Chapter 6
Felicia's next class was History of Magic with Professor Binns—who, as it turned out, was quite literally a ghost. It was said he hadn't even realized he'd died, simply continuing to lecture long after his body had given out. Based on the way he spoke now—monotone, droning, as if trying to lull the entire class into a magical coma—she believed it.
Fortunately, Felicia had already covered much of magical history at home. Her family lineage practically required it. Lessons in the Forester household had been thorough, especially with access to the Forester Journals—a private collection of ancestral tomes dating back centuries. Hogwarts: A History had its merits, but compared to the insight woven into her family's records, it read more like an introductory pamphlet.
One of her ancestors, she recalled, hadn't received her magic until her fifth year—and yet, she had gone on to perceive magic in ways no one else could. Ancient magic. Raw, powerful, and difficult to categorize.
So yes, Felicia knew her history.
But if she had been forced to learn it this way—from a ghost who sounded like he was narrating his own funeral—she might not have learned anything at all.
Felicia glanced to her side and noticed Draco nodding off, his head beginning to tilt. She reached over and gave his arm a quick pat.
He jolted upright, blinking in confusion before turning a slow, accusing glare her way—like she'd just yanked him back into the shared hell that was Professor Binns' lecture. She gave him an innocent smirk in return.
Then, without a word, she pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and began doodling a tiny Quidditch match. Draco's eyes flicked down—and instantly understood.
Doodle Wars.
Felicia had invented the game during one of their earliest shared banquets, where they'd been ordered to sit still and remain silent for hours. Out of sheer boredom and rebellion, she'd enchanted her sketches to move, drawing magical creatures and duelists in motion. Draco, naturally, had responded with his own—soon, the doodles were battling across the parchment like tiny animated warriors.
The rules were simple: the drawings didn't need to be good, just complete—bodies with form and logic. Wings had to flap. Legs had to bend. Magic had to come from somewhere. The better-structured drawing always won.
Now, amid the droning of Binns' voice, the doodles danced again—except this time, Felicia had added a twist.
Her drawings were reenacting famous magical wars and historical events. Spells flew from one sketched figure to another. Fortresses crumbled. Wizards in miniature robes dueled on tiny hills. The year 1289 flashed in elegant cursive in the corner.
Draco narrowed his eyes at the parchment.
She was teaching him the lecture material.
He shot her a dry look—part annoyance, part reluctant admiration. He couldn't argue. It was far more effective than anything Binns was doing.
And she knew it.
Lunch in the Great Hall was surprisingly appetizing, the long tables lined with platters of roasted meats, seasoned vegetables, and warm breads. Felicia, however, was only half-focused on her plate—her mind was already on the next class: Flying 101.
It was a shared session with Gryffindor.
She snorted softly to herself. That meant Draco would definitely try to show off.
With a sigh, she folded the parchment she'd been doodling on and set it aside. As she glanced up, she spotted Neville Longbottom a few seats down at the Gryffindor table, tucking into his lunch. He looked much better—Madam Pomfrey clearly worked fast.
Further down, Seamus Finnigan was flicking his wand at his goblet with the kind of intensity that usually meant trouble.
Felicia had just begun feeding Redscale a small bite of roast beef when a loud boom echoed through the hall.
All heads turned.
Seamus sat wide-eyed, face blackened with soot, his goblet now cracked in two. A faint trail of smoke rose from it. He'd apparently attempted to transfigure his water into rum.
And failed.
Draco and his usual entourage burst into laughter, loud and obnoxious. Felicia rolled her eyes.
Next to her, Adrien Queensbury let out a low chuckle. "That's got to sting. Still... probably better than succeeding. If McGonagall caught him sipping rum at lunch, he'd never see daylight again."
Felicia shook her head with a soft smile.
Adrien leaned in slightly. "So," he said casually, "I heard Snape gave you twenty points in Potions this morning. What exactly did you do to earn that kind of praise?"
The question caught her off guard. She'd nearly forgotten.
She let out a quiet scoff, lifting her goblet. "I am the daughter of the Ministry's top Potions Master. Did anyone really expect me not to excel?"
Felicia knew it went deeper than her family name.
She wasn't naive—Snape's praise hadn't just been because she was a Forester. It was the way she'd deviated from the instructions, how she'd demonstrated a mastery of potion-making far beyond what was expected of a first-year. Snape had rewarded her for thinking like a true potion-maker.
As for Hermione, Felicia was certain she'd only received points out of fairness—for being her partner—and to balance out the ten-point deduction from both Potter and Weasley. In the end, it was like their house had broken even.
"Hm... well, it's only the first day," Adrien said with a lazy grin. "I'm already getting nervous thinking about what you'll be like by third year. Felicia Forester—Headmistress of Hogwarts by thirteen."
Felicia rolled her eyes, but didn't deny the teasing outright.
"What?" Draco, who had clearly been eavesdropping, looked over with an incredulous scowl. "There's no way she'd get that far. If anything, I'd be Headmaster long before she'd ever be Headmistress."
"Ooh, bold words, Malfoy," Adrien replied, clearly entertained. "We'll see how you hold up. So far, Felicia's already broken one record. How many have you broken?"
Draco's jaw tightened ever so slightly.
The rest of the Slytherin table had gone quiet, clearly intrigued by the unfolding exchange.
Felicia sighed inwardly. While the attention was technically on her, she knew this was more about Adrien and Draco locking horns than anything else. Adrien respected her—despite being older—because he'd seen enough of her talent firsthand. He knew that with a wand in her hand, she'd become a force of nature. There was just something about her that suggested she was always several steps ahead, even before she proved it.
Draco scoffed, clearly feeling the pressure. "During Flying class, I'll break a record. Just watch."
Adrien opened his mouth, no doubt ready with another jab—but Felicia shot him a sideways glance.
He caught it, paused... and smirked.
With a lazy shrug, he leaned back and let it go.
For now.
At Flying class, Felicia arrived to find several Gryffindors already gathered near the open field. The sun was high, casting sharp shadows across the grass, and a row of old, weathered brooms lay neatly on the ground, bristling like sleeping creatures.
She didn't spot Draco yet—he was probably still collecting himself, smoothing out the frustration from lunch before putting on his practiced, polished smirk.
However, she did notice Harry and Ron.
Felicia approached with a confident, but not arrogant, smile. Her presence caught their attention immediately.
"Ready for your first flying lesson, Potter?" she asked, her tone light.
Harry turned to her, a little surprised. So far, Felicia hadn't acted like the other Slytherins—no cold sneers, no smug superiority. She didn't look at him like he was supposed to be something special. She didn't look at him like he was something less, either.
There was still some uncertainty in his green eyes, but he gave a small nod.
"I guess we'll find out soon enough," he replied, glancing toward the brooms.
"He'll be fine," Ron said quickly, stepping in with his arms crossed and his voice firm. He shot a glare at a nearby group of Slytherins who were already snickering in Harry's direction. "Besides, how hard can it be?"
Felicia fought the urge to comment—but it was too late.
Draco had arrived just in time to hear it.
"Oh please, Weasley," he drawled, stepping closer with that telltale swagger. Felicia's expression tensed immediately. She already knew where this was going.
"I could fly before I could walk," Draco added with a smug grin. "It's in my blood."
His silver eyes flicked toward Harry, amusement gleaming behind them—but the smirk faltered just slightly when he caught the withering glare Felicia sent his way.
He quickly recovered, straightening his posture.
"Try not to embarrass yourself, Potter."
Madam Hooch, sharp-eyed and no-nonsense, strode onto the field before anyone else could get a word in.
"Right then!" she barked, clapping her hands once. "Everyone, stand beside a broomstick—let's see what we're working with."
The lesson had officially begun, and the tension in the air crackled almost as much as the magic buzzing beneath their fingertips.
Felicia approached one of the brooms with an easy, almost lazy sort of confidence. She glanced down at the thing and raised an unimpressed brow. Calling these "brooms" was generous—the bristles looked like they'd caught fire more than once, and the handle itself was warped and weathered, the wood worn soft in places. They looked like relics from her grandfather's school days... if not older.
She sighed lightly, folding her hands behind her back as she waited for instructions.
