CHAPTER 9
PANSY felt as though her mind was reeling as she tried to process the answer she had just given George, having accepted his invitation. She tried her hardest not to shiver as the admittedly strange sight of Fred Weasley's former childhood home, came into her view. Her eyes widened as she took in the odd sight of the home known as the Burrow. Only the tempered strength of George's hand resting firmly on her shoulder was keeping her from bolting and fleeing the odd scene altogether. She was not admittedly sure what she was expecting that Weasley's home would have looked like, but she was sure that it wasn't, well...this.
It looked as though it had once been a large stone pigpen, but extra rooms had been added here and there until it was several stories high and so crooked it looked as though it was taking an extraordinary feat of magic just to keep it upright.
Four or five chimneys were perched on top of the red roof. A lopsided sign stuck in the ground near the entrance read, THE BURROW. Around the front door lay a jumble of rubber boots and a very rusty cauldron. Several fat brown chickens were pecking their way around the yard, strutting about as though they owned the place. She lifted her gaze and nervously caught sight of Won-Won, Ginny, Hermione, and Harry, all standing on the front porch, awaiting their arrival, all of them with their arms folded across their chests and equal expressions of dread and curiosity plastered all over their expressions like Permanent Sticking Charms.
From the utter shock on old poor Won-Won's stricken face, and the falter in the youngest Weasley brother's step as Ron took a staggering step backward, held only in place by the tempered grip of Hermione Granger as the slender but lovely little witch rested a hand around his waist, kept him too from fleeing the scene, it was clear that Harry hadn't had a chance to tell his best friend of his news.
Pansy grimaced and tried not to let her discomfort show on her face.
"Is that…seriously Parkinson? I thought Harry was doing us over when he said George was letting her stay here with us, having a laugh at our expense, but I guess he was telling us the truth, Hermione," Ginny whisper hissed. George caught Ginny's unmistakable whisper that was more of a shouted gasp as she leaned forward to whisper it to Hermione, who nodded gravely, frowning.
"With….George…" Hermione gasped, sounding shocked.
George ground his teeth together as he felt the anger beginning to well up within him. He expected better of his sister and Granger. His flesh and blood, gawking behind his back, again. It was the same rage that fired in his heart the night that Fred died.
This time, however, it was not shame that burned deep within him, but a fierce sort of pride and protectiveness for Pansy.
How dare his own sister and even Ron act as if the witch he thought he might be beginning to care for was something that they thought he ought to be ashamed of?
"I'm sorry," George apologized to Pansy, the embarrassment the redhaired wizard felt forcing an unwanted blush to his pale face.
Much to his surprise, the light squeeze she gave his arm sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine as she chuckled wryly and shook her head.
"Don't be. You worry too much," Pansy purred. "Do you seriously think I haven't heard those kinds of comments before, from others in our class, in other places, other times?" she asked her supervisor, amused. "They don't bother me, George. Not anymore. It doesn't…." She paused, exhaling a shuddering breath. "It doesn't matter." She lightly brushed her nail along the man's cheek as if she thought that could vanish George's redness that speckled on his face.
George smiled understandingly at her, comforted by the witch's strength, thinking Pansy Parkinson was tough, tougher than anyone, especially his siblings and friends, gave her credit for.
She tried to smile up at him, but it felt strained. She couldn't help but get the distinct impression that George's younger brother and Potter's best mate wanted nothing more than to send her to Hell where she belonged, for real this time. She could see the animosity oozing out of him, saw the steel set of Ron's jaw, and the darkness that was now brimming in the wizard's brown eyes. She sighed and felt her shoulders slump in defeat.
There was a part of Pansy that supposed she couldn't blame Won-Won for how he felt towards her, and the others if they harbored similar feelings. She had not, after all, exactly been kind to them during school, and then there was the apology that she knew she owed Potter for trying to sell him out when the Dark Lord demanded Potter's surrender. In due time, perhaps after dinner, Pansy thought apologetically and blinked herself out of her stunned stupor and came back to herself somewhat, forcing herself to return her attention to the porch and met the gaze of two new arrivals.
Two people whom she could only presume were George's parents, redheads, like the whole lot of them, stood behind Won-Won and Ginny. A man whom she could only presume was George's father straightened his gait as George approached the house's front steps. He was looking at her kindly from the top of the front porch, his gaze washing over Pansy with as little astonishment, as if they had met before, though Pansy could not recall ever meeting Arthur Weasley, though she had heard the wizard's name come up repeatedly in conversation several times from both of her parents.
