RP: I thought therapy was supposed to help...
Date: Wednesday, 18 October, 1999
Characters: George Weasley, Hermione Granger
Location: Grimmauld Place
Status: Private
Summary: George works off a therapy session.
Completion: Complete
George had tried to sit and have tea and write in his book. He'd tried to take a nap, tried to clean his room, tried to lay perfectly still without moving a muscle. He'd tried to have a cup of tea, tried to keep from screaming, but in the end, it was an exercise in futility.
His session with Greystone had gone less than spectacularly. Somehow the conversation had turned from what he'd found out about the shop, and the fact that the insurance was going to pay off what was damaged, and then to Lee.
To Lee, and the fact that he hadn't answered George's owls. Hadn't come to visit again, not even when George was allowed. And now that he was home...seemed to be nowhere.
"I don't know what to think," he'd said to Greystone. "When I first came to see you, he wasn't pleased. It was like...there was something shameful about it. Like I was weak. I don't know if that's what he really thinks...at the time I didn't have what it took to ask. But now...I could. If I saw him? I would. I'm fucking doing the best I can, here..."
And it had gone downhill from there. He'd left with another small box of potions from the hospital apothecary. Not my week for tapering off, I guess...
And now, back at Grimmauld Place, alone in the quiet, he was beside himself. He'd showered. Twice. Buried his face into the soft fluff of every pillow on his bed and screamed until his throat was raw. He hadn't been able to find any outlet for this excess of energy until he'd remembered the ballroom. Hermione's exercise room. Sam...
He slid down the bannister to the ground floor, barely missing Kreacher at the bottom, and headed into the huge room. Found the canvas wraps that he'd brought Hermione and wound them around his hands, pacing the room, eyeing the bag.
It didn't take long to work himself into a righteously angry sweat. He stripped off his shirt, not caring if anyone currently in residence saw him in just his jeans, then turned every bit of anger and grief and frustration onto Sam. Straight punches. Crosses and hooks. Uppercuts and jabs. All landed with every bit of strength he could get behind them, every breath pulling along an angry grunt as he punched. Hit. Spun and kicked.
Tears mingled with the sweat that dripped from his hair and ran down his cheeks. He didn't care...couldn't care. It was either this or...
No. Unthinkable. It was this.
Characters: George Weasley, Hermione Granger
Location: Grimmauld Place
Status: Private
Summary: George works off a therapy session.
Completion: Complete
George had tried to sit and have tea and write in his book. He'd tried to take a nap, tried to clean his room, tried to lay perfectly still without moving a muscle. He'd tried to have a cup of tea, tried to keep from screaming, but in the end, it was an exercise in futility.
His session with Greystone had gone less than spectacularly. Somehow the conversation had turned from what he'd found out about the shop, and the fact that the insurance was going to pay off what was damaged, and then to Lee.
To Lee, and the fact that he hadn't answered George's owls. Hadn't come to visit again, not even when George was allowed. And now that he was home...seemed to be nowhere.
"I don't know what to think," he'd said to Greystone. "When I first came to see you, he wasn't pleased. It was like...there was something shameful about it. Like I was weak. I don't know if that's what he really thinks...at the time I didn't have what it took to ask. But now...I could. If I saw him? I would. I'm fucking doing the best I can, here..."
And it had gone downhill from there. He'd left with another small box of potions from the hospital apothecary. Not my week for tapering off, I guess...
And now, back at Grimmauld Place, alone in the quiet, he was beside himself. He'd showered. Twice. Buried his face into the soft fluff of every pillow on his bed and screamed until his throat was raw. He hadn't been able to find any outlet for this excess of energy until he'd remembered the ballroom. Hermione's exercise room. Sam...
He slid down the bannister to the ground floor, barely missing Kreacher at the bottom, and headed into the huge room. Found the canvas wraps that he'd brought Hermione and wound them around his hands, pacing the room, eyeing the bag.
It didn't take long to work himself into a righteously angry sweat. He stripped off his shirt, not caring if anyone currently in residence saw him in just his jeans, then turned every bit of anger and grief and frustration onto Sam. Straight punches. Crosses and hooks. Uppercuts and jabs. All landed with every bit of strength he could get behind them, every breath pulling along an angry grunt as he punched. Hit. Spun and kicked.
Tears mingled with the sweat that dripped from his hair and ran down his cheeks. He didn't care...couldn't care. It was either this or...
No. Unthinkable. It was this.