George Weasley escaped to the lounge of his Mother-in-law's house and sat on the sofa pretending to read ‘Hello’
magazine. Angelina’s mother, Charlotte, was a Muggle. She had married the dashing young Josiah Johnson sure in the knowledge that life with magic would mean endless luxury. However, Josiah had not been a rich wizard. His early Quidditch promise died when he took too many Bludgers to the head and was reduced to coaching the Chudley Canons reserve team to make ends meet. When he was sacked from that lowly post; Charlotte left him.
She now lived in a nice
bungalow in Dorset with her second husband and tolerated visits from her daughter and her family only if they promised not to do any of that ‘magic nonsense’. George hated these visits but knew they were important to Angelina.
Fred wandered over with a small rectangle thing. “Dad, what’s this?” he asked.
George had failed Muggle Studies – much to his dad’s despair – so wasn’t quite sure what the black object adorned with lots of different buttons was.
“No idea, Freddie. You’d better put it down, though; Grandma won’t like it,” he replied looking dubiously at Fred’s chocolate covered fingers.
“Grandma doesn’t like being called Grandma either, Dad,” said Fred mischievously.
George looked at his son, so unlike his namesake in looks yet so alike in character.
“Keep calling her Grandma, son or Grandmother - that'll make her feel really old,” he whispered.
Roxanne waddled in, her nappy around her knees.
“Give,” she ordered Fred.
Fred, who had decided the black object wasn’t that interesting, handed it over to his tyrannical younger sister.
She immediately put it in her mouth and began to chew.
There was a noise from the far side of the room as a large black box burst into life.
“WOW!” said Fred. “Dad, what’s that?”
“Oh,” said George wracking his brains for the answer. “That’s a vellytishon, son. Muggles watch it all day instead of getting on with other things.”
“What’s that boy doing with that bat?” asked Fred.
“Hmmm,” said George, “Well, that looks like a very small Quidditch pitch so maybe he’s practising.”
“No bwoom, Daddy,” said Roxanne who was following every word.
“He can’t hit anything,” said Fred in disgust. “I’m better than that.”
“Of course you’re better than that, Fred. You have the blood of two Beaters running through your veins,” said George proudly.
Fred sighed and hoped his dad wasn’t about to start reminiscing about his good old days on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. His parents were really quite boring when they got started. Family reunions were always the worst; if he had to hear that story about Uncle Harry swallowing his first Snitch again...
“What’s a pitcher, Daddy?” asked Roxanne, who was still engrossed in the ‘vellytishon’.
“A jug, sweetheart,” George replied.
“That boy’s stupid,” Fred declared with all the certainty of an eight year old. “He can’t hit Bludgers so he wants to be a jug instead.”