Harry twirled a piece of bacon around on his fork, but made no move to put it into his mouth.

 “Take a bit of toast mate, go on,” Ron encouraged him.

 “Ron’s right, Harry,” Hermione agreed. “You’re going to need your strength today.”

 “I’m not hungry,” he told them both, flatly.

It had been a tumultuous few days thus far, what with Friday night’s troll incident and their encounter with the three headed dog earlier in the week.

Then there was everything that had happened yesterday.

Harry’s cheeks flushed as he thought back to how much of a baby he’d been – sitting on Professor Snape’s lap, for goodness sakes! What was he thinking? He was just pleased that none of his classmates had seen.

So far, neither Ron nor Hermione had said anything to him about the way he had clung to Professor Snape in the girl’s toilets, both likely presuming that fear had pushed him into it. He imagined they’d both have had something to say if they’d seen him yesterday.

Harry didn’t know exactly what the potions master had done following his visit to the man’s quarters, but sometime later he received a note from Quirrell advising him that there would be no need to recomplete the assignment. And Harry was quietly grateful that somebody, for the first time in a very long time, had gone in to fight his corner.

Now all he had to do was get through today’s Quidditch match, without making a fool of himself or letting his house down.

A presence behind him brought Harry from his thoughts, and he turned to peer up at the new arrival.

 “Good luck today Potter,” Snape said, giving him a small smile – the best the dour potions master could likely muster up, Harry concluded.  “Then again, now that you’ve proven yourself against a troll, a little game of Quidditch should be easy work for you. Even if it is against Slytherin.”

Throwing his friends a quick glance, Snape continued on towards the teacher’s table, leaving Harry silently thankful for his lack of reference to yesterday’s events.

 “Look, he’s limping,” Ron said suddenly, gesturing in the direction that Snape had gone.

Harry frowned, watching the potions master go. So he was.

 “That’ll be on account of the wound on his leg,” Hermione told them.

Ron frowned. “What wound? I can’t see anything.”

 “I saw it when he came into the girl’s toilets last night. On his right leg. Didn’t you notice it?” she asked.

The two boys shook their heads.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Honestly! Boys! So unobservant.”

 “Well, alright Miss Smarty Pants. Since you know everything, how d’you reckon he got it?” Ron asked, miffed.

 “It’s obvious, isn’t it? He must have been trying to get past that dog. To get his hands on whatever it’s guarding,” the girl said.

Ron’s eyes widened. “So then, he let the troll in?”

She nodded. “He must have.”

But Harry shook his head, slowly. “I don’t think so, guys.”

 “Why not? He’s a git. Have you forgotten how mean he was to you on the first day of classes?” Ron asked. “How else d’you reckon he got that limp?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t think Professor Snape would try to steal whatever that dog’s guarding. You’ve got it wrong,” he said, standing up. “I’d better get going. See you after the game.”

With that, he left his two friends at the table and disappeared from the Great Hall.

Shrugging, Ron pulled Harry’s plate across the table and tucked in.

 “What?” he asked through a mouthful of bacon, noticing Hermione’s look of disgust.

OOOOOOO

 “Drink up, Mr Potter,” Madame Pomphrey ordered, thrusting a nasty-smelling potion into his hand.

Harry grimaced, reluctantly.

 “Less of that. It’s just a Wideye potion. It’ll stop you from drifting off for a few hours, until we can be certain you’re not concussed,” the mediwitch told him.

 “I’m fine, Madame Pomphrey. I really don’t need to be here, taking up a bed,” Harry assured her.

 “As you can see, Mr Potter, I’m hardly overrun,” she said, gesturing around the otherwise empty hospital wing. “Now drink up.”

Relenting, Harry downed the potion, resisting the urge not to gag.

His little broom-surfing stunt had landed him there, after he’d taken a tumble and pretty much bounced off the floor of the Quidditch pitch.

Still, Harry thought, smiling to himself, at least he’d caught the snitch and Gryffindor had won. His first match, and they’d won!

Just then, the hushed whispers of his friends arguing outside the infirmary door echoed around the wing and Madame Pomphrey sighed, seeing the two little faces peering around the door frame.

 “Very well, come in, come in. But you may only visit for a short while. Mr Potter needs his rest,” she called.

 “You said I had to stay awake,” Harry pointed out.

 “There is a difference between resting and sleeping, Mr Potter. And I’ll have less of your cheek,” Madame Pomphrey scolded him, although there was no sternness to her voice.

Ron and Hermione were at his bedside now, arguing between themselves about something or other.

Harry smiled. “Hi guys.”

 “Hiya Harry. Thought you might want this,” Ron said, lifting up Harry’s Nimbus 2000 which had been left on the pitch when he had been carted off to the infirmary.

 “Thanks, Ron.”

 “How are you?” Hermione asked, taking a seat.

 “Bit of a headache, but I’ll be fine,” he assured her.

 “You were bloody brilliant out there, mate. The way you caught the snitch in your mouth like that. That was wicked!” Ron gushed. “I wish I could fly like you.”

 “Thanks. But maybe I’m not as great as everyone thinks,” Harry said, quietly. “I should probably get some more lessons.”

Ron frowned, confused. “Why d’you say that?”

 “Surely you saw how out of control my broom went?” he recalled. “I couldn’t stop it for ages. I really thought I was going to fall off.”

 “Harry, that wasn’t your fault,” Hermione told him, sincerely.  “Somebody was jinxing your broom.”

It was Harry’s turn to frown, now. “What?”

 “Not just somebody, mate. It was Professor Snape,” Ron hissed.

For a moment, Harry said nothing, and then he shook his head slowly, in disbelief.

 “It’s true,” Hermione said gently. “The moment I set his cloak on fire, you were able to regain control of your broom.”

 “You set his cloak on...? Hermione!” he cried, shocked.

 “Keep your voice down! I had to do something, Harry,” she whispered.

 “That’s quite enough excitement for one day. Back to your tower, the pair of you. Mr Potter needs peace and quiet,” Madame Pomphrey called, from her desk.

 “But we’ve only just got here!” Ron grumbled.

 “Yes, and you’ve seen him, and as you can tell, he is fine. Now out, the both of you!” she chided.

 “See ya mate,” Ron sighed.

 “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Harry confirmed.

 “I brought you some light reading, in case you get bored,” Hermione said, handing him a pile of books. “I thought perhaps you could scan these for anything about Nicholas Flamel. And don’t worry, I’ll try and find out why Snape was jinxing your broom.”

 “Uh… thanks,” he mumbled, watching his two friends go before he opened one of the books, entitled ‘Famous Wizards and Witches in Philosophical History’.

Professor Snape hadn’t really jinxed his broom, had he?

Thumbing the pages, Harry tried to push the thought to the back of his mind, ignoring the little pang of betrayal that came with it.

Several hours passed before Madame Pomphrey countered the Wideye potion with a Dreamless Sleep, allowing Harry to drift off.

Yet despite the dosage, he found that the second potion didn’t really live up to its name at all, as from the depths of his deepest slumber, Harry dreamed that his dark man came to visit him, tucking the covers more tightly around him and brushing a soothing hand across his forehead.

OOOOOOO