The First Flight
September 1
The darkness Harry awoke to felt familiar. Having been roomed in a cupboard under the stairs, his "body clock" never had a chance to respond to light or warmth from the rising sun. Yet all the same Sir expected him to wake up at dawn to prepare breakfast — and Harry very rarely failed.
Naturally, sleeping in a foreign bed situated in a foreign room situated in a foreign lake made it all the easier for Harry to rise and shine, even if he doubted he'd ever see the sun shine from the room's sprawling windows.
Quietly shifting through his luggage, Harry found a set of toiletries, a mesh shower caddy to place them in, a towel, slippers and a bathrobe to wear to and fro the showers.
"Ah!" Harry exhaled as warm water cascaded onto him in the otherwise empty shower room. Empty because Harry was first! First!
He'd always been forced to shower last, and Dudley and — his parents. Yes, Dudley's parents, that's what they were, that's what they'd always been. Dudley and his parents knocked on the door one or two minutes in to make sure he wasn't "wasting water" despite them using the shower for as long as they liked.
As Harry drank in the tranquility and solace of the early morning, he thought deeply about his sudden removal from Dudley's family — and everything that meant.
They gave me a home. The only home I've known…
In a cupboard! As a servant.
They never tried to kill me, unlike my other uncle…or whatever Voldemort is.
Sir…Dudley's father…might just have killed me if Mr. Hagrid hadn't taken me away.
But Sir was mad because of Mr. Hagrid. If Mr. Hagrid hadn't barged in…
Then I'd never have found out the truth.
But Mr. Hagrid knew me as a baby. He knew my parents. He knew where to find me. And he had my bank key! Where was he all these years?
Where were all of these wizards all these years? They call me a hero, but they left me clueless about everything! And now I'm expected to know everything about their history.
Both sides of it, or the Slytherin will eat me alive.
As Harry's frustration mounted, he suddenly remembered something he hadn't had the chance to do in several days that always relaxed the stress.
The soap gave a particularly soft touch.
"Huh-huh-huh-ah-AH-AAH!" Harry exhaled as a bliss much greater than usual rocked him.
That…God that was good. The best. The absolute best. Maybe I should try waiting a few days again, Harry considered with his head tipped back and a grin stretching from ear to ear.
Feeling better than ever, Harry continued his shower for a few more minutes until his fingers wrinkled from the indulgence. He relished all the time he had to fully dry himself with a fluffy, warm, dry towel and then lotion his skin without it still being slick from water. He even managed to use a different cream for his face than for the rest of his body.
And with a heated private dressing compartment outside the shower stall, Harry felt like a prince as he donned his fleece bathrobe. Or at least like the celebrity he supposedly was.
"Good thing you get up early with those showers of yours," a voice suddenly sounded as Harry stepped out into the larger bathroom.
The eleven-year-old whirled to his left in a slight crouch with clenched fists in preparation for an attack, forgetting for several seconds he was now in a world of wand waves and magic bolts.
"Jumpy, are we?" a boy three-or-so years older and a little over an American foot taller asked with a raised eyebrow.
Not liking his chances of winning a fight with the sculpted teenager, Harry unclenched his fists and tried for a disarming smile instead.
Worst comes to worst, I can kick him in the shins and make a break for the door.
"I…well, lots of things happen at this place," Harry said with an apologetic shrug.
"Like ghosts coming out of the table?" the older boy supplied.
And roommates jumping you from behind. But Harry kept that one to himself.
"Something like that," Harry said. "Hey, you got the baron's approval too last night, right?"
"Something like that," the boy returned with gleaming blue—no, violet? —eyes. "Cassius Warrington."
"Nice to meet you," Harry offered his hand. "Harry Potter."
"Firm grip," Cassius appraised when he took the hand.
"Thank you," Harry said while looking Cassius squarely in his — lavender? — eyes.
"Are you thinking of playing Quidditch by any chance?" Cassius asked.
