I should have stayed at Hogwarts, was the only thing Harry could think. Around him was absolute chaos – blood and shouting and the boy nearby staring with blank eyes and oh, please, don’t be dead!

He didn’t even really know how this had all happened. He’d been creeping through Hogsmeade under his Invisibility Cloak, trying not to bump into anybody and also trying to avoid the two unsavoury looking men outside of a building that a sign proclaimed ‘the Hog’s Head’, when an unexpected breeze had rippled down the street.

His Cloak had rippled right along with it, and the leaner of the two men had suddenly spotted him. A feral grin stretching his lips, the man had eagerly nudged his companion – who looked to be barely a small step away from homeless – and had then, for some reason, touched his left forearm. The men had then brandished their wands straight at him.

Drawing the Cloak around himself, Harry had tried to make a quick getaway, but several pops announced the arrival of more men, who didn’t look any better than the original two. After a quick consultation between themselves, the men had all spread out, and begun firing spells at anything that moved.

Nobody had really paid any attention, until a Slytherin had spotted someone he knew. His yell of “Uncle Tiberus?!” had drawn everyone’s notice. At the same time, a Ravenclaw girl had been struck by a stray spell, and had gone down clutching her arm, screaming, as blood fountained into the air.

Pandemonium had promptly ensued, with villagers and students alike yelling and shoving to try and get away. Some of the older students had drawn their own wands to protect the younger years, but they were hopelessly outmatched.

One man had gotten close enough to grin delightedly at Harry, in a way that caused him to tense. “Hey, now, little Potter,” he said in a sing-song tone. “Gonna be mine now, huh? Then I get your power and can make sure the Dark Lord gets it when he returns.” He nodded emphatically, long stringy hair flopping into his eyes. “’Cause he’s gonna come back, yes he is!” he crooned, and aimed his wand at Harry. “Nighty-night, little Potter!”

Harry had pointed his own wand at the man, but it was shaking badly enough that he didn’t think he’d be able to get a spell off. Not that he knew what spell he could use. Somehow, he didn’t think the ability to transfigure a needle into a matchstick would help him now.

Then, suddenly, he remembered the event that had led him to this moment – the Duelling Club. What was that spell that Snape had used to blast Lockhart into the wall? Oh, yes . . .

“Expelliarmus!” Harry bellowed, and to both of their surprise, the man’s wand shot straight out of his hand as though greased with soap. They both blinked at where it had disappeared, and then the man turned back to Harry with a fierce growl. Harry took a step backwards.

“Protego!” someone else shouted, and a shimmering materialised in the air in front of Harry. A Gryffindor prefect was running towards them, her wand in her hand. “Potter, run!” she cried.

Torn between running and hiding, and staying to help, Harry hesitated as the man turned to face the newcomer. He knew, though, that there really wasn’t anything he could do to help. He was a second year – he wasn’t capable of duelling an adult wizard.

Turning and ducking around the nearest corner, Harry paused again as a horrible gurgling noise reached his ears, along with a shriek of cackling laughter. Swallowing hard, he made sure the Cloak was fully covering him, and scurried for cover.

He found a hiding place behind a pile of barrels, ironically at the side of the very inn the two men he’d been trying to avoid had been at. Crouching behind them, Harry stuffed a fist in his mouth to try and stifle his panicked breathing. Being invisible wouldn’t do him much good if people could hear him.

Dumbledore will come, he chanted to himself, over and over. Dumbledore’s the greatest wizard ever – everyone says so. Dumbledore will come and defeat them. Dumbledore will come.

What came instead was a burst of red and orange flames, right beside his hiding place. Harry almost gave himself by screaming, before he realised it was a bird. The bird was holding a brown bundle in its claws. It trilled softly at Harry, and he felt himself relax. Then it dropped the bundle in his lap, and disappeared in another burst of flames.

Stunned, Harry slowly unwrapped it. It looked to be an old hat, very dirty and ragged.

So would you be, if you’d been carried by a phoenix, snapped a voice in his head, and Harry almost dropped the hat.

“You . . . you talk!” he exclaimed, quietly. Then he realised just what it was he was holding. “Hang on – you’re the Sorting Hat!”

Correct, the Hat said, and if a hat could smirk, this one surely was.

“Um . . .” Harry didn’t want to offend it, but he didn’t see what use it could possibly be to him. He wanted something that would help him. Somehow, he didn’t think men capable of injuring young children – or worse – would quail much at the sight of a dusty old hat.

You want something that will help you to fight, eh? the Hat asked.

“People out there are getting hurt because of me. Again,” said Harry, ignoring the bitter edge that had crept into his words. “I have to do something. But I don’t know enough spells . . .”

Hmm, I think I have just the thing, the Hat purred into his mind. How’s your sword arm?

Harry was blinking at the Hat when something long and metallic and silver dropped out of it, landing at his feet with a clatter. Harry changed his gaze to blink at the long sword that had impossibly just appeared.

Go on, urged the Hat, take a look. You might find something . . . surprising.

Giving the Hat a dubious look, Harry gingerly prodded at the sword. It sure felt real, and very possibly sharp enough to lose him a finger if he wasn’t careful. And he would be careful – mainly because he didn’t know how to use the sword.

