Same Morning.

Saturday, Sept. 14

Everyone thought it was a prank. Which, in hindsight, made sense, Hermione supposed. After all, if she had been woken up by the crowing of a cock ringing across the entire castle on a Saturday morning, her first thought wouldn’t have been that a couple of students were trying to kill the basilisk that lived under the castle.

No, her first thought would have been that it was a prank too; and a very serious one at that, based on the cross expressions on the faces of most of the students and teachers during breakfast.

Well, that and Prof. McGonagall’s goose bump-inducing promise to find whichever students were responsible and make sure they, and everyone, learnt why such “wicked and disruptive behaviour” was unacceptable.”

The bizarre thing was, no one even seemed to consider that it might have been she and Harry who did it. In fact, from all the sour looks they were getting, the primary suspects seemed to be the Weasley twins.

Although, that was probably because they kept going on and on about how brilliant the prank was.

They were gushing so much in fact, that Hermione was starting to feel a little flattered, even as she also felt guilty for how disruptive she and Harry’s plan had ended up being.

The girl just hoped that all this trouble ended up being worth it.

As exciting as the events of that morning were however, life carried on. For the first-years, this meant heading out for their first flying lesson of the year, but for Hermione specifically, it meant going outside to engage in an activity that directly contradicted every instinct that she’d honed over a lifetime of having a very reasonable fear of falling to her death.

With every step she took towards the field, her trepidation only heightened, until halfway there, she, Hermione Granger, was beginning to wonder if she could get away with skipping a class.

Naturally, Harry tried to calm her.

“Stop worrying so much, Hermione; it’s just broomriding. I mean, seriously, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“We fall and break our necks,” Hermione answered flatly.

Harry blinked, trying to find a reply, while Neville, who Hermione had barely noticed walking with them, groaned piteously and went a little green.

Hermione would have felt bad about that, if she didn’t think that it was the appropriate reaction to have when knowing you were going to be elevated who knows how high in the air, with nothing but a stick between you and the ground.

Finally, Harry gave up on finding a witty response and sighed. “That was a rhetorical question, Hermione.”

*****

“These brooms look awfully old, don’t they?” Hermione asked, as she, like every other first-year, lined up on the left side of her broom at the command of Madam Hooch, the flying instructor.

“Well, you know what they say,” Harry said from where he stood to her left, “new brooms sweep clean, but old ones know the corners.”

She frowned at the boy. “What does that mean?”

Harry shrugged. “I have no idea.”

As Hermione shot her best friend a sour look, to which he responded with a toothy smile, Madam Hooch ordered: “Alright, everyone, now hold out your right hands over your brooms, and say ‘up.’”

The class obeyed.

Most got little more than a twitching broom for their first attempt, while a few—like Draco and Ron—had their brooms jump straight into their hands. Fewer still—like Hermione and Neville—didn’t even get their brooms to twitch.

Surprisingly, Harry was among the last group, and when Hermione focused on him, she realized why; the boy hadn’t ordered his broom up, instead, he had his hand held over it as he gazed at the object intensely.

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Before Hermione could ask what he was doing, Harry’s broom leapt off the ground without a single word from him and straight into his grasp.

As Hermione, and a few other students who’d seen Harry, stared in amazement, the boy looked at her and smirked.

Hermione’s eye twitched.

Then Madam Hooch gave Harry five points for what she described as “impressive work” and the girl’s teeth grinded.

Three tries later, Hermione had her broom in hand too, because, (reasonable) fear of flying or not, there was no way she was letting Harry upstage her that much.

After a few more minutes, in which everyone—including Neville, who’d had more trouble than most—managed to get their brooms up magically, Madam Hooch instructed the class to mount them.

Now, Hermione had down some reading on brooms and the magic behind their flying capabilities, so she knew well enough what to expect, but even so, when she sat astride the wooden handle and felt a soft cushion on her rear instead of hard, thin wood, the girl was still pleasantly surprised.

The broom even began to levitate in place as soon as she sat on it, giving her the opportunity to set her feet on the stirrups comfortably.

Honestly, it felt more like riding a bike than anything else, and while Hermione was by no means great at that, she was decent enough that this wasn’t too difficult.

