The Boy Who Lived I -- The Alchemist's Prize

Chapter Four: The Bouncer

"He seemed to really hate me," Harry said, staring down into his teacup. He had to hold onto the vessel with both hands—it was of a size that would be big for an ordinary man, and in comparison to his small body it seemed ludicrously large.

"Don' worry 'bout Snape," Hagrid replied, sipping from an equally large cup. In his massive hands it seemed almost dainty. "'E takes points off all the students."

"Not in our class," Harry replied. He shifted around in the wicker chair, trying to stay in a position where he didn't have to crane his neck to see over the table. Like all the furniture in Hagrid's cottage, the chair was proportioned for someone about twice as large as a normal man. Harry looked quite ridiculous sitting in it, and Draco had decided to stand in his. Ron had taken a seat on a bench along one wall of the hut, trying to drink his tea while Hagrid's big black boarhound Fang licked at his ears. "I was the only one he took points off of—and he knew nobody else had the answers to his questions."

"Except Hermione," Ron noted, shifting his teacup so Fang's drool wouldn't drip into it.

"Then when he gave Draco points he made this comment about my inadequacies," Harry said, shuddering. "It was terrible."

Hagrid looked completely shocked at this piece of information. Turning to Draco, he said, "'E actually gave ye points?"

Draco nodded, blushing slightly as he sipped his tea. "But I know he's biased in my case," he said.

"How so?" Ron asked.

"My guardian is his brother," Draco replied.

"What, that man who sent you the Howler?" Harry asked.

Draco nodded, saying, "Septimius Snape. They don't look anything alike, really. Septimius has brown hair, gray eyes, and a much better complexion. Can't say he has a better temper, though."

"Yeah," Ron agreed, "whoever heard of getting a Howler just because you got Sorted into a particular house?"

"It's 'appened before," Hagrid said, shaking his shaggy head. "One poor bloke my year got an 'Owler a day fer a week just 'cause he landed in Hufflepuff."

"Still," Ron said, "you didn't see the way Snape acted in class. If I hadn't done enough of the work, he should have taken points off me, right? So why did he take them from Harry?"

"Probably meant ter take 'em from both of ye," Hagrid said, draining his tea. "'Jes got distracted afore he could."

"Are you sure?"

"'Course I am. Snape's got no reason ter hate ye," Hagrid replied, but he would not look in Harry's eyes as he said this. "'Nother rock cake, Harry?"

Harry silently shook his head as Ron said, "Snape does seem to hate everyone. He hated Hermione, and she even knew the answers."

"Well," Hagrid said, "Snape's a bitter man, 'ad a lot o' disappointments in 'is life. Wanted ter teach Defense, but Quirrell got the job, wanted ter be head of Slytherin House, but Gudrun had seniority..."

"Gudrun? Who's that?"

"I've met him," Draco said, "at the parties Septimius throws. He's a burly old man with a permanent leer, like he can see through everybody's clothes."

"I haven't seen anyone like that in the halls," Ron said, looking vaguely relieved.

"Ye've probably seen 'im anyway," Hagrid commented. "Gudrun teaches Glamours—y'know, illusions an' whatnot. 'Is class is only fer third years an' up. 'E's always walkin' 'round the halls in some magic disguise or other. 'E's worse 'an Filch, 'e is, always poppin' out of some corner where ye think there's jest another statue."

"Filch hates me, too," Harry said, swallowing the last of his tea. "He wanted to give Ron and me detention just because we got lost and accidentally tried to open a forbidden door."

"Don' pay no attention ter that old git," Hagrid said, provoking a giggle from Harry. "'E's worse than Snape, an' he knows he ain't got no right. Say what you will abou' Snape, 'e knows 'is Potions—'e's a right genius at 'em. Filch don' know nothin' 'bout anythin' 'cept bein' an ass." Hagrid suddenly appeared to remember that he was talking to students, and gave an embarrassed cough. "I'd 'preciate it if ye didn't mention that ter anyone... old git gives me 'nough trouble as it is. Always 'as 'is cat foller me 'round when I go ter the school... knows she makes me sneeze."

"Your secret's safe with us," Ron promised. "I don't feel too kindly towards Filch either."

