The holey heart of it all.




Most of you probably know me already, and of course it's expected. I'm George Weasley, and you're probably wondering why I'm participating in this bloody Eighth Year option at Hogwarts.

Personally, I don't even know anymore.
I don't know much of anything anymore.

Send me an owl if you'd like. Can't promise I'll answer it.

Personal Posts
Personal Blog
Momentary Lapses of Insanity.

nosy sod[s] listening in


This is an RP blog.
GIF above by we-reidentical.


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Slipping Up On the Sneak | George and Lee 

"Ah…" George hissed, lifting the corner of his sweater to tug it over his head and drop it on the floor. It had been a long enough time since he’d earned these marks but only the edges had begun turning yellow into fading. They were everywhere, he’d counted at least five or six, all from different occasions but his entire right side was mottled and colored with strokes of stale brown and dark purple that in no way belonged under his skin, along with one or two on his left.

His cold had been receding, and even without the bruises, his chest ached as if he’d managed to pull muscles in his stomach, crack a rib from heaving, something that left a twinge with every breath that was a step up from shallow. He’d been moving carefully and slow, more so than usual. Masking gasps, sleeping in layers, setting a time to shower in the middle of the night, after Lee had gone to sleep and before the morning when he might wake up and catch him being sneaky.

He didn’t know when he started feeling like he had to sneak around. It started somewhere along the lines of when he’d been going outside, still in the middle of the night, when the grounds were at their coldest and he knew he was doing something wrong. He knew Lee would be disappointed and probably yell or just look at him with this horrible, betrayed expression, why didn’t you tell me, I deserved to know you were being reckless, you’re gonna kill yourself someday doing this…

Tugging his trousers off was a little more difficult, as the bruise on his hip was probably the worst. He could blame Draco Malfoy for that one, even though the little blighter hadn’t laid a hand on him, he’d been the reason he’d slipped and hit yet another rock like the one that had left the hideously dark one at his ribs just above it when he’d tumbled down a dip in the woods while walking with Rolf Scamander. The one that seemed to stretch in a wrap all the way around to his back because of how he’d hit the tree on a stop, and how the bark had left scratches over it that had by now healed. All of them, accidents, and easily gotten rid of should he have the desire to make the effort, but he didn’t care. 

It didn’t seem to matter that getting in the shower every day was starting to hurt, and he’d started to develop the wish that maybe he would slip on the soap or something and just fall and not have to bother anymore. A bruise remover paste was easily acquired and he should be able to just do it and move on, but he figured, why bother? He could hide it under his clothes, wait for them to go away on their own, a reminder of his own clumsiness and how stupid he’d been…

He would never say it, but he almost didn’t really want them to go away. He felt like he deserved them and they should just stay there and remind him of how far he’d let himself go, and that he hated himself enough to leave them. It was disgusting to think, disgusting to feel anything of the sort, but he shuffled into the shower anyway and stood under the spray of warm water, breathing in the hot fumes and steam to clear his head enough to be able to smile at Lee later on and pretend he didn’t have these marks, didn’t have these thoughts. Whether they were self inflicted or not, he was sneaking, and he was slipping, and it was wrong. 

Wrapping the towel around his waist, he didn’t bother to wipe the steam off the mirror and look into it. He could see his outline and the fogginess of his own shape, the prominent colors that stood out in the mistiness of his reflection, lily-pads on a frozen lake. The ones from the rolling pin of the woman who’d caught him sneaking through the back room of Honeydukes, on his shoulder and back where he knew they were regardless of how he didn’t bother to turn. There was still a welt behind his remaining ear that was hidden by his hair, and it was small enough to disregard despite the ache. The one on his chest from the rock in the forest. The one on his hip that was half covered by cotton, bright and purple against it. Fading lily-pads of purple and black turning yellow on their own, because he wouldn’t do anything to speed up their departure. He would simply hide them and move slowly, turning away from the mirror to go and get dressed as quickly as he could before Lee got in for the night.

But in opening the door again, he looked up and was met with a sinking sort of feeling when he saw that Lee was already there. Well, so much for sneaking…