Forget Me Not || George Weasley

Chapter 31

George grimaces at the squeak that sounds from the rusted lawn chair as he shifts his weight around.

These chairs were horrible, likely due to the rounds of prank materials they'd been subjected too during the testing phase of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. B.F.D. He waits for his body to grow stiff, for his heart to struggle and trip over its normal rhythm. It does, but not because he's thought of Fred.

It's because he's watching Olive, her hands carefully and confidently accepting Victoire from Fleur. He swallows, inhaling slowly and biting on the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He was doing it more now, struggling not too instead of straining to figure out how.

Olive leans her head down to study the baby in her arms, and George notes the way Fleur seems just as enamored with the ice cream witch as the rest of his family. He'd had to rescue her from relentless questions of muggle inventions from his father, stop her from falling into the trap of another hug from his mother. Charlie and Harry had spent nearly half an hour laughing with the blonde, and George had nearly broken his knuckles on the wall when Charlie so effortlessly slung an arm around Olive's shoulders and playfully tugged on one of her curls. It wasn't fair. He wanted to do that.

But when Olive looks up from the baby she's shifted to rest on one hip, she turns her head over her shoulder, easily finding him. He feels greedy when she smiles, when her eyes look lighter compared to the grass and trees and hedges. That smile, that green, were his.

George's lips twitch slightly and he lifts a hand to wave at her. Olive's smile grows into a toothy grin and he's out of the stupid, half broken chair before he can stop himself. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, striding across the lawn as the sun sets and turns the sky a mix of blues and purples and pinks that make him think of brightly colored shoes and dungarees.

Fleur smiles at George as he approaches, saying something to Olive before walking towards the house where Bill is chatting with Hermione. George comes to a stop just a few steps away from Olive, studying the baby that seems so comfortable resting on her hip. Olive tilts her head up to look at him, saying warmly, "Hi, George."

He's not sure why she always greets him like that. They'd spent the day together, not very far from one another. He'd grown accustomed to those green eyes finding him right when he was beginning to panic, to think about Fred or Percy or Angelina. And he would find her, would notice the glaze of confusion over her eyes and smoothly remind her of what someone was talking about by answering their questions so she didn't have to.

She'd sat on his right side during dinner, and when he would get frustrated over the noise of so many people talking, she would crook a finger at him, tilt her head up as he lowered his chin and speak quietly into his good ear to tell him what people were saying.

George swallows, his fists slipping free from his pockets and gently reaching out to grab Victoire's tiny hands. "Hi, Ollie. What are you doing?"

Her cheeks turn pink, and George feels a surge of that greed again. His heart feels weird and warm and awkward at the sight of the rosy color and he's grateful when Victoire's chubby fingers curl around his own. It keeps him from being bold enough to press his fingers against Olive's cheeks to see how warm they get when she's embarrassed.

"I'm just making sure I remember."

His brows furrow in confusion, gaze following to where she's looking down at the sleepy baby in her arms. Her shoulders shrug slightly, "I haven't gotten this close to a child since..."

She trails off, like she's unsure how to say it. He struggles against his urgent need to know more about what happened to her, to know when and why and how. To know who did this, if he had faced the person in battle that had hurt Olive. He feels as surprised as she looks when he says quietly, "A.F.D."