The Dogfather

The morning of flying lessons dawned bright and clear. This boded well for Harry, who invariably had a lot of showing off to do. He was hopeful the rules might be bent to allow him on the Gryffindor quidditch team as a first year. After all, if you combined his unrivaled genetics, years of training, and status as the Boy Who Lived, it didn’t seem entirely unlikely.

His fellow first years didn’t quite carry his same confident swagger. Harry could’ve sworn he’d heard Neville retching in the bathroom earlier that morning. Even Ron pushed around his food at breakfast, which was very peculiar for him.

Hermione, however, was the worst off by far. She’d borrowed an ancient copy of Quidditch Through the Ages from the library and had it open on the table in front of her, like flying maneuvers were something you could learn from a book. Harry hoped for her sake nothing was spilled on it - Madam Pince would have a fit.

The post arrived right on schedule. A barn owl brought Neville a small package from his grandmother, which he tore open excitedly - it was a Remembrall, which turned red the instant he held it out. Neville’s face flushed a similar color.

Malfoy, passing by the Gryffindor table, snatched the Remembrall right out of his hands.

Harry and Ron were on their feet instantly.

“Put it down, Malfoy,” Ron growled.

Malfoy held the Remberall above his head and did a ridiculous dance. “Or else what? You’ll have Potter stupefy me again?”

“Malfoy,” Harry said dangerously. 

Malfoy rolled the Remembrall between his hands. “You’ll need more than one maneuver if you’re gonna get anywhere, Potter -”

“Oh, for pete’s sake,” Harry said, before punching Malfoy square in the face.

(His right hook had been perfected for years, thanks to Sirius. According to him, most wizards never thought to get physical, so it was a good surprise attack.)

And boy, was Malfoy surprised.

“YES!” Ron cheered loudly as Malfoy clutched his bleeding nose.

Harry stared at him. “That’s a bit malicious, Ron -”

Malfoy glared at them both. “You son of a -”

He was cut off by a shrill voice cutting across the Great Hall.

“HARRY POTTER.”

“Uh oh,” Harry muttered. McGonagall, who had evidently seen everything, was rapidly approaching from the head table.

“You’re dead now,” Malfoy said nasally.

“Never - that was completely unacceptable,” McGonagall huffed, rounding on Harry. “What were you thinking?!”

“Please don’t bench me from flying lessons, Professor,” Harry pleaded.

McGonagall scoffed and rolled her eyes, as if the idea were ridiculous. “Don’t be stupid, Potter. I’ve been waiting for 11 years to see if you have James’ talent.”

“What?” Malfoy whined. McGonagall ignored him. 

“Detention on Saturday and forty points from Gryffindor,” she said.

“He should be expelled!” Malfoy protested.

“Forty points?!” Harry wailed, “your own house, Professor -”

“Muggle modes of violence are absolutely not tolerated at Hogwarts,” McGonagall said firmly.

“That is so not PC, Professor” Harry sighed, “would it have been better if I hexed him?”

“I’m not discussing this with you,” McGonagall said, voice clipped. “Let’s go, Malfoy. Hospital wing.”

As soon as they were out of sight, Ron rounded on him. “Where did you learn to hit like that?!” he demanded reverently as they reclaimed their seats.

Harry shrugged. “Sirius has been decking Slytherins since the seventies.”

Neville leaned over Hermione’s massive tome, looking slightly embarrassed - Harry couldn’t imagine why.

“I could have handled that without you socking him in the face,” he said sheepishly.

“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself,” Harry chuffed, spooning more fruit onto his plate, “I haven’t clocked someone like that for months.”

Hermione chose that moment to finally glance up from her gigantic opus. “Was that Draco Malfoy I heard?”

//

“It sure is a shame Malfoy had to miss out on flying lessons,” Harry mused loudly. He and the rest of the Gryffindor first years (and unfortunately, the Slytherins) were lined up on the castle grounds, waiting for Madam Hooch to commence the class. “Say - does anyone know what happened to him?”

