Harry had never believed he would meet a boy he hated more than Dudley, but that was before he met Draco Malfoy. He had shared a number of classes with the Slytherins—so Malfoy was bound to show up in quite a few of them, but the classes he had with the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs had helped balance the amount of Malfoy exposure out. That was, until Harry saw the flyer posted up revealing that Flying lessons with Professor Hooch would be starting the next Thursday, He was excited until he saw that Gryffindor students were paired to learn alongside Slytherin students.
"Typical," said Harry darkly, his voice echoing softly in the cozy confines of the Gryffindor common room. His gaze lingered on the flyer pinned to the notice board, the image of broomsticks and soaring students a stark reminder of his dashed hopes. "Just what I always wanted. To make a fool of myself on a broomstick in front of Malfoy."
The crackling fire cast a warm glow across the room, bathing the worn furnishings in a flickering light that danced across the walls. Harry stood amidst the familiar comfort of his housemates, yet a sense of disappointment hung heavy in the air, dampening the spirits of even the most cheerful among them.
He had been looking forward to this moment more than anything else, the opportunity to learn the art of flying and perhaps even surpass his own expectations. But now, as he stared at the flyer with a mixture of frustration and resignation, he couldn't help but feel a pang of regret, the realization that his dreams had been tarnished by the looming specter of failure.
"You don't know that you'll make a fool of yourself," said Dean, his tone infused with a note of reassurance as he leaned in to study the flyer over Harry's shoulder. The lamplight cast gentle shadows across the worn parchment, illuminating the bold letters that spelled out the details of the upcoming flying class. “Besides, a few Slytherins I met were fine enough. That Sophie Roper’s got brains bigger than I can imagine.”
“Have you seen that second year with the red hair? I hear she’s been shooting for Head Girl. Ladd’s her surname,” Seamus piped in from the back, his voice carrying a hint of admiration. The crackling fire lent a cozy ambiance to the room, its warmth a stark contrast to the cool evening air that lingered beyond the windows. “Hate to say it too, but Malfoy’s predicted to be fighting close for that spot. You know who his Dad is, right?”
“Wouldn’t let me forget it in Potions,” said Dean with a wry chuckle, the memory of their encounters with the haughty Slytherin still fresh in his mind.
“I hear his Father worked for Vol—er, You-Know-Who,” said Harry, his voice barely above a whisper as he spoke the name that struck fear into the hearts of wizards and witches alike.
“Right git, that one is,” agreed Dean, a trace of disdain coloring his words. “Anyways, it might be the chance to show Malfoy up. I know he’s always going on about how good he is at Quidditch, but I bet that's all talk."
Malfoy certainly did talk about flying a lot. He complained loudly about first years never getting on the house Quidditch teams and told long, boastful stories that always seemed to end with him narrowly escaping Muggles in helicopters. He wasn't the only one, though: the way Seamus Finnigan told it, he'd spent most of his childhood zooming around the countryside on his broomstick.
Even when brought up with Ron would tell anyone who'd listen about the time he'd almost hit a hang glider on Charlie's old broom. Everyone from wizarding families talked about Quidditch constantly.
Once at lunch, Ron had already had a big argument with Dean Thomas about soccer. Ron couldn't see what was exciting about a game with only one ball where no one was allowed to fly. Harry had caught Ron prodding Dean's poster of West Ham soccer team, trying to make the players move.
Neville had never been on a broomstick in his life, because his grandmother had never let him near one. Privately, Harry felt she'd had good reason, because Neville managed to have an extraordinary number of accidents even with both feet on the ground.
Harry had heard mixed reception on the act of flying from other students around. Alice Runcorn, Parvati Patil, and Lavender Brown had each been confident that it’d go terribly—each of them trying to hype the other up for their lessons. Harry had overheard Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini planning how they’d sneak out after class to do some flying on their own time. Malfoy had been talking up his skills of course, but he didn’t think he heard anything out of Crabbe and Goyle that were anything but grunts and sighs.
Hermione Granger, Kevin Entwhistle, and a few other Ravenclaws were struggling to study as much as they could about flying. Harry could tell Hermione was almost as nervous about flying as Neville was. This was something you couldn't learn by heart out of a book—not that she hadn't tried.
Beside her, Kevin diligently scribbled notes in the margins of his own well-worn textbook. His brow furrowed in concentration, Kevin absorbed every word, eager to grasp the nuances of flight mechanics and technique.
At breakfast on Thursday she had gathered a large group of students to test a large variety of flying tips she’d gotten through a library book called Quidditch Through the Ages. Harry had agreed to be a part of the group as he was nervous himself about the whole event, but he felt a shade better realizing he wasn’t as nervous as some of his other classmates.
