Harry munched on a piece of toast, spirits lower than when he'd awoken that morning. Sirius hadn't responded to his letter yet, and Harry was anxious to speak with him.
Harry was also a bit grumpy because of the constant attention he was receiving. Whispers followed him wherever he went. It also certainly didn't help that his name and face were splashed across the front of that morning's edition of the Daily Prophet.
SIRIUS BLACK CLEARED OF ALL CRIMES - PETER PETTIGREW SENT TO AZKABAN
The picture beneath it cut between a smartly dressed Sirius, and the courtroom from yesterday's trial, where Harry stood giving testimony and Pettigrew writhed in chains.
Hermione, who was sitting opposite him, cleared her throat, "Harry?"
Harry looked up at her. She'd been sitting quietly for a while now, and it was clear her impatience and curiosity had finally bubbled over. "Is it true, what they're saying in the paper, that you met Sirius Black before Hogwarts when he was still a convict?"
A radius of those within hearing distance of Hermione's question quite unsubtly stopped their conversations to listen in.
Harry sighed. "Yes, that is true."
"Is all of it true then?" She asked, looking a bit flustered.
"I don't know." He replied. "I haven't read the article. I'm sure they've at least exaggerated some of it, though."
He actually had read it, looking for any comment on what Sirius had done after the trial. It was generally accurate, if a bit flowery in their description of Harry's clear emotional and 'sweetly brave' performance. But Harry supposed he'd rather that sort of article than the slander he'd learnt to expect.
"Don't you think that was quite a dangerous thing to do? Take the word of a convict?" Hermione continued, looking upset.
Ron scoffed, "He was telling the truth. So what's the big deal?"
Hermione looked like she was going to argue but settled for a sigh.
Ron, through some bacon he'd just forked into his mouth, leaned over to Neville, "What you got there?"
Neville was unwrapping a parcel that had arrived with the post. He ripped the last layer of paper off and a round glass ball rolled onto the table.
"That's a Remembrall." Seamus perked up. "Why'd someone send you one of those, Neville?"
"Gran sent it to me," Neville said. "I'm quite forgetful at home."
"What does it do?" Hermione asked.
"It's meant to tell you if you've forgotten something," said Ron.
The ball turned red.
"The problem is," Neville said, "I can't remember what it is I've forgotten."
Neville passed round the Remembrall. With the exception of Hermione, they all turned the ball red.
Harry stared at the red cloud pulsing within the glass orb in his hand. He wondered what he was forgetting.
The sound of heels on the flagstone floor behind them interrupted their conversation.
"Good morning to you all," McGonagall's terse tone came from behind Harry.
He turned and was handed a scroll of parchment.
"Your timetables. Make sure to ask an upper-year if you are not sure of directions. Tardiness has no excuse here at Hogwarts."
Ron and Neville shared an anxious look, and Hermione looked pleased.
"Thanks, Professor," they all chimed. Harry looked down at his own parchment. Double Transfiguration this morning, followed by flying lessons. Potions in the afternoon. All of them with Slytherin.
"Now don't tarry too long, my class starts in fifteen minutes." McGonagall gave them a small nod and walked further down the table to hand out more timetables.
"I'm going to get going," said Hermione, picking up her satchel from below the table. "You might want to leave now too, Ron. I notice you didn't bring your books with you."
Ron looked at her with wide eyes. "Oh no!"
Harry grinned, "If you run, you should be able to make it in time."
"Have you all got yours?" Ron asked, climbing over the bench.
Harry lifted the strap of his bag to show him. Neville and Seamus both nodded, looking regretful.
"Right, well see you in a bit." Ron rushed off.
"We'll come with you, Hermione." Harry said, standing too. "Just in case we can't find the way." Harry was thinking more of Neville at this. If Seamus hadn't nudged the boy, he'd have forgotten to pick up his Remembrall.
Hermione led Harry, Neville, and Seamus to the Transfiguration classroom. A few students had already arrived including Dean, Parvati, Daphne, and Tracy.
McGonagall wasn't there yet, but it wasn't too long until a silver tabby cat was slinking through the door. She jumped neatly from the floor and onto the desk.
A few glances were exchanged but the low chatter continued.
The remaining students eventually trickled in, including a red-faced, huffing Ron, who sat down just as the bell rang for nine o'clock.
