Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Round 3

Team: Chudley Cannons

Position: Chaser 3

Prompt: Wait For It: Write about someone holding back about something.

Lyric used: It takes and it takes and it takes and we keep living anyway.

Optional Prompts:

11. (word) legacy

14. (word) impatient

15. (relationship) father/child

WC: 1701

AN: Thanks to Ashleigh (Fire the Canon) and Arty (The Lady Arturia) for being wonderful betas!

George took another swig of firewhisky, the liquid burning its way down his throat. But he didn't feel it. He hadn't felt anything for the past month—not when he'd seen the body lying on the floor of the Great Hall, not when the casket had been lowered into the ground—but that was how he liked it.

It was the best way to feel, he decided as he lifted the nearly empty bottle to his mouth again. (And it was the worst.)

He paused, bottle a hair's breadth away from his lips, when the sound of slow footsteps eased up the stairs outside his room—well, Bill's room, if he was being technical, but what good were technicalities anyway? Swearing under his breath, he shoved the bottle under the bed and winced when it clinked against one of the many others it had joined.

The door creaked open as Molly stepped in, her cardigan rustling about her. For a moment she stood silently at the entrance of the room, her eyes flitting around like a hawk, then said in the same hushed voice she'd spoken since the battle, "Good morning, George."

George had grown used to these daily inspections. And he'd discovered that he had a natural proclivity for acting, which had become particularly useful.

"Morning, Mum," he said, his throat raspy. He coughed and swiped a hand over his lips, hoping his face wouldn't betray him.

Molly narrowed her eyes at him and scanned his room once again. Then she hurried forward and enveloped him in her arms, as she did every morning.

Molly's nails dug into his back as she gripped him, as if she was afraid that he would be gone the minute she let go. George's face lay squished against her apron, filling his nostrils with the sweet and spicy scent of cinnamon. Normally, he would have been comforted by this, but now all he could think of was all those mornings making cinnamon buns with Fred, throwing handfuls of flour and sugar at each other. He blinked, feeling his throat tighten, and dragged in a breath.

"I'm okay, Mum," he murmured, mustering a smile. What was another lie? George had already told too many to count—to Molly, to his friends, to himself.

Molly patted his back before releasing him. She sniffed and lifted her apron to swipe at her eyes. "Come down in a few and eat something, will you?" She pursed her lips. "You're becoming dreadfully thin. A sack of skin and bones."

"Mm," he said, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. A sack of skin and bones, he thought. Just the way I like it. None of that useless heart stuff.

She offered him a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, squeezed his shoulder, then left the room, throwing him a hopeful glance behind her.

George didn't know why she bothered. They both knew that he wasn't coming down anytime soon; he had one meal a day, two if he was feeling especially empty. But he'd realized that while food filled his growling stomach, it did nothing to help the numb hole in his chest.

He considered retrieving the bottle of firewhisky from beneath his bed then shook his head. If anyone found him rambling drunk with bloodshot eyes, he'd have to suffer through another round of "George, dear, are you okay?", "George, it'll be alright," and "George, he wouldn't have wanted this."

"How am I supposed to know what he wants?" George grumbled to himself, lying back on the bed. "He's dead."

He began to trace the pattern on the ceiling with his gaze, an activity that he'd found could take up quite a bit of time if he let it consume him.

George was lost in a particularly convoluted web of cracks when he heard an owl hoot outside the window. He lifted his head, groaned, and stood up to open the window. The owl flapped around, its amber eyes darting around the room. Gripping what George assumed to be a letter in its gnarled talons, it hovered over the bed, as if searching for someone.

George sighed and reached out to take the envelope. He ripped open the envelope and unfurled the letter, and then his breath caught in his throat.

In thin spidery writing, the first line read Mr. Fred Weasley.

Through the haze in his mind, he vaguely comprehended that the letter was from some North American associate they'd contacted in hopes of expanding the business, in hopes of expanding their legacy. The letters all blurred into one line, until all that he could see was Fred Weasley.

He laughed.

The laughter fell from his lips in wild bouts, and George felt something rise up from his chest, a dark impatient monster finally rearing its head, finally released from the cage he'd built in his heart, and he wanted to push it down, he really did, but it was rising, rising, rising, and then—

And then he was crying.

