Like Father, Like Son

Until today, I've never regretted marrying Hermione. There've been arguements and fights, of course, but still, I've always thought I did the right thing eleven years ago.

But this morning, she left. On a business trip. She'll return on Friday, that's not the problem. The problem is that now I'm left alone with the boys. I love them, of course, but I've never spent three days alone with them without their mother.

Now it's late afternoon, and miraculously, it's silent. They aren't fighting. I reckon it's partly because I've allowed Simon to ride my broom outside, have sent Dennis with his toy wand to the opposite corner of the garden and Chris is too young to do anything but try to walk, which is taking his whole attention. And poor Nick is still doing his homework.

Yes, in good old Weasley tradition we have four boys, all of them with red hair, freckled faces and a very un-Grangerish attitude towards learning and school. No one would ever guess they were related to Hermione. It would seem that my genes are the only ones coming through!

Knackered, I let myself fall into my armchair, taking the Daily Prophet with me. I haven't read anything but the headlines today (at that point, Hermione called to remind me how to warm the milk for the fourth time in two days), and it's the first quiet minute I've had since she's been gone. Only Merlin knows how long it'll stay this peaceful, so I have to seize my chance.

It's been an exhausting day, much more exhausting than any Quidditch training. And I've some experience with Quidditch training!

The first thing Chris did when Hermione was gone was to try walking through the door. Unfortunately, he didn't take the doorstep into account, and so I spent the first half hour of my Hermione-less time with a screaming child who only stopped crying when I made some sparks shoot out of my wand. At least I was awake by then - the early morning has never been my best time. Now he hasn't been crying for at least fifteen minutes. That's his new record, I reckon.

Then, Dennis broke his favourite toy. Normally that doesn't mean much, as Dennis' favourite toys change as often as Chris' nappies, but of course he was inconsolable. It wasn't even something great or exciting, just one of those stupid red plastic things Grandma Granger always gives to them. Hermione hates them too (she reckons they don't have a good influence on the children's attitude towards learning), but she doesn't dare to throw them away. Luckily, I managed to present Dennis with a new favourite toy.

After lunch, Simon noticed it was his toy wand that was Dennis' new favourite toy. He hasn't touched the thing for ages - far too boring for a seven-year-old - but suddenly it was his very favourite toy and he needed it immediately. Though, there was nothing happening "immediately" for Simon. Hermione advised me strongly (she has threatened to hex me) to make him do his homework before anything fun. I'm lucky she isn't my mother. Poor Simon only started smiling again when I praised his scribbles to the skies and let him take my broom. The play wand, of course, had already been forgotten.

With each of the little ones occupied, this leaves only Nick with his incredible mass of homework. Hermione always says it's a good preparation for Hogwarts, that Muggle school. I disagree. First of all, I can't stand seeing poor Nick's face when he has to do his homework while everyone else is playing outside. Second, I got 5 N.E.W.T.s and I've never been to a Muggle school. I even scored two and a half points higher than Harry in Charms, and he did go to one. Hermione, however, says that she only achieved her seven O-N.E.W.T.s and 9 O.W.L.s and her position in the Ministry because of the solid knowledge she acquired in Muggle school. In my opinion, her solid knowledge is completely duff. Who'll ever ask her what Charles the umpteenth did in 1683? When I came to Hogwarts, I could read, write and count, and that's really sufficient. Not even Snape wanted to know the stuff they're doing in Biology.

But somehow Hermione always gets what she wants from me, and so we sent Nick to the local Muggle primary school when he was five. Simon followed three years later and the same fate awaits Dennis this autumn. Truth be told, my sons and I don't need said solid knowledge - we have her. And if she doesn't know it, she knows a book that does.

"Dad! Can you help me?" I hear my eldest son shout and have only half risen when he enters the living room, his notebook under his arm and his fingers blotched with ink.

"I don't understand this." he says, shoving a paper under my nose.

"Of course I can help you," I say. "Sit down." Then I take a closer look at the paper. It's maths.

Until Nick went to school, I though I could do maths. Counting is easy, and everyone knows that seven and three is ten, nine and five, fourteen and that three Sickles give 87 Knuts. Wait, isn't it 85? Oh, never mind, you know what I want to get across. The first year wasn't too bad; even I know that five's bigger than four and such nonsense. But with the first text exercise in Nick's second year, I gave up. "John has three rabbits..."

The paper I'm holding in my hands might as well be blank - I've frankly no idea what these numbers mean. My son is looking at me expectantly, so I start at least reading the first exercise to him. Luckily there are only three. Unluckily, each of them has several parts.

"Exercise one. Put in the missing numbers and continue the order of numbers."

