"What is the worst thing you have ever done?"
Conor O'Connor looks as serene as ever. George had plopped down on the sofa of his office the moment their session started, feeling far less combative than last time. In fact, today he might even say that he felt okay.
The night before, he and Lee had taken over food to Florean's and watched Olive make ice cream. George didn't like the humming noise that the muggle machine made while it was churning, but the sunset orange splattered across the ice cream witch's blue dungarees had distracted him from the sounds. A new flavor. George had wanted to ask to taste it, but he hadn't managed to gather the courage. Lee had been the one to initiate the get together, George hadn't changed that much. But he'd been excited to go.
He'd never admit it.
"I completed your challenge," George says in response to the healer's silent question. "Actually, I've done a few things that...things that I enjoyed B.F.D."
Conor O'Connor looks properly chuffed, setting aside the god awful notes he insists on keeping. He smiles, asking curiously, "Like what?"
George hesitates at the question, not sure how the healer will take it. He finally relents, narrowing his eyes in a warning, "I played chess with the witch that works with Olive...and I picked a song to listen to."
It was too hopeful to imagine a world where the wizard wouldn't pick apart George's vague answers. He was being more cautious though. George didn't blame him after the way he'd left last time.
"Would you care to expand on that?"
George glances at the hourglass sitting behind the healer, saying in a more curt tone, "If you answer my question first."
O'Connor sighs, folding his hands neatly in his lap. He scratches his chin, and George nearly comments on the beginnings of the beard he's growing. It made him look like a barred owl, round and grey and wise in a way that infuriated him.
"When I was an apprentice, a Healer left me alone with a patient suffering from a curse we'd never seen before. Just a few minutes where I was the healer looking at a patient."
George blinks in surprise when the healer leans back in his chair, meets George's gaze evenly, and says calmly, "He died, because instead of waiting for the healer to return, I thought I knew what spell to use to counter the effects. Arrogance, George. It's the very worst thing I've done."
Silence passes between them, and despite his curiosity, George senses that the healer wouldn't answer any further questions on the subject. He grabs a pillow to hold limply on his lap, hesitating for a brief moment before saying quietly, "That's...I'm sorry."
Conor O'Connor smiles, adjusting his glasses, "It was a long time ago, George. Tell me about the song."
His throat bobs at the question, and he slowly looks away from the healer to study the fir tree painting for the millionth time.
"It was a muggle song. I went to a pub."
The stiff silence that greets him has his eyes hurriedly flickering back to greet O'Connor's quizzical stare. George leans forward, brows furrowed, "I didn't drink, Doc."
The healer's lips twitch, and George can see he's glad. He hadn't wanted to drink, not really. He'd liked being sober. He liked remembering every detail about that night. He nearly manages a smile too, but then his face heats up when he remembers what it is they're talking about.
"I went to a pub with friends and Ginny and Ron," The healer quirks a brow, and George tries to keep his tone even when he says, "Ollie took us."
The healer raises his brows, "Ollie?"
George feels a prickle up his spine, his hands clenching around the pillow as he mutters, "Olive."
It was odd, hearing the nickname come from someone else's mouth. George shifts on the sofa, shoulders tense and his ear aching slightly. O'Connor smiles faintly, affirming as if he senses George's discomfort, "Olive. Did you have fun?"
George shrugs a little. He wasn't sure what fun felt like anymore, and he definitely wasn't sure if that's what he'd felt when he'd dropped a very tipsy Ollie off at the front of Florean's. Maybe it was fun. He didn't care what to call it. He'd liked it though. He'd liked the feeling of slinky lavender fabric against his palms and the smell of raspberries tickling his nose. Yep.
Fun.
"Well we were kind of...she was mad at me. I touched her without asking, but she said that wasn't why she was upset. She was coming out of the Janus Thickey Ward and she ran into me and I-I had been leaving here as well. It was the last time I was here. But we made up. We're good. I'm good. "
O'Connor nods at the jumbled and awkward words, and George wonders if the healer is at all curious about what his new friend had been doing in that ward. George was. He knew she struggled with her memory now, but she seemed to have a grasp on things that had happened before the war. She seemed like she remembered certain things in vivid colors, like the colors of her shoes and clothes. And the rest was washed out, like it had been eroded by something. George was beyond curious. He wanted to know.
He knew better than to ask
"But you made up?"
The way the healer asks makes George's cheeks heat up again. Fucking hell, if this bloke asks—
"What was that like?"
George's head flops back against the couch, nearly clipping the wall as he lets out a drawn out groan, "Don't ask like you know the answer." The answer was one that George wasn't even sure how to articulate. What was it like? He didn't know. Or he didn't know how to say that it was like he felt like a tiny piece of himself B.F.D. was still there, that he wasn't a mental loser that didn't know how to communicate.
It was like he was normal.
Conor O'Connor chuckles, but George doesn't get mad. Instead his lips twitch up into a small, awkward smile. One he brandishes like a peace offering. He did feel guilty about their last session. But Conor O'Connor took George's anger in stride, and the way his eyes glint with mirth tells George that he accepts the smile for what it is. Progress.
"Okay. Enlighten me then," The healer insists, steepling his fingers under his chin. George's smile twitches, like it could almost be something more, "Don't fucking laugh at me."
O'Connor smirks slightly and raises his hands up like he's showing he's not baring any weapons. It makes George feel better. Better enough to admit,
"I picked a song...and we danced."
His confession is greeted by silence and while he would normally look away, maybe stare at the fir tree paintings or the hourglass, he decides to watch O'Connor process his words. George had know the healer for some time. Longer than he's expected to when they first started talking. He couldn't recall ever seeing him look so close to grinning. Actual, cheeky grinning.
