Chapter 10: Winter 1991
For a moment, Harry thought he was hallucinating. After all, John was only a First Year. He wasn't even allowed to have a broom at Hogwarts, let alone play on the Quidditch team. So why was his brother grinning at him like the Kneazle who caught the canary? He blinked once, twice, a third time, before tilting his head up to look at Flint. His captain was scowling more fiercely than usual, his dark eyes surveying the smug Gryffindors. This revelation seemed to catch Flint by surprise as much as it had Harry.
Without looking away from the other team, Flint dropped one of his massive hands on Harry's shoulder and leaned down to whisper into his ear. "I don't care if he's your brother," he growled in a voice so low, Harry could barely hear him over the roar of the crowd. "Do not disappoint me."
A hot, sickly feeling settled in the pit of his stomach at the order, but he nodded nonetheless. He would deal with his brother later. Right then, he had a Snitch to catch. Without sparing another glance towards John, Harry mounted his broom and took to the sky. He soared up, high above the pitch, his brain filtering out the game below. He listened with half an ear to Lee Jordan's hilariously biased commentary, if only to keep track of the score. It was the first game of the season, but Flint wanted to start strong: Harry had been instructed to catch the Snitch only after they were a hundred points up. If he saw the Snitch before that, he was to watch it or stop the other Seeker from catching it. Of course, those instructions were given before Harry learned that Gryffindor's new Seeker was his little brother.
A wave of nausea came over Harry when he realised he might have to knock his brother off his broom. But no. It wouldn't come to that, surely.
John was a good flyer, no doubt, but he'd never show any inclination towards Seeking. When they played at home, John tended to favour Chaser over any other position. Then again, there were only so many options with only the two of them. Perhaps he had missed this piece of information about John. The idea left a sour taste in his mouth. After all, if Harry didn't know something as basic as John's favourite Quidditch position, what else didn't he know about his brother?
A wave of boos took over the stadium as Pucey scored, jolting Harry back to the present.
It didn't matter, he knew. Worrying about it wouldn't help him win the game.
He continued to circle above the pitch, keeping an eye out for the Snitch. At the other end of the pitch, Harry saw his brother doing the same. At least they were both relatively out of harm's way. The game had descended into barely contained chaos as players on both sides grew more aggressive, and the plays grew dirtier. In five minutes, both teams accrued a combined 32 fouls, resulting in several dozen penalty shots.
And then he saw it: a glint of gold, fluttering halfway between himself and John. He glanced at his brother, who was performing a celebratory loop-de-loop after Gryffindor scored. John was utterly oblivious to the Snitch. Unfortunately, Lee Jordan wasn't and felt the need to announce the Snitch's presence to the entire stadium.
Left with no other choice, Harry took off, rocketing straight downwards. The wind was roaring in his ears as he gained speed, drowning out the screaming of the spectators. He dodged a well-aimed Bludger, courtesy of one of the Weasley twins, his gaze trained on the little golden ball, flittering 100, 50, 10 yards away. John must have been closing in as well, but Harry couldn't tell. He was so close to the Snitch that he could reach out and grab it. The Snitch hovered, seemingly oblivious to the two brothers hurtling towards it. He was mere feet from the ground when he gave the handle of his broomstick a mighty yank to pull out of his dive—
And his broom lurched downwards. For one weightless moment, Harry flew through the air, unsupported by his broom. The world whirled past in a blur of blue, then green, then blue again and then—wham!
Harry's back collided with the ground, knocking the wind out of his lungs. He skidded, leaving a thirty-foot gouge in the Quidditch pitch. He watched the game above, dazed, as he took a mental inventory of his body. There was a shrill sound that might have been Madam Hooch's whistle (or perhaps it was just the ringing in his ears) and a muffled voice shouting words he couldn't quite understand. Flint's grim face appeared above him, his lips moving soundlessly.
He tried to sit up but was roughly pushed back down to the ground by several of his teammates. "My broom," he slurred.
"I'm more concerned about you," Flint grunted. "You must have been going a hundred miles an hour."
"My broom—" Harry began again.
Flint grunted in annoyance, his scowl deepening even further. "It's fine," he snapped. "You could have broken your neck. What were you thinking? A Wronski Feint, honestly. You're 13. You don't play for England."
"I pulled out of it," Harry insisted, pushing off Churchill. He blinked away the black dots that appeared and caught sight of a pale-faced Pucey, lingering several feet behind Flint. "But my broom—"
"Forget your fucking broom!"
