Chapter 08

Old, battered school brooms lay at the feet of each young witch and wizard.

Madam Hooch, looking sharp and practical in her flying robes, addressed the assembled first-years. She stressed caution repeatedly, but trouble was inevitable.

Neville Longbottom, nerves getting the better of him, lost control almost immediately. His broom shot skyward, and his Remembrall slipped from his pocket. A sickening crunch followed as he hit the ground, breaking his arm despite the slight cushioning effect of the fall.

Madam Hooch abandoned the lesson, whisking the whimpering Neville off to the Hospital Wing. The remaining Gryffindors and Slytherins exchanged uneasy glances.

Draco Malfoy seized the fallen Remembrall. Spotting an opportunity, he began taunting Harry Potter, waving the glass ball mockingly. This little display, however, inadvertently led to Professor McGonagall witnessing Harry's astonishing natural aptitude as a Seeker.

John stayed out of it. Firstly, he knew Harry had it handled. Secondly, he was wrestling with his own broomstick. After several failed attempts that involved the broom rolling over or stubbornly refusing to rise more than a foot, John finally managed a shaky liftoff.

Hermione tried to grab his robes to stop him from joining the rule-breakers, but he was already airborne. She could only stamp her foot in frustration. Though wobbly at first, John soon found his balance and stabilized.

[Ding. Enhancement Acquired: Aviator]

[Aviator: Increases broomstick flight speed and enhances broomstick handling.]

"This triggers too?" John thought, momentarily surprised. Once stable, he began to enjoy the sensation of flight, soaring freely above the grounds until Madam Hooch finally called the lesson to an end. He landed with distinct reluctance. Professor Snape, passing by and witnessing John's competent landing, gave a disdainful snort before stalking off.

The ancient human dream of flight was now his. John flew until the very last minute of the lesson.

The Great Hall, Dinner Time.

John encountered Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. The blond boy seemed to have regained his swagger. He puffed out his chest, addressing John with renewed arrogance.

"Wick! You wanted a duel, didn't you? I accept your challenge! Tonight. Eleven-thirty. The Trophy Room on the third floor." He delivered the challenge like a rooster crowing victory and swept away with his cronies.

John watched him go, an expression of profound disbelief on his face. "Where did he find the nerve? Must have overdosed on courage potion." Did the idiot forget John lived in the Trophy Room these evenings for his detentions?

Grabbing a bag of premium cat food Mrs. Wick had sent (specifically for Mrs. Norris), John headed to the Trophy Room for his nightly chore. The scrawny Maine Coon was waiting by the door. Her lamp-like red eyes fixed on John, and she gave a soft "Mrow?" as he approached. Weeks of bribes had fostered a wary truce. John poured out a generous portion of the good stuff.

By the time John finished polishing the last Quidditch Cup, Mrs. Norris had finished her meal. He scooped her up and, pulling a small comb from his pocket, began gently working out the tangles in her fur. She purred loudly, vibrating with contentment. Filch was likely off patrolling for miscreants, trusting John to get on with his task unsupervised now.

"Alright, let's see what game Malfoy's playing," John mused. He knew Malfoy wouldn't dare face him alone. Since he was stuck here anyway, he might as well wait and see what unfolded.

Eleven-thirty arrived. Malfoy was conspicuously absent. Instead, the sound of frantic whispering reached John's ears. The door creaked open, revealing not one, not two, but four figures creeping in: the Golden Trio plus a bewildered-looking Neville Longbottom. Neville, having forgotten the Gryffindor password after his hospital visit, had been locked out for hours until the others found him.

Both groups froze upon seeing each other.

"What are you doing here?" John asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Malfoy challenged us!" Harry blurted out, instantly suspicious. "Are you his second?"

John stared at him, deadpan. "Do you honestly think Malfoy enjoyed his first-day hospital visit that much?"

The logic was irrefutable. Harry had no comeback.

A Gryffindor, a Slytherin, and three more Gryffindors stood in an awkward standoff. Realization dawned on Harry. "He tricked us!" he exclaimed, furious.

"That slimy Slyther—" Ron began, then caught himself, glancing guiltily at John. "Er... present company excepted, John."

Thanks to his explosive first-day display, John Wick held the unique distinction of being the only Slytherin the Gryffindors actually liked. Across all four houses, the prevailing opinion was that the Sorting Hat must have been clogged with centuries of dust to put someone who punched like that in Slytherin. Fred and George Weasley were reportedly stockpiling cleaning supplies for an unsanctioned Hat-scrubbing session.