Maybe she’d worried over nothing after all.

As soon as Hermione thought that, Madam Hooch hit her with a harsh dose of reality.

“Now, everyone,” the flying instructor said, “I want you all to rise ten feet straight into the air. Remember, the broom responds to your desires, so try to stay calm at all times.”

Hermione gaped. Ten feet!?

She looked down; she was barely two feet up (a perfectly reasonable distance to be from the ground as far as she was concerned), then back up, where many of her fellow first-years were currently hovering a storey or more over her head.

Hermione’s grip on the shaft of her broom tightened like a vice; just watching the others made her feel ill.

She couldn’t do this, she realized. She simply couldn’t.

“Careful there, Hermione,” Harry’s voice cut through her spiralling thoughts, “flying so high up like that, you might crash into an aeroplane.”

For a moment, Harry’s ribbing made Hermione forget her fear, and she shot him a sour look where he hovered with his broom at her head level.

The boy just laughed, then, to her surprise, he offered her a hand.

“Come on,” he said.

Hermione looked sceptically at Harry’s hand, then at the boy himself.

Harry smiled, but there was no amusement this time; it was simply the same small, pleasant smile he often gave her.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

In the light of the morning sun his green eyes shone brightly, and before she could think about it, Hermione freed her left hand from its death grip on her broom and took Harry’s hand.

Slowly, Harry’s broom ascended, and despite that he wasn’t pulling her along, and Hermione certainly wasn’t trying to make it do so, her broom rose in tandem with his.

As she felt the ground sink away under her, Hermione’s heart stuttered, and she began to look down.

And it was in that moment that Harry began to sing.

I can show you the world.

Shining, shimmering, splendid.

Tell me, princess, now when did you last let your heart deciiiiide.

Hermione looked at Harry, all thoughts of looking down forgotten.

“What are you doing?” She asked.

Harry smiled. “Making a joke that’ll really crack you up in a few years.”

Hermione just looked at him in confusion.

Soon, they were up with most everyone else, and Madam Hooch told them to fly around slowly while she assisted the few stragglers down below.

At that, Hermione made the mistake of looking down, and she just about passed out from terror.

Fortunately, Harry’s hand was still in hers, and she squeezed on it hard, trying to draw strength from the small bit of contact even as Harry himself flew in close beside her.

“Hermione, what kind of broom are you riding?” Harry asked, and the girl blinked at the completely random question.

“What?”

“What kind of broom are you riding?” Harry repeated.

“What does it matter?” She asked, but even as she did, she looked at her broom’s handle where it was written to confirm: “A Cleansweep Five.”

“When was it made?” Harry asked, and the information came to Hermione from the casual reading she’d done on broomsticks weeks before even starting at Hogwarts.

“It was designed in 1947 by the Ollerton brothers and released in 1948. It was actually the last broom they made before they retired and sold the company in 1951. I know what you’re trying to do, Harry.”

Harry smiled. “Do you?” He asked, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Yes, you’re trying to distract me. And it’s not working.”

“Well, I’ll make sure to try harder then,” Harry said, and before Hermione could say anything, asked: “How fast can the Cleansweep Five go?”

Hermione knew what he was doing. And she knew he knew she knew it. But even so, she could not stop herself from answering his question; not when she knew the answer to it.

And she knew he knew that.

“It has a recorded top speed of 75 kilometers per hour,” Hermione said, then rushed ahead before Harry could speak. “It can carry a weight of over half a tonne, fly nonstop indefinitely like all modern brooms, and is the second strongest broom ever made. In fact, they say it’s so strong that even an angry troll couldn’t break it.”

Hermione smirked. She’d like to see Harry come up with any more questions now.

Naturally, Harry found a way to surprise her.

“So, basically, what you’re saying is that the broom is perfectly safe and you have nothing to worry about?” Harry asked.

Hermione opened her mouth to disagree, thought about it, then said nothing, settling for smacking Harry on the arm instead when he smirked at her.

Annoyingly enough, Harry was right. And reminding herself of what she knew the old broomstick between her legs could do, actually went a long way to settle her nerves.