Post by ellis on Feb 11, 2010 1:35:33 GMT 10
GEORGE SEPTIMUS WEASLEY
NAME ;;
NICKNAMES ;;
AGE ;;
DATE OF BIRTH ;;
BLOOD STATUS & RACE ;;
YEAR ;;
HOUSE ;;
OCCUPATION ;;
SEXUAL ORIENTATION ;;
PLAY-BY ;;
george is ;;
--- PROTECTIVE ;;
--- QUIET & DETERMINED ;;
--- GIFTED & KIND ;;
george’s patronus is a ;;
george’s boggart takes the form of ;;
george adores ;;
george abhors ;;
She held him as he wept, after that. The look in his eyes was pure desperation and as Molly put the plate down next to George’s bed, he started to cry and she held him to her chest, rubbing his back in soothing circles and whispering words of comfort to him. Mother and son stayed there for a while, up in the unnaturally quiet room that the twins had formerly shared, and that made George feel a little bit better – just a little bit.
He’s healing slowly—every day hurts less and less, but the process takes time, of which George has a lot. Now he busies himself with the shop he and Fred were aspiring to run together, and with harassing his parents with good-natured pranks and visits when he has nothing else to do. It isn’t perfect, but it’s his semblance of life, and he gets along alright.[/ul]
“We just want the best for you and your family,” Arthur continued, not put off by his son’s temper. “I think you need to—”
“—talk about Fred? I have, Dad, and whilst it might work for you, it doesn’t work for me.” The two men’s eyes met, and there was a heavy silence for three seconds before George left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him and promptly Apparating away from the Burrow. He needed to get away; the talk of therapy sessions made his head hurt and he really didn’t think that he needed it.
Winding up in an alley, the hubbub and dull roar of London greeted his ears and he ran a hand through his hair, pocketing his wand and adjusting his jacket slightly. There was no one in sight, and so it was with deliberate cautiousness that he strolled out of the dingy lane and right into the heart of the city, breathing in the air and closing his eyes for a split second.
Noise. He’d missed it; everywhere else was quiet and dreary. Turning left, it occurred to him that his mother would probably come looking for him after hearing that he’d had an argument with his father, and so he needed somewhere to hide out for a while. Angelina would probably join in the hunt, knowing her, once she was informed, and so the Weasley needed a place that no one would think of.
He saw the Tate gallery up ahead, making a mad run for it. Five minutes later, he was inside, sides heaving from the run. People looked at him oddly, most of them amused at the fact that he was so eager to get into an art gallery—if only they knew the truth, he mused with a slight smile. Heading towards one of the more obscure sections of the gallery, George made a mental note to blend in with the crowd.
A bench! Ambling towards it, he then saw that it was taken, anxiety growing within him. Reluctantly shuffling over to where the woman was seated, George cleared his throat slightly, feeling rather uncomfortable and antsy. “Do you mind if I sit here?” Merlin forbid if his mother saw him talking to the woman—she’d probably think he was cheating and then all Hell would break loose.
He found himself hoping that Molly Weasley, child-hunter extraordinaire, did not find him in the gallery, and that this area of the Tate was a good place to hide, just in case she did get an inkling about where he was.[/ul]
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