Chapter 7: Flight and Frustration
The grass on the Hogwarts training grounds was damp from morning dew, and the air was crisp and smelled of wet grass. For the first time, freshmen from all four houses were gathered for a joint class. The energy was a chaotic mix of nervousness, excitement, and the usual latent hostility between Gryffindor and Slytherin.
Timothy stood a little apart from the main Ravenclaw group, watching the scene with distant amusement. He saw Harry and Ron chatting animatedly, Hermione mentally going over a chapter on flight theory, and Draco Malfoy bragging to his minions about his expensive racing broomstick.
In front of them, on the lawn, was a row of old school brooms. They were a pitiful assemblage of chipped wooden sticks and uneven twigs.
Her instructor, Madam Hooch, arrived with brisk steps. He had short, gray hair and piercing, yellow eyes, like those of a hawk. His presence radiated a nonsensical authority that instantly silenced the students' chatter.
"Good morning everyone!" he barked, his voice crisp and curt. "Welcome to your first flying lesson. Stand to the left of your broom. Come on, hurry up!"
Timothy stood next to a broom that looked particularly old, its twigs frayed. He looked at her, not with disdain, but with curiosity. He felt the magic woven into his wood, a simple levitation charm, worn out by years of use.
"Now," Madam Hooch continued, "stretch out your right hand on the broom and say, with force, 'UP!'"
A chorus of high-pitched, nervous voices filled the field. "UP!" "UP!" "UP!"
The results were a comical disaster. A few brooms moved slightly on the ground. Harry's jumped into his hand on the first try, an act of natural talent that caused several Gryffindors to cheer. Hermione's, however, simply rolled on the floor, refusing to obey, much to her immense frustration.
Neville Longbottom's broom was the most dramatic. It shot upwards like a rocket and hit him hard in the nose before falling to the ground.
Timothy watched the chaos. He didn't scream. It seemed to him... unnecessarily noisy. Instead, he reached out on his broomstick, feeling the magic inside. He did not think about the word, but about the intention. In the simple and singular idea that the broom should be in his hand.
"Up," he said, with calm clarity.
The broom did not jump. He did not stagger. He simply rose from the grass with a liquid softness and perched on his palm with the docility of a well-trained pet.
Madam Hooch, who was passing by, saw him. His hawk-like eyes narrowed with almost imperceptible approval before he continued to shout instructions to a Hufflepuff whose robe had begun to smoke.
After several minutes of chaos, when most of the students finally managed to get their brooms to obey them, Madam Hooch gave the following instruction.
"Very good! Now, assemble the broom! And at the sound of my whistle, you will give a little kick on the ground to rise. Keep the brooms steady, raise yourself a meter or two, and then immediately descend by tilting the handle forward. On my signal! ¡Three... two... one!"
The whistle blew.
Most of the students rose a few inches with a clumsy jump before falling again. A few, like Malfoy, rose with arrogant confidence. Neville, of course, shot up into the sky like a champagne cork, his face a mask of pure terror.
Timothy, however, did not kick. It just rose. He felt the connection between his will and the magic of the broom. He did not force it. Simply... he guided her. The broom rose from the ground with a silent grace, carrying him about ten feet into the air, where he floated, perfectly motionless.
It wasn't just that he knew how to fly. It was that he understood flight. He felt the drafts, the response of the old wood, as if the broom were an extension of his own body. It was intuitive. It was easy.
He did not pirouette or boast. He had no interest in impressing others. He just enjoyed the feeling. Freedom. Silence. He flew in calm, wide circles above the chaos of his companions, watching it all from above, a lone eagle in a sky full of frightened sparrows.
…..
Timothy's quiet flight was interrupted by a high-pitched scream of sheer terror.
He looked down. Just as I remembered, Neville was in trouble. His broom, disobeying his frantic orders, had lifted him up like a rocket.
Just in time, Timothy thought, watching the scene with the detachment of a theater critic.
He saw Neville stagger, slide and then fall. The sound of her wrist breaking was a dull crack that echoed through the silent field. Madam Hooch ran towards him, her face a mask of worry and annoyance.
"Everyone with their feet on the ground!" barked Hooch. "And if I see a single broom in the air, it will be ejected faster than you can say 'Quidditch'!"
