Normal
"Speaking"
'Thinking'
Writing
Chapter 5
It was only luck that got Harry to his first Transfiguration class on time. Finding a classroom he'd never seen before in a castle whose doors, passages, and corridors changed places, length, and appearance on a regular basis was like finding a needle in the proverbial haystack. He had managed to find his way by following the older students and leaving tiny ink x's drawn at the ends of corridors he'd been down already.
Weasley was less lucky. He pelted into the classroom five minutes after the bell, and threw himself into the empty seat on Harry's left.
"Made it!"
Weasley's loud whisper carried clearly across the room, but he didn't seem to care. Harry winced as Weasley kept talking, "Can you imagine the look on old McGonagall's face if we were late?"
They didn't need to imagine it. The next instant, the tabby cat that had been sitting primly on the teacher's desk leapt to the floor, shifting forms seamlessly as it did so. Professor McGonagall landed gracefully on her two feet, eyes flashing behind her spectacles as she fixed Weasley with a stern glare.
Harry didn't even hear the professor's words to Weasley, nor the boy's feeble responses, too focused on the implications of what he'd just seen.
'Can any witch or wizard turn into an animal? Is it hard? Is it only one animal, or more than one? Could any animal I see be a witch or wizard?'
Class began, pulling Harry from his racing thoughts, and he watched the professor closely. The redhead prefect that had led Harry and the other first years to their dorms had said their head of house as strict, but fair. His last teacher had also been strict, and hadn't tolerated any sort of foolishness in her class. This meant that in her classroom Harry had been safe from Dudley, and any other students who didn't like him. He hoped Professor McGonagall would be the same.
As she called his name for roll, her eyes lingered briefly on him, making him shift slightly in his seat. Her lips were tight, like Aunt Petunia's usually were when she looked at Harry. He hoped this didn't mean the Professor didn't like him. He couldn't think of anything he'd done to make her mad.
Class continued and, much to Harry's relief, Professor McGonagall seemed content to ignore him. However, it soon became clear that while the Transfiguration professor could be strict, she was not fair. Though she would continuously scan the class for mischief, she did nothing when Gryffindors commented snidely about their Slytherin classmates. But each time a Slytherin responded, she called them out and deducted points. Once though, she took points from a Gryffindor who got too loud.
As far as the classwork went, Harry quite enjoyed it. Professor McGonagall started class with a ten minute lecture on the nature of Transfiguration. It was fascinating, and Harry drank in every word. Afterwards, she then handed each student a matchstick with the instructions to use the base incantation she'd just explained to turn the matchstick into a needle.
So, Harry turned his attention to his matchstick.
He frowned as he drew his wand and trained the tip on the matchstick. His eyes half closed as he focused on his wand and the connection he had to it. He tried to feel what Professor McGonagall described as 'the connection between wizard and wand', and thought he might have found it when his wand hummed suddenly.
Holding the image of a needle in his mind, Harry imagined the wooden matchstick slowly hardening, sharpening, and turning silver. His wand gave a shiver, and he felt something tingle in his breastbone, then it stopped and he looked down.
A needle was shining dully on the desktop.
Grinning like a fool, Harry lifted the needle up to examine it carefully. To his delight, the needle was solid metal, with a perfectly formed eye, and a sharp point.
His first spell as a Hogwarts student was a success!
-Line Break-
Harry's first week at Hogwarts was the longest, the best, the worst, and the most exhausting week he'd ever experienced. And that included every miserable day he'd spent at the Dursleys.
On the one hand, his classes were wonderful. He was learning magic! He got to eat three entire meals a day! Also, his teachers were very interesting. One of them was a real live ghost! (Or, a real... dead ghost?)
But on the other hand, whispers followed him from the moment he stepped into the Gryffindor common room in the morning, until the moment he closed his dorm room door behind him at night. Portraits muttered excitedly as he passed, some occupants running to their neighbor's frames to get a better look at him - or rather, his scar.
Ghosts weren't any better, constantly sticking their heads through corridor walls, floors, or ceilings wherever he was. Even Peeves, the school's prank-loving poltergeist, paid Harry special attention, never missing an opportunity to float above the small boy's head and sing extremely rude variations of popular songs, though his versions were all about 'Wee Potty' defeating 'Moldy Voldy'.
Privately, Harry thought Peeves' songs were pretty funny (if he ignored the fact that he was 'Wee Potty'), but they made Professor McGonogall scowl and irritated the other students. Quite a few Slytherins stared and whispered the first couple of days, but after the first of Peeves' songs was circulated, they took to glaring. A few of the older years had even brushed past Harry in the halls in order to deliver whispered threats or a cutting comment.