The cat stepped off the desk, flowing like liquid into the severe visage of Professor McGonagall. Ron, who was still in the motion of sitting, failed to notice, and shouted when he looked up to see McGonagall's stern expression.
"A moment later and you would have earned yourself a detention, Mr Weasley," she said, peering over her rectangular glasses.
"W-What was that, Professor? One minute you weren't here and the next moment you were. What—"
"Perhaps, if you are more punctual next time, you will be able to find out why," she cut him off, flicking her wand at the blackboard behind her.
'Transfiguration' appeared in precise cursive strokes.
"The art of transfiguration," she began, walking back behind her desk, "is powerful and exact. It requires your utmost focus and attention. You can do anything, from what I demonstrated a few moments ago, to this…"
She thrust her wand upwards and the chandelier above their heads transformed into an enormous, wire-frame dragon that filled the vaulted ceiling above their heads, claws screeching along the stone to maintain its grip.
Another flick of her wand and the chandelier fell back into place, the chain making a whipping sound as it went taut.
A few students had screamed and Crabbe had fallen backwards over his chair. McGonagall allowed a few moments for the class to settle before pointing to Lavender's raised hand.
"Yes, Miss Brown."
"The flying Monkey on the lake, was that transfiguration too?"
McGonagall's mouth formed a thin smile. "Yes. Another demonstration of what Transfiguration is capable of if you devote yourself to its study."
The class looked at McGonagall in awe.
"All great journeys start small," she said, and with a wave of her wand, matchsticks appeared before each of them. "As for your first step, you will be turning matchsticks into needles."
Harry looked at his matchstick happily. Transfiguration was going to be a nice change from some of his other subjects. He was deeply uncomfortable with the amount of attention he was receiving for his Patronus; as if it wasn't bad enough that he was going to have to suck it up for charms and potions because of his odd relationship with Professor Snape. Harry settled into his chair with a content smile. In Transfiguration, as compensation, in a way, Harry was determined to be mediocre.
When McGonagall had finished her lecture on theory and the spell they were to cast, Harry stared down at his matchstick, trying to remember how he'd got the spell wrong his first time around. He was pretty sure nobody had managed the transfiguration in the first lesson, at the very least. A wooden needle then, perhaps, with the grain clearly visible. That was probably a mediocre attempt.
He waited until Ron, Dean and a few others had started their first attempts before channelling the magic. As he expected, the match transformed into a wooden needle. Harry sat back, but kept a look of concentration on his face as he waited for McGonagall to get to his desk.
"Not quite, Mr Potter." McGonagall leaned over his shoulder, peering at his attempt. "Focus, and intent." She placed a few more matches down on his table. "Keep trying."
She moved on and Harry took his time transfiguring the rest into the same mediocre mix of match and needle.
It wasn't long until McGonagall was making the rounds again.
"Excellent job, Miss Granger. Two points for Gryffindor."
Harry smiled, until McGonagall's shadow fell across his own desk.
"Are these your best attempts, Mr Potter?" McGonagall asked, clearly a bit disappointed.
Harry glanced at her, looking quite contrite.
"Yes, Professor. I can't quite figure it out."
McGonagall made a "Hmm" sound as she peered at his work. She straightened and moved on to Dean.
Only a few minutes later the bell rang and McGonagall walked back to the front of the class.
"Pack your things away, all of you. Now, I know you all must be be quite excited for your flying lesson, but make sure you pay careful attention to Madam Hooch." She gave them a stern look as they began filing out of the room.
"Not you, Mr Potter," McGonagall called. His head whipped up to meet her gaze. She indicated for him to come to the front.
"I'd like to speak to you in my office, please, Mr Potter."
Harry shared a glance with Ron and Neville, who were lingering by the door. He shrugged.
"Don't worry, Mr Weasley, Mr Longbottom. I shan't keep him long."
Ron gave an apologetic look and they both ducked out of the room.
Harry followed McGonagall to her office and tried to still his racing thoughts. He pondered what this might be about. He'd done nothing wrong as far as he could remember, but a niggling anxiety told him he was about to be punished regardless.
"Take a seat, Mr Potter," McGonagall said as she moved over to a teapot on a small table. She poured two cups into mint-coloured mugs and placed one in front of him.
As she sat down on the other side, she turned her attention fully towards him.
Harry shifted nervously in his seat.
"I have asked you here for two reasons, Mr Potter."
