Sometimes doing the right thing means breaking the rules.

Sometimes flying isn't just movement—it's recognition, instinct, legacy.

This chapter was about those moments. The soft ones. The brave ones.

Thanks for reading—and for trusting the quiet with me.

— Gryff

The grass still held the lingering weight of the early morning mist as clusters of first-year students gathered on the field. Their robes danced softly in the gentle wind, dew clinging to the edges of their shoes. Every blade of grass carried droplets of moisture that caught the light like individual, shimmering stars. Overhead, the sky spread vast and pale, its delicate expanse streaked with thin, fast-moving clouds, as if they were in pursuit of the day.

Near the fringe of the assembly stood Celeste, arms crossed loosely over her chest as if shielding herself from more than just the chill of the air. The cool atmosphere brushed against her skin with a crispness heightened by an oddly metallic tang - a telltale mark of nearby, potent magic. Before her, twenty school brooms were arranged in two meticulous rows on the sodden grass. Their bristles were sadly frayed, and the handles smoothed away by generations, reflecting the nervous energy of countless students. A few of the brooms even twitched in the soft breeze, reminiscent of restless insects attempting to free themselves from unseen constraints. Celeste's eyes moved slowly across them - not just observing, but listening. Their magic was shallow, jittery, more reactive than resonant. Not like wands. Where wands hummed with purpose, these buzzed, like magic caught in the wrong shape.

"Everyone stand by a broom!" Madam Hooch's voice rang out, sharp and insistent, her boots sinking into the damp earth as she hurriedly commanded the group. "Come on, quickly!"

With quiet determination, Celeste gravitated toward a broom that appeared marginally straighter than the rest. As if acknowledging her presence, it twitched slightly upon her approach, then settled into a reluctant obedience.

"Stick out your right hand over your broom and say, 'Up!'" Madam Hooch instructed.

"UP!" came the unified chorus of voices, Celeste's included. Yet her broom did not answer in kind. It quivered with uncertainty, rolling languidly on the wet grass before settling once more into inert stillness. Nearby, Harry's broom shot up into his hand on the first try and Ron's broom defied expectations by leaping upward with an abrupt snap, colliding with his face in a comical yet painful encounter. He emitted a muffled yelp, clutching his nose while laughter rippled through the crowd.

"Keep those fingers steady!" Madam Hooch admonished, her tone brooking no nonsense. "You'll lose an eye if you're not careful!"

Celeste's lips pressed into a determined line as she refocused her attention. She could feel the restless hum of magic coursing through the broom - a subtle energy skimming just beneath its surface, elusive as water slipping through outstretched fingers.

"Up," she murmured again, this time softer and coaxing as though persuading the broom to embrace her control. The broom wavered for a moment longer, then gave a grudging little bounce before settling back onto the grass with a muted thud. Around her, the scene slowly transformed into one of small triumphs; a dark-skinned girl lifted her broom to hover steadily at knee level, her expression alight with delight, while a nearby boy had already snatched his broom from the air, holding it aloft like a prized trophy. The field buzzed with excited chatter, punctuated by scattered shouts of celebration.

Celeste, however, was lost in her own world. She crouched beside her obstinate broom, studying every fine detail - the grain of the wood, the quivering tremor in its delicate twigs - almost as if she believed it might eventually confess the secrets of its nature under her unwavering gaze. A flush of heat crept up her cheeks as she sensed the successful displays of her peers, the embarrassed awareness of her own struggle blooming within her.

"Need some help?" Ron's voice piped in, still tinged with the remnants of his earlier mishap as he glanced over, his tone half-chiding and half-concerned.

Celeste didn't spare him a glance. "No. Just being stubborn," she replied curtly.

"Maybe it doesn't like you," Ron teased with a weak laugh, then winced as he gingerly touched the bruise forming beneath one eye. "Looks like we've got something in common." Though his words carried humour, there was an underlying shared exasperation that resonated with her. A brief twitch appeared at the corner of Celeste's mouth - a silent acknowledgement of the absurdity of it all.

