A/N: Hello! So sorry about not updating last weekend - we got a new puppy and my hands have been full with her since, and it honestly slipped my mind to update. But, on the bright side, you get a chapter today, and another chapter this weekend!
Thank you to BrightWatcher and DS2010 for reviewing on the last chapter! I hope to hear from you both on this one as well! And thanks to those who favourited or subscribed.
Chapter Six: Incidents on Broomsticks
Draco waited until everyone had gone to bed before he snuck upstairs (the Slytherin dormitories were below their common room) to the empty common room. He had just made it past the wall that concealed the entrance to the Slytherin dungeon when he was caught by the professor.
"And just where do you think you're going?"
Draco almost jumped out of his skin before he recognised the low voice as his Head of House's.
"Meeting Harry," he answered.
Snape's gaze turned calculating. "How often do the pair of you do this, Draco?"
"Not often," Draco replied truthfully. "We've only done it twice before."
Snape nodded slightly in approval. "Good. You shouldn't attempt to see each other too frequently — it's safer to rely on owls for communication while you're at Hogwarts."
"We do," Draco assured him. "But…" He shrugged. "I miss him."
Snape's expression turned wry. "Very well. Run along, and make sure you return within a reasonable time."
"Thanks, Severus." Draco smiled.
"Don't get caught," Snape added warningly — but Draco was already gone.
"Can we, can we, can we, please?"
"Please, Father?"
Lucius groaned. There was precious little that could faze him, but in the face of two tenacious nine-year-old boys who had their hearts firmly set on flying on a broom for the first time today and had been begging for months for the chance to hop on his Shooting Star, it was slightly more difficult to impose his will.
Nevertheless, he tried. "Boys, I've told you, flying is not something to be taken lightly —"
"Oh, no, we're taking it very seriously!" said Harry.
"Extremely seriously," Draco added solemnly.
"We've read Tips on Broomsticks three times over…"
"…practiced mounting on tree branches…"
"…hung from the top floor balcony to get used to heights…"
"You did what?" exclaimed Lucius.
"Dobby was there to make sure we didn't fall," Draco quickly assured him, drawing a sharp glance from his father. "Like we said, we took it very seriously."
"We did," Harry agreed. "And we've been waiting for years to fly," he said dramatically.
"Please, Father?" Draco wheedled.
"We'll be super super careful," said Harry.
"And we'll listen to everything you say about it," said Draco.
"Please?" Harry begged.
Narcissa, who had been observing from the doorway, chuckled. Lucius shot her a glare.
"I'm surprised you have nothing to say about this, Narcissa. Didn't you say that no son of yours would go near a 'flying deathtrap of a broomstick'?"
Narcissa had a wry smile on her face. "Unfortunately, Draco takes after you too much to be content without flying — and Harry's just the same. If they have to fly, I'd rather they do it under your supervision than sneak out and try it themselves when you say no."
Lucius scowled and glanced at the boys. "They wouldn't dare."
"Lucius, have you met your boys?"
Draco and Harry grinned innocently at him, but Lucius was well aware that those deceptively mild exteriors hid fantastically stubborn creatures with nerves of steel. Narcissa was right — if he said no, they were liable to steal his broomstick and attempt to fly on it while he was out, and they'd probably think it worth every minute even after they were well and truly punished for disobedience.
"Oh, all right," he relented finally, causing Harry and Draco to beam ecstatically. "I have a meeting at the Ministry in an hour, but when I get back I'll supervise your flying on the broomstick."
"Yes!" Harry exclaimed happily, pumping his fist in the air.
"Thank you, Father!" said a delighted Draco.
Harry was waiting for Draco when the latter arrived at the genealogical section of the library.
"You're late," Harry noted gleefully; Draco prided himself on punctuality and was always nagging Harry about his lack thereof.
"Ran into Severus," Draco explained, and Harry sobered.
"Is he okay? I noticed his leg was bleeding the other night. What happened to him?"
"It's funny how you assume I know what happened." Draco smirked.
