CRUNCH.

"IT'S COMING BACK! IT'S COMING BACK!" shrieked Malfoy.

"SHUT UP, I THINK IT CAN HEAR YOU!" bellowed Ron. Another CRASH and the windshield shattered, sending glass everywhere.

"WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIIIIIE!" Draco screamed.

"Reverse the car! REVERSE THE CAR!" Harry yelled.

"THE ENGINE'S DEAD!"

"NO IT'S NOT!" Sure enough, the car had roared to life. Ron jammed the gear into place and the car shot backward. Harry could hear the murderous tree almost tearing itself up by the roots to get at them.

With a roar and a clatter and what sounded like a fine Fred-and-George-style explosion, the car gave one last push in reverse and then stopped flat, just out of the reach of the tree, blasting foul-smelling fumes of exhaust and spoiled magic.

"Are we alive?" moaned Draco.

The car had reached the end of its tether. Harry felt himself be forcibly ejected, and then he heard a thump that meant it had spit out his luggage as well. Dented, scratched, and steaming, the car rumbled off into the darkness, its rear lights blazing angrily.

"I hope so," muttered Harry. "I'd hate to think this was the afterlife."

"Hey, come back! Dad'll kill me!" Ron ran a few steps after the car, waving his arms frantically, but the car disappeared without so much as a backward glance (if cars could glance).

Draco lay on his back, eyes closed, breathing heavily, as if trying to collect himself before exploding. Ron trudged back, swearing, and scooped up Scabbers, who was dealing with the stress of almost dying by taking a nap.

"Can you believe our luck?" he said. "Of all the trees we could've hit, we got one that hits back…Malfoy, bloody hell, stand up, we've got to get up to the castle."

Draco opened his eyes very slowly, raised himself up on his elbows, and glared at Ron.

"I am trying," he said, icily, "to recuperate. Whose astronomically idiotic idea was it to take the flying car instead of, I don't know, sending an owl?!"

"That's a good point," said Harry. "Why didn't we send an owl?"

Ron shrugged. "Think of the story we'll be able to tell our grandchildren," he said.

"We almost didn't have a chance to have grandchildren!" snapped Draco, grabbing his wand from where it had fallen and sweeping grandly to his feet. "And another thing—how do you propose we move all of these trunks all the way up there?" He pointed to the lighted castle, which suddenly seemed very far away indeed.

"It's called carrying, Malfoy. I understand in your family it's mostly done by slaves, at least, if your grasshopper arms are any indication."

"Bit rich coming from the grasshopper king himself, Weasley…"

"Oi!" Harry snapped, suddenly absolutely fed up. "I have listened to you two sniping at each other for an entire dehydrated, unpleasant, cold, acrophobic's nightmare of a journey, and I am tired of it. If you two can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all. Right? Right."

Silence for a moment. Then: "Am I supposed to carry all my trunks myself?" Draco asked sullenly.

"Yes."

"But…"

"No whinging."

"By myself?"

"Yes."

"Me personally?"

"Unless you can figure out a way to get your house-elf here to carry them for you."

"But…oh! Good idea!" said Draco, straightening suddenly. He clapped his hands. "Dobby, come here."

With a pop and a puff of smoke, the little house-elf appeared, bearing a half-washed plate.

"Hullo!" said Harry. "How on earth did you do that?"

"Master Draco called for me?" said Dobby in his high, nervous voice, casting quick, suspicious looks between him and Harry.

"My trunks, Dobby," said Draco airily, indicating his massive pile of luggage, which had tumbled all over the grass.

Dobby looked intensely relieved and shot Harry a grateful look before clambering over and hoisting Draco's chests onto his back.

"Up to the castle, Dobby," said Draco, pointing, and Dobby scurried off.

"Might have got him to carry ours, too," said Ron grumpily, going to pick up his own. Draco smirked and strode up the hill, limping every other step from where the tree had crushed the car in on his ankle.

Harry and Ron dragged their own rather less cumbersome trunks behind them up the long hill. Harry thought about the house-elf's grateful look—probably happy that Harry hadn't told Draco about Dobby's doings. Harry wasn't really sure why he hadn't, but he felt somehow that it wasn't exactly fair, to risk getting the little creature in trouble. Not that he didn't trust Draco, but…

When they finally arrived at the castle and peered through the window, it was obvious that the Sorting Ceremony was just beginning. Harry's eyes roved over the little line of anxious first years until they found the bobbing red head of Ginny Weasley, and he smiled in the dark. Good luck, Ginny, he thought with all his might. Somewhere in the back of his head was sort of hoping that she might be put in Gryffindor, because otherwise, since she was in a different year and everything, he might never see her, and he rather thought he wanted to make her smile again.

"Hang on," said Malfoy, who wasn't looking at Ginny, but instead peering up at the staff table. "There's someone missing—where's the arrogant git?"

"He's right there," said Ron. "How'd you miss him? He's the only one who'd wear that shade of blue robes in public."

"Not him," said Draco. "Coach."

Sure enough, Professor James Potter, alias Coach, was not sitting at the teachers' table. Harry scanned it hastily. There, as Ron had noticed, was the new bloke, Gilderoy something, in aquamarine robes; there was Hagrid; there was Professor McGonagall with the Sorting Hat, her black hair pulled back in a severe bun, her rectangular spectacles flashing in the light of the thousands of candles that floated over everyone's heads near the roof of the Great Hall (Harry always wondered why they didn't drip hot wax all over the food and all the students, but supposed it was probably some kind of magic). But no Coach in sight.

"Maybe he's ill," said Ron.

"Maybe he quit," said Harry, hopefully.

"Maybe he's been sacked," said Draco, still more hopefully.

"Or maybe he's been standing outside on this very cold evening for an hour to find out why three second-years didn't arrive on the train!"

Harry executed a jump-turn that would have impressed any ballerina. The Quidditch coach glared down at them all through his own rectangular spectacles; they looked even less friendly on him than they did on the severe Professor McGonagall.

"All right, lads?" he said.

He smiled. Somehow the way the candlelight reflected through the windows hit his teeth unnerved Harry.

"Actually, Professor," said Draco, in what he probably thought was a reasonable, winning voice, "we did arrive in the train, but our luggage took longer to collect than we thought—you see—" He indicated Dobby, who was balanced on the top stair, trying to hold all of Draco's things and kick the door open with one foot. "So we were planning on coming up quietly during the ceremony, but…"

"Won't you three come with me, please," said Coach. His tone was perfectly even and friendly, but for some reason Harry couldn't shake the feeling that something really, really bad was about to happen.