Fiery Flipendo Lessons PV George Henry Finished

Being asked to meet in the dungeons was probably the most suspicious request anyone had ever made of him via owl, save for one girl asking him to go to the ball one time in his first year. He had had the excellent luck of being able to reject her with reason. In this instance, however, he had not made sufficiently urgent prior arrangements.

George was very punctual. He made a science of getting into, and out of, the dungeons as efficiently as possible for his potions class. There was nothing good that came out of lingering any longer. All manner of horrors lurked in the dungeons of Hogwarts, whether the staff would admit it or not. Spiders, shadow-monsters, hags, and even Slytherins made their homes down here.

He didn't need to deviate much from his usual route to make it to the neighbouring room from the potion's class, however, which made him feel that much safer. Plus, there was no doubt Professor Wickham-Deakin would hear them and lecture them about the irresponsibility of flinging flipendos in the isolate dungeon. Her words were almost as difficult to bear as her breath.

George walked in and found @Bubba McGarry waiting in his chair, like a supervillain who had just lured the hero into a trap. But he did not immediately start in curses, hexes, or monologue, so the Hufflepuff felt safe enough on the approach. There was no need to suspect any sort of misdirection had taken place, and he was quite glad that at least one of the First Years liked him enough to want him to teach them again.

"Hello," he said, drawing his wand from within his robes and setting his satchel down on a chair near to the fire. "Did you really need to set your lesson not only in the dungeons, but during dinner? It's not like we're doing something illegal, you know. We could just meet in dueling club, they let you do supervised practice there."

George narrowed his eyes as he stared down the younger boy, keeping his wand at the ready, held tight and close to his side. He would not be the first to draw, but he would not be caught off guard - that was the most honorable way to fight. The Hufflepuff could not get a measure of the stunned Ravenclaw - Bubba just kept shaking his head around, and George was growing less suspicious and more confused with each moment. He raised an eyebrow, looking expectantly at Bubba as a few of those unintelligible noises came out of him. Was he possessed?

Perhaps he had simply become vastly more Irish since the last time George had seen him. Still, he started to speak words that George could understand, and the lad hesitantly listened to what he had to say. The offer to let George punch him was met with a very swift shake of the head. No, no. He did not like punching people. Even ones that deserved it.

The hesitant but curious George was replaced in an instant with a stone-faced statue when Bubba mentioned the story that Alan had told in detention. Stupid Alan, he thought, before immediately soothing himself with memories of the older Gryffindor bringing him hot cocoa. Sweet, stupid Alan. The boy's knuckles turned white from the grip he had on his wand. Was this some kind of ambush? No. The lad was a Ravenclaw, the least likely of all the houses to do something so stupid as to invite George to the dungeons and then provoke him. Unless he was trying to set him up? Perhaps his old articles were finally getting the backlash they deserved...

No. He was just some traumatized kid. George's rocky expression softened into a sympathetic frown. He could not know exactly how Bubba felt - he still had his brother, and nobody had died in the fire that day. But he sort of knew how he felt, too. Alone. Afraid. Carrying a weight far too heavy for a first-year to carry alone.

"Oh," George said softly, still recovering from the shock of the revelation. He wanted to say something funny to diffuse the tension, but could not imagine a joke that would be appropriate. Instead, he let it stand - an air of unease permeating the dungeon. Along with a vague moistness. But that was just sort of how the basements in castles felt. "I'm sorry."

George lugged a chair over beside Bubba and sat himself down slowly, turning his wand over in his hands idly, just fidgeting with it. The dent in the bottom was visible as he ran his thumb over it, chewing his lip lightly as he recalled his own experience. "Just, um... you know... calm down. Uh, it's okay. We can talk."

But Bubba would need to start talking first. George would just listen.

George waited patiently. He knew how hard it was to open up.

Their shared silence was broken by a quiet triple-tap of the third-year's shoe. Okay, he wasn't waiting that patiently. His stomach was gnawing at him, reminding him that they were missing dinner for what would amount to impromptu therapy session. He already knew that he was just going to give the same advice he got, maybe fix him up with a pat on the back - this was surely beyond his pay grade? He'd never even known someone who died. Even his grandparents yet lived.

But the silence had to end. The longer it lingered, the more his ears adjusted, and the more he was sure he could hear things down in the dungeons. The acoustics down here were nightmarish at the least. Drops of water, the crackling of the fire nearby the only thing keeping him from imagining darker sounds of skittering creatures and trapped kids.

