This is the last course in the first year where we can meet the little wizards.
Sean stood on the Quidditch pitch behind Hogwarts with the rest of the Slytherins, eyeing the battered brooms dragged from the broom shed. The splintered handles and frayed twigs sparked a flicker of doubt about Hogwarts' vault at Gringotts. Does the school even have a budget?
He nudged the broom at his feet with his toe, half-expecting it to crumble. Sean sighed, a wry smirk tugging at his lips. Whether this relic could even hover was questionable. Was it wise to let first-years, clueless about flying, learn on these antiques? I'll settle for not being the first Hogwarts student to crash spectacularly in a flying lesson.
As Sean muttered complaints to himself, Madam Hooch, the hawk-eyed flying instructor, strode onto the pitch, her whistle glinting in the autumn sun. She launched into a brisk explanation of broom handling, her voice cutting through the breeze. The lesson unfolded much as Sean recalled from tales of his past life. Most students fumbled, their brooms twitching or ignoring them entirely, but a few shone instantly.
Harry Potter in Gryffindor soared effortlessly, as if born on a broom. Draco Malfoy, Slytherin's smug prodigy, matched him, his smirk as polished as his technique.
"Stand up!" Sean commanded his broom.
"Stand up!" he tried again, voice sharper.
"Stand up!"
The broom quivered, rolling over like a stubborn dog playing dead. Sean's mouth twitched. Since arriving at Hogwarts, he'd set the pace in Transfiguration, Potions, and Charms. Even in weaker subjects like History of Magic, he held his own. He'd braced for struggles with shape-shifting or potion-brewing, but flying? This was an unexpected setback.
Ron Weasley had coaxed his broom aloft, and even Hermione Granger, no natural flier, clutched hers after a wobbly effort. Only Sean, Goyle, and Crabbe stood stranded, their brooms flopping uselessly.
Madam Hooch approached, eyeing Sean's broom with a sigh. "Professor, is this thing broken?" Sean whispered, half-hoping for an excuse.
Hooch's sharp gaze flicked to him. "When things go awry, Mr. Bulstrode, look to yourself first. These brooms are old, yes, but I inspected them. They're sound." She barked, "Stand up!"
The broom snapped into her hand instantly. Sean's jaw tightened. If this stick had a brain, I'd charm it into knots. Hooch handed it back, her expression daring him to fail, and resumed teaching—proper mounting, takeoff techniques.
As Sean gripped the broom, the lesson took a turn he'd anticipated. Neville Longbottom's broom went rogue, jerking him skyward before crashing, leaving him with a broken wrist. Hooch whisked him to the hospital wing, her face grim.
Sean's thoughts drifted to his cousin, Miles Bulstrode, still bedridden after his Potions disaster. The boils from his botched Cure for Boils were proving stubborn, keeping him out of today's lesson. Three to five days of recovery? Sean mused. He's probably cursing my name from the hospital wing.
With Hooch gone, Sean watched Malfoy snatch Neville's Remembrall, taunting Harry with a theatrical toss. Harry, all instinct and grit, chased him into the air, snatching the glass orb in a dive that left the pitch gasping. Genes don't lie, Sean thought. James Potter's son, born to rule the skies.
Sean glanced at his own broom, its twigs sagging like a defeated niffler. He tossed it to the grass. Flying wasn't his game—better to focus on spells and potions, where his wand could work real magic. Let Harry and Malfoy chase glory in the air. I'll stack points on the ground.
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Miles Bulstrode, propped up in the hospital wing's sterile glow, watched Madam Hooch escort Neville inside. His boil-riddled skin itched under the bandages, a constant reminder of his Potions class humiliation. He said nothing, his eyes tracking Hooch as she left briskly for the flying lesson. Moments later, a second-year boy slipped past her in the corridor, offering a slight nod before entering the ward.
Approaching the bed, the boy flashed a practiced smile. "Miles, I heard you were looking for me. What's the matter?"
Miles studied him. Jason, a year older, hailed from a family that had fallen on hard times, now little more than a dependent of the Bulstrodes. At family gatherings, Jason's fawning deference was almost comical, and even at Hogwarts, he scurried to Miles' side at the first summons.
"Jason, I want you to teach Sean, that squib's son, a lesson for me."
Miles didn't mince words, his voice low but sharp with spite.
Jason's smile faltered, a flicker of unease crossing his face. He forced a grin. "Miles, didn't the seventh-year prefects warn us seniors not to trouble Sean until he earns back his points?"
Miles' eyes narrowed. "Senior grades… seventh, sixth, fifth, even fourth, sure. But second and third years? Hardly seniors, are they?"
"This…" Jason hesitated, sensing the dodge.
Miles leaned forward, his voice dropping to a hiss. "Jason, you need to know your place. Do you listen to the seventh-years or to me? You know what's best for your family, don't you?"
Jason swallowed, the hospital wing's faint hum of healing potions underscoring the tension. Miles' family held sway over his own, their influence a shadow over his every move. Defying him could cost more than a bruised ego. Yet Sean, with his knack for earning points and dodging trouble, wasn't an easy target. Jason's mind raced—cross Miles, and face his wrath; cross the prefects, and risk their ire. Merlin's beard, why me?
He forced another smile, stalling for time. "I'll… see what I can do, Miles. Something subtle, yeah?"