"Isn't he your godfather?" Harry retorted.
"Doesn't mean I know every little thing about him."
"So you don't know?"
Draco snorted. "Don't be silly. Of course I do." He told Harry about following Snape on Halloween night and the Potions Master's run-in with Quirrell and the three-headed dog.
"Wait a minute — Quirrell let the troll in?" Harry exclaimed.
"He must have," said Draco. "It's the only way it could have got in."
"But why does Quirrell want whatever-it-is? And what is it?"
"Severus knows what it is, I'm sure," Draco said confidently.
Harry snorted. "I dare you to ask him."
"No," Draco said at once. "No way. I'm not stupid."
"Come on," urged Harry. "Aren't you curious?"
"Yes, but I believe Severus when he says it's dangerous. He told me that we aren't to try to find out what it is."
"You're going to listen to him?"
"What moron doesn't listen to Severus?" demanded Draco. "I'm not kidding, Harry — he promised we'd be in deep trouble if we tried to interfere. Leave it be."
"All right, all right," Harry groused. "I won't ask him."
Well aware that this did not mean Harry was going to stay out of the three-headed dog business, Draco frowned heavily at him.
"Harry, promise me you won't get involved in this."
"Define 'involved'."
Draco scowled even more. "You know exactly what I mean, Harry James Potter. Don't you dare try to be a brainless Gryffindor and investigate what the dog is guarding."
"But Quirrell's trying to steal it," Harry objected. "And we know he is — we have a moral obligation to try and stop him."
"We are eleven years old!" Draco exclaimed. "We don't have to do anything! Severus knows, and I bet Dumbledore does too — they'll take care of it, and you'd jolly well better let them do it."
"Okay, okay, you're right."
Draco glared suspiciously at Harry — the Gryffindor had given in too easily. "Your word, Harry. Promise me you'll leave the matter alone."
Harry squirmed, clearly unwilling, and Draco's eyes narrowed.
"I'll report you to Severus if I have to," he threatened.
Harry sighed. "Fine," he conceded. "I promise."
Draco relaxed; he knew Harry wouldn't go back on his word. "Thank you."
They lapsed into casual conversation for some time, until Draco checked his watch and saw that it was almost one o'clock.
"I have to go back to my dorm — Severus told me not to stay out too late."
"All right," said Harry. "Hang on, though, before you go — I know you'll be supporting Slytherin tomorrow, but who do you really want to win the Quidditch game?"
Draco knew Harry was angling for a 'good luck' — or something else along those lines.
"I expect you to put in an excellent individual performance, of course," he said smugly. "But one good flier does not a Quidditch team make, and I fully intend to see Slytherin win."
Harry scoffed. "As if. We are so going to beat you tomorrow."
Draco smirked. "We'll see. Goodnight, Harry."
"Night," Harry returned, feeling slightly guilty about the promise he had made.
His fingers were still crossed behind his back.
"Do you remember everything I told you?" Lucius questioned.
Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He was mounted on his father's well kept broomstick with perfect form, back arched professionally and both feet planted firmly on the ground while his fingers curved securely over the handle — and all that was left for him to do was to take off.
"Yes, Father," he emphasised. "I remember everything."
Next to Lucius, Harry was jumping up and down on the balls of his feet, impatient for his turn. Lucius had tossed a Sickle to determine which of the boys would get the first ride on the Shooting Star, and unfortunately for Harry, Draco had won. Now he was wishing Lucius would hurry up and let Draco fly so Harry could have his turn.
"All right," Lucius acquiesced finally. "Draco, you may take off."
With a wide grin on his face, Draco confidently pushed off the ground and rose about five feet into the air. He gave a whoop of delight and successfully made a few circles above Lucius's head.
"This is great!" he exclaimed gleefully, daring to inch the broom farther up into the air despite Lucius's pre-imposed restriction of six feet.
"Draco," his father called warningly, and with a sigh, Draco reduced his altitude.
