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Lauren was sweating as she attempted to mount her broom. Somehow, it had always just flown out of reach as she clambered on air, immediately throwing her to the ground. Her knees were already purple with bruises, but she refused to let anyone -- even the professor -- see it, in fear that she, Lauren, would be deemed a weakling by others. The young Slytherin really cared about her impression on others.
Frustrated beyond measure, Lauren let out a soft but firm yowl of indignation as she broom flew out of reach again. Flying was just so hard; she couldn't even suceed in mounting her broom whilst some other students in her class were already members of the Quidditch and Broom Racing teams.
Not that she really cared, though. Broom racing, to her, was simply a for-fun race of swirling brooms around cute obstcles that really should not be taken seriously. Quidditch was just simply a sweaty mix of speed and brooms that made life messy. She was not planning to be a part of any of them in the future.
So why did she even have to attend flying lessons?
As if the broom was bewitched, Lauren managed to mount the broom as she asked herself that question. But she couldn't control it. Higher and higher she and the broom drifted, into the vast sky above.
No! No! Lauren's insides were swirling with panic as she desperately clung onto a wimpy branch. It threatened to shatter in Lauren's hands as she fought against the broom and the wind, propelling her upwards.
The rest of the flying class didn't even notice it, which Lauren considered to be both a good and a bad thing. A good thing because she wouldn't embarrass herself in front of every first year attending the class with her. A bad thing because she knew that she would never get help, and she would quickly be propelled upwards.
She couldn't let it be! There had to be some other way!
But, the cruel truth was, the only way was to ask help from the crowd of students below.
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