"So... what happened?" he said, with a slight shrug as if to say 'I don't know how this is meant to go either, man.' That was all he offered at first before leaning back into his chair, letting out a long sigh as he watched Bubba. Alright - this one was a Hufflepuff trademark, and although he normally reserved it for special occasions, this felt important enough to degrade himself to the level of the average badger. "Do you want a hug?"

George recoiled from Bubba's recoiling, throwing out a hand between himself and the young Ravenclaw. He was looking half worried, and half offended. Was the idea of being hugged by George really that off-putting? People loved his hugs! People demanded them and threw fits when he would not give in. It was really quite ungrateful of the younger boy to react like that - and then act as if George had attacked him. He hadn't even moved his arms into hugging position yet before the whole ordeal was over.

"What? It helps some people. Jesus, you didn't need to brain yourself," he said, glancing down at the other boy's hands to check them for blood as well. This was not going to loosely-formed plan in the slightest. Maybe he could go for the hug again and if the young lad hit his head that hard again, he might just forget about the entire ordeal. George's lip twitched, threatening to almost smile. No, he should not say that. It would be insensitive. Even if it would be very much funny.

George stood up, with no intent to hug showing in his posture or gait as he glanced to the door and then back down to Bubba. He put his hands down on the back of his chair, standing behind it now, keeping it between him and the volatile Bubba. "Just relax. And say... whatever it is that's on your mind. I don't know how helpful I can be. I'm only good at charms. And cheering charms don't work on this stuff. Trust me."

Six years older... if he was eight, that would put her at George's age. The Hufflepuff felt a chill run down his back, but he remained stoic. A stiff upper lip. George could not help but picture that girl, though. He pictured his brother. He stopped his mind before he could picture the fire. Like plucking the needle off of a record and replacing it with another. Replaced with a record that did not make any noise, and only listened.

His fingers squeezed the cold wood of the chair in front of him. He pulled at it and tilted it back on its hind legs, struggling to keep himself quiet. The urge to comfort Bubba was silenced, swallowed down as it tried to urge its way out of his mouth. Stupid sympathy. It never did anyone as much good as being sat down and listened to properly.

The look in Bubba's eyes was haunting. George could recognize it. He wasn't down here in the dungeons at Hogwarts anymore. It as all happening again for him, and all George could do was sit helplessly, determined to let him suffer through it until he had finally finished speaking. It was painful. Wizards could turn teapots into weasels, but it seemed that there were never any quick-fix charms for the problems that really nagged him. George's fingers turned pale as he gripped the arch of the chair's back, shutting his eyes in a double-long blink as he held back his tears.

The time to speak had finally come. George began softly.

"I know what they said," he murmured. The rest of the students were in the great hall, feasting on drumsticks and pudding. There was not a soul down here to be hear. If there were any mice lurking in the dungeons, they waited in their holes in quiet reverence for the moment to pass before they dared squeak or even breathe. There were so many sympathies on his mind, but he could hardly summon the words forward. Just a handful spilled out clumsily. "I'm sorry."

He looked down at the boy across from him until he couldn't bear to look any longer, turning his head away to count stones in the wall. Did Bubba feel the same way he had? How could he? None of this had been his fault at all. He wasn't even conscious. There weren't any mistakes to mistake for heroics like Alan had, nor victims, like the poor students stuck down under the floor. Down here in the dungeons. George turned the other way and looked out the door, feeling his hands cold and his heart pounding in his chest.

"Uh, when... when... when my thing happened, I spent a long time thinking about what I should have done," he said. Professor Henry did not seem to be as comfortable sharing his wisdom today as he had in his detention. He turned away, holding on tight to the chair, then turned back, sort of rocking to and fro as if the chair were the only anchor keeping him from sprinting out the door. "And thinking that... maybe if I had done... I don't know, something. Maybe there was a right answer and I missed it."

His own memories came back to him like a camera flash. It was all seared on his brain in familiar patterns. Get Jake. Run down. Someone else is going to fall, but not if I fix it. George's arms tensed, leading him to lean over the chair, pausing for a few deep breaths. He wanted to break the chair over his head if only to have something to distract him from his memories. "I don't think... it's... you can't do that. And if... if it makes you feel any better... I don't see anything you could have done differently. And I can think of a lot of stuff I could have done differently."