Brian didn't tell Harry or Ron what had happened in the Library. Instead, he would occasionally ask about Sonia in passing whenever he saw her at the Library or the Great Hall on weekends—but he never managed to learn anything useful.
His aloofness soon drew "criticism" from Harry and Ron, who teasingly dubbed him a "lone wolf." Then again, the two of them were completely immersed in Wizard's Chess, with Harry still captivated by the game despite being defeated hundreds of times.
Hermione was also acting like a lone wolf. She hadn't said a word to the trio since Sunday. Whenever she encountered Brian in the Library, she would simply scoff and move to a more distant table. Brian could only smile helplessly at her slightly childish behavior.
Tuesday, however, was a special day. A notice had gone up in the Gryffindor common room the day before, announcing Flying Class for the first-years on Tuesday afternoon. Harry and Ron had been excitedly discussing flying techniques ever since, and Ron had enthusiastically described his backyard broom-flying practice sessions at home, leaving Harry listening with eager curiosity.
It wasn't just Ron. Most of the first-years from wizarding families launched into passionate discussions about Quidditch. Everyone seemed to understand that Flying Class was the first step toward joining a House team.
Draco Malfoy, unsurprisingly, boasted loudly to his fellow Slytherins about his superior flying skills and thrilling broom adventures with his father. He quickly attracted a crowd of admirers.
To be fair, it was understandable. For most people, flying was a dream—something magical, thrilling, and freeing. Even young witches and wizards weren't immune to that fascination.
But Brian was the exception.
He regarded flying with deep skepticism, especially when done on something as unreliable-looking as a broomstick. A fall from that height could mean broken bones—or worse. Could a broomstick really compare to the comfort and safety of an airplane seat? If a crash meant certain death, wouldn't it be better to at least crash comfortably?
"If I must fly," he mused, "I'd rather be on an airplane with a broomstick backup. If the plane goes down, I just grab the broom and escape."
I, Brian, am nothing if not practical.
Although Brian was determined to learn how to fly, he had absolutely no intention of ever playing Quidditch. Risking his life to chase a tiny golden ball? The very idea baffled him. A game where people flew around throwing and dodging heavy balls—only for the entire outcome to hinge on one lucky catch? Ridiculous.
Were wizarding hospitals so comfortable that students actually enjoyed getting injured?
As Brian stood on the field, left hand supporting his right elbow, right hand thoughtfully pinching his chin, Ron's excited cry snapped him out of his thoughts.
"Madam Hooch is here!"
The Flying Instructor, Professor Rolanda Hooch, had short, neatly-cropped yellow hair and piercing yellow eyes. She surveyed the students sharply before barking, "Class starts now. What are you all staring at? Everyone, stand next to a broomstick. Quick, quick!"
Brian glanced down at the brooms laid out in rows. Most of them looked ancient—splintered handles, uneven bristles, branches missing on the sides. He felt another wave of resistance. This was what they expected him to fly with?
"Place your right hand over your broom," Madam Hooch instructed briskly. "On my count—say 'Up!'"
All boasting came to an end in that moment. On her signal, only Harry's broom jumped instantly into his hand.
A few Gryffindors turned to look at Ron. His face flushed red, and he tried again, unsuccessfully. Malfoy shouted with growing frustration until, after much effort, his shabby broom finally hovered into his grasp.
Brian, already distrustful of the whole idea, barely tried. After one half-hearted attempt, he gave up and watched the others, amused.
But Madam Hooch was nothing if not persistent. She roamed the line, correcting hand positions and technique. With her "helpful" guidance, Brian finally, and very reluctantly, summoned the broom into his hand.
"When I blow the whistle, push off the ground with both feet," she said. "Hold on tight, rise a few feet, then lean forward to come back down in a straight descent."
Before anyone could begin, a nervous shout erupted from the back.
Neville had panicked and pushed off too early. With a whoosh, he rocketed into the sky—rising nearly twenty feet in seconds.
Students gasped. Madam Hooch shouted, "Come back! Come back, child!"
But her call made it worse. Neville shrieked in fear, lost control, and plummeted. He hit the ground with a dull thud, groaning in pain.
"Broken wrist and ankle," Madam Hooch muttered, kneeling beside him, her face pale.
She turned to the class. "I'm taking him to the hospital wing. Do not move. Do not touch the brooms. If I find out anyone disobeyed, you won't be flying again for the next seven years."
She levitated Neville with her wand and hurried toward the castle, heading straight for Madam Pomfrey.
Brian stood frozen. He fell from twenty feet… and only broke his wrist and ankle? Are wizards just naturally built tougher than Muggles?
As soon as Madam Hooch disappeared from view, Malfoy burst into laughter.
"Did you see that idiot?" he jeered.
The Slytherins around him cackled in agreement. Ever since Professor Snape had scolded Brian, Malfoy had made a habit of calling Gryffindors "idiots" at every opportunity.
"Shut up, Malfoy!" Hermione snapped.
She had already been annoyed earlier by Ron's teasing, and seeing her friend Neville get injured—and mocked—pushed her over the edge.
"How dare you insult me, you filthy little Mudblood!" Malfoy spat, his voice venomous.
He kicked the ground in anger, sending a sparkling marble skidding across the field. Mounting his broom, he flew over, picked it up, and sneered, "This is that big fool Longbottom's Remembrall—his dear old gran sent it to him. Guess what? I'm going to hide it."