OLD WOUNDS OF BLACK

September 4

Defense Against the Dark Arts Tower

"Ready for our favorite professor, cuz?" Harry teased Tom while looping an arm around his shoulders. "First class of the first day, no less!"

Randolph and Goldwin snorted, then swallowed simultaneously when Tom gave them a murderous glare.

If we were not surrounded by so many witnesses, I would pitch you off this staircase, Tom informed Harry. Then feed your broken body to the beasts of the Forbidden Forest.

Love you too, Harry grinned back impishly.

"I have been informed today's class will center on the three most dreadful curses known to our kind," Tom said softly, yet loudly enough for any careful ears nearby. "A solemn but timely lesson, given what happened to that poor Gryffindor student last year."

Seriously! Harry shouted in Tom's mind.

Ashamed of your handiwork? Tom snarked.

"Are you saying Black was right? The half-breed was bewitched into getting skewered by a unicorn?" Goldwin asked.

I did not tell Hagrid to fight a unicorn! Or anything. I just—I just—, Harry protested.

Sent him into the Forbidden Forest in the dead of night with no forewarning? No preparation? Tom pressed. And stripped him of the wits to escape the place? Nearly condemning him to bleed out, to die a lonely death, and have his corpse devoured to the bone?

I–I just wanted him to understand what he did to Conny, Harry attempted to ease his conscience. To teach him to control his strength.

Tom patted Harry's back with mock sympathy, an action that drew a speculative look from Druella. Fortunately, neither Goldwin nor Randolph caught on to Tom's implicit indictment.

"Professor Slughorn believes Rubeus Hagrid was cursed with the Imperius," Tom divulged. "But the culprit covered their tracks so well that we can only guess who it may be."

Harry felt Druella's eyes flicker toward him momentarily. However, Goldwin and Randolph assumed "Heir Slytherin" himself did the deed — to punish the "Beast of Hogwarts."

"I see," Goldwin verbally expressed his awe.

Hagrid wouldn't have survived if it was you, Harry scoffed.

We shall allow your friends their innocence a little while longer, Tom responded mirthfully.

How gracious of you, Harry rolled his eyes.

Between the two, Harry advocated they inform the "Coven of Slytherin" of the future plans sooner than later. They would have to do it before Walburga and Kenward left Hogwarts, and preferably not when the two were in the throes of N.E.W.T. preparation.

Tom, however, wanted a dramatic reveal — one that "strikes fear of the Heir of Slytherin into every impure and faithless heart." This still hinged on the Chamber of Secrets, a chamber so secret they had failed to find it over the course of nearly three years.

In the present, the silver quintet entered the Defense classroom relatively early, as those affiliated with model student Tom Riddle tended to. The only ones earlier were loners such as Eileen Prince and classroom devotees such as Hector of Ravenclaw — the latter of whom Harry exchanged smiles with.

"Good morning, Professor," Harry greeted his mentor brightly.

"How do you do, Harry?" Professor Albus returned.

"Great, thank you," Harry answered as he and Tom took the front-center seats. "I can't wait to take top marks again, as my year's best spellslinger by far."

"Now, now, Harry, the mark of a good wizard is humility," Professor Albus chided. "For it is not about what we do with our wands—"

"But what we do not do with them," Harry sighed. "Sorry," he half-apologized.

The professor's green-gold eyes twinkled as he gave his top-scoring student a warm smile before greeting the others who had just come in. All engaged cordially, including Druella in spite of the grudge the Rosiers held against the "Vanquisher of Grindelwald."

Now, if only I can get Darren to do that, Harry thought of the ornery boy.

"Ow," Harry hissed as a static shock struck the sensitive region behind his ear. His reaction to Randolph's jinx naturally inspired a snort from the boy behind him, as well as Goldwin from his place behind Tom.

"Are you alright, Harry?" Professor Albus asked while stroking his copper-gray beard.

"Sorry, just a pest," Harry answered, which inspired a round of snickers from Randolph and Goldwin.

"Always annoying when they get the better of us," Professor Albus sympathized, knowing of the running game between Harry and the other two since their second year. Ironically, it was how Harry had gone from barely tolerating them to accepting their friendship.

Once the rest of the students filed in, including Algie Longbottom — with whom Harry exchanged mock glares, Professor Albus began the lesson.

