A/N: This has been written since before Sunday but I just wasn't happy with it, so I spent a few days tweaking. As always, warnings apply :) Please drop me a review if you enjoyed! Only 2 more chapters to go, folks.

Friday, January 21st

During the war, George and Fred had spent every night before any major battles staying up late, drinking firewhiskey, and distracting each other from what felt like impending doom. The night before Fred's death, George had done his best impression of Flitwick, and Fred had laughed so hard he cried. It's still one of George's most treasured memories.

It's only fitting that tonight he brings home the smallest bottle of firewhiskey he can find, and a different bottle of non-alcoholic champagne.

Parvati is sitting at their counter, sipping at the firewhiskey and grimacing after each gulp. He's drinking his fake champagne and trying his best to pretend it's real liquor. The firewhiskey is almost gone, and Parvati is swaying in her stool, so George is calling the evening a success, even if he's still sober.

"Did you know, one time Fred and I managed to trick Snape's office wards? We went in and moved everything he owned exactly four inches to the left; as pranks go, it was definitely our most subtle but perhaps the most effective. He was flustered for weeks."

Parvati laughs until she hiccups. "One time, Luna and I found a cat near Hagrid's hut and played with it for nearly an hour before it transformed back into McGonagall. Scared the hell out of us."

George bursts into laughter at that image. "I didn't even know you and Luna hung out in school."

Parvati shrugs weakly. "Well, she's Padma's friend, so I knew of her, I guess."

George takes her in; she's flushed from the liquor and is wearing pyjamas. They have barely spoken since he kissed her, but now it's all he thinks about. The heat of her skin under his fingertips, her smile when he figures out tricky charm work on any of his new inventions, the way she has eased into his life and made it impossible for him to want her gone.

So he leans over the counter and kisses her again. She tastes like firewhiskey and sin, and George nearly scrambles to get closer to her. Parvati stands suddenly, rocking into him, and it feels as easy as breathing when he loops his hands under her thighs and lifts her. She wraps her legs around him, and her fingers clutch at the neckline of his pyjama shirt — and George wants.

He stumbles over to her makeshift bed and they collapse as one together. Parvati chases his lips every time he pulls away, and George can hardly string two thoughts together between the heat of them.

George presses his fingertips under her shirt, skating along ribs and dark skin. He grips the hem and tugs it over her head.

"Parvati—" he gasps, intoxicated.

She pulls back violently, almost out of his grip. George stares at her and watches as she crumples suddenly, shoulders curling in on herself as she bursts into tears.

It washes over George in needles of cold dread. The unfamiliar freckle on her left shoulder, the slightly uneven fall of her long hair. The way she's sobbing in quiet huffs, her grief palpable and yet still tucked away.

This was no Gryffindor.

"Padma?" George breathes the question.

She looks up slowly, and when their gazes meet, George is furious.

"I'm so sorry, George. I'm so sorry. She said this would work."

He feels rage the way he hasn't felt since the height of the war, but it's not directed at the crying witch in front of him. How dare Parvati do this, both to her sister and to him?

"Where the fuck is Parvati?!" George demands, standing hastily and fixing his crooked shirt. His hands are still shaking with adrenaline and lust.

"No, please, George. Please, don't do this to her. I'm begging you," Padma pleads quietly but earnestly, and it nearly breaks his heart.

"She did this to us, Padma." George hisses. "Tell me where she is."

Padma shakes her head rapidly, and George knows it doesn't matter what he says, Padma will never give up her sister. It's irrelevant, either way, because George can't wait another second in this apartment that had for the briefest moment felt full again.

He turns away and storms off to his room. When he emerges, Padma is where he left her. Silent tears track down her cheeks, and she's still staring at the floor. He's got his jacket on, and righteous anger coursing through him. The sight of her tears makes something in his chest feel tight, but he can't stomach looking at Padma right now.

He slams the door behind him and doesn't look back.

He finds Parvati an hour later in the front foyer of Blaise's mansion, and it's obvious to him now that he knows what to look for. Parvati has always gravitated towards anything bright, and Padma often wears more traditional clothing. Parvati smiles with her teeth, eyes sparkling and full of secrets only she knows; her laugh is loud and musical, easy to arrive and slow to disappear. Padma sends grins from under her lashes at his jokes, giggles coming out of her like it's a surprise to even herself.

"How fucking dare you," George begins, hoarse from trying to hold his yells back.

Parvati stares at him, even and calm. George thinks he could strangle her.

"I'm sorry that my deception has hurt you," Parvati says, instead of an actual reasonable answer.

All attempts at restraint leave him, and George is screaming, "What possible reason could you have to do this to me? To Padma? We don't deserve this! People aren't chess pieces, Parvati! You can't just use them to your own ends, just because you think you fucking know better!"

"I do know better," Parvati snaps, raising to her feet since the first time he arrived.

"No! You think you can toy with us?" George snarls. "Well, fuck you. I just left your sister crying her heart out, and she couldn't even give me a reason—"

"She has a reason," Parvati says, voice calm and even once more. "As do I."

George clenches his fists, "Tell me what reason could be good enough to put us in this situation, Parv. I really can't imagine anything that would warrant this type of lie."

Parvati bites her lip. "I can't tell you."

George stares at his wife, and he wonders if he should be surprised by this. They are born of war, after all, and they're used to making hard choices. Used to making choices alone — with the possibility of deadly consequences.

"If you don't tell me, then I will make you," George says, quiet and sure and deadly. He is every inch the soldier his mother never wanted him to be, and it shows.

Parvati blinks. "Are you threatening me?"

"Yes." George answers. He's gripping his wand so tightly it could snap — he's furious, but he's also never been in the business of hurting witches and he hates that she's driven him to it.

"Please, George," Parvati whispers. "Don't make me tell you this."

George forces himself to take a deep breath, relax his hand slightly, and think. He can't imagine a reason that explains this, but he's also not a seer. Parvati has never shown herself to be cruel before now, but something must have made her do this.

He thinks of all the futures she sees in her head, all the threads of fate woven together intricately, that only she can see and influence.

Thinks of the way she had known about the bezoars, and Draco Malfoy's face so still and pale — thinks of Ron coated in blood.

"Tell me, Parvati." He says seriously, lowering his wand. "You have to tell me."

Parvati's eyes slide closed, and she breathes slowly, the smallest hitch in her exhale. When she faces him again, her dark eyes are damp.

"George — I had hoped that Padma could fool you. I didn't realize you would identify her so quickly. I wanted this, because if I could force her to be Parvati, just for the next week, I could save her."

George's stomach drops. He's angry with Padma, too, but he's fond of her as well, and the way she had felt pressed against him lingers in his brain.

"What do you mean by save her? What's going to happen to her?"

Recent actions aside, George would say he knows who Parvati is. Over the past few months, he has seen her calculating and kind, miserable and joyful. She has saved him, more than once, and as furious as he is with her currently, he owes her. He knows it.

It makes watching her fall apart painful; her face crumples, tears streaking down her cheeks. Desperation pours off of her, more than even when she instated the blue ban on clothing.

"She's going to die." Parvati gasps. She can't continue on. She breaks down into loud choking sobs — so different from Padma's hushed crying back at the flat.

George isn't sure what to do; his anger, so vibrant only minutes ago, is fizzling away with each cracking breath his wife pulls. It's pure instinct that has him reaching out, and when his fingers are gentle on her shoulders, she falls into him, clutching at his shirt. Her sobs are loud against the fabric at his shoulder, and he squeezes her as tightly as he wanted someone to squeeze him when Fred died.

Because this desperation? He knows this. Parvati is many things: a seer, a Gryffindor, a young woman, a veteran of war, his wife, and a twin. Of these titles, it is the last that brings her the most joy. George is sure of this the way he is sure of little else in this world; there would have been nothing, nothing, George wouldn't have done, wouldn't have tried, if it meant saving Fred.

While Fred might be gone, Padma isn't — and it is only now while he holds Parvati tightly that he notices all the parts of him that are dormant when only an hour prior he had felt heat lick up his spine in a delicious and unfamiliar way.

He wants to save her.

"Parvati, I'm still furious with you," George announces. "But Padma is my friend, too."

Parvati's sobs quiet, but she doesn't move her head from where it has pressed into his collarbone. "You'll help me?"

"What exactly do you want me to do?" George asks quietly.

Parvati finally pulls away, staring at him as though she's never quite seen him before. It's unfamiliar; she's always looked at him as though she knows exactly everything about him.

A slow, sincere smile breaks out. She looks more like Padma when she smiles. "You're really going to save her?"

"Did you think I wouldn't want to?" George demands, affronted. "Padma is kind. She's a friend. Of course, I would want to help her. I just wish you had asked me."

"I'm sorry," Parvati says, more earnest this time. "I am. I was just scared, I think. That it wouldn't work. I only have one shot at this, and only one plan. You might not like it."

George sighs — why the Ministry thought it necessary to pair him with a bloody seer, he'll never know. "Well, I already like it better than forcing your twin to pretend to be my wife without telling me, Parv. Out with it."

Parvati winces. "Unfortunately, I need her to keep pretending to be me. It keeps her out of the way, and Blaise won't notice she's even out of the house. I talked to him earlier, and he didn't even look at me. You're a better duelist, anyway, if it comes down to that."

George heaves a sigh. "I hate this. What exactly have you be doing since she's been pretending to be you?"

Parvati swallows. "Getting my parents out of the country."

George blinks. "What? Why?"

Parvati sighs and takes his hand. She wraps her fingers around it tightly, and George is shocked at the serious expression she wears.

"It's going to be bloody, George. It's going to get worse." Parvati murmurs. "And it's a fight we must have, I know that. But I won't risk my family, and I won't risk yours."

George swallows hard. "You've seen it? The March and the Ministry take over?"

"Not everything, I'm sure." Parvati shrugs. "I never do see it all. But I've been searching every moment since we made this plan, and it is the best option."

George squeezes the hand she's still hanging on to. "Can you see my family? Are they safe?"

Parvati nods quickly. "Yes. Your parents, your siblings, they all survive. I can't see any future where they don't. I promise George, I promise I would see if it was a possibility."

George stares at her, and he desperately wants to trust her, but the betrayal of her recent actions still sting.

"George," Parvati whispers. "I love them, too. I promise, I swear on my sister that I would never send them into this if I thought you would lose any of them."

George sighs. "Okay. I believe you. I'm trusting you. But you better make this whole pretending stunt up to me, and to Padma."

A shadow falls over Parvati's eyes, but she nods solemnly. "Okay, George. Tell her I'm sorry and I love her, okay? Tell her I'm getting our parents out tonight, and I'll see you at the March tomorrow."

She releases his fingers, half gone numb from her tight grip, and George forces a half-smile for her sake. He leaves Blaise's less angry than he had arrived, but resentment stirs in his stomach. Parvati has left him a mess to clean up.

Worst of all, George can hardly stop his hands from shaking. All he can taste on his lips is the kiss he had shared with Padma — and was she pretending? Did he accidentally force that upon her?

He's still reeling when he arrives back at his flat, and Padma is nowhere to be found. The bed which had been mussed from their earlier activity is now made neatly, and the kitchen is spotless, with no sign of their prior drinks at all. George walks slowly down the hallway and freezes when he notices Fred's door is ajar.

He pushes it open — he's terrified of stale air and Fred's smell and a thousand memories he doesn't know how to deal with. Instead, he finds nothing amiss, other than Padma sitting on the floor against the bed, clutching a frame in her hands.

George wants to yell; no one but Fred belongs in here — but he can't.

Padma is still crying. Tears course down her cheeks, and she doesn't look up at all. George goes to her, crouching down and crawling on all fours until he's beside her.

She's sweeping her finger over a moving picture. It's George and Fred, both grinning with their arms wrapped around each other. They're holding their official business license for Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

"You both were so alive in school," Padma whispers, breaking their silence. "You took up hallways with your laughter and jokes. You were magnetic; even older students and Slytherins liked you. I used to watch you two, you know. I was so jealous that you had your twin, while I got sorted away from mine."

George thinks back to his very first year of Hogwarts, and how scared he had been. He'd known Fred was, too, even though they had both put on a brave face. The twin calls of Gryffindor had lit his soul up with relief.

