Hermione's tawny hair frizzled in the soft rain as she gripped her rickety broom. Fat raindrops slid down its battered handle, cursing under her breath, Hermione panicked as her hands slipped on the slick wooden handle of her broom. Madam Hooch's deep voice echoed through the pitch ordering them to mount their brooms. Regaining command of her rebellious broom, Hermione, distaste etched on her face mounted her broom with caution better suited to wrangling one of Charlie Weasley's dragons. Hermoine's stomach dropped as she clawed her way up towards the misty horizon. She was certain she would always loathe flying.