A/N: Two chapters in one day, awwww yeeeaaaah.

George's POV
The girls are off being girls. I don't know what exactly that entails, but it's probably something to do with hair, or makeup, or giggling. I lie down on the side of the bed Cho was on before she woke up. Fred and I used to sleep this way when one of us had nightmares, whether it was when we were six or when he finally woke up a few weeks after the war. I take his hand with its light gray scars, but he doesn't wake. The sheets are neat and untangled; of course they wouldn't have had sex so soon. Katie and I couldn't either. We sort of looked at each other from across the bed, sizing each other up, almost like rival Seekers on different House teams, and shook our heads no, almost laughing except for the nagging thought that one of these nights the answer would have to be yes. I remember our days as Quidditch teammates. There was a lot of flirting amongst the older members, a lot of joking, as we got into our fifth and sixth years, a lot of casual hook ups. Harry was left out of that loop for his own good; he was two years younger and had more important issues to deal with. Angie had a thing with Oliver, so did Katie, I remember, Alicia and Fred, sometimes, Angie and Fred, sometimes…I used to think of it like this: if one of us got sick, all of us but Harry would be screwed.

With regard to sex, I think I learned most of what I know from Katie, which makes this whole thing all the more awkward. I practised casting Silencing spells on my bed curtains for her, nearly got caught in the locker room with her, lost my virginity to her, sixth year, 1 AM, tired, frenzied, high on sleep deprivation, laughing in a tangle of sheets and limbs, I learned a cleaning charm for her, to get the little bloodstain of her purity out of my quilt. The Gryffindor Quidditch team was closer than most people realised. We settled down around seventh year, during Umbridge's reign of terror. Angelina and I grew closer, Katie and Oliver grew closer through owls and letters. We all needed something to hold onto. But now the expectation is higher. I'm not just supposed to just have sex with Katie like she's my close friend, I'm supposed to make love to her like she's my wife, because technically she is, and this isn't casual anymore and that's terrifying.

The skinny silver band sits around my wrist, dripping the watered-down love potion under my skin like some kind of IV. When Fred was recovering from the wall collapse we had to put him in a coma, he was in so much pain, so many bones to heal and regrow, skin to mend, tendons to reconnect. We practically had to put him back together like a jigsaw puzzle. Hermione had to treat him with some Muggle medicine along with the magical stuff. I nearly shoved her out of the way when she started pushing those tiny but menacing silver sticks under his skin, needles, she called them, hooked up to bags of fluid called IVs. I remember the word intravenous. It sounded evil, even when it rolled off Hermione's educated tongue. The liquid in the bag would drip through a clear plastic tube and then through the needle and into my twin's veins as I watched his still body for signs of life. I'm supposed to love Katie, like I've always been told to love whoever I marry, and I wonder if the Amortentia will make me love Angie less or if it will stretch me between the two of them. I'm supposed to have sex with Katie like we always used, in the days before I loved Angie, and now I can no longer cry her name.

Hermione's POV
"It was…um…" I giggle, feeling a blush rising in my cheeks, burning my face. Or is that the Firewhiskey? My next shot sits in front of me, looking innocuous. The gas lamp fires flicker, glinting on the little glass.

"Come on, 'Mione," Ginny prompts, her voice giddy but somehow stable. She's surprisingly heavyweight. Occasionally I throw glances at Ron, waiting for an angry, jealous outburst, but he doesn't seem affected. He's laughing along with the rest of us, and I know it's not because he's on his way to drunk. It's because he finally realised we never did love each other to begin with, and now that that's off the table, we can go about our lives without worrying about upsetting the other. I was so scared when Harry slurred his way through the story of how he walked in on Fred and I; I thought Ron would be furious, but he seemed amused, albeit slightly taken aback.

"Go on, 'Mione, what was it like?" Harry presses, his lips pressing into a smug smile at my discomfort. I shift in my seat between Luna and Ginny on the raggedy couch in the living room of Number 12, where the heads of old house elves are still framed on plaques, to be taken down when we have the time to concentrate on remodeling.

I blush even more, waiting for my mind to solidify an answer through the Firewhiskey fog. "It was good. Nice…couldn't finish, but still…he was gentle," I finally confess, my face heating up. I take another shot, and the glass fills up automatically. The bottle in the middle of the table loses a bit of level. It's a nifty invention of the twins, these Self-Serve Shots. They were actually originally designed for Never Have I Ever, and the glasses were charmed to force their way into people's hands when they had done the thing. "What was your first like, Luna?"

"Hm?" her eyes drift in and out of focus. She doesn't need alcohol to be out of it. "It was pleasant," she says immediately. I admire her shamelessness, her obliviousness to social expectations. "Neville and I lost our virginities to each other in sixth year. Well, my sixth, his seventh. You know. But he was nice."

Sometimes, after the war, I would wake up in the grips of a nightmare, sweating out my memories in the pitch black of Ginny's tiny bedroom. Bellatrix, cackling maniacally, the madness crackling like lightning in the depths of her dark eyes, the blade of her dagger carving my arm, the scar burning my skin like Harry's used to on him. Sometimes when this would happen, I would slip into the twin's room where George would sleep facing his brother's bed, shrouded by cauldrons of potions, IV's, monitors with their reassuring beep confirming a heartbeat. I would trace my fingers over Fred's chest and arms, memorising the scars crisscrossing over his skin, learning his story without ever asking questions. Fleur told me she used to do this when she woke before Bill. It's a different kind of intimacy. George and I became more acquainted with Fred's newly-marred body than he did. When he finally woke up, I was running my fingers over the scars on his torso, able to draw the lines perfectly without even looking. I would look over on some of these nights and find Ginny's bed empty, even in the dead of night, and I would wonder where she would go at 2:30, 3 in the morning.

"Ginny?" I ask, my voice slurring slightly. "After—after the war…where would—would you go…really late at night? You know…"

"Yeah, I know," I hear her say. Her voice sounds a bit echoey, like we're in a cavern. "I—um…" Vaguely, I notice her and Luna exchanging uncomfortable looks. "I was with Luna," she says quietly.

The room is silent and awkward, so much so that it seems to sober me up a bit. I nod dumbly. "I—I didn't mean to…to intrude…it was p—personal, I shouldn't have…"

She holds her hand up. "It's fine."

Ron's POV

Hermione sways oddly, obviously not even close to sober. She collapses back on the couch, her head sinking into the cushions. Her shot glass refills itself, but she at least has enough sense left to set it on the table.

So my sister was sleeping with my mandatory wife…that's certainly an odd development. I look back and forth between the two of them, then to Harry, who looks absolutely befuddled. The strange thing is, I know that Harry loved Ginny. He still does. I look at him as if to say just let them sleep together if they want to. I don't know if it gets across. I don't care what Luna does, we'll probably just ignore each other for three years then split, but part of my mind is screaming that's your sister, you dolt!

I shake my head as if to disperse the thoughts. They're starting to bleed together anyway. "Stay here tonight," I tell Hermione. She lifts her head, her eyes half-closed. Harry cocks his head.

"I don't trust Malfoy."