Chapter 15 – Training and Trauma
Oliver leaned against the goalpost and watched his players run to him. They were wrapping up two laps around the Quidditch pitch, and he was happy to see them looking far less tired than they had been this time last year. He wasn't surprised to see Angelina powering through, barely breaking a sweat, or the twins and Alicia barely chugging along. He was pleasantly surprised to see Katie keeping up with Angelina, though she looked to be at the end of her rope. But what surprised him the most was Harry.
Even last year, Harry had been dedicated to the team, but today, he looked determined on an entirely new level. He passed Katie and Angelina, yelling something behind him that spurred the two older girls to up their pace. He grinned as he came to a stop before Oliver, panting heavily with his hands on his knees.
Oliver raised his hand to pat his seeker on the shoulder but stopped mid-way. He noticed how Harry's muscles tensed and dropped his hand lamely.
"Good hustle, Harry," Oliver smiled, and the second year nodded gratefully before returning to his gasping breaths.
The captain gave the rest of the players a few minutes to breathe before clapping loudly and gathering them into a circle.
"Good work out there. We're already in better shape than we were this time last year," he smirked. "At least this time, you're still standing."
Alicia promptly dropped to the ground. She flipped him the bird from where she was sitting, and he pouted. He tossed each of his players their brooms before wordlessly kicking off into the air. Harry was the first to follow, flying close behind him.
The moment Harry's feet left the ground, an entire lightning storm erupted in his fingertips. He felt the magic surge up his arms and burn through his body as broom and owner reunited after a summer apart – the leftover exhaustion after his warmup was chased out of his system and lost to the ride wind.
He whooped as his broom sliced through the air, the whistle of the wind like a symphony to his ears. His eyes were wide open behind his goggles as he revelled in the weightlessness. The world turned to a blur of green, blue, and grey as he pushed the broom as fast as it could go.
He lapped the pitch with his teammates. The adrenaline wore off after the third lap, and he came to a stop in the centre with a wide grin.
"Having fun there, Speccy?" Angelina was the next person to float to a stop.
He nodded with an infectious grin. "I missed this."
"I thought you'd have gotten some flying in over the summer," Angelina mused. She cocked her head to the side. "Then again, I suppose you can't really fly around in a muggle neighbourhood."
"Yeah, I suppose," he trailed off, confused by the trivial manner with which she discussed his home life. Did Angelina not know about how the twins had found him? He thought Alicia might've told her, best friends that they were.
It was something of a relief if she hadn't.
Harry wasn't blind. He noticed how Alicia, Oliver, and the twins treated him differently. Alicia tried to act normal, but he saw her expression when she thought he wasn't looking. Oliver and the twins were on eggshells around him as if they thought the wrong phrase would send him off the edge.
They looked at him how one looked at a wounded animal.
All he wanted was to be one of them, and for a moment last year, he thought he was. He'd matched the great Charlie Weasley – he won them the championship. He was not only a part of the team but also an equal. Just as important as the girls, the twins, or Oliver.
Just as good as Charlie.
Now, he felt like their little pity project.
He didn't want them to view him any differently. Katie and Angelina – for whatever reason – were not in the know, and they were the only ones who treated him the same as ever. Katie was her ever-cheerful, bubbly, witty self, and Angelina was as boisterous and teasing as ever.
It was the only semblance of normalcy he had on the pitch.
Things were much the same off the pitch, too. At least Ron was normal, even if Hermione behaved a lot like Alicia, with her surreptitious glances when she thought he was distracted.
Harry shook his head and plastered an easy grin on his face as the rest of the team levelled out near him.
Oliver ran Harry and the team through drills, and they were all pleased to find that the summer rust hadn't set in too deep.
His practice regimen started with some snitch chasing. He made laps of the pitch, periodically switching between skirting the edge and zigzagging through the middle. According to Oliver, this would, in theory, help disrupt any chaser formations and keep the opposing seeker on their toes.
He zipped between jutting support beams under the stands, using the opportunity to practice his turns. He relished in the ease with which his broom followed his command after an entire year of acclimating it to his magic.
On his second lap, he caught a glint of gold. When he realised that no, it was not Alicia's hairpin, he pressed himself flat on his broom and willed it forward.
The familiar, addicting sensation of the gale nipping at his face enveloped him as he pursued the snitch. In his peripheral, he noticed a number of red blurs flying in his general direction. He pushed on the nose of his broom, dipping below his teammates.
The practice snitch felt his approach and swerved toward the empty goalposts. Harry swore before rolling to avoid a stray bludger. He ignored the twins' catcalls as he flew between them. He gained on the snitch and reached out his arm. He realised too late that his catch attempt was premature, as the snitch made a sharp left turn toward the announcer's booth. His outstretched arm slammed back onto his broom as he pulled it to the left, making a wide, swinging turn to follow.
