Walking out into the courtyard for our first flying lesson with Madam Hooch, my companions were buzzing with excitement. Flying is one of humanity’s oldest dreams, and they were all clearly eager to experience it.

  I, too, was curious, though I had my reservations. The idea of riding a broom seemed uncomfortable, to say the least. How do wizards manage to stay on these sticks for so long without, well… compromising certain anatomical comforts? The mechanics of this broom-riding culture perplexed me, yet Quidditch—a broom-riding sport—was widely popular among wizards. Humans and their eccentricities never cease to surprise me.

  Madam Hooch laid out several worn-looking brooms. I watched as each broom hovered slightly off the ground, enchanted just enough to hold its position until it sensed a rider. As I examined one, I noticed the complex weave of spell matrices embedded in each broom. The enchantments did more than provide lift; they seemed to use subtle gyroscopic assistance to help with balance, control, and forward momentum. These spells allowed a wizard’s subconscious to influence the broom’s movements, adjusting for shifts in balance and direction. It was brilliantly conceived, but I sensed it might present a problem for me.

  When I finally mounted my broom and pushed off, I found myself wrestling with it almost instantly. My magic didn’t seem to harmonize with the enchantments. Instead of a smooth ascent, the broom jittered and lurched, veering sideways as if fighting my every command. The gyroscopic spell would start, only to sputter and fail as the broom shuddered, trying to regain control. It seemed my death-aligned magic disrupted the delicate enchantments.

  The broom settled just long enough for me to hover and follow the group through basic maneuvers, which allowed me to earn a passable grade. However, the broom itself had suffered from the ordeal and, to anyone else, would now be nearly impossible to control. I sighed. If broom flight required this kind of enchantment, I’d need an alternative method. I had no intention of struggling with brooms forever.

  In my true form, flight was unnecessary—I could float effortlessly, like a ghost, unburdened by physical limitations. But now, trapped in this human shell, I was bound to gravity and the constraints of physical matter. Flight hadn’t been my power, after all, but weightlessness. Most beings die on the ground and those few that don’t usually find their way back to it eventually. Astronauts, however, had added a new layer to my duties—but that was a modern challenge.

  “Well, it seems you’re not good at everything, after all,” Hermione teased, a smirk tugging at her lips.

  I gave a dismissive shrug. “I’m not exactly worried. It’s an outdated method of flight. If it weren’t a part of Hogwarts’ curriculum, it would have been obsolete by now.”

  “It’s part of the curriculum for a reason, Ben,” Hermione replied, arching a brow. Ron shot her a look, clearly hoping to avoid another debate.

  I rubbed the bridge of my nose in exasperation. “It’s not that I don’t understand how to use a broom, Hermione. It’s that my magic—” I stopped myself, realizing I’d nearly said too much.

  She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “Your magic… what?”

  “Nothing,” I muttered, quickly dropping my gaze to the ground. Hermione’s intuition was, as always, laser-focused, and I could almost feel her probing gaze.

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  “What about your magic?” she pressed.

  I sighed. “It interferes with the broom’s gyroscopic enchantment.”

  “Why would it do that?” she asked, her curiosity undeterred.

  “I’m not sure, but I’ll figure it out eventually. Just wait and see,” I replied, managing to divert the conversation before I revealed too much.

  Her curiosity didn’t wane, though. Even if she was willing to wait, I knew she’d be piecing together every detail. Her mind was always working, looking for answers, and I could only hope she’d be patient.

  At that moment, Draco sauntered over with a smirk. “Hey, Ben! I saw you struggling with the flying lesson. These brooms are rubbish, honestly.”

  “Why are you here?” Hermione asked sharply, her tone laced with irritation.

  I couldn’t deny that Draco’s interruption was well-timed, but I kept my response neutral. “I’ll figure something out.”

  “Yeah, Slytherin, he doesn’t need your help,” Ron added, scowling.

  Draco’s face flushed red, and I could see he was about to launch into a tirade. Anticipating the slew of insults he was likely readying, I stepped in.

  “Hold on, Ron. Let’s not judge a book by its cover,” I said, glancing at Draco meaningfully.

  Ron looked at me incredulously. “But he’s—”

  I held up a hand to silence him. “Let’s give him a chance to prove he’s capable of making his own decisions. Maybe he’s not controlled by his house… or his father.”

  The comment hit its mark. Draco stiffened, torn between his pride and the expectations of his family and house. “I make my own decisions!” he declared with defiance.

  I held out my hand in a gesture of invitation. “We have a study group—a chance to become the best witches and wizards we can, regardless of where we come from. If you’d like to join us, Draco, you’re welcome to do so. But we accept members from every background. This group values knowledge, power, and potential, not just heritage.”

  Draco hesitated, clearly calculating his response. “Well, sounds like you need a Slytherin in that group anyway. Plus, it wouldn’t be the best without me in it, so I’ll be doing you a favor.” He smirked, regaining his usual arrogance.

  “Then it’s a deal,” I said, shaking his hand. “See you tomorrow after classes.”

  As Draco left, flanked by a couple of his housemates who’d hung back waiting for him, Ron, Hermione, and Neville rounded on me.

  “Why did you do that?” they demanded, almost in unison.

  I looked between them, choosing my words carefully. “Draco has potential. His arrogance and prejudices aren’t all his own—his family and Slytherin have influenced him heavily. But if we can show him there’s a different path, he might change.”

  Hermione crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. “You’re taking a big risk. He’s still a Malfoy.”

  “I know that,” I replied, meeting her gaze. “But he also has a hunger for knowledge and power. If we can guide him, that drive could be turned toward something… better.”

  Hermione sighed, her skepticism apparent. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Ron muttered something about Draco’s “ferret face,” but I could tell he, too, was reluctantly intrigued by the idea. Hermione seemed lost in thought, and I took advantage of the pause to redirect the conversation.

  “Now, about this flying problem… are there other enchantments that allow for flight?” I asked.

  Ron perked up. “My dad has a flying car that drives itself.”

  “Fascinating,” I mused, though I doubted it would be useful for combat. “Flying enclosed in a metal box would make spellcasting difficult.”

  “At least I’m not the only one bad at flying,” Neville added, giving me a sympathetic grin.

  I grimaced. “From what I’ve heard, Professor Snape knows a non-broom method of flying, but he’s hardly approachable.”

  “Could you ask Dumbledore?” Hermione suggested, her tone thoughtful.

  I scratched my chin, weighing the idea. “It’s possible, though he isn’t exactly easy to reach. However… I have a feeling our paths will cross sooner or later.” I glanced at Hermione and added, “And who knows? Perhaps he might appreciate a student who’s not afraid to ask unusual questions.”

  She gave a small, approving smile, and for a moment, all tension melted away. As we walked back to the castle, I couldn’t shake the sense that this was just the beginning of a much larger journey, one that would demand everything from each of us, even the reluctant Draco. For now, though, it was enough to walk alongside my friends, our goals aligned.

  Where are your... Unmentionables supposed to go? I suspect this may be more unpleasant for males than their female counterparts and yet most quidditch players are male...