Harry didn't think every single Slytherin disliked him. There were easily more than a hundred students in that house after all, and Draco was a Slytherin too. That thought made Harry frown as he walked down an empty corridor.
He'd approached Draco at breakfast once, but the blonde had just looked at him with a kind of blank expression and Harry had retreated. He was trying not to admit it, but Draco's treatment hurt. He'd thought... well, he'd thought they were friends.
'I guess being Harry Potter is a bigger deal than I'd thought.'
The older Slytherins' snide comments had begun only two days after the Sorting, though a lot of what was said was merely an echo of what his relatives had spat at him for ten years, so he found he could ignore it.
"You think you're so special, Potter..."
"... bet the teachers let him get away with anything..."
"... precious Potter. Let's all fawn over him ..."
"Watch yourself, Potter. Not everyone worships you..."
"Baby Potter survived the killing curse. A hex wouldn't even scratch you, would it?"
His fourth day of Hogwarts was the end of both his safety and his peace of mind. Students had begun slinging hexes at him from around corners and in empty corridors or classrooms, leaving his face puffed up painfully, his sides and arms stinging, or causing angry boils to erupt wherever the hex hit. Quills, parchment, inkpots, and completed homework assignments were stolen from his bag and pockets, vandalized, or destroyed. He'd caught sight of the faces of a few of his tormentors the last few days, but he had no proof of the bullying, and the bullies themselves were clever enough to hide their tracks.
Just ten minutes ago, an unfamiliar jinx had hit him from behind as he'd been descending the marble staircase on his way to dinner. He'd known he shouldn't be out alone, but he had still clung to the hope that maybe the bullying would simply stop.
The jinx had sent him flying headfirst down the staircase, and the only thing that saved him from breaking anything was his natural response, honed by years of being shoved down staircases by Dudley. His body moved on autopilot, bringing his knees up and chin down, and rolling down the stairs in a more or less controlled manner. He'd landed clumsily, but on his feet, and now with several bruises and welts along his shins, arms, back, and sides.
Having decided to avoid the Great Hall, Harry made his way to what was quickly becoming his favorite part of the castle. With one last scan of the corridor behind him, he slipped behind a suit of armor and pressed a tiny stylized H carved into the corner of one of the stones.
There was a brief shimmer, and Harry limped through what looked like a solid wall. The illusion he'd just passed though reverted back to solid stone behind him as he moved down the narrow passage. He'd found this passage just yesterday by ducking behind the armor to avoid some purple spell aimed at him.
Several meters from the entrance, though Harry suspected magic took the passage much farther, it opened up into a large room full of squashy armchairs, deep couches, and cushions, a cheerful blaze in the fireplace. The room was shaped like an irregular circle, and the walls were interspersed with multiple cabinets and several more passageways.
Above the fireplace, an inscription was carved into the stone, lifting Harry's spirits as he read it again.
Welcome, children, to the Sett.
This room is for healing and comfort, designed to feel like a home away from home. The passageways leading here will only open to those who have real need of comfort and rest, so please have something to eat and lay down your head for a while. Leave aside your worries for now, and simply rest.
- Helga Hufflepuff
A brief smile crossed his face as he limped over to one of the cabinets and opened it to reveal an assortment of healing potions, fresh sandwiches and fruits, and blankets. Taking a few potions and two turkey sandwiches, he moved to his favorite armchair by the fire and sat down with careful movements.
'I don't know why I expected Hogwarts to be different.' He thought dully as he uncorked one of the potions and downed it, not even flinching at the sour flavor. 'I guess magic made me a freak at the Dursleys, and being the Boy-Who-Lived makes me a freak here.'
Setting the sandwiches and remaining jars on the table, he pulled off his robes, tie and shirt, and couldn't hold in a low groan. His skin was unhealthily pale, his torso dangerously thin, and several bruises had formed from where he'd hit the stairs earlier. Ignoring the aching pain, he folded each piece of clothing carefully and set them on the low table in front of him. He knew he didn't need to treat them so delicately, but he couldn't bring himself to mistreat the only clothes purchased just for him since he was a baby.
He'd just lifted the jar of bruise salve off the table where there was a loud POP from behind him. The jar went flying toward the sound as Harry leapt up and around, snatching his wand from the tabletop and pointing it toward whatever had made the noise. There was a yelp as the jar hit someone, and Harry's eyes widened as he saw what.
A tiny creature was rubbing its large head with long fingers, bat-like ears flapping gently, and enormous brown eyes screwed up in pain. Around its torso was a tea towel tied like a toga, bearing the Hogwarts crest, and Harry immediately recognized it from one of his wizarding culture books.
