Unlikely || George Weasley

Chapter 4 - Insight

The Burrow, 6 May 1998

There wasn't a bone or muscle in George's body that didn't ache. Grimacing, he heaved himself off the porch steps and rolled his shoulders in an attempt to relieve some of the dull pain. He knew he'd overdone it during the past couple of days, working from sunrise to sunset out in the fields. He'd kept his hands busy to avoid overthinking. It was easier to push any feeling aside when you were up to your elbows in soil and earth.

Not that he'd been alone, really. Ginny kept him company, working hard at cleaning the barn and trying to de-gnome the yard as best she could (Merlin's beard, there was such an infestation. He admired her right hook more after he'd forgotten to duck one time). She kept her head down, still bitter that their mum had so expressly forbidden her from going to help with the rebuild at Hogwarts, claiming it was too dangerous. George couldn't blame her for wanting to keep his sister close – after all the horrific whispers he'd heard about the Carrow twins – but Ginny was very nearly of age. Both women's tempers was blistering close to the surface these days, so George welcomed the steady quiet of the outdoors.

It had been another painful but productive day and there wasn't much more to be done as the light faded and dusk grew nearer. He downed a glass of water by the sink and forced his weary legs to the living room, where Fred was looking much perkier and sat up as he approached.

"You look awful!" Fred grinned at him.

"Gee. Thanks." George didn't sit, knowing that if he did then his body would refuse to get up again.

"How's it looking out there? I really think I'll be well enough to help for a bit tomorrow. I want to go outside and do something." He hesitated, "I also want to go back to the flat. I miss the space," Fred looked at him earnestly.

George bit his tongue, trying not to immediately dismiss the idea. Fred had admittedly been looking better as each day passed, colour returning to his face and his personality increasingly more cheeky. But it was a risk, not knowing the long term side-effects of his condition. One George didn't want to take.

"It's getting there," he answered slowly, "Ginny's really cleared up the barn. The gnomes are probably plotting their revenge on us as we speak." George found the energy to give his brother a small smile. "You'd have to ask mum about helping. I'm not taking the fall if she catches you sneaking outside without talking to her first."

Fred paled ever so slightly at that, but crossed his arms defiantly.

"I am twenty bloody years old. If I say I'm well enough to do something, I mean it. I'll run it by her after dinner but it's my call. What's she gonna do – tie me to this sofa? Even Healer Thomas says I'm doing fine! I'm sick of this room." He may have sounded confident, but Fred did a double-check that their mum was nowhere in sight. He was safe, as she was probably upstairs sorting the endless stream of laundry before starting on dinner.

George sighed. Healer Thomas had come by the Burrow every morning since Fred was discharged from St Mungo's, arms laden with potions and salves. He had fixed Fred with an increasingly curious gaze, like he was a puzzle yet to be solved. Fred answered every question, took every potion and hadn't even tried to sneak out once. In George's view, his brother had been the model patient. But even he would resent being cooped up inside for so long with nothing to do, while everyone else in the family was tumbling in and out of the house being so busy. And as much as George loved the Burrow, he missed their flat above the shop too.

He felt a pang of guilt, realising that as useless as he felt, Fred must be feeling it tenfold. George hadn't needed to explain that the reason he had opted to stay near the house and not work at Hogwarts was so that he could keep an eye on his twin. Fred saw straight through him.