Brielle Anderson had always been a happy child, full of questions and a never-ending pit of things to say. But on the evening of August seventeenth, just days away from returning to Hogwarts, a terrific tragedy changed her life for good.
Being sent...
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s e c r e t s i x t e e n
Fabian and Gideon spent seven and a half minutes explaining the rules and techniques of quidditch to me, Gideon throwing his snitch up and down in the air and Fabian waving his hands around as if he were conducting a very intense musical piece. And me, well, I was watching the snitch flutter it's wings around as it attempted to get away from Gid, counting the seconds as they ticked by. The twins sure could talk.
Finally, Molly finished the chapter she had been reading in the car and came to my rescue. "Boys!" she scolded, taking off her sweater and grabbing a broom from where they were piled by the shed, "I'm sure she's familiar with the rules of quidditch. She has played before."
"Fine," Gideon said. "But if she dies because she wasn't paying attention and forgets what bludgers do and gets bonked in the face, then its all your fault."
Molly rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't be so dramatic, you loon."
"You're a loon."
"And you're not very good at comebacks."
"And I think I wanna play quidditch," Fabian muttered.
"Blah blah blah blah," Gideon mimicked.
I giggled.
"Alright," Molly said, swinging her leg over her broom. "Everyone in the air."
I grabbed my broomstick and kicked off toward the bright blue afternoon sky. The clouds were white and fluffy, like cotton balls rolling through the wind. The sun was out and blaring yellow laughter and the birds twirled around and around as if in a game of tag, racing through the slight breeze that smelled of something sweet.
In other words, it was a perfect day for a game of quidditch.
The twins and Molly had convinced their mother and father to join so that there would be even teams of three. Mrs Prewett had tied her hair into a loose pony and was currently doing laps around the backyard, and Mr Prewett was burrowing in the shed for the quaffle.
"Dad!" Fabian shouted over his shoulder.
"What?" came a muffled reply.
"Would you hurry it up?"
Mr Prewett emerged from the shed with a latched box hanging from his shoulder by a thick leather strap. "If you don't start being patient, I'm going to whack you over the head."
"You wouldn't."
"Oh, but I would."
As of to prove his point, Mr Prewett bonked his son lightly on the head as he walked by. Fabian let out a disgruntled shriek and patted his head. "My hair!" he exclaimed. "My poor, beautiful hair!"
Everyone rolled their eyes.
"Okay family," Mr Prewett called, standing in the middle of the backyard, unlatching the box. "Gather 'round."
