A/N: This was originally posted on UnknowableRoom way back in 2008. I've always loved the image of little Ginny sneaking brooms out of the shed behind everyone's back, and that idea got stuck in my head, rolled around for awhile collecting bits of fluff, and turned into this. I had originally planned to turn it into a series of one-shots about first magic; if inspiration strikes, I still might.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters and associated ideas and places are the property of JK Rowling and her various publishers. No infringement is intended.
Firsts: Ginny
by Glynnis Griffiths
May 1988
The first time little Ginny Weasley snuck out to the shed and filched one of her brothers' brooms, it was glorious. The weather was picture perfect: the sun shining brightly between puffy white clouds as the sky stretched endlessly before her in a sea of crystalline blue. It was Percy's broom – Bill's old one – and as they were both off at Hogwarts (Percy in his first year, and Bill in his sixth), she felt it was the safest one to take because even if she got caught, at least the owner wouldn't be there to wallop her with it. Not that Percy was the walloping sort, really. He might scold her endlessly, and then drag her before Mum who would do the same, so that she wished she'd just been walloped and gotten it over with… but that was Percy for you – always more inclined to bore the pants of you than to beat them off. The twins, on the other hand, were definitely the walloping sort. So that first time Ginny steered clear of their matching Comet 15s, and instead grabbed Percy's battered Cleansweep 100.
She straddled the broomstick, which was considerably taller than she was at the tender age of six, and stamped both her sturdy little legs onto the ground as hard as she could, pushing off as she had seen her brothers do so many times before. It was not Ginny's first time on a broom. Sometimes they would have family races round the old orchard, and Ginny would share a broom with her Dad, giggling madly as they would try to outstrip Charlie and Bill, one of whom usually had Ron as a passenger. And she and Ron each had their own toy broomsticks, enchanted only to hover a meter or so above the ground, which weren't good for much more than playing Shuntbumps and knocking each other into their Mum's beds of marigolds. But this was the first time Ginny had been on a real broomstick by herself, nothing and no one keeping her from shooting straight to the clouds. It was exhilarating.
She let out a whoop, but kept her chubby fingers wrapped tightly round the handle of the broom. She felt incredibly free and alive, but she didn't feel comfortably balanced just yet. As she gained the tops of the trees in the orchard, Ginny looked out towards the pond where she could just spot her brothers splashing around with abandon. They had gone down for a dip after the muddy work of degnoming the garden, and had told her – quite rudely, she thought – that she couldn't come with them, because they were going to do "manly things". Manly indeed, Ginny huffed, and dipped back below the treetops. She knew they just wanted to swim without trunks on. But no matter – Ginny could go swimming anytime. This was so much better than that. This was amazing. This was flying.
And so Ginny's first solo flight was a smashing success (largely because there had been no smashing involved). She looped the orchard several times, even getting brave enough to reach out and snag leaves from their branches as she went. She landed (admittedly with quite a few bumps) and hustled back to the shed, where she stowed Percy's broom, and skipped back to the garden of the Burrow before her brothers returned or her mother realised she wasn't with them. That first time was perfect.
It was the second time that was a disaster.
Two weeks after that first successful flight, Ginny could hardly wait to try it again. She found it difficult to contain herself every time the topic of flying came up in conversation. This was not as problematic as it might have been, because Ginny also found it difficult to contain herself on the subjects of puffskeins, kneazles, fairies, Hogwarts, and princesses. When these came up, she found it difficult to sit still in her seat at mealtimes, and when she was up and about she was generally bouncing or skipping around. Dad said she bounced like she'd eaten a whole plateful of peppermint toads. Mum said she must have a billywig caught in her jumper. Ginny didn't think either of these was the case. She knew for a fact she hadn't eaten more than three peppermint toads at a time, ever, and she repeatedly checked her jumpers for billywigs and never found one of the little stinging creatures. It was just that there was so much that was interesting and she couldn't contain her enthusiasm for it all. As a result, though her parents laughed and her brothers teased her, no one paid particular attention to the way Ginny fidgeted in her seat when magic carpets came up at the dinner table, or how she positively squirmed with anticipation during a discussion of new broomstick models over breakfast a few days later. She had been bitten, not by a billywig as her mother suggested, but by the flying bug, and she couldn't wait to get back into the air.
