Ron zoomed around, delighted to be really flying.

"Ron, Dinner! Come down" called Charlie.
The six-year old shook his head.

"Ron… Mum's going to be mad! She said you couldn't ride alone yet and-"
"But I'm flying good! Like a big boy!"
Ron crossed his arms across his chest, an angry pout on his face.

But without his tenuous grip on the broomstick, it dipped, speeding downwards, sending Ron tumbling on the soft moss.
"Ouch!"

Charlie ran over. "You okay?"

Ron picked himself up, brushed the dirt deeper in his pants and looked up hopefully.
"Again after supper?"


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