Chapter Ten: The Firebolt

Harry didn't have nightmares that night about what he had overheard, simply because he hadn't had enough sleep to dream. He wasn't even sure that he had fallen asleep, for all he knew he had lain awake in bed the whole night, torturing imaginations of Sherlock Holmes and the way he had betrayed his parents vividly playing in his mind. He didn't know what Jim Moriarty or the pre-Azkaban Sherlock Holmes looked like, or what either of their voices sounded like, but his mind had no difficulty constructing them for him.

And how had he managed to break out of there? Harry had heard Hagrid speak of Azkaban and knew that most of the inmates went insane. How had Holmes been able to stand it, stay cool-headed enough to successfully escape? What sort of person could he possibly be to do all of that, to do that to some of his only friends? And what had Watson been playing at, being friends with him? How could this be true? Was he only nice to Harry because he felt guilty? How could a man who seemed so gentle have been best friends with the person Harry was now starting to hate more than Voldemort? Because Harry felt a new hatred surging towards him, directed at Sherlock Holmes. It was almost as if Voldemort wasn't human to Harry, perhaps because of just how far gone he was…but Holmes was different. He was a person, and Harry couldn't understand how any person could be so evil.

"Harry," said Hermione, her voice full of concern and tentative when he finally came down the spiral staircase into the common room the next day. "Are you okay?"

Harry just sort of shrugged his shoulders, not sure how to answer that question.

"Did you sleep at all, mate?" asked Ron, staring at him unflatteringly. Now that Harry thought about it, he must look like death. He tried to run a hand through his hair, but knots provided too much resistance for it to make it all the way through. He gave up.

When Harry didn't say anything else, just sat down numbly in an arm chair near them, Ron pressed on. "Look, Harry, we know you must be really upset about what we heard last night."

"And we want you to know that we're here for you," said Hermione. "Don't shut us out, it won't help you."

"And, you can't go doing anything stupid," said Ron. "Holmes is dangerous, and you can't—"

"Aren't you the one who's been encouraging me to go into Hogsmeade all this time?" asked Harry, cutting through the words they'd clearly prepared for when he came down. It was bright outside, and the clock over the fire said it was past noon.

Ron didn't seem phased, but his ears turned ever so slightly pink. "That's different, and I know things are different now. Look, Harry, the point is, you can't go looking for Holmes."

"That's just what he'd want!" said Hermione, sounding close to tears. "Don't make things easy for him, the Ministry's bound to catch him soon, and then he'll be back in Azkaban! And—and he'd deserve that place!" This was quite harsh for Hermione, who Harry was sure would normally think no one would deserve to be in Azkaban with the dementors.

"Maybe that isn't so bad for him," said Harry, voicing something that he'd wondered the night before. "How else could he have managed to escape? It can't be as bad for him if he managed to escape, when everyone else in there goes crazy. Maybe he just doesn't have emotions."

"Don't be stupid," said Ron again.

"Malfoy knows," said Harry in a pained voice, twisting in his chair. "Remember when he came after us after potions? Saying he'd hunt him down and want revenge?"

"And Donovan Malfoy is the world's best when it comes to good judgement," snapped Hermione tearfully. "Oh, Harry, you can't possibly think Malfoy has the right idea and we don't."

"I don't think that," said Harry quietly. "You just don't understand. And you can't because you'll never hear it. What I hear when a dementor gets close to me." He looked up, worried that his eyes would become a mirror of Hermione's, which were coated in tears that were starting to slip down her face. "My mum, screaming and pleading with Voldemort. And him laughing as he murders her. And it's all because of Sherlock Holmes."

Ron didn't protest to Harry using Voldemort's name. His own face had gone pale, his freckles standing out.

"Where is everyone?" said Harry, looking around the still and silent common room.

"It's the first day of the holidays," said Ron after several moments when Hermione didn't speak. "Everyone else has gone home."

Harry nodded, his throat restricted.

"Harry," said Hermione, her voice breaking. "You have to trust us. We have to trust each other on this. None of us can be thinking of trying to do something as crazy as going after Holmes. We need to stick together."

