Chapter Two: Fred Weasley, Brother and Best Friend

"YOU DID WHAT?"

"I stormed out of the office, making sure to slam the door and the outer door and glance murderously at everyone I met, including the ancient secretary."

"AND YOU CALL YOURSELF MY SON! HOW DARE YOU SIT THERE AND SIP YOUR COFFEE LIKE YOU HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING WRONG!"

"He's a prat, mum. He treated me like a child who's ice cream's fallen on the street! He doesn't understand grief. It goes deeper than words and bloody green awnings!"

"WELL, GEORGE WEASLEY, YOU ARE ACTING LIKE A CHILD WHO'S ICECREAM HAS FALLEN ON THE STREET! THIS MAN IS TRYING TO HELP YOU---"

"The only thing Dr. Sulley wants is to help himself…help himself into my wallet!"

"GEORGE WEASLEY, YOU COME BACK HERE THIS INST---"

"We're out of milk. I'm going to go get some at the Muggle grocer's."

"GEORGE! GET BACK HERE!"

"Bye, mum."

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"Good morning! May I help you?"

"Umm…uh…n-no… No, no, I'm fine!"

"You sure? You seem a little…I don't know, dazed over there."

"N-no. It's nothing, I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. … … … Actually, I need some help. Where's the milk?"

"Right there."

"Where?"

"Right behind you."

"It comes in…boxes?"

"What's the matter, never seen a milk carton before?"

"Ummm…a carton? Uh… O-of course, all the time! … They're just… You know, um---different colours. Where I come from!"

"Oh-kay. … … … Should I ring you through, then?"

"You can ring me through any time."

"Oh, God, you're not one of those blokes, are you?"

"Oh, no, 'course not! I was just being witty. You know. You're supposed to laugh now. Come on, I know you have it in you!"

"Ha ha."

"Tsk tsk… Mirthless. And here I was, thinking you'd turn out to be a girl who could take a joke."

"Oh, well, I can take a joke. Thing is, jokes are usually funny."

"Funny is my middle name."

"Ugh. How many times have I heard that one before. Well, actually, usually the bloke will use 'sexy.'"

"I could go with that too. George Quentin Funny Sexy Weasley."

"Is that your idea of being charming? 'Cause I'll tell you right now, it's not."

"Well, if it's not, then why are you still talking to me? You've already rung me through."

"Oh, I don't know, not everyone is a boorish slob who'll flirt with the girl behind the bloody meat counter in the bloody grocer's. Some people were born with manners."

"So… It's boorish to flirt harmlessly and without being any more forward than usual with the cute but sarcastic deli girl, who hopefully will now tell me her name?"

"Nope. Nothing doing."

"After I worked so hard at this? You're supposed to tell me your name, not straighten chapsticks on the peg behind the counter, which, by the way, don't need to be straightened."

"They do need to be straightened from time to time. I have to keep busy. It's a Sunday, in a tiny little green grocer's in a tiny little town. Not much is going on around here."

"You and I are."

"Pardon?"

"You and I have it going on.

Come on now, it's harmless, really, you should try it. You know, being friendly. Some people are better at it than others."

"Look, George Quentin Weasley, what do you want? A chapstick? Sliced turkey?"

"Well… Your name might be nice, actually. Hint hint."

"Ha ha. Can't you read, you boorish slob? I'm wearing a nametag."

"Fithe. That's…very unique."

"Faith, actually."

"Oh, yes, naturally. Faith What?"

"Fifer. Faith Fifer."

"Isn't that the name of the grocery store? Fifer's?"

"It's my father's grocery store. But he's off skiing with my mum, so I'm sort of operating it now."

"Oh. So you're a business-woman?"

"Ugh! No!"

"Don't worry, I'm sure it's better than it sounds."

"No, I'm not a business-woman, I'm the proprietor of a grocer's."

"And you work behind the meat counter. And the cash register."

"Well, my brother's supposed to work the cash register, but he's not around a whole lot."

"Er… Your parents are skiing, your brother's pulled a disappearing act. Sounds like you're alone a whole lot."

