"Oh no, why does flying class have to be with the Slytherins?"
Looking at the notice on the Gryffindor common room wall, Ron and the other young lions groaned in unison.
Over in Slytherin, the mood wasn't much different—everyone was buzzing about Quidditch. Everyone except Draco Malfoy. He wasn't particularly thrilled about the sport itself; what truly interested him was the act of flying. At home, he had already indulged in flying whenever Narcissa wasn't around, so now he felt little excitement.
"Why don't you tell us about your flying experiences?" Pansy asked curiously.
"There's nothing to talk about," Malfoy replied, shaking his head.
"Boring," Pansy pouted, clearly unsatisfied with his answer.
"Draco's going to tell us about his broomstick adventures!" she suddenly shouted loud enough for the entire common room to hear.
In an instant, a crowd of Slytherin students gathered around them. The young snakes admired strength, and Malfoy—who had already earned Slytherin a good number of points in the first few days of school—was naturally someone they looked up to. Coming from a prestigious pure-blood family only made him more fascinating. Everyone wanted to hear about his past flying escapades.
"Uh…" Malfoy pretended to think deeply, racking his brains for a believable story. He shot Pansy a fierce glare.
Pansy only smiled smugly back.
"In the forbidden area of our estate…" Malfoy began, spinning a tale. Influenced by online novels in his previous life, he easily fabricated a convincing story that drew gasps and wide-eyed admiration from his audience.
After the story ended, Pansy leaned close and whispered, "Next time I visit your house, should I go there to play too?"
Malfoy replied flatly, "I made it all up."
Pansy blinked. "You made it sound so real."
"I haven't even settled the score with you yet. Who do you think forced me to make it up?"
"I suddenly remembered—I haven't finished Professor McGonagall's homework!" Pansy stammered, trying to slip away.
"Wait a moment."
"Oh." She stopped and lowered her head, looking every bit the guilty child awaiting punishment.
"Little witch," Malfoy sighed, realizing she was acting.
"Eat more candy, talk less next time." With that, he took several beautifully wrapped sweets from his pocket and stuffed them into Pansy's hands. Narcissa sent him snacks far too often, and he had no shortage to share.
Pansy looked at him, half delighted, half suspicious.
"Don't get the wrong idea," Malfoy said, frowning slightly. "Think of it as a bribe. Besides, I can't finish them all by myself."
"You're so insincere," Pansy teased, her bright eyes betraying her excitement. "But since you're being so generous, I'll mercifully accept them."
Never underestimate the power of sweets over a girl.
Soon came the long-awaited afternoon—time for flying class!
The weather was perfect: bright sun, a gentle breeze, and not too hot. The Gryffindor students hurried down the steps toward a wide, flat lawn near the field. The grass rippled lightly underfoot, and beyond the lawn stood the dark line of the forest, its trees swaying in the wind.
The Slytherins were already there. Twenty broomsticks lay neatly arranged on the ground.
Their instructor, Madam Hooch, arrived—short gray hair, sharp yellow eyes that gleamed like an eagle's.
"All right, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone stand beside a broomstick. Quickly, quickly!"
Malfoy looked down at the broom at his feet and sighed. Some twigs stuck out at odd angles, and dust clung to the handle.
It's easy to go from frugality to luxury, he thought wryly, but hard to go back again.
"Extend your right hand over the broom handle," Madam Hooch instructed. "Then say, 'Up!'"
"Up!" the class shouted. Malfoy mimicked them lazily. For someone already skilled at flying, this kind of beginner exercise was pure torture.
Madam Hooch demonstrated how to mount the broom properly, then walked along the line correcting students' grips and posture.
Harry and Ron obeyed her instructions with surprising seriousness. Hermione, on the other hand, looked uncomfortable. Despite her earlier lecture about Quidditch Through the Ages, she clearly wasn't very athletic.
Neville, meanwhile, trembled from head to toe, sweat beading on his forehead. Judging by the mild weather, it was obvious the sweat came from nerves, not heat.
