Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of the situations. Therefore, kindly remove your hand from the speed-dial button for your lawyer. Thank you.
A/N: Believe it or not, my brother came up with the idea for this story, helped me brainstorm, and then suggested that I write one for each teacher. Such a good little guy, when he wants to be. Also, an enthusiastic thank you to my beta Mini Minerva, for putting up with my infrequent writing.
* * * *
Flight
* * * *
Most people think that I was born with a broom in my hand, that I was a natural flyer. I just smile at them, shake my head, and change the subject.
Truthfully, I was born with the love of flight. The speed and agility of birds amazed me. Hawks were my favorite to watch; they just floated on the breeze, letting it take them where it willed. I always wanted to be in the sky on my own wings, letting a swift zephyr take me away.
Not having wings, I would pester my father endlessly to give me flight. Refusing to transfigure me into a bird, he would charm a pillow to zoom me around the room. Under his careful watch, of course. My mom would have an epileptic fit, but dad would just smile and say, "Let her fly."
By the time I was old enough to mount a broom, I wanted one of my own. I had my eyes set on a Silver Arrow, the fastest broom at that time. My father couldn't allow it though. We lived in my mother's muggle neighborhood, and the risk of being seen was high.
I had to settle with flying on my father's shoulders. That was fine by me, seeing as I was a daddy's girl. He was a tall man, always towering over the rest of a crowd. We were close, and only he could calm me down when my temper was high, which was pretty often. He also advised me to follow my dreams and to stand by what I believe in.
When I received my Hogwarts letter, dad and I went to my first Quidditch match to celebrate. It was the Holyhead Harpies vs. Puddlemere United. The speed of the game, the excitement and the flying made me an instant Quidditch fanatic. My father, chuckling as we walked to the portkey, told me to do well in school and we would see about Quidditch.
The minute we got home I began reading my schoolbooks. I was sorted into Ravenclaw that fall, the perfect house to help me along the way. The second week into school, my year had its first flying lesson. I was ecstatic and ready to get up into the sky, to be as the birds I always envied.
Waiting by the brooms, I looked at the others. Most of the Hufflepuffs looked scared, while everyone else appeared to be nervous. Professor Histen came out in his blue robes and dragon hide boots and gloves. He was young and generally liked by the student population. What I liked about him most was that he was the flying instructor.
Our first task was to call our brooms to our hands. No matter how much force I used when saying "Up" I couldn't get the broom to rise. It was rather frustrating, not being able to do the simplest part of flying.
My broom finally did come up, right into Dustin McCray's head. He wasn't too happy, but I was. I apologized, but smiled all the same.
After mounting our brooms (which I could do correctly due to practicing on the kitchen broom at home) we had to hover in the air. I had no trouble getting up. In fact, I shot straight up. I was high, too high for Professor Histen's liking. The other kids crowded around as he yelled for me to come down. I didn't want to, but I did, crashing right on top of him in the process.
After that lesson, I didn't have much more trouble with my flying. I eventually became pretty good; good enough to make the Quidditch team as a beater in my third year.
My father, as proud of me as he was, has never seen me play. He died in a splinching accident before my first game. Even now, I follow the advice he gave me years ago.
Days playing Quidditch against Michael "Hardball" Potter and McGonagall "The Ace" prepared me for professional Quidditch. The Harpies took me on as a beater, and I enjoyed it until a hit to the shoulder put me out of play. Dumbledore gladly hired me as the school's flying instructor.
Now, as I walk to the Infirmary with Neville Longbottom, I think of the trouble I had learning how to fly, and why I laugh when someone mentions my skills. I'm thankful for my father's advice and my understanding professor. I've lived my dreams of playing Quidditch, and now spend my days teaching others what I love. As I watch them try their hand at flying, I think of my own blunders.
I'm finally flying on my own wings, and damn does it feel good.
* * * *
End
If you would kindly review my story, I would be forever thankful.