Forget Me Not || George Weasley

Chapter 3

George winces when the bright overhead lights pierce his retinas, a groan sounding from his lips as he realizes that his hyperventilating had finally caught up to him.

He blinks a few times, his eyes struggling to focus. When they do, he realizes that the lights have been blocked and he is now looking at green. He grimaces at the color, muttering, "Fucking hell."

"Now that was one impressive fall, George."

His brows furrow, face screwing up. He shuts his eyes again to avoid the green, "Thanks. Im a bloke of many talents."

It takes him a second to realize that the girl is laughing. Because he's made a joke. A new round of anxiety shoots through his veins, body lurching upward in an attempt to escape. It's futile. The room spins like a top, and he feels himself slumping back down with another loud groan. That insistent humming in his ear is back, the one that was blown to smithereens by a death eater. He still couldn't hear out of it properly, and the humming that presented itself so frequently didn't help. His nose wrinkles when he feels the girl beside him shifting around, and then she asks, "Would it be okay if I touched you? I'd like to help you sit up."

George opens his eyes, the humming falling completely silent. No one ever asked first. Connor O'Connor did. The healer learned rather quickly that George did not like to be restrained or touched when he was in a volatile head space. It was the first thing that he and the healer had worked on, because Molly Weasley was a big hugger, and George had to relearn to hug her back.

His mouth feels dry and it takes him a few tries to mumble, "Yes."

"Alright then! I'm gonna reach under to grab your shoulders."

He nods and then feels tiny hands slipping just under his back, cupping his shoulder blades and slowly pushing him up into a seated position. He clamps his eyes shut so the room will stop spinning, his ear hot from embarrassment. He should've never left the shop. He should have just stayed and tolerated that witch with her stupid questions and her absurdly tiny shirt and her red lips.

"Put your knees up—yeah, kinda like that. Can I touch you again?"

His head feels heavy when he nods, and his warm skin is quickly cooled by the touch of her palm to the nape of his neck, guiding his head between his bent knees.

He presses his lips together, willing away the last dregs of panic. He can't speak yet, but he listens when the spritely blonde says quietly, "I'll be right back. Don't you dare move while I'm gone."

He sees her bright pink trainers move away out of the corner of his eyes. He inhales slowly for six seconds, then exhales for five. Again. And again. His stomach returns to a relatively nausea free state, the hum in his ears present but quiet.

Her pink shoes appear again in front of him and then she's sitting down on the floor, legs crossed in a way that looks too painful to be comfortable.

Slowly, George lifts his head. Extended towards him is a glass of water and a small cone of ice cream. He blinks in confusion at the sweet, taking the water first and draining it in a few long gulps. His fingers shake when he grabs onto the offered cone, his heart burning slightly.

The ice cream is a rather light shade of purple, and he immediately regrets taking it from her.

"I think you'll like it, George."

He tentatively raises the ice cream to his lips, tasting it just enough to figure out what in the bloody hell it is. He's surprised by the sweet taste, the hint of vanilla that chases a pleasant floral flavor. He lifts his eyes to find the strange girl watching with a raised brow. She's ditched her hat, revealing more flaxen curls.