novelraw Chapter 8: Transfiguration, Potions, and Flying Lessons
Chapter 8: Transfiguration, Potions, and Flying Lessons
Draco woke in a four-poster bed draped with green silk curtains before breakfast.
He stared at the medieval tapestry depicting the adventures of Slytherin hanging on the wall for a long while.
Since gaining those nightmarish memories, he had hardly slept well.
For him, Malfoy Manor was no longer the warm, joyful, safe home of his childhood. Although it appeared peaceful, it was inevitably filled with broken, painful memories.
That place had been a murder scene, a prison, and a cage.
For the past month, he had been unable to avoid feeling tense and worried in every corner of Malfoy Manor, and he'd had to try his best not to let his parents notice, which was driving him mad.
Arriving at Hogwarts, Draco finally had his own private space—a place where he could shed his innocent facade and reveal his weary, hidden wounds. He finally found a long-awaited respite.
A rare good night's sleep had restored some of his energy. Lying back in his dormitory by the Black Lake, watching the tranquil scene of gentle waves and shimmering light and shadow, he felt as if his brain had been emptied, and he finally stopped feeling panicked.
This was a Slytherin single bedroom, a "little privilege" enjoyed by Draco as the son of a school governor. Emerald green and silver dominated the entire room—very Slytherin.
These two colors had a calming effect.
Very good.
Draco liked the silver-green color scheme.
The blatant gold and the arrogant red—what discerning wizard would like such a clashing and troublesome combination? He frowned, secretly comparing Gryffindor's representative colors with his own house's, and thought Slytherin's were still better looking.
Although—some girls looked quite good in gold and red scarves, he thought absentmindedly.
Stop thinking about it. Those are all unrealistic fantasies! He straightened his collar in front of the full-length mirror, glanced at his reflection with a gloomy expression, and immediately wiped away the slight curve of his lips.
He walked out of his dormitory with a stern face, adopting a Draco Malfoy-esque haughty posture, and passed through the Slytherin common room, numbly welcoming another boring day at Hogwarts.
Draco couldn't let his guard down and be overly friendly to those around him. Like a frightened clam, he shut himself off, observing the reborn world with vigilance.
He had already conducted some small experiments on "change" using Longbottom's lost-and-found toad.
But he hadn't yet figured out where the tipping point for "change" lay. The only certainty was that the world in this lifetime was capable of "change."
What about the others? Would things change as well?
Although after a month of observation he'd found that the Malfoy family was no different from his previous life, this didn't mean that his classmates at school were the same.
If he was able to start over, was it possible for others to do the same?
He needed to observe quietly for some time, especially regarding Harry Potter. Sitting at the Slytherin table, he popped some fried eggs into his mouth, lost in thought.
He needed to determine whether the Potter across the hall, grinning foolishly and clinking glasses with Weasley, was the same Potter as before, and whether his behavior was consistent with his past life.
Before he could figure out the world, Draco thought he had to dutifully play the role of a law-abiding first-year.
In such a strange, familiar yet unknown world, he couldn't attract too much attention—it would be dangerous.
Playing an eleven-year-old boy wasn't difficult; it was just mentally exhausting.
This often required him to think about problems from a child's perspective and react accordingly. But having been reborn, he always unconsciously looked at problems with the eyes of a seventeen-year-old, and it was difficult for him to feel the joy and excitement that a child should have.
For example, the coursework that intrigued the new students, or the novelties of Hogwarts—moving staircases, ubiquitous suits of armor, and ghosts that appeared at will—didn't interest him at all.
Draco had to feign surprise at those things at least three times a day, without any genuine emotion, to pretend he was a new student.
Apart from that, he focused his attention on small experiments related to "change."
Without attracting attention, he tried to make some small "changes" and observed the results.
He was testing the limits of "change."
For example, given that "provoking Potter" was meaningless to him at the moment, he had deliberately abandoned the tense atmosphere that once existed between them.
He'd even pointed out two routes to Potter and Weasley—those two little devils who were running around everywhere (yes, in his eyes they were just little devils)—to save them from the embarrassment of getting lost as they had in his previous life and the professors' eye-rolls for being late.
