Forget Me Not || George Weasley

Chapter 11

If there was one thing that Olive loved more than ice cream, it was her grandfather.

She is practically vibrating with excitement, perched precariously on the curved arm of his tufted sofa. She loved his sofa, loved his tiny A-Frame house, and absolutely adored his dog. Franklin, a rather chubby blood hound with eyes that seemed to know more than a dog should.

"Well?" Olive demands, "Aren't you going to open it?!"

Her grandfather was eighty seven today. August second. She hadn't forgotten, and that was the second greatest gift of the day.

His wrinkles deepen with his smile, and Olive watches the way his hands slowly run over the sides of her not so neatly wrapped gift. He lets out a snort, asking cheekily, "Don't tell me you're going blind as well, Olive."

Her cheeks warm, and she can't help but roll her eyes. Olive didn't remember her grandfather going blind. He just always had been. Not that it really mattered. Philip Murphy was the most observant person she'd ever met, strong and barrel chested despite his age.

She didn't ask him much about his sight. It only conjured memories of war that she knew made him sad. She understood now. Better than she had when she was a child.

"Please, grandad," Olive begs, "Just open the sodding thing already!"

Franklin lifts his head, a rather melancholy howl sounding from the dog. Olive grins, saying pointedly, "See! Even Frank wants you to!"

"Why don't you use that sodding magic and open it for me?"

Olive bites back a laugh at his playful jab. Her grandmother had been a pureblood witch, and some of her favorite stories as a child were her grandfather recanting how amazed he was to see that the things he'd dreamed of could be real. That magic was real. He said he fell in love with grandmum because she fell in love with muggles, that she made him realize he'd been around magic his whole life. It just wasn't the magic he'd envisioned. She'd tried to ask him what he meant. He'd never give it away.

Olive never knew her father, never got to know her mother. But her grandfather told her that his daughter had loved Olive the moment she found out she'd been pregnant. It hadn't mattered that she was young, that she was single. So Olive loved her mother too, even though she never got to know her.

She's stirred from her thoughts by the sound of ripping paper, her eyes zeroing in on her Grandfather's expression when he finally tears away the last of the shiny blue paper. His mouth lifts into a warm smile, fingers tracing the slope of the new pipe.

"Olive," He chides with a sigh.

"Don't even," She scolds quickly, leaning down to scratch Franklin on his belly. "I'm making plenty of money and you deserve the best."

Her heart suddenly clenches painfully. He deserved the best. He'd given her the best. And while he was still strong, still him, he was growing older. She was terrified. Terrified not just of losing him, but losing the memories that she held so close to her heart.

She silently wipes at her cheeks, smile wobbling when she looks at the melting ice cream cake on the coffee table, their polka dot paper plates discarded next to it. He'd been so excited, so grateful to have a treat. She was grateful too.

Franklin eyes the last bit of cake like he's tempted to reach for it, but then he just rolls over, evidently too lazy to even do that much.

"This is beautiful, Olive. Is this the vanilla?"

He's smelling the tobacco box now, a rather pleased grin on his face. Olive swallows roughly, voice strong despite her tears, "Of course! It's your favorite, isn't it?"