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May. 31st, 2008 09:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hug_machineasdhkskdhkjshd. It occurs to me that perhaps I should start posting my fic outside of super-locked H_E if I want peeps to read it. *^^* 'N FOR THE REKKID, I DO!
TITLE:High Skies
CHARACTERS: Fred Weasley II and Original!Fred Weasley gen
RATING:G
WORD COUNT: 1134
NOTES: Ur feedbax is always ♥ 'cause nobody can bring it quite like u.
Fred's first broom was nothing more than a second-hand Comet 360, but all the same he'd earned every ruddy straw of it himself, working all summer in his Dad's shop til he'd shuffled off enough Skiving Snackboxes to shut down Hogwarts (and probably Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, judging by the countless owls and their equally countless droppings --he'd quite mastered bloody Scourgify) for an entire week. But the broom was absolutely his and his alone and from the first time he'd launched it into the air, the he sky was as close to being his as it had ever been, and fast and free and limitless high-blue and utterly brilliant.
And when Dad insisted he start practising with his manky old beater's bat, he was entirely convinced that the thing would rip his ruddy arm clear out of his shoulder. But when he took it to sky, it was like a cloud in his hand, cracking into bludgers like thunder and, more to his own surprise than anyone else's, he wasn't half bad at it.
As a second year, he tried out for the Gryffindor team. The sky was overcast and gray and the day was chilly. It looks like it's going to rain today . I'm not sure I can do this , he'd written to his Dad that morning. He got his response before noon. Bullocks, it's a lovely day. Give it your all and make us proud. And so Fred did, zipping around the pitch, knocking the bludgers as they ought to be knocked. It never did rain, and only Fred was surprised to see his name on the roster the next day.
Gryffindor's first match that year was against Slytherin. The sky had been leaden and thick all day, and it started to drizzle an hour before the match, making everything under the pitch slick and cold. Still, Fred played well and Gryiffindor won the match easily. And the one after that, and the one after that. Gryffindor got the cup that year. There are some that say Quidditch talent runs in the blood, like magic, and that year they could have pointed at Fred Weasley.
His dad thought it would be a good idea for Fred to spend his summer with his Grandparents in the Burrow, because London really isn't a proper place for Quidditch practice and his boy had to keep his skills sharp. And after all, it's the same paddock aunt Ginny learned her stuff.
The day he arrived, the sky was lower and heavier than he'd ever seen it. By the time he undid the rusty old latch to broom shed, he thought the whole sky might shatter from all that gloom. Squinting into the darkness, Fred waved away what looked like a couple decades of spider webs and started poking through the half dozen brooms, in hopes that he might find a worthwhile vintage model. And then--
"HALT! WHO GOES THERE?"
Fred froze, senses keen.
"Well, I thought it sounded impressive."
It was a friendly voice now. It even sounded familiar.
"I'd properly introduce myself, but I'm not exactly in the best position at the moment."
Fred craned his neck; the voice seemed to be coming from the air above him.
"Top shelf. Next to my old Quidditch robes."
"Your Quidditch robes...," Fred repeated thoughtfully as he pulled down a bundle of moldy old team-issues. A sheet of paper slid out from in between the robes and caught the breeze, rocking on its way down. "Wait!" Fred caught the paper awkwardly between his palms and turned it over with an excited knot in his stomach. "You're...you're--"
"Fred Weasley, and to whom do I owe the pleasure?"
There he was, Fred --old-Fred, uncle-Fred, namesake-Fred, dead-Fred. The Fred he'd never known. "I'm Fred Weasley, too. Er, Fred Weasley II."
"Fred...junior?" Old Fred's face went pale.
"No, uh--," It was hard to think of a more awkward conversation at the moment. "George's my dad. You're dead. I'm your nephew."
"Oh." Something like relief flushed his crayon-drawn face. "How'd I go?"
"Brilliant, according to Dad. Fighting Voldemort 'til the end, I guess."
