The afternoon sun washed over the sloping grounds as Harry, Ron, and Hermione stepped out onto the damp grass. The Slytherins were already there, gathered in a loose cluster near the center of the lawn. Slytherin and Gryffindor shared this session, and the rest of the lawn was empty save for a few upperclassmen lingering near the battlements.
The trio slowed their pace to finish off the sweets they had snagged from the Great Hall. Ron was gnawing on the end of a Licorice Wand, while Hermione delicately sucked on a Sugar Quill, her eyes scanning the field as if looking for a textbook diagram. Harry unwrapped a Chocolate Cauldron, popping the entire thing into his mouth. The rich chocolate gave way to a warm center infused with a splash of Firewhiskey. It was easily his favorite treat, leaving a subtle burn at the back of his throat.
By the time they reached the designated practice area, twenty brooms lay lined up in neat rows on the turf. Harry paused, examining them with a critical eye. They looked ancient. The twigs at the tails were frayed and bent in odd directions, and the mahogany handles were heavily scuffed from decades of careless students.
His mind immediately flashed back to conversations at home. Both Vernon and Sirius had complained about Hogwarts' supply of school brooms. Sirius had sworn half of them suffered from a violent leftward drift at higher altitudes, while Vernon had dryly noted that school boards rarely prioritized maintenance budgets on flying sticks. Looking at the battered relics on the grass, their warnings were clearly justified. These things looked thoroughly unsafe.
Ron spat out the last piece of licorice and grimaced at the row in front of them. "Bloody hell. I know the brooms we have back home are bad, but these look outright miserable."
"They certainly have character," Harry remarked, wiping a stray trace of chocolate from his thumb.
Despite the questionable condition of the equipment, a spark of anticipation flared in Harry's chest.
"But still," Ron smirked. "I thought this day would never come."
"They don't look too safe do they?" Hermione quipped, noting the condition of the brooms laid in front of them.
The moment the Gryffindors joined the waiting Slytherins, Madam Hooch strode across the lawn, her robes snapping around her boots. Her short gray hair bristled in the afternoon breeze, and her yellow, hawk-like eyes swept over the quieted crowd, immediately commanding the field.
"Well? What are you all standing around for?" she barked, her voice cutting clean through the chatter. "Step up beside a broom. Quickly now! We do not have all day."
Harry, Ron, and Hermione took their places along the line. Harry stood over a particularly worn handle, assessing the splintered grain with a cool, practiced eye. He already assumed the magic in the wood was stale, requiring absolute clarity of intent to respond properly.
"Extend your right hand over your broom handle," Madam Hooch instructed, her stern posture rigid as a iron rod. "And say, Up!"
"Up!" the class chorused together.
"Up!" Harry said calmly.
He didn't need to shout. The moment the word left his lips, the broom leapt off the turf like a live thing, slamming into his open palm with a crisp thwack. He caught it effortlessly, his grip locking around the scuffed wood without a single wobble.
Beside him, Ron shouted the command with eager force. "Up!"
His broom hovered uncertainly, hesitated on the grass for a long second, and then awkwardly lurched up into his waiting fingers. Ron let out a breath, grinning with relief as he clamped down on the handle.
Hermione, however, was having a completely different experience. Her broom merely twitched on the grass, rolling an inch to the left before settling back into the dirt. She frowned, her eyebrows knitting together as she adjusted her footing, trying to apply whatever theoretical stance she had memorized from Quidditch Through the Ages.
"Up!" she commanded again, her tone sharp with mounting frustration.
The broom wobbled slightly under the force of her voice, lifted a meager inch off the turf, and promptly dropped flat.
Across the row, Draco Malfoy's broom had snapped up into his palm on the very first attempt, just as smoothly as Harry's. He held it with practiced ease, his gray eyes sweeping over the struggling students. His gaze lingered on Neville Longbottom, whose broom had rolled over twice and now lay completely inert despite his desperate shouting.
"Typical," Malfoy drawled, making sure his voice carried clearly over the grass. "Some of us are born with magic in our blood, while others are just natural ground-dwellers."
Harry simply rolled his eyes, keeping his focus forward and completely ignoring the jab.
Once Madam Hooch had paced down the line, barking corrections at a few hesitant Ravenclaws, she turned back to face the group. "Now, mount your brooms. Keep your feet firmly planted on the turf until I tell you otherwise. Don't slide too far back down the tail, and grip the handle lightly. Control comes from posture, not brute force."
