Guin had been on broomsticks before. For her sixth birthday, Angeline had bought her one of the toy models that catered to wizard parents everywhere ("Fail-safe! Only a foot off the ground!") as a gift, and Guin had spent many the happy hour skimming over the tips of the grasses, trailing her feet in them as she pushed the speed of the broom as fast as it would go. And they didn't go very fast, either – that was supposedly another one of the safety features built into each of Caspian's Kiddy Rides. Later, she had her own real broomstick, a Cleansweep Seven, which she flew over the secluded grounds of Marlowe's Nook.
However, the twenty or so broomsticks lined up before her on the lawn of the Hogwarts front lawn were a different story all together. They were old, and rickety looking – some were Shooting Stars, a make that had gone out of manufacture years ago. She did not relish making a fool of herself, in front of the other Slytherins or in front of the Gryffindors, who were just now arriving. Malfoy and Potter were glaring at each other already. Guin sighed, rolled her eyes, and glanced sideways, and the ever-present messy head of L'Argent.
"Do you ever go away?" Guin wanted to know.
"I'm like a bad penny," L'Argent replied, "…Though what exactly a bad penny is, I'm not sure."
"Oh, so you don't know what you are? Don't worry, I can tell you. You're a pain in the rear."
"I can always count on you, dearest Marlowe, to salvage my wounded ego."
"Your ego doesn't need salvaging, L'Argent. There's more than enough of it already."
He sighed and clasped his hands to his chest. "Ouch. See, see there? It hurts. Ouch, ow," he said, staggering dramatically.
"What, have you taken to drinking butterbeer before flying class? Not one of your brighter ideas, L'Argent."
"I'm allowed to have bright ideas?" he asked, "As opposed to, what, dark ones? Shadowy ideas here, folks, gettcher shadowy ideas.."
"I hope you fall off your broom," she told him seriously.
"Of course I will. Can't disappoint your high expectations, can I?"
"I didn't know you had a girlfriend, L'Argent," Malfoy said nastily.
"Oh! Her?" L'Argent asked innocently, squinting at Guin as though he hadn't seen her before. She sighed and subjected herself to his scrutiny; on a whim twirling around like a model on a catwalk. "She's not my girlfriend, Malfoy. She is, in, oh, say… Five, ten minutes? She's going to be my attempted murderer."
"Only attempted?" Guin scoffed, mock-affronted.
"Sorry, make that a successful murderer, then," L'Argent returned placidly.
Any further comment on Malfoy's part was interrupted by the arrival of Madam Hooch, a stocky witch with disconcertingly yellow eyes and gunmetal-gray hair, which, coupled with a blunt, square chin gave her the look of a Bludger. She looked at the Slytherins and Gryffindors, staring sulkily at each other, and snapped, "Well, what are you all waiting for? Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up." Arms crossed over her chest, she watched as they scrambled to follow the instructions.
Guin chose the best broom she could find, which unfortunately was not saying much. It was rather ragged and forlorn looking, as though it had given up the ghost long ago and was merely waiting to be destroyed. Rilla joined her, shaking her head. "When I was told we'd be learning how to fly broomsticks, I expected something.. er.. a bit more impressive." Guin could only nod in agreement. Madam Hooch instructed them to hold out their right hands, but she supposed that, being left handed, her dominant grip would suffice instead.
"UP!" she and Rilla shouted. Rilla's broom didn't move; Guin's leaped obediently into her palm. Neville Longbottom, the clumsy, pudgy Gryffindor, looked nervously at his, though it made no hint at motion. L'Argent was also holding his broom carefully, it had obliged somewhat slower than Guin's. Out of the corner of her eye, Guin noted that Harry Potter was also clutching his broom; together they made a core of those who had finished correctly. Most of the other brooms rolled around on the ground, and one, stubbornly, inched away from Crabbe.
