To Harry's surprise, word of Professor Snape's outburst had spread all around the Gryffindor House by the end of the day. Many of the upper year students seemed to agree with Hermione's point of view, asserting that Potions was no joke in later years, and a mistake like Seamus's then could have landed students in the Hospital Wing – if not worse.

At the same time, though, there seemed to be a general fatalistic resignation in regard to Snape's attitude. He was not a poor teacher when it came to his subject, most asserted, but his behaviour has always been unpleasant – openly favouring the Slytherins against all the other Houses, Gryffindor in particular, while acting constantly bitter and irascible. No amount of complaint, meanwhile, has ever managed to change his behaviour for very long. At the same time, though, some of them, based on the descriptions of what had happened to Harry, thought that this incident was a bit far, even by Snape's low standards. The seventh-year Prefect, one James Hoang, suggested that Harry report what happened to Professor McGonagall, but in the end, he decided to let the matter go. Perhaps this was really just an outlier occurrence, and Harry did not want to on his first day possibly engender the wrath of a man who would be teaching him Potions for the next seven years.

In any case, by the next day, what had happened in the Potions classroom had mostly slipped from Harry's mind. That morning, after Finding Magic, was Harry's first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson. Harry did not know why, but something about it seemed almost unsettling to Harry. Perhaps, he thought, it had to do with the name of the class itself. He knew it was important to learn to defend oneself – his experiences with Dudley proved that well enough – but as a class? Was the magical world actually extremely dangerous, or were wizards simply being cautious? Harry convinced himself of the latter. Even given what little Harry had seen of magic, he knew that it had the ability to inflict serious injury if used improperly.

The first thing Harry noticed when he walked into the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom was the pungent odour of garlic. This was despite the fact that every single one of the windows was open, sunlight and the light early autumn breeze were streaming through into the room. On the walls, meanwhile, were hung odd tapestries that looked almost medieval, with weird writing on them that very vaguely resembled Greek but was, even at a glance, completely different.

It only got weirder when Harry got a better look at the teacher standing at the front of the room. He had seen him afar in the Great Hall, of course – and Harry had a strange feeling that he had seen him somewhere before, too, though he could not recall when or where – but he was a different sight altogether from this distance. Even by wizarding standards, he was dressed oddly, his purple robes looking rather unwashed and fitting poorly. Similarly, he was not wearing shoes, but rather worn-out sandals, and on his head was a huge turban, coloured the same purple as his robes.

Harry took a seat on the left-hand side of the classroom where the rest of the Gryffindors were concentrated – the Ravenclaws, the House with whom Gryffindor shared the lesson with, were gathered on the other side of the room – feeling thankful that it had already been almost two hours since he had finished breakfast as he felt himself drowning in the strong garlic smell of the room.

Hermione entered the room a few minutes later and took the empty seat to Harry's left, saying a strained hello – whether caused by the smell of the room or whatever was still on her mind, Harry did not know. She did, however, based on the expression on her face, seem to be feeling a lot better than she had been the night before when Harry had last talked to her.

The teacher at the front of the room waited in silence as the room filled up, standing as still as a statue, while his eyes darted almost nervously, which unnerved Harry somehow. Once or twice, Harry almost thought that the teacher's eyes had fixated on him – specifically, his forehead. Without much thought, he reached up and touched that part of his face, but there was nothing there besides a faint, barely feelable, bit of scar tissue – the scar which the Dursleys had always explained as having been acquired in the car crash that had killed his mother and father. The car crash that he now knew had never actually happened.

The man clapped his hands twice when the last of the students answered, quietening the room. 'G-Good afternoon,' he stammered, though quite clearly, it was still the morning, 'w-welcome, s-s-students.'

His eyes darted aimlessly around the room again, raking over Harry, before he continued. 'My n-name is Professor Q-Quirrell, and I will be your D-Defence Against the D-Dark Ar-Arts teacher this year. In this c-class, you will l-learn to d-defend yourself against the D-Dark Arts.'

Harry wanted to chuckle. Whether he knew it or not, Professor Quirrell had just attempted to explain what Defence Against the Dark Arts was with the term itself. He hoped that Quirrell did not talk to Professor Katic often – or for that matter, any of his language teachers from his primary school – for they would most likely excoriate him for that practice.

'W-Why is Defence A-Against the Dark A-Arts important?' Professor Quirrell continued. 'W-Well, m-magic isn't all a-about l-levitating objects o-or t-turning c-chairs into-into animals. There are m-many w-wizards out there wh-who want to u-use magic to h-hurt you. A-And you n-need to learn to d-defend against th-them.'

'W-We will s-start easy, o-of course,' Professor Quirrell said with a nervous, breathy chuckle. 'I'm s-sure that y-you have already been t-taught the S-Spark-Making Charm by P-Professor Cauverina?' The class nodded in reply.

'F-For our f-first week, l-let's work on producing d-different v-variants of the Spark-Making Ch-Charm. They are h-helpful if you need to s-signal for help, f-for instance,' Professor Quirrell explained. 'F-For instance, y-you and a f-friend could agree on a s-set of signals beforehand, a-and use d-different c-colours to signal d-different things. A r-red spark could be "help". A g-green could be th-that you've f-found something, a-and so on.'

