Lucy

Lucy Weasley had a plan.

People were always tempted to assume that the seed of this plan had been planted by her godfather, Oliver Wood, but this was not, strictly speaking, true. Uncle Oliver may have given Lucy her first toy broomstick before she was old enough to walk, but he also despaired of her ever coming to love Quidditch when it became clear that she only rode the broomstick when he visited and cajoled her into it.

"It's such a waste!" he said to Lucy's father on her fifth birthday, when she had abandoned the toy after her one obligatory lap around the garden, in search of more interesting pursuits. "She's a natural just like Molly! Did you see that seat?"

"Are you begrudging me one daughter who might take after me?" Percy asked his best friend wryly, and though Oliver sighed and allowed the point, the conversation kept coming back around to ways he could trick Lucy into liking Quidditch and wanting to play.

Lucy's Aunt Angelina listened to that conversation while at the same time keeping a close eye on what Lucy had chosen to go do instead of fly, and when she heard Lucy making a game out of catching the "garden Snitches" zipping through her grandmother's daisy patch, Aunt Angelina made a decision.

Lucy, whose attention was solely on the black beetles darting through the air, didn't hear her aunt approach until she spoke, asking the question Uncle Oliver had never thought to. "Lucy, why don't you like the toy broomstick?"

Lucy looked up at her aunt, the beetle she had just caught flying free with her inattention to it. "'Cause it doesn't do anything," she said, and her aunt smiled.

"Would you like to ride on a real broomstick?" her aunt asked then. "One that does do something?"

Lucy hesitated for only a moment, her eyes flicking to the pasture where her cousins flew above the treeline. "Yes," she whispered, and Aunt Angelina, unnoticed by Lucy's parents or godfather, took her over to the broomshed.

What followed was one of the defining moments of Lucy's life. They took off, shooting upward with a speed her little toy couldn't even imagine. Lucy shrieked with delight as they shot through the air, and then her parents took notice.

But Aunt Angelina ignored Percy's protests, paying attention instead to Lucy's gasps and cheers and happy screams of laughter. They flew once, twice, three times around the pasture, climbing impossibly high, diving with gravity-defying flips of her stomach back toward the earth. When they landed, all Lucy could say was, "Again, again, again!"

"For future reference, Oliver," Aunt Angelina said with a grin as he and Lucy's mum and dad all ran over, "there are two possibilities if a kid doesn't like flying on a toy broomstick. Either they don't like flying, or they don't like flying a toy broomstick. I was the second. Looks like Miss Lucy Loo is too."

Lucy took the opportunity to beg, "Again, again, please Daddy, please can I again? Please?"

For a moment, her dad hesitated, looking back and forth between her mum and her godfather and her Aunt Angelina, but then he looked down at her again, all eager, earnest pleadings. After a moment, he dropped his head, shook it, and laughed. "Sure," he said with a good-natured sigh. "If your aunt agrees."

"And if she doesn't, I'll take you up myself!" her godfather said.

Lucy's feet barely touched the ground the rest of the afternoon. Percy drew the line at any of her cousins taking her up, but between Oliver, Angelina, Ginny, Harry, Ron, Bill, and Charlie, there were plenty of brooms ready to take the birthday girl on another flight.

When it became dark enough that not even her godfather would take her up anymore, she settled for pestering him with question after question about brooms and flying and Quidditch, all of which he was more than happy to answer. Two days later, an owl delivered Q is for Quidditch: A Young Wizard's First Alphabet, and Lucy made her parents read it to her over and over until she had the whole thing memorized and wandered around her house chanting, "Q is for Quaffle, the ball that can score/If you watch this ball, the game's never a bore!/Three Chasers per team pass it fast as they fly/To score at the goalposts, each 50 feet high!"

For her sixth birthday, she convinced her parents (with her sister's help) to buy her a starter racing broom. "After all," Molly told them, "if you don't, Uncle Oliver probably will, and you know he'll show up with a Firebolt LP."

Once she'd acquired a broom she could actually fly for herself, Lucy's plan came into being.

The plan was simple. She would spend the time until she left for Hogwarts learning everything about Quidditch that she could, and once she was proficient at flying on her own, she would learn how to play every position on the team. At Hogwarts, she would try out for her House team her first year. She didn't expect to make the team that young, but she'd make sure everyone knew her name. To keep her skills honed, she'd play on the InterHouse league. She'd make the House team her second year - any position. She wasn't picky. She hoped to be made captain by fourth year, but she knew that was something of a stretch, so she'd settle for fifth. Any later didn't bear thinking about. Once captain, she would revolutionize the way Hogwarts teams were run (because she had some major issues with their current system).

