A/N: Sorry for the long delay in updates! Things happened in life and I got bored of my other creative outlets, so I figured it was time to update after a month of not doing so. Also, if you're interested in reading more or utterly hate the direction I'm taking things, please leave a review so I can tell you in the next author's note whether reading more of this would be worth your time.

My wings are in for repair, so today I'm riding the Broom!

—from Pinterest

(author's note: this epigraph is actually foreshadowing)

"I still wonder why wizards and witches use brooms instead of inventing better flying charms. The research, even before Voldemort, was scarce."

"Well, there's a certain irony there."

"What do you mean?"

"There's no real way to test a flying charm without taking some risks."

"Ah."

"And believe me—from experience, it's not fun being hundreds of feet in the air with nothing beneath you."

"When did you—"

"Now when He had spoken of these things, while they watched, He was taken up, and a cloud received Him out of sight. It's in Acts."

The next few weeks passed by in a blur. Classes went on as normal. McGonagall's lessons stayed as esoteric as ever, though she began emphasizing that it was essential to maintain a strong grip on one's sanity as one began to meddle in the world around them. Flitwick's classes remained at a fairly basic level, for as he explained, the entire point of charms was that they were both powerful and easy, a huge innovation in the history of magical development. Quirrell had backed off from the mania of his first class, but he was utterly unpredictable. On some days, he would speak like a brilliant madman, and on others he would be a nervous wreck. And Snape… well, Harry still couldn't get a good grasp of Snape. The man seemed to regard Harry as an aberration of sorts. He liked to pick on his students, but whenever he picked at Harry it was almost as if he was testing the limits of Harry's Christian grace. He would snipe at Neville Longbottom, and chide Gryffindors while letting Draco Malfoy brag and cause various explosions.

But beyond that, nothing new of note happened. Harry and Ron struggled through their classes together — Ron didn't seem to have any particular magical talents, so they got quite a lot from practicing with each other. Hermione was left alone. After she had rebuffed Harry, he had soon noticed that he was one of the few who even tried to associate her. She went through her classes brilliant, but alone. But he wasn't going to push the Bible onto someone so hostile to Christ. One day, her heart would be open, and she would come to him.

At least, that was the plan.

A day Harry had been anticipating since the beginning of the school year had come; they were taking flying lessons. The first year Gryffindor and Slytherins were put in one section, which was a rather contrived and idiotic setup, but no one seemed to mind.

Hermione, far from her usual silent success, was rather bemoaning the state of these flying lessons. "Why do we have to fly with brooms, anyways? You'd think that wizards and witches would've found something more portable, or more dispensable, maybe some kind of flying ointment so one could fly without the aid of any tools, and it's probably not that hard—"

She was oblivious to the stares of mixed disgust, grudging respect, and horror from the students around her.

"You-know-who", Ron muttered to Harry, "See, my parents used to talk about this when they thought we were asleep. He could fly without any brooms."

"The mass murderer who killed my parents?" said Harry.

"Yea. Anyways, that's why—" and he side-eyed Hermione and mouthed 'dark'.

"Now do you see why converting her would be doing her a favor?"

Ron opened his mouth as if to say there were reasons that wouldn't be such a good idea, but then he looked at Hermione, who at this point was ranting about how she could definitely figure out a flight spell by OWL year, and that she had half a mind to refuse these idiotic lessons outright, and how there was literally no one standing within two meters of her.

Things happened. Neville Longbottom, who was cursed with bad luck, fell off his broom. He was sent to the hospital wing, but not before he had begged Madame Pince to Scourgify his bleeding, giving terrified glances at a mildly insulted Hermione all the way. Draco Malfoy, who was still trying to be the top dog of the class, stole a trinket that had dropped from Longbottom's coat. He flew away with it, threw it, and Harry caught it. Unfortunately, Professor McGonagall had seen them, and she had ordered Harry away.

