No matter how many stuff exploded in his face, George was adamant he kept working into the night. You watched him in self-destruct mode, smoke twirling between his long fingers, bright colors illuminating his face like a gaunt jack-o-lantern, his concoctions emitting the sound of rolling thunder.
You called his name softly.
"Come to bed, love. Have some rest..." we can brave the nightmares together.
But he ignored you.
"I'm too close for sleeping now," he'd say. Too afraid, he'd mean.

You had met George Weasley what felt like eons and eons ago. Second year at ye ol' Hogwarts, 1992. You heard laughter, and you thought vaguely of goblins and ghosts, like the ones your mum used to tell you about as a bed time story. You turned a corner, bumped into them, and fell to the ground – by accident, of course. You were a small kid.
"What was that?" came two whiplash voices, each belonging to a red headed devil with ears that stuck out. They were identical freckle for freckle. The double threat. The Weasley twins.
"Oh, it's Ron's friend," one of them chimed, "the quiet one."
"The mysterious one," the other corrected, though his tone implied the word was funny. Every word that came out of their mouths was implied to be funny.
"Fred."
"George."
They both offered a hand. Taking both, you were hauled to your feet.

1998, December.
"Y/N," he called.
"Yes?" you answered.
"Where's the coffee?" he asked.
"In the bin," you answered.
"Why?" he inquired.
"Because it's not healthy," you answered.
"Since when?" he demanded.
"Since forever, love," you answered.
"Why now?" he queried.
"Because. You're a goddamn mess," you answered.
Answer, answer, answer. Ask and answer. It's all you ever did, nowadays.

It was fifth year, 1995.
"Y/N's Student File (filled out by Y/N, Ginny, and Hermione, one fire-whiskey stolen night)
Affiliation: Dumbledore's Army.
Pass time: fucking shit up.
Friends: The enemies of your enemies are your friends.
Boyfriend: Lee Pace.
Feelings: Everywhere. Every-fucking-where."
Hermione's and Ginny's are similar in taste. "Be still, my beating heart!" was written in the margins, over and over.
"Sometimes I wonder if boys are genuinely blind and just pretend they can see," you muttered. Ginny, who was sitting cross legged on your bed, snorted into her paper cup.
"Please," she laughed, "boys are boys. They were always clueless."
Hermione shot her a disapproving look from the bed across her, socially aware even in peer-pressured drunkenness.
"Boys won't be boys, that's nonsense. Boys just confuse us, because we are sad and lonely," she sighed, though it was hard to take her seriously as she hung her head upside down from the edge of the bed. She was a sad drunk. Ginny was a silly one. You were heavy weight.
"Not true – I have Dean!"
"And I, Lee."
"And yet we're drinking fire whiskey out of plastic cups on a school night, moaning about the stupidity of an entire gender."
"Maybe it's just the Weasleys," you tested from your spot on the floor. Ginny guffawed again.
"I'm not gonna deny it. My brothers, bless them, are only as intelligent as this cup when it comes to love," she raised it, inspecting it with lidded eyes, "I'm carrying everyone, and I'm getting pretty tired of it."
She fell backwards on the bed, and started to snore. You snickered. Hermione looked at you with large brown eyes, her dark hair hanging from her head in thick coils.
"I'm sorry that you're so confused about Lee and the twins," she said softly. You looked away.
"Likewise, about Ron," you told her.
There was silence, filled only by Ginny's loud snores.
"You know, people say we have the freedom to be independent women," Hermione said quietly. You turned your gaze back to her. The fire in the grate was reflected in her glassy eyes, though her stare was vacant.
"We do."
"Then why are we still so easily fucked over by boys?"
You didn't answer, but after Hermione hauled herself backwards and fell asleep face down into the pillow, what you ought to have said came to your mind in a colorful explosion that smelled like smoke and a Bludger, accompanied by the distant sound of wicked laughter, laughter of the devils themselves.
We are girls. We are strong. And yet, we are heart broken.

