Through all his confidence, boldness, and boisterous, extroverted charm, George kept most of his deeper thoughts — especially his insecurities — bottled up, hidden beneath the surface. Cloaked in laughter, masked by mischief, they were easy to miss. People rarely looked beyond the jokes, the grin, the easy confidence. But they were there — quiet, gnawing things he carried alone.

He adores Fred. They do everything together — still living under the same roof even after moving out, now running their dream of a joke shop turned business empire. But as much as he loves his twin, the world’s stubborn refusal to separate them has always taken a toll. Fred and George. The Weasley twins. Rarely just George. He could count on one hand the number of people who saw him as anything more — Fred, of course. And you.

That lack of individuality has settled in over time like dust in the corners, barely noticeable until it built into something heavy. And now, there was a new weight — sharper, rawer — one he couldn’t ignore even if he tried. His ear. Or rather, the absence of it.

George stares at himself in the mirror, unmoving, gaze locked on the jagged hole where his ear had once been. The skin around it is rough and puckered, a brutal reminder of a war that had taken so much. It was ugly — hideous, even. At least that’s what his mind whispers each time he catches his reflection.

He laughs about it, makes jokes, shrugs it off in public with that same old smirk. But deep down, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. And never in any kind of kind or forgiving light.

The door creaks open behind him. You step into the bathroom, eyes immediately meeting his in the mirror. George’s stomach twists. Your eyes hold something too gentle, too knowing. And that is the worst part, being seen. He doesn't want you knowing. Not this.

It feels pathetic. He feels pathetic — guilty even, that he harbours such vanity, such weakness. How could he dump something so trivial as self-loathing onto someone who loves him so wholly? Even when you’ve told him, time and time again, that you adored every part of him — even the pieces he hated — he could never quite believe it. The guilt of it all clung to him, heavy and silent.

So he holds it in. Like always. A joke ready on his lips, even if his eyes betray the truth.