A/N: For the Quidditch League round 9.

- I don't own Harry Potter.

Team: Puddlemere United

Position: Keeper

Position Prompt: [Learning to use your power] Your character needs to learn a new skill

Word Count (Minus A/N): 1307

Beta'd By: B. Weasley. Thank you!

Hermione grumbled as they walked back to the dormitories from flying class.

"It's like the broom refuses to listen to me!" she said, and she knew she would be waving her arms around if not for the fact she was carrying a jar of blue flames to keep her and her friends warm from the snow. "I'm doing exactly as Madam Hooch says and—"

"It's 'cause you don't really trust your broom, so why should it trust you?" said Ron casually, like this was common knowledge and not new information suddenly dropped on Hermione. "Especially since you can't learn flying out of a book, of course you're not good at it."

Hermione glared at him, the comment stinging sharper than she'd expected it to. "I can learn things without books!" she said shrilly, then wrestled her tone back to normal pitch. "I just—I can do it, you'll see."

"What?" said Harry, as Hermione shoved the jar of flames into his hand and marched off toward the library.

Yes, she knew she'd said that she didn't need books, but it couldn't hurt to look at a few references and anecdotes before attempting to master flight.

Two days later, at the clearing in the Hogwarts grounds that the older students had cleaned up for pick-up Quidditch, Hermione stared at the pale, knobbly broomstick at her feet, steeling herself. She'd figured that she'd start with the basics to warm up and "win the respect of the broom", then move into more difficult maneuvers as she improved.

"Up," she said firmly, hand stuck out above the broom.

It twitched.

Hermione frowned at it.

The broom didn't move again, almost stubbornly.

"Up," Hermione said again, glaring at it. "Up, up, up—"

She took a deep breath and paused. The books had said that brooms had a rudimentary sense of their user's emotions—they could tell when one was frustrated or scared, and were less likely to listen to you if they could see your lack of faith.

"Up," she repeated, with resolve. And the broom slowly, slowly rose into her palm.

Hermione wanted to do a dance, but instead she just grinned widely, clutching the broom in her hand as victory sang through her mind. In flying class, they usually just picked up their brooms instead of delaying the class waiting for everyone to get their brooms to listen to them, so Hermione hadn't had to summon it directly into her hand in weeks.

"Okay," she mumbled to herself, thinking back to the books.

Next step: do a few laps to get yourself acquainted with the broom.

Carefully, Hermione swung a leg over the broomstick and settled herself in the seat, gripping the broom with both hands. Then, lightly, she kicked off the ground, and the broom wobbled into the air.

Hermione let out a breath, biting her lip as she directed the broom to fly in slow circles.

"Hermione?"

Hermione yelped and toppled to the ground at the unexpected voice, snow soaking into her clothes. Embarrassed, she shot to her feet, just barely avoiding tripping over the long folds of her robes, and looked up at the person who'd called her name.

"Harry?" she said, eyes wide as Harry picked his way through the deep snow to meet her. "What are you doing here?"

"You weren't at the dorms or the library," Harry said. "We didn't know where you were, so me and Ron went looking. And then I remembered what you said after flying class last week, so…"

"Oh," said Hermione. "Um, you can go tell Ron where I am."

She really would rather Harry didn't. Ron would probably make fun of her for having to practice flying so rigorously to get the results Ron could manage when he was five.

"I could help you, if you want," said Harry, and looked surprised at himself. But he barrelled on, fingers twisting into the hem of his shirt, "I'm not really good at explaining things, but, uh, I made it onto the Quidditch team, so I guess that has to count for something."

"You don't have to," Hermione said, looking at him. Hermione wasn't worth it—Harry was a hero, and though he was still mostly just a dorky eleven-year-old boy, he and Hermione and Ron had found themselves caught up in all sorts of strange and scary things this year. Maybe Harry wanted to go gather information, investigate something, do anything other than help a stubborn witch who wanted to master flying out of spite and determination. "You're probably busy—"

"No, no, I want to!" Harry interrupted. "It's…nice to be able to do something for a friend."

Hermione's gaze softened. "Okay," she said, walking over to her broom. "Thank you."

"Let me just get my Nimbus," said Harry, beaming at her, and he sprinted off, robes fluttering behind him.

"You have to throw your weight into it if you want to turn that tightly," Harry said, backing up as Hermione's broom stuttered to a stop in front of him. "You can't just use your hands and knees, you're still curving really wide."

Hermione huffed in frustration. "I did that," she snapped, then felt bad because Harry was only trying to help. "I mean—" she sighed "—I thought I did, anyway."

"It's okay," Harry tried. "You're doing a lot better than you used to be."

Hermione conceded the point. In flying class, her movements had often been shaky and uncertain, and though she was able to complete most of the tasks, it hadn't come without a lot of effort. Now, she was flying quickly and smoothly, if not in a flashy manner. It wasn't up to her personal standard of "excel at everything', but it was at least an improvement.

"And besides," said Harry, "who cares if you aren't perfect at this one thing?"

Hermione opened her mouth. I care, she thought. My parents care. Other people care. You—

"It's not like—it's not like not being good at Quidditch makes you, uh, less… Less." Harry stumbled over his words and phrasing, but Hermione understood his meaning all the same. "We can continue practicing, but it should be 'cause you want to, not because you feel like you have to."

Hermione sighed, looking down at the broom she was holding. "But Ron," she started weakly, but Harry cut her off.

"Ron can be an idiot sometimes," said Harry, the sage voice strange from him. "But he was only teasing back on Thursday. And he wouldn't want you to force yourself to do something when you're not having fun."

Hermione bit her lip.

"I think I do want to keep trying," she said finally. "I want to be able to play Quidditch with you and Ron in the summer; it does look fun, even if it doesn't really make sense sometimes. But maybe we don't have to continue right now."

"Good call," said Harry, rubbing his arms, and Hermione suddenly noticed how cold she was; on her broomstick, she'd been too focused on flying to really pay any attention to the temperature, but now, the chill in the air burrowed itself into her consciousness all at once, causing her to shiver.

"Do you have a bottle or anything?" Hermione asked, and Harry handed over an old vial from Potions class. Hermione conjured up a wisp of blue flames, and stuffed it into the vial, her hands warming where she held it in her palm. Harry huddled closer, looping an arm through Hermione's.

"Let's go back," Harry said, grinning at her. "I'm horrible at chess, and Ron was bugging me all day for someone to play it with him—you're a lot better than I am."

"That's not saying much," Hermione said. "I'm bad, but you're abysmal."

Laughing, they trudged through the snow back to the castle, and despite the snow, Hermione felt warm and glowy inside.