Chapter 24: Flying Talent, Is This Thing Broken?

Monday morning was unusually restless.

The little badgers were clearly distracted during class, their minds already soaring high on imaginary flying brooms. It was as if the sky outside was calling to them louder than any lecture could.

Thankfully, the first class of the day was Herbology.

Professor Sprout, ever the understanding head of Hufflepuff House, noticed the dreamy expressions on her students' faces. Rather than scolding them or deducting house points, she offered a kind smile—and even let the class out a few minutes early so the eager badgers could rush off, eat, and prepare for their long-anticipated flying lesson.

As Shaer was gathering his things to leave, Professor Sprout called his name, her eyes sparkling warmly with affection and anticipation.

"My dear Shaer," she said, her voice tinged with both pride and regret, "I'm so sorry that I have class this afternoon and won't be able to witness your first time flying."

"But I believe in you. I just know you'll be wonderful."

Then she added something unexpected, her tone filled with excitement. "The newest Nimbus 2000 broom is already on its way!"

"You'll definitely be able to ride it one day to represent Hufflepuff in Quidditch!"

Shaer paused, caught between surprise and pressure.

He hadn't even had his first flying lesson yet, and already Aunt Sprout had arranged for him to get a Nimbus 2000?

Though he knew that, in a few years, this model would be overshadowed by the legendary Firebolt, the Nimbus 2000 was currently the top-tier flying broom—its price tag comparable to that of a Muggle sports car.

How had Professor Sprout managed to buy one?

Her generous gesture moved him. And when he looked up and saw the expectation glowing on her face, something in his heart shifted.

Hufflepuff hadn't won the House Cup in years—nor had they taken the Quidditch Cup. Clearly, Aunt Sprout placed her hopes in him, not just for academics or behavior, but for something greater. Something symbolic.

Quidditch wasn't just a sport in the wizarding world—it was a national obsession.

So maybe he should take it seriously.

Not just the House Cup—but the Quidditch Cup too.

With that thought, Shaer nodded at Professor Sprout, his voice sincere.

"Auntie… I'll try my best."

Sprout watched him walk away, her face full of hope and pride. She couldn't help but smile. After all, Shaer's father—her younger brother—had once played as a Beater for the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. And Shaer's mother had been a skilled Chaser.

If Shaer could also take the field in Hufflepuff's name…

If only his parents were still alive.

A whole family playing for the same team—that would have been a joyful and glorious legacy.

Her eyes misted over at the thought. A few silent tears slid down her cheeks.

But then, she clenched her fist with determination.

"I'll raise Shaer to succeed."

"And that beast, Antonin Dolohov… I will live to hear the news of his soul being sucked out by Dementors in Azkaban. Only then will your spirits in heaven find peace."

By half-past three that afternoon, Shaer and the rest of the little badgers had rushed down the steps leading to the open grounds in front of the castle.

The weather was perfect for flying—clear skies and a refreshing breeze. The lush green grass rippled gently with the wind, filling the air with a calming energy.

The little eagles from Ravenclaw were already there, standing anxiously beside a line of twenty flying brooms laid neatly on the ground.

Despite being known for their wisdom and intelligence, the Ravenclaws looked just as nervous as the badgers.

After all, for most of them, this would be their very first time flying. No amount of book learning could fully prepare one for the heart-racing sensation of leaving the ground.

A few of them clutched tightly to manuals like "One Hundred Quidditch Flying Tips" and "How to Tame Your Flying Broom," reciting lines from them as if that would somehow keep them from falling.

Just then, Madam Hooch, the stern but skilled flying instructor, strode into view.

"Alright," she said in her no-nonsense voice. "What are you waiting for? Everyone, stand beside a broomstick."

They followed her instructions, forming neat lines beside the brooms.

Then came the part straight from the famous book series.

Everyone extended their right hand over their broom.

"Up!" they all shouted in unison.

A few brooms obediently leapt into waiting hands—Shaer's included.

The others? Not so much.

Some lay stubbornly still. Others flopped around like disobedient puppies.

Hannah Abbott's broom actually slapped her hand, as if scolding her for trying to command it.

Madam Hooch raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms.

"Flying brooms are like horses," she explained, scanning the crowd. "They can sense who's timid. Don't let them feel your fear. Gather your courage!"

Shaer looked at his broom, which had risen immediately and hovered patiently in place. Curious.

Could it really sense his mood?

He had been thinking—only half-jokingly—that if it didn't cooperate, he would kick it.

Now that thought reappeared.

Instantly, the broom trembled, its twigs practically groveling, as if to say, "Please don't hurt me!"

Shaer raised an eyebrow.

Interesting.

Madam Hooch moved around, helping each student mount their broom properly, giving safety instructions and checking grips.

Then, finally, she raised her whistle and blew sharply.

"Three—two—one—Lift off!"

With a rush of magic and wind, twenty flying brooms rose from the ground like birds breaking free of their cages.

Shaer felt the world fall away beneath him.

His face broke into a wide smile.

This wasn't like being on an airplane, where the air was blocked out by metal and glass. Here, the wind whipped past him. He could feel it in his bones.

He'd never experienced anything like it.

And despite expectations, flying wasn't hard at all.

His body might not have had top-tier magical talent, but it had something else—excellent physical conditioning, a high tolerance for motion, and surprisingly sharp instincts.

He was flying like a natural.

Effortlessly.

Madam Hooch took notice, her expression unreadable.

Wasn't this the Muggle-born child from the Sprout family? He shouldn't have had any flying experience.

Yet here he was—gliding through the air with the ease of someone who'd been doing it for years.

This child… he might just have the potential to be a Quidditch star.

Up above, near the top of a high tower, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were crouching behind stone arches, watching Shaer through narrowed eyes.

Shaer zipped past below, weaving through the air like a graceful hawk.

Malfoy's jaw clenched.

"How is this possible?" he spat.

"How's he flying that well?!"

Then jealousy crept into his voice.

"But you won't be flying for long," he muttered, pulling out a silver rod from his cloak. "I'm going to make sure you fall—right in front of everyone."

He raised the rod, an alchemical item his father had given him.

The tip flashed as he angled it toward the sun, sending a powerful beam of reflected light right into Shaer's path.

Shaer squinted. The sunlight was unusually intense.

"The sun isn't that strong today," he murmured. "Why is the glare so blinding?"

He slowed slightly, then shook his head.

"No matter."

"I'll just ignore it."

The broom never wavered. He soared onward.

On the tower, Malfoy was sweating, swinging the rod harder and harder, his arm growing tired.

Still, Shaer didn't fall.

"What the hell?!" Malfoy hissed. "This alchemical tool—Father said it could stun an elephant! Why isn't it working?!"

Crabbe and Goyle exchanged glances.

"…Maybe it's broken?"

Malfoy gritted his teeth. "Then let's test it on someone else."

Just then, Hannah Abbott was slowly approaching the tower, wobbling slightly on her broom.

Malfoy sneered.

He remembered that this clumsy girl was friendly with Shaer.

Perfect.

He angled the rod again—and another blinding reflection shot out.

Hannah, caught completely off-guard, blinked once—then her eyes rolled back.

She lost control of her broom.

She spiraled downward, plummeting like a kite with a snapped string.

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