Forget Me Not || George Weasley

Chapter 34

When Olive pries her eyes open, met with cool dark cloth blocking the light from reaching her, she inhales deeply and waits.

Her body feels weak, her limbs heavy and back sore. She waits, waits for her mind to betray her. But she nearly weeps like a baby when she realizes that her head no longer feels like it's going to explode. No sharp pains, no burning sensation.

She doesn't attempt to sift through the memories that had waged war on her healing mind. She just knows they're there.

Olive reaches up, slowly pulling the cloth from her eyes and squinting at her bedroom. She has a faint recollection of George whispering to her, his arm supporting her as the pain in her head forced her to vomit up any remnants of the little food she'd forced down in the last few days. But the blankets beside her are neat and free of wrinkles besides the way it's tucked in around by her feet.

Olive sighs, a tired smile curling her lips. George. Her eyes close, but she quickly snaps them open when her mind throws an image at her like it's pitching a tantrum, an image of a frantic boy with golden skin and hazel eyes and a face that reminds her of pain.

Nope. She wouldn't think of him today. She hadn't thought of him much in the last two years, and she wouldn't start to now.

She groans as she sits up, eyes sore as they take in her room. Her lips part in surprise, taking in the way her floor is free of scattered clothes and the way her pink trainers are tucked neatly by the door. Her cheeks warm. Then they turn to flames when she spies a note on her bedside table.

Ollie,

Your bed is a lot more comfortable than your sofa. It's a shame that you snore. Go ahead and take your time waking up, try to relax. I've got everything under control.

P.s. I hope you don't mind—I used your shower and your girlie soaps. I will accept three jokes about it before I get offended.

-George

Merlin. Olive smothers her face in her blankets, trying to ward away her smile and embarrassment. She very slowly sits up and swings her legs over the bed, her stomach turning slightly at the movement. She grimaces as she stands, head hurting for only a moment as she becomes accustomed to the floor under her feet once again.

The shuffle to the bathroom is slow, her time in the shower is even slower. She pours her ruby colored shampoo in her hands, takes time to carefully suds her hair until she feels certain it's clean. Her conditioner stays on as she studies the 'girlie' soaps George apparently used, bottles lined up neatly in a row and still dappled with water droplets from the last person that had showered.

Her eyes linger on the lavender colored liquid, hands reaching out for it before she can stop herself. It doesn't smell like much, but it shimmers and shines as she soaps up her hands.

And when she's done, she watches as the soap and bubbles circle the drain like her memories so often do. Her chest feels heavier at the thought, but she refrains from digging into it. When she shoves her shower curtain aside and steps into the bathroom, she freezes in front of her steam clouded mirror.

There, drawn exactly where her face would be if she could see her reflection, is a round depiction of a sun in the steam, rays sprouting off in chaotic directions. It's not a famous painting, but when she sees her name drawn in far more beautiful scrawl than she is capable of, she feels like she's looking at something that she be framed in a gallery. And she pictures George standing in front of the mirror after his shower, a blank canvas for him to do anything to. Everything to.

And he chose this.

Ignoring her body telling her to slow down, she rushes from the bathroom and throws on sweats and a shirt with a rather cute embroidered ice cream cone on it. Her hair is still dripping with water when she pads out of her room and down the hall, chasing the smell of something that makes her stomach rumble.