Hermione's broom jumped into her hand at once, but it was one of the few that did. It was because she knew how. Lily Moon's had simply rolled over on the ground, and Neville's hadn't moved at all. Perhaps brooms, like horses, could tell when you were afraid, thought Hermione; there was a quaver in Neville's voice that said only too clearly that he wanted to keep his feet on the ground. Scaredy cat.