The Sight of it All
Saturday, February 5th
George is awoken from a particularly spotty sleep by the creak of his bedroom door. His wand, permanently stored under his pillow, is in his fist within seconds, and he’s got a nasty hex on the edge of his lips.
“It’s just me,” Padma whispers.
He remembers how to breathe again and slowly lowers his wand. Padma is silhouetted in his doorway, moonlight from the window giving a nearly ethereal glow to her long dark hair.
“Are you alright?” George rasps. He immediately regrets the words — what a stupid question. He had watched as she’d fallen apart when she’d learned of Parvati’s death; crumbling into a shadow of her former self. George had a front-row seat to the pain she was feeling.
Padma answers, “Not really.”
At an impasse, they stare at each other in the darkness. George flips the edge of his covers down, a wordless invitation.
Padma steps lightly to the edge of his bed and slides in. George sets his wand under the pillow again and lays back down beside her, turning enough to watch her stare at his ceiling. He wants to ask her why she can’t sleep — if, like him, every time she closes her eyes she pictures Cho’s casket slowly lowering into the ground, white peace lilies covering it.
He wonders if she has nightmares from the March, and the way he had found her, his clothes still covered in Parvati’s blood. Wonders if she blames him for her sister’s death — the way he can’t help but blame himself.
“Can I ask you something?” She whispers into the darkness.
He nods. “Sure.”
Padma swallows hard. “Does it ever — does it ever get better?”
George had always known she would ask this question. He’d expected it in the days after Parvati’s death. Expected it when they buried Parvati and said goodbye to her parents.
Despite this, he doesn’t have an easy answer prepared.
Losing Fred had been worse than losing himself; he can’t count how many times he had tried to drown himself in alcohol until he stopped feeling the emptiness, like a phantom limb still aching. Can’t explain to Padma how she won’t ever see her reflection the same — how every day she will wait for a greeting that will never arrive again, and every night she will lie awake wondering if she’s broken beyond repair.
He’s not ready to tell her these things; in time, she would discover them herself.
“It gets… easier,” George says softly. “Not better. Just easier.”
Padma’s hands sneak up and cover her face, and suddenly the bed is shaking with silent sobs. The empty mattress between them feels impassable, and with every choked breath, George hates himself a little more.
“I’m sorry,” Padma gasps. “I’m so sorry. I just — I just miss her so much.”
George nods.
He thinks about how his mother had rallied around him after Fred. How Ron had left behind his Auror training without a second thought to help him with the store. How Percy, admittedly the world’s biggest git, had gone out of his way to bring him lunches and dinners each week. How Charlie had run himself into exhaustion coming back from Romania to spend time with George — George, who was sullen and miserable and so desperately sad.
And Padma. Padma, who has no one.
He reaches across his bed and drags her towards him. She doesn’t resist, rolling into his chest. He squeezes her tightly and runs a soothing hand down her spine. Her sobs don’t lessen, but he doesn’t mind so much.
“Shhh,” he whispers. “It’s going to be okay.”
“It’s not,” she cries, “It’s not.”
He doesn’t bother lying again, and when she eventually quiets into an uneasy sleep, George stares at the wall across from him and wonders how they can ever come back from here.
Monday, February 7th
George throws himself into work with a fury never seen before. Ron, exhausted from the efforts of the past weeks and visiting Hannah every chance he gets, takes the time off with sheer gratitude.
While Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes has slowed considerably since the March and subsequent revolution, it’s still busy enough for George. If a break in business arrives, George spends his time imagining up new toys and pranks. He orders food and delivers it to the door of his apartment for Padma, and tries to make himself small enough for her grief.
It is abruptly and awfully apparent how difficult the weeks following Fred’s death were for Ron, who grieved Fred at the same time as he stitched together the open wounds of George.
The door chimes and George looks up from the flyer he is designing for an upcoming spring sale to meet the eyes of Luna Lovegood. Or Nott, he supposes.
“Luna,” George greets. “Great to see you.”
He means it. The last time he’d seen her had been two days prior, looking distinctly unlike herself in all black, watching Cho’s casket slowly get lowered into its grave.
“Hi, George,” she answers. “I was hoping I could see Padma.”
George worries at his bottom lip; he knows Padma doesn’t want visitors right now, but he also knows it’s not healthy for her to isolate herself.
Luna smiles softly. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell her you didn’t see me come in. I’m quite worried about her, you see, and we were very close at Hogwarts. Ravenclaws, and all.”
