OF QUAFFLES | R. Weasley

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 "I had no clue you could play so well," said Ron, attempting to change the subject to something that didn't involve insects. "Almost a shame the Gryffindor team doesn't have you."

"I don't believe I play well, really," replied he, fidgeting with the handle of his broom. "But I'm trying for the team this year, and I am quite rusty, so I figured out I'd get as much practice as I can."

"Rusty? Malfoy's rusty. You are pretty good. Look, mate, this is how these try-outs go — the whole house turns up for them, half of them can barely fly, and a large fraction can't tell a quaffle and a bludger apart. Won't lie, it gets a bit tough amongst the top few, but that's where practice helps one, right?" 

Andre replied with an nod, poking the Quaffle in his hand with a distracted gaze. Ron's eyes dropped at the ball for a moment, widened, and stared back up at the Hufflepuff.

"You are a bloody Chaser, aren't you?" asked the freckled boy. "I am trying for Keeper. A nasty menace it is, enchanting Quaffles and Bludgers to practice. Well, my brothers are on the team too, Beaters, you must know, but I didn't ask them to practice with me because they'd tease me if they ever found out that I am planning to try," he rambled on, as Andre centered his attention on his words. "Got a new broomstick too, a gift from Mum, since I became prefect, but I am still skeptical about my abilities to make it to the team. Means a lot to me, you know, that feeling—"

"—of being one with the air, slicing through the wind, it's a whole new feeling," completed Andre.

"Refreshing," added Ron.

"Like finally breaking free," André tossed his quaffle into the air.

"Like finally breaking free," repeated Ron, stifling another sudden yawn as his gaze landed on a nest of warbling birds. "Oi, mate, you are a Chaser!" The Gryffindor said after a pause, albeit quite enthusiastically this time. "A chaser."

"I'm aware."

"No, you're not understanding. We could practice together, a lot, lot better than just enchanting Quaffles. What do you think? I reckon it'd be brilliant!"

"It perhaps would be," agreed André, "but I don't want to be troubling you or—"

"Drop the formality, Carrero, it's no trouble at all!" Ron draped his arm around André's shoulder, missing the dusty hue of crimson that rushed to the brunet's cheeks. "Hell, that's going to make it so much more easier for us," he took the Quaffle from the boy's grip, making it bounce against the ground twice. The sunlight was now dancing on the waves of the Great Lake in glimmers of tangerine, watching the grass drift awake in frolic, away from the moon's lullaby. "What do you say, eh?" Ron nudged the boy, throwing the Quaffle up, "We practice together, and we make it to our teams together!"

The boy didn't reply, rubbing the back of his neck as he pondered over the Weasley's offer.

"Come on, it's going to be epic," Ron stirred him off his reverie, already weaving practice strategies.

Andre watched the Quaffle ascend into the floating cumulus overhead, then knelt to free the bludgers out of his Quidditch practice kit. "You are right. It sounds like a plan," he smiled. "Thank you for coming up with this and counting me in."

"It's nothing!" Ron replied, mounting his broomstick. "Let's see how many goals you can score, and how many of them I can save without falling asleep."

"Well, you don't look well-rested, so I'd say the odds of you falling asleep are quite a lot."

"To be fair, I didn't get a lot of sleep last night. But, let's just say, Quidditch beats tiredness better than Hermione's coffee. Come on mate, you've got to catch that Quaffle before it flies further away."