Harry used to think there couldn't possibly be anyone in the world worse than Dudley—no one he could loathe more.
That opinion lasted right up until he met Draco Malfoy, and only then did he realize just how unbearable a person could truly be.
Thankfully, Potions was the only class Gryffindor first-years shared with Slytherin, which meant encounters with Malfoy were kept to a minimum.
At least… that had been the case so far.
Everything changed the day they spotted a new notice pinned up in the Gryffindor common room. The moment they read it, everyone felt a mixture of nerves and excitement.
Flying lessons would begin on Thursday—Gryffindor paired with Slytherin.
In a blink, Thursday arrived.
"This is going to be awful," Harry groaned. "I'm about to make a fool of myself on a broomstick, right in front of Malfoy. He's been dying for flying class to start, just so he can show off the one thing he thinks he's great at."
"Relax, you won't embarrass yourself," Ron said sensibly. "Malfoy keeps bragging about how brilliant he is on a broom and how he'd dominate at Quidditch, but I bet it's all hot air. Probably hasn't done anything he claims."
Malfoy's stories were endless—tales of spectacular flights, daring maneuvers, and complaints about the school banning first-years from joining the Quidditch teams. If it weren't for that rule, he said, he'd carry Slytherin straight to victory.
Some of his stories were outright ridiculous, always ending with him narrowly dodging a Muggle airplane.
Anyone could tell he made it all up. Even Ron had crafted similar tales—like the time he supposedly nearly collided with a commercial jet while riding a broomstick.
It seemed half the school was boasting stories of the same sort.
Ever since the announcement, nearly everyone had been talking about Quidditch.
Dean Thomas, one of their dorm-mates, preferred football from the Muggle world, which led to a heated argument with Ron.
Ron simply couldn't understand: why would anyone enjoy a game with only one ball and no flying? What was exciting about that?
Neville had never been on a broom in his life. His grandmother never allowed him near one.
All of Gryffindor agreed she was probably right—Neville caused enough disasters on solid ground. The idea of him flying was downright terrifying.
Hermione Granger was almost as nervous about flying as Neville was.
She was brilliant and diligent, but this wasn't something you could learn from a book alone. It required actual practice—and she had none.
At breakfast that Thursday morning, she chattered nonstop about techniques she'd read in a library book called The Beginner's Guide to Broomflight.
Plenty of students listened carefully, hoping even a scrap of her information might help them in the upcoming lesson.
But there was another group who thought Hermione was being far too long-winded—and they were relieved when the arrival of the morning post finally interrupted her.
Since term had begun, Harry had only received a single letter—from Hagrid. Nothing after that.
It left him feeling a little down, especially when Malfoy frequently received sweets from home and made a show of opening the boxes at the table.
A barn owl swooped down and landed before Neville, dropping off a small parcel from his grandmother.
Neville eagerly unwrapped it and showed everyone: a glass ball about the size of a large marble, filled with swirling white mist.
"Hey, look—Neville got a Remembrall!"
Hermione lifted her head and said, "I read about those. When the smoke turns red, it means you've forgotten something."
As she spoke, the mist inside slowly shifted from white to red.
Neville frowned. "Great… only problem is, I can't remember what I forgot."
He scrunched up his face, trying to think.
That was when Draco Malfoy strode past the Gryffindor table, suddenly lunging forward in an attempt to snatch the Remembrall.
Just as Malfoy's hand was about to close around it, Neville jerked his arm aside, dodging the grab.
Hermione noticed—just for a heartbeat—Neville's eyes flashed red before returning to normal.
The Sharingan?
Malfoy hadn't even realized he was attacking from behind. So how had Neville known?
Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle crowded in, surrounding Neville, and Malfoy finally managed to yank the Remembrall from his hand.
Harry and Ron shot to their feet, stepping between Neville and the trio.
Their dislike for Malfoy was so strong they almost hoped he'd give them an excuse to start a fight.
Up at the head table, Professor McGonagall spotted the commotion instantly. With a swift stride, she appeared before them.
"What is going on here?"
"Malfoy tried to steal my Remembrall, Professor."
Malfoy's expression went stiff. He hastily tossed the Remembrall back onto the table.
"Just you wait," he muttered before slipping away, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering after him.
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