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Hi everyone !
srry for late.
(PS: A friend suggested I create a P@treon account. If you'd like to see advanced chapters posted on Webnovel, that's where you can find them! I'll also mention all the supporters at the end of each chapter!)
Search : StoryLabo on the website or click the link on my bio
Happy reading !
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The following days settled into a routine that could have been comfortable if Aiden hadn't been obsessed with constant improvement.
Wake up at dawn. Silent run to the seventh floor, checking that no nosy student was following him. Three back-and-forths in front of the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. The door always appeared faithfully, and he spent an hour smashing himself against that stupid impossible course, analyzing each failure, each necessary micro-adjustment.
He was progressing, and as the old adage said: slowly but surely. The fifteenth bar was now regularly attainable. The twentieth remained a distant dream, but at least he was no longer completely making a fool of himself.
Then quick shower, breakfast with Charlie and Narwick who were beginning to wonder why their buddy was always covered in bruises and smelled of sweat at six in the morning. Aiden served them vague excuses about "insomnia" and "stretching exercises." They didn't look convinced, but they didn't ask too many questions.
Classes followed one another. Potions where Snape now looked at him with an intensity that made the whole class uncomfortable. Charms where Flitwick congratulated him on each creative variation he produced. Transfiguration where McGonagall nodded approvingly at his always slightly too perfect transformations. And History of Magic where everyone slept.
He hadn't run into Cho since their brief conversation near the lake. Thinking about it, it was strange. Ravenclaw wasn't that big a house. Maybe she was busy with her Quidditch training, or maybe their schedules simply didn't match up, but even at the evening meal he didn't see her.
Kelia, on the other hand, seemed to have made it her personal mission to track him down in every corridor. He avoided her with the efficiency of a ninja dodging shuriken. As soon as he saw her in the distance, he took a different corridor or hid behind a statue. Charlie found it hilarious. Narwick had pointed out that he was "technically running away from an eleven-year-old girl, which was pathetic." Aiden had replied that survival had no dignity, and that since they were the same age, it was like an adult trying to escape James Bond.
And then came Thursday.
Flying class.
Aiden woke up that Thursday like every other morning, followed his usual routine at the Room of Requirement, the impossible course, the shower, and breakfast.
But when Charlie reminded him they had flying class that afternoon, something stirred deep within him.
Oh yeah. Broomstick flying.
He wasn't particularly excited. Not like an eleven-year-old kid discovering it for the first time. In his reincarnated adult mind, it was just another class. A skill to acquire for any self-respecting wizard, even if Apparition existed, but probably useful for moving quickly around the castle or avoiding trouble named Kelia.
But still.
The idea of flying appealed to him.
Just... the idea was pleasant. In his past life, he had briefly considered becoming a pilot before turning to medicine. Something about the freedom of the skies had always attracted him from afar, nothing more though.
Well, we'll see. At worst it'll be boring and I'll survive like History of Magic. At best it'll be nice.
Charlie and Narwick were much less enthusiastic.
- "Dude, we're going to kill ourselves," Charlie groaned as they descended toward the Quidditch pitch. "I'm telling you, we're going to fall and die, and Madam Hooch will just shrug and say 'another one' like it's normal."
- "You're dramatic," Narwick said, but he looked nervous too. "The brooms surely have safety enchantments. Like they catch you if you fall."
- "Or not, and we become mush."
- "Always optimistic, Charlie."
Aiden smiled, listening to them bicker. He had no worries. He didn't know why, but something deep inside told him flying would be natural.
The Quidditch pitch stretched before them, vast and green under the slightly cloudy Scottish sky. About twenty brooms were lined up on the grass, patiently awaiting their incompetent riders.
Madam Hooch was already waiting for them at the center of the pitch. Small, wiry, with yellow hawk eyes and military posture that was imposing despite her size. The Hufflepuffs were already there, and some looked even more terrified than Charlie.
- "Good morning, good morning," she barked in a voice that tolerated no nonsense. "Stand each to the left of a broom. Come on, we don't have all day."
Aiden positioned himself in front of one of the school brooms. Old worn wood, slightly twisted handle, twigs that had seen better days. Not exactly a Nimbus 2000, but it would do.
- "Extend your right hand over the broom," Hooch ordered, demonstrating. "And say 'Up' with authority. The broom must feel that you are the master. If you're hesitant, it won't obey you."
It's exactly like magic. There's no room for doubt.
- "UP!"
The collective cry resonated across the pitch. Most brooms didn't even move. A few rolled limply to the side, and others rose into their owner's hand often half-bloods or pure-bloods, just more accustomed to using their will just like Aiden's, which jumped directly into its owner's hand.
He had called it with firm, unequivocal intention. Come. And the broom had obeyed instantly, as if it had never had any other choice.
Hooch looked at him for a moment before turning her attention away.
- "Good for those who succeeded! The rest of you, try again and put some conviction into it this time."
It took another five minutes before everyone had succeeded in making their broom obey. Charlie had ended up shouting "UP, YOU IDIOT," which made the whole class laugh and earned a disapproving look from Hooch, but at least his broom had jumped.
- "Now," she continued, "mount your brooms. Grip the handle firmly. When I blow my whistle, kick off the ground to rise a few meters, then descend immediately. We're starting slowly. Ready? On my whistle."
Whistle blow.
Aiden gave a firm kick against the ground.
And took off.
The sensation was instantaneous and absolute.
Oh holy potatoes.
It wasn't like boarding a plane where you're a passenger locked in a metal box. This was direct, visceral, and intimate. The broom responded to the slightest movement of his body, the slightest pressure from his hands. When he leaned slightly left, the broom turned. When he leaned forward, it accelerated.
The wind whipping his face, ruffling his white hair, rushing into his lungs like a promise of absolute freedom.
This is it. This is exactly it.
He descended as requested, but his heart was already beating a hundred miles an hour. He wanted to go back up.
Immediately. It was an urgent need.
As Coubertin said to every athlete: Higher. Faster. Farther. But here they weren't at the modern Olympics but in a flying class, and Aiden had a desire to fly that bordered on madness.
Hooch had them practice takeoff and landing for a good twenty minutes. How to lean to go up or down. How to turn without losing balance. How to brake without being ejected from the broom.
Aiden absorbed everything with disconcerting ease. His body seemed to instinctively understand how to move, how to position itself. His hands felt every vibration of the handle, every necessary micro-adjustment. It was as if the broom and he communicated in a language no one else spoke.
After what seemed like an eternity, Hooch blew her whistle again.
- "Good. You all seem to have understood the basics without killing yourselves, which is already an achievement. Now free flight in the delimited zone. Don't go beyond a kilometer diameter around the pitch. Stay below fifty meters height. And for Merlin's sake, don't be idiots or I'll give you detention until the end of the year."
She hadn't finished her sentence before Aiden was already gone.