"There is something on your mind,"
Olive lifts her head at the change in song, distracted from the amusing argument transpiring between Ron and Hermione over whether or not they should order some more food.
She smiles slightly, a wave of warmth wrapping around her like a hug. Her grandfather had this song on a record at home. She remembers flipping the vinyl, lifting the needle on the muggle record player and setting it down so that he can dance with her grandmother. It had been a long time since she heard it. She remembers her grandfather's pain over hearing it almost as vividly as she remembers the joy it used to bring him.
Her brows furrow when she chances a glance across the table and sees that George is no longer brooding silently in his seat. She feels a pang of guilt. She'd been snotty when she'd run into him at St. Mungos. It was an accident. Not just the collision, but she knew that he regretted grabbing her the minute he had. It wasn't him that scared her. She'd never been scared of him.
She was scared of herself, and when George grabbed her arm she'd been most scared that she would crumble at his feet and he would do nothing but sneer. She would too, if a stranger ran into her and acted like a flighty bird. But she wasn't a stranger. Or at least, George wasn't a stranger to her. Not really.
She sighs and turns to Hermione, mumbling, "Maybe I should--What?"
Hermione is staring over her head, an odd expression of excitement and surprise coloring her new friend's face. Olive glances at Ron and Ginny and sees that the two of them are gaping like fish out of water while Harry just grins. Her brow furrows in confusion, but when she turns, she sees just what has captivated her table.
George Weasley is standing next to her, and he's smiling. He's smiling at her, and Olive feels something weird twisting in her belly and her lungs fill with clouds. George Weasley is smiling again, and she hopes to Merlin that she remembers it when she closes her eyes to sleep tonight.
Olive's lip's part in surprise when he leans down, his sturdy frame blocking the light from her face. He's bracing one hand on the table in front of her and uses the other to grab onto the back of her chair. Caging her in, but she feels the opposite of trapped. His voice is warm, steady, "Dance with me, Ollie."
Holy--
She nods her head up and down slowly before her jaw can unhinge itself in complete shock, taking his outstretched hand and coming willingly when he pulls her up onto to her feet. She blinks at the back of him as he wades through the crowd easily, and for a moment she wonders who had taken the place of George Weasley because this couldn't be him. She doesn't turn to look back at the table. She's scared of what she'll see.
George finds a clear spot in the part of the pub where people are sloppily coming together to dance. He turns, and she thanks Jackie in her head for telling her to wear her taller heels tonight because in that moment George sucks up the energy of the room and looks like he could fill the space with just his small smile. She wanted to feel tall, like she could measure up to that energy.
She blinks at him dumbly when his other hand hovers over her arm before asking loud enough for her to hear over the music, "Can I?"
Her heart thaws from the ice that had grown around it over the last week, and she answers with a wordless nod because she's afraid if she open's her mouth something weird and jumbled will come out. His smile doesn't go away when he gently grabs her arms and slings them up around his neck. Yep, she needed the heels. Her hands feel small against the back of his neck, and her lips tilt up in a smile before she can stop it. George quirks a brow, pulling her in closer, his hands gentle and warm on her hips.
It must be the alcohol, the reason why she is melting into George and letting him lead her in a slow dance that makes her cheeks flame. He sways with her, holding her carefully and possessively all at once. And Good Godric—George Weasley is good at dancing. Not in a showman, glamorous type of way. But he's leading her, guiding her, and he's confident in doing it. Olive's heart nears the danger of explosion when he leans down and asks lowly next to her ear, "How tall are you?"
She sucks in a shaky breath, hesitating before leaning up towards his right ear and admitting, "Five foot one and a half."
George chuckles quietly and Olive nearly passes out. Bloody hell, he's smiling and he's laughing and Olive tries to take a few deep breaths to cool her warm cheeks. But his hands slip higher and rest against the skin exposed by her dress, and she presses into him more, her eyes closing and her head resting gently on his chest. Her cheeks ache from the force of her smile when he slowly turns her, pulling her back to his front.
George Weasley is warm and he smells like eucalyptus and something earthy when he curls around her and settles his hands on her hips. Yep, it was the alcohol. The alcohol made her lean her head back into him, made her close her eyes and move her hips with his and grab his hands and press them firmer into her dress so that she can feel the warmth through the fabric.
His hands slip lower, smooth down the sides of her upper thighs and pull her impossibly closer. Her breathing hitches when his chin comes to rest on her shoulder, his body guiding hers in a slow dance that deliciously toes the line of sexy and sweet. Sexy.
Definitely sexy.
"I didn't know you could dance,"
Her words are mumbled, and she goes to repeat herself when he's silent for a few moments. She isn't sure he can hear her like this, with her back against him. But he speaks first, his chest rumbling against her, "You never asked me to."
