Mending Broken Souls: One Step Closer

Lights shone through the many windows in his childhood home, illuminating the path he stumbled down. Both hands were full of the girl's almost dead weight as she drooped and swayed. George could faintly make out her quick breathing, her skin chilling under his fingers.

"We're here, don't worry now, you'll both be fine," he groaned, pulling her up and into his arms when she almost toppled over the fence and into the chicken feed. His legs were able to move faster with her figure no longer dragging him sideways, and he found himself calling for help when her eyes rolled and body convulsed.

"George? Is that you?"

The front door slammed opened followed by several people spilling out.

"George!"

"Dad, help! She's hurt."

Hermione was the first to reach him, Ron right on her heels, almost sliding away from his speed and momentum until his feet dug into the dirt. He looked the girl over, parting her hair from her face as best as he could while Arthur stood over him, wand aloft, allowing Ron necessary light.

"Her ribs," George gasped out, watching as Ron moved her clothes aside. They all sucked in a breath.

"Take her inside. Molly!" Arthur cried out. "Come on."

Hermione gently eased the cat out of the girls grip, murmuring soft words as she tightened her hold and her eyelids flickered. Once safe in her arms George took off in a run, bursting into the house.

"On the couch," Molly ordered.

The coffee table was covered with bandages and potions and a bowl of water. Placing her down as gently as possible, George was shoved aside by his mother as she began looking over her injuries and firing off questions.

"What happened to her?"

"S-she got into it with some man. He sliced her by the ribs."

Mindful of the males in the room, Hermione and Molly blocked the bloody and bare torso from their sights as Molly unwrapped the cloak.

From his position behind Hermione's shoulder, George couldn't see beyond the girl's thin neck. Her shrivelled and tight skin captivated him, blue veins jutting out. Lips too full for a small face were parted, exhaling soft wheezes.

"George!" Molly's voice shook him from the corpse. "I asked how long ago?"

"Less than ten minutes. I came here straight away."

She nodded, somewhat relieved. Kneeling down, Molly wet a small towel and began wiping away the dirt and blood. Submerging it back into the water, the deep red curled, swirling down and out until the bowl was full of pink. She pulled out her wand from its place in the knot that was her hair, dabbing some alcohol onto the wound before sealing it.

George watched his mother work, her fingers expertly pushing down in one place and smoothing down another. Her eyes focused on the wound and the girls reactions. There had been no hesitation in his mother helping – in any of his family offering their aid. As soon as they realised a person was in distress they jumped in to help in any way that they could. Hermione offering comfort, Ron observing the injuries, Arthur keeping everyone calm and Molly doing the dirty work. George knew he had his own role in following his gut instinct and finding the mysterious girl that always seemed to crop up wherever he was. She was always there in the corner of his eye and the shadows of the streets, blending in but her presence burning against George's nerves. He wondered how she did it.

In a matter of minutes Molly was done bandaging the girl's torso and pouring some blood-replenishing potion into her mouth. An old large t-shirt that Ron had brought from somewhere upstairs drowned her slim frame, paired with flimsy pyjama pants and odd socks. If it had been a less dire situation George would have quipped that the girl fit right into the family on lazy Sunday mornings.

"She should sleep through the night," Molly said as she stood up slowly, wincing as she rubbed her knees.

"Cup of tea, George?" Arthur asked. "I assume you'll stay the night, just to keep an eye on her."

He was nodding before he even registered what was said.

"She'll be alright," Molly sighed.

"The cat?"

As if on cue, Hermione gasped as her gaze fell upon the blood matting the grey fur of the cat. Shoving it into Ron's arms, ignoring his yelp of distress, she divided the fur and healed the wound with equal dexterity as Molly.

"Poor things," his sister-in-law murmured, stroking the feline under the chin before taking it once more.

"What happened?" Ron asked.

"Let's all go and discuss this over a cuppa. We don't want to disturb the girl," Arthur said, urging his kids to the kitchen behind Molly.