Draco was slightly surprised that Weasley, with his freckled face, would blush and say "thank you," which made him rethink the Weasley family's upbringing.
Don't get him wrong. Although they had "changed" a bit and become a little more "polite" as a result, Draco still thought they were reckless and impulsive.
Look at how they were running like madmen down the corridor!
"Will these Gryffindors never learn to walk calmly down a corridor?" Draco thought to himself.
Half a minute before class started, Draco arrived at the Transfiguration classroom on the second floor right on time.
The classroom was already packed with people, but the teacher's desk was empty. A majestic tabby cat stood on the desk, sternly scrutinizing the noisy students below.
Draco dared not give it a second glance. That was Professor Minerva McGonagall, the most formidable professor in all of Hogwarts. Before she transformed into human form and began to torment him, he had to quickly find a seat.
Unfortunately, almost all the seats were taken. Harry and Ron, who had just arrived, reluctantly sat in the first row. As they took books out of their bags, they whispered something to each other, seemingly relieved that they hadn't been late.
It seemed that the seemingly trivial matter of "Potter being late for the first Transfiguration class" had been casually "changed" by Draco—and so far, completely and without any side effects.
Draco withdrew his gaze and walked calmly down the aisle, looking for an empty seat.
He had only two choices. He could partner with one of Crabbe and Goyle, who followed him around, and have the entire class poisoned by their utter silliness, or he could let Crabbe and Goyle sit together while he took the empty seat not far ahead, next to Miss Know-It-All.
To be honest, Draco, reborn, had completely lost patience with his less-than-stellar study partners.
If the world could accept small changes, then something as trivial as "Draco Malfoy changing his study partner" should also be accepted by the world, right?
Let's give it a try.
"May I sit?" He stopped at her desk and asked the messy-haired girl who was looking down at The Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration amidst the sudden ringing of the school bell.
Hermione looked up at the sound and saw that it was the boy named Draco. He was wearing an exquisite black robe, his platinum-blond hair was neatly combed, and unfortunately, he wore a Slytherin green school tie at the collar.
He was looking at her with an inscrutable gaze, his face showing a mixture of arrogance and unease.
"Sure." The girl was a little surprised. Her eyes flickered, and she gave him an awkward smile. "There's no one here. You can sit down."
Hermione was a little unsure how to deal with the boy who was planning to sit next to her.
People said that Slytherin produced Dark wizards who wielded Dark magic. That's what the books said, and that's what the upperclassmen in Gryffindor said too.
Draco didn't seem that bad. Apart from his somewhat cold expression, he was quite polite to her.
Could he really be a Dark wizard? Hermione wondered, peeking at the boy through the gaps in her thick, curly brown hair.
He pulled out a chair and slowly sat down. He sat upright, unlike other boys who slouched. His face was a little pale, his eyes were deep-set, and his expression became serious.
As if sensing her scrutiny, he turned his head slightly, his lowered gray eyes quickly moving from the book to her hair, keenly catching her flickering gaze.
He asked her, "What's wrong?"
"It's nothing," Hermione said hastily, turning to accept the Transfiguration matches that Professor McGonagall was handing out.
She was fairly friendly and didn't ignore him just because he was a "ruthless, evil Slytherin." Draco couldn't help but mutter to himself as he cast a spell on the match.
"Your needle seems a bit sharper than mine." While practicing Transfiguration in class, Hermione couldn't help but pick up his needle and examine it closely, saying enviously, "I still need to work harder..."
"You've done quite well too," Draco said. He lifted his eyelids and glanced at the needle on her table—it looked quite decent now, and he wondered what she was struggling with.
Ultimately, this was probably Hermione Granger's strict self-discipline at work. Even though they were the only two students in the class who could turn matches into needles, and even though the most critical Professor McGonagall hadn't found fault, she still complained that her needle tips weren't sharp enough.
Draco silently fiddled with his wand, occasionally glancing at her.
