ALL NOVEL Chapter 10: Flight Class
The Great Hall, Sunday Morning
General POV:
Neville Longbottom had believed Potter and Granger to be his greatest rivals until he met Draco Malfoy. Despite first-year Gryffindors only having Potions with the Slytherins, Neville's impression of the boy is beyond terrible for within that short time frame Malfoy had insulted his family, got into a fight with him and suspected to sabotage the potions he brewed.
Come to think of it, Neville should really not be surprised at this. Both his parents had warned him of Luciuc Malfoy's son, though at the time the boy had put it out of mind. He thought the week couldn't be worse until he completely jinxed it and saw a notice pinned up in the Gryffindor common room. It stated that Flying lessons would be starting Sunday afternoon - and Lions and Snakes would be learning together.
'Exactly what I always wanted', thought Neville darkly, 'to make a fool of myself on a broomstick in front of Malfoy.'
Contrary to common belief, the boy was never allowed near a broomstick, not even a toy because his mother thought that they were quote 'flying deathtraps'. As such, like most his age, Neville had never been on a broomstick in his life. Not knowing this, he had been dreading flight class more than everyone else.
'I don't know if I'll be bad yet,' Neville reassured himself. 'Anyway, though Malfoy's boasts should be all talk. Old Lucius wouldn't have let him near anything more exciting than a toy broom.'
The person in question had loudly complained about first years not allowed to get on the House Quidditch teams, while telling tall tales that always seemed to end with him narrowly escaping Muggles in their flying boxes.
Seamus Finnigan, one of Neville's 'friends', also claimed to have spent most of his childhood zooming around the countryside on a broomstick. Even Weasley would tell anyone who'd listen about almost getting hit by a hang glider on his elder brother's old broom, not that someone actually believed him.
Speaking of which, two of Neville's dorm mates had got into an argument over soccer. The wizard-raised Weasley apparently couldn't see how a game with only one ball where no one was allowed to fly would be exciting, and although publicly proclaiming that one should accept differences, Neville agreed.
The other boy, Dean, was trying to affirm football's superiority by showing tactical diagrams and West Ham posters when Draco Malfoy, who was passing the Gryffindor table, snatched those out of his hand.
Dean Thomas jumped up from his seat while Ron half-heartedly did so. Though he was hoping for a reason to punch Malfoy, Ron did not want to think that Dean might be right. Professor McGonagall, who spotted trouble quicker than any teacher in the school, was there in a flash.
"What's going on?"
"Malfoy's got my football posters, Professor.", protested Dean.
The perpetrator pretended to be oblivious and quickly dropped them back on the table.
"Just looking," he said, and he slinked away with Crabbe and Goyle lagging behind. Ron stared at Malfoy incredulously: a pure-blood supremacist looking at a Muggle sport?
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At three-thirty that afternoon, Neville and the other Gryffindors hurried down the front steps onto the grounds for their first flying lesson. The sky was a clear shade of cyan, the cool breeze rippling across the grass under the little lions' feet as they walked towards the castle's training grounds.
By the time they arrived, Slytherins were already present, as well as two dozen broomsticks, ancient-looking with twigs stuck out at peculiar directions, all lying in neat lines. The Flight instructor, Madam Hooch, arrived. She had short, grey hair, and yellow eyes like a hawk.
"Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone stands by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."
After the students lined up next to their brooms, Madam Hooch called:
"Stick out your right hand over your broom and say 'Up!'"
"UP!" everyone shouted.
Neville's broom jumped into his hand immediately, but it was one of the few that did. Lavender's and Ron's had simply rolled over on the ground, and Dean's hadn't moved an inch.
Madam Hooch proceeded to show them how to mount their brooms without sliding off, and walked up and down the rows correcting their grips. Neville was delighted when she told Malfoy he'd been doing it wrong for years.
"When I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," said Madam Hooch, returning to the front. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle — three — two —ONE!"
About half of the class lifted off while the other awkwardly sat with the broom clamped between their legs, some losing their balance and falling face-first into the lawn.
Among those in the air, Neville, nervous of losing to Malfoy, pushed off hard before the whistle even touched Madam Hooch's lips.
"Come back, boy!" she shouted, but Neville was shooting straight up - twelve feet - twenty feet. Despite his scared white face, Neville did not lose control of his broom, but glided in a beautiful parabola arc that would make mathematicians drool.
Seeing him not in any imminent danger, Madam Hooch breathed a sigh of relief and cast a Feather-Falling spell on Neville's broom before turning back to the class.
No sooner had her eyes left the boy, Draco Malfoy grasped his broom for dear life and accelerated towards Neville, determined not to lose to him. Unlike Neville, Draco's ascent was incredibly shaky - it was not seconds later that he slipped from his broom, flapping his arms and falling towards the ground.
WHAM — a thud and a nasty crack and the blonde-haired boy lay face down on the grass. His broomstick was rising yet higher and higher, starting to drift lazily towards the Whomping Willow.
Madam Hooch, the poor woman, bent towards Draco before brightening in relief.
"Broken nose," she muttered. "Alright, boy — up you get."
She turned towards the rest of the class, using magic to help Draco lift himself from the ground and stop the bleeding.
"None of you move an inch while I take this boy to the hospital wing! All of you, especially Gryffindors over there, leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch.' Am I clear?"
The class mumbled an incoherent mix of 'yes's and 'yes ma'am', which apparently was enough for Madame Hooch. She nodded to the blonde boy.
"Well, come on, dear."
Draco, his face red with humiliation, hobbled off with the flight instructor, who had her wand keep him slightly above the ground. No sooner had the two gone out of sight that the entire class violated her first command.
"Did you see his face?", mocked Weasley, strolling towards the group of boys, "His head was so hot I swear it could cook an egg!"
Dean and the others burst into laughter, each sharing a sarcastic comment on that dramatic fall. The Slytherins, unamused at being one-sidedly slandered, found the ball crate that Madame Hooch left behind. Crabbe's clumsy hands peeled the strappings open and immediately a black, dense object knocked him unconscious, shooting itself at the crowd irrespective of houses.
"It's a Bludger! Neville, watch out!", shouted someone as the ball made its way towards the sole target in the air.
The boy saw it getting ever closer to himself but seemingly slowed down at the last moments - next thing he knew, Neville was swooping down in a steep dive, racing away from the Bludger, wind whistling in his ears. Screams can be heard from the ground with each close miss, yet Neville's confidence only began to build…
Faster than he could think 'This is AWESOME!', a loud, very literal cry sounded from beneath.
"NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM!"
Neville's heart sank faster than when he'd just dived. Professor McGonagall was heading toward them, and with a wave of her wand, the Bludger was subdued back to the bag. He got down to the ground, trembling in fear.
"Never — in all my time at Hogwarts —"
Professor McGonagall looked almost speechless with shock, and her glasses flashed furiously, "— how dare you — might have broken your neck —"
"It wasn't his fault, Professor —"
"Be quiet, Miss Brown —"
"But Crabbe —"
"That's enough, Mr. Weasley. Longbottom, follow me, now."
Neville caught sight of Crabbe and Goyle's triumphant smirks as he left, walking numbly behind Professor McGonagall as she strode towards the castle.
'I'm going to be punished', Neville knew. He wanted to defend himself, but the stern look on the Professor's face stopped his voice. She was striding without sparing a glance at him; he had to half-run to keep up.
Now he'd done it. He hadn't even lasted two weeks. He broke a school rule before waving a wand properly. What would his Dad and Mum say when their son was sent back for breaking school rules? He shuddered to imagine it.
Up the front steps, then the marble staircase, and still Professor McGonagall didn't say a word. She wrenched open the doors and marched along corridors with Neville trotting miserably behind.
Professor McGonagall stopped outside a classroom. She opened the door and poked her head inside.
"Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood for a moment?"
'Wood?', thought Neville, bewildered. 'It's not the name of a punishment device, right? I thought Hogwarts banned those half a century ago…'
True to his expectations, the name turned out to belong to a person, specifically one burly fifth-year who came out of Charms confused.
"Follow me, you two," said Professor McGonagall, and they marched on up the corridor, Wood looking curiously at the boy. His eyes, Neville noted, went almost immediately for his scar, much like everyone else.
"In here."
The strict woman pointed them into a largely empty classroom except for Peeves scribbling obscenities on the blackboard.
"Langlock!" she swung her wand. Peeves's tongue glued to the bottom of his mouth, and despite his efforts it could not be moved. He threw a disgusted look at Professor McGonagall, but seeing her wand still trained at him, swooped out with his third finger out. She slammed the door behind him and turned to the two boys.
"Longbottom, this is Oliver Wood. Wood — I've found you a Chaser."
Wood's expression shifted to pure delight.
"Are you serious, Professor?"
"Absolutely," said Professor McGonagall crisply. "I've never seen any first-year dodge Bludgers that naturally. That was your first time on a broomstick, am I right, Mr. Longbottom?"
Neville nodded silently. He had an inkling as to what was going on, but waited patiently, rather out of character for him, as she continued.
"He dodged a wild Bludger with one of those ancient brooms," Professor McGonagall told Wood. "Not even a scratch. Gwenog Jones herself couldn't have done it."
Wood looked as though Yule had come early.
"Fancy yourself a spot on the team, Longbottom?" he asked excitedly.
"Wood's captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team," Professor McGonagall explained.
"He's just the right size for a Chaser, too," said Wood, now walking around Neville as if evaluating a potions ingredient. "Got some meat on him… long limbs… just the right height, too. We'll have to get him a better broom, Professor — Nimbus Two Thousand or Cleansweep Seven, I think."
"I shall speak to Alice and the Headmaster. We'll see if we can get a suitable one. Merlin forbid, we need a better team than last year. Flattened in that last match by Slytherin, I couldn't look Severus Snape in the face for weeks…"
It was at this moment Neville felt Quidditch might not be all fun and games to the Scottish woman. However, unfortunately for him, his choice was already out of his hands. Professor McGonagall peered sternly over her glasses.
"I want to hear you're training hard, Longbottom, or I may yet change my mind about punishing you."
Then she suddenly smiled ominously, looking at the distance.
"Frank would be absolutely thrilled to hear this," she muttered. "His precious baby boy, the youngest Chaser in a century…"
'Come to think of it, Dumbledore was right again, wasn't he?', mused Professor McGonagall. 'Over a century and still such an eye for these things...'
Up on a certain tower, a certain white-robed wizard certainly sneezed.