Eager to escape the odd discomfort of announcing his dead-uncle's death to his dead-uncle, Fred pointed at a peach-colored lump on Old Fred's crudely-drawn face. "You've got a hole in your uh...is that an ear, there?"
"I'd expect to have a few of those, being I'm a dart board. But then again, George's a piss-poor dart player."
"Dart board?"
"Prototype, really. One of those Weasley's Wizard Wheezes that we never quite saw through. Seems portrait-enchanting is a tricky business. I reckon that's why I'm still here. Wicked cool idea, though. Great stress relief. Slap some dirty Slytherin on and bombs away."
"Ah."
"So, who's your mum then, Fred Weasley II?"
"Angelina--"
"Blimey, Angelina Johnson?" He whistled appreciatively. "Not bad at all. So you're the offspring of two Quidditch players and you're the first person to root around in the broom shed in about ten years. I take it you're a Quidditch man?"
"I play, yeah."
"You play? Well, are you a Quidditch man or aren't you?"
Young Fred paused, realizing what the question meant.
"I play, but I don't really think I like it."
"Then why do you play?"
"I--"
"Look, George and I didn't get to where we are by doing what our mum and dad wanted us to do. Wait-- I'm dead and George is naming his kids after me. Maybe a bad example. But the point is--"
"I should follow my heart."
"No! Don't get all soft on me. The point is you're not a paper dart board so you should really put a slug in your aunt Ginny's shoe, next time you get the chance And if you want to get your uncle Ron good--"
"I'm go say goodbye to grandmum and see about going back to London. You with me?"
"I--," It wasn't easy to read the subtly of human emotion in a crayon-drawn face, let alone in the dim light of the broom shed, but there was something aching there. "And ruin my chance to spook 'em when they least expect it? Nah. They can't forget about this old shed forever. One of these days, they're gonna get all sappy and go looking for some old broom and then--."
"When they least expect it." Young Fred grinned as he placed replaced his uncle-dart-board-portrait back on his shelf next to his uncle-dart-board-portrait's old Quidditch robes.
He opened the door to a sunny, high sky and lingered in the doorway, letting the light fall into the shed and trace along all the shelves.
TITLE:High Skies
CHARACTERS: Fred Weasley II and Original!Fred Weasley gen
RATING:G
WORD COUNT: 1134
NOTES: Ur feedbax is always ♥ 'cause nobody can bring it quite like u.
Fred's first broom was nothing more than a second-hand Comet 360, but all the same he'd earned every ruddy straw of it himself, working all summer in his Dad's shop til he'd shuffled off enough Skiving Snackboxes to shut down Hogwarts (and probably Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, judging by the countless owls and their equally countless droppings --he'd quite mastered bloody Scourgify) for an entire week. But the broom was absolutely his and his alone and from the first time he'd launched it into the air, the he sky was as close to being his as it had ever been, and fast and free and limitless high-blue and utterly brilliant.
And when Dad insisted he start practising with his manky old beater's bat, he was entirely convinced that the thing would rip his ruddy arm clear out of his shoulder. But when he took it to sky, it was like a cloud in his hand, cracking into bludgers like thunder and, more to his own surprise than anyone else's, he wasn't half bad at it.
As a second year, he tried out for the Gryffindor team. The sky was overcast and gray and the day was chilly. It looks like it's going to rain today . I'm not sure I can do this , he'd written to his Dad that morning. He got his response before noon. Bullocks, it's a lovely day. Give it your all and make us proud. And so Fred did, zipping around the pitch, knocking the bludgers as they ought to be knocked. It never did rain, and only Fred was surprised to see his name on the roster the next day.
Gryffindor's first match that year was against Slytherin. The sky had been leaden and thick all day, and it started to drizzle an hour before the match, making everything under the pitch slick and cold. Still, Fred played well and Gryiffindor won the match easily. And the one after that, and the one after that. Gryffindor got the cup that year. There are some that say Quidditch talent runs in the blood, like magic, and that year they could have pointed at Fred Weasley.
