Brooms.

Were they serious? Rorie thought as she made her way down to the Quidditch Pitch. At first she had looked around to see where the school stables were; and when she was told there were no school stables, she was incredibly put out. Instead they had brooms. Like the ones in her picture books. The last thing Rorie needed was someone back home finding out she was a witch that flew a broom. She had intended to get through this class with as minimal effort as possible, but Coach Crouch’s instructions sounded as if he thought they were actually sentient. Surely it was just a regular broom?

Rorie looked suspiciously down at it; and it lay there. You don’t command your broom, you work with your broom. Hmm. That sounded suspiciously like horseback riding, and that was something Rorie understood in excess. She looked at Georgie, giving her a smile before refocusing on her own broom. “Up!” she said firmly, as if she was telling Beauty to walk on. With a wooshing sound, it flew up into her hand with such great force that Rorie stammered, “I-I’m sorry!” as if the broom had reprimanded her for thinking it was something so pedestrian as regular.

She clambered on it, gripping with both hands she kicked off and was suddenly hovering. She was hovering! Her joy was immediately cut in half by the image of the boy in front of her getting smacked in the face with his own broom. After letting out a guffaw, she winced at him and wobbled a bit on her broom before asking, “Are - are you alright?”