Madam Hooch explained the correct way to mount a broom. Guin slid onto the end, watching those of Muggle birth struggle to stay atop the stick without falling off onto the ground. She hid her mouth in her hand and snickered softly, shaking her head. "Okay there, Rilla?" she wanted to know, watching her friend clutch onto the broomstick for dear life. Rilla nodded grimly and looked ahead, watching the teacher for further instruction. After making sure that everyone was settled, she prowled through the rows and corrected. "Wrong, Malfoy; wrong! Your hands are placed in a weak position… Wrong for years, from the looks of it."
Potter and Weasley looked delighted. So, she reflected, did L'Argent.
"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard. Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle – three – two –" Oh, no. Guin winced as she saw Neville shove from the ground and shoot upwards. He was rising steadily before he fell, maybe thirty-five feet in the air. Guin couldn't take her eyes away, though she wanted to hide them – it was a split second before he hit the ground, though in that time she thought wildly that it would be quite difficult to clean little bits of Neville from the ground.
However, much to her relief, he didn't squish upon impact. Instead, there was a succession of loud noises that were quite unpleasant and made several people wince, culminating in a crack. Neville moaned softly in the grass as his broom flew off into the sunset – namely, the Forbidden Forest. "Broken wrist," Madam Hooch said as she examined him, worried and pale, "Come on, boy – it's all right, up you get. None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say, 'Quidditch.' Come on, dear."
They left. "Sad," L'Argent said, and he really did sound regretful. Maybe more so about being forced to put the broom down than the fact that Neville had just broken his arm, but it really was hard to tell. Guin found herself eyeing her own flying implement impatiently, waiting for Madam Hooch to return so that they'd be able to fly… It wasn't like Madam Pomfrey couldn't fix broken arms in seconds.. There was a commotion, and Rilla yelped in surprise.
She and L'Argent looked up at the same time, to see Potter and Malfoy on their broomsticks, facing each other in the air. Something glittered red in Malfoy's hand, but she couldn't make out what it was. The two were yelling at each other – "Civilized, isn't it?" L'Argent commented, gray eyes focused on the battle of the brooms.
Next Malfoy dropped whatever it was, and Potter zoomed on a downward arc, as though he was a Quidditch player, and the thing was a tiny red Snitch. He caught it before it broke on the ground, tumbled off his broom, and – "HARRY POTTER!" It was McGonagall. Oh, he's in for it now, Guin thought, without malice. "Never – in all my time at Hogwarts— how dare you – might have broken your neck –"
The various Gryffindors argued, but McGonagall marched Potter off, practically dragging the poor boy by the ear. "He didn't even last a month," she mused aloud to Rilla.
"That's the spirit, Marlowe," said Malfoy, "And here I thought you weren't a real Slytherin – seems like you've got the attitude after all?"
"It wasn't an insult, Malfoy, which you would have realized if you'd bothered to use the undersized pea that serves you as a brain," Guin said, folding her arms over her chest, "It was an observation."
"Oh, an observation, is it? You really should've been a Gryffindor, Marlowe, and then we wouldn't have to put up with your crap."
"I'm going to start crying, in a moment," Guin told Rilla, "Draco Malfoy doesn't want me to be a Slytherin! Hold me," she said dramatically, throwing her arms out at L'Argent, "My heart is shattered."
He flushed and grinned at her. "Dearest Marlowe, you know I love you, but isn't this a bit sudden?"
"Back to your brooms," barked Madam Hooch, appearing from somewhere behind them. "Longbottom should be fine, Madam Pomfrey fixed his arm nicely. He's resting, and we have a lesson to continue. Re-mount, and I shall check your grip again. Once I am finished, you'll be allowed to fly upward – and wait for my whistle this time!" Keen yellow eyes dared them to do otherwise.
On the broom, Guin forgot instantly about Neville. There was only the air and herself, flying free – "Marlowe! We've had enough theatrics today, back down here, now!" Sheepishly Guin returned to earth; the other students had been called back several minutes ago, and only she had still remained above ground. Malfoy rolled his eyes at her, but Rilla nodded admiringly.
