Forget Me Not || George Weasley

Chapter 47

George hates blue.

He decides rather quickly, sitting halfway on a stool in the Leaky Cauldron with one foot pressed firmly to the ground in case he needs to make a quick escape, that he now hate blue.

Specifically, the silvery blue that Nigel Wolperts eyes turn into every time Ollie laughs. George scoots his stool closer to the ice cream witch, ignoring the very amused look Harry is shooting his way. George had demanded that Lee get Ron and Harry and the girls to meet them at the Leaky Cauldron, determined to send a clear message to Nigel. This would be the only way he would get drinks with Ollie, with multiple people watching him. Or more like multiple people watching George watching Nigel. His head hurts from the confusing thought, eyes sliding back to Nigel. 

He's staring at Olive, the kind of stare that George can practically hear pathetic sonnets used to describe. He didn't like that look, but more than that he didn't like the way Wolpert treated Olive. The jabs at her memory, the annoyed looks, the palpable frustration. George almost wanted to thank him, because now he understood some of Olive's nerves over her memory. He wanted to punch the fuck out of Nigel Wolpert. He would if he knew Ollie wouldn't hate him for it. She'd been trying to get them to talk all night, asking questions that George could only manage to reply to with a grunt. Nigel wasn't much better, his words clipped and tone cool. George knew he was pissed, and George was pissed because he knew. Everyone fucking knew that Wolpert wanted Olive. At least everyone but the girl herself. 

He rips his eyes away from Wolpert just in time to catch familiar green. He waits for the buzzing in his ears to grow, for anger to simmer. But evidently blue has claimed the anger provoking spot that green used to have. Now, that green, that smile. She flushes slightly, and he glances briefly at her untouched drink. A pang of guilt tears through his chest. She wasn't drinking, she wasn't relaxed. Because she was making sure that he and Nigel stayed cordial.  George is up out of his seat without wasting another breath, his fingers reaching down to twine with hers and pull her away from the table. 

The pub is boisterous, full of laughter and enough people to hide him and Olive from a set oof angry blue eyes. George usually hates crowds, but tonight he was grateful for the protection. He wasn't sure how many more longing looks he could see before he did something stupid. Though Nigel wasn't the only one making eyes at the tiny blonde. George shoots a leering wizard a heated glare before pulling Olive into his arms and rocking back and forth. 

"George."

He glances down, surprised to hear her voice so clearly over the music. Her face is tilted up towards his good ear, melting his heart and easily erasing his ever present anxiety. His limbs suddenly feel heavy, and his back hunches to lean his forehead against hers, an exhausted whisper leaving him, "Ollie."

Olive's grin is like a beacon, so bright that it pulls the shadowy doubt he couldn't name to the front of his mind. The anger over Nigel, the possessive monster growing in his chest. It was doubt. Doubt because in the crowd of a pub, surrounded by younger wizards that weren't damaged by the war, George wasn't sure if she remembered how he felt about her. He wasn't sure if she remembered how she felt about him. Exclusive. He'd said the word, under bedsheets and pressed up against her sleepy body. He wasn't sure he knew what it meant, only that he knew he wanted it. 

"Are you done?"

His eyes slide shut, the smell of raspberry lulling him deeper into the warmth of her. He felt protective, he felt jealous. And yet, holding her felt like freedom. The song switches to something upbeat, something faster than their swaying calls for. He mumbles wearily, "With what, Ollie?"

"Staking your claim. I think you've made it pretty clear."

If he couldn't hear the amusement in her voice, he'd be concerned she was angry. He leans his head up, chewing anxiously on his inner cheek as he tries to work out what to say. Someone jostles into them, a man whose eyes linger a little two long on the way Olive's swishing skirt clings to her arse.