Changeling

Fred's first dog was a bit of a mess. Even Fred had to admit that. It could run -- mostly, and it even barked once, but still, you could tell it had been magicked out of mud by someone with a lot of ideas. The wheels gave it away, you see, as did the odd blue glow. And the third ear that had seemed like such a good idea at the time merely got in the dog's eyes; nor was it true, Fred realized, that two tongues are better than one (they fought).

Worst of all, after about ten minutes the garden gnome that Fred had charmed to make the dog move ran off, giggling madly the way that garden gnomes do but dogs don't. No, as a dog and a lifetime companion, the thing was, let's face it, a wash-out. Still it wasn't bad, Fred thought, for a first try.

When Mum came out with a tray of raspberry tarts to tell him it was time for tea, the former dog had turned back to a pile of mud and grass. She shrieked and wanted to know how could Fred play about with mud at his age (for he'd be old enough for Hogwarts this year), and what would become of him, and why couldn't he be more like Bill, who'd been Head Boy.

"Don't want to be Head Boy," Fred said. He kissed her with a loud theatrical smack and snitched a tart uninvited. "I want a dog. A dog of my own."

Mum said he shouldn't change the subject or talk with his mouth full. He couldn't have a dog, she said, as it would make a mess and Fred wouldn't take care of it. And why couldn't he be more like Charlie, who was first in all his classes and the Gryffindor Seeker to boot?

"Yes, mum," said Fred, taking another tart and letting her kiss him back. He wasn't exactly listening; Mum was always running on about the others, but at the end of the day they weren't good for much of anything, were they? Not the way a dog would be. Besides, he'd had another idea, and he let let Mum keep talking so he could think until he could he could try it out.

When he made his next dog, Fred decided to stick to what you might call classic dog design: no wheels, the usual number of tongues, and glowing was right out. Instead he concentrated on charming the gnome to stay put. He knew just the way to do it, too, because that was the idea he'd had when Mum was talking; the spell was one he'd heard Bill use on Mum. None of them were supposed to use spells on Mum, of course, though Fred did it all the time, and Charlie had once turned her hair into a birdcage for over a week. But this spell hadn't done much; it had just made mum forget she'd asked Bill to wash the dishes.

So the spell wasn't very interesting or important, not really. But Fred was clever and had lots of ideas; everyone said so, and he knew he could make it better. Now, this was risky, because Mum and Dad had told him more than once not to try and make spells better. It was dangerous (bloody dangerous, Dad said, until Mom shushed him). Everyone knew what had happened to cousin Mafalda when she was testing a new charm for repelling barristers; she turned herself into a primrose by mistake and got picked by a passing Muggle. By the time the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad tracked her down she'd been dried and mixed into potpourri; to this day she couldn't see an ornamental basket without scattering herself in it.

But Fred reckoned he was cleverer than Cousin Mafalda, a Hufflepuff who collected spoons and talked to her plants. It was perfectly fine to use magic as long as you knew what you were doing -- and as long as no one else did. And even if someone found out, like that spineless git Percy for example, the magic wouldn't count, would it, as long as you didn't use a wand. Fred couldn't use a wand, as he didn't have one yet, so where was the harm? Nowhere, that's where.

Satisfied with this logic, Fred thought about the matter and changed the spell. And at first, everything was brilliant. The gnome forgot it was a gnome, and it didn't try to run away. But -- well, the less said, the better. Fred had to toss four or five unconscious gnomes over the hedge in the back garden before he figured out that the new spell didn't just make them forget they were gnomes. It made them forget how to breathe.

Fortunately, he had another idea. It was brilliant. Fred couldn't wait.

Sure enough, the next gnome also forgot it was a gnome. But this time Fred had made the spell even better, so the gnome remembered things, too. It remembered how to breathe, which naturally was a tremendous plus. But it also remembered things that had never happened: a whole life of being a dog. It remembered being a puppy with big feet. It remembered walking outside for the first time and how funny grass felt under its paws. It remembered learning how to fetch, and how to ride on the back of Fred's broom with its tongue hanging out. It remembered running over the hills with Fred all day, until all the paths grew dark and it had to lead Fred home by the light of the stars and the smell of the wind.

The dog licked Fred's hand. Fred called him Rattles, and he was Fred's dog, Fred's, in a house where nothing and no one was Fred's and Fred's alone.

It was absolutely brilliant. Except Mum was not entirely on board with the plan.

"That," she said accusingly as Fred hurtled into the kitchen with Rattles at his heels, "is a DOG."

"It's not a dog," Fred said. "It's Ron. Horrible accident, but I reckon we'll have to make the best of it. I don't suppose you've a leash handy? We can keep him tied up in the cellar."

