It wasn't odd that George couldn't remember how he had come to be unconscious in the first place, for more often than not, it was a godsend when his memory failed him, but something about it this time was out of place. Dangerously so. He felt tired, true, but he very often did when regaining consciousness after a torture session. And yet, none of the requisite pain was coursing through his body. And there had been a dream; he knew that, but could remember nothing of it. Only that it had seemed real and pleasant. Freeing. Yes, that was it. It had been some time since he'd had one of those dreams. Perhaps he was still in one? And yet he heard voices, whispers around him, as though he was dreaming, but awake at the same time.

Reality shoved itself to the forefront of his brain. Wherever he was, he was not in his cell. The sounds were too foreign. The air too warm. It was a change, and as George knew all too well, changes were bad. They were worse than bad. They usually meant screaming and scars and willing yourself not to beg for death.

Suddenly, his body became very heavy, weighing him down until he dropped heavily, and feeling seeped back into his limbs. Pain, but duller. That familiarity returned to him, blithely reminding him that once again he was not dead, and if he wanted to stay that way, he had to fight.

Instinct fisted his hands, attempting to pull them up for protection, but they could not be moved more than a few inches. Panicked, he struggled, attempting to raise himself, to fight off whoever held him. He heard shouts, and an alarm raised. Hands grabbed at him, but all attempts to pull away, to escape were eluded by those restraints. His struggle brought on more pain, in his arms, his legs, his face. Everything hurt. The voices grew louder in his ears.

"He's waking!"

"No, he's done this before. Why do you think they have him tied down?"

"I swear, I saw his eyes fluttering!"

Tied down? Bad bad bad. His struggle increased, but he was held fast. He tried to cry out, but his protests came out as whispered sobs.

"N-no… no… no!"

"There! See?"

"George? George, settle down. You're going to hurt yourself."

"Open your eyes, George. It's Fred and Ron. Open your eyes and see."

George clenched his eyes shut. He could not do this again. He had already watched his brother killed within the cell with him. Why would they try it again? But even knowing it wasn't real, he couldn't do that again. Not with Fred again. And not with Ron.

"Ron, go get the Healer!"

Footsteps pounded. A door was thrown open. Someone pressed his arm.

"Come on, George. Open your eyes."

"N-not ag-gain. P-please. Not again. "

"George," Fred's voice, sounding strained, said. "Please, I swear to you, you're safe. You're in a hospital." There was a human quality in Fred's voice that hadn't been there before. An emotion. "Just open your eyes and look. You're safe. I swear, you're safe." A hand wrapped around his, and George felt calmed a little, like he often did when Draco woke him, shaking him gently to avoid irritating any injuries, but sometimes George had imagined it was one of his brothers shaking him awake.

Could it be real this time?

Slowly, George dared to open his eyes, but found the light was too much for someone who had been in darkness for- how long?

"B-bright."

The orange light seeping through his eyelids suddenly extinguished and George was able to open his eyes a bit. He found himself looking into a pair of eyes identical to his own. The last time he had done this, looked into his twin brother's eyes, they had been dead and dull, staring aimlessly into the darkness. But now, George had no control over the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. His throat felt like it was closing, and for once, no one had their hand over it.

"F-f-f-." Dammit. Between the stutter and the emotion, he couldn't say it. George tried to wipe the tears running down his face, but realized his hands were still strapped down. He pulled at them helplessly, but they held tight.

Fred's eyes, however, seemed to be drawn to his plight.

"I can't unstrap you," he said sadly, averting his eyes from George's. "I know you hate it. I know it probably scares you, but I can't. It's for your own good."

"F-fred?"

Something seemed to break in Fred at this one word. Tears streamed down his face and his voice cracked as he wrapped an arm across the front of George's shoulders in an attempt at a hug.

"I swear, George, you're safe here. I won't let anything happen to you again. I swear. I swear."

