Hogwarts: My Grandmother is the Queen

This was just a side story; that very evening, they saw a notice on the bulletin board in the common room that flight lessons would begin next Thursday.

Gryffindor and Slytherin students attend classes together.

Ever since the notice about flight lessons was posted, the topic of conversation in the Slytherin common room and throughout the first year has been all about brooms and Quidditch.

The air was thick with a restless excitement and exaggerated boasts about their own flying skills.

Draco was undoubtedly one of the best. Whether in the Great Hall or the lounge, whenever someone mentioned it, he would begin his long-winded discourse in a deliberately nonchalant tone, yet every syllable was brimming with boasting.

"To be honest, Hogwarts' rules are really unreasonable. Back home, my father allowed me to use the Nimbus series for basic training long ago—under strict supervision, of course. Once, I was practicing a sharp dive over the manor in Wiltshire and almost crashed head-on into a Muggle helicopter flying low! That metal thing was as loud as a raging chimera, and at the last second, I—"

He suddenly turned to the side, mimicking a dangerous evasive maneuver.

"—The expressions on the faces of those Muggle pilots as it grazed past, haha!"

Hey kid, you're the one who knocked the prison down, aren't you?

Looks like I really need to give you a good whack!

Countless thrilling stories like these exist, and they always end with his superb skills contrasted with the clumsiness of Muggle vehicles.

Pansy, Crabbe, Gore, and others would usually respond with exclamations or laughter.

Henry didn't expose his idea; it was just a bit of boasting, nothing serious.

But Draco wasn't the only one boasting. At the Gryffindor long table, Seamus Finnigan's voice was equally loud, claiming that he spent almost his entire childhood on flying broomsticks and battling the various complex terrains of the Irish fields.

Even Ron Weasley, when encouraged by his twin brothers and with someone listening, would blush and gesture as he recounted how he once nearly collided with a passing glider while riding his older brother Charlie's oddly-feeling old Sweeper, emphasizing that "it was just a hair's breadth away."

Alas, poor Muggles, being manipulated by little wizards.

Every child from a wizarding family seems to be holding back a desire to outdo the others in terms of resume before actually getting their hands on a flying broom.

Amidst the commotion, Neville Longbottom received a package from his grandmother.

As he nervously opened the Gryffindor table and took out the glass ball that looked like it was shrouded in wisps of smoke, the surroundings fell silent.

That's a memory ball. If the smoke turns red when you hold it, it means you've forgotten something.

Neville held it blankly, the smoke inside the glass ball slowly turning red, but he looked completely bewildered, clearly unable to recall what he had forgotten. His appearance was both comical and pitiful.

This scene was witnessed by Draco, who was passing by the Gryffindor table on his way to get some fresh air in the courtyard. A mischievous glint immediately flashed in his eyes, and a malicious smile curled at the corner of his mouth.

Without any hesitation, he strode forward and snatched the Memory Orb from Neville's hand before Neville and Hermione could react.

"Look at this!" Draco exclaimed, holding up the glowing memory orb. His voice carried clearly through the Great Hall, drawing even more attention. "Longbottom can't even remember what he forgot! This thing's been keeping him very busy, constantly turning red! Maybe it's reminding you not to burn through the cauldron again?"

Neville's face flushed red, and he stood up in a panic and confusion, wanting to take back the memory ball but not daring to.

Hermione snapped, "Malfoy! Give it back to him! That's not yours!"

Just as Draco was smugly weighing the memory orb, preparing to say a few more witty remarks, a cold and serious voice interrupted, carrying an unquestionable authority.

"Mr. Malfoy! Return the item to Mr. Longbottom immediately!"

Professor McGonagall's gaze behind her glasses was incredibly sharp, and Draco's smug expression froze instantly. Under Professor McGonagall's death stare, he reluctantly shoved the memory orb back into Neville's hand, muttering something indistinctly.

Before Professor McGonagall could deliver any further reprimand, he slunk away from the Gryffindor long table area.

During afternoon tea, Draco was still furious, his cheeks still slightly flushed.

He slumped heavily into the chair next to Henry, muttering a complaint, "Professor McGonagall always sides with those Gryffindor idiots! I was just joking, I was just looking at it!"

Pansy whispered in agreement, while Daphne remained silent.

Henry put down the book he was reading, "Quidditch Origins," turned around, and looked calmly at Draco.

He didn't immediately respond with criticism or comfort; his silence only made Draco's complaints seem somewhat unconvincing.

After a moment, Henry spoke slowly, his voice not loud, but carrying a power that made the Slytherins instinctively tilt their ears to listen.

"Draco," he called his name, his tone less accusatory and more inquisitive, "have you considered what you gained from taking the Memory Orb from Longbottom—especially in public?"

Draco paused, clearly not having considered this possibility. "I...I just can't stand his clumsy way of doing things! I want to make him look foolish..."

"Did he embarrass himself?" Henry countered, his tone still calm. "Everyone saw his panic when he was bullied, and the scene where you were forced to return the item and leave quickly after Professor McGonagall intervened. In the end, the memory orb returned to its owner intact, and you received a public reprimand—albeit only a look."

Draco opened his mouth, wanting to refute, but couldn't find the words.

Henry described the actual consequences of his actions in the simplest language, stripping away the mischievous fun or show of power he tried to attribute to them.

"It's like playing Wizard's Chess," Henry continued, tapping his finger lightly on the table as if there were a chessboard there. "Recklessly capturing an insignificant pawn exposes your own important pieces to the attack range of the opponent's castle, giving the opponent a moral high ground to stand on and criticize you from above. The gains and losses are obvious."

He adjusted his posture slightly, making it seem more like he was sharing an insight than lecturing.

"Look at it from another angle, Draco," he paused for a moment, then turned to Pansy and Daphne, "including you, what role do you think pure-blood wizards should play in the wizarding world?"