"It jerked down!" Harry continued, his voice rising too. "I had already pulled out of the dive. But my broom—it was like something pulled it out of my hands." Everything had happened so fast, but of that, he was certain. He hadn't lost control of his broom.
Flint regarded him coolly, his dark eyes flicking between him and where Harry's broom lay innocently several yards away. "You're sure?"
"Yes," Harry replied emphatically.
"Frank," Flint grunted after a moment of contemplation. "Get Potter's broom."
Churchill looked at Flint like he had grown a second head. "I'm not flying that thing! It could be jinxed!"
"Who said you would be flying it?" Flint growled. He jutted his chin towards the broomstick again, refusing to issue a command twice. Churchill gave him a wary look but complied.
"Do you think you can still fly?" Flint asked in a low voice.
Harry rolled his shoulders, which felt bruised but otherwise unharmed. Well, there was the probable concussion, but he didn't use his head to fly.
"Right, change of plans," Flint grunted. "You'll take my broom, and I'll take yours."
Harry could see several things wrong with this plan despite the knock to his head and the lingering confusion. "But if mine is jinxed—"
"Let me worry about that," Flint replied. "You catch the Snitch and end the game. Points be damned."
Harry nodded slowly and allowed Flint to heft him to his feet. When Churchill arrived, Flint swapped Harry's Comet 260 with his Cleansweep Seven before ordering the team back into the air. The game resumed with a savage ferocity that made Harry very glad that he wasn't a Chaser. Especially after watching Gryffindor's Johnson take Pucey's elbow to the face.
Harry resumed his search for the Snitch, ignoring John's attempts to catch his attention. The sooner the game was over, the better, in his opinion. Unfortunately, the Snitch didn't seem to agree with him because it took nearly an hour to make an appearance. When it did reappear, however, Harry didn't hesitate. He took off like a bat out of hell, chasing the golden ball across the pitch, around the Gryffindor's goalposts, and towards the stands. The Snitch hovered a foot from the ground before shooting up, racing towards the spectators above. Harry flattened himself against his broom and shot upwards at a ninety-degree angle, the world fading around him as his vision focused on the Snitch alone. He was several meters away, feet away, mere inches away, his arm outstretched—
The borrowed Cleansweep twitched once. Twice. And then Harry found himself airborne for the second time that day as Flint's broom bucked him off. Harry made a wild swipe for the Snitch as he passed it, his fingers closing around it, its wings beating frantically against the palm of his hand. Then he was falling down, down, down, the air leaving his lungs in a rush of adrenaline.
And then he collided. Not with the ground, but with something hard and moving very fast perpendicular to him. He felt his shoulder dislocate with a sickening pop as someone grabbed him by his still outstretched arm. A moment later, Harry found himself swung like a rag doll onto the back of someone's broom. Flint had caught him, he belatedly realised.
They landed on the ground to thunderous applause—regardless of house loyalties, both he and Flint had made spectacular catches—and just like that, the game was over. Slytherin had won the match 210–20. The team joined them, wearing expressions that ranged from excitement to horror. Pucey took one look at Harry's dislocated shoulder and promptly vomited.
However, Harry had no time to enjoy his victory because he was quickly whisked away by an irate Madam Pomfrey. She was able to set him right with a wave of her wand, but she still made Harry listen to an hour-long rant about 'putting himself in unnecessary danger' and his 'airborne idiocy'. When Harry returned to the common room sometime later, he discovered a raucous party.
As it always happened after winning a Quidditch match, Harry found himself at the centre of a great deal of attention. Part of him enjoyed it, knowing that he was receiving praise for something he had rightly earned. Another part of him felt like dashing to the nearest fireplace and hiding in Slytherin's study. Most of this discomfort was caused by Sixth and Seventh Years, who generally wanted nothing to do with him, coming up and talking to him as if they were old friends.
But this year, something even more confusing happened. Several Third Year girls also came up to congratulate him, led by a giggly Cordelia Gamp.
He was saved by Churchill, who swooped out of thin air and wrapped his beefy arm around Harry's neck. "I apologise, ladies," he said, giving them a charming smile that sent them into blushing titters. "I have to steal Pretty Boy for a tick."
