Chapter 49: The Broom That Refused to Rise

"The conflict between Roger and Malfoy feels more like a metaphor for the future." Dumbledore produced a roll of parchment—it was Snape's exam paper.

"This boy has revolutionary ideas," Dumbledore murmured thoughtfully. Why was it that exceptional wizards always harbored such unconventional notions?

"Unlike Tom, he wants to reform the entire magical world by drawing inspiration from Muggles, though in my view, there is hardly any need for that."

"Yet that is precisely what worries me." Dumbledore gazed out the window at the lawn, where the young wizards' flying lesson was about to begin.

"Voldemort still lurks in the shadows, while a different ideology germinates beneath the soil. As you said, even the Qilin wand chose him."

Professor McGonagall fell silent for a moment before replying, "Albus, at least we have discovered it. Roger, like any other child, has the right to form his own values—even if they seem rather immature at present."

She looked out the window. "It is also the school's responsibility to guide them toward healthy growth."

"Well, our Mr. Roger doesn't seem particularly skilled at Quidditch." Dumbledore watched the pitch, where Madam Hooch was instructing the young wizards on how to make their broomsticks fly up into their hands.

The afternoon sun warmed the grass as Madam Hooch walked past two lines of young wizards. At their feet lay flying brooms, all of identical, unknown make, all equally battered and worn.

"Up," Harry said softly, and his broomstick instantly leaped obediently into his hand.

Madam Hooch nodded approvingly; Harry seemed to possess an innate, extraordinary talent for Quidditch.

"Up... Up..." The other students chanted commands as well, trying to make their brooms obey. So far, however, none had managed to match Harry's level.

"Quidditch is a sport driven by talent. Perhaps Harry will make the team by next year," Madam Hooch encouraged the class while marveling at his skill.

"Roger, why is your broom completely motionless?" Daphne looked at Roger in confusion. The broom at his feet seemed rooted to the ground, refusing to budge an inch no matter how many times he called it.

Roger shrugged helplessly and glanced around. Malfoy had finished second, clutching his broom with a smug, triumphant expression as he cast a provocative look across the line.

All Roger wanted to say was: *What are you staring at?*

Ever since the term began, Malfoy had been thoroughly suppressed by Roger in nearly every class. That eternal runner-up feeling must have been suffocating him, so finally scoring a victory in flying class had put him in high spirits.

Had Roger known what Malfoy was thinking, he would surely have reminded him that Hermione was the one handling the coursework, placing Malfoy far from second place. Even in flying class, Harry clearly outshone him in natural talent.

Five minutes later, everyone else had managed to get their brooms into their hands. Only Roger's broom remained completely indifferent, acting like a proud, aloof ice-goddess who rejected his invitation with silence.

"Brooms can sense the emotion in your voice. Put some feeling into it, child!" Madam Hooch encouraged.

"Some people simply aren't suited for flight," Malfoy taunted with a gloating smirk.

"Slithering snake!" Ron's face still bore the red mark from where a broom had struck him earlier, but he watched with malicious glee, while even Harry chuckled at Roger's clumsy performance.

Everyone laughed; it turned out even a genius had things they weren't good at.

"Madam Hooch, could the broom be broken?" Roger shrugged indifferently, unbothered by their mocking laughter.

"Up," Madam Hooch muttered thoughtfully, walking over and calling out softly.

The broom that had completely ignored Roger slowly lifted into the air and obediently settled into Madam Hooch's palm. The young wizards' laughter grew even merrier, filling the surrounding air with a lighthearted mood.

"Roger, perhaps you aren't pouring enough emotion into it." Madam Hooch looked at him helplessly. In all her years of teaching, this was her first time encountering such a situation.

"Not enough emotion?" Roger frowned and asked for guidance, "Does any emotion work?"

"Of course, any emotion at all," Madam Hooch nodded affirmatively, explaining, "A flying broom is not merely a tool; it is a wizard's companion... a partner."