Pansy quickly realized with a jolt that Potter or someone had already informed George's parents of his intentions to have her stay with them, and they were accepting and approved of this idea, considering the way George's parents were now smiling at her in a way that was beginning to make Pansy feel quite a bit uneasy.
Her gaze nervously flicked towards Mrs. Weasley, her eyes making a quick scan of the slightly short and stout witch in front of her, her flame of red curly hair the first thing that Pansy noticed. Bellatrix's killer, Pansy thought as she bit the wall of her cheek, sure that she must look a fool, staring at the older witch like this, and silently marveling at the seemingly simple witch's abilities.
Mrs. Weasley, as round and dumpy as she was, did not seem the type of formidable witch able to hold her own against the likes of skilled dueler Bellatrix Lestrange, but here Molly Weasley stood, the victor, and Bellatrix's body now rotting six feet underground. She did not look it, but Pansy realized as a pit began to form in her stomach, that George's mum could easily give her one hell of a good fight if she chose to. She was fairly certain the older witch knew of how Pansy had behaved so abominably towards her sons and daughter when they had all attended school together, how couldn't she? Mrs. Weasley's wild and curly red hair framed circled sunken-in brown eyes. Her brow was furrowed with the deep lines of distress.
Pansy could not help but inexplicably feel a wave of guilt and sadness for the matriarch of the Weasley family, realizing that she had likely spent these last several weeks mourning the death of her other son.
She remembered her grief that bordered on close to near hysteria when she'd gotten the news that her parents were personally killed by Lord Voldemort himself. She'd cried for weeks until she was sure that all the tears in her body were forever spent.
She relived the months of powerless and unrelenting misery, regretting the fact that she'd not written to them or tried to contact Mother and Father once, even to apologize and say how sorry she was.
Undoubtedly, Mrs. Weasley looked well acquainted with the same torment.
Nevertheless, the older witch's eyes were kind, and the dimples at the edge of her mouth as she smiled down at Pansy and George as her son and their newest houseguest for the summer came to a sudden stop at the foot of the steps, waiting for one of them to break the awkward silence that now lingered in the air.
Mrs. Weasley parted her lips to speak, though out of the corner of her gaze she thought she saw Ron stiffen and frowned a bit as she cocked her head to the side, sure to face an angry and disparaged son who was unhappy with this new arrangement, being so close to this girl that, for reasons to her and Arthur, were not yet known to them. Hopefully, in time.
As if sensing Ron's sudden and unexpected animosity towards George's newest employee, and perhaps more than that, judging by the way George seemed to hover rather protectively over the girl and did not relinquish his hand from around the witch's shoulder, she wondered at the obvious bond between them as Mrs. Weasley looked towards Ron, frowning at the shift in Ron's countenance.
"Ron, if you could nip upstairs for a moment and ensure the poor dear has fresh quilts laid out on the bed? And won't you be a love and check on the spot of tea I put on? The kettle should be close to boiling?" she asked, her words more of a command than a question.
Ron's face drained off what little color was left in his already pallid complexion as his gaze hardened as he looked from Pansy to his mother, to George, and then back to his mother again, who was currently giving him a look of dagger eyes that almost had him pinned.
Ron seemed to wither and deflate under her withering gaze as Molly rested her hands on her hips and ensured that her gaze was unabashed, unwavering.
"Sure, Mum," he grunted through gritted teeth and motioned with a curt wave of his arm for Harry, Ginny, and Hermione to follow him into the house and back towards the family's kitchen. Ron nodded and backed towards the doorway that led into the house. The young wizard spun on the heels of his shoes, his head the last part of him to turn.
Pansy noticed uncomfortably how Won-Won's posture squared as he strode angrily through the doorway.
She also was quick to take note of the scowling and vengeful expression that flitted across Ron Weasley's face as George's younger brother paused, just long enough to throw Pansy a menacing glower at her over his shoulder.
She squirmed and tried to pretend that she did not notice, her gaze instead drawn towards the girls, towards Granger and Ginny, hoping she'd find an ally in them, at least, if nothing else. Someone else here besides George... A wave of relief washed over her as she could have sworn she saw Weasley and Granger explain sympathetic glances with her, but as soon as the looks had crossed both witches' faces, they were gone, disappeared, having turned on their heels and leaving George to stand alone at the bottom of his home's front porch steps with her, while George's parents looked expectantly down at them, patiently.
