It was one of those clear, breezy days that made everything feel alive.
As Sean and Justin headed across the sloping lawns toward a flat stretch of grass, a warm gust swept over like an invisible hand, rippling through the blades.
At the far end of the Quidditch pitch lood the shadowy edge of the Forbidden Forest—Dumbledore's strict no-go zone. Every now and then, weird noises drifted out from it, leaving the kids with this mix of awe and itch to explore.
Twenty or so brooms were lined up neat as you please on the ground, looking battered and ancient, with twigs poking out like they'd seen better days.
No surprise Justin had a question about them.
"Won't they be uncomfortable? I an, wizards invented the Cushioning Charm for a reason—
In 1820, Elliot Sthwyck ca up with it, and it pushed broom-making way forward in terms of comfort."
Sean explained it quietly.
Even though he kept his voice low, a few kids nearby still let out those "Ah, got it" murmurs.
Before long, the postcard-perfect lawn was swarming with a flock of robed first-years.
Then ca the sharp clip-clop of heels—enter a no-nonsense witch marching up, all business:
"Right, what are you lot waiting for? Line up by a broom each—hurry now, let's not waste ti!"
Her yellow eyes were hawk-sharp, short gray hair fluttering just a bit, voice quick and snappy.
"That's Madam Hooch. Besides Flying lessons, she refs all the Hogwarts Quidditch matches."
Michael popped up out of nowhere to fill in the blanks.
Ref?
The word sparked a mory in Sean from Quidditch Through the Ages—so of those wild referee tales:
[Over the centuries, there've been tons of cases where refs' brooms got ssed with. The nastiest? Soone turned a ref's broom into a Portkey mid-match. Poor soul got whisked off the pitch halfway through and didn't turn up for months—in the Sahara Desert, no less.]
Dangerous gig, Sean thought.
"Cots? But Universal Brooms Ltd. went bust back in 1978, didn't they? How'd Hogwarts score these vintage relics?!"
Michael let out a desperate groan as he reached his broom.
It made Sean take a closer look at his own—phew, a Cleansweep Seven. At least he could track down the manual for that one.
The others stuck with the collector's items? Good luck to 'em.
"Before anyone hops on, a quick warning:
If you try taking off without my say-so, you'll end up just like Mr. Longbottom did yesterday.
He was lucky to only snap his wrist—but get unlucky, and a broken neck's over in a flash!"
The kids all felt a chill down their spines. One Hufflepuff even clapped a hand over his throat like he was about to go the way of Nearly Headless Nick.
"Now, facing your broom, say 'Up!' loud and clear!"
"Up!"
A bunch of eager beavers jumped the gun, shouting the command with grins—so nailed it first try, like Justin. His broom twitched twice and hopped right into his hand.
Others? Not so much. Terry and Michael watched theirs either sit there like lumps or give a half-hearted flop.
Sean echoed Madam Hooch's tone:
"Up—huh?"
He was already holding his broom. It felt as ta as a fawn.
For a second, he blanked. Had he even finished saying it?
"Right, straddle your brooms. Once I blow the whistle, kick off hard—get so height!"
Madam Hooch called out.
She waited while everyone settled in and got comfy, then barked again, crisp as ever:
"Grip tight, rise a few feet, then lean forward a touch to drop straight back down.
On my whistle—three—two—"
Up on their brooms, the kids were a jittery bunch—so shaking like leaves.
Even among the Ravenclaws, Sean was the chillest of the cool.
He wasn't gunning for altitude anyway. Nah, his mind was on Sir Cadogan's old tricks—how to pull those off.
"Flying's all charm-powered... stay in control..."
He muttered to himself, shifting his weight fully onto the broom.
And just like that, sothing clicked—a faint hum under the surface.
Whenever it veered left or right, there was this undercurrent of magic pulsing:
"Braking Charm, Rising Charm, Turning Charm..."
Sean pieced it together quick. Once he tuned in fully—
Madam Hooch's final call hit:
"One! Tweet!"
The whistle pierced the air, and the kids shot up like backward raindrops.
One Ravenclaw yanked his broom too hard, yelling as he rocketed skyward—thankfully not too fast, so Madam Hooch yanked him down with a silent spell.
A Hufflepuff went the other way, nose-diving straight for the dirt—saved at the last second by a puff of conjured hay.
And the ones tumbling off like dumplings? Way more than a few.
Madam Hooch was sweating bullets, dodging desperate grabs from plumting kids:
"I'm gonna die!"
She hit him with a quick Aguanti, splashing him sober.
Five or six managed to hover and loop a bit, but the smoothest, slickest, most graceful flight?
No contest—that pale-faced Ravenclaw.
[You've practiced flying to journeyman's standards. Proficiency 10.]
[You've practiced flying to journeyman's standards. Proficiency 10.]
...
The panel's pings kept coming, and Sean's loops got sharper, more instinctive.
He could feel the magic humming now, and the secrets behind it—the way a simple nudge of will tapped into the broom's charms.
Want to bank left? Channel a thread of magic to wake the Turning Charm on that side.
Need to stop? Nudge the Braking Charm just so.
That spark of magic—your will made manifest—was like a key, unlocking the broom's obedience.
What Sean didn't know? Most kids treated brooms like tools, letting the built-in brakes do the heavy lifting.
This level of finesse? That was Quidditch pro stuff.
They called it "syncing with your broom like it's your best mate."
"Is that... Sean?"
Michael wobbled on his broom, barely off the ground, heart pounding.
He craned his neck at the freewheeling "bird" overhead.
Couldn't believe his eyes.
[You've practiced flying to journeyman's standards. Proficiency 10.]
[Flying Skill Unlocked.]
[New Flight Mastery Title Unlocked—Check It Out.]
[Wizard Talent Unlocked—Check It Out.]
The alerts chid nonstop. Sean had never felt this free.
For his frail body, even running or jumping was a pipe dream.
But a broom? It let him chase the rush of wind whipping past his ears again.
Excitent flared in his chest, warm as the crackling fire in the orphanage's dingy hall.
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