Tears leaked out of his eyes as he shook silently, clamping his hand over his mouth. He curled into a ball on the floor, pressing his forehead against the cool wood, the letter crushed in his fist. "Stop," he whispered to himself. "Stop it, push it back, stop, please stop."

He lifted his head and froze when he saw his father standing in the doorway, holding a tray laden with a pastry and cup of tea. His blue eyes were stricken as he watched George. No, no, no, he can't see me like this, he can't, he thought to himself, so he tried to stop crying, tried to stop his body from quivering, but he couldn't, he couldn't stop—

Setting the tray aside and kneeling down beside him, Arthur placed a warm hand on George's shoulder, squeezing as he said, "It's okay."

George clamped his lips shut, holding back a sob, and peered up at his father. "I'm—I'm okay, Dad, I'm fine—"

"It's okay," Arthur repeated firmly. "It's okay to feel like this."

George's lips trembled as he considered his father. Merlin, he wanted to believe him; he could feel everything he had held back since the battle waiting for the barriers to collapse completely, waiting for him to surrender. But it seemed too good to be true. Really? he thought with an almost childlike wonder.

Arthur nodded, as if he heard George's unspoken question.

And with that, George let himself fall into his father's arms and surrender.

Tears ran down his stubbled cheeks in rivulets, relentless in the force with which they poured out of his eyes, until all he could taste was the salty tang of something impatient that had been hiding in the ugly cracks of his heart. He could see Fred lying on the floor of the Great Hall. He could see the casket being lowered into the ground. He could see the first time he and Fred had successfully pranked someone. He could see the day they had opened the shop, could hear Fred's laughter, could hear Fred saying, "We'll be legends one day." But now it was only George. Only George was left to carry on the legacy, but he didn't know how he was supposed to do it on his own.

It's only me, he thought, and when the realization finally sank in, he let himself break again.

It felt like the waves of the ocean itself were pounding against his ears; dimly, through the roar, he heard someone release a scream so guttural that it tore the breath from his lungs. Then he realized it was him who had screamed.

It felt like hours had passed by when George finally looked up at his father, his eyes bloodshot, nose puffy. Tears still trickled out of his eyes, streaking his face in soft glimmers, but they had begun to ebb.

"Dad," he started, his voice rough, "I—" George knew what he had to say, what he had been holding back, but he felt his throat close up. He felt himself starting to reconstruct the barriers, starting to push the monster back into its dark cage.

The corner of Arthur's lips quirked up in a melancholy smile. "You don't need to lie anymore, George." He began rubbing circles on George's back. "It's alright to not be okay."

The words echoed in George's head. He swallowed. "I—I'm not okay." The moment the words came out, he could feel all the barriers crumble. And he felt the beginnings of something spark in his chest—hope.

Arthur didn't respond; he only nodded, but that was all George needed. There was more to come—they both knew that. But they also knew how much it hurt George to say what he had said, how much it had hurt him to accept it. There were other days to say what had been left unsaid; for now, this was enough.

"Death is horrible. I know it, you know it, we all know it." Arthur took a deep breath, staring absently at the wall. For the first time, George noticed the deep purple shadows lurking beneath his father's eyes, the wrinkles that seemed too deeply etched to be new. Nobody's okay, he realized with a soft sigh, and with the words came an odd mix of sadness and relief.

"It takes, and it takes, and it takes, and we keep living anyway," Arthur whispered. "You keep living anyway. It's hard—trust me, George, I know it's hard. But you have to. You have to live for Fred, for everyone that died, but most importantly, you have to live for yourself."

George mulled over the words, letting them seep into his mind. Then he offered his father a small nod and laid his head on Arthur's shoulder, accepting his embrace. He drew a breath in then exhaled, inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled, reminding himself that he was living, that he was slowly putting together the pieces of who he was.

They weren't okay, and they likely wouldn't be for a long time. (But that was fine. Life wasn't impatient.)

They were broken, and it would take a long time to rebuild. (But that was fine. Love wasn't impatient.)

They were living, and that was all that mattered.