As soon as they were out of earshot, Malfoy burst into laughter.
"Did you see the look on his face, that big oaf?"
The other Slytherin students chimed in with a few half-hearted remarks, glancing at Harry but saying little else.
"Shut up, Malfoy," a Gryffindor girl snapped sharply.
"Oho, defending Longbottom?" Pansy Parkinson sneered. She was a sharp-faced Slytherin girl, and Harry, ever perceptive, instantly clocked her as Malfoy's current lackey. "Didn't think you'd go for chubby little crybabies, Patil."
"Look!" Malfoy said, darting forward to snatch something off the grass. "It's that idiot Longbottom's gran sending him gifts again."
He held up Neville's Remembrall, a device that served as a special reminder, glowing to alert its owner if they'd forgotten something—though it was useless if the owner forgot the Remembrall itself.
Like now.
"Give it here, Malfoy," the Gryffindors demanded in unison, rallying behind Neville.
Malfoy, of course, ignored them.
"I think I'll put it somewhere for Longbottom to fetch—like up in a tree. How's that?"
Before anyone could respond, Malfoy had already hopped onto his broom and taken off.
He wasn't entirely boasting when he'd bragged about his flying skills before. He could indeed fly, soaring level with the oak treetops—though his claim about outflying a helicopter was pure nonsense.
Harry didn't intervene because there was no need. He watched as Malfoy, after some effort, found a suitable spot for the Remembrall. "Bring it down," Harry said.
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried straight to Malfoy's ears.
Malfoy's first instinct was to hand over the ball, but then he hesitated, worried about losing face.
"Don't make me say it twice, Malfoy."
Malfoy's expression shifted to nervous tension. He remembered Harry's formidable power.
In the face of such strength, pride could be set aside… just a little. It wouldn't really hurt his dignity anyway, since none of the Slytherins present would dare challenge Harry.
Malfoy was already the boldest among them.
He retrieved the Remembrall he'd intended to place in the tree, then added for good measure, "I'm not afraid of you, Potter… I'm respecting you, giving you some face."
"Well, thank you for giving me that face," Harry replied, taking the Remembrall and rolling his eyes.
The Gryffindor crowd erupted into laughter and mocking chants of "I'm respecting you" aimed at Malfoy.
These inherently wicked Slytherins always seemed to revel in such pointless cruelty, harming others without even benefiting themselves.
Harry didn't think there was anything wrong with that negative stereotype.
Of course, that was because he was a Gryffindor. If he'd been sorted into Slytherin, he'd probably be ranting about "those inherently wicked Gryffindor brats" instead.
It all came down to perspective.
Thanks to Harry, Neville wasn't actually hurt. After a quick check, he was cleared to continue class. When he returned, Harry handed back the Remembrall, reminding him not to forget it again.
Flying lessons resumed. Harry gave riding a broom a try, and it felt effortless, smooth as silk. He didn't find the old school brooms difficult to control at all. A slight nudge was enough to shift positions, and the broom responded intuitively.
The only downside was their speed. With enough control over magic—or by learning specific charms—he figured he could probably give these old brooms a boost.
After the earlier incident, Madam Hooch kept a closer eye on the young witches and wizards. She'd already noticed Harry's flying skills, which were so polished they seemed almost absurd.
It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say his performance rivaled that of a Quidditch World Cup star—perhaps even surpassed it, given the limitations of the school brooms.
Madam Hooch didn't make a fuss on the spot, merely awarding Harry five house points. But later, she spread the word among the staff.
So, when Transfiguration class ended, Professor McGonagall called out, "Potter, do you have a moment after class?"
"Of course, as long as it's not too long. I don't want to miss dinner."
Harry assumed McGonagall wanted to give him extra lessons. His progress in Transfiguration had far outstripped his peers, and not just in Transfiguration—most of his practical classes had included some advanced instruction, even from Snape.
Snape, of all people, had dug up a stack of old textbooks, likely from two former students, judging by the handwriting—one male, one female. Both were clearly potions prodigies, their notes brimming with brilliance.
Snape, in a rare act of generosity, had lent Harry some of these materials but warned him to return them promptly after copying what he needed and to leave no new notes of his own.
Harry might dislike Snape, but he couldn't deny the man's teaching skill and potions expertise. If you ignored his attitude, he was a good teacher.
"Don't worry, it's just something I'd like to discuss with you," McGonagall said.
"No problem."
"Good. Follow me."
"Not extra lessons, then? Well, McGonagall's decent. It's probably not bad news," Harry thought, signaling Ron and Hermione to head to dinner without him as he followed her.
McGonagall strode purposefully toward the castle, Harry trailing behind.
She opened door after door, marching through corridor after corridor. Harry began to wonder what this was about.
Along the way, he sensed that beneath McGonagall's cool exterior, she was suppressing… excitement? Perhaps even elation?
Surely it wasn't some kind of trap?
Though he detected no malice, Harry knew better than to trust appearances. People could hide their true intentions, even from themselves. He'd seen plenty of honeyed words paired with treacherous hearts—some even struck at banquets.
Despite the relative peace he'd enjoyed lately, the fact that Voldemort's followers had infiltrated Hogwarts as professors was a stark reminder: Hogwarts wasn't safe.
What if the person in front of him was under the Imperius Curse, as deadly in its own way as Avada Kedavra?
Harry tightened his grip on his wand, his Lightbringer charm ready at a moment's notice. At this distance, if McGonagall made a move, she'd be the one to fall first.
Finally, McGonagall stopped outside a classroom.
She pushed the door open and poked her head inside.
"Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, may I borrow Wood for a moment?"
Wood, a tall, sturdy fifth-year boy, stepped out of Flitwick's classroom, looking puzzled.
"Wood, come with me. I have something to discuss," McGonagall said.
The three of them strode down the corridor, Wood casting curious glances at the famous Harry Potter.
"Hello, Wood," Harry said.
"Hello, Mr. Potter," Wood replied.
Wood generally didn't care about anything unrelated to Quidditch, but Harry was simply too famous. Since arriving at Hogwarts, Harry's extraordinary feats had made him impossible to ignore, even for someone like Wood.
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