Chapter 28 – Flying Lessons
Russell left the library reluctantly, glancing back one last time at the shelves as if leaving behind a secret treasure. For the past hour, he had been completely absorbed in a book titled "Grindelwald." The contents were… explosive—so much so that he half-suspected Dumbledore himself had once slipped the book into the library, only to "accidentally" forget to remove it later.
He carefully hid the book back in the corner of the shelf before leaving. He technically could borrow it, but Russell knew Madam Pince all too well. If she ever caught sight of that particular title, she'd snatch it away in the name of "library safety." Best to play it safe and keep the book where only he could find it later.
---
Flying class began at four o'clock in the afternoon, and by the time Russell arrived—slightly out of breath from hurrying across the courtyard—the rest of the students were already there. The excitement in the air was palpable; after all, flying wasn't just another Hogwarts subject. For many, it was the realization of a lifelong dream.
Their instructor, Madam Rolanda Hooch, was already waiting for them. She had short, neatly cropped gray hair and piercing yellow eyes that gave her a hawkish sharpness. She looked as brisk and no-nonsense as her reputation suggested.
When the bell rang, she strode forward with confident, purposeful steps.
"All right! What are you all standing around for?" she barked. "Each of you—stand beside your broom!"
Russell glanced down at the broom lying at his feet. It looked… ancient. The handle was dull and scuffed, the straw bristles uneven and frayed. Honestly, it looked like it had been in service since Dumbledore's student days.
Wonderful, he thought drily. My first flying lesson, and I'm paired with an antique.
"Now then," Madam Hooch continued sharply, pacing before them like a commander inspecting her troops. "Stretch out your right hand over your broom, palm down."
Then she frowned. "Your right hand. Not your left! Merlin's beard, how do so many of you not know your own left from right?"
A timid voice piped up from the second row. "Um, Professor… I'm left-handed. I'm more used to using my left hand."
Russell squinted toward the speaker, a nervous boy he didn't recognize.
Madam Hooch blinked, then sighed. "Ah… yes, my mistake. Fine then—stand on the right side of your broom and use your left hand."
The boy nodded, relieved.
---
"Good. Now, everyone," Madam Hooch raised her whistle, "say it together, and loudly! The command is: Up!"
"Up!" the students chorused, voices echoing unevenly across the field.
A few brooms obeyed immediately, leaping obediently into their owners' palms. Most, however, merely rattled or rolled lazily on the ground. A few others didn't move at all—lying there limp and lifeless, as if sulking.
Russell's broom was, of course, one of the latter. It didn't twitch, tremble, or even pretend to respond.
Across the line, Phineas Fawley shot him a smug look, eyes glinting with superiority. The moment he had shouted "Up!", his broom had soared straight into his waiting hand.
Typical.
Of course, that wasn't exactly surprising. Fawley came from a wealthy pure-blood family with its own sprawling estate, and he'd probably been flying since he could walk—on the child-safe version of broomsticks that floated just half a meter above the ground.
Those toys barely qualified as "flying," but at least they were safe enough for spoiled little heirs.
Russell tried again. "Up."
Nothing.
The broom didn't so much as twitch.
Frowning, he crouched down, picked it up manually, and immediately realized something was off. It was heavier than the others—unusually so.
"Professor Hooch," he called out, raising a hand, "I think there's something wrong with this broom. Are you sure this is one of the training brooms?"
"Impossible," she replied briskly. "Every broom was checked this morning."
Still, she made her way over after correcting Cho Chang's posture. "Let's see that, Mr. Fythorne."
She took the broom, examined it—and her face immediately flushed red.
"Oh, dear…" she muttered, clearing her throat awkwardly. "My apologies, Mr. Fythorne. This isn't a flying broom at all."
Russell blinked. "Then what is it?"
"It's, ah… a cleaning broom," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "Looks like it got mixed in when the equipment was sorted."
A few students snorted. A wave of laughter swept through the group.
Even Madam Hooch's stern façade cracked into an embarrassed smile as she handed it back. "Wait here, Mr. Fythorne. I'll fetch you a proper one."
As she hurried away, Russell sighed and stared at the broom in his hands.
