Toy Broomstick
"Fred Weasley!" (y/n) yells. Her eldest child is currently wrecking the living room like an unholy hurricane of childhood destruction. Her husband comes up from behind her, watching their child. "George, help me."
George chuckles, walking into the living room to scoop up the destructor himself. "C'mon Freddie. Let's go outside." The little boy squirms in his arms.
"No! I don't want to!"
"You're driving your mum up a wall. Let's go—"
"Dig in the garden!" The little boy cheers.
He doesn't bother looking at (y/n). He knows she's mortified by their son. "George!"
"Don't worry, darling. We're not going to dig in the garden." He looks at his son, "We're gonna go play Quidditch."
He walks out of the door with little Fred trying to climb out of his arms.
When Fred Weasley, the second, was born, George felt a connection deeper than a parent-child relationship. He felt like he found his best friend again in the little bundle of blankets was handed to him. Obviously aware that this wasn't his twin reincarnated, he still felt like a little piece of Fred was sewed into the little miracle he and (y/n) had cooked up.
The only problem with that little bit of his twin that seemed to linger within his own child was the nightmarish part of his personality. He doesn't remember being such a... rascal as a child. George expressed this exhaustion to his mother once, who laughed. She assured him both he and Fred were, in fact, incredibly rambunctious and ridiculously exhausting children. She may or may not have insinuated that this was payback.
He pulls out the toy broomstick from the shed, intending to wear out Fred a bit. The boy squeals excitedly, forgetting about digging up the garden completely as George hands him the broom.
Toy broomsticks were great. They flew low enough to the ground to prevent serious injury while still allowing a child to learn the basic mechanics of flying. When he brought one home for little Fred at the beginning of summer, (y/n) had shaken her head.
"He's only four, George," she had said with a smile.
"Gotta teach 'em young." George had joked, kissing his wife on the cheek.
Fred had loved the little broomstick from the moment it was placed in his little hands. He automatically recognized what the object was. "Look!" He held up the broomstick for his mum, "I'm like daddy!"
(y/n) bent down to Fred's level, "you are exactly like Daddy, baby." She ruffles his hair.
"Watch this, dad!" Fred flies across the yard.
"Nice job Freddie!"
***
He lets Fred fly around the yard for a few hours, only ending the little game of "quidditch" they played once he noticed Fred nearly fall asleep on the broomstick.
"'M not tired," he insisted as he rubbed his eyes.
George chuckles, "I know you aren't." He picks Fred up, resting the child on his hip as he puts away the broomstick.
"Daddy?" Fred says sleepily.
"Yeah?"
"When I go to Hogwarts, I'm gonna be on the quidditch team."
"Yeah?" George smiles.
"I'm gonna be a Beater like you, daddy." Fred yawns again, resting his head on his shoulder.
"You will be," he rubs circles on the little boy's back as he carries him into the cozy little house, "you will, Freddie."