Term resumes on January 4th without much fanfare. Harry's friends return, and he has cheerful reunions with Blaise and Theo, then a more relaxed greeting from Millicent. Flint snags him on the first night back and informs him that practices will be on Saturday and Thursday evenings and Tuesday mornings, which suits Harry well enough. He'll still have time to run with Sirius most mornings, and plenty of time to play Quidditch—Slytherin's game against Ravenclaw will be February 13th, and while the success against Gryffindor in November gives Harry confidence in their chances, there's definitely strategy to refine. Plus, he's happy for any time in the air.
Hermione also returns, and they manage to spend some time hanging out the day after term resumes. With Ron gone, she seems a little despondent—other than Ron and Neville and Harry himself, Hermione still doesn't really have any friends, and Harry resolves to spend extra time with her until Ron is back. He had gotten a letter shortly before the new year saying that Ron was awake but would indeed be two or three weeks finishing his recovery before he was able to return to classes. Quietly, Harry proposes to Hermione that they sit down together to make a study plan to help Ron get back on track, which seems to cheer her up immensely.
Sirius returns as well—he looks tired and slightly haggard at dinner on the first night back, but recovers quickly and by the end of the first week is back to his usual energy in Defence class. One of their first classes back involves Sirius taking them all outside and having a massive snowball fight, practically a pitched battle, where Sirius insists that they take time to build proper fortifications and develop strategies; the class after is spend debriefing how it went and discussing what had worked and what hadn't. It's immensely fun and exhilarating, though the class sobers somewhat when Sirius tells them that they should all keep in mind that a real battle moves just as fast, but it would be curses, not snowballs, hitting them.
All of Harry's other various lessons with Sirius resume, as well. Occlumency with Neville continues much as it had, but Harry has been practicing so much in his spare time and over the break in hopes of being ready for Snape that he finds the exercises Sirius sets and his testing of their shields significantly less taxing, which is something of a relief. It's still exhausting to be fitting extra duelling practice and Occlumency and meditation and running and extra reading and whatever else Harry can think of that might be useful into every spare moment that he has. Fortunately, he does have a lot of spare minutes; the second year class schedule is fairly empty, as they don't have many classes, and homework only takes up so much time.
It seems a little crazy to think of it that way, of course; Harry remembers September, and how much work it felt like the professors were piling onto them, but he supposes he's adjusted. It does help that in the first two weeks of term, he spends almost every empty period with Hermione, rather than Blaise and Theo, and she's very inclined to insist on studying; his homework gets done quickly and without much trouble, with Hermione and her brain as an available resource.
Spending time with Hermione also provides the opportunity for Neville and Harry to drag her off to an empty classroom, the same one they'd sat in last time, on the Monday of the second week, and finally fill her in on everything that had happened over the break.
She'd known, of course, about their Occlumency lessons, and congratulates them both on their achievements with their wandless magic over the break. But then Neville comes to Christmas Eve night, and his vision, and she sits solemn and still as he recounts the dream and the aftermath, including Dumbledore's insistence on stepping up his Occlumency.
"Oh, Neville," Hermione says, when he's done speaking. "Are you okay?"
Neville shrugs. "I'm fine, I 'spose. It's not great."
"No," she says, and then leans forward to hug him tightly. When she sits back again, she says, "Well… I hope you'll let me help you. I know you said there's not much research to be done on Occlumency, and you're right—I looked in the library because I was curious, and there's really not much; it's considered advanced magic, too advanced for students. But if there's anything else…"
Abruptly, Harry has a thought, and says, "Actually, there is something."
"Oh?" Hermione says, leaning forward.
"Yeah. First, please, do some extra practice for Defence. If we know you can take care of yourself, we can just worry about ourselves." Harry smiles, a bit rueful. "Not that I'm not still going to worry about you a bit, but it would make me feel better to know you were able to at least fend a Death Eater off long enough for help to arrive."
Hermione blows out a breath, her hand drifting to her pocket, where Harry knows she keeps her wand, then after a moment says, "Alright, that does make sense. Do you think Professor Black would let me join his extra lessons with you and Neville?"
"Maybe," Harry says, shrugging. "You could ask. The other thing is… it would be good if we had some way to communicate that was subtle. If we had some way to set a meeting place and time…"
Hermione nods thoughtfully. "I can do some research. Anything that sophisticated might be beyond me right now, but if not during term, maybe over the summer… We're still only second-years, after all; I don't think anyone really suspects us of much."
