Ron Weasley was a proud man, in many ways, and he was proud in almost all of its definitions. He was proud of his achievements, he was proud of his family, and he was proud of his values. He often rotated between feeling proud and feeling incredulous that he had achieved so much. Sometimes, at random moments, when they had been talking about something completely different, he'd turn to his wife Hermione or to Harry, pinch himself, and say, "We really did it then, eh?" Sometimes he'd be met with a confirmation by means of a laugh and punch on the arm (usually from Harry) and other times Hermione would smile in spite of herself, later reprimanding him for making him forget whatever she had been saying.

Yes, Ron was proud of his achievements, and when he told his children stories about his adventures, Hermione would always perch on the arm of a chair nearby so she could cut in whenever she felt Ron was blowing anything a bit too much out of proportion. Once, Ron was telling the kids about him and his friends' ride on a Gringotts dragon, explaining how he'd slain it with the Sword of Gryffindor while riding a broomstick one handed, and suddenly he felt something hit him forcefully on the back of his head. Hugo burst out laughing at his father's flabbergasted expression; the latter turned around to find a stern Hermione holding a folded up Evening Prophet. Her brown eyes were fierce with disapproval, but at the sight of Ron, who'd turned around with his shoulders hunched up , looking rather frightened, her mouth began trembling with suppressed laughter. She soon joined her son in a fit of giggles.

"Lying is not a Gryffindor trait, Dad!" Rose had called from the kitchen, who had heard the true story from her mother and uncle a fair few times. "Unless it's completely necessary," she added as an afterthought.

Ron was proud of standing by his friends (for the most part) and he was proud of helping take down Voldemort. He was proud of making it to his sixth year of Hogwarts, though he knew he'd gotten a lot of help from his wife, and he was proud of being Gryffindor Keeper two years in a row. If there was one thing Ron strived to instill in his children more than anything else, it was having a good time at Hogwarts; and furthermore, it was Quidditch. A person wasn't truly respectable, wasn't truly a witch or wizard, in Ron's sheepish opinion, unless they knew their way around the Quidditch pitch, or how to work a decent broom. Ron knew he'd be proud of his children in any of their endeavors, but they would make him really happy if they played Quidditch, and if they played Quidditch well. This was essential.

Within hours of Rose's birth, as he and Hermione watched her doze in her cot, Ron was chattering on about the aerial sport, speculating about what position Rose would be playing.

"She looks like she'll be slight," he murmured, "like her mother. Good for Seeking. But she's got impressive arms, look; I should ask Ginny, maybe Chasing… and her elbows! Those would be good for blocking shots, Keeping is in her blood after all –"

"For goodness's sake, Ron," snapped Hermione, removing her head from his shoulder. "I'm not good with a broom, remember? Maybe she'll take after me. And besides," she added, "she's four hours old –"

"She's got red hair, Hermione!" said Ron, pointing madly at the red curls on their daughter's head. "That's a recessive gene, you know! It's a bloody sign, it is!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "My mum and I had a bet, you know, about how soon and from whom Rose would hear her first swear. Mum thought Dad might slip up, but I assured her, it would be you… at least you've won me five pounds..." She shook her head, moving towards the bathroom, and left Ron examining his daughter's shoulders, wondering if maybe she had a Beater's build…

On Rose's second Christmas, her father's sister Ginny (who preferred to go by Aunt Ginny, "Auntie" reminded her far too much of her own ancient one) got her niece a toy broom. She'd laughed in wordless delight as she climbed on the broom, her cousin James joining her on his broom shortly. James had two of his own – the second was meant for Albus, but James, even at three years old, was not one to share and, unbeknownst to his parents, he bribed his younger brother with chocolate cauldrons anytime he asked for a go on the broom. Harry worried that Albus wasn't interested in flying but Ginny assured him, there was still plenty of time for that.

Ron and Hermione watched their daughter whiz about the room. Ron was strangely silent, blue eyes locked on his child, and when Ginny made a joke about how Rose's loop-de-loop made her wonder if she was Harry's child, and Ron didn't say a word, the three of them turned to look at him. His eyes looked a bit shiny, unblinking, and when Rose avoided her uncle Bill's outstretched arm rather artfully for a two year old, Ron gave a little gasp and dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve. "That's my Rosie," he choked, and his wife, best mate, and sister were all so startled at seeing him emotional that they said nothing.

Rose flew to the ground and alighted, running to her father's legs, who promptly picked her up and grinned at her. The rest of the room, full of friends and family, clapped at the little girl's somehow immediate knack for flying.