Wind, tiny insects, and stray leaves batted against his unprepared face as he made a hasty turn- right into the other players.
For fear of swallowing a mouthful of bug and leaf, Harry suppressed the urge to swear (he was getting far too crass; Angelina was a bad influence) and pushed his broom straight back and up, braking hard as he careened over them.
When he regained control of his movement, he didn't refrain from a few choice words as he searched for the missing golden ball.
A few minutes later, he rose out of a swooping dive with the practice snitch in hand. He frowned as he tossed it back into the air. He had been too hasty. Even with his broom at its full potential, Harry found his decision-making was making him struggle more than last year. He knew it wouldn't be any easier with the real deal. Quite the opposite, really.
Just as he caught the snitch for the third time, the sharp cry of a whistle snapped Harry out of focus.
He returned to Oliver, who had him and the girls run their interception and passing drills. The captain blew the whistle from the goalposts, and Harry turned a blur of scarlet as he flew for the chasers.
Angelina led the girls into a Hawkshead formation with Alicia at the front and herself and Katie on the left and right, respectively. Alicia held the quaffle in a reverse grip—Harry dove between her and Angelina, scattering the formation entirely, and Alicia lobbed a pass to Katie.
She threw the pass straight up before turning sharply to bat the quaffle to her teammate. She underestimated Katie's proximity, however, and the younger girl received a mouthful of Alicia's broom. Because only the bristles hit her,Katie got away with little more than a scratch.
"Maybe we shouldn't try all our fancy tricks on the first day back," Katie said, wiping on her sleeve the thin line of blood on her cheek.
"Stick to the basics," Alicia agreed sheepishly.
Harry returned with the quaffle.
"All right there, Katie-kat?" He grinned as he tossed her the ball.
She caught it deftly before making a rude gesture. "You throw like a baby."
"I'd say you catch like a baby, but infants don't usually eat broomstick for dinner."
"Why you –" she lobbed the ball to a laughing Angelina before chasing after him as he fled, riotous laughter trailing them both.
It took some effort, but Oliver wrangled his players to the middle of the pitch and was giving them a sermon on passing precision.
"Alright, so run the drills again from the top. This time, Fred, George, aim the bludgers at the chasers without the quaffle. It'll be a good exercise on making yourself open. Katie, try to – Katie? Are you listening?"
"Huh?" the girl in question turned back to him with a start. He glared at her, and she
shook her head. "Sorry, but isn't that the Slytherin team?"
Oliver scowled as he saw the seven green-robed individuals march onto the pitch. He gestured for the team to hit the grass.
"Flint," Oliver called as he stomped toward his counterpart. The two captains stared each other down, their respective players behind them. "What are you doing here?"
"Same as you, Wood," Flint said smoothly, his patronising smirk looking especially grating on his sloth-like build. "We're here to practice."
"Practice?" Oliver ground out. "I have the pitch booked for the next hour."
"The pitch is large enough for both of us, don't you think?" Flint smiled, a malicious glint in his eye. "Besides, weren't you the one who wanted us to practice against each other? At least that was what Hartley was telling me."
"That's different – why would we scrimmage our first opponents?" Oliver asked incredulously. "It doesn't matter either way; I booked the pitch. You can practice later."
Flint tutted. "See, that's where you're wrong. I have a special note from Professor Snape:" The Slytherin produced a scrap of parchment. "He's giving us special access to the pitch, owing to the need to train our new seeker?"
"New seeker?" That was Harry. "Who?"
"Me," a younger, nasally voice said from between the Slytherin players, who parted for him like the Red Sea. Oliver would've found the theatrics funny if he weren't so damn irritated.
"Malfoy?" said an astonished Harry.
Draco Malfoy, a boy Oliver only recognised because of Harry's endless complaining in the common room.
"Surprised to see me, Potter?" the blonde Slytherin smirked.
"Yeah," Harry scoffed. "Surprised you would fly willingly – do you even have enough hair gel to protect you from the wind?"
Malfoy flushed and sneered. "Let's see how much you're mouthing off when we crush you like a flobberworm."
Angelina actually laughed aloud, and Oliver too smirked. Alicia grinned wide. "Higgs was a decent seeker, and you couldn't beat us with him. What makes you think you'll do any better with this obvious downgrade?"
Malfoy sneered, but Flint beat him to the punch. "Using our superior brooms, of course."
That was when Oliver noticed the entire Slytherin team holding brand-new brooms. He couldn't suppress the sharp intake of air when he saw the words 'Nimbus 2001' embossed in gold on the handle.
It was Malfoy's turn to laugh. "Like these? They were a gift from my father to celebrate my making the team."
"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way on," said Hermione from behind him, and Oliver jumped in place. When had she gotten there? "They got in off pure talent."
"No one asked your opinion, mudblood."
The laughter that rippled from the red-and-gold contingent died as soon as it began.