"That would be nice. If it was true."

"Oh?"

"My Nona."

"Fifer… What is that, Sicilian?"

"Hah, you think you're funny, don't you? Prat. My dad's English. My mum's Italian. Nona…well, she's about as Italian as it's possible to get. Bottles tomato sauce and everything, grows her own basil. Washes the floor once, sometimes twice a day. Apron. Iron gray hair."

"Sounds like a lovely woman."

"She is, most of the time."

"Oh, well, I don't like the sound of 'most of the time.'"

"HEY YOU, BY THE DOOR! DON'T TOUCH THE PRODUCE WITH YOUR HANDS UNLESS YOU PLAN TO BUY IT---! Bloody hell, some of these people…"

"I know what you mean. There's nothing worse than pre-handled produce, including Global Warming and the Black Death. And let's not forget scurvy, or being shot either."

"Oh shove it!"

"At least you're laughing this time!"

"Got me there --- HEY, WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT THAT PRO---! Ummm… Well, see you soon?"

"Same time, same place? In about a week, that is."

"Um… Sure, why not?"

"'Bye…Faith, was it?"

"Yes."

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"GEORGE WEASLEY, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? AND WHY IS THERE ONLY ONE QUART OF MILK IN THE BAG, I'M SURE WE'LL RUN OUT BEFORE THE END OF THE WEEK?!"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist mum! I was just talking to somebody."

"A STRANGER?!? I THOUGHT I HAD TAUGHT YOU BETTER THAN THAT, GEORGE WEASLEY!"

"Not a stranger. At least, not anymore. The person in the grocery store."

"Who is this PERSON? Why haven't I heard of them before?"

"Well, mum, she's---"

"She's??? A girl, George?? Or, rather hopefully, a young woman?! Is she nice? Polite? Clean? Pleasant? Intelligent? What did you talk about? Does she like you? What's her name?!"

"Yeah, mum, actually… She must be about nineteen. No older than that. Fairly nice, if by nice you mean 'hostile.' Er, clean? Yeah, I guess so. Intelligent, she'd have to be, she's got a tongue like a hot poker. We didn't talk about much, really, and no, I don't think she likes me. And her name's Faith. Fifer."

"Fifer… Hmm… Doesn't ring a bell, is she half-blood? Not that it matters, of course… Actually, I think I do know a Fifer, maybe a close relation… Oh GEORGE, it's so nice for you to be interacting with young witches and wizards your own age!"

"But that's it mum, she's a M-"

"Magnificent person! I'm sure, George, I'm sure… Maybe Arabella'll know where the name comes from… Fifer…"

"No, MUM! She's a Mug-"
"Now, now, George, I'm sure she's as magnificent a person as can be. Oh, you're such a lovely, harmless boy, I'm sure she likes you very much already. Why don't you have her over?"
"Have her over? Isn't that sort of fast? I met her, what? Four minutes ago?"

"Oh, don't be silly, George, I was young once too! You must have been seeing her for the past, oh, several months at least for you to mention her today!"

"Er, mum… I'm sure the world has changed a little since then. You know. We have, you know, cars and things today. There aren't any dinosaurs any more, either, or have you failed to notice?"

"Don't get mouthy with me, George. You may be of age but you're still my son, and I know you best! We're going to need pork chops…Oh, and sauce, and some eggs, probably four or five salads…and then chicken, pasta, some sort of seafood, too…Oh, George, dear, I can't wait to meet her! Just ask her, won't you?!"

"MUM, I--! Oh, Merlin, what's the use?"

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From the Desk of Dr. Armando P. L. R. Sulley.

Dear Mr. George Q. Weasley,

This note is a simple reminder that you are to attend your second grief counselling today at three o'clock p.m. and lasting until five o'clock p.m. My offices can be found on the corner of Church Street and Main, with the green striped awnings. I will await your letter of acknowledgement.

Sincerely,

Dr. Armando Sulley.

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From the Desk of George Bloody-Well-Ticked Weasley.