"No," Harry says in agreement. "No one knows how wrapped up we are in all this Voldemort stuff except for us. Some people might assume about Neville, but… the longer no one thinks we're prepared for war, the better off we're going to be."
"And it will be war," Hermione says, a faint tremble in her voice. "You're sure now."
Harry and Neville both nod, trading a brief look. "I think my vision confirmed it," Neville says. He sounds as regretful as Harry feels—he hates this, they both do. "Voldemort's coming back, or trying. And I know Sirius is good, but with him back at Hogwarts now… I just don't think anyone's going to find him before he does… whatever he's doing."
"Something to do with the pregnant woman you saw," Harry says, recalling suddenly the conversation he'd had with Sirius in September. "Sirius told me that a woman had gone missing, and that if she were pregnant, it meant something about what Voldemort was trying to do. Some sort of dark ritual."
Hermione frowns. "Did he say anything else?"
"No," Harry says, shaking his head. "Not much, anyway. Just that if they had this woman, and she was pregnant, they were probably trying a particular ritual."
Hermione has a research sort of look on her face, and is clearly lost in thought for a moment before she says, "I'll get a pass for the Restricted Section from Flitwick—I'll figure out something to tell him about why I want it, and see if I can find anything."
"If it came from one of the Black library books, you probably won't find anything," Harry warns. "And maybe you won't anyway—it's got to be really Dark, really dangerous."
"I know," she says. She's got that stubborn tone in her voice, and her dark brows are drawn together. "I'll look anyway. A pregnant woman… hm, could be something to do with birth, life… and he has the Philosopher's Stone…"
Harry and Neville share another glance, this one commiserating, as Hermione is lost to academic mumbling. At least some things never change.
Harry spends most of the next two weeks after his conversation with Hermione trying to decide who else, if anyone, he should tell about Neville's vision. He won't tell Theo, even though Theo might appreciate the update, because Theo is too close to a Death Eater and doesn't know Occlumency; the information wouldn't be secure with him. That Harry needs to keep the information from anyone not able to protect their minds becomes doubly clear after he begins his extra Occlumency lessons with Snape. Every other week he goes down to Snape's office, telling his friends that he's having extra Potions tutoring, and Snape invades his mind over and over again until he's either so exhausted and his headache is so bad that he feels like he's about to begin bleeding from his nose or his eyes, or until he proves to Snape that he can keep out an invader even under duress. Snape also begins teaching him how to lay false tracks, to pretend that what is being seen by a Legilimens who has broken past his first level of shields is all there is to see, or how to create a fake memory that will convince like a real one, or place memories out of order to give a false impression. Harry doesn't know how or why Snape learned any of this, and hopes he'll never need to know it himself, but he refuses to turn down any knowledge that might help him protect himself and those he cares about. So he perseveres, even though it's a thousand times worse than that first month of Occlumency with Sirius—and he thought his headaches had been bad then.
It's difficult at times to force himself to continue to think that way, to set aside his own discomfort and to ignore how much he loves his friends and just… calculate everything. But Snape has taught him that, too: that when push comes to shove, the only way to keep someone out of your head is to be able to categorize, and put up walls so strong, so sturdy, that nothing can break through, not even his own feelings. That means thinking about his own memories coldly, thinking about everything coldly. He hates it, but it allows him to decide who he should and should not tell about Voldemort.
He makes the same calculation he'd made about Theo about Blaise and Millicent, but the two of them are easier: Blaise knows what's going on, and he's Harry friend, but he doesn't seem to want to be involved. Millicent, too, is a neutral, and while she's friendly, Harry isn't sure they're actually friends. So while dismissing them feels just as callous, it's easier than with Theo, who Harry knows is in danger. If Voldemort really does return, and Theo's dad goes back to being a Death Eater, and Theo doesn't play along… or even if he does, anything could happen. Harry knows he's afraid. They're all afraid.
Finally, he decides there's one person he can and even should tell. He checks with Sirius first, at one of their Saturday evening talks, but Sirius agrees: Harry needs to talk to Gemma. He doesn't know how much, if anything, she knows about the state of the war, whether she even knows if there's a war for there to be a state of, but she's the leader of the upper-year faction within Slytherin that's aligned itself with him. Although her closest circle of friends is Warrington, Higgs, and Hussain, Harry knows that she has influence with others personally and through her inner circle. She'll be better positioned to feel out the currents in Slytherin, she'll know who Harry should be keeping an eye on if Voldemort does return, and he doesn't think she's a supporter of the Dark Lord or likely to become one, which means she's safe. Hopefully.
