The Great Hall was a cavern of golden warmth and echoing noise, a welcome reprieve from the drafty, labyrinthine corridors of the castle. High above the four long house tables, the enchanted ceiling mirrored a crisp, cloudless autumn sky, though the air down below smelled comfortingly of roasted chicken, baked bread, and rich gravy. Harry Potter walked alongside Draco Malfoy, matching the blond boy’s measured, unhurried pace as they made their way toward the Slytherin table.
Despite the inviting atmosphere of the hall, a chilly undercurrent of tension seemed to ripple through the room whenever Harry passed. He could feel the eyes of the other houses tracking him, the whispers trailing in his wake like a physical breeze. But as he took his seat on the green-and-silver-draped bench, he found himself insulated by his own housemates.
"Five points on your first day, Potter," Pansy Parkinson said, leaning across the table as Harry reached for a silver goblet of pumpkin juice. Her sharp, pug-nosed face was alight with a mixture of approval and amusement. "And from McGonagall, no less. I hear she’s notoriously stingy. It’s brilliant."
"It was just a partial transformation," Harry said, though he couldn't entirely suppress the small flare of pride in his chest.
"It’s more than anyone else managed," Draco pointed out smoothly, loading his plate with roast potatoes. "Especially the Gryffindors. Did you see Weasley’s face when his matchstick snapped? I thought he was going to cry."
A few of the nearby first-years chuckled. Harry glanced down the table and caught the eye of Theodore Nott. Unlike the others, Nott wasn't laughing. The thin, quiet boy was watching Harry with a dark, measuring scrutiny, his expression entirely unreadable. He didn't offer any congratulations, merely took a slow sip from his goblet before returning his attention to his meal. Harry held the gaze for a second before looking away, filing Nott’s silent assessment away in his mind. Slytherin, he was quickly learning, was a house of constant observation.
A sudden rustle of parchment drew their attention to the end of the table. Prefect Farley was marching down the aisle, handing out small notices. She dropped one in front of Draco, giving Harry a brief, approving nod before moving on.
"What is it?" Harry asked.
Draco’s pale eyes scanned the parchment, and a wide, gloating smirk spread across his face. "Flying lessons," he announced, his voice carrying enough to ensure the surrounding Slytherins heard. "Starting this Thursday. And look at this—we’re sharing them with Gryffindor."
A collective murmur of anticipation rippled through the first-year Slytherins.
"Perfect," Pansy said, her eyes gleaming. "A chance to show them up properly."
"I’ve been flying since I was five," Draco boasted, leaning back in his seat and adopting an air of casual superiority. "It’s a travesty that first-years aren't allowed their own brooms. Father considered writing to the Board of Governors about it. You wouldn't believe the maneuverability of a Comet Two Sixty. Last summer, I was flying over the estate and nearly collided with a Muggle helicopter—had to pull a vertical dive to avoid it."
Harry listened to Draco’s animated storytelling, but the roasted chicken on his plate suddenly looked much less appetizing. A cold knot of apprehension tightened in his stomach. He had never even seen a flying broomstick up close, let alone ridden one. The Dursleys had barely allowed him to ride a bicycle, and the thought of being suspended in the air on a piece of wood while the entire Gryffindor house watched made his palms sweat.
He waited until Pansy and the others were distracted by a debate over the best professional Quidditch teams, then leaned closer to Draco.
"Draco," Harry muttered, keeping his voice low enough that only the blond boy could hear.
Draco paused, glancing at him. "What is it?"
"I’ve never flown before," Harry admitted quietly, staring at his plate. "I don't know the first thing about broomsticks."
For a fraction of a second, Draco looked genuinely taken aback. Then, his aristocratic features smoothed into an expression of calm pragmatism. He didn't laugh, nor did he draw attention to Harry’s lack of experience. Instead, he leaned in, his tone shifting into the same coaching cadence he had used in Transfiguration.
"Right. Raised by Muggles. I keep forgetting," Draco murmured. "Listen to me, Harry. Flying is mostly about confidence. The school brooms are ancient and twitchy, so you have to show them who’s in charge. Keep your back straight, don't grip the handle too tight, and whatever you do, don't look down."
Harry nodded slowly, absorbing the advice. "Just act like I know what I'm doing."
"Exactly," Draco said, a faint smirk returning to his lips. "Posture is everything. If you look composed, half the battle is won. We can't have you looking like a flailing Gryffindor up there. Just follow my lead on Thursday, and you’ll be fine."
The knot in Harry’s stomach loosened slightly. He appreciated Draco’s practical approach; there was no pity, just a strategic plan to ensure they maintained their house's reputation.
