Ever since the notice about flying lessons went up, the chatter among the first-years had shifted. Gossip about teachers or castle oddities gave way to endless talk of broomsticks.
Those from wizarding families dominated the conversation, bragging about Quidditch and flying feats. Ron leaned on his brothers' stories, while Draco Malfoy claimed the daring exploits as his own. Hermione, after hearing one of Draco's more extravagant tales, had gone straight to Loren to ask if brooms were really that powerful.
He'd only sighed, patted her head, and explained carefully: most of them had never touched a broom. At best, Malfoy had ridden a child's training model. The wild stories were just that—stories.
As for Quidditch, Loren had little love for it. To him, the rules were broken, the pace dull. Compared to the bike combat games of his previous life, it was slow and tame. If he ever played Beater, he thought grimly, the other team would leave the pitch in pieces. Hermione, of course, was fascinated. She was fascinated by nearly everything in the wizarding world.
Still, when it came to flying, nerves set in. Loren had taken her through the air with magic more than once, but this would be her first time on a broom. And when she learned that Loren himself had no broom experience either, she turned to the library, digging through *Quidditch Through the Ages* for any advice she could find.
Her unease spread quickly, especially to Neville and Harry. Neville had been kept from brooms his whole life by his grandmother, terrified he'd hurt himself. Harry had grown up a frail boy in a Muggle home, with little chance to join sports. Neither had any reason for confidence.
…
Thursday arrived with blue skies and a light breeze. Flying class was set for the afternoon.
Hermione's tension showed from breakfast onward. Usually, Loren shouldered everything for her. Today, he didn't. Instead of soothing her, he watched quietly. He'd realized he'd been shielding her too much. It was time she faced something small, safe, and hers to handle.
He stayed at the table, unusual for him, and listened as she recited broom-handling tips she'd read, passing them to Harry and Neville. Even Ron, who liked to act confident, leaned closer to catch her words. Hermione wasn't the outcast "know-it-all" here. She was the Lion King's queen, and the younger Gryffindors listened.
Then the owls swept in. Dozens of fat, round birds flapped above the tables, scattering feathers everywhere. Loren grimaced—this was why he normally left as soon as breakfast ended.
One owl dropped a package before Neville. Inside was a glass orb the size of a marble, filled with swirling white smoke.
"It's a Remembrall. Gran says I'm always forgetting things. If you hold it tight—like this—if it turns red, it means you've forgotten something. Oh…"
The orb flared scarlet. Neville, flustered, set it down and fumbled for his notebook to check what he'd missed.
Malfoy swept by just then, snatching the Remembrall from Neville's hand.
Harry and Ron shot to their feet. But someone else moved first.
A blur. A thud.
Malfoy lay sprawled unconscious on the floor, the Remembrall clutched in his limp fingers.
It took Harry and Ron a moment to realize it was Neville who'd struck him.
Neville blinked, startled by his own reflex. Morning drills with Loren had shifted into sparring in recent days. Ten sessions of blocking and countering had burned instincts into his muscles. When Malfoy yanked the orb away, Neville's body had simply reacted. A sharp right, straight to the jaw.
Professor McGonagall arrived in time to see Malfoy already down.
"What is the meaning of this?" she snapped.
"Malfoy took my Remembrall, Professor," Neville muttered, small and guilty.
"And why is Mr. Malfoy unconscious?"
"I—I thought he was attacking me. I just reacted…" His head dropped lower and lower until it nearly touched the table.
McGonagall looked torn. She remembered the incident on the train platform, the way Malfoy had acted then. A sigh escaped her, and she finally turned to a group of gawking Slytherins. "Take Mr. Malfoy to the hospital wing."
…
That afternoon at three-thirty, the Gryffindors hurried from Transfiguration across the lawns to the flat grass field where the brooms were lined in neat rows. The Slytherins were already waiting.
The brooms themselves were worn and scuffed, veterans of decades of first flying lessons.
Their instructor, Madam Hooch, strode in—short gray hair, piercing yellow eyes like a hawk. Not a professor but a staff member, she refereed Quidditch and trained the first-years.
"Well? What are you waiting for? Stand by a broom. Quickly!" she barked.
They obeyed.
"Right hand over the broom, then: *Up!*"
"Up!" echoed through the line.
Loren's broom leapt neatly into his hand. He cheated, of course, wrapping his magic around the handle and pulling it. Hermione, fumbling, looked at him desperately. He only tapped the side of her glasses. She switched on the magical vision and saw what he had done—his magic clinging to the broom like threads. She glanced at others. The successful ones were unconsciously doing the same; the failures showed only flickering, unstable ties.
She tried. Magic coiled around her broom, and it rose obediently to her palm.
"Neville, don't be nervous. Say it loud and sure," she told him, masking the trick in simpler words.
He tried again, firm this time. "Up!"
The broom slapped into his hand. Around them, others copied his example and found success.
Madam Hooch nodded, satisfied, then demonstrated how to mount the broom without sliding off the front. She stalked up and down correcting grips, pausing longest over Malfoy, whose clumsy attempts earned sharp rebukes. The same students who'd once listened wide-eyed to his boasts now snickered behind their hands.
Once everyone sat properly, she raised her whistle.
"On my signal, push off hard. Rise a few feet, lean forward, and come down again. Three—two—one—"
The shrill note cut through the air.
Neville, tense, remembered only *push hard*.
He shot upward like a launched arrow, higher and higher. His face went pale as the ground fell away. His mouth gaped, drawing quick, panicked breaths.
Then his enchanted training robes triggered their failsafe. The emergency system locked his limbs around the broom, clamping him tight. He didn't fall.
But he was still rising, still alone, far above the field.
//Check out my Patreon for 20 extra chapters on all my fanfics //[[email protected]/Razeil0810](http://[email protected]/Razeil0810)