"The conflict between Roger and Malfoy is more like a metaphor for the future," Dumbledore said, taking out a roll of parchment. It was the exam paper Snape had given Roger, covered from top to bottom in the boy's answers.
"This child has ideas about change," Dumbledore continued thoughtfully. He sometimes wondered why truly gifted wizards so often developed such unusual visions of the world. "Unlike Tom, he wants to reform the entire wizarding world by borrowing from Muggle experience, though I do not believe such a thing is necessary."
"That is also what worries me," he said, turning his gaze toward the window and the lawns beyond. The first-years' flying lesson was about to begin, and tiny figures were already gathering on the grass with brooms at their feet. "Voldemort is still lurking in the darkness, and another idea is beginning to sprout in the soil. As you said, even a unicorn-hair wand chose him."
Professor McGonagall was silent for a moment after hearing that. Then she looked steadily at him and said, "Albus, at least we have noticed it. Roger, like every other child, has the right to form his own values, even if they seem immature now."
She turned her eyes toward the window as well. "It is also the school's responsibility to guide them toward growing up well."
"Mm," Dumbledore said, his expression easing slightly. "Our Mr Williams does not appear to have much talent for Quidditch."
Out on the pitch, Madam Hooch was instructing the first-years on how to call a broom into their hands. The afternoon sun shone brightly across the green field, and the students stood in two neat rows while the old school brooms lay on the grass beside them, all of them worn, battered, and of the same unknown model.
"Up," Harry said softly.
The broom at his feet flew obediently into his hand at once. Madam Hooch nodded with approval, and the sharp look in her yellow eyes softened a little, because Harry seemed to possess a natural talent for flying.
"Up. Up. Up," the other students called, each trying to force their broom to obey through volume and desperation. So far, none of them had managed it as neatly as Harry.
"Quidditch is a sport that values instinct and talent," Madam Hooch said encouragingly. "Perhaps Mr Potter will be able to join his House team next year."
"Roger, why isn't your broom moving at all?" Daphne asked, looking down in confusion.
The broom at Roger Williams's feet seemed rooted to the ground. No matter how many times he called it, the thing refused to twitch, as if it had personally decided that he was unworthy of its attention.
Roger shrugged helplessly and glanced around. Malfoy, who had succeeded second after Harry, was holding his broom and looking smugly at the others, even sending Roger a deliberately challenging look.
Roger only wanted to ask what he was staring at. Since the start of term, Malfoy had been completely outclassed by him in almost every subject, and apparently the feeling of being permanently second best had been driving the boy mad.
Today, however, Malfoy had finally found a chance to win back some dignity in flying class, and his mood was obviously excellent. If Roger knew exactly what he was thinking, he would have reminded him that Hermione was far ahead academically, so Malfoy was nowhere near second place, and even in flying, Harry clearly had more talent.
Five minutes later, everyone had their broom in hand. Only Roger's remained motionless on the grass, like a proud and distant ice queen silently rejecting his invitation.
"The broom can sense the emotion in your command," Madam Hooch encouraged him. "It carries feeling, children."
"Some people simply aren't made for flying," Malfoy said smugly.
"A ground snake," Ron added, grinning with obvious pleasure despite the red mark across his face where his broom had whipped him earlier.
Even Harry laughed at Roger's clumsy performance. Soon the others joined in, because it turned out that even geniuses had things they were not good at.
"Madam Hooch, perhaps the broom is broken?" Roger said, shrugging indifferently.
He did not take their mockery to heart. Flying was not something he had ever cared about, and one uncooperative broom was hardly enough to wound his pride.
"Up," Madam Hooch said thoughtfully as she stepped beside him.
The broom that had refused to react to Roger slowly rose from the grass and slipped obediently into her hand. The laughter around them grew even louder, filling the bright air with an oddly cheerful cruelty.
"Roger, perhaps you have not put enough emotion into it," Madam Hooch said helplessly. In all her years of teaching, this was the first time she had encountered a broom that ignored a student so completely.
"Not enough emotion?" Roger frowned and looked to her for advice. "Does any kind of emotion work?"
"Of course," Madam Hooch said. "Any emotion can work, provided it is clear and strong. A flying broom is not merely a tool; it is a wizard's companion, even a partner."
She walked him through it with unusual patience. "It can sense a wizard's emotions, whether joy, anger, or unwavering determination. As long as the feeling is right, the broom will follow your will."
Roger nodded slowly. The explanation made sense, although not in the way Madam Hooch probably intended.
"Take a deep breath, then close your eyes," Madam Hooch instructed. "Call it with genuine feeling."