Hermione mounted her broom with extreme hesitation. Her knuckles turned white against the scuffed wood, her entire frame locked in rigid tension as if she expected the stick to throw her off at any second. Ron, by contrast, swung his leg over his handle with total ease, leaning into the position like he had been doing it his whole life.
Harry settled over his own broom with effortless balance, his feet resting lightly on the grass as he waited for the whistle.
"On my whistle, you will kick hard off the turf," Madam Hooch instructed, pacing down the center line with her whistle already pressed to her lips. "Keep your brooms steady, hover for a few feet, then lean slightly forward to bring yourselves straight back down. No sudden turns, no rising above head height. Understood?"
A chorus of nervous nods rippled down the line. Hermione swallowed hard, her eyes darting between her broom and the ground, while Ron adjusted his grip with a confident nod.
Then a sharp, terrified yelp shattered the quiet air.
Neville's broom shuddered beneath him. The wood groaned violently, the tail end twitching as if possessed, before the stick shot straight into the air like an untethered rocket. Neville's knuckles turned bone-white around the handle, his scream catching in his throat as he was yanked upward into an erratic, twisting spiral.
"I can't control it!" Neville cried out, his voice cracking with sheer panic.
Madam Hooch's face went dead pale. "Longbottom! Lean forward, steady your weight!"
The rogue broom paid no attention. It whipped viciously from side to side, bucking like a wild animal before rocketing forward in wild, unpredictable surges.
Harry's heart hammered against his ribs. The casual excitement vanished, replaced instantly by cold, sharp adrenaline. His grip tightened on his own scuffed broom handle. He could feel the stale, reluctant magic in the wood under his hands, but there was no time to second-guess the equipment.
"Potter, stay right where you are!" Madam Hooch shouted, her voice laced with warning.
Harry paid her no mind. He kicked off the turf with all the strength in his legs, thrusting himself upward into the sky. The wind howled in his ears as the ground dropped away. He leaned low over his handle, forcing his faulty school broom into a steep, straining climb. The stick vibrated unnervingly under the strain, rattling against his palms, but he pushed past the warning signs, closing the distance to Neville in a matter of seconds.
"Hang on, Neville!" Harry yelled over the rush of the wind.
Neville's eyes were wide and filled with tears, his cheeks drained of color. "Harry, it won't stop!"
The rogue broom jolted sideways again, throwing Neville off balance. Harry veered right to match the move, reaching out with an outstretched arm, but his fingers only brushed air as the bucking broom jerked in the opposite direction. Harry fought his own broom's stubborn drift, weaving sharply to realign his path.
Then the rogue stick went into a violent, upside-down roll.
Neville lost his grip entirely. A raw scream tore from his lungs as he slipped off the handle, plunging straight down toward the hard earth fifty feet below.
Panic surged through Harry's chest, hot and overwhelming. He didn't hesitate. Pitching the nose of his broom forward, he went into a vertical dive.
The air screeched past his face, tearing tears from his eyes as the ground rapidly expanded below him. His broom shuddered violently under the atmospheric force, the tail twigs snapping and bending, threatening to split apart right beneath him. Harry locked his vision onto Neville's falling form, calculating the speed and trajectory while fighting the urge to flinch away from the looming turf. He leaned further into the dive, pushing the broom past its limits, his muscles burning as he fought to keep the trajectory true.
Ten feet. Five feet.
Harry reached out his arm, straining every fiber in his shoulder, and clamped his hand around Neville's wrist just inches above the grass.
The added weight pulled hard on Harry's arm, nearly tearing him off his own seat. Searing pain shot through his shoulder as he hauled upward with everything he had, forcing the nose of his broom up into a last-second pull-up. The strained wood groaned in protest, unable to cleanly carry two people at such speed.
They didn't land cleanly. Harry's boots hit the turf at a punishing angle, the force of the momentum driving him into a rough, tumbling halt. He skidded across the damp grass, throwing his body over Neville to absorb the brunt of the impact.
Neville tumbled beside him into the dirt, coughing and gasping for breath, trembling violently but whole. Just a few yards away, Neville's rogue broom slammed headfirst into the soil with a loud crack, snapping completely in two.
