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"Motion Sickness"
-:-
Zacharias Smith was a proud sort – a Hufflepuff with a pure background and a temperament that occasionally grated – but, really, he was a decent fellow at heart.
He'd passed his OWLs with flying colours – gaining seven Outstandings – and when he'd taken his NEWTs after the war he'd found himself in possession of eight exceptional results there as well. So, unsurprisingly, he wasn't used to being on his knees.
Unfortunately magical travel seemed to be the only thing with which he struggled, and that position was exactly the situation he currently found himself: on his hands and knees, retching something awful.
"I fucking hate Apparition," he choked out to his unsympathetic companion, the dark haired man laughing uproariously at his misfortune. Zacharias was hit with another bout of dry-heaving as his stomach tried its best to settle. "Next time, we're going by floo."
The purple triple-decker careened wildly across the motorway, narrowly missing a caravan and sedan, before cutting off a mini as it took the exit to Oxford. The mini's driver didn't notice.
The Knight bus was fairly quiet, only carrying three passengers besides Ernie, the ancient driver, and Stan Shunpike, the conductor. Two of them were sleeping, or trying to – they were occasionally jolted off the beds as Ern took a corner at speed or hit a bump in the road – while the third was looking distinctly green about the gills.
"Orright there, Mr Boot?" Stan asked politely, weaving his way between the large beds to where the wizard sat, his back ram-rod straight. "Fancy a cuppa to drive away the queasiness?"
"No, thanks," the young wizard replied, his lips barely moving. It seemed to him as though opening his mouth might encourage his body to give in to the sensation of vomiting which had been hovering over him since stepping onto the magical vehicle.
"Are you sure?" Stan asked persistently. "Because for five sickles you can get a lovely 'ot water bottle, and for eleven you can-"
"Diagon Alley, London," Ernie called out wheezily, interrupting his colleague's spiel and pulling them to a halt. A street lamp jumped out of the way of the bus just in time to avoid being crushed.
Terry Boot almost vaulted over the beds blocking his exit. He stumbled off the bus with a garbled 'thanks', alighting into the cold, evening air of London, and inhaled deeply.
"Oh, sweet Merlin!" he exclaimed heartily as the Knight Bus flew off into the night, inanimate objects darting out of the way and back again, the muggles none the wiser. He'd never been a fan of vehicular travel, and the magical version seemed to triple the pain. Ernie Prang's driving didn't help either. Still feeling a bit nauseous in the stomach, he slowly made his way into The Leaky Cauldron, aiming for a good sleep in one of Tom's rooms (and possibly a Fortescue ice-cream – for recovery purposes, naturally).
"No," Hermione stated severely. "No way in hell," she said, whispering the final word. She still wasn't comfortable with swearing, despite spending years in the company of Ron, who seemed able to maintain coherent sentences solely using curse words.
"Come on, Hermione," Harry teased. "It's just a broom."
"And a bludger's just a ball," she retorted. "For the last time, Harry, I'm not travelling via broom to The Burrow!"
"You know," Harry began with a loud sigh, "you really should make an effort, Hermione. It's just sad – a witch who can't fly a broomstick!"
"Leave it alone, Harry," she scowled.
"I'm just saying," he defended, raising his arms to show he meant no harm. Instead of pestering her further, he swung a leg over his Firebolt and took off, flying in low circles about her irritated figure. She tapped her foot and Harry grinned cheekily.
"Harry," she said.
He floated higher.
"Harry!" she growled again.
The Boy Saviour disappeared behind her and then she suddenly found herself thirty feet in the air, her only safety catch being Harry's firm grip around her waist.
She screamed.
"Harry, you bastard!" she yelled, petrified (maybe Ron was rubbing off on her after all?). "If I throw up it's going straight down your shirt!"
"That's disgusting," was Harry's blasé response, though he did lower the broom to about seven feet above the ground (probably so he could push her off safely if she followed through on her promise, she thought grumpily).
Harry did a loop-the-loop and Hermione gagged.
"I'm serious, Harry. I'm going to be sick," she murmured with a grimace, "and when I am, I will aim for you unless you put me down right now!"
Harry, after one look at the sincerity in her face (not to mention the pale green tinge), landed quickly and let her off before zooming away, up into the blue sky.
"Catch me if you can," he called audaciously, and then rightfully fled when his best friend retrieved her wand. "See you at The Burrow," he yelled over his shoulder as he vanished into the distance.
Hermione glared, before stomping back towards the house, intending on travelling by a sensible mode – like floo.
God, she hated brooms.
Bill looked at the carpet apprehensively.
