Derrick stepped onto the waist-high wooden platform, his face ashen.
He could feel dozens of gazes boring sharply into his back.
Some were curious, some sympathetic, but most were gloating.
His palms were sweating, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails almost dug into his flesh.
Fall backward?
Entrust my safety to this bunch of... rabble?
To that Gryffindor called Caldwell, who's as scrawny as a little chick?
This was more humiliating than being made to have tea with an Acromantula in the Forbidden Forest.
Behind him, at the very center of the catching formation, T24, Stephen Caldwell, pressed his lips together.
He could feel the stiffness and resistance in Derrick's body. That resistance had almost become a visible distortion in the air.
He could hear Derrick's heavy breathing.
Stephen exchanged glances with the teammates beside him-a Hufflepuff, a Ravenclaw, and several others.
Their eyes held the same nervousness and determination.
Seven arms were tightly interwoven.
They formed a net that was not particularly wide, but utterly resolute.
He met Derrick's suspicious, disgusted gaze without backing down.
He did everything he could to keep his voice steady and clear.
"T22, we're ready. Trust us."
Derrick did not move.
The seconds ticked by.
"Hey, T22!"
An impatient voice rang out from another group.
"Are you doing this or not? We're still waiting!"
The voice was openly provocative.
Derrick's face instantly flushed red with the anger of being humiliated in public.
He was not afraid of falling.
He resisted the feeling of leaving his back exposed to the enemy.
That feeling was a betrayal of his family name, a stain on Slytherin's honor.
Lupin did not hurry him. He simply watched in silence.
He knew Derrick had to cross this hurdle himself.
Any push from outside would rob the exercise of