Things carried on.

Cassian did dial it back, not much but still. Just changed the rhythm. Fewer fireworks, more rope.

The Gryffindors were catching on quick. Hermione started arguing footnotes with him by next week. Neville still looked like he might spontaneously combust if called on, but he stopped flinching every time someone called his name.

Seamus had set a quill on fire twice. Cassian refused to be impressed until it was intentional.

And so arrived Cassian’s favorite time of the year…

Bathsheda and he stood at the edge of the grass like a pair of underwhelmed judges at a sheepdog trial. She smoothed the picnic blanket down with one knee while he rummaged in a box, weighing snacks for an afternoon of mild chaos.

“Bribed the elves,” he said, setting out a slab of treacle tart with the same reverence some people reserved for holy relics. “They gave me everything but a roast.”

Bathsheda unwrapped a sandwich. “You promised them a recipe again, didn’t you?”

“I promised not to cook one.”

The field ahead buzzed with the nervous energy of first-years about to discover whether gravity had personal vendettas. A row of brooms lay on the grass like forgotten garden tools, and the children stood in a loose clump near them, whispering and shooting wary glances skyward. One of the Hufflepuff girls, Abbott if he was correct, looked at the brroms with nose wrinkled.

Cassian popped a cherry into his mouth. “Nothing like watching eleven-year-olds try not to cry while pretending they got what it takes to die for sport.”

“You sure you can judge them?” she asked, glancing sideways, still baffled he couldn’t fly.

He pointed his fork at the field. “I am observing to learn how to fly. Let me pace myself.”

Madam Hooch stormed into view like a gale in boots. Yellow eyes, cropped grey hair, whistle around her neck, and the general air of someone who found most things inadequate.

“Well, what are you all waiting for?” she barked. “Broomsticks. Stand next to one. Not behind it, not sitting on it. Next to it. Honestly.”

The first-years shuffled into place, brooms at their feet. Harry Potter looked down at his like it might explode. Cassian eyed him, chewing thoughtfully. The boy didn’t look scared. Just… waiting for it to do something. The broom was half-dead, twigs poking out like it had been used to clean chimneys.

“Stick out your right hand,” Hooch called, pacing in front of them like a general, “and say, Up!”

“UP!” they chorused. Most of the brooms twitched. One flew straight into a face. Another flopped over. Harry’s jumped neatly into his hand. Of course it did.

“Show-off,” Cassian muttered. “Probably had the best training.”

Hermione’s broom wobbled, then flopped over as if insulted. Neville’s just lay there like a corpse. His voice trembled as he said “up” again, quieter this time, and the broom still didn’t budge. He gave Madam Hooch a quick, panicked glance, then looked away.

“They are not cats,” Cassian called. “Stop trying to coax it like it is going to purr.”

Bathsheda elbowed him. “Let her teach.”

“I am letting her. I am just offering emotional support.”

Hooch was now demonstrating how not to concuss yourself while mounting. She moved down the row, correcting grips and swatting fingers like it was a fencing class. She stopped in front of Malfoy.

“You,” she said, squinting. “You’ve been holding it like that all this time? That is wrong.”

Cassian snorted tea through his nose. The prat was prattling on about how he could race a dragon in his backyard and how he nearly crashed into a Muggle heli just seconds ago.

“Now!” Hooch raised her whistle. “When I blow this, kick off. Straight up, hover, and come back down. Do not show off. Do not drift. Do not die. Three… two… “

Neville, in a fit of either courage or misread timing, launched skyward before the whistle touched her lips.

Cassian sat up straight.

Neville went up like someone had lit a fire under him… twelve feet, twenty, thirty, arms flapping, eyes wide as dinner plates.

“Come back, boy!” Hooch bellowed.

Cassian winced. “Oh, no.”

Neville teetered sideways.

“Don’t you…”

Cassian’s wand was in his hand before the words were fully formed. “Wingardium… no, wait.” His eyes narrowed. ‘Gravitas Ascendio.’

The old variant cracked through the air like a whip, and Neville shot straight up, arms flailing, eyes round with terror… then froze, suspended mid-air like a mildly traumatised balloon.

The entire class gasped.

Madam Hooch’s head snapped toward Cassian. “Can you bring him down?”

Cassian scratched his temple with the tip of his wand. “Right, of course. Bathsheda… Spongify, if you would be so kind? I would rather not splatter the child in front of witnesses.”

Bathsheda sighed so strong, it moved the grass. “You are unbelievable,” she muttered, casting the softening charm with a flick and a roll of her eyes.

Cassian grinned, let the levitation drop.

Neville plummeted like a sack of potatoes, hit the cushion with a loud boing, bounced once, and landed in the grass. Soft, a bit stunned, limbs everywhere but otherwise intact.

Madam Hooch was already kneeling beside him. “You are fine, boy. Bruised pride, maybe a bone or two. Let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey.” She shot Cassian a look of gratitude, but it felt like being thanked by an eagle, scary. “Watch the class, please.”

Cassian gave a half-bow. “Delighted.”