That explains his athletic build. But I never got the chance to ask Ron what the sport was.
"Um, to be honest, I don't know what Quidditch is," Harry admitted.
"You certainly have the reflexes for it," Cassius said. "Though I suppose it depends on how well you can fly…"
"Fly?" Harry asked as dread rose within him.
He knew he would be able to fly, or at least levitate, one day. He felt himself do so in front of that coven with an older Draco. But he had assumed he would have years to learn this power.
"On a broom," Cassius clarified, though his cobalt-blue? eyes were now closely searching Harry's eyes.
He's on to me!
"You do know how to fly, yes?" Cassius questioned.
He's figured me out.
His ignorance exposed, Harry shook his head.
"Well, if memory serves, you get your first flying lessons today," Cassius supplied. "If you do well enough, maybe I can show you enough tricks for you to make the team next year. There'll be a spot open."
"Just one?" Harry asked.
"Terence graduates next year, meaning we'll need a new seeker," Cassius explained. "Marcus wants the new seeker to be as young as possible — someone from your year. He thinks it'll be Draco, but maybe you have a shot."
Harry knew the importance of being on a sports team; Dudley shoved it in his face more times than he could count. But this time, Harry could be the one sitting with the athletes.
Will be the one.
"It'll be me," Harry determined.
"We'll see kid," Cassius replied with a trace of a smile.
With that, he turned toward the sinks to finish his morning routine. Harry followed, but he couldn't help but notice that whereas he was carrying a full shower caddy in addition to the towel slung over his shoulder, Cassius just went over to the sinks with nothing more than his wand and the loin skirt preserving his modesty.
"No point in fancying up for Marcus' morning drills," Cassius answered Harry's unspoken question as he ran his wand over his teeth. "There're no chicks on our team."
"But…you can get ready for the day…with just magic?" Harry had to ask between brushes of his teeth.
"Basic stuff, yes," Cassius replied as he rubbed his wand along his skin with murmured chants. "Unless you want to make a profession out of it?"
Harry didn't imagine that the most powerful wizard ever would be a make-up artist.
"Nope," Harry said with a sharp 'p,' to which Cassius gave a small chuckle.
The older boy waved his wand thrice over his brown hair, drying it with one chant, smoothing it with the next, and then giving a brush to the top with the final spell.
"Have fun at your flying lessons today," Cassius said as he finished up. "Get a feel for your skills."
"Will do," Harry promised as he just began to comb his own hair.
"Also, a word of advice," Cassius whispered while leaning in with shimmering azure eyes. "When you…stroke your snake…you should keep your voice down. The guys here are a bit more uptight about that kind of stuff than guys in the other houses."
Harry flushed as red as a tomato.
Unfortunately, getting up so early didn't give Harry nearly enough time in the library. First, despite students being allowed out of the house at 6:00 a.m., the exact time at which Marcus marched his Quidditch team out for drills, the library didn't open until 6:30 a.m.
The librarian however was extremely helpful, happy even to provide him with books on the subjects he asked for with the exception of the Slytherin dynasty.
"Best for their memory to rot with them, dear."
Harry barely cared at the moment given how much he had to catch up on Wizarding history in general, especially for the past fifty years. Besides, when it came to family legacies, the Potter family turned out to be quite the storied lineage itself judging by the weight of the tome Madam Pince handed him.
"Ugh," Harry groaned after over an hour of reading — mostly from the internationally-acclaimed chronicle The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts — left him with more questions than answers about Voldemort and his failed revolution. He would need a week at least to properly absorb all the information in the dense book.
Hagrid better have answers for why I was kept with Dudley's parents all these years.
Harry had already learned some very critical information however, such as what inspired the hostility hurled at Vincent, Gregory, Nott, Pansy and Draco during the Sorting ceremony.