A sobbing Neville was carried into the castle. The field fell into a tense silence, broken only by Draco Malfoy's mocking laughter.
Malfoy walked over and picked up the small crystal sphere from the floor. "Look what Longbottom's lout has lost."
Timothy, who had landed softly, watched from a distance. 'And there's the signal,' he thought, recognizing the catalyst of the scene. The "plot point" that would change everything for Harry.
"Give it to me, Malfoy!" shouted Harry, his voice filled with righteous anger.
"I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find," Malfoy said, climbing on his broomstick. "How about the roof!"
Timothy watched the confrontation. He felt the strange energy of his intuition vibrate in his hands. I could intervene.
It would be so easy. A simple thought. A gust of wind that would rip the Reminder from Malfoy's hand. Or a stumbling spell that would make him fall off the broomstick. It could end the conflict in a second.
But he didn't.
'It's not my story,' he reminded himself with absolute firmness. 'I'm not the hero here. I'm just a spectator.'
Interfering in such a pivotal moment, a moment that I knew would land Harry on the Quidditch team, would be an unnecessary complication. His goal was to learn magic, not to rewrite the script.
Harry, blind with rage at injustice, did not hesitate. He climbed onto his own broomstick, ignoring Hermione's frantic screams about the expulsion.
"Give it to me!" he shouted again, rising into the air.
"Catch him if you can, Potter!" sneered Malfoy, throwing the small crystal sphere with all his might into the sky.
Harry darted after her, his body moving with an instinct he didn't know he possessed.
Timothy stood on the ground, watching the two figures disappear into the distance. The work was still ongoing, exactly as it was written.
…..
As Harry and Draco became two chasing points in the vast blue sky, Timothy descended, his broom landing on the lawn in a hushed whisper. His gaze searched among the students who were still on the ground, and he found it instantly.
Hermione wasn't watching the chase with her mouth open like the others. She was standing, stiff as a statue, her knuckles white from the force with which she pressed her books to her chest. His face was a mask of pure, utter anxious fury.
Timothy walked up to her, fun dancing in his eyes. "Relax, Granger. It's just a bit of reckless flying. It's not the end of the world."
"It's not the end of the world, it's the expulsion!" she snapped, turning to glare at him. "We're only a week into the game and they're already breaking the rules! They are going to be expelled! And Ron is cheering him on! They are complete idiots!"
His frustration was so intense, so genuinely passionate, that Timothy couldn't help but smile. He wasn't having fun at his expense; I was fascinated by her. It was like watching a perfectly predictable chemical reaction.
"Relax," he repeated, his tone calm and a little condescending. "That's what Gryffindors do. Courage over common sense. It's literally in the description of the house. You can't blame a lion for roaring."
"But it's irresponsible!" she insisted, her voice trembling with indignation. "Magic is not a game! There are rules for a reason! To keep us safe! To prevent us from doing stupid things like... like that!" He pointed to the sky.
Timothy saw that arguing was futile. His logic could not compete with her faith in the system. So he changed tactics. He decided to distract her with the one thing he knew he valued more than rules: knowledge.
"Putting those two idiots aside for a moment...," he said, his tone becoming softer, more academic. I was impressed with your Lumos in yesterday's Charms class. Most people don't achieve that stability on the first try. The light didn't flicker."
The abrupt transition took her by surprise. His fury wavered, replaced by confusion. "What?"
"Your spell," he continued. "It was accurate. The wrist movement was a bit stiff, but your intention was clear. You've been reading on your own, right? Beyond the required textbooks".
The change in her was instantaneous. The tension left his shoulders, and a faint blush of pride appeared on his cheeks. "Well, yes, of course. I read all the first-year textbooks before I arrived. And I have started with some complementary texts on the theory of enchantments. It's fascinating how a simple change in intention can completely alter the outcome of a spell..."
"Exactly," Timothy nodded, hooking her. "The Transformation is different. In addition... fundamental. You're not adding a property to an object, as with Lumos. You are rewriting its very essence. You're telling a match the story of a needle with such conviction that it believes it."