George closed his eyes, allowing the words to sink in. He was safe. He was really out of that dungeon and in St. Mungo's, safe with his brother. Slowly, a memory faded back into his brain.

"You know, you freak me out when you're all quiet like that. You make me think you're dead."

Vials and vials had been laid out before him, each to be poured down his throat. "I-if I d-d-die," he took a deep, calming breath, "I'm free."

He was free. All those times he had he had thought he would die. All those times he had contemplated, had wished for…

How close?

"George Weasley?"

George opened his eyes again, staring at a light blue blob over Fred's shoulder through tear-filled eyes.

"Y-yeah?"

"I am Healer Parsons. I was the attending Healer when you were brought in and…"

His words began to melt together, his figure to become fuzzy. George couldn't keep his eyes open. Exhaustion forced them fluttering closed. The voice was farther away, and then George heard it no more.

When George once again became aware he was no longer dreaming, he felt calmer. The pains in his body were numb and he had vague memories of talking to Fred and being in a hospital. Was that right? Had Draco succeeded in his escape?

He opened his eyes tentatively, in case the room was again filled with light, but found it dim, and much more comfortable on his eyes. He saw several shapes in the room, and after a moment, was able to recognize who they were. Fred sat directly next to the bed, his body facing George, but his head turned toward the foot of the bed, listening to Ron, who was leaning against the wall, his mouth moving, though George couldn't quite make out what he was saying. Ginny and Bill were in the room as well, sitting in folding chairs, and seemingly talking to one another.

He closed his eyes wearily, and when he again opened them, found that Ginny was watching him from where she sat. Her eyes widened, and a grin spread across her lips.

"George!" The heads of his brothers whipped around, Fred half rose out of his seat so he was practically hovering over the bed, and a black haired figure popped up from the floor directly to George's right where, he realized, Harry had been sitting on the floor, probably against the wall.

Before Fred could say anything, Ginny had barreled forward, practically throwing herself on George, reminding him exactly what kind of pain he should have been feeling. It was Ron who pulled the youngest Weasley off of him, seeing the look of pain stamped on his brother's face.

"Careful, Gin."

"Oh, George, I'm so sorry! I've just been so worried!"

"George, do you know where you are?" Fred sounded worried as he asked the question, and George wondered why as he answered.

"H-h-hosp-pital."

"Yeah. You're in St. Mungo's." He was smiling, but as George looked around the room, he realized that not everyone else was. Harry, Bill, and Ron looked sad, but Ginny- Ginny looked as though she was going to cry. He focused back on Fred.

"H-h-how l-long?" he asked, frowning at the weakness in his own voice and lack of energy in his limbs as he tried again to move his arms, but found them struggling weakly against his bonds.

"You've been in and out for a couple of days now," Fred answered, his fingers working at the buckles of the leather straps holding his brother down. "Last night was the closest you've been to coherent."

George pulled his arms to his chest, now that Fred had them freed, and rubbed his hands over them. He winced as his fingers touched a sore spot on his right shoulder.

"Are you okay? Do you need the healer? Ginny, go-."

"F-fine," George told him, weakly grabbing at the sleeve of his robes. "S-s-sit. Y-you're m-making me d-dizzy."

Fred popped back down into his chair and watched George carefully as he closed his eyes wearily, the humor disappearing from his face for a few moments while his siblings stood motionless, watching him, wondering what was wrong.

"You all right there, George?" Bill asked at last.

"Y-eah," he answered, opening his eyes again. "J-just t-tired."

The door opened and the elderly healer stepped in, nodding to the siblings and coming to stand near the head of George's bed.

"It's good to see you're awake again, George," he said. "How are you feeling?"

He frowned, not sure exactly how to answer. He wasn't completely numb, but he wasn't in as much pain as he used to be. He felt good comparative to his prison stay, but compared to his life previous?

The healer smiled, as though he completely understood George's problem.