"All right," Madam Hooch said briskly. "When I blow the whistle, kick off the ground hard with both feet. Keep the broom steady, rise a few feet, lean forward slightly, then land vertically. Listen for my whistle—three, two—"
But Neville panicked before she could finish. Desperate to prove himself and terrified of being mocked again, he kicked off too early.
"Oh, poor little fatty," Malfoy thought sympathetically.
"Come back, child!" Madam Hooch shouted.
But Neville couldn't control the broom. It shot upward like a rocket. His pale face showed sheer terror—he remembered too well his childhood accident of falling from a height. His hands gripped the broom tightly, but his strength was fading. Slowly, his fingers slipped until he lost his hold completely.
A tragedy seemed inevitable.
"Wingardium Leviosa," Malfoy whispered softly, aiming the spell at Neville. Only Pansy, standing beside him, heard it.
To everyone's astonishment, Neville's fall slowed dramatically, as if something invisible cushioned him.
"Thank goodness!" Madam Hooch gasped, running to the spot where Neville landed. She examined him quickly, relief flooding her face.
"It's a miracle! Hardly a scratch," she said. "But you still need to visit the hospital wing."
Supporting the trembling boy, she led him toward the castle.
"No—my Remembrall! And my broom!" Neville suddenly cried, struggling weakly.
"Accio Remembrall!" Malfoy called, summoning the small glass ball from the grass. He handed it back with a calm smile.
"It's probably best to keep these things in the dormitory during flying class," he advised.
"Th-thank you," Neville stammered, still pale.
"As for your broom," Malfoy added, "I think our savior has gone to fetch it for you."
He nodded toward the sky.
"No!" Hermione shouted, but Harry ignored her. Blood roared in his ears as he kicked off the ground and shot upward. The wind rushed past his face, his robes billowed, and exhilaration filled him.
Neville's broom was drifting toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
Harry felt alive—free. The air was his element. He accelerated, stretching out his hand, and with perfect timing, he caught the broom midair.
The Gryffindor students erupted in cheers. Hermione, however, looked far from pleased, still fuming that he'd broken the rules. The Slytherins scowled; their rival had stolen the spotlight.
Harry landed safely, grinning, surrounded instantly by excited classmates. Pride swelled within him—he had finally found something he was truly good at. Flying felt as natural as breathing.
"Harry Potter!"
The sharp voice made his heart plummet. Professor McGonagall stood there, glasses flashing dangerously.
"In all my years at Hogwarts—never—" she sputtered, clearly furious. "How dare you! You could have broken your neck!"
"It wasn't his fault, Professor—"
"Silence, Miss Patil!"
"He was helping Neville, Professor," Hermione added anxiously.
"Enough," McGonagall cut her off. "Follow me."
Harry's heart sank as he trailed after her toward the castle. Will I be expelled? he thought miserably.
"History repeats itself," Malfoy murmured, watching them go. If things followed the same path as before, Gryffindor would soon have its youngest Seeker in a century.
"Do you think the savior will be expelled?" Pansy tugged at Malfoy's sleeve.
"I doubt it," he said softly.
"That's boring," Pansy pouted. "By the way, what spell did you cast just now? You didn't even use your wand."
"Just a Levitation Charm."
"You helped a Gryffindor?" she asked, incredulous.
"I was just practicing wandless magic."
"You really think I'll believe that?"
"Then how should I explain it?" Malfoy asked, his pale gray eyes meeting hers.
Pansy was about to retort but suddenly remembered the "bribe" of candies she had accepted earlier. She looked away quickly. "Fine. If you don't want to say, then don't say it."
Malfoy smiled faintly. I can't exactly tell her I used to like Harry most when I read the books in my previous life.
Everyone wanted to be Harry—but most people were actually Neville. Who hadn't dreamed of being a hero once?
Since he now had the ability, Malfoy didn't mind giving the honest, clumsy boy a small bit of help. In his previous life, Neville's final act of courage had moved him even more than Harry's heroism.
After all, most people's pasts were as ordinary as Neville's—if not worse.