Waldosia/// George Weasley

Chapter 21

Hypocrite, her mind screamed at her, You can't even take your own advice. Her head began spinning, yet she kept herself focused on the boy in front of her. She refused to cave into herself when she needed to help him. Tell him how you really feel. Tell him how you don't believe in healing at all...

Clover shook her head stubbornly and ignored the darkness inside of her. Healing had to be possible. At least for George. She couldn't stand seeing someone as torn up as she was. She couldn't stand seeing him as torn up as she was.

He was silent for a while, his head strictly staring at his feet until his voice mumbled out, "Like what?"

She chuckled under her breath at his hidden plea for help. But still, she tugged on his arm and led him out of the hallway. When she stopped, they were both standing in the living room.

"Like this," she used her arms to signal the entire room.

He looked at her in confusion, "What's wrong with the living room?"

Once again, a chuckle slid from her lips and her eyes slightly rolled at his comment, "Your walls look like bloody chaos."

They both took a few moments to look around at the white splattered, red walls. Messy strokes of white were slurred over the deep Gryffindor color quite noticeably. George began scratching the back of his neck as a pink tint rose to his cheeks, "Erm, right...that...,"

He trailed off in embarrassment, but Clover wasn't asking for an explanation. This was about George, not her curiosity. So she softly shook her head again and spoke.

"I don't need to know what happened," she looked up at him pointedly, "I can only assume it has to do with Fred. But, it's a much smaller step than his room, don't you agree?"

George nodded his head subtly, the child-like innocence of it all making Clover's heart frown. He seemed so frail, so weak, so breakable, so dependent. It's times like these that Clover is reminded of the war most. George was 21 years old. He was 21 years old and he already fought in a war, watched people die, watched his own brother die. And for a moment, her frowning heart softened. Because she was in the exact same position. The war had taken much more than lives that day.

"Hey," she whispered, bringing both of her hands up to cup his face, "I'll help you, yeah? You're not alone, George. I'm right here. Besides, I bet I'll be way better with a paint brush than you."

Just for a second, it looked like he was about to cry. But when his eyes met hers and those words fell out of her mouth, he let out a cheeky smile.

"Well, blondie. You have yourself a deal," he spoke softly, but let a mischievous expression fill his features as he walked towards the door to the shop, "I'll be back in a few."

She watched him sprint down the stairs with a goofy smile on his face, and a similar one formed on her own. Clover couldn't help it. Watching him run out like that all excited was such a different side to him than she's ever seen, one that gave a glimpse into his past. And that smile, bright yet soft, was pure magic.

Clover plopped herself down onto the couch and innocently did as George asked her to. But a few minutes later, the door was slammed open and a panting Lee stood at the door. He stared at her straight faced for a second, until he broke out in a goofy grin and tackled her on the couch.

A sloppy, wet kiss was planted on her cheek. Before she had any time to ask questions, the boy hovering over her bursted into laughter.

"I don't know what the fuck you did," his face was bright, ecstatic, happier than she's ever seen, "But that was the first bet he's made in over a year. I could quite literally snog you for that. He practically skipped, bloody skipped out of the shop. I-,"