Chapter 50 – The Wind Beneath His Feet
The second week at Hogwarts began much like the first, with the comforting rhythm of routine settling in. Thomas rose early each morning, just as the sky above the castle began to turn from deep purple to golden blue. He practiced his space technique with discipline, refining the subtle manipulations of reach, blink, switch, and echo—pushing the limits of each spell within the safety of the empty abandoned classroom or hidden alcoves he had mapped out with Echo.
During class hours, Thomas found himself excelling. The core subjects were no longer as overwhelming. Charms became second nature—his wand movements crisp and precise, incantations flowing smoothly from his lips. He could now produce a perfect Lumos in less than a second and extinguish it just as quickly with a gentle Nox. In Transfiguration, he was among the first to successfully transform a matchstick into a needle without leaving behind splinters or wood grain. Even in Potions, the most difficult class for many students, Thomas thrived.
What truly set him apart was not only his precision but his curiosity. When Professor Snape changed the steps on the board from what was written in their textbooks, Thomas paid attention—not to complain, but to understand. He noted the temperature adjustments, the substitutions of ingredients, and even the manner in which Snape stirred or crushed elements. Over time, he began to see the logic behind it all—the silent language of brewing that Snape rarely explained but often demonstrated.
By the middle of the week, he was beginning to form hypotheses on why certain changes improved the potion's effectiveness. He didn't speak of it aloud, not after what happened the first time he questioned Snape, but in his own notes, he wrote freely. Potions, he realized, wasn't a rigid recipe. It was a living craft—delicate, reactive, and open to innovation. And he intended to master it.
His professors noticed his progress. Flitwick awarded him five points in Charms for "exceptional control and timing." Professor Sprout complimented his attentiveness in Herbology, and even Professor McGonagall, notoriously hard to impress, gave a subtle nod of approval after his flawless transfiguration on Monday.
Outside the classroom, life was filled with study, occasional mischief, and quiet camaraderie. He limited his off-class studies to about thirty minutes a day now, choosing instead to spend more time in the Gryffindor common room with Fred, George, and the other first-years. Sometimes they played wizard chess, sometimes exploding snap. Sometimes they just lounged near the fireplace talking about the day, about magic, about home.
But as the week wore on, something else became increasingly clear—he had begun to draw attention. Not all of it was welcome.
While many students admired his quick learning and precise spellwork, a few—especially among the Slytherins—began to look at him with thinly veiled hostility. Arcturus Nott Jr. never spoke to him, but always looked at him like one might regard a suspicious insect. Warrington, another Slytherin first-year with a sharp jaw and a cruel mouth, frequently made snide remarks whenever Thomas scored house points or was praised in class.
It all came to a head on Wednesday afternoon during their very first Flying Lesson.
The Gryffindor and Slytherin first-years gathered on the green lawn near the Quidditch pitch, where twenty school brooms lay in neat rows on the grass. The sun was bright and warm, and a gentle breeze drifted through the open field.
Thomas stood next to Fred and George, observing the brooms with curiosity. He had read about them—books like Quidditch Through the Ages gave technical overviews of broom models, enchantments, and famous players—but he knew reading wasn't the same as doing.
"I wonder if they wobble as much as the books say," he murmured.
Fred grinned. "They do. Especially these old ones."
Just then, Warrington's voice rang out from behind them. "Oi, Space. D'you even know what a broom is for? Or do Muggles just use them to clean?"
A few Slytherins chuckled.
Thomas turned slowly. Warrington's smirk was wide, his hands shoved casually in his pockets.
Fred and George both began to reach for their wands.
"Don't," Thomas muttered, raising a hand without turning. "Not worth it."
Instead, he tilted his head at Warrington and replied calmly, "Oh, we use them to clean, yes. You'd be surprised how much filth they sweep up." He gave a quick glance to the Slytherins, his eyes lingering on Warrington. "Maybe I'll give you a demonstration."
The Gryffindors snorted with laughter. Even one or two Hufflepuffs nearby couldn't help but chuckle.
Warrington's smile soured.
Before anyone could respond further, Madam Hooch arrived with the authority of a hawk in flight. "No wands, no talking. Line up next to your brooms, now!"
Everyone snapped into formation.
Madam Hooch stood before them, her sharp yellow eyes scanning the students. "Flying is a skill of precision and focus," she said. "You will respect your broom, your classmates, and the air. If I see even one spell cast or broom tampered with, you will not be permitted to fly for the rest of the term."
She walked between them as they each stood next to a broom.
"Right. Stick out your hand over the broom and say 'Up!'"
Thomas, confident despite never having flown before, extended his hand. "Up!"
The broom snapped to his palm instantly.
Fred and George gave him approving nods. Warrington scowled when his broom hesitated.
Madam Hooch moved on to teach them the basics—mounting the broom properly, lifting off gently, stabilizing height, turning mid-air. After half an hour of groundwork, they were finally allowed to rise a few feet off the ground and hover.
When Thomas lifted off for the first time, he felt a strange lurch in his stomach—but it was replaced almost instantly by exhilaration. The wind pressed gently against his cheeks. The ground slowly drifted away. He was flying.
It wasn't just fun. It was freedom.
He let his Echo spell activate, quietly spreading a spatial ripple around him. He could feel everything—where each broom was, the curve of the pitch below, the gentle current of air pushing from the left. His spatial awareness extended beyond what his eyes could see. It was beautiful. In this open area, his space ability shone brightly.
He stabilized quickly, shifting his weight with ease. Madam Hooch flew by and nodded in approval.
"Very stable for a first flight."
Thomas beamed.
The lesson ended without incident, although Warrington managed to knock over another student "by accident" and was given a sharp warning. Fred and George, true to their nature, hovered upside down for a full minute and earned a chorus of laughs.
That evening, back in the Gryffindor common room, the first-years gathered around the fire again. The air buzzed with stories from flying lessons—who almost fell, who crashed, who soared. Fred and George reenacted the moment Warrington nearly crashed into a tree, exaggerating every motion.
"Then he screamed like a banshee!" Fred cried, leaping off the couch.
"And Madam Hooch looked like she'd seen a Bludger with teeth!" George added, clutching his stomach.
Thomas sat nearby, laughing with the others. His heart was still light from the flight earlier, the feeling of the wind, the control, the sensation of not just being in the world but above it.
Maribel Knox, a fellow Gryffindor, leaned over. "You were really good today, Thomas. Didn't think you were a flier."
He shrugged. "Neither did I."
Angelina with a few others for a chess match, gave him a nod. "You've got good balance. You'll be great in Quidditch if you ever try."
Thomas chuckled. "Let's just survive first year."
As the fire burned lower, and the common room quieted, Thomas looked around. The jokes, the warmth, the quiet understanding that despite their differences, they were all in this together—it made Hogwarts feel less like a school and more like a home.
Yes, there were challenges ahead. Rivalries, difficult classes, secrets yet to unfold.
But for now, in the warmth of Gryffindor Tower, Thomas allowed himself a rare feeling.
Contentment.