By the time he had come out of the bathroom, Harry had been overcome by mortification. Why had he been foolish enough to say that? Surely it wasn’t the sort of thing any self-respecting male over the age of three said out loud. The fact that his professor hadn’t exclaimed in disgust or shoved him away – as the Dursleys would have – was sufficient indication of how his professor felt, along with the man’s earlier, tacit confession. Harry really needed to learn not to blurt things out. He was so embarrassed that he only mumbled a quick goodbye to both Snape and Ron before fleeing the chambers.

Well. That was that. Snape looked after the little brat with an odd mixture of relief and hurt. Obviously he had been right. The child had been confused and had simply blurted words out without any concept of what he was saying. No meaning should be attached to them, as witnessed by the boy’s speedy exit at the prospect of being able to rejoin his classmates. Clearly the brat was all too happy to escape his presence and felt neither desire nor obligation to linger.

Good. That was very good. The last thing Snape needed was another complication. The boy would naturally reserve his softer feelings for Molly – and that mutt of a godfather, once the two met. Snape was the Evil Bat, the disciplinarian, the horrible bastard who had just barred the boy from his first-ever Quidditch match. Snape snorted. How could he have ever imagined the boy to have been sincere? He was probably just relieved that Snape hadn’t given him a worse punishment for his tantrum, the way those despicable Muggles would have done. The words were motivated by sheer relief, nothing more.

Snape nodded firmly, oblivious to Ron’s odd look. He was pleased. Yes. That was what he felt. Pleasure and relief. That was it. There was no disappointment, let alone pain. After all, he knew himself to be unlovable. How absurd it would be to feel upset when a just-punished brat’s outburst was proven to be hysterical babble. He didn’t get upset when the boy was shouting abuse; why get angry when the child – in a very Slytherin fashion – tried the opposite tack?

He shook himself. No more introspection. He was Pleased and Relieved. He would pretend the boy had never spoken. Nothing had changed, and it never would. “Come along, Weasley,” he snapped, as if the redhead hadn’t been waiting patiently for ten minutes while the professor was lost in thought. “Do not dawdle.”

On his way up to the Tower, Harry’s embarrassment dwindled in inverse proportion to his distance from his professor. By the time he had reached the Fat Lady, he had a rather goofy smile on his face. His professor loved him. Not just tolerated. Not just accepted. Not even just liked. His professor loved him. He’d practically admitted it, and when Harry had said the words, he had hugged him back.

Right. This meant Harry really had to try to behave himself. Not so much out of worry that Professor Snape would send him back, but more because Harry didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that love.

Although, Harry realized, if getting chased by a troll, keeping the man up all night telling stories about one person he liked and several he didn’t (for several of the tales about James involved his friends, even if they weren’t engaged in any Severus-related activities), and then having a huge tantrum at the breakfast table didn’t make the man’s affection wane, it was hard to imagine that merely blowing a test or being cheeky would.

And besides, Professor Snape didn’t really seem like the kind of person who changed his mind all that easily. Harry’s lips twitched. Like with his punishment. He really could see the man striding out onto the Quidditch pitch and spelling him off his broom right there in front of everybody.

Harry sighed. He suspected that once the initial incredulous joy of having someone who really, really cared about him wore off, he’d begin to understand why the other kids always seemed to be complaining about their parents, but that was okay. Harry wasn’t stupid enough to think that he didn’t need any help – in learning about this new world, let alone dealing with all the Death Eater and Lord Volauvent stuff – and Professor Snape seemed to take his duties towards Harry very seriously. Harry was willing to put up with some rules and even some punishments if it meant that, for the first time, he had someone looking out for him.

“Well, dear, you’re looking very happy for someone who was so naughty last night,” the portrait said reprovingly. “We were all very worried when we couldn’t find you!”

“Yes’m. I’m sorry,” Harry said penitently, recalling how the various portraits had done their best to help. “I got in awful trouble for it,” he offered, hoping to mollify the normally good tempered witch.

“And you deserved it,” she sniffed. But a moment later, she bent forward, a look of concern crossing her features. “Was Professor Snape very hard on you?”

Harry hadn’t seen Dudley manipulate his aunt without learning a few things. He put a woebegone look on his face and sighed, letting his lower lip protrude.

“Oh, dear!” the portrait bought it instantly. “He was, wasn’t he?”