The conversation flowed from there, easy and lively. They forgot Harry, Malfoy, the rest of the class. They were in their own bubble, two brilliant minds finally finding an equal. They discussed the difference between conceptual magic and elemental magic, the ethics of memory spells, and whether ghosts were echoes of souls or mere magical impressions.
"You know," Timothy said after a while, looking at her with a new appreciation, "with your love of books, your respect for the rules, and your brilliant mind... you would have fit in perfectly at Ravenclaw."
Hermione blushed again, this time a little deeper. He looked at his shoes for a moment. "The Sorting Hat considered it," he admitted quietly. "He was debating for almost a minute."
"And what made you change your mind?" he asked, genuinely curious.
She looked up, and in her brown eyes, he saw the essence of her character. "He told me he had a brilliant mind, yes. But that there were more important things than books and intelligence." He paused. "Like friendship. And courage."
"Courage...," Timothy was saying, about to respond to Hermione's revelation. It's an interesting quality, but often..."
His sentence was cut off in the air. A high-pitched buzz spun them both. Harry Potter landed abruptly on the grass, his broom skidding a couple of meters.
He was out of breath, his hair messier than usual, but in his raised hand, he was triumphantly holding the small crystal sphere.
"He's done it!" shouted Ron, running towards him in sheer admiration. "Harry, it's been amazing!"
Hermione, however, did not seem impressed. His face contorted into a mask of pure exasperation. She marched toward Harry, ready to give him the sermon of her life.
"Harry, that was the most stupid and irresponsible thing I've ever seen! You could have killed yourself! And you're going to...!"
But he was never able to finish his rebuke. A voice, as sharp as ice and as thunderous as a storm, echoed throughout the field.
"HARRY POTTER!"
Professor McGonagall was marching toward them, her face paler and angrier than Timothy had ever seen her. The students backed away as if a wave of power had been unleashed.
"You," he said, his voice trembling with barely contained anger, pointing at Harry. "Come with me. Now."
Harry's triumphant face collapsed. He looked at Ron and then Hermione, his expression was that of a doomed man. Without saying a word, he began to follow the teacher, who was striding away towards the castle.
Absolute panic took hold of Hermione. "Oh no! I knew it! I knew it!" he said, his voice high-pitched with anguish. "He's going to be expelled! I told you, Ron! Just a week and they have already expelled him!"
"Professor!" he shouted, and ran after them, his books pounding against his chest.
"Teacher, wait! It was Malfoy who provoked it! He stole Neville's Reminder!"
He stopped for a second mid-run and looked back at Timothy, who was still standing quietly by the broomsticks.
"I have to go, Hunter!" he yelled.
"Tim!" he corrected her aloud.
"What?" she shouted, pausing for a moment, her panic paused by confusion.
"You can call me Tim," he said, with a small smile.
She, despite her stress, smiled back at him for a split second.
"Then you can call me Hermione! Goodbye, Tim!"
"Goodbye, Hermione. See you later," he replied in a low voice, while she disappeared after the teacher.
Timothy watched her leave, her panic so genuine that it was almost adorable. He was left alone on the airfield, the silence now broken only by the murmur of the other students.
He bent down and picked up a book that Hermione had dropped in her haste: Theory of Enchantments.
A slow, genuine smile flashed across his face. "Poor Hermione," he muttered to himself.
He did not panic. He felt no concern. He felt the strange, comfortable satisfaction of a reader who has just finished a familiar chapter.
'They're not going to expel him,' he thought, his knowledge of history his secret anchor. 'He's about to meet Oliver Wood.'
He shrugged, tucked Hermione's book under his arm, and began to walk calmly back to the castle. The script was still ongoing. And he had an appointment at the library.
A/N
Hey everyone! How's it going?
How are you liking the story so far? I'd love to read your comments and hear your thoughts.
I have some exciting news coming up: I'll be opening a Discord server soon!
On this server, besides posting updates on my fics, I'll also be sharing images of some characters (both SFW and NSFW). Plus, I'll use the Discord to host polls regarding various factors and the direction of individual stories. I'll give you more news on this very soon!
In the meantime, remember that I also have a Patreon where I publish this and other stories if you want to check it out and support my work.
Well, that's all from me for now. See you in the next chapter!
Mike.
Patreon/iLikeeMikee