Fred Weasley, Pensieve Memory, 1997
Name: Fred Weasley
Date: Early July, 1997
Format: Pensieve Memory
Relevance: Evidence that V. Dalrymple was largely unaware of the work that F&G Weasley were doing for the Order prior to her attack.
“Lumos.”
As your eyes adjust, you can see that you are in some kind of basement. Stacks and stacks of brightly coloured boxes litter the floor, most of them emblazoned with three purple Ws. Fred bends low over a crate with his wand, squinting tiredly. Suddenly, a pale pink satin glove springs out of the shadows and slaps him across the face. Fred winces, rubbing his cheek, and the glove falls to the floor before scampering back into another dimly-lit corner.
“Mr Weasley?” A voice calls. Fred turns and looks up the stairway to the basement, which a pretty girl in her early twenties is descending, wielding a clipboard and quill. Her blonde hair has been persuaded into a rapidly-unravelling bun, and she looks more than a little harassed.
“What is it, beautiful?” Fred asks. This does not amuse her. He stifles a yawn, smiling apologetically. “Sorry. What did you want to ask me, Miss Dalrymple?”
“I quit,” she says shortly.
“That’s nice,” Fred replies. There is the sound of scurrying fingers behind him, and he whips round, only to see the glove disappear behind a Deflagration Deluxe package. “Bloody Gobsmacking Gloves… always hiding.”
“I quit,” Miss Dalrymple repeats obstinately. “Right after I’m done with the inventory.”
“Why’re you quitting this time?” George interrupts. He is trudging down the stone stairs, rubbing his eyes blearily. “You know you can’t do that, Verity. Out of the question.”
“We need you,” Fred says simply, moving a crate away from the wall to see if the runaway glove is lurking behind it. It’s not. Verity stamps her low-heeled foot in frustration.
“Look at you!” She exclaims. “Look at the pair of you!”
Fred looks at himself. George looks at himself. Then Fred looks at George and George looks at Fred.
PMS, Fred mouths.
“You’re a state,” Verity says, placing her clipboard atop a crate. “Both of you. You have circles under your eyes. Look at your hair.”
“George smudged his eyeliner.”
“Fred’s hair always looks like that.”
“Stop it,” Verity says, as Fred gives George the finger. “You do realise it’s nearly ten o’ clock? We closed shop nearly four hours ago. It’s like this every single day, pandemonium, what with you pulling things off the shelves and giving me new instructions and the customers getting all political with me and my having to deal with it alone. With the way business is going, any normal employers would hire new staff, but you two won’t. You’re meant to be geniuses, you do the math. The shop needs more than three people manning it.”
“Vee, I know it’s been a bit mad,” George concedes gently. “But you don’t have to do so much for us. You don’t have to stay here this late, for a start.”
“Yes, Mr Weasley, I do,” Verity responds. “Because you two are crap at admin even when you are awake and I know you’ll spend a good two hours messing about with official documents before giving up and turning them into paper hats or something. Then you’ll go upstairs. Past that I don’t know where you’ll go but it won’t be to bed because when I see you in the mornings you’re all cranky and then when we open you’ll work the shop for nine hours and you never stop, and you don’t eat properly and I worry about you. You haven’t been the same since you went away for the funeral.”
Silence. Suddenly the pink glove leaps out of nowhere and whacks Verity smartly across the face. She looks stunned, then promptly bursts into tears. George lunges after the glove, which is attempting a quick getaway, and manages to crush it underneath his boot. It makes a muffled sigh of defeat.
“C’mere, you,” he mutters roughly, stuffing it into his pocket.
“C’mere, you,” Fred says, pulling Verity into a hug. Her tears wet his cheek and trickle down to dampen the neck of his robes. George mouths PMS? from the stairs, and Fred shakes his head. I’ll wait, George nods, pointing upwards, and ascends towards the shop.
Verity sobs barely audibly, small shoulders shaking.