Harry sniffled and rubbed his backside. Just because it didn’t hurt now – and hadn’t within about five minutes of the smacks – didn’t negate the fact that he’d been swatted and could therefore take full advantage of any sympathy he could milk from it. That was a clear Kid Rule, just like the one that said that unless a note was sent home, no mischief at school – or its consequences – needed to be reported at home or the one that said that the first three parental warnings could be disregarded, and no attention paid until actual counting began.

“Oh, you poor little thing!” Now the portrait’s previous dudgeon was forgotten, and she gazed at him in alarm.

Harry sighed. “An’ I’m on r’striction for a week, an’ I’m not to play in today’s match or fly for a whole week,” he said sadly.

“My, my,” she shook her head in commiseration. “Well, the time will go quickly – you’ll see. And after all –“

Harry nodded, knowing what was coming. “ -- I did deserve it,” he chimed in, suspecting he’d be saying that to most of the faculty, portraits, and ghosts before he was fully forgiven for worrying them so much.

The witch blinked. “Yes. Well. The important thing is that it’s all over and you’re safe. And really, you’ll be off restriction before you know it,” she offered encouragingly, opening the doorway without even bothering to wait for the password.

“Thank you,” Harry said politely as he climbed through. It really was rather nice to have people on his side for a change – even if some were only painted people.

“Harry!” He had barely entered the common room before he was practically mobbed by his Housemates. “Are you okay?” “What were you thinking?” “What did Snape do to you?” “Were you hurt?” “Tell us the story!”

Then a new voice was heard: “HARRY!” and the crowd parted respectfully. Hermione barreled through and grabbed Harry in a fierce hug – rather like the one Snape had given him when he had first encountered him with the troll/panda.

“Hi, Hermione,” Harry said softly, rather stunned by all the concern everyone was showing.

“Are you all right?” she asked, releasing him but eyeing him worriedly. “Professor McGonagall said you and Ron were okay, but…”

“C’mon, Harry – sit down and tell us about it! Ron gave his version over breakfast, but Hermione wouldn’t say anything until you arrived. Are you okay?” Oliver Wood managed to shoo everyone over to the couches.

Hermione and Harry obligingly took center stage – er, sofa – and prepared to tell the story. “I’m okay,” Harry said, looking gratefully around the circle of concerned faces. He faltered when he caught sight of the Quidditch team. “I – I’m really sorry,” he said haltingly, raising troubled eyes to Wood. “You know I’m not allowed to fly for a week, including today’s match, right? I’m sorry I’ve let you down.”

Oliver shrugged. “’S all right, kid. It would have been nice to have you, but once I heard who was missing last night, I kind of assumed we’d have to get a replacement.” He grinned. “I’m just glad it’s only for one game!”

“Yeah, Harry!” Katie Bell chimed in. “If that troll had got you, it would have been for a lot longer than that!”

Harry nodded sheepishly, exchanging a look with Hermione. He had a feeling they’d be hearing about this for a while.

“Besides, kid,” Oliver whispered, getting close, “I figured that once Snape got his hands on you, you wouldn’t be able to sit on a broom today – ban or no ban.” He gave Harry a wink and grinned at the boy’s blush. “I thought so,” he said smugly.

“I’m okay,” Harry protested, pink. “But yeah, he was pretty angry.”

“Start at the beginning,” Neville pleaded, and Harry and Hermione obliged.

It took nearly an hour for the story to be told and retold and exclaimed over, but finally the rest of the House drifted off, and Harry and Hermione were left alone.

“Are you really okay?” he asked anxiously, eyeing her wrist.

She nodded, bending the joint to prove it. “It’s strange to think that a sprained wrist can be fixed so quickly here,” Hermione said wonderingly. “I mean, I know we practice magic every day, but then something like this happens and you really see what a difference it makes.” Then her eyes sharpened. “And you? Are you okay?”

Harry grinned. “Yeah. Pr’fessor Snape went spare and really ticked us off, but he first made sure I had dinner an’ he fixed Ron’s cut an’ he’s off getting him a brand new wand now.”

“Did you ever tell him why you didn’t want to go to the Feast? It was because of your parents, wasn’t it?” Hermione asked, her eyes worried.

“Yeah,” Harry admitted, coloring anew at the realization that Hermione had known all along. “An’ he was brilliant. He had Professor McGonagall come to the quarters, after Ron had fallen asleep, an’ the two of them told me stories about my parents practically all night long.”

Hermione smiled, her brown eyes warm. “He really cares about you. You know that, right?”

