Harry Potter One Shots

Numb

Hermione knocked on the door. She didn't want to disturb him, but the final ingredient for the Puking Pastilles was missing and she needed to know where to get the new supplies from. There was no answer, which didn't surprise her at all, in fact she had been expecting it. Sighing, she took the key from under the doormat and twisted it in the lock, stepping into the small flat and closing the door shut behind her. She slid the key into her pocket to put back later.

Since his brother's death, George had shut himself in the flat and refused to leave. He barely spoke, and someone had to check in on him every once in a while, to make sure he was eating and getting along by himself. Usually, it was Ginny, but Hermione knew she hadn't been able to make it that week.

He wasn't coping well, being on his own.

A layer of dust lay over the shelves and surfaces, and the cushions were in disarray, dotted about the floor, which had been recently cleaned and vacuumed. The blankets on the sofas were all neatly folded, but three jumpers were thrown over the back of a red armchair.

The dishes by the sink were clean but hadn't been dried. A large portion of Bolognese was on the kitchen worktop, but there was no spaghetti or any other pasta anywhere. An empty foil case, seemingly having once contained pumpkin pie, had been left on the small table, beside it was an untouched treacle tart.

Hermione made her way through the rooms, peeking through the open door of the bathroom as she went. Two toothbrushes, one red, one gold; an empty tube of spearmint toothpaste was left on the side, a recently opened one next to it; two towels, again, one red, one gold, the red one crumpled on the floor by the shower, the gold neatly folded on the hamper. Sighing, she continued to the bedroom, knocking on the door and yet again getting no reply. She pushed it open slowly.

Two beds were pushed together, the red bedding significantly crumpled while the gold one was neatly made, Hermione didn't know which one George slept in, but she doubted it was the one originally called his.

The left side of the room had been trashed: family pictures shattered, WWW posters slashed, several bottles of Firewhiskey mixed in with the pile of dirty clothes in the corner. The right side of the room was, yet again, untouched and collecting dust. Fred's Weasley jumper lay on the ground but that was the only mess. There was a bottle of water by the bed, a picture of Fred and George laughing together on the wall next to a newspaper clipping about the shop, an empty cauldron and several jars were set up in the corner and looked as though they hadn't been moved in a while.

"Oh George..." Hermione sighed quietly.

"Hey 'Mione, what's, what's a girl like, like you -," said George hesitantly from behind her. She turned to face him, but he seemed to have stopped and turned to his side expectantly. His face fell, and George took a deep breath, closing his eyes, "Doing in, in a place li-like this?" His voice broke and Hermione enveloped him in a hug. He collapsed into her arms, she didn't not care about the tear stains he would leave on her blouse and just held his skinny frame. He buried his head in her shoulder and shook, stuttering out apologies. They stayed like that for a while, Hermione shushing him when he tried to speak, letting him cry for a while, not needing to ask him for an explanation.

When he calmed down slightly, she put her hands on his shoulders, as though to reassure him she was there, and smiled comfortingly. "How about we get you some tea?"

Not trusting his voice, George nodded and let himself be led to the sofa. He barely noticed when she sat him down in front of the now-lit fireplace and began to clean up the kitchen and pick up pillows. He sat and stared into the flames and couldn't help but think how much they reminded him of someone. The way they flickered dangerously, as though they dared to step out of line. The way they seemed to wink mischievously at him and crackled like fireworks. The way they were so colourful, red and orange and bright, so Gryffindor, the way they shot upwards messily, reminding him of hair, someone's hair. But he couldn't quite think of who, when he tried there was a pain in his chest, as though it hurt to even think about them. He felt numb and yet the pain was still there, making him wince.

A cup of hot tea was placed in his hands and he took a sip, then looked around, surprised that nobody had scoffed at him. Someone had done that, they'd always roll their eyes at him for having his tea too hot. He felt the pain again but ignored it.

The tea was just how he liked it, one and a half sugars and a little less milk than usual, for a while now he hadn't had it with milk. He didn't know why, it was just that he had never put the milk in, someone else always did that bit. There it was once more, the pain, but he ignored it again as he realised there was a person talking to him.

She was sat beside him on the sofa and had dark, frizzy hair, she looked concerned and her eyes were red-rimmed as though she'd been crying. Hermione, he knew her; this was Hermione, she's nice, she said she'd help to make the potions he needed for the shop even though it might be awkward to split her time between the shop and the Wizengamot. He couldn't remember why she had to do it, though, why not the usual person, or himself for that matter, was he ill? They were usually the best at it, him and this other person, they knew all the potions by heart, had invented them all themselves. But before he wondered more into that thought, he felt himself stop, the numbness rising again.

He took another sip of the too-hot tea and looked at Hermione who was talking again. "I know things have been difficult for you," she said, "We all understand, we're all struggling. Of course, you're having the most difficult time. We all miss you, you know, I wish you'd talk to someone George, this isn't healthy. I know your family want to be with you, they want to remember Fred with you there."

George dropped his mug. He didn't feel the hot tea scold him. He didn't feel the tears that rolled down his cheeks, nor did he hear as Hermione gasp. He only felt the pain in his chest, the fire, the hot searing flame that enveloped him.

"Fred," said George softly.

He remembered now, flooding over him, memories. Laughter, joy, mischief, happiness, belonging. Then it dropped, like when rollercoaster races over the edge and you feel like you left your stomach behind. George crumbled in despair. He felt broken, empty. He remembered feeling as though part of him had died, it had, in a way. He cracked, barely registering where he was, curled up on the floor, a golden cushion hugged to his chest. He didn't react when he was pulled into a warm hug because he couldn't feel the warmth. Only the cold, numb feeling of being broken beyond repair.

He didn't know how long he sat there in that position, clinging to Hermione and sobbing into her already-tear-stained blouse. He just knew that it was a long, long time and that when he had finally caught his breath, it was dark outside. He noticed that a sound he hadn't even known was there suddenly stopped, it had been a soft and comforting hum in his ear. The motion he hadn't realised either had also stopped, a slow rocking like one might use to console a small child. George smiled faintly for the first time in months as he looked at Hermione, and he managed to push a thank you out of his dry throat. She smiled back and suggested he get some rest someplace other than here.

He was pulled up gently and Hermione helped to steady him as he stood. She brushed the tears from George's eyes and placed a small, comforting peck on his head before leading him to the fireplace. The oh-so-familiar red flames dancing up the walls before turning green as she threw in the Floo powder. She led him into the harmless flame and yelled something he didn't register.

Before he knew it, he was bustled into a bedroom and tucked into warm sheets, another cup of tea placed on the small table beside him and another small peck on his head. Hermione was just about to leave when he grabbed her sleeve. The last thing George wanted was to be left alone, it was all he'd known for so long, and he had been so afraid. "Please stay," he said gently.

Surprisingly, she complied and shuffled in beside George. He wrapped his arms around her small frame and buried his face in her tangled curls. Signing contentedly, he drifted off with a faint whisper of "Nox" from the girl. He slept uninterrupted by horrors for the first time since he can bare to remember, letting his too hot tea go cold by the side of the bed.