This lesson was too simple and too boring for him now. The only fresh thing was the sense of approval Miss Know-It-All had for him.
The sense of recognition was almost overflowing—it had to be said, it was much more comfortable than the feeling of contempt.
Who would have thought that she could look at him with such approval? In his previous life, those brown eyes had mostly been filled with disdain, wariness, and undisguised disgust.
Draco gave a mocking smirk, roughly shoving certain replaying memories of the past back into the depths of his brain.
What was the point of dwelling on all this? It was better to continue watching Miss Know-It-All and see how else she could torment that needle.
Friday's Potions class was the same old routine. The students had to prepare potions to cure boils and get a thorough taste of the Slytherin Potions Master's power.
That was a long class that began and ended with "suppressing Harry Potter."
Just like in his previous life, Potter and his friends were ridiculed mercilessly by Professor Snape, while Draco was praised lavishly by him.
It was hard for any student to resist a professor's open and honest approval, especially when a certain Slytherin Potions Master was so difficult to please, harshly criticizing and suppressing the potion-making skills of the entire class, yet uniquely describing Draco's method of steaming slugs with tentacles as "perfect."
Such stark praise was an almost irresistible source of vanity and pride for a young wizard.
Professor Snape was Draco's favorite professor, and perhaps still was. The students also considered Draco to be Professor Snape's favorite student.
Even the uninformed Hogwarts students spread rumors that Professor Snape was Draco's godfather.
Professor Snape was certainly not Draco's godfather—that was all baseless speculation.
As a pure-blood wizard, Lucius had never believed that his son needed a "godfather." If one were to insist on giving Draco a "godfather," Lucius, who was a staunch advocate of pure-blood supremacy—even if he admired Snape—would not allow a half-blood to be his son's "godfather."
However, it was undeniable that Professor Snape did have a very close relationship with the Malfoy family.
Not to mention that the Malfoy family tradition was to recruit talented wizards; even within Slytherin, the worship of the strong was common practice.
Draco recalled that, as Head of House, Professor Snape was very popular within Slytherin, and most Slytherin students and their parents respected him.
Even Lucius, who was always arrogant, felt that entrusting his son to Snape was reassuring.
Professor Snape's excellence was beyond question: the youngest Head of Slytherin House in history, a professor of Potions, a recipient of the Order of Merlin, Second Class, and proficient in many disciplines including the Dark Arts and Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, Charms, and Occlumency.
The fact that a half-blood wizard was recognized by a wizarding community that revered pure-bloods was, to some extent, proof of his absolute strength. Draco's thoughts drifted as he ground the snake's fangs into powder.
However, everything changed after the Malfoys fell to their lowest point and Lucius was imprisoned in Azkaban. Many Slytherins distanced themselves from the Malfoys, which was understandable—it was simply a matter of self-preservation.
If Professor Snape had merely distanced himself from the Malfoys, while Draco would have been extremely disappointed, it wouldn't have been enough to puzzle him. What puzzled him was Snape's wavering attitude.
He never pleaded for Lucius before the Dark Lord and remained indifferent to all the oppression the Malfoy family faced. Yet he didn't distance himself from Draco but instead approached him closely, actively probing what Draco's mission and plans were.
What a terrible dilemma it would be to ask a sixteen-year-old boy to kill Dumbledore.
Draco knew, of course, that Snape's help would make things much easier. However, to prove his abilities to the Dark Lord and regain his trust in the Malfoys, he had to complete that terrible task alone, without "leaking" anything or having his credit stolen.
Draco dared not trust anyone, especially Snape, who was eager to find out about him. The more Snape inquired, the more sensitive Draco became, suspecting that Snape had ulterior motives.
At that time, to protect himself, he'd had to jump out of the well of naivety and ignorance and begin to think about reality.
On a darker note, how much of Professor Snape's preferential treatment of Draco was due to his personal relationship with Lucius, and even the exchange of benefits behind that relationship, and how much was out of his appreciation for Draco himself?
Since he'd stood by and watched the Malfoys suffer before the Dark Lord, how could Draco expect him to suddenly have a change of heart and genuinely help?
