"Last chance," Tabitha called to the elves guarding the doorway. They both glanced at Sabrina, who was still collapsed atop Noah, her hands covering her face.
"Now listen here, mistress," the grumpy elf began, but he was cut off by the bolt of red light that struck the closed doors. Both elves were thrown aside as the great wooden beam that barred the door exploded with a deafening boom and a shower of splinters. Tabitha hadn't slowed in her approach to the door. She aimed her wand once more, ready to cast the spell that would throw the doors wide open. Then, suddenly, she stopped. She cocked her head, as if listening. Noah, struggling to get out from beneath the dazed Sabrina, heard it as well. Beneath the sound of the cyclone and the roaring grandstands, there was a sound like a single person yelling, and it was growing louder very quickly.
The doors to the Slytherin holding pen burst open, ripping completely off their hinges as something rocketed through them from inside. Noah had the briefest glimpse of somebody bent low over a broom hurtling past Tabitha Corsica so fast that she was thrown off her feet. She landed in a graceless heap ten feet away. The voice of the screaming rider thinned into distance as the broomstick streaked over the pitch, through the cyclone, and out the other side.
James clung to Tabitha's broomstick as tightly as he could. He'd left Ralph behind, having launched into an instant wild acceleration the moment he'd settled onto the broom. He felt the thundering shock as the broom rocketed through the cyclone, then he opened his eyes and pulled, trying to gain some control over the wildly careening broomstick. The Quidditch pitch wheeled sickeningly beneath him as the broom responded, fighting him, but unable to resist the force of his lean. The Ravenclaw grandstand loomed ahead and James struggled to pull up. He roared over the crowd, which ducked in his wake, hats and banners flying up behind him. Damien was yelling something from the announcer's booth, but James couldn't hear it over the roar of the wind in his ears. He risked a glance behind him, fearing he might have hurt someone. There were no obvious injuries as far as he could see. When he turned forward, he was heading directly toward the Slytherin grandstands again, back the way he'd come. He leaned the opposite direction and pulled as hard as he could, driving the broom into a wild, banking turn. The Slytherin grandstands spun away. With a sense of wild triumph, James realized he was getting some control over the broomstick. He looked ahead to see where his turn was taking him and gasped. He barely had time to duck his head before socking through the open door of the equipment shed.
The broom seemed to move as if it had a mind of its own. It roared through the tunnel beyond the shed and the air of the confined space pressed hard against James' eardrums. When it reached the opening behind the pedestal of St. Lokimagus, it turned so hard, threading into the corridor, that it nearly threw James off.
The sense of speed was staggering as the broomstick careened through the halls. Fortunately, the majority of the school's population was out at the Quidditch pitch for the tournament match, leaving the corridors mostly empty. The broomstick banked and dipped into the chasm of the stairwells. It swooped under and over the staircases as they swung and pivoted, barely missing them, forcing James to duck and hug the broomstick as closely as he could. Peeves was near the bottom of the staircases, apparently drawing mustaches on some of the statuary. James saw him out of the corner of his eye, then, amazingly, Peeves was sitting on the broomstick in front of James, facing him.
"Naughty trickery this is, Potter boy!" Peeves shouted gleefully as the broom shot into a narrow hall of classrooms. "Is we trying to create some friendly competition with dear ol' Peeves? Hee hee!"
Peeves grabbed a passing chandelier and swung around it, leaving James and the broom to plunge on after him. James tried to steer, but it was no use. The broomstick was following its own definite, if maniacal, course. It banked and dove down a flight of stone stairs into the elf kitchens. Unlike the rest of the school, the kitchens were crowded and bustling, filled with elves cleaning up after the evening meal. The broom darted between gigantic pots, forcing the elves to scramble like tenpins. There was a cacophony of crashing dishes and silverware, the noise of which fell away with horrible speed. The washrooms were next, stifling hot and noisy. The broom rocketed wildly through the machinery of the washers, diving through gigantic cogwheels and under the arms of enormous, chugging pistons. James was horrified to see that the broom, apparently having reached a dead end, was barreling straight toward the stone wall at the end of the room. He was about to throw himself off the broom, hoping to land in one of the copper vats of suds and water, when the broom ticked slightly to the left and angled up. There was a door set into the well, and James recognized that it was a laundry chute. He gritted his teeth and hugged the broomstick again. The broom shot into the chute, angling upwards so hard that James could barely keep his legs tucked in, and then there was only rushing darkness and pressure.
A pile of laundry met him halfway up the chute and James spluttered as the mass of cloth smothered him. He struggled to shake the clothes free, but couldn't risk letting go of the broomstick. The broom ducked again, and James could tell by the change in pressure and the coolness of the air that it had somehow taken him back outside again. All he could see through the mass of cloth was a faint pattern of flickering light as the broomstick banked and dove. James risked letting go with one hand. He flailed at the clothing wrapped around him, finally grabbing a handful and yanking it as hard as he could. The cloth came free, stunning him with a blurring tableau of light and wind. He had time only to recognize that somehow, incredibly, the broom was taking him back to the Quidditch pitch. The grandstands loomed ahead of him. At the base of the nearest one was a throng of people, many turning toward him, pointing and yelling. Then, with instant finality, the broomstick simply stopped moving. James shot off the end of the broom, and for what seemed like far too long a time, he simply hurtled through the air unsupported. Finally, the ground claimed him with a long, rolling thud. Something in James' left arm popped unpleasantly and when he finally came to a stop, he found himself staring up into a dozen random faces.
"Looks like he'll be all right," one of them said, looking from him to someone standing nearby.
"More than he deserves," another person said angrily, frowning down at him. "Trying to ruin the match by stealing the team captain's broomstick. I never would have thought it."
"It's quite all right, really," another voice said from further off. James moaned and pushed himself up on his left elbow. His right arm was throbbing horribly. Tabitha Corsica stood twenty feet away, surrounded by a crowd of awed spectators. Her broom hung motionless next to her, exactly where it had stopped. She had one hand on it, gripping it easily. "We can surely forgive this kind of first-year enthusiasm, although I myself am rather amazed at the lengths some will go to in the name of Quidditch. Really, James. It's just a game." She smiled at him, showing him all her teeth.