Michael let out a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness Peeves didn't come after us. If he'd actually gone to get Filch, we'd have been in real trouble."
"Peeves wouldn't go to Filch," Wade said, pulling him up from the floor. "Don't you remember? Those two can't stand each other. Peeves would never do something that makes Filch happy."
"Good point," Michael nodded.
Peeves was always causing trouble—toppling statues, spilling ink everywhere—constantly creating extra work for the caretaker Filch and driving him mad in the process.
The two of them climbed the spiral staircase of Ravenclaw Tower, round and round until they were dizzy. Every few turns they had to stop for a break, their thighs aching like they didn't belong to them anymore.
Normally at this point, Michael would be grumbling nonstop—unless there were pretty girls nearby, in which case he'd pretend it was no trouble at all and suggest resting "for the lady's sake."
But today, Michael was unusually quiet. Not until they were nearly back at the common room did he say, "We've got flying class tomorrow too."
Wade replied, "Mm."
"Forget all that nonsense I said before," Michael muttered gloomily. "I'll just follow Madam Hooch's instructions step by step."
Wade said helplessly, "What happened to Neville was just an accident. Not everyone's that unlucky."
Michael probably understood that in his heart, but it didn't help ease the burden on his mind.
By the time they finally got back to the tower, it was already past curfew. Still, a few students lingered in the corridor—not every Ravenclaw was great at solving riddles. When the questions hit a knowledge blind spot, even the smartest brains couldn't figure it out. Sometimes, there would be twenty or more students standing outside the common room, discussing how to answer the day's riddle.
Wade walked up and knocked on the wooden bronze door knocker. The eagle-shaped knocker suddenly opened its beak and asked in a melodic, almost chanting voice:
"Hands above and hands below,
Sometimes I crawl, sometimes I go.
I walk like a man, I crawl like a hound—
What am I, can you have me found?"
You had to correctly answer the riddle from the eagle door knocker in order to enter the common room.
Michael imagined some grotesque, hand-covered creature crawling in the shadows, and asked in horror, "What kind of monster is that? Some kind of demon from mythology?"
He frantically rummaged through his bag and pulled out Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, flipping straight to the back.
"Don't bother. It's not in there," said a tired-looking Ravenclaw student. "I've already combed through the whole book."
The others nodded silently in agreement.
Wade stood there thinking.
The bronze knocker was a bit like a Sphinx from the legends. Its questions weren't always difficult, but they could be hard to figure out—mainly because it never said whether its question was a riddle, a brain teaser, a play on words, or what kind of answer it wanted: plant, animal, object, concept—sometimes even abstract ideas like time or death.
This riddle sounded a bit Lovecraftian at first, but there was something familiar about it.
"…A monkey?" Wade offered hesitantly.
"Correct answer," the eagle-shaped knocker replied, and the wooden door swung open.
…
After the incident in flying class, the breakfast table was much quieter the next morning. Gone were the endless bragging stories about soaring over mountains and oceans on broomsticks. Instead, a new piece of news had spread among the first-years.
"Did you hear? During flying class yesterday, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy from Slytherin almost got into a fight. But guess what happened?" Padma Patil leaned in and whispered mysteriously to the group at the long table. "I heard Harry Potter showed amazing flying skills. Not only did he avoid punishment, Professor McGonagall personally recommended him for the Gryffindor Quidditch team!"
She had a twin sister in Gryffindor, so her sources were always reliable.
"Seriously? Professor McGonagall?" The students nearby were stunned. Everyone knew McGonagall was Hogwarts' most just and strict professor. She treated all four houses fairly and never played favorites. That she'd make an exception for Harry Potter was shocking enough to make them forget the earlier part of the story.
Eventually, someone remembered it again.
"That can't be true," Terry said confidently. "No first-year has joined a Quidditch team in a hundred years! It has to be a rumor."
"Maybe he's just a reserve player or something," Anthony speculated. "We all saw it—Potter really is a great flier. Fast and nimble. If the Gryffindor team passed him up, that would be what's truly unbelievable. But still, he's a first-year who's never even ridden a broom before and doesn't know the rules of Quidditch—it's still pretty far-fetched to say he made the team. Reserve player sounds more plausible."
Another student, Kevin, chimed in, "Think about it. If Potter really made the team, wouldn't the Weasley twins be shouting it from the rooftops? Have you heard a peep out of them?"
Their reasoning made sense, and everyone nodded in agreement.
Padma scoffed quietly and leaned over to whisper to Michael, "Actually, it's because the Gryffindor captain, Wood, wants to keep Harry as a secret weapon. That's why they're keeping it quiet. Those stupid boys are just jealous and don't want to admit it."
Michael didn't remind her that he was one of those "stupid boys." He just smiled and said, "Or maybe they just don't want to admit they've been outdone by another boy… especially in front of a pretty girl."
Padma's cheeks flushed slightly.
Wade glanced sideways and saw Michael raise a single eyebrow at him, already acting like a cheeky heartbreaker despite his young age. He seemed to have recovered from his earlier gloom, and Wade couldn't help but feel a bit relieved.
Suddenly, a commotion broke out in the Great Hall—a group of six long-eared owls struggled to fly in, carrying a long, narrow package that immediately drew everyone's attention. The owls swooped down and dropped the parcel in front of Harry Potter before flapping away, leaving behind a few stray feathers.
Michael sucked in a sharp breath and grabbed Wade's wrist, lowering his voice to say, "A broomstick! I'd bet anything that's a broomstick!"
His eyes practically turned green with envy. In a strangled voice, he added, "And it's one of the Nimbus models—I recognize the packaging!"
"Yeah," Wade pried open his fingers and gently placed his hand back on the table, saying casually, "If you do well in flying class this afternoon, who knows? Maybe you'll make the team and get a new broom too."
He was only joking, but Michael seemed to take it seriously. His eyes turned determined, and when he bit into a lamb chop, he did it with a vengeance.
Before long, it was time for flying class.
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