The cat wriggled out of Hermione's arms and jumped up onto the couch with the girl. Instead of cuddling up beside her, it pawed her stomach and laid down atop her, nuzzling its head under her hand.

In the kitchen steaming mugs were already set out as the Weasley's took their seats.

"Now, George, who is this girl?" Arthur asked.

"I don't know," he answered.

"What? You must have some clue," said Ron, frowning.

George shrugged. "I've seen her around Diagon Alley before but I personally don't know her. She was being attacked so I stepped in. She was adamant in not going to St. Mungo's so I thought of the first place I knew that would help get her healed."

A small, proud smile graced Molly's lips, easing the tension in her face. She leaned over and patted his hand. "You're a good boy, George."

He offered a quirk of the lip in response. There was still a wall erected between him and his mother, one he was desperate to knock down but had no way of knowing where to start or how. Years had passed with them ignoring the wall and simply talking over and around it, each time growing more and more frustrated. The enormous division had become such a nuisance that George felt as if he'd lost his mother and had resorted to forging a mediocre shell of what his recent memories could remember.

Watching her tonight so selflessly helping another and ignoring the divide between them had helped to brighten up her image somewhat. It wasn't enough. George wanted his mother back.

"I learnt from the best," he said, squeezing her fingers.

"In spite of the circumstances, it's good to see you again, George," Arthur said.

"I'm…glad. To be here."

"We'd love to stay, really, but we have business in the morning." Hermione levitated her and Ron's mugs to the sink. She moved around the table to hug both Molly and Arthur before approaching George. "You're an arse most of the time, but you have a remarkably wonderful side that never ceases to amaze me."

"I'm pretty sure my whole arse is wonderful and not just a side of it," George smirked.

"How would you know?" Ron asked as he clapped his brother's shoulder, brows furrowing.

"Seriously, Ron?" Hermione groaned before George could respond. "Uh, just – come on. Thanks for having us for dinner, again. We'll see you tomorrow for lunch."

"It's not a problem dear," Molly said, escorting them out of the kitchen.

"And tell Charlie next time he expects a welcoming home party to bloody get back in time," George heard Ron call from outside.

"Oh, shut up, Ron," Molly said, closing the door once she saw that they had both safely apparated away.

The house was quiet with only the noise of the sponge in the sink scrubbing away disturbing the night. Arthur returned downstairs in his pyjamas and a book, his glasses dangerously low on his nose.

"I'm going to wait inside for Charlie, dear," he said to his wife, pecking her cheek once she removed her apron.

"I'll be with you in a bit. George, you've had a taxing day, go on off to bed. We'll wake you when she does," Molly said.

George nodded, only just noticing the heavy weight of his eyelids.

He was not sure what it was that would not let him succumb to slumber. Perhaps it was the adrenaline vaguely thumping inside of him, or the familiar scent of home that had him imagining whispers of devious plans and sugary treats when he closed his eyes. It was odd being back in his old room in the house he had grown up in. But lying there alone was unsettling with no soft snores to reassure him.

The roof was always a blissful escape. It was a dangerous climb out from his window but his body had remembered all the grooves and cracks within the structure of the building that he could have done it asleep. The cool air was refreshing, jasmine, iris and lavender filling up his nostrils with an underlying hint of salt from the nearby lake. Drowning in nature had always eased his mind, the regression into simpler times obscuring the worries and stresses of the present.

His room had changed, just as he had demanded his parents when he had moved out a few years ago. There was a single bed there now, no longer two. A simple wooden wardrobe on the opposite side of the room and a garishly patterned rug. At first glance it was a stranger's room, impersonal and dull.

But like many of the remnants of the war it had scars.

Behind the wardrobe was a large scorch mark etched into the veins of the wall. Under the rug a stain that George could recall being so discoloured that it resembled their own unique hallucinogenic rainbow. Etchings remained by the door of countless height markings over the years. Everywhere he looked was a poor attempt at the disguising of his and Fred's childhood. He wasn't sure, but the scars of the room almost seemed to stretch towards him in the darkness, the shadows crawling over his body.