So, the following Wednesday, Harry snags her about a half hour before his Occlumency lesson with Sirius and asks her, "Farley? Would you mind walking me up to the Defence classroom? I've a meeting with Professor Black."
"Sure," Gemma says, and rises from the couch where she'd been reading, curled against Hussain. She knows full well, of course, that Harry knows how to get to the Defence classroom and that he doesn't need an escort, but if either of them gets asked about it they'll make up an excuse and inform the other. "Now?"
He nods. "Thank you."
They set out through the hidden entrance together and head for the stairs, and then, once they've reached the first floor, Harry glances around to check if anyone followed them. No one seems to have, but he waits until they've turned a corner before he grabs Gemma's sleeve and tugs her behind a tapestry of a forest in winter into a hidden passage that will get them up to the third floor.
Startled, she yanks her arm away from his grasp, but relaxes when she realizes where he's brought her. "Fascinating," she says. "How did you find this, Harry?"
He throws a smile over his shoulder, leading the way up the narrow stone steps of the passage. "I've got to have some secrets," he says. "But not too many—which is what I wanted to talk to you about."
"Alright," she says, bland in the way that's he's learned means she's feeling cautious. He comes to the end of the passage and peers out carefully from behind the tapestry, this one of an ocean, that guards the other end, and when he sees that the coast is clear, he darts out, Gemma on his heels. They've come out quite close to the Defence classroom, but he pulls her into an empty room nearby instead and closes and locks the door behind them. This room is fairly dust-free, a few tables and chairs set up; Neville and Harry have used it as study space before or after one of Sirius's lessons in the past, and Harry knows from experience that other students use it sometimes as well. He doesn't want to be interrupted.
"Allow me," Gemma says, and draws her wand. She points it at the door, and mutters, "Muffliato."
A faint buzzing noise begins, fairly loud near the door but quieter further away, and she frowns at it a little, then shrugs. "It'll do," she sighs.
"Better than anything I know," Harry offers. "Is that so we won't be overheard?"
"Yes," she says. "You mentioned secrets; I thought it was prudent."
"Yeah." He swallows and goes over to one of the tables, but doesn't sit down; he leans against it, tries to brace for her reaction, and says, "It's about Voldemort."
"What?" Gemma says, turning to give him an incredulous look.
"I know I sound mad," Harry says. "Please, just hear me out a moment. I don't know what you know or don't know about what's going on—"
"You-Know-Who is dead, Harry," Gemma says. "Longbottom killed him, remember? He's your bloody friend, I'd hope you do."
Harry shakes his head. "He's not. I mean, Voldemort's not dead, not Neville's not my friend—Neville is definitely my friend, which is why this is partly my problem. And it's my problem Voldemort sent Bellatrix Lestrange after my parents; he's the reason they're stuck rotting in Saint Mungo's."
"He was killed," Gemma whispers. "He was destroyed, blasted to ash. There wasn't even a body."
Harry gives her a solemn look, and says, "If the mess with Peter Pettigrew at Halloween was anything to go by, it's 'never assume they're dead unless you see the body'."
"Peter—hells." Gemma buries her face in her hands for a moment. Then she looks up, composed once more. "Why should I believe any of this, Potter?"
"Why would I lie?" he refutes.
She looks slightly stymied by that, and then scowled. "Fine, points to you I suppose. If you just wanted a panic you'd be shouting about this in the common room, not sneaking off with me."
"Exactly," Harry says. "Actually, a panic is the last thing I want. Well, no—the last thing I want is the children of Death Eaters who I know are in our House to write home telling their parents that Voldemort is on the cusp of rising again, maybe, and that Harry Potter knows about it. That would get me killed."
"You're not wrong," Gemma says. She strides over to the table and slumps down into one of the chairs, rests her elbows on the surface, and cradles her head in her hands for a moment. "Bloody hell, Harry."
"I'm sorry, Gemma," he says. He goes to sit down across from her then, and when she raises her head, he meets her eyes. He knows that to her he must look like a child. He is a child. "I'm… I knew I had to tell someone, because I can't manage the politics among the upper years, and I can't monitor what's going on, what people are whispering about. But you can, and if there's any hint that anyone is connected to someone who knows where Voldemort is…"
"You need to know," she says. "I take it you're reporting to Professor Black?"