George stepped forward and walked carefully up the steps, though he looked reluctant to leave Pansy's side in her injured state for too long.
"Mum, Dad, it's good to see you both, thanks for agreeing to let Pansy stay here, it means the world," he murmured, as his parents could not help but return their son's half-hearted lopsided grin with ones of their own. It was good to see George smiling again, even if said smile was admittedly strained.
Pansy instinctively backed away a few paces. She would let George have his time with his parents. She understood their need.
She stood awkwardly and silently in the background, unable to explain away the sudden peace that was now wallowing in her soul at the touching scene in front of her, strangely enough enjoying watching George interact with his parents, enjoying his happiness.
Mrs. Weasley was the first to pull away, pulling back to study the lovely brunette witch's face that Georgie seemed so captivated by, and what man wouldn't be? Molly thought affectionately.
The witch's face alone was enough to attract an entire army at her side, though she wondered as to the bond between them.
"The Healer's inside, dear, waiting to see you, it's…Pansy…?" she asked, flicking her gaze back to George, who quietly nodded, trying to remember what little information Harry had relayed to her and Arthur not even five minutes ago when he had startled them both in the kitchen by Apparating directly behind Mrs. Weasley as she'd been in the middle of preparing dinner.
Only when Pansy shyly nodded, too timid to respond, did Molly continue speaking to her directly.
"You are welcome to stay here as long as you like, dear. I'll not see a young woman turned away, not when she's the primary target for the likes of men like Lestrange," an ugly scowl flickered to life across her features, but as soon as it had come, it was gone, replaced once more by her kind smile. "You can kip in George's old bedroom for now. It will be cramped, but it should keep you plenty warm, and George sent Hermione ahead to fetch your painting supplies from your flat, dearie. We'll do whatever we can to ensure you're comfortable here with us, Luv," she announced.
Pansy felt the blood drain from her face as she looked up at George with shock and awe now brimming in her dark brown eyes.
The pleasant surprise on his employee's face and the delighted smile that she almost did not allow herself to show that Pansy Parkinson now graced George with was one he would cherish.
"I…" Her voice trailed off as she struggled to get the word thanks out of her mouth, and felt her breaths merely catch in her throat. Finally, she summoned enough strength on her throat to manage an answer. She was touched by George's parents' generosity and silently vowed to herself that she would not be an imposition to them while she was a guest here. "I...you...you've already done that," she managed to gasp out in a raspy-sounding croak. Her throat still hurt from how much screaming she had done, and it was a chore just to force the words from her lips. But she carried on. George's parents needed to understand how grateful she was. "Thank you, mum, for everything. I…if there's anything that I can do to repay you, please let me know. I don't feel comfortable taking advantage of your kindness, Mrs. Weasley. I want to help you around the house if you will let me," she offered.
Pansy could tell by the way Mrs. Weasley immediately shook her head no, refusing Pansy's offer to help with any of the chores, that the older woman's pride was not going to be so easily overcome.
"Oh, don't you worry about a thing, dearie. We will be just fine," Mrs. Weasley assured them, smiling bravely but not so believably, for Pansy's comfort, as she rose a brow at her in surprise. She noticed the sun was already beginning to set and the temperature was growing colder, even during spring as it was. "I've made up a spot of dinner if you're hungry. Dinner in an hour." She turned towards Mr. Weasley. "Arthur, I could use your help in the kitchen, dear."
Her husband exchanged a glance with his son and the witch he seemed so taken by, looking as though he wanted to ask a question, but one withering look from his wife quickly convinced him now was not the time. Mr. Weasley offered a nod and obediently went inside without complaint.
"May I help you? I could...set the table or put ice in the glasses?" Pansy asked, a little too eagerly in the hopes that her offer to help would be accepted by George's mum and chewed anxiously on her bottom lip, awaiting Mrs. Weasley's answer.
Much to Pansy's disappointment, Mrs. Weasley shook her head, picking at a thread that was coming loose on the sleeve of her sweater she wore over the top of her floral-patterned yellow housedress for warmth.
"No, no, no, dearie, I won't hear of it. Please, rest, and get settled in. Healer Jones from St. Mungo's is waiting for you upstairs," Molly said sadly.
Feeling some small measure of relief, George offered a curt nod and without waiting to be asked, took Pansy by the arm and began to guide her up the front steps of the Burrow, trying to be gentle with the witch, yet his strides were quick and urgent.