Harry allowed himself to be dragged into the throng of partiers, content to use Churchill's sizable bulk as a battering ram. He led Harry towards the fireplace, where the rest of the team had assembled. Flint lounged in one of the velvet wingback chairs, a leg draped over one arm. Curiously, Grace was perched on the chair's other arm and was muttering in Flint's ear, her expression pinched.
"Sorry about the wait," Churchill announced. "Lover here was surrounded by his many admirers."
The boys on the team chuckled at Churchill's remark, causing a flush to creep up Harry's neck. He opened his mouth to defend himself and explain that Churchill had the wrong idea when Pucey, of all people, nodded sagely.
"Was Cordelia among them?" Pucey asked with a serious expression. He leaned towards Harry and whispered, "She thinks you're 'dishy.'"
Despite the lump of embarrassment burning in his throat, Harry managed to choke out, "You've been gossiping again, Adrien."
Pucey shrugged, unbothered by the chuckles from the rest of the team. "I wouldn't say gossiping so much as being forced to listen to her every morning, loudly discussing how 'cute' she finds the bird's nest you call hair."
"So when are you going to ask her to Hogsmeade?" Bletchley asked, swirling around a goblet of something Harry was fairly sure wasn't pumpkin juice.
Harry was spared from answering by Flint, whose deep voice cut through the team's jeering. "Your broom was jinxed."
"Wow, Marcus," Churchill drawled. "Way to kill the mood."
"Considering someone tried to kill him today, I think the mood was already dead," Grace snapped before Flint could reply.
Churchill raised his hands in surrender and sat back in his seat.
Thankful for the change of subject, Harry leaned forward and gave Flint his full attention. "Will it be safe to fly it again?"
Grace scoffed at his response. "You would ask that."
Flint ignored her. "Professor Snape checked your broom," he explained. "He didn't find anything wrong with it."
"But I thought you said it was jinxed?"
"It was," Flint agreed. "Mine was too, once you got on it."
Harry's heart sank. Had he ruined Flint's broom, as well as his own? Seeing the concerned look on Harry's face, Flint waved him off. "As I said, Professor Snape couldn't find anything. It should be fine. But I don't want you flying alone anymore. Not until we find out who jinxed it."
Harry glanced around the rest of the team. They were each sporting equally sombre expressions. "I don't understand. Why would someone want to jinx my broom?"
"That," Flint began, his lips pursing. "Is an excellent question."
Genius Fratris
The term continued without any further murder attempts, which came as a relief for Harry—life at Hogwarts was busy enough without adding 'escape death' to his schedule. He barely had time to breathe when he wasn't at Quidditch practise or in lessons or helping Madam Pomfrey around the Hospital Wing. All of these responsibilities left little time for his extracurricular (and very much not school-sanctioned) activities: namely recreating and expanding upon the Marauder's Map. Harry even found that he had little time to browse Slytherin's vast collection of books and tomes, which vexed him to no end.
If it wasn't for his friends, Harry doubted he would have any sort of social life worth mentioning. Grace, who had never been one for studying, was the chief instigator for dragging Harry out of his pile of books. She had the uncanny ability to appear precisely when Harry was ready to chuck his book across the room and enlist him in some sort of troublemaking scheme that was always ending with them narrowly avoiding detention. Cedric, bless him, remained the voice of reason in their friendship and managed to redirect Grace's more disruptive impulses by suggesting activities that would appeal to both Harry's need to relax and Grace's desire to move.
It was on one such occasion in early December that found Harry transfiguring his goblet into a thermos and filling it with tea during breakfast. Cedric had been vague about what he had planned for the day but had given the instructions to dress warmly and wear sturdy shoes. It had stormed overnight, covering the Hogwarts grounds with a thick layer of snow, which generated an excited buzz amongst the students. Judging from the chatter at the breakfast table, the First Years were planning on laying a snowball siege on all of the Gryffindors.
Harry had to roll his eyes at Malfoy's insistence that the Gryffindors would be too stupid to defend themselves against them. Really, how was a hoard of eleven-year-olds expecting to win against the likes of Fred and George Weasley?
Cedric appeared at his shoulder, his yellow and black striped scarf wound tightly around his neck. "Ready?"
Harry nodded and stood, offering his hand for Grace to help her out of her set. She smacked his hand away and stalked off with her nose in the air, pausing at the entrance of the Great Hall, where she tapped her foot in irritation. Harry and Cedric shared a grin before setting off after their friend.
