Forget Me Not || George Weasley

Chapter 40

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"Mate, you've got a problem."

George squints at the doorway to the office, sighing and setting down his quill. His head hadn't stopped hurting all day thanks to his lack of sleep. Olive Murphy confessing to dreaming about him had turned him into a sodding school boy. He runs a hand through his hair, asking tiredly, "What are you on about, Lee?"

His friend is panting, like he's just run a lap around the quidditch pitch at Hogwarts. Lee's eyes are wide, and George feels dread begin to take root in his stomach. He sits up straight, asking hurriedly, "What's wrong?"

"It's Olive," Lee starts, quickly continuing on when George jumps to his feet, "She's going on a date!"

George freezes, and that dread suddenly drenches him like a bucket of cold water dropped over his head. He swallows down bile, inhaling slowly, "What the fuck are you on about?"

"Lee! Don't fucking say it like that, you bloody moron!"

George bristles slightly when his older brother swarms into his peripheral vision. He whips his head to the side, and that panic is growing and growing in a way it hadn't in some time. He tries to recall Conor O'Connor's advice. He tries to remember that he doesn't hate green, but when he sees the miserable color in stripes across Charlie's shirt, his arm slung around his best friend's shoulders, he shuts down, "What the fuck are you doing in here?"

If George cared to see it, he would have notice Charlie flinch backwards with hurt twisting his features. George had been making strides, George had been feeling better, more like a person that didn't explode at the thought of change. Charlie clears his throat, saying, "Georgie—"

"Don't call me that!"

Lee frowns, backing up so that George can push free from the office and head towards the back of the shop. His hands shake and he wants to hit himself in the face, he wants to tear down the boxes that he'd just finished stacking earlier that day. His stomach turns, blood boiling, and when someone clamps down on his arm he has to fight to not swing. He has no right to be upset. He had no right to be angry. Olive Murphy wasn't his.

But it certainly felt like she was.

"George," Lee shouts irritably, shaking his friend. Charlie is just over his shoulder, standing silently, but carefully observing his brother. Making sure he doesn't hurt Lee. George's anger flickers like a melting candle, his throat raw, "Piss off, Lee. She's not my girlfriend anyway, so she's entitled to—"

"But George, it's just drinks and I don't think she—"

"Lee," Charlie's tone is cool, face impenetrable. He glances at his brother before tilting his head towards the door, "C'mon. Let's get out of here."

Just drinks. George's heart aches. Drinks. He wanted to be able to take Ollie out for drinks, to be worthy enough to ask her to go wherever the fuckhead she's going out with has. Lee's eyes narrow slightly, and George feels his expression morph into one of surprise when his friend's lips twitch up.

"You'll figure it out," He says vaguely, and George stands like a crumbling statue as Lee and Charlie hurriedly leave the shop without a backwards glance.

He stands there, and watches the torches flick on from the window. He raises his fists to his face, pressing them against his forehead and turning to lean against the counter. His eyes clench shut. Fuck. Fuck. He should've kissed her, told her that it wasn't just that they were more than friends. He was a lousy excuse of a Gryffindor, and his dignity is left in tatters when his ears begin to hum. Fred would be disgusted. Disappointed. Fred wouldn't have let her go—