"Welcome back," he addressed the seventy-seven students of Hogwarts' 999th class. "I hope you all enjoyed your summer holiday."

Most of the students answered in the affirmative.

"I am glad to hear, for today, I am afraid we shall discuss a heavy topic," the professor introduced. "Over the past three years, we have covered how to counter the most common hexes and the most formidable beasts. But now, I must warn you of three of the darkest curses known to wizardkind. Curses only a few have been known to defend against, and that earn any wizard who casts them against a fellow sapient life in Azkaban."

The class stilled at the mention of the wizard world's maximum security prison.

"I am speaking of the Unforgivables," Professor Albus stated solemnly. "Does anyone know what these are? Or any one of them?"

Harry raised his hand, figuring he was the most qualified to speak of the most dreaded one.

"Harry?" the professor called.

"The Abranax Curse, commonly known as the killing curse, spells death on any living being it impacts," Harry answered. "It is cast with the pure and sole intent of obliterating the life force of its victims, ejecting their spirits from their bodies with no possibility of remaining in this realm as ghosts. The only ways to survive this curse are to dodge, intercept it with another life form, or…or have both a command of magic and will to live stronger than your enemy's desire to destroy you. Luckily, the curse is so demanding that few dark wizards can even cast it, and only one in modern times could do so without incantation."

Two, if Tom gets his way, Harry contemplated.

"That is a very detailed and accurate description," Professor Albus confirmed. "The curse — the incantation for which is Avada Kedavra — will appear as a poisonous-green bolt of energy, typically firing in a straight line from the caster to the target. However, the deadliest masters of the curse will fix it on their target's life signature, making escape impossible."

Harry dipped his head slightly. It was why his mother fell to Grindelwald — the dark lord's killing curses could neither be dodged nor absorbed by an unrelated life form. He ignored the whispers he could feel throughout the classroom, but flashed Druella a grateful smile when her magic gently caressed him.

"Can someone describe one of the other two Unforgivables?" Professor Albus shifted the conversation. "Riddle?"

"The Cruciatus Curse, colloquially known as the torture curse, inflicts pure torment on a life form of the caster's choice," Tom answered. "Incantation Crucio, the curse penetrates all conventional defenses, reducing even the strongest wizards to screams of agony."

Harry shuddered at the memory of being under the curse, the final test he and Tom had to pass to gain admittance to the study of a long-dead sadist.

"Good," Professor Albus complimented the accurate, albeit textbook description of the curse. "As Mr. Riddle described, there is no counterspell for the curse. Only focus, will and strength can overcome it, or a strike against the caster. Fortunately, the number of wizards with the prerequisite sadism to effectuate this curse is small indeed. Furthermore, it typically requires a caster's full focus, meaning you are unlikely to encounter it in combat."

About that… Harry recalled deflecting a number of Cruciatus attempts in spars with Tom.

"And would someone be willing to describe the remaining Unforgivable?" Professor Albus asked. "Black?"

"The Imperius Curse," answered the courtly voice of Alphard Black. "A curse which strips its victims of free will, forcing them into any kind of behaviors and actions the caster desires. It is by far the most insidious curse, as victims often do not know they are under it. You may go about your day as you normally would, only to wander into the Forbidden Forest at midnight under the impression this is of your volition."

Murmurs broke out throughout the classroom, and Harry seethed.

"A precise explanation with a sober example," Professor Albus validated. "The Imperius—"

Unfortunately, Black did not want to let bygones be bygones.

"Are you going to talk about it, Deputy Headmaster?" Black interrupted. "Talk about what happened to a student from your own house? How his attacker, who nearly got him killed, either flew away with N.E.W.T. qualifications or dwells among us now?"

Gasps sounded, and even Harry found himself surprised. He and Black had hated each other for years, but now he wondered if Black genuinely wanted to send him to the dementors.

"There's an old saying — 'Whose house is of glass must not throw stones at another'," Harry warned.

Tom looked at him as if he were an exceptionally foolish individual.

"You surprise me, Evans," Black said in a tone of voice that sounded anything but. "I thought the son of the most famous white witch of this century would be aghast to learn someone cast Unforgivables on these premises."

"Harry doesn't have to justify himself to the likes of you," Randolph fired sharply.

