Forget Me Not || George Weasley

Chapter 15

George stares up at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

His ears are humming so loudly he's momentarily scared he has gone mental. Maybe Percy was right. He goes to swallow and nearly gags, spiting the blood from his mouth and ignoring the grunt of disgust that sounds from Bill on his right. Charlie is holding his left in a fucking vice grip, so if he made any sound there wasn't any real chance of George hearing it. Not that he'd really care. Charlie was more of the silent disapproving type. 

He can hear crying though. He can hear Teddy and baby Victoire wailing. He can hear his dad trying to comfort  his hysterical mother and Harry reassuring his sister that everything is fine. He can hear Percy's faint shouting, and the rage in Ron's voice as he screams back.

And fuck, he can hear humming. Loud, unforgivable. That humming burns like the curse that fucked up the hearing in his left ear. It burns up the words that George wants to say, completely suffocates any coherent thread of consciousness.  Until a sudden thought rolls through his mind and the noise in his ears ceases almost immediately,

"Ollie."

He blinks at the ceiling, like he's surprised he's said it. But he had. Ollie. Merlin, he couldn't hear her. Had she left? He wouldn't blame—

"Hi, George. How's the weather up there?"

He smells raspberry and feels a gentle nudge against his foot. She's standing in front of him, leaning to his right so that he can hear her. Loud and clear. He can hear Ollie. Blood is pooling in his mouth, but he doesn't want to spit again. Relief cools his sweating palms, but he pauses when he realizes what she'd said. His brows furrow slightly, "Did you just make a joke?"

He's asking, because he wants to make sure he understands. He wants to understand. He wants her to understand. This is him now, but it didn't used to be. And he can't explain the newfound embarrassment over it, over the fact that he used to be liked by his family. He can practically see her sheepish grin when she replies nervously, "Sorry. I'm horrible in a crisis. Can I offer you a riddle or a limerick instead?"

George feels his lips move, feels them twist and lift and feels his cheeks raise slightly. Smiling. Up at the ceiling. He's smiling, and even though his mouth hurts, the act of smiling doesn't. He chuckles slightly, the noise like the rusty engine of the car that Ron and Harry had crashed into the whomping willow so long ago. 

"Sure," He's smiling, and Charlie and Bill's grips on his arms are loosening. "A limerick might be nice."

"Oh. I didn't really think you'd say yes. I...I don't reckon I remember one off the top of my head, George."

He grins at the ceiling, ignoring how the expression feels like it's hanging off a cliff over sharp and deadly rocks, and he slowly shakes his head. He clears his throat in the hopes that she can't tell he's smiling, that he's close to actually laughing, "That's alright. Next time maybe."

"Hey, George?"

"Yeah, Ollie."

A beat of silence, and then, "Could you look at me?"

No.

His smile slips from his face and his eyes begin to water. The image of the ceiling begins to blur and his limbs tremble in the thin line he has them pressed in. No. He couldn't look at her. He screws up his face, clenches his eyes shut. No. She couldn't see him like this. He wasn't sure why, but now he wants to tell her to leave. To tell her to fuck off and that she should never look at him again, even when he someday manages to look at her. 

But then he's tipping his head down anyway, his eyes reluctantly opening and meeting sage green. Olive smiles, and George's knees nearly buckle. He blinks at her, his spine threatening to snap under the tension of his body.