Flying Class

The potion was so clear that it contained not a trace of impurity, transparent enough to seem as if one could see through time and space.

In the dim light of the classroom, it gave off a soft, sacred silver glow, like a melted star brimming with tremendous life energy.

A fresh fragrance, as if blending rain-kissed grass with newly opened buds, wafted from the cauldron. One breath was enough to clear the mind and sweep away the fatigue of the past few days.

Snape's mind went blank.

He would swear on Lily's grave that this... absolutely could not be Scab Treatment Potion!

No, in terms of its effects, it might be able to cure scabies, and even instantly restore skin burned by Dragon's Breath.

But in its "essence," it had already transcended the category of "potion."

This was a perfect work of art.

This was a cauldron of... liquid essence with a "life" of its own!

"Impossible..." Hermione's voice trembled beside him. She looked at Lin Yuan's cauldron, then at her own potion, which was perfectly acceptable but looked like a pile of mud in comparison. Her worldview was crumbling.

Snape stared fixedly at the pot of azure liquid, torn by an inner struggle.

Reason told him he ought to express his amazement on the spot, acknowledge this student's talent, and perhaps even take him on as his sole apprentice, teaching him everything he knew.

But his pride, his prejudice against Gryffindor, and his ingrained habit of hiding behind cutting remarks kept him from making that choice.

He had to maintain his "persona," especially in front of Harry Potter.

So he forcibly suppressed the tumult in his heart, put his icy mask back on, and rasped:

"Mr. Lin. It seems you enjoy showing off for attention not only in theory, but in practice as well... flaunting your pitiful, mediocre 'cleverness.'"

Everyone was stunned by his words.

Lin Yuan looked up and calmly met Snape's eyes, filled with inner turmoil. He knew Snape wasn't nearly as composed as he seemed.

"Professor, is there something wrong with my potion?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Something wrong?" Snape shot back, his voice rising sharply, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. "There's plenty wrong! I told you to brew Scab Treatment Potion, which should be pale green! And what is this? Blue paint for Goblins to bathe in? You completely disregarded the textbook, the rules, and me! Such arrogant, insolent behavior will not be tolerated in my classroom!"

"Gryffindor, five points from your House for Mr. Lin's baseless, foolish display!"

The Gryffindors groaned in dismay. Harry and Ron clenched their fists in anger.

Lin Yuan merely watched Snape in silence, unruffled.

As expected, the script's momentum is powerful. He's still using point deductions to cover up his loss of composure.

Snape announced the punishment, but didn't leave. He took the finest crystal vial and a long-handled silver spoon from the lectern. Handling them as gently as if they were priceless treasures, he carefully scooped a full vial of the azure liquid from Lin Yuan's cauldron.

"And," he said, stopping the vial with a cork and holding the potion, now shining with a sacred light, up to inspect it with an almost greedy gaze, while offering a high-minded excuse, "I will confiscate this batch of 'dangerous material' of unknown composition and take it away for a thorough analysis. I must make sure you haven't added any prohibited ingredients capable of killing a Norwegian Ridgeback."

With that, he ignored everyone else, gripped the crystal vial tightly, flung his black robes, and rushed into the private storeroom behind the lectern, almost as if he were "fleeing."

Lin Yuan knew Snape would use every method at his disposal to study the potion.

Then he would discover that its ingredients were exactly the same as those in the recipe—not one more, not one less.

The bell rang.

"Put your things away and get out," Snape's muffled voice came from the storeroom.

On the way back, Ron and Harry were still indignant on Lin Yuan's behalf.

Hermione hurried after him, looking puzzled. "Lane... how... how did you do that? Was that really some kind of Eastern... 'soup making' technique?"

Lin Yuan looked at her eager, curious eyes and smiled mysteriously.

"No, that wasn't 'soup making.'"

"That was 'alchemy.'"

In autumn, the Scottish Highlands lay beneath a vast, deep-blue sky, like a giant sapphire that had been washed clean.

