All of Hogwarts' classes held some appeal, but flying lessons ranked dead last for Erwin. Even Divination seemed more tolerable than perching on a broomstick. He simply couldn't grasp the thrill others raved about.
The group arrived at the open grassy field beyond the greenhouses. The lesson hadn't begun, but a crowd of Slytherins and Gryffindors had already gathered, buzzing with anticipation. Every young witch and wizard wore a grin—flying was, after all, a dream as old as humanity itself. The promise of soaring through the skies stirred excitement in even the most grounded souls.
As Erwin approached, the chatter died abruptly, leaving an awkward hush. He ignored the stares and made straight for Malfoy, frowning at the boy's smug posture.
Malfoy swallowed nervously, his bravado cracking. "What're you playing at? My dad's on the school board—don't try anything stupid!"
Erwin forced a smile. This kid had a real talent for digging his own grave when Daddy wasn't around.
"Malfoy—Draco Malfoy," Erwin said evenly, "I need to set something straight. I don't give a Knut what you're like at home or whether your father's on the board. You're a Slytherin now, and everything you do reflects on the house. Think about your place here. Pure-blood status isn't just about lineage—it's about legacy, built by generations before you. It's not your fancy hair that earns respect; it's your ancestors' deeds. So for Slytherin's sake—and your family's—watch your manners. Nobility shows in your words and actions, not just your name."
Malfoy dropped his gaze, mumbling nothing. He wanted to snap back, but Erwin's words hit too close to home. More than that, he knew better than to push.
Erwin scanned the other Slytherins. "This isn't just for you, Malfoy—it goes for all of you. Don't drag Slytherin through the mud or shame your families. Enough with the hotheaded Gryffindor antics. Remember who you are: Slytherins."
That did the trick. Slytherins might tune out most lectures, but anything trashing Gryffindor got their full attention. They straightened up, nodding eagerly.
"Yes, Prefect," they chorused, dipping their heads in unison.
Erwin nodded, pleased. As he turned, he caught a pack of Gryffindors glaring daggers. His eyes locked on Ron.
"See something you like?" Erwin drawled. "Or just practicing for the mirror?"
Ron gaped, momentarily speechless. Where was the polished prefect from the common room? This was outright cheek!
He opened his mouth to fire back, but froze—Erwin had drawn his wand without a sound. Ron ducked his head, cheeks burning with resentment. Why him? The whole lot was staring, but Erwin singled him out like a troll picking on a first-year.
Erwin rolled his eyes. Ron just rubbed him the wrong way—always yapping, always grating. It was a crime against decorum, really. The Weasley deserved a good hex for it.
In the distance, Madam Hooch approached, a cluster of battered Nimbus 2000s trailing behind her like reluctant pets. Erwin clapped his hands sharply.
"Right, lesson's starting soon. Line up, everyone—Slytherins first!"
His housemates snapped to attention, forming neat rows in seconds. The Gryffindors, by contrast, milled about like lost sheep, shoving and joking.
Madam Hooch observed the contrast with a faint smile. Slytherins did excel at discipline, she'd give them that. She flicked her wand, and the brooms scattered, settling at each student's feet.
"Right, then," she said briskly. "Welcome to your first flying lesson at Hogwarts. Before we get airborne, let's test your natural affinity. Extend your right hand over the broom and say 'Up!'"
The command hung in the air, and a few eager souls jumped in immediately.
"Up!"
Erwin watched as Harry's broom shot straight into his hand on the first try. Madam Hooch's eyes widened slightly—impressive for a first-year.
Malfoy's broom wobbled up a few inches before dropping back down. He scowled, but on his second shout, it obeyed, landing neatly in his palm. He shot Harry a triumphant smirk; Harry responded with an exaggerated eye roll.
The rest managed after a few tries—except Erwin. His broom lay stubbornly still, as if mocking him. His expression soured. So, no talent showing on the System panel meant zero aptitude? Figures.
He glared at the thing. "Last chance," he muttered. "Or you'll end up as kindling in the common room fire."
Madam Hooch interjected quickly. "Now, Mr. Cavendish, no need for that. Gentleness works wonders—think of it as coaxing an old friend."
But before she finished, the broom leaped into Erwin's hand with a sharp whoosh.
Madam Hooch blinked, thrown off. "Well... sometimes these old Cleansweepers need a firm hand."
Erwin shrugged. "Seems magical artifacts respond to... creative encouragement."
Her lips quirked, but she said nothing. In her years teaching, she'd never seen a broom tamed quite like that.
Only one student remained broomless: Ron Weasley. All eyes turned to him, and his face flushed crimson. He craved the spotlight, but not like this—not as the class joke.
Glancing at Erwin's success, Ron figured intimidation was the trick. He copied the glare and growled, "Up, you stupid stick—or you're firewood!"
The broom didn't budge. Instead, the handle cracked up like a whip, smacking Ron square in the nose. A bright red welt bloomed instantly, and he yelped, clutching his face.
Laughter erupted from both houses—Gryffindors included.
Madam Hooch hurried over. "To the infirmary with you?"
Ron shook his head furiously, voice muffled. "No—don't wanna miss this!"
She sighed but relented. "Very well. Now, everyone—straddle your brooms, hold tight. When I blow the whistle, kick off hard, hover steady, and ease back down. Understood?"
The group nodded, grips tightening on weathered handles, the air electric with nerves and thrill.