CHAPTER ELEVEN:
POKING AT BRUISES

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RAGE WAS A HOLLOW but agonising sensation. In the moment, it felt good to release it, to feel the break of bone beneath one’s hand, the beginnings of bruises forming on fragile skin, the moment where the scale tipped and control was nothing but a mere afterthought. But the seconds after, the call for realisation, the moment one’s head breached the water and air replaced anger, every bit of justification was lost in the wind. If rage was a hollow but agonising feeling, remorse was twice as strong.

“Banned,” Angelina Johnson echoed into the Gryffindor Common Room. After the events of the Quidditch game, Freya and Solana had followed their friends up to the Gryffindor tower, not wanting to part from Fred just yet. They waited for what felt like forever as Harry and George faced penance and punishment, pondering what decision would be made for the boys. Whatever ideas they had, though, they never considered something like this. “Banned. No seeker and no beaters… what on earth are we going to do?”

“It’s just so unfair,” Alicia huffed from beside her. The whole team was angry, yet incredibly defeated. They knew there was nothing they could do against Umbridge. Their win might as well have been a loss. “I mean, what about Crabbe and the bludger he hit after the whistle had been blown? Has she banned him?”

The question was ludicrous, laughable had the mood not been so morose. There was no way in Merlin’s name that Umbridge had punished the Slytherins. She wanted to hit Harry where it hurt, taking the Weasley twins down along with him. The Slytherins were nowhere on her radar of concern.

“No,” Ginny confirmed with a miserable sigh. “He just got lines. I heard Montague laughing about it at dinner.”

“And yet she banned Fred when he didn’t do anything wrong?” Solana grumbled, her hand gripping the boy in question’s. It was his turn to hold her down. If she had her way, she would march to Umbridge’s office and burn the whole place to smithereens. “I swear, if Montague tries to laugh around me, I’ll shove his stupid Slytherin tie down his throat.”

“It’s not my fault I didn’t,” Fred huffed, a flicker of a smile forming at Solana’s threat but it faded just as quick as it came.“I would’ve pounded the little scumbag to a pulp if you four hadn’t been holding me back.” 

Freya wanted to argue that it was good he didn’t, but knew he wouldn’t see reason. He was punished either way, right? Why not make the most of it? 

Resigned, Angelina slowly got to her feet, antsy to leave the room. “I’m going to bed,” she declared to the group of mourners. “Maybe this will all turn out to have been a bad dream… Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and find we haven’t played yet…”

If only it was that simple. Alicia and Katie followed after her, and soon Fred did the same. He kissed Solana’s cheek and wordlessly disappeared up to the Boy’s Dormitories, his frown still locked firmly in place. Solana watched him go with sad eyes, then turned to Freya expectantly. It was about time they went back to their own Common Room, and slept the harsh day away. But Freya didn’t feel right leaving just yet. Outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, she hesitated, hanging back as Solana began to make her way down the corridor.

“I’ll be down in a bit,” she said when the girl noticed her absence. Her eyes had locked on George’s back as he stormed off in the opposite direction. He hadn’t said a thing since he returned with Harry. She wanted to speak to him, to make sure he was alright -- well, as alright as he could’ve been given the circumstances. “I’ve got something I need to do first.”

Solana didn’t protest. She didn’t even have the strength to smirk as she caught sight of George’s back and Freya’s wandering eyes. Instead, she just nodded to herself, then turned on her heel and disappeared on the winding flight of stairs. Only then did Freya move, surprised to find George only just around the corner in a familiar alcove, back tucked up against the window ledge. They’d been here before, three months ago at the start of term, when Freya and Solana’s roommates had one too many things to say about Harry and the return of You-Know-Who. She sighed and sat opposite him, their knees knocking together and forcing him to look up at her. Deja vu; another strong feeling.

“Hey,” she murmured, smiling almost nervously. George Weasley didn’t make her nervous. She felt like a fish out of water, a monster among men. “How’re you feeling?” At the incredulous stare that settled on his face, her smile turned sheepish. “Sorry, that’s a stupid question.”

