Flying class doesn't start until the third week of term. Violet is stuck in the hospital wing with the flu, cursing her bad luck. My sympathy, however genuine, doesn't dampen my excitement. I want so badly to fly.
"Andrea?"
"Andy! Andy, are you all right?"
Don't call me that, I try to tell them.
"Andy!"
I'm pulled to my feet. Shoulder hurts. Faces around me, all out of focus. Go away.
Once I'm on my feet they back off.
Further. Get away. I can't breathe.
The plain black robes of our flying instructor swarm into view.
"Andrea, are you hurt?"
The words float loud and direct through the haze of stares. I shake my head, and fight an urge to press a hand to my temple, which has started to throb for reasons that have nothing to do with hitting the grass. Professor Thomas isn't buying it; he saw how I fell. He inspects my shoulder briefly, and I cringe away.
"Hospital wing. Now."
It's just bruising, I think. Leave me alone.
I stumble in the direction of the castle. Professor Thomas trails behind me for a few steps, obviously wondering if I'm concussed. I feel his eyes on my back and consciously straighten my gait and ignore the fresh whispers breaking out behind me, hoping to forestall the inevitable...escort.
I make it halfway to the castle before rapid footfalls sound on the grass behind me. I grit my teeth. It's James Potter, the prat. Any teacher with a brain would have sent one of my own housemates.
Potter falls into step beside me. I'm vaguely surprised when he doesn't call me Andy.
"How's the shoulder, Annie?"
"My head's fine, thank you."
He's so easy to read. Hardly an advantage to the biggest troublemaker in school. Potter's words are careful now, his face concerned.
"Annie, I said…"
"I know what you said. That's not what you were asking. The shoulder's fine, just a bit bruised. Now you can run along and tell Coach Thomas that I didn't hit my head, I'm not concussed, and you're just itching to get on that broomstick again and don't need to waste your time shepherding me back to the castle."
"I'm not…"
"Don't lie to me, Potter. It doesn't work."
He pulls up short, grabbing my shoulder so I spin to face him. Dark brows drawn, indignant.
"What makes you think you're a waste of my time?"
"You hardly bothered to hide your confidence when class started," I recite. "You gave a little sigh when you saw your broomstick—hardly the sleek model you're used to—but it still leapt into your hand immediately. Your "gentle push" off the ground was more of a shove, but you leveled off straight away and Coach Thomas didn't reprimand you. Conclusion: you're well at home on a broomstick, and don't mind showing it off. So go back."
"I don't want to…"
"And then there's the trophy room."
"Trophy room?"
"Stumbled in there once, on the way to Charms. Half the more recent Quidditch trophies have the name Potter on them. James Potter, Harry Potter… it's a common name, but there are few enough wizarding families left. You're obviously wizard born, so balance of probability is you're related. Father or uncle and grandfather, judging by the dates."
I keep talking, letting the words pour and drown my thoughts. Potter is looking at me strangely now. I wish I knew why people keep doing that. My head hurts.
"They were Gryffindor too…said to run in families, isn't it?…whether genetics or family values is debatable…named for your grandfather…"
"Annie, I am not just going to leave you here."
We've reached the steps to the castle. The sun is starting to set; the rest of the class will be back within half an hour, and the whole school, those who care, will know by dinner. I stalk up the steps to the deserted entrance hall.
The moment the doors swing shut behind James, I wheel and point my wand at him.
I'd sooner be in the Forbidden Forest than the hospital wing right now, and anyone in the mood to force me had better know more curses than I do. That's nobody in first year.
"What the—?"
The look on Potter's face is almost comical. He's itching to draw his own wand, but held back by the Gryffindor chivalry the Sorting Hat so charmingly informed me I lack. After all, who curses an injured classmate who just fell off her broomstick? And who's obviously out of her mind?
"Wait five minutes and then walk back," I say evenly. "I'll get to the hospital wing on my own."
He makes one last effort. Why bother? I'm Slytherin, remember?
"Andrea, get a grip."
My head is pounding in earnest now.
"It really would be unwise to come further. You walked me to the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey saw to my shoulder, that's all there is to it. Now get out."
Potter turns, defeated, and makes his way back down the steps, actually hanging his head. He really does think I'm an idiot. I take a measured stroll down two corridors, pretending not to hear the pursuing feet, and then dodge into a supposedly dead-end classroom. In under a minute I've lost my shadow. And then my feet take over, and ten minutes later I'm sinking behind an unused desk in another abandoned classroom somewhere on the seventh floor. My eyes travel the twilit grey walls—can't possibly remember how I got here—but at least I'm alone now. Giving in to the ache and draining adrenaline, I drop my head and let the shaking creep back across my shoulders.
It's another day before Vi is out of the hospital wing. I'm grateful for that. Feigning cheerfulness is exhausting enough without my nosy friend around.
By the next night I'm steeled for the forced normalcy, the too-bright smiles. Slytherin common room is surprisingly cozy in the evening, and the crackling fire draws me in to the half-circle of seats around the hearth. My feet steer me to my usual armchair and the muted greetings of classmates. My head starts throbbing as soon as I sit down.
The conversation is all idle talk about other students. Who was caught dueling in the corridors. Who's asking who to the Yule ball, even though it's not for another three months. Who accidentally turned her hair green without any idea how to reverse it.
The fire is crackling and the air is too still and I'm deafened by everything they're not saying. I glance up when someone drops into the chair to my left.
"Are you okay?" Violet cuts right to the chase. Quietly. I should have visited her in the hospital wing but didn't. Madame Pomfrey knows I was supposed to show up but didn't. To Violet, it was a dead giveaway.
"Fine."
"I heard…"
"It wasn't even six meters, Vi. I'm fine, honest."
Violet's face is skeptical. I can't bear her concern. Suddenly I'm on my feet, halting the murmur of conversation. I ignore the upturned faces; my invitation is for one person only.
"I'm going out. Left one of my books on the third floor. Coming?"
She gets it. "Sure."
"Curfew is in ten minutes!" someone calls after us.
Vi and I are out the door without a backward glance.
