Author's Notes: I wrote this after the World Cup articles were posted on Pottermore a few years ago, but couldn't post anything new on this site until now. So delayed, but eventually secured.

In which there is banter, more banter, and nothing but banter. Family ftw.

Tents, Tea, and Rubbish

Harry arrives back at the family tent to find everyone eating breakfast and Rita Skeeter's morning Prophet article hanging, framed, upon the nearest cloth wall.

"Redecorated, have we?" he asks.

Ginny flicks her wand from her spot in front of the tent stove, tilting the kettle and pouring out three cups of tea. "It's the latest thing," she says. "We're calling it, 'Rustic Rubbish.'"

"The world was a better place when that woman was just a beetle in a jar," Hermione mutters, spooning out a helping of eggs onto Rosie's plate. "Honestly, the things she comes up with."

"I think it's brilliant," Harry's eldest son, James, declares, sitting up in his seat, his mouth half-full with toast and marmalade. "We're famous!"

"You're barely even mentioned!" Ginny argues.

James grins cheekily. "You never mention us at all in your articles, Mum."

Ginny rolls her eyes. "Quiet, you. Otherwise I'm abandoning you in London again."

"I want to be abandoned in London!" Hugo shouts.

"Me too, me too!" Lily cries.

"The whole lot of you are being abandoned in London," Ron announces, shoveling in what Harry reckons is probably his second or third helping of bangers and mash to the sound of hearty cheers and childish whoops. He waves his fork about like a wand. "I'm mentally ill and prematurely balding. Clearly haven't got time for children, and Mummy wants to steal off with Viktor Krum."

Hermione scoffs. "Oh, for Merlin's sake, Ronald. It was twenty years ago. We exchanged polite hellos. You were standing right there!"

"Polite hellos? Is that what we're calling it?"

"If she's being euphemistic, you've only yourself to blame," Ginny chimes in, grinning at her brother. "I told you that haircut was vile."

"This from a witch without any talent or experience."

"Hey—"

There is a rustle at the tent opening—a thankful interruption to what could've turned into a fine sibling brawl—a moment before little Fred pops his dark head into the tent, grins widely, and hollers, "Broomstick race by Uncle Bill's tent! Hurry, hurry!"

There is a sudden stampede of feet running and varied shouts of "I'm done!" and "Wait for me!" as breakfast is quickly disregarded for finer entertainments. Ron swipes the jam off Rose's sticky face, Ginny jabs a few stripes of bacon in Al's pocket, and then they are gone, practically mowing Harry down when he didn't have the good sense to immediately move out of the doorway.

Through the mass of outgoing traffic, there is a single soul barreling her way inside. Victoire breeches the line of attack with minor shoving and short exclamations, arriving red-faced and visibly panting inside the tent.

"Where's Teddy?" she asks.

"Dunno," Ron says. "Have you by chance tried the nearest dark corner?"

Victoire's pretty face crumbles in distress.

"Oh, c'est affreux! So completely mortifying!" She drops dramatically into the seat previously vacated by James, collapsing piteously upon the table. "Outed by a silly gossip article! Papa is livid. Maman is trying to talk with him, but ooh—c'est horrible, completely hopeless!"

"I told you ages ago you ought to tell him, Vic," Ginny says, pouring another cup of tea for their anguished niece. "Bill can be a bit…overprotective."

There is a lot of half-French, half-English muttering after that, though Harry only manages to catch the words "murder" and "grounded forever" before the rest merges into jumble that he doesn't care to decipher. Everyone glances up as the tent opening rustles again, but it is not his wayward godson (who, Harry admits, he probably ought to be watching a bit closer. Andromeda was going to have his head for this). Rather, it's Neville, looking a bit lost and desperate.

"Is that tea?" he asks, eyes brightening at the sight of Ginny's kettle. "Thank Merlin! We've run out and Hannah's going barmy."

"Want me to spike it with a little Firewhisky?" Ginny asks.

"Depends," Neville answers, holding out his mug. "Will you beat me if I say no?"

Ginny raises the kettle threateningly and Neville dodges. As they joke and laugh playfully—Ginny making sure to show off their newest tent accessory, which Neville admires greatly—Ron lounges back in his seat.

"What the balding sidekick really wants to know," he starts, "is who gets to inform the Wizarding community that their beloved Chosen One was not injured protecting them from evil or suffering from an abusive wife, but rather by a little girl's toy tea kettle that he couldn't properly reach in the hall cupboard while playing tea party with a pair of six-year-olds?"

"Oy!" Harry shouts.

This, apparently, is enough to prompt Victoire to lift her head. "Really, Uncle Harry?" she asks dryly.

"No," Harry grumbles, plopping down in the seat next to Ron and giving his mate a murderous stare. "Skeeter was right. Aunt Ginny beats me."

"Beats him and abandons him," Ginny agrees, joining right in. "See, Vic? Your life isn't so terrible."

At the reminder of her current predicament, Victoire lets out a loud groan and drops her head back on the table.

"Well, Luna's proper delighted by the whole thing, in any case," Neville says, taking a long sip of his tea. "Reckons now's about the perfect time to print that article exposing Rita Skeeter as a secret Lobalug in The Quibbler. She's been holding on to it for months."

"Ah, excellent," Ron says, thumping a fist on the table approvingly. "Hope it's like that last one—what was it? Kingsley Shacklebolt: Minister by day, Ramora by night?"

"Right you are. Fascinating stuff, really—"

"Hullo, hullo, family!"

Victoire's head pops up and Harry turns round in his seat at the sound of his godson's call, but it is not his godson who saunters in through the tent flap door. Or rather, it is his godson, but with grey-black fur covering half his face, a new pointed snout, and two wolf-like ears poking noticeably out of his still bright blue hair.

The tent is quiet for several moments.

"Why, Teddy," Hermione finally says, "what big ears you have."

"All the better to hear you with, my dear," Teddy declares, while the rest of them snort and groan. The boy grins. "Or breathe with, apparently."

At this playful quip, Victoire seems spurred into action, leaping to her feet and heading for Teddy with purposeful strides.

"Don't you dare joke about this, Edward Remus Lupin!" She gives him a few good thwacks against the arm. "My father is going to murder you!"

Teddy scratches idly at his new fur and has the good sense to wince. "Bugger."

"Your grandmother is going to be very cross if we return you to her dead, Teddy," Harry says, grabbing a stray bit of bacon from the platter on the table and giving it a munch. "Let's strive to avoid that, shall we?"

"You're my godfather!" Teddy cries, scandalized. "You're supposed to protect me! Haven't you got anything better than, 'strive not to die'?"

Harry thinks. "Strive not to die, please?"

Teddy lets out a loud groan, and Ginny walks over to give his new wolf ears a comforting pat.

"Chin up, old buck," she says. "Wild, half-werewolves never cower."

"Oh, bother." Victoire sighs, giving a resigned tug on Teddy's arm. "Allons-y, then. Might as well get this over with."

"The children are having broom races by your tent," says Hermione, taking a sip of her tea. "Bill probably won't kill anyone with the children about."

"That's very comforting," Teddy grumbles, a moment before Victoire flips back the tent opening and Teddy is dragged along behind her, for better or worse.

Ginny moves behind Harry, draping her arms around his shoulders and dropping a quick kiss atop his head. "It was nice having a godson," she says.

"Hear, hear!" Neville calls, lifting his mug up in a cheers salute.

Ron lifts his, as well. "To Rita Skeeter," he says. "Twenty years later, and still talking bloody nonsense."

"Hear, hear!" Harry laughs, and tugging his wife along to plop on his lap, he happily tucked in to his breakfast.