Roderigo De Lacerda trotted down the verdant hills, walking towards the giant gate that bared the threshold to the Quidditch Pitch. The chilly Autumn wind stung his cheeks and whipped his robes about his legs. He walked through the gates and walked out onto the field. There weren't many people here, which made it more tolerable for him to practice his flying. Another gust of wind blew past him, chilling him more. The Nimbus Two Thousand and One was slung on his shoulder. Wishing he had worn more layers, he pulled out his wand with his free hand and summoned a scarf of blue and silver; Ravenclaw colors. He slackened his grip on the broom, allowing it to slide down his arm and land softly on the plush grass. Wrapping his scarf around his face and neck, he held his hand over the idle broom.
"Up," he muttered. The broom flew into his hand. Roderigo never really understood why it was so fascinating to see the broom zip into his hand, or anyone's for that matter. Shrugging at his muse, he mounted the broom, kicked off hard. He didn't allow himself to fly terribly high. Only a few feet, probably the height of an average seventh year. His eyes fluttered to the face of his watch; he was expecting his comrade, Theodore Dumble, to be arriving soon. While he waited, he lackadaisically flew around at a low height.