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It had been Mum's idea. The therapist, that is. She thought it would help the family cope with our situation. Mainly me… considering. In all honesty, going to St. Mungo's to sort out my problems was the last thing I needed. But I'd like to see you try saying no to my mother. Especially when she's as torn up as she is.

"So," the elderly man smiled as he looked at me through his smudged glasses, "how are feeling today? Better?"

I shook my head.

"No? Tell me about it."

I shook my head again, "There's nothing much to say. Not much has changed since Monday."

He crossed his legs, allowing the argyle socks to peek out from underneath his trousers. "Well, let's start with the little things then."

"Uh," I started as my mind searched for the tiny differences, "I ate some pudding last night. Made some hangover potion. Oh! I bought an owl!"

"Well, that's new."

"Named 'em Griswold. He has a tendency to bite though." I raised my hand and wiggled my fingers, displaying the many bandages looped around my cuts. "I'm considering sending him to visit Malfoy or Marcus Flint. Either way I'll cause a Slytherin some pain. I'm okay with that."

My therapist coughed, possibly trying to conceal a gasp of surprise. "George, do you really think that would be productive to your healing process?"

I shrugged, "Couldn't hurt."

After about a month of two weekly sessions I got sick of jabbering on about problems I didn't want to talk about or relive. So, I made a game of it. Nothing was more intriguing than making him squirm in his overstuffed leather armchair. Last week I told him my brother and Harry had been chased down by giant spiders. It was the truth. Except for the part when I told him they were wearing tutus. The spiders that is.

"Well," he tugged at his collar as he searched for his words, "uh, well… Let's focus on something positive, shall we? Your sister's wedding is coming up. How's that going?"

"If you knew my sister, Doctor, you'd know that I'm not entirely too happy about the situation."

"Why is that?"

I leaned back on the sofa and brought by hands to rest behind the back of my head. "Ginny gets a bit tense. You look at her the wrong way and she'll hex your bum off. And whatever you do, make sure you don't eat the last chocolate tart. I learned that the hard way."

"Well, that's not too bad."

"Also, Fred and I always thought Ron would end up with Harry. But that was a long shot."

The man in front of me brought his hand up to stroke his white scruff that he considered a beard. "How does that make you feel?"

"How does what make me feel?"

"Saying his name?"

I scrunched my eyebrows. "Fred? Saying Fred's name?"

He nodded.

"Why would it be hard for me to say his name? I spent twenty years with him, I grew up with him, and I spent all my time with him. I've said his name millions, no billions, of times before. It shouldn't be that hard for me to say it now. Look," I hopped up off the couch and onto my feet, "I'll say it again. Fred. Fred. Fred Fred Fred Fred Fred."

"George," he sighed.

"Wait!" I held up a single finger to make him pause. "I can do it from up here." I climbed atop the coffee table. "Fred! Fred! Fred!"

"George."

"And I can say it while tap-dancing!" With that being said I hopped off the furniture and began moving my feet frantically. "Fred! Fred! Freddie Fred Fred!"

"George!"

I stopped, mainly in shock that he raised his voice. Were therapists supposed to do that?

"George, I think we're done for that day. We'll see each other in a few days."

I smoothed out my copy of today's Daily Prophet to read an article about yet another trial in Azkaban. Dipping my spoon into my bowl of cereal, I scooped up a mouthful and brought it to my lips.

Through my one ear I heard a faint tap-tap on a window on the other side of the house. Pushing out my chair, I carried my breakfast into the other room with me. My mother stood, my therapist's owl perched on the window sill beside her. "What does he have to say?" I asked before stuffing another spoonful into my mouth.

My mother lowered the letter and shot me a concerning look. "He says he thinks that you're… disturbed."

"Disturbed?" I frowned. "And all this time I only thought I was slightly disturbed."

"George," my mother glared with her hands on her hips, "what did you say to Mr. Bishop during your appointment?"

"Oh! That's his name? This whole time I've been calling Doctor."

"George," she warned.

"I didn't do anything," I smirked before turning to retreat back into the kitchen.

"George! What did you do?"

"Sorry, Mum!" I called. "I'm having trouble hearing you! Gotta bad ear!"

"George Weasley!"

I smirked as I took a seat back in my blue chair. "Well," I whispered into the empty room, "I hope I'm making you proud, Forge. One of us had to keep the chaos going."

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