"One would think you'd address your captain with more respect," Goldwin added.

"Do you mean to imply you respect his parentage?" Black sneered. "You two, who for years couldn't go a day without some snide remark about his birth?"

What's going on? Harry asked his cousin. Unfortunately, Tom left him in the dark.

"What is going on with you, Black?" Harry asked aloud.

"Is that concern in your voice?" Black drawled.

"For my sanity, yes," Harry snapped.

"That fragile?" Black taunted.

"Boys, please," Professor Albus reclaimed command of the room. "Save this for after class, preferably accompanied with a long overdue heart to heart."

September 5

Hogwarts Catacombs

As the silver quintet neared their first post-lunch Tuesday period, Tom clasped Harry's forearm, signaling that he wished to have some private words outside the class door.

"You must not allow Black to unbalance you," the older boy commanded once their three companions walked into the Potions laboratory.

"It's not like I try—" Harry protested.

Stormy eyes flashed.

"Old wounds have reopened within him, and he seeks to reopen yours," Tom warned. "Prove once and for all why he was wrong to forsake you, or suffer yet another humiliation at the wands of the Blacks."

With that ominous warning, Tom sharply turned on his heel and strode into the room.

Why didn't he tell me this over our mental channel? Harry wondered. Unless…was there something Tom did not want him to sense? Something Tom did not want him to guess?

Harry sat next to his cousin as usual, but the other boy seemed distant. Stranger still, he noticed Horace give them both a furtive glance or two.

"Welcome, students, to your fourth year of Potions," the academic-robed professor greeted when the class settled. "I see you enjoyed your summer holiday, if the bloom on your faces gives any indication. Hopefully my humble abode will not drain too much away from this."

Harry nudged Tom's foot, as the Slytherin scion remained fair as ever regardless the season. But Tom apparently was not in the mood to even react to humor.

Horace, one of the most confident speakers Harry knew, paused before approaching his next point of conversation.

"Watching each of you develop and hone your skills over the past three years has been a delight," Horace began. "You are quite possibly, and I do not say this lightly, the most gifted class I have had the honor of teaching. A number of you can go far in this field, and several of you may even revolutionize it. Which is why I wonder…if interactions are too limited in this class.

Oh, Harry realized where his godfather was going with this.

"While I appreciate the strong friendships I have seen blossom in this laboratory, I believe engaging a diversity of perspectives is critical to attaining mastery in any subject," Horace continued. "Which is why for this year, I have assigned partners — most of which will be interhouse."

Harry sensed shock and dread from Randolph and Goldwin, who had never deigned to partner with a non-Slytherin in all their years at Hogwarts. In contrast, the majority of the room seemed delighted to see the strongest pairs — namely himself and Tom, Goldwin and Randolph, Druella and Black, and Balthazar and Hector — splintered.

Horace waved his wand, at which unique symbols appeared before each of the students.

"Each of you will notice a sign hovering before you," the professor explained. "This will match you to your partner, or partners in one group's case. This new pairing may be a shock for some of you, but know that I coupled you with the classmate I believe you have the most to learn from."

Increasingly, Harry got the feeling Horace was talking to him. Why, he did not understand. Unlike some housemates who followed the Phineas Black principle of "hating anyone who isn't a pureblood Slytherin," Harry harbored no ill feelings for anyone outside of his house.

Anyone in this year anyway, Harry thought of Moaning Myrtle with a shudder. He didn't know who dreaded that half-witch more between him and Darren.

"Enough preamble. Get a pairing!" Horace instructed the class, before giving Harry a strange smile of reassurance.

Harry looked at Tom in confusion, but the other boy simply tilted his head toward the rest of the class before scanning.

What aren't you telling me? Harry questioned, only for his transmission to be blocked.

Naturally, despite his casual motions, Tom found his partner before anyone. Surprisingly, it was within the house, but with a witch he barely interacted with.

I am afraid it is time for you to make space for the lady, Tom instructed Harry, who sighed and did as told.

"Found your partner yet?" asked Randolph, who was also ejected from his standard seat.

"No, Tom instantly figured his was Prince," Harry huffed as they levitated their signs.

"He knows everything," Randolph whispered with wonder. "I swear, it's like he reads mind."

Harry sometimes forgot most of the others hadn't realized that Tom indeed read minds. Had since the beginning.

