Arthur Weasley was a generally happy man. He had a wife whom he loved very dearly, seven beautiful children and a job he was fascinated by and that provided for them all. They didn't live in a massive mansion or the newest house; they lived in The Burrow, and to Arthur, it was home.

His children were brilliant in their own ways, this much he knew - A curse-breaker, a dragon keeper, a budding politician, a pair of crazy and inventive twins, a funny and thoughtful young man, and one beautiful, caring daughter. They all worked hard, not just for their parents, but for themselves, and that made Arthur love them all the more.

They weren't perfect, not by a long shot - after all, they were people - a fact that Arthur had to concede. There were times, though, when an event occurred and Arthur wasn't sure what he should have done - what the appropriate course of action was - so he did nothing.

Before Fred and George moved into Bill's old room beneath the attic, they lived two rooms over from Arthur and Molly's bedroom. Sometimes Arthur snuck out during the night to his large shed where he'd potter about with his favourite Muggle items, like the Ford Anglia, for example.

On one particular night, the father of seven was returning from an experiment gone awry - he'd been trying to discern exactly what use a rubber duck had in the Muggle world - and crept quietly down the hall. The twins' bedroom door was ajar and Arthur couldn't help but take a peek.

The second he did, however, he wished he'd kept walking.

Eight limbs and two sweaty torsos had formed a human knot on one of the beds. Both sets of identical Weasley genitalia were on proud display. Arthur wished he couldn't comprehend what he saw, but he did. It all registered in vivid technicolour, burned right into his brain.

Arthur blinked once and turned silently into the darkness. He slipped into bed beside his sleeping wife and willed the incestuous image from his frazzled mind.

There was one time earlier than that, too. When Bill and Charlie were still at home, Arthur stumbled onto something else.

It was winter, snowing hard outside and right after Christmas, and Arthur Weasley had stalked quietly downstairs to sate a late night pang of hunger. Halfway down the staircase, he paused. Sure he'd heard a sound, Arthur froze on the steps and, as certain as his har was red, he heard it again. A moan.

The Weasley sire peered through the rails of the rickety bannister and felt his mouth turn dry.

The fire was roaring a russet light onto the pale skins of his two eldest sons. Charlie was seated on the battered couch afore the fireplace, his long legs splayed with his big brother kneeling between them, his mouth very obviously full.

Arthur, all of a sudden, wasn't hungry any more. 

Over the years he caught a few other things, quite a lot smaller than those two incidents, such as Percy sitting beneath the stairs, his neck craned at an impossible angle to watch Ginny ascend them, and each time, Arthur said and did nothing. It wasn't because he didn't worry, nor because he wasn't put off - he was, on both counts. Incest was as frowned upon in the Wizarding world as it was in the Muggle world.

He didn't do or say anything because he wasn't sure if he could protect his children if anyone found out. He didn't do anything because then he'd have to address all the issues these behaviours brought up - they were good kids and never caused anyone any harm. He never took action because then he'd have to worry about what it all meant about him - what part he'd played in all of this.

So, instead, he developed a useful protective skill - Arthur Weasley became an expert at looking the other way.