💌🏹

⁺⤾·˚.⃗. [ᴡᴇᴀʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴀɴᴄɪɴ' sʜᴏᴇs] 𑁍ࠜೄ ･ﾟˊˎ
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
— Scottish Highlands
( December, 1994. )

                    𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐓𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 in the assembly hall was thick with anticipation as the students filed in, the usual chatter and laughter replaced by an excited murmur. Professor McGonagall entered with her usual commanding presence, instantly quieting the room.

"The Yule Ball has been a tradition of the Triwizard Tournament since its inception," she began, her sharp eyes scanning the room. "On Christmas Eve night, we and our guests gather in the Great Hall for well-mannered frivolity. As representatives of the host school, I expect each and every one of you to put your best foot forward. And I mean this literally, because the Yule Ball is first and foremost... a dance."

The boys groaned collectively, slouching in their seats, while the girls buzzed with excitement. The murmurs of excitement only grew louder as the thought of an elegant evening danced in their minds.

McGonagall, ever the disciplinarian, shot them all a steely look. "Silence. Hogwarts has commanded the respect of the wizarding world for nearly ten centuries. I will not have you, in the course of a single evening, besmirching that name by behaving like a babbling, bumbling band of baboons."

Fred whispered to George with a grin, trying to stifle his laughter. "Try saying that five times faster," he challenged.

George raised an eyebrow. "You first."

Both of them muttered the tongue-twister under their breath, trying to speed up the words. "Babbling, bumbling band of baboons, babbling, bumbling band of baboons—"

Their antics were interrupted by McGonagall's stern voice. "Silence," she ordered, although there was a brief, almost imperceptible twinkle in her eye.

She continued with the lesson. "Now, to dance is to let the body breathe, inside every girl a secret swan slumbers, longing to burst forth and take flight." She paused dramatically before adding, "Inside every boy, a lordly lion prepared to prance. Mr. Weasley, will you join me?"

Ron, Fred, and George all froze, giving each other wide eyed glances. The entire hall watched, bemused, as McGonagall grabbed Ron by the arm and pulled him to the front of the room. Ron looked bewildered, and there was a chorus of snickers from the crowd. Fred and George's shoulders relaxed and they began snickering.

McGonagall placed a hand on her waist. "Now, place your right hand on my waist," she instructed, looking at Ron with expectant eyes.

"Where?" Ron asked, his voice tinged with confusion.

"My waist," McGonagall repeated with a thin smile, drawing a chuckle from the students.

Ron reluctantly complied, and a loud whistle came from George, causing him to flush crimson, beginning to hold his hand up to shoot his brother an obscene gesture but McGonagall continued, "Now bend your arm. Mr. Filch, if you please."

The music began to play, light and upbeat, filling the room as McGonagall started to demonstrate the steps. "One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three." She moved with grace, Ron awkwardly attempting to mirror her every move.

Harry leaned over to the twins, his voice low. "Oi! Never gonna let him forget this, are you?"

Fred and George shared a look and smirked. "Never," they replied in unison, their grins widening as they watched Ron's discomfort.

McGonagall clapped her hands. "Everybody come together!"

The girls in the hall instantly stood, eager to join in, but the boys remained seated, their reluctance still palpable.

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Boys, on your feet."

Cassie and Olympia exchanged an eye roll before making their way toward Fred and George. Cassie grabbed Fred by the arm, pulling him to his feet. Olympia, with a small smirk, reached down and tugged George's arm to get him moving. He hesitated, but followed her, a nervous energy radiating from him.

The girls took their positions in front of the boys, preparing to practice the waltz. McGonagall gave a nod, signaling that it was time to begin.

George, his face flushed with nervousness, placed his hands on Olympia's hips with an almost tentative touch. The moment their hands met, the tension between them was palpable. Olympia's breath hitched, but she steeled herself, trying not to let the feeling of his touch affect her.

But it did.

As the music began to flow through the hall, the world seemed to shift and settle around Olympia and George. The space between them felt charged with an unspoken weight, as if the air itself was thick with anticipation. Olympia felt it first, a flicker of awareness that made her pulse race — George's hand was warm against her waist, the faintest tremor in his fingers betraying the calm exterior he tried to maintain. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the power of his presence like a magnet pulling her in, drawing her closer with every breath.

Their eyes met, and the instant the contact was made, the rest of the world seemed to vanish. Every sound faded into the background, the murmur of voices, the shuffle of feet, all drowned out by the electricity between them. His eyes — so familiar and yet, in this moment, impossibly intense — were fixed on her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. She felt the weight of his gaze on her skin, as if his eyes could see straight into her soul. Her heart hammered in her chest, and for a moment, she couldn't even breathe, caught in the depth of that gaze.

George's breath caught as he held her closer, his grip on her waist tightening ever so slightly. Olympia's body responded before her mind could catch up — her pulse quickened, her chest rising and falling faster. There was a quiet, almost imperceptible tremor in his breath as he moved with her, as though the very act of holding her was causing him to lose control of himself, even if only for a split second. She couldn't look away, couldn't bring herself to break the connection they'd forged without words.

Their bodies swayed together in time with the music, but it was more than just the steps — they were in perfect sync, moving like two halves of a whole, as if the rhythm of the dance had become an extension of the pulse that raced between them. Every shift, every step felt like a declaration, each movement drawn out in slow, deliberate precision. Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder, but even the smallest touch sent sparks racing through her, igniting something inside her that had been dormant for too long.

George's eyes never left hers as they moved together, the intensity in his gaze only growing. There was something in the way he looked at her now — something deeper than the playful teasing he used to hide behind. His gaze was raw, vulnerable, and she could see the conflict in it, the yearning.

His breath hitched slightly as they turned, and Olympia felt it, the slight tremble in his chest that mirrored the one building in her own. They weren't just dancing — they were teetering on the edge of something they were both too afraid to touch, too afraid to name.

She could feel his fingers flex against her, his hand settling lower against the curve of her back, pulling her even closer to him. The heat between them was undeniable now, each breath they took mingling in the small space between them, their bodies so close she could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat, steady and strong beneath her palm. It felt natural, instinctual — this pull, this need to be closer, to close the gap that had always existed between them.