"So, first non-Slytherin pairing, huh Lestrange?" Harry nudged.

"First time for you too, if memory serves," Randolph returned.

"Guess so," Harry realized. He hung out with Algie enough outside of Hogwarts that he legitimately forgot they never had paired for school activities.

Speaking of, Harry searched the room for his closest Gryffindor friend, who incidentally was already looking at him.

They grinned at each other, but Harry realized that Algie was paired with Randolph rather than himself.

"Could be worse," Randolph remarked on his fate.

Harry noticed Balthazar Shacklebolt making his way to Goldwin, so it seemed none of the Slytherin quintet was paired with "lesser blood." Except Druella perhaps, but Hector's distinguished Dagworth name overruled the "Granger" side in the eyes of all but the most rigid of purists.

Question was, who did this leave for him?

A deferential presence to his left brought his attention to one of his Quidditch chasers.

"In the back, Captain," Selwyn whispered before walking to Woden of Gryffindor.

Why would he spot my partner before I did? And bother to tell me? Harry wondered. Unless…unless Selwyn had a strong friendship with said partner.

Blood drained from Harry's face.

No, he—he wouldn't. Horace wouldn't do this to me, Harry panicked.

He did, and allegedly for your benefit. So try not to make a fool of yourself, Tom sounded curtly in his mind.

In that moment, without even sighting the matching symbol, Harry knew who his partner was. When he met those thunder-gray eyes a second later, he saw Black smirk with a mixture of loathing and vindictive pleasure.

"Just like old times, 'cousin'," Black whispered coldly when Harry sat next to him.

"Step-cousin," Harry corrected weakly.

"How could I forget, Potty," Black double-cast the curse.

"But of course, Alphie," Harry retaliated.

He then flushed as he remembered that had been an affectionate name, not one of spite.

"You crumple easily without Riddle and his minions to reinforce you," Black taunted.

"They're my friends," Harry defended.

"Of necessity," Black pressed. "It took you months to look at Lestrange and Avery with anything but contempt after they began associating with you and Riddle. In fact, if memory serves, didn't you get along with Rosier first — after he quit trying to murder you?"

"What's it to you?" Harry retorted.

"Don't cwy — I'm just teasing, Hawry," Black mocked.

Harry swallowed as one of his worst memories threatened to resurface.

"Just shut up and do your part," Harry instructed. "I don't feel like ceding top marks in partner projects to Tom and Prince. That's an order."

"That's an order," Black sing-songed.

However, it turned out Black was as good a partner as ever — perhaps better than before, now that they worked in silence. Not only did they finish the day's potion before anyone else, but Harry believed it to be as good as any stocked in the infirmary.

Horace agreed.

"I dare say we could recruit the two of you to brew Pepperups for the school," the professor complimented as he gave them a perfect score.

Of course, Black couldn't resist making yet another comment on Harry's Potter ancestry.

"What can I say? This potion's in Harry's blood," Black quipped as he slung an arm over Harry and jostled him harshly.

"Yet I've never taken it a day in my life," Harry grumbled as he elbowed Black in the side.

"You boys are dismissed," Horace released them from the class.

The two Slytherins walked from the classroom and down a corridor toward a mostly-empty storeroom. With neither having to direct the other, they entered and warded the door behind them.

"Hexes on the count of three?" Black drawled in the dusty room.

"I do owe you some hexes, don't I?" Harry smirked. "But I'm in a relatively good mood."

"Shocking," Black laughed.

"Ha ha," Harry mock-laughed. "Anyhow, I'm in a good enough mood that I'll give you a piece of advice, for old time's sake. How's that?"

Black folded his arms and gave Harry a hard glare, but leaned against a wall and prompted him to speak.

"I hate you, and you hate me," Harry acknowledged the basic truth. "But I'm not the root of your troubles this time. This newfound anger, it's because Orion's here, isn't it?"

"First-name basis with him already?" Black sneered.

"Face it Black, you neglected your duty to advance family connections," Harry continued. "You ruined your friendship with Lestrange. You slandered Avery in ways difficult to forgive. Your acquaintance with Nott has cooled. Your relations with the Rosiers — a vulnerable family desperate for allies — hangs on whether you marry Druella. You have no bond with Greengrass. And worst of all, you have spurned the Heir of Slytherin."

