Hazel awoke to an odd trumpeting sound. It took her a moment to realize it was, in fact, someone blowing their nose. With a blink of her bleary eyes, she rolled over in her bed to face the source of the noise.

It was Hagrid, red-eyed with tears leaking down his rough face into his wild beard. Hermione was patting his back, while Daphne tittered excitedly.

"She's awake, Hagrid!" Daphne said. "Oh, Hazel, we've been so worried about you."

Hazel blinked her eyes—why was Daphne here? The two girls were on friendly enough terms—she liked Daphne the best of her roommates—but they could not be considered friends. Malfoy had ensured that. When Daphne had once taken up for her, he had hit her with a Leg-Locker Curse, causing her to fall down, to her classmates' amusement. The most Daphne had dared do since then was share sympathetic looks with her from across the room. Hazel didn't blame her for not wanting to be her friend—she knew just how difficult being bullied made life and didn't wish it on anyone else.

Guilt churned in Hazel's stomach at the sight of Hagrid. The giant man had been her first friend; she believed that Hagrid truly cared about her and would not be bothered by the fact she was a Slytherin—his presence by her bedside proved that. In her desperation to find friends her own age, she had forgotten all about Hagrid. She hadn't even bothered to visit him all term, even though he had told her she was welcome to any time.

"One of yeh should go get Professor Snape," Hagrid said. "He don't say much, but he's been worried 'bout her."

Daphne nodded. "I'll do it."

Hazel pushed herself upright, surprised to find herself feeling weak. She allowed herself to collapse back down into the bed, snuggling into the soft mattress, worming her way deeper into the blankets.

Hagrid blew into his table-cloth sized handkerchief.

"I'm alright, Hagrid!" Hazel said. "I really am."

He looked at her, doubt etched on his features. Then his black eyes crinkled into a smile. "I know yeh are, or yeh will be. Yer made of stronger stuff than that—yeh had to be, living with those M—"

"—nasty people!" Hazel said, looking around a bit wildly. She hadn't told anyone, not even Hermione, that she had been raised by Muggles. It wasn't that she was ashamed, precisely, or that she thought all Muggles were bad—she simply knew it was not a welcome thing within Slytherin House. Half-bloods were tolerated, provided they weren't too Muggle-ish, but Muggle-borns were either ignored or despised. While she wasn't a Muggle-born, she might as well be one, despite her fame—she had known nothing about the wizarding world, and that sort of disconnection from wizarding heritage was deeply frowned upon in Slytherin House. She trusted Hermione, but she knew that the more people who knew a secret, the harder I was to keep.

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Nasty people? I thought you lived with relatives," she said.

"Er, yeah," Hazel said. "They just don't like me much. Think I'm a waste of space, actually."

"That's horrible."

"Yeah, it is," Hazel said. She didn't much like dwelling on it. The Dursleys were her last remaining relatives. As much as they disliked each other, they were all she had. She wasn't deluded enough to think that meant anything to them; all it really meant to her was that she would be forced to endure their most pleasurable company until she was of age. "I just have all the luck," she said.

"That isn't funny, Hazel! You could have died."

"That serious? I feel fine now. Just a bit weak."

"You've been out two days. I thought you were dead, when Professor Snape found you. I think he thought you were dead too. It was horrible. Do you remember what happened?"

Hagrid cleared his throat. "Professor Snape said not to be asking her questions till he got here. We ought to listen to him, Hermione—he knows what he's doin'."

"I suppose," Hermione said. "But I do wonder how he hurt his leg. It was bleeding rather badly when we found him and Madam Pomfrey forced him into an examination. I've never seen him so angry, not even after Neville melted his fifth cauldron."

Hagrid looked away guiltily.

"Hagrid, do you know something about it?" Hazel said.

"Listen—it isn't none of yer business how Professor Snape got bit—"

"Bit?" Hermione said.

"Does this have anything to do with that package from Gringotts?" Hazel asked. "I've been thinking—it could have been that vault that was broken into!"

Hagrid looked away. That was answer enough for Hazel. "It does, doesn't it?" she said. "Me and Hermione have talked about it a lot, but it could be anything! We've done so much research on magical objects, but it could be almost any of the ones we've read about. Come one, Hagrid, you can tell us—we won't tell anyone."