Neville had been hanging on to Hermione’s every word, desperate for anything that might help him hang on to his broomstick later, but everybody else was very pleased when Hermione's lecture was interrupted by the arrival of the mail.
Harry hadn't had a single letter since Hagrid's note, something that Malfoy had been quick to notice, of course. Malfoy's eagle owl was always bringing him packages of sweets from home, which he opened gloatingly at the Slytherin table. He could tell some of the other Slytherins had been annoyed as Harry was—but it was also clear that nobody was willing to tell him to shove off.
Neville Longbottom's heart fluttered with excitement as he watched the graceful barn owl alight on his windowsill, its feathers ruffling softly in the gentle breeze. The early morning sunlight cast a golden hue upon its sleek form, illuminating the intricate patterns etched into its plumage. With a sense of anticipation tingling in his fingertips, Neville reached out to receive the small package secured tightly in the bird's talons, his eyes alight with curiosity.
With eager hands, he untied the string that bound the parcel and meticulously peeled away the layers of parchment, each fold revealing a new mystery. Finally, the last barrier fell away, unveiling a delicate glass ball nestled within the folds of tissue paper. Its surface shimmered with an otherworldly sheen, refracting the sunlight into a dazzling array of colors that danced across Neville's eager face.
Curiosity piqued, Neville gingerly lifted the orb from its resting place, cradling it in the palm of his hand as if it were a precious treasure. Despite its diminutive size, the ball seemed to pulse with an ethereal glow, the contents within obscured by a swirling mass of white smoke that billowed and coiled like wisps of cloud. Transfixed by the mesmerizing spectacle before him, Neville couldn't help but marvel at the enigmatic beauty of the object in his grasp, a tantalizing glimpse into a world of magic and wonder.
"Look!" Neville exclaimed, his voice tinged with wonder as he held the mysterious artifact aloft for his companions to see. Around him, Harry and the other Gryffindors crowded closer, their faces a mixture of intrigue and fascination. "It's a Remembrall!" he explained. "Gran knows I forget things—this tells you if there's something you've forgotten to do. Look, you hold it tight like this and if it turns red—oh..." His face fell, because the Remembrall had suddenly glowed scarlet. The light spilled through his fingertips brightly.
"You've forgotten something…" said Dean.
“I would argue that’s a lot of somethings,” said Asher.
Neville was trying to remember what he'd forgotten when Draco Malfoy, who was passing the Gryffindor table, snatched the Remembrall out of his hand.
Harry jumped to his feet. He felt an immense rush of energy to stand up for Neville, but before he could say anything Professor McGonagall was there in a flash.
"What's going on?"
"Malfoy's got my Remembrall, Professor," said Neville.
Scowling, Malfoy quickly dropped the Remembrall back on the table. "Just looking," he said, and he sloped away with Crabbe and Goyle behind him.
At three-thirty that afternoon, Harry, Asher, and the other Gryffindors hurried down the front steps onto the grounds for their first flying lesson. It was a clear, breezy day, and the grass rippled under their feet as they marched down the sloping lawns toward a smooth, flat lawn on the opposite side of the grounds to the forbidden forest, whose trees were swaying darkly in the distance.
The Slytherins were already there, and so were twenty broomsticks lying in neat lines on the ground. Harry had heard Fred and George Weasley complain about the school brooms, saying that some of them started to vibrate if you flew too high, or always flew slightly to the left.
Their teacher, Madam Hooch, arrived. She had short, gray hair, and yellow eyes like a hawk.
"Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."
Harry glanced down at his broom. It was old and some of the twigs stuck out at odd angles.
"Stick out your right hand over your broom," called Madam Hooch at the front, “You’ll feel the pull from the broom and you’ll have to will it up. You can say “Up!” to make it easier, the brooms are attuned to your natural magic, but it isn’t necessary.”'
"UP!” everyone shouted, not wanting to be the standout. Not even Malfoy trusted in the moment that he could get it on the first try.
Harry's broom jumped into his hand at once, but it was one of the few that did. The Quidditch pitch was alive with a flurry of activity as students scrambled to retrieve their brooms, some darting effortlessly to their owners' outstretched hands, while others seemed obstinately rooted to the ground. Asher’s had lay discarded on the grass, its wooden handle gleaming in the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy of trees overhead, and Neville's hadn't moved at all. Harry couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for Neville, whose trembling voice betrayed his desire to keep his feet planted firmly on the ground. For Harry knew all too well the weight of fear, the paralyzing grip it could have on one's spirit, rendering even the simplest tasks a Herculean feat.
