Random Fandom Imagines 2

George Weasly

No matter how many stuff exploded in his face, George was adamant he kept working into the night. You watched him in self-destruct mode, smoke twirling between his long fingers, bright colors illuminating his face like a gaunt jack-o-lantern, his concoctions emitting the sound of rolling thunder.
You called his name softly.
"Come to bed, love. Have some rest..." we can brave the nightmares together.
But he ignored you.
"I'm too close for sleeping now," he'd say. Too afraid, he'd mean.

You had met George Weasley what felt like eons and eons ago. Second year at ye ol' Hogwarts, 1992. You heard laughter, and you thought vaguely of goblins and ghosts, like the ones your mum used to tell you about as a bed time story. You turned a corner, bumped into them, and fell to the ground – by accident, of course. You were a small kid.
"What was that?" came two whiplash voices, each belonging to a red headed devil with ears that stuck out. They were identical freckle for freckle. The double threat. The Weasley twins.
"Oh, it's Ron's friend," one of them chimed, "the quiet one."
"The mysterious one," the other corrected, though his tone implied the word was funny. Every word that came out of their mouths was implied to be funny.
"Fred."
"George."
They both offered a hand. Taking both, you were hauled to your feet.

1998, December.
"Y/N," he called.
"Yes?" you answered.
"Where's the coffee?" he asked.
"In the bin," you answered.
"Why?" he inquired.
"Because it's not healthy," you answered.
"Since when?" he demanded.
"Since forever, love," you answered.
"Why now?" he queried.
"Because. You're a goddamn mess," you answered.
Answer, answer, answer. Ask and answer. It's all you ever did, nowadays.

It was fifth year, 1995.
"Y/N's Student File (filled out by Y/N, Ginny, and Hermione, one fire-whiskey stolen night)
Affiliation: Dumbledore's Army.
Pass time: fucking shit up.
Friends: The enemies of your enemies are your friends.
Boyfriend: Lee Pace.
Feelings: Everywhere. Every-fucking-where."
Hermione's and Ginny's are similar in taste. "Be still, my beating heart!" was written in the margins, over and over.
"Sometimes I wonder if boys are genuinely blind and just pretend they can see," you muttered. Ginny, who was sitting cross legged on your bed, snorted into her paper cup.
"Please," she laughed, "boys are boys. They were always clueless."
Hermione shot her a disapproving look from the bed across her, socially aware even in peer-pressured drunkenness.
"Boys won't be boys, that's nonsense. Boys just confuse us, because we are sad and lonely," she sighed, though it was hard to take her seriously as she hung her head upside down from the edge of the bed. She was a sad drunk. Ginny was a silly one. You were heavy weight.
"Not true – I have Dean!"
"And I, Lee."
"And yet we're drinking fire whiskey out of plastic cups on a school night, moaning about the stupidity of an entire gender."
"Maybe it's just the Weasleys," you tested from your spot on the floor. Ginny guffawed again.
"I'm not gonna deny it. My brothers, bless them, are only as intelligent as this cup when it comes to love," she raised it, inspecting it with lidded eyes, "I'm carrying everyone, and I'm getting pretty tired of it."
She fell backwards on the bed, and started to snore. You snickered. Hermione looked at you with large brown eyes, her dark hair hanging from her head in thick coils.
"I'm sorry that you're so confused about Lee and the twins," she said softly. You looked away.
"Likewise, about Ron," you told her.
There was silence, filled only by Ginny's loud snores.
"You know, people say we have the freedom to be independent women," Hermione said quietly. You turned your gaze back to her. The fire in the grate was reflected in her glassy eyes, though her stare was vacant.
"We do."
"Then why are we still so easily fucked over by boys?"
You didn't answer, but after Hermione hauled herself backwards and fell asleep face down into the pillow, what you ought to have said came to your mind in a colorful explosion that smelled like smoke and a Bludger, accompanied by the distant sound of wicked laughter, laughter of the devils themselves.
We are girls. We are strong. And yet, we are heart broken.