Chapter 4: Flight

It wasn't just a fluke, I checked.

In Charms, my spells came quicker than anyone else's. They came better, too. After we learnt the lighting charm, the whole class spent the rest of the hour rubbing the spots from their eyes. I hadn't actually blinded anyone, but from some of the looks I was getting, I may have come close.

Defense was much the same. Within just a few lessons, Quirrell was shooting me *shudder* odd looks almost every lesson. Orphaned pureblood, raised in a muggle orphanage, sorted in Slytherin with supposedly prodigious magical talent. I'm sure old Voldy was feeling just a touch of nostalgia. Thankfully, he did little more than shoot me looks, at least for the moment, but knowing the truth behind those looks only made it more unnerving.

Needless to say, I avoided eye contact like the plague. Quirrell may not be a legilimens, but Voldemort almost certainly was.

As expected, my talent had the impact of shunting me into the limelight in Slytherin. Not that I would be tempted to curb it or in any way try to hide it because of that. Draco grew angrier and angrier as I started to make friends with those in our dorms and year, offering me little more than glares and the silent treatment. In spite of his poor behaviour, I still felt kinda bad for the kid. I mean, he was just a child. Eventually, I decided to just walk up to him and try to bury the hatchet, "Draco?"

He looked up at me, his expression shifting to a sneer as he saw me, "What do you want?"

I put on my most earnest tone, "I wanted to put this behind us. This... tension. I'm not sorry, not for confronting you for what you insinuated on the train, 'cause that was a horrible thing to say to an orphan, but for threatening you. It's clear you took it a tad harsher than I intended." He looked at me like I had grown a second head, and my words drew some stares from around the common room. Pride was everything in Slytherin, and apologies were rarely given, even pseudo-apologies like the one I had just given. I offered him my hand to shake, "Can we put it past us?"

Draco looked around the room, and then up at me. He didn't take my hand, but he gave a stiff, unsure little nod, wanting to look the bigger man, "For a Pureblood, you're really strange, you know that?" He sniffed, "Not all bad, you are a Pureblood after all, but still really strange."

I smiled and shrugged, "So? What's a little strangeness between friends?"

And so, poor Draco the rich boy found friends outside of his two goons and the simpering pug-faced girl. Who was she again? Ah, never mind. A little more good-natured competition and a little less issuing orders would do the boy some good, no doubt.

Anyway, little tangent aside, my talents with the wanded arts did not extend to the non-wanded subjects. History was all well and good, and I exceeded most of my classmates, but only because they spent their time sleeping instead of studying. Literally. The entire class, save for a few, spent their time drooling on their desks. Not that I could really blame them. In spite of my enthusiasm for the subject, Binns truly was terrible lecturer. In the end, I resorted to skipping his lessons entirely, replacing the hour with history books from the Room of Requirement.

I expected to get tattled on, but surprisingly enough, no. Binns never noticed, and I don't think anyone else cared all that much.

Potions was very similar. I approached the subject with the same vigour with which I approached everything else, and no matter what I tried, my results were always average. Or perhaps it was better to say that they were average in my opinion. Being a Slytherin, Snape seemed to favour my work, and lavished praise upon it, especially in front of the Gryffindors. I was quick on the uptake, on account of my adult mind, but my Potions were never anything special.

Hermione, seeing this, would always shoot me some self-satisfied look whenever her potion or essay came out better than mine. I let her take the win. The girl wasn't exactly making friends with her attitude.

Most interesting, or should I say terrifying, were the flying lessons with Madam Hooch. The broom took some cajoling to get into my hand, me having to direct my focus and intent till I was blue in the face. Honestly, I suspected the brooms were semi-sentient given how they seemed to respond. Harry's just seemed to shoot right into his hand, meanwhile Hermione seemed to struggle to so much as entice a twitch from her broom.

It took a good few tries, but finally, the broom was in my hand. I gripped the handle, sitting on the thing tenderly, my grip loose in case the weather-beaten stick got any ideas. Hooch came around, correcting everyone's form, and then time came to set off. And yet, before she had even blown her little whistle, Neville kicked off hard, and went soaring, up, up and away.

"Come back, boy!" she shouted. Alas, he was too far gone by that point, the broom slipping through his sweaty fingers. He rose and rose, and I genuinely began to fear for his life. Not enough to do anything, but y'know...