If it was difficult before, from that day forward Hermione found it impossible to stop her husband from trying to force Quidditch down Rose's throat whenever possible. He presented the broom to her at any and all times, and once Hermione caught him switching out Rose's teddy bear with a large red Quaffle.

It seemed that that first ride was a fluke, however, and Rose became much more interested in asking her mother if she could help her perform household spells, or watching while she brewed potions from the safe distance of the cellar door. She started pulling heavy spellbooks off her mum's bookshelf, poring over the words before she could even really read yet. The first sentence she read all by herself was in Hogwarts, a History, and Hermione nearly spilled her tea all over herself, she was so proud. (Ron insisted her first words had been "Chudley Cannons," during a nighttime read of Quidditch Through the Ages.)

After that Christmas, Rose never expressed desire to get on the broomstick again. It appeared that she had been more excited by all the attention of the flight than the ride itself and, soon after her brother Hugo was born, the broom passed into his possession. Hermione speculated (correctly, as usual) that Rose's love for attention that Christmas meant that she'd wind up in Gryffindor. Ron was delighted by his son's love for flying, on the other hand, and was grateful for at least one child who didn't mind discussing Chudley Cannons matches, no matter how terrible the results always were. Hugo announced, on his ninth birthday, that he would someday bring the Cannons back to glory, and Ron gave him a sip of firewhiskey for being so bold.

Ron found himself looking over at Rose often, never forgetting her first flight, watching her turn the pages of her numerous tomes with lazy flicks of her wand, and willed himself to not be disappointed. Hermione had insisted on the kids doing Muggle school until they reached Hogwarts age, and Rose had been a star student then, and she excelled at academics during her first three years of Hogwarts. Ron was proud, of course, and anytime he didn't seem proud enough Hermione would prod him with his wand and remind him to get his priorities in order. Did he want a smart, vivacious non-Quidditch playing daughter, or a dunderhead who was quite a good goal-scorer? Ron hesitated on his answer, but he told Hermione what he wanted to hear, and Rose too.

It wasn't until Rose's fourth year at Hogwarts that Ron put his foot down. Hugo had just sent him a letter, saying he hadn't made it as a Chaser on the Gryffindor team, he'd lost to Lily Potter, who as a third year, was one of the younger players. He said maybe he'd try out next year, for Beater, Uncle George had told him he'd help train him…

"There will be a Weasley on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and I don't care how, but there will!" Ron cried, tossing the letter into the flames of his fireplace.

"Ron!" said Hermione, coming over from the kitchen where she'd been attempting a roast chicken, "I wanted to read that! Could you at least let me find out about the rest of our son's life before you destroy his letter because of some bad Quidditch news?"

"He and Tempest Smith got into a fight, but they resolved it," said Ron dully. "Not surprised, her father was a git, can't imagine how his daughter got into Gryffindor… anyway, that's really it. He says he finally tried Hagrid's rock cakes, and he likes them, bless him."

"He's such a darling," said Hermione, sitting down next to her husband and putting her feet in his lap. Ron was already scrawling a letter to Rose.

"Don't be mean to her," Hermione said shrewdly, guessing what he was doing. "It's not like she knows you wanted her to try out."

"I may not have said it in as many words, but she knows all right," Ron half snarled.

"For heaven's sake, Ron, is this really that serious?" said Hermione, laughing.

"It's Quidditch." Ron didn't look up, but his lips twitched.

"Oh, all right, then." She watched as Ron put his quill down and began folding the letter to give to the owl. "Hold on, I want to add something."

"What are you saying?" said Ron, watching her write.

"Remember, your dad's word is not law. Mum disapproves."

And so, it was after listening to a long, painful Howler from her father that Rose was certain she did not deserve, that she found herself on the Quidditch pitch, feeling more uncomfortable on a broom than she ever had in her life. Hugo had shot her apologetic glances earlier, saying he didn't know Dad would react the way he would.

"What was I supposed to do?" Hugo had said finally, after enduring Rose's silence all morning. "He wanted to know the results of tryouts!"

"You should have lied," she'd said through bared teeth.

It was so unfair, really, Rose thought, being punished for your brother's inadequacy. Well, that wasn't fair. Hugo was quite a good player – he, Rose, and their cousins often played Quidditch for fun at their grandparents' in Ottery St. Catchpole. And that was the only time Rose enjoyed Quidditch. By the time those matches were over, it didn't matter that she'd missed three goals or that Victoire had yelled at her for bumping into her too many times with her broom. All that mattered was whether Unca Harry (when Rose was a baby, she couldn't say 'uncle' and the name had stuck among all of his nieces of nephews, much to Ron and his brothers' amusement) was staying for dinner, because that meant Grandma Weasley would be making her to-die-for treacle tart.