A full seventeen days after her first flight, she finally got her chance. It was an overcast Saturday; Mum had taken the twins into the village with her, to best keep an eye on them while she did her shopping, while Dad and Ron were settled in the living room playing a game of chess. Ginny was too young to play chess (or so Ron told her), and anyway, she didn't find it especially interesting. She'd told them that she was going out to the garden to play Queen of the Fairies, one of her favourite games. Dad told her not to get too close to her subjects, and to stay, as usual, on this side of the far stile by the pond. This was no problem, as Ginny fully intended to stay within those boundaries. He'd said nothing about remaining on the ground - it was, after all, much better to be Queen of the Fairies when you could fly around with them. She set off at a skip to the broom shed. This time she selected George's broom – just for comparison's sake – and set out for the orchard. The twins' brooms, like their owners, were nearly identical, but Ginny could tell them apart. George took better care of his broom than Fred did, so the tail twigs were more neatly aligned, and the finish on the handle slightly glossier, though still covered in finger smudges.
She hopped on the broom and shoved off much as before; this broom didn't rocket up quite as quickly as Percy's had done, but its innate balance was better, and Ginny felt sturdy on it much sooner. She knew, from listening to her father and older brothers discuss these things, that this was due to the charms pre-placed on the broom itself, and not her flying technique, but she liked to think it was a sign that she was getting better, all the same.
She ascended steadily, reaching the tree tops – her maximum height on her first flight – and pushed herself above them, into open sky. She felt safer about it this time, as Ron and Dad were safely inside and Mum and the twins were all the way in the village. She no longer needed the trees to shelter her. Gazing off into the distance she could see the slated and thatched roofs of the village, and beyond them the hills of the countryside. On one of these stood a black cylindrical house, like a tower in a castle or like one of Ron's chess pieces. Ginny had been there once or twice with her mother, and she knew that a small family lived there with a daughter just her age. The little girl, Luna, was nice to play with while their mothers had tea. Indeed, she was exceptionally good at make-believe, and had quite enjoyed Queen of the Fairies when Ginny had taught her how to play. Perhaps she would come over again, and Ginny could show her this new twist to the game.
As Ginny circled, turning away from Luna's house, she felt the first drops of rain fall on her outstretched arms. This did not worry her much – Ginny didn't mind getting wet. Living in a house with Fred and George, where you were liable as not to get tossed into the pond with your clothes on (especially if you were the only one small enough for them to lift), or to have your drink at meals tricked so that you slopped pumpkin juice down your front, had made Ginny almost as impervious to dampness as if her mother had placed a charm on her. When the first blast of cool wind hit her, she shivered and thought about coming down. Before the thought had fully formed in her head, however, she was buffeted by another, stronger gust that sent her spiralling off course.
At first Ginny was too stunned to be frightened. Her hair whipped around her while the prompting of the wind sent her and George's broom sailing towards a large tree on the edge of the orchard. She watched the rapidly approaching branches, and the thick, looming trunk with wide eyes, before fear kicked in and prompted her to shut them tightly and brace for the impact. She wished very much that one of her brothers were here to catch her now. As the broom rushed headlong into the tree, Ginny felt the first snag of a branch on her t-shirt and whimpered in anticipation of the pain that would come when she hit the solid tree-trunk. But it didn't come. And she didn't fall the ten meters to the ground out of the branches. After waiting an impossibly long time for a hit that seemed not to be materialising, she squinted open her eyes, and found herself nestled in the branches of the tree. Not just nestled, in fact – cradled there, the way her mother had held her when she was quite small, and still did sometimes when she was hurt or felt sad. Two of the largest branches were bowed underneath her, forming a sling for her body. Several other branches were lowered, shielding her from the storm, their leaves tickling her face. Ginny looked around in wonderment, without the faintest idea how to get down. She could see George's broomstick, which had spun away after her crash to rest on the ground by another tree. Miraculously, it seemed relatively unscathed as well, although she suspected that its twigs might no longer be neater than Fred's were.
