Rubbish, in his opinion. The only thing it ever made the players do was complain and whine and shiver and complain some more.
Harry watched the fog fade slowly from the mirror as this thought rolled through his mind, without ever really paying attention to either fog or thought. This was, he knew, possibly the last time he would ever stand in these rooms.
A pang of regret struck him, and his eyes lowered to glance over his Gryffindor uniform. It was used, naturally, semi-worn from games and practices, but he knew the uniform, just as the uniform knew him, knew his body, his movements. It fit his form (which he would never admit to being lithe and small) perfectly, hugging his skin so that extra material wouldn't drag in the wind and slow him down. Yet it also fit perfectly in the manner that the material had adjusted to his stretches and movements over time, allowing him the freedom to move as instinctively as if he were wearing nothing.
The cloak that draped, open and unclasped, over his form had been repaired many times over the course of the year, despite the many spells and charms attached to it in attempt to prevent some of the harm that would no doubt befall the material. It hid the rest of his uniform, and would create the drag that the rest of his uniform could avoid, were it not for the careful, tricky charm placed upon the robes to prevent just that.
Magic, he felt, was a wonderful thing. It allowed for objects, instances, occurances, miracles and conveniences that most mortals never even dream of. Harry felt that flying was perhaps the most magical of magics, and he knew that many people lay in their beds at night, dreaming or daydreaming, of the chance to do what he did so often. Was it fair that he had these chances that they didn't? Perhaps not, but he knew those were the cards that life had dealt those people.
Just like the cards dealt to him were not necessarily the fairest, but he had no choice. His story, which he sometimes wished were not his, was laced with losses, cruelties and obligations that he felt no one should ever have to deal with. Honestly, he thought, this forced interaction with Voldemort was hardly fair, but he knew the job would have fallen upon someone else had it not been him. In that knowledge he found some comfort, because maybe not everyone would have chosen to side against his enemy as he had, but it wasn't always enough.
The fact that Voldemort was so entangled in the web of tangles that was his life burned within him. He hated that it was Voldemort's actions that had taken his family, that had given him a good portion of power, that had placed him in so many predicaments, and shaped so much of his life.
And Harry loved to fly because it was the one portion of his life that had never been decided by Voldemort. Voldemort didn't give him grace on a broom like he had given Harry Parseltongue. Voldemort didn't give him Quidditch injuries as he had given Harry his scar. Hss ability to find the Golden Snitch, his ability to be quick, his ability to fly; they were all his own! The magic was in him. If anything, it ran in his family, passed down to him through generations.
It was still the one part of his life that Voldemort had never influenced, incidents with dementors, vile professors and dragons aside.
Flying was his talent, and he stood on this unusually chilly June morning before the mirrors of a Quidditch changing room he might never see again, let alone enter. The train would depart from Hogwarts that afternoon, to take home the few who had not left with family after Dumbledore's funeral. Harry knew he would not be returning to Hogwarts next year, and though being there caused regret at the loss of school Quidditch and the freedom to fly when he wanted to course through his veins, he wanted to be here.
Even as he mourned the loss of his greatest mentor, he wanted to mourn the loss of his greatest joy and freedom, the loss of the one skill that was ever really his, and his alone.