Chapter Nineteen: Meet the Parent
"Lessee, total sales to date, minus overhead and we're looking at--" Fred finished writing out the figures on a blank piece of parchment--"profit of five-hundred twenty two Galleons, forty-eight Sickles and sixteen Knuts."
"You're joking," said George, and he pulled the piece of parchment with Fred's latest sales figures across the desk. George eyed the parchment and whistled.
"That's two weeks worth," said George. "Not bad."
"Not bad at all," said Fred. "A lot of those Hogwarts students really came through for us, looks like."
"We need more ad space," said George firmly.
"Good luck," said Fred darkly. "Like The Daily Prophet is going to run an ad of ours, no matter how much we offer to pay for it."
"True," said George. "Umbridge has no doubt alerted the Ministry--"
"--and the Ministry has no doubt told The Prophet, which is nothing but a bloody propaganda arm for Fudge," said Fred.
"Bloody hell," said George, shoving the parchment back and sitting back in his chair.
They sat at their big desk in the study in their flat. The first two weeks since the grand opening of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes had gone far better than they expected, but the bulk of their profits thus far had come from Hogwarts students who'd pre-ordered their products. Fred knew they couldn't continue to turn healthy profits without advertising; word-of-mouth didn't count for much in the competitive joke shop industry, particularly in Diagon Alley, where shops opened every day only to fold six months later.
On top of this, they still needed a few employees to help them out; running the shop by themselves was exhausting. Mrs. Weasley had offered to help, but Fred and George immediately demurred; no doubt Mrs. Weasley wouldn't approve of many of their products and the last thing they needed was their mother hovering over them.
"I'm completely exhausted," George announced.
"Me, too," said Fred dully.
There was a silence; neither of them seemed too keen to get into yet another discussion of all that was needed to make the joke shop run more smoothly. Fred ran a hand over his face and stood up, walking to the window and peering down at the dimly lit, cobble-stoned street below. Dusk was fast approaching and shops were closing even as pubs and restaurants began to do their brisk evening business. Fred wished at that moment that Angelina was there, that he could take a walk with her and kiss her under the street lamp. He made a mental note to write her another letter tonight, another of his unsent, clumsy declarations. He'd give her all the letters when he next saw her, at the end of term.
"Thinking about Angelina?" said George perceptively.
Fred grimaced. Sometimes it was hell, being a twin.
"Yeah," he admitted. "You thinking of Alicia?"
"Constantly," said George.
"This sucks," said Fred. "Really bloody sucks."
"No kidding," said George. "Between the cold showers and not getting to talk to her every day--"
"--not even getting to send letters," said Fred. "Invisible Ink isn't even any good, not with Umbridge's screeners opening all the mail."
Another silence fell. Fred felt an ache in his chest. If he'd known how badly it would hurt him to have left Angelina behind at Hogwarts, he never would have left. But there was no going back. If only he could get word to her somehow, just to let her know that he was thinking about her, that he hadn't forgotten her, not even close.
"Do you think we did the right thing, Fred?" George said suddenly. "Leaving, I mean?"
"I'm starting to wonder," said Fred.
"I've been thinking," said George, "maybe we ought to, you know, try and join the Order. Do something, I dunno, USEFUL."
"Yeah," said Fred, and indeed this thought had occurred to him. They were both of age, they were no longer in school, they ought to be welcomed into the fold at this point.
"On the other hand," said George, "I dunno what use we'd be to that lot."
"Yeah," said Fred again. "Best to focus on what we're good at, I s'pose. Making joke stuff and making people laugh. Not like the Order really has much use for a Skiving Snackbox." His voice trailed off, as something clicked in his brain.
"George," said Fred. "Invisible Ink."
"What?"
"Invisible Ink," said Fred. "Why don't we make some of our own?"
"Why?" said George. "You said yourself it's no good for writing letters, not with Umbridge's screeners--"
"I mean, an invisible ink that gets past Umbridge's screeners," said Fred. "Invisible ink that only reveals itself to the proper recipient of the correspondence."
