Double, Double
by Anna

Part One of Three

He first saw the Goddess at two o' clock in the afternoon on a hot Saturday in early June, pushing her way determinedly into the shop and deftly sidestepping the green slime fountain as if she'd been forewarned about it. Probably she had, come to think of it; it was time for a new welcome mat, Fred thought, and scribbled a note to that effect on the pad by the cash register. That'd make a good weekend project.

Something with ice cubes, perhaps. Or an orangutan.

She was wearing an orange maillot bathing costume and a carelessly tied tropical-print sarong that brushed her ankles but left one shapely leg bare nearly to the hip. Gold hoops swung at her ears. Her toenails were lacquered hibiscus pink.

She looked edible. And, more to the point, annoyed.

“Need help?” Fred asked. She frowned at him and readjusted her bandeau, a thin piece of stretchy orange spandex struggling to hold back a relentlessly tousled mane of dark braids. Gold bangles rang on her wrists. She smelt of coconut, Fred noticed, and tried – with only partial success – not to follow the deep vee of her neckline with his eyes. If she noticed his down-drifting gaze, she chose to ignore it.

“I want to speak to the owners,” she said, and Fred's mouth went dry.

He wasn't fazed by much; generally speaking, he was as good at reading people as he was at selling them things – even things they didn't need and weren't, for that matter, particularly aware that they knew they wanted. But he was having a hard time putting this woman into a category.

Oh, some elements of it were standard enough – the perturbed look on her face and the slightly-squashed Verita-Pop she'd just produced from her bag put her squarely in the Annoyed Mother of Luckless Customer camp. Nor was he particularly surprised that she was complaining about the Verita-Pop; sweets that forced one to tell the truth would be disconcerting even without the Amplification Charm George had added to the mix … not to mention the bug they hadn't worked out of the formula yet.

Though possibly she hadn't come across that yet. Sometimes if you didn't finish the whole thing … well. He'd worry about that later.

On the other hand, spending his formative years under the capably calloused thumb of Molly Weasley had given him a number of firm ideas about the proper shape, wardrobe and general appearance of mothers. And even if this woman had fit any of those criteria, even remotely – which she most certainly didn't – she didn't look nearly old enough to have children with pocket money. If anything, Fred thought he probably had a couple of years on her.

“Well, you're half-lucky, then,” he said, summoning his most winning smile. “You're speaking to Proprietor Number One. The other one's just gone down the street for a minute. He's picking up our sandwiches.” He offered her his hand. “Fred Weasley, at your service.”

She looked at his hand but didn't take it. Was that a glimmer of amusement in her eyes? “I'll keep that in mind.”

“Sorry,” Fred said. “I didn't catch your name.”

“That's because I didn't give it to you.” The bandeau was slipping again; she tossed her head back irritably. “I'm Joséphine Dessources. I teach Potions, up the hill at Hogwarts.”

“Oh,” Fred said, taken aback. “I've heard of you—“ then mentally kicked himself; if she wanted to know what he'd heard about her, he'd be hard-pressed to come up with anything that wasn't pure pornographic teenage speculation. The Hogwarts student body – at least that percentage of it possessed of an XY chromosome – hadn't been so excited about Potions since Snape put on a vulture hat.

Not an Annoyed Mum, then, but an Annoyed Professor. Well, that made more sense. “Um,” he said. “Only good things, of course.”

Joséphine the Goddess shrugged, as if this didn't matter much one way or the other. “In any case,” she said, dropping the Verita-Pop on the counter. “Perhaps you can satisfy my curiosity. You and your brother do all your own R & D?”

Fred gave the Verita-Pop a wary look. “Given the circumstances, I'm not sure I should admit to it,” he said, then sighed and nodded. “But – yes. All of this—“ here, he indicated the brimming shelves to his left—“it's all our own invention, from start to finish.”

“I see,” she said, her expression unreadable. Fred planted both hands on the counter and leaned forward.

“Look,” he said. “Don't know who sneaked it into your lecture – it's a new product, we must've sold two hundred last Hogsmeade weekend. But I'm really sorry.”

Another glimmer of amusement in the dark eyes. “In this case, Mr. Weasley,” she said, “I daresay that the crime and the punishment were one and the same.”

Really, Fred thought, and felt his inner Mad Scientist perking up its ears. “What did it do?” he wanted to know. “Did the inside of his mouth get all mouldy? Because that's going to go away by itself, probably within a couple of hours. It's one of the kinks we haven't worked out yet.” He bit his lip. “Not even remotely fatal, though. In case you were worried.”

“Good to know.” Joséphine's gaze flickered; she looked torn between laughter and resignation. “No mould,” she said, prodding the lollipop with one coral-tipped finger. “Not that I know of, anyway. But it's an easy fix, regardless.” This last was said reluctantly, as if against her better judgment. Fred found himself having to prop his mouth closed with one strategically-placed hand.

Things had indeed changed at Hogwarts – more than he'd thought. Snape would no more have given them pointers on a merchandise mock-up, than sprout wings and a snout and a pink curly tail and prove eight or ten old adages wrong all at once.

Vive la difference, he thought, and shot her another patented Weasley Ladykiller smile. A formidable weapon, that – first developed and field-tested by Bill, of course, who'd never been shy about taking credit for it.

All you have to do, little brother, is watch and learn.

Oh, shit.

“Fred? Are you all right?”

The Goddess was looking at him with a little frown of concern. Fred bit his lip, fought off the sickening wave of grief that had hit him broadside, and managed a weak grimace. “Fine,” he said. “Go on. You were saying – easy fix?”

She nodded. “The chewy stuff in the centre,” she said. “You're using powdered kamchac-root as your emulsifier, right?”

He blinked. “That's the one, yeah.”

