Supercilious

Flying Lessons

On the day our flying lessons were starting, I had made up my mind: if my friends were to listen to their parents, I had to be ready—and that began with sitting at my own table.

Talking about flying, I loved flying; I could do it for hours, really. I had spent countless hours on my broom doing rounds around the manor. On breezy, gentle days, there was just something immensely peaceful about it.

I clearly remembered the day I had learned to fly—or rather convinced my mother to let me learn it properly.

We were six years old at that time. Draco had gotten a flying instructor to teach him. Naturally, I had wanted to do it too. Mother deemed it too unladylike and dangerous for me. Instead, I was to learn French. Draco, being the perfect little boy he was—in front of our parents, that is—had already agreed, and Mother was constantly on my case. But learning French was just so much work and boring.

So, obviously, I followed Draco and spied on his flying sessions. After five days of observing, I deemed myself learned enough to try it out.

Out I went. It was evening. I sneaked Draco's broom out, and after about seven or eight times of saying "UP!" the broom came into my hand. Giddy with excitement, I climbed on. The broom rose up—then higher—then higher. Alright, was this a bit too high? I wondered, and I tried to direct the broom. It did get directed—it zoomed straight ahead—right into the huge tree in our courtyard.

Then I fell. After that, I heard a snap—I had just broken Draco's broom.

After that, I finally registered the pain in my arm—you see, I had broken more than just the broom. Then I cried.

Soon, my mother rushed out, gathering me in her arms and kissing my tears away. She was fussing over me and scolding me at the same time.

That night—my broken arm having been healed—my father was told all about my little escapade. Instead of scolding me, he smirked and picked me up.

Then he looked between Mother and me and said, "I'll tell you what, Cille: if you learn French, I'll personally teach you how to fly a broom. Is that alright, Cissy?"

Mother, looking thoroughly exasperated, agreed.

There were really fun times, and now it had been 12 days, and I hadn't heard from Father at all. As a matter of fact, I hadn't gotten any more letters after that short one from Mother.

Draco seemed to be getting all sorts of packages from home. He made a point of teasing Harry Potter about his lack of posts. Those two didn't get along at all.

He would come up to me later on and say that they had sent the entire batch of goodies to him, since there was no use sending two owls—and he would give me half of whatever he had received.

The thing was, we weren't the sort of siblings who sweetly shared stuff. We fought tooth and nail over almost every little thing, and I couldn't help but think that if the goodies had really been for me, and Draco had got them, I wouldn't even know they existed—much less get them. Was it possible that my parents hadn't sent anything for me—and Draco was compensating?

But again, it could just be my thoughts running wild.

At three-thirty, alongside the other Gryffindors, I hurried to the grounds. It was a wonderfully clear day—just how I liked it.

The Slytherins were already there. I flashed a smile at Daphne and Pansy.

On the ground lay some twenty broomsticks in two neat lines. As soon as our teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived, she had sharp yellow eyes and short gray hair.