She turned to the rest. “None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you will be out of Hogwarts before you can say ‘Quidditch’. Come on, dear.”

Neville, looking like he wasn’t quite sure if he dreamt the last five minutes, hobbled along beside her, one hand cradling his wrist.

The second she was out of earshot, Malfoy barked out a laugh.

“Did you see his face? The great lump!”

The other Slytherins snorted and tittered like it was the best joke they heard all week.

“Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?” Pansy said, when Parvati turned on Malfoy.

“Never thought you would like fat little cry-babies, Patil.”

Malfoy darted forward, snatched something glinting out of the grass.

“Oh, look,” he said, holding it aloft. “That stupid toy his gran sent him.”

The Remembrall glittered in his palm.

“Give that here, Malfoy,” Harry said.

The chatter cut off like someone had pressed mute. All eyes swung between them.

Malfoy smiled slowly. “I think I will leave it somewhere for Longbottom to collect. How about, up a tree?”

Before Cassian could so much as twitch, Malfoy was on his broom and kicking off the ground. Up he shot, nimble, smug, holding the Remembrall high like a trophy.

“Come and get it, Potter!”

Harry grabbed his broom, hands tight around the handle. His face had that look… half rage, half don’t-think-just-do.

He looked at Cassian. “Professor, can you stop him?”

Cassian, still chewing on a cherry, shrugged. “I don’t know how to fly. But I choose you, Potter. Fly.”

He already had his wand up, a Cushioning Charm at the tip of his wand.

Harry didn’t need another word. He kicked off, and the broom took to the air like it had been waiting for him.

Hermione gasped, then hissed, “Madam Hooch said not to move! He will get expelled…”

Cassian waved her off. “He is already in the air, Granger. Let him finish the thesis before you write the detention notice.”

He remembered Potter being either a Quidditch star from his past life. Was probably trained by best of the before coming Hogwarts. Or was he a big Quidditch fan? If it was the first, great, he probably knew how to fly. If it was the second… oh boy, he was in some serious trouble.

Still, Cassian couldn’t imagine The James Potter’s son not being taught how to fly. And besides, Potter had gotten the broom right on his first try, he probably wasn’t a stranger to the skies.

Malfoy hovered higher, still holding Neville’s Remembrall, grin tightening. The moment Harry reached him, the grin faltered.

They circled. Harry just angled his broom forward, close enough that Malfoy had to backpedal in the air.

“Give it,” Harry said.

Malfoy tried to smirk. It came out twitchy. “Or what? You will cry?”

Harry tilted his broom forward, jerked it into a sudden lunge.

Malfoy swore and jolted back, just missing a tree branch. “Mental, you are!”

Cassian moved to the edge of the field, hands in his pockets, squinting up. “Oops. They get heated.”

Bathsheda passed him a pumpkin pasty. “Don’t encourage it.”

“I am not. I am observing.”

Above, Malfoy scowled, clearly regretting everything that led to this point. “Fine! Catch it if you can, then!”

He hurled the Remembrall skyward like a shooting ball and yanked his broom into a dive back to the ground.

Harry didn’t hesitate. He locked eyes on the ball, small, spinning, dropping fast, and followed it as if it were worth more than his future..

“Oh,” Cassian muttered raising his wand. “This is getting dangerous.”

Harry tucked himself close to the broom, shooting down. The wind tore past him, whipping his hair and tugging his sleeves like it wanted him gone.

Cassian tracked him with his wand, Arresto Momentum read to be fired if the pull-up went wrong, he’d catch the fall before bone met turf caught a flicker of movement on the ground. He saw Hannah Abbott covering her eyes, Ron yelling something lost to the wind, Lavender simply shrieked. 

Harry reached. Fingers out. One shot, one opportunity.

The Remembrall slapped into his palm. He yanked the broom up hard and the whole thing bucked, launching him in an awkward arc that ended with him thudding onto the grass, fingers curled around the Remembrall like it was a prize.

Seamus whooped. Ron shouted. Parvati screamed again, this time in delight.

Cassian strolled over, whistling. “You alright, Potter?”

Harry blinked up at him from the ground. “…Yeah.”

“Good. Thought we would have to start burying first-years by week two.” He glanced up at the sky. “Ten out of ten for showmanship. Two for form. You land like a sofa.”

Harry pushed himself up, still clutching the Remembrall.

The broom lay a few feet off, twitching.

“Malfoy?” Cassian called lazily, scanning the field. “Where did he… ah. There he goes. Off to cry into Daddy’s robes.”

Malfoy was already storming off, Crabbe and Goyle trailing behind.

“Think he will tattle?” Ron asked, jogging up beside Harry.

Cassian chuckled, mouth still half-full of pastry. “Oh, he will.”

He stood, brushing crumbs off his coat, then cupped a hand around his mouth. “Draco Malfoy! Come back here.”

Authority, as he once said, came in many languages. Cassian preferred the language of timing.

Spoiler

[collapse]

Author Rant ↓ 

Spoiler

Don’t worry, I’m not offended. Entire empires collapsed from neglect. But I shall stand.

[collapse]

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep