Forget Me Not || George Weasley

Chapter 12

George shifts nervously on the sofa, chancing a look at the healer sitting quietly across from him.

This time it's Conor O'Connor enacting the silent protest. Its uncomfortably stiff, the brutal silence in his office. George looks at the painting of the fir trees, the stacks of books, the stupid lime green robes the healer wears. He waits, waits for Conor O'Connor to speak. But George didn't have half as much patience as the healer.

Not by a long shot.

"What?!" He finally cries, throwing his hands into the air and scowling at the owlish man peering at him. "Don't you have a fucking useful thing to say?!"

O'Connor quirks a grey brow at the outburst, saying calmly, "I was waiting for you to tell me why you canceled our last appointment."

George grimaces, glancing at the hourglass sitting next to the healer. He nearly lets out a shout of frustration when the healer grabs the hourglass and tucks it behind his chair. Now he has no fucking idea how much more of this is left. Only how much more he can take.

"Does it really matter?" George asks coldly, "I definitely don't plan on doing it again."

Conor O'Connor falls silent again, and George struggles with the tug of war in his gut. He was embarrassed, ashamed to admit why he'd canceled. But he also regretted it. Maybe he wouldn't have run out of the Leaky Cauldron if he'd been better prepared for Ron's questions. George swallows, voice hoarse as he finally says, "Olive asked me to stop selling the love potions. I was upset and I--"

"So you cut yourself off from people. George, I understand the impulse to distance yourself from the people you love, but I am here only to listen to you. You're in charge here. I can't help if you won't let me."

He stares at the healer, watches him set down his notepad. He removes his glasses, cleans them on the corner of his robes and then sets them back on his nose. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his clasped hands underneath his chin. Panic claws at George's chest, but the kindness in O'Connor's eyes reminds him to breathe. He doesn't speak again until George is relaxed against the back of the couch, his chest rising and falling evenly. And then the healer asks, "So Olive asked you to stop selling something that you and your brother made?"

George nods, his mouth twisting into a grimace when he recalls the disappointed green that had left him feeling guilty and unsure in his shop. And then he thinks about the blue of her dress at the Leaky Cauldron and says slowly, "I didn't see her for a while after. And then I did, and she explained why she thought I should stop selling them." George pauses, rubs his sweating palms down the arm of his shirt, "I told her about A.F.D."

Conor O'Connor freezes, peering at George like he's misheard him. George presses his lips together to keep from saying something rude, and the healer breaks into a smile that thaws away some of the lingering coldness residing in George's tone.

"So Olive knows that you say A.F.D. Does she respect that?"

George feels the quickness of his nod, "Yeah. She does. I apologized to her."

O'Connor nods and George decides to say something else. If he continued talking, vomiting the events that had happened when he had ditched his last session, maybe he could put off listening to the old bloke's words of wisdom.

"I introduced her to Ron and Hermione. Harry already kind of knew her."

George takes a deep breath, nervousness churning his stomach like it had when he'd seen her at the pub that night, "I think they all like her."

"Do you like her?" O'Connor is smiling slightly, head tilted like he's genuinely curious to know. It's on the tip of his tongue, George's question that had been lingering in his mind. How could he tell if they were friends? He hadn't made a new friend in a while. Instead of asking, George nods his head once. Conor O'Connor doesn't push. So George offers another moment, another confession, "I told her I don't drink anymore."