Still, to my relief and nobody else's, Neville fell off his broom at a height of what I would guess to be no more than thirty feet. He landed down with an almighty thud and crack, followed by a cry of pain. The grass had softened the blow, somewhat, but he still sported a broken arm. Madam Hooch rushed off to help him, urgency lacing her tone as she hauled the crying boy to his feet and rushed off with him, "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."

And then, Malfoy began picking on him, "Did you see his face, the great lump?" Much to my shame, many of the other Slytherins began joining in. The Gryffindors, naturally, began to get defensive. Malfoy's eyes turned as a fight was brewing, and he shot down into the grass and plucked out a little red orb, holding it up to the light for everyone to see, "Look! It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him."

Harry's eyes narrowed, and he extended his arm, his voice dangerously quiet, "Give that here, Malfoy."

Though I found the sight of pre-pubescent children threatening each other hilarious, judging by the tense silence that descended over the rest of the children, it was safe to say that they didn't find it so humorous. Malfoy smiled nastily, "I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to collect." He spoke with a frankly ridiculous amount of villainous glee, "How about... up a tree?"

"You'll regret it!", I shouted, if only so that I could rub it in his face later on. In spite of my efforts to build bridges, the kid was still insufferable. I considered intervening, but thought better of it. Not that it mattered what I thought, because before I could actually do anything, Draco kicked off the ground with his broom and went soaring up, holding the Remembrall aloft above the highest branches of a tree like some great prize, taunting Harry.

Harry responded exactly as expected. He grabbed his broom in spite of Hermione's objections, yelled, "Give it here!" and he rose to the bait.

Get it? No? Okay, I'll stop now.

Malfoy looked genuinely flabbergasted that Harry had worked up the gumption to face him, but anything they said was lost to us, the wind whipping their words beyond recognition. That was one tall tree. Malfoy, being Malfoy, hurled the Remembrall into the air and made for the ground. Harry, unaware that as a magical item that the Remembrall was both quite cheap and shatter-resistant, dived for it.

And what a magnificent dive it was!

The wind whipped through his hair, his cloak fluttered behind him, his hand extended as far as it could go. Someone screamed from behind me, likely expecting a bloody crash, but Harry grasped the Remembrall at the last moment, pulling up just as the bristles of his broom brushed the ground. And then appeared the reason for Malfoy's sudden retreat.

"HARRY POTTER!" yelled McGonagall, running towards him. "Never in my life - how dare you - you might have broken your neck!" Someone tried to interject, but McGonagall cut them off sharp, "Be quiet! That's quite enough from all of you, thank you very much!" She turned back to Harry, and metaphorically hauled him off by the scruff of his neck.

Malfoy looked awfully smug as he turned to look at me, and he continued to be smug for the entirety of breakfast the next morning, "I'll regret it, will I?"

I sighed and nodded, "You'll regret it."

Malfoy huffed, "We'll see."

"We will, and I'll enjoy rubbing it in your face when it does. It always comes. Nothing personal, just how the world works."

Malfoy shot me another look and then silently fumed for a while, "Well, just you watch, Crawley." He stood from his seat, sauntering over to the Gryffindor table, "Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting the train back to the Muggles?"

"You're a lot braver now you're back on the ground and you've got your little friends with you," Harry replied coolly.

"I'd take you any time on my own. Tonight, if you want. Wizard's duel. Wands only - no contact." Harry had a blank look on his face, "What the matter? Never heard of a wizard's duel before, I suppose?"

Ron interjected before Harry could, looking offended on his behalf, "Of course he has! I'm his second, who's yours?"

Malfoy sized up Crabbe and Goyle, shook his head and then pointed to me sat at the Slytherin table, munching on my side of horse, "Crawley. Midnight all right? We'll meet you in the trophy room, that's always unlocked."

Malfoy returned back to the Slytherin table, and I shot him a glare, "Hey! I'm not fighting in a duel!"

"Why, are you a coward?"

"Yes!"

Malfoy blinked and sniffed, "I see." He shrugged and smirked, "Well, not that it matters. We are in the house of the cunning, after all."

I rolled my eyes again, muttering under my breath, "Cunning, my arse."

Bit of a filler chapter. Had some stuff going on, so I knocked it out quickly.

Apologies if it's not up to my usual standards.

Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.