"Shall we see, then, how you are doing?" He leaned close to George and slowly removed the bandage from his neck. George grimaced, knowing exactly which injury he was checking. He didn't know what it looked like, had never actually seen it himself, but he remembered what it had felt like, the fear in the pit of his stomach as he tried to staunch the flow of blood with his hands. He blinked, pushing the memory far away. He was safe. The gasps from his siblings sent his eyes up to the ceiling to avoid the looks in their eyes.

"I need to thoroughly examine your brother's injuries, and it could take several minutes," Healer Parson's voice finally said to the group behind him. "Would you mind waiting outside?"

Fred looked like he was going to argue, but Ginny took his arm and led him from the room. George couldn't help but breathe more easily with them gone.

"Don't worry. I see it all the time," the old man said as he leaned back.

"What?"

"Your reaction."

"I-I did-dn't-."

"Well, if I was wrong, I apologize. Something told me you didn't want your injuries on display for your family."

His eyes went to the ceiling again as Parsons again leaned forward and poked the sensitive skin on George's neck. "H-how b-bad is it?"

"Your neck? Or your injuries in general?"

"Both."

"Well, I suppose that's my answer to whether your pain reducers are still working." He smiled slightly. "There was an infection when you came I, but we were able to treat it and none of the tissue damage was permanent. There is a scar, but I find that's preferable to losing your life."

He replaced the bandage, then fetched a rolling stool that was somewhere outside the curtains. Sitting on it, the healer stared long into George's face, and the twin couldn't help but feel that this man was mentally arguing with himself. "Would you like me to bring your family back in while we talk about the rest of your injuries?"

"W-W-Why? Are th-they that b-bad?"

"The fact that we are speaking says they are not life-threatening. But sometimes having family near-."

"J-just t-tell me," George said after a moment's hesitation.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"Very well then. I'll explain your injuries as I check them. Fair?" When George nodded, he continued. "Besides a problem with infection," he said nodding toward the bandage on his neck, "you came to us with several broken bones. Your clavicle, here, suffered a hairline fracture." He laid his clipboard on the foot of the bed and amused himself with prodding George's right shoulder with his fingers, asking if there was any pain.

George groaned as those fingers pressed a spot right at the top of his shoulder, shooting lightening straight up his spine and directly into his brain.

"Hm. It seems to have healed. No signs of infection. Could possibly be phantom pain- your mind telling you that you should feel pain there. We'll leave it in its sling a little longer. Let me know if it continues though." George nodded. "Your legs, I'm afraid have been a bit more problematic."

Parsons walked to the end of the bed and pulled aside the sheets near George's feet. George saw him run the feather of his quill up the pad of his left foot, but felt no tickle.

He panicked. Was he paralyzed? He kicked the toes on his right foot to check, but felt no calm in its answering movement.

"It's okay, George. I was simply checking that your painkillers were still working before I touched anything. The fractures in your legs have been most distressing. Your right leg, as you just saw, is healing, though it will take some time before it's a hundred percent. The left, I'm afraid, is not healing so smoothly. It appears to have taken the brunt of the damage, the bones themselves nearly decimated in places. Improper healing caused severe tissue and nerve damage." He pulled the blankets aside so George could see the bulky cast covering his leg. His toes were nearly all a dark purple. He was amazed that it was his own leg, thinking for a moment how fascinated his father would be at the use of a Muggle technology in St. Mungo's.

"We have to keep your leg straight while the bone reheals. Your muscles are healing as well, though slowly after such a traumatizing ordeal. The nerve damage, however, will take much longer. You will have some difficulty walking for some time."

"Why?"

"The nerves do not regenerate quickly. In fact, without magic, they would not at all. As it is, nerve therapy is still in its early stages. You will have to return frequently for the therapy, and with time, you should be able to walk without help."

"But n-not now?"

"No, you cannot. By the time you leave here, you should be able to rely on a staff or cane, and if we are successful, you will come to rely on it less and less."

"A c-cane," he murmured, sinking down into his pillow.

"Better than losing it all together," the Healer added, though it did nothing to calm him.