Silence fell over the field. Harry stayed on his knees for a second, chest heaving, his right shoulder throbbing with a dull ache while his hands shook uncontrollably from the adrenaline surge. He took a slow breath to steady himself before looking down at Neville.
"You alright?" Harry asked, his voice strained and gravelly.
Neville nodded weakly, wide-eyed and stunned.
"POTTER!"
Madam Hooch's voice blasted across the lawn like thunder. She sprinted toward them, her face a storm of terror and fury, her robes snapping violently around her legs.
Harry pushed himself up, rubbing his aching shoulder as he braced for the fallout.
"WHAT IN MERLIN'S NAME WERE YOU THINKING?" she shouted, stopping right in front of them, her breathing ragged. "RECKLESS! UTTERLY RECKLESS! YOU COULD HAVE BROKEN YOUR NECK!"
Harry exhaled sharply, wiping dirt from his sleeve. "I had to do something. He was falling."
"He saved me," Neville stammered from the grass, his voice small and unsteady. "If he hadn't jumped down after me, I would have smashed right into the ground."
Madam Hooch pinched the bridge of her nose, her fingers trembling slightly as she fought to regain her composure. She looked down at the shattered broom pieces, then back at Harry's pale, sweat-sheened face.
"You could have both been killed," she growled, though the sharpness in her voice had lost its edge, replaced by a deep sigh. She turned her attention to Neville. "Can you stand, Longbottom? Are you injured?"
Neville slowly pushed himself up, checking his arms and legs. "Just shaken, I think."
Madam Hooch fixed Harry with a long, unreadable look, her sharp eyes scanning his rigid posture. "Stay put. Both of you. Do not touch another broom until I return."
She spun on her heel and marched briskly toward the castle, clearly intending to report the faulty equipment and retrieve the medical kit.
The moment she cleared the crest of the hill, Ron hurried over, letting out a low, disbelieving whistle. "Bloody hell, Harry. That dive... I thought you were going to plow straight into the dirt."
Hermione followed close behind, her face still pale. She looked at Harry with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "That was completely insane! Your broom was shaking so hard I thought it was going to snap in mid-air!"
Harry ran a hand through his messy hair, feeling his heart finally slow down to a normal rhythm. "Yeah, well. It held together just long enough."
Hermione uncrossed her arms, her brows furrowing as she looked at Harry with an expression that mixed lingering panic with genuine annoyance.
"And another thing," she added, her voice dropping into a scolding pitch. "Why on earth did you even fly on a faulty broom stick in the first place? You could have just cast a Levitation Charm or a Cushioning Moment. You know magic far beyond anyone here!"
Harry froze, his hand still resting on his aching shoulder.
He stared at Hermione. The adrenaline-fueled instinct, the reckless flight, the strain on his muscles, and the bone-rattling tumble on the turf suddenly felt ridiculous. The realization washed over him with the weight of a falling anvil.
He had completely forgotten he could just use a spell.
Harry let out a slow, heavy breath, his face going entirely deadpan as he stared into the distance. "I am an idiot."
Ron let out a sudden snort, trying and failing to hold back a laugh. "A fanatical flying idiot."
"Not a word, Ron," Harry muttered, rubbing his forehead. "Not a single word."
From the corner of his eye, Harry caught Malfoy watching him. The Slytherin's usual arrogant smirk had completely vanished, replaced by a strange, unreadable glare. Whatever Malfoy had expected from the lesson, Harry's sheer dive had shattered his expectations.
Before the murmurs across the field could settle, a sharp voice sliced through the chatter.
"HARRY POTTER!"
Harry turned to see Professor McGonagall striding across the lawn with the force of an oncoming storm. Her tartan robes billowed behind her boots, her face pale with fury, and her square glasses flashed ominously in the autumn light. She was already mid-rant as she closed the distance.
"...how dare you... might have broken your neck... utter disregard for basic safety..."
Harry instantly wiped the faint smirk from his face, smoothing his posture into something respectable, though excitement hummed under his skin. He knew precisely where this path led.
McGonagall stopped right in front of him, her posture rigid. "Explain yourself, Potter. Right now."
Before Harry could utter a word, a chorus of voices erupted around him.
"He saved Neville, Professor!" Ron shouted, stepping forward.
"Neville's broom went completely mad!" Hermione chimed in, her voice ringing clear over the crowd.
