Flying class (part one)

The arrival of the Remembrall did nothing to improve Neville's situation.

Just as he had said himself, he had absolutely no idea what he had forgotten. Apart from adding to his stress, the Remembrall was bloody useless.

Fortunately, that stress never really got to Neville, either, because he often forgot to check the Remembrall...

Thursday arrived in a flash, bringing an afternoon flying class with Slytherin.

Although Harry was eager to play Quidditch, the thought of having lessons with Slytherin rather soured his mood. The idea of Draco showing him up in front of his classmates, especially girls like Parvati, made him feel thoroughly miserable.

Especially since he had performed exceptionally well in almost every subject up to that point.

Ron and Neville felt just as unhappy as Harry, though in their case it was mostly nerves.

But when it was actually time to get ready for class, the three of them relaxed a little. They discovered that they were not the only ones who were nervous. In fact, everyone, including most of the Slytherins, seemed at least a little anxious.

When a lesson was about to start and you knew nothing, you got nervous. But once you discovered that your classmates apparently knew nothing either-well, suddenly you felt safe.

In particular, when they saw that their fellow student Hermione, who had dominated nearly every subject right up until that morning, was nervously biting her lips white, all three of them-especially Harry and Ron-felt their nerves ease at once.

The young wizards chatted as they passed through the Castle's corridors on their way to the Quidditch Pitch.

They discovered that even most of those from wizarding families had hardly ever flown on broomsticks. The few who had could not exactly call their memories pleasant.

The only exception was Draco, but Harry had already discovered that the boy would say absolutely anything. Nothing he said could be trusted.

The Gryffindor and Slytherin groups met at the Castle's main doors.

"Well, well, Scarhead! Today I'll show you how a real wizard flies." Draco spotted Harry in the crowd at once and swaggered as he spoke.

"You'd better pray Merlin watches over you so you don't fall off your broom. And even if you do fall, don't land on your face. You'll ruin those pretty looks, and who knows how many people will be heartbroken?"

As he spoke, Draco swept his gaze over the Gryffindor girls.

Parvati Patil, Sally-Anne Perks, and Isabel McDougal all glared fiercely at him. Draco had nerves of steel and a thick skin. He did not care in the slightest; if anything, he looked rather pleased with himself.

Who are you calling pretty, you little brat? Harry thought. You're a pretty boy yourself!

He immediately retorted, "You don't need to worry about me. Just make sure you don't fall off and go crying to your mummy. How will she comfort you? Kiss your little face and call you her precious baby?"

"You!" Draco's already pale, delicate face turned even whiter, and he glared viciously at Harry.

Draco took pride in his family and often brought up his parents. Once, Harry had overheard him doing it and casually sneered, "All you can do is rely on Mummy and Daddy." While Draco stood there speechless, Harry had added, "Go home and cry in your mummy's arms."

Just like Draco calling Harry Scarhead and mocking his overly pretty looks, this had become a routine.

To Harry's relief, Draco, who had apparently never interacted with Muggles, did not know the word "femboy"...

The young Gryffindors and Slytherins glared at one another, but kept walking, and soon reached the lawn beside the pitch.

Twenty broomsticks had already been laid out on the grass in two neat rows.

The brooms were battered and old, some with twigs sticking out every which way. They were nothing like the broomsticks Harry had seen in the shop windows in Diagon Alley.

Harry had consulted Fred and George over the past few days and learned that the school's teaching brooms came from the very first batch it had purchased. What did "the very first batch" mean?

Hogwarts had added flying classes to its curriculum about six hundred years ago...

These brooms shuddered if they flew too high and veered off course if they flew too fast. As a result, every member of the house teams had a broom of their own.

Of course, those brooms were not necessarily all personal possessions. Quite a few had been left behind by students who had graduated without taking them along. Those, too, belonged to the students.

Although Draco was usually arrogant, he was not mischievous enough to dare defy a professor. Since their flying instructor, Madam Hooch, had not arrived yet, he did not dare touch the brooms.

Still, judging by the way he fidgeted, he was barely able to contain himself.

Amid the nerves and anticipation of Draco and the other students, Madam Hooch arrived at the clearing just one minute before the scheduled time.

Madam Hooch was a witch who immediately brought words like capable and brisk to mind.

She had short gray hair and pale yellow eyes as sharp as a hawk's. Her face could certainly not be called beautiful, but it had a striking boldness. Her thick eyebrows in particular gave her an imposing air.

Her skin was slightly dark, with the healthy tan of someone who spent plenty of time in the sun. It suggested that this professor preferred the outdoors to an office.

"Good afternoon, children," Madam Hooch greeted them in a strong, full voice.

"Good afternoon, Madam Hooch!" the students greeted her in return.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Get moving, get moving!" Madam Hooch called cheerfully. Unlike Professor McGonagall, who could make every word reach everyone's ears clearly without raising her voice, Madam Hooch was genuinely loud: