Class time arrived, and it was the Slytherins who got to the flying grounds first. Spotting the scorched patch of grass not far away, they immediately clustered around it, pointing and chattering like birds that had found a curious worm.
Madam Hooch, having just realized she'd forgotten her whistle, hurried back to retrieve it.
Charles, meanwhile, stood at a distance, making no effort to mix with the Slytherins. He wasn't in the mood for idle chatter and decided to use the time to think more about his floating turret idea.
But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed that turning it into a self-destructing kamikaze truck might be more effective…
Before long, the Gryffindors arrived. Seamus strutted straight over to the blackened grass like a rooster in full display mode, bragging loudly about how he'd scorched the place clean. He even dragged a thoroughly unamused Hermione over to act as his reluctant witness. For a moment, students from both houses just stared at him, unsure whether to be impressed or alarmed.
Madam Hooch returned shortly after and called the class to order.
"Everyone to the left of your broomsticks, now!"
Once everyone was in place, she instructed them to extend their right hand over their broom and shout, "Up!"
A chorus of "Up!" echoed through the field, reminiscent of a duck farm at feeding time.
It was then that the difference in natural broom-riding talent—or, more accurately, confidence in flying—became obvious.
Those who had confidence—even if they struggled at first—never considered the idea of failing. They simply assumed they'd succeed eventually.
And broomsticks, as it turned out, seemed to have minds of their own. Almost like Legilimency in wood-and-straw form, they responded to the rider's inner mindset.
If you were confident, the broom would pick up on that and respond enthusiastically—like a loyal horse eager to serve its rider.
If you were hesitant or didn't care much, it'd act like a lazy cat: not uncooperative, just… uninspired.
And if you were outright terrified or hated the thing? Well, then the broom would actively try to eject you from its back.
That was why Harry's broom practically leapt into his hand. The poor boy had been daydreaming about flying since before he could walk.
Hermione, ever the perfectionist, approached the task with anxious hesitation. Her broom rolled over twice before finally floating upward in a wobbly, reluctant hover.
Charles, on the other hand, stared at his broom with a raised brow. The thing was vibrating. Violently.
It was like holding a concrete mixer's magic cousin. Was this thing a jackhammer in a past life?
Neville, unfortunately, was in full panic mode. He was convinced that mounting the broom would result in disaster—and the broom could feel it. It went limp, completely unresponsive, like it had decided to take the day off.
Even after he managed to get on, the broom wanted nothing to do with him. It bucked like a wild stallion trying to rid itself of an unwanted rider.
Before Madam Hooch could even blow her whistle, Neville gave the broom the wrong signal—and it took off like a rocket.
One second he was on the ground. The next, he was soaring into the sky.
The broom bolted upward, swaying violently in mid-air like a bronco gone berserk. It was obvious it was trying to fling him off.
Madam Hooch went pale and screamed for Neville to come down.
Professor McGonagall, who just so happened to be walking down a corridor that overlooked the field, turned toward the window—and nearly had a heart attack as she spotted a first-year plummeting from three stories up.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
And just as quickly, she exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to her chest as the danger passed.
Because just before Neville could slam into the ground, Charles had whipped out his wand, preparing to cast a Levitation Charm. Points, grades, school policies—none of that mattered when someone's life was on the line.
But before he could finish the spell, something strange happened.
In the midst of screams and gasps, Neville… stopped falling.
He hovered in the air, a little over a meter above the ground, suspended in place like some kind of divine intervention.
His arms were slightly outstretched. All he needed was a halo and a pair of wings to complete the angelic image.
Ten seconds later, gravity caught up. Neville dropped—hard—and landed with a nasty twist of the ankle, breaking into a sweat from the pain.
Charles casually let the unfinished Levitation Charm fizzle out. Then he frowned. Neville didn't look injured so much as… drained. Weak. Like Seamus had the other day when he overdid it.
That's when Charles remembered the story about Neville's accidental first burst of magic—how a relative had thrown him out of a window and he'd floated across the yard instead of crashing. Maybe this was the same thing happening all over again.
Madam Hooch dashed over and, upon confirming it was "only" a twisted ankle, helped Neville hobble off to the Hospital Wing.
And then—
"HAHAHAHA!" Draco Malfoy cackled, pointing dramatically. "Did you see that? The idiot nearly killed himself!"