Professor Quirrell clapped his hands once again. 'N-Now, why d-don't you read f-first through the in-instructions on p-page twenty-five of A B-Beginner's Guide t-to Self Defence S-Spells?'

Even though Professor Quirrell had essentially just stopped teaching and let them off to their own devices, Harry was rather glad that he stopped talking, as it seemed to him as if Professor Quirrell had taken the past five minutes to say almost nothing. He dug out his book from his rucksack and opened it to page twenty-five. He scanned through the first section and found that it was simply a recap of the spell that Professor Cauverina had taught them. On the page opposite, there was a list of some modifications to the spell, listed together with any necessary changes to the incantation and how to shape the direction of the generated energy field. After a second read through, he felt that he had learned enough to try the spells himself.

'N-Now, I-I'll d-divide you into p-pairs,' Professor Quirrell said after several minutes of reading. 'P-Practise the variations of the Ch-Charm. A-Ask if you have any q-questions.'

Professor Quirrell paired Harry with Raul – who, when he was not with Ron, at least, was rather easy to work with – and they practised the example spells together. It was easy now, for at this point, Harry was practised enough at the standard Spark-Making Charm to produce the necessary energy field simply by feel. It did not take much adaptation to perform the variations – the changes in incantation and the changes in the energy suggested in the book were doing the bulk of the work for him.

He did notice, however, something off. Somehow, it felt like his magic was clumsy, that something was interfering with it, and that something made performing even the standard Spark-Making Charm more taxing and difficult than it had been before. When he allowed transcendental energy to well up inside him, he was surprised by the fact that it felt much more chaotic than he was used to. That feeling only became worse when, halfway through the class, Professor Snape came into the room, walking straight past the other students as if they did not exist and went directly to Professor Quirrell to speak to him in a quiet voice that no one could hear. When Professor Snape left, Harry felt his magic become even more distorted, and noticed, too, an unnerved expression on Professor Quirrell's face.

'Do you feel that?' he finally cracked, asking Raul.

'What?' he asked, sounding puzzled.

'That feeling,' Harry said.

'What feeling?'

'Like…it's like there's something interfering with my magic,' Harry replied. 'My magic feels disorderly somehow.'

'You do?' Raul said. 'It feels pretty normal to me.'

'Are you sure you don't feel anything?' Harry pressed. 'Like your magic is clumsy?'

Raul shook his head. 'Nothing.'

The feeling persisted through the entire class, accompanied later by short bursts of faint but noticeable pain in his forehead, around where the old, faded scar was, probably as a result of him scowling in frustration at the uncomfortable feeling. Only when the class ended and Harry left Professor Quirrell's room did the feeling begin to slowly fade. At lunch, he asked Hermione and Neville both if they had felt the feeling, but both puzzlingly replied in the negative, leaving Harry more confused than ever.

Harry was on edge for the rest of the day, waiting for that feeling to return, but it never did. He tried to form some hypotheses in his head about why he had felt that feeling, but found that he did not possess the knowledge of magic required to even make an educated guess. He entertained the idea of asking Professor Cauverina, but at the same time, he surmised that it could have simply been the result of a bad day, and if it had actually been so, he did not want her to get the idea that he was whining to her about a headache.

He did not, however, get that feeling again the rest of the day – not when they went out into the greenhouses that afternoon for Herbology with the Ravenclaws, nor later up in the highest tower during Astronomy with the Hufflepuffs, nor in Charms with the Slytherins, where the tiny Professor Flitwick nearly fell off his stool when he called out Harry's name during roll call. It did not return the next day, either, and Harry proceeded through all his classes, including his first practical Astronomy lesson at the unholy hour of nine-thirty at night, without issue.

Only on Thursday, after lunch, did he feel it again – once more in Defence Against the Dark Arts – though thankfully, the feeling was much weaker than it had been on Tuesday. Harry noticed that the garlic smell in Professor Quirrell's classroom had gotten weaker, too, and to him, it seemed quite obvious that there was a correlation between the two.

'How do you handle the smell?' he asked Hermione in a whisper just before class started.

She turned, a sickly and irritated look on her face, too. 'I don't,' she replied tersely, scrunching up her nose.

Once again, the headache cleared up after Defence Against the Dark Arts, and the rest of the day went about as normally as a day did in Hogwarts. Gryffindor, which had been leading the House Cup at the beginning of the week, was now in a distant second place – just barely ahead of third-place Hufflepuff – thanks in part to Professor Snape's treatment of seemingly every student from the House – but especially Harry. During Potions Thursday morning, Professor Snape had taken thirty points from him because he had not produced a perfect Invigoration Draught for the second class in a row, despite the fact that some Slytherins, such as the likes of Crabbe and Goyle, had done far worse than him. Hermione had lost ten more points for giving an answer that, according to Snape, was taken straight out of the textbook, and Ron and Raul had lost thirty each for horseplay – though that was at least somewhat justified, for they were having a sword fight with their stirring rods. Meanwhile, Slytherin students were rewarded with points for even completely unremarkable things. Pansy Parkinson, for example, received ten points for 'tearing her petals right', whatever that meant.

Harry was not sure whether to be excited or not about 'Flying', the last item on his timetable on Friday. On one hand, it sounded fun to learn to fly on – presumably – broomsticks, but at the same time, judging by the gruesome injuries that Quidditch players sustained from various broom-related accidents – if Ron, Raul, and Seamus's banter was to be believed, at least – he was not sure if he really wanted to get on something that could seemingly fly hundreds of metres above the ground, at hundreds of kilometres per hour, without any sort of safety restraints.

At three-thirty in the afternoon, Harry and the rest of the Gryffindor students left the Transfiguration classroom and, following the directions on the timetables, made their way down to the Entrance Hall. There, a woman with short, spiked, silver hair and, to Harry's dismay, the Slytherins students, were waiting for them.

'Good afternoon,' the woman said brightly when they were all gathered. 'I'm Madam Hooch, and I will be your flying instructor for this year. In this class, you will be taught how to fly a broom, a basic skill for any wizard or witch, as well as safe flying behaviour.' There were several groans. 'No, Quidditch fans, you will not be replicating Krum and performing Wronski Feints in this class, nor will I be teaching you how to perform Bezumov's Swerving Charge or Nakamura's Double-Bludger Attack. Hogwarts – and your parents – do not want to see you in Saint Mungo's with grievous injuries, or worse. Anyone who engages in unsafe behaviour in this class will be disciplined accordingly and severely. Are we clear?'

'Yes, Madam Hooch,' everyone replied.

'If we are clear, then please follow me,' Madam Hooch said. 'We will be going to the Quidditch pitch for our lesson today.'

Several students cheered at that, Ron and Raul among them. The class followed Madam Hooch out onto the sunny grounds. Harry took a deep breath, smelling the fresh mountain air as a light, cool breeze blew over them. Admiring the scenery, he thought that the far-off treeline and the mountains in the background would have made for a beautiful movie set.

They turned a corner, and suddenly, a magnificent wood-and-stone structure appeared in front of them, one which must have been hidden from his view up in Gryffindor Tower by the castle of Hogwarts itself. Multiple stairwells led up to ovular rings of seats that were at least fifty metres off the ground and, by rough estimate, could probably seat at least a thousand people. In the centre of the rings, meanwhile, was an enormous grass pitch, bracketed at either end not by football goals, but rather three rings, all set at different heights.

The magnificence only amplified when they neared the structure and Harry could look up at the rings of seats, high in the sky. Madam Hooch, meanwhile, led them through what looked like a sort of locker room and directly onto the pitch itself. Several students audibly gasped as they exited out onto the grass, and Harry could fully understand. Standing in the middle of it gave him a new appreciation of its grandiose nature, but also of how small he was in comparison.

Madam Hooch led them to two rows of broomsticks. 'Now, Slytherin students on my left, please, and Gryffindor students on my right. Each take a broom, please, and do not fight.'

The two Houses split up, and Harry took his place next to one of the brooms, waiting for instructions. On the Slytherin flight line, meanwhile, several students, including Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, were hovering their hands above the brooms, as if willing them to fly up into their hands. Harry peered to his left and noticed Ron and Raul doing the same.

Madam Hooch reached into her pocket and took out a whistle, blowing it and getting everyone's attention. 'Before we begin, some rules. You are not to fly directly at another student. You must always keep at least a Standard Yard's distance from each other, and you are not to perform any "dangerous" manoeuvres. That means no dives, no swerves, no aggressive flying of any sort. What is aggressive or not aggressive will be determined by me. Is this understood?'

'Yes, Madam Hooch.'

'Good. Now, let's start by picking up our brooms,' Madam Hooch instructed. 'Hover your hand over the broom and imagine it flying into your hand. Treat it like you're performing a spell, even if you actually aren't. Channel your magical energy and imagine the broom coming up off the ground and into your hand.'

Harry followed Madam Hooch's instructions and concentrated, feeling transcendental energy washing over him. In his head, he pictured the broom flying into his hand, and felt the transcendental energy around him changing shape subconsciously. Suddenly, there was a faint rustle, then a split second later, the wooden broomstick snapped into his hand.

'Well done, well done, students,' Madam Hooch said. Harry looked around, and nearly everyone's brooms were in their hands. The only ones whose brooms were still on the ground were Hermione and Tracey Davis, but after another second or two, they had picked up their brooms, too.

'Now, mount your brooms, but do not take off. Swing one leg over and sit down carefully. If this is your first time riding a broom, you might be unnerved by it wobbling a little as you sit down. Do not worry. This is normal.'

Once again following the instructions, Harry sat down on the broom. True to Madam Hooch's warning, the broom wobbled slightly from side to side, giving Harry the impression that it was about to throw him off, but after a second, it stabilised, and Harry sat, surprisingly comfortably – magic had to be involved, he thought, for sitting on a wooden stick should not exactly have been an enjoyable experience – about half a metre off the ground.

Madam Hooch opened her mouth to give further instructions, but at that very moment, there was a cry of surprise. Harry's vision jerked towards the source of the noise and saw Neville, a look of terror on his face, as his broom rose haphazardly off the ground, jerking from left to right as it did.

