A/N: Side note, I have no idea what Angelina Johnson's actual blood status is. Work with me here. In fact, I might be fucking around with a lot of blood statuses in this little fic. I apologise in advance. At least I'm not doing…I don't know, distasteful character ret con or something awful like that. Coughmyimmortalcough.

George's POV

When I first saw her, in our first year, I believe, the first thing I was captivated by was just how dark she was. Not long ago, Hermione explained the concept of racism to me, explaining that it was something that used to be a huge problem in the Muggle world, and that it still is in some areas. I must've asked the poor girl a hundred questions; I just couldn't understand it. The same way I don't understand why wizards hate Muggles or Muggleborns. There's nothing wrong with them. Same thing with gay people; they didn't choose to be gay, and even if they did, there's still nothing wrong with that. Gin is still Gin whether she marries a Harry or a Harriet.

But Angelina was just so fascinatingly, beautifully dark—sleek, pitch black hair, eyes so deep brown I could hardly see her pupils, skin the same colour as dark chocolate. I had seen plenty black wizards before, sure, but there was something different about her. She was so mysterious in her darkness, so visually appealing.

I almost killed Fred when he asked her to the Yule Ball. But I backed off, because I knew that he didn't know I fancied her. And I'm pretty sure it's against the bro code to murder your own twin. But I digress.

"George?" I heard her melodic voice somewhere behind me and my heart skipped a beat. I turned and there she was, alone in her deep purple Yule Ball robes—alone! Not hanging off Fred's arm, just on her own.

"Wait…what? I don't…"

She sat next to me on the plush common room couch and slipped off her silver flats; Fred and I had inherited the stocky Weasley genes, but at about 175 centimetres (between 5'9" and 5'10") we usually didn't have too much issue with girls' heights, but Angie was taller than most and wearing heels would have made her slightly taller than Fred. Her toes were painted a bright pink. I don't know why I noticed that.

"I don't know; the date with Fred wasn't really working out," she said, shrugging nonchalantly. She didn't seem upset or fazed at all.

"Is he alright?" I asked immediately. No matter how much I liked a bird, Fred would always come first.

"Oh, yeah, he's fine. Mutual," she assured me.

"So you came to seek his better—much better—half instead?" I grinned at her cheekily. I was, after all, still in my Yule Ball robes, dashing as hell…but I'm always dashing as hell anyway, even when I'm wearing the secondhand robes I got from Charlie. I put my feet up (I had taken my shoes off earlier) on her lap and sprawled myself out on the couch.

"Actually, about that…you see, you and Fred are different people, even if not extremely so…"

"Of course."

That was one of the things I loved about Angie; she could tell the difference between us. She knew that just because we were identical twins didn't mean we were identical people. She afforded us individuality without pulling us apart. I love Fred to pieces and it would kill me to part with him. I love him, but I'm not him, and Angie was one of the rare ones who always understood that.

"As much as I love Fred, I prefer you in terms of romantic love," she said plainly after a moment of consideration. Very straightforward, blunt, Gryffindorish. "I don't know if you feel the same way—"

"Of course I feel the same way, Angie. Angelina," I corrected. I felt it more appropriate to use her full name, so she would know I wasn't taking it lightly.

"Would you like to go back down to the dance?"

"Can we stay here?"

A long pause. Her lips, with a glossy glaze, curved into a smile. "Sure, George."

"It's going to be okay, George, I promise," she says, putting a hand on my shoulder. "I promise, really."

It's Thursday night, 10:32:17. 3:0:11:20:12. Which means…I fall silent as I stare at the watch-face, crunching numbers frantically in my head.

A Thursday three weeks from now, sometime past nine in the morning. I can't be bothered with minutes and seconds.

"I don't want you to have some other bloke's kids, Angie," I confess miserably. Her fingers run through my hair softly, sometimes tracing over the spot where my ear used to be. She's never shown a hint of disgust at that.

"I don't want to have some other bloke's kids," she says, both sadness and distaste mingling in her voice. "In fact, I don't really even want to have your kids," she adds teasingly.

"They would be a nightmare to raise, I'll give you that," I grin.