Here, on the Quidditch pitch, Rose wanted to disappear. She barely trusted herself to stay on her broom – her knees were knocking together already. She could be good at Quidditch when she knew nobody was watching, or when she knew that it wasn't that everyone was depending on her. She was like her father more than she knew.

All Rose wanted was to be back in Gryffindor Tower, doing her Charms homework, but no. Here she was, because her father had announced for all of the Great Hall to hear this morning that it was up to her (and apparently not one of her many cousins) to save the name of Weasley from disgrace in the Quidditch world. Obviously, Rose thought, her dad meant the name of Ron. In fact, she was surprised he hadn't made the journey up here himself, to make sure she carried out the deed.

Frances "Frankie" Longbottom was the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, in her sixth year at Hogwarts, and she raised her eyebrows at the sight of the red haired Rose Weasley rising up in the air on her broom. It was well known in Gryffindor that Rose Weasley, unlike her father, was rather bookish and, while she enjoyed a match for fun now and again, she liked Quidditch best from the stands. Frankie, who knew Rose better than most, considering their parents were old family friends, was stunned.

"You know tryouts started yesterday, right?" Frankie called from her broom. "What are you trying out for?"

"Don't pretend you didn't hear my dad's letter this morning," Rose snapped in spite of herself. "And…" she hesitated. "I think Keeper." Rose really wanted the position of Seeker, but she didn't know if Albus planned on trying out someday, and she didn't want to take that opportunity away from him if he wanted it.

"Fair enough," said Frankie, and the few others who were trying out for Keeper exchanged irritated glances. Rose knew what she was doing was unfair, but she also knew that it was unlikely, with her nerves, that she'd make it past even the first trial.

So day two of the tryouts began. There was a great deal more people in the stands than she'd expected, but she recognized Hugo and Albus, a few of her Gryffindor bunkmates, and a couple of Hufflepuffs she liked, including Frankie's brother. Even the Scamander twins, from Ravenclaw, who Rose only saw once in a while, were showing their support. There was, of course, a handful of Slytherins, who came to these sorts of things just to throw jeers at the Gryffindors. Rose swallowed, mouth dry. It felt like a Pygmy puff had climbed into her throat and made a home there.

True to her expectations, Rose missed every single goal. She let the Quaffle in every time. Lily, the tiny new red haired Chaser, gave Rose sympathetic glances. James, the other Chaser, ("two of their children on the Quidditch team, my goodness, you aunt and uncle are proud, but your father was a bit quiet," Rose's mother had written) avoided eye contact. How her mum's note about disapproving was helpful, Rose didn't know. As far as she was concerned, her father's word was law. What other choice did she have? Dad had a way of making any little let down into the worst thing since the rise of Lord Voldemort himself.

Rose felt her face burning as she missed her final goal, and she flew down to the grass to watch the rest of the tryouts. She refused to look up at the stands and see the disappointed faces of her friends and the laughing faces of (mostly Slytherin) naysayers. She and her cousins had high expectations set against them, and Rose was glad that she excelled in academics and made her parents proud at least in that respect. But everyone was looking to see a Weasley or a Potter fail, and here she was, handing it to them on a silver platter. She could imagine it now. "Did you hear? Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger's kids may be all right in class, but neither of them can do diddly squat on the Quidditch pitch! Shame, really… with their Dad being the Weasley King, and their aunt and uncle being who they are…"

"All right, everyone!" yelled Frankie suddenly. "That's it now, Kimmy Robbins here is our new Keeper." She avoided Rose's gaze. "Can everyone help get all the balls? I haven't got a clue where the Snitch has gone… I dunno who let it out, we weren't even practicing with it."

Rose looked around, moved from her deep thought. This, at least, was something she could help with. Whenever her cousins James or Albus weren't around, she'd play Seeker back at the Burrow, and she had a knack for spying the shiny golden ball. Her eyes moved rapidly around, and she spotted it a few feet away from the stands. Flying almost absentmindedly, forgetting she was being watched, she zoomed toward the Snitch.

It flew away from her quickly, its wings moving so much that Rose could hear it buzzing like a bumblebee, and shot upwards. Rose followed, unaware of all the eyes on her. She stretched out her hand… almost there now… she felt her gloved hands graze its edge… the wind was whipping around her face and hair as she picked up speed...

