A/N: Thank you to everyone who is still reading this. I did not expect to be gone from the story for so long. For those who aren't aware, I've been dealing with family things and a new job that is taking up a lot of my time. I wanted to get a few chapters written before I started posting again, but it's been a year since my last update, and I honestly think that I needed to post it just as much as maybe some of you needed to read it. Hopefully, it lives up to the wait. Thanks for being patient with me

Chapter Twenty-Five
"Fifty Points From Gryffindor"

September 2nd, 1991
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

The first years were caught in a whirlwind of excitement during their first few days at Hogwarts, though it was also an overload of information at the same time. Hermione, however, readily absorbed every word that was given and each moment like a sponge.

She rigorously took notes in every class, fumbling only briefly over the use of a quill since they had been allowed to use pens during her summer classes in the Muggle-born Overview Programme. Thankfully, both Tracey and Millie were fast becoming loyal friends—Millie offering to trade for one of Hermione's Pheasant quills in exchange for a spare Raven one she had in her bag. Hermione found a better ease of use with the short, black quill, it fitting nicely in her hand compared to the one she had brought with her. When she watched her new friend throw the Pheasant feather in the bin, Hermione smiled.

Astronomy was lovely, and Millie was insistent of the importance of paying attention because the Black Coven had a special relationship with the stars. History of Magic was a bit of a disappointment. Hermione adored the historic tales she had read about in her books, but Professor Binns monotone voice had even her struggling to stay awake during the lessons—but she did. Defence Against the Dark Arts did not live up to the expectations either. Mr Lupin had offered her and the other Muggle-borns more information in casual conversation over their classes during the summer than Professor Quirrell provided during actual lessons. The smell of the classroom, too, was atrocious.

Herbology, thankfully, was entertaining and much more hands-on right from the beginning than most of the other classes, and Professor Sprout was a kind and energetic woman. Hermione accompanied Millie to greet the woman personally after class. Apparently, she was a close friend of one of the Black Coven witches, and Millie was determined to cultivate as many potential connections as possible. Hermione gladly went with her, eager to make connections in the Wizarding world as well, especially since she had been unable to rid herself of the worry that people might assume she would use Harry's friendship as a stepping stone on her own path.

Harry, however, was rarely seen since the Gryffindors and Slytherins did not have many shared classes. They attended Transfiguration together, but Hermione and her friends had arrived early, ready to begin the day. Harry, on the other hand, showed up with a handful of misfits in red and gold ties, complaining that Peeves the Poltergeist had locked them in an empty classroom on the second floor.

Professor McGonagall immediately dissuaded any rumours that she gave her own House preference by looking at the boys disappointedly and taking five points for tardiness from the entire group. With a tight schedule, plenty of homework, and being separated by their Houses, Hermione only ever saw Harry, Neville, and her friends from the Muggle-born Overview Programme in passing or by making awkward eye contact across the tables during meals.

In Slytherin House, Hermione had few female friends. Most of the girls in her house were either snide because of her status as a Muggleborn or just had little interest in befriending her. Still, Millie and Tracey made up for all of that. Other than Millie and Tracey, few girls were openly friendly. Daphne and Pansy remained attached at the hip, and any older witches had little interest in befriending first years.

The boys in her own year, however, were mostly kind.

Draco Malfoy loved attention and praise, but he rarely stepped out to assist anyone other than himself. Hermione had proven to be the exception on several occasions when some of their older classmates had hissed that people like her were unwanted and did not belong. Draco's words had been scathing. He clearly had little care for handing out insults, even to older students, protected as he was by his wealth and family privilege.

Theo Nott was quiet, polite, and held the door open for witch and wizard alike. He was also exceedingly smart, and Hermione had already begun probing him as to what elective classes he was interested in taking beginning their third year.

Blaise Zabini had all of Draco's ego with about twice as much pomp and circumstance. Despite being only eleven, he was a born and bred flirt and was one of very few Slytherins that mingled openly outside of their own house.

