thanks for getting me back on track with this thing with your ranting reviews, lol. Seriously, I don't think I'd ever finish this story if you didn't yell at me once in a while, so thanks a lot :3 Now, back to the story

By the time George was dragged by the same two nurses back to his room and plopped down on his bed, he had divulged every secret he ever had to her, including he and his brother's escapades at Hogwarts, his feelings for Autumn, and the story behind Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. He didn't think there was anything left to tell her.

George sighed, letting his head fall down onto his pillow while he rubbed the red indents left in his skin from the chains. He didn't know how long he was in that room listening to that woman. There wasn't a clock anywhere in his room, and by the looks of it, the sky was never going to change.

George turned over on his bed to see Roger lying on his bed with his eyes half open. He was breathing normally instead of the slow, heavy way one did when they were sleeping, but he was so still, you could easily pass right by him not knowing he was awake.

Roger was the first to talk. "So how was it?" he asked, not even bothering to look at George.

George turned over again so he was facing the ceiling. "Like hell, that's how."

George heard Roger shift in his bed. "Yeah, the only time that's worse than the first is the second, but that's because you already know what's coming. After that, you decide that you just have to get used to it."

George sighed. "So what do I have to look forward to tomorrow?" he asked gruffly.

"Well…" Roger began, pondering. "There's tonight to start with. It's like hell trying to get some shut-eye. Especially with the neighbors, but you'll figure that out later. Then, when you do fall asleep, it's pretty restless, and everyone usually wakes up sometime in the middle of the night. Most people scream for at least their first week here. After that it just turns into these horrible sobs and moans."

A violent shiver ran down George's spine. "Is this what my life is coming to?" he thought fearfully.

"As for tomorrow…" Roger continued. "Tomorrow you usually wake up when they start the sessions for the altophobiacs, so the screaming, if anything will most likely wake you up. It's damn twisted too, the way they scream. You'd think they were getting murdered. After they've gone back to their rooms, it's pretty peaceful. Then they come to breakfast and serve you this weird potion, and start asking you questions about how you've slept, your dreams, and whatever else they can think of. I'm pretty sure they slip veritaserum into your food too. Some people get so hungry and thirsty that they can't help but eat what little they bring you, so it's useless to just ignore it." Roger drew his knees up to his chest and buried his head in them. "It's useless trying to rebel to anything they do here. There's no way out. Besides, it's easier when you just behave and do as you're told. They don't give you so much grief for it."

Roger suddenly grew quiet. The soft creaking told George that he must be rocking on his bed again. All of it frightened George. He didn't want to be stuck in this place for the rest of his life, never able to see his family and friends again, never able to taste his mum's home cooking, and never able to see the sun shine. His shop was going to collect dust in the corner of Diagon Alley until someone else bought the property, and all the work that he and Fred had done over the years would mean nothing.

"So much for your end of the bargain."

The shrill shriek of a woman next door reached his ears, echoing through the otherwise quiet room, followed by a desperate shout from a further distance calling "GET ME OUT OF HERE!"

"Good night, George." Roger said, rolling over so his back faced George.

"G'night, Roger." He grumbled, throwing his covers over his head and curling up into a ball. It was going to be a long night.

George wasn't surprised when he woke up only to find himself engulfed once again by the dead trees and stagnant air of his own recurring nightmare. He had found himself as he was the night before he was sent to the asylum: leaning against a dead tree with nothing but a tatty old pair of jeans on and his hair looking as if he had just gotten out of bed.

There was something different about the dream this time; something dark and foreboding. The trees were closer together, and seemed to lean in towards the tree where George sat under. In addition, everything was darker, and in the distance, the woods were hazed out by a mild fog.

George stood up slowly whilst spinning his head in all directions, puzzled. He didn't know what he was supposed to do. He wasn't up to walking around in endless circles again, and he didn't have anything that seemed to be chasing him, so what point was there to him being here?

