Forget Me Not || George Weasley

Chapter 2

For as painful as returning to Weasley's Wizard Wheezes had been A.F.D, George fell in love with work.

Not the inventing part, that part still hurt his chest so badly that he could hardly look at the table in the workroom that he and Fred had spent long nights at. It had gone untouched for two years, the door usually locked up. Sometimes, George would leave it open so that he could walk by and pretend that Fred was inside, working hard at an idea that he wasn't ready to share yet.

The labor, the bills. He thrived on the quiet, intensive work that had to be done to keep the shop running. He couldn't lose it too. So, he dove head first into the trades made, the exports and imports, the business ads, the maintenance. He worked with his mind, his hands. Instead of his heart.

He left that part to Lee now.

George rolls his eyes at the relentless flirting that's taking place at the counter, peering over the boxes he's stacking to see that Lee is chatting up a girl with long chocolatey hair and red lips. He snorts and rolls his eyes again, wondering which customer he'll compliment next.

The girl looks up and sees George watching, her cheeks flushing a deep red that nearly matches her wasp stung lips. Lee follows her gaze and grins brilliantly, half turning back to the girl and whispering something in her ear.

Her eyes grow round and George reaches for his wand to hex the life out of Lee Jordan when that girl starts walking his way. A prickle of panic runs up his spine, his palms sweating to the point of nearly dropping the box he's stacking. He didn't really like talking to strangers anymore. Any charm that he had once had was crushed under rubble and stone at Hogwarts, leaving behind a cold and clinical shell that didn't really know how to communicate. Intimacy was a topic that Connor O'Connor had tried to broach multiple times, but George clamped shut and left in a fit whenever it came up. Some things were just better left unsaid.

"Is it true that you make all of those love potions?"

George studies the writing on the box in his hands, the locked up creative version of himself curious about rebranding. The letters were small, and while it hadn't bothered him before, a number of his clients had injuries from the war that impacted their sight. But that would mean changing it, and George fucking hated change.

"No," His voice sounds stiff, and the peripheral view he has of this girl reveals the tight tank top that slips up when she clasps her hands together under her chin. He grimaces at the way she obviously doesn't get the hint. "We made the first few rounds, and then hired vendors to do it for us."

"You and Lee?"

The box he's studying drops to the floor, his blood turning an inhumane scalding temperature in his veins. His face is practically radiating heat, and the breathing techniques he'd begrudgingly adopted do nothing to cool his boiling heart. His empty hands flex, his fingers curling in to hide in the dampness of his palm. Breathe. Breathe. This girl didn't know. She didn't do anything wrong.

He still wanted to scream, to destroy the neat tower of product he'd spent an hour shifting to be perfectly in view of the large glass windows. The heat of anger burns him like the summer sun and then he's blurting, voice curt and heated, "What--"

"George."

His spine is going to snap from the tension in his body, and still this girl is just looking at him, licking her red lips and smiling coyly. She doesn't know. No body fucking knows. His eyes flit to where his best mate is stood with his arms crossed across his body, his skin dark and muscles strained against the tight white T-shirt he insists on wearing despite how unprofessional George says it looks. His eyes are narrowed and George wants to scream at him too, tell him that this is his fault and if he would just keep the flirting--