There are three different sequences of numbers, none of them making any sense. What the heck does that maths teacher mean with 54 - ... - 72 - 81 - ... - ... - 108? I've always known that she's a bit weird; she reckons we're massive environmentalists because we have no car, but that's going too far. Nick's eyes tell me that he doesn't know what to do either. One thing is certain, that boy will never take Arithmancy. Normally Hermione helps Nick with his maths; she's been through the same nonsense at her school. But Hermione isn't here, she's discussing non-tradable objects in Stockholm while we need her help.

And there isn't anyone else in the family who has been to a Muggle school.

Wait - there is. Grandma Granger. After her husband's death she moved near us to have some company (in other words, to get on our nerves). At least she takes care of the boys in the afternoon and brings them to their hockey and football and whatever else they're doing.

Just when I'm about to throw some Floo powder into the fire to call her, I remember that she isn't there, either. A two week holiday on the Canary Islands.

Well, we're men. We're Weasleys. We'll manage this. It's only some stupid maths.

I send Nick to get the textbook, but it doesn't provide much help. It says that we can find out the number by pure logic. Unfortunately, all the logic concerning maths in our family belongs to Hermione. Maybe we should try Fortune telling?

"Have you done these exercises in class?" I ask my son, hoping for some information that doesn't tell us to use our logic. Maybe he remembers something... But Nick has inherited my type of brain cells. That's those which remember the exact Quidditch results of 1993 (and, in his case and due to his Muggle friends, football and cricket, too), but which are at a loss when it comes to maths or similar activities. At least he remembers after some minutes of very hard thinking, that Miss Stebbins told them to find out the matching number. Well, I wouldn't have guessed that!

"Did she tell you how?" I inquire.

"She said it's so easy we could find out just by ourselves." Nick shrugs his shoulders and glances at the paper as if he waits for it to automatically show the solution. "But it's difficult. These numbers are too big."

He's right - it is difficult. For some minutes, both of us are staring at the paper, calculating silently. I don't find any numbers which match.

"What else have you done recently?" I ask him for a last hint.

"Multiplication tables."

Urgh, I'm no friend of long Latin words. Mum has never done Muplicitation with us, I'm afraid. Or she had some different word for it. Well, no matter what, I don't know what it means. I just hope that Nick doesn't notice the helpless expression on my face. I'm at a loss with this.

"Well... so... if you use them, do you find anything that matches?" I stutter.

Nick stares at me as if I were a genius and starts rattling down numbers in a small voice. My eyes wander towards the Prophet - will I be able to read that article about the Wasps' new system?

"Dad! I have it!" With his loud voice, Nick destroys my hopes. Excitedly, he fills out the first row of numbers and continues it. Now I see the logic, too - the difference between the numbers is always nine. After my approving nod, I let Nick fight with the other columns and enjoy the silence along with the Prophet.

The second exercise is a text exercise about cows and hay of which I don't understand a single bit. But luckily Nick seems to get along with it quite well, now that he knows it's about - er, Plutimication? - and can solve the entire thing surprisingly fast.

Then we bend our heads over the next - and last - exercise:

1065 ∙ 371 =

It's a complete enigma, at least to me. But as Nick starts scribbling down numbers immediately, I'm leaning back in my chair again. Obviously he has understood Lumiplication now, so he'll have finished soon. He's doing just fine - I wonder why he never scores well on his maths tests. Maybe Hermione makes him learn too much? The clock strikes; there's still a half-hour left until dinner. It is the perfect period to read the analysis on the Ireland versus Chile game. Chris has been silent for a suspiciously long time; it must be his new record. I just hope that he hasn't knocked himself out. Hermione would go barmy.

"Dad, I'm stuck." Nick's notebook appears under my nose and a blue finger points at some numbers. It looks very interesting indeed, but I've never learnt how to plummivy numbers. Of course I know that point, it means "times," and I can do stuff like two times three equals six and such, but I've never done 1065 times 371.

Now I'm positive that Miss Stebbins is off her trolley. Giving such an exercise to ten-year-olds! I always knew that there was something wrong with her; she kept on babbling about how wonderful it was that we didn't have a car and every month invites us to a meeting of environmentalists. Luckily, Hermione always finds a good excuse as to why we don't have time on that particular evening.

"Can you tell me the result, Dad?" My son looks at me with his big brown eyes, the only feature he has inherited from his mother, and I can't stand to tell him that I can't help him. "You could use Mum's calculator."

Hermione's calculator! That's the solution! She keeps it on her desk and sometimes uses it to check Nick's exercises. Of course, the poor kid isn't allowed to use it - she says he has to learn how to solve his exercises by pure logic.