She'd lead her team to Quidditch Cup victory every year she captained, of course, and by her seventh year, all the league scouts would be watching her. She'd sign to a professional team right out of school, play pro for five to ten years (ideally playing the World Cup for England in 2030 or 2034, but she was aware that that relied on too many factors out of her hands to be an official part of her plan). She'd retire on her terms at the peak of her career, maybe coach for a while or become Flying Instructor at Hogwarts or work for the Department of Magical Games and Sports. She was willing to let that fall out however it would. Regardless, by the time she was thirty, she fully intended to have taken the Quidditch world by storm and become a household name. That was the plan.

For several years, the plan progressed unimpeded. She studied and memorized with her godfather until she knew the rules and regulations of the game backwards and forwards. She practiced her flying skills on her starter broom, then graduated first to Molly's broom, then her aunt's top of the line racing broom (snuck out of the broomshed with Molly's help), until she could ride and steer with only her legs, change direction in mid-air, complete a full loop of the pasture in under thirty seconds, and recreate all but the most challenging flying moves she'd studied with Uncle Oliver. She studied Keeping with her godfather and Uncle Ron, Chasing with Aunt Ginny and Aunt Angelina, and Seeking with Uncle Charlie and Uncle Harry (with Aunt Ginny kibitzing from the edge of the meadow).

But she hit a wall when it came to Beating. No one in her family was a Beater. When they played pick-up Quidditch, they made Uncle Bill or Aunt Audrey or Al play Beater, and none of them were very good. Molly was all right, but she didn't actually know the secrets any more than Lucy did. Lucy tried to study out of books, but there was a major difference between that and having someone who could train her in person.

She asked her godfather, but his reply was disheartening. "Sorry, Squirt," he said. "It's the one position I never had to teach. Your uncles were naturals. I never had to tell them what to do, and I doubt they'd have listened if I had."

"Wait. My uncles? Which uncles?"

Because if anyone in her family played Beater, it was news to Lucy. Her godfather froze, looking furious with himself. Then he sighed. "Your Uncle George, and his twin, Fred."

"Uncle George was a Beater?"

"Yeah, a phenomenal one."

Lucy's eyes lit up. "But this is perfect!" she said, jumping up and starting for the Burrow. Oliver stopped her with a hand.

"Luce, he doesn't play anymore," he warned, but Lucy shook him off.

"He doesn't have to," she said like it was obvious. "He just has to teach me!" And she took off for the house. Once through the back door, she shouted "Uncle George! Uncle George!"

"Whoa, there, Luce," said her father after she ran headlong into him. He held her by the shoulders. "What's up?"

"Where's Uncle George?"

"He had to go to the shop. Something exploded unexpectedly. Why do you need Uncle George?"

"He was a Beater! I don't know why no one mentioned this before –" She gave her dad a pointed glare, but she could have that conversation later, "– but he can teach me!"

"Hold on for a sec there, Luce." Her dad steered her into the kitchen and sat in a chair so he would be eye-level with her. She hated it when he did that. She was irritatingly short for an eleven-year-old, but did he have to rub it in? And why was he wasting her time?

"Lucy, your uncle doesn't fly anymore. He doesn't play anymore."

Lucy huffed with impatience. "Yeah, Uncle Oliver said. But I'm not asking him to! He just has to give me some pointers, correct my form! I mean, yeah, it would help if he'd just get on a broomstick for twenty minutes, but if he doesn't want to-"

"Lucy," her dad interrupted. "You're not listening."

"I am!" she protested. "I just don't see—"

"Your uncle hasn't been on a broom since his brother died."

And there it was. The reality that, if she was honest with herself, she'd known somehow this was all going to boil down to. A weight settled into her gut, a solid, heavy one that was keeping her firmly grounded, unable to get in the air. She stilled, no longer struggling to escape her father's hands gripping hers. "But," she said, and she hated how young she sounded. "But maybe . . ."

She trailed off, not knowing what the maybe was. Her dad shook his head, eyes sad, and from behind her, she heard, "Your dad's right, honey." Turning, Lucy saw Aunt Angelina in the doorway to the kitchen. "Your uncle, your uncles, they were two of the best Beaters I've ever known, and hands down the best team I've ever seen."

Not helping, Lucy thought dully, but she knew better than to say the words aloud.

"They flew like they were two bodies being controlled by one brain, because in many ways they were." She laughed a little at that, and Lucy felt her dad echo it. "But he hasn't flown since the war. I've tried to coax him out, but he told me it's just too hard. It's like looking in mirrors. He won't do it, because it makes it too hard to ignore what's missing."

Lucy's gaze dropped to the ground and she bit the inside of her cheek, miserable. She understood what they were telling her, along with all it's implications, but it was still devastating. "Okay," she whispered. "I won't ask."

And she kept her word. She didn't ask her Uncle George for help. Instead, she asked Molly (and James and Fred, of course), and every day that week, the four of them would trudge to the pasture first thing in the morning so that Lucy could practice hitting deactivated Bludgers with the heavy, thick Beater's club.

It didn't go well. On her broom, up in the air, she missed more of the heavy Bludgers Molly sent at her than she hit, and she only clipped the few she managed to connect with, the force of which was more likely to send her spinning wildly away than the Bludger itself. Frustrated and sore after three days of failed attempts and little progress, Fred suggested landing and getting used to hitting the Bludgers with her feet on solid ground.

She had slightly more success on the ground, but only when she planted her feet and swung the club like a cricket bat. The first time she connected with a solid thwack! and sent the Bludger soaring away, Molly, James, and Fred cheered.

"That was awesome, Luce!"

"Yeah, that must have been thirty feet!"

But Lucy just glowered. "It was not awesome," she corrected angrily. "If I can only hit a Bludger with two feet on the ground and two hands on the club, I'm worthless!"

Molly sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "Lucy," she said, coming over, "you're eleven and you're tiny. The fact that you could hit a Bludger thirty feet at all is—"

"Pathetic!" Lucy interrupted. "I start at Hogwarts in less than three months! If I haven't mastered how to be a Beater on a broomstick where it counts by then, then–"

"Then you'll still be 300% better at Quidditch than most fifth years! Lucy, if you have to learn how to be a Beater at school from a team captain, it is not going to throw off your plan."

Lucy shook her head, frustrated with herself and her sister, who just didn't understand. "I just hate that I can't even try to fix it because I don't know what I'm doing wrong."

"You're fighting your club."

As one, the cousins in the pasture turned to see Uncle George leaning against the fence, watching them carefully. When he got no reaction other than open-mouthed stares, Uncle George leaned down, picked up a crabapple, and considered it. Then he looked at Lucy. "Catch this," he said, lobbing the crabapple toward her at high speed. Lucy snatched it out of the air with her left hand, since her right still held the club. "Not a coordination issue. Molls, send her that Bludger again? Lucy, one handed swing."

Wordlessly, the sisters complied. Lucy barely clipped the edge of the Bludger. "Yeah," Uncle George said with a grunt, pushing off the fence and crossing to them. "You're fighting your club. You're using it like a tool."

"Isn't it?" she asked. He grinned.

"No. It's an extension of your arm. Here." He stood behind her and wrapped his hand around both hers and the club handle. "Molls, send that Bludger again?"

Molly did, and this time, with her uncle's guidance, the club connected with a solid shock that reverberated through Lucy's entire body. The Bludger sailed out past the far gate. Molly, James, and Fred's exclamations were instantaneous and enthusiastic. Lucy just stood, breathless, eyes locked on where the Bludger had landed. "That . . . was . . . that was amazing!" she finally said, and her uncle laughed.

"Not too shabby," he agreed. "Now, then. What are you riding these days?"

"A Comet 780."

Uncle George frowned, considering. "No," he finally said. "That won't do what we need. Okay. You three," he called to Molly, James, and Fred, "get your brooms. We're going up in the air. You," he said to Lucy, "come with me."

The older three just stood, staring, especially Fred, who looked like he wasn't entirely convinced it was his dad standing in the pasture with them. But when Uncle George turned and headed for the broomshed, all four cousins scrambled to catch up. As Uncle George took out Aunt Angelina's Firebolt LP, Fred called, "Hey, uh, Dad? Are you sure about that? I mean, you know how Mum gets when people take her broom without permission."

"No, I know how she gets when you take her broom without permission," Uncle George said with a grin, ruffling Fred's hair. "But I know your Mum's broom can handle flying me and Luce at the same time and not get sluggish."

"But, wait, Uncle George," Lucy said, her brain finally catching up with what was happening. "I thought my dad said you hadn't been flying since the war."

The air between the five of them came alive with that comment as Uncle George quieted and Fred went absolutely still. Lucy knew she was breaking some unspoken family rule, speaking so straightforward to her Uncle George about something most of her family carefully tiptoed around, but Uncle George just eyed her for a long moment and then said, "Yes, that's right."

"So," Lucy said slowly, and she watched and ignored Fred's widening eyes and tiny warning head shake, "what makes you think you've still got it?" she asked, which she knew was not the question anyone was expecting. "I mean, if I'm getting on a broom with you, I just want to know you're not going to crash me into the duck pond."

There was a short silence, then Uncle George burst out laughing. "That's a lot of big talk from a kid whose only been flying six years."

"I'm just saying, I could have been flying for three times as long, and you still wouldn't have been on a broom for two years, so I feel like there's a good chance I could beat you in a race around the pasture with both hands tied behind my back." Her uncle's eyes twinkled.

"Is that a challenge?"

Lucy shrugged with one shoulder, hiding a smirk. "Kinda sounded like one, didn't it?"

"You want to grab your aunt Ginny's racing broom before you make a challenge like that?"

Lucy fixed her uncle with a look. "Uncle George," she said, "if you put me on a racing broom, you wouldn't stand a chance."

"Oh, yeah?"

Lucy wrinkled her nose. "Yeah."

"I don't know," Uncle George said, keeping an impressively straight face. "I'm still just hearing a lot of talk." He reached into the shed, pulled out her Comet, and tossed it to her. She caught it without breaking eye contact.

"Is this happening right now?" James whispered to Molly and Fred. Fred just nodded.

"Uh huh," he said.

"I have to go get my broom out of my bedroom, I was polishing it last night, I'll be right back," Molly said in a rush, taking off for the house.

Her broom was in the broomshed, which she was fully aware of, but she figured that someone needed to rush into the sitting room where most of her family was chatting and burst out, "Uncle George is flying with Lucy in the pasture right now. She didn't ask, he offered. He's going to teach her Beating, but right now she's challenging him to a race, and I gotta get back out there or I'm gonna miss it, but I thought you all might want to know."

There was a beat of stunned silence after her announcement and exit before everyone in the room stood and rushed for the back door.

They all reached the pasture just in time to see Lucy streak past the makeshift finish line James and Fred were holding in place, her uncle a full broom-length behind. James and Fred's cheering was instantaneous, and George's groan carried all the way across the field.

Lucy landed smoothly, dropping her broom to hover beside her while she pumped the air with her fists. "Yes!" she shouted. "I told you! Take that!" She pointed toward her uncle, who clutched his chest like she had wounded him, but he was grinning.

"I gave you that," he called. "I let you have it."

"No way!" Lucy crowed. "I know what pity wins look like, I give them to James all the time."

"Wait. What?" James said, but Lucy paid him no attention.

"I creamed you fair and square. Admit it!"

"There's no way you're Percy's kid," Uncle George muttered, doubling over for a moment to catch his breath. But when he straightened, he threw his head back and said, "Fine! Yes! You beat me, you win. Happy?" Lucy grinned.

"Yes," she said.

He grabbed her around the shoulders in a one-armed hug, and that's when he turned and saw the family standing at the pasture's edge, watching. For a moment, Lucy felt him stiffen, but then he took a deep breath and let it out and called, "So are you all just gonna stand there all day, or are we gonna play a training game? Lucy needs the lessons, and to be frank, I'm tired of watching Bill and Audrey disgrace the good name of Beaters everywhere."

There was another beat of silence, then the family jolted into action. "Thank you," Lucy said quietly, looking up at her uncle. He gave her shoulders another squeeze.

"Like I'd let you go off to school without your plan being right on track. Just remember who you owe it to when you're on the cover of Quidditch World Weekly at eighteen, okay?"

She smiled. "Come on," she said. "It'll take them hours to get organized. Let's get started. We've wasted enough time."

"You sound like your godfather," her uncle told her, but he reached for the racing broom and the club. "Lesson one," he said as she climbed on in front of him. "There are no points. There is no scoring. Forget that red ball. It's not important. You are the team's protector. That's all that matters. Ready to fly?"

"Always," Lucy said.

As I said with Molly's chapter, I love giving Percy children completely different from him. I knew when I started this project that I wanted one next Gen kid to be Quidditch-crazy, and I figured that might as well be one of Percy's. Poor Percy. I abuse him so much. :) But it made sense. In my universe, Percy and Oliver Wood are best friends (another story I'll get around to writing someday), and Oliver would be Lucy's godfather, so . . .

And I knew I wanted to take an opportunity to explore George a little more, outside of Fred's "Angry Months." He's still shadowed, he's still (obviously) affected, but I did want to show that he's healing when given reasons to. And I love the idea that he watched Lucy try for three days before he got to the "Okay, I can't take this anymore. I have to go help, it's now a matter of pride" point.

I also now really want to write the entirety of "Q is for Quidditch." Maybe as a gift for you all. We'll see. :)