Overall, George Weasley loved fatherhood. He loved his children, Roxanne and Fred. He loved his wife, Angelina. He loved their house. He loved their lives as parents. But, as any parent will tell you, some moments of child-rearing are more loveable than others.

At this time, Roxanne was going through her "rebellious teenager phase", as evidenced by their third major argument of the week. The homey little kitchen had become a battleground.

"I cannot believe you took out your Granddad Weasley's flying motorbike!" said George angrily. "You could have died! You could have been seen! You're a smart girl, you know where your mother and I draw the line, and this was well over it!"

"Don't talk to me like I'm a little kid!" sulked Roxanne. "I know how to fly through the cloud cover, okay? It's not that hard. And Grandma could tell me a few stories about you! I mean, at least it wasn't a car, right?"

"Wha-that's not the point!"

"Seriously, Dad? It's exactly the point! You think you're so fun, so cool, but you lose your shit over everything!"

George rubbed the bridge of his nose. Sometimes he hated having such an observant daughter; it made her much more difficult to discipline. Ever since she was a baby, his Roxie was as untamable as the lion on Gryffindor's sigil. In her mind, she was never wrong, not even the tiniest bit. An unusually talented fifth-year witch, she had inherited her mum's wit and her dad's disregard for authority.

"Roxie," George sighed. "Language. You aren't listening. I was worried about you-"

"Why? I get by just fine! You always joke around with Freddie, and he's only twelve! But when I do anything ever?" She was shouting now. "God, it's like your sense of humor died!"

Wham. That hit George in the chest hard enough to almost send him staggering. It wasn't an intentional blow, he knew that, he felt his ears burning nonetheless. Did she know that she had mentioned his dead twin's namesake in the same breath? Probably not. Did that stop the defensive fury that pounded in George's ears? Hell no.

He said, with a voice that sounded almost lethal, "You. Go up to your room. Don't come back down until you remember that you are fifteen and that you make stupid decisions. Understand?"

"Don't call me stupid!" screamed Roxanne. "I hate you when you call me stupid!"

Well, she wasn't stupid. She was smart enough to know that she had majorly screwed up. She froze where she was standing, one hand planted on the kitchen counter, dishes washing themselves noisily in the background. There fell a ringing quiet between her and her father that lasted for a solid ten seconds. It send a chill through the wind that blew in through the window and a heat through their faces. Silence.

And suddenly the silence broke. It broke with the sound of pounding footsteps, the sound of Roxanne sprinting up to her bedroom as fast as her feet could go.

George took a little longer to unfreeze. He turned around to see Angelina standing in the doorway from the living room, one eyebrow raised.

"So," said George. "All-star parenting moment on my part, huh?"

"We all have them," replied Angelina. Motherhood suited her, at least George thought so. She never looked more beautiful than she did with unstyled morning hair and the proud grin she looked at their kids with.

"Just give Roxanne a minute. She's much more cooperative when she's had a minute to cool off. Or stew in her guilt a little," she advised.

George ran a hand through his hair. "You're the boss, dear."

Angelina laughed. "Which means you're going to disregard my advice and do whatever you want?"

"Yeah."

He took the stairs slowly, letting them creak just enough to announce his presence. Roxanne's bedroom was right next to the top of the staircase. It was painted a summery shade of green, with Holyhead Harpies posters everywhere, and a door that had a tendency to stick as George opened it.

At first, he didn't see Roxanne. It took a moment to recognize the Roxanne-shaped lump under the quilt on her bed. He sat down on the edge, tracing patterns in the mauve thread with his finger. The Roxanne-shaped lump stayed pointedly still until George gently pulled back the quilt.

She had been crying, was still crying, revealed by her reddened cheeks and smears of makeup under her eyes. Her copper eyes stared fixedly at the opposite wall rather than look at her father.

"Hey," he said quietly, stroking her umber hair out of her face.

Another tear dripped onto the bed sheets, out of eyes that refused to meet his.

"You know, looking back, it probably wouldn't have been the worst thing to just let you ride the motorbike. I could teach you, even."

More silence. Another tear, another sniff, but Roxanne made no attempt to pull the covers back over her.

"Roxie, baby, look at me."

This time she did, even though it looked almost painfully hard.

"Listen," said George, more softly still. "There is nothing you could ever do to make me love you any less. Nothing."

Roxanne dove at him so fast he started. Her arms locked around him as she let out a sob into his shoulder.

Through the tears, she might have been hiccoughing an apology, but George did not hear it. All of his senses were focused on preserving this moment: archiving the feel of his child in his arms. Never in his life did he think he would turn into a sentimental parent. Funny how things turn out.

He looked up, bringing him face-to-face with Roxanne's mirror on the far wall, and there was a split second in which he couldn't be quite sure what he saw.

Funny, he thought. For a minute there, it looked like my reflection was smiling at me. Looked a bit younger, too. And I could have sworn it just had two ears.