Harry nods. "Whatever I can find out, which hasn't been much. If not for Neville, we wouldn't even know for sure what Voldemort is doing; he's lying low, and even hunting all summer and during the break, Sirius can't find a hint of him."
"Alright," Gemma says. She brings her hands down to lie flat on the table, but she traces patterns with twitches of her fingertips as she speaks. "So, you know that Voldemort isn't dead, and that he's… what, seeking to rise again? How literally are you talking?"
Harry shrugs. "Well, we know a few things. First, he's got to be some sort of spirit thing right now," he says, and puts up one finger. "We know that because he was possessing Quirrell last year. Second, we know that he's got resources: he managed to steal an artifact from Dumbledore via said possession, and we think he's going to use it to bring himself back to a real body of some sort," he puts up another finger. "Third, we know that he's using some sort of Dark ritual involving a pregnant woman. Sirius won't tell me anything, but Hermione's basically got an open pass to the Restricted Section, and she said she'd look. But even if we don't find it, we at least know that Voldemort has this woman captive and we think he's possessing her," he puts up a third finger. "And fourth, and last I guess, he's got at least one follower—like I said, Peter Pettigrew—but we're reasonably sure there are at least two other unknowns."
"How do we know?"
Harry nod toward her and puts down his fingers. "Neville had a vision over Christmas. Dumbledore thinks he and Voldemort are connected somehow, so Neville's learning Occlumency—please don't tell anyone that. But before he got his shields properly set up, he saw Voldemort in the form of this woman speaking to some followers that Neville couldn't see, and one he could say for sure was Pettigrew."
Gemma seems to digest that for a moment, and then she says, "Well." Then she stops again, thinks some more, and finally continues, "Well then. I… alright. I believe you; I'm not sure anyone would make this sort of thing up. Quirrell? Honestly. Mad. So… what would you have me do, exactly?"
Harry hesitates a moment, and then waggles his hand in the air in an uncertain motion. "Sort of up to you, I s'pose. This is one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. You know the older Slytherins much better than me, so how's best to keep an eye on things is more something you'd know."
"Right," Gemma says. "I assume you want to know if anyone starts talking like some sort of baby Death Eater."
"That, or if they say anything about their parents acting weird," Harry says. "I… I don't want to assume that everyone in our House is okay with Voldemort. Or that just because their parents are Death Eaters, they will be."
Gemma gives him a compassionate look. He hadn't been implying anything specific, and he'd meant what he'd said, so he wonders for a moment what she might be imagining. But then she says, "Theo?"
"You know about his dad?" Harry asks, startled. He hadn't thought, from things both Sirius and Theo had said, that it was public knowledge.
Gemma makes a sort of half-shrug-half-nod motion. "My family runs in certain circles where some things were known. That Theodore Nott Senior is a real piece of work is one of them."
"That's the impression I got," Harry admits. "I'm… trying to help Theo. But for his safety, I probably shouldn't say much about it."
"Fair enough." Gemma rubs her fingers against the tabletop, as if distracting herself with the texture. "What else? Just watching?"
"For the moment, I guess," Harry says. "And… I thought you should know. Your discretion if you tell anyone else, but probably best to keep this… mostly quiet for now, right?"
"I'd imagine so," she says. "That's fine by me. I'll tell Ayesha, but… well, I love Cassius, but his family is very traditional, and I don't know where they fell in the last war. Terence isn't much safer—he's a nice guy, but he's a bit of a blabbermouth if he thinks he can trust people, and besides, his Family is vassal to Greengrass. They might be Grey, but they definitely fell closer to the Death Eater crowd."
That's not something Harry had observed, really, but he supposes that Gemma is Higgs's friend much more than he is. The political tidbits he files away, to discuss with Sirius at their next Saturday meeting. "Okay," he says. "If that's what you think is best." When she nods, he continues, "I'm not sure… that there's anything else right now, really. But if you have any questions…"
She shakes her head. "I'll come to bother you if I have any, or send a note with a school owl, or some such. Plenty of excuses when I'm a Prefect and you're a troublemaker," Gemma says, and winks. It's a little less cheerful than her usual sly expression, but she's trying; Harry gets it. "Thank you for telling me, Harry."
"I want to keep as many people safe as I can," he replies, "and that means telling some of them, and not telling others, and… a lot of decisions that I don't want to make, but I sort of have to. I think we're not going to be able to stop him. I think Voldemort's going to come back. So we're going to war."
"Some people will die," Gemma says softly. "Or be terribly hurt. You're not responsible for that. Even less so for having done what you could."
