Before I start my story, picture this in your head as clearly as you can:
You’re walking down a hallway. Tap, tap, tap, go your brand new shoes. You’ve just showered and used a Straightening Charm on your hair and it’s very glossy and silky. You feel fresh and clean. You’re wearing your brand new jeans that make your butt look really good and this new scarf. You shake your head a little as you walk with a huge smile on your face. A couple of books are in your hands. You’re in an unusually good mood and you feel confident.
You trip on the long hem of your robes. You sprawl. The books fly out of your grasp. You let out a shriek of terror. Hands flail. Feet tangle. You make contact with the floor with a loud “oof!”. People stop to stare and giggle. You pick yourself off the cold, hard floor and quickly collect your books. Your knee is bruised. You curse loudly. Your elbow is grazed. Your dignity is severely wounded. The previous good mood has completely dissipated.
Sound familiar? No? Not even a little?
Then you’re one of the lucky ones.
This scenario, my friend, is practically a daily occurrence for me. As you’ve probably deduced by now, I’m one of Those People. Those pathetically clumsy, perpetually embarrassed, hopelessly klutzy individuals you probably come across at least once or twice in your life.
I am one of them.
Clumsiness might not be categorized as a life-threatening disease but it might as well be. Every rock/pebble/crack/puddle/high-heeled shoe/bench/broomstick I see is a potential Dangerous Object I Will Most Probably Catch My Stupid Foot On. Or DOIWMPCMFO. I call them DeeOhs for short. You might think that I’m going a little overboard by actually naming them, but you’ll understand better if you’re constantly picking yourself off the floor, blushing furiously and muttering apologies to anyone you unintentionally harmed.
Anyone who knows me even vaguely instantly associates me with my clumsiness. As in, “Oh, Rose Weasley? The Klutzinator, you’re talking about? She set my crotch on fire, the other day. She’s dangerous, she is.”
Believe it or not, but nearly seventy percent of my various acquaintances/enemies/friends know me because I have:
a. Spilt a liquid on them.
b. Accidentally damaged one or more or their personal belongings because of my ineptitude.
c. Broken anything fragile they own.
d. Caught my foot on something that belongs to them. Example: cat, toad, owl, bag strap (I hate it when people drape them on floors. It’s like they’re personally inviting me to trip over them), playswing, carpet, cauldron, the hem of their robe (stupid hems - they always get me one way or another).
e. Accidentally pulling them down too when I trip. (Ah, I always do this. I remember a time when I stumbled over that stupid vanishing step on the third floor staircase. My hand shot out and I grabbed ahold of whatever that was closest to me to break my fall - a reflex action. Turns out Professor Dregbert - the only good-looking professor in the entire school - was walking by and I’d been clutching at his… well. His loins. Ugh, I don’t even want to think about it anymore. Hugo and James wouldn’t let me forget that for months. Aresholes, they are. Moving on, then).
f. Single-handedly ruining any task or project they undertake.
Needless to say, I am a walking, talking, breathing, defecating disaster machine.
Everyone knows this. So they keep as far away from me. As. Possible.
Just kidding. But seriously, I’m dangerous.
On a completely different but related note, let’s talk about Quidditch. Everyone loves Quidditch. Well, who wouldn’t? Uh- huh. Well, not me. Here’s an interesting equation for you: Rose Weasley + klutziness + sheer inability for balance + broomstick + fifty feet in the air = DISASTER CRASH BANG WALLOP OUCHIE WOUCHIE.
I’ve tried to get on a broomstick for about two times in my life: the first when I was five and I didn’t know any better (I fractured my skull). Even at the tender age of five I knew that broomsticks and I didn’t exactly mix (by this time, I was already banging my poor head on open cupboard doors left, right and centre). My second time was when I was eleven. I’d just entered my first year and I was a wee little thing, all quiet and no talk. So when it came to flying lessons, I kept my mouth shut, heart juddering like mad and hoping that somehow, by some miracle, I would make it through this lesson unscathed.
Alas, I’d barely escaped alive. I spent about five days in the Hospital Wing, recovering and swearing to myself that I would never, never, ever, EVER get on a broomstick again. I also vaguely recall savagely burning that sodding broomstick I rode in the shadowy corners of the Hogwarts grounds.
But I digress. Reminiscing aside, Quidditch is potentially unhealthy for me. I cannot do anything that involves even the slightest modicum of balance.