“Don’t,” Fred urges. “Please don’t. We’ll give you a raise. We’ll hire more shopgirls to help you. Anything. Don’t cry.” He presses a kiss onto her forehead. Almost immediately, Verity gives a large sniff and disentangles herself.
“It didn’t hurt,” she says, wiping her cheeks with her sleeve briskly. “Sorry about that, Mr Weasley.” Her nose is slightly pink and her features are all soft from crying. Verity tucks a flyaway lock of hair behind her ear, and looks questioningly at him.
“Please don’t call me - look, you don’t need to worry about us,” Fred says, looking awkward. “We’re -”
“Fine, I know,” Verity finishes. Her eyes are bright and shining in the dim light, and she looks Fred up and down appraisingly before speaking. “What are you working on upstairs?”
“Stuff,” Fred replies immediately. “For the shop.”
“Bollocks. Why are you pulling things off the shelves?”
“Those products weren’t performing well. Need to be refined.”
“Bollocks! Why are you lying to me?”
“I’m not lying to you.”
“Why have you tripled the protective spells on the shop?”
“There’s a lot of valuable shit in here, Vee. It’s a necessary-”
“What happened to the pygmy puffs, Fred?” Verity shouts. “What happened to the puffs, where did they go?”
Fred opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. At that moment, George ducks his head into the basement, evidently summoned by the noise. His wand is drawn and raised. Verity takes in the wand, and the urgent, serious expression on George’s face. She draws herself up with great dignity, climbs slowly up the stairs, and leaves. The second she’s gone, George is at Fred’s side, looking stricken.
“She’s not -”
“No. Not today, anyway.”
“Phew,” George says. He sinks down onto the floor slabs, half-disappearing in the gloom. “Is she ok?”
Fred looks up towards the rectangle of light spilling into the basement.
“One of us should go outside with her when she Apparates, remember?” he points out. “Safety pre-”
A muffled door slam is heard, cutting off his words.
“Caution,” Fred finishes. He looks at George wearily. “C’mon, let’s get cracking.”
The Lumos is cancelled and Fred stuffs his wand into his pocket. Memory ends.
Date: Early July, 1997
Format: Pensieve Memory
Relevance: Evidence that V. Dalrymple was largely unaware of the work that F&G Weasley were doing for the Order prior to her attack.
“Lumos.”
As your eyes adjust, you can see that you are in some kind of basement. Stacks and stacks of brightly coloured boxes litter the floor, most of them emblazoned with three purple Ws. Fred bends low over a crate with his wand, squinting tiredly. Suddenly, a pale pink satin glove springs out of the shadows and slaps him across the face. Fred winces, rubbing his cheek, and the glove falls to the floor before scampering back into another dimly-lit corner.
“Mr Weasley?” A voice calls. Fred turns and looks up the stairway to the basement, which a pretty girl in her early twenties is descending, wielding a clipboard and quill. Her blonde hair has been persuaded into a rapidly-unravelling bun, and she looks more than a little harassed.
“What is it, beautiful?” Fred asks. This does not amuse her. He stifles a yawn, smiling apologetically. “Sorry. What did you want to ask me, Miss Dalrymple?”
“I quit,” she says shortly.
“That’s nice,” Fred replies. There is the sound of scurrying fingers behind him, and he whips round, only to see the glove disappear behind a Deflagration Deluxe package. “Bloody Gobsmacking Gloves… always hiding.”
“I quit,” Miss Dalrymple repeats obstinately. “Right after I’m done with the inventory.”
“Why’re you quitting this time?” George interrupts. He is trudging down the stone stairs, rubbing his eyes blearily. “You know you can’t do that, Verity. Out of the question.”
“We need you,” Fred says simply, moving a crate away from the wall to see if the runaway glove is lurking behind it. It’s not. Verity stamps her low-heeled foot in frustration.
“Look at you!” She exclaims. “Look at the pair of you!”
Fred looks at himself. George looks at himself. Then Fred looks at George and George looks at Fred.
PMS, Fred mouths.
