this prompt was requested by perquisitesofinfamy, and I've always had a soft spot for hot-Dad...I mean, annoyingly-cool-parent Bill Weasley so...I hope I did it justice. tw: some mentions of smoking/alcohol in this one!


"Go back to sleep" – Bill and Dominique

She thinks she's got away with it. She closes the back door with no sound whatsoever, removes her heels and tiptoes across the hallway in near total silence, but then—

"Go back to sleep," Dad murmurs at her from the sofa. She winces. Busted.

"Sure," she murmurs back. "Just getting some water..." She hears Dad shift about, but he doesn't reply, and so she thinks, once again, that she's got away with it until—

"Dominique? Is that you?"

"No, it's Victoire!" she tries, and she hears him snort. She stops trying to creep down the hallway, stands in the doorway to the living room, heels in hand, and watches as Dad flicks his wand at the lights until they glow softly. He sits upright, looking at her sternly, and she's suddenly very aware of how much she smells of smoke and the red wine stain on her dress. And that's annoying—she hates red wine, she's not her mother after all, but her best friend is a sloppy-drunk, and she can write off another item of clothing thanks to her, unless Grandma Weasley can work her magic with the cleaning charms. But right now, it's nearly three hours past her curfew and she thinks that Dad isn't going to care too much about all that.

"What time is it?" he asks, sounding much more awake.

"Half-past three," she replies, cringing. Honestly, she's seventeen. Of age. An adult. And she has a curfew.

"And what time did we ask you to be home by?"

"One," she sighs, "but look, I'm—"

"Seventeen, I know," Dad says. "Ridiculous, isn't it?"

She blinks. "I'm sorry?"

"Did you have a good night?" he asks, ignoring this. Slowly, she nods, unsure if it's a trick question. One false move and she'll probably be grounded for the rest of the summer holiday. "Oh, good," he says, sounding genuinely pleased. "I had a great time, summer after sixth year. I think I spent about five minutes of it at Gran and Grandad's house, but hey. It's good to know some things don't change."

She nods again, because, really, what can she say to this? "And you're definitely better than your sister at sneaking back in. She used to make an awful racket."

Dominique snorts. "You still heard me, though," she points out.

Dad points to his ears. "Supersonic hearing," he says gravely.

"Super-wolfy hearing," she says, finally realising why he's downstairs on the sofa, rather than in bed. She should've spotted the full moon—she's been outside most of the night, after all. "Is the pain bad, this month?" she asks.

"Not really," he replies. "Bit of a twinge in the old scars, but it's not bad, this month. Just got a bit of insomnia, that's all, so I thought I'd come down here to give your poor mother some rest. She doesn't need me tossing and turning all night, keeping her awake."

"I bet she's already been down eleventy-billion times to check up on you, though," she says. It was the recurring theme of her childhood: holding Victoire's hand as they stood at the top of the stairs whilst Maman crept down at all hours every full moon, checking on their father. He wasn't a werewolf, they had been told as soon as they were old enough to understand what those words meant, but he had been attacked by one during the war, and that meant that he was sometimes a bit poorly on the full moon. As she got older, she learnt that "a bit poorly" could mean anything from a touch of insomnia to moans of pain so incoherent and awful that she would've been terrified if her mother hadn't been there with a reassuring smile to tell them it would all be okay in the morning.

And she'd always been right.

"Twice, but yes," he grins. "Now, young lady," he adds, voice turning mock-stern again. "Have you been drinking?!"

"Just a couple of beers, and that was hours ago," she says, rolling her eyes. "And I certainly wasn't going to have any more than that; the toilet facilities were so questionable."

"Truly, you are your mother's daughter," he says, grinning at the snobbish way her nose wrinkles. "But: you need a glass of water inside you before you go to bed. No arguments! Go and put your pyjamas on, and I'll sort it for you."

She does as she's told, and when she gets back into the living room she finds not just the water glass but a plate of biscuits, too. "I don't have the munchies," she says, rolling her eyes again.

"Just wanted to be sure," Dad says. "I can take them away though, that's not—"

"Well, I'll just have one," she concedes, reaching for the plate. They are chocolate-chip, after all. Dad pats the sofa, and she sits down next to him, biscuit in one hand and water in the other. He throws the blanket over her legs as she sips her water. "Honestly, this is such terrible parenting," she jokes.

"It is?" Dad asks. "Why?"

"Oh, I don't know," she says, rolling her eyes. "Underage daughter sneaks home hours past curfew, smelling of cigarettes and alcohol, father catches her in the act, asks to be caught up on all the gossip."

"It wasn't quite like that," Dad laughs, "but if you do want me to go full Uncle Percy on you, I can." She shudders. "I thought so," he says, and they both laugh. Neither of them speak as she finishes her water.

"Listen," Dad says, when she reaches down to place the glass on the floor and pull the blanket around her more tightly. "When I was young—"

"Back in the stone age, I know," she says, snuggling further into the sofa.

"Oi! But yes, back in ye olden times, when I went out in my pantaloons to drink grog and listen to the court jester as we danced to a harpsichord—"

"I think that was about twenty-five historical periods you just squashed into one, but okay—"

"The point is," Dad says seriously, "I went out and had fun and did maybe a few daft things, but no stupid things. So as long as you're doing the same...well, I'd be a hypocrite to stop you, wouldn't I?"

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"You're seventeen," he shrugs. "It's totally normal to go out with your friends and have fun in the summer. Your Mum and I don't have a problem with it, as long as you let us know where you're going.. Ditto drinking—don't get hammered, and watch out that no one puts something in your glass when you're not looking, but a few beers here and there is nothing to write home about. As for the smoking—I'd rather you didn't, because I know you say it's only social but that's how habits form. I should know. And if you are going to, it'd be nice if you could replace the packets you steal from my stash."

. "Point taken," she says, squirming. "God," she adds, sighing. "You make it so difficult for me to rebel. Rude."

Dad laughs. Three weeks ago, she'd come home with her nose pierced and all Maman had said was "You will have to take zhat out before we go for Sunday lunch at your Grandmuzzer's. She will accuse me of being a terrible parent because of it, and frankly I do not 'ave the time for zhat argument!" Dad had just told her not to worry, Grandma was still trying to get over the hole in his ear and so wouldn't make it round to complaining about the one in her nose for at least another fifteen years, twenty if she was lucky.

"Well," he says, "we'll have to see if you turn out to be a total train-wreck in the end. But I could ban you from leaving the house after eight, make you drink nothing stronger than orange juice for the rest of your natural life and insist on measuring your skirts to check they're hitting your knees but—"

"I'd kill you?"

"But I think you can be too strict as a parent. Look at Molly, she's having to hide her new boyfriend from Uncle Percy because he doesn't want her dating before she's thirty!" Dad says.

"Oh, we're conveniently forgetting the whole Ted-and-Victoire debacle, are we?" Dominique asks.

"Dom, kid," he sighs, "I've no trouble with you having a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. Or twelve, or none. It's all good. But. If you end up snogging him or her so much it gets in the national news, we will have words. Then you'll find out who's strict and who isn't!"

"I'll be sure to rub that in Vic's face next time I see her," she says, shifting downwards so she's curled in a ball on the sofa. She can feel her eyes closing, sleep coming for her, until—

"Wait a minute, how did you know about Molly's boyfriend?!" she asks, sitting up.

Dad looks guilty for a second. "Your mother told me," he says, "and she got it from Auntie Ginny, who I think can charm a brick wall into telling her the gossip." She lies back down. That sounds very likely. "So just remember, kid," he adds. "You can pull the wool over my eyes, sometimes, but don't ever think your Aunt Ginny will let you get away with hiding something."

Dominique laughs sleepily. "You won't say anything to Uncle Percy about him, will you?"

"Of course not," Dad says. There's a long pause, and she thinks he might have fallen asleep, until he adds softly, "But I have been introducing him to the idea slowly, by taking him to the pub to talk about how truly terrible it is when your beautiful baby daughters grow up to do things like have boyfriends, or become wonderful human beings."

She smiles to herself.

The sofa shifts as Dad stands up, and he tucks the blanket in around her. "Go to sleep, Dom," he says, kissing her forehead.

She does.