Dr. Sulley, Do you ever bloody well learn? I don't care for grief therapy. I am not coming. I refuse the fact that you sent me that letter. In fact, I have burned your letter. And again, please, do take into consideration that you shove your awnings up----

Dear Mr. Sulley, I am Mrs. Molly Weasley, George Weasley's mother. I have noticed that his writing to you has become somewhat violent in nature… But fear not! He's a gentle and compassionate boy who really needs the love and guidance of his family (and certified health professionals) in his grief. He WILL be attending his grief counselling. And he will be attending every week on Thursdays. I plan to enforce this policy!

Sincerely,

Mrs. M. Weasley.

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"I can't believe I'm here again."

"Good evening, Mr. Weasley! Please, take a seat."

"Alright. But not on the couch bed."

"Why not?"

"It's your status symbol, Sulley. I'm not lying on your couch bed. You're not a real shrink!"

"No, you're very right. There's no shrinking in this office, only growing."

"ARGH!"

"Please, Mr. Weasley! Leave my lamp alone!"

"I didn't even touch it, I didn't LOOK at it!"

"Yes. But it was expensive."

The patient still resists all reasonable suggestion and entered this session completely frustrated.

"Oh, Merlin… Have mercy, let me die!"

Patient is thinking of committing suicide.

"Mr. Weasley. We do not use the word 'die' in this office."

"Die, die, die, die!"

Patient is displaying signs of aggression. He seems to think that the life of my extremely important person is about to end or is suffering from the delusion that he can cause my death only with words. He is utterly calm, and mutters his words with antagonising slowness.

"By all means, if it makes you feel better, please continue. … You're being very silent, Mr. Weasley. Would you mind taking a seat?"

"Yes. I would mind. I would mind very much. I'm not lying on that bloody couch bed."

"Why not?"

"You know, Sulley, I think we may actually have been through this before,"

"You make a very clever observation."

"Does that mean I can leave?"

"Of course. You can leave. But you still have to pay me for the entire session."

"What are you, an extortionist?!"

"Perhaps. What are you?"

"Bloody ticked!"

Patient is prone to understatement.

"Now, Mr. Weasley… Would you mind telling me why you're so angry?"

"Oh, Merlin, I--- You really have a good time jerking people around, don't you?"

Patient lacks a sense of respect for his superiors.

"You are aware, Mr. Weasley, that I do not want you here? In fact, having my time taken up by a red-haired, big-nosed young ingrate is not my idea of 'a good time.'"

"Well, quite frankly, Sulley my man, I have much more important things to do than talk to small, wrinkly and thoroughly unpleasant toadies such as yourself."

Patient applies inappropriate adjectives to persons of authority. Doctor Sulley is not a small, wrinkly, and thoroughly unpleasant toady. I, Dr. Sulley, am an exceptionally attractive and singularily personable, reasonable, and intelligent man.

"Now that you've thoroughly insulted me, young whelp, would you please take a seat?"

"Fine, but I'm not lying down."

"Very well. Now, please, tell me about your grief."

"My dog died. I'm very broken up about it."

Patient lacks a sense of humour.

"Somehow, Mr. Weasley, that is not amusing."

"Alright then. Well… My twin brother…F-Fred. He was…he was killed. Four months ago."

"I see."

Patient is prone to mood swings. At one given moment he will be excessively angry and then he will be excessively sad.

"But he wasn't just my brother. He was my best friend. We did everything together…I mean, he was my twin. And people would always say we were exactly alike…Troublemakers, you know? But he was always the one who had the ideas, he was the one…he was the cleverer of us, I think."

"Please, go on,"

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL AM I DOING HERE?!"

Patient suffers from short-term memory loss.

"You are in grief counselling."

"I BLOODY WELL KNOW THAT!"

"Tell me, Mr. Weasley, what would your brother Frederick have done?"

"HIS NAME WAS FRED, YOU SODDY OLD MAN!"

"Yes, well. What would your brother Frederick have done?"

"HE WOULD HAVE CALLED YOU A SODDY OLD MAN, AND HE WOULD HAVE LEFT THE OFFICE!"

Patient is very much like his brother Frederick.