And… she caught it. "I've got it, Frankie!" She called behind her, and she was suddenly aware of all the silence on the pitch. Rose could've sworn she heard an owl hoot from the castle, that's how quiet it was. She squinted toward the stands. Hugo was cheering wildly, waving his arms. Albus sat next to him, jaw dropped. Her brother started shouting, "Go Rosie!"

And the rest of the crowd joined him. Rose, shocked at first, began smiling uncertainly. Then she flew toward Frankie, who, like Albus, had her mouth wide open. Rose handed the Snitch over to Jeremiah Sloper (an unkind boy who had once likened her hair texture to haggis), the Gryffindor Seeker, who was gripping his broom so tightly it looked like it might snap in two.

The cheering from the stands was deafening now. Rose wasn't sure how she felt about the attention, but if there was one thing she really hated, it was crowds, and being lost in them, so she quickly approached the ground and made her way toward the castle. When the people in the stands saw what she was doing, they all made their way down, obviously trying to catch her and congratulate her. Rose hurried now, growing a bit nervous, but she felt a proud grin spread across her face in spite of herself. She'd made her dad proud… she couldn't wait to tell him how she'd caught the Snitch it front of everybody. 'Course, that wasn't as good as making the team. Perhaps she'd write to Unca and Aunt Ginny too, they'd be quite proud as well...

A figure stumbled out of one of the stands; as he turned around, Rose recognized the pale, pointed face and slicked back dirty blonde hair. It was Scorpius Malfoy, who she only knew by sight. She'd seen him for the first time at Platform Nine and Three Quarters three Septembers ago. Perhaps it was something she'd subconsciously learned from her dad, but she immediately disliked him, and his behavior didn't do much to change that. He was like most other Slytherins: making fun of Gryffindors any chance he got and looking down at other students from his remarkably pointy nose. Rose's dislike for him solidified when she saw him saying excitedly to Professor Binns that, through his father's side, he was a descendant of Emeric the Evil, and close family friend of the famous Severus Snape. Rose admitted she was know-it-all but, as far as she was concerned, no one liked a lying show off.

"Weasley!" Malfoy said breathlessly. It was clear he'd been running down the stands, and judging by the heavy footfalls from the stairs inside, his Slytherin friends weren't far behind him. "That – was – amazing!"

Rose hadn't had extensive interactions with Malfoy, but from what she'd seen she was sure there was a catch to this compliment, so she said nothing.

"I mean, wow! What a catch! I wouldn't expect any less from Potter and Weasley blood, but –"

"Unca – I mean Harry Potter isn't my blood," Rose said softly, feeling a little bit uncomfortable. "And it was just one catch."

"Well, still! Are you sure you're not his child?" joked Malfoy. "His wife, she was on the Holyhead Harpies, wasn't she? And that catch wasn't just a catch, it was a phenomenal one! No offense, Weasley, but who knew you had it in you, all those classes you beat everyone in? Except Potions, of course, I'm still top in that –" he broke off to grin, and it seemed to Rose he had a lot more to say, a lot that he seemed to have been bursting to say to somebody, but she'd had enough. The crowd was advancing on them both, and she started to run toward the castle, broom in hand. She was feeling rather out of her comfort zone, with all of this intense attention from the people she'd least expected.

"It was just one catch!" she cried again, unsure if she was talking more to herself or to the crowd.

"Longbottom would be mad to not make you Seeker!" Malfoy yelled after her. Rose didn't look back.

James, who had heard what Malfoy had yelled, turned to his little sister, who glanced at Frankie. "You thinking what I'm thinking?" he said to them. Lily half smiled, but turned back to the crowd, looking for Al.

Frankie's jaw finally closed. "I think we may just win the House Cup this year." She grinned. "I can't wait to tell Dad."

Just at that moment, Jeremiah Sloper's hands started smoking, and there was a loud bang as his broom snapped in two. He fell ten feet to the grass, cursing as he went. The Snitch flew out of his grasp and up into the air, buzzing loudly, as if celebrating its newest captor.

"Don't forget to leave your Quidditch robes in the locker room!" James yelled down at him, grinning. "My little cousin will be needing them!"

A/N: I've been against writing Harry Potter fanfics for a while now, because I rarely finish them. But I suddenly had an image of Rose Weasley sitting on a broom, looking like she'd much rather be anywhere else, but feeling the pressure from her strong Quidditch background. This was originally meant to be a one shot but eh... we'll see. Please review! I haven't written Harry Potter fanfiction in a long time, I'd like feedback.