"Don' ye worry 'bout nothin', boys," Hagrid said, collecting the empty teacups from his guests. "Ye'll all 'ave gotten plenty o' points fer Gryffindor by the end of the year. I jes' know ye'll take the House Cup back from Slytherin."

"I hope so," Harry said, hopping down from the oversize chair. "Think how bad MacNair would be if he helped them win."

"MacNair?" Hagrid asked, frowning.

"Aidan MacNair," Harry said, and told Hagrid about the perfectly-coiffed boy, and his mean behavior before the Sorting Ceremony.

Hagrid's expression had turned to a scowl by the end of the story. He dropped the saucers into his washbasin with a rattle, muttering something under his breath. He grabbed a tin from the cupboard, scooped the rock cakes off the table, and tossed them inside, where they clanked against the metal. Sealing the tin, he said, "I don't want none of ye hangin' around that boy if ye kin help it. 'E's trouble 'e is, an' 'e should'na been allowed in 'ere."

"What do you mean, Hagrid?" Harry asked.

"Ain't my place ter tell ye any details," Hagrid replied. "All ye need to know is that 'e's got a bad streak in 'im, jes' like 'is father. Mos' of the faculty didn' wan' 'im to come, an' he almos' got sent off ter Durmstrang. 'Is father 'as Fudge's ear, though, so 'ere 'e came. 'E's a bad sort, 'Arry, so stay out of 'is way. Summat bad's bound ter happen, an' you'd best not be around when it does. Un'erstand?"

"Yes, Hagrid," Harry said, nodding. "I'll try to stay away from him."

"Good," Hagrid said sharply, then allowed himself to grin again. "Now you boys run 'long. A nice Saturday afternoon like this is too good fer sittin' 'round indoors." He shooed the three boys out of his cabin, adding as he glanced at Ron, "'Sides, I figger it's abou' time ter chase yer brothers away from the forest again."

Harry, Ron, and Draco made their way back across the green lawn towards the castle silently, each of them still somewhat bewildered by Hagrid's warning. As they reached the main doors, something clicked in Harry's mind. "He seemed to know you," he said to Draco.

"Huh?"

"In the Entrance Hall, before the feast," Harry explained, "MacNair seemed to know exactly who you were."

"Oh," Draco said, "Well, I'd never seen him before. His father comes to Septimius's parties a lot, though. Maybe that's how he knew about me."

"Does your Snape throw bunches of them, then?" Ron asked. "Given his brother, it seems a bit out of character."

Draco nodded, rolling his eyes. "Septimius hosts soirees all the time," he said, "and they're always awful, at least as far as I'm concerned. He always invites high-society types: Professors from here and sometimes Durmstrang, officials from the Ministry, members of influential families. None of them seem to like anything except eating fine foods, drinking good wine, and discussing the inferiority of Muggles."

"Muggles aren't inferior," Ron interjected.

"Of course they're not," Draco agreed, "but that doesn't stop people from saying otherwise. Septimius only has bigots for friends, and it seems like they can't talk about anything else. It's the most wretched club imaginable."

"So Gudrun's like that, is he?" Harry asked.

"One of the worst," Draco said. "He's not at all shy about sharing his views on muggle inferiority. The only good thing is that he usually wants to talk about the 'good old days', and when that happens Septimius always sends me out of the room."

"So is our Snape a bigot too?" Ron asked.

Draco shrugged. "He never comes," he said, "I don't think he and Septimius like each other very much."

"Then why did he give you points?"

"Probably because he knows I don't like Septimius very much either."

The boys made the rest of the return trip to Gryffindor Tower in silence, trudging up the stairs to their dorm without any clear idea as to what they would do when they got there. The question was answered when they opened the door to find Dean and Seamus in a discussion over the relative merits of muggle and wizard sports. Dean had just put up a muggle-type poster of his favorite football team, which had provoked a question from Seamus, who despite his heritage had spent his childhood in the wizarding world. This had rapidly degenerated into an argument—Seamus thought football would be unutterably dull on account of only having one ball, and Dean thought Quidditch, with its multiple, flying, semi-sentient balls, was totally insane.

"Well, it does sound a little boring," Ron admitted when Dean had explained the football rules again. "Doesn't the ball fly around at all?"

"Don't be daft—they'd have handball fouls all the time if it flew!"

"You can't touch the ball with your hands?" Draco asked. "What a silly rule. How do you have any control over where it goes?"