George scoffs and rolls his eyes, "Merlin, Doc. We danced, things are better now. We're friends."
Conor O'Connor clears his throat, grinning still and adjusting his glasses, "Friends. Of course, George. What kind of dance?"
He can feel his cheeks heating up, can feel red crawling up from his neck. His eyes slip to the hourglass and his lips quirk up to one side. They'd been doing that more lately.
"Looks like we're out of time Doctor O'Doctor."
The owlish healer sighs but nods, gesturing for George to stand and leave. He wasn't in a rush this time. This time he wasn't angry or upset or choking on feelings he couldn't name. This time he felt...good.
"George," He pauses and blinks at the healer expectantly. It's the older wizard's turn to hesitate, to think his words over. He finally settles on, "Good work this week."
George shoots him an awkward smile and then ducks out of the office, surprised to find that he didn't once grimace at the sight of the healer's green robes. He doesn't hurry down the halls either. He takes his time, walks out into the busy muggle street, and strolls around the side of the building where it is empty to apparate.He doesn't realize he's been thinking of Florean's while he apparated.
Not until he steadies himself on the pink front door.
He hesitates, feeling the wood grain against his palm. Good. He'd done some good this week. His lips twitch slightly, and he reasons with himself that ice cream is as good an award as any.
People are lined up at the counter, and George pauses by the door to watch silently. Olive Murphy is standing on her very top toes to lean over the counter to talk to a small child, her eyes bright and her smile earnest. The kid says something that earns a smack upside the head from his mother, something that nearly makes George laugh. Olive quickly waves off whatever it is, settling back down on her side of the counter to scoop ice cream into a cup.
George waits for a few more minutes before getting behind the group at the counter. School shopping had started up again, and his shop was even struggling to keep up with demands. He and Lee had been working late most nights, and he'd learned last night over their take away that Olive had been too.
He listens as a lanky brunette boy stammers his order, and George caves to his urge to smile. Olive is listening to the customer attentively, nodding her head as she piles three different flavors onto a chocolate cone. The boy looks like he may just faint when she hands it over and tells him to have a good day, his eyes quickly shooting to his group of friends hunkering down at a table near by.
And then it's George's turn, and he's stepping up to the counter. He doesn't feel much better than the boy when Olive grins up at him and says simply, "Hi, George."
"Hi, Ollie," He's surprised he doesn't stutter like the poor lovesick bloke thats still eyeing Olive. He's surprised his smile isn't gone. In fact, his lips twitch and lift a little higher when she props her elbows on the counter, leaning towards him as she asks, "What can I get for you?"
George tilts his head slightly so that he can hear her better over the chatter in the shop, his eyes searching the display case. He looks at the different colors, searching for that sunset orange she'd been making last night. His smile falters a little, still relearning how to stick around.
"What's wrong?"
George rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, looking at her wide eyes and curious expression. Her scar turns back into that branched line when her smile fades and he finds himself quickly mumbling, "I was just looking for the one from yesterday."
Olive's brows furrow slightly, and when a confused glint of sage appears in her eyes, he hunches down slightly, leaning his elbows on the counter directly in front of hers, "When Lee and I came over last night, you were making something new. It was orange, kind of pale. You wouldn't tell us what it was."
Her face doesn't change from the puzzled expression, but she leans back off the counter, patting down the front of her apron. She isn't wearing her dungarees today, and George nearly asks why, but thinks better of it. He didn't want to distract her. Olive makes a noise of relief when she pulls out a lemon yellow book from the back pocket of her periwinkle colored trousers. George's lips twitch, and she's leaning back onto the counter, her head just below his as she flips through the pages of the book. She stalls on the month, peering down at the little boxes that are jam packed with tiny writing. He'd never seen such a book before, and he'd never seen such small letters. She's still staring at the boxes, so George lowers his head further to peer at them until he settles on today's date. His finger hovers over the page for a brief moment before he points at it and says quietly, "It's the end of August."
He isn't sure why he doesn't move his face away, but when Olive lifts her eyes to his, he finally gets a glimpse into the forest of green he had been so convinced he'd hated. Green. His heart lurches uncomfortably when he sees flecks of a color reminiscent of the fir tree painting in Conor O'Connor's office. Green.
Olive smiles, her eyes flicking back and forth, as if she isn't sure where to look. Her cheeks are pink like her trainers, and she says warmly, "Pumpkin pasty."
His brows furrow in confusion, but then her head leans back and she's laughing at the ceiling, explaining, "That's the flavor I was working on last night. Did you want to try it?"
George stares at her, brows still furrowed as he nods numbly. Olive grins and nods, pushing off the counter and backing towards the kitchen, "Keep an eye on the register, yeah? I think that group of boys caught a glimpse of my riches today."
Her voice is playful, teasing. Like she doesn't realize that her riches aren't a matter of money. Olive is rich, she's wealthy in all of the things George isn't. He smiles slightly, muttering as she disappears back into the kitchen that he and Lee had sat in watching her the night before, "Yeah, thats what the boys are looking at."
George feels his smile grow, when he glances sideways and sees the group Olive was talking about whispering and nodding their heads in the direction of the counter. His chest feels warm. Warm, but not uncomfortable like it does when he gets anxious. And when he open's his mouth, George feels a cheeky comment on the tip of his tongue, one about how the ice cream witch was far too sweet for the likes of the teenagers gawking over her. One that he would have said B.F.D.
He doesn't get a chance to say it.
"George?"
His chest cools almost instantly, and his lips clamp shut. His ear ache returns with a drowning hum when he turns and stares blankly at the witch standing behind him. What's the worst thing George Weasley has ever done?
This.