Hastily, Harry stowed his wand back in his wrist cuff and approached the house elf quickly, a frantic apology on his lips. "I'm so sorry!"
He crouched down in front of it, ignoring his body's protests. "I didn't mean to hit you! I thought you were, well... oh, you're hurt!"
A rapidly developing bruise was becoming visible on the little creature's pale forehead. Harry cringed, hating that he'd hurt an innocent being.
"I'm sorry!" He said again, desperately looking around, then snatching the jar of salve from where it landed by his feet.
"Let me help."
The house elf froze, staring in shock as Harry began to gently spread the salve on the bruise. After only a few seconds, the bruise shrank and the swelling went down until the skin was smooth and unmarked.
"There." Harry leaned away hesitantly as the elf felt its head. "Is that... is that better?"
"Thank you, Mister Wizardy Student." The elf's voice was high and squeaky, but definitely female. "Mipsy should have been more quiet when Mipsy came in, she should. Mipsy is sorry for frightening you, Mister Wizardy Student."
"It's okay. I'm just sorry I hurt you." Harry gave a tiny relieved smile, then winced as he stood.
"Mister Wizardy Student is hurt!" Mipsy stared at the bruises marring Harry's torso and arms. Her eyes grew impossibly wide, before hardening with purpose. Moving quickly, she grabbed the salve jar from his hand and ushered him into his vacated armchair in three seconds flat.
"You is to be holding still now, Mister Wizardy Student." Mipsy's squeaky voice was stern, making Harry smile a bit. His smile morphed into a grimace as the salve on Mipsy's fingers met a particularly nasty bruise on his side. Some of the skin must have been scraped off because the cool salve stung horribly.
Uncomfortable with the silence and unused to someone else caring for his injuries, Harry spoke up. "So... um, did you need something in here, or..."
Mipsy glanced up at him, then back at the bruise she was treating as she answered, "It is Mipsy's turn to clean the Sett. Mipsy came in to clean and to check the Keeping spells."
"Keeping spells?" Harry hadn't heard about those sorts of spells before.
"Yes, sir." Mipsy moved onto a different bruise. "Keeping spells is making sure that sandwiches and fruits stay good."
"Oh." Realization dawned. "Stasis spells, like magic refrigerators."
Pausing in her ministrations, Mipsy tilted her head at Harry. "What is being 'frigidators'?"
Harry grinned at her pronunciation, then flinched as she went back to his bruises. "Ow... refrigerators are like big boxes of cold that non-magicals invented to keep food from going bad."
Mipsy looked unimpressed, but said nothing. Silence fell once more, only broken by the crackling and popping of the fire.
"If Mister Wizardy Student will be turning around," Mipsy said after a while, spinning a finger to demonstrate the movement, "Mipsy can be doing the other side, too."
"Harry." The boy corrected, turning like she wanted him to, until he was facing the back of the armchair. "My name's Harry."
Mipsy waited for a moment, but when it appeared the boy wasn't going to elaborate, she asked, "Who is being your family, Mister Harry?"
Harry paused, then shook his head. "My family's all dead. They were the Potters."
"Oh." Mipsy's tone was that of tragic recognition. "Mipsy is sorry Mister Harry Potter's family is gone, and is very sorry to be bringing up such bad pain."
Harry was touched by the sincerity in the elf's voice. She was the first person to offer her sympathies for his parents' deaths. No one at Hogwarts seemed to realize exactly what being the Boy-Who-Lived had cost him.
"Mister Harry Potter, sir?"
Mipsy's gentle tone made Harry realize he was trembling. Trying to relax, he let out a shaky breath.
"Thanks Mipsy. Thanks for caring."
"Of course, Mister Harry Potter sir."
Harry gave a weak chuckle. "You can just call me Harry, if you want."
The elf did not reply, so silence fell again. Harry leaned his forehead on the upholstered back of the chair, and closed his eyes. The gentle pressure of Mipsy's fingers, the warmth of the fire, and the exhaustion of the last week had him asleep within minutes.
-Line Break-
The second weekend of Harry Potter's first term at Hogwarts found the tiny boy curled up in a cupboard in a forgotten section of the sixth floor. He'd thought that avoiding the dungeons would keep him safe from his tormentors among the older Slytherins. He was right. But he hadn't counted on the Ravenclaws. A group of the blue and bronze students had cornered him and shoved him into this cupboard nearly two hours ago, then left after locking the door with a spell he didn't know.
It was almost funny how things didn't ever seem to change. He'd gotten away from the Dursleys only to find another group of people more than happy to shove him in a cupboard. Shifting around to get more comfortable, Harry resigned himself to waiting for the locking spell to wear off.
He wasn't entirely certain why he was being bullied. He got that some of the Slytherins' families followed You-Know-Who and they were mad at Harry for defeating him, but that couldn't be all. Ravenclaws had locked him up this time, and he'd been entirely ignored by the Hufflepuffs, even when he'd tried to reach out to them. His dorm mates didn't talk to him much, and the other Gryffindors seemed to forget about him the morning after the sorting.
For some reason, and he had no idea what it was, his fellow students either disliked him or wanted nothing to do with him. At Privet Drive, and at school with Dudley, he was bullied for being a freak, being dirty, being stupid, or being the orphan son of two drunks. Here, his magic wasn't freakishness, he was allowed to shower every day, he didn't have to score lower than Dudley on tests, and everyone knew his parents had died fighting.
Harry could see no reason for the other students to treat him like they had been. So, with a sinking heart, he resigned himself to the fact that people just didn't like him. They probably thought he was weird, or too small, or ignorant, or maybe even gross.
'I guess Aunt Petunia was right.' He hugged his bag to his chest, ignoring the way his throat was tightening and his nose was stinging. 'I am just an unwanted freak... But at least they didn't take my bag.'
He maneuvered a leather-bound journal onto his lap, an ever-full quill into his hand, and an everlasting candle onto the floor next to him, then settled in as best he could to write while he waited for the locking spell on the door to wear off.
He'd decided to keep a written record of what happened in his life, ever since the Sorting Feast. Before the letter arrived and changed his world, Harry had thought he was a nothing, a no one. He'd simply been a freak, an abnormality. Nothing worth remembering. Now though, he had a name, a family, a history, a school, and so much more. By writing it all down, he felt like he was leaving his stamp on the world. Harry Potter was real, he has experiences and challenges that matter, and he doesn't want to be forgotten.
He tried to write down everything he thought was important; conversations he thought were significant, thoughts he'd had during different experiences, and things that had made an impression on him. A lot of what he'd written was messy and disjointed, with class notes mixed in alongside his personal thoughts and a few doodles. He loved it.
For now, he thought he'd write about his first Potions class. Nodding firmly, he set his quill to the pages. That had been an important day.
My first Potions class was Wednesday morning, and according to the other students, the Potions professor and Head of Slytherin House, Professor Severus Snape, is an evil, slimy git that hates everyone that's not a Slytherin and will give detentions for 'breathing too loud' or 'wearing an offensive color'. But he's also Draco's godfather, and that means he's friends of the Malfoys, and the Malfoys were really nice, but they are also a bit scary.
So I was kind of nervous for class.
The Potions room is in the dungeon (Slytherin territory). This was not very safe for me so I made sure to sit away from the door. Also, the Gryffindors and Slytherins sit on opposite sides of the room so I was able to blend in a bit. I'd just set out my things when the entrance door slammed open, and Professor Snape glided into the room.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving, nor silly incantations in this class." was the first thing he said.
And man, did he say it!
His voice was deep and he was very tall, with black eyes that looked at you like he knew what you were thinking.
He was amazing!
His introduction to the course was also awesome. He promised that if we listened, worked hard, and paid attention, we could 'bottle fame, brew glory, and put a stopper in death'. I don't know about the first two, but stopping death...
He was confident and a bit arrogant, but in a good way, and his robes did this super cool thing when he walked. So cool! He reminded me a bit of Lord Malfoy.
Then he called my name for roll, and I could tell he didn't like me. At all.
Two months ago, I'd have done anything to avoid attention, but now... I wanted to impress Professor Snape. He didn't (and doesn't) like me, which is not fun, but at least means he will be paying attention to what I do. So I decided to try and be a bit like him, or at least a bit more confident.
So I sat up straight and met Professor Snape's eyes. I swear, it felt like he was looking through me and at everything I've ever tried to hide!
Then he asked me some Potions questions, and I knew the answers from my textbook!
- When adding powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood, you get the base for the potion called the Draft of Living Death
- A beezor (poison cure?) can be found in the stomach of a goat (ew, why?)
- Monkshood and wolfsbane is the same plant
I didn't get any points (I haven't gotten any points yet), but instead Professor Snape nodded at me. I felt really happy, and also kind of proud, which is weird because I don't think I've ever felt that before. Uncle Vernon says that pride is a sin, but he also says he's proud of Dudley all the time, so I guess it depends? Why?
Anyway, Potions was amazing. We made a cure for boils (I was partnered with Neville, who knew a lot about the different plants!) and we didn't get any homework.
I've had a few more Potions classes, and they were all just as cool. I haven't gotten any points still, but I've learned a lot! Neville is a big help. He knows all sorts of things about the plants, and I'm used to chopping and following recipes, so we make a great team! He seems kind of sad most of the time though. I know Professor Snape makes him nervous, but mostly he leaves us alone.