"Is that possible?" said George, but his eyes had lit up as he began to think of the possibilities.
"Why not?" said Fred. "If we can turn a whole bloody corridor into a swamp, why not make an invisible ink that can get past a bunch of letter screeners?"
"Better yet," said George, "why not make an ink that has a decoy sort of message? You know, to everyone else it looks like it's just some innocuous letter from Great Aunt Mabel or whatever, but to the recipient, they see who it's really from."
"And we could sell it to the Order," said Fred. "Don't you see? Invisible Ink that nobody can read except the recipient? Impervious to every sort of Revealing Charm or spell. They could use it for, I dunno, spy stuff or whatever it is they do. Think of it. We increase our customer base by a shitload if we can get members of the Order on board. Even Mum would go for it."
"Bloody hell," said George, grinning. "So we do something in our own self- interest--make a product that could bring us huge profits AND lets us communicate with our girlfriends--that also HAPPENS to be for a good cause."
"Not to mention we'd be giving the bloody finger to Fudge and Umbridge and all those other prats," said Fred, rubbing his hands together eagerly.
"Excellent," said George.
"George," said Fred proudly, "I think we've just stumbled upon our true mission in life."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next week brought intense activity. The twins took out a full page ad in The Quibbler ("A dodgy paper seems the perfect place to advertise for our dodgy products," said Fred), promising free samples of Canary Creams and Fainting Fancies to all first-time customers (with the purchase of any other product, of course). The strategy worked, and more and more customers began to show up to the shop. In that single week, they took in four times as much in profits as they had in all the months they'd run the mail-order business.
In their spare time, Fred and George worked on their invisible ink. They decided to call it Weasley's Wily Writer (neither could resist using alliterative titles as often as possible).
Unfortunately, they quickly realized that producing an invisible ink that was impervious to any and all Revealing Charms and Spells proved to be far more difficult than they had first envisioned.
"Fuck," said Fred angrily, as George's latest Revealing Charm caused the lines of text he'd just written to appear--if very faintly--on the parchment.
"Maybe we ought to do special parchment," George suggested. "You know, to go with the ink."
"You're mad," said Fred. "We can't even do the ink and you want to do parchment on top of it. When are you planning to sleep?"
"I'm not sleeping much anyway," said George dully.
"Join the club," said Fred irritably.
They sat back in their chairs and stared at their many bottles of experimental ink and the many pieces of parchment they'd gone through in testing it.
"That's what I miss most, you know," said George. "The sleeping part. Falling asleep next to her. And waking up."
Fred looked at his twin, who'd gone very red in the face.
"Go on, laugh," said George.
"I'm not laughing," said Fred. "I was just going to say I agree with you."
"The final Quidditch match is coming up," said George.
"I know," said Fred.
"I wonder how bad they'll lose," said George.
"With Ron Keeping?" said Fred pointedly. "And those two idiots as Beaters?"
"I hope it's over quickly," said George grimly.
"Angie's going to be devastated," said Fred. "Bloody hell. You should have seen her after that match with Hufflepuff. All she wanted was to have a good team. She's not going to get another chance as captain."
George sighed and got up from his chair.
"This is hell," he said. "I hate not knowing what's going on."
"Five weeks," said Fred. "That's what I keep telling myself. Five weeks and school's out and they come home."
"Feels like five years," said George.
Fred said nothing, but only closed his eyes as he silently agreed with his twin.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Thank you," said Fred, as he handed the customer her parcel and change. "Do come again."
The plump witch smiled. "Oh, I surely will, dear. My nephew adores your products." She turned and left the shop, and for the first time that day, Fred found himself alone in the store.
He relished the quiet and the emptiness. George had gone to the back to deposit their latest earnings into their joint account; after that he was going to The Quibbler's offices to drop off a half-page help wanted ad. It had become apparent in the aftermath of their advertising for the store that they could not possibly run the shop by themselves. It had simply become too busy.
But for the moment, Fred was alone. Blessedly alone. He sighed and opened up his ledger and his eyes scanned their latest inventory and profit reports. He didn't really take in any of the figures, but it was something quiet to do, and he could allow his mind to wander where it inevitably and always did. To Angelina.
The match was on Saturday. He would have given his right arm just to be able to drop her a note, just a little greeting wishing her luck and telling her he loved her. But their work on Weasley's Wily Writer had gotten nowhere. The best they'd been able to accomplish was a very good invisible ink that had become so impervious to every Revealing Charm they could think that it wouldn't reveal itself at all, even to the intended recipient.
The front door gave its familiar jangle thanks to the bell installed there, and Fred looked up to see another customer.
He was a very tall, very broad black wizard with a close-cropped, graying beard and equally close-cropped graying hair. He had large, very dark brown eyes, full lips and his skin was rich and brown. He wore elegant robes of midnight blue and he looked terribly imposing and serious. Not at all the sort who bought joke things. But there was something oddly familiar about him. Fred was quite certain he'd never seen the wizard before in his
"Good afternoon," Fred said, a bit nervously. "Welcome to Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. Can I show you anything in particular?"
"I'm looking for Frederick Weasley," said the man, and although he hadn't spoken loudly, his voice seemed to boom about the shop. It was a deep, powerful voice. Fred involuntarily took a step back. This was not a wizard to be messed with. Fred wondered if the man worked for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Maybe he had come to arrest Fred and George for the Portable Swamp. Fred wouldn't put it past Umbridge to report them to the authorities.
But as the wizard stared him down, Fred found himself clearing his throat and saying, "I'm Frederick Weasley. Can I help you?"
"How do you do, Mr. Weasley," said the wizard. Fred bit back the urge to chuckle. The man had to be thirty years older than he, yet here he was calling Fred "Mr. Weasley."
"I am Bernard Johnson," the wizard went on. He gave Fred a rather pointed look.
Johnson, Fred thought, and he swallowed.
"Mr.--Johnson?" he managed.
"I believe you're acquainted with my daughter, Angelina," said Mr. Johnson.
Merlin, but it was Angelina's father. Fred swallowed again.
"Yes," he said, his voice tight with nerves. He didn't like the way Angelina's father was staring at him. "I, uh, know Angie, er, Angelina."
"You've been friends with her for quite some time," said Mr. Johnson. It was not a question.
"Y-yes, sir," said Fred.
"She's told us--her mother and me--all about you, of course," said Mr. Johnson. "She's written about you very frequently. Fred this, Fred that. She tells me you've been a very good friend to her."
"I--I hope so, sir," said Fred.
"Is there anything else between you and my daughter that I should be aware of?" asked Mr. Johnson.
Bloody hell, thought Fred. Here it is. He knows or he's figured out or-- Merlin--Angie's told her parents that something's going on with us. And now he's here to interrogate me and if I say something stupid he'll probably kill me.
"Uh," said Fred slowly, "well, sir, you see--" His voice trailed off.
"Yes?"
"I love your daughter," Fred blurted.
There was a silence. It probably didn't last more than a few seconds, but those few seconds were the longest of Fred's life.
"Do you?" said Mr. Johnson coolly.
"Yes, sir," said Fred quickly, his throat working furiously against the dryness of his mouth. He began to babble. "I do. Like mad. She's wonderful. My best mate in the world. I love her and--and when I say that I mean it with nothing but the most honorable intentions, sir, and-and I'm pretty sure she loves me, too-at least I hope she does--and I know I dropped out of school, sir, to start this shop up with my brother but it's something we've been wanting to do for ages and-and it's been going really well and I'm saving up lots of money and-and I know my family doesn't have a lot of money or anything and I'll probably never be rich but I work really hard and I'll keep working really hard and I really, really love your daughter and she's the most wonderful person I've ever met and please don't kill me."
Mr. Johnson stared at Fred for a long moment; Fred gulped and waited for it. Waited for Mr. Johnson to tell him that Fred wasn't good enough for his daughter, was nothing but a drop-out and a loser.
Instead Mr. Johnson laughed, a deep, throaty kind of laugh that did nothing to calm Fred's swooping stomach.
"Don't kill you," said Mr. Johnson, chuckling. "Why would I do that?"
Fred laughed nervously and felt his face flush. "Oh, uh, no reason."
"Sorry," said Mr. Johnson. "You'll have to forgive me. Angelina would kill me if she knew I was here, doing my Concerned Father routine. But I thought it was high time I met the young man my daughter's so enamoured of."
"Oh," said Fred, feeling his stomach settle down even as he tried not to smile, tried not to look so pleased with himself.
"I also have something for you," said Mr. Johnson, and he removed from his robes a letter. "From Angelina. It took longer than usual. Apparently there are all sorts of screeners going through all the mail in and out of the school. So this letter went through several indirect channels before getting to me."
Fred took the letter, his hand trembling. He felt like jumping up and down. He felt like crying. How had she managed to write him at all?
"It was sent to me," said Mr. Johnson. "Tucked inside a few extra envelopes. Once I saw the name on it I knew I had the perfect excuse to meet you. You needn't worry. I didn't read the letter itself." He grinned.
"How-how did she manage it?" said Fred, bewildered. "The screeners would have seen--"
"--apparently Angelina was able to get help from one of the professors," said Mr. Johnson, "who was able to slip it past the usual process."
Fred looked up at Mr. Johnson and smiled weakly. "Thank you, sir. This means--thank you very much."
"My pleasure," said Mr. Johnson, smiling again. "It's nice to finally meet you. I think I can see why my daughter thinks so highly of you. Good day to you. I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other in the future."
"Yes sir," said Fred. "I hope so, sir."
And with that, Mr. Johnson nodded and swept out of the shop, leaving Fred standing there alone again, gaping at the letter in his hand.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Two minutes later Fred grabbed the Out to Lunch sign from beneath the sales counter, propped it up in the door, locked it, and raced to the back office, tearing open the letter as he went.
He barely sat down as he spread out the wrinkled parchment and began to read, his heart pounding.
Dear Fred,
I have no idea if you'll get this or not. McGonagall helped me get it out;
I think she misses you almost as much as I do.
And bloody hell, I miss you. I don't even know how to describe it in
words. I can't believe I was so stupid not to have admitted to myself how
I felt about you sooner. Then maybe we could have had some more time
together before you left.
The final Quidditch match is this Saturday. At this point I just hope we
don't lose too badly. Although I have to say, your little brother seems a bit
more confident about things these days, and he's flying better. Maybe he
figures we have nothing more to lose or something. Part of me is glad you
won't be here to see us lose, but another part of me wishes you could be
here. I still think about that time in the Quidditch tent, after we lost to
Hufflepuff, and how you, uh, "comforted" me. (Heh heh heh). I can't help
but wish you could be there again, only this time I wouldn't run away
from you. On the contrary I'd drag you into the bloody showers and finish
what you started.
"Oh, Angie," said Fred, grinning, his mind now swimming with very lovely images of her ravishing him in the showers.
Goddammit, I wish you were here. I know why you can't be. I hope
the shop is going well. I miss you so damn much and I can't wait to see
you again. You had better be waiting for me on the platform at King's
Cross and hug me and kiss me until I can't breathe (well, maybe you can
kiss me when my parents aren't around).
Take care of yourself. I love you so much it hurts.
Angie
"Likewise," Fred whispered, and he felt his eyes sting.
He read the letter again, and again, and again, hoping to find some comfort in her words, but instead the letter only made him feel her absence even more. He couldn't stand it. Five more weeks without her was like a lifetime.
He looked at his watch and realized he ought to re-open the shop. He had skipped lunch, but he wasn't hungry. His stomach was too tied up in knots. The Quidditch match was two days away.
I've never, ever missed a match with her, he thought. All the years I played, I played with her, and even when I was banned, I watched. And now I'm going to miss the last match of her life as a Hogwarts student. As Quidditch captain.
"No," he said out loud, and all at once he stood up.
The decision came to him in a flash, and he knew it was the only decision to make.
"Lessee, total sales to date, minus overhead and we're looking at--" Fred finished writing out the figures on a blank piece of parchment--"profit of five-hundred twenty two Galleons, forty-eight Sickles and sixteen Knuts."
"You're joking," said George, and he pulled the piece of parchment with Fred's latest sales figures across the desk. George eyed the parchment and whistled.
"That's two weeks worth," said George. "Not bad."
"Not bad at all," said Fred. "A lot of those Hogwarts students really came through for us, looks like."
"We need more ad space," said George firmly.
"Good luck," said Fred darkly. "Like The Daily Prophet is going to run an ad of ours, no matter how much we offer to pay for it."
"True," said George. "Umbridge has no doubt alerted the Ministry--"
"--and the Ministry has no doubt told The Prophet, which is nothing but a bloody propaganda arm for Fudge," said Fred.
"Bloody hell," said George, shoving the parchment back and sitting back in his chair.
They sat at their big desk in the study in their flat. The first two weeks since the grand opening of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes had gone far better than they expected, but the bulk of their profits thus far had come from Hogwarts students who'd pre-ordered their products. Fred knew they couldn't continue to turn healthy profits without advertising; word-of-mouth didn't count for much in the competitive joke shop industry, particularly in Diagon Alley, where shops opened every day only to fold six months later.
On top of this, they still needed a few employees to help them out; running the shop by themselves was exhausting. Mrs. Weasley had offered to help, but Fred and George immediately demurred; no doubt Mrs. Weasley wouldn't approve of many of their products and the last thing they needed was their mother hovering over them.
"I'm completely exhausted," George announced.
"Me, too," said Fred dully.
There was a silence; neither of them seemed too keen to get into yet another discussion of all that was needed to make the joke shop run more smoothly. Fred ran a hand over his face and stood up, walking to the window and peering down at the dimly lit, cobble-stoned street below. Dusk was fast approaching and shops were closing even as pubs and restaurants began to do their brisk evening business. Fred wished at that moment that Angelina was there, that he could take a walk with her and kiss her under the street lamp. He made a mental note to write her another letter tonight, another of his unsent, clumsy declarations. He'd give her all the letters when he next saw her, at the end of term.
"Thinking about Angelina?" said George perceptively.
Fred grimaced. Sometimes it was hell, being a twin.
"Yeah," he admitted. "You thinking of Alicia?"
"Constantly," said George.
"This sucks," said Fred. "Really bloody sucks."
"No kidding," said George. "Between the cold showers and not getting to talk to her every day--"
"--not even getting to send letters," said Fred. "Invisible Ink isn't even any good, not with Umbridge's screeners opening all the mail."
Another silence fell. Fred felt an ache in his chest. If he'd known how badly it would hurt him to have left Angelina behind at Hogwarts, he never would have left. But there was no going back. If only he could get word to her somehow, just to let her know that he was thinking about her, that he hadn't forgotten her, not even close.
"Do you think we did the right thing, Fred?" George said suddenly. "Leaving, I mean?"
"I'm starting to wonder," said Fred.
"I've been thinking," said George, "maybe we ought to, you know, try and join the Order. Do something, I dunno, USEFUL."
"Yeah," said Fred, and indeed this thought had occurred to him. They were both of age, they were no longer in school, they ought to be welcomed into the fold at this point.
"On the other hand," said George, "I dunno what use we'd be to that lot."
"Yeah," said Fred again. "Best to focus on what we're good at, I s'pose. Making joke stuff and making people laugh. Not like the Order really has much use for a Skiving Snackbox." His voice trailed off, as something clicked in his brain.
"George," said Fred. "Invisible Ink."
"What?"
"Invisible Ink," said Fred. "Why don't we make some of our own?"
"Why?" said George. "You said yourself it's no good for writing letters, not with Umbridge's screeners--"
"I mean, an invisible ink that gets past Umbridge's screeners," said Fred. "Invisible ink that only reveals itself to the proper recipient of the correspondence."
"Is that possible?" said George, but his eyes had lit up as he began to think of the possibilities.