Madam Hooch then showed them how to mount their brooms without sliding off the end, and walked up and down the rows correcting their grips.
Harry was delighted to hear her scold Malfoy by saying he'd been doing it wrong for years.
"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," said Madam Hooch. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle—three—two—"
But Neville, nervous and jumpy and frightened of being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the whistle had touched Madam Hooch's lips.
"Come back, boy!" she shouted, but Neville was rising straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle—twelve feet—twenty feet. Harry saw his scared white face look down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp, slip sideways off the broom and—
WHAM—a thud and a nasty crack and Neville lay face-down on the grass in a heap. His broomstick slipped and fluttered down before falling a few feet away in the distance.
Madam Hooch was bending over Neville, her face as white as his.
"Broken wrist," Harry heard her mutter. "Come on, boy—it's all right, up you get." She turned to the rest of the class, her authoritative voice cutting through the air like a whip cracking in the silence that had settled over the training grounds.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
"None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch.' Come on, dear." Madam Hooch's firm demeanor softened slightly as she addressed Neville. She ushered him away from the scene of the accident.
Neville, his face streaked with tears of pain and frustration, clutched his injured wrist protectively against his chest, his movements hindered by the throbbing ache that radiated from the injured limb. With Madam Hooch's reassuring presence at his side, he hobbled off toward the distant outline of the castle, his form gradually receding from view as they disappeared around a bend in the path.
No sooner were they out of earshot than Malfoy burst into laughter, the sound echoing across the grounds like the harsh cawing of a mockingbird. "Did you see his face, the great lump?" His voice carried a cruel edge, amplified by the chorus of jeering laughter that erupted from the assembled Slytherins, their scornful amusement mingling with the crisp autumn breeze.
"Shut up, Malfoy," snapped Parvati Patil.
Pansy Parkinson's voice cut through the air with a sharpness that matched the edges of her icy demeanor. "Oh, defending Longbottom now, are we?" Her tone dripped with disdain, her eyes narrowing as they settled on Parvati Patil, her fellow student. Pansy's words were like barbs, aimed to wound, and her smirk only emphasized her satisfaction in delivering them. "I must say, Parvati, I never would have pegged you for having a soft spot for pathetic crybabies like Longbottom. But I suppose it makes sense, considering your failure to secure a place in Slytherin." Her sneer betrayed a sense of superiority, as if being sorted into Slytherin was the ultimate validation of one's worth.
As the words sank in, Harry couldn't help but notice the flicker of hurt that danced across Parvati's features. It was a brief but unmistakable moment of vulnerability, a crack in the facade of confidence she typically wore.
"Look!" said Malfoy, his movements swift and predatory as he darted forward, his hand snatching something out of the grass with the precision of a hunting predator seizing its prey. "It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him." His voice carried a smug edge, amplified by the triumph evident in his posture as he held the object aloft for all to see.
The Remembrall, the small orb of crystalline glass, caught the sunlight in a dazzling display of refracted brilliance, casting scattered beams of muted rainbow hues across the surrounding landscape. In Malfoy's grip, however, its luminescence seemed subdued.
"Give that here, Malfoy," said Harry quietly, his voice a low murmur that nonetheless carried the weight of authority. His eyes bore into Malfoy's with an unwavering intensity, a silent demand for compliance that brooked no argument.
Malfoy smiled nastily. "I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find—how about—up a tree? Think he’ll be to fly up there to get it?"
"Give it here!" Harry yelled, but Malfoy had reached his hand out and his broom leapt into his hand. He swung his leg over and had taken off. He hadn't been lying, he could fly well. Hovering level with the topmost branches of an oak he called, "Come and get it, Potter!"
Harry grabbed his broom.
"Lookit Harry Potter breaking the rules! Oh, somebody go get Madame Hooch!” Pansy Parkinson yelled.
“He’s chasing after Draco who broke them first,” Seamus called back.
“Guys, does this really need to escalate?” Theodore Nott had asked. “Let’s just come back down and give the stupid ball back.”
"Come on!” Asher called up to the both of them. “Madam Hooch told us not to move—you'll get us all into trouble."
Harry ignored them. Blood was pounding in his ears. He mounted the broom and kicked hard against the ground and up, up he soared; air rushed through his hair, and his robes whipped out behind him-and in a rush of fierce joy he realized he'd found something he could do without being taught—this was easy, this was wonderful. He pulled his broomstick up a little to take it even higher, and heard screams and gasps of girls back on the ground and an admiring whoop from who he thought was Seamus..
He turned his broomstick sharply to face Malfoy in midair. Malfoy looked stunned.
"Give it here," Harry called, "or I'll knock you off that broom!"
"Oh, yeah?" said Malfoy, trying to sneer, but looking worried.
Harry knew, somehow, what to do. He leaned forward and grasped the broom tightly in both hands, and it shot toward Malfoy like a javelin. Malfoy only just got out of the way in time; Harry made a sharp about-face and held the broom steady. A few people below were clapping.
"No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy," Harry called. “What are you going to do now?”
The same thought seemed to have struck Malfoy.
"Catch it if you can, then!" he shouted, and he threw the glass ball high into the air and streaked back toward the ground.
Harry saw, as though in slow motion, his gaze fixated on the Remembrall ascending gracefully against the backdrop of the azure sky. With a swift and instinctive motion, he propelled himself forward, tilting his body in synchronization with the descent of the ball. The broomstick responded to his command, angling sharply downward as he hurtled through the air with exhilarating velocity.
The rush of wind enveloped him, a cacophony of exhilaration intermingled with the fervent exclamations of spectators echoing in the background. Undeterred, Harry extended his arm with determined precision, his fingertips straining toward the plummeting object. In a heart-stopping instant, mere inches from the ground, his hand closed around the coveted prize, securing it within his grasp.
The momentum of his dive remained unchecked as he executed a seamless transition, seamlessly redirecting the trajectory of his broomstick. With practiced finesse, he maneuvered through the final stages of his descent, the verdant expanse of grass below looming closer with each passing second. Then, with a gentle touch, he alighted upon the earth, his landing cushioned by the soft embrace of the turf.
In that fleeting moment, with the Remembrall securely nestled within his clenched fist, Harry exhaled a sigh of relief. The intensity of the pursuit had subsided, replaced by a triumphant sense of accomplishment. The Quidditch pitch stretched out before him, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, a serene contrast to the chaos that had just unfolded.
"HARRY POTTER!"
His heart sank faster than he'd just dived. Professor McGonagall was running toward them, her stern expression illuminated by the fading daylight. He got to his feet, trembling, his robes billowing around him in the brisk autumn breeze.
"Never—in all my time at Hogwarts—"
Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with shock, her usually stern demeanor giving way to a rare display of emotion. Her glasses flashed furiously in the dimming light, accentuating the severity of her gaze, "—how dare you—might have broken your neck—"
"It wasn't his fault, Professor—"
"Be quiet, Miss Patil,” Professor McGonagall cut in sharply, her voice carrying authority that brooked no argument.
"But Malfoy—"
"That's enough, Ms. Roper," Professor McGonagall interjected firmly, her tone leaving no room for further protest.
Harry caught sight of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle's triumphant faces as he left, walking numbly in Professor McGonagall's wake as she strode toward the castle. He was going to be expelled, he just knew it. He wanted to say something to defend himself, but there seemed to be something wrong with his voice, choked by the weight of impending consequences. Professor McGonagall was sweeping along without even looking at him; he had to jog to keep up, the clinking of his robes against the ground matching the rapid beat of his heart.
Now he'd done it. He hadn't even lasted two weeks. He'd be packing his bags in ten minutes. What would the Dursleys say when he turned up on the doorstep? Surely they wouldn’t let him practice magic anymore than they would let him enjoy a slice from Dudley’s plate.
Up the front steps, up the marble staircase inside, and still Professor McGonagall didn't say a word to him. She wrenched open doors and marched along corridors with Harry trotting miserably behind her. Maybe she was taking him to Dumbledore. He thought of Hagrid, expelled but allowed to stay on as gamekeeper. Perhaps he could be Hagrid's assistant. His stomach twisted as he imagined it, watching Ron and the others becoming wizards, while he stumped around the grounds carrying Hagrid's bag.
Professor McGonagall stopped outside a classroom. She opened the door and poked her head inside.
"Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood for a moment?"
Wood? thought Harry, bewildered; was Wood a cane she was going to use on him? The thought made him shiver and remember the times his Uncle Vernon would use Dudley’s smelting stick to make a point known. But Wood turned out to be a person, a burly fifth-year boy who came out of Flitwick’s class looking confused.
"Follow me, you two," said Professor McGonagall, and they marched on up the corridor, Wood looking curiously at Harry.
"In here," Professor McGonagall instructed, her voice crisp with authority as she gestured toward the open doorway of the classroom. The flickering torchlight spilled into the dimly lit chamber, casting long shadows that danced across the stone walls.
Harry and Oliver Wood entered the room, their footsteps echoing softly on the polished wooden floorboards. Peeves, the mischievous poltergeist, occupied the space, his spectral form flitting about the room with unrestrained mischief. Harry averted his eyes from the blackboard, where Peeves busily scrawled a series of rude words in a frenzied display of defiance. The severity of the language seemed to intensify with each passing moment, causing Harry to shift uncomfortably under the weight of their vulgarity.
