Forget Me Not || George Weasley

Chapter 57

When Harry first tried to teach George how to conjure a corporeal patronus, he'd believed it would be easy.

The Weasley twins had no shortage of entertaining memories, ones full of laughter and triumph and joy. Perhaps that was the challenge, picking one out of a thousand memories that were so happy that they filled him up to the brim with gold like feelings.

When he and Fred succeeded at the same time, saw the identical birds emerge from silvery wisps of light, that had become his happiest memory. Standing side by side with his brother while their mischievously clever patronuses flew wildly around the room.

It wasn't until Fred had died that he'd heard the old superstition about magpies. Angelina had been the one to drunkenly tell him, that a single magpie meant bad luck. That there was a twisted nursery rhyme, one she sang while he tried to sober her up before someone recognized them stumbling around.

One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told, eight for a wish, nine for a kiss, ten for a bird you must not miss.

One of the oldest superstitions in Europe, and George hadn't known of it until there was only one magpie left. He hadn't tried to conjure a patronus since. He knew he was bad luck. Angelina had said it. Fred's death had proved it.

His hangover sealed the deal.

George's eyes burn when he first tries to open them, the ceiling above him blurred from the force of his head ache. His skull feels as if it's bruised, tender even. His brow furrows slightly, fingers sluggishly reaching up to touch his left eye. He winces, grunting in disbelief. Swollen, tender. Bruised. He had a fucking shiner.

He sits upright, tossing his covers off of him and stumbling into the bathroom. He grabs on tight to the edge of the sink and before he can wrap his head around the spinning sensation causing his eyes to water, he leans to the side and pukes into the toilet. His mouth waters as nausea grows, causing him to spit hurriedly and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. Only then can he stand upright and face himself in his mirror, the lone, unlucky magpie.

George stares at his reflection, nausea returning at the unsightly bruise that marks his eye. The purple bleeds into his cheek and up into his brow, the edge of his skin split open. He stares and stares, blinking in surprise and waiting for the bruise to go away. His head struggles to wrap around it, still recovering from the fog of alcohol.

Alcohol.

His face pales when his memory hits him like another punch to the face.

George races out of the bathroom, scrambling for his discarded jumper he wore yesterday. Merlin, he wasn't even sure how long he'd been out of it. All he knew is that alcohol wasn't the reason he felt so sick. It was the memory of disappointed green, jaded eyes that shimmered with tears. Ollie. Ollie.

For the first time ever, George was praying that Olive's memory had missed last night. Had missed him slipping up. He barely has his shoes on when he takes the steps down from his flat two at a time.

"Lee!" He shouts, dodging a bewildered customer looking at the peruvian instant darkness powder, "Watch the shop for me I've got to--"

His legs are swept right out from under him, wind knocked from his already suffering lungs. He couldn't breathe. He wasn't breathing. Olive. He needed to see her and apologize, promise that it would never happen again. Beg her to forgive him for slipping up and mentioning her past. She wasn't ready. O'Connor told him not to push her.

He blinks up at the lights over head, watching with wheezing breaths as Lee comes into focus. His friend frowns, kneeling down and muttering, "Blimey. Breathe, you fucking prick."