#holey

The town outside Ottery St. Catchpole had fallen right into the hands of the Dark Lord; burning it down to mere cinders– reduced to nothing but a whisper of what was once bustling with magical life.

Your nightmares had progressively gotten worse– the voices of those who had fallen were wisping around your head, crying out to you to spare them. You could feel their dead touch slowly creeping its way up your leg as if they were trying to drag you down with them to the abyss. 

Muggles, Wizards, Squibs, young, and old. They all fell to the hands of Lord Voldemort.

The face of a noseless man whose withered hand beckoned you, lulling you into his grasp, “Y/N, won’t you join me?”

Slowly, he was getting closer.

And closer.

And closer.

Then,

A ghoulish, hoarse voice, “Kill the spare.”

“Avada Kedavra!” 

A bright bile green.

Then, you jolted awake violently. Tears were trickling down. Your breathing hastened shallowly, fighting for air as your heart pounded, threatening to jump out. Everything was a blurry mess, though. Your vision seemed as though you were looking through a shattered muggle camera lens. Everything seemed disfigured as if the world was rotating at a hundred kilometres per second. 

Before you realised it, furniture was being thrashed around the room. Mirrors had shattered into smithereens. Tables were upturned. Windows were wide open. The wind howled into your ear, sending shivers down the sweaty, sticky skin of your spine; but something else was trying to call out to you. It seemed as though it were trying to pull you back into conscience. Trying to snap out of your magical nightmares.

“Y/N?” the muffled voice was getting progressively louder and louder.

“Y/N!”

Your eyes had finally focused. You were in the present, safe and sound. 

There was no Dark Lord grabbing you, no voices trying to drag you down with them. 

A large, warm, yet rough hand had combed through your hair, “You’re safe now, my love. It’s okay, you’re okay. Everything is okay.”

George.

Your strands fluttered back into place, though some had stuck to the sides of your sweaty temples. Your rugged breathing had slowly stabilised. George’s hand lifted your chin, beckoning your eyes to meet. A warm kiss was placed on the top of your head.

His hazel eyes were dark and fatigued with eyebags laying low underneath. They were stained by the loom of war, but still, they looked lovingly at you, searching your eyes for any sign of distress.  How you’d kill to rid him of all his worries, and he the same.

Molly had rushed into the room with Arthur filing behind. They both had their wands in hand, ready to cast protegos and stupefies, but what they found was the same scene for the last Merlin knows how many nights.

“Oh, Y/N!” Molly cried out with a shuddered breath. 

She rushed over to you, pulled you away, and enveloped you in her warm, motherly embrace.

You couldn’t help but fall right into it.

“When will it end?” You cried as your breathing hitched.

How you wish it could all come to an end. Every now and then, you wondered if by just pointing your wand at yourself– no. You mustn’t. Never. 

Never, ever, ever.

Molly gingerly patted your back as your face deepened into the crook of her neck, staining her sweater with tears, “I know, dear, I know.”

George absentmindedly filled his father in on the details whilst Arthur restored the damaged furniture. He kept his eyes on you, pondering when to drop the bomb. He knew, however, that now was not the time, with you having just recovered from a panic attack and all. He hated seeing you like this, knowing the war had affected you so much even in your sleep. If only…

If only he could keep you safe, forever. And ever.

And ever, and ever.

And ever.

And oh, how he wished he could just take you by the hand, and with a crack, apparate the two of you where the Dark Lord was the least of your worries. A place where he could take you on the back of his broom, chasing sunsets, sunrises, and many more to come.

However, he knew, deep down, for as long as the Dark Lord was alive, your days together were numbered.

Your sunsets and sunrises were indefinite.

* * *

2:57 am.

George had cast a quick Muffliato in the living room. His eyebrows were knit together, face reddening by the second as he pulled at his scalp, ripping out a few ginger strands in the process.

“No! I’m not leaving her! You know how vulnerable she is!” He roared out, pacing the living room back and forth.

Ron, who had arrived half an hour prior, turned to Hermione with a ‘Please help’ look on his face.