"I'm sorry, Professor McGonagall, I know it was wrong, and I broke the rules became a danger to myself and others, and I hope this confession means that I won't be expelled—"

McGonagall gave him a look. "You know, Mr. Potter, my father was a minister. It has been quite some time since I truly considered myself devout, but I daresay I was never half as apologetic as you are. We really must get you to stop this spontaneous confession habit."

Harry turned a bright red. McGonagall continued. "Besides, there's really nothing to forgive."

Harry nodded, resisting the urge to apologize again. "You don't strike me as religious, Professor."

"One is led to meditate upon their faith, especially after the first time they turn water to wine."

They stopped in front of an open door. McGonagall poked her head him.

"Professor Quirrell?"

And so Harry met Oliver Wood, who seemed like the type of man who worshiped sports stars instead of Jesus, but otherwise was probably an alright bloke, and he was inducted into playing a game called Quidditch that had inane rules, and anyways it was better than getting expelled.

Before he was dismissed, McGonagall said, "I admit, Mr. Potter, I had concerns when I learned you would be growing up with your Aunt and Uncle, but it seems you've got a bit of your father's talent after all."

Harry blushed. "I like to think my talent is God-given."

McGonagall smiled, though it seemed a bit strained. "Well, God certainly gave your father that same talent, then."

The next day, at breakfast, Draco Malfoy sauntered over. "Got your bags packed, Potter? I've already sent a letter to my father. I wonder what the Prophet's headline will say today— 'Boy-Who-Lived becomes Boy-Who-Lives-As-A-Muggle'? I hear they snap your wand when you get expelled."

Ron opened his mouth, but someone else spoke before he did, from slightly down the table. "What do you think, Malfoy?"

Malfoy started, the way he always did when Hermione Granger addressed him directly. "What do you mean?"

"He's Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived. The one who saved all of wizarding Britain from the last 'Dark Lord' with 'Heaven Magic'. Do you really think they'll expel someone as perfect and holy and divine from Hogwarts for a little bit of hypocritical rule-breaking?"

Malfoy glared at her, but also seemed worried all of a sudden. "No one asked you, you filthy—"

But as he was no doubt about to continue to say some offensive slurs, a big owl swooped down and dropped a long, thin package on Harry's plate, ruining his breakfast.

Neville flinched as it passed. "Something wrong, Nev?" Harry said.

"Don't like owls," Neville muttered. "Owls are mean."

Harry turned his attention back to the package, and read the letter on it. It was from McGonagall, and it told him not to open the package at the table.

"Blimey," said Ron in a hushed whisper. "Is that—"

"Is that a bloody broomstick?" Malfoy shouted, his voice cutting across the babble of the Great Hall. "You got a bloody broomstick for yesterday, and all I got was away with it? That's not fair!"

"Of course it's not fair," said Hermione in a falsely sweet voice. "He's Harry Potter. What's fair about being Harry Potter?"

Harry just looked at her. "My parents are dead."

"So they're in heaven, then," Hermione said, brashly, boldly, as if she knew her words were cruel but didn't care. She had jumped to her feet, and was yelling over the table. "Because they were good people and presumably Christian."

At this point, about half Gryffindor table was listening in.

"Is this what this is really all about?" Harry said, heat rising to his face, yet a thrill of anticipation going through him. This was his chance! His chance to convert the heathens by defeating a non-believer in a battle of rhetoric, the way that Peter and Paul convinced the Romans! He stood as well. "Why can't you respect my faith, Hermione?"

"Because you won't respect mine!"

And now the whole Great Hall had fallen silent. Even the teachers were paying some level of attention. Dumbledore, of course, merely smiled placidly, as if this was all totally fine. Now, normally, two first-years fighting wouldn't draw so much attention, but this was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and defeated You-Know-Who with Heaven Magic. And against him, some random first-year girl, with slightly crimson eyes, a shadow that wouldn't stand still, and the faintest hint of brimstone around her.

"But your faith," said Harry, taking care not to hurt her feelings too much—he did want to save her, after all— "it hasn't helped you. It hasn't made you a better person. It's kept you from making friends, it's made you creepy, it's alienationated you!"