"I cried myself to sleep every night for nearly two years," Padma admits. "Parvati and I had never been apart before. We shared a room at home, too. And you know how Parvati is? She's friendly and outgoing, and you'd never know she sees secrets and futures everywhere she looks. It took me ages to make a friend, and when I did, it was Luna, and no one else would speak to us."

Until the very minute Fred died, George had always pictured them growing old together. Had never imagined being apart for longer than an evening. He understands, probably more than Padma means him too, exactly how painful those first two years were.

"When Fred died—" Padma's voice dies, and for the first time, George looks up from the picture in her hands.

"Yes?" George says, raspy.

Padma blinks, glancing at him for a moment. "When Fred died, I spent months feeling guilty. Guilty that I had always resented you both, for always getting what I wanted. But then, he was gone. And for whatever reason, it felt like my fault. Like I had spent so long resenting you both that I made it happen."

"You didn't," George murmurs. "That wasn't your fault, Padma."

She sniffs. "I know that, now. But I didn't realize how guilty I was until Parvati finally confessed and told me she was sick over the whole thing. It devastated her that she hadn't seen it — she even knew Fred in school. I spent weeks comforting her, telling her it wasn't her fault. Somewhere along the way, it occurred to me it wasn't mine either. Fred's death brought us together again, you know? Not in a good way, or anything. Just… it made us both realize what you had lost. We came together to grieve, I suppose."

George swallows. He knows exactly what he's lost. He reaches over and takes the picture out of her hands. He rubs his own thumb down his brother's face — his own face, that he looks at in every reflection he comes across. There is nothing in this world that George wouldn't have done if it meant saving Fred.

"Padma, I need you to do something for me," George says suddenly. She turns to him, hands empty in her lap. Her eyes are red and puffy, and even though George is angry, he also wants. She's the only person other than Fred that has sat in this room in years, and somehow, he wants her to stay.

"Tomorrow. Can I convince you to stay home?" He nearly begs.

Padma shakes her head slowly and solemnly. "You know the answer to that, George Weasley. My sister will be out there."

He nods slowly, but he's not surprised. "Yeah. I had to ask, though, you know?"

She lays her head gently against his shoulder, and George lets his head drop onto hers. The silence is long but not uncomfortable, and George knows he can't just ignore the thoughts thrumming through him.

"I'm sorry," he says, finally.

She doesn't move, just tilts her face until her breath is puffing at his chin. "For what? You don't have to apologize. I'm sorry."

"I'm still mad at Parvati — and you for this whole pretending thing," George admits. "But I didn't mean to… well, I'm sorry if you were… uncomfortable."

Padma pulls away and blinks at him. "Uncomfortable pretending to be Parvati? Or uncomfortable being your wife?"

He winces. "Uncomfortable with me kissing you."

The blush that spreads across her cheeks is almost endearing, and Padma splutters. "No — I mean, I — it's just… you thought I was Parvati."

"Yeah," George agrees. "But I've only ever kissed you, Padma."

Her mouth falls open and George wonders if he's made the right decision.

"Really?"

He nods. "Yeah. I realize now it was you at the Ministry Gala — and that was the only time I've ever thought I wanted Parvati in that way. And it turns out it was you."

Her blush turns into a small smile, and she drops her head back down on his shoulder. George lets her be, because he's just as confused as she is, if not more.

"I wasn't uncomfortable," Padma whispers after a long moment. George releases a breath he didn't even realize he was holding. The silence that follows her words is charged with tension, but George doesn't move. As much as he wonders if he should kiss her again, he's not quite ready. He's still clutching the photo of Fred and himself in his hands, and he can still taste his rage at Parvati in his throat even though he's calmed down. It's not the right time.

The floor grows hard under them, and their backs stiffen from leaning against the bedframe, but George forces himself to stay awake until he hears the steady breathing of Padma against his collarbone. She's warm and soft and safe — and George is not ready to lose a single thing more.

He lifts her gently, and her head lolls against his shoulder. George brings her to his room and tucks her beneath the covers. He lies on top of the blankets and watches her forehead wrinkle in her sleep.

There is comfort in having someone beside him —, and he hopes that Padma feels it, too.

Tomorrow, they march. Tomorrow, they fight.

