Flying is an all or nothing experience. If you are not willing to make a connection to your magic, true flight will always be just beyond reach.
What drives a dream of flight? For that is what all Flyers' have dreamed since there was time to dream in. To be truly free from all concerns, all worries, all expectations.
You have to want it.
It comes naturally to you, or it doesn't. Sure, some might be able to fly a broom, even with reasonable skill but it as apples to coconuts, compared to those who want to fly; who yearn for it with their entire being.
It is, therefore, incredibly dangerous to give what amounts to a motorcycle (or car, pick your poison), to a 13 year old. But then, I suppose it's also ridiculous to give a gun to an 11 year old and then expect them not to use it.
The broom, once personalised to the rider, becomes a part of the rider. The rider connects to the broom's magic, thus the 'Up' command, like calling a dog to heel. That is not to say that they are only as smart as a dog.
Brooms are intelligent, they do not behave as a dog might behave. They might if the owner feel that way inclined. Every connection is different, but it means that the broom and rider have 'synced' their magic, like you might a Bluetooth headset to your phone, to use a crude analogy.
This is no way conveys the depth of feeling and information the connection provides. As if the rider had wings and had been flying all their lives, the broom reads the air; currents, wind direction, speed, pressure, and creates a device that actively wants to discourage a rider fall.
Flying is instinctive.
That first broom ride, is like watching them find themselves. Suddenly, life has meaning. Some people are born to fly.
He couldn't take his eyes off it. Ron's words faded into the background, he could feel something on the shaft, a slight tweak to the vertical control.
A small vibration. Just as he picked it up, like the broom almost didn't want him. This has been held by someone else.
Pausing, he reached out again and opened his mind to the broom, reaching out to its magic and investigating.
Wary, unwilling to be caught unawares in an obvious trap, Harry instead feels a welcoming touch. He...recognises this touch, the magic that put it there. Sirius.
Before this moment, he had believed that Sirius was not actively out to murder him. He had believed that there was more to the story than, 'man kills friend, goes to unescapable jail, escapes, and now wants to kill me.'
There were big gaps, in everyone's stories. Nothing fit.
Why no trial, for starters? Why do wizards so lack in curiosity!?
This is what Harry had believed to be so. Touching this magic, solidified this belief in Sirius's innocence to a level so much it almost consumed him. He could feel the broom, gambolling around him and everywhere, the all consuming feeling of freedom, of acceptance.
"Harry? Are you ok?"
Ron, again. He always interrupts. Pulling himself up, out of the flow of energy, was like losing part of himself. Surfacing like a beached whale, Harry and broomstick, proceeded to levitate everything, and everyone, in the room to a height of six feet. That he did this with the pressure of a 4G vertical takeoff, surprised no one, what did was them not coming down again. This was particularly painful for Ron, his face was now squidged into the peaked roof of the dormitory.
Harry regarded him critically.
"Harry! This is kinda uncomfortable!" Spoken with some alarm now, Ron continued to make his impression of a man with his face hard up against a sheet of glass. There was a dull creaking sound.
Harry breathed out, and sighed.
Ron felt the pressure ease off his stricken nose. Harry hovered to the floor, the entire room, and everyone in it, slowly followed suit.
"Blimey, what was that?"
"Sirius gave me this," Harry intones, eyes glowing with inner fire, as he slowly falls sideways into bed. Lying down in the air is hard to describe, but that was what it looked like, as Harry rotated ninety degrees to the vertical.
Clutching the broom tightly, he proceeded to fall into a deep trance, akin to the deepest sleep, barely breathing.
McGonagall was duly notified of the comatose state of her prize student. That this came from the mouth of one Ronald Weasley, voice muffled from a broken nose, expedited her arrival.
The broom could not be moved. Or removed. After casting a suite of diagnostic spells, expertly correcting Mr Weasleys's much abused snout in the process, Poppy was called for. The school nurse professed to being at a loss for an explanation to Harry's current predicament. Finally, Filius finagled a fiendish feat of explosive proportions.
The broom would not be moved. Or removed.
Hermione and Ron sat quietly, watching the professors fuss around their friend. Neither one had any trouble seeing the broom as being something entirely Other to their lives so far. Hermione, in particular, though about how much she already missed him. As if he was already dead. She chided herself for being so pessimistic.
With a start, Harry jolted to life, and promptly fell off the bed.
"Ow. Can I get a hand up, please?"
"Mr Potter, may I ask you to hand over that broom. Immediately."
"Now, Minnie, I can explain all of this. Can you send for Madam Hooch, please?"
McGonagall's eyebrows had risen at the use of the name, and then her face betrayed confusion at Harry's request.
"Madam Hooch? Whatever for?"
"Because she knows all the long words, Professor."
One explanation of the rider/broom bond later, Harry interrupted, " but, that was what was different."
"How do you mean , Mr Potter?" Madam Hooch had a sparkle in her eye at the sight of another true Flyer.
"The broom felt..." Harry cast around for the words, "kind. Accepting. Loving." This last in a smaller voice.
"Like it knew me. And I knew it. Is it true Sirius is my Godfather?"