𝐄𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 | g. w

44. homecoming

I'm standing on the edge of a precipice, looking down onto the void beneath. I have two choices. I can either turn back around and forget I ever considered the choice, or I can make the jump. And if I do, if I let myself go, I know there's no changing my mind.

I felt my heart drop to the pit of my stomach as I read Fred's letter. George is sick, and he needs me. With my mind in a frenzy, I made to pack my bags, booking the earliest flight available back to England. With no idea whatsoever of what had happened to George, I nearly started to hyperventilate, my heart beating faster with each passing second. I could barely even stop to consider the fact that I haven't been home in well over a year, all I knew, was that I couldn't ignore the call for help from the people who had once been my family.

So here I am now. The plane ride itself feels like it is taking forever. My mind is racing with all the different possibilities of what could have happened to George. Is it physical or mental? Has he relapsed into depression or was it something else entirely? The last time I heard anything of them, they seemed to be dealing relatively well with everything. At least that's what the Daily Prophet had stated in their article on famous wizarding families affected by the war.

I try to push away the dark thoughts tumbling through my head, but they insist on lingering, gnawing at my consciousness like a stubborn parasite.

When I finally arrive back in London, I decide to grab a cab close to the Burrow, walking the last few kilometres. Since travelling the world, or even long before that, I've not used magic that often. I guess you could say it's a side effect of the war, scaring me and rendering me immobile whenever I as much as think about making us of my wand again.

The house is almost eerily silent as I walk up towards the front door and I hesitate before finally knocking. What if they don't want to see me at all? What if I'm too late and George can no longer be saved? What if they want nothing to do with me?

All these thoughts keep nagging at my brain, making me even more anxious, as if I wasn't enough already.

Before I have the chance to even so much as consider turning away, the rickety door swings wide open, revealing a tired and beaten looking Fred. He looks older than the last time I saw him, dark shadows underneath his eyes and lines etched across his face, a reminder of the war we all lived through. His hair is still a recognisable shade of fiery red, and I can't help but smile at the memory of letting my hand comb through it as a kid.

I let out a deep breath I wasn't even aware I had been holding when he closes the remaining space between us and pulls me into a bone crushing hug. He then pulls away to look at me, worry mixed with a melancholic sort of elation etched across his face.

"I'm glad you came", he says softly, giving me a sad smile that causes the knots tied in my stomach to start to come undone.

"What happened?", I ask, my heart racing. "Fred, where's George?"

He takes a deep breath, his arms still wrapped around my waist. He's looking at me, but it doesn't feel like the way he used to look at me. How could he? So much has changed since last I saw him. Any of them.

"It's been getting worse. Since you left, he—he's barely leaving our old room. I convinced him to move back in with mum and dad but it seems as if it's not getting any better. He's been refusing to get help, even though we keep insisting he needs it. I don't know what to do anymore. I don't know how to help him." Fred's eyes fall towards the ground, and he kicks the grovel with his feet.

I've never, in all the years I've know him, seen Fred Weasley so beaten down. So hopeless.

"We are all grieving. We lost a brother, our parents lost a son. It's not been easy on any of us, but for some reason, George has been taking it the hardest."

I nod, my heart breaking with each word that he utters. I know how debilitating depression can be, having experienced it myself, and I know how hard it is to convince someone they need help when they are in the very midst of it. What hurts the most however, is the sinking feeling of me being another factor of why he might be suffering like this. Perhaps me leaving caused more pain than I ever thought possible.

"I want to help him", I say deadpanned, determined to make myself useful in any way that I can. Knowing the history of our relationship, however, I'm afraid he's not going to want to have anything to do with me.

Fred leads me up the stairs to his and George's old bedroom, the room they used to sleep in and do all of their inventing before they moved to 93 Diagon Alley in -96 to open up the shop.

When the door opens and we both step into the room, my heart immediately sinks at the sight of him.

Oh, my love, I think, trying with all my might to keep the tears threatening to fall at bay. What has happened to you?

He is lying in bed, his eyes closed and his skin pale and almost waxy. I can't tell if he is asleep or not, but he looks so small and fragile—worse than I've ever seen him—and I can no longer hide the pain I feel at seeing him like this.

Sitting down on the bed next to him, careful to not wake him if he happens to be sleeping, I let my eyes scan his appearance. I take his hand in mine. It's cold and shaking.

"George...", I whisper, hoping he can hear me and if he does, that he won't shut me out or push me away when he sees me. "It's me. It's Mia. I'm here now."

At first, there's no response, and I feel a cold fear settle in my chest. But then, George's eyes flicker open, staring at me with a mixture of surprise and confusion.

"Rune?", he asks, his voice hoarse.

I smile. "Yes, George. It's me."

He doesn't say anything at first, just looking at me with a mix of emotions I can't quite decipher. Then finally, he opens his mouth to speak, and my heart breaks a little bit more.

"Why did you leave?"