"I'm tellin' yeh, yer meddlin' with things that don' concern yeh! Yeh just need to focus on getting' better, Hazel. Yeh forget about Snape gettin' bit by Fluffy an' yeh forget what it's guardin', that's between Professor Dumbledore an' Nicolas Flamel—"

"So there's someone called Nicolas Flamel involved, is there?" Hazel said.

Hagrid looked furious with himself. But just as Hazel was about to press him more, Professor Snape stormed into the room, Daphne close behind him.

It struck Hazel just how much Professor Snape commanded whatever room he was in; everyone had their eyes on him. If the scrutiny bothered him, he showed no signs of it. A stormy expression was fixed upon his face as he limped across the room, one that did not relax when he laid eyes upon Hazel. She had to suppress a shudder. This was the Professor Snape all the Gryffindors feared, the one whose ire she had never drawn. She hoped that the professor's anger was not directed towards her.

"Miss Potter," he said, his voice very cold.

"Professor," she said meekly.

"What do you remember of your attack?"

"My attack, sir?"

"As I recall, you had a chest wound, not a head wound, Miss Potter. Cease your prevaricating and answer me."

"Yes, sir," she said. "I, er, it was Seamus. He cornered me after Transfiguration. I don't know how he did it, but he cursed me, sir, without saying anything. He just waved his wand and out came the curse." She didn't want to tell him about Ron—telling on him was a sure way to ensure he never wanted to be her friend again. And Dean, he had tried to talk Seamus out of it. Really, all the blame rested on Seamus. If he had not been so determined to seek her out and bully her, then none of this would have happened.

"Indeed."

"What happened?"

"A burst of uncontrolled magic. Foolish wand waving often begets disastrous results. Now tell me, Miss Potter, was anyone else with him?"

She looked away from her professor's cold black eyes. He knew, somehow. Knew that Seamus wasn't alone. She didn't want to turn Ron in. It would be so easy to, so easy to get back at the boy for the months he had stood by and allowed his friend to bully her. But when she opened her mouth, no accusatory words came out. She remembered the boy on the train, embarrassed by the dirt on his nose and his mother's corned-beef sandwich. She remembered how he had been just as desperate as her to be accepted.

"No one," she said, bringing her gaze back up to Professor Snape's eyes. As long as Seamus didn't turn his own friends in, she was safe. Ron was safe.

Professor Snape raised an eyebrow, but if he suspected her of lying, he said nothing.

In the blink of an eye, he was swooping out of the room, black robes billowing behind him.

*HP*

"I want those boys expelled," Severus said.

Dumbledore smiled and offered him a lemon drop.

He scowled at him. "Now's not the time," he said coldly. "Those boys nearly killed the girl."

"That they did," Dumbledore said with a sigh. "But I cannot expel them. Particularly as Miss Potter said Mister Finnegan was her sole attacker."

"I saw it in her mind," he said. "She's protecting that Weasley boy, the worthless coward."

"Now, Severus," Dumbledore said. "Not all Gryffindors find their bravery quite so early on. I'm sure Mister Weasley is a fine boy, as all his brothers are. He has just yet to discover it."

Severus cursed and clenched his hands into fists. Here Dumbledore was, all these years later, protecting another gang of Gryffindor bullies. It was always, always at the expense of him and his Slytherins. He didn't know what it would take for the old man to see the error of his ways—probably someone dying.

"When will you learn that not all of your precious Gryffindors are saints? Wasn't Black proof enough of that? You didn't expel him either, not even when he tried to kill me, and look what he turned out to be! And now you won't expel the boys who nearly killed the Girl Who Lived!"

Dumbledore peered at him over his half-moon glasses. "Is this about you or Miss Potter, Severus?"

"The girl," he spat. "I'm her Head of House—it is my duty to protect her from miscreants like Finnegan!"

"And that you are, my boy. While I understand your zeal, I simply cannot condone expelling a first year for an uncontrolled burst of magic."

"He pointed her wand at her with the intent to hurt her," Severus said through clenched teeth. "He had intent, and his wand provided the means. Surely that is enough grounds for punishment."

"Grounds for punishment, yes," Dumbledore said. "Grounds for expulsion, no."

"They left her there to die," Severus said.

"They are eleven-year-old boys. I sincerely doubt they intended for her to die."

"That doesn't change what almost happened."