I'm really looking forward to Potions next Wednesday. Professor Snape said we'd be making bruise salves, like what I use in the Sett. It'll be great to know how to make them myself.
-Line Break-
Harry's first flying class was postponed for nearly two weeks due to high winds and storms, so it was a rather lonely and wary Harry that trailed after his yearmates as they made their way down to the Quidditch Pitch. They were partnered with the Slytherins, and Harry couldn't help but look over at Draco. Even after two weeks, he hoped they could be friends. But when he caught Draco's eye, the blonde just turned away to talk to Zabini.
Ignoring the hurt, Harry looked down at the brooms that were laid out. He didn't know much about wizard brooms, but he knew Aunt Petunia wouldn't use these even to clean out the garage. The handles were dull and scratched, and the bristles stuck out everywhere. He nudged the closest with his foot, and a few sad twigs fell to the grass.
"Alright first years!" Called the flying professor, Madam Hooch, "Everyone line up next to a broomstick."
Harry was quick to stake a claim by one of the least shabby brooms, and he was happy to see Draco had gotten a good one too. The other boy had seemed really excited about flying when they'd talked in Diagon Alley.
"Now," Madam Hooch began, her voice carrying clearly and commanding everyone's attention, "I want everyone to stick their wand hand over their broom. Now, with feeling, command the broom to rise and say 'up'!
"UP!" Twenty voices echoed in unison, and several brooms rose up into the air. To his surprise, Harry's broom nearly leapt up from the ground and smacked solidly into his palm. Glancing around, he realized that Draco's had done the same. Neville's had just quivered a bit, and it looked like Granger's had rolled away from her.
Once everyone had their brooms in hand, Madam Hooch had them all straddle their brooms, then walked up and down the lines giving out a few pointers. Harry committed them to memory at once, more nervous than he'd care to admit.
"Hold the handle with your wand hand in front, but not too far up the broom."
"Keep your elbows bent, like Mister Malfoy is doing."
"No, Miss Patil. Brooms are meant to be ridden astride."
"Center your weight by leaning forward slightly. Use your arms for support, not just direction."
She helped a Slytherin girl correct her posture, then faced the rest of the class. Apparently satisfied with what she saw, she pulled out her whistle.
"Now, on the count of three I want you all to kick off from the ground, hard. Your brooms will rise four feet or so into the air, and I want you to simply hover. Don't turn your brooms, and absolutely do not pull the handles up. After a moment or so, push the handle of your broom down slightly to touch back down. Ready? Three, two, one!"
She blew her whistle and the sharp noise made everyone jump a bit. Brooms up and down the lines rose up slowly as their passengers grinned and grimaced. Harry's stomach swooped as he rose faster than he'd expected, then came to a halt nearly six feet off the ground.
Off the ground! He was floating - no, flying!
His mind went blissfully blank, and his eyes slid out of focus as he bathed in the wondrous and magical feeling of being in the air. This was fantastic! This was worth every bruise and hex, every insult and nasty look - this was worth it all.
"Now touch back down." Came Madam Hooch's voice, bringing Harry back to reality. "Push down on your broom handles."
Reluctant to land, Harry did as instructed and his feet met the ground with a soft thud. His heart was pounding and he suddenly realized that he was grinning. Deciding he didn't care, he looked around and caught Draco's eye, the other boy having landed just then. Still on the high from his short flight (flight!), Harry just grinned wider. Draco froze, then sent Harry a tentative smile.
"Just push down on the handle, Mister Longbottom."
Harry looked to his left to find Neville still in the air, looking distinctly green. He had frozen, and didn't seem to be hearing a word Madam Hooch was saying. Then, quite suddenly, Neville's broom gave a lurch and began to rise higher.
"Mister Longbottom!"
Briefly, Harry wondered why Madam Hooch thought shouting would help, but then all thoughts fled as Neville's broom stopped rising and began zooming toward the castle, picking up speed as it went. Harry's stomach clenched and he stood frozen where he stood as he watched Neville, his closest (and only) friend being hurtled toward the massive stone walls of their school. Abruptly, Neville's broom jerked up, missing the wall, but now carrying the first year higher and higher.
Harry realized what was about to happen a moment before it did. Neville slid off the back of his vertical broom and dropped like a stone toward the ground. Halfway there, his robe caught on a torch bracket and jerked him to a stop, but before Harry could relax, the robe tore and Neville crashed to the ground below.
"Out of the way! Out of the way!" Madam Hooch commanded, striding through the crowd of first years who'd swarmed closer to where Neville had fallen.