Harry dropped his eyes, embarrassed and delighted at the same time. “Yeah,” he confessed quietly. “He – he sorta said so.”

Hermione blinked. “Really? He – ah – doesn’t seem like the type of person who’d go around saying things like that.”

“He isn’t, really, but I kinda, erm, got upset when I realized I wasn’t allowed to play today. And, well, after I said a whole bunch of things that I didn’t mean, an’ he was just brilliant about it all and, well, it kinda slipped out.”

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione threw her arms around him again. “I’m so happy for you!”

“ ‘Mione!” Harry hissed, scandalized. “People are watching!”

She released him but kept beaming, her eyes suspiciously moist. “It’s just so nice that – that you’ve got each other now.”

Harry grinned. “Yeah, it really is.”

They smiled idiotically at each other for another moment, but then Hermione’s eyes got wide. “Oh! Harry! Did they tell you about today? How you have to help with my detention?”

Harry frowned. “Huh?”

Hermione looked alternately embarrassed and annoyed. “I have to write an essay!” she announced.

Harry shrugged. “So do me’n’Ron. Three feet on what we did wrong about the troll. An’ we’re r’stricted. An’ I’m not allowed to fly for a week and Ron can’t have pudding for a week.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “No sweets for a whole week? Can Ron do that?”

Harry grinned. “Since the alternative is to have Percy lead him to and from every class, an’ have the house elves spoon feed him, I think he’ll manage.”

“Oooooh!” Hermione shivered. “Professor Snape really is strict!”

“So are you on restriction too?” Harry asked.

Hermione nodded. “Everything is the same for me, except that instead of having something suspended for a week, I have to write another essay as well…” her voice trailed off awkwardly.

That made some sense. It wasn’t as if Hermione did many things that grown ups found objectionable. She ate fewer sweets than probably anyone else in their whole year, and she was always studying or reading… What could they take away? Harry looked at her in concern. She was obviously feeling deeply humiliated about something. What could it be?

“Hermione? What is it? What’ve you got to write about?”

Hermione blushed brightly. “You’ll laugh. You and Ron both.”

“No, we won’t,” he coaxed. “C’mon, Hermione.”

“Professor McGonagall is making me write a whole essay about Quidditch!” she blurted. “And I have to go to games and practices this whole week!”

Harry tried.

He really did. But he was only eleven after all, and he started laughing helplessly. “R-Ron’s going to go mental when he hears this,” he spluttered.

“Harry James Potter! There is nothing funny about this!” Hermione was now pink with outrage. “You know how much Professor McGonagall loves the game; if I get anything wrong in the essay, she’ll probably extend my punishment for another whole week! That’s why you have to go to the game with me and explain everything!”

In the end, Harry managed to stifle his snickers and began to explain the game to her. It was disconcerting when Hermione got out her quill and parchment and started taking notes with the same level of attention she showed the professors, and all too quickly Harry’s basic knowledge of the game was exhausted. He retrieved some of Ron’s Quidditch books and magazines from the dorm, knowing the redhead would be willing to share them with the girl, and by the time of the game, Hermione had absorbed enough to have a general idea of what to expect.

About half an hour before the match was to start, an ebullient Ron dashed in, yelling, “Willow and unicorn hair!” as he brandished his new wand.

“That’s great, Ron!” Harry exclaimed.

“It’s lovely. I’m sure that now you’ll be able to do ever so many spells on your first try,” Hermione added.

“Thanks!” Ron beamed proudly. “And here, these are for you.” He handed a small package to each of them.

“What is it?” Harry asked curiously, as Hermione examined the wrapping.

“Well, your da- erm, professor, said that –“ Ron deepened his voice into a reasonably good imitation of Snape “ – ‘Since dunderheaded children will insist upon placing wands in their back pockets, you obviously cannot be trusted to decide upon where to keep your own wands.’ So he got us each a wrist holster. Innit great?” He flicked his wrist and his wand dropped into his hand.

“Brilliant!” Harry exclaimed, eyes wide.

“Oooh!” Hermione’s face lit up. “This will make it much easier to incorporate the wand into the proper motions for a spell.”

“Yeah, an’ it’ll make it easy to draw it quick in a fight!” Harry grinned.

“It was really nice of your professor to get one for each of us,” Hermione commented, giving Harry a sidelong look.

“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “But he also said that if he ever found that we weren’t using them, he’d give us detention. Ooops – the match! I gotta go!” Ron rushed off to the Quidditch pitch, where he was serving as the team’s gofer for the day. One first year student was selected to serve in this capacity for each game, and it was a highly sought after prize. Ron had been delighted when he had won the spot in the special lottery, and he’d practically burst into tears of relief when Professor Snape had confirmed that he’d still be permitted to carry out the role.

After attaching the holsters to their forearms and practicing a bit with drawing and replacing their wands, Harry and Hermione headed to the pitch at a more sedate pace. Hermione was still looking over her notes and muttering to herself. “Bludger… Beaters… Snitch… Seeker…”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Hermione, relax. It’s a game. You’re not going to be quizzed on it today, okay?”

Still, when they reached the pitch, even Harry was a little startled to see how enormous the stands were, filled with cheering, shouting students. Hermione looked over at the Gryffindor section, but it was obvious that with all the screaming that was going on, there was no way she would be able to hear his explanations of the play. Scanning the stadium, Harry’s eye fell upon some of the highest seats.

“There!” he pointed and pulled her up to the very top level of the stands. Only a few other students were scattered around this railing, and none were close. From this high up, they had a panoramic view of the pitch, and although the cheers were audible, they were sufficiently muted that the two could talk. The commentator could also be heard, but Harry would be easily able to speak over him.

“C’mon,” Harry said, swinging one leg over the railing and perching upon it like the other students were doing.

“Oh, Harry, I’m not sure it’s allowed. What if you fall?” Hermione frowned.

Harry sighed. There were times when having a girl as a best friend could be tiresome. “Everyone else is sitting this way! Look – we’re practically right above the field. It’s brilliant. You’ll be able to see all the action.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. Boys! There were perfectly good, comfortable seats right there, but no, they had to perch themselves of railings and sit backwards on chairs and otherwise behave like complete loons. “Oh, all right,” she grumbled, not wanting to annoy Harry when she needed to pick his brain throughout the upcoming game.

#-#-

The game progressed, and even Hermione began to get excited as the score was quite close. Harry in particular was leaning as far out on the railings as he could, trying to spot the snitch and signal his teammates.

Then, in the midst of a particularly tense part of the game, Harry felt a sharp push. He grabbed at the railing on which they sat and opened his mouth to remonstrate with Hermione, but was startled to see that she was sitting well out of arms’ reach, her attention wholly focused on the game.

“Hermione?” he began uncertainly but before he could speak further, Harry was abruptly unseated by an enormous yank, almost as if the earth itself had reached up and pulled him forward.

With a startled cry, he plummeted towards the ground far below.

“Wingardium leviosa!” Harry dimly heard Hermione scream behind him, and then his forward momentum slowed. For a heart-stopping moment, he hovered, then miraculously he started to rise back towards the railing.

He had recovered only a few feet, however, when that same force seized hold of him again and snapped the pull of Hermione’s spell. He cried out anew as he dropped precipitously, only to be jolted to a halt once again. He managed to twist around and saw Hermione’s drawn, white face as she stared at him, wand extended and every ounce of will focused on her spell.

He jerked up a few feet, then down a few. He felt like two invisible giants were having a tug of war with him, as if he were some rag doll being dragged between them. If it hadn’t been for the look of sheer terror on Hermione’s face, he might have thought this some prank of the twins – after all, how was he to know whether such midair to-and-fro’ing was normal in the Wizarding World?

Incredibly enough, below him the Quidditch match continued. The rest of the school hadn’t even noticed the drama unfolding high in the stands, captivated as they were by the hard-fought match playing out before them.

Harry could feel the effort that his friend was putting into her magic – his body would start to rise, as if gravity had suddenly ceased to affect him, but after a few seconds, something would block Hermione’s spell, gravity would return with a vengeance and his suddenly heavy body would be helped on its downward path by a savage tug… only to be again converted to a weightless state as Hermione re-cast the charm. After a half-dozen such exchanges, Harry was a good hundred feet closer to the ground and beginning to feel nauseous from the multiple abrupt transitions between floating and falling. He began to worry about what would happen if he sicked up in his current position. He couldn’t imagine that either team would react favorably to being showered with vomit from above.

Harry closed his eyes, willing his stomach to settle down while the opposing powers battled over him, but rapidly reopened them when the lack of sensory information merely made the nausea worse. He craned his neck around to see how Hermione was doing, and he was horrified and alarmed by what he saw.

His friend looked awful; her face was gray and drawn with strain, as if she were the one being manhandled, not him. Hermione’s nose had started to bleed but her focus remained intent on Harry. She whispered her spell over and over and over, trying to pry him loose from whatever malign force was trying to pull him to his death.

But it wasn’t enough.

From the sensations which dragged his body back and forth, Harry could tell that Hermione’s grip on him was weakening. Each pull to the ground was stronger than the previous one, and he knew that the next yank – or maybe the one after that – would tear him loose from her flagging hold, and then there was nothing to stop him from dropping like a rock and dashing his brains out on the ground far below.

Just then, a flash of gold darted past and the Slytherin Seeker, scanning the field, saw it. Then he saw Harry.

He jerked to a halt on his broom, eyes huge, and the Gryffindor Seeker, hungrily searching for the snitch, followed his gaze. “HARRY!” she shrieked in shock, and that made the rest of the players turn and look.

Harry could hear Flint’s curse from where he was still being jerked about in mid air, and then the Weasley twins, Flint, and both Seekers were heading towards him with desperate speed, the rest of the teams following close behind.

But even as he saw them coming, he felt the force snap Hermione’s hold on him one final time, and he was flung at the ground with vicious force. He knew the Quidditch players would never reach him in time.

“WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!” Hermione’s last weak cry sounded in his ears as he threw up his arms in a futile attempt to fend off the ground that was rushing up to meet him.

#--#--

Snape exchanged another glare with Minerva as their two teams battled for supremacy. “It would be nice if your team could someday learn to play without fouling their opponents at every opportunity,” she commented snarkily.

“It would be nice if your team could someday learn to play,” he retorted, smirking as her eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Oh, no,” Minerva trailed off into muttered Gaelic imprecations as she caught sight of the Slytherin Seeker’s expression. “He’s spotted it.”

Snape glowered. That idiot – he knew better than to let his expression reveal anything to the other team! What was he thinking of, to gawp like that, thereby revealing that he had spotted the elusive gold ball? You’d think he had never seen a snitch befo—What the hell was that?

“Harry!” Minerva gasped, even as Snape’s disbelieving eyes finally sorted out what he was seeing.

Potter was somehow levitating over the field, at an impossibly high altitude, and being flung back and forth between two invisible forces. Snape’s keen gaze quickly caught sight of the bushy haired girl and her wand, but who was controlling the other force? Who was trying to send Harry crashing to his death below?

Even as the screams and shouts erupted around him, as the rest of the audience finally saw why the Quidditch players had all abandoned their game and were streaking towards the stands with all the velocity they could muster, Snape was busy scanning the crowd. Where – where – there! That turbaned idiot! Quirrell was staring fixedly at Harry, and while Snape couldn’t hear any spells being cast, he was under no illusion as to who was responsible. Snape felt a surge of homicidal fury wash over him, only strengthened by the fact that the stuttering wreck had the audacity to be trying to kill Potter while sitting right there, in the faculty section! He took two steps to his right and shot his arm straight out.

He connected squarely with Quirrell’s right shoulder blade, and the DADA instructor was jolted off his seat. With a startled cry, he tumbled down the steep incline, his turbaned head and robe-covered arse alternating in painful collisions with the stands until he sprawled, unconscious, at the base of the stairs.

#-#-

Even as she frantically recast her spell, Hermione knew it was no use. The other wizard – whoever he or she was – was too powerful. She had surprised them with her spell, and that shock had allowed her to pull Harry back for a few seconds, but now they had regrouped, and that last jolt had nearly knocked her down, as well as causing Harry to plunge several stories. She could feel her own magic draining away with the effort. Very little was left, but she gritted her teeth and cast again. She’d keep fighting as long as there was a single spark of magic left within her.

Astonishingly, miraculously, when she grabbed Harry this time, there was no opposition. She could sense his falling form, but for the first time, there was no malevolent force actively wrenching him from her. She was too tired to hope to pull him all the way back up to where she was, but she could at least make his fall to the ground a controlled one.

#-#-

The instant Quirrell was neutralized, Snape threw out a line of magic to Harry, feeling Minerva, Dumbledore, and several of the other staff do the same. Others – including many of the students – were casting cushioning charms over the field, and amongst them all, Harry was lowered to the ground rather more quickly than Snape would have liked, but slowly enough that he suffered no injuries.

Harry touched down and instantly fell to his knees, exhausted both physically and emotionally by the near-deadly tug of war. Flint, Wood, and the others dropped alongside him seconds later.

