It was a clear, breezy day.
As Sean, Justin, and the others walked down the sloped lawn toward a flat patch of grass, the warm wind moved across the turf like an invisible hand, sending ripples through it.
At the far end of the Quidditch pitch loomed the pitch-black Forbidden Forest, the place Headmaster Dumbledore had explicitly forbidden. Strange sounds drifted from within now and then, drawing the first-years' wary, curious glances.
A couple dozen broomsticks lay neatly lined up on the ground. They looked old and worn, some twigs sticking out. No wonder Justin had his doubts.
"They won't be uncomfortable. Wizards invented the Cushioning Charm. In 1820, Elliot Smethwyck created it, pushing broom comfort a big step forward," Sean explained quietly.
Even speaking softly, he drew a few "oh, that makes sense" murmurs from nearby students.
Soon the picture-perfect lawn was dotted with robed first-years. A brisk tap-tap-tap approached—the sound of a no-nonsense witch striding over.
"All right, what are you waiting for? Stand next to a broomstick, every one of you—quickly, quickly, we haven't got all day!" Her yellow eyes were hawk-sharp, her short gray hair fluttered, and her voice was quick and urgent.
"They call her Madam Hooch," Michael popped up from nowhere to add. "Besides teaching Flying, she referees Hogwarts Quidditch matches."
Referee?
The word made Sean think of a tidbit from Quidditch Through the Ages:
[For centuries, many attempts have been made to interfere with referees' brooms. The most dangerous was when a referee's broom was transformed into a Portkey; halfway through the match, the broom whisked the referee away, and he wasn't seen again for months—until he turned up in the Sahara Desert.]
A dangerous job, Sean thought.
"Comet? Didn't the Comet Trading Company go bust in 1978? Where did Hogwarts get a mint-condition relic?!" Michael groaned as they reached the brooms.
Sean took a closer look at his own. Thankfully it was a Shooting Star Seven—at least he could find the manual for that. As for the poor souls with "collector's items," they were on their own.
"Before you mount, a warning," Madam Hooch said. "If anyone tries to go straight up, Mr. Longbottom's yesterday will be your today. He was lucky and only broke his wrist. If luck turns, a broken neck is a moment's work!"
A chill ran through the class. One Hufflepuff clutched his throat in panic, as if he might become Sir Nicholas the Nearly Headless any second.
"Now—look at your broom and say Up! Loudly!"
"Up!"
Excited cries rippled as many shouted the command. Some succeeded on the first try—like Justin, whose broom bounced twice and smacked into his palm. Others struggled—Terry, Michael… their brooms either didn't twitch or gave a feeble hop.
Sean mimicked Madam Hooch's cadence. "U—p—eh?"
The broom popped neatly into his hand, as docile as a fawn. He blinked. Had he… even finished the word?
"All right, mount your brooms. When I blow my whistle, kick off, hard. Sit steady," Madam Hooch called. After they'd settled a bit, she continued crisply: "Keep a firm grip. Rise a few feet, lean forward slightly, and come straight down. On my whistle—Three—Two—"
Students perched, jittery—some shaking outright. Even among Ravenclaws, Sean was the calmest. He had no plan to go high; he cared more about how to apply Sir Cadogan's "technique."
"Broom flight is driven by charms… control yourself…" he murmured. Shifting his weight fully onto the broom, he sensed something faint. Whenever the broom drifted left or right, a hidden force seemed to swell:
"Braking Charm… Levitation… Turning charm…"
He quickly guessed the sources. When he sank fully into that feel, Madam Hooch gave the third count:
"One! Fweeet—"
At the sharp whistle, the brooms rose like raindrops reversing into the sky. A Ravenclaw shot upward, yelling; luckily he wasn't fast, and Madam Hooch reeled him down with a silent charm. A Hufflepuff did the opposite, nosediving—she caught him on a conjured bundle of hay. Others fell like dumplings from boiling water.
Madam Hooch was soon sweating, sometimes pried onto by a panicking student—"I'm going to die!"—whom she answered with a clean Aguamenti to clear his head.
Five or six managed to circle the air—but the smoothest, cleanest, most elegant flier was, without doubt, the pale Ravenclaw boy.
[You practiced Flying once at Adept standard. Proficiency +10]
[You practiced Flying once at Adept standard. Proficiency +10]
…
Chimes kept popping in his panel; Sean's flying grew ever more sure. He could feel that subtle magic—and the logic beneath it. It was simple: want to bank left? Guide the broom's left-turn charm with your magic. Want to stop? Brush the braking charm with a thread of intent. Your magic—your will, finely applied—was the key that made the broom "obey."
What Sean didn't know was that, because brooms carry their own stabilization, most first-years ride them like tools—while this kind of communion is what Quidditch players train for. They call it "being of one mind with your teammate."
"Is that… Sean?" Michael trembled along a few feet off the ground, still rattled—then stared up at the free "bird" overhead, briefly unbelieving.
[You practiced Flying once at Adept standard. Proficiency +10]
[Flying Technique unlocked]
[A new title in the Flying domain has been unlocked. Please check]
[A wizarding talent has been unlocked. Please check]
With the panel chiming nonstop, Sean felt freer than ever. For his frail body, running and jumping had been luxuries. A broom let him feel wind roar past his ears again. Heat bloomed in his chest, like the crackling hearth in the orphanage's shabby hall.
~~~
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