George Fabian Weasley

Summer had arrived at last, and the platform of Nine and Three-Quarters was alive with the chatter and clatter of students lugging trunks, hugging friends goodbye, and searching eagerly for familiar faces among the crowds of waiting parents. The warm afternoon sun slanted through the iron rafters, casting long, shifting shadows across the stone floor.

Among the throng, the Weasley family was unmistakable—a cluster of bright red heads bobbing above the sea of black robes and battered luggage. George and Fred Weasley, in particular, were making their presence very much known. As their mother, Molly, engaged in a spirited conversation with the parents of several other students, the twins had seized the opportunity to conduct a little "business" of their own.

Standing atop their trunks like a pair of traveling salesmen, George and Fred were gleefully demonstrating their latest invention to an eager circle of friends: magical firecrackers that, according to George, could change colour midair and explode into harmless shapes—if they worked properly, that was.

"Five Sickles a pack!" George was calling, brandishing a box with a flourish. "Guaranteed to dazzle—"

"Or mildly singe your eyebrows!" Fred added cheerfully, to a chorus of laughter.

"GEORGE! FRED! NOT HERE!" came Molly Weasley’s shrill voice from across the platform, causing several heads to turn. She was waving furiously, her expression a mixture of horror and exasperation.

Ignoring her for the moment, George crouched down and, with a conspiratorial wink, demonstrated how to light one of the crackers for a cluster of wide-eyed third-years. He struck the match with a quick flick, and the firecracker, a vivid green thing about the size of a quill, gave a cheerful pop and shot into the air.

At least, that had been the plan.

Instead, the firecracker, after soaring halfway to the station ceiling, gave an alarming sputter, veered wildly off-course, and rocketed straight into the dense crowd. Gasps and shrieks filled the air as students and parents alike ducked and scattered, trying to avoid the rogue device.

Too late, a girl near the edge of the platform—distracted by her heavy trunk—looked up just in time to see the firecracker zip toward her. It struck her squarely in the shoulder with a bright flash and a loud bang, showering her with a puff of harmless but vividly pink smoke. For a moment, there was stunned silence.

Then Molly Weasley’s voice rang out once more, louder and more furious than ever: "GEORGE WEASLEY!"

George winced, exchanged a guilty look with Fred, and quickly ducked behind his trunk—though he couldn't quite hide the guilty grin spreading across his freckled face

The girl toppled backwards with a small yelp, landing beside her battered suitcase. At once, a group of her friends crowded around her, chattering anxiously and helping her sit upright. She looked more startled than hurt, blinking rapidly through the lingering pink smoke.

Molly and Arthur Weasley pushed through the milling students, Arthur with his glasses askew and Molly’s face the colour of an overripe tomato.

"I am so, so sorry, dear!" Arthur gasped, crouching beside the girl and patting her awkwardly on the shoulder, puffing pink dust from her robes with the sleeve of his jumper. "Complete accident, I assure you—absolutely no harm meant—"

Meanwhile, Molly had spun on her heel, marching back to George and Fred with the air of a general storming into battle. Without a word, she seized each twin firmly by the ear—ignoring their squawks of protest—and dragged them through the crowd.

"Ow—Mum—geroff—!" George hissed, trying to wriggle free, but Molly was a woman possessed.

She hauled the twins in front of the girl, who was now brushing soot from her sleeves with as much dignity as she could muster. Still gripping their ears tightly, Molly gave them each a sharp tug.

"Apologize," she hissed.

Rubbing their reddened ears, George and Fred muttered something that vaguely resembled an apology, their voices barely audible over the hum of the station.

"Sorry about that," George mumbled, shooting a sideways glance at Fred, who was valiantly trying to suppress a grin.

"It was supposed to explode in the air," Fred added, helpfully but unwisely.

Molly gave another sharp tug that made both twins straighten up hurriedly.

Arthur, still puffing at the pink mist, gave a weak chuckle and turned back to the girl. "Perhaps—er—to make it up to you," he said, clearing his throat, "you'd like to come for dinner at the Burrow one evening? We'd love to have you. What's your name, Dear?"