"Harry swooped down and caught him right off the grass!" Lavender added.
McGonagall's sharp gaze flickered toward Neville, who was still sitting on the damp turf, pale and trembling while rubbing his wrist. Her lips pressed into an extraordinarily thin line as she took in the snapped broom handle resting nearby.
"I see," McGonagall said, her tone clipped. She turned her steely eyes back onto Harry, nostrils flaring. "That still does not excuse diving fifty feet on an uninspected school broom, Potter. You disregarded direct instructions and risked your life."
Harry met her glare without flinching, his voice calm and steady. "Neville was falling, Professor. There was no time to weigh options. I simply acted."
McGonagall stared at him, seemingly at war with her own strict nature. The silence stretched across the grass until she exhaled a sharp, controlling breath.
"And frankly, Potter, considering your extraordinary magical capabilities, diving headfirst on a broomstick was the absolute least efficient option available to you. A simple Arresto Momentum or a basic Levitation Charm would have solved the issue without risking two broken necks."
Harry coughed lightly, staring at a particularly interesting patch of grass near her boots. "Right. Magic. Of course."
"Twenty points to Gryffindor," she declared smoothly, brushing past the moment.
A collective gasp echoed across the field before the Gryffindors erupted into cheers. Malfoy's jaw visibly dropped in disbelieving outrage.
"However," McGonagall cut through the noise, her voice like a cracking whip, "you will still serve detention with me tonight, Potter."
Harry bit back a grin as he fell into step behind Professor McGonagall. A hell of a detention this will turn out to be.
He had to lengthen his stride to match her furious pace as she swept through the stone corridors. Her robes snapped around her ankles like dark sails, sending portraits fluttering in their frames as she passed. Harry focused on keeping his face entirely neutral, masking his satisfaction under a veil of quiet innocence. He knew every turn of this hallway and exactly where they were headed.
McGonagall came to a sudden halt outside Charms class. She knocked once, opened the heavy oak door, and peered inside.
"Excuse me, Professor Flitwick. Might I borrow Wood for a moment?"
A murmur went through the classroom before Oliver Wood, a burly fifth-year student, stepped into the hallway looking thoroughly confused.
"Follow me, both of you," McGonagall commanded, marching further down the hall without slowing. Wood cast a curious, puzzled glance down at Harry, who simply offered a small, polite nod.
She led them straight into an unused classroom. The only occupant was Peeves, who was currently floating near the ceiling and chalking foul words onto the blackboard with great enthusiasm.
"Out, Peeves!" she barked.
Peeves tossed the chalk into a metal bin with a deafening clang, blew a loud raspberry, and swooped out through the solid stone wall. McGonagall slammed the door shut, cast a quick silencing charm with a flick of her wand, and turned to face the two boys.
"Potter, this is Oliver Wood. Wood, I have found you a Seeker."
Wood's confused frown melted away, replaced instantly by absolute shock. "Are you serious, Professor?"
"Completely," McGonagall replied crispness in her tone, though a hint of fierce pride leaked through. "The boy is a natural. I watched him pull a fifty-foot dive on an ancient school broom, catch a falling student mid-air, and land without a single scratch. Charlie Weasley couldn't have pulled off a move that precise."
Wood looked as though Christmas had arrived early. He began circling Harry, inspecting his posture, height, and shoulders with the sharp intensity of a professional scout inspecting a racing broom.
"He is built for it," Wood said, his eyes practically gleet. "Light, agile, definitely fast reflexes. We will need to get him a proper broom, Professor. A Cleansweep Seven or a Nimbus Two Thousand at the very least. He cannot compete on a school broom."
"I will speak to Professor Dumbledore myself," McGonagall said, her lips setting into a firm line. "If anyone warrants an exception to the first-year broom rule, it is Potter."
She paused, taking a breath as her stern demeanor faltered slightly. "Heaven knows Gryffindor needs a victory this year. That last match against Slytherin was an absolute disgrace. I could barely look Severus in the eyes for a month."
She turned her sharp gaze back onto Harry, pointing a finger at him. "You will need to write home for a proper broom, Potter. I will ensure Dumbledore approves the exemption, but I expect complete dedication. If I hear you are slacking off on schoolwork, you will find yourself serving real detentions."