'Mister Longbottom! What are you doing?' Madam Hooch shouted.

'N-Nothing!' Neville cried back, trying to direct the broom but having no effect. 'It's flying b-by itself!'

'Mister Longbottom, calm down! Take deep breaths!' Madam Hooch ordered. 'The broom is powered by your magic! If your magic is too erratic, it will also fly erratically.'

But that, if anything, simply made everything worse. Neville, instead of calming down, apparently grew even more nervous, and his broom now began bucking upside down, coming within centimetres of the ground and then shooting up several metres into the air. Neville, meanwhile, looked like a rag doll as he was thrown around aimlessly.

Madam Hooch, seeing that she obviously had an emergency on her hands, grabbed her broom and mounted it, taking off into the air and making a beeline straight towards Neville. Unfortunately, however, she was too late. Seconds before she reached Neville's position, near the end of the Gryffindor flight line, Neville's broom shot up, head-first, then came crashing down into the ground, tail-first. Neville was violently thrown off his broom, and landed face-first in the grass a metre or so away.

Several students audibly gasped as Madam Hooch stopped in mid-air, then a split second later, descended to the ground, dropped her broom, and rushed over to Neville's prone form. She pulled out her wand and waved it several times over him. Several lights appeared in the air that reminded Harry somewhat of vitals monitors that one might see in a hospital. Finally, Madam Hooch stood up and, with a wave of her wand, levitated Neville into the air.

'I will be taking Mister Longbottom to the Hospital Wing,' she said, her voice loud and stern. 'When I am gone, none of you are to leave the ground. If you do, you will firstly lose your House one hundred points, and I will refer you to your Head of House for further discipline.'

With that, Madam Hooch ran off, holding Neville's levitated form out in front of her. The students stood in awkward silence for a while, unsure of what to do but also unwilling to talk across House lines, at least here, out in the open. A short bit later, Ron, Raul, and Seamus broke formation and began talking amongst themselves, while Pansy Parkinson and her little gang also coalesced, along with Draco Malfoy and his two friends.

Suddenly, Malfoy broke pack from the rest of the Slytherin students and walked over close to where Neville had fallen. He knelt down and picked up a clear, glass ball, which Harry had seen Neville holding once or twice in the Common Room, from the grass, holding it in the air and examining it. Then, suddenly and inexplicably, he began to laugh.

'A Remeberall?' he said through his guffaws. 'What kind of…what kind of idiot needs a Rememberall?'

Immediately, several of the Slytherin students began laughing along with him, including Parkinson and Greengrass and Malfoy's two cronies. Aside from the Slytherins, however, Harry noticed that Ron was also barely holding in chuckles, as was Sally-Anne Perks.

'What's a Remember All?' Harry asked Dean, who was standing next to him. He shrugged, evidently having no clue, either. He then leaned over to his right and posed the same question to Nura Shafiq.

'It's a device to tell someone if they've forgotten something,' she answered. 'If they had, the smoke inside would turn red.'

'Longbottom's so dull that he needs a Rememberall to remember what he's doing every day?' Malfoy continued caustically, to the laughter of many of the other Slytherins and the fury of the Gryffindors. He turned to Parkinson. 'What do you think would happen to him if I hid this thing? Maybe…up in the stands?'

'Gryffindor would lose more points than it already does,' Greengrass jeered. 'He won't even remember to wake up in the mornings, let alone come to class! Or at the very least, he'll forget his entire bag one day, just like how he managed to forget his cauldron on Thursday!'

The Slytherin House cackled again. 'Just imagine the look on his face!' Parkinson cackled. 'Do it, Draco!'

In one swift move, Malfoy's broom shot into his hand, and he mounted it, lifting off the ground with Neville's Rememberall in hand. 'Anyone coming up to get it from me?' he taunted.

There was the sound of another broomstick snapping into someone's hand, and a second later, Ron rose off the ground, sitting shakily on his broom, rising towards Malfoy.

'Weasley, is it? Or was it Weasel? Wheezy?' Malfoy said with a superior smile, watching Ron take off. 'If I were you, I'd learn to respect your betters and stay on the ground.'

The Slytherin students jeered as Ron scowled. 'We'll see who's really the better, Malfoy.'

Malfoy cocked an eyebrow. 'If you want to do it the hard way.'

He turned his broom on the spot and sped off, climbing steeply away towards the stands. Ron shot off after him, hot on his tail. Though he might be annoying with his talk about Quidditch, Harry had to admit that Ron was quite decent at flying. As Malfoy attempted to throw him off with sharp turns, steep climbs, and quick dives, Ron followed right behind him, maintaining his position on his tail.

The Gryffindors – minus Hermione, who was wearing a disapproving expression – were beginning to cheer now, as the two flew around the pitch, Malfoy unable to shake Ron. The Slytherins, meanwhile, were also cheering on their man.

They chased each other around the pitch several more times, neither able to gain an advantage over the other. It seemed like it was just a matter of time before one of them had to give up. Suddenly, however, as they were speeding along, just metres above the ground, Malfoy's broom suddenly and abruptly stopped in mid-air. Ron, unable to react in time, crashed right into Malfoy's broom, catching a chest full of bristles. With a scream of pain, he fell off his broom and onto the grass below, his broom shooting off into the distance.

The Slytherin students erupted in laughter, while the Gryffindors rushed towards their fallen comrade, Raul and Seamus leading the way. As Ron sat up, groaning, however, Harry caught sight of Malfoy taking off again, making his way towards the stands completely unopposed.

Harry did not know what came over him, but as he watched Malfoy speed away, he was suddenly seized by a burning hatred of Malfoy and a need to act. Without thinking, his broom snapped into his hand, and a second later, he had mounted it, lifting into the air.

'Harry!' came Hermione's shout from below. 'What do you think you're doing?'

'I can't let him just get away with it!' Harry shouted back.

'But…what Madam Hooch said! You can't just – '

Before she had even finished her sentence, Harry had leaned forward on the broom, and it shot forward as smoothly as a dart. He was quickly gaining on Malfoy, who, focused on his goal in the stands, had his back turned to Harry, and had no way to know of his approach. He was only twenty metres away now and gaining. Soon, he had halved that distance.

And suddenly, when Harry was less than three metres away, Malfoy suddenly turned around. An expression of shock and horror came over his face, and it seemed that at that instant, even he knew that trying to fly away would be futile.

'Well, catch, then!' Malfoy suddenly shouted. A split second later, he pitched the Rememberall as hard as he could towards the middle of the Quidditch pitch. Instinctively, Harry raced after it, ignoring Malfoy's laughter in the background.

Harry felt a sense of déjà vu as he chased the falling glass ball. Never mind that he was on a broomstick, flying at the speed of a car on the motorway, this was just another time when Dudley had thrown something of his down the stairs, and he had to chase it down before it hit the ground and broke. He could save the Rememberall, he told himself. He had done this before. It was second nature.

He was close. He lunged out and made a grab for the ball, missing but feeling the cold glass against his fingertips. He tried again and missed again. A third attempt, and a third miss.

The ground was approaching fast, now, and in desperation, Harry leaned forward on his broomstick, unseating himself slightly, and swiped for the Rememberall. The round glass touched his palm, and he knew that he had succeeded.

But shock broke his momentary celebration, as Harry realised that the ground was far closer than he had thought – dangerously close. In an instinctive move, he jerked his broomstick up, hoping to avoid a collision, but it was too late. Just moments before he would have been safe and level again, the tip of his broom struck the earth, and the broom tumbled out of control, end-to-end. Harry was thrown off, but clutched the Rememberall tightly in his hand as he tumbled roughly down the Quidditch pitch, the handle of the broom striking him multiple times in the stomach and legs as he slowly rolled to a stop.

Through his now-lopsided glasses, he could see the Gryffindors rushing towards him. His vision, however, was obscured by stars and a faint, red glow. Even through the anaesthetic haze of adrenaline, Harry could begin to feel a stabbing pain in his left arm. Despite that, Harry, biting down his pain and with a feeble hand, held out the Rememberall, the symbol of his victory, and the Gryffindors erupted into cheers.

Hermione was the first to reach him, a shocked, possibly angry, but evidently concerned expression on her face. 'Why did you just fly off like that?' she demanded. 'You could've been caught and – '

'Would you have preferred Malfoy getting away with it?' Harry retorted defensively.

Harry had not meant the tone of his voice to be so harsh, but the growing pain had distorted his speech. An affronted, almost scared expression came over Hermione's face as she tried to backtrack. 'I…I mean…no, of course not. But you could've…you could've fallen off – '

'Oh, stop it, Hermione,' came Ron's rather unwelcome voice, and Harry saw him pushing his way through the Gryffindors who were either kneeling or standing around Harry, nursing his arm. 'It's Harry we're talking about. By the way he flies, at age five, he probably could've pulled off Cloutier's Three-Pronged Stealth Attack in his sleep.'

'That's not helping, Ron,' Seamus said sharply. He knelt down next to Hermione and examined Harry. 'His left forearm is bent backwards. We should take him to the Hospital Wing.'

'Do you know where the Hospital Wing is?' Harry heard Hermione ask as a jolt of pain shot through his left arm.

'Yeah, I do. McGonagall sent me there after…that incident…in Potions. I'll bring him.'

'Harry, can you walk?' Hermione asked.

With a groan, Harry slowly sat up, ignoring the pain. Dean and Seamus, one on each side, helped Harry to his feet, Dean being careful to not touch his broken arm. Only when he was back on his feet did he realise that he still had Neville's Rememberall clenched tightly in his hand.

'Here,' he said to Hermione, holding out the ball. 'Give it back to him. When you see him.'

Hermione nodded and took the ball from him, dropping it into her bag. Slowly, Dean and Seamus began leading Harry through the Quidditch pitch towards the way out onto the grounds. As they passed the Slytherins, Harry could hear laughter coming from within their ranks, probably at his gruesome crash. Their laughter, however, seemed hollow and forced, as if only to put up an impression of victory, and it did not take a genius to know why.

They had almost made it all the way to the castle when, to Harry's horror, Madam Hooch appeared, exiting the Entrance Hall and making her way back to the Quidditch Pitch. The moment she recognised the three of them, she immediately made a beeline for them.