"Come on, Draco," Harry called. "My turn. You can have another go when I've had a ride."
Clearly reluctant, the Malfoy heir guided the broomstick down. Draco was flushed from the nippy autumn air and his own exhilaration, giving his cheeks a noticeably rosy shade.
"You'll love it, Harry," he said as he handed the broom over to his foster brother.
Eagerly, Harry swung his leg over the broomstick and quickly copied Draco's pre-flight stance. He had just enough patience to wait for Lucius' nodded permission before he kicked off hard from the ground, crowing in jubilation as he felt himself soar into the air.
Harry was more daring than Draco. He abided by Lucius's preset height limit, but within that limit he accelerated rapidly, flew upside down, and even made the broom roll 360 degrees several times in quick succession. Lucius gave up trying to reprimand him for reckless flying after his fifth perfectly executed loop and contented himself with keeping a sharp eye on Harry's acrobatics.
"How did you do all that stuff?" Draco demanded as Harry finally returned to solid ground. "That can't have been your first time on a broom!"
"It was, though." Harry was grinning with his success. "It was unbelievably easy — I felt like I didn't even need all that preparation we did."
"It seems," interjected Lucius neutrally, "that flying is in your blood."
His comment immediately made Harry stare at him.
"What d'you mean?"
Lucius met Harry's puzzled green eyes with an inscrutable look.
"Your father was an excellent natural flier as well."
The morning of November 9 dawned bright and cold, and the smell of fried sausages at the breakfast tables made all the students' mouths water. Ron, of course, piled his plate high, as did Seamus and Dean, and even Neville took more than he was normally wont to do.
"I like sausages," was his simple reply when Dean commented that he had never seen Neville eat more than half a plate at breakfast before.
Harry, however, could only manage two sausages before a colony of butterflies decided to settle in his stomach and make it quite impossible for him to eat any more. He had been all confidence in front of Draco last night, but now that he was actually facing the prospect of going out onto the Quidditch pitch to play a serious game, his nerves were starting to get the better of him.
"Is that all you're eating, Harry?" Dean asked in disbelief when Harry made no attempt to reach for more food.
"Mm," Harry grunted.
"How many sausages did you have?" Ron demanded.
"Two."
"Two?" Ron exclaimed. "Bloody hell, Harry — you're playing Quidditch in less than three hours!"
"Yeah, Harry, you need your strength," Seamus chimed in. "Seekers are always the ones who get fouled the most — you can bet every one of those nasty Slytherins will be out to kill you."
Hermione's disapproving sniff was enough to convey her opinion on Seamus's rather drastic choice of words.
"Harry, two sausages is not enough to feed a growing boy, not to mention one who's going to play what I suspect will be a very strenuous game before noon," she informed him. "At least eat some toast."
Harry mechanically selected a plain piece of toast, took one bite, and promptly set it down on his plate. "I've had some toast."
Ron sniggered appreciatively at Harry's deadpan humour. Hermione simply looked vexed. Gathering up the parchment and quill she'd brought down to breakfast with her, she stood up.
"Ron, I'm going to see to that thing we want to do. You try to make sure Harry eats a bit more."
She scurried away.
Harry glanced at Ron, who was helpfully laying a third sausage on Harry's plate. "What's she talking about?" he asked. "What 'thing'?"
"Just something that the mates and I have planned for the match," said Ron dismissively. "Nothing for you to worry about…actually, when you see it, you'll probably feel better." He waved a hand at Harry's plate. "Now come on, eat. Or Hermione'll be annoyed with both of us."
After their hugely successful first attempt at flying, Lucius was more relaxed about allowing Draco and Harry to ride his broomstick, but he still insisted on supervising their activities. The boys didn't mind — as long as they got to fly, they were more than willing to put up with Lucius's sharp eye. As the weeks passed and the boys grew more proficient at flying, even Lucius hardly felt the need to track their every movement, as he proved when he finally permitted Draco to lay claim to his second broomstick (a newer version of the Shooting Star they'd been using) so that he and Harry could fly at the same time. With two broomsticks now available, the boys had a magnificent time during their flying sessions, chasing each other around and daring one another to perform outlandish stunts. It was due to the boys' propensity to attempt dangerous manoeuvres that Lucius still made it a point to be outside with them when they flew, though he felt confident enough in their skill to read a book or otherwise occupy himself while Harry and Draco whizzed about in the air.