"That's where the skill comes in," Dean said. "C'mon, I've got a ball here—we can go outside and I'll show you."

So they traipsed back down through the castle and out onto the wide swath of green grass that surrounded it. Hagrid passed them as they went through the entrance hall—he had a squirming Weasley twin under each arm, and was muttering, "spiders coulda swallered both of ye whole..." Ron shuddered, going somewhat pale, and stared suspiciously at the forest when they got outside.

Dean then proceeded to show off his considerable abilities with the strange muggle ball. Harry had actually seen a few football games on muggle television sets, and from these knew enough to tell that Dean was rather good. The black boy could manage both great long kicks that sent his roommates scrambling to catch up to the ball, and pinpoint shots that made the ball land at any place he wanted.

After about half an hour of demonstration from Dean, the other boys finally joined in, though they were all obviously beneath Dean's level. They had great fun kicking the ball around nonetheless, and eventually even Ron was forced to admit that, while not on the level of Quidditch, football was still a fairly good time.

"So they do this for ninety minutes?" Draco asked, panting as he caught up to an errant kick from Seamus. Some of his blonde hair had fallen out of it's slicked-back position and was now dangling in front of his face. When Dean nodded, he continued, "So how is it that they don't die?" Booting the ball towards the black boy, Draco dramatically collapsed on the grass to enhance his point.

"Well, they do take a break halfway through," Dean said, knocking the ball up into the air with his foot, then banging it towards Harry with his head. Harry barely had time to consider how painful such an act might be before the ball dropped down right in front of his feet.

"Still, they must have incredible stamina," Seamus protested as Harry tried to kick the ball to Ron. It did a sort of corkscrew spiral in the air before it dropped dead to the ground halfway between Seamus and Ron.

"Well, footballers do have to run the whole field," Dean agreed. "They don't have brooms to carry them."

"Hey, riding a broom's no picnic," Ron said, nearly tripping over Draco's spread-eagled form as he scrambled to get to the ball before Seamus. He gave up on the pursuit and added, "It takes a lot of effort to hang on and steer, and good balance, to boot."

"Plus," Draco added, pushing himself up into a sitting position, "it takes energy. A broom doesn't just run by itself—the rider's will tells it to go, and his magic energy propels it. Otherwise Muggles could use brooms and the Ministry would have a hell of a time policing them."

"Yeah, Quidditch can be really exhausting," Seamus agreed, lofting the ball with his toes. It went straight for Harry's head, making the small boy dive for the ground to avoid a collision.

"Guess I'll find out more about that on Friday," Dean said.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, picking himself up from the ground and dusting off his clothes.

"McGonagall handed out notices while you guys were out," Seamus explained. "This Friday we've got a flying lesson with Madame Hooch."

Harry felt a little thrill go through him at the news. His life had never been conducive to flying—constantly on the move, always hidden in muggle towns and cities, he'd never had a chance to get on a broomstick except at his godfather's home. His last visit there had been over two years ago, however, and Harry had been longing to get in the air again, even if it was just for a class. Heartened by the news, he practically skipped after Seamus' errant kick.

His happiness died as he picked up the ball, however, for he heard a familiar, unpleasant voice say, "Playing muggle games now, Potter?"

"Hello, MacNair," Harry replied, trying with limited success to keep the hostility out of his voice. Hagrid's voice echoed in his head, reminding him not to get entangled with the larger boy. "Dean was just showing us how to play football," he said as politely as he could, then turned to rejoin his friends.

"Just as well that you're staying on the ground," MacNair sneered. "You'd probably fall off your broom if you tried to play Quidditch."

Harry continued walking away from Aidan as calmly as he could, though what he really wanted to do was to turn around and punch the other boy in the face. Given that MacNair had his cronies Crabbe and Goyle with him, however, Harry knew it would be wiser to restrain himself... this time.

"Heard you've got flying lessons this Friday," Aidan called after him. "I hope one of your little muggle friends can loan you a seatbelt!"

Harry paused, fighting to keep himself from throwing the ball at Aidan's head, and damn Hagrid's instructions. Before he could do anything foolish, however, a new voice intervened.

"'Ey! Wot's goin' on 'ere?" Hagrid had apparently finished his business with the Weasley twins and was ambling across the lawn in great strides so large that an ordinary man would have had to run to keep up.

