Draco did not move.
He looked down at the red Remembrall in his hand.
Sunlight streamed through the clear sphere, casting a dreamlike glow on the swirling mist inside.
Then he raised his head, his grey-blue eyes gleaming with a look Alvin Vance was growing familiar with—that smug glint of *I’ve got you now*.
“Neville’s?”
The corners of Draco’s lips curled into a smirk as he said lazily, “Oh, you mean that thing belonging to Longbottom, who fell off his broom three seconds ago and is being dragged off to the hospital wing with a broken arm?”
Harry’s hand remained outstretched, sparks of anger igniting in his green eyes.
“Give it to me!
Now!”
Draco tossed the Remembrall casually in his hand, the red sphere turning in the air and scattering tiny flecks of light.
“Want it?” he said, dragging out his words with mock deliberation.
“Hmm…
let me think…”
He suddenly shoved the Remembrall into his pocket, his smirk spreading into an overt provocation.
“Come and get it then, Potter!”
Before the words died away, he raised his free hand and shouted at the broom on the ground, “Up!”
The battered school broom sprang up as if on a coil, flying straight into his hand in an instant.
With a fluid movement, Draco mounted the broom, kicked off the ground hard, and shot into the sky.
Before Alvin Vance could even react, the platinum-haired figure was already twenty feet up in the air.
Draco hovered there, looking down at Harry on the ground.
The sunlight outlined a bright silhouette behind him, making him look even more like an insufferably arrogant white peacock.
“Come on, Potter!” His voice drifted down from above, echoing in the air.
“Let’s see what the famous ‘Savior’ Harry Potter can do besides making the Sorting Hat indecisive!”
Alvin Vance frowned.
Madam Hooch’s order still echoed in his ears: *No one touches a broom.* Draco, the “Slytherin Chief,” had paid it no mind whatsoever.
Alvin Vance was just about to say something when he saw Harry move.
The black-haired boy’s face flushed crimson, his green eyes burning with fury.
Snatching up the broom by his feet without even bothering to call “Up,” he mounted it and kicked off the turf hard.
He flew into the air as well.
“Harry!” Ron and Hermione shouted from behind, but it was too late.
Harry’s broom shot upward like an arrow released from a bow, hurtling toward Draco.
Alvin Vance’s frown deepened.
Two of them.
Now two people were flying in the sky, and by the looks of it, a peaceful negotiation was out of the question.
“Merlin’s beard…” Blaise muttered beside him.
“Has Draco completely lost his mind?”
Pansy Parkinson, on the other hand, was full of excitement, tilting her head toward the sky and shouting cheers like “Go, Draco!” Crabbe and Goyle looked utterly bewildered, clearly unable to grasp the situation, though they instinctively pumped their fists in Draco’s direction.
Alvin Vance kept his eyes locked on the two figures spiraling above.
Draco was indeed a talented flyer—Alvin Vance had to grant him that.
His movements were fluid and confident, the broom under him acting like an extension of his body.
Turning, diving, climbing—he executed each maneuver with effortlessly comfortable elegance.
He had clearly received excellent training at home.
What surprised Alvin Vance, however, was Harry.
The bespectacled, somewhat frail-looking boy seemed like an entirely different person once mounted on a broom.
There was no wasted movement; every turn was sharp and decisive, as if a strange rapport existed between him and that battered broom.
His green eyes glittered in the sun, locked onto Draco ahead of him like a falcon zeroing in on its prey.
“Give the Remembrall back!” Harry yelled.
“Come and get it!” Draco taunted, cutting a sharp turn in the air around an imaginary obstacle.
“If you can catch me!”
The two chased each other across the sky, soaring upward in spirals one moment and diving steeply the next.
Draco taunted him continuously, hanging upside down from his broom to make faces, or pretending to throw the Remembrall only to snatch it back.
Harry stayed glued to his tail, coming within inches of grabbing Draco’s robes several times.
The young wizards on the ground watched in stunned awe.
Some gasped, some screamed, others clapped and cheered.
Ron’s face turned as red as his hair, shouting things like “Get him, Harry!” while Hermione frowned, wearing a look that said *they’re both going to get detention.*
Alvin Vance looked up, calmly tracking their increasingly wild flight paths.
He had seen Draco’s upside-down trick—it was impressive, but if he slipped from that height, the consequences would be dire.