Black opened his mouth, but Harry raised his hand.

"Now, I reckon you've justified all this to our favorite school governor," Harry carried on, commencing a mocking impression of Black's voice. "'Father, Lestrange and Avery prostrate themselves before an orphan half-blood. Nott and the Rosiers went the same way, and they all cavort with that mudborn bastard. But I keep the faith! I hold court only with the pure."

Resentment and guilt flashed in Black's eyes.

"But that won't work anymore," Harry stated. "That ring you said we all smooch? Have you looked at it — really looked at it? Because Orion has, and he's going to tell everyone in your family exactly what ring that is."

"The ring of a family that died in Azkaban, without a knut to their name?" Black scoffed.

Harry gaped.

"Have you taken a leave of your senses!" Harry nearly shouted. "You're an arrogant prick, Alphard, but this is a little much—even for you."

"I'm glad you remember my name," Black whispered.

"What?" Harry coughed.

"I said, I'm glad you remember my name," Black growled before grabbing Harry's robes and reversing their positions — slamming him against the wall and pressing up against him.

"The solitary one in the serpent?" Harry whispered over the thudding of their hearts. "That's what you will be, if you keep acting as you do."

"Looking forward to it?" Black breathed, a honey scent pervading Harry's space.

"Like you didn't have fun when Tom and I were at the bottom," Harry rejoined, relishing Black's flinch. "But, delicious as it would be to see you suffer, you—you can be of use."

"Use?" Black murmured.

"You are a decent wizard of storied blood," Harry admitted. "Nothing compared to your sister, despite your family's obsession with genitalia. But you have your talents, and my cousin respects that. As for your previous history, I don't recall you hexing Tom like the others—certainly not like Randolph and Goldwin. You have denied his importance for years, but he has never spoken the serpent tongue in front of you. Your lapse of judgment could be overlooked. Submit to him now, and the majority of your problems will disappear."

Black and Orion would take us to thirteen, Harry considered. Full coven status.

Black gave Harry a long, hard look. Then he opened his mouth…and laughed.

"How much did he pay you to try to recruit me?" Black taunted. "Oh, I forgot. All his money comes from you and your godfather."

Not true in the slightest, Harry thought scornfully. But that was only one of the many secrets he and Tom kept between each other.

"He is worth far more than gold," Harry stated.

"Oh, and what 'worth' is this?" Black pressed. "What made you kiss the ring that Halloween? Certainly not his powers at the time, unless you were that impressed by the hissings of a snake?"

"Hissings" that grant him control of every Slytherin portrait, door, bedsheet, and robe? Harry mused on Black's stupidity.

"But it couldn't have been that, not when you despised dark lineages," Black continued. "Not when you hated your middle name and all associated with the Peverell brothers. Unless it was about the Peverell blood? Were you so desperate for another family that you found a 'cousin' in some boy whose last common ancestor with you lived nine centuries ago?"

"Magic is might," Harry countered. "And far stronger than blood."

And we even look something alike, Harry considered his and Tom's similarly-colored hair and eyes, their similar facial features and builds, and their similar heights — both above average, separated by one-and-a-half inches explained by their seven-month age difference.

"You're pathetic, Potter," Black scorned.

"The Potter name will die with Charlus," Harry repudiated. "But if he doesn't want the family fortune and assets to go with him, he'll come to me. On my terms."

"Which includes throwing his wife out into the cold?" Black pushed. "As a shamed witch?"

"Who coaxed Charlus away from the love and son who needed him," Harry pushed back. "Slithered into his bed with Black prestige and gold, and left me a fatherless bastard!"

"You know where I stand on this," Black murmured as his finger softly traced Harry's chest.

Pain throbbed in the younger boy's heart.

"Only when convenient, Black!" Harry raged. "Only when easy! So why don't you once again choose what is convenient and easy. Kneel before the Heir of Slytherin!"

"Kneel?" Black questioned with a sharp intake of breath.

"They will all kneel before me one day. And I will fashion myself a new name, a name wizards everywhere will fear to speak when I become the greatest sorcerer in the world!" Tom vowed to Harry one first-year evening after they humbled the upper years who lorded over the house.

"Do it now, or do it later," Harry hissed.

"Have you told your so-called friends of your 'cousin's' plans for them?" Black lambasted.

