The Weasley Special

George slammed the ledger shut and leaned forward to press his forehead against the cover.

"What troubles you, brother?" came a familiar voice from across the room.

He groaned. "A hundred and thirteen Galleons, that's what."

"Sorry?"

"That's what we took in last month."

"A hundred and thirteen Galleons? That's excellent! That's our best showing since we opened!"

"We spent a hundred and forty-two in the same time frame."

"Oh. Blimey." Then, "On what?"

"The usual. Rent. Utilities. Taxes. Assurance. Inventory. Experiments. Your ridiculous obsession with Angelina Johnson."

"I will have you know that Angelina is worth every Sickle I spend on her."

"We spend on her."

"Whatever."

"I doubt you'll still be singing that tune when we have to close the shop and move back in with Mum and Dad."

"Merlin's balls, is it really that bad?"

George lifted his head from the ledger and gave his twin a bleary-eyed look. "Fred, we have yet to break even."

Fred waved his hand as though he were shooing away a fly. "You worry too much, younger brother. These things take time."

"We don't have that much time left. Harry's investment is almost gone, and if we don't start turning a profit soon we won't be able to afford to stay open." He sighed. "And cut out the 'younger brother' shite. You're only older than me by ten minutes."

Fred grinned at him crookedly. "Ten minutes, ten years, I'm still older than you."

"Yes, and you'll be reminding me of that until the day we die."

"Only because it takes the mickey out of you."

"Wanker."

"You still love me."

"Sod it, Fred, can't you be serious for once?"

"Sirius is dead, George. Why would I want to be him?" He barely managed to avoid the flying inkbottle that smashed into the wall behind him. "Temper, temper. I hope that was disappearing ink you threw at me."

"If it'll make you disappear...."

Fred crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head to one side to study his brother. "How do I know you're not dipping into the till?"

George scowled. "How do I know you're not?"

Fred pressed his palm against his chest in mock offense. "Moi? Why would I filch from myself?"

"My point exactly."

"You think like Percy sometimes, d'you know that? It's rather scary."

"So you've told me before." George leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "We have to find a way to turn things around, or soon the whole thing will be a bloody cock up."

"I reckon we could suggest Harry get down to the business of finishing off You-Know-Who."

George raised an eyebrow. "I can't see that going over too well."

"Right you are. Not with our little sister stuck to him like...."

"Freckles on a Weasley?"

Fred screwed up his face. "Given some of the places we have freckles, that's not an image I care to reflect upon."

"Urgh. Righto. Moving on, then."

"Right. So, we're not raking in the Galleons."

"Far from it. If we don't turn things around soon, by spring we'll be bankrupt. And I don't know about you, but I'm not keen on hitting up Harry for more money to keep us afloat."

"Mum'd have kittens if she found out."

"That's not the half of it. Imagine what Hermione'd do if she got wind of it." Both boys turned pale and shuddered. "Any brilliant ideas then, big brother?"

Fred was silent for a while as he considered--and rejected--several options, then his eyes lit up and he snapped his fingers. "Bloody hell, I have it! Guy Fawkes!"

"What?"

"Not what, you twit, who. Guy Fawkes."

"The barmy bloke who tried to blow up Parliament?"

"The same."

"What about him?"

"Muggles love him. They think he's the dog's bollocks."

"Muggles love loads of loonies. Just look at those tarts that call themselves the Spice Girls. What a sorry lot they are, but Muggles can't get enough of them." George shook his head. "What's Guy Fawkes and mental Muggles got to do with us?"

"They have a special day set aside in his honor."

"You're joking."

"I'm as sincere as the day is long."

"It's October. Days are getting shorter."

"D'you want to hear my idea or not?"

"Go ahead. It's not as though I have anything to lose, other than my shirt."

"Harry's shirt, you mean."

"Whatever." George sighed and pushed his chair back so he could prop up his feet on the desk. "Your idea?"

"Right." Fred rubbed his hands together. "Well, on November 5 every year, Muggles celebrate Guy Fawkes Day. They get thoroughly pissed, light bonfires, burn effigies of...well, of 'guys,' and they set off fireworks."

George's feet dropped back to the floor with a resounding clop. "Fireworks?"

"Loads of fireworks. And remember, these Muggles are plastered when they're lighting them, so...."

George's slackened lower jaw slowly transformed into a smile. "So the bigger and noisier the explosions, the better."

"Precisely."

George jumped to his feet and clapped his twin on the shoulder. "Fred, you're a blooming genius."

"Why George, that's the nicest thing you've said to me all day."

Ignoring his brother, George began to pace the length of the office, dragging his fingers through his hair until it stood on end while he brainstormed out loud. "We need something big. Huge. Bigger than anything Muggles can find in their own shops."

"Battle in the Clouds?" Fred suggested.

George shook his head. "Bigger."

"Girandola?"

"Much bigger."

"Chrysanthemum."

George stopped pacing to stare at his brother. "Fred, you have to think bigger than that. We need --" He spread his arms wide. "-- tremendous. We need something that'll make the head of the Wizarding Pyrotechnic Association soak his shorts. Something that'll drive Cornelius Fudge straight into retirement. Something that'll make the Dark Mark look like a mere meteor shower in comparison. We need...."

The twins exchanged a look, then nodded in unison. "A Weasley Special."

*****

Reports of the explosions that lit up the night sky over Britain on the night of November 5, 1996 spread across the globe like wildfire. The American president, already rather strung out--and somewhat sloshed--from awaiting the results of that day's election, rang the prime minister in a panic, afraid the I.R.A. had launched an all-out war. Fighter jets were launched from several R.A.F. bases to investigate. Eventually word trickled back to 10 Downing Street that the explosions were simply the result of unusually vigorous Bonfire Night festivities, though the mushroom clouds over Leeds and Dover were a bit worrisome. The P.M. consumed half the contents of a large bottle of single-malt Scotch he kept on his bedside table for just such an emergency, then rang the president back to wish him luck in the election and warn him to keep his hands to himself the next time the P.M. and his wife visited the States.

Meanwhile, two eighteen-year-old boys of identical description stood on the rooftop of their flat in Diagon Alley drinking firewhiskey and fantasizing about what they'd do with all the Galleons they'd made marketing their Weasley Special to Muggles.

"I've got to hand it to you, you were dead right with this one," George said, clinking his glass with Fred's.

"Guess I'm not the airheaded prettyboy everyone assumes I am."

"Piss off. No one thinks you're a prettyboy, Fred, not even Angelina."

Fred sniffed. "I'm wounded."

"You'll get over it."

"Probably." He grinned. "You reckon this was a good scheme then?"

"Utter brilliance. One of your best."

"We couldn't have done it without your scientific expertise, y'know. Nobody can think up ingenious ways to blow things up like you."

"That's what I'm here for."

"Where'd you find the plutonium? That was a nifty touch."

"The usual source."

"Ah, good ol' Dung." Fred raised his glass to his twin. "Y'know, Hagrid always did say two heads are better than one."

George raised his glass in response. "Something tells me this isn't quite what he had in mind."