Landlubber

Hoffa woke earlier than he had on almost any other day.

Flying was humanity's dream. Now that he was a wizard, Hoffa naturally harbored ambitions of soaring through the clouds. Especially in 1938, when airplanes were nowhere near as widespread as they would be in later generations. If he could learn to ride a broomstick, not only would getting around become much easier, but he would also gain another means of survival in the future. After all, the Muggle air forces of this era were nowhere near as terrifyingly precise as those of later years, and wars were still fought mostly on land.

In the Great Hall that morning, a group of usually composed Ravenclaws were uncharacteristically excited as they discussed Quidditch trivia.

Hogwarts breakfasts were lavish: fried eggs, bread, vegetable or fruit salad, sausages or bacon, coffee, tea, milk, butter, jam, and juice. There were also various grain porridges.

But Hoffa had flight class on his mind. Afraid that he might throw up if he ate too much and flew too fast later, he ate very little—just a sausage and some oatmeal.

Students from wizarding families boasted endlessly about their flying histories.

William Carlson was another of Hoffa's dorm mates. Early that morning, he had been telling his friends about his family's glorious flying history, claiming that his father had once ridden a broomstick to evade planes pursuing and strafing him during World War I.

Tyler Smith was a Muggle-born from their dorm. While William bragged beside him, Tyler listened with great interest, his eyes full of envy. For Muggles of this era, unless they joined the Royal Air Force, flying was basically something they could never hope for in their entire lives.

The Ravenclaw students were relatively restrained. At the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables, however, students clustered together in little groups, bursting into loud laughter from time to time.

The ones laughing were mostly boys. Quidditch in this era was still a boys' game, and girls rarely took part.

After breakfast, the group hurried out of the Great Hall and came to a patch of grass near the school's Quidditch pitch.

It was a clear, breezy day. The grass rippled softly beneath their feet. Beyond the lawn lay the Forbidden Forest, its dark trees swaying in the wind in the distance.

This class was held together with the Slytherin first-years, who had already arrived. A row of broomsticks lay neatly arranged on the ground. Tom Riddle was chatting and laughing with several classmates. When he caught sight of Hoffa, he gave no reaction.

In fact, ever since the two of them had arrived at school, their conflict seemed to have vanished. They had become two unrelated passersby. There was neither the resentment of the orphanage nor any sign that they knew each other.

Hoffa knew of Riddle's immense ambition. He was not some childish kid like Malfoy. He would never waste his energy picking pointless fights.

Before long, their teacher arrived. Hoffa had already heard about him from his dorm mates at breakfast. The Quidditch instructor was named Pario Leo, a Beater for Ireland's team in the 1920 Quidditch World Cup. That year, his team had reached the World Cup semifinals, which was considered quite an achievement.

Pario was a tall man with long arms, curly brown hair, and an energetic air about him.

At the sight of the new students, he blew his whistle.

"What are you waiting for? Line up by height!"

The crowd began moving noisily.

Watching the group of eleven-year-olds shove and jostle one another in a chaotic mess—

Pario stepped in impatiently. He pulled the children apart and rearranged them into different positions.

Hoffa had originally been standing with Miranda, but Pario separated them because Hoffa was half a head taller than she was. He pushed Hoffa beside someone else.

Yes, Argeleia again.

They were about the same height.

When Argeleia saw Hoffa being pushed over, she gave a cold snort.

The warm sunlight and gentle breeze had made Hoffa feel comfortable, but now that he was standing beside Argeleia, he felt awkward all over.

Seeing that the students had formed an arithmetic sequence according to height, Professor Pario looked exceptionally pleased.

Only then did he blow his whistle and say, "Hold out your right hand over the broom handle, then say, 'Up!'"

"Up!" everyone shouted.

Hoffa held out his hand as well. "Up!"

Nothing happened.

So he put more force into it.

"Up!"

Still no response.

He was immediately puzzled. What was going on?

He turned to look around. Some people's brooms rose quickly. Tom Riddle, standing opposite Hoffa, for example. The moment he spoke, his broom obediently leaped into his palm.

His dorm mate William had not been bragging either. His broom sprang swiftly into his hand as well.

Some children's brooms dragged sluggishly along the ground, rolling about as if they were extremely unwilling.

Miranda's was one such case. Her broom seemed hesitant, rising a little one moment before dropping back down the next. But at least it was moving.

Only Hoffa's broom did not move at all.

Unwilling to give up, Hoffa tried twice more. It still would not budge.

"Muggle." A gleeful sneer came from beside him.

Hoffa saw Argeleia on his right smiling smugly. Her arms were still crossed, and she had not moved an inch.

So Hoffa spoke the first words he had said to her in a week. "What are you so pleased about? Yours hasn't moved either."

"Is that... so...?" she drawled, as though she were enjoying this moment immensely.

After saying that, Argeleia looked at him mockingly. One arm remained crossed over her chest while the other hovered above her broomstick. She did not say a word.

The broomstick shot into her hand with a whoosh. Hoffa could practically feel how eager the broom was to be ridden by her.

Hoffa widened his eyes and looked back at his own broom.

"Up!"

The breeze brushed over its worn-out twigs, but it did not move. It was like a dead salted fish.