"How dare you." Alicia went for her wand, and Oliver grabbed her by the wrist. He turned and saw her looking mutinous. He shot her a warning look, and she glared right back with a clenched jaw. He scanned his contingent, noticing Angelina gripping Alicia's shoulder and muttering rapidly into her ear. Oliver shot her a grateful look before letting go of the dark-haired girl's wrist. Harry and Hermione just looked confused, though the latter looked shaken, with the gait of someone who knew she'd been insulted, even if she didn't know what it meant.
Ron had his wand pointed at Malfoy, who looked momentarily fearful.
"Eat slugs, Malfoy!"
An acrid green flash burst out of Ron's wand, but it didn't fly at Malfoy. Instead, it rebounded onto Ron, who was knocked off his feet.
The boy fell on his arse unceremoniously. He sat up, a dazed expression on his face. He turned an unsettled shade of puce and looked like he'd throw up.
He retched, and Oliver winced. However, it wasn't vomit that came out of Ron's mouth. It was a – slug? Ron retched again, and a second slug joined its brethren, leaving a trail of slime down the second year's front.
Harry and Hermione scurried to their friend's side, insults forgotten as concern took precedence in their minds.
Riotous laughter came from the Slytherin side. Oliver ignored them, opting to keep an eye on his players. It wouldn't do good for them, as students or players, to get detention this early in the year.
Alicia was still fuming, though Angelina's firm hand on her shoulder seemed to be calming her down, evidenced by her wand, which had since returned to her pocket. The twins were ashen-faced, any traces of humour drowned by cold rage. He couldn't find Katie and turned around just in time to see her sink her fist into Malfoy's face.
The pale Slytherin hit the ground like a sack of bricks, letting out a pitiful moan as he clutched at his bleeding nose. The Slytherins roared into action, many pulling their wands out or squaring their fists. He was acutely aware that the Gryffindors, minus Katie and the second years, were doing the same. He kept his hand firmly away from his pocket.
"There's no need for wands," he said calmly, pulling Katie roughly to his side, away from the still-bleeding Malfoy. He looked straight at Flint, handily ignoring the seventh-year's white-knuckled grip on his wand. "This is a Quidditch-related incident. If anyone gets in trouble here, it won't be detention they'll face; they'll get suspended for the first match. None of us want that."
Oliver gestured to Ron, who was still heaving slugs. "You lot got a couple of foul words and a botched spell, and we got a broken nose." He gestured at Malfoy. "I think that's a fair exchange, yeah?"
Oliver stifled a resigned sigh. "And you lot can have the pitch. We were nearly done anyway."
Flint stood in silence with narrowed eyes, and Oliver could almost see the slow cogs turn in the brutish boy's brain. Flint put his wand away, and his players followed suit. Muscles relaxed that Oliver hadn't even known were tense.
"We'll take Ron to Hagrid's. He'll know what to do about this," Harry said, looking at Oliver with a mixture of surprise and awe. "We'll meet you in the common room later."
Oliver nodded before dragging the rest of his teammates off the grass and into the castle. The party of six moved in silence. Katie walked next to him, her face to the floor, curtained by her blonde hair. Alicia and Angelina were close behind them, holding a harsh, silent discussion. The twins trailed behind, speaking in hushed tones.
Just as they rounded the landing that held the portrait of the fat lady, Oliver found an abandoned classroom and pulled Katie inside. He gestured for the others to proceed without them before pulling the door closed.
He turned around and found his little cousin sitting at a desk near the far end of the classroom. She had her head down, and he thought he heard a sniffle.
He approached and sat on the desk opposite her. "Katie…" he began but trailed off. He hadn't planned a speech when he decided he needed a one-on-one conversation with her.
"If you're going to yell at me, just get it done with," she mumbled from between her arms. "I'm sorry I nearly got detention – I'll try not to get suspended in the future."
Oliver laughed. It came out a little sharp, harsh maybe. "You think I'm mad about that? Katie, I don't care about Quidditch," his lip twitched at the mumbled "liar" from the girl. "You could've gotten hurt. Flint and Bole combined probably know more dark curses than all of Gryffindor put together. And you punched Malfoy – you know his dad's a bigwig in the Ministry. Imagine what Uncle Edward will have to deal with because of this."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause problems for anyone," Katie said weakly. "It's just – that's such a vile thing to call someone. Hermione did nothing to deserve that. And it reminded me of – remember before first year when Dad took us back-to-school shopping?" Her head came up, and Oliver's heart broke at the tear tracks staining her cheeks. "Nott Senior came up to Dad and said he needed to back off an investigation – that a mu-muggleborn like him needed to know his place. I dunno. I just couldn't sit and watch again. I – I needed to do something. I couldn't just watch Hermione get called that like I did with Dad."
Oliver slid off the table and knelt before Katie. He held his arms out, and she leant into his embrace. "It's all right, I get it," he said slowly, stroking her hair. "Merlin knows I was angry, too. Just – think it through next time, yeah?"
