Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all these other great characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I just play with them!

11. A weekend with elves, ghosts and broomsticks.

On Saturday, Harry slept late, then went outside for a walk. He regretted he couldn't go to Hogsmeade, but of course that was outside the wards. He would have to remain on the Hogwarts grounds. He walked past the greenhouses, up to the lake shore, around Hagrid's house, and finally threw a longing look at the quidditch pitch. Hopefully he would be able to fly again tomorrow. He wasn't too worried, his knee had not felt stiff at all the past two mornings and it also held up well to his walk of today.

It was still quite hot, which caught him by surprise. In the castle it was always cool, and the dungeons were downright chilly regardless of the weather outside. When he returned to the castle he was quite thirsty and he dropped by the kitchens for a drink.

The halls felt wonderful after the hot summer sun, and Harry quickly arrived at the fruity painting. He tickled the pear and the door swung open.

As always, Dobby was delighted to see him.

"Of course Dobby has something for Harry Potter," the house-elf said excitedly. "What does Harry Potter want?"

"Some really cold pumpkin juice would be great," Harry replied.

Dobby rushed off and returned seconds later with a large pitcher of pumpkin juice, condensation on the pitcher showing it was indeed ice cold. He poured a cup for Harry.

Harry drank it all in one gulp and Dobby quickly refilled his cup without being asked. This time, Harry drank more slowly.

"So how are you doing, Dobby?" Harry asked, realising he had only talked about himself when Dobby had come to the Gryffindor rooms.

Dobby blinked. "Dobby is doing great, Harry Potter! Dobby is very lucky to have such a great place to work and such great, generous friends like Harry Potter."

"And Winky, is she still here?" Harry asked, blushing a little at Dobby's words.

Dobby's face fell. "Winky is here, but Winky is not feeling good," he replied sadly.

"Is she still drinking Butterbeer?" Harry asked.

Dobby shook his head. "No, sir, Dobby is making sure Winky can not get Butterbeer anymore. But Winky is, well, Winky is feeling bad about last year. Winky feels she put Harry Potter in danger. Winky won't see Harry, Winky hides when you come in."

Harry sighed. He felt bad for the little house-elf.

"I don't blame her, Dobby," he said. "Please tell her for me. Or ask her to come out, I would like to tell her myself."

Dobby hesitated, but Winky solved his dilemma. She shyly emerged from behind one of the large stoves.

She looked unkempt, stains on her shabby skirt and streaks of dirt on her face, but not as terrible as when she had been drunk, too.

"Winky heard Harry Potter, and Winky will not disobey when Harry wants to speak to her," she said, her voice trembling. "Winky is a very bad house-elf already, Winky will not make it even worse."

"You are not a bad elf, Winky," Harry said kindly.

"But Winky is! Winky is a bad, bad house-elf!" Winky called out. "First Winky failed her master, then when Headmaster Dumbledore was so good as to take her in Winky failed again by not telling him what Winky knew! Now Cedric Diggory is dead and Harry Potter was hurt and it's all Winky's fault!"

Harry flinched. He carried his own feelings of guilt, and he'd had many nightmares about that terrible day. Still, he would do what he could to reassure Winky. He knelt so he was level with the small house-elf.

"Winky, it is not your fault. It was Vo..-You-Know-Who. He uses a lot of people, he's used a lot of older wizards too. It is not your fault or mine or anyone else's but You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters."

He had to keep telling himself that, too. It had been him who had suggested they take the Cup together.

"Are you sure?" Winky asked in a small voice.

"Positive," Harry replied. "You couldn't help but serve your masters, and I know how hard it is for a house-elf to speak bad of their masters even after they're gone from their service."

Winky fell to her knees. "Harry Potter is too generous, Harry Potter is too good!"

Harry looked down on her, embarrassed. "I mean what I said," he muttered, then got up and quickly excused himself. He hoped he had helped her a little, but he felt extremely uncomfortable when she –or Dobby for that matter- did that.

Harry had just left the kitchen when he ran into Peeves. The poltergeist was taking one of the many suits of armor apart, and when he spotted Harry he started to throw the pieces at him. After Winky, Harry was not in the mood.

"Stop it, Peeves," he said.

"Or what?" Peeves asked "No magic allowed in the corridors."

"So who'd you complain to, Snape?" Harry shot back, taking out his wand. Until recently he wouldn't have said that, but he was pretty sure Snape would not mind overtly much if he used magic against Peeves. The poltergeist had been very quiet all week after Snape's outburst.

Peeves pouted.

"I'm bored," he complained. But he did stop throwing the pieces of armor.

Harry shrugged. "Not my problem."

"You're no fun," Peeves stated, then zoomed off.

Harry sighed, put away his wand and started to pick up the pieces of armor. He was putting them back together when he became aware of Filch, standing a little ways down the hall.

"I didn't take it apart," Harry said, defensively.

"I know, I saw," Filch said grudgingly.

He paused and Harry went on with the armor.

"Why are you putting it together?" Filch asked.

Harry shrugged. At any other time he would've left it, why was he cleaning up after Peeves?

"I guess I'm a little bored, too," he said.

He put the helmet back, replaced the visor, then picked up a few smaller pieces of the gloves. When he replaced the last piece, he found Filch still staring at him.

"Why didn't you tell people I'm a squib?" Filch asked.

"Eh?" Harry asked, confused.

"You know. You saw the letter your second year. Yet you never told the rest of your house, or they would've made more fun of me," Filch said impatiently.

"Why should I have done that?" Harry asked, puzzled.

"Because you hate me," Filch replied.

Harry hesitated. Usually he would've tried to deny that, after all you couldn't simply say you hated someone who had the power to give you detention or take house points away. But it was different now than during the school year.

"I don't like you, but that has nothing to do with whether you can do magic or whether your parents could, that kind of thing never mattered to me," he said.

Filch frowned, his eyes narrowing. "You know, boy, you are too damn honest. Be careful that doesn't land you in any more trouble."

"You did ask," Harry pointed out.

"True, that," Filch admitted.

He turned as Mrs Norris sauntered into the hall.

"Yes, my sweet, I will follow you to where you found the Pixie," Filch addressed the cat and turned, not bothering to say a word of goodbye to Harry.

"Mr. Filch?" Harry called after him.

"What?" Filch turned again and sounded annoyed.

Harry flinched but did not back off. "You could not possibly have heard her at that distance. How do you always know where she is, without magic?"

Filch glared at him, then almost smiled as he looked down at Mrs Norris, who was rubbing against his ankles. He scowled again as he looked back up at Harry.

"I just listen to what she tells me. It has nothing to do with magic. Most wizards can't be bothered to listen to a cat either. Their loss." he said scornfully.

Then he turned around and stalked off. Mrs Norris ran out ahead of him, tail straight up in the air.

After dinner, Harry went to the infirmary for his check-up. Madam Pomfrey was already in her office.

"How are you feeling?" she asked him.

"Fine," Harry assured her. Of course, he wanted to fly again, but he did not have to lie, he really had been feeling as good as ever.

"No stiffness in the morning?"

"Not anymore. I took a walk this morning too and felt just fine," Harry replied.

Madam Pomfrey nodded, looking satisfied. Then she frowned. "And other than that, is everything going well?"

She didn't say anything specific, but of course she didn't have to.

"Much better than I had expected," Harry allowed. "I even spoke with Filch today and he didn't take my head off."

"That's good to hear," Madam Pomfrey said. "You will be alright for another two weeks then?"

Harry nodded. He was still looking forward to the end of summer vacation, when he would see his friends again, but he found he did not dread the coming weeks like he had.

"I'll be fine. And… I can fly again, can't I?"

Madam Pomfrey smiled. "Yes, you can. Just be careful when you're alone out there, don't try any stunts or anything."

"I understand, I won't," Harry promised. 

It wasn't that late when Harry left the infirmary, so he ran upstairs, grabbed his Firebolt, and not much later he was flying around the Quidditch pitch. It was a little cooler at this time of the day, and the wind whipped his hair and his robes. He let out a whoop of joy. It was great to be flying again!

Professor Snape had spent his weekend the way he spent most of his weekends, working. He did not remember when he had last voluntarily taken part in any leisure activities. He cared little for pastimes as walking, riding a broomstick, or even chess –the latter was interesting enough but required a partner to play against. He did enjoy reading potions texts, either one of his many rare and ancient volumes or one of the new publications he was subscribed to. But that fell under work, in a way. He owned a large collection of fiction as well, but he had not found the peace of mind to read anything like that for many years. The few times he'd tried, he found his mind started to wander in ways he didn't like, and he had quickly exchanged the novel for one of his text books again.

A good part of this particular weekend had been spent answering owls from students and parents. Of course, that could be done on Monday, but the owls arrived at any day of the week and he might as well get the replies out as soon as possible. No doubt there would be plenty more tomorrow, even something as simple as the book list seemed to be too difficult for many students to understand.

And now the weekend was almost over. He sat down at the table just as Potter came rushing in. The boy looked flustered and his hair was still wet. Although that was an improvement, at least when it was wet it did sort of stay down.

"Evening, Professor," Potter said as he sat down.

Snape grunted in acknowledgement. The boy was too cheerful by half. Then, why shouldn't he be, it was summer and he'd just had the entire weekend to himself.

The food appeared on the table, and they started to eat. Potter ate like he was starving, too. Probably had been outside flying all day. At least he was not getting in any trouble when he kept himself busy. Come to think of that, so far, Potter had been quite well-behaved. He'd seen quite a lot of the boy all week and it had gone much better than he'd expected. Snape did not like small talk, but perhaps he could show an interest.

"So how was your weekend?" he asked.

Potter started momentarily, but made no effort to hide his enthusiasm as he answered. "Great, sir! Madame Pomfrey allowed me to fly again so I've been out most of the day. At least this year I won't be totally out of practice when the season starts."

Wonderful. As if the boy needed more practice to beat every other team, including the Slytherins. Snape frowned, and Potter hesitated.

"I am sure Draco will practice a lot too," he added.

"No doubt," Snape replied dryly.

Actually, he did doubt it. Yes, Draco would be flying all summer. The grounds of Malfoy manor were extensive and there was plenty of room to ride a broom without being seen by Muggles. But serious practice? Not likely. Draco was a real Slytherin, he liked to use his father's money to buy him a broomstick and a position on the team, and Snape did not think there was anything wrong with that. If you had the money and power, you were a fool not to use it. But Draco often forgot –or ignored- that money wasn't everything. To really come out on top, often a lot of hard work was needed as well.

"Did you ever play?" Potter was asking now.

Did the boy care or was he just making conversation? Not that it really mattered.

"I was a Chaser on the house team for five years," he replied. And he hadn't been too bad at it either. He might actually have made a difference if only that damn James Potter hadn't always caught the Snitch so fast that no one could possibly score more than fifteen times. He resisted the urge to point this out to Potter. Last year –last week- he would not have let the chance slide, but well, it wasn't really the boy's fault, he hadn't even known his father.

"That was quite some time ago," he said instead, indicating that this topic, as far as he was concerned, was closed.

Potter gave a small shrug, then, fortunately, caught on to the fact that Snape did not care to carry on this particular conversation. "I guess," he said, and turned back to his food.