George huffed out a laugh, looking away from her after a moment. “I’m okay, Freya. You can go with Solana if you want to.”

But Freya just shook her head. “You remember when we were here last?” she asked instead, gesturing to the window and the tight space closing them in. George just gave a half-hearted shrug, though his eyes said everything she needed him to say. “You didn’t have to stay with me but you did. So let me repay the favour.” 

He was still quiet when he nodded, eerily so, but the line they were dancing on was tentative, and Freya refused to be the one who pushed him across it. Hopefully, with time, he would stray further and further away so she didn’t have to. For a while, they just sat in silence, listening to the echo of retreating footsteps as students headed to bed for the night. At some point, Freya got bored of the silence, and her eyes flickered down to George’s hands. They were clenched on his lap, nails digging half-moon crescents into his palms to match the moon hanging in the sky outside. He didn’t seem to care, though, not with purple bruises marring the skin of his knuckles, an open cut marked on the ridge of his middle finger.

“That doesn’t look good,” she commented, lightly reaching out to take one of his hands in hers.

“They’ll heal,” he shrugged, though Freya noticed the way he winced as his fingers unfurled beneath hers. “Why did you stop me, Freya?”

Her surprise was evident. She hadn’t expected him to say anything about his fight with Malfoy. Typically, when George got that angry, it took him a long time to wind down, to have both of his feet planted firmly in reality. She thought he would stay tight-lipped until she eventually got tired and listened to that part of her longing for the warmth of the Hufflepuff Common Room, but she was sorely mistaken. For a worrying second, she feared he was angry with her.

“I didn’t want you to get in trouble,” she said, voice unusually small.

George sighed, fingers absentmindedly tapping a tune against her hand. Freya wasn’t sure what to do. Normally, she would smile and tap back, but the bridge between them was fine and not made for two people. “Doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, the words tasting like acid on her tongue.

But George just shook his head. “Don’t be. I’m not angry at you. I just can’t believe Umbridge would do that.”

“I reckon we should prank her,” Freya said after a moment. Relief had settled in again, her voice gaining back its strength. “Put your puking pastilles in her tea, or create a swamp in her office--”

George laughed, the first signs of dawn forming in the way his mouth stretched into a smile. “A swamp? I like that idea, Frey. Might have to steal it from you.”

“Well, at least give me some credit,” she rolled her eyes teasingly. “Or I’ll have to sue you.”

“You wouldn’t,” he gasped, his other hand, just as bruised as the one pressed to Freya’s, reaching up to slap over his heart in disbelief. 

“Try me, Weasley,” she smirked.

“Hm, I don’t know if I want to.”

“Guess you better give me credit then.”

The conversation felt easy now. Freya was glad she stayed behind. This was her George, the one who smiled at everything, who’s laugh was the easiest to recognise in a room cluttered with people. Her George, and the way his eyes crinkled with every expression, the way he moved like every action was part of an elaborate scheme, an infamous prank in the making, something to be remembered and missed in the years to come. The boy on the Quidditch pitch lusting for blood, for rage to hollow out his too kind heart, was not Freya’s George. It felt good to have him back again, albeit a bit bruised and defeated.

“Let me clean these up for you,” she implored, holding his hand up for him to see.

George eyed her warily. “With magic?” he asked unsurely.

“Please, do you even know me?” she scoffed, pouting as he laughed. “I’ll do it the good ol’ muggle way.”

George sighed but didn’t protest. “If you insist.” Still, despite his agreement, a frown settled across his face as Freya stood up. “What are you doing?”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, I can’t exactly clean them here, can I?”

“Oh,” he drawled, then stood to his feet. Their intertwined hands swung between them as Freya lead the way down the corridor. “Then where to, Frey?”

“The Kitchens,” she told him, glancing down a connecting hallway to make sure Filch wasn’t around. When the coast was clear, she nodded and stepped out of hiding, dragging George along with her. “Hopefully, Dobby will have something antiseptic lying around that I can use to clean that cut.”

“Antiskeptic?” George repeated with a frown, totally butchering the word. A laugh lingered on Freya’s tongue, though it faded as she focused on finding the pear on the kitchen’s portrait door. “What in Merlin’s name is that?”

“Okay one; it’s antiseptic, not antiskeptic,” she repeated, sounding out each syllable for him to remember. “And two; it’s a muggle thing. It cleans bacteria from wounds.”

“Oh,” he echoed again, still sounding incredibly confused.

Fortunately, it didn’t take Freya long to find just what she needed. Dobby was nowhere in sight, but one of his house-elf buddies was more than happy to provide both Freya and George with a cup of tea each, and Freya with rubbing alcohol and some gauze they had lying around for accidents in the kitchen.

“Don’t tell me I have to put that on my hands,” George’s nose scrunched up as the strong, sterile scent of alcohol wafted into the air. 

Freya didn’t recognise the brand on the bottle but presumed it to be a magical one. She shook it slightly before capping it open, dabbing some on a piece of paper towel before pressing it right onto his hand. George yelped, an outraged look forming in his eye. “There we go.”

“You couldn’t have given me some warning?” he hissed, though his haunched shoulders fell as he slowly got used to the prickling feeling.

“You would’ve backed out,” she just shrugged, unapologetic. She was considerably more careful now, her touches gentle as they ghosted over his skin. It wasn’t that she’d wanted to hurt him, but she had found great amusement in the way he flinched and yelped like a little girl. So tough for someone who had been so angry just an hour ago. “But if this doesn’t work, you’ll need to go to Madam Promfrey.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, but stayed silent as she threw the towels into a bin, then quickly wrapped the gauze around each hand. 

“There,” she said once she was done, sitting back happily in her chair. “All finished.”

They would’ve been at it for hours if she’d tried with magic. For a second, the thought disheartened her, but she quickly pushed it away as George flexed his hands then looked up at her with a teasing smirk.

“Aren’t you going to clean my lip, too?” he asked, to which she frowned.

“What?” she squeaked, coughing as her voice hitched, blood rushing to her cheeks.

“My lip,” he repeated, smirk widening as his gaze settled on her blush. “One of Malfoy’s blasted rings cut it.”

She’d seen the blood on his chin when out on the field, but it was long gone now. Instead, left in its place was a shallow wound, a cut that was barely noticeable unless you were paying close attention. She doubted it even hurt him, but gave in when he pouted and started pestering her about it, poking at her ribs as she attempted to take a sip from her unattended tea.

“Merlin, you’re annoying,” she sighed as she took another piece of paper towel off the roll and poured some of the liquid onto it. She stepped closer, George craning his head back to meet her eye. She tutted at the movement, hand following it to dab against the cut. “Stay still, okay?”

“Okay,” he mumbled, though he sounded incredibly muffled as he struggled not to move his mouth with the word.

Freya laughed and shook her head. “You’re such an idiot, Georgie.”

Georgie. He suddenly stopped talking, eyes going soft as her’s shyly met his. 

Georgie and Frey. Frey and Georgie. It sounded so… natural. The feeling of his shoulder beneath one hand, his hot breath fanning out across the other, it felt like she was supposed to be there, his hands ghosting up her back absentmindedly. Flustered, she cleared her throat and turned away, practically slumping in her seat as her hand wrapped around her cup. She took a sip, desperately seeking a distraction, and almost spat the tea back out on him.

“This is cold,” she huffed, scowling when he snickered to himself. “I blame you.”

“Oh, come on,” he was still chuckling as he stood up and reached for both of their cups. “I’ll annoy the house-elfs into letting me make us another one.”

And with a fluttering heart, Freya got up and followed after him, a little voice in her head telling her she could get used to small moments like this, where things didn't feel so heavy.