Greg Goyle was timid and sweet, and when he was not with Draco and Theo, he seemed to prefer the company of Hermione and Millie—though he quietly admitted that Tracey scared the shit out of him. Most were content to ignore Greg with the exception of Vincent Crabbe, a boy that Hermione had yet to see smile since arriving at Hogwarts. While he would only give Draco and Theo dirty looks when their backs were turned, he began openly threatening Greg—and Hermione could not help but wonder if being friends with her made it worse.

"I heard him say my name," she whispered to Greg on Friday as they took their seats in Potions. There were only two seats to each table, so Hermione opted to sit with Greg since Millie and Tracey had one another, and Greg's only other friends—Draco and Theo—had already sat together. "Is he bullying you for being friends with me?"

Greg sighed as he sat down, opening up his Potions book and setting it out on the table. Hermione's nose twitched at the doodles he had drawn in the margins, but she said nothing. "He hates me. We were friends a really long time ago. Then my dad and his dad had a falling out. I hadn't even seen him in years, not until King's Cross."

"What did your fathers fight about?" Hermione asked tentatively as she removed her own books, stacking them to the side and arranging her Raven quill and parchment.

Greg looked down. "We don't talk about it."

Blaise Zabini was stuck sitting beside Crabbe, but the Italian boy ignored him, preferring to engage in conversation with Pansy and Daphne at the table behind him. Crabbe, however, was glaring hatefully at Draco from behind. Hermione narrowed her own eyes, shocked as she caught sight of a wand in his hand beneath the table. Her mouth fell open as she wondered if Crabbe would dare to hex another student—another Slytherin—unprovoked and in a classroom. She was about to say something, hearing Cassius's voice in her head saying: Slytherins protect their own, when Professor Snape entered the room, black robes swirling around him as though he had appeared in a puff of dark smoke. Blinking, Hermione chanced a glance back at Crabbe and noticed that he had stowed his wand away.

Professor Snape went through a very quick roll call, his tone taking on a note of irritation when he landed on Neville's and then Harry's names, both absent. Dean wasn't in class either.

Turning around in her seat when Professor Snape went to the blackboard at the front of the room to write instructions, Hermione looked at Ron, who was sitting next to another Gryffindor she had yet to meet, and mouthed "Where are they?"

Ron gave her a blank stare, shrugged his shoulders before turning his focus back to his friend, and promptly ignored any potential follow-up questions she might have had.

Honestly, if Harry, Neville, and Dean were still having trouble with Peeves, Hermione was going to see if she could have the Bloody Baron intervene on their behalf. While the Slytherin Ghost was not one to mingle with the students of other Houses, he was known to help out Slytherins here and there, and had, in fact, demanded that Peeves leave Hermione and Tracey alone when the Poltergeist had pelted them with bits of chalk.

Hogwarts, while the most amazing place Harry had ever seen, was not exactly what he had expected. He had been prepared for the attention due to his fame—because of both his connection to the Black Coven and his own personal history—so when people stared in the corridors and during the first few days of classes, he promptly ignored them, knowing that it would eventually blow over. However, what he was not prepared for was his inability to begin his life at Hogwarts smoothly. Growing up on stories told to him by Sirius, Remus, and Ted, Harry fully expected to walk into Hogwarts and have the most amazing adventures on day one. What he got on day one instead, was tricked by Peeves, five points taken for tardiness—by his own beloved Aunt Minnie, no less—and he was already on Filch's bad side because the caretaker's horrible cat had decided to threateningly hiss in Harry's direction, prompting Max to attack. Harry's familiar was twice the size of the little red-eyed feline, and Mrs Norris had ended up being shoved over the edge of one of the staircases by Max. Thankfully, they had only been half a flight up from the ground floor—and cats did always land on their feet, right?—but Filch had taken the assault very personally, and Harry was certain the man was out to destroy him.

At least classes were mostly fun.

