The Girl in the Rain

The rain hadn’t stopped for three days. It pounded the Burrow’s roof like the sky was grieving too. Inside, the house felt smaller than ever—every creak on the stairs, every clatter from the kitchen, every murmur seemed louder in the thick silence that had settled over the family.

Molly stood at the stove, stirring a pot of soup nobody would touch. Her shoulders were hunched, her wand arm heavy. Arthur sat at the kitchen table, pretending to read the Daily Prophet, but his eyes kept drifting up to the ceiling, to that closed door at the top of the stairs. Fred had taken to pacing. He’d worn a groove into the floorboards between the fireplace and the back door, hands shoved deep in his pockets, jaw tight.

“She’s not eating again,” Molly said, her voice thin. “I brought up a tray. Still outside the door. Cold.”

Fred stopped. “I’ll talk to her.”

“You’ve tried,” Arthur said quietly.

“I’ll try again.” Fred’s voice was rough. He didn’t wait. Took the stairs two at a time, footsteps heavy and determined. The corridor upstairs was dim, lit only by grey light from the small window at the end. George’s door was shut, a tray of untouched food on the floor—soup congealed, bread hard.

Fred knocked. “Georgie. Open up.”

Silence. Just the hum of rain against glass.

“I’m not leaving until you talk to me,” he said, leaning his forehead against the wood. “Mum’s worried sick. Dad’s not sleeping. I’m going out of my mind. Please.”

He heard it—a muffled sob, quickly stifled. His heart clenched. He tried the handle. Locked. He took a step back, then slammed his shoulder against the door. The old wood groaned but held. He did it again, harder, and the lock splintered. The door swung open.

The room was dark. Curtains drawn. Air thick with sweat and stale tears. George was curled on the bed, back to the door, shoulders shaking. She wore an overlarge jumper—Fred’s, he realized—and her hair, usually so vibrant, hung lank and tangled.

“Georgie,” Fred breathed. He crossed the room in three strides and sat on the edge of the bed. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

George didn’t answer. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Fred reached out and touched her shoulder. She flinched, but didn’t pull away. Slowly, cautiously, he pulled her into his arms. She was so thin. He could feel every rib. She buried her face in his chest and sobbed—great, ugly sobs that tore out of her throat.

Fred held her, rocking slightly, his own eyes burning. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Just let it out.”

But she wouldn’t explain. She just cried until she had no strength left, then went limp in his arms. Fred stayed with her until she fell into a fitful sleep. He didn’t leave. He watched her breathe, counted the minutes, and felt a cold dread settling in his stomach.

---

The next few days were a blur of quiet horror. George stopped coming downstairs altogether. She wouldn’t let anyone in except Fred, and even then, she barely spoke. Molly left trays of food that went untouched. Arthur tried to coax her out with talk of Quidditch and new inventions, but the door stayed closed.

Fred noticed the weight loss first. When he hugged her, she felt like a bird—all bones and fragile skin. Then he noticed the way she flinched at her reflection in the window. And then, one evening, he saw it.

She was changing her shirt, her back to him, and he caught a glimpse of her side. Red, angry lines—some fresh, some healing—cut across her waist in parallel tracks. Fred’s blood turned to ice.

“What is that?” His voice came out strangled.

George yanked her shirt down, face pale. “Nothing.”

“That is not nothing.” Fred grabbed her arm, not hard, but firm. “Show me.”

She tried to pull away. “Fred, please—”

He lifted the hem of her shirt. The cuts were precise, deliberate. Some scabbed over, others still pink. Fred stared, his mind blank with shock. Then the shock turned to fury—not at her, but at whatever had driven her to this.

“Who did this to you?” he demanded, voice cracking. “Was it someone? A spell? An accident?”

George shook her head, tears streaming. “I did it.”

“What?” Fred’s grip loosened. “Why?”

She wouldn’t answer. Just sobbed, pulling away, curling into a ball on the bed. Fred felt like he was drowning. He didn’t understand. Didn’t know how to help. He wanted to scream, to break something, to make it stop.

Instead, he sat on the floor beside the bed, his back against the mattress, and listened to her cry. He stayed there until the sky outside turned black.

---

The vomiting started a week later. Molly had managed to get George to eat—just a few spoonfuls of broth—but within an hour, she heard the toilet flush. Then again. And again.

Fred found her on the bathroom floor, face grey, hands trembling. “Georgie, what are you doing?”

“I need to be smaller,” she whispered. “I need to be prettier. If I’m pretty enough, maybe I can be… maybe it will work.”

“What are you talking about?” Fred knelt beside her. “You’re perfect. You’re my twin. You’re the best part of me.”

George laughed—a bitter, broken sound. “I’m not a twin. I’m not your brother. I’m not anything.”

Fred’s heart twisted. “Stop talking rubbish.”

“It’s not rubbish!” George screamed, shoving him away. “You don’t understand! None of you understand! I can’t do this anymore.”

She scrambled to her feet and locked herself in her room again. Fred pounded on the door, fists raw, until Arthur pulled him away.

“Give her space,” Arthur said, eyes hollow.

“She’s hurting herself, Dad.”

