AN: Hey! So I wrote this a bit ago and only remembered it to correct the saying that I used. Originally I had it as "fools jump in" instead of "fools rush in". I figured you would appreciate accuracy.

I really like Draco/George for some reason. I don't know why, I just... do. So this. Yeah. Beware of shock!George. Oh, and I also slipped a mention of Fred/Cedric because... I could. So yeah. FWCD mention also.

I do not own the settings, characters, or shared plot for this. They all belong to JK Rowling and whoever she sold permission to.

Oh, and many, MANY thanks to my new editor, alexsblackrose. Now it is actually suitable for the eyes of the public!

Enjoy!

~Kiro

George Weasley was not one to look before he jumped. He was one to glance ahead at the consequences, put up a bit of a fight, but be dragged in anyways by his brother. Or he was one to say fuck you to the consequences and rush in headlong with a finger raised in passing salute. Either way, he did not deliberate over what would happen if, indeed, he did what he liked.

This got George into a lot of trouble in his life. His first memory was slipping a scorpion into his brother Bill's bed when he was three. His second memory was his and his twin brother's grand escape from the timeout, which had been their punishment.

George did what he felt like, that was one of the rules of his existence. He and his twin had actually made a list of Rules for Being a Weasley Twin when they were twelve. After the first rule of "never follow the rules" was "do what you feel like" in Fred's unreadable young scrawl.

George felt that his Mark reflected that, as he happily told anyone who would hear. He had been almost sad when he had received his Mark at sixteen, as it was the only thing that distinguished him from Fred. As a consequence, he had done everything he could to brag about his Mark (or, at times, his brother's). And if that seems counterintuitive, that's only because you have never met the Weasley twins.

The twins took great care to hide their Marks most of the time, if only to confuse people by remaining indistinguishable, and had joked about getting a tattoo of each other's Mark. They never did, though. The Mark was too personal for even the infamous twins to share.

Right up until the final battle, there was great speculation as to each teen's Mark. Fred would boast and George would brag, but not once had anyone but them seen either's Mark. Ron swore that they would say something like "ball and chain" or "Loki's wife", but no one guessed correctly.

Thinking back, George could and did tell anyone about the day he and his brother turned sixteen.

The two sixteen-year-olds had stayed up past midnight, as was often customary for wizards and witches to do on their sixteenth birthdays. As soon as the clock struck twelve, unashamed, they stripped in front of the bathroom mirror to search for their Marks.

Within moments Fred found his, the bright red of a bleeding heart, curving down his left hip. George took a fair few minutes longer to find his own. When he did find it, after about five minutes, he discovered that it was written in elegant white script very close in color to his natural skin tone. It presided quite proudly over George's ass as if it were the tramp stamp that its position suggested. He struggled to read it in the dim light of the bathroom, not aided at all by the awkward position he had to take to read the damn thing.

Fred, of course, was not much help. He took one look at it and burst into laughter at his brother's predicament.

"Oh, man, you have got to see this. You must have one right cocky git after your heart, mate."

"Oi! Don't say that about my Destined, you prat!"

Fred merely laughed and watched as his brother continued to contort at strange angles before him. After a minute, he grew tired of the spectacle and decided to help the troubled teen.

"Here, this'll help you see past your fat ass." He held up a hand mirror and motioned to the wall mirror behind them, receiving a glare for his trouble.

"You had this the entire time, didn't you?"

He received a cheeky grin.

"Of course, my lord."

With a half-hearted glare, George snatched the mirror from his hand and held it before his ass, reading in the mirror.

"Only fools rush in? What kind of a Mark is that?!"

Fred grinned at his dismayed brother.

"One fit for a Weasley, that's what. Now come on, let's get to bed. I'm practically dead on my feet."

"Could've fooled me..." George grumbled, but followed his brother none the less.

But George's storytelling stints were only years later, long after the war had passed and Fred's death no longer felt like such a rent in George's soul. And it was definitely long after George and his Prat's Bonding.

The Bonding happened at both the best and least convenient moment for all parties involved. It was after the final battle, but before it became The Final Battle, when the dead were laid out in the Great Hall and families wept over the corpses of their loved ones.

George was simply staring into space, at the cracked, no longer charmed, ceiling of the Hall, his body stiff and unfeeling. The sounds of his mother's tears and his brother's awkward praises of the fallen trickster rose and fell in the background. George hadn't been able to shed tears yet. He was so far away from the world of the living that he didn't even know if he was still attached to his body.