It was clear that he was eager to see that she received medical care as quickly as possible, though Pansy could not help but feel somewhat perturbed by George's boldness. She gingerly shrugged out of his arm and swallowed a lump in her throat as she took note of the brief shadow of anger that flitted across George's angular features as she made to follow Mrs. Weasley inside.
"I can take myself, George, thank you though. You're…you're sweet to offer," she remarked, hoping that her hint would be taken, though she frowned as she cast an apprehensive glance up towards the massive stairwell in front of her. "Is this necessary?" she squeaked, speaking of the Healer.
"Yes, it is, Parkinson," George answered firmly in an uncharacteristically harsh tone that, for a second, reminded her almost of Draco whenever her ex would get himself in one hell of a right foul mood, that suggested this topic was not up for debate. "Just to make sure everything is alright. Come on, Mum said the Healer's waiting for us upstairs, Pansy."
He gave another gentle tug on her uninjured arm and began to lead her up the stairs, not letting Pansy even have a moment to look around to take in her new surroundings, the place that was, for now, at least, to be her temporary home.
Pansy had barely taken one step forward when she suddenly felt the world around her begin to spin. She was unsure if it was relief that she felt…safe here, in George's family's home, knowing that the likes of Dolohov and Rookwood could not touch her here, or the hurt and fatigue that still ravaged her body, the aftermath of Antonin Dolohov's assault on her. The world around her grew dark, and she was falling.
Before the spots that gathered at the edges of her eyes could threaten to blind her completely, her body came to rest on the floor, and she felt George's strong arm around her small waist, helping her to sit up. George studied Pansy with a worried frown.
"What's wrong?" He turned her slowly in his arms, so she was facing him, his concern for the beautiful witch overpowering anything else at the moment. Pansy slowly but surely came back to herself a bit and tried her best to put on a brave face, though she felt anything but brave.
"I—I'm just it's just…whatever that wanker Dolohov did to me, the...the aftereffects of his little interrogation," she told him, though she was anything but sure about her self-diagnosis and thought that the Healer upstairs would know better than she would, considering the man had proper qualifications.
He nodded, his expression as grim as a grave. "I don't want to take any chances. Come on, the sooner the Healer can take a look at you, the better off you'll be," he murmured, unable to keep the edge out of his normally quiet and subdued voice that had not been there before, though as she rose to her feet, using the banister of the stairs to serve as something of a support brace, an icy chill ran its way up and down her spine, eliciting a rather violent shudder from Pansy.
She felt as though a Dementor were nearby, everything was laced with the biting feeling of cold. But what was wrong with her?!
"George, I don't think I can keep going—" She felt dizzy, so dizzy. The step she was standing albeit rather shakily on began to feel unsteady beneath her feet and her legs went to jelly beneath her, as though someone had just jinxed her with a Jelly Legs Hex. She couldn't maintain her balance. Pansy raised a shaking hand to her bruised brow, wincing as she felt the beads of sweat now glittering along her scalp and dripping their way down the slope of her temple. Something wasn't right. She felt so fucking hot, too hot.
"Pan—" She could see George's lips move but couldn't hear his voice.
There was a horrible, fatigued ringing in her ears and her stomach heaved a pressure she was so unfamiliar with. Black spots started dancing in her vision, threatening to blind her if she couldn't get a hold of herself. Her body lacked the strength to support her weight anymore and her knees buckled before she could shoot out an arm to brace herself against the stairwell's banister to stop her fall.
She pitched forward and collapsed in a heap, her breaths coming to her fast and hard. She couldn't get in a good breath. The last thing she saw before her world went black was George, kneeling over her and lifting her off the floor, talking to her, though she could not make out a word of what was being said. Still, it looked like he was trying to speak her name. She wished she could hear him.
Then, she slipped into sleep.
GEORGE, with an alarming speed, that he did not even know he possessed within himself, rushed forward just as the brunette witch swayed precariously and collapsed into a heap hard on the floor in front of the stairwell. He did not look up, gathering Pansy in his arms as he stood.
He was hardly aware of Mum coming up behind him, having heard the witch's name ripped from her son's lips with such urgency, Molly had come running out of the kitchen, leaving Arthur and Ginny to look after the pot of onion soup that was now cooking on the cooker, and pursed her lips once she took in the sight of the young witch now held bridal style in his arms. Forgetting his mum completely, George wasted no time in carrying the now-unconscious witch in his arms upstairs and to the third bedroom on the left that had been his and Freddie's when they'd lived here.
A heavy and rather painful pang wormed its way into his tightening chest as he stepped into his now old haunt of a bedroom, a place he'd not been able to bring himself to enter into following Fred's death, and now, he had no choice. His eyes made a quick scan of the bedroom until he found the capable genius he sought, Kevin Jones, a Healer from St. Mungo's, and a rather good friend of Dad's.
"Jones!" George pleaded, urgency in his tone.
Inside the room, it was almost exactly as he remembered, save for the smell of gunpowder was gone. Mum must have opened the windows and let it air out when we moved out, he thought, and as soon as the inappropriate thought flitted through his mind, he angrily shook his head to himself and dismissed it, as the St. Mungo's Healer motioned with a wide flourish of his arm for George to set Pansy down on the cot. He silently nodded his head in appreciation of the experienced Healer's presence and laid her gently on the bed, hoping that a softer surface would help her.
Once he had her situated and a thick quilt covered in patchwork textiles draped over her unresponsive form, George's emotions began to catch up to him. He was still reeling from everything that had happened. He perched himself on the edge of the cot and made a noise of dissent through his nose. He had no bloody idea what to do for her, how to help Pansy. George felt as though his mind were drawing a blank. Panic swiftly rose in the back of his throat, tightening it in a painful struggle, forcing him to swallow down all the bile that had crept its way up.
"George, dear, you need to stay calm." His mother's voice sounded distant and far away, yet there was a hint of steel that had seeped its way unbidden to the surface of Mum's voice that told him he had to listen.
But George couldn't bring himself to tear his gaze away from Pansy Parkinson's now ashen face that was tinged with a sickly greyish hue that he did not like. A wave of guilt and fear wracked his body as he looked down at the still and unmoving witch's form.
This was the first time he had admittedly seen Pansy Parkinson look so vulnerable and fragile, broken even, since finding her buried beneath the rubble of the Courtyard. It seemed so long ago now. He frowned, his breaths catching in his throat as his gaze lingered on the nasty black eye she now sported, and likely would for a few weeks as it healed.
No amount of makeup was going to cover that up when she went back to work in a couple of days. George made the quick decision then and there that she would be taking the next few days off to recover while her arm mended, and it would give time for her bruises to settle down until they were mere blemishes. She looked as though with just one touch, and she would shatter into a thousand fragmented pieces. The bruises that littered along her collarbone and face from where Dolohov had assaulted her stood out against her pale skin. Both wounds she had received because she'd been too prideful to call for help to come. He knew he should have escorted her back upstairs and seen her safely inside once their workday had ended.
The split second of realization that she had willingly put herself in harm's way…for him, not wanting to get him involved if he had to hazard a guess, hit him hard and fast, squarely in the chest, as though hit by a Knockback Jinx.
The sickening sight of seeing Pansy's body motionless on the floor of her room in her flat, Dolohov towering over her with a sickeningly twisted smirk on the man's pallid face. How she had fainted just now from an unknown cause. The events of just this one day alone swirled in George's memory, torturing him the longer he looked at her, unable to lift a finger to try to help the Healer.
Why wasn't he helping her or even moving at all?!
Mrs. Weasley knelt on the other side of the bed, resting a firm hand on Pansy's clammy forehead.
She began to feel the witch's arms as well, looking for any obvious telltale signs of moisture or a fever. When she'd finished her initial examination, she sighed relief and raised her head to meet her son's panic-stricken and pale face.
"George, dear, please listen to me," Mrs. Weasley coaxed, desperately trying to get her son's attention. It was easier said than done as George had still not reacted to her presence. He barely seemed to take notice of her or the Healer alongside them in the room who was standing at the base of the bed, patiently waiting with his hands folded neatly in front of him, staying still.
Nevertheless, she continued to try to reach him.
"Miss Parkinson is fine, Georgie. Do you understand what I'm telling you, Luv? She is fine."
With a horrible, painstaking slowness, Molly grimaced as her young son raised his eyes to her, finally seeming to take notice of her presence in the room alongside him since the poor thing had fainted.
In the dim light of Fred and George's bedroom, Mrs. Weasley could see just how much color he too had lost, in addition to the poor girl now resting in Fred's old bed. This little fainting spell of hers had shaken George to his core, she knew.
