RP: Welcome to my nightmare...
Date: 27 September, 1999 | just past midnight
Characters: George Weasley, St. Mungo's staff[NPC]
Location: St.Mungo's, house of screams.
Status: Private
Summary: George wakes in the night
Completion: Complete
The air is thick and absolutely un-breathable, but he tries anyway. Gasping for breath, his chest struggling to take something in. Anything. It's so loud here; George can't hear himself think, but he can hear shouts. People yelling and calling and the sickening sounds of breaking wood and popping embers.
He can't get loose. He tosses, tugging at his wrists, but they're tied to the bed, and he can't breathe, bloody fucking hell, how long can it last? The Aurors and the Reversal Squad have been fighting the fire for days, and still, it's burning all around them. All around him. He can't move...
Can't escape it...
He fights and struggles; his wrists finally slip free, and he takes the stairs two at a time. The floor is scattered with glowing embers, scattered flames, but his feet find nothing under them as he runs. Out into the street, onto the cobblestones. They must be cold, but he can't feel that, either...
The building pours smoke from every window and doorway; flames glow yellow and orange from every opening. The front window explodes, and George can see every diamond-bright splinter of glass as it flies, sparkling in the firelight.
~~~
"George. George. Wake up..."
George opens his eyes, gasping for breath. He's sitting up in bed, feet tangled in the covers, one hand clutching the sweaty shirt he wears, and he searches in the dark wildly for the source of the voice.
"It's James." There's a click and a soft light comes on in the bathroom. George can see James returning to the side of the bed. "Are you hurt? Sick?"
George shakes his head, unable to make his hand let go of either his shirt or the fold of blanket, but he can feel his breathing slowing just a bit.
"You were screaming."
George nods. "I'm...not surprised..." His throat feels rough and hot. James hands him a cup and he drinks without question. The water is cold and soothing. He drinks it all and hands back the cup, then turns to sit crosslegged in the bed.
"Would you like me to stay?"
George nods, and manages a faint whisper. "Please..." He turns to pile all the pillows as high as he can get them, then scoots up until he's almost sitting, leaning into their softness and pulling the blanket over him. "And...leave the light on...?"
"Of course." James goes to the door, speaking quietly with someone outside, then returns and pulls the chair to the side of the bed. "We can talk if you like, or I can just sit. It's up to you."
"Thanks." Propped up this way, George can see outside a little bit; the stars are bright tonight, and there's a bit of the moon visible at the edge of the window. He imagines he can see their stars, and settles on his side, blanket to his chest, and doesn't bother trying to sleep. At least he's safe. He can breathe. And he's not alone.
Characters: George Weasley, St. Mungo's staff[NPC]
Location: St.Mungo's, house of screams.
Status: Private
Summary: George wakes in the night
Completion: Complete
The air is thick and absolutely un-breathable, but he tries anyway. Gasping for breath, his chest struggling to take something in. Anything. It's so loud here; George can't hear himself think, but he can hear shouts. People yelling and calling and the sickening sounds of breaking wood and popping embers.
He can't get loose. He tosses, tugging at his wrists, but they're tied to the bed, and he can't breathe, bloody fucking hell, how long can it last? The Aurors and the Reversal Squad have been fighting the fire for days, and still, it's burning all around them. All around him. He can't move...
Can't escape it...
He fights and struggles; his wrists finally slip free, and he takes the stairs two at a time. The floor is scattered with glowing embers, scattered flames, but his feet find nothing under them as he runs. Out into the street, onto the cobblestones. They must be cold, but he can't feel that, either...
The building pours smoke from every window and doorway; flames glow yellow and orange from every opening. The front window explodes, and George can see every diamond-bright splinter of glass as it flies, sparkling in the firelight.
~~~
"George. George. Wake up..."
George opens his eyes, gasping for breath. He's sitting up in bed, feet tangled in the covers, one hand clutching the sweaty shirt he wears, and he searches in the dark wildly for the source of the voice.
"It's James." There's a click and a soft light comes on in the bathroom. George can see James returning to the side of the bed. "Are you hurt? Sick?"
George shakes his head, unable to make his hand let go of either his shirt or the fold of blanket, but he can feel his breathing slowing just a bit.
"You were screaming."
George nods. "I'm...not surprised..." His throat feels rough and hot. James hands him a cup and he drinks without question. The water is cold and soothing. He drinks it all and hands back the cup, then turns to sit crosslegged in the bed.
"Would you like me to stay?"
George nods, and manages a faint whisper. "Please..." He turns to pile all the pillows as high as he can get them, then scoots up until he's almost sitting, leaning into their softness and pulling the blanket over him. "And...leave the light on...?"
"Of course." James goes to the door, speaking quietly with someone outside, then returns and pulls the chair to the side of the bed. "We can talk if you like, or I can just sit. It's up to you."
"Thanks." Propped up this way, George can see outside a little bit; the stars are bright tonight, and there's a bit of the moon visible at the edge of the window. He imagines he can see their stars, and settles on his side, blanket to his chest, and doesn't bother trying to sleep. At least he's safe. He can breathe. And he's not alone.