Snape was one of the first onto the field, though he was never thereafter sure how he made it down from the faculty section so quickly. Technically, the school’s anti-apparition wards were in place, but it seemed that he reached Harry mere seconds after the boy was safe.

He shoved past the Quidditch teams, all now off their brooms and gathered worriedly about Harry.

“Pr’fessor!” Harry caught sight of him and managed to stand up.

“Potter!” Snape caught him by the arms. Being wrenched between two magical forces could easily have ripped the boy apart. Could there be internal damage? Unseen injuries? “How are you?”

“Erm – “ Harry looked acutely uncomfortable, and Snape’s spine chilled. He knew it – the boy needed to be transported to St Mungo’s immediately!

“What is it?”

“I – uh – have a little problem,” Harry admitted awkwardly.

Snape paused from where he was counting the boy’s limbs. “Well? Speak up, you foolish child! What is it?” he demanded, terror making his voice even harsher than normal.

“Erm…” Harry held out one hand, his fist tightly clenched. Snape stared at it – muscle spasms? Paralysis?

As he watched, the boy slowly unfolded his fingers and there, sitting quietly on his palm, sat the Golden Snitch.

“I – ah – noticed it on my way down and sort of, er, grabbed it,” Harry confessed.

“Ha! We win! Our Seeker caught the snitch!” Oliver Wood yelled in triumph, snatching the snitch from Harry’s hand and holding it aloft.

“Not likely!” Flint snarled, grabbing Wood by the front of his robes. “You can’t fly two Seekers at one time!”

“Potter wasn’t on a broom,” Wood pointed out smugly. “So he wasn’t flying.”

“So he wasn’t playing for you!”

“He’s our Seeker!”

“Not in this game!”

“He caught it, didn’t he?”

“While our Head of House was controlling his descent. So he would obviously be operating as a Slytherin, not a Gryffindor.”

“What! That’s nonsense! He’s not your Seeker!”

“Today he’s as much ours as he is yours! You didn’t have him on your roster!”

Madame Hooch pushed between the two yelling captains and soon all three were screaming at each other.

“Er… Sorry?” Harry offered uncertainly, eyeing Snape worriedly.

Snape massaged his forehead and fervently wished for a Calming Draught. “What are you apologizing for now, Mr Potter? Catching the snitch? Causing the game to descend into mayhem? Bringing the two teams to the brink of war? Nearly plummeting to your death? What precisely has made you so apologetic this time?”

Harry looked awkward. “ ‘M just sorry you were so worried.”

Snape pretended not to hear the “Ohhh, isn’t that sweet?” from Professor Sprout, but he could practically feel Albus’ twinkling eyes upon him as he glared at the boy. “I was not ‘worried’, Potter!” he snapped. “Merely… concerned.”

He had an awful suspicion that Harry – and the rest of the onlookers – were not fooled by his protestations, but he was damned if he were going to admit to anything.

The brat smiled in relief. “That’s okay then.” His brow creased as a thought struck him. “Where’s Hermione?”

“Here.” Professor McGonagall pushed through the crowd, supporting an exhausted Hermione. The girl held a bloodstained handkerchief to her nose, but despite her fatigue, she was smiling.

“Harry! You’re all right!”

“Are you okay, ‘Mione?” Harry asked worriedly. “That must’ve been awfully strong magic you were doing.”

Madam Pomfrey bustled up, her wand already in motion. “Good heavens, Miss Granger! Your magical core is nearly depleted! You’re coming straight to the Infirmary for several days of rest!”

“But what about classes!” Hermione wailed. “I’ll miss too much!”

“No arguments,” Poppy scolded. “Repeated exertion at this level could turn you into a squib.” At Hermione’s tearful expression, she relented. “Miss Granger, you won’t be allowed to do any spellwork for at least a week, until your core regenerates, so there’s not much point in your attending classes anyway.”

“We’ll take plenty of notes for you, ‘Mione,” Ron added, squeezing in between Quidditch players so that he could ensure that his best mates were all right.

The pronouncement, from a decidedly un-intellectual Weasley, had the effect of silencing all conversation in the immediate area as everyone, from Hermione to Dumbledore, turned to stare at Ron. The boy squirmed uncomfortably. “Well, I mean, I’ll do my best, and Harry an’ Draco an’ Neville will help too, right?”

Hermione’s eyes flew hopefully to Draco. She knew that her Housemates had the best of intentions, but Draco was the only one whom she trusted to take good notes.