'What's going on?' she shouted the moment she was in earshot.

'Harry's been hurt,' Dean called back.

'How? What happened?'

'He…uh…'

'Harry fell from a broom. It's a long story,' Seamus interrupted. 'He has a broken arm. He needs to go to the Hospital Wing.'

Thankfully, Madam Hooch did not ask any more questions. She rushed towards them, drawing her wand. She pointed her wand at Harry's arm and gave it a wave. Suddenly, a warm feeling came over the broken limb, and the pain disappeared. Another wave, and Harry was levitated into the air with the not-at-all unpleasant feeling of being placed on a soft mattress, and Madam Hooch, for presumably the second time that day, rushed to the Hospital Wing.

Harry was carried through the castle, immobilised, for the next five or so minutes, before a set of large wooden doors opened, and Harry was led into a spacious, well-lit room. His nose was immediately hit by an obviously medicinal smell, though rather different from that which he would have expected from the local chemist or the clinic.

'Rolanda, back again?' came a female voice from in front of Harry.

'We have another injury,' Madam Hooch replied, her voice both grim and exasperated.

'Well, put him down on a bed and I'll check him out.'

Madam Hooch levitated Harry over to one side of the room, then lowered him onto a surprisingly familiar-looking hospital bed. The woman whom Harry presumed was the matron, or whatever the magical equivalent was, walked over and drew her wand, waving it several times over Harry and producing lights similar to what Madam Hooch had produced when she had examined Neville.

'Two bones broken in the left arm,' she concluded after examination. 'Nothing too severe, thankfully.'

That did not sound 'not too severe' to Harry. Was going to have to walk around in a cast for the next two weeks? How was he going to complete his schoolwork? Plus, he did not doubt for a second that Professor Snape would exploit the opportunity to punish him even more.

'Sit up, please, Mister…'

'Harry Potter.'

'Sit up, please, Harry,' the matron instructed.

Harry sat up, his broken arm limply hanging by his side. The matron waved her wand over his arm, and suddenly, the throbbing pain disappeared. Next, she lifted his arm up into the air before aiming her wand at the point of breakage.

'Episkey,' she whispered. There was a crack, and Harry watched in awe as the left side of his forearm stiffened, the broken bone seemingly mended instantly and painlessly.

'Episkey,' the matron said again, and there was another crack, now returning Harry's arm fully to normal. She waved her wand once more, and Harry felt a sudden stab of pain, causing him to wince, but which quickly subsided.

'The pain was inevitable when I removed the anaesthetic spell Madam Hooch cast,' the matron said apologetically. 'Try flexing your fingers, please.'

Harry curled his fingers into a fist and then uncurled them, his motions perfectly fluid and painless, as if the bones in his arm had never been broken at all. He then moved his elbows, and his forearm moved perfectly with them, the bones inside holding their shape.

'Perfect,' the matron said. 'You're free to go.'

Harry sat up over the side of the bed. 'Thank you…uh…'

'Madam Pomfrey.'

'Thanks, Madam Pomfrey.'

'You're most welcome.'

Just as Harry was preparing to leave, the doors of the Hospital Wing opened, and in came Madam Hooch – whom Harry had not even realised had left – leading Professor McGonagall. Harry's heart suddenly fell in his chest. He was going to be in trouble.

Professor McGonagall made her way directly to Harry's bed, disapproval written clearly on her face. 'Mister Potter,' she said sternly. 'Madam Hooch has told me that you fell from a broom during your Flying lesson while she was away?'

Harry nodded timidly. 'Yes, Professor.'

'Are you all right?' she asked.

Harry, taken slightly off guard by the question – he had expected a reprimand – nodded again. 'Yes, Professor.'

Now, the other shoe dropped. 'May I ask why you decided to get on your broom with no adult supervision, when Madam Hooch had clearly and expressly forbade the exact thing while she was away?'

Harry swallowed. 'I…uh…Draco Malfoy stole something of Neville's, Professor,' he answered truthfully. 'It was his Rememberall, I think. He got on his broom to hide it up in the stands. I…I was just trying to get it back.'

Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow. 'So you're saying that Mister Malfoy stole Mister Longbottom's Rememberall, hoping to hide it, and you got on your broom to get it back?'

'Yes, Professor.'

'You're sure that was the full story, and you haven't omitted anything?'

'I'm sure, Professor.'

Professor McGonagall nodded slowly, sharing a look with Madam Hooch. 'I will need to speak with the other students,' she said. 'Are they still on the pitch?'

'They should be.'

'Please inform Severus of this,' Professor McGonagall told Madam Hooch. 'If what Mister Potter is saying is true…there will be serious repercussions for Mister Malfoy.'

Madam Hooch nodded, and without another word, turned and left. After a few seconds, Professor McGonagall turned to look at Harry, then Madam Pomfrey. 'You have treated him, Poppy?'

'His arm is back to normal, Minerva.'

'Please return to Gryffindor Tower, Mister Potter,' Professor McGonagall instructed. 'You are excused from the rest of Flying for today. I will find you if I need you to clarify your story. And for now…fifty points to Gryffindor for exemplifying the House values of chivalry and bravery.'