"They know what they've signed on for," Harry asserted.

"Well, unlike you, I actually care about others," Black derided, his breath as hot as his words. "So no, I will not kneel before this 'Heir of Slytherin'. I will not see my house circle the drain for his delusions of grandeur. And I will not throw my friends into his furnace."

"I tried," Harry sighed as he shoved Black off him. "You're a fool, Black. I'd say I hope you come to your senses, but watching you crumble will be delightful."

Only once he had walked a fair distance from the storeroom did Harry remember he had forgotten to hex Black. Not that he would go back, with how furiously his heart beat.

September 8

Quidditch Pitch

"Order!" Darren shouted from beside Harry.

The two faced 13 other members of their house, four of whom were returning members of the starting line-up, the other nine of whom would vie for the open beater position, a reserve position, or attempt to oust one of the starters.

"Thank you," Harry appreciated his lieutenant as the others immediately quieted. "For anyone who doesn't know, I am Harry Evans — three-season undefeated seeker and one-season captain. On my left is Darren Rosier, our highest-scoring chaser last season. He is my second in command, unless anyone disputes this?"

No disputes.

"Now, some of you may remember Captain-Emeritus Alastor Moody," Harry continued. "Like him, I believe in open tryouts. Incumbency does not guarantee your continued stay this season. However, there is a vacant beater position. Any questions?"

None.

"First order of business," Harry proceeded. "Will anyone challenge Alphard Black for the starting keeper position?"

No one.

Harry then nodded at his nemesis, confirming his renewed tenure. Black walked forward from the group to join Harry and Darren, standing slightly behind and to the right of them.

"Very well," Harry moved along. "Will anyone challenge either Oswald Selwyn or Calix Parkinson for a starting chaser position?"

No one.

Harry nodded at his classmate and the seventh-year male prefect, both of whom walked to join the confirmed incumbents.

"Will anyone challenge Winky Crockett's beater position?" Harry called out. "If you do not, only one of you has a chance of joining the starting line-up."

No one challenged the stalwart fifth year.

"In this case, the first tryouts will be for the open beater position," Harry informed. "Step forward if you will vie for it."

Six of the remaining nine stepped forward, the majority from older years than himself. However, two very familiar faces were among the contenders. Gabriel Bulstrode, classmate and closest associate of Black, and Conlaed Greengrass, his youngest friend.

Occluding panic, Harry gave the second year an encouraging smile in spite of the open bias.

Oh Conny, why didn't you tell me? Harry internally fretted.

For one, although Randolph and Goldwin sat in the stands, they had been prepared to divert bludgers from Conlaed — a strategy meant for a chaser tryout, not a beater tryout. Two, the boy was 12 and five foot flat. But third and most significantly, he had a malady that caused his blood vessels to injure easier and heal far slower than even a standard muggle's. Conventional wound-treatment blessings often did not work on him, particularly when cast by a novice in the healing arts. And even injuries inflicted without intent for lasting harm, such as when Gryffindor's half-giant smacked Conlaed upside the head, could be fatal.

"Worried?" whispered the last voice Harry wanted to hear at that moment.

"Never," Harry instinctively responded.

He didn't have to look at Black's face to know the other boy knew he was lying. And though he refused to even glance at his nemesis, Harry knew Black would watch his every move — both with eyes and magic — to ensure he was not rigging these tryouts.

Harry could, however, still determine the order in which the contenders performed. To this end, he ordered Bulstrode to go first — forcing him to set the early standard to beat.

Unfortunately, it proved to be a respectable standard.

"You prepared him well," Harry admitted to Black.

"All for the team," Black answered with mock modesty.

For some reason, Harry nearly moved to nudge him in the shoulder. Thankfully, the captain aborted the idea — physical contact with Black may be frequent, but it was never friendly.

The next four contenders ranged from decent to good, but none matched Bulstrode despite their age advantage.

"Conlaed," Harry called the final one.

Verdant eyes met ocean-blue in search of reassurance, which Harry gave in the form of a warm smile and a blessing of confidence.

"Potter," Black whispered into Harry's ear with a warning tone.

"What?" Harry growled.

"You would not want to lose the confidence of the team, would you?" Black questioned.

"Is that a threat?" Harry intoned.

