The sun shone overhead, warming the grass of the pitch and vaporising the beads of dew that clung to the grass. Harry bent down and ran his hands through the grass, feeling the green stalks bend beneath him. He straightened, ignoring the sideglances Ron and Neville were giving him as they strode onto the quidditch pitch. Already there were the Slytherins, most of whom were watching their colleagues with that patented sneer.
"Did we really look that comically evil?" He asked himself quietly. "No wonder they all hated us."
"-And then the muggle helicopter started to fall to the ground!" Malfoy said loudly, as his henchmen laughed gaily."
Harry rolled his eyes, even as he felt a pang of desire. He'd been the one believing that made up nonsense last time.
As the students gathered on the ground, standing next to whichever old broom seemed least likely to disintegrate upon flying into their hands. Harry picked an older model he could have sworn was a Silver Arrow, which would have made it almost 70 years old.
"You're meant to plant both feet on the ground before you take off to get maximum acceleration, you see." Hermione explained to Parvarti with another of her boring, hackneyed quidditch tips that she'd been spouting all week long. Meanwhile, Madam Hooch strode onto the field, her confident, no-nonsense demeanour already making itself known.
"Well? What are you all waiting for?" She barked, making some students flinch. "Stick out your right hand over your broom, and say 'Up'!"
"Up!" Everyone cried, with varying levels of enthusiasm. Harry's broom, naturally, came directly up into his hand perfectly. At least that hadn't changed. Looking up, her surveyed the rest of the class's attempts. Hermione's broom had rolled around, Neville's broom had flicked up and hit him in the ribs, and Dean Thomas's hadn't moved at all. After a minute or so of trying under Hooch's stern gaze, finally everybody had a broom in their hand.
Hooch demonstrated how to mount the broom with slipping off the end, a demonstration Harry didn't bother to listen to. He was too busy remembering playing in his first quidditch match in second year. Absentmindedly, he turned to look at Faye Dunbar, his counterpart as seeker in that first game. He scowled, remembering how close she had come to catching the snitch before Bole had sent a bludger her way.
"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground hard." Said Hooch. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. "On my whistle – three – two –"
But Neville, in a classic Neville move had kicked off too early (how had he managed to make a mistake earlier than in the original timeline?), and began rising severely.
"Come back here boy!" Hooch shouted angrily, grabbing her broom from the ground to give chase.
But Neville, of course, couldn't. He kept rising – 10 feet – like a cork out of a bottle, his white face silhouetted against the blue sky. He flailed a little - 20 feet – as if trying to decide whether to stay on now and risk falling later, or take the fall now. He semed to come to a decision - 25 feet -, and in a heart stopping moment, threw himself off his broom.
"Arresto Momentum!" Harry cried as Neville plummeted to the ground, the entire class gasping and crying out.
His aim was good. The spell hit the boy a few feet above the ground. His power, however, was not so good. The boy slammed into the ground with an audible CRACK, as Hooch, her wand finally in hand, ran over to the impact site. A bloodcurdling cry of pain echoed around the pitch as Neville screamed, rolling over to reveal an arm bent at an angle more suited to a quadruped than a human.
His broom, meanwhile, seemed to have come to a decision of its own. Pushed gently by the wind, it began floating to the Forbidden Forest, unnoticed by the class who had, as people tend to do, crowded around the incident.
Hooch knelt by the victim, who was blubbering and staring at his arm in shock. "Broken bloody arm. It's alright, kid, you'll be fine. Pomfrey will have you fixed up in no time, trust me." She muttered, helping the boy up by his robe. She put her arm around him in a tender motion Harry could only assume was motherlike, before turning to the rest of the class. "Not a single one of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms there where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch'."
With that, she guided Neville gently towards the hospital wing, hoping the class wouldn't see the winces she gave when Neville whimpered softly. She had a reputation to keep, after all.
No sooner were the pair out of earshot than Draco had begun to joke about, as the class tried to shake off the collective shock a student's near-death experience had given them all.
"Did you see his face? The great lump." He laughed with Crabbe and Goyle, ignoring the rest of the class's angry glares. The two laughed dutifully as murmurs of other conversations began to take hold, shaking the collective torpor from the group.
"Hang on!" Cried Malfoy suddenly, dashing forward to pick up a shining class sphere from the ground. "The great berk dropped his Remembrall!" he cried, holding it up as it glittered in the sun. "I should leave this somewhere he can find it…maybe in the top of a tree."
Ron stepped forward, angrily. "Give it here, Malfoy." He said dangerously, his fists curled up and his face glowering at his sort-of-friend's near escape.
"Why, Weasley? So you can sell it off? This old thing won't buy you a pair of new robes, you know" Malfoy sneered, his eyes looking meaningfully at the boy's patched, worn robes.
Ron's face exploded into a rictus of fury, and he stormed towards Malfoy, his fists raised and ready to do battle. Harry just stared, rooted to the spot by the sight of his current and former friend ready to trade blows.
"Hah, try to catch me, Weasel!" Draco cried from behind his bodyguards as he mounted his broom.
"Come back here, you coward!" Ron screamed, as the rich heir kicked off the ground and into the sky. "C'mon Harry, let's get him!"
"No!" Hermione screamed. "Madame Hooch told us not to move – you'll get us all in trouble!"
"Yes Potter, listen to your mudblood, and stay down like a good golden boy." Malfoy taunted with glee, looking down from his broom at the frozen Harry.