"It can sense a wizard's emotions—whether it's joy, anger, or steadfast determination," she continued. "As long as the emotion is intense enough, the flying broom will fly according to your will."

"Take a deep breath and close your eyes," Madam Hooch instructed, helping him adjust his state of mind. "Call out to it with overflowing emotion."

"Up, or I will burn you to ashes." A bone-chilling coldness edged Roger's tone, and an indescribable sense of oppression radiated from him.

The surrounding young wizards couldn't help shivering, and even Madam Hooch's expression shifted.

The broom that had previously given him the cold shoulder instantly floated into the air with absolute obedience. Before Roger could even utter a second command, it hovered steadily in his palm, completely still and quiet, allowing him to grip it.

"Roger..." Seeing this, Madam Hooch opened her mouth, utterly at a loss for how to comment.

His classmates exchanged bewildered glances, completely unprepared for him to control a broom using such a method. The question naturally arose in their minds: Why was Roger's understanding of "emotion" so uniquely terrifying?

"Thank you for the guidance, Madam Hooch." Noticing her astonished gaze, Roger broke into a warm, gentle smile, leaving no trace of his previous chilling demeanor.

Madam Hooch sighed softly, walked to the center of the line, and reminded them, "Now, everyone mount your brooms. Remember to grip them tightly and don't slide off the back."

"When I blow my whistle, kick off hard from the ground, then rise and maintain your balance." She lifted the whistle hanging around her neck and instructed them on landing: "...When I blow the whistle again, lean forward and steady yourselves back down to the ground."

"Now listen for my whistle. Three, two, peep..."

The moment Madam Hooch blew the whistle, Neville's broom shot straight up into the air with him, climbing rapidly toward the sky.

"Top-tier reaction speed." In the blink of an eye, the broom carried Neville higher and higher, prompting Roger to praise him repeatedly from below.

Daphne rolled her eyes at Roger and sneered, "Didn't you see Neville's panic? His broom is completely out of control."

Amid Madam Hooch's shouts and the gasps of the class, Neville spun wildly up and down. He traced erratic Brownian motion in the air, making it impossible for Madam Hooch to get a clear bead on him with her wand.

Just as he was about to hurtle toward the Forbidden Forest, the stone statue on the rooftop intervened in the nick of time, catching his school robes with a spear and reeling him down. The runaway broom soared higher and higher until it vanished in the direction of the Forbidden Forest.

The fabric could not sustain Neville's weight. With a sharp rip, his robes tore, and he plummeted with a terrified scream.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" Roger whipped out his wand, arresting Neville's rapid descent mid-air.

"He's heavy!" Roger muttered, feeling his magic drain away rapidly as he thought Neville really needed to go on a diet.

Thud!

Despite the cushioning of the hovering charm, Neville still crashed heavily onto the ground.

"Neville!" Madam Hooch rushed over, fiercely blaming herself for her momentary lapse in attention. Fortunately, thanks to Roger's timely spell to break his fall, Neville appeared uninjured, merely frightened out of his wits.

"I'm taking you to the hospital wing. Everyone stay right where you are and don't move a muscle," Madam Hooch instructed the other young wizards sternly as she helped Neville up.

"Put your broomsticks away," she glared at the group, her eyes sharp as a hunting hawk's. "If I catch any of you riding a broomstick behind my back, expect to be expelled from the school gates."

"Let's go, dear," she said gently to Neville, comforting the boy who had just fallen from dozens of feet in the air.

"Madam Hooch really ought to award you house points." Daphne watched Madam Hooch's retreating figure, feeling a sense of injustice on Roger's behalf. "Your spell played a crucial role. Otherwise, Neville wouldn't have walked away without broken bones."

"Alright, Daphne," Roger smiled. Claiming points right at that moment felt somewhat inappropriate.

As if orchestrated by cruel fate, Malfoy ended up with Neville's Remembrall, tossing it from hand to hand. "What an absolute idiot," he sneered maliciously, sunlight filtering through the glass ball to cast dappled shadows across his face. "Roger, I suppose I agree with your assessment after all."