Yet it was this enigmatic person who'd saved Draco when Potter's Sectumsempra curse nearly killed him.
Snape could have stood by and done nothing, if he were the kind of person who would let someone die.
By the end, Draco had been full of questions and had had no idea how to deal with Snape.
At this crucial moment in the preparation of the boil cure, Draco temporarily stopped thinking. He focused intently on adding porcupine quills into the extinguished cauldron—pink smoke immediately rose from it.
Judging from the expression on Professor Snape's face, he was quite satisfied with the finished product.
Perhaps because of everything he'd experienced in his memory, the once willful and reckless Draco Malfoy had now learned to read people's expressions.
He'd learned to calmly observe the expressions and actions of those around him, and even to guess their true thoughts.
Just as Draco could see the faint approval on Professor Snape's face when he encountered a good Potions assignment, he could also see that Snape's emotions fluctuated more than usual when he dealt with Potter.
Professor Snape was usually more calm and even aloof. Draco understood this quite well: you would rarely see a master of Occlumency going on a rampage every day. They tended to keep their emotions locked inside their minds.
But seeing Professor Snape's state when he suppressed Potter, yelled at Hermione, and roared at Longbottom... it seemed that he had an extraordinary aversion to Potter and his friends, and even Occlumency wasn't very effective.
Draco didn't believe that this outburst was entirely due to the students' poor academic performance.
Goyle and Crabbe were both Potions disasters, exploding cauldrons as frequently as Seamus Finnigan of Gryffindor. But Professor Snape responded to them with a cold laugh and indifference—at most a few sarcastic remarks—rather than a furious outburst.
Most of the time, Professor Snape would ignore students who didn't have much talent for Potions, as long as they didn't go looking for trouble. To deliberately go to a student he disliked and lose his temper was, frankly, a bit immature and abnormal.
At this moment, Draco selectively ignored the fact that he'd used to be the one who most liked to provoke Potter and the others.
"Have you offended Professor Snape?" Draco asked Potter in a low voice as the potion was being bottled.
He'd wanted to ask this question for a long time.
"Never. This is my first time dealing with Professor Snape," Potter said listlessly, looking somewhat dejected.
"Professor Snape seems to have a bit of a prejudice against you." Draco discreetly scrutinized his expression, looking for any trace of guilt.
"Oh, prejudice? I even think he hates me." Young Potter made no attempt to hide his feelings; he was preoccupied with his dejection.
Interesting.
Draco raised an eyebrow. There was no such thing as hatred without a cause. There must be a story behind this.
Of course, compared to Professor Snape's empty, unfathomable eyes, Draco was most worried about Professor Quirrell, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
If nothing unexpected happened, apart from Draco, probably no one knew that under Quirrell's garlic-smelling turban lay the Dark Lord's distorted face.
Draco was unsure whether he should tell Professor Snape about it.
If this master of Occlumency was ultimately proven to be a member of the Dark Lord's faction, his confession at this moment would be tantamount to giving the Dark Lord, who was preparing to make a comeback, a significant boost.
Draco didn't want to act rashly and increase the chances of the Dark Lord's successful resurrection.
Draco decided that telling Dumbledore was the safest course of action. However, first-years weren't really qualified to bypass Professor Snape, the Head of House, and communicate directly with the Headmaster.
First, Draco didn't want to expose his unusual condition. By exposing Quirrell, he was also exposing himself: how did a first-year student figure all this out? How could he explain it?
Second, communicating with someone above one's level could easily incur Professor Snape's displeasure, causing this unfathomable former Death Eater to change his attitude toward him from admiration and appreciation to wariness and suspicion.
From any perspective, this wasn't a risk a prudent Slytherin would be willing to take.
On Friday afternoon, Draco was writing furiously in the library on the second floor of the castle. He wrote lines of beautiful cursive on the parchment of his Charms homework while secretly pondering how to tell Dumbledore in a clever way.
Ideally, one should be able to exonerate oneself through the words of others.
At the same time, the timing of reporting Quirrell needed to be carefully considered.