“Alright,” George agrees, because while he doubts Luna can make it better, it’s clear it can’t get any worse. “Just head up the stairs on the left there. The door should be open. She might be in her room, the first door down the hall on the right.”
Luna turns and heads towards the stairs without another word, though a gentle thank you floats down after a moment.
It’s nearly three hours later when George is preparing to close the shop up for the night when Luna re-appears. Her eyes are glassy, but she smiles at him when he looks up.
“How is she?” He asks.
Luna hums. “She’s sad.”
“I don’t know how to make it better,” George confesses, the words tumbling out of him nearly without permission.
Luna reaches across the counter and sets a soft palm over his hand. Her skin is warm, and an obnoxiously large ring glitters off her fourth finger. Her other hand rests gently on her stomach, the slightest curve showing beneath her robes.
“Two is a very powerful number, did you know that?” Luna’s voice is endlessly gentle. “Twins are rare in the magical community. They’re supposedly quite powerful — capable of incredible feats.”
“My mother used to tell us that,” George admits. In a family as large as theirs, it had made them feel unique in a sea of siblings. Made them feel like they were their own magic.
“I often wondered if that’s why the WPG matched you and Parvati.” Luna muses. “You would have had good odds of having twins together.”
Surprise ripples up his spine; he wonders briefly if Parvati had seen that possibility. Had she realized how incredibly rare she was — a twin and a seer — while planning the logistics of her own death?
Luna traces her fingers down her abdomen and says: “I’m having twins. Did I tell you that?”
“What!? No! That’s wonderful, Luna. Congratulations.” George genuinely smiles at her words; it’s possibly the best bit of news he’s had in months.
“Thank you,” she smiles softly. “I feel them already, you know. It’s like they’re talking to each other all day long, as if they have their own language.”
George nods, because he can hardly speak over the lump in his throat. Memories of Fred, everywhere he looks.
Luna’s smile turns sad. “Padma just needs you to be there, George. You can’t fix it — no one can. You’re already helping her, just by being there with her.”
“Okay,” George breathes shakily. “I can do that.”
Luna turns away, heading towards the door. George flicks the locks after her, turning the sign to closed. The trek up one flight of stairs feels nearly endless, and by the time he reaches the door to his flat, he is exhausted in every way.
When he pushes the door open, Padma’s wan smile greets him. She’s got two dinner plates out on the counter, a sandwich on each one.
“Hi,” Padma says softly. “I made dinner.”
She is wearing a mid-length emerald green shift with gold embroidery at the neck, and her hair is braided in a long plait down her back. Her eyes are swollen and red, but she’s moving around and smiling and George is suddenly so fucking grateful they made it, that Luna came by, that Padma is trying.
He thanks her for the sandwich with a lump in his throat and finds his stool in front of the plate. It’s a slightly stale ham sandwich, but he chews every single bite as if it is the finest fare he’s ever eaten.
“It’s not much—”
“It’s great,” George interrupts. “Really, truly. Thank you.”
She nods and takes a bite out of her own sandwich. George finishes his in record time and gets up to bring them both a glass of water. By the time they’re both finished, the silence is comfortable and complete.
She’s as beautiful as always — it is difficult to separate her from the girl he kissed so long ago with the promises of something new, and the woman who crawls into his bed and sobs into his chest as though her life has ended. It’s hard to see her and not blame himself for the death of Parvati.
It’s difficult to see any future between them now, even though he can feel the possibility thrumming there, like a thread between them that hasn’t quite severed.
“I’ve been looking for a flat,” Padma whispers, staring straight ahead. “And there’s a few that might be a good fit.”
George opens his mouth and considers it — his flat, once again his own space. Fred’s bedroom converted back into the shrine it has been for years.
He realizes abruptly that he doesn’t want her to leave.
“No,” he blurts.
She turns to him. “No?”
He reaches out and takes her hand. “You don’t have to go, Padma. You can stay — I don’t mind.”
“You must.” Padma chokes out suddenly, swiping a quick hand under her eyes. She’s dropped her gaze to the floor, and all he can see is her dark hair covering her face.
“What?”
Padma’s breath is short and choppy, and she still won’t look at him. “I know what I look like, George. I know what you see when you look at me.”
It occurs to George that for such a brilliant inventor and wizard; he is truly an idiot sometimes.
There are no mirrors in his flat — he avoids them even when in public. Won’t look at photos, or even glance down at puddles. He remembers vividly how painful it had been the first few times he walked in his mother’s house after the war, and for the tiniest of moments, her face had lit up with joy until realization had set in.
