The promise of a first flying lesson sent a ripple of pure, unadulterated excitement through the Gryffindor common room. For days, it was all anyone could talk about. Boys boasted of their supposed prowess on a broom, while girls chattered about the thrill of soaring through the air. It was a rite of passage, the first taste of true, exhilarating freedom that magic could offer.
Ariana observed the fervor with a detached amusement. The concept of flying was interesting, certainly. From a theoretical standpoint, it was a fascinating application of magical levitation bound to a physical object, requiring a unique synergy between rider and broom. The idea of reckless speed and competitive sport, however, held absolutely no appeal to her. Quidditch, with its chaotic violence and tribal devotion, struck her as a fundamentally illogical expenditure of energy. She was interested in the experience of flight, not the performance of it.
On the appointed afternoon, the Gryffindors trudged down the sloping lawns towards a flat, smooth patch of grass opposite the Forbidden Forest. The Slytherins were already there, a sullen, arrogant cluster, their new brooms gleaming. The school brooms provided for the lesson were a sorry sight—a collection of ancient, rickety Shooting Stars and Cleansweeps with splintered handles and twigs sticking out at odd angles.
The teacher, Madam Hooch, was a formidable witch with short, grey hair and sharp, hawk-like yellow eyes that seemed to miss nothing. She barked instructions with the crisp authority of a drill sergeant.
"Alright now, stand by your brooms!" she commanded. "Stick your right hand out over it and say, 'Up!'"
A chorus of "Up!"s echoed across the lawn. Harry's broom leaped into his hand at once, as did Malfoy's. Ron's took a few tries before it reluctantly hopped up. Neville's didn't move at all.
Ariana looked down at the battered old broom at her feet. It was a sad, neglected object. She didn't shout or command. Instead, she reached out with a sliver of her Intentio, not forcing her will upon the broom, but rather inviting it. She projected a sense of partnership, of shared purpose. She didn't want to conquer it; she wanted to work with it.
"Up," she said, her voice quiet and clear.
The broom rose from the grass as if lifted by an invisible, gentle hand and settled perfectly into her waiting grasp. It felt less like an act of summoning and more like a handshake.
After a lecture on proper mounting and grip, Madam Hooch gave the command they had all been waiting for. "On my whistle… three… two… one…"
The piercing shriek of the whistle cut the air, and twenty brooms lifted off the ground. Most were wobbly and uncontrolled. Ron shot up like a cork from a bottle and immediately plummeted back down with a thud. But not everyone was so clumsy. Harry was a natural, soaring into the air with an ease and grace that spoke of an innate talent.
Malfoy, too, was a skilled and confident flyer, smirking as he zipped past the flailing newbies.
Ariana's ascent was different from both. She did not soar, nor did she wobble. She simply… rose. With a gentle push of her will, the old broom lifted her ten feet into the air, then fifteen, with the smooth, steady grace of a modern hydraulic lift. She hung there, suspended in the crisp autumn air, perfectly still. The sensation was… sublime. She could feel the wind in her hair, the vast, open expanse of the sky above, and the sprawling grounds of Hogwarts laid out below like a living map. It was a perspective shift, a liberation from the horizontal plane of existence. She felt the magic of the broom not as a brute force to be wrestled with, but as a current to be ridden. She nudged it forward, and it glided smoothly through the air, her braid trailing behind her like a silken banner.
She banked left, then right, her movements fluid and economical, a picture of absolute, serene control. She had no interest in speed or tricks; she was simply savouring the pure, quiet joy of being untethered from the earth.
Madam Hooch's hawk-like eyes followed her for a moment, a flicker of surprised approval in their depths. The Dumbledore girl was as unusual in the air as she was on the ground.
The lesson, however, was destined for chaos. Neville Longbottom, who had been nervous from the start, seemed to lose his nerve completely. His face was a mask of sheer terror. His broom, perhaps sensing his panic, gave a violent lurch.
"Mr. Longbottom, get back down this instant!" Madam Hooch shouted.
But Neville was no longer in control. The broom shot upwards, twenty feet, then thirty. It began to buck and swerve wildly. Neville let out a terrified wail, his knuckles white as he clung on for dear life. The broom zigzagged through the air like a deranged hornet before it finally went into a steep dive. Neville slipped from the seat, his robes catching on a twig for a moment before he tumbled free, plummeting towards the hard ground below.
A collective scream went up from the students. Hermione's hands flew to her mouth. Madam Hooch was already moving, but she wouldn't be fast enough. Ariana, who had been observing the situation with a calm, analytical eye, acted without hesitation. There was no time for a complex weaving of magic. This required a single, powerful, and
instantaneous application of will.
She pointed her Elder wand—which she had, with characteristic foresight, already slipped from its holster—down at the falling boy. She didn't shout the incantation. She pushed the concept, the pure, unadulterated meaning of it, from her mind through the wand.
Arresto Momentum.
A visible shimmer, like a heat haze, pulsed out from her wand and enveloped Neville just as he was ten feet from the ground. His rapid descent did not stop abruptly, which would have been just as damaging as the impact. Instead, his velocity was bled away in an instant. He went from plummeting to floating, his fall arrested so gently that he hung in the air for a second before drifting to the ground like a falling leaf. He landed in a crumpled, sobbing heap, but he was completely unharmed, save for a sprained wrist from his initial fall from the broom.
