Chapter 21: Ravenclaw's Flying Lesson

At five o’clock, students from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw gathered on the lawn for their Flying Lesson, where the view stretched toward Hagrid’s Hut and the distant Forbidden Forest—sometimes punctuated by strange, eerie sounds drifting from the trees.

Unlike the adventurous Gryffindors or the troublemaking Slytherins, Ravenclaws were masters of self-preservation, rarely testing boundaries beyond the rules. Hufflepuffs, ever the model students, were even less likely to break them—most wouldn’t dare set foot in the Forbidden Forest until their seventh year, if ever.

Twenty or so Flying Broomsticks stood in neat rows on the ground. Madam Hooch was already there, her eagle-like gaze scanning the students with sharp, piercing scrutiny. “I assume you’ve all heard about yesterday’s incident!” she snapped. “Longbottom from Gryffindor was lucky—he only broke his wrist. But if you’re reckless, I won’t be surprised if someone breaks their neck! Remember that!”

Little Eagle and Little Badger nodded meekly, murmuring assent.

“Alright! Now, each of you stand beside a broomstick!”

Under Madam Hooch’s watchful eye, everyone moved quickly and calmly—no pushing, no shoving. But the school’s brooms were ancient, each one in terrible shape: twisted branches jutted out in every direction, the oak handles uneven and rough, so rough they’d make a broomstick feel like a bristly brush when sweeping.

And now they were supposed to ride these things through the air.

Wade suddenly realized that flying on a broomstick might not be kind to his tailbone.

He heard Michael mutter under his breath: “Meteor Broom—cheapest model available…”

Wade glanced at Michael’s broom. It was even worse than his—so ragged and flimsy it looked like it had been woven from weeds.

“Right!” Madam Hooch barked. “Extend your right hand, place it just above the broom handle, and say—Up!”

“Up!” the class shouted in unison.

Wade’s broom rolled twice on the ground before finally leaping into his hand. He gripped it, and immediately felt it hover—no need to hold it down. It floated effortlessly.

He glanced around. Some students had their brooms up on the first try. Others—like Michael—were having trouble. His broom bounced on the ground like a dehydrated fish, refusing to settle into his grip.

Once every student had their broom in hand, Madam Hooch instructed them on how to sit properly to avoid falling off. She corrected several students’ postures with sharp precision.

Wade had assumed this would be easy—after all, in the movies, Harry Potter just swung his leg over and took off without a hitch. But sitting on a thin wooden stick and keeping balance was harder than it looked. The broomstick was just a stick—no seat, no padding, just a narrow beam to ride.

Fortunately, the strain on his bones wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. Some spell had been cast on the brooms, making them feel almost like sitting on a chair—uncomfortable, yes, but not unbearable.

Only when Madam Hooch was satisfied with their posture did she allow them to proceed to the next step: flying.

“When I blow my whistle,” she said, “push off the ground hard. Hold on tight to your broom, but don’t raise it too high—unless you want to end up in the clouds! Just lift a little, rise a few feet, glide forward slowly, then come back down just as gently.”

She repeated the word slowly three times, then said, “Listen for my whistle—three, two, one!”

The whistle blew.

Instantly, chaos erupted.

Some students soared too high. Others plunged straight toward the ground. Two lost their balance and tumbled off their brooms with loud thuds.

Madam Hooch frowned, waving her wand swiftly to catch them mid-fall—no one was seriously hurt, but she was already irritated.

Then came a scream.

One Ravenclaw girl had shot straight toward the broomshed at full speed!

“Obstacle Course!” Madam Hooch shouted.

The girl hovered briefly in midair, then slammed into the wall—but the impact was softened. She wasn’t hurt, though her broom was now splintered beyond repair.

Madam Hooch didn’t scold her. Instead, she summoned another battered broom with an Accio charm and gestured for the girl to keep practicing.

Wade hovered higher, circling slowly, gradually increasing his speed. Only about half a dozen students—himself included—managed to gain real control. Most were still restricted to flying no higher than the broomshed.

Even so, accidents kept happening.

Two students collided mid-air when their brooms veered wildly. One Hufflepuff boy flew perfectly at low altitude—then, barely five meters up, he closed his eyes and fell straight off, groaning in terror. Poor fellow had a fear of heights.

The first Flying Lesson was a complete mess.

Madam Hooch darted around like an octopus—wands flashing, spells flying, constantly rescuing students from near-fatal crashes. She even got clipped by a reckless student, her face turning thunderous. She deducted five points from Hufflepuff on the spot.

Wade finally understood why Madam Hooch always looked so grumpy—like she’d been permanently cross. Any seasoned driver would lose their temper teaching beginners who kept making the same dumb, avoidable mistakes.

Eventually, the lesson ended. Students filed off toward the Infirmary, seeking treatment for scrapes, sprains, and bruises. Wade and Michael, miraculously unharmed, headed back to the Great Hall for dinner.

“Wade!” Hermione called out, spotting them from the far end of the Long Table.

She sat alone, surrounded by empty space. Wade walked over and sat down at the Gryffindor table.

Hermione scanned them up and down. “Flying Lesson didn’t go well?”

“Too tiring,” Michael groaned, already digging into a second slice of bread piled high with butter, then adding a roasted chicken leg to his plate.

Wade downed a glass of juice in one go, then said, “Everyone’s flying for the first time. Most of us are clumsy. More than half got minor injuries—and one fainted.”

Hermione nodded. “I’m not surprised. Flying without protection? Injuries are inevitable.”

She clearly disliked brooms—and Quidditch, too.

“It’s a skill that needs practice. Top Quidditch players can move more gracefully than birds.”

Michael, now revived, grinned. But Wade remembered how he’d stayed low the entire time. Any time he tried to rise higher, the broom—or Michael—would start trembling.

Classic case of bad at flying, but loves doing it anyway.

Still, Michael convinced him with one line.

“Think about it, Wade,” he said, voice dripping with temptation. “We could just fly straight to our dormitory. No more stairs! I’ve seen the Quidditch team do it all the time!”

(End of Chapter)

Chapter end