"Why not?" said Fred. "If we can turn a whole bloody corridor into a swamp, why not make an invisible ink that can get past a bunch of letter screeners?"
"Better yet," said George, "why not make an ink that has a decoy sort of message? You know, to everyone else it looks like it's just some innocuous letter from Great Aunt Mabel or whatever, but to the recipient, they see who it's really from."
"And we could sell it to the Order," said Fred. "Don't you see? Invisible Ink that nobody can read except the recipient? Impervious to every sort of Revealing Charm or spell. They could use it for, I dunno, spy stuff or whatever it is they do. Think of it. We increase our customer base by a shitload if we can get members of the Order on board. Even Mum would go for it."
"Bloody hell," said George, grinning. "So we do something in our own self- interest--make a product that could bring us huge profits AND lets us communicate with our girlfriends--that also HAPPENS to be for a good cause."
"Not to mention we'd be giving the bloody finger to Fudge and Umbridge and all those other prats," said Fred, rubbing his hands together eagerly.
"Excellent," said George.
"George," said Fred proudly, "I think we've just stumbled upon our true mission in life."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next week brought intense activity. The twins took out a full page ad in The Quibbler ("A dodgy paper seems the perfect place to advertise for our dodgy products," said Fred), promising free samples of Canary Creams and Fainting Fancies to all first-time customers (with the purchase of any other product, of course). The strategy worked, and more and more customers began to show up to the shop. In that single week, they took in four times as much in profits as they had in all the months they'd run the mail-order business.
In their spare time, Fred and George worked on their invisible ink. They decided to call it Weasley's Wily Writer (neither could resist using alliterative titles as often as possible).
Unfortunately, they quickly realized that producing an invisible ink that was impervious to any and all Revealing Charms and Spells proved to be far more difficult than they had first envisioned.
"Fuck," said Fred angrily, as George's latest Revealing Charm caused the lines of text he'd just written to appear--if very faintly--on the parchment.
"Maybe we ought to do special parchment," George suggested. "You know, to go with the ink."
"You're mad," said Fred. "We can't even do the ink and you want to do parchment on top of it. When are you planning to sleep?"
"I'm not sleeping much anyway," said George dully.
"Join the club," said Fred irritably.
They sat back in their chairs and stared at their many bottles of experimental ink and the many pieces of parchment they'd gone through in testing it.
"That's what I miss most, you know," said George. "The sleeping part. Falling asleep next to her. And waking up."
Fred looked at his twin, who'd gone very red in the face.
"Go on, laugh," said George.
"I'm not laughing," said Fred. "I was just going to say I agree with you."
"The final Quidditch match is coming up," said George.
"I know," said Fred.
"I wonder how bad they'll lose," said George.
"With Ron Keeping?" said Fred pointedly. "And those two idiots as Beaters?"
"I hope it's over quickly," said George grimly.
"Angie's going to be devastated," said Fred. "Bloody hell. You should have seen her after that match with Hufflepuff. All she wanted was to have a good team. She's not going to get another chance as captain."
George sighed and got up from his chair.
"This is hell," he said. "I hate not knowing what's going on."
"Five weeks," said Fred. "That's what I keep telling myself. Five weeks and school's out and they come home."
"Feels like five years," said George.
Fred said nothing, but only closed his eyes as he silently agreed with his twin.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Thank you," said Fred, as he handed the customer her parcel and change. "Do come again."
The plump witch smiled. "Oh, I surely will, dear. My nephew adores your products." She turned and left the shop, and for the first time that day, Fred found himself alone in the store.
He relished the quiet and the emptiness. George had gone to the back to deposit their latest earnings into their joint account; after that he was going to The Quibbler's offices to drop off a half-page help wanted ad. It had become apparent in the aftermath of their advertising for the store that they could not possibly run the shop by themselves. It had simply become too busy.
But for the moment, Fred was alone. Blessedly alone. He sighed and opened up his ledger and his eyes scanned their latest inventory and profit reports. He didn't really take in any of the figures, but it was something quiet to do, and he could allow his mind to wander where it inevitably and always did. To Angelina.