"Ginny!" She heard the cry in the distance, almost swallowed by the howl of the wind, which was working itself up to a proper storm now. "Ginny! Come in now; you'll be soaked and catch cold!" Her father's voice was getting nearer, and she could hear the note of panic in it now. "Ginny! Ginny, answer me! Where are you?!" It sounded as though he was at the edge of the orchard now, though Ginny couldn't spot him yet.
"Here, Daddy! I'm here; in the tree!" She called out, using her best outside voice. He must have heard her, as he came into the clearing now and looked around frantically, but he clearly hadn't understood her, because he was looking on the ground, peering through trunks.
"No, Daddy! I'm up here!" She waved some leafy branches to demonstrate, showering herself with water.
"Ginny!" Her father's mouth dropped open, and he stood quite still in astonishment, paying no mind to the lashing rain that was soaking his jumper and dripping off his glasses. "How did you get up there?"
"I flew." She said, perfectly truthfully, pointing at George's broomstick on the ground. "But then the rain blew me into the tree, and I thought I was going to crash, Daddy, but the tree caught me!" And she sat upright and swung her legs over the edge of her boughed seat.
"Ginny! You stay right there! Don't move! I'm coming up to get you." Her nonchalance seemed to frighten him, but Ginny herself wasn't scared. She knew the tree wouldn't drop her. After all, it had caught her, and held her this long.
Her father retrieved and mounted George's broom, steering it up to Ginny's perch in the branches, where he helped her swing a leg over the handle and settle in front of him. Once she was safely astride the broom, the branches sprang back to their normal positions, and creaked in the wind.
"Thanks!" Ginny called cheerily to the tree, as her father gazed between it and her in amazement. He seemed torn between terror and delight.
"Ginny, that was your first bit of magic!" He said, happily, when they landed in the Burrow's back garden.
"What was, Daddy?" She asked, looking up through wet eyelashes at him.
"You charmed that tree to catch you – and to protect you!" He seemed very pleased.
"You mean it didn't catch me on its own?" Ginny was a bit puzzled. She didn't think she'd done magic; she didn't know how.
"No, poppet." Her father assured her, "You helped it catch you. Trees can't do that on their own."
"Oh." Ginny mulled this over, as they dried off in the warm kitchen. "So I helped the tree, and the tree helped me!" She felt pleased with this explanation.
"I think that's exactly right. I'm very proud of you." Arthur Weasley smiled at his daughter, and then paused. "But maybe we should keep this secret between us – Mummy wouldn't be pleased to hear that you'd been sneaking your brother's broom out." He looked momentarily stern, and Ginny plastered a chastened expression on her face. "Or that I let you sneak it out," he added, a flush rising in his cheeks.
"Okay Daddy," Ginny agreed amiably, sensing her opportunity. "But Ron and I always seal our secrets with a pact." She eyed her father seriously and pointed at the cupboard, which held Molly's biscuit jar. "We have a biscuit pact."
Arthur's eyes twinkled merrily, but he struggled to keep his face straight. "Ah, is that so?" He pretended to consider this information. "Well, we'd better do this right, hadn't we?" Ginny nodded. He pulled the jar from the cupboard and extracted two biscuits, handing one to her.
"I solemnly swear, on this biscuit, to keep Ginny's sneaky flying today a secret." He held his biscuit aloft.
"Me too!" Ginny said, around a mouthful of crumbs, holding up her biscuit, which was missing a large bite. Arthur let out a chuckle, and Ginny began to giggle. And father and daughter laughed happily and heartily, leaning on the table for support, and only pulling themselves together when Ron came in from the other room, wondering what they were laughing about, and demanded his own biscuit.
-End-