Post by Ink on Nov 9, 2011 15:39:18 GMT -8
Title: The Trouble With Flying
Rating: G
Word count: 300 (exactly)
Warnings: None
Summary: Victoire Weasley, it seemed, was rubbish at flying.
Victoire Weasley it seemed, was rubbish at flying.
“But she’s a Weasley, they’re all brilliant at quidditch.”
That unfeeling comment was the last straw; Victoire had already fallen off four times, scraped her elbow, and gotten dirt all over her shirt. The six year-old had had enough. She fled tearfully from the miniature pitch the wizarding park had set up, the broomstick dragging behind her.
Her dad apparated her to Uncle Ron’s house, and told her that she might want to try talking to Aunt Hermione. Because, Victoire realized, Aunt Hermione was rubbish at quidditch as well.
Several minutes later Victoire began understanding something. Even though Hermione was just as bad at quidditch as she was, she didn’t care. With a sigh, Victoire concluded that she was alone in the world, thanked her aunt for the advice, and asked to floo home.
Soon after shooting out of the fireplace, Victoire escaped to the tree house, where she figured she could cry in peace. She was, of course, incorrect, for it had not been ten minutes when her favorite uncle hauled himself up the trapdoor.
“I’m getting too old for this,” he groaned.
“No you’re not (hiccup) Uncle Harry (hiccup), you’re only twenty-five (hiccup),” Victoire said as she dried her eyes.
“All right then,” Harry conceded, “then I’m getting too big.” He paused to look at her with concern, “What’s the matter Vicky-star?”
And so the whole story tumbled out, complete with a runny nose, watery eyes, and an excessive use of hand gestures.
“Being different isn’t a bad thing,” Harry said.
“How would you know?” Vicky asked, “You’re not different at all.” Harry thought of green eyes and red light with a grimace,
“I’m the most different of all, Vicky-star. But you know what?”
“What?”
“Being different makes us special.”
Rating: G
Word count: 300 (exactly)
Warnings: None
Summary: Victoire Weasley, it seemed, was rubbish at flying.
Victoire Weasley it seemed, was rubbish at flying.
“But she’s a Weasley, they’re all brilliant at quidditch.”
That unfeeling comment was the last straw; Victoire had already fallen off four times, scraped her elbow, and gotten dirt all over her shirt. The six year-old had had enough. She fled tearfully from the miniature pitch the wizarding park had set up, the broomstick dragging behind her.
Her dad apparated her to Uncle Ron’s house, and told her that she might want to try talking to Aunt Hermione. Because, Victoire realized, Aunt Hermione was rubbish at quidditch as well.
Several minutes later Victoire began understanding something. Even though Hermione was just as bad at quidditch as she was, she didn’t care. With a sigh, Victoire concluded that she was alone in the world, thanked her aunt for the advice, and asked to floo home.
Soon after shooting out of the fireplace, Victoire escaped to the tree house, where she figured she could cry in peace. She was, of course, incorrect, for it had not been ten minutes when her favorite uncle hauled himself up the trapdoor.
“I’m getting too old for this,” he groaned.
“No you’re not (hiccup) Uncle Harry (hiccup), you’re only twenty-five (hiccup),” Victoire said as she dried her eyes.
“All right then,” Harry conceded, “then I’m getting too big.” He paused to look at her with concern, “What’s the matter Vicky-star?”
And so the whole story tumbled out, complete with a runny nose, watery eyes, and an excessive use of hand gestures.
“Being different isn’t a bad thing,” Harry said.
“How would you know?” Vicky asked, “You’re not different at all.” Harry thought of green eyes and red light with a grimace,
“I’m the most different of all, Vicky-star. But you know what?”
“What?”
“Being different makes us special.”
Good job !
