Chapter Text
He blinked open his eyes, squinting as the light filtered through the dust that drifted through the air. His limbs felt heavy, but he forced himself out of his covers, rolling his stiff shoulders as he stood. He ran his hands down his aching face and took a breath; his lungs felt like lead. Outside, he could hear the distant call of a single mourning dove. He took all this in, but he wouldn’t look at the empty bed on the other side of the room.
It was the day after. He was waking up. Only him.
After he got dressed, he headed downstairs, drawn by the whistling of the kettle. Mum was making tea. When he reached the kitchen, it was scarcely crowded by only Mrs. Weasley, who was sweeping the floor carefully, meaning it was either early morning or late.
Mum jumped when his foot creaked against the ancient wooden steps. Her mouth flapped open and closed as she looked at him, but she composed herself. “Oh… George, dear.” She blurted, blinking a few times. “I’ve made tea. Help yourself.”
He scooted past her, grabbing a mug near the kettle, and filled it, letting the fresh steam warm his face. He leaned against the counter.
“Thanks.” He muttered. His voice was a croak.
Molly stared at him, lips quivering with words she wanted to say, but after a moment, she went back to sweeping.
He stood and drank his tea, listening to the chimes outside. He was interrupted as Bill strode into the room, followed by Dad, a bag slung over his back.
“We’ll be heading to Hogwarts to help clean up,” Bill told Molly. “Charlie said he’s on his way, should be here this afternoon.” Then he left.
Dad took Mum by the arm and looked into her face. “We’ll be back for lunch.” He promised. “Check on Percival, won’t you?”
Arthur leaned down for Molly to kiss him on the cheek. “Stay safe.” She urged, to which he nodded before leaving with Bill.
Molly turned back to him. “Busy house.” She commented with a hint of sarcasm as she went back to her broom, and the sound of straw against wood filled the room again.
George grunted in agreement. It was far too dull and miserable, like a thorn poking him in his side. It was suffocating; he needed some air. He set down his mug forcefully on the counter and fled to the door, Mum following him with her gaze, but saying nothing.
Emerging outside, he just caught a glimpse of Dad and Bill apparating. A distorted whisk, and they were gone. Stepping out onto the grassy clearing, he stiffened against the morning chill, sky still pale with the rising sun.
He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and letting the air fill his lungs, yet his shoulders didn’t relax. His throat still felt clogged, and his hands itched with an unpleasant sensation.
Even with the chimes, birds, and swish of tall grass in the wind, it was too peaceful and quiet. He needed to escape, but everywhere he looked, the horizon was closer than he remembered.
A buzzing feeling rising in his chest, he set himself down on the grassy floor, bringing his knees toward himself and letting the back of his skull rest on the outer wall of the house. He breathed through his mouth, brow furrowed as he tried to block the tears welling up.
Who knew George Weasley was so claustrophobic.
Charlie arrived a quarter to eleven, appearing amongst the grass with a flash of blue light. He strode toward the house with a suitcase in one hand and a sullen yet formal disposition. When he saw George sitting leaned against the house, fiddling with a loose twig, he gave him a dip of the head before going inside, and nothing more.
George could hear his welcome from the conversation at the door. He worked his jaw as he tried to scrape the bark from the stick he’d taken.
After a few minutes, he heard the door open and footsteps on the cut grass.
“George?”
He didn’t meet his sister Ginny’s gaze.
She shifted uncomfortably. “Mum’s made lunch.”
He squinted at her. “I’ll be in soon.”
Ginny headed back inside, leaving him alone once more in the silence as he heard light chatter from inside the house.
He rotated the twig in his hands, staring at the rubbed-off bark and chipped ends. He really ought to head inside.
With some force, he flung the stick at the ground.
The sounds of forks and knives scraping against plates filled the room for lunch. The eight chairs descended from the head of the table by age, leaving George sitting across from Percy, who looked entirely miserable.
Percy was sullen and quiet as he dug into his lamb, skin pale and eyes red, still wearing his pajamas. George knew what Percy had witnessed, and he felt sorry for his brother, yet there was some small part of him that regretted the sympathy he felt.
Mum had gone through her regular check-in with everyone, traveling down the table. Dad and Bill had helped clear rubble and reported that the death toll from the battle at Hogwarts was still rising. Charlie spoke about the behavioral patterns of a new dragon he’d been following. Percy had been reading.
Then Molly turned to him and asked, “George, how was your walk?”
Rolling with her assumption, he lied. “Fine.”
Ron’s eyes lit up. “Oh, Mum.” He paused to finish chewing his food. “Harry’s planning on staying tomorrow. Is that alright?”
“You know Harry’s welcome anytime. He needn't ask. He’s family.” She assured. “How about you, Ginny…”
That night, he sat awake in his room, staring at the empty bed in the corner. He kept his gaze focused on those red sheets, still wrinkled and folded in on themselves by a person once there. Maybe if he looked at it long enough, it would change, and his brother would be there, complaining he couldn’t sleep with George staring at him like that.
This didn’t happen, and he knew it wouldn’t. He waited until he heard an echoing gong, coming from the grandfather clock downstairs, sounding midnight. It was a new day. But the bed remained empty. The day after hadn’t been some sick dream. As detached as he felt, it was real.