On one particular afternoon, Lucius was seriously contemplating a piece of legislation that one faction in the Wizengamot wished to pass when he heard a pained yell. Instantly, the Malfoy patriarch was on his feet, legislation discarded, his pale eyes scrutinising the situation with sharpness and fatherly concern.
Draco was diving helter-skelter towards the ground, his face a mask of terror. He barely waited for his feet to touch the ground before he leapt off, tossing aside his broomstick, and rushed towards Harry, who was crumpled on the grass, looking rather white.
"Harry, Harry, are you all right?" Draco asked in panic. "Merlin, I'm sorry, I didn't mean…Harry, are you okay?"
"What happened?" Lucius demanded as he approached the boys.
"It was an accident!" Draco burst out. "I was just teasing, I didn't mean to hurt him."
Lucius spared his son a brief, flinty look before he knelt down beside Harry to examine his injuries.
"Harry, where does it hurt?"
"Arm," Harry grit out, cradling his right elbow. He whimpered as Lucius gently prodded the limb, noting the abnormal bend of the joint.
"You've broken your elbow," Lucius informed him clinically. "And…" He pulled out his wand and performed a quick diagnostic spell, nodding bleakly as it confirmed his suspicions. "Yes, it's dislocated too. This is a problem…"
"Can you fix it?" Draco asked anxiously. Although Harry was obviously in great pain, it was the blond boy who looked more stricken.
Lucius looked grim. "No. If it were an ordinary fracture I could handle it, but a dislocation should be managed by a professional healer. Harry needs to be taken to St. Mungo's."
"Then let's go!" exclaimed Draco.
"You," said Lucius sternly, "are not going anywhere. Go inside and ask your mother to come here, quickly."
Draco immediately scarpered. Lucius conjured a sling and wrapped it around Harry's arm.
"Harry, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to wait a while," Lucius said sympathetically, but firmly. "I will take you to St. Mungo's, but only once I've determined how to make sure no one will recognise you. Do you understand?"
Harry blanched, but he nodded. Even at the tender age of nine, he knew he potentially had powerful enemies — Lucius had never tried to sugarcoat the dangers of his status as the wizarding world's hero.
Narcissa came running out of the manor at that moment, anxiety written all over her features, closely followed by Draco.
"Oh, Harry," she exclaimed upon seeing the brunet nursing his injured arm. "How bad is it?" she demanded of Lucius.
"Nothing too serious, given proper treatment," Lucius replied. "But he needs St. Mungo's."
Narcissa froze as she laid her hands comfortingly on Harry's shoulders. "St. Mungo's…but we can't!"
"I'm aware," Lucius said tersely. "Stay with him, Narcissa. I'm going to contact Severus."
After much bargaining from Harry (mainly involving the promise that he would eat a full breakfast if Ron would come clean) Ron eventually caved and told Harry that he, Hermione, Neville, Seamus, and Dean had prepared a large banner in honour of Harry's first Quidditch match. It didn't take long for Harry to spot it as he emerged from the dressing rooms — the banner was huge, taking all five friends to hold it aloft, and the words POTTER FOR PRESIDENT — written in gorgeous lettering by Neville, Harry presumed (the round-faced boy had beautiful handwriting) — flashed different colours thanks to a nifty little charm by Hermione. The majestically realistic Gryffindor lion underneath the letters could only be Dean's work.
Ron had been right — the banner made Harry feel loads better. His stomach butterflies were finally quiet.
"Welcome, everyone, to the long anticipated first Quidditch match of the season!" boomed the voice of Lee Jordan, the Weasley twins' friend and commentator for the day. "Today, Gryffindor vs. Slytherin! And we're all expecting a Gryffindor victory, of course, given that they have an excellent new Seeker in none other than Harry Potter!"
Loud boos issued from the block of Slytherins — about two hundred strong doing their level best to drown out the raucous cheers coming from three-quarters of the crowd. Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were both supporting Gryffindor, as neither liked Slytherin very much, though the Ravenclaws got along with them better than most.
"Jordan!" barked Professor McGonagall. "Keep things unbiased, if you please."
"I am, Professor — it's true, we're all expecting Gryffindor to win —"
"Jordan!"
"All right, all right…teams lining up, Madam Hooch gives the whistle — and we're off! Quaffle in the air, caught by Angelina Johnson, who passes it to Alicia Spinnet — look at that girl go, what a wonderful Chaser! — back to Johnson, further up the pitch — another excellent find by Gryffindor Captain Wood, and very attractive, too —"
"JORDAN!"
"Telling it like it is, Professor, telling it like it is! Johnson in possession, tearing up the pitch — dodges Flint, Pucey, and one, no, both Bludgers — goalposts ahead — SHOOT, ANGELINA, SHOOT!"
Angelina did, flinging the Quaffle into the nearest Slytherin hoop; Slytherin Keeper Bletchley dived, but missed, and the Quaffle went through amid deafening cheers from the Gryffindor supporters.
"GRYFFINDOR SCORE!" Lee Jordan bellowed. "Keeper Bletchley retrieves the Quaffle, tosses it to Flint — Flint passes to — oh, wait, no, that was a feint — Flint still in possession…Fred — or George — one of the Weasleys, anyway — aims a Bludger his way — Flint ducks — ducks the other Bludger from the other Weasley — he's got Spinnet and Bell on his tail, but there's Pucey and Montague up ahead — and Flint's still not passing — what, does he think he can make it up the entire pitch all by himself?"
Marcus Flint apparently thought he could. His fellow Slytherins in the stands shouted encouragement and egged him on, and whooped with delight as Flint successfully put the Quaffle past Oliver Wood. There was a collective groan from the lions, including Lee Jordan.
"Slytherin score," he announced with a total lack of enthusiasm. "10-10 tie between Gryffindor and Slytherin, Bell with the Quaffle — and the Gryffindor Chasers are moving back to the Slytherin goalposts…"
Snape insisted on observing the damage for himself, so he Floo'd to Malfoy Manor immediately after Lucius told him of Harry's injury. The Potions Master clicked his tongue in disapproval when he saw the distorted shape of the boy's arm.
"How did this happen?" he demanded, whirling on Lucius.
"The boys were flying," Lucius replied impassively. "I didn't see what happened, but I believe it was Draco's fault." Here he glared at his son, who cowered behind Narcissa. "I have every intention of getting the full story after we've sorted out Harry."
"Please, Lucius, it was an accident," Harry offered. "I don't blame Draco for it."
"Potter, be quiet — you're already in enough of a troublesome situation. You need to go to St. Mungo's, and we need to figure out how to get you there without revealing to the whole world that you're living with the Malfoys. Idiot boys and their flying," Snape said scathingly. He had no love for broomsticks.
"Severus, we can lecture the boys later," Narcissa reprimanded. "What are we going to do about Harry? Glamour charms?"
"They'd be detected the instant someone casts a diagnostic spell," Lucius said dismissively.
"And the boy looks far too much like James Potter for us to be able to get away without a disguise." A sardonic curl of his lip showed Snape's clear distaste for that fact.
"That doesn't leave us with many options," Narcissa noted worriedly.
"No, it does not," Snape said curtly. "In fact, given the circumstances, there is only one feasible course of action."
Lucius shook his head vehemently; clearly, the two men had already had this conversation. "Polyjuice could potentially do more harm than good. His bones would shift during the transformation. Obliviating the Healers would be much safer."