The music surged, and for a fleeting moment, Olympia thought she might not be able to control the way her body was reacting. She felt every inch of him, the warmth of his chest pressed against hers, the steady pressure of his hand at her back. The chemistry between them was explosive, a slow burn that was building with every step, every second they shared. She had never felt so acutely aware of someone before, and yet, it was impossible to pull away, impossible to stop herself from leaning in just a little more.

Their faces were inches apart now, and she could feel the heat of his breath against her cheek, the faint scent of his cologne swirling around her. It was intoxicating, and she couldn't resist the urge to let her head fall slightly, her eyes fluttering shut for just a moment. Her lips parted, and the soft, silent invitation lingered in the air between them, unspoken yet loud enough for both of them to feel it.

But George didn't move. He held her tighter, his grip firm yet tender, and she felt the tension coil tighter between them. His jaw was clenched, his muscles stiff, as though he too was fighting something — something he couldn't name, something he wasn't ready to acknowledge. The moment stretched, lingering in a dangerous place between longing and restraint. His eyes flicked down to her lips for just a second, and Olympia felt her breath hitch in her throat. She couldn't stop herself now, couldn't stop the way her body responded to the magnetic pull between them.

She wanted him.

The thought hit her like a wave, crashing over her with all the force of a long-hidden truth she'd tried to ignore for so long. She wanted him — wanted the way he made her feel, wanted the way his presence made everything else fade away. But it wasn't just the physical pull, it was the connection. She could feel the truth of it in her bones, under her skin, within every part of herself.

As the final notes of the waltz echoed through the hall, the music came to an abrupt stop. The moment lingered in the air, the echo of their movement still pulsing between them, until Professor McGonagall's voice sliced through the heavy silence.

"Good! Everyone, meet here tomorrow at the same time for more lessons. Good day."

The words were like a bucket of cold water, pulling Olympia and George out of their trance-like state. The world around them began to rush back in, but it felt like a foggy haze, distant and unreal. For a moment, neither of them moved. They remained standing, their bodies still in perfect harmony, the unspoken tension between them heavy in the air.

Olympia's breath was shallow, her cheeks flushed from the intimacy of their dance, the heat of his touch still lingering on her skin. She slowly stepped back, her heart pounding, and it felt as though a part of her was reluctant to pull away, reluctant to let the moment end.

But as she did, she saw George's eyes — the raw, intense longing written in the depth of his gaze. It struck her like a physical blow. For a moment, she was speechless, caught in the silent whirlwind of everything she'd just felt. She could see it too, the same desire that had burned between them during the dance.

George's chest was rising and falling with every breath, his face flushed from the movement, but his eyes — they were darker now, filled with something far more intense than just the dance they had just shared. He looked at her like he wanted more, like he needed more, but he couldn't bring himself to reach for it.

His lips parted, his hand still tingling from where it had rested on her waist. The warmth of her body seemed to cling to him, and the longing in him was almost painful to watch. His fingers flexed as if reaching for her again, but the distance between them was suddenly too much, too painful to bear.

The pulse of desire coursed through him, stronger than anything he had ever felt before. His mind was screaming at him to take another step forward, to close the gap between them, but fear and hesitation held him back. He wanted to pull her close again, to feel the rhythm of her heartbeat against his, to lose himself in the way they moved together.

But he couldn't. He couldn't because he was terrified — terrified of what might happen if he let himself fall completely. Terrified of the way she made him feel, the lack of control he felt at her touch, the effect she had on him.

And so, he stood there, frozen, his hand still trembling slightly as it dropped to his side. His body ached for her, his mind screaming that he wanted her more than he could put into words. But all he could do was force a weak, almost uncertain smile as she stepped away from him.

"Good job," he said softly, his voice rough, betraying the storm of emotions he was fighting to suppress. It sounded hollow, like a farce — he didn't care about the dancing anymore. He cared about her, about the way she made him feel, the way she made him want her.

Olympia nodded, her breath still coming in soft bursts as she forced herself to step back, to break the moment, to pull herself together. She glanced at him once more — just once more — and saw it, too. The same longing. The same ache. Her chest tightened, her pulse quickening again. It was too much, too overwhelming to even comprehend.

The moment passed, and with it, the reality of everything between them hung like an unspoken promise in the air. The music had stopped, but the silence between them was filled with a tension neither of them could ignore.

George watched her walk away, and as he did, a storm of emotions flooded him — regret, desire, hope, and the overwhelming need to hold onto this feeling. But he was left standing there, empty-handed, watching her go, knowing that the tension, the longing, would only continue to build between them.

Olympia's steps were hurried, her feet slapping against the cold stone floors of the corridor as she pulled Cassie along. Her hand gripped her twin's arm tightly, the urgency of her movements sharp, like she was trying to outrun something — something that was chasing her, tightening around her chest, suffocating her. Her breaths came in quick, shallow gasps, and she was desperate to get somewhere, anywhere, away from everyone.

"Cass." Olympia's voice broke as she spoke, barely more than a whisper, but Cassie could hear the distress in it, the quiver of something raw just beneath the surface. She didn't even need to say more; Cassie's eyes immediately softened with concern. She could feel the tension in Olympia's body, the anxiety that was practically radiating from her sister.

Before Cassie could ask what was wrong, Olympia pulled her around the corner and toward the underside of a stairwell and into a bathroom, the shadows wrapping around them like a cloak of privacy. She shoved the door open, and once they were out of sight, Olympia's breath hitched in the air. She pulled Cassie further into the quiet alcove, away from any prying eyes, before she suddenly stopped and sank against the cold stone wall.

"Olympia?" Cassie's voice was quiet, unsure of what had just triggered this sudden outburst from her sister.

Olympia's hands were trembling as she placed them on her face, trying to push the sudden wave of emotion back, but it was no use. Tears spilled from her eyes, warm and unexpected, as they streamed down her cheeks. She gasped for air, her breath catching in her throat as her chest tightened even more.

"I... I can't, Cass... I can't do this," Olympia stammered, trying to steady her breath. "I don't understand what's happening, but I feel like I'm losing control, and I hate it. I hate it so much. I hate feeling so... so weak."