"Is it?" Black returned before withdrawing.

Conlaed soared into the air on a Comet 220, the newest racing broom on the market. With a few showy twirls, he got into position.

At Harry's nod, Darren released 10 human-sized dummies into the air. Conlaed was to beat the two roaming bludgers through as many of these as he could in the span of five minutes. Preferably at least five.

"Begin!" Harry commanded.

Conlaed chased after one of the two 60-mile-an-hour iron balls. Given the ball's 10-pound weight, the boy could redirect them despite his stature — so long as he paid attention to the angle of his swings.

"Yes!" Harry exclaimed when his friend's first strike hit a dummy dead in the head.

"Seriously, Captain?" Black condemned.

"As if sportsmanship has ever mattered to your ilk," Harry whispered harshly.

Black seemingly winced; why he reacted this way now, Harry neither knew nor cared.

Conlaed's count rose to two just under the two-minute mark, demonstrating a slightly faster rate than Bulstrode.

"Well, I'll be," Harry murmured. Clearly, this had not been a spontaneous decision on Conlaed's part, despite his parents likely unaware of their only son's pursuit.

Another dummy fell at the two-fifty mark from a bludger beat perfectly through its center mass.

"Come on Conny," Harry chanted under his breath, heart rate increasing with the probability of his friend making the team.

A fourth dummy met destruction just as Darren gave the ninety-second warning.

Harry's heart began hammering. If Conlaed could get one more dummy before the four-fifty timestamp, Harry would declare him the new starting beater right there and then.

Watching the young boy maneuver into position for a fifth strike nearly caused Harry to bounce, only for his heart to sink when Conlaed missed his target.

"Forty seconds!" Darren yelled immediately after.

Clearly panicked, Conlaed zoomed across the pitch faster than he had flown yet. Corralling the other bludger with light taps toward the target of his choosing, Conlaed then focused his energy into a final swing at 4 minutes and 47 seconds in.

It was a perfect beat, but that was not Harry's concern.

"Conny, watch out!" Harry shouted as the other bludger shot for a collision course with the second year.

Randolph and Goldwin were likely unsure whether they were supposed to intervene, and a wandless spell from Harry would likely be accompanied by a shout or some dramatic gesture. And Harry refused to hand Black a weapon with which to smear Conlaed.

Thus, a bludger impacted Conlaed's side, knocking the blond boy off his broom.

"Arresto Momentum!" Harry shouted.

Druella, the team's social coordinator and current steward of their wands, reinforced Harry's spell — thus ensuring Conlaed floated safely to the ground. But the danger did not end there.

"Druella!" Harry called as he rushed to the young boy's side.

Blood, Harry noted with worry when Conlaed coughed.

When Druella neared, Harry reached out his hand and telekinetically summoned his wand. The moment it connected with his palm, the Quidditch captain began singing a hymn in Old Norse.

Bright power infused Conlaed, saturating him with white-golden light. Soon, the boy's coughs turned to wheezes, then disappeared entirely.

"You alright?" Harry asked while holding his friend firmly.

"You're embarrassing me," Conlaed whined as he attempted to swat away Harry's grip.

"He should be taking you to the hospital wing," Black declared.

"Watch yourself, Black," Harry warned. "I'm the authority here, especially with members of my team."

"Gabriel destroyed just as many dummies in the same amount of time," Black stated. "And without a power boost from you."

"Whatever Conlaed accomplished was within his own power," Harry dismissed.

"How can we know for sure, when you so obviously favor him?" Black challenged.

"Don't speak to me about fairness, Black," Harry clipped coldly.

"I would rather speak about you or Druella taking Greengrass to the hospital wing immediately," Black pivoted.

"He's healed," Harry pronounced.

"You know as well as I do that he needs a professional," Black countered.

"Harry…maybe I should take him," Druella said softly.

"Black just wants to stack the team in his favor," Harry bit as he tightened his grip on Conlaed's shoulders. "I won't allow it."

"I'm trying to help!" Black claimed.

"You just want to tread down old roads that lead to old wounds," Harry rejected.

"Poetic. Is that what Riddle told you?" Black queried.

"So what if he did?" Harry retorted.

"Rather selective in what he tells you, isn't he?" Black returned. "How come you didn't know Greengrass would try out for beater?"