"You can't see this stars in London."

The warmth of the body beside him was a welcome to the chill in his thin clothes and from his damp sweat.

"London has no time for stars," he said.

"Home makes time for its family," she said.

"How did you get up here?" George said, as if only registering how his mother had snuck up on him.

"How do you think? A mother has eyes on the back of her head and ears in every room. If I was so inclined to prevent you from coming up here all these years I would have done it," she said.

"It's a long climb." George immediately checked his mother's hands, riddled with arthritis.

"I killed Bellatrix Lestrange, I think I'm capable of climbing out of a window."

"Badass Mama Weasley," George chuckled, shaking his head.

"Don't you know it." Her eyes shone in the moonlight. "I've always loved coming up here."

Forgetting about the predicament on how his mother would get down for the moment, he followed her eyes. "It's peaceful."

"It's something we've always needed what with all you kids running mad around the house."

"We kept you on your toes."

"I'm not a bloody ballerina."

George snorted. Knowing better than to fall into her trap of responding, he diverted the conversation. "Why's Charlie coming?"

"He wanted to come and see everyone, he's taken a week off from work. Just in time for Percy's birthday party."

"Need a present for him? I've got a whoopee cushion underwear waiting for you."

Molly patted George's hand. "Between you and me I think Victoire got him that already thanks to Bill."

"Mum, I...about the other day, I'm sorry." He kept his eyes on the stars as he spoke, absorbing the energy from the world around him. "I shouldn't have snapped at you like that, but…I'm glad I said something. I…"

His mouth shut. Words he had said to his father, words that had spiralled in his mind for years blowing in a fury, raging to get out. But he didn't know how. He had never had problems with communication before, never had experienced the dryness of his mouth and the muscles in his face tightening, preventing him from talking.

"I've been so disappointed in you George."

Blue eyes shut at the statement. It did not come as a surprise, he knew how his mother felt, how all of his family felt at watching him wither away and submit to animalistic urges. Hearing it was like a hot dagger twisting his heart and spreading poison through his blood.

"But I've been such a terrible mother, how can I possibly blame you for how you've been acting."

"Mum?"

"I'm the one who should be sorry, George. Ever since Fred died," her voice went quiet at the admission, she exhaled shakily. "I haven't been caring for you like I should have been, like a good mum should have been. I thought demanding you to do things, to sort yourself out, to eat and get dressed without any support or reasoning was going to get you into your usual routine again. I overlooked how you were feeling, how your usual routine involved Fred in every single way. I remember when you used to fight over the last pastry at breakfast when your dad decided to treat us, and when you forgot whose clothes belonged to who because you always shared them.

"I couldn't look at you. I couldn't address you as George, my George. I was so afraid, of so much. Of calling you Fred, or…seeing Fred." She let out a watery chuckle. "That sounds so stupid but I looked for any excuse I could. I would rather have ignored you and your pain and just carried on being mum to seven kids. What kind of a mother does that?"

"Don't." He couldn't hear any more of it, refused to listen to his mother berate herself for grieving over her fallen child. That was her right, who was he to chastise her for it? But he had, leaving a bitter aftertaste. "You lost Fred too, mum. You were his mum."

"And I'm still yours," she said. "And yet I still treated you as if you had no right to be hurt. We should have worked through it together. It's my duty as your mother to help you."

Her breath caught at the end, choking on a sob. George put his arm around her, pulling her small form into his side as she wept into his shirt.

"Look at me," her voice, muffled through the fabric and the cotton in her throat, was derisive.

"I've spent the last five years grieving and getting over it, mum," he said, stroking her hair. "Now it's your turn to stop watching over me and let him go."

