Most of the lessons here are practical. At muggle school I used to look forward to practical classes, here they're a nightmare. Apart from potions, but then that one was always going to go better for me. The problem is that all of the teachers want to see a result, a result from the process of you waving a wand at an object while speaking a word. Yesterday Professor Augustin examined our wands before beginning our Transfiguration class, he was very interested in them and said that because the wand chooses the wizard or witch the kind of wand you have often says more about you than anything else, even Sorting.
My wand, which is rowan wood, is very pale with golden swirly patterns where the wood has been left thicker. It has a Unicorn Hair core, and is nine inches long. I love my wand, but currently it does not seem to love me. And neither does Professor Augustin, because despite seeming quite happy when he diagnosed that mine would be excellent for Transfiguration, he kept his beady eyes on me all lesson and I didn't manage to produce much in the way of anything all class.
When I met my wand in Ollivander's shop, it made all the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and shot green sparks like firecrackers. Now, there's not much there. It's almost as though I have to earn its power, and I haven't yet worked out how to do that. Scorpius's wand seems a lot more easy going, his is Hawthorn with a Dragon Heartstring core. Although it's eager and powerful, his trouble seems to be in controlling it, or at least that's how it seems because in yesterdays class instead of turning his match into a needle he made his match ignite into a fireball and fly across the room.
I'm thinking all of this over whilst staring at my dish of lamb stew. It's lunch time and our next lesson is our very first flying class. Flying seems to be the Wizarding equivalent of P.E. but there's a significant problem here because i'm terrible at heights when there's a chance I might fall. Scorpius is sitting next to me talking to Blaise and Bentley, they're all into flying and Quidditch and all the rest of it. I'm into surviving school long enough to survive life.
Long before I'm ready Scorpius, Blaise and Bentley get up, I drop my fork with a clatter and stagger to my feet. It's irrational, I know, because whatever injury I will sustain during this class, the school matron will fix it in less than a minute, but that doesn't make me feel any better. The grounds are damp today because it rained in the night, but now there's patchy clouds and white sunlight as we trudge over the grass towards the Quidditch stadium. There in the middle of the stands lie about twenty broomsticks in a circle and we all stand next to one. The Gryffindors are already there, and I take up a place between Al and Scorpius.
"Hi," says Al brightly, he's obviously another one who loves the idea of flying. "I've been looking forward to this." I make an indistinct noise in the back of my throat. "Apparently Madam Griffiths is a legend." He natters on while I clench my jaw and concentrate on not panicking. Scorpius leans around to talk to Al.
"She played Seeker for the Holyhead Harpies back in the fifties." He said excitedly. "Hi, I'm Scorpius Malfoy, and you're Albus Potter, aren't you?"
"Yes." Albus says. There's a moments pause while they regarded one another and then they stop talking and turn away. Scorpius takes up his conversation with Blaise on his other side and Al turns to Rose Weasley on his other side, while I stand in the middle feeling sick.
Presently an old witch arrives dressed head to toe in Quidditch garb with the addition of a floral headscarf. By the looks of her well weathered face she's ancient, but she stands tall and proud and regards us all with a shrewd expression.
"Afternoon." She begins briskly, scanning down a list she's been carrying on a clipboard. "I have no interest in wasting everyone's time by teaching already capable flyers the basics. Who here is a capable flyer?" Scorpius, Blaise, Bentley, Al, McLaggen, Ferne Arden, Rose Weasley and a few others put their hands up. "You lot, take this Quaffle and keep yourselves occupied scoring goals at that end." She nods towards the three hoops standing fifty feet in the air while handing Ferne the large red ball. "Take it in turns to play at Keeper and in an hour i'll teach you some more advanced maneuvers."
All of them shout "Up!", mount their brooms and fly off towards the other end of the pitch, leaving a group of eight behind. Madam Griffiths regards us all sternly.
"There's nothing to be afraid of here. Today all you will be doing is mounting our brooms, skimming close to the ground, and playing a few games at a safe height." I begin to breath a little better, as long as I can put my feet down and touch the ground I'll be fine. "First thing's first, hold out your right hand and command the broom to rise." She stands next to one of the spare brooms left on the ground and says, "Up!", like the others just did, and her broom leaps into her hand.
We all put our hands out and say "Up!" I'm so nervous that my voice makes the word sound more like a suggestion than a command and the broom rolls over pathetically. The thing is that i'm ok with this. If the broom wants to stay there then i'm happy to comply. I look at Madam Griffiths and shrug. She frowns back. "Well try again, boy, there's no use for a broom that won't fly."
I think briefly of the possibilities attached to sweeping and clearing cobwebs before clearing my throat and managing to say "Up!" with a little more authority. Apparently that's all the broom needed because it rises into my hand and stays level. I wrap my fingers around the wood and feel it humming slightly.
"Now, mount your broomstick." I swing my leg over and keep my feet firmly on the ground. A gangling Gryffindor boy is already trying to hook his feet into the stirrups, he's got long, dark hair and way too much limb for his body. We all watch as he manages to somehow get one foot tangled, tries to counterbalance with an elbow and ends up sprawled on the grass. Madam Griffiths walks over and helps him up. "What's your name, boy?"
"Jones, Pete Jones." He says, hooking his long hair out of his eyes.
"Use this, Jones." She says, holding out a hair elastic. "And try again." His cheeks redden as he swings his leg over his broomstick and sets about tying back his curls.
"The trick is to trust the broomstick. It will stay level unless commanded to do otherwise. All of you, while looking forward, reach one leg backwards and feel for the stirrup. If you try to watch what you're doing at this stage you'll follow Jones's example and end up on the ground."
