Pandora Malfoy and the Philosopher's Stone

Chapter Twenty-Five: Flying Class

At the end of our last class of the day, Transfiguration, I was informed by Professor McGonagall that my father's request for me not to take part in the flying lessons had been denied (many, many times). So, at three-thirty, I joined my classmates as they rushed out of Gryffindor tower, down the front steps, and into the grounds.

It was a clear, breezy day, and the grass rippled under our feet as we made our way down the sloping lawns. We were headed towards a smooth stretch of grass on the opposite side of the grounds to the Forbidden Forest, whose dark trees were swaying in the distance.

The Slytherins were already there, and so were about twenty broomsticks, lying on the ground in neat rows. I'd overheard the Weasley twins, Fred and George, complaining about the school brooms — that some started to vibrate if you flew too high, or always flew slightly to the left. None of that sounded particularly safe to me, and as I looked at the broomsticks, with battered handles and twigs sticking out at odd angles, I didn't think they looked too safe either.

Perhaps Father was right about not taking these lessons... I thought hesitantly. Then, I shook my head the slightest amount and corrected myself. No, he wasn't. And you're going to prove to him that you're perfectly capable of flying on a broomstick without anything going wrong.

At that moment, our teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived. She had short, grey hair, and yellow eyes, like a hawk's.

"Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."

We all did so, with some of the Slytherins pushing others out of the way so as to get the best of the utterly terrible brooms.

"Stick out your right hand over your broom," called Madam Hooch from the front, "and say 'up'."

"UP!" we all shouted.

My broomstick jumped into my hand at once, but it was one of the few that did. Draco's had, as had Harry's, but Hermione's had simply rolled over on the ground, and Neville's hadn't moved at all. I knew that to properly summon a broom, you needed to be confident, and there was a quaver in Neville's voice that said only too clearly that he wanted to keep his feet on the ground.

After a few more attempts at summoning their brooms, most of the others had managed it as well. Madam Hooch instructed those who still hadn't managed it to just pick theirs up, then showed us how to mount our brooms without sliding off the end. She walked up and down the rows, correcting people's grips, and stopped when she got to Draco.

"Try more like this," she said, moving his hands. "You'll get cramp if you're on it for too long with the way you've been holding it."

"Well, I was taught to fly in 1984 by Maël Delacroix of the French National Quidditch team," Draco said, in that boastful way that made me roll my eyes. "He said that holding the broomstick in that way gives you better grip when flying with one hand, gives you more control over the broom, and makes it easier to do sharp turns and dives."

Madam Hooch looked fairly impressed, and for good reason — France, captained by Delacroix, had completely flattened Brazil in the 1982 Quidditch World Cup final, ending with 530 points to 60.

Despite this, she still disagreed with how Draco had been flying all these years. "In professional Quidditch, it would make sense to hold your broomstick like that — for short lengths of time, at least. But for regular flying, you should hold it like this."

Draco looked highly offended.

"Now," said Madam Hooch, when she'd finished making sure we were all holding our brooms in the correct way, "when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard. Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forwards slightly. On my whistle — three — two—"

But Neville, nervous and jumpy, and frightened of being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the whistle had touched Madam Hooch's lips.

"Come back, boy!" she shouted

But Neville didn't seem to be able to stop. He rose straight up like a cork from a bottle — twelve feet — twenty feet — I saw his terrified face look down as he got ever higher, saw him gasp, slip sideways off the broom, and — WHAM! There was a thud and a nasty crack, and Neville lay, face-down, on the grass in a heap. His broomstick was still rising higher and higher, drifting lazily towards the Forbidden Forest, and out of sight.

Madam Hooch was bending over Neville, her face as white as his.

"Broken wrist," I heard her mutter, and I winced in sympathy. "Come on, boy — it's alright, up you get."

She turned to face the rest of us.

"None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You put those brooms down and leave them, or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch'. Come on, dear."

Neville, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist, hobbled off with Madam Hooch, who had her arm around him.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Draco burst into laughter.

"Did you see his face, the great lump?"

I hit him over the head with the broomstick that was still in my hand, then chucked it on the floor along with everyone else's. Draco gave me a wounded look, as the other Slytherin Purebloods joined in with the insults.

"Shut up, Malfoy," Parvati snapped.

"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" Pansy said mockingly. "Never thought you'd like fat little cry babies, Patil."

"Look!" Draco said, darting forwards and snatching something out of the grass. "It's that stupid thing Longbottom's grandmother sent him."

The Remembrall glittered in the sun as he held it up.

"Give that here, Malfoy," Harry said quietly.

Everyone else had stopped talking by this point, watching to see what would happen.

Draco smiled nastily.

"No, I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to collect. How about — up a tree?"

"Draco, for Merlin's sake—" I started.

"Give it here!" Harry yelled, cutting me off.

But Draco had already leapt onto his broomstick and taken off, flying with the skill of someone who'd been practicing ever since they could walk. Hovering level with the topmost branches of an oak tree, he called, "Come and get it, Potter!"

Harry grabbed his broomstick from the floor.

"No!" Hermione shouted, making me flinch ever so slightly. "Madam Hooch told us not to move — you'll get us all into trouble. Besides, you don't even know how to fly!"

Harry ignored her; he mounted the broom and kicked off.

"What an idiot," Hermione said under her breath.

Harry flew upwards with a surprising amount of skill, especially considering this was his first time on a broom. He pulled his broomstick up to take it even higher — a move that was met with screams and gasps from some of the girls, and an admiring whoop from Ron — then turned sharply to face Draco in midair.

"Give it here, Malfoy, or I'll knock you off that broom!"

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Word count: 1217