Madam Hooch paced the line of students, her hawk-yellow eyes sharp and assessing. "Alright, first years—let's see if you can manage the basics. Stick out your right hand over your broom and say Up!"
A chorus of "Up!" echoed across the field.
Some brooms snapped immediately into open hands. Others twitched pathetically—or rolled away like lazy dogs that refused to obey.
Draco's broom soared into his palm the moment the word left his lips. He smirked triumphantly and cast a smug look toward Felicia, fully expecting her to match him—or better yet, to fail, just so he could rub it in.
Felicia returned his look without expression, then turned her gaze back to the rest of the class, unimpressed.
Harry's broom wobbled uncertainly before flipping up into his grasp. His eyes widened in surprise, clearly not expecting it to work so well on the first try. Ron, standing beside him, scowled as his broom stubbornly refused to budge.
Neville's broom, in contrast, responded with too much enthusiasm. It shot into the air and smacked him squarely in the face.
"Ow!"
Madam Hooch strode between the rows, offering nods of approval and the occasional sharp correction. "Focus! The broom responds to confidence, not hesitation. If you're timid, it will ignore you."
Draco, still watching her out of the corner of his eye, leaned in slightly.
"Let's see it, then, Forester," he drawled. "Unless your little dragon plans on doing the flying for you."
Felicia's lips twitched. She slowly turned her head toward him, her smirk spreading just enough to make his falter.
Without breaking eye contact, she extended her hand over her broom and said, cool and measured, "Up."
The broom snapped cleanly into her grasp. No wobble. No hesitation. Perfect form.
Draco blinked, momentarily dumbfounded.
Then it hit him.
She planned this.
The smug little display, the precision—it wasn't just natural talent. She'd trained for this moment. Probably for weeks, maybe longer. Just to show him up.
His fingers tightened around his broom handle.
Felicia finally looked away, satisfied, her smirk deepening as she did. She held back a laugh, but the gleam in her eyes gave her away.
Across the field, Pansy Parkinson observed the silent exchange with growing irritation. It didn't sit well with her—this dynamic between Felicia and Draco. Neither of them considered her a rival, and that stung more than she cared to admit.
Meanwhile, Crabbe and Goyle were still struggling. Goyle managed to get his broom to rise after his third try, while Crabbe nearly smacked himself in the face with his before catching it at the last second.
Madam Hooch clapped her hands sharply.
"Good! Now, mount your brooms—firm grip, feet flat on the ground. When I blow my whistle, kick off, rise a few feet, then come straight back down. No showing off."
Her hawk-like gaze landed squarely on Draco, as if she already knew he'd be the first to break the rules.
"Yeah, no showing off, Draco," Felicia said with a smirk, casting him a sidelong glance. He returned the look with narrowed eyes.
She swung her leg over her broom, pausing to grimace. "Merlin's beard... when was the last time this thing was maintained?"
Before Madam Hooch could even lift her whistle to her lips, a sharp yelp pierced the air.
Neville Longbottom's broom jerked violently beneath him the moment he mounted it, rising shakily off the ground despite his frantic grip. His face went pale as the broom lurched higher, wobbling like a drunk pixie, completely ignoring his attempts to steady it.
Madam Hooch's eyes snapped to him.
"Longbottom! Don't panic—"
Too late.
With a sudden jolt, the broom shot skyward. Gasps rippled through the students as they looked up, some alarmed, others barely hiding their laughter.
Neville clung on for dear life, knuckles white, until the broom twisted sharply to the side. His grip slipped.
A scream tore from his throat as he plummeted.
Felicia winced as he hit the ground with a thud that echoed across the field. Even Draco flinched—though he covered it quickly with a smirk as he leaned toward her.
"No showing off," he echoed mockingly, eyes glinting. "Tell him that."
Felicia shot him an unamused look but said nothing, her focus already on Neville.
Madam Hooch stormed across the grass, her stride brisk and precise. She knelt beside Neville, quickly examining his arm.
"Broken wrist," she said curtly, her tone leaving no room for debate. "You'll be fine, Longbottom—but you're going straight to the hospital wing."
Madam Hooch rose to her full height, her sharp gaze sweeping across the gathered students.
"Nobody moves a muscle until I return. Is that understood?"