"It's nothing, Hagrid," Harry said, taking a deep breath and continuing on his way towards his friends, who were now all staring in his direction.

"That's right, Gamekeeper," Aidan spat, evidently disappointed that he didn't have the chance to do something really nasty to Harry. "Just a friendly little chat."

"Well, looks like it's over," Hagrid said, coming to a halt between Harry and MacNair. "You boys get 'long to the castle now. It's gettin' near dinnertime."

MacNair, Crabbe, and Goyle grumbled, but turned to go. Harry didn't feel particularly hungry, but decided not to press his luck. Waving his roommates to join him, he turned and trudged back to the castle.

The school week passed at an almost agonizingly slow pace. Harry could keep his mind on the task at hand in classes where he had to cast spells, but when he put his wand away he could barely think of anything but Friday afternoon. Nobody else seemed to be suffering from this problem—indeed, Hermione got sharper and sharper in her classes as the week went along. By Thursday she was practically jumping out of her seat each time a professor asked a question, the answers seemingly already at the tip of her tongue. Harry, on the other hand, spent Thursday's classes in an ongoing daydream that involved him rocketing around on one of the brand-new Nimbus 2000 models, buzzing MacNair so closely that the larger boy wet his pants.

Harry was in such a hurry for Friday to arrive that he actually went to bed early on Thursday evening, making his excuses shortly after he got back from dinner. Despite his intentions, however, he lay awake for some time, unable to force his mind to quiet down. His few memories of riding a broomstick kept replaying themselves in his head, making him even more excited about the next afternoon. After more than an hour of this, he finally drifted off into a fitful sleep, his dreams filled with broomstick aerobatics and a quivering Aidan MacNair.

Harry glanced at his clock as he sat up in bed the next morning, rubbing his eyes in sleepy disbelief. "An hour early," he murmured, seeing that his alarm would not ring for some time yet. He flopped back down onto his pillow, staring blankly at the canopy of his four-poster. Harry considered trying to go back to sleep, but he didn't really feel tired, and he knew he'd have to wake up again almost as soon as he closed his eyes. Besides, now that he was conscious, his body was loudly informing him that he needed to go to the bathroom.

Harry rolled over and sat up on the edge of his bed, his feet dangling several inches off the floor. He reached out to his nightstand and grabbed his clock, switching off the alarm so that it wouldn't annoy his roommates, then hopped down and shoved his feet into his slippers. Idly scratching his belly, Harry grabbed a towel and made his way across the landing to the communal bathroom.

Two minutes later, the pressure in his bladder having been relieved, Harry started running a bath. The bathroom on the top floor served the first and second year students, and as such was the worst-equipped in the boy's tower. This was not to say it was unpleasant—constant attention by the house-elves kept it clean and odor-free. Still, the copper tubs were showing their age, and the water had such a long journey up the tower that it barely had enough energy left at the end to dribble out of the faucets. The bathing soap they used was also somewhat disappointing because of its harsh scent, though it made bubbles nicely enough.

More disturbing to Harry, though, was the near-total lack of privacy. A curtain separated the bathtubs from the toilet stalls, but the tubs were obviously meant to accommodate at least two students apiece, possibly more if the students in question were as small as Harry. And nothing separated the tubs from each other except small racks meant for towels.

Harry unbuttoned his nightshirt and draped it over the towel rack, adding his pajama pants a moment later. Then he slid into the bath as quickly as he could, hiding his scrawny body beneath the bubbly surface. He was glad of the precaution, because a few moments later a flush sounded from the stalls, and Ron walked into the bathing area. The redhead seemed somewhat surprised to find Harry already there, pausing in mid-stride and saying, "You're up early."

"So're you," Harry replied, grabbing a washcloth and starting to scrub the back of his neck.

Ron grinned and walked over to Harry's bathtub. "Yeah," he admitted, "must be a new record. Mind if I join you?"

Harry shook his head and lied, "Not at all." In truth, he had been very pleased to have avoided washing with anyone else thus far. He'd never really been shy about nudity before, but then again, he'd spent most of his childhood alone or with his parents. Ever since changing on the train, he'd felt very self-conscious about his skinniness, and had constantly fretted about breaking some social rule he hadn't heard of. He would have much preferred to bathe alone, but what excuse could he give for making Ron draw his own slow-running bath?

