Michael sighed in relief. "Good thing Peeves didn't stick around. If he'd actually called Filch, that would've been terrible."
"Peeves isn't likely to go looking for Filch," Weide said, pulling him up from the ground. "Did you forget? They despise each other. Peeves wouldn't do anything that would please Filch."
"You're right," Michael conceded, nodding.
Peeves was constantly causing mischief, whether by toppling statues or spilling ink everywhere, which invariably created a lot of extra work for Filch, the castle caretaker, driving him mad.
The two walked up the spiraling staircase of the Ravenclaw tower, the dizzying turns making them stop frequently to rest, their thighs aching as if they weren't their own.
Normally, Michael would complain nonstop at this point—unless there was a pretty girl nearby, in which case he'd pretend it was no trouble at all and stop to rest under the guise of looking after her.
But today, Michael was unusually quiet. It wasn't until they were almost back at the common room that he said, "We have flying lessons tomorrow too."
Weide simply hummed in response.
"Forget all that nonsense I said!" Michael grumbled. "Just follow Madam Hooch's instructions and take it slow."
Weide said helplessly, "What happened to Neville was just an accident. Not everyone is as unlucky as he is."
Michael probably knew that deep down, but for the moment, he couldn't shake off the burden in his heart.
They finally made it back to the tower well past Curfew, but a few students were still gathered in the corridor. Not every Ravenclaw excelled at solving riddles; when it came to blind spots in knowledge, even the smartest minds were stumped. So sometimes you'd see more than twenty students standing outside the common room, discussing how to answer the day's question.
Weide walked over and tapped the bronze knocker on the wooden door. The eagle's beak on the knocker suddenly opened, speaking in a gentle, almost singing voice: "Hands both above and below, sometimes they crawl, sometimes they go. Like a man when they walk, like a dog when they crawl, what am I?"
The common room door would only open if the question posed by the eagle knocker was answered correctly.
Michael imagined some kind of creature covered in hands, crawling in the shadows, and said with a horrified expression, "What kind of monster is that? Is it—is it a demon from some myth?"
He fumbled through his bag for his textbook, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, flipping through it without hesitation.
"Don't bother looking, it's not in the book," a tired Ravenclaw student said. "I've already searched the whole thing."
The others silently nodded.
Weide stood to the side, thinking.
The bronze knocker was like the legendary Sphinx; its questions weren't necessarily difficult, but sometimes they were hard to figure out—because the knocker only ever asked questions, never telling them if it was a brain teaser or a riddle, nor would it hint whether the answer was a plant, animal, object, word, or an intangible concept like time or death.
This riddle, at first listen, sounded very Lovecraftian, yet also somewhat familiar.
"—A monkey?"
After a moment, Weide asked uncertainly.
"Correct," the eagle knocker said, and the wooden door opened.
...
After the accident in the previous flying lesson, the breakfast table the next day was much quieter. Students no longer incessantly boasted about flying their brooms over mountains and seas; instead, another piece of news had spread among the first-years.
"Didn't Harry Potter and Malfoy from Slytherin almost get into a fight during flying class yesterday? Well, guess what?" At the long table, Padma Patil whispered conspiratorially to those around her, "I heard that because Harry Potter showed amazing flying talent, not only was he not punished, but Professor McGonagall actually made an exception and recommended him to join the Gryffindor Quidditch team!"
Because she had a twin sister in Gryffindor, she was always very well-informed about such news.
"Really? Professor McGonagall?" The surrounding students were astonished. Who didn't know that Professor McGonagall was the fairest and strictest professor at Hogwarts? She treated all four houses equally and never played favorites. The fact that she made an exception for Harry Potter this time was so shocking that it even made people momentarily forget the earlier news.
But eventually, someone remembered.
"That's impossible," Terry declared confidently. "No first-year has joined the Quidditch team in a century! This must be a rumor!"
"Maybe he's just a reserve player or something," Anthony speculated. "After all, we all saw it; Potter really does fly well. He's fast and nimble. It would be unbelievable if the Gryffindor team turned him away. But he's still a first-year, he's never ridden a broom before, and he doesn't even know the rules of Quidditch. Joining the team directly is still too absurd—he should just be a reserve."
Another student, Kevin, added, "Think about it, if Potter really did join the team as an exception, the Weasley brothers would have been shouting about it already. But have you heard anything from them?"
Their analysis was well-reasoned, and everyone nodded in agreement.
Padma scoffed, pouting, and whispered to Michael, "Actually, Wood, the Gryffindor captain, wants to use Harry Potter as a secret weapon, which is why he's not letting it get out. Those silly boys are just jealous, that's why they don't want to admit it."
Michael didn't remind her that he was also a boy but smiled and said, "Maybe they just don't want to admit they're not as good as another boy in front of a pretty girl."
Padma's face flushed slightly.
Weide glanced over and saw Michael raise an eyebrow at him, looking roguish and free-spirited at such a young age, as if he had already emerged from his previous gloom. Weide couldn't help but feel relieved.
Suddenly, a commotion broke out in the Great Hall—six long-eared owls, burdened with a slender package, flew laboriously into the hall, capturing everyone's attention. The owls circled down, dropped the package in front of Harry Potter, then flapped their wings and flew away, leaving behind a few feathers.
Michael gasped, grabbing Weide's wrist, and whispered, "A broom! I bet that's definitely a Flying Broomstick!"
His eyes were red with envy, and he said with a voice that sounded like he was spitting blood, "And it's a Nimbus series—I recognize the packaging!"
"Yeah," Weide said nonchalantly, prying his fingers open and putting his hand back on the table. "If you do well in flying class this afternoon, you might also get a chance to join the team and get a new broom!"
He had just said it casually, but Michael seemed to take it seriously. His gaze became incredibly earnest, and he bit into his lamb chop with extra force.
Soon, it was time for flying class.
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