A scattered chorus of, "Yes, ma'am," followed.
The moment she strode off, Draco turned back to the group, the trademark smirk sliding back onto his face like a mask.
"Did you see that?" he scoffed. His voice rang out, drawing everyone's attention. Felicia's golden eyes flicked toward him, already bracing herself. "Pathetic. Some people just shouldn't be allowed near a broom."
Felicia rolled her eyes. Draco, unbothered, scanned the grass—and spotted something glinting in the sunlight.
Neville's Remembrall.
It must have fallen out during the crash.
Draco stooped, picking it up and turning it over in his palm. A slow, wicked grin crept across his face.
"Well, would you look at that," he drawled. "Longbottom forgot his little toy." He held it up for the others to see, the glass sphere catching the light. "Guess I'll have to remind him about it later."
"Draco..." Felicia said his name low, her voice calm but edged in warning.
He didn't look at her, but the subtle shift in his posture said he heard. The grip on the Remembrall tightened just slightly—then he smirked wider, unwilling to let the crowd see him flinch.
That's when Harry stepped forward.
"Give it here, Malfoy," he said evenly. His tone wasn't loud, but it cut through the tension like a blade.
Draco turned to face him, eyes alight with challenge. "I think I'll keep it," he said lazily, tossing the Remembrall up and catching it again. "Unless, of course, you'd like to take it from me?"
A few students gasped. Ron muttered a curse under his breath. Across the line, a few Slytherins—Pansy among them—watched with undisguised amusement.
"Draco… enough of this," Felicia said, her voice low with warning. She hated getting involved in his dramatics, but someone had to be the voice of reason. Unfortunately, Draco was already too deep in his own spectacle to back down now.
Without so much as a glance at her, he swung a leg over his broom, smirking.
"Come on, Potter," he taunted, hovering a few feet off the ground. "Unless you're too scared."
Harry's expression hardened. He climbed onto his broom without a word.
Felicia pinched the bridge of her nose. "Not you too…"
Draco's grin sharpened. "Finally," he said, rising a bit higher. "I was starting to think you didn't have any nerve, Potter."
A wave of murmurs rippled through the gathered students. Even a few Slytherins leaned forward, intrigued by the brewing showdown—something that transcended house lines, if only for a moment.
Draco held the Remembrall up, glinting in the sunlight.
"Alright then... catch."
With a sudden burst of speed, he shot upward, laughing as he cut through the air.
Harry didn't hesitate. He kicked off the ground—and soared.
Felicia's brows lifted, surprised. The way Harry moved… it was instinctual. Effortless. Like he'd been flying all his life.
She glanced at Draco, whose smug confidence faltered—just for a heartbeat—as he realized the same.
The watching students grew quiet, captivated. Even the Gryffindors, who moments ago looked ready to shout Harry down from the air, now stood in stunned awe.
Felicia crossed her arms, her gaze sharp on the two of them.
If they don't get themselves expelled, it'll be a miracle.
Draco gritted his teeth and leaned forward, urging his broom faster. He refused to let Potter outshine him.
But then, in his rush to regain control of the moment, he made a mistake—
He hurled the Remembrall.
It sailed high, catching the sunlight as it spun through the air in a perfect, glittering arc.
Harry dove after it.
The crowd gasped as one. He streaked toward the ground with alarming speed—far too fast for a first-year. Even Draco, suspended midair, froze in place.
Felicia's heart lurched. Her hand was already on her wand, though she wasn't sure what she could do in time. All she knew was that she had to be ready.
Harry's hand shot out—
And he caught it.
He pulled up just in time, landing on the grass in a perfect crouch, the Remembrall clutched in his fist.
The field was silent. No cheers, no laughter. Just stunned silence.
Even Felicia blinked, taken off guard by what she'd just seen.
Draco slowly descended, jaw clenched tight. He hadn't just lost control of the situation—he'd handed the spotlight to Potter on a silver platter. And now everyone was looking at him like he'd been outmatched.
His eyes flicked to Felicia.
Her expression said it all. She was furious.
Before either of them could speak, a sharp voice sliced through the silence.
"Mr. Potter!"
Every head turned. Professor McGonagall was storming across the field, her robes billowing behind her.
Without thinking, Felicia reached up and yanked Draco down off his broom, forcing him to the ground before McGonagall spotted him still airborne.
Her grip lingered just long enough to send a clear message: Don't make this worse.
Draco staggered slightly, glaring at her.
She glared right back.
The unspoken words passed between them like sparks. She was right. He knew it. But that didn't mean he had to like it.
His jaw clenched as he watched McGonagall lead Harry away, the buzz of excitement bleeding out of the crowd. Murmurs rippled across the field—some voices still in awe, others whispering about what sort of punishment awaited the Boy Who Lived.
Draco shoved his hands deep into his robes and muttered something bitter under his breath, though there was no real venom in it.
He had won nothing today.
And the worst part?
Harry had stolen his moment.
When Crabbe and Goyle made a move to laugh or crack a joke, Felicia cut them off with a single, ice-cold glare. Their mouths snapped shut at once. The look she gave was far sharper than any rebuke Draco had ever delivered, and it made both boys rethink their timing.
Without a word, Felicia turned on her heel and began walking off the field. Class was clearly over, though no one had said it aloud. She didn't look back once.
Draco watched her retreating figure, frustration simmering beneath the surface. He should have been the one annoyed. He had every right. But there she was, stalking off like he'd personally betrayed her.
And maybe… that's what bothered him most.
She had pulled him down off that broom before McGonagall could see. Saved him from being part of the fallout. Why?
He exhaled sharply and dragged a hand through his hair, then strode after her, ignoring the scattered whispers trailing behind him.
"Forester!" he called, his voice echoing down the stone corridor.
Felicia stopped and turned, her golden eyes cool as they settled on him.
"What is it, Draco?" Her voice was calm, but edged with irritation that hadn't quite settled.
Before either of them could say another word, a high-pitched scream echoed from somewhere down the corridor.
Felicia and Draco turned just in time to see a group of students sprinting from a hallway—hair puffed out in comical frizz, streaked in vibrant colors of pink, green, and blue.
Felicia blinked, then suddenly covered her mouth as a snicker escaped. She tried to stifle it, but failed—quiet laughter bubbling out of her.
Draco stared at the scene, clearly stunned, but his gaze flicked to Felicia. She wasn't laughing at him—she never laughed at his jokes the way the rest of the house did—but now? Now she was genuinely amused.
More yelling followed, a few groans of horror, and the unmistakable puff of colored chalk powder clouded into the air. Felicia tilted her head slightly, recognizing the substance immediately. Classic prank.
She walked forward, curious, rounding the corner of a nearby bench that was absolutely covered in the powder. She sighed—only mildly disappointed that she'd missed the casting of the spell itself. A telltale snicker, then laughter, echoed from nearby.
Felicia followed it, forgetting for a moment that Draco was trailing behind her.
She turned a corner and found exactly what she expected—Fred and George Weasley, doubled over, clutching their sides and barely able to breathe from laughter.
"Figures it'd be you two," she said, shaking her head in mock exasperation.
Draco, catching up, raised a brow. "You know these two Weasleys?" he asked, his tone laced with judgment.
"Ah, if it isn't our favorite little Slytherin," Fred grinned, immediately recovering. Both he and George straightened and casually slung an arm over each of Felicia's shoulders, leaning in with matching grins.
"Twice in one day," George said with a smirk.
"If we didn't know better," Fred added smoothly, "we'd think you liked us."
That's when they finally acknowledged Draco, their smiles dimming into something cooler.
"Oh," George said, eyeing him. "You brought a friend."
"A Malfoy, no less," Fred muttered under his breath, not quite low enough for it to be missed.
Draco's jaw tightened.
Fred and George shared a glance, clearly not inclined to stay. "Well, we'll save the prank talk for another time," George said, giving Felicia a two-fingered salute.
"Until next time," Fred added with a wink.
Felicia's shoulders stiffened slightly at the gesture as the twins slipped off down the corridor and vanished behind another corner.
Draco turned to her, still visibly puzzled. "How do you even know them?"
Felicia just gave him a sidelong look. "Don't worry about it."
Truth was… she wouldn't even know where to start explaining it if she tried.