Harry averted his eyes as Ron took off his pajamas, focusing all his attention on cleaning his shoulders. He kept at them until he heard Ron sliding into the tub. One of the redhead's big feet brushed Harry's thigh, and he shivered involuntarily. He started washing under his arms as he heard Ron dip a washcloth into the soapy water.

"Looking forward to flying lessons?" Ron asked suddenly, causing Harry to look up in startlement. The redhead was leaning comfortably against the side of the tub as he worked on his arms, apparently at ease in the situation.

"Um," Harry said, momentarily unable to think, then added, "yeah."

"Me too," Ron replied. "Hardly slept all night. Hope Hooch can help me with maneuvering."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, unable to come up with anything more enlightening to say. Talking to Ron in this situation was making Harry feel very stupid—his embarrassment seemed to be tying his tongue in knots, while Ron was talking as if they were sitting at the dinner table instead of in a tub.

"You said you have a broom?" Ron asked, and Harry stared at him in confusion for a second before he realized what the redhead had asked, and nodded in reply. "What model?"

Harry started scrubbing at his chest and said, "Cleansweep Three—it was my godfather's broom back in school. He kept it for me to use when I visit him."

"Better'n mine," Ron said as Harry ducked his head under the water to get his hair wet. When he came back up, Ron continued, "I've only got an old Shooting Star."

Harry poured out a little more of the soap and rubbed it into his hair, unsure of how to respond. Eventually he settled for just opening the tap again and sticking his head underneath the warm trickle of water for a rinse.

"Can you let me at that for a moment?" Ron said, and Harry saw that his head was fully lathered still. The larger boy's red hair made the bubbles seem slightly pink. Harry obligingly moved away from the tap, pressing himself against the side of the tub to avoid touching Ron again. The redhead rinsed out his hair, then looked up and asked, "Are you all right?"

"Huh?"

"You just... you seem a little uncomfortable," Ron said. "Is the water too warm for you?"

Harry shook his head, feeling heat rush to his face. "I... I've never taken a bath with anyone else before," he whispered.

Ron stared at him blankly for a minute, then his eyes widened. "Oh," he said quietly, "are you... embarrassed or something?"

Harry nodded.

"I'm sorry," Ron said, now blushing himself. "I've always had to take baths with my brothers. I didn't even think twice about it. I can leave, if..."

"It's okay," Harry managed to interject, "just... weird." Feeling very stupid, he continued, "I guess I should get used to it." He leaned over and ran the washcloth over his calves. "I just never know how to act around other people," he finally admitted. "I mean... on the train, I..."

Ron was looking really embarrassed now. "What I said about you being in prison... I..."

"That's not it," Harry said, and Ron let out a very relieved breath. "I... I didn't even know not to undress in front of Hermione."

"Never been around girls before?"

Harry shook his head.

"They're a pain," Ron said, scrubbing himself somewhere beneath the waterline. "At least my sister is. Bill says I'll change my mind about them in a year or two, but I don't really believe him."

"Sirius didn't tell me anything about them," Harry said, washing between his toes. "He told me to ask Father, but I didn't have a chance."

"Who's Sirius?"

"My godfather," Harry said. "He's really nice—he has a cool house in a forest in Canada, where he lives with his friend Remus."

"No girls?"

"Nope."

"That sounds awesome," Ron said. "I hope I can do that someday—live with my best friend, and no girls."

Harry thought about this for a moment, then said, "Me too." He realized he had finished washing himself, and blushed as he thought about standing up. "Um, Ron?" he said.

"Yeah?"

"I... I'm done."

Ron looked at him blankly for a moment, then nodded and said, "Oh. You want me to look away?"

Harry felt his face get even hotter as he said, "Please?"

Ron nodded and obligingly turned his face towards the wall. Harry quickly scrambled out of the tub and hurriedly dried himself off, wrapping the dampened towel around his waist. "I'm ready," he called as he tied the towel off. Ron turned his face back towards Harry, wearing a shy smile.

"I wasn't too bad, was I?" he asked. "I mean... I guess you'd prefer to wash alone..."

"It was okay," Harry said, "really."