"Out, Peeves!" Professor McGonagall commanded, her voice a stern rebuke that echoed off the walls. Peeves responded with a final flourish, hurling the chalk into a nearby bin with a resounding clang before vanishing with a string of colorful curses trailing in his wake. With a decisive click, Professor McGonagall slammed the door shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the room like a thunderclap.
Turning to face the two boys, Professor McGonagall's expression softened slightly, her stern demeanor giving way to a faint hint of warmth. "Potter, this is Oliver Wood," she announced, her tone brimming with a sense of purpose. "Wood—I've found you a Seeker."
Wood's initial puzzlement melted away, replaced by an expression of unbridled delight as the realization dawned upon him.
"Are you serious, Professor?" Harry's voice trembled with disbelief as he sought confirmation from Professor McGonagall, his eyes wide with astonishment.
"Absolutely," Professor McGonagall affirmed crisply, her tone resolute and unwavering. The torchlight flickered overhead, casting elongated shadows that danced across the stone walls of the chamber. "The boy's a natural. I've never seen anything like it. Was that your first time on a broomstick, Potter?"
Harry nodded silently, his mind reeling with confusion and uncertainty. He couldn't comprehend what was happening, but the absence of any mention of expulsion offered a glimmer of hope, and gradually, sensation began to return to his numb legs.
"He caught that thing in his hand after a fifty-foot dive," Professor McGonagall informed Wood, her voice tinged with a note of admiration. "Didn't even scratch himself. Charlie Weasley couldn't have done it."
Wood's eyes widened in awe as he absorbed Professor McGonagall's words, a sense of wonderment washing over him like a tidal wave. It was as though all his dreams had suddenly coalesced into reality, the prospect of discovering such exceptional talent filling him with a profound sense of purpose and excitement.
"Ever seen a game of Quidditch, Potter?" he asked excitedly.
"Wood's captain of the Gryffindor team," Professor McGonagall explained.
"He's just the build for a Seeker, too," said Wood, his voice carrying a note of excitement as he circled around Harry, his keen eyes assessing Harry's frame with a critical eye. The torchlight cast shifting shadows across the stone walls, adding a flickering ambiance to the chamber. "Light—speedy—we'll have to get him a decent broom, Professor—a Nimbus Two Thousand or a Cleansweep Seven, I'd say."
Professor McGonagall nodded thoughtfully, her expression reflecting the weight of Wood's words. "I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore and see if we can't bend the first-year rule," she mused aloud, her voice tinged with determination. "Heaven knows, we need a better team than last year. Flattened in that last match by Slytherin, I couldn't look Severus Snape in the face for weeks…"
Her stern gaze softened as she turned her attention back to Harry, peering over the rim of her glasses with a mixture of sternness and warmth. "I want to hear you're training hard, Potter, or I may change my mind about punishing you." A fleeting smile graced her lips, a rare moment of levity in the midst of their conversation. "Your father would have been proud," she added, her voice softening with a touch of nostalgia. "He was an excellent Quidditch player himself."
"You're joking," Harry responded, his voice a mixture of disbelief and incredulity as he struggled to comprehend the weight of his newfound responsibilities.
"No, Potter, I am not joking," Professor McGonagall replied firmly, her tone leaving no room for doubt. "Your father, James Potter, was not only an excellent Quidditch player but also a pivotal member of the Gryffindor Quidditch team during his time at Hogwarts."
Harry's eyes widened in astonishment at this revelation. He had always known that his father had been a skilled wizard, but the idea that he had played such a significant role in Gryffindor's Quidditch history was a revelation that filled him with a newfound sense of pride and admiration.
"Your father's contributions to the team were instrumental in helping Gryffindor secure victory in several matches and ultimately win the House Cup," Professor McGonagall continued, her voice carrying a note of reverence for the memory of Harry's father. "He possessed remarkable talent and a passion for the sport that inspired his teammates and earned him the respect of all who knew him."
As Harry absorbed this newfound knowledge, a swell of emotion welled up within him. To hear that his father had left behind such a meaningful legacy on the Quidditch pitch filled him with a sense of connection and pride unlike anything he had ever experienced before.
"I had no idea," Harry whispered, his voice filled with awe and gratitude.
Professor McGonagall offered him a small, understanding smile. "Your father's spirit lives on in you, Harry," she said softly. "I have no doubt that you will honor his memory and carry on his legacy with the same determination and skill that he did."