Possibilities

Soon enough Harry finds he has settled into a routine; he goes to classes and the Great Hall, he studies with Hermione, and any free time is spent with Hermione, Ron and Draco. His classes are extremely interesting, Hermione agrees – vehemently. Sometimes Ron and Draco complain about how boring the classes are which causes Hermione to snap at them: “You would – it’s always been there for you.” 

It’s a bit of a sore spot. Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall is probably the hardest class – Harry doesn’t think she likes him a lot. She’s always ready to grill him on the course work, and seems to be on high alert for any and all mistakes he makes. 

He figures it probably has something to do with the long standing Gryffindor versus Slytherin rivalry – he had just hoped that the adults would have been above all of that. Him and Hermione are still subject to nasty comments from other students (particularly Gryffindor ones). They both pretend to Ron and Draco it doesn’t bother them; but alone, they smile sadly at each other, both simultaneously hoping it gets better. 

Last thing on a Wednesday they have Flying Class with Hufflepuff house. This is definitely the one Harry has been the most nervous for; Hermione too, muttering angrily about how irresponsible it is to put eleven-year-olds on broomsticks. Harry secretly agrees. Draco and Ron tease the two about it – “You’ll probably not fall; you never know though, depends on the broom.” – Harry glares at them and Hermione goes for a swift kick under the table. 

They learned that lesson fast. 

Madam Hooch has a booming voice, and Harry knows she’s a force to be reckoned with. She gives them a safety lecture at the start of the class – a clever cover for her to threaten them within an inch of their life if they do anything stupid. “Your broom will listen to you, you just have to make it.” 

Harry and Hermione share a look of confusion, Madam Hooch seems to think she’s being helpful, she isn’t. “Tell it ‘Up’,” she tells them all. 

There’s a chorus of: “Up.” “Up!” “UP!” “Uuuup.” 

Harry feels like an idiot – he’s talking to a stick. There are rare moments in his time here where he expects to turn round and see everyone laughing at him, “You didn’t actually believe it?”, like it’s all a big prank. Now is one of the moments. 

“Up!” He commands and the broom shoots up into his hand, he’s not the first to do it; but definitely the first that hasn’t grown up doing it. “Blimey,” Ron is giving him a strange look. “That’s impressive.”  Harry flushes, secretly pleased with himself – this is the first thing he’s not had to try to be good at. 

Ron is growing increasingly irritated with his broomstick. His face is growing redder every passing second. Every time he calls “UP!”, the broom simply quivers on the ground before growing still again. “Ugh,” Ron stamps his foot on the ground. “This is impossible.” 

“Say it like you mean it, Weasley.” Ron narrows his eyes at Madam Hooch. “Well,” he mutters angrily under his breath, “That’s bloody helpful.” 

Hermione isn’t doing so well at it either – Harry thinks this must be the only thing in the whole world she isn’t good at. Hermione seems to have realised this too, and is now trying to argue why it’s a useless skill anyway. “I mean, I’m a Witch, so I can just apparate,” she mutters, “I mean not in Hogwarts, obviously, but there are other methods of travel. It’s pointless.” 

Harry, selfishly, is quite gleeful that he’s finally found something that he’s good at; and his friends aren’t. Then he immediately feels awful for thinking it – magic isn’t a competition and it would be dangerous to start thinking it is. “You’ll get it,” he offers words of encouragement to the two, “I’m sure, besides when will we ever actually use this?” 

When everyone has picked up the brooms Madam Hooch announces that they can now hover in the air. She says hover like it’s a threat – Harry’s stomach does flips at the mere idea of going any higher than that. “Push off the ground, gently, and hover.” 

Again, with the little to no instruction from Madam Hooch. Harry swings one leg over and pushes off the ground lightly. He looks down to see his feet hovering a few centimetres off the ground – extraordinary. Other people follow suit, slowly lifting off the ground. It’s all going so well, Madam Hooch is even smiling (a small smile, but still). Then it’s not going so well. 

There’s a grunt of confusion to Harry’s left and he looks to see Crabbe and Goyle floating higher and higher – their brooms taking control of them. Madam Hooch shouts up to them: “Boys! Get back down here now!” 

Their brooms start shaking and trembling, much like Ron’s had, except Crabbe and Goyle are at least fifty feet off the ground. It figures that Madam Hooch isn’t going to their rescue, simply assuming that they’re making mischief as per usual – why? Because they’re Slytherin. They’re idiots, not bad people. But because they are wearing green Madam Hooch just stands there and yells. 

Their brooms are starting to dislodge them, they’re losing their balance. Harry knows he has to do something – now. He sets back down on the ground, crouches down, ready to push off. Hermione seems to realise he’s about to do something stupid, “Harry, don’t-”

Too late. He’s off. The wind whips by him, plastering his hair to his forehead due to the pure force. He’s shooting up and up and up – until he’s level with Crabbe and Goyle. Don’t look down, Harry thinks, don’t. Crabbe and Goyle look terrified, grasping the broom so tightly their knuckles have turned white. 

“Help us,” Goyle calls. Harry looks around as if expecting the answers to appear out of nowhere. He looks down at the crowd of students that have formed – Hooch looks furious, her ears have gone scarlet. 

“Goyle, you first,” Harry circles the boy, “I’ll hold the broom steady, and think about going down. Okay?” 

Goyle’s eyes are screwed shut in terror, he’s shaking his head vigorously. “I – I can’t do it.” Harry curses under his breath, they’re floating higher and higher, they need to do something now. “Yes, you can,” Harry says strongly. “You can be brave.” 

