Lyrin
Lyrin's Pov (Neville's girlfriend)
I'd given up waiting. I needed to see him.
I scramble out to the courtyard, the yellowed, cracked tiles crawling with bugs and weeds, dried and brown from the scorching sun. Sprinting to broom shed, banging on the door, the old, wood panels had absorbed so much water that they were practically sponge at this point, but still somehow sturdy enough to withstood my desperate, adrenaline-filled bashes.
"DAMN IT!"
I grab a plant pot, the pot that just happened to be filled with Mimbulus mimbletonia, Nevilles favorite plant..
I hurl the cracked, dirt-stained pot at the tiles of the courtyard in my rage, the old terracotta walls of it shattering far too easily. I let out a raged sob, falling to my knees in the dusty courtyard grazing my knees, pinpricks of blood smearing on the old pavement tile.
I notice a glimmer of rusted silver among the dirt and shredded leaves of the pot.
A chocked gasp that's really mostly another sob leaves me as a realise what it is.
It's the key.
I tear through the shattered, broken pieces of the pot, the shattered fragments tearing and slitting my bare palms, I I barely feel the pain, the adrenaline pumping all the pain and logic out my system.
I shove the key into the lock so hard the door shakes, and I have to try at least three times to turn the key, my shaky, sweating palms slipping against the rough metal of the key.
I kick the door, knocking chunks of wet, discoloured wood as I do so.
I grab the first broom I see, not caring if it's mine, not caring if I've been prohibited from using other people's brooms at least a dozen times.
I curse the stupid door, the stupid hidden plant pot and the cold tarmac on which I fell. I curse everything, and most of all Neville, curing his stupidity and willing him with every fiber of my being to come back.
"Up! UP YOU DAMNED THING!"
I screams in desperation at the broom, as it wavers shakily into the air, I clamber onto it as fast as I possibly can, half fallen off already as I take of, the sound barrier cracking around me as I blast onto the cold, early May air.
My hand slip up the broom, my feet tangling in the brittle twigs as I lower my self down closer to the broom, willing it to go faster.
A jagged splinter inbeds itself in one of the the already open and bleeding wounds in my palm, ripping a pained yell from my throat.
Why has the broom got goddamn splinters? I look down at my bleeding palm, and the cracked wood.
It's an engraving. My hands glide along the rough surface, undoubtedly gathering more splinters. I know who's broom this is.
My mind flashes to the memory. Me and
Neville, him carving both our names into the shiny New wood of his broom handle, him sat on his broom as he carved it.
the broom, only floating a few feet in the air. That's this broom, his broom.
Tears of sadness and longing stream frown my face as I fly Neville's broom, the hot tears in stark contrast against the cold air, the wind whipping against my cheeks, stinging my eyes as I fly on my could-be-dead boyfriends broom.