Chapter 15: "The Non-Flyer"  

On this day, Hoffa woke up earlier than ever before. 

Flying was a human dream. 

As a wizard, Hoffa naturally harbored the ambition to soar through the clouds. 

Especially in 1938, when airplanes weren't as widespread as they would be in the future. If he could learn to ride a broomstick, not only would it make traveling easier, but it would also give him an extra layer of security in the future. After all, the Muggle air force of this era wasn't as terrifyingly precise as it would become, and wars were primarily fought on land. 

In the Great Hall during breakfast, the usually calm Ravenclaws were unusually excited, discussing Quidditch anecdotes. 

Hogwarts' breakfast was lavish. 

Fried eggs, bread, vegetable or fruit salad, sausages or bacon, coffee, tea, milk, butter, jam, and juice. 

There were also other cereals and porridges. 

But Hoffa was so focused on the upcoming Flying class that he ate very little, afraid that eating too much might make him nauseous if he flew too fast. He only had a sausage and a bit of oatmeal porridge. 

Some students from wizarding families boasted about their flying experiences. 

William Carlson, one of Hoffa's roommates, was bragging to his friends about his family's glorious flying history, claiming that his father had once evaded Muggle planes and gunfire on a broomstick during World War I. 

Taylor Smith, another roommate from a Muggle family, listened with wide-eyed admiration. 

For Muggles of this era, unless they joined the Royal Air Force, flying was pretty much out of the question for their entire lives. 

The Ravenclaw students were relatively calm compared to the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables, where groups of students gathered, occasionally bursting into laughter. 

Most of the laughter came from the boys. Quidditch in this era was still a boys' game, with girls rarely participating. 

After breakfast, the group quickly left the Great Hall. 

They arrived at a grassy field near the Quidditch pitch. 

It was a clear, breezy day, with the grass gently waving under their feet. 

Beyond the field was the Forbidden Forest, with dark trees swaying in the distance. 

This class was held alongside the first-year Slytherin students, who were already there. A row of broomsticks lay neatly on the ground. 

Tom Riddle was chatting and laughing with a few classmates. When he saw Hoffa, he didn't react at all. 

In fact, since they had arrived at Hogwarts, their conflict seemed to have disappeared. 

They had become like two unrelated passersby. 

There was no lingering animosity from the orphanage, nor any indication that they knew each other. 

Hoffa knew about Riddle's grand ambitions. He wasn't a childish kid like Malfoy. 

He wouldn't waste energy on pointless confrontations. 

Soon, their instructor arrived. 

Hoffa had already heard about him during breakfast. 

The Quidditch instructor was named Parry O'Leary, a Beater for the Irish national Quidditch team during the 1920 Quidditch World Cup. Their team had made it to the semifinals, which was quite an achievement. 

Parry was a tall man with long arms, curly brown hair, and an energetic demeanor. 

Seeing the first-years, he whistled. 

"What are you waiting for? Line up by height!" 

The crowd shuffled noisily. 

Watching these eleven-year-olds push and shove, Parry impatiently stepped in. 

He pulled the children out and rearranged them into different positions. 

Hoffa had initially been standing next to Miranda, but Parry separated them because Hoffa was half a head taller. 

He was pushed next to someone else. 

Yes, it was Aglaia again. 

They were about the same height. 

When Aglaia saw Hoffa being pushed next to her, she snorted. 

The warm sunshine and gentle breeze had been pleasant, but now, standing next to Aglaia, Hoffa felt uncomfortable all over. 

Seeing the students lined up neatly by height, Parry looked quite satisfied. 

He whistled again and said, "Stick out your right hand over your broom and say, 'Up!'" 

"Up!" 

Everyone shouted. 

Hoffa also extended his hand. "Up!" 

Nothing happened. 

So he said it more forcefully. 

"Up!" 

Still, nothing. 

He felt puzzled. What was going on? 

He looked around. Some people's broomsticks had already risen. 

For example, Tom Riddle, standing across from Hoffa. 

As soon as he spoke, the broomstick obediently flew into his hand. 

His roommate William wasn't lying either. His broomstick quickly jumped into his hand. 

Some children's broomsticks rolled around sluggishly on the ground, as if reluctant. 

For example, Miranda. Her broomstick seemed hesitant, rising a bit and then falling back down. 

But at least it moved. 

Only Hoffa's broomstick remained completely still. 

Hoffa wasn't ready to give up. He tried a few more times, but it still didn't work. 

"Muggle." 

A mocking voice came from beside him. 

Hoffa saw Aglaia on his right, smirking with satisfaction. She still had her arms crossed, unmoving. 

So Hoffa said the first thing to her in a week: "What are you so proud of? Yours hasn't moved either." 

"Is... that... so...?" 

She drew out her words, as if savoring the moment. 

Then, Aglaia looked at him mockingly, one arm crossed, the other extended over her broomstick. 

Without saying a word, the broomstick shot into her hand. Hoffa could practically feel the broomstick's eagerness to be ridden by her. 

Hoffa widened his eyes and looked at his own broomstick again. 

"Up!" 

The breeze brushed past the tattered twigs, but it remained motionless. 

Like a dead fish. 

Hoffa's face darkened. He raised his hand. 