Saturday, 22nd - The March for Marital Rights, Part 1

George arrives at Diagon with Padma at his side. He finds his family relatively easily since Bill stands out like a sore thumb — over a head taller than anyone nearby, scars raked down his face, and signature Weasley red hair. He drags Padma over to them.

"Oh, George, I'm so glad you're here." His mother says. "Parvati, hello, dear."

Padma flushes at the wrong name. "Hi, Mrs. Weasley."

There are crowds forming all over the alleyway, some with charmed signs floating above their heads. A few he can read: OUR LIFE OUR CHOICE, while another reads The Ministry of Maniacs!, and DISMANTLE THE WPG, and SHACKLEBOLT IS SHITE!

George sees witches and wizards he recognizes from school and his store, but also dozens of people he's never seen before. He wonders exactly how far the Quibbler's reach has gone, with Luna's father living abroad now; are there foreigners fighting this battle for them? It's a hopeful thought, especially with tension so palpable he can hardly breathe in the air.

It feels like the war, all over again.

"Where is Harry?" George asks his father, who curiously has Pansy Parkinson hovering behind him, wand in her fist and familiar mean glare on her face, only now it's not directed at them.

"They're infiltrating the Ministry — Hermione had reconfigured a few of the internal Floos to accept them. Ron, Hermione, and Harry are all there, and Draco, Neville and Theodore are standing by to follow."

"How will they know when to go?" Padma questions.

Arthur gives a half-smile. "Hermione Granger is the most prepared witch I've ever known. She has protean charmed galleons with a few of them, and she and Draco share a curious set of notebooks that are twinned for messages."

George reminds himself to give his monthly speech to Hermione about how she should work for him at the shop — the woman's a genius, and if she only shared his love of mischief, they'd be unstoppable.

"Dad, tell me honestly, what is the end goal here?" George demands quietly, staring out over the crowd, which seems to be multiplying by the minute. The energy is electric, and witches and wizards shout and cheer over the din.

Arthur grimaces and glances at his family, of which only Molly is paying attention to their conversation.

"George, it's always been intended as a peaceful protest," Arthur says, as though that answers his question at all.

George is no fool — and he's seen his parents attempt to shelter their children at the height of the war before. They're prepared for anything, even if they only want to shout and hold signs. Even if they'd like for this to be nothing more than a peaceful March. Instead, they have prepared for their youngest son to infiltrate the highest level of the wizarding world's government and usurp Hawksworth and Kingsley as necessary, while they sit on the outskirts, anxious.

It's not a protest — it's a guerilla operation with a decoy.

George looks to Padma and prays he's made the right choice in letting her come along. He had spent the night staring at her, considering placing her under a sleeping spell, drugging her, or chaining her to the damn bed without a wand; yet, he couldn't do it — not because he doesn't want to keep her safe, but because he had been present when Harry had banned a now visibly pregnant Ginny from attending this event.

Ginny still wasn't speaking to him — and despite multiple people begging her to be reasonable, especially before the eve of a possible battle, the Weasley temper had gotten the better of her.

Harry had been immovable, however, and so Ginny was at home in the Burrow, staring at Molly's clock and praying for the hands to remain at Safe. Luna and Rosmerta were with her, as well as little Louise, who didn't understand what was going on and still cried if she couldn't find her mother for longer than a minute.

A sonorous voice fills the air, demanding and powerful and oddly familiar: "Witches and Wizards — we deserve better than the Ministry's mandated Wizarding Population Growth Act! We deserve the freedom to marry WHO we want WHEN we want! We didn't fight a war with Voldemort to be chained down by this law!"

The gasps at Voldemort's name turn to raucous cheers, and George feels energy unlike anything before at the sight of Cho Chang standing atop an enlarged picnic table. Bruises still mottle her face, and she is filled with an intensity bordering on madness.

It's electric — the crowd is cheering, signs raised in the air. George is yelling before he even knows what he's doing, and he's not the only one; what feels like hundreds of witches and wizards are alongside him, shoes thudding against the cobblestones. George wonders if the resonance of this moment can be felt even in Muggle London.

"What do we want!?" Cho screams.

"CHOICE!" The crowd roars back at her.

"MARRIAGE RIGHTS FOR ALL!" Cho holds her wand in the air, sparking off red fireworks, a sight that George hasn't seen since Dumbledore was alive.

