The first practice of the term was cold, but Harry hardly noticed. Harry had spent weeks thinking about this moment. It would be his first flight on his Firebolt. His first opportunity to show Flint that grounding him was a mistake. His chance to show that the seeker position belonged to him.

Flint had other ideas.

"Potter, line up at chaser."

"Why?"

"Malfoy is playing seeker against Ravenclaw. He needs to practice. That puts us down a chaser for our drills." Flint clasped his hands together as if he were pleading, and his voice filled with yearning. "If only we had another player on the team, a player who wouldn't be playing seeker against Ravenclaw, a player who could rescue us by lining up as chaser for our drills."

"I get it, Flint."

Flint's voice became hard. "Then line up at chaser, and stop asking stupid questions."

Harry lined up where he was told and began running through the passing and shooting drills with Flint, Pucey, Warrington and Montague. Harry's Firebolt flew like a dream. It accelerated smoothly and quickly, and braked almost as easily. The turning was crisp and controlled, and at top speed the Firebolt left the Slytherin Nimbus 2001s in its wake.

But chasers are not made by brooms alone. Harry's was not nearly as strong as Flint or Pucey, and his passes and shots were far slower. Harry compared slightly better against Warrington and Montague, but his shots and passes were still the slowest on the team by a clear margin. Harry surprised himself, however, with the accuracy of his passing and shooting in the complex chaser drills. All his passes were caught easily, and all his shots made it through the hoops. And catching the quaffle was no problem, compared to the tiny, elusive snitch.

After a break for water, Flint arranged a three-on-two drill. Flint, Pucey and Montague, who was replacing Draco as a seeker for the Ravenclaw match, would attack the rings with the quaffle. Harry and Warrington would try to defend as opposing chasers.

The first two times through the drill, Harry was badly out of position, and Flint's team scored easily. In the next three attempts, Harry started to understand his defensive positioning much better. Flint's team still scored, but it was significantly more difficult.

To begin the sixth attempt, Flint started with the quaffle, lining up to Harry's right, across from Warrington. As Flint began flying toward the rings, Harry could suddenly see. It was as if he had been viewing the field through a fog, but the fog had suddenly lifted. Harry could see how Flint's ability to shoot would force Warrington to overcommit to the right, isolating Harry between Pucey and Montague. Harry could see how Montague's larger body would make him a slower flyer than Pucey—Harry would have to cover Pucey to prevent him from using his speed to get close to the rings. Meanwhile, Montague, trailing behind, would be more likely to receive the pass from Flint.

As Flint flew forward, Warrington moved closer to Flint. Harry drifted backwards, staying between Flint and Pucey. Warrington moved aggressively toward Flint, forcing Flint to pass or shoot. Flint was too far from the rings to score on a keeper of Bletchley's caliber—he had to pass. As Flint pulled back his arm, Harry darted forward. Flint hurled the quaffle at Montague, but Harry was there already, yanking the quaffle out of the air and continuing between Flint and Montague, as if attacking the opposing rings.

Playing defense was suddenly easy for Harry. It was as if he could see a step ahead of whatever Flint thinking. If Pucey had the quaffle, Harry was three steps ahead; against Montague, Harry was five. Harry tore through their offense like a dervish, intercepting passes, blocking shots, disrupting plays, and generally preventing anybody from scoring. Flint and Pucey began taking difficult shots from bad angles, and Bletchly easily made the saves. What had started as an easy drill had quickly become impossible.

Flint became frustrated. Slytherin had dominated the quidditch cup for several years, so Flint becoming frustrated didn't happen often. But when it did, there was hell to pay. Flint called for another water break.

"We're shuffling positions in the drill," Flint said. "Potter, you're on offense with Montague and Warrington. Pucey and I are on defense."

Harry glanced at Warrington and Montague. Their biggest advantage was their size; Warrington and Montague were large, but that also made them slow. Even with greater numbers, Harry knew that his team would struggle to score.

As Flint lined up across from Harry to start the drill, Harry realized that the positioning was no accident. Flint was glowering, irritated by his poor performance in the previous drill. Clearly, Flint was preparing going to take out his frustration on Harry.

Harry smiled. If that's the way Flint wanted it, Harry was willing to oblige. This was nothing new to Harry, who had spent years as the target of the Dursleys' displaced anger. If Flint wanted to start venting frustration, Harry would be happy to reciprocate; Harry had plenty of pent up frustration from spending weeks on the ground without a broom.

As the drill began, Warrington and Montague passed the quaffle among themselves. Harry flew quickly toward the rings, and Flint drifted backward slightly, giving ground in order to prevent Harry from passing him. When Flint glanced away to check on the quaffle, Harry rammed his Firebolt to full speed and zipped past his distracted captain. Harry raised a hand, and Montague lobbed the quaffle forward. Harry caught the quaffle and was left all alone, only Bletchly to beat in order to score.

Harry reared back for a shot. Bletchly floated outward, making himself appear larger and cutting down Harry's shooting angles. Harry took his shot, throwing the quaffle at the far right ring, twisting his wrist as he released. Bletchley moved to make the save, but the quaffle passed by his outstretched hands.

