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His heart sinks the moment the Bludger veers off course.
He knows its path was wrong the instant it leaves his bat. He tries to twist it back, to correct it, but the Slytherin Beater had already swung hard in the opposite direction. The iron ball shoots wide— too wide— straight toward the Gryffindor stands.
George's eyes follow helplessly as it cuts through scarlet banners, through laughter, through faces he doesn't care about— until it slams into the one that matters.
You.
The sound of impact is drowned by the roar of the crowd, but George swears he feels it echo through his cheat. You crumple from view, your scarf slipping from your hand, and every muscle in his body locks with horror.
The bat falls from his fingers. His broom jerks violently as he dives, a streak of red and gold cutting through the chaos. He doesn't hear Lee Jordan shouting commentary, doesn't hear the shrill blast of Madam Hooch's whistle, doesn't even hear Fred calling his name. All he hears is the pounding of his own pulse, thunder in his ears, screaming at him to move faster.
He hits the stands awkwardly, forcing students to stumble out of the way. He shoves through the wall of students gathering.
"(Y/N)!" his voice cracks, ragged, breaking apart with panic.
And then he sees you.
You're slumped awkwardly against the wooden bench, blood streaking down your temple, face frighteningly pale. Too pale. The sight steals every ounce of air from his lungs.
"No, no, no—" George drops to his knees so fast the impact rattles his bones. His gloves shake as he reaches for you, then freezes, terrified to touch you, terrified you'll break further beneath his hands. His throat burns. "Come on, love, open your eyes. Please."
Madam Pomfrey is suddenly there, snapping orders, her wand flashing as she kneels beside you.
"She's breathing," she clips, but George can't hear the rest over the ringing in his ears. Fred's hand clamps down on his shoulder, trying to pull him back. George resists, desperate, until Madam Pomfrey barks, "Move aside, Weasley, unless you'd rather her go untreated!"
Fred tugs harder, and George stumbles back half a step, his eyes never leaving you. He sees the faint rise and fall of your chest, but it's not enough. Not nearly enough.
Madam Pomfrey levitates you carefully onto a stretcher, your head lolling to the side, hair falling across your face. George's stomach lurches at the sight.