Their tense discussion was abruptly cut short by the unmistakable sound of Filch's shuffling footsteps and wheezing breath approaching from the corridor. John instantly grasped Malfoy's ploy: lure them here for Filch to catch them out after hours.

Harry gasped. "Filch! Run!"

Panic seized the four Gryffindors. They scrambled for the exit. In their haste, Neville and Hermione each grabbed one of John's arms and hauled him bodily along with them. Typical Gryffindors, John thought wryly. All action, no time for explanations. He was now an unwilling fugitive.

John ran with them, resigned. He even shot out a steadying hand to prevent Neville from executing his signature face-plant on the smooth stone floor. Filch gave chase, his muttered threats echoing down the corridors. The occasional sharp "Miaow!" signaled Mrs. Norris guiding her master. "All those premium cat biscuits wasted," John grumbled internally. "Betrayed by the very cat I fatten!"

Their frantic flight led them from the Trophy Room deep into the castle, finally skidding to a halt near the Charms classroom corridor. The four Gryffindors slumped against the cold stone wall, gasping for air like landed fish. John, barely winded, stood calmly beside them.

Round Two: Stamina vs. Magic.

Winner: Stamina.

...

"I told... you..." Hermione managed between ragged breaths. "Malfoy tricked you, Harry! He never meant to duel! He must have tipped off Filch!"

Harry knew she was right, but pride stung. They needed to get back to Gryffindor Tower before they were caught and expelled. "That slimy git Malfoy!" he fumed silently.

But escaping wouldn't be that simple.

Clunk! The door of a nearby classroom flew open. Peeves the Poltergeist, dressed in his usual motley jester's outfit, zoomed out with a gleeful cackle.

"Well, well, well!" he shrieked, spotting the terrified students. "Little firsties out of bed! Peevesy knows what they're up to!"

Harry's heart sank. "Peeves, please," he begged. "Don't tell! We'll be expelled!"

"Peeves tells Filch! Filch catches nasty little rule-breakers! Peeves is helping!" the poltergeist sang, doing loop-the-loops.

Ron, driven by frustration, made a wild swipe at Peeves. It was like poking a hornet's nest.

"STUDENTS ATTACKING PEEVESY!" the poltergeist howled, his voice echoing impossibly loud. "FILCH! HELP! MURDER! THIEVERY!"

John felt his own temper flare. No wonder everyone hates this nuisance. He's utterly infuriating! Peeves caught John's glare. The memory of John's reputation as the boy who hospitalized Malfoy on day one seemed to momentarily unsettle even the poltergeist, giving him a flicker of the wariness he usually reserved for the Bloody Baron.

"Just you wait, Peeves," John vowed silently as they fled past the cackling spirit. "I'll find that spell that works on you." He punctuated the thought by drawing his thumb sharply across his own throat as he ran past the poltergeist. Peeves, baffled by the gesture, just stuck out his tongue.

They rounded a corner only to find themselves facing a dead end sealed by a locked door.

"We're done for!" Ron moaned, despair thick in his voice.

"Move!" John ordered. He whipped his wand from its concealed spot inside his sleeve. "Alohomora!"

The lock clicked obediently. They tumbled through the door, slamming it shut behind them and pressing their ears against the wood. Outside, they could hear Peeves gleefully leading Filch on a wild goose chase, the caretaker's frustrated curses growing fainter.

Catching his breath, John finally turned to survey the room they'd barged into. His blood ran cold. Towering before them, nearly filling the vast chamber, stood a monstrous creature. It had not one, not two, but three enormous, savage heads. Six dinner-plate-sized eyes, each glinting with malice, swiveled to fixate on the unexpected intruders. A low, rumbling growl started deep in its three throats.

John swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. "Hermione... Harry... Ron... Neville... I think you need to see this."

They turned. Four faces instantly mirrored John's frozen horror.

Faced with the choice between certain, messy death and merely being caught by Filch, Filch suddenly seemed like a kindly grandfather. John didn't hesitate. His hand found the doorknob.

"RUN!" he yelled, breaking the paralysis. He hauled the petrified Neville back into the corridor. The others needed no further urging. They scrambled out just as the first massive head lunged.

SLAM! John wrenched the door shut behind them with all his strength. The thunderous impact of something huge hitting the other side rattled the wood in its frame. They didn't wait to see if it held.