The entire class stared, stunned into silence. They had seen a first-year student, in the middle of her first-ever flying lesson, perform a flawless, silent, and incredibly powerful charm that had almost certainly saved another student's life.
Madam Hooch reached Neville, her face pale with shock and relief. After confirming he was mostly alright, she turned her sharp gaze upwards to Ariana, who was still hovering serenely in the air.
"Miss Dumbledore," she called out, her voice tight with a mixture of awe and sternness. "While I do not condone the use of wands during flying lessons… that was the finest and quickest casting of a Cushioning Charm I have ever seen. Ten points to Gryffindor for exceptional presence of mind. Now, everyone, on the ground! Class dismissed!"
As Madam Hooch carted a whimpering Neville off to the hospital wing, the aftermath of the incident began. Malfoy, ever the opportunist, snatched up the Remembrall that had fallen from Neville's pocket. Harry, his Gryffindor sense of justice ignited, demanded it back. What followed was the confrontation Ariana remembered from the books—Malfoy taunting Harry, soaring into the air, and throwing the Remembrall high towards the castle.
Harry, on his broom, performed a spectacular dive and catch, an act that, unbeknownst to him, would lead to his recruitment as the Gryffindor Seeker.
Ariana watched it all unfold from the ground, having already landed her broom with a gentle thump. She saw Harry's righteous anger, Malfoy's petty cruelty. To her, it was a predictable, almost tedious display of childish testosterone. She had already solved the immediate problem—Neville's safety. The squabble over a glass bauble was beneath her notice.
While the other students were caught up in the drama, she simply returned her broom to the storage shed and began the calm, solitary walk back to the castle.
The next few days were a blur of classes and study. Ariana heard the whispers and excited gossip echoing through Gryffindor Tower. Harry had been made Seeker! The youngest house player in a century! He had been caught by McGonagall but rewarded instead of punished! It was the talk of the school.
A few days later, the gossip took on a new, more clandestine tone. Malfoy, furious at being upstaged, had challenged Harry to a wizard's duel. Midnight, in the trophy room. Ron, as Harry's self-appointed second, was puffed up with importance. Hermione, ever the voice of reason and rules, was horrified, lecturing them endlessly about the dangers of breaking curfew and the foolishness of rising to Malfoy's bait.
The three of them approached Ariana in the common room one evening. She was sitting in her favourite armchair by the fire, a book on advanced potion theory in her lap, Midnight (in her large, panther form, as it was late) curled at her feet, a pool of living shadow in the firelight. The presence of the panther kept most students at a respectful distance.
"Ariana, you've got to help us," Hermione began, her voice a stressed whisper. "They're going to do it! They're really going to go and duel Malfoy!"
Harry and Ron looked at her expectantly. Perhaps they thought she would offer some profound piece of strategy, or talk them out of it, or even offer to join them.
Ariana slowly lifted her eyes from her book. Her gaze was not one of concern or judgment. It was one of pure, academic disinterest. She looked at Harry's determined face, Ron's nervous excitement, and Hermione's frantic anxiety. She processed the situation with the cool logic of a strategist assessing a minor, irrelevant skirmish.
A midnight duel. A trap, almost certainly. Malfoy would likely tip off Filch. They would get caught. They would lose house points. They would serve detention. The potential outcomes were all mundane, predictable, and ultimately, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. It was a selfcorrecting problem. Their actions would have natural, educational consequences.
Her intervention was not required.
"Why?" she asked, her voice quiet. It was not a question of moral support, but a simple request for data. "Why would you do this?"
"He insulted my family!" Ron burst out. "And he's a foul git!"
"We have to stand up to him," Harry added, his voice full of Gryffindor conviction.
Ariana considered their reasoning. It was based on emotion, on pride, on a childish code of honour. It was illogical. Malfoy was an irritant, not a genuine threat. Engaging with him on these terms was a waste of time and energy that could be better spent studying.
She gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head. "No," she said.
The single word fell into the space between them with the finality of a closing door. It wasn't 'no, you shouldn't go'. It was 'no, I will not be involved'.
Hermione looked aghast. "But—they'll get in trouble!"
"Then that will be a lesson for them," Ariana replied, her voice still perfectly calm. "Actions have consequences. It is a fundamental principle." She looked at Harry, a hint of something—perhaps disappointment in his lack of foresight—in her eyes. "A duel is a confrontation. You are choosing to walk into a confrontation of his design, on his terms, at a time and place of his choosing. It is strategically unsound."
With that, she lowered her eyes and returned to her book on potion theory. The conversation was over. She had analyzed the data, found the situation to be a frivolous and unnecessary risk, and had logically decided to allocate zero resources to it. She would not lecture them like Hermione, nor would she aid them like Ron. She would simply… not participate.
The three of them stood there for a moment, stunned by her cool, absolute refusal to engage.
They had expected her to be an ally, a confidante. Instead, she was a neutral observer, a scientist who refused to interfere with the experiment. They left her by the fire and went to continue their hushed, frantic planning, leaving Ariana to the quiet company of her book and her panther, her mind already back on the subtle interactions of powdered moonstone and syrup of hellebore. She had her own battles to fight, and they were waged in the silent, esoteric realms of knowledge, not in dusty trophy rooms at midnight.