Forget Me Not || George Weasley

Chapter 35

"I like her."

George has been staring at the hourglass just behind Conor O'Connor's shoulder for almost the entire session. Though this time it's not because he wants to get the hell out of the healer's office. It's because it's taken him that long to build up the courage to say the thing that's been sticking to his mind like syrup.

He used to not like syrup. It was too messy. But watching Olive Murphy lick it from her fingertips like it was the most delicious thing in the world had caused another round of embarrassing late night whispers of her name and sweating beneath his sheets. The thought of it makes his cheeks burn with shame.

Olive was young, free spirited. And seeing her hurting had left a lasting impact on George he didn't think would fade anytime soon. He'd stayed close the days following her head ache, taking afternoons off to watch her make brand new creations in the kitchen behind the shop. George liked listening to her mess up words of muggle songs he still hadn't told her he'd listened to when Fred was alive. He liked when they didn't talk too, when they would just be quiet together.

He liked her. He liked her a lot. Even when his subconscious would scold him for staring at the smooth strip of skin that would show between the belt of her pants and her odd shirts whenever she struggled to reach something over her head. She was young. He tried to remember that. It was hard when he spent waking hours at night picturing what that skin would feel like under his tongue, sticky with syrup from them having breakfast in bed.

"Who?"

George scoffs at the question, clenching his jaw and lifting his eyes to stare at the fir tree painting. He used to be able to tolerate that green, but he didn't like it so much anymore. Olive green. That's what he likes.

"Never mind," George mumbles, covering his mouth with his palm and pressing. He huffs quietly when O'Connor asks, "Don't tell me you're finally admitting it, George?"

His head whips back to stare at the healer, eyes narrowing at the tiny smile on his face. George grunts, deciding to ignore the comment and how it irritates him. The healer leans forward in his chair, asking gently, "Have you heard from Angelina?"

George had told Conor O'Connor what happened. It was the first time George had cried in front of him in some time. He'd yelled, shouted, wept. But he hadn't broken anything, he didn't smash the hourglass. He'd just held one of the pillows tight to his chest, wishing he was hugging someone instead.

"No," George nearly chokes on the word. He hesitates before muttering, "I don't reckon I'll see her again for some time."

"And you're okay with that?"

George nods, feeling a pang in his chest. He closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling slowly before exhaling, "She's not him. I'm not him. I think we're about as horrible a match for each other as everyone has been saying."

"And Olive?"

George swallows. "She's young."

Conor O'Connor snorts at his words, shaking his head in disbelief. George bristles, defending, "She's four years—"

"You're young, George," The healer interjects, something that looks damned close to affection glinting behind his horned rimmed glasses. "You're young too, George. I think you'd do well to remember that."

"I feel ancient around her," George mumbles shamefully. That was true, and he couldn't deny it. Her attitude was so joyful, so youthful. And sometimes when he woke up in the morning he still wished that he could just go back to sleep for the rest of time. He felt old, decrepit compared to her. He hesitates again before grumbling, "She scares me."