1999, a lukewarm March evening.
"George, let's go for a walk," you suggest. He's in bed. Again.
"No."
"C'mon. It'll do you so much good. Plus, I heard the daisies are coming out early."
"No."
"George," you step into the room and sit at the edge of his bed, "please. Take my hand and let's go for a walk."
He raises his head a little from his pillow and peers at you.
"Ten minutes, tops," you bargained.
He hesitates some more, before he finally pushes himself up. You can't help the huge smile that lights up your face. He had forgotten about that smile. It almost makes the gap in his chest feel a little less dismal.
You dress for the temperamental weather, link arms, and leave your tiny bungalow to roam your large garden. You had moved out here together a month ago, charmed by the minimalist nature and the space that goes on for miles and miles. You pay the bills with the success of your last book, a refugee memoir. You don't mind supporting him... in every sense of the word.
"See! Daisies," you point them out to your left, growing by the bank of your large garden pond, "and look! Ducks!"
You stop him and pull out some bread from your pockets. You offered a half to George, who took it and held it in his hand. You tear your half into a couple pieces and toss them into the pond. Ducklings appear from between the cat-tails and nibble experimentally. You smile back at George. He's looking at you strangely.
"What?"
He shakes his head.
"Nothing. I just forgot how easily excited you can be."
Your smile falters, before you answer, "Well, there are a lot of things to be excited about."
"I don't see it that way."
He turns and continues down the path back to the house, leaving you alone with the daisies and the ducks.

Everything was colorful and lively and the opposite of everything you ever expected.
Sixth year, 1996. You've become a teenage rebel and lovesick puppy. You had come to this specific room hoping for some peace from the loud crowd outside. You sought refuge in the muggle trick area, which was darker and much more subdued. You were examining a caricature wand you knew children believed was real when a hired magician came to perform at school, and you couldn't help reminiscing the simpler days, when magic was wondrous and not a weapon of war.
"Y/N! We were wondering when you would deign to visit us at our shop!" came one of the twins' voice. You turned around and spotted Fred – you were better able to tell them apart than their mother, sometimes.
"I'm sorry," you apologized genuinely. Fred just laughed.
"You know I don't mean it. Here, take this," he tossed you a small bottle. You peered at the label, and raised an eyebrow.
"Love potion?"
"Yeah," he smiled at you almost wickedly, "heard you've been having trouble, after Lee."
You frowned, and said haughtily, "I don't need your potion, thanks."
He laughed again – you think vaguely to yourself that he'll probably laugh himself to death one day.
"Nah, you don't. The wizard in question has been head over heels for you for nearly three years," he winked. Your frown deepened, but before you could ask him, he turned and called his brother. Your heart skipped a beat.
George stumbled next to his doppelganger, and grinned at you, assuming the same devilmay-care posture as his opposite.
"Hiya, Y/N," he leaned forward and gave you a one arm hug. You squeezed back.
"I miss having you guys at school so much," you admitted, "everything is much less exciting."
"Says the girl who fought Death Eaters in the Ministry last year," came Ron's uncensored throw away comment from across the room, which earned him a hard nudge of the elbow from Hermione. She threw you an apologetic look. Evidently the inseparable three had been listening in on your conversation with bated breath.
"I love what you guys are doing now, though," you told them, ignoring your dumb friends, "everyone could do with a laugh nowadays."
"Mr. Weasley?"
A blonde girl in a purple uniform appeared around the corner. Fred shared a knowing grin with George and trailed after the employee, leaving you with George. You could feel blush crawling into your cheeks, but you thought nothing of it.
"We miss you all too, Fred and I," George told you, stepping a little closer. In your peripheral vision, you saw Hermione ushering Harry and Ron out of the small room of muggle magic tricks, telling them off in an angry whisper.
"And you?" you asked, courage filling you up now that you were, for once, alone with your preferred twin. He scratched the back of his head.
"Me... I miss you most," he said finally, his blue eyes wandering around the room. The ceiling was a night sky, and you remembered the time the twins and Lee had snuck you out of the castle past hours and you all went skinny dipping together in the Lake. You blushed even harder at the memory. George's ears were a bright red, suggesting he was thinking of it too.
You looked back at him, and for a second George could have sworn the stars were in your eyes, and not just mere reflections.
"George?"
"Yes?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"You just did."
You sighed heavily, rolling your eyes.
"Will you... will you promise me that... no matter what happens, this year, the years after... remember me?"
The both of you knew in your bones that the war would hit you both hard, and you specifically because of your blood status and affiliation with the Golden Trio, as people called them now.
"I don't need to promise you that," he whispered seriously. The Weasley twins being serious was rare and scary, but not in this context.
"And... one other thing," you stepped forward, and revealed the love potion bottle in your hand which Fred had tossed to you, "you keep this, and swear to me you won't ever use it on anyone."
He didn't laugh, but his eyes were smiling. He wrapped his hand around yours, the love potion encompassed by your intertwined fingers.
"Wouldn't even think of it, love."

