❝In which Ronald Weasley strives to detangle the blanket of ivy covering the ancient marble statue André Carrero's childhood turned into.❞
- ͙۪۪̥˚┊❛ extended summary inside❜┊˚ ͙۪۪̥◌
❝Who knew quaffles could string delight and love together?❞
- ͙۪۪̥...
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Ron Weasley would be lying if he said he wasn't enthusiastic about Quidditch Practice because of André. Yes, he might have been planning to practice on his own, without anyone else having the slightest notion about what he was up to, but the idea of acquiring a partner — albeit a chaser was going to make the game a lot easier for him. He wouldn't have to enchant quaffles to fly up to him, nor would he have a hard time keeping track of his speed on the pitch.
He was dead tired when his alarm rang at the crack of dawn — a deafening cacophony he didn't turn off till Harry hurled his pillow at him from across the room. Yet, drowsy as he was, his fear of early mornings vanquished the moment his mind flew to the previous day; a comfort warmer than his scarlet blankets discovered in the presence of a messy-haired boy.
His pace didn't decelerate by the Great Hall to grab a quick snack, already having had a glimpse of Andre waiting for him on the pitches from a lone corridor window. The timid sun was still veiled by clouds, its colours concealed, waiting to be divulged by a goodbye kiss from the moon. Ron wrapped his arms round him as he stepped on the pitch, revelling in the rainbow-hued landscape.
"Morning," Andre said, his voice crisp — but not cheerful.
"Hey, morning," Ron straightened his arms. "Did you sleep soundly?"
"Sort of," the boy shrugged, summoning a cup and filling it with a warm liquid. The scent of freshly brewed coffee reached his senses, and Ron's lips upturned in a nostalgic smile. That, mingled with the scent of toasted pumpkins and fresh cookies were what the Burrow smelt like on a winter morning.
André handed the cup to Ron, a faint smile on his lips as their thumbs brushed. "Figured out you wouldn't have had anything," he said. "Since we were going to practice before the sun is up."
The warm mug nestled comfortably between his fingers soothed Ron's nerves — or perhaps, it was the serenity reflecting on André's face with each sip he took.
"I got us something else too," André placed his cup next to the kettle and pointed towards a basket. Ron's eyes widened. "Fetched us some snacks. It was mostly Felicia. We could have a bunch after practice, sort of like a reward?"
"What year is she in, again?" Ron asked, taking another sip of his roasted brew.
"It's her third."
"My sister's in fourth," said Ron. "Quite the feisty one she is."
"She's into Quidditch?"
"Yeah. She might make a more confident player than me. Yesterday's little interaction tells me yours doesn't fancy Quidditch at all."
André shook his head. "Finds it stupid. I'm perhaps the only one in my family who's taken a liking to the sport. And," he wrapped his fingers round the hand holding Ron's coffee cup, "You are a great player, Ron. Confidence comes with practice. We'll work on it, and you'll do excellently on the trials."