Ron nodded. "I know you've done loads before, mate, but you'd be no better prepared to catch Holmes than the Aurors, so leave it to them. You can't put yourself in that much danger for nothing by trying to find him, and it'll be just what he wants, for you to do something like that. Don't give him that."

Harry looked into the faces of his friends, his two best friends in the world, the two best friends he could ever have, who were looking so honest and so scared on his behalf. His heart was pumping and ready to burst with something, something Harry realized was love as he looked at them, knowing that they would, of course, stick together, and that none of them would ever betray another, not for anything. Because there could be nothing better they could gain than the friendship they had, and nothing more precious that they could lose.

Harry nodded, and swallowed painfully. "Okay," he said in a shaking voice. "Okay. I won't do anything like that. We'll wait this out together."

The three of them looked at each other, sharing smiles and tears.

On Christmas morning, Harry awoke at a much more healthy hour, and outside the small window of their dormitory the world was frosted with white, soft flakes waltzing lazily through the air to join their comrades adorning the landscape.

"Merry Christmas, Harry!" said Ron happily, one hand already in a box of chocolate frogs from Hermione, and his bright red hair rumpled. He was wearing a new Weasley sweater over his pajama pants.

"You too, Ron!" said Harry. There was a small pile of presents amassed at the foot of his bed, too, and he stretched and put his glasses on before starting to open them. Hermione had given him a large bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Mrs. Weasley a new sweater like Ron's, but with a large H instead of an R and in a more tasteful shade of red than maroon, and a small sample of her own cooking. The Dursleys had simply taped a 50-pence piece onto a thoroughly unemotional card, but beneath these was a rather large, anonymous parcel wrapped in brown paper.

"Ron," said Harry curiously, "do you know what this is?"

"How can I, you haven't unwrapped it," said Ron unconcernedly. "Go on, open it up."

Harry felt the different ends of the package. It was long, and fairly thin. The only time Harry had ever received a present without any sort of card had been for Christmas in his first year; then it had turned out to be his invisibility cloak, which had transformed the past two years he'd spent at Hogwarts. Later Harry had realized it was from Dumbledore, but he had merely been passing on something that had belonged to Harry's father, happening to have it at the time Harry's parents had died.

"It doesn't have a note," said Harry. "Remember when Dumbledore sent me the invisibility cloak?"

"Yeah," said Ron, looking interested and excited now. "Could your dad have had more cool stuff lying around at Dumbledore's?"

Harry smiled slightly, but shook his head. "I don't think so, it was just chance Dumbledore had the cloak, and he would have given me anything else before now, wouldn't he? But who's going to be sending me stuff like this for Christmas?"

"Dunno," said Ron. "Hurry up, let's see what it is."

Harry looked down from Ron to the parcel, and started to unwrap it from the ends. The paper unrolled, and out onto his bed came—a Firebolt.

"Wow," said Harry. It was just like the amazing broom he had seen in the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies over the summer—in fact, it was that broom, it was just like it from the smoothly polished handle to the perfectly aligned twigs of the broom.

Ron had dropped his box of chocolate frogs and bounded off his bed over to Harry's. "Harry—a Firebolt?"

Harry slid off his bed, and then reverently picked up the broom. He took his hand off it, and it hovered above the floor at just the right height for him to mount.

"Well, it wasn't the Dursleys…," he said.

"Couldn't have been Hagrid," said Ron. "Look, there're some of his rock cakes for you there, I got the same sort of package. Don't eat any if you like your teeth how they are, though."

Harry smiled faintly. "It definitely couldn't have been Dumbledore, he can't go spending money like this on students…Ron, this must have cost a fortune…."

"Hey, I know!" said Ron. "Watson!"

"Watson?" asked Harry incredulously. "No way!"

"He likes you! You're the best in his class besides Hermione, of course, and he's always really nice to you."

"If Watson had money like this, he wouldn't be a teacher, and he'd go buy himself some new robes. That's pretty far fetched, he wouldn't go and buy a student something like this out of the blue."