"I won't let you down, Professor," Harry said, keeping his tone calm despite the surge of excitement in his chest.
Wood clapped a heavy hand on Harry's shoulder, grinning broadly. "We start practice next week, Potter. Be ready. We are taking the Cup this year."
As Wood turned and headed out to return to his class, McGonagall remained behind for a brief second. Her stern posture softened entirely, her sharp eyes warming as a rare, gentle smile touched her lips.
"Your father would have been proud, Harry," she said quietly, her voice dropping the formal title for the first time. "James was an exceptional player himself. A brilliant Seeker. It seems the sky runs in your blood."
The mention of his father hit Harry right in the chest, bringing a warm, grounding comfort. "Thank you, Professor."
By the time evening arrived, the news had swept through the castle faster than a runaway Bludger. The Great Hall was bathed in the warm, ambient glow of floating candles, the long house tables groaning under the weight of platters filled with roasted chicken, savory pies, and bowls of buttered potatoes. But for the Gryffindors, the evening meal had quickly turned into a small celebration.
Harry sat near the middle of the Gryffindor table, sandwiched between Ron and Hermione. Half the table was openly staring at him, whispering in hushed, excited tones. Curiosity extended well beyond their house boundary as well. A few Ravenclaws pointed in his direction from across the aisle, while a couple of Hufflepuffs kept leaning back in their bench seats to get a clearer view of the first year who had pulled off a fifty-foot dive on a school broom.
"You realize first years never make the house teams, right?" Ron muttered around a mouthful of chicken, staring at Harry as if he had suddenly sprouted an extra set of arms. "It hasn't happened in over a century. Merlin's beard, Harry, you are literally the youngest Seeker in a hundred years."
Harry took a calm sip of his pumpkin juice, completely unphased. "Yeah, yeah. Youngest in a century. It turns out catching someone mid-fall leaves an impression."
"That is putting it mildly," Hermione chimed in, though her initial terror had melted into a genuine, proud smile. "It was completely terrifying to watch, but you were brilliant, Harry. You really are going to do great."
"Thanks, Hermione," Harry said, giving her a quick grin. "Although I'm still questioning why I didn't think about using magic."
"Bloody hell," Ron whispered, shaking his head. "My best mate is on the Gryffindor team. Mum is going to drop her teacup when she hears. Ginny and Abigail are going to go spare."
Before Harry could answer, a loud clap landed squarely on his shoulder. Neville stood behind them, looking far better than he had on the lawn, though his face flushed red as half the table turned to watch.
"I just wanted to say thanks again, Harry," Neville said, his voice quiet but full of sincere gratitude. "If you hadn't dived down, I would've spent the next month in the hospital wing. Or worse."
"Don't worry about it, Neville," Harry replied warmly. "Just glad you are intact."
Right behind Neville, Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan pushed past to slap Harry on the back, while Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil, Sally-Anne Perks, and Sophie Roper clustered nearby, watching with bright, starry-eyed curiosity.
"That dive was mental, Potter!" Seamus declared loudly.
"We thought you were going to plow straight into the grass," Dean added, grinning. "Mad skills."
Harry offered a nod of thanks as the group shuffled down the bench to find their own seats. Neville gave a small, appreciative wave before slipping into a spot next to Dean.
"At least now we know why Professor McGonagall didn't lecture you for an hour," Hermione remarked softly, buttering a hot roll. "Though she was clearly furious at first."
Harry laughed softly. "Oh, she took my head off before she awarded the points. Classic McGonagall. Stern on the outside, but completely house-obsessed on the inside."
Ron paused mid-bite, squinting at Harry with a puzzled frown. "You talk about McGonagall like you have known her for half your life, mate."
Harry caught himself instantly, schooling his tone into easy indifference. "How long does it take you to figure someone out, Ron?"
Ron scratched his cheek thoughtfully. "I don't know. Definitely longer than a week."
"You would be surprised what you pick up if you just pay attention," Harry said smoothly, dishing a pile of roast vegetables onto his plate. "McGonagall is strict, but she is fair. I respect her."
"He is not wrong," Hermione agreed. "She holds high standards, but she clearly respects talent when she sees it."
Ron snorted into his goblet. "Yeah, well, she didn't recruit me after my first lesson."
"Maybe you should have tried jumping off your broom mid-air," Harry smirked.