Her voice cracked again as she spoke, raw and vulnerable, the weight of her emotions crashing over her like a tidal wave. Her shoulders trembled, and she let herself slide down the wall, finally sitting down on the cold stone floor. Her face buried in her hands as she fought to steady her breathing, but it was no use. Her whole body felt like it was on fire with confusion, with fear.

"I can't stop thinking about him," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "George. Every time I try to push it away, it comes rushing back. I can't — every time I see him, Cass, it's like I lose myself. I don't even know what I want, or what's real anymore. And I hate not knowing."

Her words were desperate, and the tears continued to flow as she let the flood of emotions spill out. Her mind was a whirlpool of thoughts — George, the dance, their connection, their tension — and none of it made sense. She didn't understand what it meant, what any of it meant. The way George had looked at her, the way she felt when they danced—everything was so overwhelming, so unfamiliar.

"I'm supposed to be in control, Cass. I always am. But with him—" She cut herself off, sucking in a sharp breath, "I'm not. I'm just not."

Cassie knelt down beside her, placing a gentle hand on her sister's shoulder. She didn't say anything right away, just sat there quietly, letting Olympia's words settle in the stillness between them. She could feel the tension in her sister's body, the way she was so desperately trying to regain control of the situation, but Cassie knew, more than anything, that her sister wasn't going to be able to do that on her own—not without understanding what was happening inside her heart.

"Ol, you don't have to have everything figured out right now," Cassie finally said, her voice steady, her words gentle but firm. "You don't have to control how you feel. It's okay to not know. It's okay to be confused. But you have to give yourself a chance to feel it, to let yourself feel whatever it is you're feeling."

Olympia's head shot up, and for a moment, she looked almost incredulous, as though she hadn't expected that kind of response from her twin. "But I can't, Cass," she whispered, her voice breaking. "It's too much. I can't let myself... I can't let myself fall for him, not like that. It would ruin everything."

Cassie sat with her for a long moment, her hand still on Olympia's shoulder, offering what comfort she could. She didn't push her twin to speak more than she was ready to. They both knew that Olympia needed time to process this on her own, even if it meant sitting in the silence for a little while longer.

"I know it feels like you're losing control," Cassie said softly. "But maybe, for once, you should let go. You don't have to have all the answers. Not right now. Not with him."

Olympia's breath hitched, and she wiped away her tears, trying to regain some semblance of control. But in the quiet of the stairwell, with the weight of Cassie's words lingering between them, she realized something for the first time: maybe it wasn't about control. Maybe, for once, it was about surrendering. Letting herself feel what was inside her, even if it scared her.

Even if it meant letting herself feel for George.

Olympia wiped the last of her tears away, her hands still trembling as she looked up at Cassie. There was a heavy silence in the air, but something inside Olympia felt different now. Her heart was pounding, the knot in her chest still tight but not as suffocating as before. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words came out in a shaky rush.

"I... I almost kissed him, Cass," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes dropped to the floor, suddenly finding it hard to meet her twin's gaze. "Twice, actually. At the Burrow over the summer, and again on the train. Both times, it was like everything just... clicked."

Her voice cracked slightly, the weight of the confession sinking in. She hadn't realized how much she'd been holding back, how much she'd been running from what had almost happened, until the words spilled from her lips.

Cassie didn't look surprised. She met Olympia's eyes with a steady gaze, her expression softening. There was a pause before she finally spoke, her voice calm, but her eyes filled with understanding.

"I know," she said simply.

Olympia blinked, her mind stumbling to catch up with the words. "You know?" She repeated, a little stunned. "How—how did you know?"

Cassie gave a knowing smile, the corners of her lips tilting up. "Fred told me," she said, shrugging lightly.

Olympia felt a flush of embarrassment heat her cheeks, but also a sense of relief. Her heart had been pounding from the weight of that secret, and now it felt lighter somehow. She hadn't expected Cassie to know, but it made sense. She had always been the first to notice when something was off with Olympia. Still, there was a sting in the fact that she hadn't told her twin sooner.

"I'm sorry, Cass," Olympia said quietly, guilt lacing her words. "I should've told you. I didn't mean to keep it from you. It just... it felt too complicated, too messy."

Cassie gave a small shake of her head, her expression warm and understanding. "It's okay, Ols. Really," she said, reaching out to pull Olympia into a tight hug. The gesture was soft but reassuring, wrapping Olympia in the comfort she desperately needed. "I know you were just trying to figure it out on your own. But you don't have to, not anymore. Not with me."

Olympia's chest tightened again, but in a different way now — softer, gentler. Her sister's support made her feel like maybe, just maybe, she didn't have to figure everything out on her own. Maybe she could let go of the control for once. Maybe she could just let herself feel.

Cassie pulled back slightly, her hands resting on Olympia's shoulders as she gave her a serious look. "For once, Ol," she said, her voice softer now, "just let yourself lose control. Don't think so much about what might happen or how it'll change things. Just let yourself feel what's there, with him. Whatever it is."

The words lingered in the air, a balm to the ache that had been gnawing at Olympia's insides. She nodded slowly, the tension in her body starting to melt away. Maybe it was time to stop pretending that everything had to be neatly sorted and controlled. Maybe it was time to embrace the messiness of it all.

"I'll try," Olympia whispered, her voice steadying as she let out a slow breath. For the first time in days, she felt like she could breathe again, like the pressure had lifted, even if just a little. She wasn't alone in this. She didn't have to have all the answers.

And with Cassie by her side, maybe—just maybe—she could finally let herself feel.

                           "𝐎𝐈!" Fred swung his arm around George's shoulders as they walked down the hallway, the familiar, easy grin plastered on his face. It was second nature, a way to break the tension that seemed to be hanging in the air. "So, mate," Fred began, voice light and teasing. "What was all that about, huh?" He shot a sideways glance at George, expecting the usual playful response, the banter that would follow.

But instead, George's face remained dead serious. His eyes were focused straight ahead, his lips pressed into a thin line. It was so unlike him, so different from the usual quick wit and sarcastic remarks Fred was used to. Fred's smile faltered, the casual nature of their walk suddenly feeling like a thousand pounds of weight on his shoulders.

