Disclaimer: Don't own it. Don't want to...not cannon at least...but I'll mess with it, oh yes I wills.
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"Did anything unusual happen yesterday?" Harry was sitting in Professor Snape's office, a mug of tea in his hands, dressed in his Quidditch robes. He was shaking rather heavily, and had just recounted his dream from the previous night, or what he could remember of it anyway.
"Um." Harry looked up, trying to remember. It seemed like weeks had passed, not just a few hours. "Actually yeah. Professor Quirrel asked me to stay behind after class." He closed his eyes and tried to remember. "Gregory was going to wait outside for me, and when all the other students had left the Professor approached. He didn't really say anything about why he wanted me to stay, but my scar was hurting so I raised my hands and one brushed against his hand, and my scar burned, and he yelled, and I think his hand, well, bubbled." He took a sip of the tea, opening his eyes slowly. "I ran like a fury, and didn't go to dinner in the Great Hall. Professor Quirrel worries me sir."
"Don't think on that, mister Potter." Professor Snape's voice was a bit sharper than usual.
"May I ask why sir?" Harry asked carefully.
"You need to focus on your schoolwork." The answer was perfectly acceptable and not at all useful. Harry nodded mutely, accepting the shake off and took another sip of his tea.
"Yes sir." He looked up. "Am I allowed to go to Quidditch practice?"
"Yes." Harry stood quickly, putting the mug down on the desk, and ran out, racing through the castle and out to the pitch where the rest of the team was already in the air. "Up." He paused only long enough to mount his broom, left on the ground by Captain Flint at the start of practice, before pushing off and shooting towards the other players. In the air he was free. There were no dreams, no memories, just him, the broom, Bludgers, and that little Golden Snitch that meant so much.
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Harry had endured nightmares for a week straight until they had tapered off again, and he was well rested for the first Quidditch match of the season. Slytherin versus Gryffindor.
In the changing rooms most of the team was rather rowdy, the beaters running into each other, the chasers tossing a practice Quaffle back and forth.
"We win. No failure. No questions." Marcus Flint shouldered his broom, and the others followed suit, dropping into formation as they walked on to the field to lots of boos and Slytherin cheers.
"Now, I want a nice fair game, all of you." Madam Hooch said, paying particular attention to Flint, which Harry thought was both reasonable and unfair. "Mount your brooms, please."
Harry clambered onto his Nimbus Two Thousand. Madam Hooch gave a loud blast on her silver whistle, and fifteen brooms rose up, high into the air. They were off.
"And the Quaffle is take immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor – what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive too --"
"JORDAN!"
"Sorry, Professor." The commentator was a Gryffindor. Rather biased, but then again any commentator would likely take sides so it couldn't be helped.
"And she's really belting along up there, a neat pass to Alicia Spinnet, a good find of Oliver Wood's, last year only a reserve – back to Johnson and – no, the Slytherins have taken the Quaffle," Harry pumped the air with his fist, and got back to looking for the Snitch, ducking and weaving between the players, trying to distract the Gryffindors even as he searched. "Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint gains the Quaffle and off he goes – Flint flying like an eagle up there – he's going to sc- no, stopped by an excellent move by Gryffindor Keeper Wood," Harry growled, "and the Gryffindors take the Quaffle – that's Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor there, nice dive around Flint, off up the field and – OUCH – that must have hurt, hit in the back of the head by a Bludger." Harry grinned. "Quaffle taken by the Slytherins – that's Adrian Pucey speeding off toward the goal posts, but he's blocked by a second Bludger – sent his way by Fred or George Weasley, can't tell which – nice play by the Gryffindor Beater, anyway, and Johnson is back in possession of the Quaffle, a clear field ahead and off she goes, and wait, did Potter just see the Snitch?" Harry, seeing the open field, dove straight into Johnson's path, forcing her to swerve off, and Lee's comment drew Gryffindor's seeker.
Harry's grin was feral as gravity and his amazing broom helped him accelerate towards the ground. A glance behind told him that Gryffindor's seeker was chasing, and his grin became evil. He heard Jordan note that Flint had taken the Quaffle from Johnson, speeding off to try for a goal, and there was the ground, almost, just a little bit more. Harry felt the air above him clear even as he pulled up, angry that the boy hadn't followed him just that bit further to crash into the ground. But he pulled up and dove for height, shooting across one of the Weasley's paths and practically unseating the boy.
"SLYTHERIN SCORES!" The call rang out in a disappointed voice and Harry was back to looking for the snitch when his broom gave an almighty jerk, suddenly very much out of his control. Then again. Harry tried to fly to ground, but his broom rose even higher. Below people were looking up, pointing, whispering. The game continued, even as Harry's broom started jerking wildly, swaying to and fro, bucking like the pony that had unseated Dudley when he was seven and was probably long turned to glue.
