The Great Hall, Sunday Morning
General POV:
Neville Longbottom had believed Potter and Granger to be his greatest rivals until he met Draco Malfoy. Despite first-year Gryffindors only having Potions with the Slytherins, Neville's impression of the boy is beyond terrible for within that short time frame Malfoy had insulted his family, got into a fight with him and suspected to sabotaged the potions he brewed.
Neville thought the week couldn't be worse until until he spotted a notice pinned up in the Gryffindor common room stating that Flying lessons would be starting this Sunday afternoon - and Gryffindor and Slytherin would be learning together.
'Just what I always wanted: to make a fool of myself on a broomstick in front of Malfoy', thought Neville darkly.
Neville, like the majority, has never been on a broomstick in his life, because his parents had never let him near one. Not knowing this fact, he had been dreading to fly more than everyone else.
'I don't know if I'll be bad at flying,' Neville reassured himself. 'Anyway, though Malfoy's boasts should be all talk. At best, that git shouldn't have tried riding any more than a toy broom.'
The person in question had loudly complained about first years not allowed to get on the House Quidditch teams while telling questionable tales that always seemed to end with him narrowly escaping Muggles in helicopters.
Seamus Finnigan, one of Neville's followers, also claimed to have spent most of his childhood zooming around the countryside on a broomstick. Even Weasley would tell anyone who'd listen about almost getting hit by a hang glider on his elder brother's old broom, not that someone actually believed him.
Ron and Dean, who shared dormitory, had got into an argument over soccer. The former apparently couldn't see how a game with only one ball where no one was allowed to fly would be exciting.
Dean was trying to convince Ron of football's superiority by showing him tactical diagrams and West Ham poster when Draco Malfoy, who was passing the Gryffindor table, snatched those out of his hand.
Dean Thomas jumped up from his seat while Ron half-heatedly does so. Though he was hoping for a reason to punch Malfoy, Ron did not want to prove Dean right. No sooner has the thought crossed his red-headed mind, Professor McGonagall, who spotted trouble quicker than any teacher in the school, was there in a flash.
"What's going on?"
"Malfoy's got my football posters, Professor.", protested Dean.
The perpetrator pretended to be oblivious and quickly dropped them back on the table.
"Just looking," he said, and he slipped away with Crabbe and Goyle trailing behind him. Ron stared at Malfoy incredulously: a pure-blood supremacist showing interest in a Muggle sport?
At three-thirty that afternoon, Neville and the other Gryffindors hurried down the front steps onto the grounds for their first flying lesson. The sky was a clear shade of cyan, the cool breeze rippling across the grass under the little lions' feet as they walked towards the castle's training grounds.
By the time they arrived, Slytherins were already present, as well as two dozen broomsticks, ancient-looking with twigs stuck out at peculiar directions, all lying in neat lines. The Flight instructor, 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."
After the students lined up next to their brooms, Madam Hooch called:
"Stick out your right hand over your broom and say 'Up!'"
"UP!" everyone shouted.
Harry's broom jumped into his hand immediately, but it was one of the few that did. Hermione's and Neville's had simply rolled over on the ground, and Dean's hadn't moved an inch.
Madam Hooch proceeded to show them how to mount their brooms without sliding off, and walked up and down the rows correcting their grips. Neville was delighted when she told Malfoy he'd been doing it wrong for years.
"When I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," said Madam Hooch, returning to the front. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle — three — two —ONE!"
About half of the class lifted off while the other awkwardly sat with the broom clamped between their legs, some losing their balance and falling face-first into the lawn.
Among those in the air, Neville, nervous of losing to Malfoy, pushed off hard before the whistle even touched Madam Hooch's lips.
"Come back, boy!" she shouted, but Neville was shooting straight up - twelve feet - twenty feet. Despite his scared white face, Neville did not lose control of his broom, but glided in a beautiful parabola arc that would make mathematicians drool.
Seeing him not in any imminent danger, Madam Hooch breathed a sigh of relief and cast a Feather-Falling spell on Neville's broom before turning back to the class.
No sooner has her eyes left the boy, Draco Malfoy grasped his broom for dear life and accelerated towards Neville, determined not to lose to him. Unlike Neville, Draco's ascent was incredibly shaky - it was not seconds later that he slipped from his broom, flapping his arms and falling towards the ground.
WHAM — a thud and a nasty crack and the blonde-haired boy lay facedown on the grass. His broomstick was rising yet higher and higher, starting to drift lazily towards the Womping Willow.
Madam Hooch, the poor woman, bent towards Draco before brightening in relief.