"Mum, h-how is this fine?!" he shouted, his tone more of a harsh bark. His words came out sharper than he meant it to, and Molly flinched away from her son in both hurt and surprise at his voice's curtness.
She quickly hardened her expression in response to George's uncharacteristic aggression which suggested to her an obvious bond that was forming between him and this young lass, whether or not he was aware of it.
She replied in a clipped tone, "Because I don't believe her health is in any danger, dear. She fainted because her body has been through a great ordeal. Hopefully, she'll wake up in an hour or two just fine."
George blinked owlishly at his mother, hardly daring to believe the words that came from her lips.
Stress? Stress had caused this to happen to Pansy. George sharply returned his attention to the witch now resting on top of Fred's old mattress. Already, it seemed, he was pleased to see, some of her normal colors had returned. Her skin now held a slightly healthier sheen to it. Even her breathing was beginning to regulate again to something that more resembled normalcy. George hesitantly reached out to grasp her left hand in his, truly in awe of how small and delicate Pansy Parkinson's hands were.
Pale, perfect slender fingers that were manicured. An artist's hands, the hands of a painter.
Her hand, even fully splayed out like it was right now, was still no bigger than his palm. He marveled at how fast both of their lives were changing, how she'd said yes to his invitation to dinner, and hoped her answer still stood when she woke up. Nothing was simple anymore now that he had asked her out, and nothing would be going forward if anything was to come off their future date.
"Thanks, Mum," George heard himself whisper in a hoarse, reedy-sounding voice across the room to his mum as Mrs. Weasley offered her son a curt nod by way of response and began to head towards the door.
"You're welcome, Luv." Mrs. Weasley's previously hardened expression softened somewhat as she looked over at the quite pretty brunette witch who now gave off the appearance to be sleeping peacefully. "She is something, dear, isn't she? I've never known a witch her age to stand up to someone like Antonin Dolohov and come away relatively unscathed. You must be becoming very special to her, George," she said, smiling at her son sadly as George's head came up sharply, thoroughly astonished by Molly's kind words.
Mrs. Weasley almost shook her head to herself in bemusement, watching Healer Jones, a friend of Arthur's began his examination of the young Parkinson witch while she remained unconscious, or attempted to, was perhaps a better way to phrase it.
As the exploration of the witch's body progressed, it was clear that George didn't share his mother's quiet sense of understanding that this had to be done. Every motion the St. Mungo's Healer attempted to make in Pansy Parkinson's direction was met with vehement opposition or interrogation from George. In his nervousness, he peered at Jones' patient over the man's shoulder, answering his questions for Pansy as she was not yet awake.
At last, taking the spot by Pansy's left side, he reached for the witch's uninjured hand and squeezed it tightly, protesting loudly when the young Healer began to move his hands underneath the witch's shirt, pressing on her skin, feeling for any abrasions or internal injuries, broken bones, ruptured ribs, etc. George could only find peace when Mrs. Weasley quietly assured her flustered son the Healer's actions were a necessary evil and wouldn't hurt her further. Frustrated, the Healer lifted his head and shot an exasperated look towards both George and Molly.
"Perhaps, Mrs. Weasley, it would be best if your son waits outside until I've finished my examination?" The older wizard offered to them both, quite sternly.
Mrs. Weasley presented no argument but instead, steeled herself for her son's outburst as he was going to oppose the idea of leaving the witch's bedside. George gave his mother a shocked look, feeling sure that Mum would object to his forceful removal from the room.
However, Mum's creased brows and her shoulders shrugging at the logic of the Healer's suggestion caused him to realize that his tension, even in her unconsciousness, was troubling Pansy and making it difficult for the witch to relax. Her body even in sleep, had tensed considerably, rendering it that much harder for the Healer to perform his initial assessment of Pansy's wounds. George's face fell, crestfallen, but he reluctantly accepted the veiled demand, wanting only to see his newest employee made as comfortable as possible.
"Fine," he huffed dejectedly, rising from the bed. "If you think it would be better for her, Jones, then I'll leave, for now," he grunted, looking hopefully towards the Healer, but instead only found a look of resigned agreement in the older wizard's stance. Quite honestly, the man was trying to hide his relief that the more intimate aspects of his examination would not need to be performed under the watchful eye of the young witch's lover.
It was obvious to Jones by the way the Weasley boy fretted over her, they were obviously a couple.