"George, look at this," you called excitedly. He looked up from his spot by the fire. You had made him sandwiches and an innocent drink, to coax him into the living room.
November, 1999. Lunchtime.
"What is it?" he asked lamely, clutching his glass.
"Look," you kneeled in front of him, by his chair, and revealed a small pink bottle in the palm of your hand. His expression softened a bit.
"Remember this? You promised you'd never use it!" you punched his arm playfully.
"I didn't, I swear it," he assured you, looking at your vibrant face, "I just emptied it."
"Where? How come?"
"In the Black Lake," he confessed, "after..."
You let him get the words out patiently. He was in a stage of letting emotions pour out of him periods at a time, and feeling mediocre for a little bit afterwards.
"...After the battle," he finally breathed, taking the bottle from your hand and scrutinizing it, "I can't believe we ever sold these."
You shook your head, laughing again.
"It was a bit of a rash business move. Caused a lot of trouble, didn't it?"
"It did, but then again, that's the sort of people we were," he chuckled. You smiled – it was the first time he had referred to his past 'us' positively.
"Those days don't have to be over."
He looked back at you, his facial expression relaxing again into something unreadable.
"They do."

Seventh year. March 31st, 1998. Night of the Battle of Hogwarts.
You were more than just a rebel and more than just a refugee. You were the capital R, now: Revolution.
You were hidden in the Room of Requirement, and the appearance of your missing friends sent your heart into the roof. Forgetting yourself for the first time in ages, you ran and bear hugged the three of them, even lifting them a bit off the ground. Then you immediately stepped back and started telling them off.
"Do you have any idea how worried I was for you three? You could have died, you could have been caught!"
They only gave you worn out smiles. That was good enough for you.
When the twins stepped through the hole in the wall, after being summoned by Hermione's galleons, you didn't need to scream or yell, or even hug them. You didn't run up to them. Instead, as everyone clapped their backs and welcomed them into their make shift home, you stepped slowly forward, in the twins' direction.
You hadn't heard from them in three months. The rumour was that their shop had been attacked, and they had disappeared. Gone, without a scrap of news.
You took another step forward. Fred and Lee stepped to the side knowingly, and busied themselves with other people. George stared at you.
You took another step. So did he. You finally reached him, and stared. He stared back.
"I never forgot you," he said softly. You smirked lightly. That was all you needed to hear.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, and because he was so tall, he wrapped his arms around your midriff and pulled you up. Your lips met. Fireworks were going off somewhere, you didn't care where. It was insistent, desperate, and softer than you had thought. You felt stubble – he mustn't have shaved in a while, but you didn't mind. His hands were in your hair now. You pulled him closer. You bit his lip, as if to punish him for not doing this sooner.
"Oi!"
You finally broke apart, still holding each other. You both turned to see Fred, who was grinning his famous wicked grin.
"Refrain from using tongue, alright," he said loudly, "I know you guys are finally breaking the sexual tension, but there are some kids in the room! Geez."
You both went red, but you never let go of his hand. Ever.