History of Magic was, of course, a terrible bore. Harry had fallen asleep during the first lesson, but thankfully Ron's snoring had woken him before he had been caught dosing by Professor Binns. Ron, however, had been caught, which earned the entire class a lecture that, twenty minutes in, had even Neville dozing off. Thankfully, Charms and Transfiguration were both exciting—even if Harry was just a little sore about losing those five points. All of the students, purebloods who had grown up around magic included, were all thrilled to begin really using magic with their new wands since they had not been allowed to before going to Hogwarts.

Harry was thrilled to see that his wand worked so well for him; he had worried whether his wand would be inferior, not having been made by Ollivander. However, just as his Aunt Belina had predicted, the wand channelled Harry's magic fluidly, like a river cut through a canyon. The only time the wand misbehaved, was in Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Professor Quirrell was an odd sort. He stuttered and stammered and giggled when he was nervous—which was often. His classroom smelled like garlic, and Fred and George told Harry that they were sure he stuffed his turban with garlic, as well, to ward of vampires. Harry refused to get close enough for a proper sniff. The classroom alone was pungent enough for him. He had been eager on day one to rush into Defence with his wand brandished, ready to learn how to fight Dark wizards as his parents had done during the first war. Instead, he and the others were given tales about how Professor Quirrell once helped an African prince rid himself of a troublesome zombie. Harry doubted very much that such an event had ever happened, especially since the man began sweating halfway through the story.

Despite being in his pocket, useless during lectures, Harry's wand had begun emitting a strange noise during Defence that he had never heard before. What was even stranger was that it seemed only Harry could hear it. The first time it had happened, he had quietly asked Dean, who had been sitting next to him, whether he had heard anything. His friend had looked at him oddly and suggested that Harry have his ears checked by the school mediwitch. After that, Harry had gone about his business, ignoring the noise and Dean's advice, until Friday morning when one of the staircases decided to get huffy with them and shift on their way to class.

"Oh come on!" Harry complained loudly.

Neville sighed and leant against the railing. "Looks like we're out more points. Professor Snape will take more than Aunt Minnie, I'd wager."

"Lads," Dean said, nudging Harry in the shoulder. "Look where the staircase is taking us."

Turning his attention just as the staircase locked in place, Harry took a breath. "Dumbledore said we're not supposed to be here." He could hear his grandmother's stern voice, warning him away from potential danger, but he had also been raised by Sirius Black, and mischief ran in Harry's blood just as strongly as magic. "Let's check it out."

"If you get us killed, Harry, my gran will murder us," Neville said as Harry gripped his wand, ready for danger even though the only defensive spells he knew had been ones he'd read in his textbooks, and he was pretty sure he wasn't pronouncing some of them correctly.

"Come on, Nev, where's your sense of adven—Ah!" Harry yelped, dropping his wand when the thing began whistling so loudly that he was sure his eardrum had been pierced.

Dean, likely in an attempt to help, smacked Harry's arm, knocking the wand from his hand. Still, the noise persisted. Grabbing the wand from the floor, Harry took several steps back toward the staircase, and the noise went away.

"What is it?" Neville asked, looking slightly panicked.

"My wand keeps making noise."

"I didn't hear anything." Neville looked to Dean for confirmation.

"It happened in Defence," Dean said. "I didn't hear it then either."

"Well, I heard it," Harry said defensively.

"We didn't say that you didn't." Neville patted him on the shoulder consolingly.

Dean snorted. "Yeah, we're just maybe thinking it a bit."

"Piss off," Harry muttered, looking angrily at his wand like it had betrayed him. Not for the first time, he wondered if maybe Sirius—or more likely one of the Weasley twins—had done something to it for a prank.

Looking suddenly anxious, Neville whispered, "Harry, do you think it might have something to do with . . . you know . . . the thing?"

"What thing?" Dean asked.

Pinning Neville with a look, Harry said, "The thing we don't talk about. I don't know, Nev, because my life isn't complicated enough, now I have to worry about my wand bloody chirping at me, and maybe it has something to do with—Ah!"

Dean jumped, brandishing his own wand as he spun around, likely looking for an attacker. "What happened?"