Harry remained where he stood, breathing hard and clutching his own broom, eyes fixed on Madam Hooch as she scooped up his friend and announced that she was taking him to the hospital wing. Harry sent Neville what he hope was a reassuring smile as the boy passed, but he didn't think the other boy saw it.
"You are all to remain on the ground." Madam Hooch called as she passed the students. "Anyone caught flying while I'm gone will be given detention until the holidays."
The whole class watched in silence as Madam Hooch and Neville disappeared into the school. Moments later, a loud shout of laughter drew everyone's attention.
Ronald Weasley was grinning, holding something up to catch the light. "Look! He dropped his Rememberal. No wonder he forgot how to fly!"
Harry scowled. He recognized the little glass ball Weasley was waving around. Neville's grandmother had mailed- owled it to him just that morning, though Harry didn't know what it was. But he did know that it meant a lot to Neville.
He stepped forward, arm extended expectantly. "Give it here, Weasley."
Weasley just laughed. "C'mon, Harry. Even with this thing, it's not like Neville'd be any good at flying anyway."
"Just hand it over." Harry demanded, distantly realizing that this was probably the first time he'd ever stood up to someone, "I'll give it back to Neville."
"Why do you care so much?" Weasley scowled.
Harry didn't even have to think about it. "Because he's my friend."
Weasley flushed bright red and his scowl grew. Harry had no idea why the redhead was getting so angry, but he refused to back down. For Neville's sake.
"Your friend. Right." The sneer on Weasley's face looked oddly out of place, "Like anyone would ever be friends with that tubby crybaby."
There was a sudden rushing in Harry's ears, and his face felt hot. Something was bubbling furiously in his chest, and he suddenly pictured punching Weasley in his freckled face.
"Give. It. Here."
It took Harry a second to recognize the cold voice as his own. Weasley's face reddened even further as he clambered onto his broom and kicked off.
"I think I'll leave it somewhere for Neville to find." He called down, sneer back in place, "How about on the roof?"
Without hesitating, without thinking, without considering the consequences, Harry swung a leg over his broom and followed Weasley into the air. Several students shouted after him, but he was deaf to them all. All that mattered was getting that glass ball for Neville.
"Give it here, Weasley!" Harry shouted, "Or I'll knock you off your broom!"
It didn't matter that he was half the size of the other boy. He was utterly determined.
"Fine then!" Weasley bellowed back, then cocked his arm back. "Catch!"
The ball spun, catching the light as it hurtled through the air, and Harry laid flat on his broom as he zoomed after it. Eyes fixed on his prize, he dove after it, exhilarating in the feeling of the wind through his hair and the sheer freedom of flight.
The ground grew closer and closer, but Harry didn't think about that. The ball was so close... it was right in front of him... he took his hand off his broom and reached out... he caught it!
As soon as he felt the glass in his palm, he swerved his broom and pulled out of the dive, realizing as he did so that he was much closer to the ground than he'd thought. Close enough that it only took a second to touch down and dismount.
Feet back on the ground and legs shaking uncontrollably, Harry stared around at the students who had swarmed him upon landing. They were cheering for some reason... for him? His heart was pounding, his ears were ringing, and he couldn't stop grinning.
That was flying! That was freedom! That was-
"Mister Potter!"
It was as though someone had doused him in a bucket of ice. Professor McGonagall was striding down the lawn toward them, her glasses flashing, and her lips pursed so thinly they had disappeared. The crowd of students went silent and slid quickly apart as she drew nearer.
Harry's heart, which had been pounding so fiercely before, seemed to freeze in his chest. His broom fell from his suddenly trembling fingers, and he clumsily shoved Neville's glass ball into his pocket. She couldn't have it.
"Mister Potter." Professor McGonagall had reached him. He took one look at her expression and fixed his eyes to his shoes. Whatever punishment she gave, he would accept without complaint. He'd learned that lesson well enough with the Dursleys.
But all the stern professor said was, "Follow me."
So he did.
Across the lawn, into the castle, down the halls, up some stairs, down another hall, and through a trick door. The further they went, the drier Harry's mouth went. They weren't anywhere near the Transfiguration classroom, or Professor McGonagall's office, and they were clear on the other side of the castle from Gryffindor tower. Where was she taking him?
A sudden, horrible thought struck. Were they going to the Headmaster? Was he about to be expelled?
'No! I can't be expelled! I want to learn magic, and fly again, and be friends with Draco, and... and...'
Inside his robe pockets, Harry clenched his hands into fists. No. All Madam Hooch had said was detention. He clung to the thought as Professor McGonagall finally came to a stop. Glancing around, Harry suddenly realized where they were: outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
Professor McGonagall knocked sharply, then pushed open the door. Harry wrinkled his nose involuntarily against the sudden draft of garlicky air. The scent was so heavy that he always left DADA with a headache.