Taking a renewed breath, she said, "Up," a bit firmer this time. The broom wobbled and seemed to hesitate as though weighing her resolve, pausing momentarily, then slowly, almost begrudgingly, arched upward into her outstretched hand. Celeste clutched it tightly, feeling the rough, natural texture of the wood settle reassuringly beneath her palm. It buzzed as if alive - a small creature captive within its own constraints, held still merely by a lack of better alternatives.

"Well done, everyone!" Madam Hooch's voice cut through the murmurs as she surveyed the class with piercing, hawk-like eyes. "Now let's see if you can keep them in the air."

Celeste tightened her grip around the broom, acutely aware of the wild, fleeting energy pulsing just beneath the surface of the wood - quick and untamed, waiting to burst free. Instinctively, her hand shifted, adjusting to the broom's subtle language.

"Mount your brooms!" Madam Hooch called next. "Grip tightly - you don't want to be sliding off the end. When I blow my whistle, you'll kick off, hover for a moment, and then come back down nice and slow. Understood?"

Nods rippled through the group as the instruction sank in. "Three, two—" Hooch began counting even as tension filled the air. Before the whistle could pierce the stillness, Neville Longbottom's broom leapt into action.

It wasn't graceful. It wasn't deliberate. Like a coiled spring finally released, the broom surged upward, propelled by pent-up energy. Neville clung desperately to it, his legs swinging wildly beneath him, his cloak billowing dramatically in the sudden rush of motion like tattered sails in a tempest.

Madam Hooch's whistle shrieked sharply, belatedly punctuating the chaos. "Mr Longbottom!" she bellowed. "Everyone else - stay put! Do not move!"

As Neville's broom jerked and twisted violently beneath him, it began elevating him higher with each frantic adjustment. He screamed - a high, reedy, terror-stricken sound - and the broom, no longer a graceful instrument, whirled in a frantic spiral, each twist and turn tightening its grip on his fate. Celeste watched, transfixed and frozen, her hand inching toward her wand as though preparing to intervene, though what could she do?

The broom was not behaving with wild rebellion - it wasn't aiming to toss him aside - but rather it was trying to escape the confines of control. Deep within her, she sensed it: a thread of magic pulled tightly, resonating with a note too profound and louder than any audible sound. It was as if the broom was mirroring not just Neville's terror, but a larger, all-encompassing force. Neville's ascent became a series of jerky, staggering arcs; his arms flailed wildly in a desperate bid for equilibrium. The entire class gasped in unison as he twisted sideways, a momentary lapse sending him into an inevitable, heart-stopping fall. Time seemed to hang in suspended silence as he plummeted toward the earth.

There was a heavy, resounding thud as Neville hit the grass, his misbehaving broom falling with him and landing with a thud next to him. A hush fell over the field, thick and heavy, as if the world had momentarily exhaled in collective shock.

Madam Hooch was at Neville's side in an instant, her wand drawn, her voice low and urgent as she worked quickly with measured precision. Though Celeste couldn't catch the words, she noted the reassuring gentleness in Madam Hooch's touch and the swift flicker of magic that danced in the air. Neville groaned as he clutched his injured arm, the pain mingling with the raw shock of the incident.

"Broken wrist," Madam Hooch announced grimly, eyes hardening as she addressed the still-gathered students. "Everyone stay where you are." She turned sharply to face the class, her gaze stern and unyielding. "If I see a single broom in the air," she warned, her voice slicing through the silence, "the one riding it will be out of Hogwarts faster than you can say 'Quidditch.'"

The warning settled over the students like a chill, and a few stiffened noticeably, while the grounded brooms around them twitched as if chastened for their earlier misbehaviour. Madam Hooch draped her arm firmly around Neville's shoulder, ushering him away with brisk determination, her cloak snapping behind her like a trailing reminder of discipline.

In the wake of their departure, whispered speculations bubbled among the remaining students.

"Did you see his face?" someone murmured in awe. "He looked ready to faint!"

Another whispered, "I thought he was going to be sick."

Despite the murmurs, Celeste remained silent, her gaze fixed on where Madam Hooch and Neville had walked away, her hand resting protectively on her sleeve where her wand was tucked away.