"My boy…"

This was the moment they both had been pushing away, the acceptance of Fred's death and moving on. George was willing to be the rock for his mother now, listening to her cry over her son and his twin in the smallest way to alleviate his shame and sins. For the past five years he had forced himself into ignoring the absence of Fred, filling his space with others, people he had wrongfully disrespected and hurt. He hadn't meant to – Merlin, he would never consciously do such a thing.

So he drank for the excuses, pushing his appalling behaviour onto something immaterial and lifeless. His family and friends hadn't bought it, had tried to help him but he had shoved them all aside. Seeing them all linked to Fred. He had needed someone new, a change with no association to his late brother.

But his mother, forced so live in a prison of memories where every corner held a story. She had maintained a firm façade for her children and grandchildren, not enabling them to witness her crumble into a heap. She had cried at first, of course. But like the drawbridge of a castle she had pulled herself away, locking her pain to herself while looking after everyone else.

George did blame her partly for his own mistakes, how could he not? They were both at fault, and he was an adult who needed to learn for himself how shit life could be. And yet, he chose to behave like a child and point fingers and accusations at the easiest victim, the one who appeared least affected, and the one who had moved on the quickest. Had he known his mother had not properly mourned, was too heartbroken to accept the fact that she would never see one of her children again until the day she died, he might have been more lenient. But how was he to know?

"I love you, George, and don't you ever forget that."

He blinked up at the stars, willing the tears away. "I love you, too, mum. I'm sorry for being such a crappy son."

"I forgave you long ago, love."

A few moments passed before Molly's tears passed. She stayed in George's arms, listening to his heartbeat.

"We still have a long way to go," she said. "This was just the start."

"It was the hardest part. I want to get better with you."

Pulling his hand to her lips she pressed a kiss to the back.

"We'll leave that for another day. Right now we should be keeping an eye on that girl."

"I want to stay up here for a bit longer," George said as Molly stood and brushed off her clothes. "Call me if she wakes up?"

"Of course. Come down soon, though, your brother should be here any minute. In his twenties and he's still keeping us up late. The nerve!"

George chuckled, watching his mother as she manoeuvred down the wall, ensuring she got in through the window safely.

Looking out at the large moon surrounded by the stars was different now, with the boulder eased off of George, allowing him a stronger sense of serenity.

He didn't stay up on the roof much longer, only a few minutes perhaps when he decided he could do with a drink by the fireplace. If Charlie was up for it, suffering from the dreaded jetlag that not even magical travel could avoid, they could play some Exploding Snap before bed. It was already in the early hours of the morning, but George found he was not eager to go into his room again, not just yet.

He sat in the kitchen with his parents sipping some tea before they got comfortable in the living room to wait for Charlie. George was in the middle of regaling his work week when the blanket on the opposite sofa shuffled.

He kneeled down on the ground before her as her face emerged. Slowly, her eyes opened. "Hey. You alright?"

She sat up, almost knocking George back, his hands managing to catch him.

"Easy! Do you remember what happened?"

Pushing the blankets away she lifted her shirt off and inspected the bandage around her ribs. Almost immediately she scratched away at it until George stilled her hands.

"No, no, no, no – don't do that. The skin is probably still tender. Just breathe and calm down. Look, your cat is here."

It had been snuggled up between her and the back of the couch as she slept, waking up as soon as it felt her movement. Now, it watched her, nuzzling its head onto her arm. Her hand stroked its little head, trailing down its back, its spine curving under her.

With a few more reassuring words and his hand gripping one of hers, she calmed down.

Arthur crouched beside George.

"I'm Arthur, George's father. He brought you here when you got hurt. Is there anything I can get you? Some water, perhaps?"

George was ready to tell his father that there was no point in asking her anything, she never responded and was probably deaf. He was left surprised when after looking at him through her hair she slowly nodded. Instead of magically getting her a glass of water Arthur went to the kitchen himself. Her hands were shaking when she went to grab it, gulping it down when it was safe in both hands.

