Post by dianahawthorne on Sept 25, 2007 22:27:57 GMT -5
Poohsticks: by dianahawthorne/stsgirlie
RATING: K
SUMMARY: Our favourite couple and their son pay a visit to A.A. Milne's special bridge, and indulge in the secret passion of a honey-loving bear.
A/N: Please read and review - I don't normally write fluff (I'm more of an angst person), but I was reading Winnie-the-Pooh today, and I came up with this idea.
DISCLAIMER: Everything recognisable belongs to J.K. Rowling!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Two auburn-haired figures stood on an old wooden bridge, the taller one protectively wrapping his arm around the other, who was perched precariously on the railing. The two figures each dropped a wooden stick into the slowly meandering river, and craned their necks to watch their sticks until they floated under the bridge. The small boy jumped down from the railing and joyfully hopped onto the railing facing the other side of the river, the older man a few steps behind him.
“I’ve won!” the boy shouted excitedly, giggling as his father picked him up and twirled him around.
“I think this calls for a sherbet lemon, my boy,” his father said, rummaging around in the deep pocket of his worn corduroy trousers. His hand emerged successfully, and he held out the prize to his son, who took the sweet with glee.
“Let’s play again, Papa!” the boy yelled exuberantly.
“All right,” his father said, chuckling indulgently.
As the pair made their way over to the woods on one end of the bridge, the boy caught sight of a dark-haired woman standing by an old tree stump, three sticks in her hand.
“Mummy!” the boy cried, skipping over to her in delight.
“Hello, darling,” she responded, ruffling his hair before handing him a stick.
“Will you play with us, Mummy?” the boy asked.
“Yes, will you?” the man echoed, his light blue eyes twinkling as he looked at his wife and son.
“Of course, my darlings, under one condition,” she grinned, “no more sherbet lemons! Both of you will spoil your appetite for dinner!”
“Oh, Mummy!” the boy pouted, his lower lip protruding as he pleaded with his mother.
“Yes, Minerva, that is too cruel!” the man interjected, his attempt to pout belied by the twinkle in his eye and the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“All right, you win!” the woman sighed in mock exasperation, “really, Albus, you are such a bad influence on Christopher! You’re no more than a child yourself! But never mind that now – it’s almost time to go home, so if you want to play one more round, then we’d better start!”
As their son skipped off to the middle of the bridge, the man stood behind the woman and wrapped his arms around her waist. They watched their son analyse the river, trying to find the fastest path for his stick.
“Minerva, my dear, we are the luckiest parents in the world,” he breathed gently into her ear.
She turned around in his arms, meeting his lips for a kiss. “Yes, darling, we are.”
RATING: K
SUMMARY: Our favourite couple and their son pay a visit to A.A. Milne's special bridge, and indulge in the secret passion of a honey-loving bear.
A/N: Please read and review - I don't normally write fluff (I'm more of an angst person), but I was reading Winnie-the-Pooh today, and I came up with this idea.
DISCLAIMER: Everything recognisable belongs to J.K. Rowling!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Two auburn-haired figures stood on an old wooden bridge, the taller one protectively wrapping his arm around the other, who was perched precariously on the railing. The two figures each dropped a wooden stick into the slowly meandering river, and craned their necks to watch their sticks until they floated under the bridge. The small boy jumped down from the railing and joyfully hopped onto the railing facing the other side of the river, the older man a few steps behind him.
“I’ve won!” the boy shouted excitedly, giggling as his father picked him up and twirled him around.
“I think this calls for a sherbet lemon, my boy,” his father said, rummaging around in the deep pocket of his worn corduroy trousers. His hand emerged successfully, and he held out the prize to his son, who took the sweet with glee.
“Let’s play again, Papa!” the boy yelled exuberantly.
“All right,” his father said, chuckling indulgently.
As the pair made their way over to the woods on one end of the bridge, the boy caught sight of a dark-haired woman standing by an old tree stump, three sticks in her hand.
“Mummy!” the boy cried, skipping over to her in delight.
“Hello, darling,” she responded, ruffling his hair before handing him a stick.
“Will you play with us, Mummy?” the boy asked.
“Yes, will you?” the man echoed, his light blue eyes twinkling as he looked at his wife and son.
“Of course, my darlings, under one condition,” she grinned, “no more sherbet lemons! Both of you will spoil your appetite for dinner!”
“Oh, Mummy!” the boy pouted, his lower lip protruding as he pleaded with his mother.
“Yes, Minerva, that is too cruel!” the man interjected, his attempt to pout belied by the twinkle in his eye and the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“All right, you win!” the woman sighed in mock exasperation, “really, Albus, you are such a bad influence on Christopher! You’re no more than a child yourself! But never mind that now – it’s almost time to go home, so if you want to play one more round, then we’d better start!”
As their son skipped off to the middle of the bridge, the man stood behind the woman and wrapped his arms around her waist. They watched their son analyse the river, trying to find the fastest path for his stick.
“Minerva, my dear, we are the luckiest parents in the world,” he breathed gently into her ear.
She turned around in his arms, meeting his lips for a kiss. “Yes, darling, we are.”