A cool breeze carried the scent of grass and soil past every inch of Hogwarts Castle's stone walls, before gathering on the broad, flat training ground outside the castle.

This was the first Flying Class for the Gryffindor and Slytherin first-years.

A couple dozen brand-new Flying Broomsticks stood neatly arranged on the grass, like soldiers awaiting inspection.

They were school-issued Comet 260s. They weren't top-of-the-line, but to children who had never flown before, every broomstick's handle seemed to shimmer with an aura of "freedom" and "dreams."

The students wore expressions blending excitement, nervousness, and anticipation.

Ron's cheeks were flushed with excitement as he kept discussing Quidditch tactics with Harry.

Hermione stood nearby, anxiously reciting the chapters on safe flying from Quidditch Through the Ages, murmuring to herself.

On the Slytherin side, Draco Malfoy was boasting to his two cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, about how he had sneaked past the House-elves at the manor and secretly ridden a Nimbus 2000. His voice brimmed with innate superiority, as if the sky were the Malfoy family's own back garden.

Lin Yuan stood at the edge of the group, as calm as ever.

His gaze fell on the unremarkable broomstick at his feet.

In his Spiritual Sense, its construction was laughably simple.

So this is the flying "Magic Artifact" of this world. He understood.

At its core, the broomstick was merely a piece of ordinary wood with several simple "enchantments" applied to it.

Its central feature was an extremely crude "levitation array." It could counteract an object's own gravity, but it was highly unstable and required the user to keep activating and guiding it with their own "magical power"—or, rather, their willpower.

Next came an equally crude "propulsion array," which converted the user's intention to "move forward" into thrust. The stronger the intention, the faster the speed.

Finally, there was a barely useful "cushioning charm," presumably meant to keep the user from breaking their bones when landing.

In short, it's an inferior, low-tier Magic Artifact that requires the user to serve as both the "spirit stone" and the "control core," Lin Yuan precisely defined it in his mind. Its stability, speed, and maneuverability depend almost entirely on the user's own spiritual strength and precision in controlling energy.

No wonder Harry Potter is a natural flying prodigy.

Lin Yuan glanced casually at Harry beside him. He knew that a fragment of Voldemort's soul lay hidden inside Harry.

Though this remnant soul brought endless pain and a curse, it also gave him an instinctive connection to the magical world far beyond that of ordinary people.

His "willpower," or rather his "soul," was unconsciously far stronger than that of children his age.

For ordinary young wizards, riding a Flying Broomstick was like trying to tame a wild, unruly horse. For Harry, it was more like answering an instinctive call.

As for Lin Yuan himself...

A faint smile curled his lips.

If the young wizards' willpower was a babbling brook, and Harry's was a surging river, then Lin Yuan's soul, tempered by more than a decade of cultivating immortality and solid as a mountain, was... a boundless ocean that commanded everything.

Using the power of an ocean to propel a tiny little boat?

That wasn't just using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. It was using an interstellar battleship to crush an ant.

"Ladies and gentlemen, good afternoon!"

A crisp, brisk voice interrupted the students' chatter.

Their Flying Class teacher, Madam Hooch, strode over.

She had short gray hair and a pair of sharp yellow eyes like a hawk's. Now, she was sternly inspecting every student.

Her presence was just like her: brisk, decisive, and impossible to argue with.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone, stand to the left of a broomstick. Quickly, quickly, no dawdling!"

The students hurried about in confusion, but soon got into position.

"Hold out your right hand over your broomstick," Madam Hooch ordered. "Then shout 'Up!' as loudly as you can!"

"Up!"

Two dozen childish voices rose in a chaotic chorus.

The grass field immediately became a scene of comical mishaps.

Ron's broomstick merely rolled lazily on the ground.

Neville's broomstick didn't move at all, as if it had been nailed to the grass.

Seamus Finnigan's broomstick shot up and smacked him hard on the nose, drawing a burst of laughter.

Most of the broomsticks merely trembled a little or jumped half an inch into the air, as if just for show.

Yet amid all that chaos, there were two exceptions.