"The Healers can easily undo whatever damage the transformation caused, and we wouldn't run the risk of missing any Obliviations," Snape argued. "Besides, Obliviating everyone who sees us at St. Mungo's is next to impossible."
"I don't like it," Lucius insisted.
"You don't have to like it," Snape snapped. He withdrew and unstoppered a vial of some thick, gloppy substance that bore a strong resemblance to bubbling mud. "Draco, come here," ordered Snape.
Draco hesitated, looking to his father for instruction; Lucius pursed his lips and nodded, and Draco warily stepped towards Snape. The Potions Master yanked a few hairs out of the Malfoy heir's scalp, ignoring his yelp, and added it to the vial. The potion inside brightened to a shining, liquid silver, becoming altogether more pleasant in both appearance and texture.
"Drink this, Potter," Snape commanded, thrusting the vial at Harry.
"What does it do?" Harry asked warily.
"It will transform you into Draco for one hour so St. Mungo's will believe they are treating Draco Malfoy, not Harry Potter," Narcissa explained.
Harry blinked in astonishment. "That's gonna turn me into Draco? Won't that hurt?"
"It will, especially your arm," Lucius answered honestly, "But the alternative — revealing where you are — is not a good idea."
Harry blanched at the mention of more pain, but he appeared to accept that this was the best course of action. Not for the first time, though, he rued his status as the so-called Boy Who Lived.
"I haven't got all day," said Snape testily. "Drink up, Potter — let's get this over with."
Two hours into the game, the score was 90-80, Gryffindor. After around the sixth Gryffindor goal, the Slytherins had resorted to keeping possession with hard Bludgers and clever fouls that, more often than not, went unpunished because Hooch was unable to get a clear view (much to Lee Jordan's vociferous disapproval). The green and silver team had therefore been steadily raiding the Gryffindor goalposts, but Wood had pulled off some truly spectacular saves to deny the Slytherins time and time again. The strain was starting to show, though, and Wood was urging Harry to catch the Snitch whenever the latter drifted nearby. So far, however, the tiny golden ball had utterly failed to make an appearance.
"And that's another fine save by Keeper Wood — I tell you, he's a giant at those goalposts — and Slytherin are denied their equaliser, again." Though many in the audience were starting to get antsy, Lee's enthusiasm remained undiminished. "Still no sign of the Snitch — but it's Spinnet with the Quaffle — passes to Bell — intercepted by Montague — Montague shoots! — Wood saves — HEY, THAT'S A FOUL!"
The Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws all roared in outrage as Captain Flint, frustrated by Wood's perfect saves denying them the chance to equalise, grabbed a bat from one of his Beaters and whacked a Bludger straight into Wood's midriff. The Gryffindor captain rolled in the air and staggered into one of his own goalposts, completely winded and in all likelihood nursing at least one broken rib. Madam Hooch blew her whistle immediately, shrieking bloody murder at Flint for the atrocious foul.
"You do not attack the Keeper unless the Quaffle is within the scoring range! And aside from that, you are not a Beater!"
Katie Bell had claimed the Quaffle after Wood knocked it away from the hoops, and was holding onto it in anticipation of the penalty Gryffindor were sure to be awarded; she looked absolutely furious. Her fellow Chasers were equally angry — all three were hovering around Madam Hooch, shooting dirty looks at Flint and his teammates. Fred and George were circling above them, busily keeping the Bludgers well away from the Slytherin Beaters. The Slytherin Seeker, Terrence Higgs, was watching the drama unfold and not even trying to look for the Snitch, so Harry took the opportunity to swoop down to see if Wood was all right.
"Oliver, are you okay?"
Wood was breathing heavily and clutching his torso, but he still managed to wheeze out an order. "The Snitch…Harry, get…the Snitch," he urged.
"I'm trying — I can't find it anywhere."
Wood inhaled, and instantly hissed in pain. "Find it…soon, Harry — dunno…how well I can play like this."
