Thursday afternoon brought Eliot's first flying lesson, and he was surprisingly nervous.
In his previous life, he'd been terrified of heights. Elevators above the fifth floor made him queasy. The idea of flying on a broomstick—essentially a wooden stick with bristles—seemed like a particularly creative form of suicide.
But this was magic. Different rules applied.
*I hope.*
---
The first-year Ravenclaws and Gryffindors gathered on the castle grounds, where twenty broomsticks lay in neat rows on the grass. Madam Hooch, the flying instructor, stood waiting with her yellow eyes and gray hair.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up!"
Eliot positioned himself next to a particularly worn-looking Cleansweep Five. The bristles were frayed, and the handle had several suspicious stains.
"Stick out your right hand over your broom," Madam Hooch instructed, "and say 'Up!'"
"UP!" chorused twenty voices.
Eliot's broom jumped into his hand immediately, as did Susan's and a few others. Some students struggled more than others.
Timothy Whitby's broom rolled over on the ground. Marcus Flint's didn't move at all.
"It's about confidence," Eliot murmured to Terry Boot, whose broom was spinning in place. "The broom responds to your intent. You have to really mean it."
Terry tried again with more authority. "UP!" His broom shot into his hand so fast it nearly knocked him over.
---
"Now, when I blow my whistle," Madam Hooch continued, "you kick off from the ground, hard. Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle—three, two—"
But Timothy Whitby, nervous and jumpy, pushed off early. His broom shot upward like a rocket, carrying him twenty, thirty, forty feet into the air.
"Come back, boy!" Madam Hooch shouted, but Timothy was clearly panicking, clinging to his broom as it bucked and twisted.
Then he fell.
Eliot reacted without thinking. He kicked off hard, his broom responding to his urgent need to help. He shot upward, angling to intercept Timothy's fall.
*This is insane,* part of his mind screamed. *You're going to get both of you killed!*
But his engineering brain was already calculating trajectories, wind resistance, optimal intercept angles. He pulled alongside Timothy just as the boy's grip failed.
"Grab on!" Eliot shouted, extending his arm.
Timothy caught his wrist in a death grip. Eliot's broom wobbled dangerously under the extra weight, but he managed to slow their descent enough for a rough but survivable landing.
They hit the ground hard, rolling in a tangle of limbs and broomsticks. Eliot's shoulder screamed in pain, but nothing seemed broken.
"Mr. Creevey! Mr. Clarke!" Madam Hooch rushed over. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm okay," Timothy gasped. "Eliot saved me."
"That was incredibly reckless," Madam Hooch said sternly, but her eyes showed approval. "And incredibly brave. Ten points to Ravenclaw for helping a fellow student."
---
The rest of the lesson passed without incident, though Eliot noticed several students looking at him with new respect. Word of his midair rescue spread quickly through the castle.
"That was amazing!" Susan said at dinner. "I can't believe you just... flew up there without hesitation."
"I couldn't let him fall," Eliot replied, wincing as he moved his sore shoulder. "Besides, it was just applied physics. Trajectory calculation, momentum conservation..."
"You make it sound like a math problem," Marcus Flint said, sitting down across from them. "But you were brilliant up there. Natural flyer."
Eliot wasn't so sure about that. He'd been terrified the entire time. But he had to admit, once he'd gotten past the initial fear, flying had felt... right. Like his body remembered something his mind had forgotten.
---
That evening, Professor McGonagall appeared in the Ravenclaw common room.
"Mr. Clarke," she said crisply. "A word, if you please."
Eliot followed her into the corridor, wondering if he was in trouble for the flying incident.
"I've spoken with Madam Hooch about today's events," McGonagall began. "She tells me you showed remarkable flying ability for a first-year."
"Thank you, Professor."
"Have you ever considered Quidditch?"
Eliot blinked. "I... no, not really. I've only had one flying lesson."
"Natural talent is rare, Mr. Clarke. The Ravenclaw team is looking for a new Seeker—someone with quick reflexes and good spatial awareness. Both of which you demonstrated today."
"I'm not sure I'd be good enough for the house team..."
"There's only one way to find out. Tryouts are this Saturday. I suggest you attend."
---
Back in the common room, Eliot's housemates were buzzing with excitement.
"Quidditch tryouts!" Terry exclaimed. "You have to do it!"
"I don't know," Eliot said uncertainly. "I've got a lot of other projects going on..."
"Like what?" Anthony asked.
Eliot gestured to his notebook, where he'd been sketching improvements to the torchlight design. "Research. Inventions. I'm working on several new devices."
"You can do both," Padma pointed out. "Lots of students balance Quidditch with academics."
"Besides," added Roger Davies, a third-year from his house, "being on the Quidditch team would give you access to the best brooms in the school. Think of it as... research equipment."
That was actually a compelling argument. Better brooms meant better understanding of flight dynamics, which could lead to innovations in magical transportation...
"Alright," Eliot said finally. "I'll try out."
---
Saturday morning dawned crisp and clear. Eliot stood on the Quidditch pitch with a dozen other hopefuls, most of them older students with their own racing brooms.
The Ravenclaw captain, a seventh-year named Marcus Belby, looked skeptical when he saw Eliot.
"You're the first-year who saved Longbottom?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Good reflexes. But Seeking requires more than just quick reactions. You need to be able to spot a Golden Snitch in a crowd of players, track multiple moving objects simultaneously, and make split-second decisions at high speed."
"I understand, sir."
Belby handed him a school broom—better than the one from flying lessons, but still nothing special. "Let's see what you can do."
The tryout was intense. Eliot had to fly complex patterns, catch practice Snitches (enchanted golf balls that moved like the real thing), and demonstrate his ability to spot small objects while dodging Bludgers.
His engineering background helped more than he'd expected. Tracking multiple moving objects was like debugging complex code—you had to see the patterns, predict the interactions, identify the anomalies.
When a practice Snitch zipped past his ear, Eliot didn't just chase it. He calculated its likely trajectory based on wind patterns and the positions of other players, then intercepted it at the optimal point.
"Impressive," Belby admitted after Eliot caught his third Snitch in a row. "Most people just chase them blindly."
"It's about pattern recognition," Eliot explained. "The Snitch isn't truly random—it responds to magical fields, air currents, and proximity to other magical objects. If you map those variables..."
"You're overthinking it," laughed Cho Chang, a second-year Chaser. "But it's working."
---
The results were announced that evening.
"Congratulations," Belby said, finding Eliot in the common room. "You're our new Seeker."
The common room erupted in cheers. Ravenclaw hadn't had a decent Seeker in two years.
"First practice is Tuesday evening," Belby continued. "Don't let it interfere with your studies—McGonagall will have my head if your grades slip."
"They won't," Eliot promised.
As his housemates celebrated around him, Eliot felt a strange mix of pride and apprehension. He was now officially part of something bigger than his individual projects.
He was part of a team.
---
That night, he updated his schedule:
5:30 AM - Wake up, review notes6:00 AM - Physical exercise (now including flying practice)7:00 AM - Breakfast and social time8:00 AM - Regular classes4:00 PM - Library research and runic studies5:00 PM - Homework and additional reading6:00 PM - Quidditch practice (Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays)7:00 PM - Dinner8:00 PM - Study group or torchlight production10:00 PM - Personal projects
It was ambitious, but manageable. And the Quidditch training would actually complement his other work—better physical fitness, improved reflexes, and access to advanced flying equipment for research purposes.
Plus, he had to admit, flying was exhilarating once you got past the terror.
As he drifted off to sleep, Eliot found himself looking forward to his first official practice.
Maybe this Quidditch thing wouldn't be so bad after all.