His dad thought it would be a good idea for Fred to spend his summer with his Grandparents in the Burrow, because London really isn't a proper place for Quidditch practice and his boy had to keep his skills sharp. And after all, it's the same paddock aunt Ginny learned her stuff.
The day he arrived, the sky was lower and heavier than he'd ever seen it. By the time he undid the rusty old latch to broom shed, he thought the whole sky might shatter from all that gloom. Squinting into the darkness, Fred waved away what looked like a couple decades of spider webs and started poking through the half dozen brooms, in hopes that he might find a worthwhile vintage model. And then--
"HALT! WHO GOES THERE?"
Fred froze, senses keen.
"Well, I thought it sounded impressive."
It was a friendly voice now. It even sounded familiar.
"I'd properly introduce myself, but I'm not exactly in the best position at the moment."
Fred craned his neck; the voice seemed to be coming from the air above him.
"Top shelf. Next to my old Quidditch robes."
"Your Quidditch robes...," Fred repeated thoughtfully as he pulled down a bundle of moldy old team-issues. A sheet of paper slid out from in between the robes and caught the breeze, rocking on its way down. "Wait!" Fred caught the paper awkwardly between his palms and turned it over with an excited knot in his stomach. "You're...you're--"
"Fred Weasley, and to whom do I owe the pleasure?"
There he was, Fred --old-Fred, uncle-Fred, namesake-Fred, dead-Fred. The Fred he'd never known. "I'm Fred Weasley, too. Er, Fred Weasley II."
"Fred...junior?" Old Fred's face went pale.
"No, uh--," It was hard to think of a more awkward conversation at the moment. "George's my dad. You're dead. I'm your nephew."
"Oh." Something like relief flushed his crayon-drawn face. "How'd I go?"
"Brilliant, according to Dad. Fighting Voldemort 'til the end, I guess."
Eager to escape the odd discomfort of announcing his dead-uncle's death to his dead-uncle, Fred pointed at a peach-colored lump on Old Fred's crudely-drawn face. "You've got a hole in your uh...is that an ear, there?"
"I'd expect to have a few of those, being I'm a dart board. But then again, George's a piss-poor dart player."
"Dart board?"
"Prototype, really. One of those Weasley's Wizard Wheezes that we never quite saw through. Seems portrait-enchanting is a tricky business. I reckon that's why I'm still here. Wicked cool idea, though. Great stress relief. Slap some dirty Slytherin on and bombs away."
"Ah."
"So, who's your mum then, Fred Weasley II?"
"Angelina--"
"Blimey, Angelina Johnson?" He whistled appreciatively. "Not bad at all. So you're the offspring of two Quidditch players and you're the first person to root around in the broom shed in about ten years. I take it you're a Quidditch man?"
"I play, yeah."
"You play? Well, are you a Quidditch man or aren't you?"
Young Fred paused, realizing what the question meant.
"I play, but I don't really think I like it."
"Then why do you play?"
"I--"
"Look, George and I didn't get to where we are by doing what our mum and dad wanted us to do. Wait-- I'm dead and George is naming his kids after me. Maybe a bad example. But the point is--"
"I should follow my heart."
"No! Don't get all soft on me. The point is you're not a paper dart board so you should really put a slug in your aunt Ginny's shoe, next time you get the chance And if you want to get your uncle Ron good--"
"I'm go say goodbye to grandmum and see about going back to London. You with me?"
"I--," It wasn't easy to read the subtly of human emotion in a crayon-drawn face, let alone in the dim light of the broom shed, but there was something aching there. "And ruin my chance to spook 'em when they least expect it? Nah. They can't forget about this old shed forever. One of these days, they're gonna get all sappy and go looking for some old broom and then--."
"When they least expect it." Young Fred grinned as he placed replaced his uncle-dart-board-portrait back on his shelf next to his uncle-dart-board-portrait's old Quidditch robes.
He opened the door to a sunny, high sky and lingered in the doorway, letting the light fall into the shed and trace along all the shelves.