Harry nodded and went back to searching the pitch for the elusive Snitch. Quidditch rules dictated that no substitutions were allowed unless the game had gone on for more than six hours, even if one of the players was injured — Wood would have to keep playing, but despite his total willingness to give his all, it was a guarantee that he wouldn't be anywhere near as effective as before.
Flint had committed a double foul — one for attacking the Keeper and one for playing Beater — so Madam Hooch awarded Gryffindor two penalties. Bell and Johnson put both away to bring the score up to 110-80. The thirty-point lead gave them a bit of breathing room, but Slytherin knew Wood was incapacitated and they renewed their attack with fervour. Wood did his best, but was unable to prevent Slytherin from finally equalising on the three-hour mark.
By this point even Lee Jordan was getting hoarse. "Wood soldiering on — he's a trooper, is our captain — 110 points to each side, Slytherin in possession, and still no Snitch — where the hell is that bloody ball?"
"Jordan, language!" berated Professor McGonagall.
The Slytherin cheers were getting louder — they were urging Higgs to find the Snitch. Harry was desperately scanning the pitch as well; Wood was looking very pale now, and there was no way he would last another three hours — once he passed out, Gryffindor would be playing without a Keeper.
And then Slytherin scored.
"NO!" wailed Lee. "Pucey scores, Slytherin in the lead — is that the Snitch?!"
All eyes in the stadium turned to the Gryffindor goalposts — Wood was yelling as loudly as his bruised ribs would allow him to, trying to point the Snitch out to Harry. Harry flattened himself on his Nimbus 2000 — a gift from McGonagall, who of course was under the impression that he lived with a Muggle family who wouldn't dream of buying him such a thing (Lucius had secretly reimbursed her Gringotts account, though) — and streaked towards the golden glint, but a sudden bucking of his broomstick threw him badly off course and sent him crashing into Higgs, who was also chasing the Snitch.
The two Seekers tumbled downwards with alarming speed; Higgs managed to disentangle himself and land safely, but Harry's broom seemed to grow a mind of its own and shot back into the air, jerking and flailing like something possessed. Harry tried his best to hold on and guide it, however haltingly, towards the Snitch, but his Nimbus was having none of it — it thrashed about wildly, seeming to do its level best to throw its rider off.
And then Harry was launched clean off his broom and into a hundred-foot freefall.
It was decidedly odd to see two Draco Malfoys in the yard. Harry was still panting from his transformation — it had definitely been painful — but aside from that, the two boys were identical, from the platinum blond hair to the pointed chin.
Snape checked his watch. "You have until four o' clock," he informed Lucius.
The older man nodded and lifted Harry into his arms. The Anti-Apparition wards around Malfoy Manor did not apply to the lord of the house, so Lucius Apparated straight to the Muggle department store that hid the entrance to St. Mungo's. His appearance in the entrance hall of the wizarding hospital caused quite a stir.
"Oh…Lord Malfoy," squeaked the small Welcome Witch. "How can I help you?"
"My son has dislocated his elbow," Lucius responded in his haughty, pureblood manner.
"Oh…you'll want Bone and Muscle Damage, in the next wing…" She trailed off at the scathing look from Lucius and gulped weakly. "Of course, you already knew that…I'll just…inform them you're here?"
"Do," said Lucius. "Be quick — I want to be out of here in less than an hour."
Exactly thirty-five minutes later, 'Draco Malfoy' walked out of St. Mungo's, his arm good as new. Lucius Apparated both of them back to Malfoy Manor, and then began the tedious process of sorting out exactly what had happened.
Upon learning that the accident had been caused by Draco grabbing Harry's broom from behind (thus yanking it out from under him) during a particularly rough-and-tumble game of tag, Lucius promptly banned both boys from further flying sessions, until such time as he felt they'd learned their lesson. Draco was grounded by Narcissa for a fortnight, Harry was made to scrub the kitchen floor as punishment for suggesting the game in the first place, and even Lucius did not escape his wife's wrath; Narcissa berated him well and truly for turning his attention to other things when he was supposed to be watching the boys. Snape, feeling that Narcissa was more than capably dealing with what he saw as 'ridiculous flying-related idiocy on all sides' took his leave after a stern warning to both Harry and Draco against getting into such a potentially disastrous situation again.
