Written for Ashleigh's Monthly Competitions (October).

A few years ago, if someone told George Weasley that he'd be a park-dwelling, pram-pushing, belt-wearing daddy he would have told them to get their head examined at St. Mungo's. After he laughed in their face, of course. In his view, babies were messy, wriggling alarm clocks bent on sucking the cool out of a reasonably fun adult. And the only green that interested him was the kind that foreign wizard tourists bring to Diagon Alley; the kind that can be exchanged for Galleons.

That day, though, he pushed his son's carriage as he made his way through the gardens close to their house. Roxanne was walking beside him, pigtails bouncing behind her as she tried to evade the gaps on the cobblestone path. Fred was a year and a half and didn't need his carriage anymore, but he liked riding in it. Right now, he was making an impassioned (albeit garbled) speech about squirrels.

George was not paying attention to that, though, or to Roxanne's hopping. He was searching for Angelina's instructions on the kids' daily activities. It's silly; he didn't recall his father ever carrying around bits of parchment on how to raise children. But he wasn't his father, as much as his wife wasn't his mother. He just wished it came as effortlessly as it seemed to Molly and Arthur.

George was babysitting the children because of a coaches' meet his wife was attending. He knew something was up—the slippers waiting for him at the door was clue number one. Clue number two was the chicken pot pie and the chocolate gateau she whipped up.

When he was doing Galleon flow statements for the joke shop, his wife dropped the bomb on him.

"I'm sorry, for how long is it?" he said, as he sat with Angelina in the kitchen, papers for the Wheezes scattered on the table in front of them.

"A week," she said, curling and uncurling the corner of a balance sheet. "All assistant coaches must go. Please—they've been really understanding of coaches who are parents, letting us bring the kids on regular days and all," she added. George sighed.

"Friday evenings are for Lee and the guys. Who's supposed to take care of the kids then?"

"You've nieces and nephews, let one of them look after the kids. Or better yet, I'll ask mum. I'm sure she'd love to stay over for a couple of days."

"Oh no, I think I'd take over instead," he said quickly. "I'll bond with the kids, how fun is that?"

"Thanks for being understanding, love," she said.

He found the paper wedged in a back pocket, and he unfolded it. "Today…" he said to himself, "…is History of Magic day. You want to study that, Roxanne?" He wrinkled his nose at his daughter, who shook her head. Fred saw what his sister was doing and shook his head too.

"That makes me sleepy," she whispered.

"Leepy!" Fred seconded.

George smiled conspiratorially, stuffing his wife's instructions in his pocket. He crouched beside his daughter. "Well then. I have something else planned. But you must never tell mum, alright?"

Back at the house, George sifted through the boxes in their spare room. His eldest has been nagging him for a regular-sized broomstick, insisting that she's ready for one, as she's going to Hogwarts that September. After much discussion between him and Angelina, they agreed to surprise Roxanne with a Cleansweep Twelve. George found the broom's box behind the ratty sofa with the floral patterned covers. He reckoned he could let Roxanne ride it for a bit, and then he could put it back in here. Angie won't know. He grabbed his own broom and headed for their backyard. Fred and Roxanne were seated on the grass, shouting made-up spells at some flobberworms they keep for potions. Fred, in particular, was keen on waving his toy wand around and shouting at the writhing brown mass.

"Roxanne, take a look at this." He put the Cleansweep down on the grass, and he watched his daughter's face light up with joy. She scrambled to her feet and walked to where the broom lay.

"Can I touch it, daddy?" She said.

"Of course, poppet. It's yours."

She squealed, clapping her hands together, and George felt that he did the right thing. He looked back at the baby (still shouting pretend spells), making sure Fred was alright before hoisting himself onto the broom. He's heavier than he was in school, and that worried him a bit. He mightn't be able to lift himself, and that's just embarrassing.

The worry dissipated, though, when he saw her summon her broom like she's been doing it for years. He knew that she practiced with her toy broomstick, but his heart swelled with pride when the Cleansweep zoomed comfortably into Roxanne's grasp. Guess I should tell Angelina after all; she'd be thrilled there's another Quidditch player in the family, he thought.

He waited for her to get settled. When she did, he launched into a spiel on the six cardinal directions while airborne. Roxanne was rapt, and George had to admit he enjoyed talking about flying. He thought that maybe he should ask his wife about being a part time coach.

"Right, then. We're going up, but you must do everything I tell you to. Clear?"

