Flying

"Flying"

I hate Advanced Transfiguration, I hate it. I realize it's important, but does it have to be so bloody dull? And does Professor McGonagall have to stand right in front of you while you wave your wand and hope it doesn't do something drastic? My wand gets a bit wonky sometimes, and it's no small thing to have your head of house standing right there while you try to turn yourself into a fish.

I don't know how people do this. Sitting in a room that doesn't move at all, with no fresh air, unless you're lucky enough to sit by an open window. Even die-hard Quidditch fiends like myself seem to be revising for exams with alacrity. And these are my last exams, so I'd best do well on them. Still. We can't all be Hermione Granger.

Hey, there's Granger herself. As usual, hard at work, bending over her Potions book. How does she manage to be so clever all the time? It's almost frightening. Yet it's quite handy - witness her little maneuver on Potter's glasses at the last Quidditch match. I could have kissed her. She seems like quite a nice girl. And she's probably Potter's closest friend. Her and Ron Weasley.

I do wonder about Granger sometimes, though. She's so soft-spoken around me. It's almost like she's frightened of me or something. But I don't bite. She seems like someone I might like to get to know better. She's pretty, in an offbeat sort of way, as well.

I'm thinking about Hermione Granger to procrastinate, of course. It only gets worse after this, of course. Advanced Transfiguration, Arithmancy, Defence Against the Dark Arts and Charms to go before I can get back to my broom. What I wouldn't give to get a go on Potter's broom, though. A real Firebolt. Must make flying even more brilliant than it already is.

There's nothing quite like flying, I think. It's nothing like this library rubbish. Sitting in a chair that doesn't do anything at all. On a broom, even an old Comet Two Sixty like mine, you feel like nothing could ever go wrong. You're jetting through the air with your broom operating at your slightest touch. You can never fall, you can never make a mistake, you can never have any worries except that big, ugly Chaser in front of you. That Quaffle hates the end of my broom, I can tell you that.

Steady, Wood. I come to myself, realizing that I've been sitting in Hogwarts' library, staring at a pillar as though it's the most fascinating thing ever devised. It's a wonder more people don't think I'm mad. I know a few do, but they think I'm mad in a good way. Which I am.

I'll bet Granger doesn't think I'm mad. She thinks I don't notice, but she's been peeking over this way a bit. Probably jealous of the open window behind me. She's stuck at a cubicle in the center of the room, and her robes are probably soaked through with sweat.

I wonder what she's got on underneath.

Where did that come from?

I shake my head to dispel the thought. I've spent too much time pent up in the library today.

Rising, I push my chair in and grab my satchel. Maybe I can study in my own room, or maybe I'll head down to the pitch and get some flying in.

I walk across the room, robes flapping, and a bit of them touch Granger's chair. Is it my imagination, or is that a flinch? When my robes touch that skin of hers ...

I decide as I head out the door. I think I'll call her Hermione.