"Any hints about what you have planned?" Harry asked.
Cedric gave him a cheeky grin. "Let's just say: I hope you and Grace aren't too clumsy."
That was decidedly unhelpful, but Harry didn't push it further. He scanned the Great Hall for a moment, taking a mental note of where his brother was. As expected, John was surrounded by his dorm mates, and surprisingly, a bushy-haired girl. He managed to catch his brother's eye and gave him a stiff nod, which went unreturned.
"Is John still mad at you for winning the Quidditch game?"
Harry rolled his eyes. He wished a jealous John was the most he had to deal with. "He's being a brat." He didn't elaborate further, and thankfully Cedric didn't press him. Instead, he focused his attention on another First Year. "Nott," he greeted with a slight incline of his voice.
Like every other time Harry had greeted Nott, the boy jumped in surprise and slopped his tea down the front of his robes. A distant part of Harry's consciousness wondered what had to be so interesting about Nott's tea that he was always catching the boy off guard.
Harry grimaced in apology and siphoned the mess away before continuing. "We're going out. Would you care to join us?"
Nott looked at Harry as if he had grown a second head. "Malfoy won't like it," he murmured, eyes flicking to the boy in question. Malfoy was busy holding court, as he was wont to do, and hadn't taken notice of their conversation.
Harry hummed, his head tilting as he considered Nott. "You need his permission?" Harry asked mildly, his lips pursed. "Pity."
He continued without another word, leaving a confused Cedric to scramble after him. They exited the Great Hall together and found Grace waiting for them, her foot tapping against the stone floors with impatience.
"So," Cedric began, bounding forward and wrapping an arm around Grace's shoulders. He dragged her out massive oak front doors and onto the grounds. "What great adventure do you have planned for this holiday?"
"Adventure?" Grace repeated, trying and failing to extract herself from Cedric's grasp.
Harry grinned at the disgruntled expression on Grace's face and wrapped his arm around her shoulder, too, effectively sandwiching her between them. "Last Christmas, it was India, and you went to Vietnam over the summer."
"And last year, you spent the whole summer in America," Cedric said. "You're the globe trotter of the group, and we live vicariously through your travels. So we want to know: where are you going this holiday?"
"Scotland," she replied coolly. "There's this massive castle I was going to explore. I might even sleep in its dungeons. Who knows, though?"
Harry almost stopped in surprise. "You're staying at Hogwarts for Christmas?"
Grace gave an affirmative hum. "Mum's being sent to a war zone," she explained, her voice simultaneously hard and brittle. "She's hoping she'll get time off this summer, but there are no guarantees."
When Cedric leaned down to kiss the top of her head, she let out a shaky laugh. "She's doing important things," she explained, answering a question nobody had asked."I'm proud of her." She said it in a way that sounded like she was trying to convince herself, more than them.
"You shouldn't spend Christmas alone," Cedric murmured.
Grace shrugged, though the movement was too jerky to be considered nonchalant.
"You can come home with me," Harry offered. "I'll write to my father tonight, but I'm positive he'll agree."
Grace's scowl didn't quite disguise the glimmer of hope in her eyes. "I'll be fine."
"You'll be doing me a favour," Harry insisted. "John's not coming home."
"He's not?" Cedric exclaimed, his eyebrows disappearing behind his fringe. "Why not?"
Harry couldn't keep the scowl off his face. "Apparently," he began, his voice taking on a bitter drawl, "Ron Weasley is staying for the holiday because his parents are going to Romania. My brother decided that he would stay at Hogwarts in solidarity."
Cedric didn't quite know what to make of this. "That's rather—"
"Selfish of him?" Harry finished.
"I was going to say loyal," Cedric said slowly. "But yours works too, I guess."
Harry rolled his eyes and scoffed. "Yeah, really loyal of him. I told him that he was hurting Dad's feelings by staying for Christmas—it's his first year without one of us with him—and you know what John said to me?"
"That's you're overreacting?" Grace guessed in an airy, disinterested tone.
"To 'stop telling him what to do,'" Harry corrected. "As if I had that ability. I wish I did. He wouldn't have been on the Quidditch team, to start with."
"Is that what this is about?" Grace asked. "Good Lord, I thought it was something important."
Harry glowered at his friend but didn't respond. Grace rolled her eyes.
