The autumn sun stretched thin across the Hogwarts grounds, painting the sky pale gold. The grass of the Quidditch pitch glistened faintly with morning dew, and a brisk breeze tugged at the students' robes as they gathered in a loose crowd.
Oliver stood among the first-years, broom propped awkwardly under one arm. His fingers tapped restlessly against the wood.
He'd been nervous about this class all week. Flying wasn't music, it wasn't reading, and it wasn't something he could practice alone in an empty classroom. It was public. It was everyone's eyes on him.
Harry nudged him gently. "First time flying?"
Oliver gave a small shrug jokingly stating. "Yeah. You?"
"Couple of times with a toy broom when I was little. Nothing serious." Harry grinned, easy as ever as if he had not been flying with the house team for weeks now. "Don't worry. Madam Hooch said she won't let us break our necks."
Oliver tried to smile back, but his stomach was fluttering too much. Nyx wasn't perched on him today—she rarely showed herself during classes—but he could still sense her nearby, quiet and watchful, as though she was somewhere in the sky above. The thought settled him just a little.
A shrill whistle cut through the chatter. Madam Hooch strode to the front, eyes sharp as she surveyed them all.
"Line up!" she barked. "Brooms on the ground, hand over them, and on my command, you will call them into your hand."
The group scrambled into position. Oliver placed his broom flat on the grass, palm hovering over it.
"Up!"
All around, brooms leapt obediently into waiting hands—except for the ones that smacked into faces or refused to budge.
Oliver's broom slapped firmly into his palm the very first try. He blinked at it, startled.
"Well done, Night," Madam Hooch said, striding past with the faintest twitch of approval.
Heat crept into Oliver's cheeks. It was just luck, he told himself. Couldn't be more than that.
They practiced mounting next, then leaning forward to hover just above the ground. Oliver's broom wobbled once, then steadied beneath him. It was like the broom was listening to him, shifting with his weight, moving before he even thought about it.
Madam Hooch's whistle shrilled again. "Now, higher. Not too high. Just a hover. Don't test me, Weasley!"
Ron, a few feet away, jerked as his broom tilted unsteadily. He shot Oliver a sour look when Oliver floated up with ease. Oliver ignored it.
They spent the next half-hour learning balance, direction, and landing. Oliver's body moved as if it remembered something he didn't—each correction natural, each tilt smooth. It felt less like learning and more like slipping into a song he already knew by heart.
Finally, Madam Hooch clapped her hands together. "Enough drills. Time to see what you're made of."
A ripple of nervous laughter ran through the group.
"We're going to run a simulation match," she continued. "Nothing serious—just positions, chasing, and a Snitch. No Bludgers, no collisions if you can help it. Half of you on one side, half on the other. And we'll see if any of you have the makings of real fliers."
Excitement buzzed instantly.
The Slytherins moved quickly, whispering among themselves before smirking in Oliver's direction. One of them, a boy with slick blond hair—not Malfoy, but another Oliver hadn't bothered to learn the name of—called out, "Let's have Night as our Seeker!"
A ripple of laughter followed.
The idea was obvious. Put the odd Slytherin boy up against Harry Potter, the famous Seeker. Let him humiliate himself in front of everyone.
Oliver's stomach flipped. He looked at Harry, who frowned slightly at the Slytherins, then turned to Oliver.
"They're trying to mess with you," Harry said quietly. "You don't have to if you don't want to."
But Oliver surprised himself. His hand tightened on the broom, and he felt Nyx's faint presence again, a silent steadiness in the back of his mind.
"I'll do it," he said.
Harry blinked. "Really?"
Oliver nodded. "Yeah. Why not? If it's just a game…" He hesitated, then added with a small grin, "Let's see who's faster."
For a second, Harry just stared at him. Then his grin widened. "All right. No hard feelings after, though. Promise?"
"Promise."
They shook hands, and for once, Oliver felt the twist in his chest loosen. This wasn't about humiliation. It was about fun.
The teams mounted. The Quaffle went up with Madam Hooch's whistle, and players scattered across the pitch.
Oliver kicked off the ground. The moment the broom lifted, the world changed.
Air rushed past his face, cold and sharp, and the ground fell away beneath him. His heart should have been pounding with fear, but it wasn't. It was racing with exhilaration. The broom moved as though it knew him, gliding smoother than walking, swifter than running. Every tilt of his body translated into flight.
He rose higher, the shouts of classmates dimming to a distant hum. Harry was already circling opposite him, eyes scanning for the Snitch.
Oliver leaned forward, testing the broom. It responded instantly, darting forward with a burst of speed that made his stomach lurch and his mouth split into a startled laugh.
He banked left, cut sharp right, dipped low over the pitch before soaring back up again. Gasps echoed below. Someone cheered faintly, though he didn't look to see who.
For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, Oliver felt weightless—not just in body, but in everything. No Slytherins sneering. No whispers. No heaviness. Just the sky.
Madam Hooch's sharp eyes tracked him from the ground. Her whistle dangled forgotten between her fingers. She'd seen plenty of students over the years, even naturals. But this—this was something else.
The boy wasn't wobbling like the others. He wasn't hesitating. He was flying like the broom had been part of him since birth.
Too smooth. Too instinctive.
"Interesting," she muttered under her breath.
The Snitch glittered in the sunlight, darting across the pitch in a flash of gold. Harry spotted it first, leaning forward and rocketing after it with practiced precision. The Gryffindors roared encouragement from below.