Carrying the identical reflection to someone who is gone is a terrible burden.
George’s hands tremble as he reaches for her, fingers gentle on her chin. He drags her face up until she is staring at him again, tears rolling out of her eyes. It’s breaking his heart.
“You aren’t your sister, Padma,” George whispers. “I know — trust me — I know how it feels. But I’ve learned who you are. I know you — I don’t see Parvati.”
She shakes her head as if denying his words. “How? I see her everywhere.”
“Of course you do,” George says, reaching over and tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “I still see Fred all the time.”
She sniffs and cautiously meets his eyes again. He doesn’t blink, barely even moves — and she reaches for him for the first time without tears in her eyes. She wraps her fingers in his shirt and tugs him off his stool into an embrace. Her hair tickles his chin, and his heart pounds.
“Are you sure?” She asks, voice muffled in the fabric of his shirt. “Are you sure you don’t mind if I stay?”
“I don’t mind,” George breathes. “Stay as long as you want.”
The thread between them hums, and George holds her tighter.
Wednesday, February 9th
The last two days have settled them into a rhythm that George is cautiously trusting. Each morning, he leaves Padma sleeping and opens the store. He spends the day with customers or on his own, and tinkers with various products. At closing time, he ascends his stairs and Padma is waiting for him, with some semblance of dinner on the counter.
He always thanks her and never asks her to explain what she does all day. It’s enough that she’s out of bed — enough that, unlike when he lost Fred, there are no bottles of alcohol in their flat.
Tonight, they are eating spaghetti bolognese with no meatballs, a fact Padma has apologized for three times already.
“It’s fine, Padma, really,” George assures her. It tastes like cardboard, but George shovels another mouthful in.
She winces. “I think you’re exaggerating. I’m not much of a cook, to be honest.”
“I’m not picky,” George says again, swallowing.
Padma rolls her eyes but smiles into her bite, and George finishes every last morsel on his plate. When she finishes, he sets a household charm on the plates and they float to the sink, the sponge springing up to wash them.
“My mother’s trick,” George explains. “Though I’ll never admit to her that it’s clever.”
Padma laughs, and the sound brightens the very air around them. George can’t help but grin back at her.
“Would you like to go somewhere?” George asks impulsively. He knows she hasn’t left the flat in ages; probably not even since Cho’s funeral.
Her smile dims, but she still asks, “Where?”
“Anywhere you want,” George shrugs. “We could just go for a walk, or get some ice cream?”
“Fortescue’s?” Her voice has shades of panic in it, and it doesn’t take George long to realize that Padma is avoiding places where she might run into people, or worse — she’s avoiding places where she’s been with Parvati.
George forces his smile to remain. “Nah, Fortescue’s isn’t that great.” It’s a lie, as their ice cream is the best he’s ever tasted. “I know of a muggle ice cream shop that’s not bad, though?”
Relief blossoms over Padma’s face, and she nods tentatively. George grins.
“Alright! Let’s go!”
She follows him downstairs, and George spends the entire time wracking his brain for any possible ice cream shop he’s ever heard of in muggle London. When they reach the street, she reaches out and laces her arm through his, smiling gently at him.
“You ready?” George asks.
Padma’s soft smile blooms into a grin, and he apparates them into a quiet alleyway near a small muggle park.
Padma laughs.
“What’s so funny?” George asks.
“You don’t know a muggle ice cream shop, do you, George?”
George shrugs helplessly and joins her in her laughter.
They decide to go to a cafe they can see on the corner, and George sighs in relief when he remembers he kept a few crinkled muggle bills at Hermione’s insistence in his wallet. He and Padma both order hot cocoa and they sit close to a window, watching snow lightly drift down as the sun sets on the city.
Even as their conversation fades into quiet, George is content. Padma, although more introspective now, has lost the devastated edge she has been carrying with her.
“I miss her,” Padma says quietly, eyes on the snow.
“You always will,” George tells her. “I miss her, too. It’s not a bad thing. It means she was worth missing.”
Padma’s eyes drift to his, and they are filled with warmth. “She was. I’m glad you knew her.”
“Me too,” George agrees honestly. “Though, admittedly, the whole unexpected marriage thing was a terrible way to get to know someone.”
Padma’s laugh rings out again. “Yes, she wasn’t thrilled she received your name either, actually. Hadn’t seen it coming and locked herself in her room for hours. I hadn’t seen her throw a tantrum like that since fourth year.”
