The following Thursday, we had flying lessons with Gryffindor.
Since I still knew nothing concrete about the "story," I wanted to avoid contact with the protagonist as much as possible so I wouldn't derail the main plot. But I couldn't skip class for reasons I couldn't explain to anyone. Changing what had already been scheduled might cause its own problems. With no idea how events would unfold, it was impossible to tell whether acting—or not acting—was the right choice.
As for the lesson itself—how to ride a broom—I wasn't worried. I have no patience for Quidditch, a sport that's all but weighted toward the Seeker… but, unfortunately, I'm rare in the wizarding world. My father, being a perfectly typical wizard in that respect, dotes on Quidditch. He put me on a broom from early childhood and expected me to become a capable flyer. Thanks to that, I could already manage the basics.
Among those raised in wizarding families, children who grow up with brooms are nothing unusual—but there were a fair few who hadn't. Strangely for pure-bloods, Crabbe and Goyle had never flown before Hogwarts. I already knew why: their parents mostly dumped childrearing on the house-elves and neglected the rest. A glimpse into the darker side of pure-blood life.
Other broomless children were scattered here and there, but most were reluctant to admit it aloud. I could hardly blame them. Among Slytherin first-years it was constant boasting about who'd flown how much. You could see the fear showing through some of the bravado. Pitiful, really.
Wanting to put people at ease, I talked through basic broom handling—but that may have backfired. I'm not especially good on a broom myself. It finally dawned on me—at lunch on the day of the lesson—that amateurs shouldn't be sticking their beaks into what a class will teach anyway.
We headed across the sunlit grounds for the training field, Crabbe and Goyle at my side. Say what you like about our House's "evil" image—Slytherins show up early when rules are meant to be observed. …Of course, our sense of when rules don't need observing is rather broad. That's us too.
Before long, the Gryffindors arrived with Madam Hooch, and the lesson began, tension written across many faces.
Without preamble she barked at us to stand beside our brooms. No safety talk before we touched them? Old-school athletic authoritarian, that one.
We lined up, and at her command shouted, "Up!" My broom flew neatly into my hand, but Crabbe and Goyle struggled. We'd practiced this at home when I first learned to fly, but I'd never seen adult witches and wizards actually ordering their brooms to "Up" like that. What's the point? Appearances?
In the end, Madam Hooch didn't wait for everyone's broom to leap into place. Several simply picked theirs up, and we moved on to mounting and grip. She corrected my grip—over on the other side Weasley looked indecently pleased to see that, which I couldn't miss even trying. He dislikes me thoroughly. My fault, but I still regretted not handling him better.
Then came the practical flying. Two meters as the very first target height was… ambitious, and glancing around at the children already blanching, I had a bad feeling. Still, I obeyed.
Madam Hooch raised her whistle. "When I blow, on—one—two—"
She never said "three." A Gryffindor boy, terrified beyond reason, shot straight into the air.
She shouted up from the ground for him to come back, but panic left him deaf. He couldn't control his broom at all—just clinging, as if the handle were about to slip from his hands. I reached for my wand, but too late. He toppled off the broom and plunged—six meters at least—straight down.
Screams split the field. Madam Hooch went white and sprinted to him, dropping to her knees as if she'd never imagined such a thing could happen. Surely there was something—anything—she could have done to prevent this? And he wasn't… dead? From that height, a clean bill of health would be miraculous.
If someone had died, I'd have to start worrying in earnest about the "Harry Potter" world's baseline. As it was, the boy—Neville, it seems. Almost certainly the Longbottom heir—got away with a broken wrist. Madam Hooch forbade anyone to move, then led him off to the hospital wing. Surprisingly, he was on his feet. Strong child—most would have collapsed.
For a while, shock left us all gaping. Gradually chatter began again, Slytherins and Gryffindors clumping up separately. Among the Gryffindors near the crash site, I noticed Ron Weasley scoop up a small glassy ball that had fallen from Longbottom's pocket and tuck it away.
As for me, I was drowning in exasperation.
There are children's brooms that cap altitude. I'd assumed, since she wasn't using those, Madam Hooch would have some kind of fall-prevention in place. Apparently, I gave her too much credit.