He had seen Harry’s dive—it was blisteringly fast, but if he collided with Draco, both of them would lose control.
He saw the gap between them shrinking, their trajectories growing unstable, every near-miss drawing sharp gasps from the onlookers below.
This was no Flying Class.
This was a farce.
And this farce could end at any moment in a catastrophic crash.
In Alvin Vance’s mind, the image of Neville falling flashed by, the loud thud still echoing in his ears.
If Draco and Harry were to end up like that…
Alvin Vance reached inside his robes, his fingertips brushing against the stack of talismans inside his pouch.
His movement was gentle and natural; with everyone else staring up at the sky, no one noticed him.
He drew out a single talisman.
It was still the most basic, gentlest talisman—the Clear Wind Draft.
It was one of the first talismans he had learned, originally meant to manipulate air currents, clear away foul air, and purify small spaces.
Back on Mount Qingcheng, he had often used it to sweep dust from the training halls.
Now, however, it served a different purpose.
Alvin Vance pinched the talisman between his index and middle fingers.
The spiritual energy within him stirred, flowing along specific meridians toward his fingertips.
His lips moved slightly, chanting an incantation audible to no one but himself.
Not English, nor Latin, but the sacred mantras passed down through generations in the Taoist temples of Mount Qingcheng.
The paper talisman gave a subtle quiver.
There was no flame, no smoke, no burst of colorful light like a wand would produce, no eye-catching anomaly whatsoever.
Only a nearly imperceptible trace of clear wind rose from the paper, drifting skyward like an invisible ribbon.
Rising higher and expanding, the breeze swept silently across the air.
Then, softly, gently, yet irresistibly, it enveloped Draco’s broom.
Just as Draco was triumphantly preparing to accelerate again, he felt as if an invisible hand were supporting his broom.
No longer heeding his commands, it began to descend slowly and steadily.
“What—” Draco looked down at the broom, then glanced around, thoroughly bewildered.
“What’s going on?”
At that exact moment, Harry felt the same force.
His broom was wrapped in the clear wind as well, drifting down toward the grass against his will.
He tried to fight it, tried to change direction, but the force was too soft yet unyielding—like a mother’s firm hand, bringing him toward the earth without allowance for refusal.
Side by side, the two descended gradually, landing firmly on the lawn at last.
Their brooms touched down lightly and fell still, as if nothing had ever happened.
Draco and Harry sat on their respective brooms, staring at each other.
Their expressions were identical: stunned, perplexed, and shocked by what had just occurred.
Silence hung over the lawn for three whole seconds.
Then, whispers surged like a wave.
“What happened?”
“Why did they come down all of a sudden?”
“Did you see that?
It looked like something caught them…”
“Is it magic?
Who cast that?”
Ron rushed over to Harry’s side, inspecting him from head to toe.
“Are you alright?
Why’d you come down all at once?
I thought you were about to grab Malfoy!”
Harry shook his head, his eyes scanning the crowd to find an answer.
Draco hopped off his broom as well, frowning as he dusted off his robes.
His gaze searched the crowd too, looking for an explanation—or a culprit.
Then, both of their eyes landed on Alvin Vance at the exact same moment.
It wasn’t because they had seen anything.
Rather, while everyone around them was whispering, looking about, and seeking answers, one person alone stood quietly in place, his expression as serene as though nothing had happened.
Alvin Vance had already slipped his fingers back into his pouch.
The Clear Wind Draft talisman had dissolved into a wispy smoke invisible to mortal eyes, dispersing into the afternoon air.
Meeting Draco’s and Harry’s gazes, his expression remained unchanged, betraying neither guilt nor hesitation.
Yet the eyes of those around them began shifting toward him as well.
“Alvin,” Blaise leaned in, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.
“What did you…
just do?”
Alvin Vance looked at him and asked calmly, “What did I do?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Blaise lowered his voice, though he couldn’t hide the excitement in his tone.
“I saw it!
Your hand…
and that thing…
Anyway, I saw it!
The two of them came down out of nowhere—it had to be your doing!”
Alvin Vance went quiet for a second.
He had no desire to expose his “uniqueness” in front of everyone.
But as it turned out, hiding his special nature completely among a crowd of observant, inquisitive young wizards was no easy task.