She let him stew for a few seconds before she continued, "I am very saddened that you thought to deceive me."
Harry choked on his tea.
"Professor?"
Her mouth was a thin line. "I have seen it before, and I'm not so easy to trick. Your best attempts at transfiguring the matchsticks into needles this morning showed a suspiciously uniform consistency."
McGonagall placed down his six wooden needles with a snap on the desk between them.
"All of these are the exact same failed attempt, Mr Potter, which tells me one thing— this was no failure. If you had been trying, each one would be at least slightly different."
With another snap she placed down a match, a new one this time.
"Transfigure this for me, Mr Potter. Into a proper needle, this time."
Harry reluctantly pulled out his wand, and tapped the matchstick. The match shrivelled until a perfectly thin, silver needle rolled across the desk.
McGonagall considered him. "As I said, I have seen this before," she paused, "often in students from— less than ideal home circumstances."
Harry fought down a blush that threatened to rise to his cheeks. How did McGonagall— ah, Snape. Or actually, Harry thought, it could be what he'd said in the trial. McGonagall hadn't been present but the Daily Prophet had spared no detail in that morning's edition. Despite his embarrassment, Harry breathed a sigh of relief. It was funny, almost, that McGonagall had uncovered his deception, but had misunderstood his true motivation so entirely.
"Mr Potter, I want to be clear." Harry looked up at her. "Here at Hogwarts you do not have to limit yourself for the sake of others' approval. It is not in the nature of your new house to hide talent, or deceive on account of timidity."
She peered over her glasses at him. "You don't come across, to me, as a timid person, Mr Potter."
It was phrased as a statement but felt more like a question. Harry shook his head, "No, Professor."
"Three points from Gryffindor for this mistake, Mr Potter."
Harry grimaced, but it was better than it could have been.
"And on the topic of your timidity, **or lack thereof, I should say, I would like to speak to you about the Patronus charm you performed on the train."
"Ah," Harry said. He hadn't been looking forward to explaining that any further, "well, you see—"
"Ten points to Gryffindor."
McGonagall laughed at Harry's shocked expression. "Did you expect me to deduct points for this, Mr Potter? No. This is precisely the sort of outstanding, bold behaviour that will see you rewarded at Hogwarts."
She stood from her chair, and Harry got to his feet, too, still a bit in shock.
"Now, I believe I have kept you long enough. I don't want you to be late for your flying lesson." She peered out of her window. "It looks like Madam Hooch is still setting up, so you should make it just fine."
"Thank you, Professor." Harry said, not knowing quite what else to say in response to that conversation.
As he was leaving, McGonagall called out after him, "And Mr Potter?"
Harry turned around, "Yes, Professor?"
"I will be checking with your other professors to ensure you are applying yourself in all of your other classes, too."
Harry groaned internally. "Okay, Professor. Thank you."
McGonagall's lips turned up into a small smile. "Off you go then, Potter."
Harry adjusted his bag on his shoulder and scurried off down the hall.
Harry just about made it onto the quad in time for Madam Hooch's loud announcement, "Gather up, all of you, and stand next to a broom."
Harry dumped his bag on the floor and picked a broom in-between Neville and Ron.
"Right!" Madam Hooch shouted. "The first step of flying is controlling your broom. If you can't get it into your hands, you certainly can't trust it to keep you in the sky."
Harry looked down at the broom beneath him, wiggling his fingers in anticipation. He could almost feel it calling to him. Urging him to take it up into the sky. Harry listened to Madam Hooch with a fond nostalgia. He had really missed flying.
"…and command the broom, 'up', into your hand. Give it a try now," Madam Hooch finished explaining.
A chorus of 'up's rang out. It took about five minutes before everyone managed to get a broom into their hands.
"Very good, everyone. Now, we are going to practice simply hovering above the ground for a few seconds and returning to the ground. Mount your brooms and await my instructions."
Harry swung his leg over his broom and readied himself. As he listened for Madam Hooch's command, a feeling came across him that made him frown. Was he forgetting something?
"On the count of three, lift off the ground gently. No higher than one or two feet. Okay? One, two—"
A shout from his left drew Harry's attention and stopped Madam Hooch's counting. Neville was rising rapidly, lurching from side to side on his broom.
Harry reached out to try and grab him but he was too late. Neville was quickly climbing five, ten, fifteen feet in the air.
"Mr Longbottom!" Madam Hooch called. "Come back down this instant!"