Though the majority of Voldemort's followers — the Death Eaters, they were called — were either killed during the war or shipped to Wizarding Britain's maximum security prison, a select seven successfully pleaded innocence by claiming to have been mind-controlled. Five had very familiar surnames: Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, Parkinson and Malfoy.
Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy, was suspected to be Voldemort's greatest supporter outside of Sirius Black — more commonly known as "Black the Butcher." When listing evidence for the Malfoys' "suspected" support of the Dark Lord, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts highlighted that Lucius' wife happened to be Sirius' cousin!
The only way this could get worse is if Sirius happened to be my uncle or something. My other magical uncle besides Voldemort, who shot a killing curse at me!
Harry shuddered at the thought, very much missing Sir in that moment.
"Mr. Potter," Madam Pince suddenly said to his right.
Snuck up on again! What's happening to me?
"As much as I am happy to have you in this library, might it not be time for you to go to class?" she asked kindly.
Bollocks.
Harry raced through the hallways faster than he expected to in robes with a backpack while carrying the copy of The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts that Madam Pince kindly let him check out on the fly in his arms.
But with his mind mostly focused on figuring out when he could get back to the library and look through the other books, which the Madam graciously set aside for him, as well as finish the massive book in his hands, Harry barely saw a red-haired blur of motion before crashing into him.
"Ron, I'm so sorry!" Harry exclaimed while recovering both his book and Ron's backpack before offering a hand to his friend — or hopefully friend? — who was just picking himself off the ground.
Ron took it, but his face scrunched into a slight frown when he looked at Harry.
Harry's heart fell.
"Thanks," Ron said with a subdued tone as Harry helped him up.
The two boys looked at each other as several seconds of silence passed between them.
"We should walk in together," Harry suggested while adjusting his glasses.
"Yah," Ron agreed with a small smile.
Once the two speed-walked the rest of the way to Transfiguration, they were pleasantly surprised to find they not only managed to enter the class with dignity, but they beat the professor. The front desk's only occupant was a silver cat with black stripes and the distinctive M-shaped tabby pattern on its forehead.
As the two sat, Ron offered his hand under the table for a high-five, which Harry quietly clapped.
"Can you imagine the look on McGonagall's face if we were late!" Ron said in a rather loud whisper.
"She'd have turned us to stone!" Harry quipped, to which both he and Ron snickered.
Suddenly, Ms. McGonagall's pet cat leapt from its place on the desk—and transformed into the Deputy Headmistress!
"I was actually thinking of transfiguring one of you into a watch," she countered as she fixed a withering ice-blue gaze on them.
They simultaneously gulped as laughter filled the room.
Fortunately, Harry and Ron escaped the Transfiguration classroom in human form. They did however learn their lesson about being to class on time, and they actually beat their next professor to class.
A class set in a rather familiar chemistry classroom. But their teacher was not the kindly, pudgy man Harry had seen in his visions.
Instead, in strode his Head of House, robes billowing with the dark glory of a Grim Reaper.
"There will be no foolish wand waving nor silly incantations in this class," dictated an unwavering, baritone voice that instantly commanded the room's undivided attention.
"As such, I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and the exact art that is potion-making. However, for those select few…" at which point the professor gave a minuscule glance toward Draco, who of course was seated at the front.
But Harry didn't have time to process his pang of jealousy.
"…who possess the predisposition," the imposing yet enchanting wizard continued. "I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory and even put a stopper in death."
Harry's eyes grew wider at each declaration.
"Ah, it would appear I have even piqued the interest of Mr. Potter," the foreboding professor noted with a tone that managed to be both wholly captivating and condescending. In a voice that melded the softness of a whisper with the power of a demagogue. "I am honored that my humble domain contents you, considering how our institution's time-honored traditions have thus far… bored you."
What?
Oh…the Sorting ceremony.
"I knew what the hat was going to say," Harry responded in a soft voice, ignoring the gasp that came from Ron beside him.