That did it. There were very, very few things Draco Malfoy could possibly have said that would have roused Harry from his torpor. The last thing he wanted to do was to go against the teacher and fight against his former best friend in midair. But he sure as hell wouldn't stand by and let that go by unanswered, for a million different reasons.
Silently, Harry flicked his broom up with his foot, catching it easily. In one smooth, practiced motion he slid the broom between his legs and kicked off, already matching Malfoy's speed. As he hurtled towards the boy, a small, sadistic part of him enjoyed the fear in those silver eyes of his. Malfoy, rightfully terrified, dropped the Remembrall in fright as he desperately tried to move out of the way of the incoming bullet that a few moments ago had been a wide eyed boy rooted to the spot.
Harry, his eyes cold and his blood pounding, felt like he was in a trance. It was the thing he liked most about flying. Up here, things were simple. They were clean. He was in his element. Ignoring his fleeing enemy, who was slapping the side of his broom in his efforts to escape, Harry dived back down towards the ground, where the glass sphere slowly fell towards the grass. Would it shatter? Best not to risk it. Besides, whilst a blow to Malfoy's body would be temporary at best, and could get Harry expelled or suspended, a blow to his pride would echo from him for a while to come. Perhaps it would be enough to force the boy to talk to him. Harry could hope.
Everything moving in what felt like slow motion, he continued his dive, his hands already searching for the ball as he sped towards the ground. If his arms were back to their fifth year size, he'd be confident of catching the magical object. As it was…he calculated it would be close. In the corner of his eye, he could see the faces of his classmates. Some were terrified. Some were elated. Some were merely shocked. His mind didn't bother to register them, however. It was close now. His knees were almost touching the ground, his arm extended as far as it would go. He was straining the broom and his body forward, his hands feeling the tickle of grass against his knuckles. Almost – YES! The Remembrall fell right into his hand as he pulled out of his dive, grinning triumphantly as he raised his fist in triumph. He touched down, enjoying the open mouths of his classmates, who stared at him uncomprehendingly. He smiled at them, as Malfoy touched down far to his right, his eyes confused and frightened. Harry sneered at him, looking meaningfully to the glass in his hand.
"HARRY POTTER!" An old, severe voice cried out from behind him.
Oh no.
Professor McGonagall almost ran towards him, her face in a state of almost complete shock. "Never – in all my time at Hogwarts. – how dare you – might have broken your neck." Her Scottish accent, Harry detachedly noticed, became stronger whenever she was distressed or angry. At the moment, she could pass for William Wallace.
"It wasn't his fault, professor –"
"Be quiet, Miss Patil."
"But Malfoy-"
"Will be punished accordingly. That's enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter. Follow me, now."
Harry trod towards her dejectedly, cursing internally. Whilst expulsion wasn't an option for him, McGonagall could still make his life hellishly difficult, something Harry was keen to avoid. McGonagall lead him inside, angrily wrenching open doors and marching down the lon g corridors of Hogwarts. Harry, knowing that any protests would have no effect on the severe professor, kept quiet. Whilst he wasn't about to offer any protests, however, he certainly had plenty of questions. They weren't going to her office, nor the Headmaster's. In fact, he was fairly certain they were, for some inexplicable reason, going to the corridor where most charms classes were held. Harry was only able to hold back his natural curiosity for a few moments more when McGonagall opened a door and poked her head inside.
"Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood for a moment?" She requested, without a hint of the fury Harry had ascribed to her.
Wood? But why was the Gryffindor cap-oh.
Oh yes.
The burly fifth year walked out into the hallway, a confused look on his face.
McGonagall directed them into the classroom next to the one Flitwick was in. After closing the door behind them, she smiled brightly at the young Quidditch captain.
"Potter, this is Oliver Wood. Wood – I've found you a Seeker."
Wood's confused expression morphed into a look of pure joy.
"Are you serious, Professor?"
"Absolutely." McGonagall said crisply, smiling encouragingly at Harry. "The boy's a natural. I've never seen anything like it. Was that your first time on a broomstick, Potter?"
Harry nodded, seeing no reason to clarify with a comment.
"He caught a glass Remembrall after a forty foot dive a moment before it would have hit the ground. Didn't even scratch himself. Charlie Weasley couldn't have done it."
Wood looked like he was in a state of Rapture. The world famous Harry Potter, not only on the Quidditch team, but in his first year?
"Ever seen a game of Quidditch, Potter?" He asked gently, as if worried that this miraculous new seeker was just a mirage to be blown away if he breathed too hard.
"Wood's captain of the Quidditch team." McGonagall explained.
"I've read a lot about it, and I know most of the rules. Catch the snitch, game ends, get 150 points, and no using a sword to decapitate the opposition." Harry said calmly, hoping that they would assume that the child in front of them had read some books on the subject, instead of wondering whether he was a time traveller or not.
"Brilliant!" Wood beamed, looking down with pride at his newest team-mate. "He's just the right build for Seeker, too. Light – speedy – we'll have to get him a decent broom, Professor – a Cleansweep Seven, or even the new Nimbus, if he can afford one."
McGonagall cleared her throat, hoping to cut Wood off from the speech he was clearly ready to spew. "I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore and see if we can't bend the first year rule. It's really to protect the first years from hurting themselves at tryouts, but with Mr. Potter here I doubt we'll be in too much trouble. Heaven knows, we need a better team than last year. Flattened in that last match by Slytherin. I couldn't look Severus in the face for weeks…"
McGonagall peered over her glasses at Harry. "I want to hear you're traing hard, Potter, or I may change my mind about punishing you." She smiled to show it was a joke, before continuing. "Your father would have been proud. He was an excellent Quidditch player himself."