George didn't even glance his way. He just shook his head slightly, his posture rigid. Fred's arm, which was still draped across his shoulders, felt heavier now — like a burden instead of a playful gesture. He couldn't help but feel the knot tightening in his stomach.

The silence between them was deafening, and Fred's chest constricted with the realization that something was wrong. This wasn't normal. George had never shut him out before, never. They had shared everything, always — there was no wall between them. But now, there was a distance in George's demeanor that Fred had never seen, and it stung.

Fred's mind raced, trying to grasp at what had changed, what had made George so distant so suddenly. He opened his mouth, about to ask again, but before he could say anything, George's voice cut through the silence.

"Nothing. Nothing at all." George's words were flat, devoid of any emotion, and the finality in his tone made Fred's heart drop. He couldn't read him, couldn't figure out what was going on behind that carefully guarded expression. It felt like a door had slammed shut in his face.

Fred swallowed hard, trying to keep the surprise and the hurt from showing on his face. "Right," he said quietly, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Well, if you say so."

George didn't offer anything else, and the rest of the walk back to the dormitory passed in a strained silence. Fred's mind was still spinning, but George didn't seem like he was in the mood for talking. And for the first time in forever, Fred wasn't sure what to do.

It was a feeling he didn't like. Not with George. Not with his brother.

Fred and George returned to their dorm, Fred's mind still swirling with the events of the day. He didn't know what had happened with George, why his best mate, his own twin brother, was so closed off, so distant.

Fred needed space to think, to clear his head. Deciding to hop into the shower for a bit, he grabbed a towel and headed into the bathroom, the steady hum of the water offering him some kind of solace.

Fred stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder, and immediately choked on the thick haze that had taken over the room. His nose wrinkled at the pungent smell of weed, his head already starting to feel a bit light from the sheer volume of smoke in the air. "Merlin's beard," he muttered, striding across the room to yank open a window, letting the icy December air rush in. A second hand high began to settle on his mind, by no means was the feeling of a high foreign to Fred — but he wasn't expecting it.

As the smoke thinned slightly, Fred's eyes landed on George. He was slumped against his bed, his eyelids half-lowered, barely aware of his surroundings. Lee sat nearby, holding another joint loosely between his fingers, clearly out of it himself. But it was George who caught Fred's attention — his usually sharp, mischievous twin looked lost, completely disconnected. Fred's gut churned at the sight.

"George," Fred said, his voice stern as he walked closer. "What the hell are you doing, mate? You never let yourself get this high."

George didn't even look at him at first, lazily reaching out as Lee passed the joint his way. "Piss off, Fred," he muttered, his voice slow and slurred, his words almost blending together.

Fred frowned, the concern in his chest quickly turning into frustration. "No," he said sharply, snatching the joint from George's hand before he could take another hit. "This isn't you, Georgie. Not like this."

That got George's attention. His unfocused eyes snapped to Fred, narrowing as he sat up straighter. His expression twisted with irritation, and for a moment, the room was silent save for the faint whistle of wind from the open window. Then George's lips curled into a bitter sneer.

"Control," George hissed, his voice dripping with venom. "That's rich, coming from you."

Fred blinked, caught off guard by the sudden hostility. "What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?" he asked, his tone firm but edged with confusion.

George shoved himself to his feet, stumbling slightly as he moved closer to Fred. His usually warm brown eyes were clouded with something unrecognizable — something sharp and angry. "You always have to be in control, don't you? Always coming up with the ideas, always leading the charge, and expecting me to just follow along like your shadow."

Fred stared at him, stunned. "That's not—"

"Don't," George snapped, cutting him off. His voice rose, cracking with pent-up frustration. "Don't stand there and pretend it's not true. You love it, don't you? Being the one in charge, the one everyone listens to, while I'm just the other half. The twin who goes along with whatever you want. Well, fuck it, Fred."

Fred's grip tightened around the joint in his hand as he tried to process George's words, wincing slightly as it burned into his palm. "You're not thinking straight," he said, his voice softer now, trying to calm the storm brewing in his brother. "You're stoned out of your mind, Georgie. Just sit down, we'll —"

George lunged forward suddenly, his hands grabbing at Fred's wrist to wrestle the joint back. "Give it back, Fred," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Fred yanked his arm away, his heart pounding. "No, George! This isn't you, and you know it."

"Don't act like you know me!" George shouted, his voice breaking as his frustration boiled over. "You don't know what it's like to always play second fiddle, to always be the one people look past because you're Fred. You get to be the leader, the funny one, the smart one — while I'm just supposed to keep up. Well, maybe I don't want to keep up anymore!"

The sheer force of George's words made Fred stumble back a step. Before he could respond, George reached for him again, more aggressively this time. His fingers gripped Fred's arm, trying to wrestle the joint away, and for a moment, the two brothers were locked in a tense struggle.

"George, stop it!" Fred barked, his voice strained as he tried to push his brother back.

"Enough!" Lee's voice cut through the tension like a blade, startling both of them. He stood unsteadily, his own high evident, but there was a surprising clarity in his eyes as he looked at George. "Fred's right, mate. You're out of control. This isn't like you."

George froze, his hands still gripping Fred's arm, his breathing ragged. His chest rose and fell as he stared at Lee, the words sinking in slowly. For a moment, the fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something more vulnerable — something that looked dangerously close to despair.

But just as quickly, the walls went back up. George released Fred's arm and stepped back, his expression hardening once more. "You don't get it," he muttered, his voice low and hollow. He turned away, his shoulders slumping as he collapsed onto his bed. "Neither of you do."

Fred stood there, breathing heavily, his mind racing. He didn't recognize this version of George — the anger, the bitterness, the pain that had been hidden for so long. He exchanged a worried glance with Lee, who looked just as shaken.

Fred wanted to say something, to bridge the growing chasm between them, but the words wouldn't come. All he could do was stand there, the joint still clutched in his hand, and wonder how things had spiraled so far out of control.

George staggered to his feet, swaying as he tried to steady himself against the bedpost. His red-rimmed eyes darted to the door. "I can't... I can't stay here. I need to go find her," he muttered, the words barely coherent.

Lee's eyes narrowed with concern. He stepped forward, blocking the door. "Find who, George? Marianna?"