"You knew what the hat would say?" his Head of House intoned in an incredulous drawl while maintaining a statuesque face. "Your powers are formidable indeed."
Somehow, that statement managed to be an insult. One which clearly amused Draco, which in turn prompted snorting from Pansy, Vincent and Gregory who sat with him.
Harry tried not to feel hurt by Pansy laughing at him, though he wasn't sure why he cared in the first place.
"Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?" the potion master challenged.
To Harry's left, Hermione instantly raised her hand with attention-demanding breaths and hums.
"You don't know," he drawled. "Well, let us try again. Where, Mr. Potter, would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar."
Hermione yet again demanded attention, and Harry barely restrained from frowning.
"I don't know sir," Harry responded in a respectful but even tone.
"And what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?" the professor pressed.
Hermione once again reached high to the sky with her hand, and Harry couldn't resist frowning and gritting his teeth — though he at least hid the latter behind his mouth.
"I don't know sir," Harry repeated a second after composing himself.
"Pity," the potion master scorned in a tone that had anything but. "Imagine if you used your time last night to educate yourself rather than persecute your roommates."
Nott ran and tattled? That little…
"That's not what happened," Harry defended with a voice more forceful than intended.
"Ah, there is the snappy disposition I heard of," the Head of House drawled with a minute but unmistakable note of triumph.
There's something familiar about him. So familiar…
Suddenly and swiftly, he swooped like a wraith toward Harry, deftly weaving between the desks till he stood — or hovered? — in front of the third-row middle desk Harry and Ron were seated at.
With his midnight-black cloak and robes rippling like a living shadow while his obsidian-black hair shined with the luster of a gemstone, the professor seemed far taller than the just-over six feet that Harry initially estimated. And when the wizard bored eyes of the darkest brown upon Harry, the Boy-Who-Lived felt as if his very soul lay bare.
Eyes are the window to the soul, huh? Maybe he's reading my mind.
Wait, he's totally reading my mind.
"For your information, Potter," the formidable sorcerer began in his enchanting yet demeaning baritone drawl. "Asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of the Living Dead. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant which also goes by the name of aconite."
The more the wizard spoke, the louder the buzz of deja vu grew in Harry's mind. He knew this man — if such a mundane term could describe him. He was a whisper on the edge of hearing. A smell just at the cusp of recognition. A sight on the horizon….
"Did you comprehend that, Mr. Potter?" the dark-eyed sorcerer questioned with a faint sneer.
"Yes…" Harry began to respond. But then he saw it. Saw it in the depths of the pits penetrating his own soul.
"Severus…" Harry pronounced with a silky yet absolute voice.
Harry saw the man in question — his Head of House, but ten years younger — stumble into a violently ravaged room.
"Please, spare her," the man begged in a voice unrecognizably meek.
"You have done for me what none other has," Harry acknowledged with lordly sincerity.
The late-twenties version of the potion master, devoid of his cloak and with his hair seeming matty rather majestic, fell onto his knees near what seemed to be ground-zero of a grenade explosion and grasped at the charred, mangled figure of a woman.
"I beg you, my lord," the man pleaded as his face turned as pallid as a white sheet.
He clutched what remained of the red-haired woman in the half-destroyed room, his face twisted by soul-deep agony while tears drowned his cheeks.
"You are my most faithful," Harry continued his princely praise.
"You…" the kneeling, grieved sorcerer half-growled, half-sobbed while shaking an accusing finger at him. "This is all because of you…"
"…Severus," Harry repeated.
Out loud apparently, given how everyone seemed to be looking at him when he awoke from his "daydream."
"The name is Professor Snape," Snape intoned every word with exacting precision.
He acted as though nothing had happened, gave no visible, vocal or vibrational reaction to Harry just addressing him by his first name in a silky whisper. But like a faint prick on the back of his head, Harry knew he saw something that unsettled Snape at his core. Something that lay at the very core of the hate — yes, hate — he had for Harry.
They had met before, there was no doubt about that. And now, Harry knew this sorcerer was one of the most dangerous people he would ever meet, however long he lived.
Ron invited Harry to eat lunch with the Gryffindors. With Nott returned from his morning absence and shaking with pale rage, Harry gladly took up the offer.
"…so just as he fired the spell, I ducked, spun around and clocked him in the face!" Harry recounted the tale of his "snappy disposition" to his Gryffindor guy classmates.
"Typical slimy Slytherin, attacking good wizards from behind," Ron sympathized. "No offense."
"None taken," Harry said with a glance toward The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts copy that lay in his backpack.
I really jumped into the hornet's nest. Or the snake's pit, I guess, Harry pitied himself.
"Let's have us a drink!" Seamus suggested.
"Wine?" Harry asked, perking up at the way Seamus said drink , not even caring they were at the section closest to the head table.
"Your parents let you have alcohol?" Dean asked.
"Yes," Seamus answered just as Harry and Ron both said "no."
"Snuck it," Harry and Ron said simultaneously, sharing a conspiratorial grin.
For Harry, sneaking sips of wine were the best memories he had with his—with Dudley's family—besides his memories from when Dudley didn't hate him. The floating bliss was as good as what came when he rubbed one out, and it lasted much, much longer. So to get that again without the threat of a repenting session?
"So where're we going to get it?" Harry asked excitedly, too happy to care about Hermione's deliberate eye roll from the right corner of the table.
"I'll make it!" Seamus declared. He pulled out his wand and pointed it at his water glass.
"Eye of a rabbit, harp string hum. Turn this water into rum!" he demanded.
The water glass exploded into smoke, leaving the five boys staring at it coughing and fanning away the attempt.
"Maybe we should try wine," Harry said. "Jesus turned water into wine, and he was a wizard I guess."
"I…don't think…" Neville choked out, still coughing.
But Harry had already made up his mind and turned his wand to his own water glass.
I can't use Seamus' line, because it was meant to rhyme, Harry considered.
But haven't I done magic before just by thinking it? No fancy chants. No wand waves?
So Harry closed his eyes, felt the hum of his wand and focused on the perfect chord it struck with his own power. He breathed in and out with the currents of power that rush through him, connected with the energy of his wand and looped back into and through him again.
Opening his eyes with determination and surety, Harry pointed the white-ivory colored stick at the water glass.
"Wine!" Harry commanded.
BOOM!
The glass combusted into a fireball with a force that knocked all the boys off the table benches and onto their arses!
Harry hacked as he heaved himself back up to the flaming table. The first to recover, he immediately took off his Hogwarts robe and beat it against the table in an attempt to put out the fire, only for his robe to instantly go up in flames as well.
With the fire rapidly spreading, the first-year Gryffindor girls and some of the second years started to scatter and scream. Harry's only hope was to dispel his power with his power.
Sending up a brief prayer to God, if He existed, Harry spread his arms and waved his wand.
"REVERSE!" he shouted while stretching his power over the scene of the disaster with all his force of will.
Suddenly, to Harry's absolute surprise, he felt his energy bind around every millimeter — no, every molecule! — of the ruined table section. The table and everything on it perfectly mended in reverse order of destruction as if time itself was being reversed.
The fire receded, the table section unburned, his robes perfectly mended — as did Hermione's book which for some reason had been on the table, the food plates of Harry and his friends returned to their exact previous state, and the fire squeezed into the initial fireball it had been, at which point shards of glass launched from Harry's skin and from all around to form the original glass. The fireball at this point completely disappeared and left behind water which Harry could swear sparkled.
Exhausted, Harry fell forward and barely caught himself on the table. A table which began to shape as the Gryffindors down to the left thundered with applause, some giving a standing ovation.
Actually, every Gryffindor rose to give him a standing ovation, even Hermione eventually. Harry could also hear applause from the Ravenclaw behind him and the Hufflepuff table in front of him.
