Fred searched through an old, rusty hinged trunk feverishly. He threw an old Keepers glove, a punctured Quaffle and a fluorescent green tennis ball aside before reaching the bottom of the trunk,
“George, George!” he called, raising his voice to be heard out of the rusty tin shed he was currently in. “George, have you seen my Bludger?”
“No,” came George’s voice, floating nearer as he crossed the large, weedy Weasley lawn. “Remember? It died when we hit it into Old Man Patterson’s paddocks. He’s probably mistaken it for a large, round cow pat by now.”
He appeared at the door and smiled down at his freckled, dusty twin who was scowling beneath the layer of grime that coated his sweaty face. Evidently, he’d been looking for this Bludger for a long time. He chuckled, and turned to go.
Fred picked up a moth bitten Keepers gloves and threw it at his head. “Oi, you help me find one!”
George chuckled again, raising his fiery eyebrows. “We-ell,” he debated, “I do know where we can find something lightly resembling a Bludger.” He wiggled his eyebrows convincingly and set off up to the house.
Fred delightedly rummaged through Ron’s draws, searching. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he took to the bookshelves. He groaned in frustration when he didn’t find it there and then flumped down on the violent orange bed.
George came into the door, tutting at the mess Fred had made. “Well, did you find it?”
Fred glowered. “No, Sherlock. Come help.”
George raised his eyebrows. “Well, it might be a little easier if you got off the poor creature,” he said, motioning to the bed.
Fred pulled a fluffy, custard looking creature from out underneath his buttocks. A long tongue was protruding, searching for any crumbs on his trousers. It slowly curled back into an invisible mouth, and a small ‘burp’ broke the disbelieving silence.
Fred grinned hellishly, and squeezed the fluffy ball between his fingers as he chuckled. “Puffskein, George?” All he got was a bemused shake of the head from his twin.
“Right, George, off to practice.”
Ron toddled out into the backyard to watch his brothers play Quidditch. He had his fingers caught in a sticky trap, and had his tongue out, his freckly face screwed up in concentration. He caught sight of Fred and George practicing Quidditch and delightedly ambled over to join them.
“Mummy… Mummy said you borrowed Wiggy,” he said, frowning up and Fred and George as they hovered above him on their broomsticks. They exchanged glances; then George threw something to Fred.
“Alright, into the paddock, Fred!” He watched it soar over the posts at the end of the garden. “Fred! Puffskein’s fly better than Bludgers! We should suggest that to McGonagall!”
Ron’s lip trembled. “Wiggy…,” he puffed out his bottom lip, “… MUMMY!” He ran screaming into the Weasley kitchen.