Quirrell had to leave a clue first. Only then would a student's suspicion of the professor seem reasonable.
After writing the last full stop, he put the quill pen back, rubbed his temples in frustration, and prepared to stand up to look up some extracurricular materials—he had other things to do besides his studies.
At Hogwarts, diligent first-years like Draco were rare. In fact, aside from Miss Know-It-All, there seemed to be very few other first-years in the library.
That messy clump of brown hair was really hard for Draco to ignore.
Why weren't Potter and Weasley, her two "good friends," with her?
Draco gave a lazy hum and stood beside the bookshelf, trying to pull out a book about the Disillusionment Charm. Just then, part of the back of the bookshelf was pulled out, revealing the girl's brown eyes sparkling with curiosity.
"Draco!" The eyes widened in surprise. "I didn't notice you were here."
"Of course you didn't know," Draco thought wearily. "All you care about are Potter and Weasley."
Aside from his Slytherin classmates, few would notice that Draco, who'd consistently ranked in the top ten of his year in his previous life, was also a frequent visitor to the library. He also devoted considerable thought and time to his studies.
Otherwise, did his achievements just fall from the sky?
"I thought that after Potions class, you wouldn't want to talk to a Slytherin anymore." Between the pages of the book, Draco's pale gray eyes gleamed with a light that Hermione couldn't decipher.
After experiencing Professor Snape's blatant favoritism and his venomous words toward the Gryffindor students, Draco had clearly sensed that a flame of hatred for Slytherin was rising among all the Gryffindor students.
He'd seen the disdainful looks the Gryffindors gave him in class.
He assumed Hermione would be no exception.
After all, this proud little girl had been ignored and mistreated like that.
"I was indeed quite angry at the time. I didn't approve of what Professor Snape did." Hermione raised her little face with a hint of pride, but spoke some pragmatic words. "However, I know it wasn't your fault. It was only right that he praised you. I've been observing your handling, and it's indeed very skillful."
Hermione knew that Draco had done nothing in this Gryffindor-Slytherin animosity. He'd simply been caught in the middle of the conflict between the two houses because of his superior potion-making skills. How could she arbitrarily project her bad impression of Professor Snape onto a talented, innocent student?
Miss Know-It-All had a rather broad mind, quite different from how she'd held grudges in his previous life. Draco looked at her with shifty eyes, unsure how to answer.
"Speaking of which, I was just about to ask you about that potion from last class. There's one of the ingredients in it that needs to be ground up—" Before she could finish speaking, Hermione came over cheerfully from the other side of the bookshelf but suddenly opened her mouth wide, revealing a look of surprise that Draco loved to see on his know-it-all.
She'd thought she'd explored the library thoroughly, but this was the first time she'd ever seen the study space behind the stacks of bookshelves.
A comfortable, secluded learning space with a classical ambiance.
Hermione was immediately drawn to the antique mahogany desk in the center. It was filled with all sorts of ornate quill pens, carved storage boxes, bundles of scrolls, and three-dimensional astronomical models.
The star models were made with exceptional detail and realism. Some twinkling stars were slowly moving along some mesmerizing trajectory, making it hard to look away.
Not far from the desk was a beautifully decorated fireplace, adorned with many carvings of little figures. The flames inside flickered slowly, sending a warm breeze through the room.
Any bookworm would be satisfied here and would be willing to spend a quiet afternoon immersed in books.
"Since you're here, have a seat," Draco said, leading her to a caramel-colored leather sofa with armrests in the corner and gesturing for her to sit down.
He casually took the large stack of books she was carrying and placed them on the walnut-colored solid wood coffee table with drawers and brass trim. Hermione glanced at it and noticed that the coffee table had a single piece of agate on its surface.
"Some black tea?" Draco asked, fiddling with the gilded sterling silver tea set and a rosewood tea box inlaid with mother-of-pearl on the table.
Hermione initially wanted to refuse, as she didn't want to cause trouble for others.
In particular, he was a Slytherin student.
Was this level of private communication acceptable to Gryffindors?