He sighed, leaning against the tree, the rough bark scraping his back. Irritated, he stripped a piece of bark from the tree and began to pick at it, scratching dusty dirt from between the crevices until the tips of his fingernails were black with filth. He didn't know what this place was or whether or not there was a point to the dream, but he was just going to ignore it. Besides, what was the point of combing his mind for answers? What was the point of anything? In a matter of moments, he would wake up to find himself in his bed at the asylum with nothing but a cold sweat and the desperate screams of his fellow "patients" filling his ears,

Then something dawned on him, something that made him wish he could stay in this dream forever rather than wake up to that wretched asylum. This was it. He had reached the end of his rope. Now that he was going to be stuck in this asylum for all eternity, he had no other purpose in life. He was just another person to be forgotten as time passed. The human mind is like a sieve, so it wouldn't take very long for his friends and family to all just move on and forget he ever existed. What was the point anymore? What was driving him?

George's thoughts automatically turned to Autumn, and the look in her eyes that day at Fortescue's , still burning clearly in his memory. He still cared about her, she had given him hope. However, he had thrown it all away. If he would've just moved on and forgot about Fred, then none of this would be happening, and he would sleeping in his soft, warm bed on the second floor of his store instead of this small, empty room hanging over the dark churning waters trapping him in this god damned asylum. All he could ask himself was "what's the point?"

George threw the shred of bark angrily at an adjacent tree, watching it crumble into dust and descend slowly to the ground.

"Ashes to ashes and dust to dust…"

Why even try anymore? He might as well just give up…

A shrill scream reached George's ears, waking him abruptly from his slumber. His eyelids flew open as his body snapped upright. "Bloody hell!" he exclaimed, his heartbeat racing.

George turned to see Roger sitting in the dead corner of his bed that occupied the corner of the room, his knees drawn up to his chest, rocking. "Morning, George." He muttered as another high-pitched scream echoed through the room.

George remembered Roger's comment last night about the altophobiac treatments, and fell backwards onto his pillow. It was one hell of a wake-up call.

"It's easier if you wake up a little bit beforehand." Roger called over another scream. "You don't have to worry about jumping out of your skin when they start yelling."

George winced at the pleading shouts of a man yelling something along the lines of "Please don't make me!"

"Is it like this every morning?" George shouted to Roger.

Roger nodded. "You'll get used to it!" he yelled back.

George rubbed his eyes roughly, irritated. He bloody well wasn't going to be getting any sleep now, so he might as well get out of bed and change out of the clothes in he came in with. With an angry groan, George jumped out of bed, stomping over to the trunk at the end of his bed to pull out his white "uniform." He flew open the lid and pulled the neatly folded shirt and pants out before slamming it shut again.

His ears seared with pain as an especially loud shriek reverberated through the room. He dropped his clothes and clapped his hands to his ears. Even Roger slammed his fists to the side of his head in an attempt to save his eardrums. George found it hard to imagine what the hell they were doing to those people out there.

During a brief pause between screams and sobs, George managed to pull off his shirt and pants, replace them with the white clothes from his trunk, and throw them in a corner before falling down on his bed and bracing himself for the next scream. What kind of bloody asylum were they running here?

The screaming died away after about an hour of torturous shrieks. George didn't uncover his ears until he was sure the patients had left for good. Once he had confirmed their leave, he yanked his bed covers over his head angrily with a loud "ugh!"

"It's ok George." Roger said, not moving from his spot in the corner. "By next week, it will all be routine for you. It will just be the part of the day, sort of like the sun rising every morning. You just let it happen."

George sighed heavily. "How do you deal with it all Roger?" he asked. "How can you stand doing nothing but sitting in this empty room with nothing to do but sit and wait to be dragged down to that stupid psychiatrist to get your brain dissected every single day?"

"It's not all that bad." Roger said. "It just takes some getting used to."

George peeked out from under his covers. "How did you break your arm?" he asked gruffly.

Roger looked down at his cast and began cradling his arm gingerly. "Like I said, it just takes some getting used to." He gave an incredibly weak smile.

George rolled over to face the wall. "How much getting used to will I be able to take?" he thought grimly to himself.