Goyle’s eyes open a little bit – “okay.” Harry grips his broom with his left hand and reaches out with his other, clasping round Goyle’s. Harry helps him down to the ground where the boy practically flings himself off the broom. Harry pushes of the ground again, shooting upwards like a rocket towards the other boy. He’s practically vertical Harry realizes; and he’s not scared. He reaches Crabbe and grabs the boy’s broom, “You ready?” Harry calls. Crabbe offers him no verbal response but nods. 

They land on the ground and Crabbe jumps off the broom. Harry is suddenly surrounded by a clamoring crowd of students – Slytherin and Hufflepuff alike. They’re cheering – for him, he realizes. They’re all clapping and screaming – “That was so brave, Harry!” 

“Mr. Potter,” Harry turns round to see a fuming Madam Hooch flanked by Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall. Harry gulps, nervous. “Eh – yes?” 

“Come with us,” McGonagall signals to him. He hangs his head but follows them – anger boils in his stomach. He’s going to get into hideous trouble simply because Madam Hooch was unfairly treating them because they’re Slytherin. 

He follows Snape and McGonagall through the halls till they reach the charms classroom. “Wait here,” Snape says and goes into the classroom, leaving Harry alone with McGonagall. 

“I hope you know that was incredibly stupid of you, Potter,” she says sternly. Her lips are pressed into a thin line and she stares down at him with a strange look in her eyes. Harry shrugs, “I’m sorry Professor, but I had to.” 

“And pray tell, Potter, why did you have to?” 

“No-one else was doing anything, Professor, not even Madam Hooch. They were scared,” he pleaded with her, begging for her to see his side of things, “They were scared and she thought they were playing about because they’re in Slytherin. It’s not right.” 

She looks at him with wide eyes, her face has softened considerably – her eyes are gentle, yet glimmer with respect. She looks – proud? “We’re not bad people, Professor.” Harry says quietly. 

She seems to crumble at that, “Oh, my dear boy, of course you’re not.” 

Snape emerges from the classroom an older boy in tow; Harry’s seen him around the common room. “Potter,” Snape clears his throat, looking suspiciously between Harry and McGonagall. “This is Marcus Flint, he’s captain of the Quidditch team.” 

Harry squints at that: “Quidditch? What’s that?” 

“Eloquent as ever, Potter,” Snape grumbles. 

“It’s our sport,” Flint explains, “You play it on broomsticks, it’s fantastic.” 

“He’s a natural,” McGonagall compliments, “Terrific player, truly. Perfect seeker, I should think.” 

“He’s average,” Snape snaps; but his mouth twitches up. “Obviously you’ll have to train him, he’s useless. And, unfortunately, a natural rule breaker.” Harry doesn’t understand why Snape believes this to be true especially considering they’ve barely been here a week and he’s been completely lawful thus far. 

“He’s a first year?” Flint seems unsure, sending Harry and odd look. 

“Yes, Mr. Flint, I am aware.” Snape raises a menacing brow, and Flint seems to figuire it’s not worth arguing his point. They make a plan to meet at the Quidditch pitch on Friday after classes; Harry finds himself feeling quite giddy and wonders if Hermione has any books on the particular subject. 

“Off you run, Potter,” Snape says, sending him away with a glare; it’s missing it’s normal sharp edge however. 

McGonagall and Snape stand there, watching the young boy run off. 

“You know who he reminds me of, Severus?”

“James Potter,” Severus spits out the name, as if it causes him physical pain. 

“Quite the contrary, rather,” McGonagall muses, “I think he reminds me of Lily Evans.” 

“He has her eyes.” 

“He has her heart too.” 

Later Harry finds himself recounting the whole story to Draco – and the latter part to Hermione and Ron. “Blimey, mate,” Ron gasps, “You must be the youngest seeker in a century.” 

Even Draco looks impressed, although he masks it. “You continue to amaze me, Potter,” he drawls, “Not completely useless after all, eh?” He bumps shoulders with Harry and offers him a genuine, real smile. 

“Guess not.” 

“Oh, it is a rather dangerous sport though,” Hermione frets, “You’ll be careful, Harry, won’t you?” She tugs on a pleat in her hair. 

“Of course, Hermione,” he reassures. “Don’t suppose you have a book on Quidditch, do you?” 

Ron jumps in before Hermione can answer, “You should read ‘Quidditch Through The Ages’! It’s a masterpiece, honestly, Harry. You have to.” 

“You know it’s good if Weasley’s read it,” Draco comments – Ron smacks him. 

He meets Flint on the pitch that Friday. He feels prepared, he sped through ‘Quidditch Through The Ages’, which was just as good as Ron had said it would be, and was now reading one that Hermione had found for him. 

“Hiya, Harry,” Flint says, clapping him on the back. “So – tell me – what do you know about Quidditch?” 

“A bit,” Harry admits, “I read a book though, I’ve never played before – I’ve only been on a broom once.” 

“Well, it’s simple really, learn the rules and do your thing,” Flint tells him. “We’ll focus on your position first, don’t worry too much about the rest of the team – we’ll worry about that.” 

Flint gives him a brief run through of the sport; One keeper, three chasers that play with a large ball called a Quaffle, two beaters that play with angry little balls called bludgers, and the Seeker who plays with the snitch. He’s the seeker. 

Flint shows him the snitch, a tiny gold ball with delicate wings that unfold from it. It whizzes around their heads and Harry loses track of it easily in the late afternoon sun. “Your job is simple, fly about and look for this,” Flint says, “It’s worth one hundred and fifty points and it ends the game.” Harry nods, keeping up so far – some of this he already knew. 

“Our first game is next week,” Flint tells him. 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, so if you’re not ready, that’s fine. You’re young, we’ll get your second to fill in, and we can get you started next game. November, that on is.” 

Harry thinks about it – not for long mind you – before making up his mind. 

“I’ll do it.”