"I know," Harry says, nodding. "Thanks, Gemma."
"Thank you." She gets up out of her chair then and comes around to table, then stoops to hug him briefly around the shoulders. He hugs her back, clinging to his older friend for only a few moments before they draw apart again, and she offers him a wry twist of lips in place of a smile. "I'd better get you to Professor Black, hm? Keep up the ruse, and all."
He agrees, and the two of them slip out of the classroom once Gemma has undone her muffling enchantment. Sirius's classroom is only a few doors down, and Gemma leaves him there with a wave and a wan smile, then trots back toward the dungeons—probably, Harry thinks, she wants to be back with Hussain as soon as possible. He can sort of relate, wanting to be with the people one cares about and all; he slips into the classroom and makes a beeline for Sirius's office, determined to have a hug before their lesson.
The week leading up to the Slytherin-Ravenclaw Quidditch match is a bit mad, not so much because of the Quidditch, but because that same weekend is Valentine's Day. Everyone above third year is all in a twitter about dating—or so it seems, anyway. Some people manage to keep their heads: everyone Harry's age, at least, though there's certainly some excitement among Harry's friends because Ron returns on the last day of January. The pleasure of having him back, not to mention Hermione's academic fervour for getting him caught up, lingers for the whole two weeks leading up to the game. Other than them, though, it feels like everyone except those in the upper years either totally disinterested in dating (Higgs, Flint), or who are already in committed relationships (Gemma, Hussain) loses their bloody minds. Even the Weasley twins, though they're mostly just having a riot of a time making fun of everyone else.
Harry doesn't remember it being this bad last year, but then last year he'd been a bit of a social outcast and focused on worrying about himself and his own place at Hogwarts and starting to learn magic and the possibility of going to live with Sirius and… well, a lot of things; he thinks he can be forgiven for not having noticed. At least Quidditch practices are going on as normal, and Harry feels like the Slytherin team has begun to gel quite nicely by now. As the Seeker, he doesn't play as closely in tandem with the rest of the team, but his awareness of all of them has gotten a lot better, and they've grown used to his search patterns and the way he flies when in a chase that there's no risk at all of any crashes any more, and indeed, Flint has designed a few plays that involve opening a corridor on the field for Harry to make a dive, should anyone, on their team or the other, be in between him and the Snitch at a crucial moment.
With all that in mind, Harry's rather excited for the game. He doesn't feel nervous, as perhaps he should—this is only their second game, after all. But he knows the team is good and that he's good, and from what Flint has said, Harry's fairly confident that he can manage to outfly Ravenclaw's third year Seeker, Cho Chang, and that the rest of the team can keep Ravenclaw from outscoring them.
The day of the game dawns cold and clear. A Saturday, of course, but Harry doesn't sleep in—he never really sleeps in. He gets up and brushes his teeth and gets dressed, and then trots up out of the dungeons to snag a fast breakfast of eggs on toast and some slices of apple before heading out to the entrance hall. A familiar shaggy black dog is already waiting for him, sitting patiently by the door, and Padfoot's tail begins wagging when Harry approaches and bends over to give him a hug.
"Morning, Pads," he says, and then the two of them set out into the cool morning for a brief run. Harry takes it at a slower pace than usual, not wanting to strain himself right before a game, but feels pleasantly warmed up and ready for anything when they leave off their run just outside the Quidditch pitch. He waves Padfoot off, but is not allowed to go join his teammates in the locker room for prep before Padfoot jumps up to land his paws on Harry's shoulder and thoroughly lick his face. Harry, laughing, pushes him away and wipes his face off on his robe sleeve before bidding Padfoot goodbye and heading for the locker rooms.
It's still early when he arrives, but Flint is already there, sitting on the floor of the locker room and stretching. Harry goes to join him quietly, and the two of them sit in silence until the rest of the team arrives after having grabbed breakfast at a somewhat more normal hour. A few players shower before they all get up and change, and then finish their warm ups together. Finally, once everyone is ready and the sounds of chatter are beginning to filter in from the stands above them as students file out to the pitch, Flint waves to gather them all in.
"We're ready," he says. "We had no problems with the Gryffs in November, keep that in your heads. The Ravenclaws are less aggressive, we've prepped for them, and I'm sure Potter can handle Chang. Don't fuck up and we'll be fine."
There are a number of rolled eyes at this typically taciturn speech, but when Flint puts his hand in, no one hesitates to do the same. He bobs his hand three times, and then together they all throw up their hands and shout, "Slytherin!"
