The broom in front of him was old—a Shooting Star, its twigs frayed at the ends, the varnish worn thin near the grip.
Tobias reached for it, and his fingers closed around wood that felt denser than it should have, like trying to lift a stone disguised as a branch.
He glanced sideways.
Hannah’s broom twitched eagerly at her outstretched palm.
Ernie’s had already leapt into his hand with a snap.
Across the lawn, a Slytherin boy—blond, sharp-chinned—was smirking as his own broom vaulted into his grip like a trained dog.
Madam Hooch strode past, her yellow hawk-like eyes flicking over each student.
“Up!” she barked, and a dozen brooms sprang obediently into waiting hands.
Tobias’s did not.
It shuddered, as if fighting the idea, then rose sluggishly, stopping just short of his fingertips.
He had to stretch to grab it.
A snicker rippled from the Slytherin side.
Hannah leaned in.
“You alright?” she murmured.
Tobias flexed his fingers around the broomstick.
It hummed faintly under his palm, a vibration more felt than heard.
“Fine,” he said.
Hooch reached the end of the line, pivoted sharply.
“Mount your brooms,” she ordered.
Tobias swung a leg over, and the wood groaned under his weight like an old floorboard.
He stood between Hannah and Ernie at the Hufflepuff end of the row.
Hooch’s whistle cut through the wind.
“On my mark—kick off!” Tobias pushed off.
The broom lurched beneath him, heavier than it had any right to be, but it held.
The ground dropped away—slowly, reluctantly—and then he was airborne, hovering unevenly three feet above the grass.
To his left, Hannah wobbled slightly before steadying.
To his right, Ernie shot up too fast and had to grip the handle tighter to stop himself from tipping backward.
Across the lawn, the Slytherins were already showing off—looping in tight circles, dipping low over the grass.
One boy, the sharp-chinned one, glanced at Tobias and smirked again before peeling away in a steep climb.
Hooch’s voice carried over the field.
“Diggory!
Eyes on your own broom, unless you’d like to demonstrate proper form for the class?” Tobias glanced toward the fence.
Cedric was leaning against it, watching with an expression that wasn’t quite a smile—something thoughtful, like he’d noticed something the others hadn’t.
He straightened when Hooch called him out and raised his hands in surrender, but his gaze lingered on Tobias for a second longer before he turned away.
The broom twitched under Tobias’s grip.
It wasn’t fighting him anymore—just adjusting, settling into the weight of him.
He exhaled, and for the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, he didn’t feel like he was failing.
The broom was heavier in his hand than the others looked in theirs.
But it didn’t buck.
It didn’t waver.
It held him—solid, grudging, like an old tree branch taking the weight of a climber it had no particular opinion about.
Hooch’s whistle cut through the wind again, sharp and bright.
“Altitude checks!
Hold steady at four feet—no higher, no lower.
Balance your weight.” Tobias shifted his grip minutely, and the broom responded with a slow dip before levelling out.
It wasn’t graceful, but it was stable.
Behind him, someone gasped—then a thud, followed by Hooch’s brisk, “Macmillan, up you get.
No, don’t rub your elbow, it’ll only sting worse.” The Slytherin boy—the smirking one—swept past Tobias’s shoulder close enough to rustle his robes.
“Hufflepuffs and their *balance*,” he drawled, voice pitched just loud enough to carry.
His broom tilted precariously as he twisted to smirk back, and for a heartbeat, Tobias thought he might actually fall.
But the boy righted himself with a showy flick of his wrist, and the broom obeyed like it was part of him.
Tobias’s broom did not flick.
It did not show off.
It simply held.
Hannah, hovering beside him, shot the Slytherin boy a glare before leaning in.
“Ignore him,” she muttered.
“You’re doing better than half our lot.” Ernie, now dusting off his knees after his tumble, nodded vigorously.
“I’d take steady over flashy any day.” Hooch clapped her hands.
“Enough chatter!
Eyes forward, hands firm—Diggory, if you’re quite done spectating, you can demonstrate a proper hover for the class.” Cedric pushed off the fence with an easy grin, pulling his own broom—a sleek Comet 260—from where it had been leaning against the wood.
He mounted in one smooth motion, kicked off, and rose to hover effortlessly beside Hooch, his posture relaxed, his grip loose.
“Like this,” he said, glancing briefly at Tobias before addressing the group.
“The broom knows what you want.
You just have to let it.” Tobias exhaled.
The broom beneath him hummed again, low and steady, like a heartbeat.
He was off the ground; he was in the air.
For once, he wasn’t thinking about the hole in his chest or the way his spells fizzled out.
For once, he wasn’t behind.
Hooch blew her whistle twice—short, sharp.
