The morning of flying lessons broke bright and cold — the kind of crisp air that made the castle's stones gleam and every breath taste clean.
The students of Gryffindor and Slytherin gathered on the training field, scarves fluttering, voices rising in nervous chatter. Twenty broomsticks lay in neat rows on the grass, thin shadows stretching long in the early light.
Harry stood among the Gryffindors, hands tucked into his sleeves, watching the way the light curved around the bristles. Even from a distance, he could feel the faint hum of enchantment — the brooms thrummed softly, eager, as if aware that today they would finally fly again.
"Up!" barked Madam Hooch, her whistle gleaming at her throat.
Twenty hands went up; twenty brooms either quivered or rolled lazily away. A few floated inches above the ground.
Harry raised his hand. "Up," he said softly.
The broom leapt into his palm as if pulled by recognition.
A few heads turned — Hermione blinked, Neville gaped, and even Draco glanced over with a flicker of surprise.
Madam Hooch's sharp eyes caught the motion. "Nicely done, Potter. The broom listens to confidence — not noise."
Harry smiled faintly. Or maybe it listens to emotion, he thought. The broom vibrated gently against his fingers, responding not to command, but to feeling — to that small, electric spark of excitement thrumming in his chest.
He could almost hear it whisper: Finally.
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"Mount your brooms," said Hooch. "Grip tight, lean forward, and when I blow the whistle — kick off from the ground, hover, and come right back down. Understood?"
Harry swung a leg over, the motion natural. The broom settled beneath him like muscle memory. His heart began to race — not from fear, but from recognition.
The whistle blew.
He kicked off.
The world fell away.
Air roared in his ears. The ground shrank to a watercolor blur. For a breathless moment, gravity felt optional — a suggestion, not a law.
He laughed — really laughed — for the first time in what felt like years. The sound was pure and alive, carried away by the wind. He tilted the broom upward slightly, and it obeyed like a heartbeat answering another. There was no barrier between thought and motion, no separation between magic and mind. It was like spellwork made visible — intuition turned flight.
Below, Hooch shouted something — maybe his name, maybe a warning — but he barely heard.
He wasn't disobeying.
He was remembering.
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A cry tore across the field — shrill and frightened.
Neville's broom jerked violently upward, rising far too high. His fingers slipped; his face went pale. For a second, he was nothing but flailing limbs against the sky.
Harry didn't think. He moved.
The broom responded instantly — a downward dive, air screaming past his ears. The world blurred — green and gold and fear. He leaned into the fall, magic coiling like instinct around his fingertips.
"Neville!"
He caught him a few feet above the ground — one arm locking around his robes, the other steady on the broom. The impact nearly threw them both off, but the broom corrected midair, hovering with a soft hum of satisfaction.
The field fell silent. Only the sound of Neville's ragged breathing broke it.
Harry set him down gently. "Got you," he said, voice steady. "You're alright."
Neville blinked at him, trembling. "Th-thank you."
Harry smiled. "Try again next time. The broom only listens when you're not scared of falling."
Madam Hooch approached, her expression unreadable — half stern, half impressed. "That was reckless, Mr. Potter."
"Yes, ma'am," Harry said.
"Reckless," she repeated, "and perfectly executed. Ten points to Gryffindor."
Behind them, Draco's voice rang out. "Show-off."
Harry turned slightly, meeting his gaze. "Not showing off. Just listening."
Draco's sneer faltered, replaced by something colder — curiosity.
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By next morning, the story of the dive had taken on a life of its own.
Fifty feet, sixty, a hundred — depending on which corridor one listened to. By lunchtime, Fred and George were claiming he'd somersaulted twice and caught Neville with his teeth.
Harry only smiled at the rumors.
He wasn't proud — not really. He was homesick.
The wind had spoken to him again, the way it used to when he'd been the Gryffindor Seeker who'd flown like his broom was an extension of will. For those brief seconds yesterday, he hadn't been a boy out of time — he'd simply been himself again.
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Charms that afternoon was steady, methodical, comforting — until the classroom door banged open.
"Potter," said McGonagall, her Scottish burr sharp as flint. "With me. Now."
A dozen heads turned. Ron mouthed You're dead. Hermione frowned like she was already drafting his obituary.
Harry followed her out into the corridor, feeling a flicker of déjà vu so strong it was almost funny.
They walked briskly through the hallways — McGonagall's robes whispering, her steps precise. Harry didn't speak. He remembered this. He remembered every turn, every stair, the way his heart had pounded the first time. But this time his heart was calm.
At the base of the steps, he said quietly, "You're taking me to see Wood, aren't you?"
McGonagall stopped, just for a second. The faintest twitch of amusement crossed her face. "You'll see."
They resumed walking.
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Oliver Wood was waiting on the pitch, broom in hand, wind ruffling his hair.
McGonagall didn't waste time. "Wood, I've found you a Seeker."
Harry felt something warm unfold in his chest. Again.
Wood's grin was instant. "Him? The first-year?"
"The same first-year who dove forty feet and caught another student mid-air," said McGonagall crisply. "And landed without breaking his neck."
Wood looked Harry up and down, curiosity turning to awe. "You've flown before, haven't you?"
Harry smiled faintly. "A few times."
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Understatement of the century."
Wood laughed. "If you can really handle a broom like that, Potter, we might have a shot at the Cup this year."
Harry nodded slowly. "I can handle it."
The broom in his mind — the old Nimbus 2000 that once felt like a companion — flickered through memory. He wondered where it was now. Perhaps still waiting.
McGonagall's tone softened, just a breath. "You'll train with Wood starting Saturday. Gryffindor could use some heart again."
Her eyes, sharp and proud, met his. "Your father would be intolerably pleased."
Harry's throat tightened, but he only said, "Thank you, Professor."
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After dinner, when the towers burned gold with sunset, Harry slipped down to the empty pitch.
The air smelled of grass and clouds, of home.
He kicked off from the ground.
And instantly — he was back.
Not as a child learning. As a flyer remembering.
The broom rose cleanly, answering the smallest lean. His muscles remembered every nuance — the gentle grip of knees, the shift of weight through turns, the feeling of the world curving around him.
He closed his eyes for a moment and let the air rush past. Below, the pitch spread out like a memory turned real: the hoops glowing in twilight, the stands empty but humming faintly with echoes of old cheers.
He whispered, "It's good to see you again."
The wind responded — a low, warm gust that brushed his hair like greeting.
He climbed higher, then dove, cutting through the air so fast that the pitch lines blurred into streaks. Every movement felt effortless, joyful. This wasn't practice. It was communion.
When he finally landed, the grass bowed slightly beneath him as if acknowledging the flight.
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Saturday morning came bright and cold.
Wood met him at dawn, grinning like someone about to unwrap a legendary broom. "You ready, Potter?"
Harry rolled his shoulders. "Always."
Wood tossed him the school broom — a Cleansweep that vibrated with uneven enchantment. Harry caught it easily and stroked the handle once, whispering a small calming charm under his breath. The vibration steadied.
Wood blinked. "Did you just—?"
"Nothing dangerous," Harry said with a smile. "Just convincing it to trust me."
They took off.
The first test was a simple series of dives and turns; Harry completed them with an economy of movement that made even Wood gape.
Then came precision catches — small red balls charmed to dart away like startled birds. Harry's hand closed around each one effortlessly.
Finally, Wood released a gleaming golden Snitch.
Harry let it vanish into the sun, waited — and then leaned forward.
He didn't chase. He listened.
The air told him where it was. The faintest disruption, the tiniest shimmer — and then he was moving, faster than thought.
The Snitch darted left; he rolled with it. It climbed; he matched. It twisted, dove — and Harry dove harder, the wind singing past his ears, his body moving before his mind.
He reached out, fingers closing around the golden wings. The Snitch trembled in his palm, warm and alive.
When he landed, Wood was laughing. "You're a natural, Potter!"
Harry smiled. "You've no idea."
⸻
By dinner, the rumor had become official: Harry Potter, the youngest Seeker in a century.
The common room exploded with celebration. Fred and George performed an impromptu victory song, Ron looked ready to burst with pride, and Hermione — though she tried to act unimpressed — kept sneaking glances at him, half admiring, half concerned.
Neville said shyly, "You looked so calm up there."
Harry grinned. "It's easier in the air. The wind's honest."
That earned him a round of puzzled looks and one muttered comment from Fred: "He's definitely been hanging around Dumbledore too much."
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Later, long after the tower had gone quiet, Harry sat by the window with his journal open.
The Youngest Seeker
I've flown a thousand times before, but never like this.
I'm not chasing victory anymore. I'm chasing understanding.
Flying is the truest form of magic — no wand, no words, only will.
The air doesn't care about prophecy.
It only cares if you remember how to trust it.
He paused, tapping the quill against his knee.
Maybe magic and wind are the same thing.
Always present. Always moving. Waiting for someone to stop fighting it.
He smiled, closed the journal, and looked out over the sleeping pitch.
The moonlight shimmered faintly over the hoops.
For the first time since his return, he didn't feel like a man repeating a story.
He felt like a boy writing a new one — and the sky, for once, was listening.
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End of Chapter 8– "Flight and Freedom."
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