Mum told him to stop telling such dreadful lies, and why couldn't he be like Baby Ginny who'd never done a wrong thing all her days, except that business with stealing Dad's broom and the episode of the man-eating wing chair? Or why couldn't he at least be like Ron, who might not be as clever as some, but who had a good heart?

"I don't want a good heart," Fred said. "I want, as I believe I've mentioned, a dog. This dog. His name is Rattles. Besides," he added, for the benefit of Ron, the real one, who stood gaping at him in the kitchen doorway, "a good heart isn't much good, is it, when the giant hairy spiders crawl into your room at night and eat your heart right out!"

"I don't believe you," Ron said tremulously, turning as white as a sheet, if a sheet could quiver in obvious terror. "I don't," he squeaked.

Mum narrowed her eyes, and Fred knew he'd gone too far, because she didn't scold him. Instead she magicked a collar onto Rattles and grabbed him. "Fred, dear," she said, very, very softly, and that did frighten Fred a bit, "you must learn that you are not the only person in this house."

Things happened quickly after that. Rattles disappeared, and after a huge quarrel with Dad, Mum confessed that she'd given him to Mr. Diggory, because Mr. Diggory could afford to give Rattles a good home and they couldn't. And they shouldn't look at her like that, Mum said, because she wasn't a monster, was she. Then she burst into tears, and Dad said no, of course she wasn't a monster, but could Fred at least please go see Rattles, just to say goodbye. She said yes, of course, what did they take her for, and Fred must be sure to wear a proper jumper and his hat.

But when they got to Mr. Diggory's, Rattles was gone. He'd run away. Fred and Dad walked over the hills calling him all afternoon, but it was no use.

"I'm sorry, Fred," Dad said as they trudged home.

"S'okay, I reckon," said Fred. He wasn't really listening. He was remembering walking down this lane with Rattles. That had never happened, of course, not really, but Fred remembered it anyway. It was brilliant, but walking down the road with Dad -- with nothing and no one who was Fred's alone -- that wasn't brilliant at all.

"Fred," Dad said, and Fred didn't want to listen but Dad put his hand on his shoulder. "You know your mother's right. We can't afford a dog, not with the Hogwarts fees so high."

Right here, at this bend in the lane, this was where Rattles had brought him a live stoat once and expected to be thanked for it. Right here. Fred could remember it perfectly, or he would if he tried. Just a little magic is all it would take.

Just a little bit. Fred walked down the muddy lane, alone with Dad, and he listened to the leaves rustle in the wind, and thought about that little bit of magic. Such a little thing, it was. He thought about being alone in a house full of brothers and not wanting to be, not wanting to be alone at all.

"Fred," said Dad. "Look at me."

Fred did. "You could afford Ron," he said. "You could afford Ginny. You could afford all of us."

"Fred Weasley," said Dad, very loud, and then he stopped. "Freddy," he said, more quietly. "Children are different from dogs."

"Really?" said Fred. "I wouldn't have known."

"Cheeky," said Dad. "Come on, Fred, you know all this. You're a clever boy, though you don't mind your mother and you're trouble enough for two."

There were lots of things Fred could say to that, but he didn't, because just then he had another idea.

It was absolutely brilliant.

------

Next morning, Mum must've got tired of waiting for Fred to come in, because around eight she came out to the back garden to fetch him. "Fred," she said. "Breakfast."

"I'm not Fred," he said. "I'm George,"

"Of all the -- " she said, then stopped with a puzzled frown.

"Honestly, woman," he said, "you call yourself our mother? Can't you tell I'm George?"

"George," she said, as if she'd never heard the name in her life before. Then, with more certainty, "George . . . yes. Yes, of course. Sorry, George, dear."

He smiled. "Only joking, Mum," he said. "I am Fred."

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "You lot," she said. "Inside, now, before your food gets cold."

"Yes, Mum," said Fred, and danced past her.

"Yes, Mum," said George, and followed.

Then as they trooped into the kitchen she shrieked because George was all over mud, and he couldn't sit at her table in such a state, and why wasn't George more like Percy, who was always perfectly clean?

"That's not George," Ron said loudly, with the air of someone trying on a brand new sense of humour to see if it fits. "That's a garden gnome."

"Leave the jokes to your betters, dung brain," said George. "You'll just confuse yourself." Ron turned red as a beet, if beets can scream with pure rage, and he tried to turn George into a teakettle but only succeeded in making steam come out of his own ears. Then Mum said Ron should stop squabbling for mercy's sake, and that his manners were no better than a dragon's, and that you'd think he'd know better with four older brothers . . .

"Five, Mum," Fred corrected with his mouth full.

-- with five older brothers to look up to (she continued). And why couldn't Ron be more like Bill, who'd been Head Boy, or Charlie, who was Seeker, or Percy, who was sure to be a prefect in few years, or Fred, who had lots of ideas, or George, who . . . who . . .

"Is absolutely brilliant," said Fred and George. Together, for the very first time.