Hoffa's face darkened. He raised his hand.

Pario noticed him. "What is it, child?"

"Professor, my broom is broken."

Everyone around them looked over. Pario's eyes widened, and he held out his hand from afar.

"Up."

Hoffa's broom flew out of his reach like lightning and landed in Pario's hand.

After inspecting it, Pario said unhappily, "What are you talking about? This broom is in perfect condition." With that, he tossed it back to Hoffa.

Hoffa held out his hand again. "Up."

It died again.

"HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Argeleia laughed merrily. Her sweet expression made Hoffa's teeth itch with hatred. She said, "A flying Muggle—a landlubber among wizards—is someone with no talent for flight whatsoever. Such people have been rare throughout history, but you are undoubtedly one of them. In Britain, and even throughout Europe, flying is an ancient and elegant art. Quidditch is an elite social sport. It represents those outstanding individuals among the masses who possess the ability to rule, and you—"

"Shut up! Nobody thinks you're mute just because you don't talk."

Hoffa's face was livid as he cut Argeleia off. This time, he no longer wanted to maintain even a superficial peace with her.

He directly drew his wand and pointed it at the broom on the ground.

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

Under the effects of the Levitation Charm, Hoffa's broom rose into the air like a mangy dog, trembling almost painfully as it was forced into Hoffa's grip.

Hoffa sensed the broom's reluctance, but he gripped it tightly.

Then something happened that Hoffa had not expected.

Argeleia raised her hand.

That was right. She raised her right hand high and loudly said, "Professor Pario, Hoffa cheated. He used a spell on the broom."

The noisy lawn fell silent at once.

Everyone turned to look at Argeleia and Hoffa.

Hoffa was stunned. Tattling? It was the kind of thing people hated in any world. Yet the person beside him had done it so openly.

Did she think the Earth revolved around her? Why had she even been sorted into Ravenclaw?

Pario walked over to Hoffa with an unhappy expression. "Did you really cast a spell on the broom?"

"Yes." Hoffa sighed.

"What spell?"

"The Levitation Charm," Hoffa said.

Pario took a deep breath, then let it out.

"Enchanting a broom during a Quidditch match is a serious foul. Do you understand?"

"I didn't know," Hoffa said expressionlessly.

"Since it's your first offense, I won't deduct points. But you won't be attending this lesson. Go watch from the side." Pario spoke regretfully.

Hoffa tossed the broom aside, put away his wand, and strode to one side. He crossed his arms and said nothing.

Once again, life's twists had caught Hoffa off guard. He was not Harry Potter. He had no talent for flying, much less any aptitude for Quidditch. He did not even know the rules of Quidditch.

On the lawn, Pario blew his whistle and demonstrated for the students how to mount a broom.

The students rose into the air one after another. Some wobbled crookedly atop their brooms. Others flew back and forth at great speed. Argeleia was the best flyer in the crowd. She did not even need to hold the broom handle. With her arms crossed over her chest, she seemed able to make the broom go wherever she wanted with nothing but her thoughts.

White clouds drifted across the distant sky. Hoffa leaned against a tall tower, a foxtail grass stem between his teeth, watching the people flying overhead. For the first time, he felt utterly out of place in this land.

Argeleia had a point. In the wizarding world, Quidditch really was a game that required talent. It was like the sailing competitions at Ivy League universities in his previous life. If you were not part of the upper class, they might not even let you play.

Thinking honestly about it, Hoffa knew why that broom had ignored him. It was because he did not want to play Quidditch at all. He only wanted to fly.

All those Quidditch rules seemed idiotic to him.

Especially the rule where catching the Golden Snitch directly changed the outcome of the match. It made no sense at all—pure individual heroism.

By comparison, he actually preferred Muggle football. Everyone mattered there.

At that moment, he thought of many things. He thought of a novel from his previous life, where Hermione had once gotten into a huge argument with the Divination professor, Trelawney. Trelawney believed Hermione had no talent for divination and thus dismissed her efforts. But the truth was that sensitivity and rationality could not both be perfected. Hermione could never become a Seer, just as Hoffa would find it difficult to become a Quidditch master.

After all, there were only a few talented people in the world, especially when it came to sports.

In his previous life, he had been in an awkward position when it came to athletics. Other people played ball while he could only watch. He had not expected that after coming to the wizarding world, he would still be the same.

Having some talent for Transfiguration was enough. Why be greedy? There were many ways to fly. He did not have to hang himself from a single tree. His most urgent task was to study and grow properly.

Only those who survived the wars of the future would have the right to pursue happiness in life. Fighting over fleeting pride and humiliation now, trying to become the king of a group of eleven-year-olds, was utterly meaningless.

Once he understood this, Hoffa calmed down. He spat out the foxtail grass and left the field with his hands clasped behind his back.

Argeleia continued flying in the sky, but her gaze remained fixed on Hoffa, who sat in the corner.

The feeling of striking at Hoffa made her feel wonderful. Ever since she had met him, she had repeatedly suffered setbacks. Especially when she had tried to deduce his identity on the train—it had made her feel humiliated beyond measure.

Today, she had finally regained some ground.

But when she saw Hoffa leave so calmly, Argeleia felt as though her punch had landed on cotton.