"No fucking kidding," he spat around his wand and swung his leg over the broom – an ancient, shabby thing. "Get on!" he ordered Goyle and the oaf got on, clutching Draco around the middle and whimpering. The broom rose up and Draco looked behind him and swore – the fire was right there and suddenly the heat was like the blast from an opened furnace door and he leaned forward and forced the broom as fast as it could go with both of them on it. Goyle kept babbling the word faster over and over, and Draco felt like his ex-lackey’s grip was going to snap him in two.