The subterranean chill of the Slytherin dungeons, with its damp, rough-hewn stone and perpetual greenish ambient light, felt a world away as Harry stepped out through the heavy oak front doors and onto the Hogwarts grounds. It was a crisp, clear Thursday afternoon. A brisk, light breeze swept across the sprawling lawns, rippling the tall grass and carrying the fresh, earthy scent of the Black Lake. For the first time all week, Harry felt the unhindered warmth of the sun on his face. It was a stark but deeply welcome contrast to the heavy, shadowed atmosphere of his house’s common room, a brief respite from the claustrophobic weight of the castle walls.
Yet, despite the beautiful weather, a tight knot of apprehension twisted in his stomach. Today was the highly anticipated joint flying lesson with Gryffindor.
As he walked down the sloping lawns alongside Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle, Harry kept his expression carefully neutral, deliberately projecting the composed, unbothered demeanor Draco had spent the last few days drilling into him. Internally, however, his thoughts raced back to his quiet confession at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall. *I’ve never flown on a broom before.* He had expected mockery, or at least a condescending sneer, but Draco had simply offered pragmatic advice, assuring him that flying was entirely about confidence, posture, and refusing to show fear.
Still, facing the reality of it—and the glaring presence of Ron Weasley and the rest of the Gryffindors already waiting on the flat stretch of lawn—made Harry’s pulse hammer against his ribs. He had survived Snape’s interrogation and McGonagall’s strict expectations, but this was a physical test, out in the open, with his fiercest rivals watching his every move.
Twenty broomsticks lay in two neat rows on the ground. They looked ancient and thoroughly battered, their handles scratched and their tail twigs jutting out at odd, unruly angles. The Gryffindors were gathered on the opposite side of the brooms, muttering among themselves. Ron Weasley stood near the front of the pack, his freckled face flushed with anticipation. The moment he spotted Harry, Ron’s expression hardened into a deeply resentful scowl, clearly still stinging from his humiliation in Transfiguration.
Harry met the red-haired boy's gaze with cool indifference, lifting his chin just a fraction. He would not let Weasley see him sweat.
"Don't let Weasley get to you," Draco murmured, stepping up seamlessly beside Harry to present a united front. "Just remember what I told you. Keep your back straight, grip it firmly, and whatever you do, don't hesitate. The broom knows if you're afraid."
"I won't hesitate," Harry said quietly, drawing a slow, steadying breath.
Madam Hooch arrived a moment later, marching briskly across the grass. She had short, spiky grey hair and piercing yellow eyes that reminded Harry of a hawk scanning for prey. "Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked, her voice cracking like a whip over the chatter. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."
Harry took his place beside one of the battered school brooms. Draco stood to his right, looking entirely at ease, his aristocratic posture perfect. Across the aisle, Ron was practically vibrating with nervous, aggressive energy, glaring at the broom at his feet as if trying to intimidate it into submission.
"Stick your right hand out over your broom," called Madam Hooch, pacing at the front of the two lines, "and say 'Up!'"
"UP!" everyone shouted.
Harry hadn't even finished the syllable before his broom leapt instantly from the grass, slapping against his palm with a solid, satisfying thwack. He blinked, genuinely startled by the immediate, forceful response. It felt as though the wood was alive, eager to be held. Beside him, Draco raised a pale eyebrow, offering a surprised but deeply approving nod.
Across the grass, Ron's broom had merely rolled over lazily in the dirt. The Gryffindor boy scowled, his face darkening to match his hair as he glared at Harry's broom, then back down at his own, shouting "Up!" with increasing, embarrassing frustration. It took him three more tries before the handle finally smacked into his hand.
Madam Hooch moved methodically through the ranks, showing them how to mount their brooms without sliding off the end. She corrected a few grips, demanding strict attention to posture. Harry noticed with a flicker of amusement that she didn't correct Draco, who held his broom with practiced, effortless grace.
"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," Madam Hooch instructed, stepping back to observe the class. "Keep your brooms steady, hover for a moment, and then lean forward slightly and touch back down. On my whistle—three—two—"
But Neville Longbottom, a round-faced Gryffindor who had been trembling visibly since they arrived on the grounds, pushed off too early. Blind panic overtook him, and he kicked hard against the earth before the silver whistle even touched Madam Hooch's lips.
"Come back, boy!" she shouted.
It was too late. Neville shot straight up into the air like a cork bursting from a bottle—twelve feet, twenty feet. Harry watched, his stomach dropping in sympathy, as Neville gasped, his hands slipping from the polished wood. He slid sideways off the broom. There was a sickening thud that echoed across the lawn, followed by a nasty crack, and Neville lay facedown on the grass, groaning in agony. His broom continued to drift higher, floating away lazily toward the dark tree line of the Forbidden Forest.
Madam Hooch rushed to Neville's side, her face pale. "Broken wrist," Harry heard her mutter as she gently helped the weeping boy to his feet. She turned to the rest of the class, her yellow eyes flashing with stern, uncompromising authority. "None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms