she watches him, carefully, as if she doesn’t quite trust him. she has no reason not to, but she knows that feeling is probably fairly mutual. she shared a year with ron, lorded it over ginny, but george is familiar to her, too - not just for being one of those or because of the tragedy of him being the one half left standing, but quite specifically because she remembers his quidditch ban. she knows how he got it, and thinking back is enough to put a bad taste in her mouth. “i don’t traipse,” comes curt response, though she can never just leave it there. always present is that part of her that strives for widespread recognition of her successes, that has to say yes, and also- and make everyone, most especially the imagined lesser, aware of how far she’s managed to come. “i’m part of the team that advises the minister, these days,” sometimes, at least, but pansy doesn’t see the need to clarify. she’s worked her way up fairly well, as it is. “and you? are you still overseeing that joke shop on diagon alley?”

sized up,     sussed out.     george,     his family,     has known airs of disdain     &     distrust.     he knows what it is to be watched,     calculated.     once,     he had a resistance like fire for these moments:     a boy with a gryffindor tie around his head,     roaring boisterous through the common room.     now,     at twenty six:     there’s an unshifting quality to him,     jaw set     &     dogged:     nothing to hide,     no tricks played.     “sick,”     he offers,     "nice to see you’ve made your time at hogwarts useful.”     george clears his throat,     humour sudden and bleeding into quirked mouth.     “i am overseeing weasley’s wizard wheezes,     yeah.”      &     here it his,      fewer and far between,     but a punchline nonetheless:           “guess we both sell jokes for a living.”

It’s  been  a  while  since  Arthur  visited  the  office.      —      An  uncommon  practice,   given  his  usual  habit  of  working  himself  to  the  bone,   but  a  necessary  sacrifice  given  recent  circumstances.   Presence  has  been  needed  elsewhere,   at  a  hospital  bedside,   holding  the  hand  of  HIS  BELOVED  as  she  recovers.   Family  above  all  else,   as  it  should  be.   An  easy  decision  to  make,   when  he  weighs  it  up.   There’ll  be  other  jobs  if  this  one  fails  him,   but  there’ll  never  be  another  Molly.   As  it  happens,   he’s  only  here  now  as  a  passing  visit     :     an  afterthought  that  hit  while  en  route  back  to  St  Mungo’s.            ‘     Thanks,  son.     ’           Hand  clasps  down  on  George’s  shoulder  in  gentle  squeeze,   gratitude  breathless  from  rushing   (   as  well  as  he  can  through  the  EXHAUSTION  that  threatens  to  takeover  these  days   )   to  a  lift  that  would’ve  left  without  him  if  it  wasn’t  for  his  boy’s  quick  movements.           ‘     And  you  brought  snacks.   Are  those  for  me,   or  are  you  visiting  someone  else  today?   You’re  not  attempting  to  bribe  or  woo  some  unsuspecting  Ministry  official  with  pastries,   are  you?     ’ 

“dad,”     recognition settles in fast,     &     shoulders straighten.      he hadn’t paid much attention when he offered to hold the lift.     hand meets his father’s,     clasped over where it rests for a moment.     george thinks:     he looks tired,     raw.     wishes he could offer more than just pastries      —     offer a semblance of what his father has in moments similar to these:     the rallying,     the right words.     flits through his mind like a dart:     fred would have known,     the perfect joke,     perfect time,     to make lightness in dark.     “if i was trying to bribe some of the gits here,     i’d bring cheese.     y’know,     cause they’re rats.”      he holds the bag out.     “i was coming to find you.     i brought some food down to mungo’s for the others,     &     charlie mentioned you were dropping into the office.     that you hadn’t eaten yet.     we should grab a coffee on the way out when you’re done here,     too.     cause i’m ninety eight percent sure you haven’t slept since i last saw you.”

sonorous     sigh     of     relief,          the     kind     that     𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜     each     delicate     rib          /          weasleys     remain     a     still     point     in     her     turning     universe,          &          what     is     she     if     not     moth     to     flame          ?          blazer     bundled     in     her     arms,     grin     is          KILLAWATT          when     it’s     aimed     at     george.          ❛          you’re     my     favourite,     y’know     that          ?          ❜

"mate,     i know it,      ──      but does ron?     i don’t think anybody’s told him.”     he wears warmth for hermione everywhere:     an easy laugh,     tension melted from shoulders tight.     it spreads,     soothes:     this is what she does,     just being there.     george slides out a portuguese tart from the bag,     holds it out to her.    “try this,     i know you eat like shit.     i think i’m an actual baking prince?     it’s straight,     don’t worry      ──      not trying to get dad ripped at work.”

“thank you,” kenji smiled as they stepped into the elevator behind george. “i’ll let you press the button. i have a tendency to get horribly lost.”