"It chirped!" Harry said, glaring at his wand in offence. "Or . . . I don't know how to describe it. It's just loud."

Neville raised his brows with an expression of concern. "I didn't—"

"I know you didn't," Harry snapped, annoyed that he seemed to be the only one that could hear it. "But it's happening."

"Everything all-all-all right up here?"

Neville let out a sharp yelp of startled fright.

Awkwardly, stowing his wand behind his back as though it were some illegal thing he had smuggled into the school, Harry spun around to face Professor Quirrell. He was beginning to think that he might have some latent allergy to the smell of garlic. Anytime the man was anywhere near him, Harry got a headache. He tried not to wonder why the pain was localised in his scar, and he did his best not to flinch because Neville had begun paying more attention whenever Harry touched the bloody thing. He loved his cousin and best friend, but was absolutely certain that he would be having a full diagnostic run by the coven when he got home for Christmas hols—that is, if Neville hadn't already written to his grandmother about it.

"We're fine, Professor," Harry said, forcing a polite smile. It was one he usually reserved for his grandmother whenever he got caught doing something he knew he shouldn't have. It never worked on her—or his Aunt Minnie—but he was trying it out on every other authority figure in the castle. So far, Professor Sprout and Flitwick were perfectly charmed, as was the Fat Lady and the Head Girl. Filch, however, was decidedly not a fan.

Professor Quirrell did not look impressed either. Rather, he looked perplexed. And maybe a little bit nauseated. "Lost, are we? Y-You're not supposed to be up-up-up here, boys."

Pointing over the professor's shoulder, Neville defended them by saying, "The staircase shifted on us and we got stuck, sir."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, finally lowering his wand. Harry noticed that Professor Quirrell's shoulders seemed to relax at that. "There's no other way back down, and we didn't want to go further, seeing as Dumbledore said it was forbidden."

Harry did his best not to roll his eyes. He wanted to know what the hell Dumbledore was hiding up here, but wasn't about to admit that in front of a professor.

"Best be off then," Quirrell said, stepping aside to reveal that the staircase behind them had adjusted enough to connect to another below, allowing them passage down. "You'll n-not want to be late for P-Potions."

The boys all grumbled as they walked toward the staircase. Harry kept his eyes on the ground as he passed by Quirrell, determined not to breathe in the hopes of forcing the pain in his head to go away. Just as he was about to ask Quirrell if he would be willing to write them an excuse for being late, Harry's wand gave another loud chirp, startling him into speeding up his steps.

When the boys reached the ground floor, they ran quickly down through the dungeons, panting by the time they reached the Potions classroom. Harry tried to open the door quietly in the hopes of slipping in unnoticed, but once inside, the entire classroom turned and pinned them with a stare.

"Well, well, well," Snape said, his lip curling in disgust as though they had brought the smell of Professor Quirrell into the classroom with them. Harry supposed that, if anything, the Potions room did at least smell nicer than the one in Defence. "I suppose the three of you think you know enough about Potions to not bother attending the first class? Potter, Longbottom, Thomas. Sit. Down.

Neville and Dean dropped into the nearest bench, and Harry scowled at them both as he realised there were only two seats set for each table. He glanced at Ron and Seamus, and then across the room where he made eye contact with Hermione, who was already sitting beside Goyle. Predictably, Draco was with Nott, and both were smirking at Harry, clearly entertained by his current predicament. Forcing himself to turn to the side, he watched as Fay Dunbar pushed a chair out toward him with a bright and cheerful smile. Sighing in resignation, Harry sat down, belatedly realising that the girl had doodled his name on the cover of her book with little hearts around it.

"Since you three dunderheads know so much already," Snape began, "why don't you tell the rest of the class what I would get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry watched as Hermione's hand shot so quickly into the air he worried she might have dislocated her shoulder. He tried to remember reading about those ingredients, but he had always been more interested in Transfiguration and Defence than in Potions.

Thankfully, Dean slowly raised his hand, biting his lip. "Cure for boils?" he tentatively asked, reading the list on the blackboard.