George stopped in his tracks, his head snapping up as if the name startled him. For a moment, he looked genuinely confused, his brow furrowing as though trying to piece together a puzzle in his fogged mind. Then, almost absently, he shook his head. "Who?" he said, his voice soft and distant.

Fred and Lee exchanged a worried glance, Lee's buzz wearing off just enough for him to see how far gone George was. "George, mate, you're not going anywhere," Lee said, stepping in beside Fred.

"Move," George muttered, his tone impatient, but there was no real force behind it. He stumbled toward them but stopped short as Fred crossed his arms.

"You're not in any state to go running off," Fred said firmly. "And you know it."

George groaned dramatically, throwing his head back as if they were the biggest inconvenience in the world. "Fine," he snapped, collapsing backward onto his bed with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. His hand reached beneath the bedframe, and a moment later, he dragged out an old trunk.

Fred's stomach sank as George flipped the trunk open and pulled out a dusty bottle of Firewhiskey, the amber liquid sloshing as he unscrewed the cap.

"Oh, no, you don't," Fred said sharply, lunging forward and snatching the bottle from George's grasp just as he brought it to his lips. "That's enough, George."

"Give it back," George mumbled, slouching back against the headboard. His eyelids were heavy, and his speech was slurred. "What's it to you, huh? You're not Mum."

Fred's patience snapped. "What's it to me? You're my bloody twin! You think I'm going to sit here and let you drink yourself into an even bigger mess?" His voice rose, the frustration bubbling over. "You're cut off, George. You keep this up, and I'll go straight to McGonagall. I mean it."

At that, George's bleary eyes fixed on Fred, a flicker of irritation sparking through his haze. "Whatever," he muttered dismissively, waving his hand weakly as if shooing Fred away. He leaned back on the bed, his head hitting the pillow with a soft thud.

Fred stood there, clutching the bottle of Firewhiskey, his heart pounding. Lee placed a hand on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze as George's breathing evened out, his high finally dragging him into an uneasy sleep.

Fred sighed, setting the bottle down on the desk, his fingers tightening briefly around it. "This isn't like him," he whispered to Lee, his voice thick with worry.

Lee nodded grimly. "No, it's not."

Fred stood there for a long moment, staring at the Firewhiskey in his hand. The weight of the bottle, both physical and emotional, felt immense. His jaw tightened as he wrestled with his thoughts before finally unscrewing the cap and taking a deep swig. The burn was sharp, but he welcomed it, hoping it would dull the worry clawing at his chest.

He took another pull, then one more, before capping the bottle and tucking it under his own bed. Sitting down heavily on the edge, Fred raked his hands through his hair, his mind spinning like the liquid in the bottle.

"Don't know what's gotten into him," Fred said finally, his voice quiet but tense. His gaze was fixed on the floorboards, the usual spark of mischief in his eyes replaced by a deep unease. "He's never lost it like this. Not George. Not like this."

Lee, leaning against the wall, crossed his arms and exhaled slowly. "I've never seen him like this either, mate. He's always been... I dunno, the steady one between you two, yeah?"

Fred nodded, his hands clenching into fists. "Exactly. He's the one who keeps me from going too far, not the other way 'round. But now..." He shook his head, his words trailing off as he looked over at George, who was sprawled out on his bed, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

Fred sat there in silence for a moment, his head in his hands, before looking up at Lee. His voice was low and hesitant when he finally spoke.

"Do you think he meant it?"

Lee, who had been staring thoughtfully at George's sleeping form, frowned and turned toward Fred. "Meant what?"

Fred exhaled slowly, leaning back against the bedpost. "What he said. About living in my shadow. About me always being the one in control." His fingers fidgeted with a loose thread on his pajama sleeve. "I mean, I know we have our differences, but I never thought... I never thought he felt that way."

Lee leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Fred, it's hard to say. George was completely out of it tonight — high as a kite and angry as hell. He could've just been blowing off steam."

Fred's jaw tightened. "But what if he wasn't? What if he's felt that way for years and just never said anything?" He shook his head, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. "Maybe I've been too full of myself to notice. Always dragging him into whatever madness I come up with, assuming he's fine with it. Hell, maybe he's not fine. Maybe he's never been fine."

Lee studied Fred for a moment, his face serious. "Look, mate. I don't think George resents you. But... maybe there's a part of him that feels like he's always the second act. You're the loud one, the planner, the one who gets everyone's attention. George? He's quieter. But you've always been a team, Fred. He knows that. You know that."

Fred ran a hand through his hair, frustration and guilt warring in his expression. "A team... yeah. But maybe I've made him feel like he's just my sidekick." His voice dropped to almost a whisper. "I never wanted that. Never."

Lee sighed, leaning back in his chair. "The only way to know for sure is to talk to him. When he's not out of his head, obviously. You're his twin, Fred. If he's got something to say, he'll say it. You just gotta give him the space to do it."

Fred nodded slowly, though his chest still felt tight. "Yeah... yeah, I guess you're right." He glanced over at George again, the faint sound of his uneven breathing filling the room. "I just hate seeing him like this, Lee. He's my brother. My best friend. And if I've done anything to make him feel like he's less than that..."

Lee placed a hand on Fred's shoulder, squeezing gently. "You'll figure it out. You always do. Just give him time."

Fred nodded again, though his mind was still swirling with doubt. Time. He just hoped George would let him in before it was too late.

This was about more than just Olympia. There was something more going on with George. Fred just wished he knew what.

Gryffindor Boy's Dormitory
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
— Scottish Highlands
( December, 1994. )

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 streamed through the dormitory windows, casting long beams across the cluttered floor. Fred stirred awake, his body heavy with exhaustion. His eyes burned, and his head ached from the restless night. Every time he had managed to drift off, George's angered words echoed in his mind, dragging him back into wakefulness.

He blinked blearily at the ceiling, then turned his head toward George's bed, only to see it empty.

Fred bolted upright, panic tightening his chest. "Where's George?" he called out, his voice sharp in the quiet room.

Across the room, Lee groaned and shifted under his covers but didn't move to get up. However, Oliver Wood, who was already sitting upright with a book balanced on his knees, looked over at Fred with a raised brow.