It was not merely fear that had surged through the air that day. The magic had flared around Neville's broom in a warning glow - a vivid signal that resonated deeply within her. And even as the field began to stir again, the lingering echo of that wild, untamed energy hummed softly in the cool, misty morning air.

As the crowd shifted, Celeste stood still, her thoughts weaving through memories long buried. She felt them surface like reluctant apparitions: afternoons in the Ollivander workshop, the rustle of pages carrying her grandfather's voice - the first to tell her about their family's peculiar sensitivity to certain kinds of magic.

"An affliction," her grandfather had said once, with a soft smile that tried to be reassuring. "Or a talent, depending on how you look at it."

Then, Draco Malfoy's voice split her thoughts like a shard of glass shattering on cold stone. "Did you see his face?" he called out, his tone cutting through the voices of the other students, his eyes alight with malicious amusement. "It looked just like a squashed toad falling from the sky."

A few students exchanged hesitant, brittle chuckles that fluttered in the air but carried no warmth. Celeste remained silent, her gaze moving to gaze at Neville's broom, now carelessly lying askew in the dewy grass where it had fallen. The broom's bristles trembled ever so slightly in the gentle breeze, yet its handle lay unnervingly motionless, as if it had surrendered its life after a hard-fought struggle. Bending just a fraction lower, Celeste feigned interest in inspecting her own broom, all the while keeping her attention locked on the one Neville had ridden. Something about it exuded an inexplicable energy. It wasn't that it appeared cursed or scarred by any dark magic; it seemed simply different, as though it were reacting to an unseen pressure, spooked by forces unknown.

Her musing was interrupted as Draco moved again, his sharp, tinkling laugh drawing her attention like a lure. He crouched near the spot where Neville's cloak, crumpled and discarded, lay in a tangled heap on the ground. With a flourish, Draco plucked an object from the grass.

"Oh, what do we have here?" he sneered, twirling the item between his perfectly manicured fingers, holding it aloft for all the onlookers to see. "Looks like dear Longbottom dropped his little toy."

It was the Remembrall, radiating a soft glow that shimmered in the early light, its inner red pulse mimicking a heartbeat frozen in time against glass.

"Give it back, Malfoy," came a steady, firm tone from Harry - his voice laced with a calm warning rather than heat. Immediately, Celeste straightened, her heart skipping as she looked between the boys.

Draco turned the sphere in his fingers, eyes dancing with mischief. "I think I'll leave it somewhere for him to find," he declared with an arch smirk.

Celeste, still standing at the edge of the gathered class, spoke up. Her words were soft, yet carried an undeniable clarity and resolve. "He dropped it. You took it. That's not clever - it's petty."

Draco's smirk wavered for just a heartbeat as he turned toward her with a glint of displeasure, only to find her expression unwavering - like someone calmly observing a minor, disappointing misfire of magic. Harry stepped forward once more, his jaw set in a tight line. "I said, give it here," he demanded.

Rather than listening to Harry, Draco moved to his broom and mounted it with a grace that belied his usual arrogance. "Come and catch it if you can, Potter," he sneered.

In a sudden burst, he kicked off from the grass, his figure blurring as he soared away. Celeste's heart leapt as she realised he had flown exceptionally well, clearly no stranger to flying on a broom. The Remembrall continued to glint ominously in Malfoy's grasp.

"Malfoy, no!" Harry shouted, his eyes flashing with both fury and determination. Harry swung a leg over his broom, preparing to take off after the Malfoy heir.

Beside him, Hermione hissed a furious admonition, "Don't you dare! You'll get expelled! Besides, you don't even know how to fly!"

But even as she spoke, Celeste interjected softly - her voice low yet precise, reaching Harry's ears clearly: "You should fly. If anyone can catch it, it's you."

Harry hesitated, his grip tightening on the broom handle. The tension in the air shifted.

Hermione rounded on Celeste, her brows drawn tight in disbelief.

"Why would you encourage him?" she whispered sharply. "That's reckless. He could fall, he could break his neck - he could get expelled!"

Celeste met her eyes, calm as ever.

"Because Malfoy's the one who broke the rules first, " she replied simply. "Harry's just putting it right."

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again before letting out a frustrated noise.

