Jess’s dad is the one who first put her on a broom, so long ago she can barely remember it. She must have loved it then, she knows, because she’s loved it every time since. There’s nothing like the feel of the wind screaming in your ears when you’re up in the air, you and your broom slicing the sky like a dart, the chill slapping color into your cheeks. Nothing like it.

A collection of ficlet-like rambles and other HP-centric stuff from my tumblr. Ficlet-Ramble #1: Seventh-Year will put Your Name in GOF for a Sickle You’re a first-year who can’t cast Wingardium Leviosa yet? Whatever, sure, just pay up. There’s no way you're going to be chosen against Angelina “Can Probably Crush You With Her Thighs” Johnson, but at least you can tell all your eleven-year-old buddies that you Did A Cool Thing.