Conlaed's demeanor confirmed Black's suppositions.

"H–Heir Slytherin said I would impress you this way," Conlaed admitted.

"Impress me?" asked a confused Harry.

"Not the time," Black insisted. "Greengrass could still be bleeding."

"No!" Conlaed shouted before starting to his feet.

"Conny, wait," Harry cautioned, concerned that overexertion might tax the treatment.

"I'm not weak!" Conlaed protested. "I'm not weak!"

"No one thinks you are," Harry assured.

"Yes they do," Conlaed whimpered.

"Well, they don't have a say on who joins the team," Harry asserted while fixing a glare of contempt on Black.

In return, Black looked down at Harry as if he were obtuse.

"Harry!" Druella said urgently.

Harry swiveled back to Conlaed to see the boy teeter briefly.

"I'm taking him," Druella determined as she began to lead the second year away.

Harry and Black watched this in silence.

"Gabriel and Greengrass performed equally," Black judged. "But Greengrass is in much greater danger whenever on the pitch. Gabriel should be your new beater."

"Conlaed worked hard for this. How dare you suggest I take it away from him?" Harry berated.

"Look me in the eyes and tell me you are okay with him being a beater," Black demanded. "Are you that desperate to have another of Riddle's boys on the team?"

"I remember well what it was like being alone on this team," Harry snarled. "When Tom was the only support I had during matches, much less outside of them."

"This isn't first year!" Black snapped.

"Isn't it?" Harry exploded as he leapt to his feet and seized Black by the shoulders. "Why does it feel more like it every day? We're Potions partners again. You're challenging me at every turn. And you have the nerve—the audacity—to act like you give a damn about me!"

"What if I do?" Black whispered.

Harry shoved him to the ground.

"You made your choice that Yule," Harry reminded. "If your memory fails you, ask one of the many witnesses you degraded me in front of! Maybe start with Charlus Potter!"

"I'm sorry!" Black cried out.

"Nie und nimmer!" Harry spat before marching back to the team and team hopefuls.

"Conlaed Greengrass is the new starting beater," the captain announced.

Murmurs of disgruntlement spread through the group, particularly among three returning members of the team.

"You performed well, Bulstrode," Harry commended. "But Conlaed demonstrated equal skill while being more than two years your junior."

"Did he?" Bulstrode objected bitterly.

"Indeed," Harry affirmed. "If you would like to try out for a reserve position—"

"I'll pass," Bulstrode grunted before trudging off the field.

"Shame," Harry shrugged. "Anyone else want to toss away the opportunity to join the team? The social status that comes with it, best seen at the events our lovely social coordinator puts together for us?"

"Events you don't deign to attend—" Selwyn grumbled.

"Starting lineup dismissed," Harry silenced. "Reserve tryouts begin now."

Glares and grumbles aside, the main team got out of their captain's way.

"Good news, all but one of you will make the team," Harry informed the seven remaining hopefuls.

"But aren't there seven positions on the team?" asked Neil Lament, a classmate of Conlaed's.

"Ah, but Salazar Slytherin's favorite number was thirteen," Harry countered.

"What Evans actually means is he won't accept a reserve seeker," Black cut in.

"What if you're injured before a match?" another team hopeful wondered. "Or during one?"

"That would be a real shame, wouldn't it Black?" Harry taunted.

"I never—" Black started before slumping his shoulders in defeat. "As you say, Captain."

Harry enjoyed watching the fight evaporate from his nemesis — at least in theory. It was how Tom convinced him to endure the others' company in the early days.

"Come now, cousin. Does the prior animosity not make their subservience all the sweeter?" Tom said.

But as Black walked away in an uncharacteristically slouched position, something within Harry didn't know how to feel. This was the year he was waiting for, was it not? The year that Black's blood, money and power could no longer compare to his own family? The year he could repay the humiliation he suffered at the Grimmauld Yule Ball? The year he would silence talk of his mother's alleged muggle origins, her failed love life and untimely death?

Maybe I'll consult Voldemort about this. After he shows me his new tricks, and I beat him anyway, Harry anticipated their weekly session in Salazar's secret study.

"Who will try out for reserve keeper?" Harry questioned. "Good. Choose a goalpost and prepare. Whoever blocks the most quaffle-shots of ten from me serves as Black's backup."