The notice regarding the first Flying Lesson, scheduled for Thursday afternoon, had been pinned to the Gryffindor common room bulletin board several days prior.
It had instantly transformed the usual low hum of student chatter. While once the talk might have been of difficult Transfiguration work or Snape's latest point deductions, now the air thrummed with words like "flying," "brooms," and "Quidditch."
Yet, this excitement didn't translate into nervousness for most of the Gryffindor first-years. They knew their House was well-represented in the air. Fred, George, and Angelina were already known quantities—substitutes for the House team, constantly training with the regulars and poised to contend for starting positions the following year.
Albert and Lee Jordan, though not official team members, flew with undeniable skill and effortless grace. Arya, a witch from a long line of magical families, had been introduced to flying from early childhood, treating the broom like a natural extension of her body, though her temperament was less competitive than the others.
Consequently, while other Houses might have been riddled with anticipation, the Gryffindors were largely indifferent to the announcement. The topic of brooms was less novel for them than it was for the students of, say, Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw.
There was only one palpable exception: Shanna.
As a Muggle-born witch, Shanna had never so much as touched a flying broom. The anticipation had turned into a suffocating blanket of dread. In a desperate attempt to conquer her anxiety, she had borrowed Quidditch Origins from the library, hoping to distill the essence of aerial motion from its historical texts.
Unfortunately, the book offered no magical aptitude for motor skills. Unlike Albert, who could simply visualize success and, if necessary, rely on the Experience Panel to overcome any physical deficiency, Shanna had no safety net. Her nervousness was a raw, paralyzing fear that fueled her self-doubt.
"Honestly, Shanna, you're making this into a crisis," Albert said, trying to puncture her wall of worry as they finished lunch. "Flying a broom is far less complicated than you imagine. Have you ever ridden a bicycle?"
Albert, with his panel-backed assurance, could afford to be brave and experimental. He knew failure was merely a temporary state until he spent a few hard-earned experience points. That knowledge was the bedrock of his confidence.
"Yes, of course, I've ridden a bicycle," Shanna replied, taking a slow, calming breath.
"Well, flying a broom is very similar to riding a bicycle," Albert insisted, drawing the parallel. "You'll have an instructor to guide you through the basics. A few attempts, and you'll find your balance. I promise you'll master it."
"You really think so?" Shanna asked, her voice wavering slightly with hope.
"Absolutely," Albert affirmed, nodding reassuringly. "You just need to trust the process and trust yourself."
Lee Jordan, overhearing this exchange, rolled his eyes dramatically. He had never actually seen a Muggle bicycle, but he was certain Albert was dispensing a magnificent load of comforting nonsense. It's easy for you, Albert, he thought with exasperation. You're not Shanna!
A few minutes before the designated class time, Albert and the Gryffindor students hurried toward the designated spot. Gryffindor's flying lesson was, infamously, shared with the Slytherin students, guaranteeing an immediate undercurrent of competitive tension.
"Why aren't we using the main Quidditch pitch?" Fred complained, looking at the flat, slightly scuffed lawn outside the castle grounds where the lesson was set to take place. "It feels so… pedestrian."
"Who cares? As long as we get to fly," Lee Jordan shrugged.
"Move it, you lot, we can't be late!" Angelina urged, vibrating with excitement.
Albert, however, remained calm. "Relax, we have five minutes. Plenty of time." He paused, looking ahead.
The Slytherins were already there. They had lined up next to their brooms, which lay neatly on the ground, and were being marshaled by their instructor, Madam Hooch. She was a stern-looking woman with sharp, short, grey hair, a distinctive hooked nose, and eyes that held the keen, critical gaze of a predatory bird. When she moved, she had an unsettling, ground-eating stride, giving the distinct impression that she might suddenly swoop down and snatch up any misbehaving student.
The lesson began simply. They stood beside the brooms, waiting for the command.
"Stick out your hand over your broom," Madam Hooch barked, her voice raspy and loud. "And say 'UP!'"
The Gryffindors and Slytherins alike raised their hands.
"UP!"
A chorus of commands echoed across the field. For most of the Gryffindor veterans, the brooms responded instantly, snapping into their outstretched palms with a satisfying thwack. Fred, George, Angelina, and Albert all achieved this on the first try, a testament to their innate affinity for flying. Lee Jordan managed it on his second attempt.
The rest of the students, however, struggled. Among the Slytherins, only two managed the feat easily. Others saw their brooms wiggle, roll, or simply lie inert like logs.
Shanna's broom didn't move an inch. She tried again, then again, whispering the command with increasing desperation.
When the broom refused to budge, a wave of heat rushed up her neck. Finally, she had to bend down awkwardly and physically lift the cold, hard wood into her hand. A few Slytherin students, still failing with their own brooms, let out cruel, cutting snickers.