"How can you say to your brother, 'Brother'," Hermione said primly, "let me take out the speck that is in your eye,' when you yourself do not see the log that is in your own eye? You hypocrite. First take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take out the speck that is in your brother's eye."

"You're taking that out of context," said Harry. "Luke 6:42. That line is about—"

"That line is about trying to get someone else to stop sinning, when you're also sinning. Which you are."

"I am not!" Harry said. "I did the right thing. If I hadn't, it would've been worse. Like a muddied spring or a polluted well are the righteous who give way to the wicked." (Proverbs 25:26).

"Really?" said Hermione. "You considered that not giving way? Sounds like you just wanted to render evil for evil. Thessalonians, five-fifteen."

She said the citation out loud as she stared him the eye, as if daring him to challenge her. Harry, for his part, was starting to feel uncomfortable. How was it that she knew so many obscure Bible verses from so many different editions, if she was a demon worshiper who needed saving? Still, he couldn't stop now, not with the whole school watching them. For he knew that the righteous might fall seven times and rise again, but the wicked stumbled when calamity struck (Proverbs 24:16, paraphrased)

She pointed at him. "What say you, Harry Potter? Whoever resists the power, resisteth the ordinance of God: and they that resist shall receive to themselves damnation. Romans 13:2. Break temporal rules, receive eternal damnation."

There was a collective gasp at this, for Hermione had said the words that most of Wizarding Britain preferred not to think about.

But Harry stood up tall and looked the sinner straight in the eye. "I know that a person is not justified by the works of the law, but by faith in Jesus Christ."

He was about to continue, but Hermione interrupted him. "You utterly self-righteous Christian!" she cried. "Jesus this, Jesus that! Are you really saying that your faith in Jesus justifies flying a broomstick to chase this pathetic excuse of a wannabe aristocrat?"

"Yea!" shouted Draco Malfoy. "Does it, Potter? Hey, wait a minute…"

"Jesus was good person," Harry said with conviction, ignoring Malfoy, because he wasn't theologically sophisticated. "When he saw a wrong, he righted it, and he sacrificed everything, his own life, to redeem us."

"And how did he know what was right, when all his followers, after him, said to obey the law?" said Hermione, still hostile of course, but at least she wasn't taking KJV Bible verses out of context anymore.

"Because he was the Son of God," said Harry. Murmurs spread throughout the crowd. Harry had just declared himself a Christian, which of course was not out of the ordinary for Brits, but in the Wizarding World there were more reasons to murmur than faith alone, for celestial politics played out above them all. Of course, the rumors of Heaven Magic had all but doomed Harry to be claimed by the side that claimed to be the Light. But Harry didn't know this. He was just stating what was in his heart.

"So," said Hermione. "He knew what he was right, because he was the Son of God."

"Yes," said Harry. "That's the whole point."

"So when he broke the rules, it was okay, because he knew he was right, because he was the Son of God."

"That's correct," said Harry. "When he turned out the merchants and moneychangers from the temple, when he refused to dance to Herod's tune, when he told people not to evade taxes — he knew he was doing what was right."

He was surprised yet pleased that he seemed to be getting through to her.

"I think I see what you're saying," said Hermione slowly. "If the Son of God breaks the rules, that's perfectly fine and righteous because he's the Son of God."

"Yes, exactly!" Harry crowed. It was working! It was working!

"And if the Son of God defies a ruling order he thinks is corrupt, that's fine, because he's the Son of God."

"Exactly, exactly!" Harry said, like Uncle Vernon at the pulpit.

"And if the Son of God suffers greatly because of his conviction, that only makes him even holier!" said Hermione.

"Yes!" said Harry. He wasn't exactly sure if that was true, but he was getting through to her!

Hermione smiled widely. "So Lucifer was right to rebel!"