"Listen," she drawled, finally succeeding in wiggling out of their grasp. "Just because you're angry that John's First Year isn't as miserable as yours was, doesn't mean you have to be a little bitch. Get over yourself. Some of us have real problems to deal with."
"Gracie, just because you're suffering right now doesn't negate what Harry is feeling," Cedric chastised in a gentle voice. "His feelings are just as valid as yours."
Grace huffed and rolled her eyes. "Whatever," she snapped before stomping ahead of them. Harry resisted the urge to throw a snowball at her.
"Let me guess," Harry growled when she was out of earshot. "You think I'm melodramatic too?"
Cedric gave him an unimpressed look at his tone. "Not at all. I'd be furious if I were in your shoes."
Harry huffed but didn't respond. They continued to walk for a few moments in silence, and Harry waited for Cedric to resume with his Hufflepuff peacekeeping tendencies.
Sure enough, he continued. "But if I may offer an alternative point of view?"
"That John's getting special treatment because he's the Boy Who Lived?"
"No, there's no doubt about that," Cedric said in a pacifying tone. "But I do think you're directing your anger towards the wrong person."
"Come off it," Harry groaned. "When I was mute last year, McGonagall punished me to hell and back for something I couldn't control.
"In her defence," Cedric interjected, "I do think it was a misguided effort to help you."
Harry continued as if he hadn't spoken. "John explicitly breaks the rules, and he gets rewarded for them. He goes after a mountain troll instead of going to his common room? Five points to Gryffindor. He flies against Madam Hooch's direct order to stay on the ground? He's made Gryffindor's bloody Seeker."
Cedric nodded. "It is unfair," he said. "If you had pulled that stunt, I think Professor Snape would have turned you into potion ingredients. But Harry, what are you hoping to gain from this?"
"All he has to do is tell McGonagall that he shouldn't play on the Quidditch team—"
Cedric laughed out loud at that. "He's eleven, Harry. No sane, Quidditch-obsessed First Year is going to pass up the opportunity to play his favourite sport. Especially not with his older brother, who he greatly admires."
Harry felt a flush creeping up his neck, either from annoyance or embarrassment, he couldn't decide. While it flattered him to hear that his brother looked up to him, he was far too angry with John to particularly care.
"He can't control how people treat him," Cedric reminded him. "And he probably feels like this is something he earned for being a good flier, rather than it being handed to him because of who he is. I guarantee you that John doesn't see it as blatant favouritism like the rest of us do. Don't ruin your relationship with your brother over something he can't control. Getting mad at John is just like Grace being angry that her mother can't come home for Christmas."
"That isn't the same thing," Harry said. "Besides, she isn't angry—"
"Yes, she is," Cedric corrected him firmly. "She's furious. And she's furious with herself because she's angry. After all, she knows that none of this is her mum's fault." He linked his arm with Harry and began to pull him along at a steady pace. "I think it's easier to be angry with our family when something like this happens," he said after a thoughtful silence. "Because they're an easier target. Grace isn't mad at her mum. She is mad that her mum is being sent to work in a war zone. And you aren't mad at John. You're angry with Professor McGonagall because of her favouritism."
Harry wanted nothing more than to snap back at his friend, but he held his tongue and considered his words. Cedric had a very good point that John had earned his spot on the Gryffindor team—he was an excellent flier, after all. Too, John was always uncomfortable with the attention people paid him, especially for his role in defeating Voldemort. If John had truly believed McGonagall was offering him the spot for that reason, he would have been humiliated and refused. Clearly, John had thought he had fairly earned it, even if it probably wouldn't have been offered to him had he not been the Boy Who Lived.
The longer he remained silent, the less angry he felt. Slowly, he felt the fight drain out of him, and he gave Cedric a sullen nod. His friend responded with a dazzling, self-satisfied smile. They continued their walk around the lake, finally encountering Grace, who was sitting on a fallen tree. She stood as they approached, her eyes red-rimmed and doleful.
"Can I come home with you for Christmas, Harry?" She asked in a quiet voice. "I don't want to be alone."
Harry held out his arms and pulled her into a hug. Grace buried her face in his cloak, and they all pretended she was shaking because of the cold.
"We can write the letter tonight," Harry murmured, pressing a kiss into the crown of her curly hair.
Cedric clapped his hands in excitement. "Excellent. Now that we all like each other again, I hope one of you knows how to ice skate. I've never tried, but I found an excellent pond nearby that I think would be fun to try to learn on!"