Roger closed his eyes and let the laughter, the flying brooms, and the bright lawn fade from his mind. When he opened them again, his voice was cold enough to make several students shiver.
"Up, or I'll burn you."
An indescribable pressure spread from him. The students nearby instinctively stepped back, and even Madam Hooch's expression changed.
The broom that had ignored him so proudly rose at once. Before Roger could call a second time, it flew straight into his palm and settled there, obedient, still, and silent.
"Roger…" Madam Hooch opened her mouth, then stopped.
She had no idea how to comment on what she had just witnessed. The broom had obeyed, certainly, but she doubted that threatening school equipment into submission was an example she ought to encourage.
The students stared at one another in bewilderment. None of them had expected Roger to control a broom in such a way, and they could not help wondering why he seemed to have such a unique understanding of emotion.
"Thank you for your guidance, Madam Hooch," Roger said.
He noticed her stunned expression and gave her a gentle smile. The cold indifference from a moment ago vanished completely, as if the threat had never happened.
Madam Hooch sighed softly and walked to the middle of the two rows. "Now, everyone, mount your brooms. Grip them tightly, and do not slide off the back."
The students climbed awkwardly into position. Roger followed along, feeling the broom under him with faint distaste, though it remained very well behaved after his warning.
"When I blow the whistle, kick hard off the ground, rise a few feet, and hold your balance," Madam Hooch said. She lifted the whistle around her neck, then demonstrated the landing posture. "When I blow again, lean forward slightly and return steadily to the ground."
She looked down the line, making sure everyone was listening. "Now, on my whistle. Three, two—"
The whistle sounded.
Neville's broom shot upward before anyone else could properly react. It lifted him into the air and began climbing rapidly, carrying him higher and higher over the pitch.
"Top-class reaction speed," Roger said from below, genuinely impressed. In the blink of an eye, the broom had carried Neville far above the rest of them, and he could not help praising it repeatedly.
Daphne rolled her eyes at him. "Can't you see Neville is panicking? His broom is completely out of control."
Amid Madam Hooch's shouts and the gasps of the students, Neville spun wildly through the air. He bounced, lurched, and swerved in every possible direction, moving with such chaotic unpredictability that Madam Hooch could not safely aim her wand.
Just as Neville seemed about to hurtle toward the Forbidden Forest, a statue on the roof intervened. The stone lady's spear caught the back of his school robe, hooking him in midair and yanking him away from the runaway broom.
The broom continued flying higher and higher, eventually disappearing in the direction of the Forbidden Forest. Neville dangled from the statue for only a second before the fabric of his robe gave way with a loud rip.
He fell with a scream.
"Arresto Momentum!" Roger drew his wand and cast before most students understood what was happening.
Neville's rapid descent slowed sharply in midair. Roger felt his magic drain at frightening speed under the sudden strain, and one thought flashed through his mind with perfect clarity: Neville really needed to lose weight.
Bang!
Despite the cushioning effect of the charm, Neville still hit the ground heavily. He landed hard enough to knock the breath from several watching students, but at least the spell had saved him from a far worse fall.
"Neville!" Madam Hooch rushed over, blaming herself inwardly for being careless.
Fortunately, Roger's spell had averted serious injury. Neville looked shaken and pale, but he did not seem badly hurt.
"I'm taking him to the hospital wing for a checkup," Madam Hooch said sternly, helping Neville upright. "The rest of you will stay exactly where you are."
She swept her hawk-like eyes over the group. "Put your brooms down. If I find that any of you have ridden without permission, you will be out of Hogwarts before you can say Quidditch."
Then her voice softened as she turned back to Neville. "Come along, dear."
She led the frightened boy away from the pitch, comforting him as they went. Neville kept looking back as if he expected the broom to return and attack him again.
"Madam Hooch should have given you points," Daphne said indignantly, watching them leave. "Your spell was crucial. Without it, Neville would have been badly hurt, even if he didn't die from the fall."
"It's fine, Daphne," Roger said with a smile.
Awarding points at that moment would have been rather inappropriate. Besides, he had not cast the spell to be rewarded, and being dragged into every public incident at Hogwarts was already troublesome enough.
As if fate had a cruel sense of humour, Malfoy somehow ended up with Neville's Rememberall again. He tossed it back and forth between his hands, looking toward the hospital wing path with a malicious little smile.
"What an idiot," Malfoy muttered.
Sunlight passed through the red glass sphere and scattered dappled colour across his pale face. Then he chuckled, glanced at Roger, and said, "Williams, I agree with you."
.....
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