"You need a good, long shower," Molly said from behind George. "Come on, now, there are some clothes you can borrow."

With little urging, she took Molly's hand and followed her upstairs, the cat at her heels.

"Should I…?" George started, staring at the spot where his mother and their quest had disappeared.

"No, son. You just sit tight."

A booming voice was heard from outside. It seemed Charlie was back. He greeted Arthur, asking about the whereabouts of Molly while completely missing George.

"Did you wait long? Bloody Ministry sent a faulty portkey the first time and it took them ages to get a replacement, and even that one took me to Leicester – Leicester! Can you believe that?" Charlie raged. The creaking of the sofa springs sinking under his weight bled through the room.

"You be sure to file in a complaint, now," Arthur said.

"Ey, Georgie!" Charlie sprung up off the couch and engulfed his brother in a hug. "Good to see you! Aw, how nice of you to come and see me."

"Alright, mate, ease off. I'm not one of your bloody dragons that you need to manhandle," George clapped Charlie on the back before breaking their embrace.

"Habits, eh?"

"Anything to eat, Charlie?" Arthur asked.

"Thanks, dad, but I can manage. As long as the cheese pasties are still where they should be."

George nodded his head, indicating towards the kitchen.

"Want me to get it for your fat arse?" he asked.

"And a beer. I know dad still has some of that muggle stuff hidden." Charlie sent a knowing glance to his father.

"Dad?"

"No, I'm alright, son. Should be heading off to bed soon."

He arrived with a tray, finding Charlie sprawled across the sofa with his arms over the back, his head tilted back. He nudged him with his foot.

"Stiff neck, sorry."

As they sat down, the two began to eat, Charlie telling of his disastrous journey in more detail and even going further as to explain the arduous experience of getting time off of work at the end of August and the relevant transport.

They sipped at their beers once their pasties were finished. The creaking of the stairs called for their attention, and Charlie jumped off to greet his mother with a bear hug.

"Oh-ho, Charlie! How good to see you," Molly kiss his cheek as a figure stood behind her.

The shower had done her good. She was in some different clothes, old things of Ginny's that she had outgrown but Molly had never gotten rid of, a habit she had failed to change. Her skin had a glow to it, although still partially grey and sunken in. George was surprised he could see her face at all. Dark, wet hair had been brushed back. This was the first time George had a complete glimpse of her.

"Er, sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt. Who's this mum?" Charlie nervously rubbed the back of his reddening neck.

She floundered, desperately searching for a decent answer when there was none that would not end up with loads of questions. Then again, they had lots of questions for her. Whether or how she would answer them was unknown.

Charlie dropped his hand, peering into her face as she looked away, as if hiding behind hair that was no longer in the way to protect her. He gasped.

"Iris?"

AN: Dear Guest, if you are still reading this I'd like to respond to your review. If not, to anyone reading this who had similar views, I hope you get something out of this.

The reason for the depiction of girls in that particular chapter (chapter 3), was that although this story is written in the third person, it is still primarily focused from George's perspective and his thoughts. No, I don't think he was brought up thinking so appallingly of women, but he was recollecting that particular incident in a stage of his life where he isn't sure of himself, or anything for that matter. As well as that, a controversial notion is that the narrator is independent of the protagonist, even if they are telling the story from the perspective of the character. This makes them unreliable, and some things are presented in such a way that they may not be meant to.

For examples, Big Boobs, may not have had massively huge breasts. She may have been a large bodied woman, thus enhancing her bosom, but that was not mentioned because adult George who is traumatised by the death of his twin, the one who has resorted to losing himself in the anonymous identities of random women, would have remembered that particular aspect and maybe even altered it to his liking. Charlie may not have been a huge arsehole to his girlfriends.

You were offended, I get that. And I'm sorry that chapter made you angry. But in all honesty, it was necessary for George's progression. I hope his talk with Molly helped explain this somewhat. If not, I will definitely be exploring it in future chapters.

Thank you.