She nodded into the crook of his neck and let out a watery laugh. She extricated herself from his embrace and rubbed at her eyes, trying desperately to wipe away the red.
"I guess it's a good thing we had practice," she said conversationally. "I would've looked a lot worse if I'd worn my mascara."
Oliver made a face. "I'll never understand you girls and your makeup."
Katie snickered and made for the door.
"I think Fred and George are plotting revenge on Malfoy and the Slytherins," Oliver said as they hopped through the portrait hole into the common room. "Let's see if we can't get a couple of ideas in."
Katie grinned, and Oliver noted with amusement and a touch of trepidation the shark-like resemblance. "Let's."
He shook his head fondly. He almost pitied Malfoy. Almost.
As the weeks burned by, Oliver quickly realised he was losing his players' interest during practice. They went through each drill with the diligence he'd come to expect from them. After each practice, Harry was catching the snitch with increasing efficiency, and the chasers were making good progress on their passing form. He was certain they would be back in tip-top shape by the first game.
But they were bored. Merlin, so was he. And wasn't that something? Oliver Wood, bored by Quidditch.
To be fair, he wasn't bored of Quidditch- just the repetitive drills. It really was outrageous, all the practice they did, just for three games.
That was why he found himself in the library. Not a place he frequented outside of the rare research or exam cram session.
He dropped loudly into a chair, giving Madam Pince an apologetic smile as it creaked a little louder than he expected. Opposite him, Hartley Summers was slouched over a book. Her chestnut hair was tied back in a ponytail as she chewed on her bottom lip, irregularly scratching notes down on a loose scrap of parchment.
Oliver tapped the page of her book with a finger, and she looked up with a startled glance, relaxing when she recognised him.
"Merlin's soggy boxer shorts, why would you scare me like that?" she glared.
"I could not have been more unsubtle if I came in here with a bloody erumpent horn," Oliver said dryly, raising an eyebrow. "Also, do I want to know why Merlin's got soggy boxer shorts?"
Hartley grinned. "Not if you want to stomach dinner."
He sniffed haughtily. "I just came back from Quidditch practice; I don't think anything could keep me from my dinner."
"Well, you see. When a man really likes a woman…" Hartley began with a shit-eating grin.
"Nope, nope, nope. Not hearing this from you," Oliver said quickly, covering his ears. He winced as Madam Pince glared at him around the corner again.
She covered her mouth as she laughed. "Not that I'm not glad for your company, but did you need something from me, or is this strictly a social call?"
"I was wondering if you spoke to Flint," he admitted. "I've yet to speak to Samuels, though I hardly think he'll be difficult to convince."
"I've spoken to him, though you and your team didn't make my job any easier," she added blandly. He could only shrug.
"In our defence, Malfoy had it coming."
"I don't doubt that," she said with a wry smile. "It still made convincing Flint a massive pain in the arse."
She shook her head and pulled two stacks of parchment out of her bag. "Good thing Flint is just as fanatical as you are. I had to promise that your players wouldn't try anything on the pitch unless provoked and that you two wouldn't play each other till after the first match-"
"Which was the plan anyway," he cottoned on quickly.
"Which was the plan anyway," she nodded with a grin.
"You're brilliant," he said sincerely.
"I know, right?"
"Okay, don't get too bigheaded now."
She flipped him off.
"My apologies," he said, and she looked satisfied. He pulled the stacks to him.
She tapped the left pile. "This is every Slytherin player's schedule, along with their pre-existing practice times," she pointed to the other pile. "This is the same for my 'Puffs."
"Morgana, this is a lot," Oliver sifted through the stack. "Scheduling is going to be hell, isn't it?"
Hartley nodded. "I would offer to help, but I'm already swamped with NEWTs, and we're not even a whole two months in. Besides, it's your idea anyway, Captain Wood."
"Well, Captain Summers, I appreciate your generosity," Oliver snipped as he tucked the schedules into his pack. "Mind if I get some work done with you? Or do you prefer the solitude?"
"As long as you don't mind me occasionally chattering your ear off," she shrugged. "I don't see why not."
"That won't be a problem, methinks," Oliver grinned, pulling out a charms essay.
While Oliver and Hartley chatted away, quills in hand more as an excuse than anything, Harry Potter knocked on Professor Flitwick's door. He shoved his nerves deep into the crevices of his mind. At the professor's beckon, he slipped into the classroom.
"Mister Potter, come in," Flitwick said, tucking a quill in a sheaf of parchment before setting it aside.
"Hello, Professor," Harry said hesitantly.
Flitwick nodded kindly. "I trust you had a fine summer at the Weasley residence?"
"It was brilliant, professor," Harry gushed. "They have a huge field that Ron, the twins, and I played Quidditch on. Though the twins insisted on using the Weasley brooms, so I haven't used my Nimbus since school let out…"
Harry coughed loudly. "But yes, my summer was good. How about you, sir?"