So why I’m standing in the Quidditch field in the middle of October, chilly wind stinging my cheeks, utterly terrified and straddling a battered Nimbus 2000 with frozen fingers is beyond me.
It seems that I’ve landed myself in quite the predicament.
‘Go on!’ my arsehole of a brother, Hugo, is just standing there in the corner, wind ruffling his red hair, not lending a hand to help his elder sister.
I abhor him, I really do. He knows full well I can’t do bollocks with a broomstick. I shot him the filthiest glare I can manage. And I know it’s pretty filthy, I’ve practiced loads of times in front of a mirror to scare first-years when they don’t listen to me, a Prefect.
‘How exactly do you ride a broomstick?’ I’d asked James at the very last minute before I was forced to meet my doom. James simply laughed, apparently under the impression I was making a funny. I suppose something in my expression told me I’d never been more serious in my entire life. Well, you tend to get more serious when looking straight at death. ‘Just relax and… sort of convey your thoughts into the broomstick. Don’t worry
, I don’t think you’re that terrible.’
I loosen my fingers, trying to relax but failing miserably. Convey my thoughts to the broomstick? How exactly do you do that
? I thought maybe pressing my forehead to the broomstick and attempting to pass on FLY AS SLOWLY AS HUMANELY POSSIBLE to the broomstick but I got the vague idea that wouldn’t work. Plus it might look a little
‘Alright.’ I stared up at the sky, hair whipping around my face. Maybe if I stall long enough it’ll rain. Or an earthquake will come visiting. Maybe even a hurricane. Freak troll invasion? Please? Come on, I'm not even asking for much, o Freak Weather Deity. Even a bunch of Flobberworms falling mysteriously from the sky would be sufficient.
‘Sometime this century?’
‘I’m freezing my privates off in this cold, hurry up.’ someone complained, I couldn’t tell who. There were several shouts of agreement and hoots of laughter.
‘Okay, okay!’ I said desperately.
I looked around. Really, was it necessary for so many people to come and see me fly? I bet it was Hugo who told them I would be flying today. There was ol’ Albus, all muffled up in a weird knobbly scarf and a hat Dominique probably knitted for him (she was going through her knitting phase). Next to him was tiny Molly Weasley, then Roxanne Weasley and her bestie, Nellie. James, Dobby and Fred, of coure. A few others from Gryffindor, a quiet girl from my dorm, Fred Weasley and Henry Wood, Owly Abbot and his glasses a mile thick, Raymond Barksmith… all in all, I’d say about thirty people are standing in the middle of the Quidditch Pitch, freezing and waiting for me to kick off.
I gulped. There’s no fecking way I can fly, not with all of them watching.
‘Just ‘fess up and admit that you can’t fly!’ Hugo cupped his woolly hands around his mouth and yelled, a huge grin on his face.
‘She’ll fly when she wants to!’ Elisha, one of the best girls I know, shouted back. They hate each other. Funny, that, seeing how similar they are to each other. Stubborn, hot-headed and fiercely loyal.
‘I’ll fly, I’ll fly.’ I muttered more to myself than anyone. Out of the corner of my eye, Fred shot me an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Yeah, Fred, like that thumbs-up is going to help.
Okay, deep breaths, Rose.
Exhaaaaaallllee… I inadvertently inhaled too much frosty air and choked.
‘Right, here I go!’ I screeched, once my sinuses cleared completely. Oh Merlin, I’m going to humiliate myself in front of seventy people. Now they get to see just how ghastly my non-existent skills on a broomstick are.
Scattered applause, and a, ‘You go, Rosie!’
I steeled myself up, uttered a short prayer, tried to stop my fingers from trembling and launched myself into the air.
Right, this is where I’ll pause for a bit.
I bet all of you are wondering: why bother riding a broomstick when you know it means possible suicide for you? Who would even be that stupid? How the feck did this ever happen?
The answer to that, my friend, is what this little story is all about.
(: Hope you guys liked/loved/adored it! Please do review, it takes about 40 seconds - give or take a few - and it means the WORLD to me. :D so just write a few vaguely encouraging words down there (example: it was good, could do better, my pants are too tight etc.) and I’ll be happy for my entire life. Seriously.
This is more of a prologue than anything so the next chapter will MOST DEFINITELY
be longer, that I can promise you xD. So I'll be updating soon!!