As something of a footnote to the day, a notice appeared on the common room board that very evening: flying lessons would begin the following Thursday, with Gryffindor and Slytherin students attending together.
From the moment that notice went up, the Slytherin common room—and, by all accounts, the entire first year—became saturated with talk of broomsticks and Quidditch.
An atmosphere of palpable excitement and elaborately embellished boasting about personal flying prowess settled over every common room and corridor.
Draco, naturally, was a leading authority on the subject. Whether in the Great Hall or the common room, the moment the topic arose, he would settle back and launch into an extended account of his own exploits, his tone carefully calibrated to suggest casual indifference while every syllable radiated self-satisfaction.
"Honestly, Hogwarts' rules are completely unreasonable about this. Father had me training on the Nimbus series at home ages ago, under proper supervision of course. Once, I was practising a steep dive over the Wiltshire estate and very nearly went headlong into a Muggle helicopter flying far too low. That metal thing made a racket like a raging Chimaera, and at the very last second—"
He threw himself sideways in his seat, miming the evasive manoeuvre with considerable drama.
"Grazed right past it. You should have seen the look on those Muggle pilots' faces."
Yes, and I'm sure the helicopter pilot has dined out on that story ever since. Sounds like you nearly gave the poor man a heart attack.
Henry thought this privately and said nothing aloud. A little boasting was harmless enough.
Draco was far from alone in the enterprise. Over at the Gryffindor table, Seamus Finnigan's voice was equally carrying, as he insisted he had spent almost his entire childhood on a broomstick, navigating the varied and treacherous terrain of the Irish countryside.
Even Ron Weasley, encouraged by the proximity of an audience and the faint moral support of his twin brothers, flushed red and gestured enthusiastically while recounting a near collision with a passing glider on his brother Charlie's old and unpredictable broomstick, stressing that he had cleared it by the narrowest of margins.
The poor Muggles, entirely unaware of their role in all these stories.
Every child from a wizarding family seemed to feel a pressing need to establish their credentials before a single broomstick had been handed out.
In the middle of all this, Neville Longbottom received a package from his grandmother.
He opened it nervously at the Gryffindor table and produced a glass ball roughly the size of a large marble, filled with swirling white smoke.
A sudden, brief quiet fell in the immediate vicinity. It was a Remembrall—and when Neville held it, the smoke began slowly turning red. He stared at it with a blank, troubled expression, plainly unable to identify what he had forgotten.
The combination of the Remembrall's diligence and Neville's complete helplessness in the face of it made for a sight that was simultaneously comical and rather pitiable.
The scene caught Draco's eye as he was passing the Gryffindor table on his way to the courtyard for some air. A mischievous light flashed in his gaze, and a familiar smirk took shape.
Almost without hesitation, he stepped forward and, before Neville or Hermione could react, plucked the Remembrall clean out of Neville's hand.
"Look at this!" He held it aloft, his voice carrying clearly across the Hall and drawing further attention as he went. "Longbottom can't even remember what he's forgotten! This thing must be working overtime in his hands. Perhaps it's reminding you not to melt any more cauldrons?"
Neville's face went scarlet. He scrambled to his feet, reaching for the Remembrall but not quite managing to act on the impulse.
"Malfoy!" Hermione's voice was sharp. "Give it back! It isn't yours!"
Draco was still turning the Remembrall over in his hand and composing his next remark when a cold, clear voice cut through the noise with the kind of authority that required no volume to be absolute.
"Mr. Malfoy. Return that to Mr. Longbottom immediately."
Professor McGonagall's expression behind her glasses could have etched glass. Draco's smirk vanished on the spot.
Under the full weight of that look, he pushed the Remembrall back into Neville's hand with a mutter, then removed himself from the Gryffindor table's vicinity before anything further could be said.
At afternoon tea, the sting of it had not entirely faded. Draco dropped into the chair beside Henry with slightly more force than necessary, his cheeks still carrying a trace of colour.
"Professor McGonagall always takes the Gryffindors' side," he muttered. "I was only having a look at it. It was just a joke."
Pansy offered quiet agreement. Daphne said nothing.
Henry set down Quidditch Through the Ages and turned to look at Draco with calm, unhurried attention. He did not offer comfort or criticism.
The silence he left was enough to make Draco's complaints sound a little less certain even to their speaker.
After a moment, Henry spoke, his voice low and even.
"Draco," he said, his tone carrying none of the quality of a reprimand and rather more of a genuine inquiry, "have you thought about what you actually gained from taking the Remembrall from Longbottom? In public, in front of the whole Hall?"
Draco blinked, plainly having not framed the question that way before. "I...I just can't stand the way he stumbles through everything. I wanted to embarrass him."
"Did you?" Henry tilted his head slightly. "Everyone present saw Longbottom's distress while being mocked, and then they watched you hand the Remembrall back and walk away quickly the moment Professor McGonagall appeared. The Remembrall returned to its owner untouched. You received a public reprimand, albeit only a look."
Draco opened his mouth, then closed it again. There was nothing in that account to argue with.
Henry had described the sequence of events in the plainest possible terms, and in doing so had stripped away everything Draco might have preferred to call mischief or a show of confidence, leaving only the outcome itself.
"It's rather like Wizard's Chess," Henry continued, tapping one finger lightly against the tabletop as though marking a square on an invisible board. "You lunge forward to take an unimportant pawn, and in doing so you move your own piece into the range of your opponent's castle and hand them the moral high ground to stand on. The exchange doesn't balance."
He shifted slightly in his seat, his manner that of someone sharing an observation rather than delivering a verdict.
"Consider a different angle, Draco." He paused, and his gaze moved to include Pansy and Daphne as well. "What role do you think pure-blood wizards ought to play in the wizarding world?"
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