Before either of them could say more, Harry mounted his broom and kicked off the ground, the air rushing up around him like it had been waiting. As he reached Malfoy, he slowed to a hover. "Give it here, Malfoy, or I'll knock you off your broom!"

"Is that so?" Draco asked him, tossing the Remembrall up and down. "Have it your way, then!"

Then, with an easy flick of his wrist, Draco tossed the Remembrall into the air. It traced a graceful arc, catching the sunlight like a jewel, spinning lazily as it ascended, its surface glinting with a soft, alluring red glow. For a moment, it seemed suspended, just out of reach, tauntingly elusive.

Then it began its descent. The world seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.

And Harry moved.

His broom responded instantly to his slightest lean, dipping sharply forward before his hands had time to guide its motion. He shot forward and downward in a breathtakingly steep dive, his cloak billowing like a banner behind him, eyes locked onto the falling sphere with unwavering determination.

Gasps erupted across the field, a chorus of disbelief and awe. Celeste's heart leapt into her throat, a mixture of fear and exhilaration. Harry wasn't flying like a first-year student. He was flying as if he had been born with wings, as if the sky had always been his domain.

The Remembrall spiraled toward the ground, mere seconds from a shattering collision—

—and then, miraculously, Harry's fingers closed around it with the precision of a seasoned Seeker.

He pulled up sharply, just feet from the earth, skimming the grass in a daring, low arc before landing in a fluid, sliding stop that sent a flurry of damp leaves swirling in his wake.

For a heartbeat, the world was silent, suspended in the aftermath of the spectacle.

Then the air erupted with excited cries, a cacophony of cheers and stunned exclamations.

Celeste, however, remained silent. Her focus hadn't been on the Remembrall. She had been watching the broom. It hadn't merely obeyed him; it had trusted him, responding to his every thought and movement as if it were a living extension of his will, like magic rising to meet him before he even asked. The memory of it blazed in her mind, bright and unsettling. That kind of flying, she realised, didn't come from lessons at all.

Then—

"POTTER!"

Celeste flinched at the sharp call. Professor McGonagall was striding across the lawn, her emerald robes snapping in the wind, her face a mask of unreadable sternness.

"Follow me," she said crisply, taking Harry by the arm with an urgency that brooked no argument, and without waiting for a reply. They disappeared through the castle doors, and the excitement of the other students turned quickly to nervous whispers.

Celeste didn't join in. For the first time since she'd spoken, doubt crept in.

She had told Harry to fly and he had.

Now, watching the doors swing shut behind him, she wondered-

Had she been wrong to do so?

~o~o~o~o~

The sun was beginning to dip behind the majestic towers when Celeste discovered Harry sitting alone beneath one of the towering, ivy-laced windows just outside the courtyard. The golden light was slanting downwards, casting elongated shadows across the worn flagstones. Harry sat with his knees drawn up, his chin gently resting on them, and his arms loosely wrapped around his legs. Celeste paused at the corner of the archway, the air around her filled with the warm glow of the setting sun, then gracefully stepped into the light. Harry glanced up at her arrival. Words did not immediately pass between them; instead, she simply settled herself beside him - carefully, quietly, smoothing her robes beneath her as she sat.

Together they watched the breeze play with the ivy, the leaves dancing lightly in the warm air, now tinged with the first cool breath of evening. After a moment, Harry broke the silence. "She didn't expel me."

Celeste turned her gaze toward him, curiosity piqued.

"She took me straight to some fifth-year called Wood. He's the Gryffindor Quidditch captain," Harry continued, his voice tinged with disbelief. There was a pause before he added, "She's making me Seeker."

Celeste blinked in surprise. "Truly?"

Harry nodded, a grin beginning to spread across his face. "First-year. Youngest in a century, she said."

He laughed softly, a sound filled with a mix of amazement and disbelief. "I didn't even know what a Seeker was this morning."

Celeste allowed a faint smile to touch her lips. "You do now."

"Catch the snitch. Try not to die," Harry quipped.

Another silence settled between them, rich with shared understanding rather than awkwardness. Harry leaned his head back against the cool stone wall and looked up at the sky, still smiling - a smile that was softer now, as though the full reality had yet to entirely sink in.