"Relax, mate," Oliver said, his tone calm but clipped. "He's in the shower. Heard him get up a while ago."

Fred exhaled in relief, though his pulse didn't slow entirely. George in the shower was fine — but the image of last night, of George spiraling and lashing out, lingered too vividly in his mind. He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the stubble prickling against his palm.

Lee, his face half-buried in his pillow, muttered groggily, "Thank Merlin. Thought we'd have to go hunting him down."

Fred didn't respond, glancing toward the closed bathroom door. The faint sound of running water filtered through the stillness. He wasn't entirely sure what he'd expected—maybe for George to have bolted in the middle of the night, still angry and out of it.

Oliver's gaze lingered on Fred for a moment before he returned to his book. "He seemed all right when he went in there," Oliver added, flipping a page. "Quiet, though."

Fred gave a distracted nod, already swinging his legs out of bed. He stood, his body protesting from the lack of sleep, and stretched. The knot in his stomach hadn't eased, but at least George was still around.

He glanced at Lee, who had already mumbled something unintelligible and flopped back onto his side. "Thanks for the help," Fred muttered under his breath, earning only a faint snore in response.

Shoving on a pair of slippers, Fred moved toward the bathroom door, hesitating just long enough to gather himself before knocking lightly. "Oi, Georgie," he called, trying to keep his tone neutral.

There was no immediate response, just the steady sound of water hitting the tiles. Fred frowned, resting a hand against the cool wood of the door. "Look, I'm not here to start anything. Just... let me know if you're all right, yeah?"

The water shut off abruptly, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. Fred held his breath, waiting for a response.

"Be out in a minute," George's voice came, muffled but steady.

Fred stepped back, nodding to himself. "Right. I'll be out here."

As he returned to sit on the edge of his bed, his heart didn't stop racing. He could only hope that George's mood had improved — or at least that he'd be willing to talk.

George stood under the hot spray, his hands braced against the shower wall, water pouring over his head and running down his face. Steam swirled around him, thick and suffocating, but he didn't move to turn it off. The pounding of the water against his skin was the only thing grounding him in that moment.

Guilt twisted in his chest, sharp and relentless. He replayed the events of the previous night on an endless loop—the haze of smoke, the bitterness in his voice, and the look on Fred's face when he'd lashed out.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, his voice barely audible over the rush of the water.

Fred's words came back to him, cutting through the haze of his memories: 'This isn't like you.' And it wasn't, was it? This wasn't him. He wasn't the guy who flew off the handle or drowned himself in smoke and Firewhiskey. He wasn't the one who shoved people aside, who hurt the people closest to him. But last night, he'd been all of those things.

He tilted his head back, letting the water cascade over his face, as if it could wash away the guilt clinging to him like a second skin. It didn't work.

What was worse was the way Fred had looked at him—not just hurt, but confused, like he didn't recognize the person standing in front of him. That look haunted George more than anything. Fred wasn't just his twin; he was his other half, the person who understood him better than anyone. And George had shoved him away.

"Shit," George muttered, pressing his forehead against the cool tiles.

And then there was her. Olympia. The name sent a fresh wave of shame crashing over him. He didn't even know what he was doing anymore. One minute he was furious with himself for wanting her so much, and the next he was furious with her for not wanting him back—or for wanting Cedric instead.

His hands curled into fists against the wall, the water pouring over his knuckles. None of it made sense. He couldn't get her out of his head, couldn't stop thinking about the way she'd felt in his arms, the way she'd looked at him when they danced.

But instead of facing it, he'd done what he always did when things got too complicated: he'd run. Only this time, he hadn't just hurt himself; he'd hurt Fred, too.

George sighed heavily, lifting his head and running a hand through his wet hair. The water was starting to cool, but he didn't care. He leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling, water dripping down his face.

"I've got to fix this," he muttered to himself, his voice cracking under the weight of his guilt.

But how? How did he even begin to make things right when he felt so lost in his own emotions? For once in his life, George didn't have an answer.

George closed his eyes, letting the now lukewarm water beat down on him, the steam curling around his skin like a suffocating reminder of his thoughts. As much as he tried to focus on fixing the present, his mind spiraled back to the past—to the Quidditch World Cup, to the chaos, and to the thing he couldn't unsee.

The Dark Mark.

He hadn't talked about it, not really. Not even to Fred. That night had been seared into his mind—the screams, the panic, the eerie green skull in the sky with a serpent slithering out of its mouth. It had sent a chill through his bones unlike anything he'd ever felt before. It wasn't just fear; it was dread, deep and all-encompassing.

He thought about what he'd overheard weeks after the Cup.

His father and Percy, sitting in the kitchen late at night, speaking in hushed tones. George had been on his way to get a glass of water when he froze at the sound of Percy's voice, sharp and laced with worry.

"The signs are there, Dad. The Death Eaters were a warning. And that mark? You-Know-Who isn't gone. He's biding his time."

His father's reply had been steadier but no less grim. "We don't know that, Percy. But we have to be prepared for the worst. If he comes back..."

George hadn't stayed to hear the rest. He hadn't wanted to.

Now, standing under the water, the memory clawed its way back to him. His chest tightened as the fear from that night resurfaced, raw and unrelenting. He hadn't told anyone what he'd overheard. Not Fred, not Lee, not even Ginny, who'd been just as shaken by the events of the World Cup as he was.

How could he? Fred always had this way of brushing off danger with a laugh, and George envied that. But this wasn't like pranking Filch or dodging a Bludger on the Quidditch pitch. This was something darker, something that felt like it could swallow them whole.

And George wasn't laughing anymore.

His hands trembled as he wiped at his face, unsure if it was water or tears clinging to his skin. He didn't even know when the weight of it had started to crush him—keeping everything in, pretending he was fine, pretending he wasn't scared out of his mind. He'd thought he could handle it, but now? Now it was too much.

His fight with Fred the night before, his obsession with Olympia, his spiraling emotions—it all came back to this. The fear. The uncertainty. The feeling that everything in their world was on the brink of crumbling and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He slammed a fist against the shower wall, the dull thud echoing in the small space. He wanted to scream, to let it all out, but the sound caught in his throat.