New Years. 2000. Two years since the battle. Two years since the loss of the other half.
You had dragged your live-in boyfriend out of the room, down the stairs, out the house, and into the meadow beyond your garden. There was going to be a spectacle.
"Why do I have to come?" George kept grumbling frustratedly, though he didn't have the energy to fight you anymore.
"Because, you're a goddamn human being and deserve some air," you reminded him firmly. There were days when you put your foot down, and though he didn't like it, he would always grudgingly thank you for it later. You knew he would like this when he saw it.
You reached a small clearing.
"What is it?" asked George tiredly, as he spotted a solitary box.
"The best thing ever," you told him, finally letting go of his arm and rushing forward. You pulled the contraption out its box, and positioned it so it was pointing to the sky. You pulled out your wand, then glanced at your watch.
"7... 6... 5... 4...," you counted down, glancing in George's direction who was standing with his mouth slightly open.
"... 2... 1... bombarda incendius!"
Your wand shot out an explosion of flames, igniting the contraption and making it explode. There was a low whistling sound, and you both looked up as you watched a magical trail slowly turn into several, then finally disperse and explode into several fantastical creatures that you could have only dreamed of as a child.
You got up quickly as the fireworks continued to go off, rushing back to George's side and linking arms with him. Both of your faces lit up with the colors, the cold night air nipping at your noses as you watched the works come alive. There was a dog, chasing an otter. A hummingbird. A dragon. A chimaera... several butterflies. Stars and abstract shapes. Even the sounds were inventive – the roar of the fire, the whistling, the exploding, and the chatter of momentary life forms as they chased each other across the sky.
You looked up at George, and saw tear tracks glistening orange and yellow and blue on his cheeks as the sky teamed with life. You rested your head on his shoulder.
"Happy New Year's day, George."
He laughed thickly through his tears, and for a moment, he almost felt whole again, in a different way from before. He looked down at you, as you watched him rather than the fireworks. He smiled, remembering the feeling of the stars living in your eyes rather than just being reflected in them. He smiled for the first time.
"Happy New Year, Y/N."

"Happy birthday," you whispered into his ear one chilly morning. 2003. Five years since the war ended. George was better, now. He could stand being around people better. He laughed sometimes, if you were being ridiculous. And he didn't push you away all the time. Like this morning, when he had agreed to go on a walk without any fight.
"I have a surprise for you," you told him, pulling him forward farther into the marsh.
"I thought I said no birthday surprises," you heard him groan.
"This isn't a birthday surprise, it's just a funny memory," you reasoned, reaching the edge of your large garden. Ron was co-managing the store with George, who had finally returned to work, so you were able to afford a larger place together. You didn't sacrifice the garden that was still a paradise, including a small pond.
You started peeling off your coat and raised your shirt over your head, which made George ask, slightly alarmed, what you were doing. You simply smirked at him as you pulled off your trousers as well.
"1995, Hogwarts Black Lake, by the weeping willow" you reminded him, as you pulled him closer and started unbuttoning is coat as well, "you, me, my former boyfriend, and your brother did something crazy."
He didn't protest when you fingered the hem of his shirt. You took it off, leaving you both half naked and goose bumped all over.
"I promised I'd remember you," he pondered, looking at you with lidded eyes. It was like he was seeing you for the first time. He wished he was, so he could fall in love with you all over again.
"Yeah, and these moments? They make up my existence," you took him by the hand and walked backwards. The pond was freezing cold that April morning, but you didn't mind. It was cold that starry night the first time too.
"Mine too," he breathed, as he let you pull him in farther into the black water. You were waist deep now, canopied by the cocooning trees, peppered with buds that will one day be flowers.
"I never forgot."
"Neither have I."
You were up to your chins now.
"Don't let go of my hand," he requested softly. You were close enough so that your lips brushed when you spoke.
"Never... take a deep breath."
You submerged together, into the cold dark depths of the pond. It was deep, and murky. All you could both feel other than the frigid freeze was each other's hands and lips, which touched the minute you went under. You kissed each other deeply, letting the water sneak into your mouths. You could have drowned, but you didn't – his hands which moved to your waist, hugging you against him tightly, was the sole element still making you hang on.
It was magical – not the war weapon magical. The good kind of magical.
The wondrous kind.