Chapter 1 : Writers Block
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Who would have thought it?
George Weasley wrote poetry.
Ok, well, not just poetry. In fact the poetry happened much less than the stories.
But you have to admit, it was a good opening line.
Though still, who would have thought that George Weasley wrote for leisure, the famous prankster and killer of serious moments extroadanare wrote for pleasure, when it was rare to even see him writing an essay.
It was his secret and god forbid anybody find out or it would ruin his image forever. Well anybody except Fred of course, he had known for a long time, how could you hide something that deeply private and embarassing from your twin?
George was forever finding his own works strewn across Fred's bed.
Oh, and then there was Angelina Johnson, the only other person in the universe that knew of his terrible secret, she found out when she had stumbled across his leather bound writing book, which he had carelessy left on his bed one day.
Come to think of it, how was that careless? What was she doing in his dormitory anyway? That was one answer he still hadn't managed to pry from Fred Weasley.
His writing book at that time had been filled to the brim with poems and short stories, stories about fun things but also stories about shameful things such as love and sadness (God forbid!)
He had walked in and to his suprise a teary eyed Angelina was sitting on his bed reading out of his treasured book. Well actually he had chucked a book on his bed not realising she was there and hit her smack bang in the nose (he thought that was the reason for the tears).
George had began apologising for making her cry and wouldn't stop until she got sick of him saying sorry over and over and confessed she was crying because of a poem she had read in his book.
She then began apologising for reading his private property until he got sick of her saying sorry over and over and made her promise not to tell a single soul on her life and he would forgive her.
Since then she had approached him once every week and demanded his book for a night or she would break her promise and tell the whole school. George, everytime would reluctantly give her his book and she would hand it back the next day praising him on his "Amazing skills".
This process happened for months, Angelina demanding his book and George obliging until one day, one fateful and terrible day, George shrugged.
"I haven't written anything...'
She glared at him. "Next week then."
But there was no next week. Or a week after that.
What was wrong with him?
He had sat down for an entire hour trying with all his might to write anything, anything at all. But he couldn't, all he ended up with was a page full of scribble outs.
Night after night the same thing happened, George would get angry and screw up the paper only to uncrumple it again and write more unsucessful words upon the page.
At first he thought that this was just a sign that his life was great at the moment and that he had no extravagant emotions to put on paper because he had none in his life, he was content.
He still suspected this was true until he began to feel the same sensations to write, just bubbling beneath the surface but still not enough to actually get him to produce anything.
No, there was definatly something else wrong. Did he feel pressured? Had he lost his touch? Was he being too hard on himself? Or did he have (Oh lord no!) The feared and dreaded writers block?
Eventually he gave up and went on with life.
Soon writing no longer mattered, tensions began to rise, the war started and his involvement in it was all that began to matter.
Living in Grimmauld place was not exactly the best place to be but it was the war that was getting to George.
Soon everyone began to notice his dark eyes and small apetite. He was still as funny as ever but he was most definitely not getting enough sleep.
Fred mentioned this to Angelina in his letters and after corresponding for a week they came up with a possible solution.
Fred found George one morning, sitting on his bed staring out the window.
"George? You right mate?"
George jerked and faced Fread. "Yeah of course. Why?"
Fred sat down on the edge of his bed. "Look Angelina and I have been talking. You need to write again."
George frowned and then laughed. "You two have been conspiring have you?"
Fred smiled weakly. "Seriously though," he paused, "Remember when you used to always be writing? Angelina would constantly pester you for it and I'd always try to convince you to show it to other people?
"Well, I think thats whats missing for you, I know you used to get everything of your mind by writing a story based on what you were feeling. You used to talk to me about it, once you even said you'd go mad without your writing."
Next thing Fred had a pillow hit his face.
"That was ages ago, come on mister Serious lets go get lunch, we'll see if we can slip a fake rat in Ron's sandwich." George left the room and Fred followed feeling as though that whole conversation had been hopeless.
Hopeless was definatly not the word to use. His words had hit George like a bludger to the head.
The idea of writing had been completely driven out of his head. Perhaps Fred and Angelina were right? If he couldn't get things out somehow they could be effecting him in his dreams.
That night before he went to bed he reached below his bed and pulled out his suitcase. There, right in the bottom slightly ripped and weathered looking were his various work books.
Mesmerised he began to sift through them, There were pages and pages of things, some stories had been completely scribbled out and re-written, others written without one single blotch of ink on them, titles written in bold letters at the top, complete pages dedicated to character descriptions, little diagrams everywhere and pages and pages of love stories.
George had neglected his writing for so long that he had forgotten about half the things he had written.
And then there it was, that bubbling inside his chest, that stirring in his lower back, those words on the tip of his tongue. George grabbed his quil and quickly dipped it in purple ink.
He sat there poised over the page, ink dripping slowly in blobs onto his page and still he waited like a cat ready to pounce.
But nothing came.
