An invisible force wrapped around Anthony, lifting him gently and holding him suspended just ten centimeters above the ground.
He gasped for breath, lungs full of the earthy scent of grass and soil. The chill of a near-miss ran down his spine—he was alive, but only just.
"Wyzett? Mr. Goldstein?" came Professor McGonagall's stern voice. "What happened this time during flying class?"
Three minutes earlier...
"Professor McGonagall, after tomorrow's Quidditch tryouts, could we use the pitch for extra practice?"
"Harry's only a first-year—he needs more time to work with the team," pressed Oliver Wood, hustling after her down the corridor.
As captain of the Gryffindor team, Wood had always set his sights on the Quidditch Cup. But with Charlie Weasley graduated, that dream had seemed to slip further and further out of reach—until Professor McGonagall introduced him to Harry Potter.
"I can negotiate with Professor Snape—he's already requested the pitch for Slytherin," Professor McGonagall replied, nodding briskly.
Wood was getting desperate. "Couldn't they just practice a couple hours less? Split the time fifty-fifty?"
"I'll see what I can do." She turned, fixing him with a serious look. "I know you're in a hurry—so am I—but the pitch is for everyone."
Noticing his anxious expression, she suddenly frowned. "Mr. Wood, it's class time. Why aren't you in History of Magic?"
Wood broke out in a sweat, eyes darting around for any distraction—anything to change the subject.
"Look, Professor McGonagall! Over there—flying lessons. Looks like there's been another accident!"
She wasn't fooled. "Mr. Wood, answer my question directly, please."
As Head of Gryffindor, she knew him far too well. When Quidditch wasn't involved, Wood was the model student. But the moment the game was mentioned, all bets were off. He became utterly obsessed...
Just like now.
"Incredible speed! What a dive—so agile! He flies like he was born for it! And that's a Shooting Star—a 1955 relic! Those things are nothing but trouble..."
Wood rattled off his observations at lightning speed. "Wait, he's rescuing someone... should be able to pull it off... No—Professor McGonagall, someone's falling!"
She spun around. The sight of Wyzett diving on his broom, another student plummeting toward the ground, made her pupils contract to pinpricks.
She snatched out her wand, ready to transfigure the turf into a cushion. But before she could act, Wyzett's wand blazed with silver-blue light, arresting the fall.
No one was hurt. Professor McGonagall let out a breath of relief and strode over. "Wyzett? Mr. Goldstein? What happened this time during flying class?"
"Merlin's beard!" Madam Hooch finally arrived, breathless. "Are you both alright? Any injuries? I'll take you to see Madam Pomfrey!"
"That's quite enough! Yesterday a student broke his wrist showing off, today it's a broom malfunction... Why is this happening so often?"
"Madam Hooch, you're too anxious," Professor McGonagall said, adjusting her glasses. "Accidents in flying class are rather common—don't worry about it."
"Wyzett, Mr. Goldstein, are you feeling unwell? Do you need to go to the hospital wing?"
"I'm fine, really!" Anthony waved his hands. "That was... actually kind of thrilling! For a second I thought I was a goner!"
"Don't say that!" Madam Hooch clutched her chest. "Two days in a row—Professor Trelawney was right, I must be cursed with bad luck!"
"Professor Trelawney?" Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow, giving a small cough. "You really needn't worry—it was just an accident."
Wood picked up the broken broomstick, inspecting it. "Definitely an accident. The twigs are so brittle, it was bound to happen sooner or later."
"These brooms are antiques—forty, fifty years old. They really should be replaced. If we keep using them, we'll lose a lot of promising flyers."
"Madam Hooch, get back to your class. I'll file a request to replace the broomsticks," Professor McGonagall said. "And you, Wood, should get back to your lessons as well!"
As Madam Hooch led Wyzett and the others away, Wood's face twisted in frustration. "Professor McGonagall, can Wyzett join our team?"
"I haven't even seen what Harry can really do yet, but I've seen Wyzett in action! If we could get both of them on the Gryffindor team..."
"We'd be champions for sure!" His eyes shone with hope. "If we don't win, I'll eat spaghetti upside-down!"
"Mr. Wood, back to class—now!" Professor McGonagall's eyebrows shot up. "Or I'll be forced to take points from Gryffindor!"
Watching him scurry away, Professor McGonagall pressed a hand to her forehead. "I'd love to have Wyzett on the team too, but unfortunately, he's a Ravenclaw."
Late at night, in the Hogwarts Headmaster's office.
Dumbledore leafed through a copy of Transfiguration Today. "A week has passed. What do you think?"
Snape paced the office, his tone as slow and heavy as his footsteps. "Appalling. Absolutely appalling. Just as mediocre and arrogant as his father."
"Always breaking the rules, desperate to show off. He craves attention, but understands nothing. Pathetic!"
"Severus, perhaps you only see what you want to see," Dumbledore said gently. "The other professors say he's humble and well-mannered, talented too—a most likable child."
"Oh? And what of it?" Snape replied, his face blank.
Dumbledore set aside his magazine. "And the other boy? There was once someone much like him—brilliant, and perhaps even more handsome."
"He had an insatiable hunger for knowledge and was popular with the staff—especially Professor Slughorn, who invited him to the Slug Club."
"I even heard a rumor: you once awarded Ravenclaw five points. That's no less difficult than getting into the Slug Club, wouldn't you say?"
Snape's expression darkened, as if recalling something unpleasant. He stopped pacing altogether.
Dumbledore pressed on. "Severus, what do you make of him?"
Snape's jaw tensed, his voice suddenly less steady. "If you see those similarities, you could always nip it in the bud. No need to ask for my opinion."
~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~
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