Pansy Parkinson - one of the Slytherins - looked appalled. “He said you roundhouse kicked him square in the jaw!”

“Ah, so that’s how the story is developing,” Harry said, nodding contentedly to himself.

This version of events did not satisfy Ron, who apparently wanted the truth and nothing but the truth about that morning’s events to circulate.

“That’s not true, Harry took him down with a single punch!” he bragged, mimicking the motion of swinging a fist.

“You what?!” Hermione shrieked, rounding on him.

“Oh, please,” Harry rolled his eyes, “you were there.”

Pansy stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. “Why would you ask what happened if you already knew?”

“I greatly enjoy hearing my accomplishments repeated back to me,” said Harry.

The conversation came to a half as Madam Hooch appeared in front of her pupils. She surveyed them all laying in the grass like they were on a Sunday picnic and barked, “Well, what are you all waiting for? Everyone go and stand by a broomstick - come on, hurry up!”

As the rest of his classmates scrambled to find a broom - early model Shooting Stars, by the looks of it - Harry approached Madam Hooch, patting his robe pocket to ensure his shrunken Nimbus 2000 was still safely inside. He had retrieved it from Sirius - who had performed the shrinking spell - a few nights before.

Hooch raised a brow. “What is it, Potter?”

“I was actually wondering if I could use my own broom,” Harry explained. He took the Nimbus out of his pocket and held it in his palm for her to see.

“How did you get that?” Hooch said, eyes widening, “first years aren’t permitted to have broomsticks.”

Harry - who had anticipated a conflict of this kind - already had a loophole prepared.

“Sorry, I should have clarified,” he said, “it’s not my broomstick - it's my godfather’s.”

Hooch shook her head. “You need to use one of the school brooms for the lesson,” she told him.

Harry shrugged. “That’s alright. I suppose I’ll have to let my talent speak for itself,” he said, returning the Nimbus 200 to his pocket.

“Er - right.” Hooch turned to the rest of the first years as Harry claimed the broom between Ron and Hermione - it appeared they had saved a spot for him. “Okay, everyone,” Hooch called out, “stick out your right hand over your broom and say ‘Up!’”

Talk about remedial. Harry had his broom in his palm within seconds - he didn’t even have to say the incantation verbally. Ron seemed to be in a similar position. Hermione and Neville’s brooms, by contrast, rolled about uselessly in the grass, despite them yelling “UP!” louder than anyone else in the class.

“The broom can smell fear, you know,” Harry informed Hermione.

“Can it, you,” Hermione snapped.

Hooch walked around to assist those who were struggling. Then she instructed them to mount their brooms and hover a few feet above the ground. 

Harry did exactly as he was told. The chance to show off would come later - now was the time to demonstrate the masterful control he had over his broomstick.

Control which Neville, evidently, lacked. His broom shot up about twenty feet into their air before chucking him off like a mechanical bull. Maybe his Gran was right to keep him grounded throughout childhood, Harry thought.

At any rate, Hooch had to run him off to the hospital wing. She left the rest of the first years with a very threatening order to stay on the ground until she returned.

“I imagine he’ll be quite embarrassed about that,” Harry remarked, referring to Neville. An uncomfortable silence had descended upon his remaining classmates and he felt obligated to break it, as Hogwarts’ resident celebrity.

“I feel awful,” Hermione said. She did look rather distressed. “Poor Neville…”

“Yeah, now the rest of us have to wait to fly,” Ron complained.

Hermione’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You’re a complete prick, you know that?!” she exclaimed, jabbing a finger at Ron’s chest. Then she rounded on Harry. “You too!”

“Hey!” Harry held his hands up in a surrendering gesture, “what did I do?”

“I just -” Hermione faltered, though only momentarily, “you are.”