Harry hung on with all his might trying desperately to not fall, but he realized that he wasn't going to be able to hold on much longer.
"Flint!" He screamed, grabbing the attention of his Captain as he was unseated and swung from one hand. Flint looked up, and Harry let go, twisting so that his stomach faced the ground, his mouth open in a scream. It was lucky that Flint was very, very good at catching falling Quaffles because he shot towards his plummeting seeker, and scooped him out of the air, turning the fall into a controlled dive that deposited Harry on the ground.
"Go grab a school broom." He ordered even as he shot back into the game. Harry stood on the ground for a second, waiting for the fall to stop, waiting to be able to breathe, when he realized that he couldn't breathe for a different reason: Something was stuck in his throat. As soon as he realized this his entire body convulsed, throwing him to his knees as he tried to expel the blockage. Once and again, and abruptly his airway was clear, and there was the snitch, wings folded and sticky with saliva and something that looked like blood. Harry could taste the bitter, coppery substance in his mouth and figured it must have ripped his throat up a bit.
Raising the snitch above his head he heard Jordan announcing the end of the match, groans all around, and the Gryffindor Captain Wood yelling that 'he hadn't caught the snitch, he'd almost swallowed it!' But Harry didn't care. He looked up to the teacher's stand, and saw Professor Snape muttering, pulling his broom back with magic. He saw Professor Quirrel with his robes smoldering, and the bushy hair of the Granger-beaver disappearing from sight. He'd have to ask her about that, but not just yet. At that moment what he needed was to get back to the changing rooms and collapse, and maybe go to the Hospital Wing about his throat.
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"It was Professor Quirrel." Hermione Granger stood on one side of his bed in the hospital wing, Professor Snape on the other. Madam Pomfrey was bustling about getting a soothing draught for his throat.
"I am aware of this miss Granger." Professor Snape said, his voice grumpy.
"Yes, but Harry isn't." Granger, Hermione, he'd saved her life and she'd tried to save his, surely he should call her by her first name, at least when not around too many others, said. She turned to him. "I'd just set fire to Professor Quirrel's robes when you let go. Oh, um..." She looked up a Professor Snape, nervousness in every line of her body. "Can you not have heard that please?"
Professor Snape looked at her as though she were a bug on his shoe. "Very well." At that moment the doors burst open and the rest of the Slytherin team, Gregory, Draco, Vincent, Blaise, and Kira all stormed in, talking angrily.
"Professor! Do we know what happened?" Flint asked as Blaise and Gregory moved to stand next to Hermione, not only to show support for Harry, but to keep the other Slytherins from giving her problems.
"What is all this noise?" Madam Pomfrey bustled over, a jug in her hand. "Drink this." She absently thrust the jug at Harry, who sniffed it before chugging it. Surprisingly it didn't taste all that bad, and his throat felt better almost immediately. "This the Hospital Wing, not a pub! Out!"
"In a minute Madam Pomfrey." Professor Snape gestured for silence from the team. "All of you, the situation has been taken care of. I don't want to hear of any speculation or gossip. Now, I believe you all have essays you could be writing?" Which was nothing but the truth. The team turned, and walked out, still muttering angrily, but obeying their Head.
"Professor?" Draco and the other first years remained around the bed.
"The same goes for all of you." Professor Snape glowered around the gathered students before turning and striding out.
"It was Quirrel," Hermione said as soon as he was gone, "but we can't do anything about it."
"What, why?" Blaise asked.
"There's something strange about Pr'fess'r Quirrel." Gregory said, shrugging.
"Yeah, my scar hurts whenever I'm around him, and it positively burned once when he touched me." Harry said absently.
"Well, we'll just have to stop him from getting any other chances to try...whatever." Blaise said firmly. Harry noticed she was distracted and seemed to be deeply thinking about something, but just as quickly as he saw it, it was gone and Blaise's face returned to the smooth mask it normally held.
"But how are we..." Hermione started.
"OUT!" Madam Pomfrey bustled over. "Out!" The others shied away. "You too, mister Potter, you can go." Harry nodded, and hopped to the floor. Gregory settled in to his left and behind, Draco to his right and Blaise, Hermione and Kira gabbled at each other in front of them.
"Oh, Harry. I got an owl this morning." Draco spoke like he was just remembering something of limited importance. "Mum said to invite you to spend the Christmas Holidays with us 'so she can get you dressed properly'." Draco grinned as Gregory and Vincent winced, but Harry only smiled.
"About that," he let a smirk cross his face, "I may be able to help all of us there. Tell her I'd be delighted." He put on airs for the last sentence, drawing himself up and sticking his nose further in the air than was useful for a realistic arrogant look.
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Next chapter: Christmas at Malfoy Manor.
ShadowCub: No. We can't ditch Goyle. Think of it this way: Goyle = Ron, Ron = Crabbe&Goyle. Much as we would like to get rid of the sidekick, that position is rather necessary.