The match was on Saturday. He would have given his right arm just to be able to drop her a note, just a little greeting wishing her luck and telling her he loved her. But their work on Weasley's Wily Writer had gotten nowhere. The best they'd been able to accomplish was a very good invisible ink that had become so impervious to every Revealing Charm they could think that it wouldn't reveal itself at all, even to the intended recipient.
The front door gave its familiar jangle thanks to the bell installed there, and Fred looked up to see another customer.
He was a very tall, very broad black wizard with a close-cropped, graying beard and equally close-cropped graying hair. He had large, very dark brown eyes, full lips and his skin was rich and brown. He wore elegant robes of midnight blue and he looked terribly imposing and serious. Not at all the sort who bought joke things. But there was something oddly familiar about him. Fred was quite certain he'd never seen the wizard before in his
"Good afternoon," Fred said, a bit nervously. "Welcome to Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. Can I show you anything in particular?"
"I'm looking for Frederick Weasley," said the man, and although he hadn't spoken loudly, his voice seemed to boom about the shop. It was a deep, powerful voice. Fred involuntarily took a step back. This was not a wizard to be messed with. Fred wondered if the man worked for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Maybe he had come to arrest Fred and George for the Portable Swamp. Fred wouldn't put it past Umbridge to report them to the authorities.
But as the wizard stared him down, Fred found himself clearing his throat and saying, "I'm Frederick Weasley. Can I help you?"
"How do you do, Mr. Weasley," said the wizard. Fred bit back the urge to chuckle. The man had to be thirty years older than he, yet here he was calling Fred "Mr. Weasley."
"I am Bernard Johnson," the wizard went on. He gave Fred a rather pointed look.
Johnson, Fred thought, and he swallowed.
"Mr.--Johnson?" he managed.
"I believe you're acquainted with my daughter, Angelina," said Mr. Johnson.
Merlin, but it was Angelina's father. Fred swallowed again.
"Yes," he said, his voice tight with nerves. He didn't like the way Angelina's father was staring at him. "I, uh, know Angie, er, Angelina."
"You've been friends with her for quite some time," said Mr. Johnson. It was not a question.
"Y-yes, sir," said Fred.
"She's told us--her mother and me--all about you, of course," said Mr. Johnson. "She's written about you very frequently. Fred this, Fred that. She tells me you've been a very good friend to her."
"I--I hope so, sir," said Fred.
"Is there anything else between you and my daughter that I should be aware of?" asked Mr. Johnson.
Bloody hell, thought Fred. Here it is. He knows or he's figured out or-- Merlin--Angie's told her parents that something's going on with us. And now he's here to interrogate me and if I say something stupid he'll probably kill me.
"Uh," said Fred slowly, "well, sir, you see--" His voice trailed off.
"Yes?"
"I love your daughter," Fred blurted.
There was a silence. It probably didn't last more than a few seconds, but those few seconds were the longest of Fred's life.
"Do you?" said Mr. Johnson coolly.
"Yes, sir," said Fred quickly, his throat working furiously against the dryness of his mouth. He began to babble. "I do. Like mad. She's wonderful. My best mate in the world. I love her and--and when I say that I mean it with nothing but the most honorable intentions, sir, and-and I'm pretty sure she loves me, too-at least I hope she does--and I know I dropped out of school, sir, to start this shop up with my brother but it's something we've been wanting to do for ages and-and it's been going really well and I'm saving up lots of money and-and I know my family doesn't have a lot of money or anything and I'll probably never be rich but I work really hard and I'll keep working really hard and I really, really love your daughter and she's the most wonderful person I've ever met and please don't kill me."
Mr. Johnson stared at Fred for a long moment; Fred gulped and waited for it. Waited for Mr. Johnson to tell him that Fred wasn't good enough for his daughter, was nothing but a drop-out and a loser.
Instead Mr. Johnson laughed, a deep, throaty kind of laugh that did nothing to calm Fred's swooping stomach.