Harry shrugged, remembering something Sirius had once told him about ‘picking his battles.’ “Fair enough.” He nodded at Ron, who was still bristling at Hermione’s insult, “Hey - go grab the Remembrall and toss me a few, will you?”

Harry mounted the rickety Shooting Star as Ron ran to collect Neville’s Remembrall, which had landed in the grass after his fall.

Hermione watched them, mortified. “Harry, what are you thinking?” she shrieked as he shot off into the air.

“What does it look like?” Harry hollered. If there was ever a moment to show off, it was now. If his calculations were correct, they were a few stories below McGonagall’s office. Hopefully she would happen to peek out her window…

“You’re going to be expelled!” Hermione wailed.

“Oh, for the love of pete, he’s Harry Bloody Potter,” Ron groaned.

“The perks of being an orphan,” Harry quipped.

Hermione crossed her arms indignantly. “You two are the worst.” 

Ron shrugged carelessly, throwing the Remembrall up towards Harry, who had to dive down to catch it. Hermione covered her eyes with her hands and looked away. Harry could hear her repeating the same phrase over and over under her breath - not my circus, not my monkeys. Not my circus, not my monkeys.

So it went for the next ten minutes or so - Ron and Harry practicing Seeker with the Remembrall and Hermione chanting nonsense. The farther they progressed, the higher Ron threw the ball. 

Harry was in the middle of an incredibly steep nose dive when his hopes for the afternoon came to fruition.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” McGonagall groaned. Harry looked up and saw her making her way across the grounds with surprising speed, “Again, Potter?!”

“I told you,” Hermione mumbled smugly.

Harry glided in for a smooth landing before standing upright to face McGonagall. “Did you see that dive, Professor?”

“Yes,” she said, sounding deeply resigned, “I did.” 

Her lips formed a very thin line, and she appeared to be in the midst of an internal battle of wills. Harry stared up at her with a face that would hopefully evoke memories of a glorious young James Potter.

“Come with me,” McGonagall sighed at last, grabbing his elbow.

Harry followed McGonagall back to the castle, trying to stifle a victorious grin. If this was going where he thought it was, he’d have something to rub in Malfoy’s face at dinner tonight.

McGonagall stopped by the charms classroom and poked her head through the door. “Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood for a moment?”

“If I didn’t know Oliver Wood as the fanatic captain of the Gryffindor quidditch team, I would have thought he was a cane you were going to beat me with,” Harry mumbled.

Wood stepped out into the corridor, looking between Harry and McGonagall quizzically. 

McGonagall didn’t leave time for questions. “Come on, you two,” she said, beckoning them down the hallway.

As they walked, Wood bent down to whisper in Harry’s ear, “What’s going on?”

“I believe I’m about to be made the youngest house player in a century,” Harry whispered back, feeling giddy.

“In here,” McGonagall said, gesturing them into an empty classroom. Harry and Wood sat in two desks in the front row. After shooing Peeves away, McGonagall leaned against the teachers’ desk, fixing them both with a most intimidating stare.

“Wood,” she said at last, “I’ve found you a Seeker.”

“YES!” Harry exclaimed, jumping up and pumping to his fist. Wait until Sirius heard about this.

McGonagall, however, adopted a stern expression. “Let me make one thing clear, Potter. This is by no means a reward for that… that deplorable, unsafe behavior I just witnessed. I should be out of a teaching job for even entertaining this.” She paused for a moment, and the corners of her mouth turned up in a smile, “But damn if you Potters aren’t beasts at quidditch.”

“Are you sure, Professor?” Wood asked, glancing sideways at Harry.

McGonagall nodded firmly. “Oh, yes. You should have seen it - the boy’s a natural. He caught that thing in his hand after a fifty foot dive - didn’t even scratch himself. Charlie Weasley couldn’t have done it.” She looked at Harry with a rare tender expression. “James would have been bloody thrilled.”

Harry puffed out his chest with pride, “Snape will win the house cup over our mangled corpses.”