15 July 2010

Four-year-old Albus was sitting on the edge of the Burrow's overgrown backyard, hugging his knees to his chest and staring, open-mouthed, up at the sky. He watched in admiration as his mother rocketed through the air, Dominique and James following close behind. The sweltering July heat had settled around the meadow in a haze, and Albus had to squint slightly to distinguish his family members's soaring figures clearly across the brilliant, blue sky.

Not for the first time did the familiar feeling of envy well up in Albus, as his brother surged past him, leaving Albus's clothes rippling slightly from the breeze. Little Albus bit his lip as his mother called suddenly to her elder son and niece, prompting all three to dive spectacularly back to the ground, landing smoothly upon the lawn, hair windswept and faces flushed with satisfaction. Albus's eyes narrowed slightly, as his mother flung one arm each around James and Dominique, leading them back towards the Burrow.

"Come on, Albus, sweetheart," she called to him, as they passed. She smiled warmly at him, beckoning him over.

But Albus didn't budge. He simply gazed reproachfully at his mother, sticking out his lower lip, trying to make himself out to be as pitiful as he could. It appeared to work; a moment later, she had pointed seven-year-old Dominique and six-year-old James in the direction of the Burrow's back door, and started off in his direction, frowning slightly.

"Albus?" she asked gently, kneeling down before him. "What's wrong, sweet boy?"

Albus's lip quivered for a moment. Then, without warning, he burst into tears.

Ginny Potter was taken aback. She gaped at her son momentarily, before pulling him into a tight hug, letting his tears splatter her sweater. "Albus! Albus—oh, what's the matter, sweetheart? Why are you crying?"

Albus sniffled, wrapping his arms around his mother's neck and permitting her to lift him up. "Mumma, I wanna play Quidditch, too!"

There was a brief pause as Ginny considered this. Then, she grimaced, adjusting her grip on her son, and began trudging towards the house.

It wasn't that she didn't want her younger son to learn how to fly—she did, of course she did. But Albus was far more delicate than James had been at his age, and on top of that, seemed to have an impressive knack for getting himself hurt. Putting him on a broom didn't seem like the brightest idea, at the moment.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Ginny sighed. "But Daddy and I promised you we'd teach you once you turned five, didn't we?"

"But that's not fair!" Albus wailed, burying his face in his mother's shoulder. "You taught James when he was four! I'm four!"

"Next year, Albus," Ginny said firmly. "Next year, we'll definitely teach you. But for now, why don't you get your toy broomstick? Mummy will watch you fly."

Albus stalled fleetingly in his complaints. The prospect of taking a spin on his toy broomstick—even if it did only rise a foot above the ground—was very tempting indeed, especially if his mother was going to watch him. But—no, he would stay strong in his argument.

"No," Albus shook his head fervently. "I wanna fly a real broomstick!"

Ginny sighed heavily as they entered the Burrow. Then, she kicked the back door shut behind her and deposited Albus on the kitchen floor. "Next year, Albus," she said tiredly.

And with that, she went to join her mother and children in the sitting room, leaving a very disappointed four-year-old standing alone by the door.

The hushed silence of a warm, July night hung rather thickly in the air, and the glistening moonlight glowing feebly from the large bedroom window exuded just enough light to distinguish the two large camp beds in the center of the room. The owner of the first camp bed was sleeping soundly, his untidy black hair fanned haphazardly out upon his pillow and his mouth slightly open. However, the owner of the second camp bed—also with untidy black hair—was plainly wide awake, tossing and turning.

Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in bed. Then, very slowly and very carefully, he slipped out of his tangled sheets and cast cautious look at his brother, who was still sleeping peacefully in his camp bed. Padding soundlessly across the room, he sidled out of the door frame and closed the door behind him—with an unfortunately resounding click.

Several floors below, in the Burrow's dining room, Ginny awoke with a start. Rubbing her eyes tiredly and brushing her long, red hair out of her face, she glanced warily around the room, wondering what had awoken her. With a jolt, she realized that she was still seated at the kitchen counter, as she had been since after dinner, working diligently on her latest contribution to the Games and Sports section of the Daily Prophet.