"Okay, maybe not," said Ron. They passed a few minutes discussing the different people who may have bought Harry the Firebolt, their suggestions becoming more and more improbable. Harry drew the line at Crookshanks, and they went down the stairs to the common room to see Hermione.

Christmas dinner was a spectacular affair. The Great Hall had been decked out with its usual twelve Christmas trees, garlands of holly, mistletoe (Harry, Ron and Hermione were sure to avoid this, though), and glowing, warm candles to illuminate the chamber. There were so few people staying for dinner that there was only one, large table, and Dumbledore, flanked by Watson and Anderson on opposite sides, was already seated with a few other teachers when they arrived. Professor Watson was gazing thoughtfully up at a sprig of mistletoe that had been hung a few feet away from his chair, and wearing a blue and red Christmas jumper with a pattern around the neck and shoulders.

"Crackers!" exclaimed Dumbledore cheerfully, offering the end of one to Anderson, who rolled his eyes noticeably before giving a small tug. A stuffed animal appeared—a white ferret. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore and Watson all burst out laughing. Anderson scowled with venom, and Professor Watson looked like he was trying to restrain himself but encountering much difficulty.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione pulled a few crackers together, ending up with a few pairs of fluffy socks, a bag of unpoppable balloons, a large sugar quill, and potion to cure hiccups. The food arrived soon, and they dug in to the amazing feast that had been sent up from the kitchens. Professor Dumbledore did the most to stimulate conversation, between the teachers and students, and then just between the teachers when many of the students broke off into smaller conversations. Professor Watson looked tired, but happy, and when Harry was talking to him with the others, he felt like the man became more and more comfortable as the meal wore on.

Feeling very full and very content, Harry stood up from the table more than an hour later, ready to head back up to the common room with Ron and Hermione. He was hoping to take a ride on his new Firebolt before it got dark. He had filled Hermione in on it earlier, but she hadn't seemed very excited. Harry hadn't though much of it though, Hermione wasn't very into Quidditch.

"Ready?" asked Harry. A few other students had left already, and Anderson had split as soon as he could.

"You two go on ahead, I want to ask Professor McGonagall something," said Hermione.

Harry wondered why she hadn't just asked McGonagall earlier, they'd been talking before, but he shrugged it off. "Okay. See you in a bit." He then jumped back from Ron with a start—they had been dangerously close to being caught under the mistletoe together.

Back in the common room, Harry brought down his Firebolt to admire it with Ron. "Should we wait for Hermione before heading out?" he asked.

"Probably," said Ron. "She won't know where we've gone otherwise. It won't take her long, though, will it?"

Harry shrugged. The portrait hole was opening, though. Hermione was clambering in, followed by Professor McGonagall.

"Is this the broomstick you've been sent?" asked Professor McGonagall briskly.

"Yes," said Harry, trying not to hold it protectively to his chest.

"May I?" she asked. Harry didn't think he had much choice, and carefully handed it over to her. Hermione was looking around the common room for something, apparently—she was refusing to meet Harry's eyes.

Professor McGonagall made little "hm"ing sounds as she inspected the broom, and Harry looked at her nervously. And then, finally, she looked up at him and said "I'm afraid I'm going to have to confiscate this, Potter."

"What?" said Harry. "But it's not against any rules, is it?"

"Of course not," said answered. "But as it was sent to you with no note, I'm going to have to check it for jinxes before you can have it, for your own safety."

Harry swallowed. "How will you do that?"

"Professor Flitwick and I will strip it down."

"Strip it down?" repeated Harry weakly.

"Yes. I'll inform you when we have finished." And with that, she turned on her heel and exited the common room. Harry just stared after her and his lost Firebolt.

Ron, however, turned on Hermione. "Hermione! Why did you have to go tell McGonagall like that? They don't strip down everything that enters the school!"

Hermione's face was flushed. "Because I think it needs to be checked!"

"Why?" demanded Ron.

"Because I think Sherlock Holmes may have sent Harry that broom!"