Oliver's eyes snapped to the glimmer. His body moved before he thought, his broom diving in a streak of speed. Wind whipped his hair, stung his eyes, but he didn't care.
He cut across the pitch, closing the distance. Harry was fast—very fast—but Oliver found himself sliding into the air behind him with ease, matching every turn.
Then, without meaning to, he pushed harder. The broom tilted, dove, and surged forward.
He overtook Harry.
Gasps rose from the students below. Even Harry's eyes widened in surprise, though he didn't slacken.
The chase had begun.
Oliver leaned lower on the broom, wind tearing at his face as the golden Snitch zig-zagged ahead. Harry was right on his tail, eyes narrowed, determination etched across his features.
The tiny ball darted left—Oliver cut the angle, broom rolling beneath him so smoothly it felt like his body was just an extension of the handle. Harry tried to follow, but Oliver was already there, riding the curve with a sharpness that made the crowd below gasp.
"Did you see that?" someone shouted.
"First years can't do that!" another voice yelped.
But Oliver didn't hear them. The Snitch zipped upward, and he shot after it, feeling the broom respond as if eager to chase too. He climbed higher, higher, until the ground was a blur of green far beneath.
Harry was keeping up, but only just.
The Snitch dropped suddenly, diving fast toward the pitch. Both boys plunged after it, air whistling in their ears. Oliver flattened against the broom, teeth gritted, the thrill of speed coursing through his chest. Harry was beside him now, their arms brushing as they plunged.
"Go on, then!" Harry shouted over the rush of air, a grin splitting his face despite the strain.
Oliver barked out a laugh. "Don't tempt me!"
The Snitch veered right at the last second, and Oliver twisted hard, rolling the broom nearly upside down before correcting. It was a move only pros should've tried, yet he came out of it clean, his fingers inches from the golden wings.
Harry whooped, impressed despite himself.
Below, the pitch erupted in chaos. Gryffindors were screaming Harry's name, but their voices cracked into gasps and cheers as Oliver's broom seemed to bend the laws of balance. Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws clapped wildly. Even some Slytherins had their mouths hanging open.
Only Ron scowled, arms crossed tight.
"Show-off," he muttered.
But no one paid him attention.
The Snitch darted again, this time weaving between two Chasers who yelped and swerved to avoid collision. Oliver didn't flinch. He threaded through the narrow gap, brushing so close to one girl's sleeve she squeaked, and came out ahead with his hand stretching.
Harry was still there, pressing hard, but Oliver felt something different in the air—like Nyx's calm strength hovering around him, steadying his hands, sharpening his instincts.
The Snitch banked once, shimmered in the sunlight, then darted forward.
Oliver lunged.
His fingers closed around cool metal. The golden wings fluttered furiously, trapped in his grip.
The whistle shrieked.
For a moment, there was only stunned silence. Then the stands exploded.
Cheers thundered from Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, even scattered Slytherins who couldn't deny what they'd seen. First years shouted his name, some leaping up and down. Madam Hooch herself stood with her hands on her hips, expression halfway between disbelief and a grudging smile.
Oliver blinked down at the Snitch in his palm, chest heaving, hair plastered to his forehead from wind. For a second, he wasn't sure if it was real. Then Harry clapped him on the back hard enough to jolt him forward.
"Brilliant!" Harry shouted, grinning from ear to ear. "Absolutely brilliant, Oliver. I didn't think anyone could beat me to it—" He laughed, shaking his head. "Guess I was wrong."
Oliver's throat tightened, but he managed a small smile. "Guess we'll call it even then."
"No," Harry said firmly. "That one's yours. You deserved it."
The other students swarmed around them as they landed, clapping Oliver on the shoulders, some still wide-eyed with shock. Even a few Ravenclaws muttered things like "He should be on a team already."
Ron hung back, sulking, but his words were drowned out by the excitement.
Madam Hooch strode over, snatching the Snitch from Oliver's hand with a sharp motion, though her eyes betrayed more admiration than annoyance.
"Match over," she barked. "You lot, off the pitch. Potter, Night—stay."
The others groaned but obeyed, trudging toward the castle while still chattering about what they'd seen.
Harry glanced at Oliver nervously. "Are we in trouble?"
Oliver shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Madam Hooch planted her hands on her hips, fixing them both with a sharp stare. "Potter, you've got talent, we already knew that. But Night…" She shook her head slowly, as though she couldn't quite believe it. "You flew like you were born on a broom."
Oliver shifted uneasily. "I just… did what felt right."
"That's the point," she snapped, though there was no heat in her tone. "I don't teach that. That's instinct. And instinct like that doesn't come around often."
Harry grinned. "Told you you were brilliant."
Oliver ducked his head, cheeks burning.
Madam Hooch sighed, muttering mostly to herself, "I'll have to speak to the Headmaster. It'd be a waste to keep you off the pitch. Even if you're only a first year."
Oliver's stomach flipped. Him? On a team? That had never even crossed his mind.
Harry elbowed him gently. "Told you we'd find something in common."
The walk back to the castle was strange. Students were still buzzing, talking about the dive, the roll, the catch. Some glanced at Oliver like they were seeing him for the first time.
For once, the whispers didn't hurt. They didn't sting. They lifted him.
He glanced up as Nyx swooped overhead, her dark wings flashing once in the sunlight before vanishing into the clouds.
For the first time since he could remember, Oliver felt like he belonged to the sky.