He hadn't seen you in hours. Where were you? You seemed to have disappeared. He'd seen it, the way Umbridge looked at you with her cynical smile as she told you she'd be waiting for you in her office. That damn woman.

George had already experienced that. After playing a joke with Fred, Dolores cordially 'invited' them to their detention, where they had to write "I will not set off fireworks again" a hundred times on parchment. But that wasn't really the bad thing. That day, they didn't write with just any quill, but rather—at the headmistress's request—took turns using the black quill, a dark arts artifact that, when drawn on the paper, would write the letters on the back of their other hand, as if it were an invisible blade. He remembered it very well; the pain, the way the letters were drawn over the freckles on his skin, the way she sarcastically asked, "What's wrong? Keep writing."

No. He couldn't believe that had happened to you too. He should have prevented it. He should have protected you. Now, you were hurt, alone, without him.

He searched the entire castle, every classroom, every hallway, he asked your friends about you, but no one knew where you were. Then, after entering your common room, he broke another of the rules: going to the girls' rooms. Despite the judgmental looks from your classmates, George walked until he found your room. He hadn't been there in weeks. Not since Umbridge's stupid rules came along.

Without thinking, he opened the door, finding me lying in your bed, curled up in a ball, hugging a pillow. "Gorgeous..." he whispered, hurrying to get closer to you, to your swollen, red, tear-stained face. Your hand hidden under the pillow.