"No chance," Ron muttered. "I like my skeleton intact, thanks."
Two heavy pairs of hands dropped down onto Harry and Ron's shoulders simultaneously. Fred and George Weasley squeezed themselves into the tight spaces on either side of the trio, grinning like a pair of triumphant Cheshire cats.
"Well, well, well," Fred started, leaning in close. "Look who made the front page of the Gryffindor grapevine."
"The boy, the myth, the baby Seeker," George chimed in, snatching a chicken leg from a nearby platter. "We heard McGonagall practically dragged you off the field by your collar."
"We thought you were getting expelled," Fred chuckled. "Instead, Wood comes bursting into the common room earlier screaming like a banshee about a secret weapon."
Harry smirked, taking a sip of pumpkin juice. "Wood is a bit intense, isn't he?"
"Intense is an understatement," George said. "The man lives, breathes, and probably eats Quidditch balls for breakfast. But honestly, Harry, we knew you were a menace in the air after last month, but making the team in your second week? That is legendary."
Fred nodded in agreement. "We thought we would have to wait until second year to unleash you on Slytherin. Malfoy must be throwing a complete fit."
"He looked like he swallowed a Lemon Drop whole when McGonagall announced the points," Ron said, grinning wickedly.
Just then, a small group of older Gryffindor girls paused behind their bench. Katie Bell, Angelina Johnson, and Alicia Spinnet were all smiling warmly down at Harry.
"Is it true, Potter?" Angelina asked, her hands on her hips. "Wood said we have a new Seeker who can dive like a falcon."
"It is true," Harry said smoothly. "Looking forward to playing alongside you all."
Alicia grinned. "Good. We need someone fast to outrun the Slytherin Seekers. Welcome to the team, Harry."
"Don't let Wood run you into the ground during practice," Katie warned playfully before the three Chasers walked off toward the upper end of the table.
Hermione watched them leave before turning back to Harry, her brow furrowed in thought. "Do you really think Professor Dumbledore will grant the exemption for your own broom? The rulebook clearly states first years are not permitted their own flying equipment."
Harry leaned back, completely unbothered. "McGonagall said she would handle Dumbledore. And let us be honest, when McGonagall decides something needs to happen, no one in this castle stands in her way, not even the Headmaster."
"True," Ron admitted. "She is terrifying when she wants to be."
"She is efficient," Hermione corrected, though a faint smile touched her lips. "Still, you should write home to your family to ensure they order the proper model."
Ron snapped his fingers. "Right! The Nimbus Two Thousand! Harry, if you get that, you will be flying the fastest broom on the market. Fred and George will die of envy."
"If? I am getting that Ron," Harry smirked. "There's no way I'm playing Seeker on a Cleansweep 7 or Comet 260."
"We are sitting right here, little brother," George noted dryly. "And we won't die of envy. We will simply steal it for joyrides when he isn't looking."
"Eh, you can take it anytime you want, as long as it's not during matches." Harry laughed. "But Hedwig's still delivering the letters I sent home last night. She should be back by tomorrow or the day after, then I'll write to Sirius and Mum.""
"Yes, speaking of that," Ron said, leaning in slightly across the wooden table. "Do you think Sirius will buy it outright or try to send something completely absurd?"
"Knowing Sirius, he might just try to send three Nimbus 2000 just in case one gets scuffed," Harry replied dryly. "Mum will keep him sensible, though."
As they continued eating, another shadow fell over the bench. Percy Weasley stepped up, his Prefect badge pinned proudly to his chest, gleaming under the floating candles of the hall. He adjusted his posture, looking down at Harry with a mixture of stern authority and rare approval.
"I must say, Harry, while your disregard for the flying instructor's initial rules was deeply concerning, the outcome is exceptionally noteworthy," Percy declared pompously. "Securing a spot on the house team as a first year reflects very well on Gryffindor. Just ensure your new duties do not interfere with your academic obligations."
"Thanks, Percy," Harry said, suppressing a smirk. "I will keep my parchment clean."
"See that you do," Percy said solemnly before marching off to inspect the lower end of the table.
Fred faked a gagging noise into his goblet. "Ignore him. Percy thinks studying is a competitive sport."
While the twins debated the finer points of prank-testing their latest Skiving Snackboxes on Percy, two first-year girls from their house, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, stopped near Hermione.