All that George could think was that his brother could be happy now. Few knew this, but the Mark that had been bright red on the twins' sixteenth birthday had turned to a sickly black after the last task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. He hoped that now Fred would be able to meet his lover in the afterlife. He hoped that his twin would be happy, at least.

Images of Fred, alive and laughing, flickered back and forth across his mind alongside Fred, dead and rotting, eyes staring at nothing. George felt like he matched his twin even in death, his eyes staring at nothing and his heart rotting in his chest. They were the pair, always together, never separated. Not even in death.

Slowly, George became aware of a figure standing in front of him. His eyes slowly drew back into focus, as he stared out from his shell at the person who was speaking his name. The words came as if from another world, echoing across a distance caused by the sounds of tears all around them.

"Weasley. I- I wanted to say that I'm sorry. For your twin, and for everything that I used to say about you and your family. I know that it's not much, but- I needed to say it."

George fought to comprehend the sounds, the noise, and interpret it to English. 'Sorry, twin, family, much, say' stuck out at him and he tried to piece them together, opening his mouth and furrowing his brow. He struggled to form words, but they didn't come. The figure in front of him shifted nervously, then stuck out a hand.

"Truce? I know it's not much in the face of grief, but I would like to help however I can."

George's brain fumbled with the words, forming into rough semblances of sense. The hand broke his mind from its stupor, forcing it close enough to lucidity for the red haired man to realize he was expected to take that hand. He still didn't quite understand what was going on, nor did it click in his brain as to who exactly this was, but he reached out and took the hand anyway.

The reaction wasn't immediate. Rather, it came in a slow-fading succession, like a ship approaching harbor through the mist. A glow, small at first, then growing larger by the second, began at the place where two hands clasped in dry warmth. Accompanying the glow there came a small light, starting as not more than a glimmer but growing steadier. It shone from the identity-less figure's shoulder blades and, too, from the lower back of George, who was slowly becoming more lucid. As the glow escalated to a true light, George managed to realize what was happening, and as the white-amber light grew to a blaze the meaning of the event managed to click in his head. As the blaze faded away much more quickly than it had started, George stared in astonishment at the surprised figure before him.

George finally took in the sharp features, the white-blonde hair, the wide grey eyes. His mind struggled to supply an identity, but then it was thrust into his conscious like a pike. Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. Arrogant prat, rich as can be, snarky as you please, on the opposite side of the war and not who he would ever have considered as- what? What the hell was this, anyway?

George fought for an explanation, a response, an action, anything, and came up blank. He opened his mouth and shut it again, staring incredulously and uncomprehending at the eyes of the man before him. He opened his mouth and tried again.

"What?"

Draco, too, opened and closed his mouth before formulating an answer.

"It would seem that we are SoulMates, Weasley."

George's mind slipped away again and his eyes glazed over. He pulled back into himself, sending out inquiries into his thoughts and receiving no answer from the inside of his head. Outside of him, his ears caught the distorted sound of rustling, a commotion, someone calling out about shock and potions, and he felt a warm hand still in his, saw a blonde head shake back and forth as he called out. George comprehended none of this, still lost in his world inside his head.

A warm hand pressed against George's face, pulling open his jaw with gentleness that was lost on the half-aware man. A bottle was pressed to his lips and liquid filled his mouth, which George swallowed automatically. The cold glass was removed, and the warmth shut his mouth, but kept its place on his face.

The fog inside George's mind thinned, his brain reconnected with his conscious that reconnected with his body. The eyes refocused and traced a path over concerned pale features, a pink mouth downturned at the corner, a forehead scrunched into wrinkles. George lifted a hand to stroke away the crags in the skin, smoothing the milky complexion.

"Don't worry, love. I'm back now. What was this about SoulMates?"

George rushed in. He completely ignored the fact that his pants were now ruined, his Mark having burned straight through the waistband. He hardly even noticed that his trousers were around his lower thighs as he brought his lips to those of his Bonded Beloved.

Draco always called him His Fool after that day, when George apparated directly out of the broken castle wards to his room at the Burrow, shoving his Bonded to sit on the bed and happily attacking his face with his mouth. Later, the two lay talking on the same bed. Draco was draped half-on top of George, head buried in his fiancee's neck. George stared contemplatively at the ceiling as the two discussed the coming nuptials, tracing the caramel-colored words on his Beloved's back.

"where Angels fear to tread"