"Broken nose" she muttered. "Come on, boy — it's all right, up you get."
She turned towards the rest of the class, using magic to help Draco lift himself from the ground and stop the bleeding.
"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."
Draco, his face red with humiliation, hobbled off with Madam Hooch, who had her wand semi-lift him from the ground.
"Did you see his face?", mocked Weasley, "Malfoy's head was so hot it was steaming!"
Dean and the other Griffindor boys burst into laughter, each sharing their comment on Malfoy's dramatic fall.
The Slytherins, not amused that they were one-sidedly attacked, found the ball crate on the ground that Madame Hooch left behind. Crabbe's clumsy hands peeled open it while a black object shot out, knocking him unconscious.
"It's a Bludger! Neville, watch out!", shouted a Griffindor as the ball made its way towards the only target in the air.
Neville saw, as though in slow motion, the ball getting ever closer to himself threateningly - the next moment he was swooping down in a steep dive, racing from the pursuit, wind whistling in his ears. As screams can be heard from the ground with each close call, Neville felt freer than ever, zipping across the air.
"NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM!"
Neville's heart sank faster than he'd just dived. Professor McGonagall was heading toward them, and with a wave of her wand, the Bludger was subdued back to the bag. He got down to the ground, trembling in fear.
"Never — in all my time at Hogwarts —"
Professor McGonagall looked almost speechless with shock, and her glasses flashed furiously, "— how dare you — might have broken your neck —"
"It wasn't his fault, Professor —"
"Be quiet, Miss Granger —"
"But Crabbe —"
"That's enough, Mr. Weasley. Longbottom, follow me, now."
Neville caught sight of Crabbe and Goyle's triumphant smirks as he left, walking numbly behind Professor McGonagall as she strode towards the castle.
'I'm going to be expelled', Neville knew. He wanted to defend himself, but the stern look on the Professor's face stopped his voice. She was striding without sparing a glance at him; he had to half-run to keep up.
Now he'd done it. He hadn't even lasted two weeks. He'd be packing in ten minutes. What would his Dad and Mum say when their son was sent back for breaking school rules? He shuddered to imagine it.
Up the front steps, then the marble staircase, and still Professor McGonagall didn't say a word. She wrenched open the doors and marched along corridors with Neville trotting miserably behind.
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 Neville, bewildered. 'Was Wood a disciplinary device she was going to use on him?'
But Wood turned out to be a person, a burly fifth-year who came out of Charms 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 pointed them into a classroom that was empty except for Peeves scribbling graffiti on the blackboard.
"Langlock!" she swung her wand. Peeves found his tongue glued to the bottom of his mouth, which despite his efforts could not be removed. He threw a disgusted look at Professor McGonagall, but seeing her wand still pointed at him, swooped out making insulting hand signs. Professor McGonagall slammed the door behind him and turned to face the two boys.
"Longbottom, this is Oliver Wood. Wood — I've found you a Chaser."
Wood's expression changed from puzzlement to delight.
"Are you serious, Professor?"
"Absolutely," said Professor McGonagall crisply. "I've never seen anyone dodge Bludgers so naturally. That your first time on a broomstick, am I right Longbottom?"
Neville nodded silently. He didn't have a clue what was going on, but he didn't seem to be expelled, and the numbness started to disappear.
"He dodged that Bludger all by himself with the rickety school broom," Professor McGonagall told Wood. "Not even grazed by the ball. I'd bet Gwenog Jones couldn't have done it."
Wood was now looking as though all his dreams had come true at once.
"Ever seen a game of Quidditch, Longbottom?" he asked excitedly.
"Wood's captain of the Gryffindor team," Professor McGonagall explained.
"He's just the perfect size for a Chaser, too," said Wood, now walking around Neville as if looking at a specimen. "Lithe - long limbs - just the right height, too. We'll have to get him a better broom, Professor — Nimbus Two Thousand or Cleansweep Seven, I think."
"I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore and see if we can get a suitable one for him. 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. . . ."
Professor McGonagall peered sternly over her glasses at Neville.
"I want to hear you're training hard, Longbottom, or I may change my mind about punishing you."
Then she suddenly smiled.
"Your parents would be thrilled to hear this," she said. "Neville Longbottom, youngest player in a century."
'Dumbledore was right again, wasn't he', thought Professor McGonagall. 'He truly had an eye for these things.'
Somewhere up on a certain tower, a certain white-robed wizard sneezed. "Did someone just mention me? I swear I've already got nearly over hundred of these for the last week."