The previous events made Draco totally nostalgic, self-loathing, extremely depressed, and suicidal. To express his anger to the world, he painted his fingernails black, dyed his hair black, put on eyeliner, checkered his Slytherin robes, and read Catcher in the Rye. He hated the people who bashed him for his weaknesses. The insecurity and angst brought tears into his eyes. "I was perfect before", he thought. "Why oh why did I do that to Volda! Why oh why did she find out about it?" The whole night he thought of ways to hide his thinness and fragility. He tried stuffing his robes with all sort of things but he found out his body couldn't carry the weight. He tried 6-inch heels, but he tripped every time he took a step. He tried steroids, but it only made his balls intolerable. He tried many spells and enchantments but Volda's spell was irreversible. Looking at his photo album, tears welled up in his eyes. There was only one place where he could feel safe and important… Gringotts or Gringgots or Greengots or whatever. The bank. (forgot the spelling sorry)
So without further ado, he screamed accio for his broom.
"Accio Broom!"
"Accio Broom!"
"Accio Broom!"
Cricket cricket cricket.
Out of the blue, a book about quidditch appeared in front of him.
For a wizard to achieve optimum flying, one must have a broom proportional to his body.
"Propotional to.. what the hell?"
A broom altered to a new form will permanently stay that way.
Brooms have their own mind. If your broom feels that you are not fit to fly it, it would not answer to your call.
"Not fit to fly!"
If you're under 5 feet, might we suggest a feather duster.
A/N: I have ran out of ideas. Boooo… :-( I'm so lame right now. 300 words. poor me. i'm so tired. who wants to do this story for me?