The potions class ended early, and students dispersed to their respective dorms or the library.
Draco and Pansy headed toward the library, discussing their Transfiguration assignment. Meanwhile, Harry remained in the Slytherin common room, lounging on a plush, dark green couch, flipping through his potions notes. Across from him, Daphne sat cross-legged on a velvet armchair, absently twirling a quill between her fingers.
The warm glow from the enchanted green flames in the fireplace flickered against the stone walls, casting eerie shadows that danced in rhythm with the occasional pop of the fire.
As the clock struck the hour, Harry stretched his arms behind his head and got up.
"Where are you going?" Daphne asked, her voice casual, though her piercing blue eyes betrayed curiosity.
"Library," Harry replied, rolling his shoulders. "I have a study date with Hermione."
Daphne, who had been half-listening, froze. Her fingers tightened around the quill, nearly snapping it in half.
Harry raised an eyebrow at her reaction. "You're not jealous, are you?"
Daphne scoffed, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. "Jealous? Of that mudblood?"
Harry's smirk faded slightly. He sighed, stepping closer to her. Before she could react, he leaned in and pressed a brief kiss against her cheek.
Daphne's breath hitched, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink.
"Don't be jealous," Harry murmured. "You should know by now—I don't care about blood supremacy."
Daphne's lips parted slightly, but she said nothing.
"To me, there are only two kinds of people—those who are allies and those who are enemies," Harry continued, his emerald gaze locking onto hers.
Daphne held his gaze for a long moment before exhaling softly and looking away. She wouldn't change overnight—Harry knew that—but at least he had planted the seed.
The Library Encounter
Finding the library turned out to be more difficult than Harry anticipated. Hogwarts' endless maze of corridors twisted and turned in ways that made no logical sense, and asking for directions resulted in vague hand gestures or cryptic responses.
After a few wrong turns and a conversation with a rather smug-looking portrait, he finally arrived at the massive double doors of the library.
Inside, the scent of parchment and aged books filled the air. Wooden shelves lined every wall, towering to the enchanted ceiling, where floating candles illuminated the space in a soft golden glow.
He spotted Hermione seated at a secluded table, already deep into her books, her bushy brown hair spilling over her shoulders as she scribbled furiously on a parchment.
"You're late," she said without looking up. "I thought you forgot."
Harry chuckled, dropping into the chair across from her. "How could I, when the great Hermione Granger herself summoned me?"
Hermione rolled her eyes but didn't argue. "What are you studying?"
"Potions," he replied, pulling out his notes.
They exchanged ideas for a while, and Hermione quickly noticed that Harry's approach to potion-making was different—less by-the-book, more instinctual.
She realized something else, too.
"You're not here to study," she said suddenly, smirking.
Harry leaned back lazily, his green eyes twinkling. "Oh? And what am I here for, then?"
Before Hermione could respond, footsteps approached. Draco and Pansy appeared beside their table.
"What are you doing here, Potter?" Pansy asked, folding her arms.
Harry gave her a lazy smirk. "Just studying."
Draco glanced between Hermione and Harry, then smirked knowingly. "You're really good at this, aren't you?"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "At what?"
Draco didn't answer—he just gave Harry a smug look before pulling Pansy along before she could start another argument.
As they left, Hermione shook her head. "Slytherins are impossible."
Harry only grinned. "We are Slytherins too, you know."
Flying Lessons – Also Known as 'Broom Fight Class'
The first-year students eagerly gathered on the school grounds for their highly anticipated flying lessons. The open field stretched before them, a vast expanse of emerald grass, surrounded by towering trees swaying gently in the breeze. The sun hung high in the sky, casting a golden glow over the castle's silhouette in the distance.
Madam Hooch arrived, her sharp yellow eyes scanning the students like a hawk. Her short silver hair framed her stern features, and she carried herself with the commanding presence of someone who had spent years enforcing discipline.
"All right, everyone, stand beside a broomstick!" she commanded.
The students scrambled into position. Rows of school-provided broomsticks lay on the ground, worn from years of use, their wood chipped and their twigs uneven.
Harry eyed the brooms with mild disinterest. Compared to the flight he had experienced in his dreams—soaring through endless skies without a broom—this seemed almost unnecessary.
"Hold out your right hand over the broom and say 'Up!'"
"UP!"
The results were mixed.
On the Slytherin side, Harry and Pansy's brooms immediately jumped into their hands. Draco managed on his second attempt, his confidence unshaken.
On the Gryffindor side, chaos ensued. Neville's broom rolled away as if deliberately avoiding him. Ron's broom wobbled uncertainly before flipping onto its side.
Harry sighed. Some people were just not meant to fly.
Madam Hooch surveyed them with her keen eyes. "Those of you who successfully summoned your brooms, well done. The rest of you—keep practicing."
Harry glanced at Hermione, who was biting her lip, frustrated that her broom had only twitched slightly.
She caught him staring and scowled. "Not a word."
Harry smirked. "I wasn't going to say anything."
"Good."
Once everyone had successfully summoned their brooms—except for Neville, who was still struggling—Madam Hooch continued.
"When I blow my whistle, you will kick off the ground, rise a few feet, and come straight back down. Understood?"
The students nodded.
The moment the whistle blew, things went wrong.
Neville panicked, pushing off too hard. His broom shot straight up into the air.
"NEVILLE!" Hermione shrieked.
The class watched in horror as Neville flailed wildly, his grip slipping. Within seconds, he lost control entirely, tumbling off his broom and plummeting toward the ground.
He crashed onto the grass with a painful thud.
Madam Hooch rushed to his side. After a quick examination, she clicked her tongue. "Broken wrist. I'm taking him to the hospital wing. No one is to fly until I return."
With that, she led a sniffling Neville away.
To be continued…