Madame Hooch arrived on the pitch, her stout, robust form bobbing as she strode through the grass. Everyone was looking at her - except Harry Potter, who was rather grumpily eyeing the stands. Why did they think they needed visitor seating, as if this was just a show of poorly trained monkeys? Her gruff (cigarette laced?) voice summoned even Harry's attention, as she barked, "Well, what are you waiting for?" Her bark was kinder than Snape's, Harry thought - the sound of expected obedience. Harry wanted that voice. "Everyone go stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."
"Stick out your right hand over your broom, and say Up!" Hooch belted, her voice too low to be a proper bellow. It was the voice of a person used to crowds, used to cheers and shouts and boisterous behavior. And being heard above all that.
"UP!" Everyone shouted, and Harry felt his broom snap into his hand. Looking around, poor Hermione Granger was finally failing at something - her broom seemed to have just rolled over. Malfoy and some of the other pureblood prats (Harry'd count Ron amongst them, except he was more of a ruddy pauper than a ponce - not that Harry had room to judge) had their brooms in their hands.
Hermione simply picked up her broom with both hands. Madame Hooch strode over to Malfoy, correcting his grip - apparently Mister Malfoy's father wasn't as good at flying as he had told his son he was.
Harry had been focusing on Malfoy and the teacher, but he spun as he heard Hermione shriek. "Neville! Neville!" Harry saw Neville twenty feet in the air - white faced and clinging like an eel to a broom that was still shooting straight up. Only as he had seen it, it dove toward the ground. Neville dropped the wayward broom, and suddenly he was falling, rolling - he hit on his back, with his arm slapping the ground, really really hard. Harry heard the sickening crack, recognizing it from when one of Dudley's friends had been playing Rugby and had gotten Seriously Hurt (it was serious, and you knew it was serious, when Parents came Home From Work, and Piers couldn't play for ages - not that it kept any of them from Harry Hunting).
Madame Hooch gave a loud, startled bellow, as she bolted as quick as her short legs could carry her towards Longbottom. Before she got there, Hermione - fleeter of foot than one might have supposed - got there and squatted on the ground next to Neville. She seemed to have lost all sense, because there she was shaking him, trying to render him sensate with sheer tumult. Harry briefly considered darting over to stop her before she did more damage to the foolish Gryffindor (had he been trying to prove himself, Harry wondered suddenly), before noting the bullrush of Madame Hooch, and deciding to leave well enough alone.
"Out of the way, girl" Madame Hooch cried, pushing Hermione so hard she turned a full somersault, sitting up with grass stuck out of her bushy hair. Harry stored the image to laugh at later. Gently, Madame Hooch probed the boy's wrist, surprising yelps of pain that Harry just knew Neville would get teased about later. In fact, the downright predatory grin on Draco Malfoy's face virtually guaranteed it.
[a/n: You're getting more text here, because Slytherin Harry analyzes things. And actually knows a little about healing (from books, mostly, though Aunt Petunia never fussed if he took bandages. Never helped, either.)
Review please? Do you like more of my freestory, or more of the bookplot? I think I have fun with both.]