George had disappeared after the initial news of the marriage announcements. It had all been so overwhelming that he hadn't been able to contemplate how to fix this, how to help his baby sister. He had gone back to his small apartment above the shop and tried to figure out what Fred would have done, if he was here. Then he had gone down to the local pub ,drank far too much, apparated to the approximate location of Malfoy Manor, and stood staring up at the gated house for over an hour in the cool spring air.
Finally, George decided that killing the bastard would not solve any problems and that him ending up in Azkaban would devastate his mother. Ultimately, he resolved to figure out some other way to handle the situation.
He awoke the next day with a pounding headache, the room spinning around him, his sweater itchy and hot against his neck. With only a moderate amount of trouble, he managed to remove the offending garment and toss it somewhere in the direction of his laundry hamper, padding through his dim apartment to the loo to retrieve a Pepper-Up Potion. He shook the steam from his ears, feeling slightly better and glad he had no mirrors. He wasn't sure he wanted to see if he looked as poorly as he felt. Then he remembered why he had been so drunk: Ginny was going to have to marry that bastard Malfoy. His lingering hangover dampened his previous rage. There wasn't much he could do to stop it, he figured somewhat dejectedly. For a moment he felt defeated.
He paused in his steps towards the stairs and shut his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands into them. Fred would know what to do. Fred might have been able to fix this. Or at least, he'd have a better idea on where to start. George let out a breath, took another, and made a choice. He may not be able to stop his sister's arranged marriage, but at the very least he could whip her up a whole bunch of things to make life a little easier.
Clenching his hands into fists and shaking out his arms, George pushed all those thoughts back into the corner of his mind that he tried never to pay too much attention to and headed down into his workshop behind the shop.
The redhead spent a few hours hunched over his desk, scribbling ideas down, making a list of what Ginny could use. He finally set down his quill to stretch out his hand and stood from the stool to stretch the rest of his body. He was just contemplating heading up stairs for a change of clothes (track pants and a slightly dirty undershirt did not necessarily scream going out apparel) so that he could try and track down some food, when there was a knock at the door of the workshop.
Odd, he thought to himself. Usually his shopkeeper, Felicity, knew not to bother him when he was working. In fact, she often went so far out of the way not to bother him that she once had whipped up an entire batch of Puking Pastille's behind the counter because they were sold out.
She'd done a damn fine job of it, too. He resolved to do his best not to snap at the wonderfully well-meaning girl in future.
Shaking the thought from his mind, and accepting that usually it was his own fault for being so surly, George opened the door.
It wasn't Felicity standing on the other side.
Or, well, it was. But off to the left a bit. Instead, standing directly in front of him was an almost comically short woman with mousy brown hair that tumbled down to her shoulders, and pale green eyes. She had her arms crossed nervously in front of her chest and he didn't miss that she flicked her eyes over him from head to toe almost instinctively.
"Sorry about bothering you, George, but, well. She said it was quite important that she speak to you, and um," Felicity twirled a strand of her currently blue hair between her fingers, "she wouldn't exactly take no for an answer? I'm pretty sure she's not going to try to kill you though, if that's any consolation…"
George couldn't help but smile at his friend. "Alright, thanks Fee." He turned his attention back to the woman standing in front of him. "And, what should I call you?"
Her pale eyes flicked up to his face, scanning it with an intensity he hadn't quite been expecting. He definitely had not been expecting her answer.
"Win. Win Urquhart. Your, uh, fiancé, I suppose."
George was so startled he took a full step backwards, which she took as a sign to step into the lab after him and then close the door, looking around the room.
"I guess I shouldn't have, er, dropped in quite like this. But, it was all just so unexpected, so quick, yeah? I just couldn't deal with not knowing who you were, really. Other than one of the famous Weasleys, and the owner and brains behind this shop. I probably should've owled first…" George could see her discomfort growing and he shook his head quickly, still trying to figure out how best to cope with this situation.
"No, no, it's, uh, it's fine. I wasn't really expecting company, as you can probably tell. Or at least, I hope you can. I don't usually look this ragged." He admitted, lifting a hand to rub at the back of his neck sheepishly. "Look, why don't you come upstairs to my flat? We can have a cup of tea?"
Win considered this for a moment before she caught a whiff of the potions ingredients to her left and she wrinkled her nose and nodded in response. "Yeah, cheers, lead the way."
They settled into George's small living room a few minutes later, each with a cup of tea in hand. They had fallen into an awkward silence and Win was looking around the room, glancing at photographs of the Weasleys, smiling and laughing in Egypt, and one of Fred, George, and Harry Potter outside of the shop, shaking hands and laughing jovially.
"Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?" She finally asked, making eye contact with the man she was supposed to marry. "You don't have to, uh, get super personal. I'd just rather like to know I'm not marrying an axe murderer, I think."
George couldn't help but laugh at her trepidation. He didn't disagree. "Right, sure. George Fabian Weasley, fifth son of Molly and Arthur Weasley, though only by fourteen seconds." He paused, winced. "I guess fourth now. My brother, my twin, Fred, he, uh," Win gulped, and George swallowed, hard. "In the war, he-"
"It's okay. You don't have to say it."
George took this offering and continued on the best he could. "We opened up this shop together. Had a penchant for mischief and made it into a living. Fred was really the ideas guy, but I've done alright. One of the most profitable shops in Diagon Alley, actually, last quarter." He chewed on his lip, thinking about other important things. "Gryffindor, obviously. Beater. My favourite colour's blue?"
Win laughed softly as the man stumbled over what parts of his identity were the most important and decided to jump in. "Win Urquhart. I was in Ravenclaw, just a year behind you actually. You probably don't remember at all, I gave you a detention once, for one of your portable swamps." George flushed and frowned, but Win couldn't contain her laugh. "It was one of the most brilliant things I think I've ever seen." At this he flushed more, now smiling, and she carried on. "I'm an apprentice broom maker, with Nimbus. It sounds really interesting but I promise it isn't all that exciting. Red. Favourite colour, that is."
They stared at each other for a long moment and finally, slowly, smiled at one another. "Well, Win. I know we're already betrothed and all, but, how would you like to go out to lunch with me?"
Win smiled back, draining the last of her tea and setting her mug down. "Why, Mr. Weasley, I would be just delighted."
Ron was pissed. Both angry and drunk, in fact. It had been a few days since what he now called "the end of everything": when Hermione had said that they weren't worth trying. He'd gone to bed that night and when he woke up the next morning, she was gone. Harry said that she had needed to go back to her flat, to be alone for a bit. That being with all of them was difficult.
Difficult.
She didn't realize what difficult meant, not to him. The woman infuriated him, but he had been so sure for so long that she was it for him. Now he was positively reeling with the possibility that his entire future was falling apart around him. He had spent a full day in bed, and another full day ranting at Harry and Ginny (who, quite fairly, had had their own ranting back to do). The third day, after trying everything else, he had decided that the only possible solution was alcohol.
Unfortunately, Ron was not handling being drunk very well. He had started at a muggle pub in London, not wanting to run into anyone who he could possibly know. Somehow he had paid his tab, stumbling over his feet and muttering the entire way, and was now standing in front of the Leaky Cauldron.
It was easy enough to lie to himself and say that he had absolutely no clue how or why he had ended up here, but then again he had never been the best liar. He remembered hearing, a few months back, that Hannah Abbott had taken over running the Leaky. Hannah Abbott. His future wife. Even drunk he had the brief thought that he thought she had been with Neville, but it seemed like this law was quite happy to smash up relationships.
Ron took a deep breath of the cool spring air and wondered just briefly if this was a very good idea at all, and then pulled open the door and stepped inside. He sidestepped a few people and sat down in a stool at the bar, looking around to see if she was here.
Ah - there. Two long blonde braids, each with hairs springing loose, flashed around a corner and he knew, just knew it was her. He sat at the bar and found himself getting angrier and angrier. He became more upset as the whiskey he drank tumbled through his system. When he heard his name, he snapped his head up and barked out a low "what" before he realized what he was doing.
What he was doing was looking into a pair of blue eyes and a girl who was frowning, displeased, down at him. "Ron Weasley," she said, low and without any of the stereotypical Hufflepuff friendliness. He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed at his initial reaction to her, and she turned away again. When she returned, she placed a full pint glass in front of him and one in front of herself, and then placed a hand on her hip to watch him. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Not, Ron thought, that she sounded very pleased. Instead of responding, he picked up his glass and swallowed half of it, stalling for time. Finally he put the glass down and found her eyes with his. "I 'eard we're gettin' married." He said, only slightly slurring over his words.
"Oh, lovely, can't wait to tell the children about that proposal." Hannah muttered, but then shook her head to clear it of whatever she was thinking. "Yes, I heard that too."