Instead, he let the water pour over him, his shoulders slumping under the invisible weight he carried. He had to keep it together. For Fred. For his family. For everyone.

But deep down, George wasn't sure how much longer he could. For someone who thrived off of positivity and laughter, the thought of all that — all that he holds dear, his family, his twin, Olympia — all being snatched away? It made him feel sick.

George stepped out of the bathroom, steam swirling around him, his damp hair sticking to his forehead. He avoided Fred's eyes as he walked across the room, heading straight for his trunk. Fred, sitting on his bed with a look of pure concern etched across his face, watched him closely.

"Morning," Fred ventured cautiously, his voice laced with worry.

George didn't respond. He knelt by his trunk, rummaging through it until he pulled out his robes, shaking them out as though the act of getting dressed would shield him from the conversation looming.

Fred leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Georgie, what's wrong?"

George stilled for a moment, his back to Fred, before letting out a forced laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "Nothing. I'm fine, Fred."

Fred's brows furrowed. "No, you're not. You've been off for days. Last night—"

George cut him off. "Drop it, Fred." He pulled his robes over his head, his tone flat, void of its usual warmth. He picked up his robes and began striding toward the bathroom, right before he was able to close the door a strong hand caught it.

Fred.

Fred's jaw tightened as something inside him snapped. He stood abruptly, his hands clenched on the door frame. "Lee, Oliver, get out for a sec, will ya?"

Lee, still groggy in bed, groaned and rolled over. "Oi, it's our room too. You don't get to—"

But Oliver, already dressed and perched on his bed with a book, reached over and grabbed Lee by the collar, hauling him up with surprising strength. "Come on, mate. Let's go."

Lee sputtered in protest but didn't fight too hard as Oliver dragged him toward the door. With one last glance at the twins, Oliver shut the door behind them, leaving the room in tense silence.

George blinked, rolling his eyes and pulling his robes halfway on, and let out a long, exasperated sigh. After fully dressed he walked over to his bed and sat heavily on the edge, burying his face in his hands.

Fred crossed his arms, his tone low but firm. "George. What the fuck is going on."

George didn't respond at first. His fingers tugged at his hair, his shoulders rising and falling with unsteady breaths. Finally, he muttered, "It's nothing, Fred. Just... drop it."

Fred stepped closer, his voice rising. "No, I'm not dropping it! You've been acting like someone else, Georgie. You're shutting me out, you're drinking yourself sick, and you're getting so high you don't even know what's real anymore!"

George flinched but didn't lift his head.

Fred continued, his voice cracking with emotion. "You're my twin. My best mate. And for the first time in our lives, I don't know what's going on in your head. Do you have any idea how bloody terrifying that is?"

George's hands fell away from his face, his expression a mixture of guilt and frustration. He shook his head, his voice hoarse. "You wouldn't understand, Fred."

Fred threw his arms in the air. "Then make me understand! For Merlin's sake, George, talk to me!"

George's hands balled into fists on his knees as he finally looked up at Fred. His voice was low, trembling with suppressed emotion. "I'm scared, Fred. Alright? I'm bloody terrified."

Fred's anger evaporated in an instant, replaced by raw concern. "Scared of what?"

George swallowed hard, his gaze darting away. "Everything. The world. What's coming. That mark in the sky, the whispers I've heard... It's like everything's falling apart, and I can't stop it. I feel... I feel like I'm drowning."

Fred stared at him, stunned into silence for a moment. Then, he sat down beside George, his hand gripping his brother's shoulder. "Georgie, you're not alone in this. Whatever it is, we'll get through it. Together."

George's head dipped, a bitter laugh escaping him. "I don't know how you always sound so sure."

Fred gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Because I've got you. And you've got me. That's how it's always been, yeah?"

George nodded, his breath hitching as he fought back the tears threatening to spill.

George's voice cracked as he broke the silence. "Father thinks a war is coming, Freddie." He rubbed his palms against his knees, his face pale and drawn. "And I can't lose you. I can't lose any of you."

Fred froze, his hand still on George's shoulder, feeling his twin's words hit like a physical blow.

"George..." Fred whispered, his voice barely audible.

George shook his head, his breathing uneven. "You didn't hear the way he talked about it. After the World Cup, after the Dark Mark..." He swallowed hard, his eyes glassy as he stared at the floor. "He said it's not just a sign, Fred. It's a warning. He said You-Know-Who might be back. And if he is... if there's another war..."

Fred tightened his grip on George's shoulder. "Hey. Don't go there. Don't do that to yourself."

George finally turned to look at Fred, his expression raw with fear and vulnerability. "How can I not? Do you know what it's like to think about losing you? Or Mum? Or Ginny? Or anyone for that matter." His voice broke, and he took a shaky breath. "Every time I close my eyes, I see it. Him coming back. Us fighting. And I see you—"

Fred interrupted, his voice firm despite the tremor running through it. "Stop it, George. That's not going to happen."

"You don't know that!" George snapped, his fear spilling into anger. "You're always so bloody confident, but you don't know what's coming. None of us do. And what if we're not ready?"

Fred's jaw tightened, but he didn't let go. "We'll deal with it when it comes. Together. Like we always do."

George let out a bitter laugh. "You make it sound so simple."

"It's not simple," Fred admitted. "But we've got each other, Georgie. That's all we've ever needed."

George looked away, his shoulders slumping. "I don't feel like I'm enough. Not for this."

Fred leaned closer, his voice soft but unwavering. "You're more than enough, George. You always have been. And whatever's coming, we'll face it. Side by side. I'm not letting you go anywhere without me, you hear?"

George's lip quivered, but he nodded, the fight slowly leaving his body. "I'm just... I'm scared, Fred."

Fred pulled him into a tight hug, his hand gripping the back of George's head. "I know, mate. Me too. But you don't have to carry it alone."

For a long moment, they sat there, the weight of the moment heavy around them, but for the first time in days, George felt like he could breathe again.

Library
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
— Scottish Highlands
( December 2nd, 1994. )

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓, the faint scratch of quills and the occasional turn of pages the only sounds breaking the stillness. Olympia sat hunched over a particularly dense Transfiguration text, her quill tapping rhythmically against the parchment. Across from her, Cassie pretended to be immersed in her own book, though her mind was racing.

