It was very important that she be quick. She was only going to have a short window to pull this off. She had planned it to perfection, for days now, but there was something very different about actually doing it. If she got caught, if anyone saw her, she would suffer for it. It had to be now.
She was going to steal a broomstick.
Not steal, not really. If everything went to plan, no one would ever know she had taken it. She had tried to follow the rules, she really had. She had watched Charlie, Fred and George soar and swoop around on their broomsticks. Bill had never loved flying, and Percy always seemed to have something 'better' to do. They had even let Ron try a few times, which hadn't ended well, but never Ginny. Mum didn't want her to, she knew that. She thought it was dangerous, and Ginny knew it was, but that was part of the reason she was so desperate to try it. The one time Mum had let her ride Fred's broom, after Ginny's whining and despite Fred's protestations, she had forced Ginny to stay about a metre from the ground and had followed her around the whole time. It hadn't looked anything like the way the others flew, and it had been then, sitting on the broom, fuming, that Ginny knew the only way she was ever going to fly, was by 'borrowing' a broom when no one was looking.
Dad was at work, Mum was busy dealing with the acrid purple smoke that had filled the second floor of the Burrow after Fred and George had done something that they weren't willing to admit to. Pulling on the bright red boots that her mum had just scrubbed clean after an unfortunate shortcut through a substantial amount of mud had rendered them dark brown, she took a deep breath and nodded to herself, feeling determined.
She knew exactly where to go, tiptoeing down the stairs, avoiding the second last one which was prone to creaking. She padded silently across to the back door. Next to the latch hung a row of keys which, with the help of a nearby ladle, she managed to knock from their hook and catch deftly. The door squeaked terribly if pulled open all the way so she flattened herself against the doorframe as she squeezed through the slightest crack. She counted off the obstacles like checkpoints. She had made it down the stairs. She had gotten the keys. She had got out the door. This was going well, she thought to herself, but there was a long way to go before she achieved her goal. She wasn't flying yet.
The next challenge came in the form of the shed in which the brooms were locked and the very particular knack needed to open it. This was the most dangerous part of the plan because the shed was directly overlooked by the window of Fred and George's bedroom, and there was a chance that Mum, in trying to air out the smoke, might just look down and see Ginny doing something that she absolutely shouldn't do.
"C'mon! Please, just work!" She hissed at the lock, certain that it knew she wasn't supposed to be out here and was just being difficult deliberately. However, the lock had met its match in this particular child and soon it sprung open, and she had simply to pull open the door to victory. She hadn't given much thought to the question of whose broom it was that she would steal, as long as it flew. However, now that she was here, the sharp scent of polish mixing with an earthy, airy wood smell, she saw that they weren't just things to fly on, these weren't just sticks that floated. These were magical.
She stood for a while, transfixed by the smell, brushing her fingers against the shining handle of the nearest broom. The air almost seemed to hum with her anticipation, as if the brooms themselves were murmuring, whispering, for her to pick one of them. She could tell Fred's broom from George's, just as she could tell the boys themselves apart. George's was softer, better polished, a little less beaten, whereas she could practically see the grooves of Fred's hands on the handle of his, and could imagine the hundreds of bludgers, and players, that had crashed into it. Charlie's broom was worn in a different way to the others', it seemed to have been cherished, loved and, though it had been through a fair few Quidditch matches, it looked happy. It looked like a happy broom. Ginny thought that if it had been a dog, it would have been the sort to follow its master around, devotedly.
She didn't want to take Charlie's broom. It wasn't because he knew a lot more hexes than Fred and George, though he did. She didn't think he would hex her, but something told her not to. That broom was Charlie's, and his alone.
She decided that George's broom was the best bet and, grasping it with determination, she pulled it free from the wall. It was heavier than she thought and she lost her balance for a moment, toppling backwards and almost knocking over a shelf. Regaining her balance, she quickly made her way out of the shed and away from the house, up to the enclosed paddock that would offer her the most shelter for her clandestine activities. She realised, about a minute into the walk, that the broom had not been designed with someone as small as her in mind and, as a result of this, she was finding it hard to stop the tail of the broom from dragging along the ground. She tried desperately to lift the tail, but it was a struggle and she was glad when she was eventually standing, with the broom on the ground in front of her, trying to summon up the courage to ask the broom to rise.
She had seen this, several times, when Dad taught Fred and George, and most recently, Ron how to summon a broom. You just had to sit it on the ground, stand beside it, and, with your hand out, tell it to go up. It would be easy, she reassured that little doubting voice in the back of her mind. She didn't want to try if nothing was going to happen, she didn't want to fail. What if the broom didn't like her?
Then she furrowed her brow, told herself that she had come too far to give up just because she was scared, and, before she could think about anything other than how wonderful it would be to fly, she held out her hand and shouted "UP!"