Her eyes lazily open and she turns her head enough to look into the molten gold flecks in his gaze. He's already looking at her, his eyes drifting from where her hair is piled on her head, to the scar that stretches across her mouth and quivers when she manages a shaky smile. He's looking at her, and it feels good. George Weasley feels really really good, and an intrusive thought begs her to ask what else would feel good with him.
His lips lift slightly on one side, and Olive is gifted another treasured memory when she realizes he is smirking. Manly and confident, and she sees a glimpse of the mischievous boy that girls would giggle and gossip about late at night. Her heart pounds uncomfortably against her chest, and George straightens only to spin her again so that she can see all of his face.
A crease appears between his brows, and Olive fights the temptation to smooth it away with her thumb. Instead, she says something she'd been too afraid to say since the evening began, "I wasn't upset with you. I just don't really like...I was just trying to leave."
She had been upset. Upset that George had been grumpy—but the more she thought about it the more she realized he had only been as prickly as she'd seen him whenever the topic of A.F.D came up. She would guess that's why he was at the hospital, why he was angry. That George Weasley saw a healer too, and that neither he nor her felt it was working all that well. But they still went. They both did. She wasn't upset with him. She was just upset.
George exhales, long and slow like he's been holding his breath since she'd run into him a week ago. His arms stretch across her back, and Olive feels a laugh escape her when he suddenly dips her backwards, his chest just inches away from hers. She laughs and shakes her head and cherishes the tiny smile she spies on his lips when he pulls her upright. He's still swaying, still moving his hips and gently pulling her body into the rolling motion of his own. To his friends and family, the ones she's certain are watching, it probably looks about as intimate as it feels. But Olive doesn't mind. She doesn't want it to end.
His hand snakes up and she shivers slightly when he splays it across the nape of her neck, fingers reaching into her hair. She presses closer, pulls him closer, lets her eyes close under the weight of the pleasure curling in her chest. Merlin, who needed alcohol when they could have this?
"I shouldn't have been rude, and I shouldn't have touched you without asking."
Olive leans her head back in his hand, eyes opening and meeting his. He's staring at her in a way she can't recall anyone ever looking at her before. She doesn't care to remember anyway. As long as this memory exists, the others seem pointless. Her heart thumps louder in her ears, and her skin feels tingly and warm, and George is looking at the scar across her mouth and she doesn't care.
"You don't have to ask, George."
He blinks down at her, and Olive realizes how it sounds. She doesn't mind that either. She means it, and while she thinks they're probably friends, the devious alcohol in her veins whispers that friends don't look at each other like this. Friends.
Olive feels a wry smile take over her lips, and then she laughs, leaning her forehead against his chest. The song is ending and something louder is replacing it, something that breaks the flirty spell and dissipates the cloud of something she doesn't remember experiencing before. George looks like he wants to say something, but Olive rushes to speak first, saying awkwardly, "We're good?"
The sigh that leaves him is strained, and his jaw works tightly for a few seconds before he says lowly, "Yeah, Ollie. We're good."
Olive offers up a smile, hesitating for just a second before reaching down and grabbing his hand. Her lips quirk up further when his fingers lace with hers, like he isn't going to let go. He doesn't, even when they make it back to the table through the crowd. She waits for him to drop it when they make it into the eyesight of his friends--her friends now she reckons. His fingers are warm and calloused and they squeeze her hand, even when she catches Ron glancing down at their twined fingers. Lee is now sitting in her seat with a happy grin, so she settles in next to George on his right side.
Seamlessly, they welcome her and George into their conversation, acting as if they hadn't just watched the brooding shell of the boy they loved smile for the first time in ages. Olive wished they'd heard his chuckle. It was beautiful. Maybe better than the smile he shoots her now, quirking a brow at her questioningly.
She just grins, nudging him gently with her elbow. The grip he has on her hand turns so tight that her nose crinkles, but George's eyes are narrowed in an expression she would call playful if she were brave.
She takes a sip of her drink with her free hand, not minding that it's watered down by melted ice. She didn't need it now anyway. She leans forward, hoping to get Lee's attention to ask about the muggle he'd been snogging.
Her eyes nearly bug out of her head when a hand on her knee stops her short. The hand George had been holding hers with, covering her knee cap and squeezing. Four fingers rested on the inside curve, beckoning her into the mystery airy feeling she was scared to forget. His thumb taps the outside of her leg, grounding her.
"Hey, Ollie?"
She swallows, regretting now that her drink wasn't so strong, "Yeah, George?"
She doesn't have to look at him to know that his lips are hitched up on one side. She can hear it. Something warm and bright in his voice, something that makes her want to smile too,
"Put today in your planner. I want you to remember it with me."
Olive nods, refusing to look at him for fear of showing off the rosiness of her cheeks. She wasn't sure she even needed to write about today. Today, with him.
There wasn't a chance she would forget dancing with George Weasley for the first time.
{{The song is There Is Something on Your Mind by Big Jay McNeely (: hopefully you all are enjoying the slow burn. I'm in love with them.}}