Forget Me Not || George Weasley

Chapter 59

The hourglass is mocking George again.

It had been mocking him for the last two years.

Sitting next to the hourglass is an enevelope that mocks him even more. An envelope stamped with the ministry's insignia on the front. Mocking. Life was continuing to mock him.

He violently turns his head, mouth pressed into a scowl like grimace. He looks at the muggles wandering innocently outside of St. Mungos, hoping that people watching will help lighten the concrete block of emotion that has taken root in his stomach. But it's no different than the hourglass. The people bellow, the people he can see through the glass, are simply grains of sand that flow to show the passage of time.

"Why did you drink, George?"

George lifts his hand to his left ear, rubbing the pad of his finger over the raised tissue there. It's hardly an ear anyhow. Just a mangled hole on the side of his head that muffled Connor O'Connor's words with incessant humming. That humming hadn't stopped in days. He hadn't seen Olive in days, touched her in what felt like a year. She was closed off to him now. He was scared she was closed off to the world. He did that. He did.

"I don't know."

The answer sounds hollow even to himself. It's the truth. He could come up with lame reasons, but when he didn't know what to do, he turned to alcohol. He regrets it. So much that his eyes burn. But when George finally works up the courage to look over at his healer, he doesn't see the cold disappointment he's expecting, not the nervousness or sadness he'd see from his parents or the frustration and confusion he'd seen in his siblings.

He sees understanding.

Conor O'Connor smiles faintly, reaches up to thumb his nose before adjusting his glasses. He sighs, scribbling something down. George waits to feel the rage he so often felt over those sodding notes, but it doesn't come. Instead, he wonders what a certain short witch is doing while he sits here and figures out why his mind is so fucked up.

George grabs one of the pillows, pulling it to his chest so he doesn't clench his fists. He waits for O'Connor to finish writing before saying, "I'm mad at myself. And I'm...I'm upset. With Angelina. With Ollie..."

With Fred. He's just so fucking upset.

The healer glances up, assessing George for a long moment before his eyes slide to the envelope that rests on his desk. He leans back in his chair, making no move to grab the note while asking, "You haven't read it?"

"No," George shakes his head quickly, "If Olive wanted me to know, she would tell me. It feels wrong to even think about it."

O'Connor's eyes narrow, silence passing between them. The truth was, George wanted to look. Wanted to see what Angelina meant when she said Olive was friends with death eaters. It hadn't seemed that way when he asked Olive. It hadn't seemed like she swapped holiday cards with snakes. But the note Angelina left with the envelope said that Olive was at least doing business with them. George was scared to know what that meant. Scared enough to almost open the envelope.

"That's a very respectful thing to do, George. If you know you don't want to look, then why are you upset with her?"

George twists the pillow in his hand so hard he feels a few of the stitches popping. He swallows, straining to not look at the sodding hour glass. He feels as if he's taken a million steps backwards

"Because she lied?"

Conor O'Connor quirks an amused brow, "Are you asking, or telling me?"

George sucks in a slow, shaky breath. It barely fills his chest, shallow and painful as it is to even try. Merlin, he couldn't do this. He just can't. But he looks at the fir tree painting and spies shades of green that fill him with longing. Enough to make him say quietly, "I'm upset...because I thought she trusted me. I'm upset that I've hurt her. And I guess I'm upset that it might be true."