"I wish I was that good!" she said wistfully.
Class finished and the students dispersed, chattering about the Fall of Neville, as it was already being termed. "That was interesting," Rilla said lazily, glancing over her shoulder at Madam Hooch, who was busy picking up the various brooms where the students had thrown them. "I'm just glad I didn't fall, like Neville, I would have been so embarrassed! Horrible, really. He's such a klutz, but I suppose he really can't help it…" Rilla's steady stream of talk washed over her, she half-listened. Something else, however, caught her attention. It was a pained mewing noise.
"What's that?" she demanded suddenly.
"What's what?"
"I heard something.. Sounded like a cat."
"Oh! Yes! It sounds.. over there," Rilla said, and pointed to a bush.
Huddled underneath it was a small gray striped form, a kitten so undernourished that it somewhat resembled a mouse. It was a tabby, from the looks of it, dark stormy ashen hues with lines of a lighter cloudy shade. Its front paws were pure white, and the eyes were the wonderful green-hazel of a cat, complete with slit pupils and shining inner light. Scars decorated the feline's back, it's left paw hung limply, broken, and Guin was reminded of the animal she had rescued at Shadehurst. "Poor thing," she murmured, reaching out to touch the cat.
It hissed and batted its paw feebly at her, warding the tentative hand away. "Stupid git!" Guin exclaimed, "Honest, I'm trying to help—" The kitten surveyed her silently for a few moments, all delicate pink trefoil nose and dainty paws, and drew back its lip, as though deciding whether or not to bite the pale hand invading its space. Surprisingly, it didn't, and lay still while letting Guin lift it into the air, cradling the injured animal carefully against her chest.
"Mew," said the kitten, for all the world as innocent as a newborn – it would never bite its owner, oh no, that was for the uncivilized alley cats. "Mew!" she exclaimed, a touch more emphatically.
"You need to name her," Rilla spoke up.
"Name her? I'm not good at thinking up names.. You name her, Ril."
"How about Liadan?" Rilla suggested; "It means 'gray lady.'"
"I like it," Guin said, patting Liadan lightly on the head. "Right, let's go see if Madam Pomfrey can fix up her cuts and her leg..
However, the twenty or so broomsticks lined up before her on the lawn of the Hogwarts front lawn were a different story all together. They were old, and rickety looking – some were Shooting Stars, a make that had gone out of manufacture years ago. She did not relish making a fool of herself, in front of the other Slytherins or in front of the Gryffindors, who were just now arriving. Malfoy and Potter were glaring at each other already. Guin sighed, rolled her eyes, and glanced sideways, and the ever-present messy head of L'Argent.
"Do you ever go away?" Guin wanted to know.
"I'm like a bad penny," L'Argent replied, "…Though what exactly a bad penny is, I'm not sure."
"Oh, so you don't know what you are? Don't worry, I can tell you. You're a pain in the rear."
"I can always count on you, dearest Marlowe, to salvage my wounded ego."
"Your ego doesn't need salvaging, L'Argent. There's more than enough of it already."
He sighed and clasped his hands to his chest. "Ouch. See, see there? It hurts. Ouch, ow," he said, staggering dramatically.
"What, have you taken to drinking butterbeer before flying class? Not one of your brighter ideas, L'Argent."
"I'm allowed to have bright ideas?" he asked, "As opposed to, what, dark ones? Shadowy ideas here, folks, gettcher shadowy ideas.."
"I hope you fall off your broom," she told him seriously.
"Of course I will. Can't disappoint your high expectations, can I?"
"I didn't know you had a girlfriend, L'Argent," Malfoy said nastily.
"Oh! Her?" L'Argent asked innocently, squinting at Guin as though he hadn't seen her before. She sighed and subjected herself to his scrutiny; on a whim twirling around like a model on a catwalk. "She's not my girlfriend, Malfoy. She is, in, oh, say… Five, ten minutes? She's going to be my attempted murderer."
