Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling, in case you thought I was, and, therefore, the characters, setting, and all the other things that remind you of Harry Potter are not mine; they are hers, and I'm just borrowing them. I'm not trying to make any money off it, and I'm not worth suing, as I don't have much money, anyway, so you'll probably be poorer after the lawsuit.
Author's Note: Since Bill is two-years-old in this story, he does not have perfect grammar, obviously, so excuse his faulty grammar. Since I put it there intentionally, it's not me displaying ignorance of the English language. That being said, if you notice any spelling or grammar errors outside of dialogue, tell me, and I will fix it, if I remember, that is. Regarding Weasley ages, I'm going by what J.K. Rowling says, as much as possible (yes, I was a nerd to look it all up, and will tell you the ages of the Weasleys as I use them), so, Bill's born on November 29, 1970, Charlie's born on December 12, 1972, and Molly and Arthur won't say how old they are.
I am now at the point where I am going back, and editing all my chapters, so if you see "Edited" before a chapter starts, that means that I have looked over it, and corrected any spelling and grammar errors I could find therein, so if you spot any errors in an edited chapter, please tell me, because chances are if you don't they will remain there forevermore, as Poe's raven would say.
Reviews: Are always welcome. If you like it, say so. If you don't, tell me why you don't, so I can improve, and if you spot errors, whether you like the story or not, say something, otherwise it may very well go unfixed. Anyone who reviews will get crackers, and doesn't have to eat turnips.
Warnings: None that I can think of, unless turnips still scare you (It's all right, I still don't like them).
"Wanna Have Crackers" (Edited)
"I'm hungry, Mummy," two-year-old Bill Weasley moaned, fixing pleading dark eyes on his mother. "Wanna have crackers."
"Hush now," ordered Mrs. Weasley somewhat distractedly as she nursed his new baby brother, Charlie. "I'm feeding Charlie right now, and I can't Summon them for you, because I've got my hands full with him."
"Why you feeding Charlie when I'm the one hungry?"
"Charlie's hungry too, dear, only he can't express himself as well as you, because he's little..."
"I'm little, too," muttered a sullen and starving Bill.
"And he requires more attention," his mother continued, ignoring the interjection. "I'll get you the crackers when I'm done feeding him. Just be patient, honey."
"But I'm hungry now, Mummy, not later. Don't want to wait. Don't want to be patient. Want crackers. Need crackers," the child insisted, hands on hips.
"You'll have to wait. Mummy can't do two things at once."
"I'll get crackers by myself, if meanie Mummy won't get them for me," pouted Bill, stomping off into the kitchen. Unfortunately, the crackers were on the top shelf, and there was no way in which the two-year-old could reach them by himself. Temporarily stymied, his eyes scanned the room. After a moment, they lit upon a chair, which he pulled, with some difficulty, over to the cabinet. Sadly, he was still unable to garb a hold of the crackers, so he climbed onto the counter, which was higher than the chair.
At that moment, Mr. Weasley entered, and laughed at the sight of the redheaded boy perched on tip-toes upon the counter, but he commanded steadily enough, "Off the counter now, please."
Bill, who had pivoted about when he heard his father enter, whirled back to face the cabinet once more, and stretched in an attempt to grab the cracker box. He shook his head as he redoubled his efforts. "Not getting down, Dad. Getting crackers."
"No," replied Mr. Weasley firmly. "You're getting off the counter as I told you."
"After I get the crackers."
Mr. Weasley frowned, because his son was usually compliant. "You could try for a very long time to get hold of the crackers, and not succeed—you're too short. Now, off the counter. I don't want you to slip and fall—you know better than to stand on the counter, Bill! Just ask Mum or I to get the food for you."
"Asked Mum. She wouldn't get them for me," Bill answered, still attempting in a rather comical fashion to get the snack box.
"She wouldn't?" repeated a bemused Arthur Weasley, grabbing his son and gently removing him from the counter before the lad injured himself. "It's not near dinner. Were you naughty?"
"No, Dad." Bill shook his head vehemently, sending a lock of crimson hair into his eyes. "I was good. I always good. She feeding Charlie. Likes him better than me. Don't get it. He just poop and cry and sleep. Doesn't even talk. Boring."
"If she was feeding Charlie, that explains why she wasn't able to help you, then. You see, Bill, Charlie is younger than you, and he requires much care and attention from your mum and I. That being said, Mum and I are going to need your help." Mr. Weasley grabbed the cracker box and poured his son a bowl full of them.
"My help?" the boy echoed, pointing a bewildered finger at his chest as his father set the bowl filled with crackers on the kitchen table. He dashed over to devour them. He was starving.
"Yes, we're going to need you to be patient when we have to care for Charlie, and we're going to need you to play with him, look after him, and set a good example," continued Mr. Weasley, nodding. Watching Bill gobble his snack as though he hadn't eaten for a millennium, he hoped that the child was listening.
Apparently, he was, because he inquired softly, plaintively, "But who gonna take care of me, Daddy?"
"Your mother and I, of course," Mr. Weasley soothed, ruffling his child's hair affectionately. "We don't love you any less, we just have to share our love with Charlie as well now, just as you do. Hearts have infinite room, and love gets bigger, not smaller when we share it with more people, you know."
"Love not like cookies, then," concluded Bill reasonably, finishing his crackers. "I like cookies. Wanna cookie now."