Getting the memo, Hermione turned back and tried to place a reassuring hand on George’s shoulder but was quickly shoved back rudely.

With a huff, she straightened her woollen coat, “George," she started, "I understand that Y/N isn’t stable at the moment, but we have to escort Harry to Grimmauld Place! It’s not safe for him at the Dursleys anymore!” her voice laced desperately with reason. Surely he would understand?

Then, for a brief moment, he saw an image of him and Fred carrying Harry in the Gryffindor common room proudly with the golden egg in hand. Harry was one of his closest friends, if not his younger brother. He had helped fund Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, after all. He owed that debt to him. For the rest of his life.

...

But what about you?

The world, or you? You, or the world?

Nevertheless, he knew if he helped save the world, you’d be finally safe again. You were his world. 

No more dreams plagued by Vile Voldie, no more nightmares; just you and him. 

Safe and sound.

Resolute, he finally grabbed his wand that had been flung frustratedly to the corner of the room, and with a swoop of robes, he was in the Floo.

“Well? What are you two waiting for? We have the world to save!”

* * *

3:46 am.

A Patronus had been sent out to you, and before you knew it, you were up, dressed and Floo’d to Grimmauld Place.

The sight in front of you.

Oh, Merlin.

Please, no.

Why?

Why him?

Merlin, why?

Why? Why?

Why?

WHY?

Then, your tears became an ocean.

Terrible. It was all terrible.

If only he hadn’t. If only he were a little more selfish. Oh, Merlin’s beard, it all came crashing down on him. He was an ear lighter. There was a deep, deep, gash in the side of his face.

His clothes were covered in cold, dark, dried crimson. Sparks of black seemed to crackle where his ear would have been.

You howled out, “George!” 

Arthur, Bill, Fleur, and everyone else who had helped in escorting Harry, stood around the couch that nestled the maimed George, almost like a protective barrier.

Your legs barely managed to pick themselves up as you bolted over to him, dropping your wand and satchel. Fred was right beside him, head resting on his abdomen as he grasped his cold hand. Molly’s wand illuminated a warm sort of yellow, trying to ease him of the pain that writhed in the side of his face, as if a bunch of maggots were crawling around, nestling away into the deepest depths of his cheek.

“Dark Magic.” Harry, who had been unscathed save for a few scratches, muttered.

Of all the sacrifices in the world to protect the Boy Who Lived, it just had to be him. You couldn't blame Harry, though. Without him, the Wizarding world would've been burned to ashes by now.

You could barely make out your words in between ugly, mournful sobs, “Oh, my love…”

Hands wrapped gently around his head, you stared at him wondering where you went wrong. What did you do in your past life to deserve such karma? It should’ve been you instead who took that stupid sectumsempra. It should’ve been you, but you had only found out about George joining to escort Harry moments ago after being woken up by a brilliant stag. 

Then, his eyes slowly fluttered open. They were drained of life, hazel and oh so dismally dull. But still, they widened like glass marbles, glistening with tears and red-rimmed from fatigue.

“Y/N? Why’re you–?”

You placed a hand over his mouth, relief lacing your voice as you could only speak a few broken sentences before you were a mess again, “Shh… Rest, my little spark.” 

Then, his chapped, cold lips kissed your palm and you were back in fifth year again.

Waltzing 'round the empty corridors to a slow Muggle tune with his arms around your waist, kissing the palm of the hand that he had lifted up. Then, he'd lift you up, giggling like little children.

What a time to be alive, you reminisced, but was brought back to the present by his silky sweet voice.

“It’s alright, love. I feel saint-like– holey.” You snorted, and so did Fred, whose head had shot up the moment he knew his brother was back, “Holey?”

Fred added, “Out of all the ear-related jokes in this world and you choose ‘holey’?”

The room erupted into raucous, heart-warming laughter; and for a moment– there was no Dark Lord hot on Harry’s trail, or a pack of Death Eaters wreaking havoc. It was just friends and family.

And George, albeit earless and bloody.

* * *