Fred Weasley. (pranking) wrote in disorderic, @ 2018-03-08 16:01:00 |
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Entry tags: | fred weasley, george weasley |
WHO: George and Fred Weasley
WHEN: Tuesday 6th March, afternoon
WHERE: St Mungo's
WHAT: George wakes up!
WARNINGS: None
George didn’t begin stirring until sometime mid-afternoon, and when he did it was with a groan as the sensation of having literally been thrown through a wall came crashing back in, bruised body still recovering. The mediwitch hurriedly dosed him with pain potions and went to retrieve his twin, knowing how long the other young man had been waiting. In the meantime, George kept his eyes closed, the hospital lights always too bright and let his senses come back to him a bit at a time. Slowly lifting an arm he felt the bandages over the side of his face and empty space where his ear used to be and one attempt at sitting up told him all he really needed to know about his ribs and leg. Not done cooking yet. He lay back, squeezing his eyes shut, trying not to think about why he was there. Not until Fred was nearby. That would make it easier. Fred had only left George’s bedside when absolutely necessary, worrying in a way he had often mocked his mother for. So of course it was during one of his rare trips outside George’s room that his brother finally woke up. George’s eyes were still closed but the healer had assured him that he was awake now. “I thought sleeping was meant to make you better looking,” He feebly attempted a joke, his heart not in it. “There’s no doubt that I’m the looks of the family now.” Letting out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding, George smirked slightly. “It’s not fair, you’re the one who’s already got a girlfriend,” he tried to reply, voice hoarse and it hurt more than he expected. Smoke, he supposed. He finally risked opening an eye slowly to let his pupils begin adjusting and to make sure it was really Fred there and not some potion-induced delusion. “... that bad, huh?” he asked, shading his eyes a bit with a hand. “You’re still better looking than Ron, at least,” Fred offered as consolation, the slight smirk offering him at least some of the reassurance he’d been craving.“How’re you feeling?” He asked, retaking the seat closer to George’s bed and scooting it closer still. George exhaled a half-hearted chuckle as he felt his chest clench. “Not so hot. Everything hurts.” He paused and squinted, tapping the bandaged side of his head and noticing that he still wasn’t able to hear anything out of that ear, at all. Not muffled, not soft like it’d been after losing it, it was as if it had been... “... fuck,” he muttered, closing his eyes again and inhaled. Slowly though, it all came back and what actually happened hit him again. His eyes flew open and he groaned at moving too quickly. “Everyone else??” “We’re all okay. Even that cat Angelina inherited got out fine,” Fred assured him, worry creasing his forehead as he saw the pain on George’s face. Shouldn’t they be giving him more potions for that? “Should’ve been hanging out with us instead of working,” he teased before he realised what he was saying. Work. He shook his head. They could figure that out once George was out of here, he couldn’t add that pain to George’s injuries. “Anyway,” he changed the subject quickly. “Need anything? I think the whole family is hovering around somewhere, may as well make them wait on you.” Breathing another sigh of relief with the news about his friends, George’s mind rolled over everything else. The last thing he remembered was walking toward the front of the shop before.... he remembered the smoke. Fire. The broken sign. His eyes closed again and he fell back on the pillow. “...... do we know what happened?” he asked, voice just barely not cracking, palm covering his forehead and trying to hold back the realisation that it all might be gone. “Montague happened,” Fred replied, hands balling into tight fists. He’d spent the night too worried about George, too sad about the shop and their home, for the anger that usually so easily bubbled to the surface to break through, but now that George was, if not okay at least conscious, that anger was starting to seep through. “Fucking prat. I don’t know how he got through the wards but he’s been gloating all night.” “Fuck…” George exhaled again, putting his hand down to stare up at the ceiling for a moment. They’d have to figure it out, it couldn’t happen again. They’d have to have Bill come look… look at what? What was even left? There was a lump in George’s throat as he glanced in Fred’s direction. “Is it all… how bad is it?” There was a furrow in his brow that gave away just how serious he was asking his brother to be. Fred ducked his head, unable to look George in the eye as he delivered the devastating news. He was barely keeping it together as it was, he couldn’t stand to see