Moreover, looking at Blaise’s sparkling eyes and the probing glances gathering from around them, he thought that perhaps revealing just a tiny fraction wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
He offered a slight nod.
Blaise gasped softly, then immediately turned to whisper excitedly to the person beside him, “I knew it! This chapter was copied from novelping.com without permission.
It was Alvin!
He used some spell—no, not a spell, something else—anyway, he brought them down!”
The news spread as if it had wings.
“It was that Slytherin freshman!”
“The one with black hair and a white streak!”
“What spell did he use?
I’ve never heard of a spell like that!”
“It wasn’t a spell, it was something else!
Zabini said it was some yellow paper…”
Draco strode over, his expression a mix of anger and confusion.
“Alvin, what on earth are you doing?
I was about to—I almost made Potter look like a complete fool!”
Alvin Vance looked at him and said calmly, “You were also about to break your arm.
Madam Hooch said no one was to touch a broom.”
Draco choked on his words, opening his mouth only to find himself completely speechless.
Then, Alvin Vance reached out his hand.
Under Alvin Vance’s stare—one that seemed entirely unremarkable yet somehow pressed heavily on Draco—the boy pouted and reluctantly placed Neville’s Remembrall into Alvin Vance’s palm.
By then, Harry had walked over as well, looking far more conflicted than Draco.
He hesitated before speaking in a low voice, “Thanks…
Um, were you the one who brought us down?”
Alvin Vance nodded.
He then handed the Remembrall back to Harry.
“Return it to its rightful owner.”
Harry seemed eager to press further, but right at that moment, a sharp voice rang out from the distance:
“—What is the meaning of this?!”
Everyone turned at once toward the source of the voice.
Madam Hooch was striding briskly from the direction of the castle, her face flushed with incredulous fury.
Stepping into the middle of the crowd, her hawk-like yellow eyes swept across Draco and Harry, then over the brooms scattered on the ground, before settling on the assembled students.
“Did I not say,” her voice rasped as cold as a November wind, “that no one touches a broom until I get back?”
Draco drew his neck back slightly.
A flush of shame crept onto Harry’s face.
Madam Hooch glanced back and forth between the two boys before letting out a sharp sigh.
“Mr.
Malfoy, Mr.
Potter, stay behind after class.
The rest of you, back to practice!”
She paused, then added, “From the absolute basics.
‘Up.’ Everyone, face your broom and say ‘Up.'”
Chants of “Up” echoed across the lawn once more.
But this time, as they shouted, many stolen, inquisitive glances darted toward the Slytherin side—toward the boy with black hair and a single streak of silver-white.
Sensing their gazes, Alvin Vance kept his calm composure and softly uttered to the broom beneath his feet once more, “Up.”
The broom snapped up on command, settling firmly in his grasp.
By the time Flying Class ended, the setting sun was sinking westward, bathing the entire castle in a warm, orange-red glow.
The spot at the front of the Slytherin line—where someone ought to be standing proud and tall—was vacant.
At that moment, Draco was still standing in the middle of the lawn while Madam Hooch spoke to him with hands on her hips, Harry standing beside him having received the same detention.
Suddenly, Draco’s gaze cut past Madam Hooch’s shoulder, landing squarely on Alvin Vance, who was watching him.
Those grey-blue eyes telegraphed a crystal-clear message:
*You—lead—them—*
Alvin Vance went silent for a moment.
He looked at Draco, then at the waiting Slytherin first-years around him.
Pansy was tapping her foot impatiently, Blaise wore the expression of someone watching a good show, Crabbe and Goyle blinked blankly around them, and the others were waiting for someone to give orders.
Alvin Vance let out a soft sigh.
He turned to the Slytherin first-years and said, “Let’s go.
To the Great Hall.”
“You?” Pansy raised an eyebrow.
“We ought to wait for Draco.”
“Then wait by yourself.
He told me to lead the group,” Alvin Vance kept it concise.
Pansy’s face clearly read *who do you think you are?* But Alvin Vance was already walking toward the castle, giving her no opportunity to object.
The others exchanged looks for a few seconds before trickling along behind him.
Blaise picked up his pace, catching up to Alvin Vance and whispering, “Temporary Chief, eh?
Not bad, Alvin.
In my opinion, you’re miles better than Draco—in every way!”
Alvin Vance made no answer, his pace never slacking.
Blaise shrugged and dropped the subject.