"I thought I was going to be expelled," he confessed again, the weight of the earlier fear lingering in his words.

"I worried I might have caused it," Celeste admitted, a hint of concern in her voice. "By telling you to fly."

Harry shook his head, a firm resolve in his denial. "You didn't. I would've done it anyway."

She studied him for a long moment, then said, "Come with me, I think there's something you should see."

~o~o~o~o~

Harry didn't ask where they were going. Celeste guided him through the expansive corridors of the castle, as the last warm hues of daylight faded behind the intricate stained glass windows, casting colourful patterns on the stone floors. The halls were eerily silent, devoid of any other presence, save for the occasional flicker of torches that lined the walls and the distant, muted murmur of voices drifting from the Great Hall. The quietness enveloped them like a soft cloak, comforting and undisturbed. It was a silence that felt right for Celeste. It felt right for Harry too.

They turned into a winding corridor that snaked around the trophy room - a place steeped in history, its echoes faint and its shelves lined with plaques and photographs that whispered of triumphs from decades long gone. Celeste moved with a lightness in her step, her fingers briefly brushing against the cool stone wall, until she paused before a long row of House team photographs.

She pointed with intent. "Here."

Harry leaned closer, peering through the glass. There, preserved yet lovingly maintained, was an image of the Gryffindor Quidditch team from two decades prior. At the center stood a boy with a wild, infectious grin, his arm casually draped around two of his teammates, a broom slung confidently over his shoulder.

James Potter – Chaser

Harry's eyes widened as he stared, a mixture of awe and disbelief in his voice. "That's my dad?" he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Celeste nodded gently, her eyes softening. "James Potter."

Harry's gaze fixed on her, his mind momentarily frozen. Words eluded him, and for a lengthy moment, silence wrapped around them both. "I didn't know he played," he murmured at last, his voice a delicate whisper - not tinged with sorrow, but cautious, as if he were handling something exquisitely fragile. Celeste allowed the silence to linger, respecting its weight.

"He looks… happy," Harry observed quietly.

"He was a Chaser," Celeste explained, her words carrying a hint of admiration. "My grandfather mentioned him. After you left the shop with your wand. Just once. Said he flew well."

Harry moved closer to the glass that framed the photo, his eyes drinking in every detail, as if trying to etch them permanently into his memory.

"I never really knew anything about him. Just that he and my mum… died," he confessed, his voice trailing off.

Celeste's voice was gentle, laced with understanding. "He flew. So do you."

Harry remained in front of the photograph, his thoughts swirling silently, his heart caught between the past and present. Celeste stood by him, her presence calm and unobtrusive, sensing that this moment was his alone.

Finally, in a voice just above a whisper, Harry admitted, "It's strange. Seeing him like that. Like he really existed."

Celeste's gaze returned to the image of James Potter, her own expression reflective. "He still does. A little. In you."

Harry didn't respond, but she noticed a subtle relaxation in his shoulders, a slight easing of the tension he carried.

The torchlight flickered gently behind the glass, casting warm illumination on the photograph. In the picture, James Potter's laughter was caught mid-action, his eyes crinkling with joy at something a teammate had said, and he playfully wiped imaginary sweat from his forehead.

"He looks like someone who loved flying," Harry said, his voice filled with a quiet sense of connection.

Celeste nodded, her eyes meeting his. "You're not so different."

A small, lopsided smile appeared on Harry's face, a reflection of shared lineage. "Maybe I've got Quidditch in my blood."

Celeste tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. "Or maybe the magic just remembers."

He gave a soft laugh, looking down at his shoes. "You talk about magic like it's a person."

Celeste shrugged. "Sometimes it listens like one."

They lingered in that moment a little longer before slowly turning back toward the main corridor. The distant hum of dinner from the Great Hall reached them, warm and inviting, yet neither felt the need to rush. As they walked, the echoes of their footsteps whispered softly across the stone floor.

"You were right," Harry said abruptly, breaking the gentle silence.

Celeste glanced sideways at him, curiosity in her eyes.

"I should've flown."

She didn't reply with I told you so. There was no need. Instead, she simply said, "I'm glad you did."