Eventually I find the stirrup and hook my heel into it, then comes the next foot and I break out in a cold sweat as it leaves the ground. I feel distinctly unstable as I sit there, clutching the narrow broom handle.
"Don't look at the ground." Madam Griffiths commands, and my eyes snap forward. "Now I want all of you to very slightly lean forward."
We do this and we start to move forward. I give a great wobble but manage to keep my seat, two other people fall off, including Jones. It's slow work, and for an hour we practice going forward and not falling off. Eventually we manage to form a circle and follow each other around and around, always keeping about two feet off the ground. I feel like one of the kids at the shallow end of the pool, learning how to tread water while the older kids play water polo and dive. High above us at the other end of the pitch Rose Weasley, who's in goal, shouts "Three, two to Gryffindor!" and we hear a hubbub of sporting responses from the two small teams.
Suddenly my hand slips and I clutch at my broom in panic as I fall forwards, i'd lost concentration for a few seconds and now I'm paying the price. The broom, reading this as a command to speed up, shoots off at high speed. I cry out in surprise and hear Madam Griffiths shouting at me to "lean backwards!" but all I want to do is cling on, so I do, but i'm hurtling towards one of the stands and it looks pretty solid, so I try putting pressure on the broomstick in an attempt to turn it. This works, sort of, and I miss the stand by about an inch. I'm just about to feel relieved when I look up and see the stone wall that encloses the castle lawns coming straight at me. If I could only get to the ground, i'd be ok, but i'm going too fast! I push the nose of the broomstick downwards and go into a very short dive, because i'm still only two feet from the grass the broom handle catches on the ground and catapults me forward straight into the wall. I feel something break in my right arm as I crumple at the foot of the wall and look up to see the whole class racing in my direction.
"It's alright, boy." Griffiths calls as she reaches me. "You'll need the hospital wing, but it's nothing that a swift mending spell won't handle. Who will volunteer to go with him?"
"I will." Says Al, immediately.
I'm slightly surprised by this and I stagger to my feet, my head's pounding and although I know that my arm is broken, it gives off nothing more than a dull ache. Madam Griffiths improvises a sling for me out of her floral headscarf and we hobble off towards the castle.
"So you've never flown before?" Al asks as we walk along.
"How could you tell?" I say sarcastically.
"That's alright." He grins, "When I flew for the first time I broke my leg." He points to his right knee. "I accidentally drove my brother's broomstick straight up in the air and then fell off at about sixty feet."
"How old were you?" I ask.
"It was my seventh birthday." He says, and then starts laughing. "I was seen by two muggle ramblers who happened to be on the footpath just by our house. It would have been ok if i'd kept low because of the trees, but I didn't, and dad had to call some friends from the Ministry to hush it all up and perform memory spells!"
I start laughing now and I feel a bit better. "I hate heights." I admit.
"That might be a problem." He says. "I bet there's a spell for that, or a potion or something. We should look it up! We don't have anything else today. Do you want to go to the library and try to find something after we get you fixed?"
"Sure." I'm relieved that Albus doesn't think I'm an idiot for not being able to fly, we chat all the way up to the hospital wing which he knows the way to because he's seen it en rout to the Gryffindor common room. Madam Bones, the matron, sighs when we walk in.
"You're the first i've had in here with a flying injury and you won't be the last." She's a middle aged witch with a kind face and red hair scooped back in a bun. She mends my arm in a second and then feels my head. "Aching?" She asks. I nod, and she measures out a beaker of amethyst coloured potion. "Drink." I do, and my headache stops immediately. "Better?" I nod again and she says, "Good, now be on your way and make sure you don't have to see me again too soon."
We hurry off to the library, and I lead the way this time because i've already been.
"So what's it like in Slytherin?" Al asks, as we start wondering amongst the shelves.
"It's alright. The common room is cool."
"What's Scorpius Malfoy like?" He asks quickly, so that I can tell it's been on his mind.
"He's ok." I respond. "I know your parents didn't get on."
"My father saved his father's life." He says, haughtily.
"What?" I'm shocked by this.
"How much do you know about the Battle for Hogwarts?"
"Not much." We take our books to the back table that Astrid had been sitting at and begin casually flicking through them while he tells me all about it. About how Potter's organisation, Dumbledore's Army had been fighting for freedom while Albus's dad had been away fighting He Who Must Not Be Named and destroying his special weapons.
"Did your father tell you all of this?" I ask, in awe.
"No, my Uncle Ron told all of us on Christmas Eve last year."
"I never heard much about Ron Weasley's part in the battle, I only heard about Potter and the Dark Lord in the Great Hall at the end."
"Oh he helped destroy the weapons." Albus whispers animatedly, as we flick through our books. "He was the one who got into the Chamber of Secrets to get the secret ingredient that would destroy the weapons." I gape at Albus when he says this.
"He went into the Chamber of Secrets? How?"
"Have you heard the story of my dad and the Heir of Slytherin?" He asks, clearly he's enjoying himself and I have to admit I'm fascinated. So he tells me the story and when he gets to the part where Potter speaks Parseltongue he makes this strangled hissing sound and I clap my hand to my mouth to stop myself from crying out.
"You can speak Parseltongue?" I whisper, urgently.
"No, of course not." Albus grins. "And neither can my dad any more, but Uncle Ron was there when he said the words and he remembered and that's how he got into the Chamber of Secrets during the battle."
"Say it again?" He repeats the series of noises and then continues with the story of Harry Potter and the Heir of Slytherin. Surreptitiously I scribble a rough spelling of the sounds on a corner of parchment, my head ringing with excitement.