George flung down his quill, splattering ink on his bed sheets. Feeling very frustrated he hastily threw his things back into his trunk, switched of his light and lay down.
He had been so close, why couldn't he just think of something?
Damn this cursed writers block! Writing hadn't even fazed him and then when he got all inspired all of his ideas had scattered away like fish in the pool of his mind.
George closed his eyes, he'd just have to forget about it again.
He couldn't sleep. He lay there for half an hour but sleep didn't come. Feeling utterly exhausted, frustrated and morbid he climbed out of bed quietly.
Hoping to god no one was awake he crept into the kitchen, wearing only his orange pajama pants. Just at the bottom of the stairs in front of the kitchen door George stopped short.
There was a noise inside coming from inside the dimly lit room. He grabbed his wand, it was probably just Hermione's cat but he didn't really want to come across anyone is such an irritable state. He entered the kitchen slowly, wand held in front of him.
But it wasn't Hermione's cat.
It was Hermione.
And she was sobbing.
She was sitting in one of the chairs her head laying on the table, in front of her was an undrank hot chocolate and her body racked with sobs.
George froze. "H-Hermione."
She jumped and looked up stunned, her hair was messy and she had wet cheeks.
"Oh, George," She wiped her cheeks hastily. Her voice was croaky. "I was just, er-"
"Well, oh, I... W-What are you doing in here?"
George sighed and sat down next to her. "I couldn't sleep."
Hermione pushed her untouched chocolate at him. "This might help."
George pretended to be disgusted. "What love potions have you put it in it Granger?"
She smiled weakly.
"C'mon Granger whats wrong, I caught you crying and you know it. I'll tell why I'm here if you tell me."
Hermione shook her head. "Why couldn't you sleep?" She hicupped softly and another tear rolled down her cheek.
"I just can't sleep, there are so many thoughts tumbling through my brain, I'm afraid I'll go mad. Or that I'll never wake. Fred says I should try to write."
Hermione snorted. "Writing? I can't imagine you doing that. I wasn't aware you could read."
George punched her shoulder playfully. "Don't you dare tell a soul this alright."
Hermione held up her little finger. "Pinky promise." George shook it with his own.
"Well I used to write, quite a while ago. I loved it. Angelina and I had this little ritual exchange happening. I'd get sore hands from holding the quill to long. Then for some reason I just stopped. No reason why, I just found it impossible to jolt a single thing down and everytime an idea came I'd mull it over to see if it was good enough and then it would be gone. I tried again tonight and just - argh- I couldn't....
I just ranted didn't I?"
More tears were on her face now. "I never knew you were so fond of writing... well I never knew you wrote in the first place..."
She sniffled softly. George reached over and wiped her cheek. "Why are you crying Hermione?"
"This! The whole war, everyone involved, its just... I guess I'm scared, what if Harry or Ron or - or you die? I mean, I'm a muggle born, my parents are in danger and all the death eaters must know me as the know-it-all Mudblood from Lucius Malfoy's stories, everyone that is close to Harry is in danger."
Her breath hitched and she sobbed again. "I was walking down the stairs and I heard noises from Harry's room as I walked past... He was thrashing around in his sleep again. He was dreaming about C-Cedric again..." The mention of Cedric did it, she couldn't hold it in any longer and burst into tears.
George put his hand on hers and wrapped his other arm around her.
"Its alright, we all know Harry's gonna beat Voldemort, I mean if he can escape that many bloody times... And in my opinion if he can kill a great ruddy Basilisk anything else is easy!"
Hermione looked up, her cheeks were pink her eyes watery. George's breath caught in her throat.
"I won't let anything happen to you Hermione."
"Thank you George. You always seem to be there to make me laugh."
He winked. "Anytime madoimaselle."
They sat there for some time as Hermione sipped her hot (Well not so hot anymore) chocolate, hiccupping at random intervals, making him grin rougishly everytime.
"Do you think we should you know, go to bed now?" Hermione yawned just as she finished her sentance.
George glanced at the clock. "Er, Yes. I think its way past your bedtime young lady."
Hermione pushed him in the back of the head gently as they stood up.
"I'll walk you to your room, its on the way to mine."
Hermione snorted. "Afraid that Kreacher will attack me if I go alone."
"No, its mum I'm frightened of...Besides Kreacher might attack me without you there to protect me."
As they walked past Harry and Ron's room there was not a sound except for Ron's gentle snoring.
Moments later they were standing outside of Hermiones room. "Thank you for the company."
She stood on her tippy toes and kissed George softly on the lips, before he knew what had happened she had already closed the door.
The starry eyed redhead lay in his bed ten minutes later, with an image of a beautiful teary eyed girl haunting his mind.
And then there it was, that bubbling inside his chest, that stirring in his lower back, those words on the tip of his tongue.
There was nothing for it. He needed to try one last time.
He sat knelt over the paper and then:
There sits an angel on her cloud and with her tears the rain does fall......
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