Arthur sat in his chair by the fire and turned the page in his book. It was a Doctor Who novel that he'd picked up at a shop near the ministry a few days before. Molly drowsed in her own chair; Arthur had put a blanket over her legs a few hours ago.

In his book, The Doctor and some bint named Sarah Jane -- he was not clear on what had happened to the man's granddaughter or her teachers -- were off on some planet or other doing something or other... To be perfectly frank, he was at a bit of a loss as to what was actually going on, but it was a bit entertaining nonetheless. He had seen the show on the telly a number of years ago, and had thought that the Doctor had looked like Mad-Eye Moody. But the gentleman on the front of this book was a dark-haired man with a big toothy smile and a long scarf -- which looked like an old Gryffindor scarf, to tell the truth -- and not the silver-haired old curmudgeon that he remembered from the tellyfision.

He made a note to ask Harry or Hermione about the Doctor the next time he spoke to either of them.

Speaking of Doctors, he needed to speak to Healer Nott about Molly. She wasn't getting any better, and this time of year was not a good time to get her to take things easy. He had been very pleased that Bill had volunteered his home for the family Christmas; Molly had certainly not been up to cooking that much, and the only things that he could reliably make was bubble and squeak and yorkshire pudding... and the family would have been looking for a roast of some sort.

The clock chimed half ten. He decided that he should get Molly up and get her up to bed. He was glad that their room was only up on the first floor. She was awfully stiff these days after she'd been sitting.

He was considering putting another bedroom on the ground floor just so that she didn't have to climb the stairs.

He marked his place, closed his book, and got out of his chair.