When lunch concluded, the Great Hall began to empty, students spilling out into the vast, echoing entrance hall. Harry and Draco joined the flow of green-trimmed robes heading toward the dungeons. The air in the corridor was significantly cooler, the stone walls radiating a damp chill that made Harry pull his robes a little tighter around his shoulders.
As they approached the grand marble staircase, a figure bustled out from a side corridor, nearly colliding with them. It was Professor Quirrell, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. He looked as pale and nervous as ever, his oversized purple turban sitting slightly askew on his head. A pungent, eye-watering smell of garlic wafted from him, so strong that Draco visibly wrinkled his nose and took a step back.
"O-oh, d-dear me," Quirrell stammered, clutching a stack of parchment to his chest. His eyes darted nervously between Harry and Draco. "M-my apologies, b-boys."
"Watch where you're going, Professor," Draco said, his tone polite but laced with a distinct edge of pure-blood entitlement.
Quirrell didn't seem to notice Draco’s tone. His gaze had locked onto Harry. "P-p-potter," he stuttered, taking a hesitant step closer. "E-enjoying your f-first w-week in S-Slytherin?"
"Yes, sir," Harry replied, keeping his voice steady.
Quirrell took another step forward, the overwhelming scent of garlic washing over Harry. "V-very g-good. V-very..."
Before Quirrell could finish his sentence, a sudden, blinding pain ripped through Harry’s forehead. It was as if a white-hot wire had been pressed directly against his lightning-bolt scar. Harry gasped, his vision swimming for a terrifying second. He stumbled back, instinctively bringing a hand up to clutch his forehead. The pain was intense, burning with a fierce, localized heat that made his eyes water.
"Harry?" Draco asked, his voice suddenly sharp with concern.
"I'm—I'm fine," Harry managed to grit out, though his breath was coming shallow and fast.
Quirrell blinked, looking alarmed. "A-are you q-quite all right, P-Potter?"
"Just a headache," Harry lied, forcing his hand down to his side and straightening his posture. The pain was already beginning to recede, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache.
Quirrell lingered for a second longer, his eyes darting around the corridor as if expecting an attack, before he gave a jerky nod. "R-run along, then. D-don't be l-late for c-class." He hurried away, his robes swishing against the stone floor, the smell of garlic trailing behind him.
Harry stood frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs. He rubbed his scar, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The pain had been exactly like the flare-up he had experienced in Potions, when Snape had been interrogating him. But Snape wasn't here. Harry scanned the corridor, looking for the dark, sweeping robes of the Potions Master, but the hall was empty save for passing students.
Why had his scar hurt? Was it something Quirrell was carrying? The Defense professor taught about dark creatures and curses; perhaps there was some lingering dark magic on his clothes or in his turban that Harry’s scar was reacting to. Or maybe Snape had just walked past an adjacent corridor, his mere proximity enough to trigger the burning sensation. Harry couldn't be sure, but the mystery of it left him feeling deeply unsettled.
"What was that about?" Draco asked, eyeing Harry closely. "You went completely white."
"I don't know," Harry said, keeping his voice low. "Just a sudden pain. It's gone now."
Before Draco could press the issue, a harsh voice cut through the ambient noise of the corridor.
"Enjoying your points, Potter?"
Harry turned to see Ron Weasley pushing his way through the crowd, flanked by a few other Gryffindor first-years. Ron’s face was flushed, his freckles standing out starkly against his pale skin. The humiliation of the morning’s Transfiguration class was still burning in his eyes, fueling a bitter, reckless anger.
"I am, actually," Harry replied evenly, channeling the cool composure Draco had been teaching him. "Thanks for asking, Weasley."
Ron’s jaw tightened. He stepped closer, ignoring the warning glare Draco was leveling at him. "You think you're so brilliant because you managed one little trick," Ron sneered, his voice trembling slightly with resentment. "Let's see how perfect you are on Thursday. I bet you won't be so smug when you fall off your broom and break your neck."
Draco stepped forward, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. "Careful, Weasley. If you snap your broom the way you snapped your matchstick, you'll be the one sweeping the pitch."
Ron’s face turned a violent shade of red. He looked as though he wanted to draw his wand, but the presence of older students in the corridor seemed to hold him back. He settled for a final, venomous glare at Harry.
"Thursday, Potter," Ron muttered. "We'll see what you're really made of."
He shoved past them, his Gryffindor friends hurrying to keep up.
Harry watched them go, the dull ache in his scar entirely forgotten in the face of the upcoming challenge. He had no idea how to fly, and he knew the Gryffindors would be watching his every move, waiting for him to fail. But as he glanced at Draco, who was already adjusting his robes with an air of dismissive elegance, Harry felt his resolve harden.
He was a Slytherin. He wouldn't give Ron Weasley the satisfaction of seeing him fall.