"Pardon me, Professor Quirrell." Professor McGonagall called, and Harry forgot about the garlic as he listened. "Would you allow me to borrow Wood for a moment?"
Harry blinked, then paled. Was Wood a cane of some sort? Was she going to beat him? Uncle Vernon had often talked about his old school, Smeltings, and had laughed about how his professors would 'whack some sense' into his thicker classmates. Dudley had even gotten a cane as part of his Smeltings uniform just that summer. Were beatings as punishments at school normal, then?
His racing thoughts came to a jumbled halt as Professor McGonagall came out of the classroom, not with a cane, but with an older boy wearing a Gryffindor tie. Hesitantly, Harry followed the two of them into a nearby classroom, jumping a bit when the door swung shut behind them.
"Mister Potter." Professor McGonagall began, "this is Oliver Wood. Wood, this is Harry Potter." She then smiled a sly smile that made Harry take a quick step back. "I believe Mister Potter will be a most adequate replacement for Charlie Weasley."
"Really?" Wood's gaze sharpened, and he inspected Harry with the same intensity that Aunt Petunia gave to the goings on of the neighbors. Hunching his shoulders, Harry glanced between Wood and his Head of House, wondering if it would be alright to ask what they meant to do with him.
"He's got the build for it," Wood declared, apparently finished studying Harry, "but he's a bit small. You sure he's a good fit?"
'Good fit for what?' Harry wondered relaxing a bit as he realized they didn't seem to want to hurt him.
"I just saw him catch a bauble three feet off the ground from a fifty foot dive." Professor McGonagall declared, her smile turning smug.
"Well." Wood breathed, looking Harry up and down again, "He'll do just fine then."
"Er-" Harry spoke up tentatively, looking to Professor McGonagall, "Just fine for what, Professor?"
"Quidditch." She replied, still smiling smugly, "Gryffindor seeker."
Harry blinked. Quidditch was that game that wizards liked, he remembered from his books and some posters in Gryffindor Tower. Played in the air on broomsticks, with a bunch of different balls. He didn't know much about it, though he now regretted skimming that section of his wizarding culture book.
"But," He had to ask, "aren't I in trouble?"
Wood just laughed. "If McGonagall says you'll be seeker, I wouldn't worry about it.
Harry frantically tried to make sense of this strange turn of events. "You... want me to be the seeker... for the Gryffindor team?"
Professor McGonagall nodded. "Our last seeker graduated last year, and I've been looking for some new talent. You've certainly inherited more from your father than his looks, and it couldn't come at a better time. Severus was commenting on our lack of options just last week. I cannae wait to see that cup in my office for another year."
None of that made any sense to Harry, though the bit about his father made him double take. He hadn't realized his professor had known his father. Shaking the thought away for now, he turned to Wood. "Aren't there... tryouts and things? And I thought first years weren't allowed..."
Wood waved his hand. "McGonagall says you're good, and that's good enough for me."
'But will it be good enough for everyone else?' Harry wondered, then his eyes widened as he realized something. If Quidditch was as popular as he thought, there were sure to be lots of people who wanted to play, and once they found out that Harry had taken their spot, especially since it was against the rules, they were sure to be angry. And he didn't even know how to play!
"Um... thanks very much, Professor, but..." Harry swallowed, then finished quickly before he lost his nerve, "I don't think I'd be any good at Quidditch!"
Wood appeared dumbstruck, but Professor McGonagall simply raised an eyebrow. "Would you rather have detention from now until the winter holidays?"
"...no..." Harry hated it when he was forced to choose between two bad things. It was a favorite game of Aunt Petunia's.
"Well, then." Professor McGonagall declared, as if the matter were settled. And Harry supposed it was. His stomach sank as he realized what he was in for. There would be students who would be mad, and he'd definitely mess up during a game so then they'd be even madder. This was not going to end well.
His heart was heavy as he followed Professor McGonagall and Wood out of the classroom. There was no way he could convince them to leave him off the team. All he could do now was read up on Quidditch and hope he could play as well as his professor expected him to.
"Minerva. This is an odd time to be meeting with students, don't you think?"
Harry's head snapped up at the deep voice, and he couldn't help but stand a bit straighter as Professor Snape walked (glided, really) down the corridor toward them.
"Severus." Professor McGonagall sounded irritated, and Harry slid a bit further from her. "There was an incident in Mister Potter's flying class and I required Mister Wood's help in resolving it."