Perfect, he thought bitterly. First flying lesson at Hogwarts, and I'm trying to take off with a janitor's broom.
He glanced at Fawley's self-satisfied grin and muttered under his breath, "Enjoy it while it lasts, golden boy. The sky's a lot bigger than your ego."
A few minutes later, she returned, slightly out of breath, holding a fresh, gleaming broom in her hand.
"Here," she said, standing beside him, trying to recover her professional tone. "Let's see if this one listens to you."
Russell nodded and extended his hand. "Up."
With a satisfying whoosh, the broom leapt obediently into his palm, perfectly steady.
"Hmm," Madam Hooch said approvingly. "Quick reflexes. You've got a good sense for it—very good indeed."
Across the field, Fawley's face turned an alarming shade of red, as though he'd just swallowed a live dung beetle.
He stormed toward Russell, stopping only inches away.
"Fythorne," he hissed, keeping his voice low so Madam Hooch wouldn't overhear, "do you dare compete with me? A flying match."
Russell raised an eyebrow, more amused than irritated.
"Why would I bother, Fawley? What's in it for me if I win?"
Fawley clenched his fists. "If you win… I'll admit you're better than me."
Russell chuckled softly. "Then there's really no point, is there?"
He turned away, entirely unbothered. He didn't understand why Fawley was so obsessed with competing—why everything had to be about proving who was superior. Whatever upbringing had drilled that arrogance into him, Russell found it childish and exhausting.
Fawley, however, took Russell's disinterest as fear. Straightening his back like a proud rooster, he strutted back to his spot, confidence puffed up again.
---
"All right," Madam Hooch announced. "I'll need one volunteer to demonstrate the basic technique for takeoff and landing. Who'd like to go first?"
"Me! Me! Me!" Fawley's hand shot up before anyone else could react.
Seeing no other volunteers, Madam Hooch sighed. "Very well, Mr. Fawley. Come forward."
Fawley mounted the broom with practiced ease. "Like this, Professor?"
"Yes, very good," Madam Hooch said approvingly. "Now, kick off gently—just a few feet up—and then lean forward to descend slowly."
Fawley followed her instructions smoothly, landing back on the ground with a light thud.
"Excellent," Madam Hooch praised, sounding genuinely impressed. "You seem to have experience."
Fawley puffed out his chest. "Of course. Back home, I used to fly all the time. Once, I nearly collided with a Muggle fighter jet! Good thing it dodged at the last second—or it would've crashed for sure."
Madam Hooch pinched the bridge of her nose, suppressing a sigh.
"Mr. Fawley, perhaps you should save your thrilling tales for your dormmates. You may go practice on your own for now."
She didn't realize how dangerous those words would soon prove to be.
---
As the rest of the students began practicing under her supervision, the field buzzed with cautious excitement. Thanks to Fawley's earlier demonstration, most of them were getting the hang of it—hovering, leaning forward, and landing without incident.
"Excellent, excellent!" Madam Hooch called out cheerfully.
Then she turned to check on Fawley—and froze.
He was gone.
Her blood ran cold. "By Merlin's beard…"
Her knees gave way, and she dropped to the ground in shock.
"Madam Hooch! Are you all right?" Russell rushed over, alarmed, and bent down to help her up.
But before he could, she grabbed his wrist tightly.
"Fawley's missing," she said urgently. "I'm going to inform Professor McGonagall. Mr. Fythorne—gather the brooms and keep everyone here. The lesson is canceled."
Russell blinked. "Yes, ma'am," he said quickly, nodding.
Madam Hooch mounted the nearest broom and shot into the sky, heading straight for the castle, her robes whipping behind her.
---
Russell exhaled, steadying himself. Then he raised his wand.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
The scattered brooms on the ground lifted gracefully into the air and gathered neatly in one place.
A wave of astonished gasps followed.
The first-year students stared at him wide-eyed—none of them had even started Charms lessons yet, and this Ravenclaw boy was already wielding the Levitation Charm with effortless precision.
To them, it wasn't just impressive. It was downright terrifying.
Russell simply smiled. "What? You didn't expect me to leave them lying around, did you?"
Somewhere far above, Fawley screamed in the distance—his voice fading into the clouds.