September 12th.
If Potions was Slytherin’s moment of glory, then flying lessons were the day of judgement that every first-year both eagerly anticipated and secretly dreaded.
For children from wizarding families like Malfoy, it was an excellent opportunity to show off their superiority.
He had spent the entire week boasting about the glorious occasion when he had supposedly dodged a Muggle helicopter on a broomstick.
For Muggle-borns like Hermione Granger, however, it was practically a nightmare.
After all, Quidditch Through the Ages did not contain a chapter on how to overcome gravity.
At half past three in the afternoon, the sun was shining brightly.
The Slytherins and Gryffindors gathered on the lawn outside the castle.
A light breeze rustled through the treetops of the Forbidden Forest.
Twenty broomsticks lay neatly arranged on the grass.
Morrin wore Slytherin practice robes, though his wand was still in his hand like a walking stick.
He looked down at the broom beside his feet and frowned.
It was an ancient Cleansweep Seven.
The twigs at the tail stuck out in every direction, and there were even stains on the handle that no one had bothered to clean properly.
━━━━━ 🔍 SCAN ━━━━━ Scanning target: Hogwarts Training Broom Model: Cleansweep Seven Condition: Severely Aged Durability: 15% (May disintegrate at any moment.) Evaluation: This is not transportation.
This is a suicide device.
Where exactly is the Board of Governors’ funding going?
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ “If this were one of my companies,” Morrin said coldly, nudging the broom with the tip of his wand, “The executive responsible for purchasing this equipment would already be at the bottom of the Thames.” Malfoy shrank slightly.
Apparently, he was remembering the terrifying strength Morrin had displayed when he smashed the common room table apart.
“Well, what are you all waiting for?” Madam Hooch came striding towards them.
She had short, hawk like hair and piercing yellow eyes.
“Everyone stand beside a broomstick.
Come on, quickly!” “Stick out your right hand over your broom,” Madam Hooch called, “and say, ‘Up!'” “UP!” Shouts rang out across the lawn.
Harry’s broom immediately leapt into his hand.
So did Malfoy’s.
Morrin did not bother calling out at once.
He merely extended his black gloved right hand above the battered broom and regarded the miserable piece of wood calmly.
Within him, [Flying Talent] resonated with [Magic Affinity].
No words were necessary.
The previously lifeless old broom seemed to sense the summons of something above it in the hierarchy.
It sprang violently from the grass and slapped neatly into Morrin’s palm, giving a faint, submissive hum.
“Perfect.” Morrin closed his fingers around the handle and felt the magic flowing through it.
“Terrible hardware, admittedly.
But it’s rather like entering a rally in a half scrapped family saloon.
At that point, what matters is the driver.” Nearby, Hermione’s broom merely rolled over on the ground.
Ron’s leapt upwards and struck him squarely on the nose.
“Right, I want you all to mount your brooms.” Madam Hooch instructed, demonstrating the proper position.
“When I blow my whistle, kick off hard from the ground.
One, two—” “AAAAH!” A terrified scream interrupted her.
Neville Longbottom had become so nervous that he kicked off before the whistle.
He shot into the air like a cork popping from a bottle.
Neville climbed erratically to twenty feet, his face turning deathly white.
Then— THUD!
He slipped sideways from the broom and crashed heavily onto the grass.
A sickening crack followed.
“Broken wrist.” Morrin did not even step forwards to examine him.
[Logical Mind Palace] had already reached its diagnosis based on the angle of impact and the sound alone.
Classic operator error.
Poor psychological resilience.
Madam Hooch went pale and hurried towards Neville.
“All right, boy…
you’re fine.
Everyone else, stay where you are!
If I see a single one of you touching a broom, you’ll be out of Hogwarts before you can say Quidditch!” Supporting the tearful Neville, Madam Hooch hurried towards the hospital wing.
The Gryffindors and Slytherins were left alone on the lawn.
Chaos immediately began.
“Did you see his face?” Malfoy burst out laughing.
After a week of having his arrogance suppressed, he had finally found an outlet.
“That great round face!