Obviously the wrong answer, Snape glared at Dean. "Let's try again. Potter," he said, turning his attention on Harry, "where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Annoyed with the man, Harry pinched his lips together and thought: up your arse and to the left. Then he snickered as he imagined Sirius hearing him say that to Snape—which he would never actually do, but the image it conjured was pretty funny. Snape, however, did not look so amused.

"Three points from Gryffindor for cheek," he said, and then added, "That's twelve so far Potter, considering you lost ten for being late."

"Ten?!" Harry blurted out in rage and horror. "Professor McGonagall only took five from us when Peeves made us late for her class."

"Each."

Neville and Dean paled as the other Gryffindors in the room turned and levelled them with murderous stares.

"It wasn't even our fault," Dean snapped. "The staircases—"

"A bezoar, Potter?" Snape asked, ignoring Dean's objections.

Folding his arms across his chest angrily, Harry glared at Snape, wondering if this was enough to write home to Sirius about. He expected not, but maybe he would still bitch a little about the unfairness of it all. Doing his best to rein in the sarcastic comment that still lingered on the tip of his tongue, Harry grit out, "Goat. Stomach. Sir."

"Well," Snape said, looking a bit less irritated with him, "perhaps not all is lost."

The three boys shared a sigh of relief. That is, until Snape turned on Neville demanding, "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Hermione's hand shot up in the air on the other side of the room.

Neville looked like he was going to be sick.

September 12th, 1991

Hogwarts continued to be a mixture of extremes for Harry. While he stopped being late for most of his classes—having learnt to sweet-talk a few of the staircases into doing what he wanted—he had yet to earn back the points he'd lost Gryffindor during their first week at school. That was mostly because, while not the complete and utter arse that Sirius and Remus might have predicted, Professor Snape was quick to take away points from any student that was not following explicit directions. Or if they talked out of turn. Or if they looked like they might talk out of turn. Or if, like Harry, they just happened to wear their tie around their head one day.

"At least it hides that atrocious scar," Professor Snape had said with a sneer before taking two points for idiocy.

Harry happened to agree with the man, at least on that point. Unfortunately, collecting scars was something Harry was good at. He disliked the feel of Dittany, which was why he was currently sitting in the hospital wing, nursing a split lip with a pack of ice rather than a potion or a salve—or Merlin forbid Skele-gro, which Madam Pomfrey was presently using to regrow the tooth that Harry had knocked out of Crabbe's mouth.

Hearing the boy spout expletives and cry a little boosted Harry's ego just a smidge. The punishment would be well worth it.

He licked at his lip, both hating and kind of liking the itchy pain that prodding at the wound with his tongue caused. While he and his cousins had gotten into scraps before, none of them had ever inflicted injuries like this. Punch each other and wrestle all you like, but the grandmothers and aunts made a point to teach respect for blood, seeing as their coven was built around the magic of it. Even Ginny, who was known to bite when they were younger, learnt quickly to never actually break skin.

Harry briefly wondered if his blood was still down on the Quidditch pitch, soaking the grass, or if Neville or Draco had vanished it. He hoped one of them had. He hated the idea of his blood mingling with the likes of Crabbe's, which had, Harry would admit, soaked the ground a bit more than his own. It was the only thing he actually felt bad about. Well, that, and the look on Hermione's face as both he and Crabbe had been led away from their first flying lesson by Madam Hooch tugging on their ears.

"Up!" Harry shouted, grinning when his broom hit his palm just a split second faster than Draco caught his own. Neville and Ron came up shortly behind them—though Neville's broom wobbled a bit, even once he'd caught it—followed by Theo Nott, Tracey Davis, and Seamus. Everyone else caught their brooms with a bit more effort, though Hermione struggled more than all the others.

When Madam Hooch moved to assist Hermione, Draco and Harry began shouting playful jabs back and forth: threats for future Quidditch matches. The others joined in, laughing as the cousins traded practised insults. Soon, Hermione had a good grip of her broom, but a gust of wind made Neville scramble to hold onto his. Madam Hooch sighed irritably and moved from one end of the line to the other to help him.