"Don't kill you," said Mr. Johnson, chuckling. "Why would I do that?"
Fred laughed nervously and felt his face flush. "Oh, uh, no reason."
"Sorry," said Mr. Johnson. "You'll have to forgive me. Angelina would kill me if she knew I was here, doing my Concerned Father routine. But I thought it was high time I met the young man my daughter's so enamoured of."
"Oh," said Fred, feeling his stomach settle down even as he tried not to smile, tried not to look so pleased with himself.
"I also have something for you," said Mr. Johnson, and he removed from his robes a letter. "From Angelina. It took longer than usual. Apparently there are all sorts of screeners going through all the mail in and out of the school. So this letter went through several indirect channels before getting to me."
Fred took the letter, his hand trembling. He felt like jumping up and down. He felt like crying. How had she managed to write him at all?
"It was sent to me," said Mr. Johnson. "Tucked inside a few extra envelopes. Once I saw the name on it I knew I had the perfect excuse to meet you. You needn't worry. I didn't read the letter itself." He grinned.
"How-how did she manage it?" said Fred, bewildered. "The screeners would have seen--"
"--apparently Angelina was able to get help from one of the professors," said Mr. Johnson, "who was able to slip it past the usual process."
Fred looked up at Mr. Johnson and smiled weakly. "Thank you, sir. This means--thank you very much."
"My pleasure," said Mr. Johnson, smiling again. "It's nice to finally meet you. I think I can see why my daughter thinks so highly of you. Good day to you. I'm sure we'll be seeing more of each other in the future."
"Yes sir," said Fred. "I hope so, sir."
And with that, Mr. Johnson nodded and swept out of the shop, leaving Fred standing there alone again, gaping at the letter in his hand.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Two minutes later Fred grabbed the Out to Lunch sign from beneath the sales counter, propped it up in the door, locked it, and raced to the back office, tearing open the letter as he went.
He barely sat down as he spread out the wrinkled parchment and began to read, his heart pounding.
Dear Fred,
I have no idea if you'll get this or not. McGonagall helped me get it out;
I think she misses you almost as much as I do.
And bloody hell, I miss you. I don't even know how to describe it in
words. I can't believe I was so stupid not to have admitted to myself how
I felt about you sooner. Then maybe we could have had some more time
together before you left.
The final Quidditch match is this Saturday. At this point I just hope we
don't lose too badly. Although I have to say, your little brother seems a bit
more confident about things these days, and he's flying better. Maybe he
figures we have nothing more to lose or something. Part of me is glad you
won't be here to see us lose, but another part of me wishes you could be
here. I still think about that time in the Quidditch tent, after we lost to
Hufflepuff, and how you, uh, "comforted" me. (Heh heh heh). I can't help
but wish you could be there again, only this time I wouldn't run away
from you. On the contrary I'd drag you into the bloody showers and finish
what you started.
"Oh, Angie," said Fred, grinning, his mind now swimming with very lovely images of her ravishing him in the showers.
Goddammit, I wish you were here. I know why you can't be. I hope
the shop is going well. I miss you so damn much and I can't wait to see
you again. You had better be waiting for me on the platform at King's
Cross and hug me and kiss me until I can't breathe (well, maybe you can
kiss me when my parents aren't around).
Take care of yourself. I love you so much it hurts.
Angie
"Likewise," Fred whispered, and he felt his eyes sting.
He read the letter again, and again, and again, hoping to find some comfort in her words, but instead the letter only made him feel her absence even more. He couldn't stand it. Five more weeks without her was like a lifetime.
He looked at his watch and realized he ought to re-open the shop. He had skipped lunch, but he wasn't hungry. His stomach was too tied up in knots. The Quidditch match was two days away.
I've never, ever missed a match with her, he thought. All the years I played, I played with her, and even when I was banned, I watched. And now I'm going to miss the last match of her life as a Hogwarts student. As Quidditch captain.
"No," he said out loud, and all at once he stood up.
The decision came to him in a flash, and he knew it was the only decision to make.