We smile, then fall silent again. After a moment, she sits on my lap and I just hold her there, like I used to when we started dating a couple weeks after the Yule Ball. It reminds me of the nights before Fred and I dropped out, except worse. This is for three years, not a few months.

"Angie…will you marry me after this is all over?"

"Of course. Of course."

No hysteria, no tears of joy. No tears of any kind, actually. I guess that's good, though. Just a small promise. Something to look forward to. She rustles in my lap and leans in, pressing her lips to mine. A subdued kiss; neither of us has the energy for this, we're so drained from everything.

"You could get a room," Fred interrupts as he opens the door. He grins cockily and leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. They're muscular and freckly, now decorated with a whole collection of new scars crisscrossing over his skin.

"This is a room," I remind him pointedly. "My room, in fact."

"Our room, you prat," he grins. "But Angie can stay."

Angie laughs and threatens to punch him, but stays on my lap, shifting slightly.

"But really, locking charms—"

"We weren't doing anything—" Angie protests, still laughing.

"Bloody better not've been! This is my room!"

"Our room, you prat."

"I hate you both."

"Love you too, Freddie," I reply. Angie sticks her tongue out at him.

It's been a week. Almost exactly a week. A week of nightly encounters with Angie, a week of miserable daytimes, a week of consoling everybody. Times are closing in on us. The suspense is reaching deadly levels. I am a mess, a mess with a watch, but it feels like a time bomb is resting on my wrist.

Fred's POV

"They won't let you petition for a new partner?" Hermione repeats Dad, her words deliberate and enunciated and tinged with disbelief.

Dad shakes his head solemnly. A copy of The Daily Prophet sits crumpled by his side and the wrinkles in his face are now more like deep grooves. "Apparently not. And even if they did, the Ministry is absolutely inundated with tasks right now. It would take ages, wouldn't exactly be high priority."

I cough loudly to get their attention, then lean against the doorframe of my own living room and wait for them to finish up. Hermione turns, and I notice the way her frizzy hair seems to bounce along with her movements. She looks at me apologetically. "I—I'm sorry, Fred, I didn't mean to commandeer your flat like this—"

"Quite alright, love, don't worry about it. Hey, Dad."

"Did you just—" Hermione stops herself short and I cock my head to the side, feigning ignorance. Shaking her head, she returns to her conversation, her tone reverting right back to how it was before. "Do they make any exceptions? Extreme incompatibility, abuse—"

Dad shrugs. "I don't know, but I don't think so."

"That's—"

"Abhorrent, unethical, unconscionable; I'm well aware. But I doubt you'll have too much issue. You're Muggle born, so you'll likely be with a Pureblood, but perhaps a Halfblood. It's quite likely you'll end up paired with a Weasley, actually," Dad tells her, smiling for a brief moment.

She sighs, rolling her eyes, but I can tell she's not completely put off by the idea. For one brief, crazed moment I wonder if she envisioned one of us—"There are worse things," I hear her say. I shake my head to clear it of my misguided thoughts. The fringe of my shaggy hair obscures my eyes. I'd get a haircut but that would mean Mom wins. Dad laughs in response to Hermione. "Molly wants to Floo a relative, but I'll drop by or call if there are any new developments."

"Okay. Goodbye, Mr. Weasley."

"Goodbye, Hermione."

The flames flicker, fading from green back to red then dying down to warm embers as Hermione pushes herself to her feet with a seemingly painstaking effort. The light from her watch flashes in my eye and I wish desperately that I could tell her when my clock will end, that I could tell her all the things I'm so afraid of, for myself and her and everyone else. But she turns away from me and any hope of catching sight of her numbers is gone.

"Can I stay here the night?" she requests suddenly. Automatically, I can feel my eyes widen slightly in surprise at such an unexpected question. "I really don't feel like going back to the Burrow," she explains, rather hastily. I can practically feel the exhaustion rolling off her in waves.

"Yeah, of course. Anytime."

She nods gratefully and Floos away, presumably to get an overnight bag. Her bottomless brown eyes are so awfully tired, worse than I've ever seen them before.