George grimaces at the squeak that sounds from the rusted lawn chair as he shifts his weight around.
These chairs were horrible, likely due to the rounds of prank materials they'd been subjected too during the testing phase of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. B.F.D. He waits for his body to grow stiff, for his heart to struggle and trip over its normal rhythm. It does, but not because he's thought of Fred.
It's because he's watching Olive, her hands carefully and confidently accepting Victoire from Fleur. He swallows, inhaling slowly and biting on the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He was doing it more now, struggling not too instead of straining to figure out how.
Olive leans her head down to study the baby in her arms, and George notes the way Fleur seems just as enamored with the ice cream witch as the rest of his family. He'd had to rescue her from relentless questions of muggle inventions from his father, stop her from falling into the trap of another hug from his mother. Charlie and Harry had spent nearly half an hour laughing with the blonde, and George had nearly broken his knuckles on the wall when Charlie so effortlessly slung an arm around Olive's shoulders and playfully tugged on one of her curls. It wasn't fair. He wanted to do that.
But when Olive looks up from the baby she's shifted to rest on one hip, she turns her head over her shoulder, easily finding him. He feels greedy when she smiles, when her eyes look lighter compared to the grass and trees and hedges. That smile, that green, were his.
George's lips twitch slightly and he lifts a hand to wave at her. Olive's smile grows into a toothy grin and he's out of the stupid, half broken chair before he can stop himself. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, striding across the lawn as the sun sets and turns the sky a mix of blues and purples and pinks that make him think of brightly colored shoes and dungarees.
Fleur smiles at George as he approaches, saying something to Olive before walking towards the house where Bill is chatting with Hermione. George comes to a stop just a few steps away from Olive, studying the baby that seems so comfortable resting on her hip. Olive tilts her head up to look at him, saying warmly, "Hi, George."
He's not sure why she always greets him like that. They'd spent the day together, not very far from one another. He'd grown accustomed to those green eyes finding him right when he was beginning to panic, to think about Fred or Percy or Angelina. And he would find her, would notice the glaze of confusion over her eyes and smoothly remind her of what someone was talking about by answering their questions so she didn't have to.
She'd sat on his right side during dinner, and when he would get frustrated over the noise of so many people talking, she would crook a finger at him, tilt her head up as he lowered his chin and speak quietly into his good ear to tell him what people were saying.
George swallows, his fists slipping free from his pockets and gently reaching out to grab Victoire's tiny hands. "Hi, Ollie. What are you doing?"
Her cheeks turn pink, and George feels a surge of that greed again. His heart feels weird and warm and awkward at the sight of the rosy color and he's grateful when Victoire's chubby fingers curl around his own. It keeps him from being bold enough to press his fingers against Olive's cheeks to see how warm they get when she's embarrassed.
"I'm just making sure I remember."
His brows furrow in confusion, gaze following to where she's looking down at the sleepy baby in her arms. Her shoulders shrug slightly, "I haven't gotten this close to a child since..."
She trails off, like she's unsure how to say it. He struggles against his urgent need to know more about what happened to her, to know when and why and how. To know who did this, if he had faced the person in battle that had hurt Olive. He feels as surprised as she looks when he says quietly, "A.F.D."
She blinks up at him, and George feels his own cheeks warm. It was supposed to be a way he marked time, a way that he marked when he had become a different person and when the world had started to look grey. And here he was, giving her the same timeline as if he'd known her before and after. He knows her now. It feels like he's been waiting to know her for a while.
"A.F.D," Olive repeats softly. "I see kids in the shop, but this is different. I want to remember what she's like now. What she's like in three months, on her birthday. It's a gift to be able to hold onto those images so that someday when she's running around and throwing tantrums," Olive pauses, her smile gentle and warm as she runs her finger over the brow of his niece, "I'll be able to remember this moment where she's sweet and soft and doesn't hate her parents."
George stares at her silently, stares at Ollie and feels that weird feeling in his heart grow and spread down to his stomach and his limbs until it feels like he's just woken up refreshed from a much needed nap.
She glances up and turns a deeper shade of pink, mumbling awkwardly, "Not that I'm saying I'll be around to see all of that. I just like to try my hardest to remember these things. Merlin, that sounds so—"
"Teach me."
She falters, lifting her head to peer at him with confused eyes and a nervous smile. She needn't be embarrassed. Not with him.
"Teach me how you try to remember important things."
It feels like a petulant demand, but the wistful expression she wears when she looks around at the burrow, when she moves her eyes around his brother's face's and stands still when everyone is talking and laughing makes George realize just how important it is. He doesn't want to forget either.
"It doesn't usually work," Olive laughs quietly, "But I usually think about it like taking a picture."
George nods slowly, waiting eagerly for her to continue. He soaks her in, eyes the half tilt of her wry smile and the glint of humor in her gaze as she continues, "I try to keep my head very still, and I have to focus. I struggle with that part, so I count the people or the things I can see in front of me. I look at each color, look at the way something is facing me. It is harder if someone isn't looking at me because then I can't remember their eyes."
Her smile grows, chin lowering so she can look at the child resting peacefully in her arms, "I try to remember if something smells a certain way, if it's hot or cold where I'm standing. If the sun or moon is out or if a single lamp is making the room glow."
