A/N: For the Pocket Morty Competition (Gaseous Morty: write about someone who is a little gassy).
"Angelina! There's something wrong with Fred!"
The plate she's washing crashes to sink and shatters at the words. "Fred?" she gasps, trying to ignore the coldness that settles in her stomach.
Heart racing, Angelina sprints into her son's room, hoping for the best but expecting the worst.
She finds her husband by the crib. Their son looks peaceful as he sleeps, and confusion washes over Angelina. "What do you mean wrong? He looks fine," she says, though she moves closer to see if she can notice anything else. "What is it?"
"That!" George says, gesturing toward the nappy. "It smells like someone let a Dungbomb off in that thing!"
Taking a deep breath, Angelina reminds herself that she does not need to strangle George over something as simple as a soiled nappy. "Are you serious, George? You don't know what it is?"
"Well, you usually take care of that," George mumbles, his cheeks flushing pink. "And Mum always took care of Ron and Ginny. Why does it smell like something died, dear Merlin!"
Angelina rolls her eyes and checks the nappy, finding nothing inside. "See? Baby is just a little gassy," she says in the cheerful voice she always uses when talking about Fred.
"But that smell!"
"It's gas, George. Don't pretend you don't get a little gassy. We share a bed, remember?"
George glares, though he smiles. "But he's okay?"
"He's fine, George. Our little boy is perfect," she assures him, running her fingers over his arm.
"And that smell is normal?"
Angelina can't help but to laugh, and the sound wakes Fred up.
"You'd better see to him," she says, kissing George's cheek.
"But you woke him!"
"I'm on dishes duty," she reminds him with a smirk.
"But that smell!"
"Hold your breath," she says playfully, heading for the door. "You can do it."
"Come on, you little stinker," she hears George coo, and, giggling, she returns to the kitchen.