But no little girl disliked pretty things. She was captivated by the pumpkin-shaped teapot, which was covered with semi-three-dimensional reliefs of roses and daisies. The textures were delicate, each petal was distinct, and the veins of each stem and leaf were clearly visible, making it extremely lifelike.
Moreover, Draco behaved like a hospitable host, treating her with great politeness.
Although he looked somewhat serious, he wasn't off-putting. In fact, he made her feel a kind of approachability that was different from before.
For no apparent reason, she suddenly wanted to try and see what kind of tea would be worthy of such a beautiful teapot.
"Okay, just a little bit," she couldn't help but say, her face turning slightly red.
Draco then used a small gold key to open the tea box inlaid with light gold floral and mother-of-pearl patterns and took out a small, pure silver tea caddy with an embossed fairy and floral design.
Hermione watched with curiosity as he picked up the delicate and lovely three-dimensional morning glory on the top of the teapot lid and slowly used a silver tea tongs with an animal pattern placed on the side of the tea box to take some tightly rolled, dark and oily tea leaves from the gilded tea caddy inside and put them into the pumpkin teapot.
He noticed her gaze. "It's Keemun black tea," he said to her as he added some hot water to the teapot.
A faint aroma of tea wafted through the air, and Hermione seemed to smell the scent of freshly baked bread, a soft, sweet aroma that made her feel a little languid and even amplified the comfort of the sofa.
"It smells nice," she said. This made Draco's lips curl into a slight smile.
This was his favorite tea—Miss Know-It-All had a good eye for quality.
Brewing tea was a peculiar hobby that Draco had cultivated since his rebirth. For some reason, this hobby brought a sense of calm to his agitated mind.
He could certainly wave his wand and conjure a pot of hot tea in an instant. However, given the time, he preferred to clear his mind and simply savor the subtle sense of accomplishment and satisfaction that came from such simple, trivial things.
"Try it?" Draco didn't say much but simply handed her a silver-edged porcelain cup.
Hermione sniffed the bright red tea, took a sip, and was surprised to find that it wasn't as bitter as she'd imagined. Instead, it had a fruity and honey-like aroma and was mellow and smooth.
A smile immediately bloomed on her face, and her expression became lively. "Thank you. Although I don't drink black tea much, I must say I quite like the taste."
"My pleasure," he said briefly, his expression unchanged.
"Why haven't I found this place before?" Hermione asked casually, savoring the pleasant, faint sweet scent.
Draco didn't answer her question directly. The Hogwarts Board of Governors had the right to reserve a quiet, undisturbed VIP seat in the library, distinct from the noisy study area.
When Draco occasionally helped Crabbe and Goyle with their homework, he would reluctantly go to the study area to make a show of it. When he was studying alone, he preferred to come to this secluded corner.
This was his own private sanctuary, a place where he could return to being the gloomy and weary Draco Malfoy.
This was why the Potter trio didn't often see Draco in the library in his previous life. Draco could activate a concealment charm, disguising the area and preventing anyone from disturbing it.
Students passing by would often only see a pile of broken metal with a sign in front of it that read the Hogwarts motto or "Danger, Do Not Touch."
Draco wasn't sure if he could tell Hermione Granger about this.
Especially when they weren't yet very familiar with each other.
He needed to observe her further.
He gave a distant yet polite smile and made a shushing gesture. "I think I'll have to ask you to keep this a secret again."
"Okay! You're always so secretive," Hermione said, scrunching her little face.
She felt that he was like a pearl oyster, covered by a cold, hard shell, making him impossible to see through.
But his attentiveness to her, always promptly refilling her empty teacup with steaming hot tea, greatly won her over.
Perhaps that was just his personality. Everyone had their little secrets, right? Forcing someone to be honest with her about their secrets seemed a bit like being stubborn. Hermione thought quietly.
"What are you looking at? Quidditch?" Draco skillfully changed the subject, casually pulling one out of her stack of books and flipping through it.
Hermione's face immediately turned red.
"Worried about next week's flying lesson?" Draco looked up at her, asking pointedly.