"It doesn't. But we must remember the young lack the hard-won judgment of their elders."

Severus scowled. It didn't take much judgment to know better than to leave a bleeding girl on the floor. Even he, for all his dismal choices, would have know better than that at their age. He had known all too well what it meant to be the victim of injury, even at that tender age. Though he had hated Potter the elder, he had not wished him dead-not at eleven, anyways.

"Since you clearly aren't going to expel them, what are you going to do? Offer them a lemon drop and send them on their merry way?" Severus snapped. He knew there was no changing the old man's mind once it was made up, and this was just yet another incident in a pattern of favoritism. He had suffered from it, and now Miss Potter would as well.

Dumbledore, as always, seemed to know what he was thinking. "Severus, I would do the same if Mister Malfoy had been her attacker. First years are a danger to themselves and those around them because they are not yet socialized into our world, lack judgment, and struggle to control their magic. We would be doing everyone a disservice by expelling such young children, even for an incident such as this."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Two weeks confinement to his dormitory should suffice, I believe."

Two weeks. That was what the fool got for nearly killing Lily's daughter; the other boys who had let it happen would not be punished at all. He was fuming but said nothing—his words would be nothing but impotent ravings. There was nothing he could do but keep an eye on the girl and keep Finnegan away from her.

As he turned to leave, Dumbledore said, "And keep an eye on Quirrell, won't you?"

*HP*

"I can't believe you lied to Professor Snape," Hermione said. "He was only trying to help you!"

Hazel shushed her. "Be quiet, or Pince will hear us and I'll be in a world of trouble."

"You shouldn't have lied for Ron," Daphne added in a whisper. "If he ever was your friend, he's a bad one."

"I know," Hazel said. "I just can't help thinking about how things were on the train."

She had thought Ron would always be her friend, that their bonding over a few chocolate frogs would bring her true friendship. But more and more she was accepting reality—they would never be friends, really, unless he was brave enough to buck House rivalries and his other friends. Hazel may never have had friends before, but she knew a real friend would never have stood by while she was attacked, let alone leave her there to die afterwards. If Ron apologized and changed she would accept him, but she couldn't be his friend right now—it was simply impossible to trust him in the wake of her attack.

But she knew her attack could have been much worse. While she had almost died, she had only spent three days in the hospital wing.

Hazel had been released from the hospital wing two days earlier, to the delight of the Slytherin Quidditch Team. She was cleared to play that Saturday, though Madam Pomfrey had fussed about the dangers of Quidditch.

Hermione too had been delighted to have her friend back. They were spending more time in the library than ever, and now Daphne had joined them too.

Now that Daphne had told Snape about Malfoy's bullying, she was no longer too afraid to befriend Hazel. When asked about her sudden change of heart, she had only shrugged and said, "I never should have been so afraid. I wrote my father about you. He told me not to be such a coward." Hazel thought that was a rather Gryffindorish thing to say to a Slytherin.

With more information on the mysterious package, they had renewed their search to discover what it was. Daphne was a great help; though not as academically inclined as Hermione or Hazel, a third set of eyes was naturally useful. They had stopped searching books on magical artefacts, and instead focused on discovering just who the illusive Nicolas Flamel was.

"Why are we doing this again?" Daphne asked, shelving Great Magical Men of the Nineteenth Century.

"I don't know, really," Hazel said. "It seems important—there was that break in, and if Professor Snape went into that corridor and got hurt, it must be something cool. And just imagining what it could be is fun!"

"If you say so," Daphne said.

As Hermione opened her mouth to respond, another voice sounded behind them. "Miss Potter."

Hazel turned to face Professor Snape, her heart pounding—had he found out she lied to him? Had Seamus told him that Ron and Dean were there with him when it had happened? The professor had never been openly spiteful towards her; in fact, he was rather reserved compared to how he treated other students, as if he was reserving judgment on her. She hoped she had not destroyed that for the small chance of Ron deciding to be her friend again.

His black eyes were boring into hers. She looked away—she didn't like how it felt, looking into Snape's eyes. It was as if he could look into her very soul and see all her secrets.

"I wanted to inform you that Mister Finnegan has received two weeks' suspension for his infractions, and Mister Malfoy a week's detention with myself. They shall not be bothering you again."

Hazel started to thank him, but he limped off towards the Restricted Section before she could say a word.

Daphne snorted behind her. "They shall not be bothering you again," she said, imitating Professor Snape's deep, nasally tone.

"Daphne!" Hazel said, suppressing a giggle. "He might hear you!"

"I don't care," she said. "They won't be bothering you again—what a stupid thing to say. If detention will stop Malfoy from being, well, Malfoy, then I'm a Knarl."

"Well," Hermione said. "At least they'll know they won't always get away with it."

"I suppose," Daphne said.

A few moments later, Professor Snape stormed out of the Restricted Section, ancient tome in hand. Hazel nearly devolved into giggles, Daphne's imitation still fresh in her mind. Even Hermione was smiling, and she usually advocated for showing every professor complete respect. Hazel felt a little guilty, laughing at the man who had helped save her life, but couldn't help herself.

Daphne's smile fell from her face. "Have you ever noticed how his accent sounds forced? He just sounds…funny. It's so fun to imitate."

Hazel furrowed her brows. She had never thought about Professor Snape's accent before, but now that Daphne mentioned it, he did sound odd, nasally voice aside. He didn't sound like anyone from anywhere she knew—he sounded more like an old telly actor who had been taught to sound proper for a role.

"I never thought about it before," Hazel said. "But it is weird."

"Snape's a weird bloke," Daphne said. "My father told me not to trust him."

Hazel wasn't sure that was entirely fair—Snape had been nothing but…she didn't know. The man wasn't exactly kind to her, but he had put her on the Quidditch team instead of punishing her. But he was downright horrible to everyone else, except for a select few Slytherins—he could be as much of a bully as Finnegan and Malfoy.

Before Hazel could formulate a response to reflect her mixed feelings on Professor Snape, Hermione slid a book across the table to her. "I've been meaning to give you this."

Hazel looked down at the title—Quidditch Through the Ages.

"Thanks, Hermione! I bet I'll learn loads from this. I can only remember so much of what Marcus tells me. There are seven hundred ways to commit a foul, after all," she said with a grin.

"I'll be cheering for you," Hermione said. "I don't know anyone on Gryffindor's team and am feeling short on House pride after what Seamus did to you."

"I'll loan you my scarf," Daphne said, rubbing her hands together. "I can see the look on Weasley's face now."

*HP*

Quidditch season had begun. The weather was gray and cold and rainy—good flying weather was gone. Marcus said that the real test of a Quidditch team was flying in foul weather. Hazel agreed; it was much harder for her to perform Sloth Grip Rolls when the wind made it difficult to fly in a straight line. Gryffindor was supposed to be their easiest match, but the weather could very well make all the difference if one team was unprepared for it.

The morning of her first Quidditch match, Hazel was terribly nervous. What if she let everyone down? Marcus, Adrian, Terrence, and everyone else had such faith in her. Even Professor Snape must have had faith in her abilities, to place her on the team in the first place.

The whole team was trying to cheer her up, each of them telling her about their first Quidditch matches. It didn't make Hazel feel any better—Marcus had been hit by a Bludger and knocked out for three days. They did this while loading her plate with sausages and eggs, telling her to eat, that playing on an empty stomach was a bad thing to do. Hazel thought that this must be what having older brothers felt like.

By eleven o'clock, the team had made their way down to the pitch. Hazel changed into her green Quidditch robes in the locker room. When she stepped outside, Marcus was clearing his throat, preparing to give his speech.

"This is the big debut of our newest member," he said. "We have to prove she's more than a pretty, famous face. We have to win this one. We have to show the school that we're the best. We've worked the hardest, we've got the best players. We'll win this one, and the rest. Good luck. It's time."

Hazel followed the Marcus onto the field, willing herself not to shake. She could do this. She had practiced for months for this very moment—she would find the Snitch, and Slytherin would win. If she followed Marcus's directions, everything would be fine, and they would win, as expected.

She looked around the stands and spotted a familiar head of bushy hair next to the massive Hagrid, who was wearing a blanket-sized green scarf. Hermione waved. Daphne stood on her other side, beaming. Hazel resisted the temptation of waving back.

Madam Hooch stood in the middle of the pitch, holding her broom, whistle around her throat. "I want a nice fair game from all of you," she said.

