Forget Me Not || George Weasley

Chapter 64

{{MATURE WARNING!}}

"Okay,"

He's embarrassed by the slight shake in his voice. Clearing his throat, George tries again, "Okay. You can look, Ollie."

Her cold nose is still pressed against his spine, arms wound tightly around his middle. They slowly loosen, and his fear of showing her his past is alleviated when she pokes her head through the loop of his arm, her temple resting against his side now as she slowly peers around the room.

He was still scared, still horrified that he'd caved and was allowing her to see the way he used to be. The way he could be if he weren't so broken. He wonders if she can hear the frantic drumming of his heart.

Her arms let go of his middle, and George lets go too as she steps free of him and begins to slowly walk around his old room. His and Fred's.

She's quiet, and George can't take it.

"We spent an entire summer up here, refusing to come out," His voice cracks a little when he says 'we'. He just tries to rush past it. Olive's fingers are dusting over the cracked surface of his bed frame, the wood blackened in some places from accidental explosions of fireworks. Usually accidental. She lifts her head to look at him, asking curiously, "Why's that?"

George wants to smile when he thinks of those memories, when he thinks of how amazing that summer was, "We were coming up with our first products. We wanted it all to be perfect for when school started." He feels a twinge of emotion he can't quite name, "Mum destroyed it all. So we took longer than we'd planned for."

Olive studies him for a long moment, a ghost of a smile stretching her scarred lips. He's not sure how to feel when she says gently, "George."

"Olive." He says it like a shield. Like he can protect himself from anything she will say that will expose more of his softness, his fear and sadness. He wants to keep it locked up, wants to protect her from it just like he wants to hide the past from her. She didn't know him before, didn't remember him before. He wasn't sure why he was showing her now.

Olive glances over at the green duvet on the bed parallel to the one she's touching. Dark green sheets, a quilt folded at the end that George was convinced had been in the family for eons. It looked old enough. She looks away from Fred's bed and looks up at him tenderly.

"I'm certain that your mum regrets doing that. I'm sure she wishes more than anything that she hadn't."

George's throat is too tight. That lump sits high and chokes out every emotion but sadness. Merlin, he refused to cry. His chin still wobbles when he says tightly, "Sometimes I still hate her for it."

She doesn't judge the words, sneer at his feelings. She accepts them. She nods her head slowly, tipping it to one side as she asks, "And if she hadn't destroyed it all, wouldn't you have spent less time up here with your brother?"

She was right. The thought eases the ball of tension in his throat. If his mother hadn't destroyed their initial products, they would have had half the summer they did. They would have done something else together no doubt, but those nights inventing and rebuilding were some of his favorites. He wants to tell his mum that. He wants to forgive her. He wants to tell her that if it weren't for her actions, he and Fred wouldn't have come up with half the things that they sell today.

Olive doesn't wait for his answer. She wanders the room, sticking to George's obvious side. His blankets were burgundy, the bed untouched like the green one on the other side of the room. There were knickknacks stacked high on shelves, pictures and prank galleons strewn about. He had been messier when he was younger. Though maybe he had just been messier before...B.F.D. Now he needed order, craved consistency and routine. He liked dull colored work shirts and brown shoes, he liked few pictures and no knickknacks. Until her.