"Are you sure that'll take my weight?" he asked the vendor suspiciously.
The little man nodded eagerly. "Yessir, definitely. Easily take your weight, sir. Fly like being on wings of angels."
The eldest Weasley child ran a hand over the heavily decorated fabric. "Alright," he agreed. "How much?"
"Fifty galleon," the little man said.
"Fifty?" Bill argued. "Not a galleon over twenty, I'd say."
"Fifty," the vendor said stubbornly.
"Twenty five," Bill bartered, baring his teeth a little. The man winced slightly, but didn't flinch at the sight of his elongated canines - a gift from Fenrir Greyback's human bite.
"Forty."
"Thirty," Bill said conclusively. The man stared at him for a few moments before breaking into a toothy smile.
"Thirty," he agreed. "Yessir. Thirty galleon, only for you. Lovely carpet, go well for many, many years."
Bill paid him and, the magic carpet rolled under his arm, he returned to his hotel where his mate, Nisal, was to meet him for these infernal carpet flying lessons the bank required him to take as part of their new training scheme.
Two hours later, Bill and Nisal were standing in the open gardens of the hotel. The carpet hovered, animate, in the air before them, Bill staring at it distrustfully.
"So, how does this work, then?" Bill asked.
"Just climb on it, man," Nisal prompted. "It'll wait for you; just like a broom, I swear."
"Yeah, right," Bill grumbled, but climbed on. "How do you sit on it? There's no room."
He scrambled about, the sensation of the floating carpet feeling weird and unnatural to a man familiar with brooms. In the end, he sat cross-legged, feeling a little foolish.
"Okay, first, take hold of the front of carpet, at the corners," Nisal directed. Bill did so, and the magic carpet dipped uncomfortably.
"Argh," he cried, trying to stabilise it. "And they fly these things how fast?"
"Up to one hundred and forty kilometres an hour, I think," Nisal commented idly. "Now, try again, dude."
It took some time to get comfortable, but soon Bill felt competent enough to go for a spin. He sped into the air, and was about to call out to Nisal that it was much easier than he'd anticipated when the carpet dipped unexpectedly, causing the red-head's stomach to drop. They hadn't taken into account the turbulence. He lost all stability and the magical object went berserk, going up-down-right-left for almost five minutes, making a loop the loop and then a sequence of rolls, all punctuated by hills and valleys, before Bill could control it enough to descend.
He remembered Hermione, his brother's girlfriend, talking about such sensations when riding in muggle planes, and the queasiness settled in his belly as the carpet made its rough descent back to earth.
Landing had him almost diving off the infernal contraption and he flopped onto his back, trying to ignore Nisal's sniggers as he wrangled the carpet.
"Can we just pretend I was successful?" Bill asked. "Because I'm never getting on one of them ever again so nobody has to know."
"Sure," Nisal answered with a smirk. "But let me just send this memory to Fleur," he called as he darted away into the hotel lobby, intending to find an owl and a bottle to get the image post-haste to Bill's wife.
Daphne was glowering in the middle of the drawing room. All the occupants' eyes were on her, she knew it, and she stared defiantly at her feet, daring them to say something – anything – about her entrance.
Her pale blue dress was covered in soot, a slight tear in the corner where she'd caught it on the grate stepping into the fireplace. Her hair was frizzy, an after-effect of floo travel that she abhorred, and she was quite sure that more leg was showing than her aunts probably deemed appropriate.
Eventually, one of the room's inhabitants stepped forward and offered a hand to her – it was Theodore Nott, a former housemate; quiet, bookish, and brilliant, she remembered.
"Cheers," she murmured and saw the ghost of a smile light up his face before the standard pureblood mask fell over it again.
"A not entirely delicate entrance, Greengrass," he replied quietly, raising her from her awkward seat on the floor when she clasped his hand firmly. "It seems floo is not your forte."
"Never has been, I'm afraid," she affirmed, sighting a disappointed aunt over his shoulder and holding back a grimace. Theodore pulled out his wand and went to cast a spell; pausing, he asked, "May I?"
"Of course."
He Scourgified the soot off her dress and neatened her hair, giving a quick smile and a quasi-bow, before fading into the background and leaving Daphne to her formidable family.
"Honestly, Daphne," Aunt Felicia complained, pouncing on her the moment Theodore had left, "it's utterly embarrassing, your inability to travel by floo."
Daphne fought against the urge to roll her eyes, and instead looked at a point past her aunt's ear. Theo stood there, and she smiled ever so slightly.
End.
Please, Read and Review Responsibly.
I have no idea where this concept came from... I was just thinking about magical travel and it just kind of appeared... Oh well :P