One Flew Into The Coocoo's Nest

One Flew Into The Coocoo’s Nest:

A reminiscence of Fredrick J. Weasley

Extra Strength Dungbombs?. . . . Check!

No Heat, Wet Start Filibuster’s Fireworks? . . . . Check!

Spontaneously Combusting Fruit Cake? . . . . Check!

Sanity? . . . . Er – No, let’s skip that one for now. My sanity isn’t gone forever, but it’s certainly taken the wife and kids for a long summer vacation. Of course, in my field, insanity is an extra plus. Why, just take George for instance (Please, take him). His idea of work is trying to fit a live skunk in one of Percy’s socks before our dear older brother comes home from a hard day of testing cauldron bottoms. Ah . . . You’ve got to give Georgey-boy credit for trying . . .

I really don’t know how Ron, Charlie, and the others survive without a twin. Oh sure, ickle Ronniekins has Harry Potter; they’re practically connected by their appendixes. But, it’s really not the same as having an identical twin. Just image: if I break some ruthlessly expensive family heirloom, our dear old frazzled Mum doesn’t know which one of us to punish because, blinded by anger, she didn’t get a real clear look of who really did it. It even got so bad, Mum started sewing ‘Fredrick W.’ in each and every one of my boxers. George served a similar fait, getting ‘George W.’ stitched into his underpants. Of  course, this ingenious plan of Mother’s didn’t last very long. Georgey and I did some delicate switching and now no one knows who we are . . . Even I don’t know who I am right now . . . Hold on, let me check my underpants . . .

Well, my name’s Fredrick today, but, let me be the first to warn you, I may be ‘George W.’ tomorrow.

Anyway, what was I doing? Oh, right  - -

Disintegrating Parchment?  . . . . Check!

Exploding broomstick?  . . . . . Oh yes. You better believe it, beautiful. George and I just finished the proto-type; it’s guaranteed to send Oliver Wood into cardiac arrest. Not to mention Mr. Seeker-Quidditch-King-Of-The-World, our own Harry Potter. Loves his broomstick a little too much, if you ask me. Of course, he does own a Firebolt; the God of all Quidditch Brooms. Hell, I’d throw myself in front of a Muggle street sweeper to ride on of those.  All I’ve got is Bill’s old Cleansweep. Yes, I know, simply horrid, isn’t it?

Bill gave up the whole ‘Quidditch Scene’ when he became a prefect during his fifth year; when I was at the young and tender age of six. Charlie practically had a seizure when our oldest sibling told us he no longer wanted to play the greatest game of the wizarding world.

‘Are you bloody stark raving mad?’ Charlie had screamed after Bill’s announcement. ‘Give up Quidditch to study and get better grades? That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard!’

‘Life’s not all cobbing and Snitches, Char,’ Bill had replied shortly. ‘And besides, you’ve got the whole Quidditch thing down for the Weasley family - - I think. If you call what you do on a broomstick ‘playing Quidditch’.’

Ah, yes, I remember the sibling rivalry well. Charlie then swore fluently at Bill for several minutes (George and I wrote all of it down for future references) before Mum came around and almost fainted when she heard what language her second oldest son was spewing out. Charlie got his mouth washed out with soap, Bill got chewed out for provoking his younger brother, and George and I received Mum’s famous ‘death glare’ for being in the same general vicinity as the chaos.

Even after several thousand more arguments like the one above, the two oldest Weasley siblings still act like best friends. Oh, they’re quite different – on the two ends of the spectrum, they are. Bill’s got his ponytail and his world travels while Charlie’s got his third degree burns and his dragon keeper buddies (Who, in my opinion, are very sore losers when it comes to playing Muggle poker. They all gave up when I won a total of fifty-two gallons off of them in one night.). But, still, there is no bitterness between them. There still may be some off hand cursing at each other (especially when Charlie sets Bill’s ponytail on fire), but absolutely no bitterness.

Percy’s a completely different story altogether. Different story, different book, different library, different planet. I’m telling you, I’d get hit by lightning seven times in a row before Perce cracks a joke . . . or gets a real life, for that matter. George and I try to help him along, honestly we do; we spend every waking moment trying to make his life more miserable—er, I meant joyful . . . joyful. Well, on the path he’s on now, Percival will grow up to be a single, neurotic, supreme dictator of the world (Oh . . . I cringe at the mere thought of Percy in any high office).

Well, we’ve done Bill, Charlie, and Percy - - I suppose we should continue down the Weasley line. I’m technically the middle child; older then George two minutes and seven seconds, though he’ll tell you otherwise. My short turn goal in life is to make someone spontaneously combust, more points to me if it’s a Slytherin. Of course, pushing one of those slimly gits off a cliff into a valley of very pointy rocks would work too. No, I’m not a psychotic cereal killer, thank you very much. I just am a bit bitter about . . . er, never mind. I don’t need to bore you with the petty details of the ‘Gryffindor/Slytherin Ultimate Rivalry’ that’s been going on since the beginning of Hogwarts. You’ve probably heard all about that from someone else. I actually consider most of my life’s purpose to make the Slytherins’ lives complete and utter hell. In fact, George had a particularly good idea the other day involving a one Draco Malfoy and several balloons filled with cottage cheese and sauerkraut . . .