Ron smiled even wider, and for the first time since the Sorting Ceremony, Harry felt like he'd done exactly the right thing. He returned to the dorm room, dressing quickly and looking over his Potions homework again. He was determined not to do anything that Snape could take points off for.

To his great surprise, Harry succeeded in escaping Potions without losing any points. In a weird way, he had MacNair to thank. As before, Snape spent much of the period hovering over Harry and Ron's desk as they mixed up a corn-removing potion. MacNair took advantage of this by tossing a sprig of fireleaf into Draco's cauldron. The blonde's potion instantly bubbled over, and he had to jump back from his desk in order to keep from getting scalded by it. Parvati, with whom he'd been working, had been busy talking to Lavender, and so she was nowhere near the accident.

Seamus and Dean had seen MacNair throwing the eyes into Draco's potion, and told Snape he was the culprit. MacNair in turn accused them of the prank, and a shouting match quickly followed. With all the distractions, several other students made mistakes with their potions, and in the space of a few minutes the cold dungeon had filled with multicolored, strange-smelling smoke from a dozen different pots. An enraged Snape cast a spell to roll all the smoke up in a little ball and shoot it up a chimney, then launched into a tirade about laboratory safety. This went on about fifteen minutes, during which time only Harry and Hermione had the presence of mind to continue stirring their potions.

By the end of his speech, Snape had gone from a white-hot fury to an even more frightening frosty anger. "I am giving you only one chance," he said in a slow, even voice. "Tell me who did this now, or I will remove a thousand points from both your Houses every year until you all graduate. Do I make myself clear?" Hearing this, some of the Slytherins lost their nerve and fingered MacNair, who glared daggers at them. He looked to be positively steaming as Snape gave him a detention and took ten points from Slytherin for his misconduct, and snapped his quill when the professor gave one point to Gryffindor to reward Seamus and Dean for their honesty.

At the end of the class, the only two satisfactory potions came from Hermione and Latifa, and Harry and Ron. Snape gave Hermione and Latifa a point each for their ability to concentrate in the face of all the distractions, then gave Ron two points for "making a useful potion despite your partner's obvious shortcomings." Harry got no points at all, but even this constituted a relief after the nightmare of the first week's class.

"Five points in one class," Seamus said as they finally sat down to lunch, "from Snape of all people."

"Never again in our lifetimes will we see the like," Ron proclaimed, adding, "He still managed to be nasty to Harry, though. If he hadn't kept stirring during that lecture, our potion would've been just as bad as everyone else's. And talking about his 'shortcomings'... honestly, you'd think the man bears a grudge."

"Who cares?" Harry replied, elated both by his relatively successful morning in the dungeons and the promise of the upcoming flying lesson. "A point for Gryffindor is a point for Gryffindor, no matter who gets it."

"Hey! Mail's here!" Dean said as an envelope dropped onto his head and bounced onto his plate. Harry glanced up automatically, though he was past expecting any letters from his parents, and was momentarily elated to see Hedwig's white plumage among the flock. His heart fell, however, when he noticed that Hedwig's claws were empty.

The snowy owl landed lightly next to Harry's elbow and nuzzled his cheek with her beak. "Getting bored up in the owlery, Hedwig?" Harry asked quietly, slipping the bird a bit of ham. Hedwig hooted softly, then swallowed the scrap whole. Harry started stroking her neck feathers, but got distracted by a commotion behind him at the Hufflepuff table.

"Give it back!" Neville Longbottom shouted. Aidan MacNair was standing over the round-faced boy, holding something. Neville was still seated, mostly because Crabbe was leaning on his shoulders.

"You don't tell me what to do, Longbottom," MacNair sneered.

"Then I will," McGonagall interjected, just as Harry was about to jump up and defend the hapless Hufflepuff. The Professor had appeared seemingly from nowhere to stand threateningly in the aisle between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables. "You will return Mr. Longbottom's property to him and go sit at your table at once... unless you want to lose your House more points today..."

"Fine," Aidan said, gesturing for Crabbe to release Neville's shoulders, "just wanted a look anyway." He dropped something into Neville's lap, then walked away with a slight swagger.

"What is it?" Harry heard someone at the Hufflepuff table say as he turned his attention back to Hedwig.

"A Bouncer," Neville explained. "If you fall, you'll just bounce instead of breaking things. Gran knows I'm terrified of heights."