And then they turn and prepare to file out when called: Flint first as Captain, then the other Chasers, the Beaters, their Keeper, and finally Harry at the end. The level of chatter and noise from above increases until Harry is sure that the whole school must be out there, waiting for them, and then the blow of a whistle summons them out onto the field. They stride out in single-file, all holding their brooms and dressed proudly in green and silver, and meet the Ravenclaws in their blue and bronze in the middle of the field, Madame Hooch standing between them with the Quidditch chest at her feet.
"Alright," she says, once they've all come to a stop and the captains have shaken hands; somewhere high above, in the staff box, Lee Jordan is announcing the names of the players and commenting on the clear flying conditions. "No funny business up there today. Best of luck to you both. Mount up, Ravenclaw, Slytherin."
The players all step back and mount, and at the sound of the whistle launch into the air, settling into formation—Flint and one of the Ravenclaw Chasers hover just a little lower than the rest, ready to catch the Quaffle when Madame Hooch lofts it, though clear of the release of the Bludgers. Which, indeed, she sets free shortly after, the black balls hurtling into the air; the next moment, she picks up the Quaffle and tosses it. And then she raises her other hand and releases the shining gold speck that is the Golden Snitch; it's gone in a moment, darting away to hide until it decides the game has gone on long enough, or however the enchantment works. Harry rises high and sets himself into his search pattern, letting the screaming of the crowd and Lee's commentary fade into the background, fixing his attention on the green below, the colour and movement of the players, and Chang's position.
There are the Bludgers to watch out for too, of course, but Harry does his best to make sure he's within relatively close range of one of the Beaters at all times, and to keep an eye out for the black balls if Bole and Derrick are otherwise occupied; he's swift enough to dodge well, at least, and he has no qualms about throwing his weight around on his broom to get clear in a pinch. Fortunately, this time around the Bludgers aren't much of a threat. In the game against Gryffindor, Harry had needed to be quite careful—the Weasley twins were a formidable Beater team and had had no compunctions about aiming directly for him. The Ravenclaws are either less effective or less vicious; Harry only really has to contend with the Bludgers rocketing by unaimed, on their own power, which is much easier to dodge than a shot aimed straight for his head.
The game goes on close to two hours, and the score is over two hundred each (well over, in the case of the Ravenclaws; their Chaser team is better co-ordinated than they had been in previous games, from what Harry can tell) when Harry spots a distant glint of gold. It's almost directly below Chang, who's a few dozen feet below Harry himself; if he hadn't glanced down to check on her position, he wouldn't have spotted it. As it is, she has a significant advantage on location… but she doesn't seem to see it hovering, and she's not watching him at the moment, her attention focused over by the Slytherin goalposts. It'll be a risky maneuver, but Harry's willingness to take a risk is why Flint had picked him over Malfoy, so he adjusts his grip and leans close to his broom, pulls his feet up, trying to make the move look casual, as if he's only readjusting his position, so no one notices before he's completely set—and then, as abruptly as he can, he tucks the nose of his broom and dives.
"And there goes Potter!" shouts Lee, his voice magnified to booming, as Harry races downward; within seconds he's close enough to touch Chang, blazing past so close that her robes flap in the wind generated by his passing. She jerks her broom to the side with a startled cry, but he doesn't need the space; he's already gone. "Looks like he's diving for the Snitch—I don't see the thing at all! Look at him go!"
Lee doesn't need to see it, Harry thinks. He can see it, hovering below. He gets close before it seems to detect his approach and darts into its own dive. He glances back as quickly as he can; yes, Chang is on his tail, though a little ways distant. Then he looks back, and watches the Snitch. He's getting closer and closer, but so is the ground. Forty feet away, and then thirty, twenty… if it doesn't pull up, Harry's going to end up catching it at the same moment he slams headfirst into the ground at full speed.
"Potter!" he hears Chang shout above him, and thinks she must have stopped, levelled out, but no. He can do this.
Less than ten feet from the ground, the Snitch darts suddenly to the left. Harry barely manages to pull up in time, his knees brushing the grass as he turns and reaches for it—almost, almost. He pulls his body forward and stretches, feels himself lose his balance at the same time as his fingers close around the Snitch. He tumbles forward off his broom, feels his legs get tangled in it. Then he hits the ground hard, still close to full speed; he tucks his arms close, hunches his head to protect it, and tries to roll, but his legs are still tangled—for a moment. Then the tip of his broom strikes the ground, gets caught, and the broomstick is wrenched away. He feels a sharp pain in one of his ankles, goes rolling across the ground in a way he knows will leave bruises, and finally comes to a stop.