George holds his grin, but he’s suddenly remembering Parvati’s desperate, blood-streaked face as she gasped that his match should have always been Padma. The way he had assured Parvati that he knew, his words repeating long after she took her last breath.
He doesn’t say this to Padma — doesn’t want to tell her that Parvati’s tantrum had not been because they had matched her to George, but because it wasn’t Padma who matched him.
“It’s okay, you know.” Padma’s voice draws him back. Her hair is coming out of her tidy plait, and long tendrils skirt around her face. She’s the most beautiful and sad thing he’s ever witnessed.
“What?” He asks, half-strangled.
Padma shrugs. “It’s okay if you think it was a mistake to kiss me. A lot has happened, and I — well. It’s okay.”
George has rarely found himself at a loss for words, and even when he had, historically, there had been Fred to continue his sentences. Now, though, he is on his own.
He wants to deny it, firstly. Wants to explain that his every waking minute is spent vacillating between wanting to kiss Padma again and wanting to tear his own heart out for letting her sister die. He wants to carry her through this hurt and come out on the other side and become something different — something together.
But he knows she’s right. A lot has happened; and while he doesn’t regret kissing her for one single moment, he also understands if she can’t handle tangling her emotions together again when they are so fragile.
How well he recalls how he had told Parvati, upon realizing he was supposed to marry her, what a mess he was. How utterly unprepared he was to extend his emotions or his heart to anyone, even in a farce of a marriage.
“It is okay,” George agrees quietly. “It is okay if too much has happened, if you don’t want that anymore. But I don’t think it was a mistake to kiss you. I’ve never regretted that.”
Her eyes flash up to meet his. “But — you haven’t —” She stammers.
George reaches across the endless table and cradles her hand in his. He sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly, steadying his nerves.
“When Fred died, I was… not well. I was slowly but surely on the way to killing myself, whether by alcohol or sheer despair, I don’t know. Your sister saved me. She dragged me up to where I could finally see all these people rallying around me — all these people that I love so much, and they were there the whole time.” George pauses for a moment, his voice unsteady as he thinks of the enduring love his family had poured on him. The way he had drowned so much more than pain out with firewhiskey.
He blinks away moisture. “Parvati saved me, Padma. She gave me my family back. Gave me my life and my store. And then — then she led me to you.”
“What—”
George interrupts her. “You’re funny and smart, and probably the most beautiful person I’ve ever met in real life.” Padma chokes on a watery laugh, but he continues on. “And I don’t care if it’s just this — if it’s just you and me having mediocre dinners and getting coffee and swallowing a lifetime of grief for the next few decades. But when, and if, you’d ever want me to kiss you again, all you’d have to do is ask.”
He realizes he’s been staring somewhere over her shoulder as he unleashed his verbal stream, and he drags his gaze back to Padma’s face. He’s dreading what he’ll see, but Padma looks mostly amused.
“You admit my dinners are shite, then?” Padma asks archly.
George chokes on a laugh. “I said they were mediocre, witch, not shite.”
“They are shite, though,” Padma bemoans. “That pasta tasted like ashes.”
George squeezes her hand. “We can start ordering in.”
“Probably for the best before I accidentally poison us.”
George stands and Padma follows him, and he drops his gaze to where his hand is still entwined in hers. She squeezes, and his eyes snap back to hers.
“Thank you, George,” Padma whispers. He shrugs, but she doesn’t let go of his hand the entire way out of the cafe. When they reach the quiet alley, she wraps her arms around his torso and lays her head on his pounding heart.
“Let’s go home?” She asks.
The sound of the word is so sweet coming from her voice that George wraps his own arms around her, and waits for a heartbeat before apparating, just to memorize it a moment longer.
Thursday, February 10th
George wakes up alone. He had gone to sleep alone, with Padma waving shyly from her doorframe after their cocoa. Halfway through the night, he recalls a hazy memory of her warm form crawling into his bed, tucking herself into his side. She’s gone now, and the bed is cool where she had been.
Instead, at the foot of his bed, is a brown paper-wrapped package. He reaches for it and drags it toward himself, baffled at what Padma could have gotten him. When he sees the envelope tucked under a crimson ribbon, though, George freezes.
It’s Parvati’s writing.
With shaking hands, he sets the box down and snatches his wand. He enters the hallway, prodding at his wards, his Floo, his windows. Everything is intact. No one has been here, other than Padma and himself.