"Mine was splendid, Mister Potter," Flitwick's eyes glittered with mirth. "Shall we get started?
At Harry's excited nod, the diminutive professor flicked his wand, and the desks and chairs were whisked away to the sides, stacked neatly against the walls. Harry watched the chairs form intricate patterns in the air and didn't notice Flitwick's hex until it hit him.
He jumped, feeling a sharp sting in his elbow.
"The first and most important rule of learning to fight is to always be prepared," Flitwick said not unkindly, his wand still held in front of him lazily. Harry scrambled to fish his wand out of his robes. "If you remember my duel with Quirrell, he tried to surprise me when he realised I had caught him. If I had let my guard down, I might have lost that duel before it even began. An old friend of mine from the war espoused 'constant vigilance. ' Take that as your first lesson of the day."
Harry nodded eagerly. In his brain, constant vigilance meant Sensomagy. The colours in the classroom sharpened and changed where there was magic to be found.
"Good start, Harry," Flitwick smiled sharply before snapping off two spells. "Shall we test those Quidditch reflexes of yours?"
One spell blitzed toward Harry, and he dove to the side, only to feel a sharp sting when the second connected with his shoulder.
"Good reflexes, but keep an eye on your surroundings," Flitwick instructed. The professor's voice was no less pleasant than it was in class, yet as he ducked under another spell, Harry felt more motivated than ever before. "It wouldn't do you good to trip over a chair mid-duel, now would it?"
Harry grunted from his throbbing shoulder as he ducked under another spell, barely weaving out of the way of a stinging hex. Frustration mounted within him as more and more spells connected with his aching body. Flitwick was unrelenting, and Harry wondered whether the professor was waiting for him to yield.
He refused to admit defeat.
Harry dove out of the way of a hex and hit the floor as the now familiar sting hit him right in the gut. He rolled immediately, fuelled only by frustration and adrenalin, and pointed his wand at the professor.
"RICTUSEMPRA!" He bellowed, perhaps unnecessarily. The spell whizzed past Flitwick, who hadn't even bothered to move. Still, that seemed to be what the professor was looking for, as he stopped firing spells. Instead, he plucked a small vial from his desk and handed it to Harry, who gulped it after only a moment's hesitation. He sighed in relief as the persistent aches across his body dulled significantly.
"I was wondering when you would finally fight back," Flitwick waved his wand, and a chair floated over to Harry. He picked himself off the ground and sat gingerly as the professor mimicked him on his own high-backed chair.
"I didn't know if you wanted me to or if you just wanted me to dodge," Harry admitted, and Flitwick smiled wryly.
"In a real fight, if your opponent asked you to not retaliate, would you listen?"
Harry frowned. "No," he acquiesced.
"Then why should that not remain true here?" Flitwick raised an eyebrow. "I believe you asked me to teach you how to fight, am I correct?"
"But I don't know any powerful spells," Harry said self-consciously. "Not like you and Quirrell were using."
"But I'm only using stinging hexes," Flitwick pointed out. "Quirrell and I are wizards much your senior. You cannot compare yourself to us. Instead, use us as a metric to aspire to. Again, if you were in a real fight, would you sit there lamenting your lacklustre spell repertoire, or would you fight with what you have?"
Harry frowned. "I suppose I would have no choice but to use what I know."
Flitwick's face softened.
"I suppose you can consider that your second lesson of the day, Harry," the professor said gently. "One of the most important traits to have is tenacity. You will find yourself against larger, stronger opponents. Still, you must fight all the same. The key is to stay active. Act; don't just react. Always look for the next opening. No matter if you're disarmed or your wand is in ashes on the floor, you stay on your feet and keep moving. The moment you stop moving is the moment you lose."
"Got it," Harry said with conviction, his wand clutched in a vice grip. Flitwick gave him a sharp-toothed smile before, with a snap of his wrist, a bright blue bolt rocketed towards Harry. He rolled off his chair and under the spell, his wand arm extending automatically.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
As he twisted out of the way of the pale blue spell, Harry was certain that Flitwick's proud snarl would be logged into his happiest memories the next time he practised his occlumency.
It was an exhausted Harry who returned to the common room that evening. His unruly hair the colour of charcoal stuck to his face, and he brushed a few stray locks out of his eyes as he stepped through the portrait hole.
His teammates were nowhere to be found, but he found Ron and Neville sitting at a chessboard. He dropped unceremoniously into a free chair near them. He let out a long sigh as his aching muscles relaxed after over an hour of dodging spellfire.
"You look like you just fought a mountain troll," Ron commented, his eyes barely straying from the pieces on the chessboard.
"Been there, done that," Harry said impishly, and Ron snorted. Neville looked at the two of them, bewildered.
"That was real?" the pudgy boy asked incredulously. "Ruddy hell, I thought that was just the rumour mill."