"You can have one after dinner, for dessert."
"Wanna cookie now, not later, Dad."
"Things taste better if you wait for them."
"I don't wanna wait." Bill crossed his arms over his chest petulantly, his lower lip stuck out. "Hungry. Very hungry."
"Don't be ridiculous. You just consumed an entire bowl of crackers."
"Still hungry," the child persisted.
"You can wait for supper. You'll eat your entire meal for once if you're that hungry."
As it turned out, Bill, miraculously, was not hungry enough by dinner time to eat his turnips, although he had no trouble consuming the roast chicken and mashed potatoes served alongside it. Nor did he have trouble gulping down three whole glasses of milk. The turnips, however, were only being moved around his plate with his fork as they grew steadily colder. Finally, his mother had enough. "Stop playing with your food, Bill, and eat those poor turnips that I slaved over," she ordered.
"But, Mummy, I don't like turnips," scowled Bill, giving up on the aforementioned vegetable, and shoving his platter away from him, wearing a revolted expression.
"Of course you do. Everyone loves turnips."
It was his mother's turn to glower. "Of course he does." Mr. Weasley, who was not overly fond of turnips, had the foresight to shove a particularly large spoonful of the vegetable into his mouth as his wife turned to him. "See he loves them, and so would you if you tried them."
"Don't like them," declared Bill stubbornly.
"Well, you're going to have to eat them anyhow, whether you like them or not," mother informed child, "because they're good for you."
"No, they aren't, Mum."
"Yes, they are, William Weasley," snapped Molly, her patience finally exhausted, "and you won't leave this table until every bite of turnip is swallowed, or you'll be a very sorry little boy."
An hour later, Bill was still sitting at the table, a plate of frigid turnips sitting menacingly before him. He was alone, because both his mum and dad had gone upstairs to put Charlie to bed, and he was bored, but he did not dare to get up. A sigh, his tenth, if he was counting correctly, escaped his lips, and he watched, dazedly, his feet kick steadily back and forth, back and forth like a pendulum. He thought he could hear footfalls on the stairwell, and the next minute his father, to his relief, not his mother, joined him in the kitchen.
Mr. Weasley sat down in the chair across from his little boy. "Still refusing to eat your turnips, huh?"
Bill nodded his head miserably.
"Come here." Mr. Weasley patted his knee with his hand. Obediently, Bill crossed over to his father, who scooped him up, and seated him on his knee. There was silence, then Arthur commented mildly, "They're not that bad, you know. You should at least try them again."
This was greeted with a headshake. "Too cold."
"I'll warm them up for you, all right?"
"I guess." Bill shrugged, and his father put the turnips on the stove to be reheated. Five minutes later, they were finished heating up, and Mr. Weasley placed the platter full of them before his son, who tentatively picked up a fork, then put it down again. "Can't do it. Don't like turnips."
"You have to eat if you want to be a big boy," wheedled Arthur.
"Don't wanna be a big boy, Dad. Wanna be a little boy forever."
"How can you be Charlie's big brother if you're not a big boy?"
"Don't wanna be Charlie's big brother! Don't wanna be anyone's big brother!" Bill exclaimed with surprising heat. Generally, he was calm, even if he could at times be stubborn.
There was a long pause, the silence heavy in the room, then, "Well, I'm afraid that you are Charlie's big brother, whether you like it or not, Bill. And you're going to have to eat those turnips whether you want to, or not." His tone was stern, which usually made Bill, who was really not a difficult child, stop misbehaving immediately.
Not this time. This time it had the exact opposite net result. Bill's brown eyes suddenly held a mischievous glint, and he stated quietly, defiantly, "I don't have to eat my turnips and you can't make me."
He was right. Before Arthur could stop him, he had smashed the dish of turnips against the wall. Fortunately, the plate was made of plastic, and, therefore, was not breakable, because the mess on the wall was enough to contend with at the moment.
"And I don't have to be a big brother, and you can't make me," Bill finished triumphantly, as his father waved his wand at the wall, and the turnips disappeared.
On a whole, Arthur Weasley considered himself to be an even-tempered man, certainly more emotionally stable than his wife, at the very least, but he could feel the blood in his veins boiling. After a long moment in which he reigned in his temper as best he could, he spoke in a level but icy voice, "William, if you ever do that again, I'll put you in time-out."
"You don't love me, Daddy. Mummy don't love me, either." Bill started sobbing.
Now that his son's rebellion had been transformed to tears, Mr. Weasley softened, and stroked the boy's hair gently. "I love you very much, and I always will, and your mother feels the same way. But you can't throw your food on the walls like that and you must obey your mum and I. And you can't expect us to reserve our love only for you, and you shouldn't want to reserve your love just for us. You should want to share your love with Charlie. If you do that, you will find that caring for someone is more fun than being cared for all the time. Growing up and becoming responsible for others is not a bad thing, you know. Being a big boy and a big brother is a lot of fun."
"I'm a big boy now, Dad. I'm gonna be the best big brother ever! Charlie gonna love me! But who wouldn't?" Bill perked up.
"Who wouldn't, indeed?" Mr. Weasley laughed. "Go up to bed now. Mum's waiting to read you a bedtime story."
"Someday I read Charlie a bedtime story," Bill told his father from the bottom of the staircase. "Good night, Dad."
"Good night, Bill."