Another gust of wind blew Harry's hair into his face so wildly, that he almost knocked his glasses from his face when trying to fix it.

Draco sighed happily. "Ah, there's nothing funnier than watching a Potter try to battle a breeze."

Harry snorted, eventually fixing his hair to a point that he could at least see. "I dunno, you thinking you're faster than me on a broom is a bit funnier than that."

"You know what I think is funnier than both of those things?" Crabbe whispered, side-eyeing Madam Hooch as she and Neville both took off after his broom, which looked like it was trying to fly on its own. Crabbe's nasty gaze levelled on Hermione, causing a flicker of anger to spark in Harry's chest. Before Harry could tell Crabbe that he didn't give a shit what the arsehole thought was funny, the boy said, "A Mudblood thinking she can actually fly."

Harry looked down at his knuckles, feeling both proud and guilty at the way they ached. Sirius would, no doubt, be over the moon when he heard how Harry had punched the Slytherin. But his grandmother . . . surely she would be disappointed that he had acted rashly.

Bored, Harry reached for the nearest thing to read, a copy of a Daily Prophet from the week before. He had skimmed over it briefly during breakfast, but a break-in at Gringotts was hardly his business. His father and grandmother managed his vaults, and if something had happened, surely they would have owled him about it. He took pity on the thief who might ever be fool enough to get caught stealing from goblins—Harry had met the managers of Gringotts a time or two. They looked at him as though he were a mixture between an intriguing specimen and something too stupid to function without their aid. They looked at a lot of wizards and witches that way, Harry noticed. His grandmother, however, might as well have been a deity to the angry-looking creatures, because when she walked, they followed her with their gazes as though she were made of pure gold.

The door to the hospital wing opened, and Harry was snapped from his thoughts. He tossed the Daily Prophet aside and looked up to see Hermione walk in, looking a little shy. When their gazes connected, she pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes in a stern look of disapproval that reminded him just a bit of his aunt Cedrella, who was the sweetest person in the world until she was scary. Swallowing his nerves, Harry steeled himself for a lecture as Hermione approached the bed where he sat.

"I wish you hadn't done that."

"Done what?"

Cringing under her stare a little, Harry tried his best to smirk, but the ache in his lip prevented it.

"I don't need you to fight my battles. I know what he said about me."

Though he was certain she was trying to hide it, Harry saw the sadness in her expression. "Do you know what it means? That word he said?"

Hermione gave a curt nod, folding her arms in front of herself defensively. "Millie and Tracey explained. It's just a word, and I won't let it . . . It doesn't mean anything to me."

"Well, it means something to me," Harry said, his voice rising just a touch. "I didn't do it for . . . I mean, Dean's Muggle-born too, and . . . Okay, so maybe a little bit was for you, because you shouldn't be made to feel like you don't belong here. You do."

Hermione uncrossed her arms, looking as though she were letting down her defences. "I know that."

"I did it . . . You know my mum was a Muggle-born?"

She nodded. "It was mentioned when I first got my letter. They said that was one of the reasons that the Black Coven put effort into helping out first generation wizards and witches. Your mother, I mean."

Harry thought about the stories that he had been told about his mother. Remus told him how clever she was, how brilliant and powerful. Sirius told him about how brave and beautiful she was. Sometimes, when the coven was busy talking amongst themselves, Harry would eavesdrop and overhear his mother's name spoken in between broken whispers of awe and mentions of blood magic. He briefly wondered if he should tell Hermione all of this, but then quickly worried that she might think he assumed all Muggle-borns were the same—even if his thought process was complimentary.

Instead, Harry focused on her.

"It's okay to be afraid, you know."

As though she were an insulted Gryffindor, Hermione's spine straightened and she narrowed her eyes. "I have no idea to what you're—"

"Flying," Harry interrupted. "I saw how your hand shook when you were trying to command the broom."