“You’re a state,” Verity says, placing her clipboard atop a crate. “Both of you. You have circles under your eyes. Look at your hair.”
“George smudged his eyeliner.”
“Fred’s hair always looks like that.”
“Stop it,” Verity says, as Fred gives George the finger. “You do realise it’s nearly ten o’ clock? We closed shop nearly four hours ago. It’s like this every single day, pandemonium, what with you pulling things off the shelves and giving me new instructions and the customers getting all political with me and my having to deal with it alone. With the way business is going, any normal employers would hire new staff, but you two won’t. You’re meant to be geniuses, you do the math. The shop needs more than three people manning it.”
“Vee, I know it’s been a bit mad,” George concedes gently. “But you don’t have to do so much for us. You don’t have to stay here this late, for a start.”
“Yes, Mr Weasley, I do,” Verity responds. “Because you two are crap at admin even when you are awake and I know you’ll spend a good two hours messing about with official documents before giving up and turning them into paper hats or something. Then you’ll go upstairs. Past that I don’t know where you’ll go but it won’t be to bed because when I see you in the mornings you’re all cranky and then when we open you’ll work the shop for nine hours and you never stop, and you don’t eat properly and I worry about you. You haven’t been the same since you went away for the funeral.”
Silence. Suddenly the pink glove leaps out of nowhere and whacks Verity smartly across the face. She looks stunned, then promptly bursts into tears. George lunges after the glove, which is attempting a quick getaway, and manages to crush it underneath his boot. It makes a muffled sigh of defeat.
“C’mere, you,” he mutters roughly, stuffing it into his pocket.
“C’mere, you,” Fred says, pulling Verity into a hug. Her tears wet his cheek and trickle down to dampen the neck of his robes. George mouths PMS? from the stairs, and Fred shakes his head. I’ll wait, George nods, pointing upwards, and ascends towards the shop.
Verity sobs barely audibly, small shoulders shaking.
“Don’t,” Fred urges. “Please don’t. We’ll give you a raise. We’ll hire more shopgirls to help you. Anything. Don’t cry.” He presses a kiss onto her forehead. Almost immediately, Verity gives a large sniff and disentangles herself.
“It didn’t hurt,” she says, wiping her cheeks with her sleeve briskly. “Sorry about that, Mr Weasley.” Her nose is slightly pink and her features are all soft from crying. Verity tucks a flyaway lock of hair behind her ear, and looks questioningly at him.
“Please don’t call me - look, you don’t need to worry about us,” Fred says, looking awkward. “We’re -”
“Fine, I know,” Verity finishes. Her eyes are bright and shining in the dim light, and she looks Fred up and down appraisingly before speaking. “What are you working on upstairs?”
“Stuff,” Fred replies immediately. “For the shop.”
“Bollocks. Why are you pulling things off the shelves?”
“Those products weren’t performing well. Need to be refined.”
“Bollocks! Why are you lying to me?”
“I’m not lying to you.”
“Why have you tripled the protective spells on the shop?”
“There’s a lot of valuable shit in here, Vee. It’s a necessary-”
“What happened to the pygmy puffs, Fred?” Verity shouts. “What happened to the puffs, where did they go?”
Fred opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. At that moment, George ducks his head into the basement, evidently summoned by the noise. His wand is drawn and raised. Verity takes in the wand, and the urgent, serious expression on George’s face. She draws herself up with great dignity, climbs slowly up the stairs, and leaves. The second she’s gone, George is at Fred’s side, looking stricken.
“She’s not -”
“No. Not today, anyway.”
“Phew,” George says. He sinks down onto the floor slabs, half-disappearing in the gloom. “Is she ok?”
Fred looks up towards the rectangle of light spilling into the basement.
“One of us should go outside with her when she Apparates, remember?” he points out. “Safety pre-”
A muffled door slam is heard, cutting off his words.
“Caution,” Fred finishes. He looks at George wearily. “C’mon, let’s get cracking.”
The Lumos is cancelled and Fred stuffs his wand into his pocket. Memory ends.