Harry and Grace shared an exasperated look, and Harry silently accepted that he would have to be healing at least one broken wrist. So much for a day off.
Genius Fratris
As he suspected, his father had no issues with Grace joining them for the Christmas holidays. He made no mention of Grace's request nor John's absence but offered them his arms and apparated them promptly to Potter Manor.
"You've brought a girl home," Acorn noted in her squeaky voice. Her voice was somehow both amused and stern, and the observation caused a blush to grace the tips of Mr Potter's ears. "Acorn has been waiting for this day for many years, Master Potter."
Mr Potter stammered for a moment before taking his leave without another word. Acorn let him go, a look of exasperated fondness overtaking her face.
Grace didn't seem to know if she should be embarrassed by what had transpired but settled for looking confused. "I'm Grace," she stated, stepping forward and thrusting out her hand for the house-elf to shake.
Acorn nodded gravely but didn't take Grace's offered hand. She snapped her fingers, and their trunks disappeared. "Acorn has cared for Master Potter since he was a babe," she intoned. "And cared for his young. Only boys. Never a girl."
Grace shared a look with Harry, who was just as confused by this conversation as she was. "Well, I doubt that we're all that different."
Acorn gave Grace a critical look. "Will Miss Grace allow Acorn to braid her hair?"
Grace touched the wild mass of curls on her head. "If you'd like?"
Acorn nodded gravely and reached to take Grace by the hand. "And Acorn has many dresses she'd like to make for Miss Grace," she explained, leading a baffled Grace away from Harry. "Masters Harry and John no longer allow Acorn to make them dresses. They complain too much, even though Acorn thinks they look very pretty in ruffles."
After such a mortifying revelation, Harry had no problems letting the family house-elf steal his friend. He sought solace in the parlour, where he encountered a wan Uncle Remus playing wizard chess with a smug Uncle Sirius. Uncle Remus was too intent on his next move and to take notice of Harry's arrival, but Uncle Sirius grinned and lazily waved him over.
"I'm winning," he explained, pulling Harry down next to him on the settee. Harry studied the board, taking note of each piece's position.
"Checkmate in three moves," Harry declared.
Uncle Sirius whooped in delight and ruffled his hair. "Go on then," he said. "Show us how it's done."
Harry exchanged a look with Uncle Remus, who cheerfully yielded to him. Harry took Uncle Remus' position and proceeded to trounce his godfather.
"I believe that will be a galleon, Padfoot," Uncle Remus said with a wolfish grin.
"If you beat me," Uncle Sirius argued, looking at Harry in utter betrayal. "Not letting Harry do your dirty work. My godson, used against me."
They ignored Uncle Sirius' whinging, and Harry spent the afternoon catching up with his uncles. Uncle Remus, who had tutored both himself and John before they attended Hogwarts, had taken up employment as a tutor for a magical family near his home in Wales. Uncle Sirius, on the other hand, was still working as a freelance Curse-Breaker.
"I still think you should take that fellowship in Egypt," Mr Potter interjected as he wandered into the room.
Harry turned his head so fast he felt his neck crack. "You were offered a fellowship? Was it with Gringotts? Why haven't you taken it?"
Uncle Sirius pursed his lips and tried not to scowl. "It's in Egypt, for one."
Harry exchanged glances with his exasperated father and Uncle Remus. This, apparently, was a conversation they had discussed several times. "What's wrong with Egypt?"
"Nothing," Uncle Sirius admitted. "It's just far away."
"So is China, but you've visited there before," Harry pointed out.
"I visited," he emphasised. "The fellowship programme is for two years."
Harry was still failing to see the problem with this. "That's brilliant, though! Think of all the things you could study!"
"Are you sure you aren't a Ravenclaw?" Uncle Sirius asked.
"You're changing the subject," Uncle Remus pointed out.
"Indeed I am," Uncle Sirius agreed. "Now, where is Grace? I haven't seen her since September. Has she grown any?"
He was referring to the fact that, at the start of her Second Year, Grace had been noticeably shorter than not just her peers, but several of the new First Years as well. It was a sore subject for her, especially after Cedric hit a growth spurt in October and towered over her.
Harry shook his head. "Don't bring it up. And Acorn stole her," Harry replied.
"I'll get her," Uncle Sirius volunteered. He promptly changed into a dog and sped out of the room.
"A galleon says she throws something at him," Uncle Remus said as he rose to his feet, his knees popping.
Harry tilted his head as he considered Grace's reaction. "No, I think she'll be too excited."
Sure enough, after the high-pitched scream that echoed throughout Potter Manor, Grace appeared wide-eyed at the dinner table, her cheeks flushed with breathless delight.
"Your uncle can turn into a dog," Grace said, throwing herself down onto the bench next to him at dinner. Acorn had evidently had a grand time decorating Grace, whose strawberry blonde curls seemed to glow in the firelight and contrasted very prettily with the sapphire velvet dress she was wearing. "Is this normal?"
"For him to turn into a dog or for people in general?" Harry asked in a mild tone, reaching forward to help himself to the broccoli. He hoped that encouraging her questions would distract her from the revelation that Acorn used to treat him as an oversized doll.
Grace tilted her head to the side as she considered his question. "Both."
"Most wizards don't turn into dogs, no. Uncle Sirius is an Animagus. He can turn himself into a dog at will."
"That sounds incredible."
"It's a tricky bit of magic. Most people don't bother."
"Well, I will," she declared, her chin jutting out with defiance. "I think it would be brilliant to turn into a cat."
"You don't get to choose your form," Harry said. "Uncle Sirius is a dog, which is mundane enough, but Dad is a stag. The antlers are a bit intrusive, so he rarely uses it."
Grace was watching him with wide eyes. "Magic is so cool."
Harry felt his heart swell at the sight of her astonished look. There was something so genuine, so innocent, about her reaction that made Harry want to wrap her in a hug and hand her the entire world on a silver platter. "We can talk to my father if you'd like," he found himself saying. "He might be able to point you in the right direction."
She beamed and resumed speculating what animal she would turn into, pausing only to breathe. When it became evident that she was too excited to eat, Harry took her plate and began to fill it up for her. Harry had to roll his eyes at Grace's behaviour: the irony that he had two chatterboxes for friends was not lost on him.
"Harry and I are going to become Animagi," Grace proclaimed when Mr Potter joined them at the dinner table.
Harry looked up at this proclamation, his brow furrowing as he mentally replayed their previous conversation. "Who said anything about me becoming one?"
"I did. Just now," she said before returning her attention to Mr Potter, who watched them with mild amusement.
"Why would I want to undertake a dangerous transformation with limited practical usages?" Harry asked, a teasing lit to his voice.
Grace looked no less discouraged. "It will look impressive for your Transfiguration exam if nothing else."
Harry nodded sarcastically. "When you put it like that," he said. "I can't think of any reasons not to."
Grace chose to ignore the sarcasm and nodded. "Precisely my thinking. So how do we become one?"
Mr Potter filled his goblet with wine, his lips twitching in amusement. "Well, first, you'll need to have a registered Animagus to supervise you."
"That would be you and Uncle Sirius," Grace said in a way that left no room for disagreement. "I assume we'll have to do some reading?"
Mr Potter's lips quirked in amusement, which he tried to hide behind his goblet of wine. "Just a little."
But Mr Potter's definition of 'a little' seemed to be vastly different from Harry's or Grace's. As in, seventeen thick tomes ranging from Transfiguration to Potions to Herbology. Grace looked particularly put out by the amount of Herbology and Potions texts she would have to read—it was no secret that those were Grace's worst subjects. When the dejected look shuttered over her face, Harry pressed a soft kiss to her temple and pulled the nearest book off the stack.
"Well," he murmured, flipping to the first page of So You Want to be an Animagus? and settling into a chair by the fire. "These books won't read themselves."
"There's no way I can do this," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. She hadn't moved from the book laden table, nor had she even touched one of the many books she had demanded.
Harry pursed his lips and considered his words for a moment before setting the book down on his lap. "Grace, in the two years I have known you, I have discovered there are very few things you cannot do when you put your mind to it."
"I'm dyslexic." When it became evident that Harry had no clue what that meant, she brought her knees up to her chest and continued in a soft voice. "When I read, words… they look wrong."
Harry considered this for a moment, still not able to comprehend what she was describing. "Do you need glasses?"
Grace shook her head, an annoyed huff slipping through her lips. Harry wasn't sure if it was with him or herself. "My vision is fine. It's my brain that's broken. When I try to read, letters get flipped around or rearranged on the page, and it takes me ten times longer to read something than everyone else."