The rest of lunch passed without incident, and then it was time to visit one of the grassier courtyards for the flying lesson. Madame Hooch was a tall which, with spiky silver hair and glittering gray eyes. "The purpose of today's class is for me to assess your ability with the broom," she explained as the class settled down. "As our emergency evacuation procedure requires the use of broomsticks, it is my job to make sure that all of you are at least competent enough to get out of here alive in the event of a disaster. If I feel you are not, then you will be required to attend more sessions until I am satisfied. Otherwise, lessons are optional, though all students who have a desire to try out for their house teams next year are strongly encouraged to attend."

She then led the students over to two rows of brooms that had been placed on the grass. "We will now practice mounting the broom," she said. "Place your hand over your broom and say, 'up'."

"Up!" Harry commanded, and the old, rather worn broomstick he'd been given shot up from the ground and into his hand. Looking around, he noted that no other students had yet managed to successfully retrieve their brooms. Draco's was rolling around on the ground, and Ron's was twitching feebly. Hermione and Neville were having no success in getting their brooms to move at all. After a few minutes, however, everyone had managed to get a broom up, and Hooch had them mount, then hover for a few moments.

"Excellent," she said, when everyone had returned to the ground, "Now, who here has ridden a broomstick before?" Harry and a few other students raised their hands. "Right," Hooch said, and then set about dividing the class up into pairs: a student who'd flown before with a student who hadn't. Harry got Neville Longbottom.

"I want all of you to stay with your partners," Madame Hooch instructed as the paired-up students greeted each other. "Experienced riders, help your classmates as much as you can. Your brooms cannot carry the weight of two people, so don't try to catch your partner if he or she falls. Just call for me at any sign of trouble."

"I'm terribly frightened," Neville whispered, clutching his broom convulsively as Hooch explained the fairly easy obstacle course they were to run as pairs.

"Just keep calm," Harry advised, remembering how Sirius had given him the same instructions years ago. "The broom gets confused if you're really nervous, and it might get away from you."

"But I'm scared of heights!"

"You've got your Bouncer, don't you? You don't have to worry about falling as long as you do. Just keep remembering your Bouncer."

"The Bouncer," Neville repeated, nodding. "Right." He pulled a small red ball out of his pocket and clutched it in his fist. "Keep thinking about the Bouncer."

A few minutes later, it was time for them to start the course. They waited until the previous pair, Seamus and Hermione, had gotten past the first obstacle, then mounted their brooms and followed. The obstacles were all simple—the first was simply a row of poles that they were supposed to weave around. Harry managed it with ease, though Neville bumped into one or two of them. Next was a giant hoop they had to fly through, then a low arch they had to fly under. Then came the simplest of all—a vertical wooden wall.

Harry elevated over the wall easily and leveled off, but Neville kept on going, the added height apparently too much for his nerves. Mindful of Hooch's instructions, Harry followed Neville, telling him to lean forward so that the broom knew to get level. Several seconds passed before Neville took Harry's advice, but finally he managed to stop rising.

"Now lean forward a little more so you can go down," Harry instructed. Neville obeyed, but this proved to be his undoing. With the broom pointed down, he could no longer ignore his altitude. Neville's face froze in fear, and his broom jumped yards higher into the air. He was obviously losing control. Harry started calling for Madame Hooch, but it seemed that Hermione had taken a tumble while going through an obstacle, and he couldn't get the instructor's attention. So Harry started climbing after Neville.

"You're fine!" he called, as Neville's broom jumped up another few yards. "Remember the Bouncer!" He could see the ball clenched in Neville's fingers, caught between them and the wood of the handle, but thinking about the Bouncer didn't seem to do Neville any good. He jumped up another several yards. By now, the ground was very far away, and Harry was beginning to get a little worried for his own safety—certainly he was too far away to be heard. He pulled out his wand and fired off a shower of bright red sparks as Neville continued a jerky ascent. The round-faced boy's eyes were shut tight now, and he was positively shaking on his broom.

Harry sighed with relief when he saw the blue-robed figure of Madam Hooch ascending from below. He turned to encourage Neville not to worry, that help was on the way, but several things happened almost all at once. First, the Bouncer popped out of Neville's hand and started plummeting towards earth. Neville's broom, feeling a real spike of fear from its rider, shot nearly ten yards higher in the air. Then, as the broom's ascent came to a jerky stop, Neville's hands came completely free and he started to plummet as well.