"Only attempted?" Guin scoffed, mock-affronted.
"Sorry, make that a successful murderer, then," L'Argent returned placidly.
Any further comment on Malfoy's part was interrupted by the arrival of Madam Hooch, a stocky witch with disconcertingly yellow eyes and gunmetal-gray hair, which, coupled with a blunt, square chin gave her the look of a Bludger. She looked at the Slytherins and Gryffindors, staring sulkily at each other, and snapped, "Well, what are you all waiting for? Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up." Arms crossed over her chest, she watched as they scrambled to follow the instructions.
Guin chose the best broom she could find, which unfortunately was not saying much. It was rather ragged and forlorn looking, as though it had given up the ghost long ago and was merely waiting to be destroyed. Rilla joined her, shaking her head. "When I was told we'd be learning how to fly broomsticks, I expected something.. er.. a bit more impressive." Guin could only nod in agreement. Madam Hooch instructed them to hold out their right hands, but she supposed that, being left handed, her dominant grip would suffice instead.
"UP!" she and Rilla shouted. Rilla's broom didn't move; Guin's leaped obediently into her palm. Neville Longbottom, the clumsy, pudgy Gryffindor, looked nervously at his, though it made no hint at motion. L'Argent was also holding his broom carefully, it had obliged somewhat slower than Guin's. Out of the corner of her eye, Guin noted that Harry Potter was also clutching his broom; together they made a core of those who had finished correctly. Most of the other brooms rolled around on the ground, and one, stubbornly, inched away from Crabbe.
Madam Hooch explained the correct way to mount a broom. Guin slid onto the end, watching those of Muggle birth struggle to stay atop the stick without falling off onto the ground. She hid her mouth in her hand and snickered softly, shaking her head. "Okay there, Rilla?" she wanted to know, watching her friend clutch onto the broomstick for dear life. Rilla nodded grimly and looked ahead, watching the teacher for further instruction. After making sure that everyone was settled, she prowled through the rows and corrected. "Wrong, Malfoy; wrong! Your hands are placed in a weak position… Wrong for years, from the looks of it."
Potter and Weasley looked delighted. So, she reflected, did L'Argent.
"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard. Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle – three – two –" Oh, no. Guin winced as she saw Neville shove from the ground and shoot upwards. He was rising steadily before he fell, maybe thirty-five feet in the air. Guin couldn't take her eyes away, though she wanted to hide them – it was a split second before he hit the ground, though in that time she thought wildly that it would be quite difficult to clean little bits of Neville from the ground.
However, much to her relief, he didn't squish upon impact. Instead, there was a succession of loud noises that were quite unpleasant and made several people wince, culminating in a crack. Neville moaned softly in the grass as his broom flew off into the sunset – namely, the Forbidden Forest. "Broken wrist," Madam Hooch said as she examined him, worried and pale, "Come on, boy – it's all right, up you get. None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say, 'Quidditch.' Come on, dear."
They left. "Sad," L'Argent said, and he really did sound regretful. Maybe more so about being forced to put the broom down than the fact that Neville had just broken his arm, but it really was hard to tell. Guin found herself eyeing her own flying implement impatiently, waiting for Madam Hooch to return so that they'd be able to fly… It wasn't like Madam Pomfrey couldn't fix broken arms in seconds.. There was a commotion, and Rilla yelped in surprise.
She and L'Argent looked up at the same time, to see Potter and Malfoy on their broomsticks, facing each other in the air. Something glittered red in Malfoy's hand, but she couldn't make out what it was. The two were yelling at each other – "Civilized, isn't it?" L'Argent commented, gray eyes focused on the battle of the brooms.