There's a breathless half-second where Harry lies curled on his side, trying to figure out if all of his body parts are still attached, and then he rolls painfully onto his back and thrusts his fist into the air, still clutching the Snitch.
"He's got the Snitch!" Lee is nearly screaming from the box on high. Harry's vision is a bit blurry from shock and the increasing awareness of pain in his ankle, but he can hear that loud and clear. "Harry Potter has caught the Snitch, and took a real tumble doing it! The absolute madman! Slytherin wins the game, 380 to 290, thanks to that incredible catch! I repeat, Harry Potter, Slytherin Seeker, has caught the bloody Snitch!"
"Lee!" comes McGonagall's voice. "Language!"
"You know I'm right, Professor!" Lee shouts back. The audience is screaming too. Harry can't see, but he can imagine them on their feet. "The crowd goes wild! An amazing end to the game, after that death-defying dive—and here comes Madame Hooch to check on our completely cuckoo snake Seeker!"
Sure enough, Madame Hooch appears in Harry's field of vision a moment later, and she says, "Mr. Potter? Are you conscious?"
"Yes, Madame Hooch," he says. "Though I think I'd better not sit up."
"Sure enough," she says, and gently pries the Snitch out of his fingers—he has trouble forcing his hand to let it go, but after a moment she manages to take it back and pocket it. "Where does it hurt, lad?"
"Sort of everywhere," Harry says, a bit muzzy. "But mostly my ankle."
"Alright then," she says. She prods gently at his ankle, and when he hisses, she makes a sympathetic tutting noise and shouts, "Mr. Flint, we'll be needing to carry your Seeker off the field!"
"Yes, Madame Hooch," Flint's voice calls back, as loud as Harry has ever heard him. "The others are fetching a stretcher."
Above, Lee is continuing his monologue: "And now Slytherin Chasers Montague and Pucey are coming onto the field with a stretcher to carry off Potter! He and Madame Hooch seem to be chatting down there—Madame! Is Potter alright?"
Harry watches Madame Hooch briefly turn away from him to offer a thumbs up toward the box, eliciting another cheer from the audience, and Lee comments, "And he's alright! Wonderful, just fabulous that, good to know he'll live to pull wild broomstick acrobatics another day—never seen anything like that from a Slytherin before, that's for sure! Usually they leave that madness to the lions!"
"He's right," says Flint, appearing next to Madame Hooch. "Don't try to break your neck next time, Potter. But good job."
Harry grins up at him. "Thanks, Flint," he says. "Think 'm gonna pass out now."
Flint snorts. "You go right ahead."
Harry takes the permission and lets the encroaching dizziness carry him away, numbing him—for a while, anyway. He feels like it's been only a few seconds when he blinks his eyes open again to find himself staring at the ceiling of the infirmary, and he makes a muffled noise of complaint when he registers the radiating ache in his ankle.
"Harry!" someone cries, and he turns his head to find Hermione, Neville, and Ron sitting on one side of his bed; when he glances the other way, he discovers Theo and Blaise there. It was Hermione who had spoken; he'd recognize her worried voice anywhere. "You're awake!"
"Yeah," Harry says, then groans. "Would much rather still be asleep, to be honest."
"You'd deserve it," Theo says sardonically. "You can have anything you want, Harry—that was some dive."
The events of the end of the game come rushing back, and Harry breaks out in a grin. "Wasn't it?"
"It was brilliant!" Ron crows, at the same time as Hermione says, "Oh, it was terrifying." When Harry glances back her way, he finds Neville nodding along.
"Aren't you supposed to be a Gryffindor?" he asks, and then rolls his eyes at her indignant look; Ron laughs. "Come on—I'm fine, aren't I?"
"You did break your ankle," Blaise points out.
"Indeed, Mr. Potter," says Madame Pomphrey's voice; Harry looks up to find her standing at the foot of his bed, having approached from elsewhere in the Hospital Wing while he was talking with his friends. "A very thorough fracture, thanks to tangling your legs with your broom. And plenty of bumps and bruises, though nothing that won't heal right up with a bit of bruise balm and rest."
Harry nods. "Do I have to wait for my ankle to heal?"