George feels himself drawing closer to her, feels his body still as his eyes soak in the way the setting sun turns her hair to gold, the way the pink color of her shirt matches her rosy cheeks. The way she smells like raspberries and that her scar stretches thin when she smiles down at his niece like holding her is the most amazing thing in the entire world.
"Then I blink. Once, just closing my eyes and squeezing like I'm taking a photograph. And when I open my eyes, I tell myself that when I get home or when I'm going to sleep at night, I'll be able to look at all of the photographs I've taken that day."
George blinks, slow and purposeful so that when he opens his eyes he knows that he will forever have a picture of Olive standing on the lawn of his childhood home, holding baby Victoire, and standing below the sleepy sun.
He opens his eyes just as she lifts her head, and he's tempted to take another photograph with his mind. One that focuses just on her eyes that don't remind him of pain and misery. She just smiles, and George lifts his fingers away from Victoire to lightly trace the path of slightly raised skin that stretches across her mouth, curving down her chin.
She lets him, standing with her face raised while his finger kisses her skin in a way that makes envy coil deep inside his chest. He exhales slowly, unsure of what to say. But Olive just blinks up at him, her lips soft beneath the pad of his finger.
"Cake time!"
The sound breaks the fragile evening air, and slowly, George's hand returns limply to his side. Olive glances down at Victoire before looking up at George when he repeats what he said last time it was just the two of them outside of the Burrow, "I like ice cream better than cake."
Olive laughs, head shaking back and forth and her arm tucking Victoire deeper into her one side so that she can tug on the sleeve of his shirt with her free hand, "I remember, George."
He smiles, grabbing onto her free hand and giving it a punishing squeeze that crinkles her nose but doesn't stop her laughter. He pulls them in the direction of the house, a chuckle escaping him too when Olive finally stifles her laughter and says, "I like ice cream better too. But let's at least share a slice. Anything else would be rude."
George nods his head up and down, dropping her hand to gently rest his on her back and guide her through the doorway. His mother is bustling around, making sure that Hermione is enjoying her slice of cake before cutting pieces for others.
Fleur appears on the other side of Olive and George listens silently when the quarter Veela whispers, "She must like you. She tries to rip out Ginny's hair and she screams like a banshee when Molly holds her."
Olive grins slightly and waves it off, carefully handing the mother her child and saying softly, "She's beautiful. Thank you for letting me hold her."
Fleur nods once, her trademark stoicism clearly crumbling in the presence of Olive and her no peaceful child. George ignores the way his cheeks feel hot when the French witch shoots him a very pointed look over Olive's head before walking over to Bill.
George opens his mouth to say something to Olive, he's not sure what, just that he feels like a nervous first year standing next to her. But his mum appears, flustered and quickly looking over her shoulder at Ron eyeing the cake, "Here, Fred. Take this before your brother eats—"
George hears a low hum start up in his ear and feels his lungs beginning to shrivel. His mother freezes, words pausing and the room growing equally as stiff and quiet. Fred. Merlin, Fred. Just when George was beginning to feel like he had a grip on things, like he might be brave enough to figure himself out and what it is he feels whenever he looks at the blonde standing next to him silently. He doesn't look at Olive. Not now. Because he's looking at his mother, tears welling in her eyes and lower lip wobbling as she attempts to apologize, "George, please I didn't—"
He's not sure what it is. If it's the mental picture he has of Olive standing so peacefully outside despite her own struggle to remember the things she so badly wanted to. Maybe it's the smell of raspberries and the green gingham pants next to him that he doesn't hate because green is beginning to remind him of something different. Whatever it is, instead of caving to the anxiety and flare up of tension and frustration, George awkwardly mumbles, "You think you'd be able to tell us apart by now. And you call yourself our Mother."
Multiple sets of eyes stare at him in shock, Ginny and Ron looking almost as nervous as Bill and Charlie. Hermione is pale, Fleur is wincing, and his father and mother look equally as lost.
George swallows past the panic rising in his throat, waiting for something to ease the awful tension in the room before he explodes in a fit of grief induced anger.
And then he looks across the table and sees that Harry Potter is shaking. His shoulders are hunched, his hand clasped tight over his mouth.
Laughing. Harry is laughing, even when Ginny hisses, "Harry!"
George feels his lips twitch slightly, glancing down when he hears an additional huff of laughter. Just like that, conversation slowly starts up again with nervous glances towards George softened by hope. He ignores them, too focused on the girl standing next to him.
Olive is shaking her head, lips twisted in an attempt to not smile. George knows. He knows what the feeling is simmering in his chest. He knows it and fuck if he doesn't like it.
She sighs, reaching out and accepting the plate of cake from Molly Weasley's wobbling hands as she chides, "George, it's rude to scare your mother like that."
His lips spread into a full grin, uninhibited and free and the hum in his ears dulls as he looks at her green eyes and replies sarcastically, "You sound like my mother."
Olive grins, dipping her finger into the light blue frosting on the plate in her fingers. George smiles even when she reaches up and swipes that frosting onto his chin. He nearly makes a joke about how she can't reach any higher, but he's scared his family enough for one day. Jokes. Him, George Weasley, making a joke. It doesn't hurt. He dips his own finger into the frosting before smearing it down the bridge of Olive's nose.
They must look crazy. George doesn't care. Instead, he spends the next several seconds taking a very purposeful picture in his mind.
One of Olive, decorated in smiles and blue frosting with a very encouraging shade of green in her eyes that looks something like pride.
Merlin, he was doomed.