The game's over there," Lavender reminded Harry, pointing to the sky. Madam Hooch had only just blown her whistle to restart the match. Tanner apparently regained consciousness, with no lasting ill-effects.
"I'm looking for evidence that Snape was completely off his nut to suggest that I' d be in any danger if I were flying today," was Harry's reply.
"Well you're not the only one anxious about the match. Hermione's nearly as bad you are," Lavender announced.
"Hermione is not at all anxious about the match, thank you very much!" Hermione snapped, feeling a wave of annoyance towards Lavender and her stupid pink raincoat.
Dean whistled. "Someone got out of the wrong side of bed this morning."
"Oh, be quiet, Dean."
Her attitude that afternoon ought to have worried her, but Hermione found that she couldn't have cared less. It was official; Malfoy had corrupted her. She was now evil. The certificate of confirmation was probably on its way in the mail.
Lavender was correct, however. She was most definitely as anxious as Harry. More so, and not just because of the ever present threat of danger. She was shaking slightly, a fact which she was able to disguise by tightly crossing her legs and her ankles. Her hands felt clammy and despite the very pleasant breeze that was now blowing through the stands. The back of her school blouse was fairly plastered to her skin with perspiration.
Hermione felt sick. She felt like she was about to sit for her NEWTS all over again. The reason for her predicament was bizarre. The contents of her stomach, no matter that they were meagre, seemed to be magically linked with whatever Malfoy was doing on his broom. When he dove, so did she. When he rocketed upwards, she was right there with him. When he did a rather impressive pirouette in the air to avoid Anne Takamara as she determinedly stalked a Bludger with revenge on her mind, Hermione felt like she was spinning with him.
Feeling like every goal was a matter of life and death was a new and interesting experience for her.
So this was what Harry had tried to describe to her on several occasions. Pity Harry didn't tend to have a way with words and had not managed to sell the idea that Quidditch Was Life, to her.
"It's like wanting to throw up every two minutes and not really minding," she recalled a besotted looking Harry once telling her.
Her response had been something like, "Ew."
Really, it would have helped if Malfoy would just sit still in the air for longer than a second, but Hermione supposed that wasn't the point of Quidditch, was it?
Funny how these particular side effects were not specifically mentioned in Tallowstub's book. Feeling grumpy, Hermione thought it might be prudent for her to add a Post-It or something to the chapter on 'Effects'. Something along the lines of 'Under the effects of Fida Mia, a person may experience every utterly stupid, crazy, suicidal, dung-headed, Quidditch manoeuvre undertaken by one's Spell Partner.'
Malfoy wasn't a reckless flier, though, Hermione had to admit. She had seen enough of him in the air over the years to know that he was undeniably good.
God, she hated flying. The fact that she was completely lousy at it was not even a determining factor. Well, ok, it was - a little. It all went back to that first day of broom-handling lessons in their first year.
She had watched Harry's broom respond to him like an affectionate puppy to a doting owner. Ron had been a late-bloomer to his skill, but he had still got there in the end. To realise that there was something she could not master, no matter how much study she put into it, was disconcerting.
Often, Hermione wondered if it had anything to do with her being a Muggleborn. But if that was the case, how did one explain Harry and his prodigious talent on a broom?
Her ego preferred to swat that explanation, however, putting forth the fact that Harry was a freak of nature and thus did not count.
The quickest way to get from Point A to Point B, by Hermione's reckoning, was to walk. Failing that, there was always a bicycle. If you wanted to be pedantic about it, there was also the bus, the train, a tram, a taxi, not to mention Flooing or Apparition. Why fly a broomstick when one could choose to live?
"Honey roasted cashews?" Neville asked her. He nudged her in the arm with a brown paper bag. Hermione turned