My love to: weirdlyyours, DracosDiva, Nutz Nina, DivineDarkness, DCoD, firewolfalpha, Poetic License, and Zombie Survivor (o friend, ye may be logged out, but ye be honored for your review here anyhow!).

Things to note: I still can't upload the next chapter, which is a bummer and I can't figure out what the hell's wrong with my account, so the next update may not come for a while. The stupid thing is it's all written up, so technically I could finish uploading everything in a few days if only ffnet wasn't being stupid. As it is, updates for now are left completely to chance. So put it on alert if you like.

Also, this is a little random, but I was reading about how all these fandom people attacked Cassie Claire's fanfiction (which has a major influence on me and probably a lot more of us) for allegedly plagiarizing books and shows. Which really pissed me off, because this is fanfiction , people. No one takes it seriously--it's all in good fun. Legality shouldn't be brought into is. Grrrr. Sorry. It just made me want to leave a nasty reply saying "LOSER" at the person's page. Goddamn...Anyhoo, here's a nice chapter about our favorite redhead.

Chapter Twenty-One: Chance

The morning sky was clear that Saturday, and that meant only one thing for Ron Weasley. He arose early, around dawn, and grabbed his old Cleansweep broomstick from his trunk.

The trick to being a shy little fool who could fly, but not in front of people, was to know when the grounds would be empty. On early Saturday mornings such as this, he'd come to discover in his past four years at Hogwarts, everyone (sane) was fast asleep, recuperating from the week's schedule. A perfect time for shy little fools.

The red-haired boy made his way across the great lawn of the castle, stopping at the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest and mounting his broomstick eagerly. He thought he heard a slight rustle of footsteps and a creak near the gamekeeper's hut, but dismissed it as he shot into the air. The wind, teasing his hair with soft fingers, assured him that he was the only one in the world right now.

His little sister Ginny once told him, in a surprisingly grave sort of tone (but then, that was Ginny—always said something extremely profound when you least expected it), that the best art is made when no one else is looking.

Ron Weasley had always been at his best when no one else was looking.

He glided over the treetops, letting his toes brush the tops of the pines—all that were left this close to December. A few birds shot out of their roosts at his approach and nearly ruined his perfect existence, but they were soon forgotten as the boy spiraled higher and higher towards the sun, nearly forgetting his entire setting except for that one word that kept running through his head. Higher. Higher. Higher…

Up there, Ron was perfect. Alone. Without expectations or restrictions. Just Ron.

But when he touched back down at the base of the trees, panting from exertion and red-faced from the wind, he was no longer alone.

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Hermione watched the boy she'd come to know a little jump from fright when he turned around and saw her there.

"You! Did you Apparate here, or something?" he asked, scandalized.

Hermione eyed him dubiously. "Are you joking?"

He simply looked confused, so she heaved a sigh and explained, "You can't Apparate or Disapparate on school grounds. I thought everybody knew that."

The boy glared. "What are you doing here, then?"

"I was leaving Hagrid's and—"

"Hagrid?"

"The gamekeeper. He lives in that hut over th—"

"I know that. What I meant was, what are you doing here?" Weasley demanded.

Hermione was getting cross at this interrogation as if she'd walked onto something obscene. "Like I was saying, I was just leaving Hagrid's and I saw you shoot off into the air so I stayed and watched." He was eyeing her suspiciously now, so she added, "You're very good, you know. Precise, if not particularly fast—"

"—It's faster up there," he told her breathlessly and looked skyward. "It's always better up there, you see." He turned back to her and the angry gleam was gone from his eyes. "Do you fly?"

She shook her head. "I'm terrified of it, actually. Never been on a broom before."

He raised a fiery eyebrow. "Never? You're telling my you've never flown in your life?"

"No." She thought for a second. "If you're so barmy about flying, why are you doing it now and here? Why don't you play Quidditch for your house?"

His gaze returned to the sky once more. "Dunno. It's nice out here—I'm not really that good at Quidditch, just the flying. Besides…don't like people watching me. I get a little nervous."

Hermione watched him, unsure what to say. She ventured: "I'm sure it's just the nerves. I bet you'd make a very good Keeper. You've got the grace and all—"

He faced her and laughed. "Yeah, I'd make a great Keeper. Tell you what, I'll become Keeper when the school gets overrun by serpents from Hell. We'll talk then, shall we?" he asked good-naturedly. Hermione grinned a crooked smile. He veered off the subject, then. "Listen, prefect, no one can go through life without flying at least once." He clambered back onto his broomstick and motioned her to sit in front of him.

Hermione shook her head, anxious. "No, no, I like it here on the ground perfectly fine, thanks—"

"Oh, come on, don't be wet. This is a Cleansweep. I get overtaken by butterflies on this thing, Granger."

Still she shook her head. "Can't."

"Look, you're going to fly today. Would you rather go it alone or have me there to help?"

She glared at him—how dare he?—she'd already had a rough morning what with that unstable friend of Harry Potter's, and it was only around 7 o'clock. The day couldn't really be much younger and already she felt the need for some relaxing Arithmancy problem to show the world could still be logical once in a while.

"Come on," the red-haired boy said, and this time his voice was tamer, nicer. "Just sit and I'll take us up. I won't let you fall, so stop being a priss. You're reminding me of Percy."

Hermione didn't know who Percy was, but she climbed on in front of Weasley anyway. "If I fall off and smash into bits, you'd better not leave me lying down there," she warned him shrilly. He chuckled and she could feel the vibrations at her back.

"I'll even be so generous as to carry your bloody remains back to the castle," he murmured as they took off.

Hermione's first impulse was that the broom was hard difficult to sit on. Her second impulse was so get off the ride as quickly as possible. Weasley fought her flailing limbs down and yelled against the whoosh of wind, "Oy! Don't be thick! Are you trying to jump off or something?" He held down her arms firmly, but her terror sent her leg in a quick dig against his shin. He howled in pain and squeezed her. "Listen, woman, if you don't cut that out I'll throw you off the bloody broom myself!"

She forced herself to take a breath and look up rather than down. There was the early sun, and above that a gathering of clouds. This wasn't so bad—the sky looked the same from the ground, she noticed. Not so bad.

Weasley stopped the broom above the treetops. "Go on, look around. Might as well, now." Hermione did, and had to suppress the urge to panic again. Weasley must have felt her shake, for he tightened his arms once again. And suddenly, she felt at peace. It was alright. There was this infinity above her, and a sure death below, but around her were freckled arms, more reassuring than any walls.

He was right; in some ways, everything was better up here.

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