Bletchley had a bad habit of taunting opposing chasers by smiling when they missed shots or he made a save. The smile on Bletchley face was as big as Harry had ever seen; the keeper knew that Harry's shot was aimed wide. But Bletchley was so busy smiling that he didn't see Harry's shot begin to curve, moving closer and closer and closer to the ring…

Behind Bletchley, there was a hollow wooden "thunk." Bletchley looked over his shoulder just in time to see Harry's shot fall through the ring for a score. When Bletchley turned back, Harry was the one smiling.

Harry, Warrington and Montague didn't score on every attempt, but they scored more often than they didn't. Harry's passes weren't the fastest, but they were always on target. His shots weren't the hardest, but they dipped and curved and generally went where Harry wanted them. And Harry always seemed to be in the right position to receive a pass, especially when Warrington or Montague got cornered by the defenders.

Flint finally called an end to the drill. All five Slytherin chasers were breathing hard from their efforts.

Harry landed next to the water cauldron, and Flint landed roughly next to him.

"Potter, I don't like you making a fool of me."

"What?" Harry had no idea what Flint meant. He had done well in that drill, but Flint certainly hadn't looked foolish.

"Where the hell did that flying come from? And don't say it's your Firebolt, either. No broom does that much."

"I'm just running the drill, Flint."

"The hell you were. I've seen you run chaser drills in the fall, this year and last. You were garbage, Potter."

"So? You're angry that I got better? Isn't that why we practice?"

Flint reached out and grabbed the front of Harry's robes. Flint jerked Harry closer and snarled in Harry's face. "There's no way you improved that much. You were sandbagging at tryouts, Potter."

"Wait. You think I'm good at playing chaser?"

"I get it, Potter. You and Malfoy, you're the same. You both want to be seeker. You want the glory. Chaser isn't good enough. So you fly like you can't play Chaser at tryouts. You make me think that you're a seeker or you're nothing." Flint pushed Harry away. "You'll play where I tell you to play."

"What does it look like I'm doing!?" Harry threw his arms out to his sides.

"Sandbag me again, and you won't play at all," Flint said. The older boy jumped onto his broom and shot into the air.

Harry looked around. Pucey was standing nearby.

"What was that about?" Harry asked.

"Come on, Potter. Flint's right. It takes a lot of nerve to hide that sort of skill from your teammates."

"You're both serious." Harry was astounded. "You think I'm a good chaser? You've seen me run solo drills before. I'm rubbish!"

"Potter, the way you played today? You could be a starting chaser on any team in the school. Including this one." Pucey hopped onto his broom and followed Flint into the air.

After a moment, Harry joined them. The joy of being back on a broom, though, was gone.

*!*!*!*!

Harry collapsed into a chair in Lupin's office, automatically taking the chocolate his professor was offering him. His anti-dementor lessons were going terribly—he was only able to produce a feeble white mist, and never consistently. Even against a simple boggart, his Patronus charm was feeble.

"I heard my father, that time," Harry said.

"You heard… James?" Professor Lupin asked, a strange look on his face.

"It's getting worse," Harry said. He was developing a headache; he pinched his nose and clamped his eyes shut. "I'm hearing more and more of their voices from the night they died."

Lupin shook himself, as if he was physically ridding himself of the thought of death. "You shouldn't be frustrated," Lupin said. "This charm is well beyond O.W.L. level, and you're casting it well enough to stop a dementor from attacking you."

"But I need to drive them away," said Harry. "Keeping a dementor five feet away from me is just a great way to get exhausted."

"It also buys you enough time to land your broom if you are attacked during a quidditch match." Professor Lupin reached into his briefcase and removed two bottles of butterbeer. "Here, I brought you a little something to help cheer you up."

"What's this?" Harry recognized the drink as butterbeer, but pretended otherwise. Accidentally revealing to a professor that he had been sneaking to Hogsmeade would be something only a Gryffindor would do.

"Butterbeer," said Lupin. "You can get it at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, once you have permission to go. I brought some back for you after holidays." Lupin handed Harry a bottle, and then raised his own. "To a Slytherin victory over Ravenclaw. Words I thought I would never say…"

Harry sipped at his butterbeer quietly for several moments. "Professor, did you know my parents?"

Lupin raised his eyebrows. "Yes, Harry, I did. What makes you ask?"

"You seem about the right age, and you were surprised when I mentioned my dad's name earlier tonight… and your toast made it sound like you were in Gryffindor."

"You're quite perceptive, Harry," Lupin said. "Although, I guess I should expect that, taking your house into account." Lupin's voice was gentle, but Harry could hear the unspoken words: Since you're a Slytherin. "Yes, I knew your parents. I was closer to your father than your mother, but I knew them both." Lupin paused, considering his next words. "Harry, has anyone ever told you that you look like your father?"

Harry nodded. "But with my mother's eyes."

"It's true," Lupin said. "You could never forget Lily's eyes." There was a long silence after Lupin's words. Harry was the next to speak.

"Then… you must have known Sirius Black, too."

"We thought we knew him, Harry. We were wrong." After a beat, Professor Lupin stood. "Why don't we leave things here, for the night. You have a quidditch match this weekend, so we'll resume next week."

"No, I don't," said Harry. "Flint cut me from the team until I can learn the Patronus charm. He says he can't afford to lose a game."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Harry. You are like your father in many ways, and your dedication to quidditch is one of them. We'll have you casting this charm before you know it, and you'll be back on your broom where you belong."

"Thanks, Professor."