And now there was yet another gasp, for this was the kind of rhetoric that no one was stupid enough to say out loud in proper Wizarding society. Usually, those of older blood, as they euphemistically described themselves, used various dogwhistles to describe this particular aspect of a conflict also euphemistically described by many names. The War in Heaven. The Rebellion. The Titanomachy. The Stealing of Peaches. The Slaying of Bor. Seth's Coup. The Emanation of the Demiurge. Most of the names, fairly ill-fitting for what they were probably actually talking about.

Hermione, of course, had only limited ways of knowing this, because no one wrote this stuff down in books, so now she looked like an ignorant muggleborn—but ignorant in a different way than most. Some of the older Slytherins, the ones who had deluded themselves into believing that they were politically savvy instead of just born with silver spoons in their mouths, made note of her possible usefulness, her surprising closeness to the Malfoy child, and decided that they would have an agenda—after they spat out their pumpkin juice.

Harry was shocked. Ron was stuffing his face with dessert and desperately trying to pretend this wasn't happening. Malfoy looked as if someone had told him that Merlin was a muggle.

Meanwhile, at the head table, Snape's mouth had opened very slightly, McGonagall's face was in her hands, Quirrell was pretending not to notice anything out of the ordinary was going on, and Dumbledore, like Ron, was stuffing his face with treacle.

"What? No!" Harry shouted. "That's completely different! Jesus was rebelling against corrupt mortal institutions, while—"

"Lucifer rebelled against a corrupt divine one!" Hermione said.

"That's absurd!" said Harry. Things were getting heated, and the entire hall was watching with bated breath. "He fought against an all-loving, all-good, all-knowing, all-powerful God! He was doomed to fail, and all he did with his rebellion was introduce the idea of sin into the world!"

"But if God was all-powerful and all-knowing, then how was Lucifer able to rebel in the first place?" said Hermione.

"Because… because it was part of His plan," said Harry.

"And like you said," said Hermione, "Lucifer was doomed to fail, but he was also doomed to try. Just so God can introduce sin into the world?"

"What's the point of perfection," Harry said, "if there's no failure? What's the point of life, if you can't make right and wrong decisions? And he fixed it in the end, by sending Jesus Christ."

"Bit of a funny story, isn't it?" said Hermione. "Make a perfect world, and then break it, just so he can offer one path to redemption?"

And Harry knew he was losing the crowd. But in truth, his faith was a tad shaken. There were answers to these questions, but he didn't have them. Uncle Vernon had taken a Calvinist stance, a view on predestination, that the elect would always choose the right choices with their free will, and the damned never would, subverting the whole issue entirely, but that had always been unsatisfying as well. And of course he didn't truly believe that atheists would burn in hell. He had to try something different.

"Redemption isn't the point of life," Harry said quietly, yet the whole hall strained to hear him. "It's a process you engage in. To accept Jesus into your heart, and use him as a focal point to become a person worthy of entering Heaven, and to bring Heaven on earth.

"And what if Heaven isn't all it's said to be?" said Hermione. "Because all you have is faith."

"What are you even saying?" Harry said. "What are you even—"

"Hell," said Hermione. "We're only told about it by extremely biased Christian writers."

And she had opened the final can of worms. For in truth, the matter of eternal life weighs heavily upon Wizarding Britain, for it is the one question even the Department of Mysteries cannot answer. There are, of course, a few who know, but no one knows that they know, and they aren't telling. So the question of demon worshiping and pledging your soul to Hell isn't merely academic, but actual practice among certain segments of the population, even though they had no idea what Hell really was. Hermione was merely unique in her familial origin.

And Harry knew that there was no point in arguing, and suddenly, he was very tired—at least as tired as an eleven-year-old can be. He couldn't do this. The Great Hall had started murmuring, but not about him. Hermione Granger had changed, from a pariah to a maverick, and he was out of his depth now.

"Hell is the utter absence of God," Harry said coldly, with only faith on his side. "And if that's truly what you want, I can't keep you from it."

And he stormed out of the hall, Ron at his heels, broom by his side, all joy forgotten. And the murmurs only got louder.