The Gryffindor captain, a tall, broad boy by the name of Wood, nodded. Marcus sneered at him—Hazel smirked. The Slytherin team was a lot of things, but fair wasn't one of them. They would do anything to win, underhanded or not. Some might say that indicated a lack of skill, but as Hazel had learned, it merely meant being skillful in another way.

"Mount your brooms, please," she said, placing the whistle in her mouth. She puffed out her cheeks and blew. The whistle sounded loudly.

Hazel kicked off into the air on her Cleansweep Five. It wasn't the fastest broom, or the newest, or the one with the best handling, but it was hers. She had faith it could see her to victory, even though the Gryffindor Seeker, Kenneth Towler, was flying a Nimbus Two Thousand, the newest and best broom. Hazel had read that brooms often made all the difference for Seekers, but Marcus had told her to have faith in her abilities and their tactics.

"And Marcus Flint takes the Quaffle, right off," the commentator said. Hazel glanced at him—it was the black boy often seen in the company of the Weasley twins, Lee Jordan.

"He passes it to Pucey—his first year on the team, lots of new blood this year—and Pucey really moves down the pitch. Flint flying like an eagle beside him—oof, Pucey gets hit in the shoulder with a Bludger and drops the Quaffle—Katie Bell catches it and heads down the pitch—passes it to Angelina Johnson—oh no, Flint intercepts it—he heads towards goal—dodges a bludger—and no, no its past Wood—Slytherin scores!"

Hazel grinned, pulling her eyes from the scene. She wanted to find the Snitch before Towler, and find it fast. She loved Quidditch and would fly all day if she could but wanted to prove herself by ending the match as soon as possible; Flint had told her to do so, so long as Slytherin was not more than 150 points behind. But the way the match was going, it was unlikely that was going to happen.

She circled the pitch, Towler trailing along behind her. Flint had told her he would probably do that—it was a favorite tactic of his. He relied upon the other Seeker to find the Snitch, then used his superior broomstick to overtake him or her and get the win. It would have worked rather well last year, if not for the Gryffindor team's inability to score; they had lost by a hundred points, despite having got the Snitch. It was a favorite match of Flint's, so he often recounted it.

Hazel brought her broom to a stop and elbowed Towler hard in the ribs. Cobbing was only a crime if Madam Hooch saw it—that was Flint's mantra. The older boy scowled at her and elbowed her back, drawing boos from the crowd. That was another one of Flint's strategies: she could get away with playing rough because she was so tiny, but the moment another player touched her, it looked terrible. The crowd would draw attention to it, and Madam Hooch would keep a closer eye on Towler, who was known to be a terrible cobber.

"Slytherin in possession," Lee Jordan said. "Chaser Pucey dodges a bludger, then another, flies around the hoops, throws the Quaffle, and scores!"

Another idea struck her—Towler, despite having the latest broomstick, was not a great flier. Flint said he had nothing on her. If she could make him think she saw the Snitch and pull out of a dive at the last moment…

She titled her broomstick down and made to pull off just such a dive, but it was for naught, as her broom gave a sudden, frightening lurch; she nearly fell. She had never felt anything like it before. Deciding she must have imagined it, she moved to dive again, but then it bucked once more. She wanted to get Marcus's attention, to call a time-out, but she didn't dare take a hand off her broomstick while it was behaving so oddly.

The broom carried her higher and higher, jerking and twitching as it rose into the air.

Her broom began vibrating—it was almost impossible for her to hold on as it lurched and jerked. She breathed a sigh of relief as she saw Pucey flying towards her—someone had noticed her distress. He flew up to try to pull her off the bucking broom, but it was no use—the broom just kept jumping higher. She could hear gasps coming from the crowd. She closed her eyes, willing herself to hold on, to just hold on.

And suddenly, it stopped.

Then she saw a flash of gold.

She sped off towards it, leaving a gaping Towler in her wake. She was hurling towards it, faster and faster still. It was flying just out of reach, she was accelerating, she was reaching out for it—she grasped it in her hand with a triumphant yell.

"I've got the Snitch!" she shouted, holding it up in the air. She sped towards the ground, the hand with the Snitch fluttering feebly still in the air.

Once she was on the ground, Flint and Pucey hoisted her into the air. Fear had been replaced by elation; she had won the match for Slytherin. Lee Jordan was still dejectedly announcing the results—Slytherin had won two hundred points to twenty.

Hazel was sure no feeling in the world could match this.