Harry shook his head. "That was how Ron and I became friends with Hermione."
Neville whistled. "Merlin, you three get up to the wildest things."
Harry and Ron shared a knowing smirk. "You don't know the half of it," Harry mumbled while Ron laughed.
"Knight to E-five," the redheaded boy said to Neville, who groaned as his bishop got tossed off the board. Ron turned back to Harry. "Quidditch practice?"
Harry shook his head at the same time as Neville.
"Can't be," said the latter. "I saw Katie Bell in the library with Hermione."
"I was with Professor Flitwick," Harry admitted. He'd been debating what excuse to give his friends about his lessons with the professor. It wasn't until Neville mentioned Katie that he remembered their pact.
No more secrets.
"He's teaching me how to duel."
Ron and Neville started and turned to him, the chess game entirely forgotten.
"Blimey, what do you want to learn that for?" Ron asked, wide-eyed.
Harry shifted uncomfortably under his dormmates' scrutinising gaze. "I asked him last year," he said quietly, and the boys strained to hear him. "After I left the hospital. After Quirrell."
A tense silence settled over the trio. Ron swallowed thickly. He and Hermione were the only people, other than Alicia, that he'd told about what was on the back of Quirrell's head. Neville didn't know about Voldemort's involvement, but the story that the Hogwarts rumour mill had settled on was close enough that the whole school knew of his kidnapping.
Neville cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well, did Flitwick teach you any cool spells?"
"Not yet," Harry shrugged. "He's had me running around dodging mostly."
Harry leaned forward slightly and spoke in a hushed tone. "I'd appreciate it if you lot didn't go around bandying this information about. I'll tell Hermione, Alicia, and Katie eventually, but I'd rather not the whole school know. Not after last year."
Neville and Ron nodded, and Harry smiled with gratitude. After he was released from the Hospital Wing last year, Harry had been so caught up in the revelry of winning the Quidditch cup that he'd missed the pitying looks for the first week or so. But by the end-of-year feast, he was fully aware of how everyone looked as if he would start sobbing from a light breeze. This year, thankfully, the students seemed to have forgotten everything that had happened.
This was one of those times that Harry was grateful for Hogwarts' goldfish memory.
With some luck on his side, he hoped to have a somewhat normal year at Hogwarts. He leaned towards Neville. "Move your queen down that way," he muttered. "Ron's trying to take the centre."
"Oi, that's cheating!" Ron whined. Harry rolled his eyes.
"Mate, even outnumbered, you still have the upper hand over the two of us," Neville grumbled. Ron looked rather pleased with himself. Harry grinned and continued helping Neville play Ron.
Somehow, the redhead still won.
Ron Weasley watched Harry laugh as he beat Katie at exploding snap for the umpteenth time. She flipped him off, and he suppressed a snicker at Hermione's scandalised expression.
He watched Harry's mannerisms curiously. Having been friends with him for a year, Ron no longer wore boy-who-lived colored lenses when looking at Harry. How could anyone confuse him with such a mythological character? Harry, who always sat curled up, making himself as small as possible. Harry, who avoided confrontation with his friends to an extreme. Harry, who expected Ron and Hermione to abandon him at just the memory of Voldemort.
Harry Potter was unlike anything Ron had expected, and it concerned him.
He didn't fully understand what Fred and George had been whispering to each other on the car ride back from Harry's relatives' place. Harry had been too distracted by his newfound freedom, but Ron had noticed. But from their rare, grim expressions and the bloody bars that were on Harry's window, he could extrapolate that it had something to do with Harry's living conditions.
What had the twins seen when they went downstairs?
What was the secret that they seemed to share with Alicia Spinnet and Oliver Wood?
He saw how they looked at Harry, like some kind of wounded animal. He also saw how much Harry hated the pity.
Now, if there was something Ron could understand, it was pity.
Ron was incredibly proud to be a Weasley. In his heart of hearts, he knew his father worked incredibly hard and was an incredible role model for his kids, and his mother was the best he could've asked for. His brothers, while prats, pranksters, and quite pretentious at times, he wouldn't trade for the world. And Ginny was Ginny.
But the one thing he hated about being a Weasley were the connotations.
"Oh, the Weasleys. Great people, rather poor though."
It was a sentiment that was rarely spoken with malice. After all, Arthur Weasley was well respected within their community. But it still stung Ron to hear the pity in the voices of his father's contemporaries. It filled him with such anger when he watched his father's coworkers talk down to the best person that he knew.
Sometimes, Ron felt he'd prefer Malfoy's acerbic jibes to the ultimately harmless platitudes. At least Ron wouldn't feel guilty about his urge to curse the former.
So, Ron thought he had a good idea of how Harry might feel about Alicia, Oliver, the twins, and Hermione's behaviour. He promised himself he wouldn't treat Harry any differently. Whatever Harry was going through, Ron would help if asked. Otherwise, he would continue just being Harry's incredibly funny and handsome best mate.
