Bludgers
or
Snitches?

Ron Weasley would be lying if he said he wasn't enthusiastic about Quidditch Practice because of André. Yes, he might have been planning to practice on his own, without anyone else having the slightest notion about what he was up to, but the idea of acquiring a partner — albeit a chaser was going to make the game a lot easier for him. He wouldn't have to enchant quaffles to fly up to him, nor would he have a hard time keeping track of his speed on the pitch.

He was dead tired when his alarm rang at the crack of dawn — a deafening cacophony he didn't turn off till Harry hurled his pillow at him from across the room. Yet, drowsy as he was, his fear of early mornings vanquished the moment his mind flew to the previous day; a comfort warmer than his scarlet blankets discovered in the presence of a messy-haired boy.

His pace didn't decelerate by the Great Hall to grab a quick snack, already having had a glimpse of Andre waiting for him on the pitches from a lone corridor window. The timid sun was still veiled by clouds, its colours concealed, waiting to be divulged by a goodbye kiss from the moon. Ron wrapped his arms round him as he stepped on the pitch, revelling in the rainbow-hued landscape.

"Morning," Andre said, his voice crisp — but not cheerful.

"Hey, morning," Ron straightened his arms. "Did you sleep soundly?"

"Sort of," the boy shrugged, summoning a cup and filling it with a warm liquid. The scent of freshly brewed coffee reached his senses, and Ron's lips upturned in a nostalgic smile. That, mingled with the scent of toasted pumpkins and fresh cookies were what the Burrow smelt like on a winter morning.

André handed the cup to Ron, a faint smile on his lips as their thumbs brushed. "Figured out you wouldn't have had anything," he said. "Since we were going to practice before the sun is up."

The warm mug nestled comfortably between his fingers soothed Ron's nerves — or perhaps, it was the serenity reflecting on André's face with each sip he took.

"I got us something else too," André placed his cup next to the kettle and pointed towards a basket. Ron's eyes widened. "Fetched us some snacks. It was mostly Felicia. We could have a bunch after practice, sort of like a reward?"

"What year is she in, again?" Ron asked, taking another sip of his roasted brew.

"It's her third."

"My sister's in fourth," said Ron. "Quite the feisty one she is."

"She's into Quidditch?"

"Yeah. She might make a more confident player than me. Yesterday's little interaction tells me yours doesn't fancy Quidditch at all."

André shook his head. "Finds it stupid. I'm perhaps the only one in my family who's taken a liking to the sport. And," he wrapped his fingers round the hand holding Ron's coffee cup, "You are a great player, Ron. Confidence comes with practice. We'll work on it, and you'll do excellently on the trials."

Ron nodded, pulling his hand away to finish the last of his beverage.

"Your sister sounds like someone who will get along with Hermione," said he, the last traces of drowsiness abandoning his senses as he stretched his arms. "She fancies studying?"

"She enjoys a bit of light reading—"

"How light?" Ron opened the Quidditch Trunk, taking the Quaffle out of its compartment. "Hermione's light reading consists of stacks of 700-page textbooks."

"Felicia mostly dwells between the pages of fiction. She'll read a thousand-page novel if she finds a well-written one," told André, catching the Quaffle Ron threw at him. "A 70 points round aiming for a minimum of seven saves without the Bludgers?"

"You're on."

An hour later, the worn-out duo had collapsed on the ground, their broomsticks lying beside them on the grass.

"That was easy," said Andre, his hands sifting through his unkempt hair. "Let's aim for something different now, shall we?"

Ron, still trying to regain his breath, let his eyes linger on Andre's movements, the unsettled curls over his forehead, the slight scrunch of his nose as he attempted to fix them. His lips moved, but Ron's ears had tuned out every source of a sound, his mind shut to everything other than the happiness in the boy's eyes.

It certainly wasn't easy. Ron had found it hard to focus while practising. All his efforts had been centred towards not making a fool of himself, yet, he ended up leaving the easiest saves ever.

It didn't help that Ron's eyes followed André instead of following the quaffle.

"Ron! Ron?" André took a step closer to him, prodding his arm.

"It was extremely easy," blurted the ginger. "I'm all ears."

"They are all right about Gryffindors being extremely daft, are they not?" Andre chuckled, sweeping Ron's hair off his forehead and giving him a light ruffle. "Well, I was saying that we should try to aim for 10 goals and 10 saves within half an hour, with the bludgers on."

Ron sincerely doubted the practicality of the ambition, but nodded, determined to do better this time.

By their fourth round, André had managed to secure 300 points with thirty goals, and Ron had kept almost half of his goals from the hoops. The sun had wept hues of cerise and purple across the sky, perhaps painting its sorrow at the moon's departure. André was perspiring profusely, Ron trying to catch his breath as they settled down next to each other under one of the evergreen trees.

André's eyes scampered through the grass blades, fresh dew still lingering on some of them. His fingers picked on them subconsciously, reaching for the occasional wildflower and caressing it — all the while his eyes staying on the Gryffindor's freckles, on the mess his hair had turned in the moment he removed his Quidditch helmet.

He needed to stop crushing on every bloke who played Quidditch.

"What classes do you have today?" asked Ron.

"Quite a bunch," said André. We have Herbology together. And Transfiguration." He added nonchalantly as if the idea of exchanging stolen glances with the Gryffindor was one he didn't find enticing.

And hours later, after they had left the grounds, he hadn't left his mind.

Ron Weasley had something beautiful about him, and André Carrero couldn't string any combination of words to match his charm.

Prefect patrols were tiring, and Ron didn't fancy being one as much as he thought he would. He didn't understand Percy's obsession with strolling corridors and calling off random midgets. He had been stationed at a deserted out-of-bounds hallway for an extra shift, one that had been very unexciting for something off-limits.