Harry remembered. This was the lesson where Neville had broken his wrist.
Harry gripped his broom and kicked off the ground, ignoring the shouts of Madam Hooch to get back down.
Neville was like a rogue bludger, weaving around chaotically, picking up speed. Harry flew around him, shouting out instructions to Neville to try and help him steady the broom, but it was to no avail. Neville suddenly lurched upwards, his broom corkscrewing into the air. Harry yanked the handle of his broom up and matched Neville's sudden speed. At this point, they were racing up the side of the astronomy tower, which was blurring by like a cobbled road beneath Harry's feet.
Neville's broom made a sudden and violent turn, ricocheting off the side of the tower. Harry heard Neville's broom snap, and he had to swerve to the side in order to avoid the splintered wood.
Harry's heart lurched in his chest as he heard the muffled shout of "Harry!" over the scream of the wind in his ears. Neville plummeted past him and Harry performed perhaps the fastest u-turn of his life, urging his broom straight down, as fast as he could.
The ground was just a green blur in the distance as Harry sped towards it, Neville's tumbling form growing closer and closer. He pulled parallel to Neville and rotated around him until he was close enough for Neville to notice and pull himself onto the broom behind him. Neville gripped him like a vice as screamed into Harry's ear, "Harry, the ground!"
Harry was aware of the rapidly approaching ground, but just in front of him his eyes had caught onto a glint. Nevilles Remembrall was falling ahead of them, just beyond Harry's fingers. At that point, there was little Harry could do to stop himself. The muscle memory was just too strong.
"Harryyyy!" Neville screamed once again in his ear.
Harry's hand clutched onto the Remembrall and he pulled up sharply. They levelled out along the grass and Harry felt it brushing the bottom of his feet. He whooped, grinning as the adrenaline coursed through him.
He came to a gentle stop near to where the rest of their class was gathered, mouths agape, or shouting.
Harry grinned and laughed at Ron's exclamation that he'd never seen something so cool. Hermione looked equal parts scandalised and impressed. Even Draco had given a brief clap as he'd landed.
Madam Hooch, however, looked furious. She stormed over and wrenched the broom from Harry's grip, as if the mere proximity to Neville would cause him to fly off once again.
"I just cannot believe the nerve…" she trailed off, clearly lost for words. "When Professor McGonagall hears about this—"
"That's quite alright, Madam Hooch." Harry whipped around to see McGonagall stop just behind them.
"There will be no need to explain anything, I saw everything quite well from my office."
The class had quietened at the arrival of the head of Gryffindor house, and she surveyed them all before looking back at Harry and Neville.
"Now please, Mr Potter. If you'd come with me?"
Harry turned to Neville and passed him his Remembrall, which remained a cloudy red for both of them. "You alright, Neville?"
Neville laughed, nervously. "Yeah, I think so."
Madam Hooch, however, was taking no chances. "Madam Pomfrey will be the judge of that, Longbottom."
As they got far enough away that nobody else could hear, McGonagall turned to him.
"Ten points to Gryffindor."
Harry looked at her in surprise.
"Yes, ten points, Mr Potter, for so excellently saving Mr Longbottom from a horrendous fall," she paused, smiling, "And for the best executed Wronski Feint I have ever witnessed in these grounds."
Harry grinned.
Harry followed McGonagall back into the castle to see Wood and be instated — reinstated? — on the Gryffindor team. Wood was as crazy as Harry remembered, making Harry promise to join him for one-on-one practice that evening.
As McGonagall was dismissing him to go to lunch, she smiled at him, approvingly, and said, "That certainly was not timid. Well done, Mr Potter."
Harry lined up outside the potions class with the rest of Gryffindor and Slytherin. Neville was back from the hospital wing, having suffered no injury. This time, apparently, Harry's appointment to the Gryffindor Quidditch team was no secret, so Harry shouldered the back slaps and hushed praise from his classmates, which quietened as Draco came up to him.
"Heard you made the Quidditch team, Potter."
Harry nodded, cautiously.
"You better enjoy this year while the competition is easy. I'll make the Slytherin team next year, no problem."
Harry smirked. "I look forward to it."
Draco gave a satisfied nod and walked back to his friends just as Snape opened the door and ushered them in.
The dungeon room was as cold and dim as Harry remembered. Jars filled with all sorts of leaves, stones, and pickled oddities crowded the shelves along the walls. Bracketed torches at the back and front of the room gave it the feel of a cave.