"Oh, no," she says, shaking her head, and brushes past Blaise and Theo to stand at his bedside. She pulls a vial out of her pocket and places it on his bedside. "A bit of Bone Knitting Serum will do you up rightly—take it with food when your dinner arrives else you'll sick it right back up in an hour or so. And don't be surprised if you get a few more visitors before the afternoon's done—you're a bit of a celebrity at the moment, Mr. Potter."
He nods again, grinning. He can handle being a bit of a celebrity, even if he's got to lie here and take it and can't join the surely excellent victory party happening in the Slytherin common room right about now. Someone will bring him a slice of treacle tart if he asks, he'd bet.
Sure enough, all of his various friends and allies from Slytherin cycle through over the course of the afternoon. After the first batch, Neville and Hermione leave, promising to return later if Harry hasn't yet been sprung from the infirmary. Gemma brings Harry a slice of treacle tart without his even needing to ask. With her comes Hussain, and a little later Warrington and Higgs ("You'd better bloody well call me Terence after that madness, Potter!" "Only if you call me Harry, Terence.") come up as well. Then, piecemeal, the whole Slytherin Quidditch team, and finally Millicent, who claims to have gotten tired of the carrying on in the common room and sits by his bedside for about an hour with a book. She brings him the novel he'd been in the middle of, as well, and he decides not to ask how she'd gotten into his dorm—maybe she'd asked Blaise and Theo, but somehow he suspects she has ways and means other than the obvious. She finally leaves just before dinner, waving a silent goodbye and vanishing out of the infirmary with surprisingly little sound—she always walks more quietly than he imagines given her size.
His dinner arrives at the same time as Sirius, who, grinning, settles into a chair by his bedside. "Well, you've sure done it," he says, rescuing from the tray an extra plate. He must have asked the house elves to send his dinner up here with Harry's. "That was quite the move—nearly scared the life out of me, you brat."
"You don't seem so scared," Harry replies, laughing, and sits up further so that he can set the tray in his lap. His ankle twinges a little, but Madame Pomphrey had immobilized it with a spell and he doesn't jostle it badly.
"Not now," Sirius says. "But at the time—well. Now I know why Lily got so shirty about James making casual jokes about Quidditch injuries in sixth and seventh year, after they started dating. She never did like it, thought we didn't take it seriously enough."
Harry shrugs and finishes chewing his mouthful of roast beef before he says, "Well, it's not that big a deal, right? Just a broken ankle."
"It could have easily been a broken neck," Sirius says, "or a fractured skull, or you could have broken both your legs, tangled with your broom like that. Scary to watch, especially for someone who cares about you."
Harry sobers a little, considering that, and takes another bite of food to delay answering. Once he's swallowed that, he says, "I suppose. I knew I could do it, at the time, so I didn't… really think about it."
"Of course not," Sirius says, and waves a hand. "I don't want to scare you—you know your limits, I think. I was just pointing out that it's scary for me, not that it ought to be daunting to you." When Harry nods and continues with his dinner, Sirius adds, "It does look like your parents did leave a little Gryffindor in you after all though, I must say. That was quite the daring trick."
"Like I said," Harry says, "I knew I could do it. And I wanted to win."
"Slytherin after all." Sirius reaches out and ruffles Harry's hair, taking advantage of his inability to duck away, stuck under the precarious dinner tray as he is, to really muss it up. "Good on you, honestly. It was impressive, when I was done being terrified."
"Thanks, Sirius," Harry says, grinning once more. "I won't promise not to do something like that again, but…"
"It's alright," Sirius says, leaning back a little in his chair. "I'll just have to get used to having my heart in my throat, watching you do your thing. I trust you, kiddo."
"Love you, Sirius."
"Love you too."
The two of them chat casually about the game and how the Quidditch season is going overall (Slytherin is now in the lead, and unless Hufflepuff really crushes Gryffindor in their March game and Slytherin in May, Slytherin will have the Cup for sure) as they finish their dinner, and then Sirius supervises Harry drinking down the Bone Knitting Serum before he kisses his forehead and wishes him a good night. Harry sets himself up to do a bit of homework, and about an hour after dinner, Neville and Hermione reappear, this time without Ron, and join him in studying, and then in chatting for a while before curfew draws near. Eventually, Madame Pomphrey shows up and ushers them away, double checks that Harry has drunk his potion, and then tells him that unless something odd happens, he should be alright to return to Slytherin tomorrow. He settles into the narrow hospital bed, and though it's nothing like he's used to, he finds himself drifting off quickly. An exciting day, to be sure; he can't wait to get back to Slytherin tomorrow, and talk more with his friends about what fun it had been.