"I, uh." Ron lifted a hand to scrub it over his face, suddenly aware of the fact that he was very drunk and probably shouldn't be here at all. "I'm not entirely sure… I shouldn't have come…"
Hannah sighed, a long-suffering sounding sigh, and pulled the half-full pint glass away from him before he could finish it. "Look. I don't really know why we got matched up. I figured you'd be with Hermione, you two always," Hannah waved a hand in the air halfheartedly, but luckily did not finish up the thought verbally. "I don't really know you, Ronald, and I don't think you really know me. And, I don't think now is the time to fix that."
"You were in Hufflepuff!" Ron blurted out a little too loudly, drunk and trying to prove that yes actually he did know something, and Hannah's face reddened (whether in humiliation or anger, he wasn't sure) as she put the two glasses behind her.
"You should leave now, I think." She said, and while her words were unsure her tone was firm. Ron stood, and went to dig in his pocket for some sickles, but she shook her head. Deflated, and tired, Ron took one last look at the girl he was to marry and then headed for the fireplaces, desperate to get back in his own bed where he didn't have to deal with confusing Hufflepuffs or unwanted wives at all.
"It could have been much worse, darling, she could have been muggleborn."
Narcissa Malfoy had always had the incredible ability to sound like she was absolutely above any conversation that she took place in.
"Mother, that's not-"
"I suppose there is the pesky issue of her blood-traitor family. But these things are fixable, darling. And besides, did she not used to date Harry Potter? That could be very good for our image, you know."
"It's not our image that I am concerned about-"
"And she was pretty enough, if a little plain. Oh, and that awful red hair. We have more than enough money for both of you, with some new robes-"
"Mother." It was not typical that Draco Malfoy cut off his mother when she had her mind set on something. Usually, he listened somewhat patiently, nodded at the appropriate times, tried to pay enough attention to say something intelligent every once in awhile, and mostly ignored whatever it was that she was saying anyways. "I do appreciate your input, but I hope you recognize that this situation is far less than ideal, whatever her blood status may be. The fact that we're all just going to sit back and let the Ministry get away with this-"
"Do not forget that you could be in Azkaban with your father, and instead here you sit in my parlour interrupting me." Draco's mouth snapped into a thin line and he forced himself not to shout. "Do not forget, Draco, that you are a marked man. We were not on the winning side of this war. And yet, here we sit, in our house, with our freedom, having paid really a quite insignificant fee. Considering, of course, that others have paid with their freedom, with their lives. For us, all it took was a large donation, a few charity balls a year, and a trust fund for the school. That was never enough, and you know that as well as I do." Narcissa took a small sip of tea and then snapped her fingers, nodding graciously to the house elf who popped into the room to clear away the dishes. "If the Ministry told us to jump, we would ask how high. This is the price, Draco. And if the price is for you to marry some girl you do not love, and to produce the heir which you need to produce anyways, you will say I do. Is that clear?"
Draco could feel his blood boiling in rage and he clenched his hands together, reminding himself that she was his mother and that at the end of this conversation was a very large glass of Ogden's Finest. "Yes, I am well aware what we have paid in reparations. I am well aware of the mark that I had branded into my skin when a psychopath lived in our house." He took a deep, steadying breath. "Besides," he said, deciding to change directions. "This Weasley will absolutely not accept the thought of marrying me. In fact, by now I'm sure Potter has bashed down the doors of every Ministry official and this will all be overturned in less than a week."
Narcissa had raised an eyebrow at him and pursed her lips in doubt, but said no more on the subject.
A week later, she brought it up again. "You need to send young Ms. Weasley a letter, Draco. As much as we have been forced into this, that does not abdicate your responsibility as a gentleman. You must write a letter to this girl, indicate clearly your interest," she pretended to ignore Draco's scoff, "and ask her properly to marry you. And if she says no, you must do what it takes to convince her. Whether or not she agrees to this, we absolutely cannot be seen dragging an unwilling girl - and not just any girl but one with such connections to the man who defeated Voldemort - up the aisle. It would be uncouth."
Draco had, begrudgingly, written a letter. It was not long or particularly friendly, but he had forced as much civility as he could manage into the parchment. He had ended it with, as his mother demanded, the damning question. "Will you join me as my wife?" Draco had drank two rather large glasses of gin just to get through it.
He drank three more when his owl returned less than an hour later, the letter he had written still attached to her leg, and three words scrawled across the back of it:
"Fuck you. Yes."