Harry spent the rest of the afternoon in the empty Gryffindor Common Room, using the time to get an early start on his weekend homework. Generally, the teachers were rather reasonable about assigned work, but this weekend, Professor Snape had, for some reason, decided to assign two essays on top of a set of practice questions. Harry was sure that no matter what amount of effort he put in, Professor Snape would not give him anywhere near good marks, and almost decided to simply blow it off. At the end, though, he convinced himself that it was better to do them well. He did not want to start forming a habit of blowing off work, and perhaps they might help him learn something.

The rest of the Gryffindors returned all together at around five, chattering loudly amongst themselves. The moment they saw Harry sitting in a corner, a cacophony of voices erupted, all shouting about what had happened back on the Quidditch Pitch.

'You'll never believe what – '

' – Professor McGonagall – '

' – a hundred points – '

'You should've seen the look on Snape's – '

' – nothing he could do – '

'Oh, and detention – '

'Every night for a week!'

The only one not joining in the raucous symphony was Hermione, who, clutching her bag, was looking at Harry with a disapproving but still obviously relieved expression. Harry raised an eyebrow in her direction in questioning, and she simply gave a small shake of her head in reply.

Harry, while glad that Malfoy had been punished accordingly, felt rather uncomfortable finding himself in the centre of the Gryffindors' attention again. The usual suspects clapped his back and shook his hand, while the others continued celebrating at Malfoy and the Slytherin House 'getting their due', whatever that meant. Finally, after more than ten minutes, everyone finally seemed to have gotten bored, and dispersed around the Common Room or up the stairs to their dormitories.

Hermione was now the only one who remained by his table. Harry sighed quietly and turned to face her. 'What happened has happened, Hermione,' he said, not wanting to sound too mean but also not in the mood for yet another lecture about how he was irresponsible. 'Please don't tell me that I should've stayed on the ground and let Malfoy get away with stealing Neville's Rememberall.'

'Madam Hooch did say – '

'And Malfoy followed those rules to the letter, didn't he?' Harry interrupted.

'Did that mean that you had to do wrong, too?' Hermione argued back. 'You could've…I don't know, waited for Madam Hooch to come back and told her what happened.'

'And then what?'

'And she would've gotten it back,' Hermione said. 'You wouldn't have gotten yourself hurt, and Malfoy would've been referred to his Head of House either way.'

'As if Snape would have done anything to Malfoy,' Harry replied bitterly. 'And the next time something happens, he'll do it again, and again, and again, because he knows he'll get away with it each time.'

'I'm sure that – '

' – will happen,' Harry interrupted harshly, and Hermione looked shocked by his tone. 'That's exactly what happened in my school…in…where I used to live, and Snape is far more biased than any of the teachers I had ever had there. Snape won't do anything. Especially not when I'm involved.'

Hermione's eyes had gone blank, and it almost looked like Harry's words had touched a nerve, attacked some fundamental belief of hers that she had held. But for all the obvious shock, she did not reply, did not defend her position, and instead simply stared at Harry, who stared back, unapologetic for what he had said.

'But if we can't trust the teachers,' she finally said in a tiny voice, 'then…'

Harry sighed. 'You know what it's like in Potions. You know that they won't play fair…'

There was another long silence as Hermione looked lost in her thoughts. 'I…I suppose you have a point,' she finally said, her voice barely a whisper. 'I…well…sorry for blaming you.'

With that, she turned around and left, leaving Harry alone again at his table. He worked on his homework quietly until dinner, managing to finish one of his essays and get through a good portion of the practice problems.

When he went down to dinner, he was relieved to see Neville discharged from the Hospital Wing, sitting and talking with Hermione, who still seemed to be a little shell-shocked, perhaps from the conversation that they had just had earlier.

He sat down on the table opposite to them, saying hello and was relieved when Hermione returned the greeting with a smile – there seemed to be no hard feelings from earlier. Neville, meanwhile, was quite happy to see him, holding his Rememberall out to Harry.

'Thanks for stopping Malfoy from taking this, Harry,' he said gratefully. 'Gran would've been so angry if I had lost it…it had belonged to my dad when he was "young and careless", as she says.'

'You're welcome,' Harry replied, noticing that Hermione wanted to say something but did not, instead simply reacting with a smile that seemed just slightly forced. 'Are you okay, Neville? Were you just discharged?'

Neville nodded. 'Broke three bones and tore a muscle, plus a slight head injury, but that's no big deal. Madam Pomfrey fixed it in minutes, but she kept me in the Hospital Wing for several hours to rest.'

'No big deal?' Hermione gasped, shocked. 'That sounds like quite a big deal.'

'Is it for muggles?' Neville asked.

'I mean, three broken bones doesn't sound like something you could walk off,' Hermione answered. 'Whichever limb you broke would have to be put in a cast for several weeks at the very least…and if it's worse, you'd have to get surgery.'

'Yeah, I was surprised that Madam Pomfrey fixed it so quickly, too,' Harry chimed in. 'I thought I was going to be out of classes for days…'

'Oh, I didn't know that,' Neville said. 'Well, with magic, several broken bones aren't much. A simple Bone-Mending Charm and you're good to go. Of course, there are many horrible injuries magic can inflict that aren't so easily cured…' he shuddered, '…but let's not talk about those. Not over dinner.'

