The Stag and The Harpy | James Potter

Teaser!

{{Okay so I know some of you may hate teasers for future projects, but I just can't resist. This future story has the potential to be my favorite, and I hope you guys will like it too. Also, I want you to have something to look forward to when this book is over!!! Enjoy (: }}
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George hates green.

In school, green was representative of a bunch of young prats whose heads were so far up their own arses that they couldn't see straight. He at least somewhat liked the Slytherin emerald, a color rich and royal despite the connotation of evil.

But this green...this green was fucking vile.

Lime green robes, stark against the eggshell walls in front of him. He knows his nose is crinkled in distaste. He should be used to it by now. It had been nearly a year of glaring at that awful fucking color once a week. At least it was supposed to be once a week.

"George,"

The chiding sigh is as unfortunately familiar as the color burning his cornea.

"What?" He sounds about as disgruntled as he feels, shifting uncomfortably on the leather couch. His eyes drift to the bookshelves teetering behind the healer studying him shrewdly.

"I asked how that makes you feel,"

His eyes remain on the books, but his hands ball into fists at the question. Feel, feel, feel. Merlin, all he was ever spoken to about was fucking feelings.

"How does what make me feel?"

He glowers at the exasperated sigh that sounds once again, reluctantly giving in and meeting the gaze of the wizard before him. Conor O'Connor. George had laughed when he'd first met the healer, much to his mother and father's hope. A short, disbelieving laugh. It hadn't lasted long. He didn't like laughing so much anymore. But hearing the same surname and first name was enough to dull his adamant raging that he did not need to see a healer.

But here he was.

Conor O'Connor blinks at George behind his horn rimmed glasses. He was an old bloke, short and stout with hands that looked wrinkled like a newspaper. His glasses made his grey eyes look enormous. Owl like. It was the best way to describe him. From his short legs to his whispy grey hair that stuck up like feathers.

"You said Ginny is getting married,"

George shrugs, looking at the healer's grey eyes. He used to make George nervous, but now that he's settled into the healer-patient-confidentiality, he doesn't really mind the old wizard. He can say anything. Everything. If only he could let himself.

His chest feels heavy when he finally forces out, "Harry's a good guy and she seems happy. Can't say I'm surprised they're finally signing their lives away to each other."

O'Connor raises a brow, glances down at the note pad George had never once been able to see. He hums thoughtfully before asking, "Is that how you see relationships?"

"'Suppose so," George mutters, glancing down at the pin next to the St. Mungos insignia on his ugly green robes. He smirks, studying the small etch of Dymphna. The patron saint of insanity. He'd thrown a fit when he first saw it. That first session had been awful.

"I reckon that before—"

He stops short, nearly choking on his tongue. His brows furrow and O'Connor sits up, looking almost hopeful. George's mood sours and he snaps irritably, "Why does it matter how I feel about the wedding?! It's none of my business."

"You don't consider your family your business?"

George glares, standing and pacing over to the window. He can see people walking below, muggles likely. They look happy, bustling with life as they hurry through the streets. He envies them. He hates that he envies them.