"Ah... yes," Hermione stammered, taking a sip of tea as cover. She'd intended to appear nonchalant, but Draco seemed to see right through her.
She stole a glance at him and, seeing that he didn't seem to be mocking her, hurriedly explained in a low voice, "I've never ridden a broomstick before. It seems like all my classmates have experience with it. Seamus from our house has been riding one since he was little, and so has Ron. They're both really good at it. I thought maybe reading some books would help me learn how to use a broomstick beforehand..."
"No." Draco shook his head slightly, interrupting her.
"Flying is something you can't learn from books alone. You have to actually fly and experience it." It was rare for him to say something a little longer.
Miss Know-It-All probably had only one weakness—she never seemed to be very good at flying broomsticks.
Speaking of which, when she was hiding from the raging Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement, she'd seemed quite unskilled at riding.
How could Hermione Granger be so weak at such an essential wizarding skill that should be mastered by first-years?
At the very least, when it came to saving your life, you couldn't afford to fail like this, right?
Draco secretly rolled his eyes, tugged at the sleeve of her robes, and walked toward the library entrance. "Come with me."
"Hey, wait a minute, the flying book I need to borrow—" Hermione kept turning back to look at the book she'd painstakingly collected.
"We don't need those books," Draco said firmly, continuing to pull her along.
Draco led a visibly uneasy Hermione straight to the broomstick shed. It was quiet, deserted, and the door was locked.
Draco knew that, in addition to being Hogwarts's flying instructor and Quidditch referee, Madam Hooch also worked outside of school as the editor of The Complete Guide to Flying Broomsticks magazine. The magazine was published every Saturday, and Friday was their busiest time for deadlines, editing, and layout.
This meant that there was absolutely no one in the broom shed at this time.
Draco took out his wand, tapped on the lock, and whispered, "Alohomora." The lock clicked, and the door opened suddenly.
"Isn't this a violation of school rules?" Hermione was completely petrified as she watched Draco do it with such ease.
"The school rules only stipulate that first-year students cannot bring their own broomsticks to school, but there's no rule that students cannot borrow brooms from the broomstick shed to practice," Draco said nonchalantly.
"But—" Hermione said with difficulty, her expression somewhat worried.
"At Hogwarts, only fools break the rules. To the wise, the rules are a sieve, full of holes." Draco interrupted her agonizing thoughts, unusually speaking up to explain a few more points.
A Slytherin never broke the rules but rather used them. Some considered this idea overly cunning, but Draco saw it as the survival wisdom of a Slytherin.
He quickly led Hermione to two well-maintained broomsticks.
"Come on, let's try it out on the training field while no one's around." He lazily picked up a broom.
Hermione didn't move. She was still hesitating.
Convincing someone he'd used to disagree with was a novel experience for Draco. Seeing Hermione's conflicted look, he coaxed her, "What's better preparation than hands-on experience? You don't want to go to class unprepared and embarrass yourself, do you?"
The moment the word "embarrass" was mentioned, Hermione Granger, with her strong sense of self-respect, would fall for it one hundred percent.
"All right." Sure enough, Hermione made up her mind. She copied him, grabbed another broomstick, and went out the door with him.
"Come, stand next to the broomstick." On a flat and quiet patch of grass at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Draco, extremely serious, personally demonstrated for her. "Extend your right hand and place it above the broom. Then say 'Up.'"
"Up!" Hermione called tentatively.
The broomstick only rolled once on the ground. Hermione looked up and glanced at Draco. Draco's broomstick had already obediently risen from the ground and was now firmly in his hand.
"You have to have confidence in yourself," Draco said sternly. "The broom senses your determination. If you don't trust yourself, how can it trust that you can control it?"
"But..." Hermione said, frowning, "I don't quite believe that a broom can be used to fly... What's the principle behind it? It makes no sense."
"You're struggling with this?" Draco asked, as if suddenly realizing something.
He probably understood Hermione Granger's thought process now.
