Hogwarts: My Grandmother is the Queen

On Saturday night, the fireplace crackled in the Slytherin common room, and Draco was restless, his eyes darting every now and then to Henry, who was sitting on the sofa reading "The History of Magic."

Finally, as if he had made up his mind, he stood up and walked up to Henry.

"Hey Henry, it's Sunday tomorrow, and the weather looks nice." He tapped the ground lightly with his toes. "Flint—our Quidditch captain—and I've arranged for us to go to the Quidditch pitch tomorrow morning to try out some brooms. A few of the team members will also be there for rehabilitation. Want to come along? Of course, if you're not interested in brooms, then forget it."

The last addition seemed like a cover-up. Clearly, after the memory orb incident and yesterday's afternoon tea conversation, Draco had realized something, and he was trying to re-establish some kind of connection, or rather, demonstrate his value, using his most prized area.

Inviting Henry to Quidditch might be seen by him as a sophisticated form of social interaction within his own circle.

Henry closed the book, recalling the flight lesson notice and realizing it was an opportunity to gain insight into the core social activities of the wizarding world and observe another important circle within Slytherin.

"That sounds interesting," Henry smiled. "I'd love to see it. Thanks for the invitation, Draco."

Draco's face immediately lit up, his tension replaced by a familiar smugness.

"It's a deal then! We'll go to the field together after breakfast tomorrow. You'll see what real flying is like—it's nothing like those toy brooms."

On Sunday morning, the Quidditch pitch looked exceptionally vast under the clear autumn sunlight.

When Henry and Draco arrived, there were already several tall figures wearing Slytherin Quidditch training robes on the sidelines.

Captain Marcus Flint, who looked like a shaved gorilla, was gruffly directing his two teammates to warm up.

Upon seeing Draco and Henry, he merely glanced at them, nodded to Draco, and gave Henry an undisguised scrutiny—his gaze conveying more assessment than welcome.

"Malfoy, take your friend away from the training area, lest he get hit on the head by a stray ball," Flint said in a deep voice, then added with a hint of mockery, "Or, little Malfoy, you could teach your prince friend how to keep the broom from rolling around."

As soon as he finished speaking, several team members burst into rude laughter.

Draco blushed slightly, but quickly straightened his back and patted his broom: "He doesn't need to be taught, Flint. Henry learns everything very quickly."

He turned to Henry and whispered, "Ignore them, that's just how they are. Come on, let me show you how it goes."

Draco straddled the broom, effortlessly rising a few feet off the ground, demonstrating several smooth hovers and slow turns.

His technique was indeed more refined than most first-year students, and his posture showed signs of training.

Henry observed his movements, then picked up the Seven Stars Sweep prepared for visitors on the sidelines—a somewhat outdated model, but still functional.

"Get up," he commanded clearly.

The broom obediently jumped into his hand, clattering steadily.

The moment I gripped the broom handle, a strange, almost visceral feeling surged within me.

Unlike practicing spells, which requires deliberate guidance and control of magic, flying seems to rely more on a sense of balance and an intuition for space. He recalled the feeling of communicating with his mount and the wind when he was learning horseback riding as a child.

Draco raised an eyebrow in the air: "Not bad! Come up and give it a try, but don't fly too high, just get a feel for it first."

Henry straddled the broom and gently pushed off the ground.

It swept across the seven stars and rose steadily without any bumps.

He quickly found his balance; the feeling came naturally, as if he were born knowing how to distribute weight and how to communicate with the broom using the most subtle body language.

He tried leaning forward, and the broom obediently sped up; leaning back slightly slowed it down; the curves of his sideways movements and turns were astonishingly smooth.

"Hey! That's really good!" Draco exclaimed in surprise, flying closer. "You control it much better than I did the first time! Looks like you have some talent!"

Henry did not respond; he was focused on feeling.

The wind whistles past my ears, and the scenery on the ground shrinks beneath my feet, giving rise to a sense of expansive freedom accompanied by a clear desire for control.

It felt good, very good. He tried a low, shallow dive, then pulled up lightly as he approached the lawn, his robe fluttering, his movements clean and crisp, without a trace of hesitation or panic.

Flint and the other players, who had initially been glancing at the field casually, gradually stopped what they were doing.

"Lonski feint?" a chaser exclaimed instinctively. "Merlin's socks...is this really the first time he's ever touched a broom?"

"The broom is a bit old, but the control is good," another chaser commented. "The center of gravity is very accurate, and there is no unnecessary wobbling when turning."

Flint crossed his arms, a look of interest appearing on his rugged face.

He doesn't care about bloodline or Muggle origins; the Quidditch pitch only recognizes skill.

"Hey! You up there!" he yelled at Henry, "Could you go any faster? Go around the edge of the track and let us see your straights and corners!"

Draco appeared somewhat nervous in the air, but Henry merely nodded slightly in Flint's direction. He lowered his body, his eyes fixed on the boundary line at the edge of the pitch, mentally assessing the speed and angle.

The next moment, the Seven Stars Sweep suddenly burst forth!

While its acceleration wasn't as rapid as the ball chaser riding the Nimbus 2000, it far surpassed the performance of an average beginner.

Henry clung tightly to the broom handle, the strong wind whipping his hair back, but his body remained as steady as a rock.

Without hesitation, he sprinted straight ahead. Before turning, he leaned his body in a coordinated manner, and his broom drew a beautiful and precise arc, completing the turn close to the edge of the road with almost no loss of speed.

After one lap, it landed smoothly, without the broom even shaking violently.

After a brief silence, Flint slapped himself hard first. Although he still didn't smile much, his eyes had changed.

"Not bad, really not bad!" He strode over, looking Henry up and down as his breathing became slightly rapid. "You've really never flown before? Not in some Muggle... uh, somewhere else did you train?"

"The first time," Henry answered calmly, getting off the broom with an air of composure.

He could feel his heart beating a little faster, but it was more of an excitement than a nervous one.

Humans, even without wings, have always longed for the sky.

Draco also landed, his face showing surprise, but even more so, a sense of pride and excitement.

"See, Flint! I told you he'd learn fast!" He turned to Henry, his tone eager. "You absolutely have talent, Henry! Especially your cornering control, it's so steady! If only you had a Nimbus 2000..."

Flint stroked his chin, seemingly pondering something.

"The broom is a bit lacking... but the foundation is really good. Quick reflexes, not afraid of speed, and most importantly, a clear mind."

He looked at Henry: "Interested in coming to the stadium to practice more? You can also watch the team practice. Of course, freshmen can't join the team, but it won't hurt to get familiar with it in advance."