"That catch was brilliant, Harry," Parvati said softly, giving him an admiring smile.
"Simply amazing," Lavender agreed, fluttering her eyelashes slightly before looking at Hermione. "Are you coming up to the common room after dinner, Hermione? We are starting the Transfiguration essay."
"I will be up shortly," Hermione replied politely. The two girls nodded to Harry once more and walked off together, giggling quietly as they whispered to each other.
Ron shook his head, looking around the bustling hall. "You are proper famous now, mate. Not just for the old story, but for actual flying."
"It will blow over in a week," Harry said casually, taking a sip of his drink. "Once practices start, everyone will find something else to gossip about. Probably Malfoy complaining about his toes hurt or something equally dramatic."
"Don't count on it," George laughed. "The Gryffindor versus Slytherin match is two months away, and Wood is going to train you like a spartan. You are the star show now."
Harry simply smiled into his goblet, entirely unfazed by the prospect. He had trained under far harder conditions than a middle-school Quidditch captain could ever dream up. If anything, he was looking forward to taking to the sky properly.
As dinner wound down and the dessert platters began to clear away, the Gryffindors started rising from the benches. Ron stuffed one final roll into his pocket for later, while Hermione began organizing her bookbag.
"We should head up," Hermione suggested. "The common room is going to be packed, and I want to finish my reading before it gets too noisy."
"Right behind you," Harry said, standing up and stretching his limbs. His right shoulder, which had taken the brunt of the impact during the rescue, barely throbbed anymore.
They fell into step with the crowd of Gryffindors streaming out into the entrance hall. As they reached the base of the grand marble staircase, two more first-year girls from their house hurried up from behind to match their pace. Sally-Anne Perks and Sophie Roper were both looking at Harry with bright, wide-eyed excitement.
"Harry!" Sally-Anne called out, her cheeks flushed as she fell in on his left. "We didn't get a chance to say anything at the table, but that dive was absolutely mental!"
"It really was," Sophie agreed quickly, stepping up beside Hermione. "We were standing right near the front line when Neville's broom went off. We thought he was a goner for sure until you shot past everyone."
Harry offered them both a friendly, easy smile. "Thanks, both of you. Honestly, I'm just glad Neville walked away in one piece."
"Well, so are we," Sally-Anne chuckled. "And it is brilliant that you got on the team! Now Slytherin won't be able to rub their stupid win from last year in our faces."
"Definitely," Sophie added with a decisive nod. "Good luck with Wood! We heard he is already drawing up playbooks."
"I will need all the luck I can get," Harry joked back.
The two girls giggled, giving a cheerful wave as they picked up their pace to join Lavender and Parvati further up the stairs.
Ron watched them go, shaking his head with a wide grin. "See? I told you, mate. The whole house is already backing you."
As they ascended the moving stairs, Harry suddenly veered off toward a quiet, narrow passage on the third floor. He caught Ron by the sleeve and motioned for Hermione to follow.
"Where are we going?" Ron asked, looking around the empty corridor. "The common room is the other way."
Harry grinned, his eyes gleaming with quiet excitement. "I am way too wound up about making the team to just go sit in the common room and do Transfiguration homework. Come on, I want to show you something incredible. I made a new friend last week."
"A new friend?" Hermione echoed, her eyebrows knitting together in suspicion as she followed them down a steep, stone staircase. "Harry, who could you possibly have met?"
Harry led them past dusty tapestries and narrow side paths, moving with total familiarity through the castle's hidden arteries until they reached a heavy, weathered oak door. It opened directly out toward the shadowy tree line bordering the grounds. The cool evening air washed over them as the door clicked shut behind them.
Without a word, Harry summoned Elythral into his grip. With a subtle, practiced wave of his custom wand, a shimmering ripple of magic swept over the three of them, completely bending the ambient light around their bodies.
Hermione gasped softly, her voice echoing faintly from where her invisible form stood. "We are going to the Forbidden Forest, aren't you?"
"Yes," Harry murmured, keeping his voice low.
"Harry, you do realize it is called the Forbidden Forest for a reason?" she hissed, her tone laced with sharp anxiety. "We could get killed, or worse, expelled!"
Harry rolled his eyes behind his veil of magic. Or worse, expelled. There is really something wonderfully backwards about her priorities.