"I-Is th-that it?"

"Various cuts and bruises, primarily to the arms, hands, and face, malnutrition and dehydration, but, physically, yes, that's it. And the spell damage- evidence of prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse. We have observed some evidence of this, even under sedation. Now that you are awake, it may become more noticeable."

"S-St-stutter-ing?"

"That's part of it, though it will probably subside after a bit. But also uncontrollable shaking. Memory loss. In more severe cases, convulsions. When you first came in, you suffered from a seizure. It may have been from the shock. It may have been a post-traumatic reaction, but while we were trying to help you, you were strapped down to keep you from reinjuring yourself. For this reason, you will be kept under observation for latent affects."

George nodded.

"Would you like to see your family now?"

"Could- could I j-just have a f-few m-minutes?"

"Of course."

Parsons busied himself with updating George's chart while, for several long moments George seemed to struggle with himself about what he'd learned. While the young man said nothing, his eyes spoke volumes of his worries. At last, his face seemed to brighten, and the healer knew he was preparing himself.

"You know, you've been through a lot in the last few months. I think they'd understand if you didn't put on the 'happy face' routine."

"Th-they've b-been th-through enough w-without having to w-worry about m-me."

"And you've been through too much to go through it alone." George frowned as the healer moved toward the door. "Trust me. When you start coming in for therapy for your legs, you will hear me say 'I told you so.'" With that said he opened the door and the party moved back into George's room.

The visitors were pretty steady for most of the day, though Assistant Healer Ensley chased them out on several occasions so George could eat or rest or take medication. Each time she chased them out, George found himself more and more thankful, as the only thing anyone wanted to talk about was how hurt he was, and that was the last thing he wanted to discuss openly. In the end, when Rebecca (for that was what he found himself calling this woman who was saving him from his friends) shooed the last gathering out of his room, George grabbed at Harry's robe sleeve, but said nothing when he turned to look at him. Instead, he waited for the room to empty.

"H-Harry, h-h-have you heard f-from D-D-Draco?"

"Not lately." Harry glanced at the door, then sat on the edge of George's bed. "It's been-." He did a quick calculation in his head. "Two and a half weeks." George's face clouded, so Harry was quick to reassure him. "He's probably taking a break. He looked like hell last time I saw him, so he's probably taking care of himself now."

"If y-you s-see him, th-thank him f-for me."

"Yeah, I'll do that." He moved his hand up to George's shoulder, careful not to hurt anything that was bandaged or bruised. "Get some rest, okay?"

"Yeah." He was already sinking into the pillow as Harry pulled the door closed behind him.

Draco choked down the potion and holding out the vial, making a disgusted face. Snape said nothing, barely acknowledged his reaction but to raise an eyebrow at the young man. Then, reaching into his pocket, Snape clutched an item and dropped it into Draco's curious hand.

The younger man swore as soon as he saw it.

"When did it change?"

"Just a few minutes ago. Where do you think you're going?"

Draco had pulled the blanket aside and had twisted his body to the side to stand up.

"To see someone."

"And how do you plan to get there when you cannot even stand on your own?"

As soon as he attempted to gain his own feet, he knew Snape was right. Damn it! He was still too weak to do anything on his own! He swore, clutching the coin in his hand, which had revealed a meeting time with the Order.

"I will go," Snape finally said, and Draco looked up sharply at those words. Snape rarely went to the headquarters. There was still a great amount of distrust toward him, and he usually found himself at the wrong end of a wand. Through the last few years, unless it was something too important to wait, information was passed to the other members through Draco or McGonagall or sometimes even Potter.

"Why?"

"Trust, Draco." His voice had gone a little more quiet, and he added. "I am assuming Potter is worried you were found out after the raid, or that he wants more information about the work you've been doing. In either case, he must be apprised of the current situation. Besides, I know that you've been impatient for information as well, so I will discover the condition of George Weasley for you."

"Thank you."