Her description did little to clarify her issue, but Harry found himself nodding anyway. Regardless if he could sympathise with her struggles, he could hear the anger and frustration in her voice that he could certainly empathise with. Sure, he had no issue reading (Merlin knows he could, considering he did little else with his spare time), but her admission brought back memories of hiding behind a suit of armour and the numbness in his fingers as he listened to his dorm mates gossip. He remembered the feelings of shame, inadequacy, and like he was some sort of freak because of something he couldn't control. He wondered if that was how Grace felt, too, looking at a stack of books filled with knowledge she desperately wanted but didn't know how to access.
He placed So You Want to be an Animagus? on the table next to his chair and rose, crossing the library to take a seat next to his friend.
"I couldn't speak for a very long time," he reminded her. "And when I came to Hogwarts, a lot of people said I would never amount to anything because of it. They said that, because my voice didn't work, I was half the wizard that they were—or perhaps I wasn't even a wizard at all."
"But that doesn't make any sense," she exclaimed, her brow furrowed in confusion. "You do magic all of the time."
"Now I do," Harry conceded. "But when I was a First Year? I couldn't speak, never mind being able to cast spells."
"But you never use incantations," Grace argued, looking frustrated.
Harry had to laugh. "No, but that's not the norm. Most qualified adults struggle with non-verbal spell casting."
Grace flopped back into her chair with a fierce scowl. "Yeah, I get it: Harry Potter is a genius. Alert the Daily Prophet because we've got another Merlin on our hands."
Harry rolled his eyes but resisted the urge to rise to her baiting. "I think there is greatness inside of you," he murmured. "You wouldn't be in Slytherin otherwise. But I think that the greatest limitations you face are the ones you place on yourself."
He raised a hand when she began to protest. "There are many ways to learn if we are desperate enough, just like there is more than one way to cast spells. My question for you is, how badly do you want it?"
Grace let out a puff of air, and her muscles relaxed as the fight drained out of her. "So what you're saying is I need to stop complaining and making excuses."
"Not at all," Harry replied. "I think that you need the reminder that the only person who can decide what you are capable of is yourself. Few people in this world will believe in you, Gracie: don't sabotage yourself by not being one of them."
Grace was silent for a long time, so long that Harry was afraid that he had offended her, and she was giving him the silent treatment. His heart leapt to his throat when she rose from her seat, and he was positive he had said the wrong thing. But then she was returning, and So You Want to be an Animagus? was in her hands. She held it out to him—a peace offering.
"Will you read it to me?" she asked.
Harry accepted it with a nod and flipped to the first page, pausing long enough for Grace to snuggle under his arm, her head on his shoulder. "'So you have foolishly decided to undertake the dangerous endeavour of turning yourself into an animal,'" he began. "'That means you are either a madman or incredibly bored. Either way, I salute you. Within these pages, you will find...'''
Mr Potter pushed away from the library doors, a self-satisfied grin on his face. He had no illusions that he was the perfect father. He was paranoid and overprotective, and often he was too lenient with discipline (especially Harry, who would look up with those bright green eyes—Lily's eyes—and he'd cave faster than a paper cauldron). But if there was one thing he'd managed to instil in his boys was a certain disregard for the rules. Sure, that sometimes seemed to bite him in the ass, especially with the dangerous situations John had managed to land himself in. But it also meant they had the confidence to forge their own paths in life, even if their way looked radically different from the norm. And for a shy, introverted child like Harry, that felt like a win.
He silently backed away from the library, not wanting to let the teens know that he had witnessed such a vulnerable moment (Slytherins were touchy like that, from what he understood). He found himself wandering back to the parlour, where his brothers in all but blood were engaged in yet another chess match. By the looks of it, Sirius was losing once again.
"Are the kids appropriately terrified, then, Prongs?" Sirius asked before swearing colourfully as Remus stole his queen.
James shook his head, his heart squeezing with pride for the man his son was becoming. "I think they'll be just fine."
"All conflict can be traced back to someone's feelings getting hurt, don't you think?" ― Liane Moriarty
A/N: Hey there! Thank you for reading! Drop me a review and let me know what you think? Unless you're going to leave me a snotty comment and tell me that what I'm writing is wrong and demand that I add/change things in my story. Those comments will be removed and you will be blocked. This is a fun hobby for me, and I'm not interested in people ruining it for me. Cheers! CheckAlexa