George turned his head in the direction of his mum's voice as Mrs. Weasley tried to reassure him.
"I'm sure it won't take long, dear. Why don't you come downstairs? She's bound to be hungry when she wakes up, have a spot of dinner while Jones works. You can see her later when she wakes up. I'll send you up with a plate of something for her to eat. We're having onion soup tonight. It'll be just the thing to settle her stomach, Luv, right as rain. Come along, dear. We need to allow the Healer to work." Mrs. Weasley's tone held an appeasing apology as she gingerly opened the bedroom door and motioned for her son to follow her outside as he rose to his feet.
He frowned, reluctant to leave Pansy's side, and turned towards the Healer, furrowing his brows.
"You'll call for me if you need me?" he asked.
"Yes, yes, Mr. Weasley, rest assured, you'll be the first to know, lad, if there are any instances," Healer Jones quickly agreed, beginning to shove George towards the door, eager to have him leave the room.
"Instances?" George spluttered through a mouth that had suddenly gone bone dry, trying to turn in his tracks the moment he thought he saw Pansy shift.
He froze, his movements halted, his eyes grow wide as Pansy stirred in her sleep yet didn't wake up.
She murmured something, too softly at first for George to make out what was being said. But then, he heard it.
"Ngh…George…." He was sure his eyes threatened to bug right out of their sockets at hearing the witch speak his name, and with such tenderness, the likes of which he'd only ever heard her talk this way a couple of times, and usually only to Draco, the git. George inexplicably felt his heart flutter at hearing the witch's soft, shy voice say his name.
Before the stubborn Healer could stop him, he darted forward and knelt into a slight crouch at her bedside, giving the witch's hand a gentle squeeze, as if to convey to her even in her state of semi-consciousness that she was safe, and he was right here where he was sitting, that he wasn't anywhere else.
"Don't…leave…Stay…." He heard Pansy plead. George nearly felt his right stop right there on the spot at the sheer amount of fear in Pansy's voice. She was scared that he would leave her side. That he was going to just up and abandon her to whatever horrors were waiting for her beneath the realm of her sleep. He didn't know what to do with the fact that Pansy had asked him to stay, though she was fast asleep. Which, now that he had a moment to think about it, he'd never seen her asleep like this before.
She looked….beautiful. Now that a little color was returning to her complexion, she was slowly but surely no longer under the effects of immense stress. She looked calm, at peace, for perhaps the first time in her life, and he aimed to keep his promise to Pansy, that he wasn't going to leave her side until she woke. He'd be here when she opened her eyes, for her.
"Don't worry, Pan," he whispered, a tiny smile snaking its way across his face, tugging his lips up as he carefully leaned over and whispered his words softly to the witch in the shell of her right ear. "I'm right here where I'm sitting. I'm not anywhere else. I'm not going to leave you. I'll be here when you wake up. I'll bring you something to eat. You're going to be alright, Pan. I promise. I…I swear it," he promised.
He wanted to stay longer, though he was once again ushered towards the bedroom door by Jones, with the St. Mungo's Healer now effectively blocking his momentum back to Pansy's bedside and reached for the small brass knob of the door.
"Don't worry, kid," the older wizard smiled at him reassuringly. "Everything's going to be alright, she'll be right as rain in about an hour or so, you'll see, I'm going to do my very best for her. I've not lost a patient under my care yet, and I don't intend to start now," he affirmed, as the wizard nearly shoved George through the open door and firmly closed the bedroom door shut behind him.
Suddenly alone in the hall with just Mum by his side, the silence threatened to engulf him whole.
He tried to tell himself whatever perverted indignity Parkinson was currently being subjected to in his old bedroom was a necessary evil, like Mum said, to ensure she was alright, but that didn't mean he had to like it. His mother sensed George's distress.
"Supper's nearly ready, George," she crooned, hoping to coax her son downstairs to eat a small something, not liking how peaky and pale her son was looking now. Molly offered George a grim stare and pursed her lips, clamping a hand down on the young wizard's shoulder and beginning to effectively steer him towards the stairs. "Come along, Luv. Nothing's going to be solved yet anyway, as I said, we need to let Healer Jones work in quiet. Come eat. You can bring her a plate in a bit."
George frowned, but nodded, recognizing that his mum, Merlin bless her, was right.
George reluctantly allowed his mother to lead him down the stairs and away from Pansy, already feeling the loneliness burgeoning in his heart at being away from her.