She couldn't stop thinking about her conversation with Fred—or the weight of Olympia's confession. The truth was out there now, hovering like a storm cloud. Finally, Cassie leaned forward, breaking the silence.

"Olympia," she said softly but firmly, her voice cutting through the quiet.

Olympia looked up, her brows furrowed. "What?"

Cassie hesitated for a moment before pressing forward. "So... what are you going to do? You know, with the whole George thing?"

Olympia let out a heavy sigh, leaning back in her chair. "I don't really want to think about that right now, Cass."

Cassie raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "You can't just avoid it forever, Ols."

"I'm not avoiding it," Olympia argued, though the edge in her voice betrayed her. "I just... there's nothing to do. He's with Marianna. End of story."

Cassie didn't relent. "What about Cedric, huh? You've been spending plenty of time with him lately."

Olympia stiffened, her fingers gripping the edge of the table. "That's different."

"Is it?" Cassie challenged, tilting her head. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're juggling two very complicated situations."

Olympia glared at her twin but didn't deny it. She closed her book with a frustrated snap, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Cedric's in a delicate spot right now. The competition, the pressure—it's a lot. The last thing he needs is me spiraling everything out of control."

"And George?" Cassie pressed.

Olympia shook her head, her voice tinged with bitterness. "What about George? He's with Marianna. And even if he wasn't, what am I supposed to do? Throw myself at him and hope for the best? He doesn't feel that way about me, Cass. Not really."

Cassie's eyes softened, but she didn't back down. "You don't know that. You're assuming."

"Maybe I am," Olympia admitted, her shoulders slumping. "But it doesn't change anything. He's happy with Marianna, and I'm not about to ruin that."

Cassie snorted, loud enough to earn a sharp glare from Madam Pince across the library. Olympia scowled at her twin, her cheeks heating.

"What's so funny?" Olympia snapped, crossing her arms defensively.

"George is happy with Marianna?" Cassie repeated, barely stifling another laugh. "Come on, Ols. You can't actually believe that."

Olympia narrowed her eyes. "And why not?"

Cassie leaned forward, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Because it's painfully obvious he isn't. The guy can't even go five minutes without looking at you. And don't think I haven't noticed how you've been avoiding his eyes like he's got the bloody plague."

Olympia's mouth opened to argue, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she crossed her arms tighter, her nails digging into her skin. "He's with her, Cass. That means something."

Cassie rolled her eyes. "Sure, it means he's stubborn and probably trying to convince himself he doesn't feel something for someone else. But happy? Not a chance."

Olympia sighed, her resolve wavering. "Even if that's true, it doesn't matter. He made his choice. And I..." She hesitated, her voice softening. "I have to respect that."

Cassie studied her for a moment, her expression both exasperated and empathetic. "Respect it all you want, Ols. But don't lie to yourself about how you feel. Or how he does, for that matter."

Olympia looked away, her fingers twisting in her lap. "It doesn't change anything," she muttered, though her voice sounded far less convincing now.

Cassie shook her head, a small smirk tugging at her lips. "You two are absolutely hopeless."

Olympia let out a deep sigh, her frustration palpable as she closed her book and rose to her feet. Cassie grabbed her hand before she could take another step.

"Where are you going?" Cassie asked, concern mingled with curiosity in her voice.

"To talk to George," Olympia said, her tone decisive.

Cassie blinked, momentarily stunned. "Wait—are you serious?"

Without missing a beat, Olympia glanced down at her twin with a pointed look. "Don't gloat." She pulled her hand free and strode purposefully out of the library, her heart thudding in her chest.

As she walked through the corridors, rehearsing what she might say to George, she barely noticed the buzz of students gathering ahead. The sound of murmuring voices and laughter drew her attention, and she slowed her pace.

A large group of Hufflepuff boys stood clustered in the middle of the hall, their faces lit with excitement as they held up a massive sign that read, "Olympia, Will You Go to the Yule Ball with Me?"

Her heart stopped, and she froze in place. Emerging from behind the group was Cedric Diggory, a wide grin on his face and a bouquet of flowers in his hand. His hazel eyes sparkled with excitement, and the crowd around him began to cheer.

Olympia's cheeks flushed as she felt all eyes on her. She couldn't ignore the unmistakable flash of a camera. Glancing to the side, she caught sight of Rita Skeeter, her Quick-Quotes Quill scribbling furiously as she snapped pictures with an almost predatory glee.

Cedric approached her, his smile growing softer as he held out the bouquet. "Well?" he asked, his voice full of charm and hope.

Olympia's mind raced. This was not what she had expected—not at all.

Olympia hesitated for a moment, the pressure mounting as Cedric's hopeful eyes met hers. The crowd around them waited with bated breath, their cheers and murmurs blending into a distant hum. She could feel the weight of their gazes, and the flash of cameras intensified the moment.

Despite the swirl of conflicting emotions inside her—George's image flashing unbidden in her mind—Olympia couldn't bring herself to say anything but the words she knew would satisfy everyone.

"Yes," she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper but loud enough to be heard.

The reaction was immediate. The Hufflepuff boys erupted in cheers, clapping and shouting their approval, while Cedric's face broke into a bright smile. Before she could fully comprehend what was happening, he stepped forward and lifted her into a warm, celebratory hug.

Her heart pounded in her chest, and for a moment, she couldn't think of anything but the feeling of being swept up in his arms. She inhaled the scent of him—fresh and clean, the flowers still clutched in his hand. But just as quickly as he had picked her up, he gently set her down, his eyes never leaving hers.

Then, without warning, Cedric leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, his lips warm and reassuring. The camera flashes intensified, blinding her for a moment. She heard more cheers from the Hufflepuff boys, their voices mingling with the sharp clicks of Skeeter's camera.

For just a moment, it felt real, and for a split second, Olympia let herself believe that maybe this was what she needed. But as Cedric pulled back, his smile wide and pleased, her mind betrayed her.

It wandered. It wandered right back to George.

Her chest tightened, and the sudden swirl of guilt and longing made her feel like she was suffocating. The laughter, the cheers, even Cedric's voice calling out to her seemed distant. All she could hear was the faint echo of George's name in her thoughts.