She didn't seem that green—new to the post, perhaps? Or are wizards at large truly foolish enough to teach a tool that reaches rooftop heights with no safety measures? It was only a wrist today, but a broken neck would not have been surprising.
Binns and Snape fail as teachers in their own ways, but Madam Hooch was beneath even that. Pair a shabby training broom with a novice and this is the obvious accident. She'd just demonstrated that she couldn't guarantee even minimal safety for students.
My temper cooled as disgust lapped the shore and retreated. Fine. I'd do things my own way. She wouldn't be back for a while. We might as well use the time.
I shrugged off my robe and tied one sleeve to Crabbe's broom handle and the other to Goyle's, taking the hem like reins so I could control both brooms. I had them mount and hover at a height where a fall wouldn't do damage. "Float about twenty centimeters," I told them, tugging the hem to guide them forward and teach the feel of moving.
I spoke slowly so they wouldn't panic. "If the broom pulls in a direction you didn't expect, drop off at once—right foot first. Don't hesitate. If the two of you take off with me tied on, I'll be the one flying."
A little drift, then down; a little drift, then down. Predictably, a Gryffindor voice snapped at us. The clever girl who'd raised her hand in Potions glared. "Madam Hooch said not to move!"
Righteous, correct—and of no use to me. I couldn't help the wry smile. "With Madam Hooch's method, the next child who takes off won't be stopped either. I won't stand by while that child is my friend. I've no intention of taking criticism from someone who let the very first lesson turn into a public debacle."
Harsh, unintentionally—but she pressed on. "Are you ready to be expelled?"
Impressively dutiful toward someone not even in her House. Admirable energy, irrelevant to me now. I jerked my chin toward the spot where Longbottom fell. "If the school runs a lesson that could easily kill a student, threatening expulsion is a joke. If Madam Hooch really tries, I'll use every means to drag her out of that post first."
Truth is, I knew full well that by custom you don't get expelled over this. Hogwarts bluster doesn't frighten first-year pure-bloods with a dozen alumni in the family.
The girl faltered, a little cowed. …Perhaps I'd vented my anger at wizarding laxity unfairly at her.
Weasley arrived, scenting an argument. He seemed itching to fight me; I couldn't complain—this is my mess—but I did dread it. Still, for my purposes it was useful to notch up a bit of inter-House ire, and in practical terms I wanted everyone in the air enough that we wouldn't stand out as the only offenders. This quarrel was an opportunity.
"You were just corrected on how to hold a broom," he sneered. "Who are you to teach anyone? Those two won't get as high as a man's shoulder under your coaching."
He'd struck home. I'm not good on a broom. Even so, I answered evenly, already charting the rest of the exchange. "Say what you like about me, but don't drag others in. Loudmouthed Weasley."
"Big talk. You only mouth off about Quidditch because you can't play."
"My, what a boast. Are you sure you can actually fly? Your feet seem firmly on the ground."
He took the bait instantly, shot into the air, and a few Gryffindors followed. It was more successful than I expected: among those who broke the rule was Harry Potter. Wonderful. A Muggle-raised boy on his first broom—exactly what I didn't want.
Soon enough, the confident ones climbed higher, reveling. Fools. Including the protagonist—perfect. "That's high enough," I called. "It gets dangerous." Weasley took it as sour grapes and ignored me, grinning as he played with Harry.
He's clearly used to flying. At that level, he won't fall often—but never say never. I rehearsed the Cushioning Charm in my head and kept a hand on my wand, watching them.
Down below the practice picked up pace. Slytherins, in general, can fly. Gryffindors, many raised among Muggles, less so. Crabbe and Goyle were now managing to drop off safely on their own, so I paired them with others and moved toward the Gryffindors. I knew I'd already made a scene. If I was going down, I'd take the lesson with me.
I set aside the edge in my voice and, as pleasantly as I could, addressed a nearby boy. "For starters, pair up: one in the air, one holding the robe from below. The boy who flew off lost control immediately—that was the problem.
"Just lift a little at first. If you can't control it, drop off right foot first. Think of it as practicing how to fall—no one flies well at the start."
Slytherins stared holes into my back—"Can you really cozy up to Gryffindors?"—but I had my excuse ready. And practically speaking, if everyone got their hands on brooms, Madam Hooch would have to scold the lot.
