“Werl, if we ain’t playing, Slyth usually supports anyone who ain’t Gryffindor.” Prefect Flint said with a smile “However, I know yer friendly like with the Weasels so I won’t take offence or nothin’ if yer wanna shout fer Fred an George.”

“Fred… they told us they were called ‘Gred and Forge’” gasped Draco indignantly.

“Their idea of a joke or summat, Malfoy. If yer goin’ to stop with Weasels, yer gonna ‘ave to get used to getting’ tricked occasional.”

Harry, Vin and Greg giggled. Flint, though tough on the outside, was really quite nice: at breakfast this morning, he’d come up to the first years and said he was taking Harry, Draco and anyone else who’d wanted to come to the Hufflepuff v Gryffindor Quidditch match. Snape had told the Quidditch Captain that Madam Hooch pegged Harry, Draco, Vin and Greg as showing Quidditch potential and, although Slyth had a decent team, if Marcus did say so himself, he could do with some talented reserve players. So, although, generally, the Slytherins didn’t attend matches except when their house was playing, Marcus decided to break with tradition in order to show the boys the ropes. Harry, having been at Uroborus during the first Quidditch game of the season, was genuinely excited and Draco, being Quidditch-mad, was more than pleased to tag along, as were Vin and Greg.

Blaise, Theo and Hermione, on the other hand, had begged off, with the excuse that they weren’t really into Quidditch unless, as Blaise tactfully added, Slyth was playing. Pansy, Milly, Tracy and Daphne, knowing that the trio’s real reason was that they wanted to use this weekend to further investigate the Secret Room, also made their excuses; ballet dancing had caught all four girls’ imaginations and they wanted to re-sample it’s delights at every opportunity.

Although Harry was equally enthusiastic about the Secret Room, he didn’t envy the other Slytherins their choice; Quidditch was, indeed, fast, furious and dangerous and Harry absolutely loved it. Marcus Flint kept up a running commentary, describing moves as they were made, pointing out the player’s mistakes and suggesting how they could have been avoided. Harry listened avidly: although watching the game was enthralling, Harry could imagine how great it would be to actually be out on the pitch, with the wind whistling through his hair as he avoided bludgers, out-manoeuvred the opposing team and caught the snitch.

Harry literally couldn’t wait for second year and, considering Draco’s whoops of joy when a player scored or succeeded in a clever trick and his moans of disappointment when the quaffle was fumbled, it seemed his best friend shared his sentiments entirely. Harry liked the idea of being on the same team as Draco: he'd always longed for a brother and Draco, although slightly spoiled, behaved a bit like Harry had always imagined a brother would. And how Harry had wished Dudley could have been.

As the game progressed into its third hour, Harry found himself spending more and more time ‘snitch spotting’: Marcus had set up a game between the first years- if they spotted the snitch before anyone else, he’d give them a toffee. Harry discovered that he had a very quick eye for discerning the tiny, fluttering ball; he always seemed to catch sight of it before anyone else. However, Harry only ever claimed the sighting every other time: he wanted his friends to have a share of Flint’s sweets and knew that Draco was too proud to accept a toffee if he hadn’t won it.

Once, when the snitch fluttered into the Staff Box, Harry saw that Professor Burbage, who was wearing very pretty lavender robes and cerise lipstick, was talking avidly to Professor Snape. Despite looking away, the Potions Master was smiling, a slight blush glowing over his cheekbones. Harry grinned: he liked Professor Burbage.

There was a cry of horror and Harry turned to see a bludger tearing towards the Slytherin stands, aimed directly for him. Harry’s green eyes widened in terror, his mind went blank and he barely discerned when his wand clattered at his feet.

In the Staff Box, Severus leapt to his feet, casting ‘Finite’ on the bludger with every ounce of his power.

On the Slytherin Benches, Flint flung his upper body across Harry’s, instinctively shielding the smaller boy.

The bludger stopped dead, falling hard onto Harry’s lap. There was a crack and a scream of pain.

“Aw Gods! Get Pomfrey!” cried Marcus, who, having just thrown himself across Harry, was in prime position to see the white, ragged femur jutting grotesquely out of Harry’s thin thigh. Thick, blackish-red blood welled around the wound, soaking the child’s robes and dripping onto the floor.

Vin and Greg raced off, their pale faces tinged with green. As Marcus carefully levered himself off Harry, he could hear Draco being sick behind them.

Suddenly, a huge bird with glossy, blue-black plumage soared into the Slytherin stands, morphing into Severus Snape as it landed.

“Da-ad!” moaned Harry, who was almost incoherent with pain.

Severus, panting and white faced, knelt down beside Harry, clutching at the little boy’s fingers with one hand and his wand with the other.

“Your cravat, Flint! Quickly!”

In one movement, Severus had lengthened the strip of material and bound it around Harry’s upper thigh. The child yelped in pain and squeezed Severus’s fingers, breathing in short, ragged breaths.

Gritting his teeth, Severus vanished the skirt of Harry’s robe and with gentle fingers lifted the flap of skin, breath trembling in his lungs as his child screamed in agony. Severus manoeuvred the bone into place.

“Ossis Regeneratis Femur Dexter!" Fragmenti Ossis Diluo!”

As the shattered ends of Harry’s femur re-bonded and the flesh of his thigh knit back together, Severus gently pulled the small, too-light form into his arms and bolted towards the infirmary, his long legs devouring the distance between Qudditch pitch and school.

Harry’s emerald eyes clenched shut “Dad, it hurts!”

A soft, warm drop of water landed on Harry’s cheek; emerald eyes opened to observe a single, silver line clinging to the contour of Professor Snape’s narrow cheek.

The last person to cry for Harry had been Uncle Vernon; when, after a chat in the Doctor’s office, he’d come back to Harry’s hospital bed red-eyed, having seen the scans of Harry’s lungs.

Despite the pain, despite the exhaustion suffusing every inch of his body, Harry reached up and wrapped his leaden arms around his Basilisk’s neck. He felt Severus’s warm, strong hand cup the back of his head, supporting Harry's upper body. Harry burried his face into the soft wool of Professor Snape's robes, inhaling the conflicting scents of soap, potions fumes, and sandalwood.

“Oh Harry, we’re almost there. The pain will go soon.” the Potions Master panted, his legs tiring even though he dared not slow his frantic pace.

“Don’t wanna go. Wanna stay with you.” Harry whined weakly.

“I won’t leave you, Harry” Severus reassured, his chest tightening.

“Never, ever?”

“I promise. Just stay awake. There’s a good boy.”

“I love you.”

Another warm tear splashed on the child’s cheek. “I love you too, Harry.”