OF QUAFFLES | R. Weasley

- ͙۪۪̥✧*┊❛i❜┊

Puddlemere United
or
Chudley Canons?

Mist encapsulated the luscious expanses of foliage across the Quidditch pitches, rapturing the songbirds who seized the crack of dawn. Tendrils of sunshine filtered through grey skies, extending golden kisses to the dewdrops that washed over the earth, ceasing in waves beyond the Black Lake.

As his drooping eyelids struggling to adjust the sun's majesty, Ronald Weasley realised that waking up early was a bad idea. He let out a yawn, then glanced at his new broomstick, his tired vision unwilling to behold the sun's artwork upon the canvas of clouds. Letting his lungs revel in the fresh breeze for a while, he stretched his arms. It was a fine moment to catch up on another wink of slumber.

And a far more remarkable set-up to fly, and feel free, for a change.

Ron would have changed the course of his footsteps, directing them back to his dorm room if a foreign azure spark didn't fragment the serene landscape. As far as he knew, the sun didn't emanate a blue that blue? Even Filch was sleeping at this early hour, as he had noticed on the Marauders' Map.

His hand reached to his pocket, fingers curling around his wand. Voldemort couldn't possibly be marching the grounds, could he be? Was this a sign of security breach — a Death Eater invasion? He stepped towards the sparks gingerly, regretting not bringing the map with him.

If this was indeed the work of Death Eaters, could they have infilitrated the castle? Attacked Harry — no, he was being ridiculous.

Before he could brace himself to cast a spell, however, a rouge ball sped out of the fog, almost knocking him over.

Voldemort wouldn't be playing Quidditch in the grounds.

Following the quaffle was a boy riding a tattered Nimbus — the only detail he had caught over the blurred interference of the atmosphere. Awed, he watched the boy as he chased the ball around the pitch, somersaulting as if he was controlling the winds before looping the largest Quidditch ball through one of the hoops. His landing was smooth, enthralling even, and the ginger found himself gaping at the Chaser until he had noticed him.

"Blimey, you scared the bloody hell out of me!" Ron exclaimed, as he found the other boy's eyes on him, immediately recognising him as a Hufflepuff — Andre Carrero; one of the few boys in his year he had barely interacted with.

"¡Cielos!" The boy yelled, startled. "What are you doing down there?"

"Birdwatching." 

André's gaze fell to the broom Ron was holding. "Ah, do you intend to follow the flying birds?"

"I followed spiders once," said Ron.

"Flying spiders? On a broom?"

The visual made his throat run dry.