GEORGE WEASLEY FANFICTION
Ivy has been on the run all of her life. She's used to looking over her shoulder and fighting her own battles.
What she never expected, was to end up in a school. A safe haven for young witches and wizards of the coming gen...
George didn't remember how he got back to his room. Didn't remember the sea of students he had to cross to get back there. And he especially didn't remember falling asleep.
What he did remember. . . Was Ivy washing his hands clean. How softly she'd run the warm cloth over his hands and clean away the blood.
He remembered the feel of Ivy in his arms. Resting his head on her chest, just listening to her heart beat as he fell apart. She would stroke his hair and trace light circles into his back. How did every curve of her body perfectly intertwine with his. She was meant to be there, his body would scream.
They didn't utter a single word to each other, not after the astronomy tower. It was just the silence, and the steady thrum of her heart. Lulling him to sleep, as if it were soft music in his ears.
And he had finally slept, just like that. No nightmares, just a blissful sleep.
Had this been what it was like for Ivy? All that grief bottled up inside. Finding all these dead bodies. Having to pass by all the students everyday, with their judging glances? And the guilt inside from being too late.
Of always being too late.
His hand stretched and felt around his bed. The spot next to him was still warm. . . But empty.
He sprang forward. Had it all been a dream?
It couldn't have been. It felt so. . . Real.
"Ivy!" He called out.
No answer.
She had left him. Again. His heart broke even more at the thought.
She said. . . She said she wouldn't leave him.
George rubbed his eyes, not wanting any more tears to escape. He threw the covers off himself in a fit of frustration. He never left her when she was her most vulnerable.
Yet she kept doing it to him.
He stomped his way into the kitchen. He wished it were a dream so he wouldn't have to live with the disappointment of her recurrent absence. He had thought she was better than that.
There he went off again.
His ignorance and selfishness took over. Isaac had just died. A childhood friend, who he had recently rekindled with, just fucking died. And he continued to only think about Ivy.
He was a monster.
George grabbed a glass of water and started to head to the bathroom. He chugged the contents and slammed the glass down, nearly shattering it in the process.
He ripped off his clean shirt and prepared to take a shower. When he tried turning the handle of his bathroom, it wouldn't budge.
Anger was the only emotion he had left in his reserve after last night.
So he pounded on the door. "Fred I told you! You can only use the shower after I've taken m—"
His words died out when the handle turned and he realized Fred was not behind the door. George staggered back a step.
Steam escaped from the small bathroom and filtered around him. It reminded him of smoke tendrils fanning from a Dragon's hot breath.
She was there. In nothing but a sports bra and sweatpants. Charcoal gray, a color that much reminded him of melancholy.
And oh, did she wear melancholy as if it were the most devastatingly extravagant emotion of them all.
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