After working with her twice in Transfiguration class, he'd discovered that she was a meticulous girl who wanted to get to the bottom of everything. This meant that if he couldn't explain to her the principle behind how the broomstick could fly, she wouldn't be able to have confidence in the fact that "the broomstick can fly."
Without confidence, the broomstick would never obey you.
In her previous life, probably no one had properly explained to her the principles behind flying broomsticks—that was considered a trade secret.
Kids were good enough at using a broom; who would bother to figure this out properly?
"You've come to the right person." Draco picked out the words she could understand and added a few more details. "You see, this isn't an ordinary broom. It's made with special magical materials and a magical coating. Look at the broom handle—it's made from special wood that possesses magical properties."
Hermione nodded, stroking the broom handle with curiosity.
Draco glanced at her, finding her expression as amusing as that of a tentatively exploring cat. He smiled slightly and continued, "There are also propulsion mechanisms and steering charms inside the broom handle, which is harder to explain unless I risk being hunted down by Madam Hooch and take this broom apart for you to see right now—"
"No need, I don't want you to get caught or punished," Hermione said hastily, waving her hand.
"All right." Draco shrugged, his tone relaxed. "To add, the wizards' confidence and their magical power also play a role in flight... In short, although it looks like a Muggle broom, it's far more than a Muggle broom. It has a whole set of workings and isn't as simple as it appears on the surface. You don't need to worry too much."
Hermione's expression softened slightly, but she still didn't like the broom. However, seeing Draco's serious demeanor, he didn't seem to be lying to her. So she composed herself and forced herself to call out twice more.
This time, the broomstick drifted and landed in her palm.
"That's much better," Draco said approvingly. "You learn very quickly." Hermione smiled at him hesitantly, still looking a little uneasy.
Next, Draco broke down the movements, demonstrating to Hermione how to ride the broom without slipping off headfirst.
In his past life, Madam Hooch had certainly put Draco through a lot of trouble in this regard. Her strict demands had instilled in him the perfect posture. Even the way he gripped his hands—Draco had corrected the little girl's technique several times.
Some bad habits were hard to break once formed, so it was best not to make them in the first place.
"Draco must really love flying, right?" Hermione thought involuntarily as she watched him slowly demonstrate the movements.
Ever since I met him, he's always been a man of few words, sparing with his speech. He's never spoken so much as he has today.
He seemed much more lively when the topic turned to broomsticks and flight. She gripped the broom handle tightly and couldn't help but look up at him.
At this moment, the serious and indifferent expression that the boy usually wore on his face seemed to dissipate a little, and he radiated a confident and cheerful light.
"All right, you finally got the hand position right. Now, all that's left is to push off with both legs and leave the ground." He patiently repeated the details and tips, completely unaware of what the girl in front of him was thinking.
He explained with great enthusiasm, "You need to be careful to hold the broom firmly, rise a few feet, then lean your body slightly forward and fall vertically back to the ground."
Having learned this much, Hermione finally began to turn pale.
She said cautiously, "I think I probably can't do it. How can two first-years like us fly without any teachers or protective measures?"
"That's true." Draco didn't want to make things difficult for her. "If you master these steps, it'll be enough for the first flying lesson. Let's practice them one more time."
Draco discovered that helping Miss Know-It-All learn to fly was a good way to distract himself, besides making tea.
His anxieties were temporarily forgotten. Now, all he could think about were the possible awkward movements Hermione might make when she held the broom.
When they quietly returned the broomsticks, only the last rays of the setting sun remained on the horizon. They'd achieved great success—except for the flight itself, Hermione had mastered the standard procedures and postures.
Draco was right, Hermione thought. Flying really couldn't be learned from books alone. After the hands-on training, the panic and fear she'd felt about flying lessons lessened, and a faint confidence rekindled about her "flying lessons."
"Draco, you're a good teacher." Before heading to the Gryffindor table, Hermione turned back, smiled at Draco, and said shyly, "Thank you."
"My pleasure." Draco lazily gestured with his chin, reverting to his taciturn self, and walked toward the opposite table, transforming back into a haughty and aloof Slytherin.