Harry barely noticed the hot sparks that seemed to jolt along his scar; but knowing who it was, he couldn't resist turning his head up and to the right to give his Head of House a cheeky smile. A smile that grew wider at the dark glower he received in return, and one that beamed when Harry saw the pearly smile Professor Quirrell shined on him.
Def gonna be…coolest teacher, Harry thought as he barely managed to slump into his seat.
Looking along the head table, the rest of the professors also looked impressed, with the most approving look coming from Professor McGonagall of all people! But the most captivating look by far came from the glimmering golden eyes of the Headmaster.
Because suddenly, Harry understood what had just happened.
He did it! He directed my power!
He didn't know how he knew, but he just did. And the Headmaster's wink confirmed it.
"Forty points to Slytherin for understanding the subtleties of magic," Headmaster Dumbledore spoke in a serene voice that somehow resounded through the room over all applause.
Slytherin, which Harry had heard by far the least applause from — and not just because they were the farthest table from him, suddenly roared with applause and approval that drowned any noise from Hufflepuff. Harry even struggled to hear any lingering Ravenclaw applause after that, despite that table being in the opposite direction.
The rest of lunch was a relatively dull affair after that, though Neville got a Remembrall that filled with red smoke the instant he touched it.
"The only problem is, I can't remember what I've forgotten," Neville bemoaned.
Ron and Seamus snickered at this, and Harry might have too had he not been focusing on The Daily Prophet article about a dark wizard breakin to Vault 713.
The exact vault Hagrid visited when they went to Gringotts the previous day.
"There's something else as well, Professor Dumbledore gave me this," Hagrid had told the goblin manager. "It's about you-know-what in vault you-know-which."
In other news, Neville soon figured he forgot his robes when he tried to put the ball away. Harry kicked himself in the shin for not noticing that himself.
"Welcome to your first flying lesson," Madam Hooch introduced Harry's most anticipated and dreaded class of the day.
"Nervous?" Draco whispered into Harry's left ear.
"Never," Harry whispered back. "You?"
"The broom is my second wand," Draco stated matter-of-factly.
"Well what are you waiting for?" the feline-yellow eyed instructor cut straight to the chase. "Everyone step up to the left side of their broomsticks. Come on now, hurry up."
Wow, she just gets right to it, Harry thought as he tried to bottle his nervousness.
"Stick your right hand over the broom, and say up," the no-nonsense Ravenclaw alumnus dictated to the two rows of first years.
"Up!" Harry demanded with all his authority.
Pam!
The broom leapt squarely in Harry's palm. No one else got it on their first try.
Not even Draco.
To his credit, the Malfoy heir got his broom into his hand on his second try. But Harry saw right through the smirk Draco flashed him when he did this.
"Congrats," Harry said sincerely, even if he did want to beat Draco out for Quidditch. Draco gave a genuine smile in return.
The next to call their broom to their hand was one of the two Ravenclaw girls — Cho, if Harry remembered correctly. After her was Ron…kind of.
"You're supposed to catch it with your hand, not your face," Harry mock whispered across the divide.
"Shut it, Harry," Ron demanded as Harry chuckled at his friend.
As the next few first years called their brooms, Harry couldn't help but note that Hermione for once did not know everything about a subject.
"Up, up, up!" she ordered her broom to no avail.
Of course, there was no subject she could fail at, so she ended up placing 13th in raising her broom (not that Harry was purposefully counting). Fortunately, Harry only had to wait four or so more minutes for the rest of the students to claim their brooms.
"Now," Madam Hooch said the moment the thirty-third broom was successfully raised, "I want you to mount it. Grip it tight! You don't want to be sliding off the end. When I blow my whistle, I want each of you to kick off from the ground, hard. Keep your broom steady, hover for a moment, then lean forward slightly and touch back down. On my whistle, 3, 2…"
But Neville took off before the countdown finished, and he soared far higher than Hooch instructed.