Had he not been a Malfoy, Draco would have squirmed under the interested gaze of most of the faculty and a good percentage of the student body. Him? Help a mudblood? At the behest of a blood traitor? His father would –

“Sure we will!” Harry agreed stoutly, slinging an arm over Draco’s shoulders. “It’ll be like you were sitting right there with us,” he promised Hermione.

Draco cleared his throat. “Yes, all right,” he muttered uncomfortably. “Fine.” He shot an apprehensive look at Flint, wondering how the Slytherin prefect would react to his promise to help a Gryffindor. He knew the older boy’s reaction would set the tone for the rest of the House.

Flint glanced at Snape then shrugged. “Good to see you lions appreciate Slytherin intellect,” he drawled.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Like anyone doesn’t know that Draco and ‘Mione are as smart as any Ravenclaw.” He noticed Professor Flitwick standing nearby and colored. “Erm, no offense, Professor.”

Flitwick chuckled in delight. “No one House has a monopoly on intelligence, Mr Potter, nor any other trait for that matter. I happen to agree with you that both Mr Malfoy and Ms Granger would have done very well in my House indeed!”

Draco managed to suppress his feeling of nausea. A Ravenclaw? Him? He looked over at Hermione and saw she was similarly appalled at the notion. It gave him an unaccustomed sense of camaraderie with the girl, and he found himself saying, “Don’t worry, Granger. I’ll make sure these baboons take good notes for you.”

“Oi!” Weasley, predictably, objected. “Who're you calling a baboon?”

Draco smirked. “I apologize, Weasley. With that red hair, I suppose an orangutan would have been a more appropriate choice, but I considered them a bit too intellectual.”

“You’ll pay for that, Malfoy,” Weasley threatened, but there was no real heat in the remark. After all, he had volunteered Draco for extra schoolwork without asking him, all for the benefit of a Gryffindor, and the Slytherin had actually agreed to do it.

Draco rolled his eyes, trying not to preen at the thought of a Weasley publicly acknowledging how smart he was. “I’m shaking in my shoes.”

“Slimy prat.” Weasley gave him a shove, more for effect than out of a desire to hurt the other boy. It would never do for anyone to think that he and Malfoy were really friends.

“Stupid git.” Draco shoved back, for exactly the same reasons.

“Sheesh!” Harry pushed between them. “You’re gonna get us in trouble if you don’t quit it!”

The other two huffed, but honor had been satisfied by the ritual exchange of shoves and insults, and with the teachers’ proximity, further hostilities would have crossed from obligatory posturing to suicidal foolishness. The two purebloods obediently settled down on either side of Harry.

“Miss Granger, can you please explain – briefly – what transpired?” Dumbledore requested. “It would be very helpful to understand matters from your vantage point.”

Hermione thought for a moment. “Harry and I were watching the match, then all of a sudden he was falling.”

“Do you mean he lost his balance on the railing and slipped?” McGonagall asked sharply.

“No, it was as if someone had crept up behind him and pushed him. I mean, Harry didn’t just fall off the railing – it was as if he were launched. That’s why he was so far out over the Quidditch pitch. He was pushed.”

Or pulled, Snape thought sourly, wondering where Quirrell had slunk off. The man had vanished in all the excitement.

“And what did you do then?”

“I cast Wingardium. I thought that if I made Harry light enough, he could just float over the pitch,” Hermione explained. “But then something broke my spell and pulled Harry towards the ground. I just kept casting, but I wasn’t strong enough to hold onto him.”

Flitwick looked thoughtful. “That’s not really the way Wingardium works,” he mused, exchanging a meaningful glance with the Headmaster.

“By the end there, I wasn’t really casting the spell,” Hermione confessed tiredly. “It was more like I was just wishing for Harry to stop falling and be safe.” That statement caused another round of elevated eyebrows among the faculty. Such powerful wish magic was very unusual in all but the most powerful witches and wizards, and even then, to manifest it at such an early age was almost unheard of. No wonder the child had nearly drained her core.

McGonagall put her arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “It’s off to the Infirmary with you, Miss Granger. Come along now.”

“Thanks, Hermione!” Harry called after his friend as Hermione was unresistingly led away.