It won’t bite, the Hat said, its tone infused with amusement. It knows its job well. It will look after you.

“Oh, but – what about you?” Harry asked.

The Hat smirked at him again. I’ll return to the castle, don’t you worry, it told him. I’m enchanted against straying too far. Fawkes should be back along soon to collect me.

“Uh, okay, then,” Harry said, and gripped the handle of the sword tightly.

Instantly, he felt about ten feet tall, and muscled enough to swing the sword about as if it were a toothpick. Somehow, he knew just how to move the sword that so every spell shot at him ricocheted off. Most of them even hit others of the men who were fighting. He was soon coated in blood, and most of him revelled in it, although a small part of his brain was gibbering in panic and terror.

When the battle finished, it seemed to end very abruptly. One moment Harry was dispatching an enemy and looking around for more, the next the strength drained out of him, and the sword instantly drooped towards the ground, much too heavy for him to lift properly.

There was a stunned silence all around, before people finally began to creep out of hiding. Harry didn’t want to get any closer to the ones on the ground, so instead, he stumbled off down a side-street.

Halfway down the street, a man was sitting with his back to a shop front, his legs stretched out in front of him. It took Harry a moment before he recognised the man. “Pro-professor?” he stammered.

Snape rolled his head to the side, almost as though he’d lost the bones in his neck. He looked exhausted, filthy and in pain. “Potter,” he croaked, and coughed harshly, then hissed in pain. “Are you injured?”

“No-not really.” Harry stumbled forward a step, his gaze falling on Snape’s leg. Something wasn’t right about it . . .

And then he realised – the lower leg was almost completely severed from the rest. A large pool of blood had spread out from underneath Snape. Harry felt himself go light-headed, and he desperately hoped he wouldn’t pass out on top of Snape. “S-sir, you-your l-leg—” he stammered, then felt like smacking himself in the head with the sword. It wasn’t as if Snape wouldn’t have noticed the injury.

“There’s nothing you can do for it,” Snape informed him, nastily, but the tone went straight over Harry’s head. He’d seen something, just past Snape, lying on the ground. An elderly witch, with tartan robes and grey hair pulled back into a tight bun . . .  

Harry gasped, and dropped the sword, which landed with an echoing, metallic clangggg. “Pro-professor McG-McGonagall?” he breathed. “No. Oh, no!” He fell to his knees beside Snape, hiding his face in his hands for a moment.

“Potter . . .” Snape’s voice trailed off.

Harry didn’t listen anyway. Professor McGonagall was . . . dead. He’d resented her, a bit, when she’d seemed so eager to get him out of her House, and hadn’t even looked at him, almost as if she were afraid of him, or disgusted. He’d also felt the way she’d treated him the first day as a Hufflepuff had been horribly unfair.

But he hadn’t wished her gone!

“Potter . . .” Snape said again, but then seemed to change his mind about whatever he’d been going to say. “Where did you get that sword?” he asked instead.

Harry glanced down and behind him, to where the sword lay glistening in the spreading pool of Snape’s blood. He’d almost forgotten the thing. It probably wasn’t a good idea to leave it just lying there, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to touch it again so soon.  

“Fawkes brought the Sorting Hat to me,” Harry told the professor, his voice low and hesitant. “I disarmed one man, but then one of the prefects found me and told me to hide.” He closed his eyes, remembering the horrible noise and the demented laughter. “I don’t know why Fawkes thought the Hat would be a good thing for me to have,” he continued, “but I was holding it, and wishing for something that would help, and suddenly the sword fell out of the Hat.”

Snape raised his eyebrows, dubiously. “The sword . . . fell out of the Hat,” he repeated, in a tone that made it clear he thought Harry had taken some kind of head wound in the battle.

“I know how it sounds!” Harry burst out.

Snape opened his mouth, but was interrupted by the sounds of people just around the corner. Just as a small silhouette that could only belong to Professor Flitwick appeared at the other end of their street, the Potions professor suddenly went even whiter than usual, and abruptly slumped to the side.

Harry felt a pang go through him. Was Snape dead, too? Had he delayed the man from getting help by talking to him?

“Potter, what are you doing here?” Flitwick squeaked, doing a double-take at the boy. He looked at Snape and tsked under his breath. He waved his wand, and a shimmering silver bird appeared. “Albus, Severus is severely injured. I’m creating a portkey to take him straight to Poppy. Minerva . . .” Flitwick trailed off, and he glanced at the crumpled heap, before taking a deep breath and shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Albus, but Minerva is gone. I have Potter with me, and will escort him back to the castle after I’ve seen Severus off.” The bird bounced a little, then spread its wings and soared off towards Hogwarts.

Harry wanted to protest, but knew Flitwick would never let him go. He couldn’t fight his way out, either. There had been plenty of rumours before the ill-fated Duelling Club that Flitwick would be one of the teachers, as he was supposedly a duelling champion. Reluctantly, he waited for someone to escort him back to the castle.

