𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐘 || 𝐆𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲

↠𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈↞

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𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍
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    "𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐄𝐓 on with it if you hope to be done in time for dinner!" came George's mum's voice from the window. It had been one exhausting week for him and his brother, having to do numerous tasks around the house as punishment. After already having put in two days worth of work on the garden, they also had to finish hanging some new paintings, then wash the dishes, clean the toilet, paint the kitchen cupboards and mop the floors. To add insult to injury, they were also forced to do it without the help of magic. Now, Fred and George hadn't the slightest idea about how Muggles went about cleaning their house, so their dad had suggested using this cleaning liquid he had seized from work. It came in a large yellow canister with the word 'Gasoline' plastered onto it, and it reeked something awful.

    "This is child labour, George."

    "You know, I think we've done a pretty decent job of it," George replied, obediently sliding the mop along the floor.

    "Reckon we ought to forfeit our prosperous career plans and sign up to work as house elves instead," said Fred in a wry tone.

     "At least it pays," added George.

    But as they spoke, they saw their mother walk by with another batch of muddy washing in her arms. She glared at them.

    George scowled. "You know if you'd just let us have our wands it'd be done much quicker," he complained, though he knew that efficiency was not the point of this.

    "Not. A. Chance."

    "Mum," began Fred, setting the mop aside and trying to reason with her for the umpteenth time, "why is it that we have to suffer, when you know that she gets to just walk away from all this?"

    'She,' of course, was in reference to Luxanna Black, and the word was to be spoken with utmost disgust, because the mere mention of her name in front of their mother was like waving a red rag in front of a bull—a guaranteed way of having one's bottom well and truly rapped on. The reason being that despite Black having played an equally implicating part in this whole affair, her family's ways, according to their mother, were 'unprincipled and underhand,' and were not to be used in comparison in any way, shape or form, let alone as means of attempting to rationalise their punishment. And so, neither was the name of the girl which she had deemed a 'wretched tart' (they had heard her say this to their father in a fit of anger and could hardly hold in their laughter) ever to be uttered within their household.

    Credit where credit's due, George thought; he hadn't anticipated that somebody could hate Black more than them.

    "Because she is not you, and that's that. If you'd prefer the Blacks for your parents, then by all means, you're free to go and live with them!" With that, she dropped the basket in front of their feet and strode off, cursing something under her breath about how embarrassing it was that her sons should get involved in such nonsense.

    "You're playing with fire, mate," George whispered to his brother.

    Fred sighed and they both set to work.

    For the rest of the afternoon, there was only the sound of scrubbing and the occasional scathing comment that came from their mother's whilst she prepared dinner. Eventually, Fred's back ached, George's leg was rubbed raw from kneeling on the garden steps, and they both stunk of that foul Muggle cleaning liquid, but they had managed to finish in time. Dad had been properly subdued, so it came as no surprise that at dinner he said nothing, but only cast them a sympathetic look over his glasses, as if to say, 'There's nothing I can do about it.' This made George wish that he had the power of telepathy, so that he could reply, 'Well, you could tell us where she's stashed our wands.'