George’s face when he realised. “It’s gone,” he admitted, barely more than a whisper, the words getting stuck in his throat. “Grace, Fleur and Diggle went to see if they could salvage anything. Haven’t heard back yet, but,” Fred shrugged. “He got us good.” The dread in the pit of his stomach since he’d awoken gave an agonizing twist as Fred confirmed his fears. Looking at his brother only a beat longer, George tore his gaze back up to the ceiling, not saying a thing for a long moment, breathing audible as he tried to hold it together. Everything they’d fucking worked for. All the money they’d put into it, all the long hours, literal blood, sweat, and tears went into that shop - and that wasn’t even taking into account what it meant for them. For their family. Pride. Stability, for once. With a sudden fit of anger, George moved to sit up, grabbing the pillow from behind his head and chucking it as hard as he could at the array of medicinal containers near his bed sending them flying with a satisfying clash. “That FUCKING-” He started, nostrils flaring and face red, but winced almost immediately. “aagh-” His enraged shout quickly morphed into another loud moan of pain as he fell back on the hospital bed, eyes tinged with tears and he clutched his torso where his still healing ribs protested the outburst. Fred let out a long, shaky breath, blinking back tears of his own. He wasn’t used to being the one who had to keep it together but with George so injured he was doing his best to step into the role that his brother often occupied. It was why he’d spent most of the night trying not to think about what had happened to their shop (their dream), instead repeating the one positive that he could find; no one had died. (Yet. Montague didn’t have long left now, if he had any say in it). But, as relieved as he was that there’d been no customers around, that aside from George they’d mostly suffered scratches and ringing ears, it didn’t make the loss of the shop hurt less. Nor did remembering that he’d told Angelina that she’d be okay without Quidditch, that now she’d have more time for the Order, that losing the one thing she’d wanted all her life would get easier. She hadn’t invented Quidditch, it wasn’t the same. “We’ll work it out,” Fred attempted comfort, not believing his own words and knowing George would pick up on this, but unable to muster a convincing lie. “But you need to get better first.” George’s fists and jaw clenched as he lay still through the pain, breath slowing as the moments passed. He knew Fred was right, somehow, but it was going to take awhile to believe. Normally those would be his words. “Fuck…” he muttered, staring at the same spot on the ceiling as if glaring hard enough would reveal some sliver of hope. He reached over and gripped Fred’s wrist with his good hand and squeezed. This was so much worse than getting his ear blown off. He’d have given every limb he had to keep the shop. Finally, swallowing, George chanced another glance toward his twin. “I’ll get better.” That was one comfort he could offer. “See if Fleur and them can find my wand, if anything, maybe?” “Yeah, I’ll ask them,” Fred agreed, though he didn’t have much hope. But he’d still search every inch of that rubble himself if he thought he could face their torn down building without George. But he couldn’t, so he’d have to trust Fleur and the others to do a thorough search instead. “And you’d better,” he added, reaching over to gently grip George’s shoulder with his free hand. “You know I can’t do this without you.” George let himself try and force a smirk with that, patting Fred’s hand. “And you know I wouldn’t go and do that to you,” he assured him, as if they had any say in the matter. Shifting slightly, George tapped the side of his head again. “I can’t hear anything in this ear anymore. The rest is healing.” Fred grimaced, hating that George kept getting hurt. “First new product that we work on once you’re out of here will be to fix that,” he promised. Just because the trained healers with years of experience couldn’t do anything didn’t dissuade Fred from wanting to try and fix his brother. “We’ll start a new line of healing related products. It’ll do great in this climate.” Laughing a bit hoarsely, George narrowed his eyes skeptically, but decided to let it go. “Bottling healing spells would be very cool,” he tossed out, pausing to yawn. He sighed and nodded. “Yeah, we’ll work on it. In the meantime, Mum’s gonna go mad if you don’t tell her I’m awake. I think I’m ready for it if you are.” Fred was reluctant to leave George’s bedside, even now he was awake, but he knew his brother was (as usual) right and he should help the rest of their family stop fretting by informing them that George was no longer unconscious. He stood up slowly, giving George’s arm a squeeze. “On the bright side, at least you only have to half hear her yelling now.” |