Every hero needed a sidekick, right? Perhaps Harry could be his.
Ron was snapped out of his reverie when the teetering tower of cards exploded in front of him. What surprised him was that the soot was on Harry's face instead of Katie's.
"HA!" Katie pointed at Harry, triumph etched on her face as clear as day. "I finally got you!"
"You distracted me, that's unfair!" Harry complained.
"Did not!"
"Did too!"
"Did not!"
"All right, let me show you little peasants a real master at work," Ron grinned at them. "Deal me in, Harry?"
"Close your eyes, Potter," Nicholas Flamel instructed, his weathered face drawn taut. "Close your eyes and extend your senses. Feel the magic around you."
Harry obliged from the floor, where he was sat cross-legged. He closed his eyes and reached out. For a moment or two, there was nothing, and he focused on his breathing like Flitwick had taught him.
He stopped himself from entering the Nothing, forcing the thought of his task to anchor him to consciousness. With each exhale, he tried to push – something – outwards. He resisted the urge to blow air out his mouth – to extend anything, even if it was only his exhale.
He tried to reach out with his hands while keeping them trapped in place. One breath felt different somehow. He blew it out, slowly.
Then he felt that internal switch flip as mage sight took over. But his mage sight only worked as a facet of his senses – only an extension of them. This was something different. This wasn't just regular Sensomagy.
His hands rested on his knees, but he felt. He felt something nipping at his fingers but resisted the urge to open his eyes.
The feeling expanded. He felt the nipping sensation extend from his fingertips to the palms of his hands, then to his exposed arms and neck. The sensation peppered his cheeks, prickling not unpleasantly. It felt especially intense on his forehead, around his scar.
Harry wondered whether he was sitting on an anthill or something. He suppressed a shudder at the thought but cast it aside. Whatever he was feeling, it wasn't physical. The sensation was getting more and more intense, but Harry pushed forward anyway. He reached out further, extending his magical senses.
Then it clicked.
Despite his closed eyes, Harry saw.
Particles shimmered in the air like sunlight breaking through floating dust. The suspended wisps sputtered out and multiplied before his – not his eyes, for they were still closed, but as he watched. They were the purest white, with the palest blue sparks and tendrils shooting out at seemingly random intervals.
The particles ricocheted off each other and the empty spaces where he knew an old desk and an array of chairs laid unused. He reached out a hand and watched them turn red and green with white centres as his fingers made contact.
"What – what is this?" Harry opened his eyes, and thankfully, the particles remained. He looked down at his palms to see the glowing white symbols. He knew his eyes were glowing, as they always did when he used Sensomagy.
Nicholas shifted, and Harry noticed the man's arms missing the glowing symbols, though his eyes still beamed like grey headlamps. It was an intimidating sight, and Harry wondered if he, too, looked that cool.
"That, Potter, is magic," Nicholas smiled at Harry's awed expression. "Magic in its purest, untampered form. That is the primeval power that we as magicals call upon to cast our spells."
"So, magic doesn't come from within?" Harry asked, reevaluating the assumptions he'd made. "We're calling upon a force of nature?"
"Magic comes from within, yes, yet it is also a force of nature," Flamel said. Smirking at Harry's confused expression, he continued. "Air, and thereby oxygen, is a force of nature. Yet, when the body respires, does the energy produced not come from within? Similarly, magic is a part of nature, but as magicals, we consume it just as we breathe. It is constant and automatic but just as vital. The mage sight you have thus far trained will only show you the magic harnessed by the magical. My teachings will show you how to harness that raw magic without diluting it as most of our kind are wont to do."
Flamel waved his hand, turning the surrounding particles dark bronze with a centre of molten gold. The particles gathered in his hand, swirling around his open palm like a twisting snake.
"Release your mage sight," Flamel instructed. Harry complied and gasped when he saw the blue-white wisps still coiling around Flamel's fingers. The wisps sparked before combusting into a ball of flame. The fire sputtered out after a moment, and Flamel's hand was unscathed underneath. The ancient wizard smiled at Harry's wide eyes.
"This is what you will be learning from me," Flamel said. "There are no spells. No incantations. Just raw willpower and attunement that will allow you to harness the most fundamental force of nature."
Harry looked down at his hands. The particles – wisps of pure magic – were gone. But now that he knew, he could still feel them prickling at his fingertips.
"So where do we start?" Harry asked eagerly. Flamel smiled, his thin, greying skin stretching grotesquely.
"We will begin by calling to the magic," Flamel instructed smoothly. "Reach out to it."
Harry stretched his fingers, clutching at the particles in the air. Nothing happened, and Flamel laughed a rough, grating bark.
"Not literally, boy," he said with amusement, and Harry bit his tongue to suppress the flinch that came at the address. "Reach out with your magic. Let yours intermingle with that within the air. Let it come to you, and when it does, seize it."