“Right!” Hooch strode up to the Headmaster, cheeks pink from shouting. “Need to replay the game,” she announced. “Too much interference – bodies plummeting through the field of play. Can’t have spectators grabbin’ the snitch, y’know!” she said, with a stern look at Harry. He blushed and stared at his toes. “No point in tryin’ to start over now. Too much excitement – everyone runnin’ around. Play it again next week maybe. Have to check the calendar.”

“An excellent idea,” Dumbledore said soothingly. “I suggest that both teams have cause for celebration today, as I will be awarding both 50 points for their efforts to rescue Mr Potter, and another 75 to Miss Granger for her assistance.” Student faces perked up at the news. “And another 10 points to Mr Malfoy for helping a fellow student without regard to House affiliation.”

Flint thumped Draco on the shoulder. “Good going, Firstie!”

Draco managed to suppress his wince at the blow – Flint was as bad as Hagrid at not knowing his own strength!

“I will inform the elves to set up a celebratory feast in the Great Hall,” Dumbledore continued, “commemorating how inter-House cooperation averted today’s tragedy.” He sent a sly look at Snape as he said this, and the younger wizard gritted his teeth. As if saving Gryffindors was something to be proud of!

“Party in the Great Hall!” Wood yelled. “Let’s get cleaned up!”

Both teams sprinted for the changing rooms, while the rest of the school hurried up to the castle. Snape made a long arm and snatched Harry by the back of the robes when the boy would have headed off with the others. “Oh, no, Mr Potter. You are in no condition to glut yourself on sweets. You must recuperate from your Ordeal,” he informed the brat sternly.

“Oh, Pr’fessor!” Harry groaned in disappointment. “It wasn’t that bad. Honest!”

“Madam Pomfrey will be the judge of that,” he retorted, unmoved. “If she provides you with a clean bill of health, then you may attend the party but –“ he held up an admonitory finger “- only for two hours, after which I expect you to rest quietly in your room. You may do your homework until nine, when you will go to bed.”

Harry scowled and kicked at the grass. “”S not fair,” he grumbled. “Wasn’t my fault that someone tried to pull me off the railing. Don’t see why I have to miss the party. I caught the snitch an’ everything!”

Snape took him by the shoulder and marched the unwilling boy towards the infirmary. Surely the brat couldn’t face another attempt on his life with such aplomb? Was he merely in shock and denial? Better to let the medi-witch check him over.

“After such a fright, your body needs rest,” he informed the little monster icily. “Overstimulation at a party is hardly conducive to recovery.”

Harry heaved a great sigh, clearly feeling much put-upon. “It wasn’t that scary, Pr’fessor,” he argued. “I mean, it’s not like it hurt or anything. It actually felt kinda fun – y’know, scary-exciting. At least, it did until I started to feel like I was gonna sick up.”

Snape rolled his eyes. Were all children this foolish? Concentrating on the physical sensations rather than the actual threat? “Potter, you will drive me mad,” he scolded. “Are you not even the slightest bit concerned about who did this to you?”

Harry blinked up at him in surprise. “No.” At Snape’s stunned expression, he explained with childlike conviction, “ ‘Cause you’ll find out and take care of it, just like you did last time.”

There was a lump in his throat that made it difficult for Snape to reply immediately.

After clearing his throat uncomfortably, he managed to say, “Well, yes, Potter. You are correct.” He allowed the hand that rested on the boy’s shoulder to gingerly pat him a few times. “You may leave all that to me.”

Harry beamed up at his professor, reveling in the warm hand on his shoulder. Professor Snape might be a bit of a worry wart at times, but as much as Harry might chafe at the examination and the early bedtime (to say nothing of only being allowed a few hours at what promised to be quite a party!), he was still more than delighted at having an adult look after him. It meant that he could concentrate on taking good notes for Hermione – and preventing Ron and Draco from outright warfare – rather than having to solve a huge mystery about who was out to get him this time. He figured that Professor Snape was way sneakier than he was – not to mention more powerful – so he’d not only figure it out quicker, but also be able to exact revenge upon his attacker much better than Harry ever could.

Harry remembered those four Ravenclaw boys. Snape had gotten them expelled before breakfast the next day! Harry could never have managed anything like that – at best he might have been able to stay out of their way, or maybe think of some way to prank them. Professor Snape wasn’t limited to schoolboy revenges like that – he was a lot nastier than Harry could ever be. In fact, Harry felt rather sorry for whoever had tried to hurt him today. Professor Snape was going to kill them. And with a happy grin on his face and his guardian by his side, Harry walked unafraid through the doors of Hogwarts.