She looked satisfied. “Thought so. Explains the iridescence. And that sort of licorice-y smell. Nice touch.”

“Thanks,” Fred said. “Cheap, too, which doesn't hurt. But you're saying there's a problem with it?”

“Maybe,” Joséphine said. “From the looks of it, you've suspended the Veritaserum in a simple syrup. Combine khamchac with that much sugar and you're going to have trouble at room temperature, unless you add in a stabiliser.” She looked thoughtful. “Nettleroot, maybe. Or tincture of heart's-ease.”

“Oh. Thanks.” He'd been scribbling on the pad without even noticing that he was doing it; now, feeling a little steadier, he looked up and smiled at her again. “Very decent of you to pass on that tip,” he said. “Considering that it's your class that got terrorised. Up till now we've been most successful with our charm-based product line; we're just now starting with potions. One thing to hex ordinary toffees, quite another to try and make your own.”

“Oh, don't thank me. It's nothing. Brave of you to make the effort, really.” She grinned at him. “Besides – I've got a favour to ask.”

“Anything you want,” George said from behind them, sidestepping the peppermint fountain. “Sight unseen, request unheard, it's yours. Ask away.” He dropped the bagful of sandwiches on the counter, snared Joséphine's hand, and planted a deliberately extravagant kiss in the palm.

Her lips twitched. Fred snorted.

“Don't mind him,” he told Joséphine. “Mum always said there was a little accident with the forceps – see, his head's a bit pointier than mine. Not quite enough room up there for everything there should be.”

“ Au contraire ,” George said, raising one eyebrow. “Extra stimulation, that's all. Which is why—“ this was directed at Joséphine—“I end up doing all the high-level thinking. The idea man, that's me. Just keep the village idiot here around to stock the shelves and sweep the floor.”

“Which is, of course,” Fred pointed out, “why you're the one who was sent to get the sandwiches.”

“Naturally,” George shot back. “Want something done right, you've got to do it yourself. Like I'm going to trust a nutter like you to pick up my lunch. You'd come back with liverwurst and cream-cheese.”

“I like liverwurst and cream-cheese,” Fred said mildly. “With red onions. On pumpernickel.” He turned to Joséphine. “And you? What's your sandwich preference?”

“Grilled cheese,” she said, not missing a beat. “With bacon and avocado.”

“Tomato soup on the side?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“The Weasleys,” George said, “have a famous tomato-soup recipe. Don't we, Fred?”

Fred laughed.

“The word,” he said, “is ‘infamous', I think.”

“Well, do go on,” Joséphine said. “Don't hold out on me – what's so fantastic about it?”

The brothers exchanged glances.

“Inside joke,” George said. “Happened when we were small; our mother got this idea that all the boys should learn to cook. We were too little at the time, of course, and so was Perce. But Charlie and Bill got sucked into the project.”

“And didn't want to be there,” Fred interjected. “More interested in neighborhood Quidditch, I'll warrant.”

“So they decided—“

“—to sabotage dinner—“

“—so Mum would never make them cook again—“

“—and so Bill Transfigured half of the tomatoes into Firestarters – you know, those really hot South American chilies—“

“—and Charlie did the other half, because neither one knew the other had done it already, and they mixed all the purée in together—“

“—and never told anyone it wasn't tomato soup, that was the worst of it,” George finished. “So Mum dished it up, at the table that night, and poor Percy, who loved tomato soup …” He trailed off, looking dreamy.

“I got a mouthful myself,” Fred said, shuddering at the memory. “Like deep-kissing a dragon.”

“As I recall, Charlie rather liked the stuff.”

“He would, wouldn't he?”

“Mum went after Bill with the ladle, remember?” George said, laughing. “Chased him all round the garden. He had a good head start on her, though – she'd never have caught him if he hadn't tripped over that gnome.”

“I always thought the gnome had it in for him.”

“Poor Bill.”

Their laughter died in their throats. Fred gripped the countertop hard, for balance, and couldn't help but notice that his twin's knuckles were as white as his own. “Anyway,” he muttered. “Sorry about that.”

“We get carried away.”

“You had a favour to ask.”

“Right. What is it?”

Joséphine glanced from one of them to the other, her eyes speculative, then turned toward the door as the bell rang and the fountain swooshed up in a rippling curtain of fragrant green muck. “Oh, look – you've got customers,” she said. “Why don't I come back later?”

“Oh, don't let them run you off,” George said. “They'll wait.”

“Well, it's just that it might take a bit of discussion,” she said. “Perhaps after hours?”

Was it possible, Fred wondered, that the Goddess might want to get social ? “Dinner, maybe,” he suggested, swallowing the lump in his throat. “You could come to our place. We're much better cooks than our brothers.”

“Right,” George said, catching on. “We'll make our celebrated trip to the corner deli.”

She considered this. “I don't want to inconvenience you.”

“No trouble at all,” they assured her – funny, Fred thought, that every so often they'd pull that old childhood trick and say the same thing at the same time.

Synchronicity was … odd.

“Fine,” she said. “Dinner, then. Seven all right by you?”

“Perfect,” Fred assured her, and plucked a business card from its holder by the cash register. “Here,” he said, scribbling their address on the back. “You want to bring anything, you might stop by the kitchens and ask the house-elves for some cream-puffs. We've been missing their pastry.”

She looked amused. “I'll see what I can do.”

The interrupting customers – two of the local brats, a year or so too young for Hogwarts yet – crowded up to the counter with a bristling handful of sweets each. Fred rang them up mechanically, still thinking about the sway of those perfect hips under their palm-tree sarong.

“Pretty girl,” George commented from around a mouthful of turkey sandwich, and Fred nodded.

“Yeah.”

“One question.”

“Yeah.”

“Who the hell is she?”

**