"I see." Professor Snape glanced over Wood and Harry before continuing smoothly, "Of course it's understandable that you would require the assistance of the Gryffindor Quidditch captain when disciplining your first years for flying infractions. I'll just leave you to it, shall I?"
"Yes. You shall." Was Professor McGonagall's terse response.
"Very well. I'm sure you have it well in hand, and have considered all aspects of this situation. It really wouldn't do for any sort of personal opinion to overturn established school policies." Professor Snape's gaze flickered to Harry briefly. "Though perhaps I am misjudging the circumstances?"
"She wants me to join the Quidditch team, Professor." Harry blurted out, then clapped his hands over his mouth. Why had he said that?! He should know better than to interrupt!
One of Professor Snape's eyebrows rose slowly as he turned to Professor McGonagall. "Indeed?"
"The boy is a natural." Professor McGonagall looked very much like Aunt Petunia in that moment. "And we have a spot open since Mister Weasley's graduation."
"Of course." Professor Snape agreed smoothly. "I'm sure his natural ability will assure him a spot on the team during tryouts next year. That is, if the boy wants to play."
"If!" Wood spoke up then, sounding offronted. "It's Quidditch! He's got real ability, not to mention his father was a legendary chaser during his time here. Of course he'd want to play!"
Professor Snape turned a piercing eye on Harry's housemate, and the other boy practically shrank. Harry glanced back and forth between the two. What about his father? Had he really been on the Quidditch team?
"Severus." Professor McGonagall drew the tall man's attention back to her, "I'm sure Albus wouldn't mind bending the rules for Mister Potter. Especially for a chance to be closer to his father..."
Harry wasn't sure why, but this made Professor Snape go very still. Glancing anxiously between the two professors, he twisted the fabric of his robes as the tension rose.
"Why don't we ask the boy himself?" Professor Snape suggested in a dangerously soft voice, turning his sharp eyes on Harry. "Mister Potter. Do you desire a place on the Quidditch team this year? Do you want to play?"
"Er-" Harry hesitated, gaze darting toward Professor McGonagall briefly. Did he want to play? Was that a trick question? Well, he knew he didn't want to be in trouble with his housemates, and he definitely didn't want to mess up during a game and make anyone mad. So he looked back at Professor Snape and shook his head. "No. I... I don't."
The man nodded once, then addressed the other professor. "There you have it. I'm sure you can decide upon an adequate punishment for whatever infraction occurred during his lesson today. Good day."
He swept away, cloak billowing impressively behind him, and Harry almost gasped as he turned the corner and vanished in a swirl of black.
'So cool!'
"Mister Potter."
Jumping a bit, Harry quickly gave his attention to his Head of House. Her lips were pursed and she was scowling, though Harry thought she might be madder at Professor Snape than she was at him.
"I am going to have to take ten points from Gryffindor and assign you a week's worth of detention for that stunt you pulled. Next time, follow the instructions given by your professor."
Harry nodded hurriedly, and Professor McGonagall sighed. "Wood, you can return to class."
"Alright professor. Sorry about..."
Professor McGonagall just waved a hand at him, and the older boy entered his class.
"Mister Potter. You will report to my office at 7 in the evening next Tuesday night for your first detention. Return to class now."
"Yes Professor."
Harry moved quickly down the hall, wanting to leave that whole mess behind him. He'd much rather have the detentions than anything else. At least he wasn't going to be on the team.
'I hope no one finds out about this.' he thought as he glanced out a window, where he could see Gryffindor Tower. 'I broke the rules, then almost got out of detention. They might be mad about that.'
-Line Break-
Unfortunately for Harry, the Gryffindors did find out. Apparently Oliver Wood was so disappointed to lose 'such a promising Seeker' that he'd complained about it to his friends, who shared the story with theirs, until it was known all over the school that Harry Potter had refused a spot on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team.
Initially, Harry thought his housemates would be mad that he'd nearly gotten out of trouble. Then he realized that they were actually mad because they had wanted him to be on the team! Once they heard the story of his fifty foot dive, they all had decided, like Professor McGonagall, that he would be great at Quidditch, and were furious that he hadn't become seeker.
The safety provided by Gryffindor Tower diminished considerably, with his housemates sending him hostile glares, snide comments, and sometimes shoving into him as they passed. Conversely, the Slytherins backed off. In fact, many of them now called out to him in the halls in friendly voices, though their eyes were alight with cruel laughter.
"Thanks Potter!"
"We owe you one!"
"Knew we could count on you!"
The only good thing that came from all of this was that Harry got Neville's little glass ball back to him. When Harry handed it to him in the dorms that evening, Neville's face had lit up and he had smiled bigger than Harry had ever seen before. That, he thought, was worth the anger from his other Housemates.