“tell me about it,”     george hits the button.     “i’ve only started to work out what’s what cause i started visiting my dad here.     i could probably walk you somewhere,     if you need it?”

there were few things augustine dreaded more than the elevator ride when she checked in at the ministry. every time she stepped on that elevator, an irrational sort of fear that settled within her. there was nothing particularly suspect about the elevator. it was no more rickety and no more shaky than the elevator at the hospital where she worked. of course, the majority of her cardio came from going up and down the stairs to the lower levels the morgue was squirrelled away on. adding another person to the equation, augustine almost considered the stairs there too, risking being breathless and sweaty during the meeting. she stepped onto the elevator, looking towards the other person with an eyebrow raised. “how gracious. how will i ever make it up to you?”

“...      ━      are you right?”     george asks,     slowly.     perceived,     maybe imagined,     a hesitation.     “usually,     i’d say no big.     just a lift ride.     but honestly,     you could make it up by holding lifts too,     y’know,     if you see me about.     have you noticed how cutthroat ministry workers are with these?     i’ve had my fingers caught in these doors.     i’ve had them slammed in my face,     been straight out refused.     ruthless.     absolute rogues.”

there was just one more round of questioning, at least that’s what henri had been told. they’d gotten home the night after the derby attack after answering a few questions and giving their statement after what they’d seen in the attack. a few more questions and a few pictures to look at, a chance to identify the death eater that they had kicked. they stepped onto the elevator. “oh, i was gonna just take the stairs but thanks.”

“stairs,     oh mate.”     it slips out,    quick,     reactionary.     his face reads amused.          “i forgot the ministry has stairs.     does that make me come off as lazy?”     george blows out a breath,     shakes his head.     “this is how you realise you’re aging,     y’know.     one minute,     spritely,     youthful.     next,     dusty,     bearded.     hauling on lifts with a handful of pastries.”

Kaz juts his chin out as a nod of appreciation. He was about to just leave it at that as he clicks the floor he’s going on. “What floor?” Is all he adds for a moment. Then the baggie catches his eye and he can’t seem to keep his nose out of the other’s business. “Bit suspicious, isn’t it?”

“two,     cheers.”     george drops gaze down to the bag gripped in his hand.     he considers it for a moment      ━      exhales through his nostrils,     laughs.     “does come off a bit suss,     doesn’t it?”     he peels the paper back a little,     &     reveals a few pastries inside.     “took up baking recently.     y’reckon this is why at least three older folk got panicky when i tried to wave for their lifts?     i was beginning to wonder if i smelt foul.”

she briefly considers allowing the door close, again, in her own face. her tolerance for his lot is at an all time low, and pansy seems to spend a long moment weighing her options before she decides that she can perhaps live with sharing space for all of a minute. “i’m going to five,” she says, as she steps daintily into the elevator and leans against the mirrored wall, staring back at him expectantly rather than making a move to press in her button for herself. 

fuck it,     he thinks.     george has spent years carving out a method of accepting these kinds of realities:     brief,     uncomfortable.     there was time,     before,     too:     time spent raging:     sick     &     desolate.     so,    while she pauses:     quietly,     he waits.     blinking back her way.     nods.      life goes on,     inevitably,     &     sometimes,     pansy parkinson ends up in the lift with you.      “five,”     he repeats,     &     hits the button,     her’s,     &    the floor of his father’s office.     “you’ve landed a ministry job,     yeah?     see you traipsing about a bit whenever i’m in visiting.”

The healer and nursing staff has hardly allowed Molly to leave her bed since she woke up, she was beginning to lose her sanity being cooped up. It went against all she was, even in all the pain she was in ( though she’d never let her family know about how bad the pain got ). It was to her surprise when she finally strong-armed the staff enough that they finally allowed her to sit in a wheelchair and sit by a window in the hallway. Not exactly going home just yet, but it was a start. 

“A beautiful day,” She looks out, a wistful gaze in her eyes. “And I can’t even enjoy it.”

"forget it,     windy out there anyways."      he knows:     he's the last to visit.     bedside vigils unbroken,     ━     ginny sleepless in the hallway,     arthur following up with staff,     brothers taking calls.    he perches on the windowsill.   flowers in one hand,     tea in the other.     george places the mug to her left.     "then again,     you want out?     i could streak,     y'know.      shock     &     awe.     double back round,     and wheel you,     high speed,     out the door."     in truth,     george had paced outside,     for hours.     unable to step a foot in st mungo's.     thinking like,     if i don't go in,     don't see her in that bed,     life hanging on a knife's edge:     do i get more time?     thinking like:     but.     but,     no amount of time will ever be enough.     until charlie had let him know:    she's awake.    in truth,     george isn't equipped to lose his mother.     still isn't equipped to have lost a brother.    "sorry,     mum.     that i didn't come earlier.     are you...     in pain?     can i get you anything?"

hey, isn’t that george weasley?  forgetting jokes, like, “ah shit, what was the punchline again?” because forget it, it’s not funny anymore anyways, / a flash of freckles & a furrowed brow behind overflowing stock, / quietly getting absolutely baked on an eclectic selection of edibles at any & all social events.