They ate in silence for a minute or two, Harry, and no doubt Hermione, wondering what kind of gruesome injuries Neville might be referring to, and how he did not really want to find out. His thoughts were interrupted – thankfully or not – by the sound of footsteps behind him, and the clapping of a hand.

Harry turned around to find Malfoy, bracketed on his left by Crabbe and his right by Goyle. Pansy Parkinson and her gang, meanwhile, were several paces behind them, looking on with riveted expressions on their faces – with the now-usual exception of Tracey.

'All patched up and ready to save the day again, Potter?' Malfoy commented in an unmistakeable taunt. 'Saviour of the wizarding world, falling off a broomstick. Now that's something I'd want to remember for a while.'

Harry shrugged. Malfoy, Parkinson, and the rest never really got to him. He knew that they were simply trying to goad him into an altercation, and anyway, Dudley and his gang could be far worse with the verbal jabs. 'And I'd like to remember the look on your face when you realised far too late that I was behind you,' he said flatly.

'So funny, Potter,' Malfoy scoffed. 'You really think that you're better than me because you beat me once in the air, don't you?'

Harry sighed. 'I don't think I'm better than you, Malfoy,' he said patiently. 'It seems like you're the one who thinks that they're better than everyone and can't accept that someone beat you at something.'

Malfoy huffed, his face redding in frustration. 'Let's see if you'll be talking like this when I beat you in a real fight. I challenge you to a duel, Potter.'

That suddenly got the attention of everyone sitting at the Gryffindor table, and even some from the neighbouring Ravenclaw table. 'You want to challenge me to a what?'

'A duel, Potter,' Malfoy said arrogantly, obviously satisfied by the fact that Harry did not know what a duel was. 'A proper wizard's duel. Midnight tonight, centre corridor on the first floor. You may bring a second.'

Harry turned and looked helplessly at Neville, out of his depth. 'What is he talking about?' he mouthed.

'A wizard's duel,' Neville answered quietly. 'Two wizards draw their wands and cast spells at each other until one submits or gets incapacitated. Simple, really. A second is someone who takes over if you…uh…get killed. Well, nowadays, people don't really get killed anymore, but it's just tradition.'

'Well, are you going to accept the challenge, or will you duck out once again?' Malfoy demanded. 'I'll even give you a minute to decide.'

Malfoy walked away to join Parkinson, and Harry was about to ask Neville if he wanted to be his second when Hermione tugged at his sleeve. Harry turned to look at her, and she was leaning in, covering her mouth with her hand, an expression of understanding on her face. 'Don't,' she whispered sharply. 'He's trying to trap you.'

'What?'

'Isn't it obvious?' she said. 'Neither of you know enough magic to actually duel, but he's still desperate for revenge. He's trying to get you out of bed at midnight and get you in trouble. He knows where you'll be now, see? He could just tip off Snape, or another teacher. And on the off chance that he actually does know enough magic to duel…well, you're better off not going, anyway.'

Harry looked at Neville with a questioning expression, and he shook his head. 'Hermione has a point. I grew up around magic like him, and I don't know enough spells to duel, either. Like Hermione said, he's probably trying to bait you.'

'Just tell him no,' Hermione added. 'He's looking to get a reaction out of you anyway. Don't give it to him. You'll annoy him most by not giving him what he wants.'

Harry nodded, and at that very moment, Malfoy returned. 'Well? Your answer?'

'I'm not stupid, Malfoy,' Harry replied without turning around. 'I'm not falling for your trap. Go have fun in the first-floor corridor on your own.'

'My trap?' Malfoy growled. 'What do you think I am? Some kind of coward who won't show up?'

'That's exactly what I know you are.'

'I can't believe it,' Malfoy shouted, purposefully loudly. 'Harry Potter, the supposed saviour of the wizarding world, a coward?'

'If I am, then it takes one to know one, Malfoy.'

Malfoy was about to snap back in retort when another voice – Ron's – piped up. 'You want a duel?' he shouted, and Harry could hear a humiliated indignation in his voice. 'You're going down, Malfoy!'

'Weasley,' Malfoy said, surprised. 'You, of all people, want to duel me?'

Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson, and Greengrass began laughing. 'You think I'm joking, Malfoy?' Ron demanded. 'You might pull your dirty little tricks in the air, but I'd like to see you back them up with your wand.'

Hermione rolled her eyes in a way that was clearly meant to say 'what an idiot'. 'Ron, don't do it!' she called. 'He's only – '

Ron shut her up with a dirty look. 'Don't tell me what to do, Granger,' he snapped. 'You've already ordered Harry around, now don't order me around, too! Well, Malfoy? What's your answer?'

'I accept,' Malfoy replied. 'Goyle will be my second. And yours, Weasley?'

'Raul will be mine.'

'Then meet us in the centre corridor from the first-floor landing,' Malfoy said. 'And don't be late.'

Hermione buried her face in her hands as Malfoy strutted off back to the Slytherin table.