A/N: This fic is very short and probably very bad, because I wrote it in a sort of miserable, half-asleep kind of way. I wrote it in memoriam of my first car, which was written off the other week after a freak accident involving a burst tyre. I'd only had it for just under 2 years but it meant a huge amount to me and I will always miss it. I kind of figured Harry must have felt the same about his Nimbus, so here he is reflecting on it. L x
The hospital wing of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was unusually empty. The only occupant was a raven-haired boy in a bed halfway down the wing, fairly close to the office with closed blinds behind which Madam Pomfrey was getting a few hours of well-earned rest. He lay between crisp white sheets, wearing striped pyjamas. On his bedside table lay a pair of round glasses, a wand, a few sweets and a couple of get well cards. The only thing that was unusual about this image was a slightly muddy bag resting against the bottom of the bedside table. Normally, Madam Pomfrey would not have allowed anything dirty into the hospital wing, but she had made an exception for this, because the bag contained something that to some would seem worthless – but to the boy in the bed, Harry Potter, meant memories and grief and the loss of something he loved.
An owl hooted outside the window and Harry stirred. Sitting up and putting on his glasses, he looked groggily around with the disorientation of one who has been suddenly woken from a deep sleep. Upon realising where he was, he settled back against the pillows, with the annoying realisation that he would not be able to get back to sleep. He worked out that he must have been sleeping on and off for about 12 hours, having been admitted to the hospital wing after a Quidditch injury.
The Quidditch match… It all came flooding back to him as he lay there. The Dementors. His mother's screaming. The falling sensation. Waking up in the hospital wing. Being told Gryffindor had lost the match. And….
Harry's heart sank as he remembered the last part of what had happened. His best friend, Ron, had presented him with a pile of twigs which were once his Nimbus 2000, his pride and joy. He had not been able to believe it as he saw it, nothing but sticks, broken beyond repair. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of resentment. Surely if he paid enough money, there would be someone somewhere who could fashion him a new broom using the old wood, so that it would have a hint of his Nimbus? He kicked himself immediately for this; money wasn't everything and a broom made with bits of an old broom would not be very good, nor would it be very safe.
Most people did not understand Harry's attachment to his Nimbus. To them, brooms were something to be shown off about if you had a good enough one, and simply used as a means to an end. But Harry's Nimbus had meant a connection to the wizarding world. It had meant freedom. A lump rose in his throat as the memories flashed up in his head. Professor McGonagall had given him the broom when he had been admitted onto the Gryffindor Quidditch team in his first year. He remembered the pride and joy he had felt as he held the broom in his hands for the first time. He recalled the way his cares used to disappear when he was flying… The way his broom had seemed to know him as well as Ron and Hermione did, always doing exactly what he needed it to. And suddenly, with no warning, it was gone. It was like losing a beloved friend.
Harry knew that he would have other brooms in the future, perhaps better ones. But his Nimbus 2000 had been his first broom, and although some people had the same broom for years and years, whereas Harry's Nimbus' life had ended at the tragically young age of two and a bit, he knew he had bonded with it in a way that many people did not. Perhaps to some, it would sound stupid, but he had loved that broomstick and he knew that he would never love a broomstick as much again. He would probably admire one more, as better and better brooms were developed; perhaps he would even be prouder of owning one, but he would never have the affection he had had for the Nimbus 2000. It had too much sentimental value.
And so, although Harry Potter rarely cried, he allowed the tears to flow down his cheeks, knowing that nobody would see, because he owed it to his broom. It was a mark not only of grief, but of respect. He knew he owed that to his Nimbus. And he knew that when he woke again later that morning, he would feel just a little bit better for it.