“Forward motion!
On my mark—one foot forward, controlled glide.” Tobias leaned slightly, and the broom obeyed, drifting forward a grudging foot before settling back into a steady hover.
Hannah’s bobbed unevenly beside him; Ernie’s jerked forward too fast before he hauled it back.
Across the lawn, the Slytherin boy—still smirking—shot ahead in a smooth arc, then twisted to watch the Hufflepuffs struggle.
“Back,” Hooch called, and Tobias shifted his weight again.
The broom responded slower this time, but it moved.
It didn’t fight him.
The Slytherin boy scoffed, tilting his broom sideways in a lazy spiral.
“You call that flying?” he called, loud enough for Hooch to hear.
She didn’t even glance at him.
“Slow circles next.
Rotate on the spot—smooth, controlled.” Tobias gripped the handle tighter.
The first attempt was messy—his broom wobbled, tilted too far left, nearly tipped him.
He caught himself, exhaled, tried again.
This time, the circle was slow, lopsided, but complete.
He didn’t fall.
Ernie, mid-wobble, grinned at him.
“Not bad!” The Slytherin boy wasn’t watching anymore.
He was too busy showing off—tight loops, steep dives, until his broom caught the wind wrong on a sharp turn and bucked.
He yelped, flailed, and hit the ground hard on his backside with a thud loud enough to make Cedric wince from the fence.
Hooch was beside him in three strides.
“Sprain,” she said briskly, hauling him up by the elbow.
“Hospital wing.
The rest of you—stay put.” The boy groaned, clutching his wrist, but Hooch didn’t wait.
She marched him off the field, leaving the class hovering in uneasy silence.
Tobias’s broom hummed under his palms, steady as a heartbeat.
He was still in the air.
Cedric Diggory paused at the fence on his way back from Sprout’s.
The wind tugged at his robes as he leaned against the top rail, his bag sliding down his shoulder slightly.
He watched the first-years—most wobbling, a few showing off, one Slytherin boy now being hauled away by Hooch—with the detached interest of someone who’d seen this exact scene play out before.
His gaze settled on Tobias.
The boy wasn’t graceful—his circles were wide, his hover uneven—but there was something deliberate about it.
No wasted movement.
No panic when the broom dipped.
Cedric tilted his head slightly, considering.
*Not flashy,* he thought.
*But steady.* Hufflepuff could use steady.
The reserve bench always needed bodies who wouldn’t crack under pressure, even if they weren’t the fastest or the flashiest.
Cedric had seen enough Quidditch matches to know that sometimes, staying in the air mattered more than how you got there.
Tobias completed another slow rotation, his grip firm but not white-knuckled.
The broom beneath him seemed heavier than the others, resistant in a way Cedric couldn’t quite place—but it held.
That counted for something.
After a minute, Cedric pushed off the fence.
He didn’t look back as he walked away, his boots scuffing lightly against the path.
He moved on toward the castle without anyone in the air noticing him.
When Hooch was back, the lesson finished without further trouble.
The remaining manoeuvres were small.
The class dismounted, laying their brooms back on the grass in two rows.
The light had turned amber and long by then, stretching their shadows thin across the lawn.
They started up the slope toward the castle, Hannah chattering about how she’d *nearly* managed a full loop, Ernie prodding at the bruise darkening his elbow.
Tobias walked behind them, hands in his pockets, the wind now barely a sigh against his back.
The castle loomed ahead, its windows catching the low sun like dull coins.
Tobias’s shoulders ached faintly—not from strain, but from the slow, unfamiliar satisfaction of muscles used well.
He hadn’t fallen.
He hadn’t failed.
The broom had held him, grudging but steady, and that was enough.
Hannah turned at the entrance hall, still buzzing.
“You were *good*,” she said, like it was a revelation.
“Like, actually good.” Ernie nodded, wincing as he flexed his bruised arm.
“Better than me, anyway.” Tobias shrugged.
The praise sat strangely in his chest—light, unfamiliar, not entirely unwelcome.
“It held,” he said, because that was the only part that mattered.
Down in the common room, the firelight pooled warm and drowsy around the armchairs.
A few older students glanced up as they entered, then returned to their books or conversations.
Tobias sank into his usual chair, the one by the slightly crooked hearthstone, and let the quiet settle over him.
Hannah flopped onto the couch, still talking.
Ernie disappeared toward the dormitories, presumably to tend to his bruise.
No one asked Tobias how the lesson had gone.
No one needed to.
He leaned back, watching the firelight flicker against the ceiling.
The hole in his chest ached faintly, as it sometimes did when he forgot to notice it for too long.
He had found something at Hogwarts he was not actively bad at, and he kept it to himself.