Madam Hooch, witnessing the general struggle and the singular success of a few, shook her head slightly at the less gifted students.
"Don't worry about them!" Angelina hissed to Shanna, whose face was flaming scarlet. "Look over there—their failures are much louder than yours!" Indeed, many of the Slytherins who had laughed were still grappling with their own disobedient brooms.
The next phase involved mounting the brooms, finding the correct seating posture, and, critically, mastering the grip. Madam Hooch paced the rows, correcting sloppy technique.
"No, no, that grip is wrong, Mr. Higgins! You'll shoot off like a cork from a bottle!" she snapped at a pale-faced Slytherin.
She observed the Gryffindors. She stopped in front of Fred and George, her sharp eyes scanning their form. Their technique was flawless, inherited from years of chasing each other around the family orchard. She then moved on to Albert. His posture was perfect—relaxed, balanced, and confident.
Impressed by the overall high standard of the Gryffindor first-years—a rarity for a House often criticized for its recklessness—Madam Hooch made a pronouncement.
"Five points to Gryffindor! For exhibiting excellent initial control and form! A standard the rest of you would do well to emulate!"
A collective growl of suppressed indignation rose from the Slytherin ranks. Earning points for flying technique against Slytherin was almost unheard of.
Next came the terrifying part for Shanna: lifting off the ground.
The initial task was simple: raise the broom one foot, then set it down. When Shanna attempted it, the broom beneath her trembled violently, and she couldn't tell if it was the ancient, temperamental wood or the involuntary shaking of her own knees. She stayed firmly on the ground, clinging to the handle as if to a life raft.
Having finished the basic instruction, Madam Hooch singled out the visibly proficient students. "You lot—Weasley, Weasley, Johnson, and the two young men—you may practice a controlled ascent to twenty feet. The rest of you, stay put and wait for my direct instruction!"
Fred and George exchanged a joyous, wicked grin.
They were instantly airborne. Fred watched with theatrical satisfaction as the remainder of the Slytherins were forced to remain grounded, still waiting for individual corrections from Madam Hooch. Fred nudged George, and the two shot up into the sky like acrobats.
They began a dramatic cross-spiral flight, weaving around each other with effortless speed, putting on a dazzling display of coordination that drew gasps and scattered applause from their Gryffindor peers below.
Albert watched, shaking his head slightly. He knew the twins' motivation was purely to provoke the opposite side. The Slytherin first-years were simply not in the same league. Excluding Shanna, the vast majority of Gryffindor students were now soaring freely above the lawn.
"It's true, isn't it?" George shouted down to Fred as they executed a dizzying figure-eight. "None of us actually needed this class!"
"We're far superior to them in this regard," Albert declared coolly, landing briefly next to Lee Jordan as the twins flew another loop. "It's a biological fact, or perhaps a destiny thing."
Lee Jordan, landing beside him, nodded vigorously. "And the Slytherins know it! Just look at them stew!"
Their comments, uttered just loud enough to be heard over the wind by the grounded Slytherins, attracted a fresh torrent of hostile glares.
"Come on, Warrington! Overtake the Weasley!" one Slytherin yelled up to a student who was indeed flying capably overhead—a determined-looking boy named Miles Warrington.
Warrington, stung by the insult and fueled by House pride, shot after George, turning the free-practice into an impromptu aerial race. The objective: see who could fly faster and smoother around the perimeter of the designated flying field.
The twins, however, were mercilessly practiced. They had spent years perfecting their teamwork. Warrington, though a decent flyer, lacked their instinctual coordination and sheer velocity. He pushed his broom to its limit, clinging stubbornly to George's tail, but every time the twins executed a sharp turn or a sudden dive, Warrington fell further behind.
The cheers from the Gryffindors were loud and mocking. The final lap saw Warrington trailing by nearly a quarter of the field, resulting in a crushing, public defeat.
Madam Hooch, furious that her instruction had been disrupted, called them all down.
"Weasley! Weasley! Warrington! Ten points each from Gryffindor and Slytherin for unauthorized racing! You are here to learn control, not to show off!" she scolded, her eyes narrowed to slits.
Fred and George, though penalized, couldn't suppress their triumphant smiles. The points didn't matter; they had beaten Slytherin.
"We won!" Fred announced happily, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Albert glanced at the defeated Warrington, whose face was a mask of furious humiliation, and then back at the twins. "Well, yes. But that was to be expected, wasn't it?"
Albert's indifferent, matter-of-fact tone was like an arrow to the heart of Slytherin pride. What does he mean, 'normal'? the little snakes thought, seething. Is it normal for Slytherin to always lose to these self-satisfied Gryffindors? The desire to exact revenge on the trio—Albert included—boiled intensely beneath the surface.