Suddenly, Ginny stiffened, casting a cautious look in the direction of the nearby staircase. The muffled creaking of faraway footsteps was echoing down the stairwell. Ginny sat completely still, gazing towards the staircase. And as a very familiar four-year-old boy stumbled down the last few steps, she had to refrain from calling his name.

Albus, meanwhile, sauntered through the sitting room and into kitchen, completely oblivious to the fact that his mother was sitting at the dining table, watching his every move. Clutching the brass doorknob, he swung the back door open, and stepped outside, smiling happily as the warm air hit his face.

Then, he set off in the direction of the garden shed.

Ginny waited until her son's footsteps had faded away, before she quickly followed him outside, exiting through the backdoor, and shutting it silently behind her. She gasped softly, as something—or rather, someone—scurried suddenly past her. Stepping forward, Ginny's eyes widened as Albus scampered out into the middle of the Burrow's overgrown garden, clutching James's broomstick securely in his right hand.

And before she could even begin to comprehend what was happening, Albus had flung his right leg over the broom, and kicked into the air.

Ginny clapped a hand over her mouth and hurried forward, as Albus rose into the air.

But she needn't have worried.

He was a natural.

Quick and agile, swift and nimble. Ginny simply gazed, awestruck, as Albus soared and dived with an agility that defied logic.

The ghost of a memory tugged at Ginny's mind, and the image of her small, six-year-old self, flying over that very field, in the dead of the night, flashed across her eyes. Her lips lifted upwards, and she grinned up at her son's soaring figure, filled with a warm, fierce rush of affection towards him.

Then, suddenly, a loud shriek rang through the air, and Ginny's heart stopped. Eyes widening in alarm, Ginny rushed out onto the grass. Albus shrieked again, now dangling dangerously from his broom.

"Albus!"

"Mumma!" he cried, looking utterly terrified. "Mumma, help!"

"Albus," Ginny said, with forced calm. "Albus, jump."

"NO!" he sobbed, closing his eyes tightly. "Mumma, it's too far!"

"Albus, sweetheart," Ginny pleaded through gritted teeth, chest constricting. "You have to jump. Mummy will catch you, I promise."

"Mumma—!"

"Albus, jump!"

There was a final, ear-splitting shriek, as Albus tumbled off of his broom, at last, arms flailing. The very next instant, he was tucked safely in his mother's arms, trembling from head-to-toe.

"It's all right," Ginny whispered, gently rubbing her son's back. "You're all right, sweet boy, don't worry…"

There was a long silence, as Albus's whimpers slowly faded away, and his shallow breathing became deeper and quieter.

Then— "Mumma, I'm sorry," he said in a small voice.

Ginny turned her face away to hide the meaningful smile on her face.

"It's all right this time, Albus, but don't ever do that again," she said, as sternly as she could muster. "If Mummy hadn't been there to catch you, you could have been badly hurt!"

"I know," Albus said miserably. "I'm sorry, Mumma."

Ginny kissed his head, hugging him tightly. "Tomorrow, how about we fly together? And Mummy will teach you not to fall."

There was a moment of stunned silence as Albus's eyes grew wide with astonishment.

"Really?" Albus asked in a hushed voice, plainly amazed. "And I can ride James's broom again?"

"You can," Ginny said warmly. "You can even try Mummy's Firebolt Supreme, if you want."

Laughing at the incredulously delighted expression on her son's face, Ginny walked back into the house, Albus still snug in her arms. And as the door snapped shut behind them, James's broom—which had been suspended in midair for several long minutes—finally fell to the ground, where it would be retrieved in the morning by an eager four-year-old and his mother.

Author's Note:

This is my entry for My Dear Professor McGonagall's "Mother and Child" Competition, starring Ginny and Albus Potter. My prompt was Quidditch. :)