Most Gryffindors kept their distance. Fortunately, a boy left behind by his friends came over, curiosity winning. I smiled as kindly as I know how, borrowed his robe, and helped. I held out the other sleeve to the strict girl, but she turned away. Well—consistent, at least.
The other Gryffindors weren't as devoted to rules as she was. Within minutes pairs were forming on the ground as well. Ironically, that left her without a partner. Watching her, a boy named Dean leaned over and whispered where she couldn't hear, "Leave her be. That's Hermione. She never stops talking—everyone's had enough."
I sympathized—some—but it was disheartening. So Gryffindor has its outcasts too. I went back to spotting and coaching.
The ground drills ran smoothly. No one above seemed on the verge of slipping. Weasley kept shooting me contemptuous looks, but was mostly lost in the joy of flying. If he would forget my rudeness altogether, I'd be grateful.
Then something glittering slid from Weasley's pocket—a little ball, Longbottom's trinket. Harry saw it too. Instead of letting gravity have its way, he arrowed straight down after it. He dove almost to the turf, and screams rose—mine included. Oh, come on. I snatched for my wand.
"Arresto—!"
No need. He grabbed the ball just before impact and leveled out, clean as a cut.
Everyone dropped to the ground, rushing to check on him. Harry held the little sphere up, proud as anything. Catching my eye, he grinned. "Draco, did you—"
I never heard the rest. Professor McGonagall stormed onto the field with terrifying speed. She all but said nothing to anyone else and whisked Harry away. I felt a twinge of guilt—my provocations had helped—but he had been recklessly foolish. Hypocrite that I am, I hoped he would get at least a stern talking-to.
That evening in the Great Hall, Harry looked radiant. I had no reason to speak to him and tried to slip past, but he spotted me and called out cheerfully, "Hi, Draco!"
"…Hi, Potter."
I swallowed the urge to scold him for being overfamiliar and settled for polite. After all, I'm the one who poked at him in Diagon Alley.
He was delighted with himself; Weasley, across from him, decidedly not. "So—how was my dive? I think I did pretty well for a first time…"
Blithe as you please. "It was impressive," I admitted. "And yet after a visit to your own Head of House, you're in fine spirits."
Harry blinked, then beamed. "Oh, McGonagall didn't scold me. She made me Seeker for the Gryffindor team!"
I stared. "Professor McGonagall put you on the Quidditch team? A first-year who broke the rules?"
That wasn't the reaction he'd wanted; he deflated a little. Weasley leapt to his defense, of course, but I had no attention to spare for him.
Crabbe and Goyle, unfortunately, picked that moment to start squabbling with Weasley. In the Great Hall before dinner—spectacularly conspicuous. Professor McGonagall, who has a talent for homing in on disturbances, was there in a heartbeat. "What is the meaning of this?"
"Professor," Weasley said, "Malfoy's complaining because Harry made the team."
She paused, just for a heartbeat. I turned to her, too blunt to hide my edge. "I was under the impression that first-years are forbidden to own brooms and that House teams are for second-years and above. That's the rule, is it not?"
Her answer was crisp. "Those rules exist for safety. If the risk can be removed—"
"I see. In that case, you personally guarantee it this time, Professor McGonagall—as a fair judgment."
She remained perfectly composed, but she'd understood what I meant. A touch of stubborn pride quieted any wavering. She wasn't going to reverse a decision once made.
I sighed and let the ice into my voice. "No complaint. If this is the decision made in the name of Gryffindor's vaunted justice."
Her face tightened. I regretted the rudeness even as I noted she wouldn't censure me for it. I hauled my two friends away from their whispered sniping with Weasley and headed for the Slytherin table without a goodbye.
That night, for reasons they wouldn't share, Crabbe and Goyle kept trying to sneak out of the dormitory. Drawing my bedcurtains and casting a Body-Bind on each of them in turn, I stared up and thought about the day. How far would this precedent dent Professor McGonagall's standing among Slytherins?
Everyone has a few things they love enough to bend a rule for. It's human. And yet I felt a sharp pang of disappointment. I'd finally learned the obvious truth of this world: the "hero's side" won't always be perfectly right.
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