Chapter Nine: First Flights

The second day at Hogwarts began early for Harry. The castle stirred slowly in the morning mist, the corridors cool beneath his feet as he made his way down to breakfast. He had risen before most of the first-years, not out of nerves but routine. He liked the quiet, the time to think. A few upper-years nodded at him as he passed, their expressions unreadable.

After a short and uninterrupted breakfast, Harry took advantage of the early hour to walk the grounds of the castle and think before his first class. He wasn't sure how or why he'd travelled back in time, but there was one thing that he knew he would change for the better - Sirius.

His reservations about changing events to preserve the timeline ended abruptly at the thought of his godfather rotting in Azkaban. He would have to manipulate things quite a bit, but he did have some help.

Thinking back to his conversation with Ragthar, he remembered a short exchange between the two of them.

"Hypothetically, if someone wanted to remove a prisoner from Azkaban without the Ministry finding out, would you have any thoughts about that?"

Ragthar actually stared at him this time. Usually goblin emotions were impossible to read, but Ragthar seemed completely astounded by this line of enquiry.

"Hypothetically" he growled, after regaining his composure, "this unknown someone might consider planting a transfigured corpse in the cell of said prisoner, in order to fool the Ministry that the prisoner had died".

Harry could have slammed his head into Ragthar's obsidian desk. He already knew how to break someone out - Barty Crouch had done it years ago and no one knew anything about it.

"Let's keep this hypothetical scenario between us for now Ragthar, please".

Harry's thoughts were pulled back to the present, and to Defense Against the Dark Arts: scheduled first thing with the Gryffindors. He'd already looked over his textbook, but he was more interested in observing the professor himself.

Quirinus Quirrell.

By the time the first-years gathered outside the classroom, Harry had already taken a position near the door. He spotted the Gryffindors approaching from the other corridor and gave a small nod to Hermione when she joined the group. She smiled back, a little tight around the edges, still adjusting to being surrounded by so many new people, perhaps.

A boy with round cheeks and a nervous gait hovered just behind Seamus Finnigan. Harry stepped closer and offered a small smile.

"Neville Longbottom, right?"

Neville blinked at him. "Er, yeah."

"Harry Potter," Harry said. "Good to meet you properly. I think I saw your toad on the Express?"

Neville flushed. "Trevor. He keeps wandering off."

"He's got taste," Harry replied dryly. "Can't blame him for wanting a bit of adventure."

Neville snorted despite himself, and Harry marked it as a win.

The classroom door creaked open, and Quirrell's voice emerged, soft and stammering. "C-come in, everyone."

They filed inside.

Quirrell was twitchy. He looked like he'd slept in his clothes, and the scent of garlic hung in the air, sharp and strange. Harry remembered the rumours, something about vampires, or was that trolls? Either way, the garlic was a distraction.

Quirrell launched into a lecture that was more nervous rambling than instruction, and Harry spent the time watching him instead. The man's hands trembled when he turned pages, and his turban seemed too tight around his head. But something in his eyes, when they flicked toward Harry, was sharp. Not fearful. Curious. Calculating, even.

Harry made sure to take notes. He didn't speak once during the class.

At the end, when Quirrell dismissed them with a vague warning about hinkypunks, Harry lingered just a moment longer. He offered a polite "Thank you, Professor," and received a stiff nod in return.

Outside the room, Hermione fell into step beside him.

"He doesn't seem very confident, does he?" she said, tone carefully neutral.

"No," Harry replied. "But confidence isn't always the same as competence."

Hermione gave him a look, then nodded slowly. "You're right. But I'd still rather not be learning about curses from someone who looks like he might faint at the word 'Boggart.'"

~OvO~

Flying class with the Hufflepuffs was held out on the lawn near the Quidditch pitch. Twenty school brooms lay in neat rows on the grass, and Madam Hooch stood before them with her whistle and steely gaze.

Harry suppressed a grin. He hadn't flown in what felt like years, but muscle memory lingered.

The Hufflepuffs looked excited but anxious. The Ravenclaws were more mixed; Terry was already inspecting his broom's twigs like he meant to write an essay about them, and Michael was bouncing slightly on his heels. Hermione looked terrified, so Harry offered her an encouraging smile. He took a spot next to a small, dark-haired girl from Hufflepuff who seemed determined not to look at anyone.

"Good afternoon everyone! Now, if you could all please stand by a broomstick!" Madam Hooch called. "Stick out your right hand, and say 'Up!'"

"Up!" came the chorus.

Harry's broom leapt into his hand immediately, smooth as butter. A few heads turned. He glanced sideways and saw Michael struggling, his face scrunched in concentration.

"Up- UP- oh, come on…"

Harry looked away before anyone could ask questions. He watched Hermione fail a few times before she closed her eyes, breathed slowly through her nose, held her hand out, spoke the word, and:

"YES!" she cried, shaking away the feeling of failure.

After everyone had their brooms in their hands, Madam Hooch demonstrated the basics of mounting a broom and pushing off. Harry kept his posture relaxed and let himself blend into the background, at least until they were airborne.

The moment he left the ground, everything clicked into place. The wind on his face, the soft resistance of air against his hands as he leveled out, it was as close to flying unaided as he could remember.

Terry wobbled on his left, and Harry guided his broom away without a word. He wasn't showing off. He was watching, learning. Testing how far the school brooms could handle speed or precision.

At one point, a Hufflepuff boy named Owen clutched his broom handle like it was a snake trying to throw him off. Harry nudged closer and offered a tip about leaning forward, gentle and quiet enough not to draw attention.

By the end of class, Madam Hooch gave him an appraising look.

"You've flown before" she said as they landed.

"A little" Harry said modestly.

"Hmm."

She didn't press, but Harry could feel her curiosity.

~OvO~

Dinner was a quiet affair for him. The Great Hall buzzed with energy, first-years excitedly comparing notes about the day. Harry tuned out the noise and let his eyes drift toward the High Table.

Professor Flitwick was chatting animatedly with Professor Sprout. McGonagall looked stern as ever, and Snape-

Snape was staring directly at him.

Harry held the gaze evenly. After a moment, Snape blinked and looked away.

Interesting.

One day down. Many more to go. It was time to start preparing in earnest.