Harry closed his eyes and felt for the magic. His senses found no purchase. He tried to recall the prickling sensation and the microscopic tremors he'd felt from the particles. Still nothing. He flew through his memories, searching through each one labelled magic or Sensomagy.
His first experience with mage sight played in his mind's eye. He latched onto the memory of that first sensation in Flitwick's office – the foreign, repulsive feel of his broom imprinted in his mind. He recalled the last time he communed with his broom. He let the feeling of the undulating energy course through his body. The prickling sensation returned, and Harry could see again.
He channelled the memory of the surging energy from the broom. He turned that feeling inside out, imagining the lightning storm was coming not from his Nimbus, but from the very air itself.
The image of Flamel with a ball of flame coiled around his fingers flashed through Harry's mind. He watched with fascination as the wisps of magic surrounding his outstretched hand vibrated and sparked. They seemed to be fighting their very nature as they slowly turned red and green with white centres. They convulsed and sputtered before shooting toward his hand. They coalesced around his spread fingers, sparking and imploding into tiny supernovas.
Then, Harry felt a sharp, intense pain comparable to walking into a wall of flame as he had when facing off against Quirrell. An agonised scream left his lips as his free hand came to cradle the injured one. Opening his eyes, he found his fingers were charred. Blisters covered his digits, and the remaining skin was the mottled pink of well-done steak.
He bit down the cry of horror as he watched the tendrils of smoke curl up from his fingers. Quirrell's scream of agony echoed in his mind, each blister on Harry's fingers reflecting the handprint-shaped scars on the evil professor's face.
Harry shut his eyes and balled his free hand into a fist. The irrational fear of his own hands that Alicia had quashed in the hospital wing returned with a vengeance. His injured hand shook as he struggled to breathe.
Flamel grabbed Harry roughly by the scruff of his neck and tipped his head back. He felt a silky liquid that tasted vaguely of raw egg slide down his throat. Then his mind cleared, his breathing settled, and his hand stopped shaking.
The ancient sorcerer waved his wand over Harry's hand. He felt as if it had been plunged into ice water as the fissures and damage on his skin knitted back together. There was no trace of the burn except that his fingers were a bit pink and tender.
"I believe that is enough for tonight," Flamel said sharply. "Well done. This is more progress than I expected. I should not need to tell you not to practice this on your lonesome."
Harry nodded, still feeling the dissociative serenity of the calming draught. Flamel dismissed him with a curt nod.
He returned to his dorm utterly exhausted. Despite being mostly stationary, the lesson had his body aching from how tense he'd been when he called to the raw magic. The calming draught had worn off on the way back to Gryffindor Tower, so he made a beeline for his bed despite seeing Ron and Hermione wave to him in the common room.
When he was behind the safety of the drawn curtains of his four-poster bed, Harry let out a choked sob that he'd been holding back since the potion wore off.
He held his hands in front of him. They looked identical, even if his right was a little on the tender side. But the way his hand had combusted…
He shivered as the memory of his palms pressed flat against Quirrell's face prickled at the edge of his thoughts.
Freak.
Harry closed his eyes and willed the thoughts away. He ran through his occlumency exercises, choosing to focus on the soft, patterned noise of his breathing instead of the residual guilt and self-loathing that had been beaten into him since childhood.
On the other side of the curtains, Ron Weasley listened to his best mate's shuddering breaths with dawning horror. He reached out a hand to see what the hell was going on but refrained. He didn't know how to deal with these things. What was he even supposed to do if Harry was in there crying? What was he even crying about?
Lost in his thoughts, he noticed that the sobs had turned to rhythmic breathing. Harry was asleep. Ron sighed in relief and went back downstairs. Surely Hermione would know what to do.
A/N: And we're back! Not much to add here. Cool character development and some more magic training. Just so y'all know, I've got midterms in the next 2 weeks, so likely you'll have to wait approx three weeks for the next chapter, if not 4. I'm SORRY, but trust me I'd rather be writing dynasty than ocaml but here we are. However, I don't plan on starving y'all entirely. I've been working on some original stories and continuation of old ones.
For example, some people have asked for a conclusion for Scarf for a Stray - that's completed and will be coming out over the next week or two. I'm also writing an actual Quidditch romance fic (because Dynasty was originally supposed to be one, but it has grown well past it atp) that's based off Protection Payment. So fans of that story, be excited lol. I've got some new ideas, like one where Sirius takes remus and an infant harry and raises them in France. It's pretty sick so far, so highly recommend y'all to check that out when it drops. I also hinted at a Seer Katie fic soon, so keep an eye out for that too.
Of course, all of those stories are lightningbell, and I will definitely recommend you to follow to my profile if any of those ideas interest you.
While I probably won't see y'all in Dynasty for a while, I do hope y'all enjoy my other works.
And review ofc. pls. I love reading the yap.