That was until a very demented Felicia stumbled onto the floor, grumbling about "moving staircases" and "not being a map."

"Hey," said Ron, "What're you looking for?"

"Thank Merlin I finally found someone," said Felicia, grinning. "So, I, fortunately, have a free period while my best friend's in Divination. I, like people with taste do, decided to go to the Library, but the staircase decided it would be a good idea to hurl me into this corridor I've never seen until now — and the next thing I know, I've no idea what floor I am on. What floor is this?"

"Fourth," said Ron.

"Fourth?" Felicia cried, "The Library is all the way down on the first floor!" She settled on a bench, "These staircases are unnecessary workouts for the lot of us that don't play Quidditch."

"Is André in the library?" Ron blurted the first question that entered his mind.

"Defence Against Dark Arts class," replied she, "What do you need him for?"

"Nothing," Ron shrugged, struggling to not dwell on the fact that he hadn't run into him since their Herbology Class together, not even at lunch — and the last time he'd seen him, he hadn't seemed as cheerful as he wanted him to be. "Just wondering."

"If you're wondering, he has Care of Magical Creatures after this. Then Transfiguration, which both of you have together, as he's mentioned twice since the morning," told Felicia, leaning against the wall in front of him. "You take Divination?"

"That's one ridiculous class," said Ron. "Despite that, however, I take it. It's effortless to score. All you've to do is make the most gruesome predictions, and consider Trelawney impressed."

"I know, right? Just a week ago I bumped into Professor Trelawney on the grounds, and she told me how all she could see in my future was a greyish-blue foggy mist." She wrapped the chain around her neck over her finger. "Doom, death, the usual. To top it all off, she added that my eventual doom will pave the way for some sort of greatness — that I'll lose someone I love the most. Loads of idiocy; that's what her class is about. My friend, Isla, keeps insisting that there's some weight in her words. I bet she'll soon realise the insanity of it all and would be quitting the class halfway through the year."

"Imagine foretelling everyone about their imminent gruesome death for a living. Don't pay any heed to her prophecies. She's predicted Harry's death like fifty times now, and my mate's still doing alright," he chuckled, eyes fixated on the Globe of the Moon in the classroom across them. "So, it's just the two of you? Must be refreshing, there's seven of us and it's pretty chaotic—"

"Well, not two," replied she. "We have got a younger brother. Marcial. He's ten."

"Is he a wizard too?"

"Yeah, he—"

"So he starts Hogwarts next year?"

Felicia gave a gentle nod. "He happens to be in the castle right now."

"Here? At Hogwarts?" Ron couldn't tell if Felicia was messing with him, the girl managed to keep a straight face through every joke of hers.

"André is right about you being slow sometimes," groaned she.

André Carrero talked about him.

"But what is he doing at Hogwarts?" asked Ron.

Felicia let a glance slip towards the end of the corridor, then looked back at the Weasley. Her voice ominously low, she said, "Because he doesn't have anywhere else to go, or someone to take care of things when André and I are at Hogwarts."

Ron felt his stomach sink to the floor. He had good reason to believe that things weren't the best for the boy, but he hadn't imagined his life to be such a lonesome, tangled mess. "What about your parents? Relatives?" He couldn't imagine falling into a similar proposition, and for a brief moment, he found himself longing to go to the Burrow.

"Papá's no more," she said. "He died during one of his secret Auror missions. I was eleven."

"And your mum?"

"Here's what I can recall: She was deranged after papá died. We were short on money, and she couldn't get a job. She started to steal and con and things went about as smoothly as they could until she got caught. Mamá was Muggleborn, so no one from her side would have supported her. Papá wasn't in touch with most of his family either, and the ones who used to be nice changed colours after the incident. So yeah, it's been tricky."

"How are you able to manage, though? On your own?"

"André sold some of the expensive possessions we had and works during the vacations. He also helps in Madam Puddifoots sometimes over the weekends. And Professor Sprout has been exceptionally nice and supportive, she's helped with most of the remaining stuff. She negotiated with Professor Dumbledore and let Marcial stay in the Hufflepuff Common Room with us as well."

"They should've done more to help," said Ron, displeased with the notion of André having to devote all of his free time to a demanding job.

The Hufflepuff sighed. "I don't reckon they could have. Even if they did, André wouldn't have let them. He's always reluctant to accept help. He has this tendency of taking more on his plate than he could possibly handle — of doing everything himself. He's always worrying about Marcial, about me — even though I told him that I'm capable of fending for myself — he's just an idiot. An overly caring idiot."

"This is why I don't see him around much," muttered Ron.

"Sort of, yes. He has to be a parent to both of us, especially Marcial. And when he's had a friend or two in the past, none of them really bothered about him. They all left as per their convenience because they couldn't fit him in their stupid schedules."

Ron's stomach twisted at the thought of people treating such a compassionate boy that way. He could picture André with Marcial in his lap, and Felicia next to him as he told them a bedtime story. André, introducing his little siblings to the basics of magic, and of how the world works. André, staying up the entire night to make sure that the kids were alright, to wrap up the last bits of his assignments. André, the hard-working Quidditch player who deserved a home like his.

"Fourth floor, right?" She asked, pulling him out of his mind.

"Yeah," he said distractedly. "Just take the same staircase you came here from and go down three flights of stairs — follow it carefully and keep a tab on the floors. Dumbledore's office is on the second, library on the first."

"Bless you, you're as nice as André says," she smiled at him before scampering downstairs, leaving a bedazzled Ron wondering how Andre managed to raise a chaotic pair of kids all by himself.