Snape stood at the front of the class, robes dark and face cast in shadow.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class. As such, I don't expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science of potion making. However, for those of you who possess the pre-disposition, I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses; I can tell you how to brew glory, bottle fame, and even put a stopper in death. Then again," Snape intoned, stopping right in front of Neville, "perhaps some of you might be more interested in how to stay close to the ground, rather than risk the lofty heights or this noble discipline."
"Potter," Snape snapped, swivelling on his heel to face him, "Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry considered, "Draught of living death, Professor."
Snape nodded, turning back around. "Longbottom, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Neville stuttered out, "Uh, t—there is no difference, both are names for the same plant."
"Otherwise known as Aconite. Yes."
Snape paused, turning, finally, to Draco.
"Mr Malfoy, please enlighten us, where should I look if I wished to find a bezoar?"
Malfoy brushed non existent dust from his desk. "The stomach of a goat, Professor."
Apart from Hermione, whose hand had been raised since the first question, the rest of the class looked quite intimidated by the relentless questioning.
Snape seemed to read the room similarly and spoke, softly, "I called on Misters Potter, Longbottom, and Malfoy because I was confident in their knowledge, and for the rest of you, as a demonstration of the knowledge I will expect moving forward."
He looked at each of them, "Why? You may think. My study of charms does not require me to know the purpose of the wand movement in the levitation spell. Nor, do I need to know the etymology of the Latin to cast expecto patronum. Snape looked at Harry, along with half of the class.
"But potion making is an exact science." Snape gestured to Harry. "Should Mr Potter fail to understand the preservative properties of wormwood, he might feel no alarm when he accidentally uses twice the recommended measurement in his, surely harmless, Boil-Cure potion. But, as any who have studied the Draught of Living Death will know, even the slightest adjunction of wormwood to the recommended balance will change a dreamless sleep into a dreamless coma."
Several students who had been sitting perhaps a bit casually sat up straight at that statement.
Snape moved on, gesturing to Neville. "Let us say that Mr Longbottom was not so familiar with his herbs, and upon reading the required ingredient, monkshood, was surprised when no jar in his cupboard was labelled as such. Perhaps he would think the instructions in error, and rather than look for wolfsbane reach instead for monkswood."
Neville, on hearing this, snickered.
Snape raised an eyebrow and asked, "You seem to be aware what this particular mistake would produce, Mr Longbottom?"
Neville smiled nervously, "Well, monkswood is used mostly in… hair loss balms."
Snape smiled thinly, "Quite, Mr Longbottom. Now imagine you are attempting to brew a dreamless sleep potion for your mother, but, because of your carelessness, instead of waking from a peaceful nights sleep, she wakes up to the nightmare of a bald head."
The class snickered, but a few people looked quite disturbed. Lavender clutched her braids as if she was afraid they would fall off there and then.
Finally Snape turned to Draco. "And Mr Malfoy, if, despite all my warnings about the importance of precision, one of your classmates carelessly manages to poison themselves, what would you use to save them from certain death?"
The class was completely silent as Draco answered, "A bezoar, Professor."
Snape nodded approvingly. "Yes, though you need not conjure a goat to find one in my classroom. I keep a jar of bezoars within easy reach, on my desk," Snape pointed behind him to the very jar.
Snape clapped his hands, not that he needed to capture their attention any further.
"Today we will be brewing the Boil-Cure Potion. The instructions are on the board. If you do not understand something, then I recommend you actually read my recommended list instead of badgering me in class while I make sure you don't blow yourselves up."
Snape gestured to his right. "Ingredients are in the cupboard. Begin."
Harry made sure to be among the first of his peers to reach the cupboard. From what he remembered Snape saying on their trip to Diagon Alley last month, poxy roots with pink pigmentation, rather than red, was a key contributor to a successful Boil-Cure Potion.
He settled back down at his workstation and prepared the ingredients with as much precision as he could. Being honest, Harry found it a very easy potion. He'd been brewing potions for five years and the simple skills of cutting, crushing, and following instructions carefully were all that was required for the Boil-Cure Potion to come out perfect.
Snape didn't make a single comment on Harry's potion as he passed around the room. Even more surprising was the lack of attention he seemed to pay Neville.