"We won't," Harry reassured her smoothly as he led the way down the sloping turf. "We are not going deep inside. Just a small clearing right past the treeline. Stick close to the path I showed you two earlier."
Ron grumbled under his breath. "You sound way too used to sneaking past the castle boundaries, mate."
Harry merely smirked, reaching down to touch the subspace pouch rested securely at his hip. "Just watch your step."
They crossed the open grass unseen, slipping under the thick canopy of ancient trees. The atmosphere changed instantly. The warm golden light of dusk gave way to cool, velvety shadows, and the ambient scent of moss, pine, and damp earth grew thick in the air. Once they were well beneath the cover of the dense foliage where no one from the castle windows could spot them, Harry lifted the Disillusionment Charm with a quick gesture. Walking through dense woods while entirely invisible was a quick recipe for tripping over roots.
They navigated a winding trail through the tall oaks until the dense brush opened into a quiet, sun-dappled glade. The evening sun filtered through the high canopy in delicate beams of light.
Harry lowered himself onto a mossy log near the center, resting his hands on his knees. "He is not here yet," he said quietly. "He will come."
Ron squinted into the dark brush, his posture tense. "Who exactly are we waiting for?"
Harry leaned back against the bark, a calm smile on his face. "Just wait."
Hermione folded her arms, her eyes darting nervously around the shadows. "Harry, if this is a dangerous creature..."
"It isn't," Harry said gently. "Trust me."
A few minutes passed in peaceful silence, broken only by the gentle rustling of leaves and the faint chirp of evening birds. Then, from deep within the shadows of the forest, came a soft, rhythmic sound. The crisp, delicate thud of hooves pressing into soft earth.
Ron sat bolt upright. "Do you hear that?"
The sound drew closer, perfectly measured and light as a feather. The brush parted, and a creature stepped gracefully into the soft light of the clearing.
Hermione let out a sharp, trembling gasp.
A unicorn stood before them. Its coat gleamed with a brilliant, pearlescent radiance that seemed to push back the surrounding gloom. Its long mane flowed like spun silver, and an otherworldly, ethereal glow clung to its graceful silhouette. Dark, deeply intelligent eyes swept over the clearing before settling warmly on Harry.
"Bloody hell," Ron breathed, frozen in absolute awe.
The unicorn neighed softly, lowering its head in a gentle, familiar greeting.
"Hey there, Lumos," Harry murmured softly, stepping off the log and meeting the creature halfway.
Harry reached into his subspace pouch, pulling out a small velvet bag filled with honey-glazed apples he had prepared. He held out his open palm, offering a slice. Lumos accepted the treat delicately, his velvety muzzle brushing Harry's hand as he chewed with a low, melodic hum of contentment.
"I met him when I came into the forest to test my wand," Harry explained quietly, gently stroking the creature's silver mane. "Let us just say we became friends rather quickly."
Hermione whispered, her voice trembling with awe. "He is magnificent..."
"Can we... touch him?" Ron asked, holding his breath.
Harry looked back over his shoulder and nodded. "It is safe. You can approach, but move slowly. He usually doesn't care for humans, so give him a second to adjust."
Moving with reverent caution, Hermione stepped forward first, holding her breath as if entering a sacred temple. She slowly extended her hand, hovering an inch away before softly resting her fingers against the unicorn's neck. Lumos let out another low, soothing hum, leaning slightly into her touch.
Ron followed right behind her, his initial fear vanishing as he reached out to touch the silver coat. The three of them stood together in the quiet clearing, bathed in the soft glow of the creature, the weight of the extraordinary moment sinking deep into their minds.
"Unicorns almost never come close to people," Harry said quietly, watching his friends. "Especially males. He is special like that."
They stayed in the clearing until eight. Lumos nudged Harry's hand one last time, turned with quiet grace, and vanished back into the depths of the forest like a ghost into the trees.
The walk back to the Gryffindor tower was spent in hushed, reverent silence. Even Hermione didn't bring up the broken school rules again, her mind clearly lingering on the magic of the glade.
When they finally climbed through the portrait hole and sat near the roaring hearth of the Gryffindor common room, Hermione looked at Harry with soft, wide eyes.
"That was truly one of the most incredible things I have ever seen, Harry."
Ron leaned back into his armchair, staring into the flames. "I am never going to forget that. Never."
Harry smiled, "Glad you enjoyed that!"