Padma’s door remains tightly closed, and George presses his ear against it softly, hearing nothing but slow steady breaths. Not Padma, then.
He returns to his room and casts every counter spell he can think of on the box. Nothing reveals itself, and so George tugs the card from the ribbon and opens it as though defusing a bomb.
‘My Dearest George,
Happy February 10th — exactly 3 months and four days from when you asked if I would ever let you have another drink. Your patience, kindness, friendship, bravery, and trust were more than I ever deserved in life; and I cannot begin to explain how proud I am of you for keeping your promise and staying far from the firewhiskey. I think perhaps that if you’d like, you’re ready. This time, though, I would like it if you would drink in happiness instead. Toast with Padma, to your new lives, to your old friends, to freedom. Take care of each other.
With all my love and blessings — I see only happiness in your future now.
Parvati
PS: Padma — The journals are in the cellar. I love you, I love you, I love you. I see it all, and it is so incredibly beautiful.’
George lets the card fall to his bedspread with limp fingers. He always knew Parvati saw more than he ever imagined — but even he is baffled with how she could have possibly arranged this before her death.
He opens the package carefully; not out of fear anymore, but out of reverence. Inside is an incredibly expensive bottle of champagne, complete with two crystal flutes.
George leaves it on his bed and goes to Padma’s door. He cracks it open slowly, finding her tangled in her covers but sleeping peacefully. Despite his quiet steps, her eyes crack open before he reaches the bed.
“Hi,” George whispers. “It’s just me.”
“What’s wrong?” She asks immediately, dragging herself into a sitting position.
George swallows — he’s not sure if this will help or hurt, but Padma deserves to know. He reaches out and takes her hand again, sweeping a gentle thumb across her knuckles.
“I think perhaps you should come and see,” George says. She follows him back to his room, finds the open box with the champagne, and the card penned in Parvati’s hand.
Padma drops his hand and falls to her knees in front of the bed, reaching out with trembling fingers to the card. She reads over the words breathlessly, and when she hits the note written for herself, she presses the card to her forehead, as though she can burn Parvati’s love into her brain.
George lowers himself beside her, and they sit like that for hours. Slowly, Padma uncoils herself until she is pressed against his shoulder, and their legs have gone numb. The sun creeps out and stains his curtains gold, and George debates on closing the store entirely for this day.
“I told her,” Padma swallows. “I told her to write about being a seer. She struggled so much with learning how to control it all herself. She always blew me off.”
George nods, “Is that what she means by the journals?”
“I think so,” Padma whispers.
“What do you think she meant by she sees it all and it is so beautiful?” George asks quietly.
At this, Padma turns to him, a tremulous smile on her lips. Tears stain her eyes and her fingers are clutching the card, but her expression is clear.
“I think maybe we should open the champagne, and toast to her, and us, and Fred, and anyone else we’ve loved and lost,” Padma says. “And I think then maybe you should kiss me.”
George decides not to wait for the champagne, and instead, he tangles his fingers in her sleep-mussed hair and presses his lips to hers, treasuring each moment that they curl into a smile.
The day wears on, and she ends up sitting between his legs, animatedly telling stories about her childhood with Parvati. The priceless champagne splashes out of her glass when she gestures too wildly, and George watches it all with joy. She punctuates her sentences with kisses, and they both laugh, and sometimes they cry, too.
Without a hint of jealousy or resentment, George sips at the sparkling water in his glass, a small can found buried within the package at the bottom, a single sentence scrawled across it in faded parchment:
‘just in case you’d rather be there for it all, instead. treasure it. -P’
Some things, it seems, cannot be seen.
There are still days when Padma doesn’t leave her room.
There are nights when they coil against each other and kiss until they are a single person, and neither of them can feel the aching loss that hangs beside them.
Padma eventually digs the journals up from her parent's basement and spends endless hours reading through them; she pieces together Parvati’s story with painstaking care, caught between loving her sister so desperately, and hating this gift that brought her such pain.
She transcribes them all, erasing all identifying features. Hermione helps her in securing anonymous publishing through an Australian wizarding publishing house, and the ‘Journals of a Seer’ become immediately sought after in every wizarding library in the world.
They do not need the money, since Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes has grown to new heights since the war, and so instead Padma ensures that every cent returns directly to the wizarding hospitals in whatever country the sale was in.
They spend their days and weeks and months together; they grieve and they love and they treasure every single moment, even when their hearts are breaking.
And Parvati was right, after all. It is so incredibly beautiful.