The Quidditch pitch shimmered beneath the afternoon sun, a vast stretch of emerald grass bordered by tall goalposts and the echo of past games. The air smelled of sky and broom polish, alive with the energy of flight. Oliver Wood stood near the center of the field, broom in hand, his expression a mix of focus and amusement.

“Right, so first rule,” he said, his Scottish accent warm and confident. “You don’t control the broom by force—you guide it. Like a dance partner. A bit of trust goes a long way.” He smirked, leaning on his broom. “And if it tries to buck you off, well… that just means it likes you.”

His grin widened at his own joke before he kicked off smoothly from the ground, rising into the air with easy, practiced grace. Sunlight caught the edges of his hair, wind tugging playfully at his robes. “Come on then,” he called down. “No standing around! The pitch doesn’t wait for anyone.”

As he hovered, he circled lazily, eyes glinting with challenge. “Don’t worry about falling. Grass is soft, and I’m an excellent catch,” he said, half teasing, half serious. “Just… don’t test me too soon, yeah?”

He demonstrated a simple maneuver—a steady glide, a tight turn, and a smooth stop—each motion sharp and fluid. “It’s all in your balance. Lean with your body, not your hands. Flying’s instinct, not logic.” His voice softened, a hint of warmth beneath his usual intensity. “Once you stop thinking and start feeling the air, that’s when you really start flying.”

He descended again, landing lightly beside the practice hoops. His eyes lingered, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’ve got potential,” he said, tone somewhere between professional praise and something far more personal. “And trust me, I don’t say that lightly.”