Parry noticed him. "What is it, kid?" 

Hoffa: "Professor, my broomstick is broken." 

Everyone looked over. Parry widened his eyes and reached out from a distance. 

"Up." 

Hoffa's broomstick instantly flew out of his range and into Parry's hand. 

Parry examined it and said unhappily, "What are you talking about? This broomstick is in perfect condition." 

With that, he threw the broomstick back to Hoffa. 

Hoffa extended his hand again. "Up." 

It was dead again. 

"Hahahahahahaha~" Aglaia laughed delightedly, her sweet expression making Hoffa grit his teeth. 

She said, "A flying Muggle, a landlubber among wizards, is someone with no flying talent. 

"Such people are rare in history, but you are undoubtedly one of them. 

"In Britain and across Europe, flying is an ancient and elegant art. Quidditch is a sophisticated social sport. 

"It represents the outstanding individuals with leadership abilities among the crowd. And you—" 

"Shut up! 

"No one thinks you're mute if you don't speak." 

Hoffa's face turned ashen as he directly silenced Aglaia. This time, he no longer wanted to maintain even a superficial peace with her. 

He pulled out his wand and pointed it at the broomstick on the ground. 

"Wingardium Leviosa!" 

Under the Levitation Charm, Hoffa's broomstick rose like a reluctant dog, trembling as if in pain as it was forced into his hand. 

Hoffa could sense the broomstick's reluctance, but he gripped it tightly. 

Then, something unexpected happened. 

Aglaia raised her hand. 

Yes, she raised her right hand high and said loudly, "Professor Parry, Hoffa is cheating. He cast a spell on the broomstick." 

The noisy field suddenly fell silent. 

Everyone turned to look at Aglaia and Hoffa. 

Hoffa was stunned. Snitching? 

This was something universally despised in any world. 

And yet, the person next to him had done it so blatantly. 

Did the world revolve around her? Why had she even been sorted into Ravenclaw? 

Parry walked over to Hoffa, displeased. "Did you really cast a spell on the broomstick?" 

"Yes." 

Hoffa sighed. 

"What spell?" 

"The Levitation Charm." 

Hoffa said. 

Parry took a deep breath and exhaled. 

"Casting spells on broomsticks is a serious foul in Quidditch. 

"Did you know that?" 

"No, I didn't." 

Hoffa said expressionlessly. 

"Since it's your first offense, I won't deduct points. 

"But you're done for this class. Go sit on the sidelines and watch." 

Parry said regretfully. 

Hoffa threw the broomstick aside, put away his wand, and strode to the sidelines. 

He crossed his arms and said nothing. 

Once again, life had thrown Hoffa a curveball. He wasn't Harry Potter. He had no flying talent. 

Nor did he have any aptitude for Quidditch. He didn't even know the rules of the game. 

On the field, Parry blew his whistle. 

He demonstrated the correct posture for riding a broomstick. 

The students began to rise into the air. Some wobbled unsteadily on their broomsticks. 

Others flew swiftly back and forth. 

Aglaia was the best flyer in the group. She didn't even need to hold the broomstick with her hands. She crossed her arms, as if she could control the broomstick with her mind alone. 

The distant sky was dotted with white clouds. 

Hoffa leaned against a tower, a blade of grass between his teeth, watching the people flying overhead. For the first time, he felt out of place in this world. 

Aglaia was right. In the wizarding world, Quidditch was a game for those with talent. 

Just like the sailing competitions at Ivy League universities in his previous life. If you weren't part of the upper class, they wouldn't even let you play. 

Soul-searching, Hoffa knew why the broomstick hadn't responded to him. It was because he had no interest in Quidditch. He just wanted to fly. 

The rules of Quidditch seemed absurd to him. 

Especially the rule that catching the Golden Snitch could instantly change the outcome of the match. 

It made no sense. It was pure individual heroism. 

In comparison, he preferred the Muggle world's soccer. 

Everyone mattered. 

At this moment, he thought of many things. He remembered how, in the books, Hermione had once had a heated argument with Professor Trelawney. 

Trelawney believed Hermione had no talent for Divination and dismissed her efforts. 

But the truth was that intuition and logic couldn't coexist. Hermione could never become a Seer, just as Hoffa could hardly become a Quidditch master. 

Talented people were always in the minority, especially in sports. 

In his previous life, he had been awkward in sports, always watching others play. He hadn't expected to face the same situation in the wizarding world. 

Having some talent in Transfiguration was enough. 

Why be greedy? 

There were many ways to fly. He didn't have to cling to one method. 

Right now, what he needed to do was focus on learning and growing. 

Only those who survived the future war would have the right to pursue their own happiness. 

Striving for temporary glory and becoming the king of the 11-year-olds was meaningless. 

Having realized this, Hoffa's mood calmed. He spat out the blade of grass and walked away from the field with his hands behind his back. 

In the sky, Aglaia kept flying, but her gaze remained fixed on Hoffa, who was sitting in the corner. 

The feeling of putting Hoffa down thrilled her. Ever since meeting him, she had been constantly humiliated. 

Especially that time on the train when she had tried to guess his identity, which had made her feel utterly embarrassed. 

Today, she had finally regained some face. 

But seeing Hoffa leave so calmly made her feel like she had punched cotton.