You should’ve heard the noise when he hit the ground!” Several of the other Slytherins joined in.
“Shut up, Malfoy,” Parvati Patil snapped.
“Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom, are we?” Pansy Parkinson sneered.
“Never knew you had a thing for chubby little cry babies.” “Look!” Malfoy suddenly bent down and picked a glass sphere out of the grass.
“It’s that idiot’s Remembrall.” The glass ball gleamed beneath the sunlight.
“Give it here, Malfoy,” Harry said quietly, stepping forwards.
Every eye turned towards them.
Malfoy rolled the Remembrall between his fingers, a crafty gleam appearing in his grey blue eyes.
Almost instinctively, he glanced towards Morrin.
Morrin was leaning against an oak tree some distance away, idly turning his wand in one hand as though the entire spectacle bored him.
Being ignored stung Malfoy.
He desperately wanted to prove something.
That he was not merely Morrin’s follower.
That he was the natural born flyer here.
“I think I’ll put it somewhere Longbottom can find it.” Malfoy mounting his broom and kicking off into the air.
“How about…
on top of that tree?” “No!” Harry shouted and grabbed his own broom.
“Don’t!” Hermione shrieked.
“Madam Hooch told us not to move—” But Harry was already airborne.
There was no denying it, Harry was a natural.
The first time he had ever properly ridden a broom, he displayed astonishing talent, shooting towards Malfoy like a cannonball.
“Give it back!” Harry shouted in mid air.
Malfoy swept through a graceful turn.
He clearly had not expected Harry to fly so well.
A trace of panic crossed his face as Harry came hurtling towards him, then hardened into spite.
“Then go and get it!” With all his strength, Malfoy hurled the Remembrall towards the distant castle wall.
The glass sphere traced a high arc through the air, racing towards the unyielding stone.
Harry flattened himself against his broom and prepared to dive.
But at that instant— A black streak of lightning moved faster.
BOOM!
The air itself seemed to explode.
On the ground, Ron and Hermione saw only a blur before a violent gust swept over them, forcing them to squeeze their eyes shut.
It was Morrin.
He was riding that decrepit Cleansweep Seven with the ferocity of a Nimbus 2000.
[Flying Talent] was operating at full capacity.
To Morrin, the wind had shape.
Gravity was something that could be deceived.
The falling Remembrall seemed to crawl through the air in slow motion.
He forced the broom sharply downwards until his body was almost parallel with the ground, beginning the extremely dangerous opening movement of a Wronski Feint— Then pulled sharply upwards.
His black robes cracked violently in the wind.
The Remembrall was less than a foot from the stone wall.
Harry was still ten feet away, desperately reaching for it.
Then— A black gloved hand reached out and caught the glass sphere cleanly in mid-air.
No collision.
No loss of control.
Morrin snapped into a sudden stop, the broom’s tail carving a flawless arc through the air before he settled into a perfectly steady hover.
The entire field fell silent.
Students on the ground stared.
Malfoy and Harry stared from their brooms.
It had been too fast.
Far too fast to follow.
Morrin held the broom with one hand and casually tossed the Remembrall in the other.
From his higher position, he looked down at the pale-faced Malfoy.
“Draco.” His voice carried clearly through the wind.
There was a trace of disappointment in it.
“If you want to demonstrate your flying ability, challenge someone stronger than yourself.
Don’t bully someone who can barely keep hold of a broom.” Morrin’s gaze cooled.
“It makes you look cheap.” Malfoy bit his lip and lowered his head, his fingers tightening around the broom until his knuckles turned white.
Morrin turned towards Harry, who was still staring at him in shock, and casually tossed the Remembrall over.
“Catch, Potter.
Not a bad dive.” Harry fumbled for the glass ball before finally securing it.
He stared at Morrin in disbelief.
“How…
how did you fly that fast?” “Calculation, Potter,” Morrin replied calmly.
“Wind speed.
Drag.
Angle.” He gave his battered broom a slight tilt.
“Flying is a science too.” CREATORS’ THOUGHTS Hidden_Quill Thank you so much for reading!