Flying lessons were another favourite among the students. The class was taught by Rolanda Hooch, whom the students all called Madam Hooch.
She seemed to possess some kind of mysterious bloodline; her hair was an uncanny shade of grey, and her eyes were yellow like a hawk's.
Her gaze was sharp and commanding, enough to make anyone quail. Harry suspected those eyes saw far more clearly than any normal wizard's.
On Tuesday and Thursday afternoons they had Flying. During the first two lessons, however, Madam Hooch hadn't let them try flying at all.
The first lesson had been entirely devoted to safety: precautions for flying, and the importance of staying alive over going fast. Compared to speed, she said, safety was everything.
In the second lesson they were each given a battered old school broom—but all they were allowed to do was practise calling the broom up from the ground into their hand.
Harry completed this step in no time, but even by the end of the second lesson a lot of students still couldn't manage it. Poor Ron was one of them.
On Friday, Harry, Hermione, and Ron were sitting together in the Great Hall for breakfast.
Ordinary meals weren't as extravagant as the feast at the Sorting Ceremony, but they were still very good—just less variety.
Ron kept spooning sugar into his porridge as he asked,
"What classes do we have today?"
Hermione bit into a pumpkin pasty; with her cheeks puffed out, she managed,
"In the morning we've got double Potions with the Slytherins."
Ron's grin collapsed into a grimace.
"Professor Snape's Head of Slytherin. George and Fred both say he favours his own House—and that face of his, it's like it's carved out of stone. This is going to be a rotten day."
Harry, on the other hand, wasn't worried the way Ron was. A professor's attitude couldn't affect him much; even if Professor Snape did his best to target him, it wouldn't change anything.
If anything, by the end of the morning, poor Professor Snape—after being bullied by James Potter back in the day—might find himself bullied by James' son as well.
Just then, the air filled with the sound of beating wings.
Owls swooped in through the high windows in the ceiling, circling the hall and dropping letters as they went.
The post had arrived. Every day, a good number of letters were delivered by owl.
Each owl would find the person its letter belonged to, dropping the envelope or package in front of them or onto their lap.
Harry realised that these apparently ordinary birds weren't ordinary at all. They also possessed a faint trace of magic, and their ability to locate their targets was extremely keen. Perhaps he could study them and develop a more precise locating spell from their abilities.
Out there, Harry didn't really have any family—only the three Dursleys, his borrowers.
The three of them didn't need to send him letters. As long as they prayed to him in their hearts, he could hear them, receive their messages, and speak back to them.
This, too, was one of the prerogatives of a dimensional demon god. Harry might not have a dimensional demon god behind him, but he had the same authority.
Even the Sorcerer Supreme found it baffling. She guessed it might be connected to a powerful force called the Power of Chaos, but it still felt… different. As if Harry himself were somehow even more… special.
That was the only way she could put it.
Because of all that, Hedwig had never yet brought Harry any packages, though she still came to see him every day.
Just like now—perched on Harry's shoulder, nibbling at the toast he held to her beak.
When she finished, Harry stroked her head, smoothing her feathers, then tapped a Cleaning Charm over her to freshen her up before sending her back to the Owlery to play with the other owls.
Today, though, something was different. Once she'd finished the last bite of toast, Hedwig dropped a small scrap of paper in front of him.
On it was written:
"Dear Harry,
I know you don't have classes on Friday afternoon. Would you be able to come and have tea with me at three o'clock?
I'd very much like to hear how your first week has gone. Please send me a reply with Hedwig. —Hagrid"
Harry flicked a silver spoon and briefly transfigured it into a quill, then wrote on the paper:
"Of course, I'd be delighted. See you this afternoon."
He handed the note back to Hedwig, rubbed her fluffy little head, and sent her off.
After breakfast, the trio left the Great Hall and headed down the staircases toward the dungeons.
The Potions classroom was in the castle's cellars, which suited Professor Snape perfectly. In Harry's eyes, Snape looked like a great greasy bat to begin with.
Harry wondered nastily whether Snape's terrible hygiene had been one of the reasons his mother had distanced herself from him.
The air grew colder and damper as they descended. Hermione pulled her robes tighter around herself and edged closer to Harry.
Harry gradually noticed that Hermione seemed to be relying on him a bit too much.
That wouldn't do. Miss Otter had so many good qualities—brave, clever, kind, unafraid, and more gifted than most of their year.
She should have her own light, standing tall and shining on her own, not just be a tiny candle huddling close to the sun.
Harry had even thought about what would happen when he eventually retired. Perhaps he could make Hermione this world's next Sorcerer Supreme—so he ought to start training her from childhood.
As for what he'd do after retiring… well, the Vishanti were a pretty good example.
He was still pondering how to help Hermione become more confident when he suddenly froze.
He had just stepped through the Potions classroom door—only to find that the room beyond was not the Potions classroom, but a strange cave.
The cave was dim and damp, but Harry adapted quickly. A faint gleam of inner light flashed in his pupils, and he saw the cave clearly.
Piled before him was a heap of miscellaneous junk—mechanical parts, scraps of missiles, screwdrivers, and splintered wooden crates.
Harry frowned slightly and warded himself against the thick smell of sweat and mould outside his own body. Only then did he feel somewhat better.
There was no doubt about it: he had travelled again, slipping into another world in the multiverse.
But unlike his returns to the wizarding world, he hadn't reappeared in the spot where he'd first crossed over. Instead, he'd been thrown into some unfamiliar cave.
Which raised the question: where was he?
Just then, a voice came from a corner ahead:
"Hey, pyjama baby, where did you come from, and why did you just pop out of nowhere?"
Harry looked toward the sound. In a corner half-buried under the heaps of scrap metal, two filthy men were staring at him in amazement.
One had a bald head just like Filch's, wore glasses, and might have looked quite scholarly if his jacket and shirt hadn't been covered in grime. Right now, he just looked exhausted and worn out.
The other man was no cleaner—his beard was scruffy, his hair as greasy as that oversized bat in the dungeons.
He had thrown on a random jacket that didn't fit him properly; it hung half-open over a round device embedded in his chest, glowing faintly. Harry had no idea what it was for.
He was the one who'd spoken. At the moment, he was staring at Harry as if he couldn't believe his eyes.
What surprised Harry most of all was that he knew who this grimy, dishevelled man was.
It was Tony Stark—the same Tony Stark who had vanished in Afghanistan and been all over the Muggle news.
Harry immediately realised what he was looking at. Tony Stark had been kidnapped.
And Harry… had just travelled straight into the cave where Tony Stark was being held hostage.
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