Her brow furrowed just a little bit in what he assumed was annoyance. "It was stubborn is all."

Smiling, Harry leant back against the pillows behind him. "You're the stubborn one. But . . . it's okay. Everyone's afraid of something." At her look of hesitation, Harry forcefully pushed past the tightness in his chest, breaking through his own self-imposed barriers as he said, "Small spaces. I-I'm afraid . . . I mean I don't really like, y'know, being in small spaces. I mean . . . sometimes."

At his confession, Hermione's brow softened and she bit her lower lip before whispering, "It's just so . . . high up. And It's only a stick. A stick, Harry. What if it just snaps in half when I'm up there?"

Before Harry could tell her that there were Safety Spells he could show her—or maybe that Madam Hooch could help her with—an imposing figure stood suddenly at the foot of his bed. He hadn't even heard the doors open, and quickly began wondering if his Aunt Minnie had been there the whole time, hiding beneath the bed or up high on a shelf in her Animagus form, listening to their conversation. She sure looked like she had claws now.

"Hi, Aunt Minnie."

Her eyes narrowed. "Fighting?"

Hermione cringed. "I should go."

"Yes, Miss Granger," Minerva said, never taking her glare off of Harry. "Do return to your class while I deal with Mr Potter here."

Offering him a look of sympathy, Hermione darted away from his bed quickly, her shoes making clipping sounds on the floor as she left the infirmary. Harry watched her leave, feeling just a bit scared to be left alone with his aunt. When his gaze finally reconnected with Minerva's, he blurted out, "Crabbe said—"

"I'm aware of what the boy said, Harry," Minerva uttered with a sigh. "But I am also aware, now more than ever," she added with a little groan of impatience, "of how very much like your father you are."

Hoping that this was a good thing, Harry grinned and asked, "Which one?"

Minerva sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Morgana help me. Both."

"So . . . I'm in trouble? Even though I was defending—"

"Even though," Minerva said, cutting him off. "Violence is not the answer."

He kept his mouth shut about how most of Gryffindor suspected that she was the one who had given Dumbledore the scars on his face. "I'm sorry, Aunt Mi—Professor. I'll . . . try to do better."

Looking back at him with an expression of suspicion, Minerva said, "You still have a week's worth of detention, and I've taken ten points each from Gryffindor and Slytherin for fighting." Before Harry had a chance to say that the punishment was probably fair, she added, "And I've already sent a letter home about this little incident."

He bit his lip in an effort not to swear in front of her. Nipping at his injury, however, made him wince, drawing Minerva's attention to the site.

"Do you plan on having that healed?"

Harry shrugged, not wanting to admit that it hurt just a little.

The doors to the hospital wing opened again, cutting off whatever it was that Minerva was about to say. Madam Hooch walked in, looking windswept and furiously annoyed as she shouted, "Next year, I'm requesting to teach the Houses separately!" Despite her irritated expression, she was gently cradling Neville's arm as he walked beside her.

Harry jumped from his bed, seeing the tear streaks down his cousin's face. "What happened?" he demanded, eager to go and punch Crabbe again, even though it was impossible that the boy had had anything to do with, what looked to be, Neville's possibly broken wrist.

"Bloody broom," Neville said in between sniffs, looking angry that he had been caught crying. Harry didn't pay the tears any mind, other than to note how they fuelled his protective anger over the fact that his cousin had been hurt. "Finally got on the thing and it went mental."

Madam Pomfrey rushed to Neville's side, and Harry began to follow as they headed off toward the potion cabinet—likely for a pain reliever. He turned back to watch Madam Hooch and his Aunt Minerva confer with one another.

"Slytherin?" Minerva asked.

Madam Hooch shook her head. "I would have said yes if it were sixth or seventh years, maybe. But the way that broom was twitching? No first year could cast a hex that powerful."

"Hexed? Are you certain?"

"No, unfortunately. The wretched thing was smashed to bits when it threw itself, and Mr Longbottom against the side of the castle."