The Slytherins burst out laughing behind Malfoy, echoing his jeers like a chorus of smug backup singers.
Charles, ever the stagehand rather than the star, quietly backed away. This was the moment—the classic scene was about to play out. Best to leave the spotlight to its rightful actors.
The stage was ready.
The script? As familiar as an old bedtime story.
But the props... ah, the props had gone rogue.
See, Neville's fall hadn't been bad enough to knock the Remembrall loose. But in Madam Hooch's haste to check his ankle, she'd pulled off his shoe—and in the chaos, left it behind on the field.
Malfoy stared at the lone shoe for a full two seconds, hesitation flickering in his eyes. But then, with both houses now trading insults like Bludgers at a Quidditch match, he gave in.
He sauntered over, pinched the shoelaces between his fingers, and raised the battered trainer for all to see.
"I'm throwing this into the Forbidden Forest!" he sneered. "Let the clumsy oaf walk barefoot to class from now on!"
Charles facepalmed. Here we go.
Before anyone could react, Harry launched into the air on his broom like a golden missile.
Malfoy, not to be outdone, kicked off the ground and soared after him. The rest of the students turned their eyes skyward, completely forgetting the shoe in favor of the skyborne showdown.
"Kick him off the broom!" shouted a Slytherin.
"Crash into him!" Ron shouted from below, practically bouncing.
Harry seemed to be thinking the same thing. He darted at Malfoy again and again, his broom slicing through the air like a sword.
Malfoy dodged a few times, but panic started to creep in. Finally, with a frustrated shout, he yelled, "Fine! You want it? Go fish!"
And with that, he hurled the shoe straight toward the creek.
It arced through the air, a perfect toss, spinning lazily toward the water's surface.
Harry dived after it, leaning forward till he was nearly horizontal, arm outstretched. Just as the shoe came within a finger's width of hitting the water, he snatched it from the air.
A perfect catch.
Charles rubbed his temples. There really weren't enough brain cells in this field to go around today.
"Harry Potter!"
The voice cut through the air like a blade.
Professor McGonagall had arrived—right on time.
Charles blinked. Something felt… off. He blinked again.
McGonagall was floating.
No, seriously. Floating.
She was gliding across the lawn like one of the school ghosts—but in full color, distinctly alive, and definitely not Professor Binns forgetting his body again.
"Charles Smith!" she snapped as she approached, her expression thunderous. "My office. After dinner."
Charles watched her float away with Harry in tow, a creeping dread forming in his gut.
Wait a minute…
Oh no.
The Levitation Charm. He'd thrown it aside earlier… but had he actually aimed it?
A cold sweat broke out down his back. Had he—accidentally—levitated McGonagall?
The rest of the students hadn't noticed a thing. They all assumed the professor could just fly like that. Because, you know, McGonagall.
Harry vanished with her. Madam Hooch returned, scooped up Neville's shoe, and headed off toward the castle.
And now, without a teacher in sight, chaos resumed on the field.
Malfoy swaggered forward again.
"Potter's definitely getting expelled," he sneered. "Bet he's on the Hogwarts Express tonight, on his way back to his filthy Muggle home."
Ron was on him instantly.
"Well, at least he has a home to go back to. Some people's blew up, remember?"
Malfoy's face twisted like he'd just bitten into a lemon. His lips curled, and he spat, "Weasley. You want to fight?"
His two bulky goons stepped forward with smug grins, cracking their knuckles. With Harry gone, they were feeling invincible.
Ron squared up.
"Oh, what's the matter? Scared to come at me without your bodyguards?"
Sleeves were rolled up.
Feet shuffled into position.
Several students, both Gryffindor and Slytherin, looked downright eager for round one.
Then—
"No! Stop it! You can't do this!"
Hermione's sharp cry cut through the tension like a severing charm. Every head turned.
Her voice was shrill with panic, her expression horrified.
Silence fell like a dropped cloak.
(End of Chapter)
—————————
If you're enjoying the story so far please consider adding a review, it really helps the story reach more audience and it would help me a lot.
If you want to binge-read ahead, join my Patreon— beast0x1, you'll get access to 20-40+ chapters in advance, currently I have 2 ongoing novels The Mist Admiral and Days wondering around Hogwarts, plus some sneak peaks of planned novels are also going to be there.