Loren hadn't programmed any broomstick functions into Neville's training suit, so all it could do was lock his body in place while the broom carried him—straight toward the Forbidden Forest.
"Come back, child!" Madam Hooch shouted, calling instructions up to him, but Neville was too frightened to follow them. He stayed clamped to the broom, carried helplessly through the air.
Loren spotted the flaw immediately. His gift had caused this mess. Without the suit, Neville would have already fallen and landed safely. Responsibility meant fixing it. He swung onto a broom and shot upward, flooding it with magic until its speed blurred the air. He reached Neville in a heartbeat and, with a flick of power, unlocked the suit's grip, guiding the boy down to the grass.
Neville collapsed face-first into the turf, trembling, pale as parchment. Madam Hooch rushed over, her own face nearly as white, and bent to check him.
"It's all right, child. Up you get." She lifted him, finding no injury beyond shock. Then she turned on Loren, her voice sharp as a whip.
"How dare you! What if something had gone wrong? You are banned from broom use until further notice."
She faced the rest of the class. "This boy is shaken. I'm taking him to the hospital wing. The rest of you, don't move an inch. Put those brooms back. If I return to find anyone flying, you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch.' Come along, dear."
Neville shuffled beside her, limp as if boneless, held upright by her arm.
The moment they were gone, Malfoy burst out laughing.
"Did you see his face? White as chalk! Couldn't get down on his own—needed a rescue!"
The Slytherins, loyal when mocking Gryffindor, snickered with him. Gryffindors snapped back, tempers flaring. The quarrel broke off when Malfoy darted to the grass where Neville had fallen. He scooped up a glass sphere glittering in the sun—Neville's Remembrall.
"Hand it over, Malfoy," Harry muttered. The crowd hushed.
Malfoy remembered the punch Neville had landed that morning, the string of humiliations since term began. His sneer twisted ugly.
"I'll put it somewhere for Longbottom to fetch. Up a tree, maybe—the tallest in the Forbidden Forest."
"Give it back!" Harry shouted. But Malfoy had already kicked off on his broom, rising fast.
Every Gryffindor eye turned to Loren. As their Lion King, what would he do?
Harry didn't wait. He vaulted onto a broom and shot after Malfoy. Loren followed, close behind.
Harry's natural gift showed instantly. No magic forced his broom—he simply knew how to ride. He soared upward, spun midair, and leveled straight at Malfoy.
"Hand it over, Malfoy, or I'll knock you off your broom!"
"Oh, really?" Malfoy sneered, though his strained face betrayed him.
Loren had to admit it: talent was a kind of power. He relied on magic to steady himself, but Harry rode like he was born for it.
Harry leaned forward, body flush to the handle, and speared through the air like a javelin. Malfoy dodged just barely. Harry whipped his broom around and regained balance with ease. Cheers erupted from the ground.
"No Crabbe and Goyle to guard you here, Malfoy," Harry called, giving Loren the opening.
Malfoy panicked. "Here—catch if you can!" He hurled the Remembrall skyward and dove for the ground.
Loren lunged after him, copying Harry's dive. His angle was wrong—he clipped past Malfoy instead. His elbow struck Malfoy's temple. The Slytherin went limp, tumbling off his broom. Luckily, the fall was short and his body hardy enough; he was only stunned, out cold from fright as much as the blow.
From below, it looked as if Loren had merely brushed past and scared him off. Gryffindors roared with laughter, jeering that Malfoy was weaker than Neville.
Meanwhile Harry chased the falling glass sphere, flattening against his broom in a steep dive. Inches from the ground, he snatched the Remembrall and pulled up, landing softly on the grass.
"Harry Potter!"
Professor McGonagall came striding from the castle, her face set in thunder. Madam Hooch had passed her in the corridors, explained the morning's chaos, and begged her to keep watch. She had arrived just in time to see Harry dive and Loren's brush that toppled Malfoy.
Harry scrambled up, trembling.
"And you, Angus—down, now!" she barked. Loren descended, calm as ever, and joined Harry before her.
"In all my years at Hogwarts—never—how dare you—do you realize you could have broken your necks—or someone else's?" Her fury broke her words into shards, eyes blazing.
The Gryffindors surged forward, trying to defend their king and their hero, but she silenced them with a look and swept Harry and Loren away toward the castle.
Harry trudged in dread, convinced expulsion loomed. Loren strolled at his side, utterly unruffled. He knew better—Harry's flying would earn him more than punishment.
Through corridors and staircases they went until McGonagall stopped outside a classroom. She pushed open the door.
"Excuse me, Professor Flitwick—may I borrow Wood for a moment?"
Harry stiffened at the name. Loren only translated it in his head as a surname. Harry, however, pictured a literal stick, and shivered at the thought of being beaten with it.
A tall, solid fifth-year boy stepped out, puzzled.
"You three, follow me," McGonagall ordered. Wood shot curious glances at Loren and Harry as they walked.
She led them into an empty classroom. A moment ago it had been noisy—Peeves had been here, Loren realized—but the poltergeist had fled at his approach, leaving only insults scrawled across the blackboard. Loren sighed inwardly. Peeves always ran from him. He only wanted to be friends.
McGonagall shut the door sharply, turned, and spoke.
"Loren, Harry, this is Oliver Wood. Wood, I've found you two new players."
Wood's confusion deepened. "Are you serious, Professor?"
"Deadly serious. This boy is a natural Seeker. Potter, was that truly your first time on a broom?"
Harry nodded, stiff and uncertain, but relief flooded him—no expulsion.
"He dove fifty feet and caught that ball without a scratch. Even Charlie Weasley couldn't have done it," McGonagall said briskly. "And this one, Angus—Hooch told me he steadied a classmate midair. I saw him knock one boy silly in a single pass. Perhaps not Harry's raw talent, but stronger than most of our current team."
Wood's bafflement vanished, replaced with fierce excitement. His eyes gleamed as though every dream he'd ever had had just come true.
"You've seen Quidditch before, haven't you?" he asked, almost breathless.
"Wood is captain of the Gryffindor team," McGonagall explained.
"Potter has the perfect build for a Seeker—light, quick—better even than Charlie. And Angus has the strength for a Beater—tall, powerful—I hear he can take down a Slytherin with one hand."
Wood circled them both like a coach inspecting prized recruits.
"We'll need proper brooms, Professor. Nimbus Two Thousand, or at least a Seven Star Sweep—"
"I'll speak to Dumbledore," McGonagall cut in. "If he agrees, we'll break the rules and let first-years play. We need a stronger team than last year. That loss to Slytherin—well, I couldn't look Snape in the eye for weeks."
She faced the boys again, stern once more.
"I expect to hear you are training hard. If not, I'll change my mind and punish you instead."
Her expression softened, and she smiled at Harry.
"Your father would have been proud. He was an excellent Quidditch player."
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