A couple of hours later, Harry had been shuffled off into a corner of the Hospital Wing. He hadn’t purposefully been put there – as the knowledge of how to use the sword had apparently included the knowledge of when to duck – but Flitwick had been forced to send Harry to the castle along with Snape, and when they’d arrived, Harry had been edged away as Madam Pomfrey dashed over, clucking and scolding the unconscious professor in equal measures.

After that, it was as though people had forgotten his existence, but he couldn’t just sneak out, because there were people between him and the door, and he was fairly certain that leaving would alert everyone.

Considering the state of things, he didn’t want anyone to notice him.

But now it was getting late, and most ambulatory people were leaving. Professor Snape was lying asleep on one of the beds nearest him, with the other professor who’d been in the village on the one beyond that. Harry didn’t know her name, but he thought she taught a class for the upper years. From what he’d heard the other professors discussing during the brief periods when Snape had been awake and lucid, Lockhart had been the other chaperone for today’s Hogsmeade visit.

According to what one of the villagers had told Flitwick, Lockhart had been holding court in the Three Broomsticks inn when the ruckus had started. He had instantly started looking for a hiding place, but when one of his admirers had pointed out his supposed fighting skills, he had stalked out of the inn, and then dashed away to hide in the rear courtyard. He had ambled back into the castle not long after the rescue teams had returned, not a scratch on him, nor a hair out of place, casually bragging about how many opponents he had ‘dispatched’.

The professors had been very scathing about this story. Two of the surviving prefects had been passing him in the Entrance Hall when he’d mentioned it, and they’d had to be dragged off him, screaming.

Harry peered around the darkening Hospital Wing, and figured his chances of getting out would be better if he left with the last group. He reached under his robes for the Invisibility Cloak.

“Not so fast, Potter,” a voice croaked, and Harry jumped. Professor Snape wasn’t asleep after all, but was glaring at him. Sighing in resignation, he ruefully realised he should have tried to escape when the Hospital Wing was busier. Snape crooked a finger at him, and Harry sidled the couple of steps to the man’s bedside. “Just what were you doing in Hogsmeade, Potter?” Snape demanded, no less forceful for being flat on his back.

“Umm, helping?” Harry tried, twisting his fingers into his robes.

Snape actually sneered at him. “Try again,” he suggested, in his I’m-about-to-take-points tone.

Sighing again, Harry’s shoulders slumped. “I was running away,” he muttered, quietly.

“Excuse me?” Snape said, his expression indicating more incredulous disbelief, rather than he hadn’t heard.

“I couldn’t take it anymore!” Harry burst out, then cringed, expecting Madam Pomfrey to come bearing down on him for disturbing her patients. Luckily, the medi-witch didn’t appear.

Snape now looked disgusted. “The brave Gryffindor running away?” he sneered.

Harry interrupted whatever else he would have continued with. “But I’m not a Gryffindor anymore!” he protested, hotly. “That’s the whole problem! I’m a Hufflepuff now.”

“Not good enough for you?” asked Snape.

“More like I’m not good enough,” admitted Harry. His gaze dropped to the floor. “Nobody wants me there, anyway. Even Professor Sprout.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Snape said, although he was beginning to look a bit doubtful. “Everyone wants the Boy-Who-Lived.”

Harry snorted. “Yeah, until he accidentally uses a Dark talent that he didn’t even know he had, to save a classmate, no less! Then everyone just wants him to leave.”

Snape was silent for a moment, apparently digesting that. “And where would you have gone?” he asked, finally. “Or did you just rush in with no plan worthy of the name?”

Stunned, Harry stared at the professor for a minute, before bursting into slightly hysterical-sounding giggles. The fact that Snape was apparently more annoyed with his lack of forethought and planning, rather than his idea of running away in the first place, was just too funny.

Snape glared at him, as his giggles continued, and he doubled over, arms wrapped around himself. “Potter, get a hold of yourself!” the man snapped. “Stop that noise, this instant!”

“So-sorry, s-sir,” Harry gasped out, and slowly managed to calm himself down, until he was only hiccupping every so often.

“Perhaps Madam Pomfrey should look you over,” said Snape, turning his head as though to call for the medi-witch.

“No, really, sir, I’m fine!” Harry protested, with a last hiccup, slowly straightening up. His stomach muscles ached from the exertion – it had been far too long since he’d last laughed at anything, let alone so hard and for so long.

“Considering your actions over the last day, that is debatable,” Snape muttered, but made no other move to summon Madam Pomfrey.

“Sir, really, I’m fine!” Harry reiterated. He waved a hand at himself. “Not even a scratch on me. Unlike some people who are in bed after having one of their legs all but cut off,” he added, in what he thought was a low voice, but Snape scowled at him anyway.

“My leg will be as good as new come the morning,” he stated, firmly. “Perhaps you are in need of a decent rest as well.”

“No, I—” Harry began to protest, but suddenly felt a huge wave of lassitude engulf him, and he yawned, widely, instead.

“Professor Snape is right, Mr Potter,” said Madam Pomfrey’s voice from behind him, and Harry felt a twinge of betrayal as he realised that the potions master had somehow signalled the medi-witch anyway. “Sleep now. Things will be sorted in the morning.”