Slightly longer chapter here: most of the chapters I write from now on will tend to be slightly longer. As always, leave a suggestion!
"Hmmph. I still don't get why we need to learn how to cast a Patronus. The Dementors are all guarding Azkaban, anyway." I irritatably thumbed through Scott's Defence against the Dark Arts notebook. The creased pages were dotted with annotations in his cramped handwriting: the instructions on how to successfully form a Patronus didn't make much sense either.
"Apart from the fact Lupin's giving us extra credit, it'd be a good spell to know for the OWLs, and in case we ever need to evade trouble." A wide grin spread across his freckled face. "Trouble in the form of Dementors looking to suck out your soul. Besides, it'd be fun to find out what animal form your Patronus takes."
Patronus animal forms often share qualities with the caster: personality types of the caster are often shared with the animal produced, Scott had scrawled. I pondered this for a moment. My mother's Patronus had taken the form of a hyena, and I wondered if mine would be similar. What would Scott's be? Probably a groundhog. I chuckled audibly, prompting an odd look from Scott.
"Lupin did say producing even a non-corporeal Patronus was difficult, so don't expect casting one on your first try," Scott added seriously. "Give it a shot, anyway. Think of a happy memory, and draw a few circles in the air."
Getting off the bench, he took a few steps onto the grassy field to practice casting the charm. I did the same, drawing my wand from my robes. We were near the Quidditch pitch now. Quidditch: could that be my happy memory?
Taking a deep breath, Scott twirled his wand around forcefully. "Expecto Patronum!" he bellowed. A few silvery-blue sparks sprouted from the end of his wand, fizzling in the wind. Scott frowned.
"Maybe the memory isn't happy enough." I recalled a note scrawled in the notebook. "What memory did you use?" Scott tore his gaze away from me.
"I'd rather not say," he mumbled. I decided to drop the subject, watching him for a moment."Why don't you try now, Miles?"
A happy memory. My mind raced to find one, before settling on the final match of the Inter-House Quidditch Cup two years ago.
"The score is still 210-30, with Slytherin Keeper Miles Bletchley's fantastic defense against Adam Wenlock preserving Slytherin's lead over Ravenclaw," announced Heidi Alderton, the excitable seventh-year Hufflepuff commentator. My hands trembled with excitement: my first year playing Keeper, and I was doing so well! I had blocked six attempts to score so far: I felt unstoppable.
"Anthony Wilkes of Slytherin has spotted the Snitch near the Ravenclaw goals: but he's not alone! Ravenclaw Seeker Iris Prosser is in hot pursuit..." The crowds were in a frenzy: the two Seekers back then were known to be the best, and neither Wilkes nor Prosser seemed to have a clear advantage over the other. Alderton's commentary faded into an echo as I watched, slack-jawed, at the spins and turns they skillfully executed. The Snitch hovered about, tantalizingly out of reach from both Seekers' clawing hands, until...
"Iris Prosser has caught the Snitch! What a play!" My insides began to quiver, until I realized that we still had a thirty point lead. Prosser denied us the Snitch, but we still won. My heart drummed against my chest, a feeling of warmth spreading through me. I had saved six goals! I helped the team win!
My grip on my wand tightened as the elation I had felt two years ago flooded back. "Expecto Patronum!" Waving my wand clockwise viciously, I watched as silvery-green smoke was expelled from my tip of the wand. Slowly, it began to form into a fog around me. This was it! My Patronum!
My excitement was short-lived, though: the smoke dissipated, leaving me standing in the field. I was distantly aware of the breeze whipping my hair about, as my heart began to feel heavy,
"Don't feel bad, Miles. These are advanced spells after all." Scott patted my shoulder reassuringly, but his voice had a hint of disappointment to it too. It's just extra credit, why was I so let down? I accepted the Fruit Rock he fished out of his pocket, popping it into my mouth. Lime. Scott chewed nosily on his sweet, distractedly flipping through his notebook.
"Miles, what memory did you use?" Should I tell him? Scott was there during the match, after all. "If you don't mind me asking?" he added.
I blinked twice. "Quidditch. I thought about Quidditch." Intensity flittered across Scott's green eyes as he tried to rack his brains to figure out what I was thinking about. Eventually, he nodded acceptingly. "I think you were getting there. With practice you could probably cast the Patronus."
The pitch was a minute's walk away from the benches where we had been practicing. My Nimbus 2001 was probably still in my closet, as were my Quidditch robes: untouched since our defeat at the final game two weeks ago. Wouldn't want them to collect dust. I probably should start a training schedule. My steps quickened. I'll free up Mondays and Wednesdays...
"Where are you going?" Scott called from behind, trying to keep up with my pace. Without turning around, I said, "Quidditch pitch. Just thought I'd fly around. Let out the stress."
The footsteps behind me stopped, but I did not. "Flying's not my thing. See you at dinner!" With a wave, Scott walked back towards the castle.
The Slytherin team room was clean and spartan, unlike the Hufflepuffs' room directly beside it. Still, it felt familiar: I had previously practiced here for so long, and for so hard, be the training the physical exercises Montague and Flint were so keen on making us do, or drills involving catching and throwing the Quaffle. It wasn't nostalgia, though. We would be back next year.
My closet door swung open soundlessly, and I walked in. A Lumos illuminated the magically-enlarged space. Stepping over my old training broom and a discarded robe, I retrieved my Nimbus 2001 which was propped up in and old corner. I then changed into my training attire: the usual skin-hugging robes, the faded green and silver a testament to the hours I had spent earlier this year wearing it.
I exited my closet, walked past the benches, past the showers, and out of the room into the familiar pitch. The grass was green underfoot, the sun shining, and the spectators stands empty. Just Miles Bletchley and his broom. I dragged my fingers across the handle of the broom, feeling for the initials I had cut into it earlier this year. This was familiar. This would be relaxing.
Mounting my Nimbus 2001, I mentally mapped out my flying route. A few rounds around the pitch to warm me up. Perhaps I could practice diving too, which would entail me going high up before I could maximize my practice. I'm a fourth year. This shouldn't be too difficult.
In time, I had completed a few quick laps and three dives, in the span of forty minutes. My shoulders begun to ache, and I reminded myself to practice physically, too.
I was at the peak of my fourth ascent into the clouds now. The cool rush of wind tousled my normally straight hair, my lips were chapped from the dry air, and I was pretty sure my palms were beginning to turn red, but I was enjoying myself genuinely. Flying was theurapetic without the bark of the captain or the pressing need to maximize my speed and handling, and I looked forward to practicing alone over the next few weeks.
Pulling my broom down, I began my descent. The wind whistled around me as I plummeted towards the ground. At least I'm in control this time... and having fun. Adrenaline surged through me. About a hundred meters off the ground now. Yanking the handle upwards, my broom jerked to a halt, and I felt myself lurch to the right. My knuckles turned white as I gripped my broom tightly, and I remained on. I was clumsy this time. Looking down towards the green field, I pondered if a break was needed.
In the distance, a figure shuffled about the spectator stands. I furrowed my brows. Who was watching? Scott? The minute figure finally came to a halt: he must have sat down. In the Gryffindor stands? I flew towards the stands slowly and cautiously.
Leanne Dobbs? My broom hovered in the air, as I delibated whether to leave them alone or question them. However, my scrutiny revealed the two weren't looking at me. They were watching the second entrance to the Quidditch pitch: where Ravenclaw and Gryffindor teams exited. Probably Gryffindor. Would Bell be here?
A tiny figure stepped onto the pitch, broom in hand. The sun illuminated the figure's hair: it was a brilliant shade of gold. Bell was here!
I flew down to meet her, hovering a few meters in front of Bell. She mounted her broom: a Nimbus 1700, it seemed. Eyeing me, a slow smile began to spread across her face. I returned it, beaming foolishly in spite of myself.
"Miles! I thought Slytherin canceled their practice." As I had expected, there was no hostility or contempt in her voice, only curiousity. I doubted the other Gryffindors on the team would have treated me the same. They probably wouldn't have even bothered with finding out our training schedule. Bell probably heard it from Scott.
"We did. I'm coming here by myself," I explained evenly. Wringing my wrists to release the tension in my muscles, I nodded up at the sky. "I'll race you. Three rounds around the pitch, fifty meters above ground."
Bell looked as if she was considering my offer, but the earnest grin that never left her face gave away her intentions. "I'll do it. Loser buys the other a Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks next trip."
I snorted. "I'm a cocoa kind of person myself." Bell angled herself, her broom parallel to mine. "Ready when you are."
Hunching over my broom, I began the countdown. "Three... two... one!" My broom shot forward, putting some distance between me and Bell. Her older Nimbus would never match mine when it came to speed. Perhaps I should have challenged her to something more acrobatic. The sweat was causing my robes to stick to my back, and I resolved to have a shower immediately after.
The sharp right turn was coming up ahead, and I gently tugged on my broom. I had made the mistake of being too overconfident in my third year, and ended up with a fractured nose. I prepared to throw myself to the right at five meters away from the bend to leave a safe distance for turning.
There was a sudden rush of cloth behind me, but I kept my eyes ahead. Bell squeezed past me, and I could only watch as she lithely made the ninety-degree turn. A mixture of humiliation and admiration welled up in me, and my grip on the broom tightened yet again.
By the time I rounded the bend, Bell was a good thirty meters ahead of me: the next turn was coming up in another hundred meters, too. Glancing back, she smirked at me before speeding ahead. I resolved to outmaneuver her at the corner, but inwardly knew it was a lost cause.
"One Butterbeer next trip, Miles." Bell playfully smacked me on the shoulder, and I masked the sting of defeat with a small smile. She had finished the lap a good fifteen seconds ahead of me, and seemed barely grazed. On the other hand, I had two near-collisions, and my torso was sore from relentlessly pushing the broom to speed up. The rest of my body was in bad shape too: I was sure my fingers would ache tomorrow. And to top it off, I would have to spend money too! A token sum, but it would remind me of losing to Bell today.
So why did I feel so great?
The cool water splashed against the stink of my skin, a pleasant chill rippling through my body. I missed this sensation. It was refreshing to come back to a cold shower after training. Did today count as training? Probably. I reached for a bar of soap, vigorously scrubbing my arms. Once I was satisfied they were cleaned, I reached over to my back. I massaged out most of the kinks in my muscle, but my lower back was frustratingly out of reach as usual. Grabbing the shower, I instead let the water spray at my back. The lather on my chest slowly dripped to the floor, and I watched it detachedly.
The water had begun to pool up on the floor. My reflection stared back at me. Same sharp nose, same sleek black hair, same grey eyes. Still Miles Bletchley. The firmness of the muscles in my chest and stomach remained: it would take more than two weeks for the tissue to deteriorate, and I resolved to prevent that from happening.
Something about me was different though. As the water trickled to a halt, and I stepped out of the shower, it occurred to me I would be accompanying Bell to Hogsmeade next weekend.
I'm not sure if I'm writing action scenes well enough...