Next Malfoy dropped whatever it was, and Potter zoomed on a downward arc, as though he was a Quidditch player, and the thing was a tiny red Snitch. He caught it before it broke on the ground, tumbled off his broom, and – "HARRY POTTER!" It was McGonagall. Oh, he's in for it now, Guin thought, without malice. "Never – in all my time at Hogwarts— how dare you – might have broken your neck –"
The various Gryffindors argued, but McGonagall marched Potter off, practically dragging the poor boy by the ear. "He didn't even last a month," she mused aloud to Rilla.
"That's the spirit, Marlowe," said Malfoy, "And here I thought you weren't a real Slytherin – seems like you've got the attitude after all?"
"It wasn't an insult, Malfoy, which you would have realized if you'd bothered to use the undersized pea that serves you as a brain," Guin said, folding her arms over her chest, "It was an observation."
"Oh, an observation, is it? You really should've been a Gryffindor, Marlowe, and then we wouldn't have to put up with your crap."
"I'm going to start crying, in a moment," Guin told Rilla, "Draco Malfoy doesn't want me to be a Slytherin! Hold me," she said dramatically, throwing her arms out at L'Argent, "My heart is shattered."
He flushed and grinned at her. "Dearest Marlowe, you know I love you, but isn't this a bit sudden?"
"Back to your brooms," barked Madam Hooch, appearing from somewhere behind them. "Longbottom should be fine, Madam Pomfrey fixed his arm nicely. He's resting, and we have a lesson to continue. Re-mount, and I shall check your grip again. Once I am finished, you'll be allowed to fly upward – and wait for my whistle this time!" Keen yellow eyes dared them to do otherwise.
On the broom, Guin forgot instantly about Neville. There was only the air and herself, flying free – "Marlowe! We've had enough theatrics today, back down here, now!" Sheepishly Guin returned to earth; the other students had been called back several minutes ago, and only she had still remained above ground. Malfoy rolled his eyes at her, but Rilla nodded admiringly.
"I wish I was that good!" she said wistfully.
Class finished and the students dispersed, chattering about the Fall of Neville, as it was already being termed. "That was interesting," Rilla said lazily, glancing over her shoulder at Madam Hooch, who was busy picking up the various brooms where the students had thrown them. "I'm just glad I didn't fall, like Neville, I would have been so embarrassed! Horrible, really. He's such a klutz, but I suppose he really can't help it…" Rilla's steady stream of talk washed over her, she half-listened. Something else, however, caught her attention. It was a pained mewing noise.
"What's that?" she demanded suddenly.
"What's what?"
"I heard something.. Sounded like a cat."
"Oh! Yes! It sounds.. over there," Rilla said, and pointed to a bush.
Huddled underneath it was a small gray striped form, a kitten so undernourished that it somewhat resembled a mouse. It was a tabby, from the looks of it, dark stormy ashen hues with lines of a lighter cloudy shade. Its front paws were pure white, and the eyes were the wonderful green-hazel of a cat, complete with slit pupils and shining inner light. Scars decorated the feline's back, it's left paw hung limply, broken, and Guin was reminded of the animal she had rescued at Shadehurst. "Poor thing," she murmured, reaching out to touch the cat.
It hissed and batted its paw feebly at her, warding the tentative hand away. "Stupid git!" Guin exclaimed, "Honest, I'm trying to help—" The kitten surveyed her silently for a few moments, all delicate pink trefoil nose and dainty paws, and drew back its lip, as though deciding whether or not to bite the pale hand invading its space. Surprisingly, it didn't, and lay still while letting Guin lift it into the air, cradling the injured animal carefully against her chest.
"Mew," said the kitten, for all the world as innocent as a newborn – it would never bite its owner, oh no, that was for the uncivilized alley cats. "Mew!" she exclaimed, a touch more emphatically.
"You need to name her," Rilla spoke up.
"Name her? I'm not good at thinking up names.. You name her, Ril."
"How about Liadan?" Rilla suggested; "It means 'gray lady.'"
"I like it," Guin said, patting Liadan lightly on the head. "Right, let's go see if Madam Pomfrey can fix up her cuts and her leg..