"Yes, daddy."

"Cardinal six?"

"Forward, reverse, turn left, turn right, lift, and descend."

"That's my girl. On three, I want you to lift. Lift only, then stop when I do. One, two…three."

George felt like he was about to burst from happiness when he saw his daughter in the air. He nodded as she gently ascended, past the kitchen windows, past the roof, up until they were level with the tops of the oak trees lining their yard.

"Thirty feet," he said, beaming at his daughter.

"Daddy, this is great," Roxanne said, swinging her feet. "When can I go higher?"

"When you're allowed to try out for the Quidditch team at school. Right now, we stick with this."

"Kevin Cromwell is allowed to go up to fifty, he showed Tyler, Jessica and I in the meadow."

"Well, I'm not Mrs. Cromwell, and I say you're only allowed this high. Anyway, how can you be sure that what you saw was fifty? Maybe Kevin's joshing."

"Or maybe it really was fifty."

"You don't want the Uncle Harry Incident to happen to you now, do you?"

She nodded glumly. Many a young Weasley has been kept in line by the ghastly tale of Uncle Harry losing all the bones in one of his arms. Some of the cheekier ones are reminded of the painful ordeal that is Skele-Gro.

"Let's try flying around the perimeter. Remember to keep your turns tight."

George remembered how he learned to fly. Every summer, his father conducted flying lessons for them in the patch of land behind the Burrow. He chuckled at the memory of him hanging on for dear life as Charlie, Bill, and Fred laughed at him.

"Don't worry, George!" his twin shouted, "We have your back!" Pretty soon, he relaxed. A few days later, the Weasleys discovered that Hogwarts had a new pair of Beaters coming their way very soon.

He mused on his brother's words as he followed Roxanne around the yard. She could most likely handle fifty, but he felt like he'd get a headache just thinking of her flying that high. It escaped him how his parents managed to unleash them unto the world without worrying. He can't seem to let his own children go five steps without casting Scourgify on them, or asking them if they're hurt.

He glanced towards where the baby sat on the grass. A chill ran down George's spine as he saw his son stuffing his mouth with something from the ground.

"Roxanne, keep flying around. Fred! Don't do that!" He dived towards the baby, scrambling down his broom. Fred glanced up at him happily, his fists slimy with mucus.

"Daddy go zoom zoom!" he gurgled, his mouth full of half-chewed worm. George grimaced.

"Fred, spit that out," he said firmly. He held out his palm under Fred's chin, and the boy did as he was told. A mangled flobberworm landed on George's hand, and he stared sternly at his son, who was trying to look very innocent.

"Flobberworms are not food; can you say that for me?"

"Fwobworms not food."

"Good. Let's clean you up."

No sooner had he tidied Fred's mess up and changed his clothes did George hear a scream from outside. He rushed to the yard and froze in his tracks. Roxanne was dangling from her broom, at what looked like a couple hundred feet above. George lost all feeling in his hands and feet.

"Don't let go, Roxanne, I'm coming for you," he called out, picking up his broom. Fighting the numbness, he gripped the broom tight and kicked off, shooting towards his daughter. The wind whistled in his ears, his temples were throbbing, and he couldn't breathe. Don't let go, he pleaded. Please don't.

He was fifty feet away from Roxanne when her hand slipped.

Things played out ten, twenty, a hundred times slower than usual. Roxanne was flailing, a look of surprise on her face as she tried to reach for the handle. Surprise was replaced by terror as she started to fall, and George stopped thinking. He pushed his broom with all his might and stretched out his arms to catch his daughter. She landed in his arms with a thud, and George felt the broom buckle under their combined weight. He set the broom to brake, and it valiantly bore them both, occasionally trembling.

"I'm so sorry, I really am," Roxanne began. A tear slipped down her face, followed by another. She hiccupped, and then started crying in earnest. "I'm sorry," she wailed.

"It's okay, don't worry. You're safe now."

They landed safely a while later. George summoned Roxanne's broom and pointed it to the ground.

"I think this should be kept for now. No more broom rides for the moment." Roxanne looked disappointed, but she nodded all the same.

"I thought I could handle it, daddy. It was easy to go up and up."

"Well, sometimes we do things we think we can handle. But then we realize that we can't. At least, not yet." Roxanne hung her head, and George patted her shoulder. They started for the house.

"I think we should stick to your mum's schedule from now on."

"Agreed."

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