Harry moved almost automatically, nosing his broom into a vertical dive after the Bouncer. He had speed on his side, but the red ball had a considerable lead and Harry had to contend with wind resistance. Harry found himself urging every last bit of acceleration out of the tired school broomstick, knowing that Neville had no chance unless the Bouncer could be returned to him.

Mere feet above the ground, Harry caught the Bouncer. He pulled back hard on his broomstick, swung himself underneath it, then looked up to find Neville and throw him the ball. To his surprise, the round-faced boy was descending quite smoothly in the arms of Madam Hooch, who was on a rescue broom designed to carry two riders. Harry nosed his broom up again and slid off of it into a standing position, breathing heavily.

"All right, Longbottom?" Hooch asked as she landed, letting Neville onto the ground.

Neville nodded his head, though this was difficult to see, given how the rest of his body quaked. He barely managed to hold onto the Bouncer when Harry tossed it to him, bobbling the red ball for what seemed like minutes as he tried to convince his fingers to close around it.

"Well, sit for a while and calm your nerves," Hooch said. As Neville gratefully headed for a stone bench, Hooch turned towards Harry. To his surprise, she looked rather angry. "Now I know you had the best of intentions, going after that Bouncer," she began, "but what you did was very dangerous and..."

"Lunitera?" McGonagall called, and Harry looked over to see the Professor crossing the courtyard with rapid steps. "I'll handle this, if you don't mind," she said, coming to a halt beside Harry, "you can continue with the class."

Hooch nodded, and Professor McGonagall wrapped a hand around Harry's upper arm so strongly that her fingers may as well have been steel pincers. She turned instantly and headed into the school, moving quickly through its stone corridors. Small as he was, Harry could hardly keep up with McGonagall's large, quick strides, and so she ended up half-dragging him through the halls. She said nothing, and as they went further and further through the building, Harry became more and more nervous about her silence. Surely they wouldn't punish him for trying to save Neville!

Maintaining her iron grip on Harry's arm, McGonagall came to a halt in front of Professor Flitwick's classroom, opened the door, and stuck her head inside. "Excuse me, Professor Flitwick," Harry heard her say, "but could I borrow Wood for a moment?" Harry quailed at this—he'd heard muggle children talk about getting the cane, and began to wonder whether this Wood was a disciplinary tool.

To Harry's relief, Wood turned out to be a person—a burly, somewhat imposing student who did not in the slightest resemble a cane. McGonagall pulled them both into an empty room and said, "Oliver, I have found you a Seeker!"

Harry's jaw dropped as Wood took a hard look at him. "He's got some talent, then?" he asked.

"He caught a ball after a hundred-yard vertical dive and didn't get a scratch. Charlie Weasley couldn't have done it!" McGonagall exclaimed.

"Really?" Wood asked looking impressed. "Well, he's got the right build for it—compact, lightweight..."

"Tell me," McGonagall asked Harry, "had you ridden a broom before?"

"A couple of times," Harry said, wondering how he could tactfully tell her that she was cutting off the circulation in his arm.

To his relief, she clapped her hands and said, "A natural! Just think what he can be with a little training!" He surreptitiously rubbed his upper arm to get the blood flowing through it again. His fingers were tingling, but then, his entire body was tingling. Seeker! Like his father had been!

"He'll need a decent broom," Wood muttered, "a Cleansweep Seven or a Nimbus 2000, I'd say."

"What do you have at home?" McGonagall asked.

"J-just a Cleansweep Three at my godfather's house," Harry replied.

Wood shook his head, but McGonagall said, "Send for it anyway, and I'll see what I can do to get a more suitable one when the season starts. I'm sure I can convince Albus to bend the first-year rule... I don't think I can take another year of losing to Slytherin—Dougal was horrible at the last end-of-year feast."

"If what you said is true," Wood replied, "I'd say we've got more than a fighting chance." He stuck out a meaty hand and said, "Welcome to the team..." He trailed off.

"Potter," Harry said, taking the other boy's hand. "Harry Potter."

Wood vigorously shook Harry's hand, not staring at his forehead for even a second.

Harry couldn't help but think that this was the best day of his life.