"Ahhh!" he screamed as he rose ten, twenty, no thirty meters into the sky!
Harry's breath hitched with fear for the Gryffindor. He seemed to be beyond the reach of Madam Hooch, who held her wand at the ready but did not exercise any power on Neville as he rose even higher.
In terms of visual spectacle, Neville zoomed through the air like a renowned daredevil. He flew in breathtaking twirls, gravity-defying spins, breakneck loops and death-defying broom positions. As far as Harry figured, Neville would be instantly famous if someone got a camera and he stopped screaming.
Then Neville's ride came to an abrupt end as he suddenly fell from well over a hundred feet in the air. With the professor frozen in inaction, Harry gasped as his classmate, his friend, dropped to his death.
But when Neville hit the ground — he bounced?
Harry sprinted toward Neville, who bounced twice more before Harry reached and caught him — only to topple flat on his back with the heavier Neville sprawled on top of him.
"So-sorry," Neville panted out.
"Sorry?" Harry breathed out, gobsmacked that was the first word out of Neville's mouth. "Are you kidding? That was amazing!"
"I—I," Neville stammered as his face flushed.
"Seriously, that was wicked!" Harry exclaimed.
"You are easily impressed, Potter," Draco sneered as he sauntered toward them, with the rest of the class following behind. "One would think you found out you were a wizard yesterday!"
"Well, can you do that?" Harry challenged. Draco scowled in response.
As Neville got off of him, Harry took the chance to take in a gulp or two of air before adjusting his glasses and standing up.
"Mr. Longbottom, we must go to the hospital wing right this instant!" Madam Hooch exclaimed as she marched toward Neville, her composure every bit as frazzled as her silver hair.
"I'm fine," Neville protested, but the navy-blue robed instructor dragged him away anyway.
"If I see a single broom in the air while I'm away, the one riding it will find themselves out of Hogwarts before they can say Quidditch!" Madam Hooch called out behind her.
The class stood in silence for ten or so seconds.
"You think Neville's flying was 'wicked'?" Draco asked with a cold, critical tone. "Let me show you how a true wizard flies."
Utterly disregarding Madam Hooch's threat, Draco strolled over to the nearest broom and called it to his hand — his left hand.
Because he held Neville's Remembrall in his right!
"Wait, Draco…" Harry started as he ran over toward him, but the blond took off into the air and began to circle him and most of the first years.
"What's the matter?" Draco mocked. "Isn't this 'wicked'?"
"That…that's not yours!" Harry protested Draco's thievery.
"Afraid I'm going to drop it?" Draco questioned as he did indeed drop the Remembrall, only to swoop down and catch it with an admittedly impressive twirl. "Or maybe snap it? In two?"
Is he seriously going to compare…
"Ironic, isn't it?" Draco pressed. "Saint Potter will snap your mother's wand if you look at him funny, but this small prank? Oh-hoh, it's too much for him!"
"That's not what happened!" Harry rejected. But he wasn't the only one who said those words.
Harry nodded at Ron in gratitude.
"Spilling Slytherin secrets to Gryffindors now, are we?" Draco sneered icily. "You disappoint me."
You don't GET to call me a disappointment. Never! Harry bristled with fury.
"Not even going to defend your honor?" Draco taunted. "Witches and wizards, the Chosen One."
Harry marched over to a broom and summoned it to his hand.
"Harry, no way!" an all-too-familiar bossy voice sounded. "You heard what Madam Hooch said! Besides, you don't even know how to fly…"
"Are you thinking of playing Quidditch by any chance? You certainly have the reflexes for it, though I suppose it depends on how well you can fly…"
"Marcus wants the new seeker to be as young as possible. He thinks it'll be Draco, but maybe you have a shot."
"Have fun at your flying lessons today."
"Who said I don't know how to fly?" Harry replied with a confident smirk as he ascended into the air for not entirely selfless reasons.
"Took you long enough," Draco jabbed.
"What do you want for the Remembrall?" Harry attempted diplomacy.
"You think you're better than me," Draco accused with crossed arms and a haughty face. "I'm giving you a chance to prove it."
"What's the game?" Harry asked.
Draco flashed a dagger-like smile.
"Catch!" he answered as he suddenly hurled the Remembrall behind him.
Attuning himself to the form and vigor of his broom, Harry propelled himself forward both physically and by way of the energy bond linking him to the vehicle. The rushing of the wind felt freeing to Harry, which spurred him to drive faster and faster.
"Woo-hoo!" Harry shouted as he rode nearly in reach of the Remembrall…
Only for Draco to whizz by at the last second and seize it, nearly sending Harry spinning from the proximity and power of the movement.
"Tut-tut, too slow," Draco chided. "Shall we try again?"
Draco zoomed through the air with twirls, circles, zig-zags and even two roller-coaster loops, leaving Harry hard-pressed to follow. Harry barely saw the clear glass ball of interest leave Draco's hand to sail through the air.
Harry hurtled on an interception course, this time only registering the air in how it affected his speed. Yet just as he got in reach, Draco slammed into his shoulder and sent him spiraling. Harry in fact fell off his broom and barely caught on to it with his hands, leaving him dangling midair.
"I expected more to be honest," Draco said with what seemed to be genuine disappointment.
The blond Slytherin rose high into the air, slowly enough for Harry to haul himself back onto his broom and rise up himself.
We're over 200 feet in the air, Harry duly noted as he hovered his broom just five meters below where Draco had stopped. Looking at the exterior of Hogwarts castle, they appeared to be at about one-third of the fortress' gargantuan height.
Suddenly, Draco dove downward, zipping by less than an arm span away from collision. Harry spun and dove quicker than he imagined possible, but he was still a precious second behind.
Abandoning all forms of fear, Harry accelerated in spite of the rapidly approaching ground. Time seemingly slowed as Harry's world narrowed to the glint of the Remembrall, the currents of the air, the balance of his broom, the channel of energy with which he directed his flight, obstacles to his trajectory and his position relative to these factors only.
So when the Remembrall entered a sudden freefall five meters above the ground, Harry leaned forward and pushed with total dedication to intercepting the ball before it shattered against the grass — or more likely, the narrow brick pathway.
Harry caught the ball a mere two meters above the ground. At that momentary juncture, pure instinct guided Harry to press his arse toward the upraised rear of his broom and lean back with all his might while pumping his feet at an upward angle.
He just missed a skull-smashing death at the hands of brick pavement.
Still in a meditative trance, Harry looped up with the broom — which choked and sputtered from the strain of the death-defying maneuver Harry just pulled. Harry's connection to the broom and his power of will proved enough however to ride in a decelerating spiral down to the ground — Neville's Remembrall in hand.
Despite the roar of applause coming from his fellow first years, Harry never felt calmer in his life than when he stepped off of the broom.
At least until Ron bowled him over in a running hug.
"WICKED!" Ron screamed half-excited, half-hysteric while tightening his grip. "I thought you were dead! Dead! Wicked!"
"Can't…breathe," Harry wheezed as he realized just how strong Ron was.
Ron flushed and let Harry's chest go. For the second time in five minutes, Harry gulped in air like he would water in a desert.
He didn't have much chance to recover before the Gryffindors, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs descended on him. Somehow, the throng of high-fives, back pats, hugs (and a kiss or three on the cheek?) turned into Seamus, Anthony, Terry and Ernie hoisting him over the crowd. And despite being surprised yet again, by a group of guys no less, Harry felt on top of the world. Even if no one from his own house was supporting him.
But on second thought, unless he was crazy, he could swear he spotted Cassius on the roof of a nearby, low tower.