And again. Mo made his way back to the front of the line, his attention unusually focused on the other students making their way through the posts. Mentally, he reviewed what the professor had said, although it was sort of slipping back out his other ear. Mo knew how to fly, although he'd never been professional Quidditch level or anything. But he'd been flying for ages, ever since his older sisters were old enough to have an interest in flying and in strapping him to a broom for funsies.

It made no sense that he was doing this badly.

Now that it was his turn again, Mo leaned forward with an intent look, his broom picking up speed. As he approached the poles, he practiced turning the broom slightly using miniscule motions with his leading hand. First riiiiiiiiiiight, then leeeeeeeeeeeft, then back to center. He could do this. He could make it past the first three posts, at least, and redeem himself in his own mind.

At the first post, Mo pulled slightly to the right, and he was delighted as his broom curved around the post like a stream of water around a stone. The moment he straightened out again, he shifted to the left, and his broom slid around the next post. Almost like it was easy, although Mo was absolutely certain it was not. Post after post, Mo passed through the posts without touching even one. He might have gone a bit off course, and he certainly wasn't the fastest, but when Mo appeared on the other end of the pitch, he almost did another victory lap.

Actually, know what? He was gonna do a victory lap.