“Would someone care to explain exactly what happened here?” Madam Hooch’s gaze swept the students before settling on Malfoy and Harry.
Both boys went pale.
Ivan answered first.
“Madam Hooch, as you can see, they were simply practising their flying.” A flicker of conflict crossed Malfoy’s face.
He opened his mouth to mention the Body-Bind, then closed it again.
If he spoke, Ivan would immediately reveal the stolen Remembrall and the deliberate provocation.
Malfoy knew which offence carried the heavier punishment.
The prospect of Filch’s office was enough to make him accept the “friendly practice” version, however grudgingly.
He refused to let Ivan walk away clean.
“That’s right.
But it wasn’t only the two of us flying.” He raised an eyebrow at Ivan, the threat plain.
Madam Hooch’s attention shifted.
Ivan shrugged.
“Fine.
I admit it.” Internally he cursed Malfoy’s talent for dragging others down with him.
Their eyes met.
A silent, temporary truce formed: neither would expose the full story.
Malfoy feared the chains and the whip.
Ivan had no interest in a Forbidden Forest patrol with his current skill set.
Harry looked completely lost.
In his version of events Malfoy had stolen the Remembrall and he had retrieved it.
When, exactly, had the narrative become three boys practising together?
Ivan’s repeated glances told him to stay quiet.
He did.
“I distinctly remember ordering everyone to stay on the ground until I returned.” Madam Hooch’s voice was sharp.
Neville was barely in the hospital wing; another accident was the last thing she needed.
“I’m sorry, Professor.” Ivan’s tone was polite and immediate.
“But I don’t believe any first-year can completely resist the urge to fly.
Who among us doesn’t dream of becoming a Quidditch player and bringing glory to the school one day?” He continued without pause.
“As for the matter with Malfoy and Neville, it was an unfortunate accident.
Fortunately the Levitation Charm worked well enough and no one was seriously hurt.” He spoke with such earnest enthusiasm about Quidditch that he stopped just short of declaring himself a future champion.
Madam Hooch’s expression eased a fraction.
As Flying instructor she understood that particular hunger.
“Even so, rules were broken.
There will be consequences.” She was still deciding on the exact punishment when Professor McGonagall arrived.
“Madam Hooch, may I borrow Mr Potter for a moment?” “Of course.” Hooch looked surprised, then nodded.
She briefly mentioned the unauthorised flying, assuming Harry was in some additional trouble.
McGonagall simply inclined her head and gestured for Harry to follow.
Harry left in a daze, still trying to understand what was happening.
Once they were gone, Hooch turned back.
“Hals, Malfoy—five points from each of your houses.
Now we will continue the lesson.” Ivan’s expression soured.
The points themselves meant little; he had already earned more than that through class answers.
Continuing the practical flying, however, was a problem.
He silently prayed the period would end quickly before his lack of skill became obvious.
He tried to keep a low profile, broom in hand, posture correct, presence minimal.
The earlier chaos had made Hooch cautious.
She decided they would fly one at a time.
Thanks to Malfoy’s earlier implication, Ivan found himself first.
He looked at the broom and sighed.
If he had simply admitted from the beginning that his flying was terrible, none of this would be necessary.
Now he could not claim incompetence without looking like a liar.
He mounted and gave a careful kick.
The broom, perhaps taking pity, rose in a shaky, uncertain hover.
Cold wind rushed past his ears.
Rooftops slid by.
For all its instability the sensation of free flight was cleaner and more exhilarating than any aeroplane.
He landed after a short circuit.
Madam Hooch pressed her lips together, clearly disappointed.
His earlier composure had led her to expect better.
Ivan cleared his throat.
“The broom may be a bit old, Professor.
It felt unstable.
I usually fly more smoothly than that.” Malfoy smirked openly at the mediocre performance—until Ivan spoke again, casual and clear.
“You agree, right, Malfoy?
Otherwise why would you suddenly fall off your broom?” The smirk vanished.
Malfoy stared at him with pure resentment before forcing out the only safe answer.
“Of course.
I think there might be something wrong with these brooms.” What else could he say?
Admit he had been petrified and dropped?
Or claim his own skill was the problem?
Neither option was acceptable.