The Quidditch pitch was sodden and muddy. Rain fell in great sheets, beating the ground and creating a dense mist that drenched James to the skin within the first minute. Justin Kennely, the Gryffindor Captain, led his group out onto the field, yelling over the steady roar of the rain.

        "Quidditch isn't called on account of rain," he bellowed. "Some of the best Quidditch matches have taken place in weather like this, and much worse. The nineteen eighty-four Quidditch World Cup was held with a typhoon off the coast of Japan, you know. The Seekers both flew over sixty miles chasing the Snitch in gale-force winds. This is a trickle by comparison. Perfect weather for tryouts."

        Kennely stopped and turned in the center of the pitch, rain running from the tips of his nose and chin. There was a large Quidditch trunk at his feet, as well as a line of broomsticks neatly laid out on the wet grass. James saw that most of the house brooms were Nimbus Two Thousands, serviceable but rather obsolete models. He was a little relieved. If he'd been asked to fly a new Thunderstreak, he was pretty sure he'd have ended up in a tree a hundred miles away. At the opposite end of the pitch, James saw the Ravenclaw team assembling. He couldn't recognize any of them through the spattering rain and mist.

        "All right, then," Kennely called out. "First years, you're up first. I'm told that some of you haven't yet had your first broom lessons, but thanks to new regulations and the disclaimers you all signed before school, there's no reason you can't climb on up and give it a go. Let's see what you can do before we try anything with the rest of the team. No worries about formations or stunts, let's just see you get in the air and navigate the field without knocking each other to your dooms."

James felt his stomach plummet. He had hoped to spend some time watching the older students practice. Now that he was about to climb onto his first broom, he wished he had paid more attention to how the players handled them during the matches he'd been t, rather than looking for the spectacular stunts and messiest Bludger hits. The other first years were already moving forward, picking brooms and holding out their hands to summon them. James forced himself to join them.

        He stopped next to a broom and stared down at it. For the first time, the thing looked like nothing more than a chunk of wood with a brush on the end instead of a sleek flying apparatus. Rain dripped from the sodden bristles. James held his hand over it.

        "Up!" he said. His voice seemed tiny and silly to him. Nothing happened. He swallowed past something that felt like a steel marble in his throat. "Up!" he called again. The broom bobbed, and then dropped back to the grass with a dull smack. He glanced around at the other first years. None of them seemed to be having much more luck. Only one of them had succeeded in raising his broom. The older players were gathered around watching with amusement, nudging each other. Noah caught James' eye and hoisted his thumb into the air, nodding encouragingly.

        "Up!" James called again, mustering as much authority as he could. The broom bobbed again and James caught it before it could drop back. Close enough, he thought. He gave a huge sigh, then slung a leg over the broom. It floated uncertainly beneath him, barely supporting its own weight.

        Something swooped past him. "Way to go!" Ted cried over the rain as a first-year girl named Baptiste swept upward, wobbling slightly. Two more first years kicked off. One of them slipped sideways and swung, dangling from the bottom of his broom. He hung on for a second or two, then his fingers slipped from the wet broomstick and he tumbled to the ground. There was a roar of amiable laughter. "At least you got into the air, Klein!" somebody called.

        James pressed his lips together. Gripping the broomstick so tightly his knuckles turned white, he kicked off. The broom bobbed up and James saw the grass glide beneath him, then he began to descend again. His feet skidded and he wobbled, trying to kick up again. The broomstick arced upward and picked up speed, but James couldn't seem to make it maintain any height. He was skidding along the grass again, sending up rooster tails of muddy water. Hollers of encouragement erupted behind him. He concentrated furiously, holding his breath and kicking along as the broom weaved toward the Ravenclaws, who turned to watch. Up, he thought desperately, up, up, up! He remembered Noah's advice at dinner: lean forward to go, pull back to stop. He realized he was pulling on the broomstick, trying to make it rise, but that wasn't right, was it? He had to lean forward to go. But if he leaned forward, common sense told him he'd simply plow into the ground. Ravenclaws began to sidle away as he approached, trying to get out of his path. They were all calling advice and warnings. None of it made any sense to James. Finally, desperately, James abandoned his own logic, lifted his feet and leaned forward as far as he could.

The sense of speed was shocking as the broom rocketed forward. Mist and rain stung James' face and the grass beneath him became a blur of muddy green. But he wasn't going up, he was merely streaking along the ground. He heard shouts and exclamations as he plowed through the Ravenclaws. They scrambled and leaped to get out of the way. He was still picking up speed as he leaned forward. Ahead of him, the ramparts of the grandstand filled his vision, getting alarmingly close. James tried to lean, to steer aside. He felt himself banking, but not enough. Up, he thought furiously, he needed to go up! Finally, for lack of a better idea, he leaned back, pulling the broomstick as hard as he could. The broom responded instantly and with sickening force, angling into a steep climb. The grandstands fell away. Rows of seats and banners flickered past, and then gave way to an enormous, grey sky.

        Motion seemed to stop, despite the air and rain that barreled past him. James risked a glance behind him. The Quidditch pitch looked like a postage stamp, shrinking and growing hazy behind a raft of clouds and mist. James gasped, inhaling wind and rain, panic gripping him like giant claws. He was still climbing. Great grey slabs of cloud barreled past, buffeting him with shocking darkness and cold. James shoved down on the broom again, gritting his teeth and stifling a cry of terror.

        He felt the broomstick dip sickeningly, almost hurling him off. He couldn't seem to make it do anything other than drastic altitude changes. James had lost all sense of direction. He was surrounded by rain and dense clouds. For the first time, getting on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team seemed much less important than simply getting both feet back on the ground, wherever it was. He couldn't gauge how fast he was going or in what direction. Wind and mist tore at his face, making his eyes water.

        Suddenly, there were other shapes nearby. They swooped around him out of the clouds. He heard distant yelling, calls, his name. One of the shapes angled toward him and James was shocked to see Zane on a broomstick, his face chalk white, his blonde hair whipping wildly around his head. He motioned at James as he banked, but James couldn't make sense of his gestures.