Thus, it was an exhausted Harry — now himself again — who climbed into bed that night. Draco crept into his room soon after to apologise once more, but Harry waved him off.
"It was an accident, Draco," he said. "We were both playing pretty rough. But blimey, your parents and Snape really flipped, didn't they?"
"With good reason," Draco pointed out. "We could've risked revealing that you're here."
Harry frowned. "Yeah, I guess them being mad about that would make more sense than them being mad about us getting rough on the brooms. Quidditch is a rough game, after all."
"We weren't playing Quidditch."
"We will be one day."
Draco snorted. "Mother is never going to let us on a broom again — we'd be lucky to get to Hogwarts still knowing how to fly, let alone play Quidditch."
"Nah," Harry said easily. "It only seems that way now, but we've more than a year till Hogwarts. I bet your parents will ease up eventually."
"You think so?"
"I know so," said Harry. "Come on — we both love flying, and we're pretty good at it too — if we have a chance to play Quidditch for the House teams there's no way your parents wouldn't let us. They'll have to let us fly again…eventually." He sniggered. "Besides, there's one funny thing that came out of today."
"Harry Potter, there was nothing funny about your arm bending that way," Draco said sharply.
"No, no, I didn't mean that." Harry grinned. "But I do think it's pretty funny that your medical record now shows a dislocated elbow when you've never broken a bone in your life."
Draco watched in horror as Harry's malfunctioning broomstick finally succeeded in catapulting its rider into empty air. He was rigid in his seat, unable to look away from the terrifying spectacle, like all the other students in the audience.
On the pitch, Oliver Wood had abandoned his goalposts (leaving the way clear for Flint to seize the Quaffle and score five times without anybody noticing) in an attempt to catch Harry before he fell. Wood had been the closest to Harry when Harry's broom lost its mind; but in his injured state it was doubtful if he could hold Harry on his own, and Fred and George Weasley — having discarded their Beater's bats — were also zooming towards the falling Seeker.
As it turned out, Wood got to Harry first — but as expected, he was unable to haul the first-year to safety, and both began descending at a rate that — while not as crazy as Harry's freefall — was still fast enough to do significant damage. Fortunately, by then the Weasley twins had caught up, and between them they managed to safely resolve the situation. Fred pulled Harry onto his broom, while George supported Wood — who had finally passed out — on the way to the ground.
Lee Jordan was keeping up his commentary. "Fred Weasley has the Gryffindor Seeker, who looks to be in one piece — same can't be said for Captain Wood — ooh, he doesn't look too good, does he? — and of course the Snitch has disappeared again, and now Gryffindor will have to play without their Keeper…" Lee happened to catch sight of the scoreboard just then, and he swore loudly — as did many Gryffindors. "What? 170 points to Slytherin?! WHICH DIRTY BASTARD CHEATED WHILE HARRY POTTER ALMOST DIED?"
"LEE NIGEL JORDAN!"
Lee danced out of Professor McGonagall's reach and continued to spew curses at the Slytherin team's bad sportsmanship, accompanied by loud boos from the Gryffindor crowd. In all the commotion, hardly anyone noticed what Harry was frantically waving around in the air on Fred's broom until Seamus pointed it out.
"Look, look!" Seamus shouted at the commentator's box. "LOOK AT HARRY!"
"HARRY POTTER'S GOT THE SNITCH!" Lee screamed at the top of his lungs. "GRYFFINDOR WIN BY 260 POINTS TO 170! TAKE THAT, YOU FOUL, CHEATING SLYTH—"
At that point Professor McGonagall finally managed to snatch the megaphone away from Lee, while the red and gold supporters erupted into happy chaos.
A/N: This was one of my favourite chapters to write. Quidditch commentary is so entertaining. Do let me know in reviews if you found it as fun as I did :)