Which is exactly when he sees a green light shooting for Cho. It hits her in the chest, and George watches her topple backwards at the same time as the sound seems to return to his rushing ears.

The crowd is screaming.

Red and green spells — it's so familiar.

They are war, and they are chaos, and they are soldiers, and they are ready.

George falls into a crouch with Padma and his family at his side. The crowd makes it difficult to locate where the spells are coming from, and the panic from the protestors has turned into a stampede.

"Aurors!" Arthur shouts, and Charlie charges forward with Bill at his side, wands raised.

Pansy Parkinson reaches his side. "Weasley — get the fucking coin! Get the coin and tell them NOW!"

She's gone in an instant, casting curses that make the hair on his neck stand on its end. They're dark and vicious, and Pansy is fearless in a way that George has never seen. He wonders how the hell they even won the war if that was what they were fighting.

He grips the charmed galleon and taps his wand against it, his frantic words appearing on the surface: 'NOW, GO! FIGHT ON DIAGON'.

George looks up, and half of the protestors are either apparating away as fast as they can or sheltering between buildings. A few witches and wizards are locked in duels — it's almost worse, in a way than the Battle of Hogwarts, because this time, George can't tell who is on his side or against him. A few Ministry Aurors are firing curses into the crowd, but he sees Dawlish battling on their side, and he can't be the only one.

Padma is nowhere to be found, but he sees glimpses of red hair further down from him. George grips his wand and casts protego's and leg-locking jinxes or stupefy's; anything that will fell an opponent without killing them because George isn't sure who he'd be if he crossed that line.

He spots Blaise, ahead, and turns to head towards him — he's surrounded by five different wizards, and barely holding his own. George shoots spells, exhaustion already permeating his bones. Blaise charges after a wizard who has turned to run, and George is shocked at the fury on his face. He's casting unforgiveables, and George wants to stop him, but the crowd parts enough that he freezes.

Lying on the cobblestones where Blaise had been standing, blood pouring out of her chest, is Parvati. George collapses to his knees beside her, forgetting the spells flying above his head for a moment, fury and desperation making his breath catch on sobs. She's still conscious, and her dark eyes don't hesitate before they find him. They're not scared, which is the most terrifying part of it all.

"You stupid witch," George gasps. "How could you — you knew — how—"

"George," Parvati's voice is quiet, and he leans forward to catch every single treasured word. "It was supposed to be her. It was always supposed to be her."

George can feel tears and sweat weeping down his cheeks and he's so angry — he'd forgotten how much fury he could hold in the height of war, but it's all there, right where he left it three years ago. He understands Blaise now — he's ready to cast crucios.

"We could have saved you both!" George rails, and even though he's got his wand in his first, he's never been more useless, more fucking decrepit; he only knows episkey, and it would take a lot more than that to cure Parvati's wounds.

"Never," Parvati snaps. "Not in any future. One of us would die. Always."

"You made me choose," George cries. "You didn't tell me, but you made me choose."

Parvati's hand, limp and covered in her own blood, rises of its own volition to press at his cheek. Her gaze is soft and kind, and George wonders how the fuck he's supposed to tell Padma of this. Padma, who is only moments away, down the same fucking street — and she's missing this. She's going to miss this.

"I chose," Parvati insists. "And you know, you know — there was no choice."

George drapes himself over her gently, pressing his forehead into her own and gathering her shoulders. He thinks often about how Fred died alone; so he presses his forehead harder into Parvati's and lets his tears drop onto her face and he thinks about how if it was him — if it was Fred — fuck. There is no choice.

"The match," Parvati gasps. "It's her. It's her, George. Please."

George nods because while he doesn't believe in the WPG and the matches, he believes in Parvati. He believes she had seen what he has only just discovered — the way Padma fits with him, easier than anyone other than Fred ever did. He thinks of the fact that tonight he will watch her fall apart, watch as she breaks into two separate people, one of which who will never live again.

He thinks that maybe between the two of them, they might make something whole.

"Okay," George says. "I know. I know, Parv. I know."

He says it over and over, and he doesn't stop when her hand falls limply to the ground, or when his knees grow numb from the cobblestone, or when the shouts of spell-casting fade from his ears.