Well, yes, that’s Georgey for you. Always thinking up completely random pranks and schemes to create as much chaos as humanly possible. Though, I must tell you, most consider him to be the ‘Level-Headed’ Weasley twin. (Oh, George would absolutely slaughter me if he knew I said that . . . . Pull out my liver with his bare hands and throw it in front of a moving train). You may call him level-headed if you have some sort of death wish, but I warn you, his perception of a ‘normal state of mind’ is setting free rabid squirrels in the halls of Hogwarts. You call that level-headed? Psh . . . I pity you, my friend. But still, there’s always a rumour going around that George is the brains of the whole Weasley and Weasley operation, which I resent. No -- George does not always set them up and I do not always knock them down. Believe me, we both do our equal shares of setting up and knocking down. It’s little things like these that really gnaws on my nerves.

Oh, and then there’s the name game. I’m used to it. George is used to it. We’re both fine with people switching our names every five seconds. It’s great, go ahead. On the other end of the spectrum, please don’t refer to us as one person. That’s where the whole issue of being a twin is a little tiresome:

‘Hey, fredandgeorge! What did you get on your Transfiguration test?’

Well, for one, we’re two separate people, thank you very much. Second, please don’t think we get the same grade on every test. On the contrary, George schools me on every Charms and Arithmancy test and I make him cry when we compare our Defence Against the Dark Arts and Transfiguration grades. But there are some classes, like Potions, in which we both fail miserably together.

Of course, I digress. The twin connection has always been misunderstood by people outside immediate friends and family.  I mean, I don’t sink into a deep depression every time George leaves the room. We can’t read each others minds, or anything; but, even if I could, I wouldn’t want to. Stepping into the mind of George Weasley would be like wearing clothes made out of bacon and climbing into the den of a half-starved werewolf, singing at the top of your lungs: ‘My trousers are made of pork products! Dinner’s served! Come and get it!’ Oh yes, like that’s healthy . . . But, yet again, I digress . . .

Let’s see . . . Tongue-Ton Toffee? . . . . Check!

Laxative Pills?  . . . . Check! (Oh, I’m going to have fun with those)

Growth Spurt Tarts? . . . . Ch—

Woah, woah . . . Wait - - Growth Spurt Tarts? I didn’t even know I owned Growth Spurt Tarts. I should give Ron one; see what happens. Of course, he really doesn’t need any help in the height department, does he? That boy grows a good centimetre every other day. George and I have an ongoing bet, seeing how long it takes until Ron has to duck under the door-frame so he doesn’t hit his head. George said one month. I said three weeks. But, knowing Ron, he’ll be taller then the door by tomorrow.

It’s actually quite humorous to see Ronniekins walk around the halls of Hogwarts with Harry and Hermione; they both have to look up at him when they speak. Yes . . . he’s got the height of a half-giant and the maturity level of a five year old. Oh, you gotta love that kid . . .

Okay, back to packing . . .

Sardine Flavoured Sugar Quills?. . . Check!

Canary Creams? . . . . Check!

A b—woah . . . now, what do we have here? Looks a lot like the new diary Ginny got for her birthday; the one I scurved off her one night for a bit of light reading. I guess I forgot to give it back to my dear younger sister. Of course, I could tell you what’s in it without even flipping through: ‘My brothers are all thick-headed’ . . . .’I hope I did well on my Transfiguration test’ . . . . ‘Harry Potter is a God’ . . . . Okay, maybe the last one is a little extreme, but the girl does practically worship Harry. I swear, if I looked hard enough, I bet I could find a ‘Potter Shrine’ somewhere in back of her room.

It’s all in good fun, though. We all have a little too much fun joking Ginny about her little crush. For instance, when Harry came visiting over the summer last year, he left a bit of toast on his plate after breakfast. I, being the wonderful, caring, considerate brother that I am, picked up the leftovers and asked Ginny if she wanted it framed or not. She slammed the door in my face, being rather rude, if you ask me. I left the toast outside her door, though, just in case she changed her mind. Sure enough, when I came back from playing Quidditch with George, Ron, and Harry, the piece of toast was gone; most likely placed lovingly among the rest of Ginny’s prized possessions. Well, at least she’s not stalking Harry. That would be a little too extreme, even for Ginny.

Ah . . . . young love . . . .

Mollusc Suckers? . . . . Check!

Shrinking Underpants? . . . . Check!

Now, stuff in the text books, parchment, and quills and - - I’m done! Finally! With minutes to spare, even! You know, I think I’ll try some of those Laxative Pills on my test dummy (a.k.a. Ronniekins).

So, if you’d be so kind as to excuse me, I’ve got some serious hell to raise.

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