At one point, Ron's potion began to bubble over and Snape swooped over and vanished the contents with a flick. "Start again, Mr Weasley. You can finish in detention if you cannot finish before the end of class."
Ron didn't make a mistake the second time round.
Class was soon over and Harry wiped down his cauldron and tools before packing everything away. He was just moving to leave with the last few of his class when Snape called out to him, "Mr Potter, a word in my office please."
Harry restrained a groan. This was becoming a pattern.
When the rest of the class had emptied out, Snape led Harry down the corridor to his office, which looked like a small potions classroom itself. Snape's personal store, which Harry was quite familiar with, was locked behind sturdy wooden doors.
Harry sat down, unsure what he was doing here but, at this point, resigned to the process.
"I am satisfied with your first foray into potions, Mr Potter. I am glad that it seems you listened to my recommendations on our trip to Diagon Alley."
Harry made to say thank you but Snape cut him off. "However, I did not invite you here to praise your good sense, quite the opposite, in fact."
Harry furrowed his brow, unsure about what exactly he'd done to draw Professor Snape's ire.
"Amidst your remaining month at the Dursleys did it occur to you even once that it might be a good idea to Owl me?"
Harry blinked. "The Dursleys were behaving quite-"
"Sirius Black visited you, Mr Potter." Snape snapped at him. "And you did not think to Owl me even as a precaution? I suspected you might follow your parents into Gryffindor, but I did not think you had inherited such a complete foolishness."
Harry sat back, fighting the urge to respond angrily. Of course, Harry had known Sirius was innocent. However, he could hardly tell Snape that. Harry supposed that to someone who didn't know all the stuff he did, his decision would come across as quite ridiculous. His indignation slowly deflated.
Snape sighed. "I am aware, as you know, of your home situation. I am, therefore, also aware, Mr Potter, of what Sirius Black represents to you."
He held Harry's gaze, "While certainly a mistake, I can forgive this one occasion on account of your youth and inexperience in these things. However, in the future I expect a wiser approach."
Snape leaned back. "As I told you before, should you need it, you just have to contact me."
Harry doubted that Snape would have offered a measured and reasonable response to knowing Sirius Black had contacted him. However, Harry appreciated the sentiment.
A knock at the door interrupted Harry's reply.
Professor Quirrell stepped into the office and stopped, seeing Harry seated.
"Ah, Professor Quirrell— our new celebrity." Snape drawled. Harry felt like a fish caught between two sharks as Snape's mocking tone invited a sharp smile from Quirrell.
Snape continued, "It seems you have made quite the impression on our students already. I've heard from my seventh years that you took them outside to demonstrate the spell you used against the giant squid. They were most impressed."
Quirrell laughed. "Yes, well I thought it would do them good to see what magic looks like when from one who has sought power," he paused, "And found it."
Snape's eyes narrowed. "If you were hoping to talk to me, perhaps I should let Mr Potter here head to dinner. I was just congratulating him on making the Quidditch team at such a prodigious age."
Harry swivelled back to face Quirrell, who was appraising him with a raised eyebrow. "Prodigious indeed. I won't keep you, Professor, I will simply return another time. Good day, Mr Potter." Quirrell turned sharply, and Harry winced at a sharp pain in his scar. The door swung closed.
Harry turned back to Professor Snape, a disturbed look on his face. He was quite unsettled by Quirrell this time around. He was different, almost completely so, from what Harry could recall of the stuttering man. There was little stuttering now, much more competence and false charm.
Harry looked up to see Professor Snape studying his face.
"You have good instincts, Mr Potter." Snape said, and Harry wasn't sure whether he was referring to Quirrell, or back to their conversation about Sirius Black.
"It is getting late, so you'd better get yourself to dinner. Good luck with the upcoming Quidditch match. You'll have your work cut out for you against the Slytherin team."
Harry nodded his thanks, picking up his bag and heading out the door. Snape's well wishes and Quirrell's unsettling visit had reminded him of something: his first every Quidditch match back in his first year. Quirrell had tried to kill him and Professor Snape has saved his life. Harry had an uncomfortable flashback to a few minutes prior, being sat between the tense verbal showdown of Quirrell and Snape. It seemed to capture the unenviable place that Harry found himself in, wondering how he could possibly prevent the same thing happening again.
As Harry walked into the great hall his mind went back to breakfast and the red mist of the Remembrall. He wondered if there was anything else he was forgetting.