Perhaps it was Madam Hooch's relentless prodding that finally spurred Michael and William into action. As they spotted Ian making a break for the castle, they each grabbed him firmly under the arms and hauled him unceremoniously back to the lawn.
"You're not afraid of heights, are you?"
Michael eyed Ian suspiciously, convinced he was attempting to skip class.
"That's nonsense! Ian must have some grand mission we simply aren't privy to— something truly extraordinary!" William, as ever, maintained his peculiar blend of childlike awe and effective flattery toward Ian.
"I just wanted to preserve my reputation and innocence while I still had the chance!" Ian groaned, casting a forlorn glance at Snape's retreating figure, inwardly cursing himself for not reacting quicker.
Still, he secretly vowed that if Snape ever dared to use his hair in a Polyjuice Potion to infiltrate the girls' bathroom— or, Merlin forbid, Professor McGonagall's quarters for some improper snooping— then Ian would brew his own batch, transform into Snape, and put on a rousing performance of 'The Weird Sisters'' greatest hits in the middle of the Great Hall.
"That evil Snape!"
Ian fumed as he was dragged back into the crowd. He reached up, running a hand over the top of his head. As someone of British heritage, he was particularly concerned about the precarious state of his crown.
Admittedly, he was still just a child, but his hair wasn't especially thick. If he didn't start taking precautions now, who knew what sort of catastrophe awaited him in adulthood?
"Just you wait! I learned to ride a broom long before Hogwarts. My dad flew me all the way from Austria to the skies over London."
"That time, we even encountered a Muggle's rogue enchanted iron soaring through the air. It hurled a Bludger at us, inviting us to play, but my dad Disapparated us home in an instant."
"I bet if he hadn't been in such a rush to use the loo, I could've sent that Muggle's flying iron straight into the Thames!" The boastful young Slytherin, who had already placed an order for a Nimbus 2000, continued to spin his tale with great flourish.
Ian admired the sheer audacity of this wizard's storytelling. He was even more impressed by how many first-years listened with rapt attention, utterly unaware of the absurdity woven into the tale.
William, meanwhile, was boasting to Michael and the others— though not as extravagantly as the Slytherin. He simply bragged about owning a full set of Montrose Magpies boxer shorts.
They were animated, of course. Just like Dumbledore's socks…
Ian quietly edged away, suddenly worried that William might return from the holidays with a custom-made pair featuring his own face.
"Whoosh!"
A sharp whistle cut through the chatter, silencing the students at once.
Madam Hooch stood before them, a middle-aged witch with closely cropped silver hair, a few strands ruffled by the wind. Her piercing yellow eyes surveyed the gathered first-years with keen scrutiny.
She wasn't quite as formidable as Professor McGonagall, but she had a commanding presence nonetheless— enough to keep even the most skittish students in check.
Except, of course, for the Gryffindors.
"Flying is no laughing matter. Before you ever leave the ground, you must establish a connection with your broom."
Her voice carried the weight of experience. "Now, listen carefully. If I catch anyone being careless, they will be removed from my class."
The students straightened at once, their earlier mirth evaporating as Madam Hooch's warning settled over them. Satisfied, she began explaining the fundamentals of flying and the necessary safety precautions.
After all, it was flesh wrapped around wood.
And there were no safety ropes.
Broomstick flying truly was a perilous endeavor. Ian couldn't fathom why, in this modern age of magical innovation, no one had yet invented a flying contraption that allowed for a leisurely cup of tea mid-air.
They had to fly on brooms just for Quidditch?
"I must become Hogwarts' very own Nicolas Flamel," Ian mused, staring at the basic school broom he had been assigned. His desire to master alchemy burned even brighter.
Lost in thought, he barely avoided Madam Hooch's sharp gaze.
"Say Up!"
Madam Hooch demonstrated how to summon their brooms, explaining that young wizards, still unfamiliar with harnessing their innate magical energy, could often activate it instinctively through spoken command.
Across the lawn, students shouted the incantation in unison. Most brooms merely twitched or rolled halfheartedly on the grass.
"Up."
Ian's broom shot neatly into his grasp at once. He wasn't surprised. The more he interacted with other wizards, the clearer his understanding of magic's rhythm became.
It was a flow.
One that few could perceive.
"One point to Ravenclaw. Well done, Mr. Prince." Madam Hooch cast him a brief look of approval before giving him a rare thumbs-up.
William, the second to succeed, received only a nod. Second place had a way of fading into obscurity, but William didn't seem to mind in the slightest.
"Look, look! I was only a fraction slower than Ian!" He boasted gleefully to Michael.
"This is impossible," Michael grumbled, wrinkling his nose. He nudged his broom with his foot before giving it a determined tug. The slightly battered broom hesitated, then leaped into his grasp with surprising steadiness.
It was not quite perfect, but magic had its ways. Where there was a will, there was a way.
Michael became the third student to successfully summon his broom.
Ian nodded. Michael was indeed a clever younger student. From the past few days of classes, it was clear that although Michael liked to cut corners, he always managed to meet the professors' requirements. In this regard, William, who had been studying diligently, was slightly less efficient.
Who knew how long William had secretly practiced for this class?
"Focus!"
"You must really want it; strive to make the broom land in your hand!"
"Merlin's beard! What are you doing!?"
…
Ian and his roommates waited for the other young wizards to familiarize themselves with the process. They didn't see anyone taking off without permission, but they did see a young witch attempting to take a bite out of the flying broom.
'Hmm.'
It was Michael's favorite little sister. She muttered something about it looking like sugarcane, was caught red-handed by Madam Hooch, and was severely scolded.
Michael's expression clearly showed he was heartbroken.
"Rebecca was just hungry; what's wrong with that…"
Such is the life of a lovesick fool.
Ian and William couldn't bear to watch. Fortunately, biting the broom a few times wasn't a big deal, and Madam Hooch soon moved on to the next step of teaching takeoff.
"I'll only demonstrate once. Remember, you must grip here tightly." After demonstrating, Madam Hooch began inspecting and correcting the young wizards' mistakes.
Ian had been comfortably straddling the broomstick, but after being corrected to the proper posture by Madam Hooch, his expression became less cheerful.
(To Be Continued…)
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