"Alright! On my whistle!"
Madam Hooch's voice rang clearly across the lawn. "When I blow it, push off from the ground hard and rise straight up! Keep your broom steady. Once you're a few feet up, lean forward slightly and descend gently!"
She raised the silver whistle to her lips and took a deep breath.
"Three—two—one—"
Tweet—!
The sharp whistle pierced the air.
Instantly, chaos erupted on the Hogwarts lawn.
"AAAAAHHHH—!"
Neville Longbottom shot upward like an arrow released from a bow, completely out of control, vanishing from sight in seconds and leaving only a string of panicked screams behind.
Most of the students fared little better.
They wobbled drunkenly atop their brooms, struggling desperately just to lift a few inches off the ground before thudding back down amid shrieks and laughter.
Ron's broom behaved like a stubborn mule, jerking him up and down so violently he nearly pitched headfirst into the grass.
Only a handful of students—Malfoy among them—who had grown up in pure-blood families and handled brooms since childhood managed relatively steady ascents, though even they looked stiff and strained.
In the midst of the chaos, nearly everyone was airborne.
Everyone—
Except one.
Lucian Thornwick.
He remained standing calmly on the grass, as though the surrounding commotion existed in a different world entirely.
Windwalking Art. Creation complete.
He slowly opened his eyes.
In their depths was no ripple of excitement, no trace of triumph—only tranquil clarity, as though he had solved a simple arithmetic problem rather than revolutionized the history of magical flight.
His gaze drifted to the brand-new school broom at his feet.
A faint, almost imperceptible detachment flickered in his eyes—like that of a god observing mortal tools.
Then—
Under the unsteady gazes of students hovering above, under Madam Hooch's puzzled stare—
He lifted his right foot.
And lightly kicked the broom away.
Thud.
The broom rolled several times across the grass before coming to rest some distance away.
He had abandoned it.
Silence.
An unnatural stillness fell over the flying field.
Up in the air, the wobbling students seemed petrified mid-flight, forgetting to control their brooms as they stared down at the unbelievable sight below.
"H-He's lost his mind!"
Malfoy blurted out. The smugness on his face froze, replaced with pure shock.
"What's he doing? He just kicked away the school broom! Does he want to be expelled?"
"My God… is he giving up on flying altogether?"
"I told you! He's just a bookworm—no guts at all!"
No one could comprehend what they had just witnessed.
In their understanding, broomsticks were the only means of flight.
To kick away your broom was to renounce flying entirely.
Even a magical child would know that.
Madam Hooch's brows furrowed. A flicker of displeasure flashed in her sharp yellow eyes. To her, this looked like a foolish challenge to her authority.
Just as everyone expected her fury to descend—
Something changed.
A breeze stirred.
Without warning, a gentle wind began to swirl outward from Lucian's position.
It was soft, lifting the ends of his black hair, stirring the hem of his robes.
And then—
Before countless eyes widened in disbelief—
Lucian's feet left the ground.
There was no broom.
No visible force.
No incantation.
He simply rose.
An inch.
A foot.
A meter.
He came to a halt roughly one meter above the grass, posture straight, hands clasped casually behind his back.
No wobbling.
No instability.
He hovered as if standing upon invisible, perfectly solid ground.
The wind circled him playfully, buoyant and alive, as though paying homage to its sovereign.
The world fell utterly silent.
Every mind on that field blanked under the weight of what they were witnessing.
He didn't need a broom.
He was going to fly—
With his own body.