On the far side of the Quidditch pitch stretched the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
Ever since visiting Hagrid's golden hut and seeing his impressive collection, Sherlock had been captivated by the forest. Of course, he was equally interested in other parts of Hogwarts.
Like that corridor on the right side of the fourth floor.
At the start-of-term feast, Dumbledore had made a point to say that anyone wishing to encounter a painful and untimely death should feel free to explore that area.
For Sherlock, that made both the Forbidden Forest and that corridor must-see destinations.
Especially today, with the wind rustling noisily through the black trees, their shifting shadows only deepened the forest's eerie allure. Compared to that, the tension between the Gryffindors and Slytherins now building across the pitch seemed entirely dull.
Just as the stare-down between the two houses was reaching a peak, the flying instructor finally arrived.
Madam Rolanda Hooch, with her close-cropped silver hair and sharp yellow eyes like an eagle's, immediately caught Sherlock's attention. With just one glance, he could already tell what kind of person she was—direct, decisive, and equally strict with herself and others.
True enough, Madam Hooch didn't bother with introductions and launched straight into instruction.
"All right, what are you all waiting for? Everyone stand next to a broomstick! Quick, quick! Move it!"
Under her crisp commands, the first-years scrambled into position.
She wasted no time beginning the lesson, clearly preferring a hands-on approach over theory—just the kind of teaching Sherlock liked best.
Unfortunately, the results were… underwhelming.
Scanning the group, Sherlock noticed that even for a simple introductory command, only a handful from both houses succeeded. Among the few were Harry and Malfoy.
The task seemed easy: stand to the right of your broom, stretch out your hand, and command, "Up!"
Yet—
Neville's broom didn't so much as twitch.
Ron's broom did move—just a bit too enthusiastically. It leapt up and smacked him in the nose.
These were the two extremes.
Most brooms either rolled lazily on the ground or gave a faint shiver—like they were undecided about cooperating.
Sherlock and Hermione were among that majority.
When Sherlock glanced over at Hermione, she happened to be looking at him too.
He didn't seem to care, but Hermione found it rather embarrassing.
After a month at Hogwarts, she had firmly established herself as the top academic in their year. Sherlock had once been a strong contender, but after the whole astronomy class disaster—where he didn't know the Earth revolved around the sun—and skipping Defence Against the Dark Arts, Hermione figured he'd essentially disqualified himself.
She never expected that she would struggle with flying.
And to be caught red-handed by Sherlock no less!
Thankfully, Sherlock looked away quickly.
Hermione then noticed how tightly Harry was gripping his broom. That, too, disappointed her a little.
Still, she reminded herself—this was the Boy Who Lived, who defeated Voldemort as a baby. Surely, it was acceptable for him to show some nerves.
But then she saw Sherlock's broom behaving just like hers—only swaying slightly. That gave her an odd sense of relief.
Looks like us top students just aren't built for physical activities…
And then she froze.
Because the moment Sherlock spoke again, his broom leapt obediently into his hand.
"Up."
Hermione, unwilling to admit defeat, repeated the command.
Her broom didn't budge.
"Up!"
She tried again, louder, like she could scare it into obedience.
No use. The broom wasn't intimidated.
Hermione:（＃￣～￣＃）
She wasn't the only one. Many others tried yelling, pleading, even changing their stance—but the broomsticks refused to comply.
Madam Hooch, to her credit, wasn't surprised. With years of teaching under her belt, she'd seen it all before.
Now it was her time to shine.
Going student by student, she demonstrated and corrected techniques. With her guidance, by the end of half an hour, even the most stubborn brooms were starting to cooperate.
Next came instructions on how to mount the broom, keep balance, and grip it properly.
This was where Hermione redeemed herself—her precision earned a rare nod of approval from Madam Hooch.
On the other hand, Malfoy—despite boasting about his skills, was getting scolded repeatedly for incorrect form.
Harry and Ron were openly pleased.
"So much for being great at flying," Ron sneered. "Knew he was bluffing."
Harry nodded in agreement.
Sherlock, however, shook his head. "No, I think he is actually quite skilled."
"Huh?" said Ron.
"Why do you say that?" asked Harry.
After a month of knowing Sherlock, Harry had already learned—once Sherlock started explaining something, resistance was futile.
"It's simple," Sherlock said calmly. "People who already know how to drive often perform worse on the driving test than total beginners."
He looked at Malfoy, who was clearly frustrated by the rigid instructions. "When someone has years of experience, they develop habits—not necessarily incorrect ones, but personalized techniques that work for them.
"That's why, during a standardized test, those habits clash with formal requirements, and they struggle. Even some professional drivers fail basic licensing exams multiple times."
Harry and Ron:（゜ー゜）
They didn't quite follow, but it sounded smart.
Finally, it was time for takeoff.
"All right," Madam Hooch called. "On my whistle, push off hard with both feet—remember, hard! Grip your brooms tightly. Rise a few feet off the ground, then lean forward slightly and come straight back down."
First flight exercises meant low altitude—for safety.
Everyone was visibly nervous.
Some gripped their brooms so tightly that their knuckles turned white.
Sherlock sighed. That kind of tension was just wasted energy.
On a battlefield, such a detail could cost you everything.
Then, as his gaze swept the group, something caught his attention.
He quietly moved a few steps to the right, placing himself protectively in front of a fellow student.
No one noticed. Everyone's focus was on their own broom.
"Wait for my whistle! Three—two—"
But before Madam Hooch could even finish—
Something went wrong.
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