I set off towards Hermione's study and find the calculator immediately. There are buttons with numbers and strange signs, arrows and points. These must be some symbols for advanced maths; I've never been taught any of these by Mum. I press some of the number buttons, but nothing happens. Strange. The calculator doesn't seem to work properly. After shaking it a bit (Grandma Granger always shakes her eckeltrick things when they don't work), I type 1-0-6-5 - no reaction.

Nick's eyes grow even larger and sadder, and so I continue pressing various buttons instead of simply telling him that this thing doesn't work. And there's no Muggle in the family who could help me. Wait - but there's a Muggle lover instead! My Dad knows everything about eckeltrick Muggle devises and I'm positive that he knows how to repair this calculator. So I grab some Floo powder and call the Burrow. Dad's mad about the calculator and promises to come over and help me immediately. After some thorough examination, he moves a slide on the right side of the calculator and a red light starts to glow. It's on! Expectantly, I press 1-0-6-5. Nothing happens, apart from the wireless starting to play in Hermione's study. Has one of the boys sneaked inside? No, one look into the garden tells me that both Simon and Dennis are playing peacefully. And Chris is too small to get downstairs anyways.

"Dad? I don't think this is the calculator. Mum's has some kind of screen." Nick has thrown a look at the calculator and is snickering. "It's the remote control for Mum's radio. See?" He presses the "two" and the programme changes. Well, at least this Muggle education is good for something - he can't do much more maths than I can and won't know about any of the ingredients Snape will ask him about on his first day at Hogwarts, but he knows about remeet controls and stuff. He should go into Muggle relations when he's finished Hogwarts.

I replace the control on Hermione's desk and continue my search for the calculator. Finally I find another box, a silver one with a small screen and buttons with numbers. When I find a button with a "+" on it, I'm positive it's the real calculator this time.

Grinning, I return to my father and son. Nick's introducing his grandfather to the cricket rules, drawing moves into his notebook. Hermione would scream.

"That's the calculator," Nick declares and so I press the "on" button. The screen lights up and when I press the 1-0-6-5, the numbers appear on screen. Fascinated, Dad gazes at the calculator. Then I press the point for "times," just like it's written in the exercise, put in the 3-7-1 and finally press the small sign for "equals." Nothing happens. I press it again. Nothing again.

"Are you certain that this is the calculator?" I ask my son and he nods.

"Maybe it's the batteries," Dad says, his eyes lighting up.

"But then it wouldn't work at all," Nick retorts. He really should go into Muggle relations.

I shake the calculator but nothing happens. It must be broken somewhere.

"Well, obviously it's not working," declares Dad, as if we hadn't noticed already. His eyes are gleaming with joy. Oh no, please not... "I'm going to fetch my tool box."

I'm not positive if he'll do the calculator any good, but before I can say anything, he has stepped into the fireplace and has gone.

At the same moment, havoc breaks out. Chris is screaming horribly upstairs, he sounds as if he has broken at least both his legs, and I hear Simon and Dennis fighting outside. I just hope that they're not using my broom as a weapon and decide to go and look after Chris first. He sports a monstrous lump on his head and no sparks, not even a Wingardium Leviosa on his teddy can cheer him up. He just keeps crying and gets very red in the face, looking as if he will explode at any moment. So, I decide to try my last resort: I cast a Cheering Charm. Chris doesn't look too happy, but at least he's silent and so I hurry downstairs, holding him in my arms.

In the living room, Dad is taking the calculator apart. Small Muggle items are lying all over the table, and there isn't much left from the calculator at all. Looks like we are going to have to buy a new one before Hermione returns.

Shouts from the hall signal that Simon and Dennis have taken their fight inside. Something shatters and, having laid Chris onto the floor and told the comic-reading Nick to keep an eye on his baby brother, I hurry towards the fighters.

Just when I arrive in the hall, I see my cherished broom crash down next to Dennis, luckily not hitting him but one of the large vases Hermione got in Morocco. I can't stand them anyway, but she'll be livid. And, most unluckily, Simon hasn't noticed the pedestal the vase stood on and with which my broom now collides. A crash. A horrible cracking sound. I lose control and shoot two Petrificus Totalus' at them.

In the meantime, Chris has started crying again.

"Ron? What is going on here?" a resolute voice asks through the chaos.

***********************

One hour later, Mum has solved Nick's maths exercise and explained to him how to do it without a calculator, healed Chris' bump, told Dennis and Simon off, served us a delicious dinner, cleaned up the mess in the hall, sung Chris to sleep, made Simon and Dennis play peacefully and sent Dad and Nick to buy a new calculator.