“I know.” Arthur’s voice broke. “I know.”

---

The evening it happened, the rain had finally stopped. The air was still, heavy with humidity and the smell of wet earth. Fred had fallen asleep in the armchair downstairs, exhausted from another sleepless night. Molly was in the kitchen, Arthur in the garden, trying to fix a gnome-infested patch of lawn.

No one saw George slip out of her room. No one heard her bare feet on the stairs. No one noticed her walk into the back garden, her wand clutched in her hand.

The incantation was whispered, almost reverent. *Avada Kedavra.*

She raised the wand to her own throat.

Arthur was turning back toward the house when he heard it—a word that cut through the twilight like a blade. He spun around. Saw his child, face streaked with tears, wand aimed at her own neck. Something primal broke inside him.

“NO!”

He disarmed her with a reflexive flick of his own wand. The green light died before it could spark. George’s wand flew from her hand and clattered against the stones. She crumpled, legs giving out, and Arthur caught her before she hit the ground.

He held her—his son, his daughter, his child—and he wept.

The commotion brought Fred and Molly running. Fred took one look at the scene and went white as paper. Molly let out a wail that echoed across the fields.

Arthur carried George inside, sat her down at the kitchen table, and dismissed everyone else with a quiet, firm word. He sat across from her, her hands in his, and waited.

The silence stretched. The clock ticked. George’s tears fell onto the worn wood.

“I don’t want to be a boy,” she said finally, her voice so small it was almost a whisper. “I’ve never wanted to be a boy. I pretend. I pretend so hard every day. But I’m not George. I’m Georgina. And I can’t… I can’t keep pretending.”

Arthur’s breath caught. He looked at her—really looked—and saw the truth that had been hiding behind her eyes for years. The way she’d always avoided mirrors. The way she’d always seemed uncomfortable in her own skin, like a garment that didn’t fit.

“Georgina,” he repeated, testing the name. It felt right. Like a key turning in a lock.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Arthur pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice thick. “I’m sorry we didn’t see. I’m sorry you had to carry this alone. I love you. No matter what. I love you.”

---

The news spread through the family like ripples on a pond. Reactions varied.

Molly was quiet at first. She sat in her rocking chair, knitting, hands moving on autopilot. Then she set the knitting down, went upstairs, and returned with a small box. Inside were earrings—simple gold studs—that had belonged to her mother.

“These were always meant for a daughter,” she said, pressing them into Georgina’s hand. “I suppose I was just waiting for the right one.”

Bill came from Egypt. He hugged Georgina hard and said, “Took you long enough.” Charlie sent a letter with a dragon scale, inscribed with her new name. Percy wrote a stiff but sincere note of support. Ron just nodded, unsure what to say, but he made sure to call her Georgina every time.

Fred’s reaction was the most complicated. He locked himself in his room for a full day. No one disturbed him. When he emerged, his eyes were red, but his jaw was set. He walked straight to Georgina’s room, opened the door, and stood in front of her.

“You idiot,” he said, his voice raw. “You absolute, bloody idiot. I thought I was losing you. I thought you were dying. And all along, you were just trying to be born.”

Georgina looked up at him, terrified of his rejection. He dropped to his knees in front of her and took her face in his hands.

“You’re my sister,” he said. “My twin. My other half. And if anyone tries to hurt you, I’ll hex them into next week. But if you ever—ever—try to leave me again, I will find a way to bring you back just so I can kill you myself. Understood?”

She laughed—a real laugh, watery and surprised. “Understood.”

Fred pulled her into a bone-crushing hug. “Georgina,” he whispered. “It’s a good name. Strong. Pretty. Fits you.”

---

Angelina Johnson had been visiting the Burrow regularly, ostensibly to check on Fred, but everyone knew she was worried about George. She’d noticed the changes, the sadness, the withdrawal. She’d tried to reach out, but George had always deflected.

Now, standing in the garden, Angelina listened as Fred told her the truth. She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t flinch. When he finished, she simply walked toward the house.

She found Georgina sitting on the porch, staring at the muddy yard. Angelina sat down beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched.

“Fred told you,” Georgina said, not looking at her.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And I think I always knew,” Angelina said softly. “Not consciously. But I always felt like you were hiding something. Like there was a version of you you were too scared to show.”

Georgina finally turned to look at her. Angelina’s eyes were warm, unguarded.

“I’ve always cared about you, George—Georgina. More than you know. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Georgina’s breath caught. “I don’t…”

Angelina reached out and took her hand. Their fingers intertwined, hesitant at first, then sure.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” Angelina said. “I see you. And I like what I see.”

The rain had stopped. The clouds were breaking apart, letting streaks of pale evening light through. Georgina looked down at their joined hands, then up at Angelina’s face.

She smiled—for the first time in months, a real, genuine smile.

“I like what I see too,” she said.

And in the garden, Fred watched from the kitchen window, a lump in his throat. He turned to see Arthur standing behind him, a cup of tea in his hand, a small, hopeful smile on his face.

“She’s going to be alright,” Arthur said.

“I know,” Fred replied. And for the first time, he believed it.