Chapter Text
Harry's mind was elsewhere.
Specifically, it was stuck replaying the past week in excruciating detail—every moment since that night with Quirrell. The professor had been avoiding him like Harry carried some kind of contagious curse. During Defense lessons, Quirrell wouldn't even look in his direction. If Harry raised his hand, the man's gaze would slide past him like he was invisible. In the corridors, Quirrell would physically turn around and walk the other way.
It shouldn't bother him. Really, it shouldn't. Harry had gotten exactly what he wanted—Quirrell thoroughly used and no awkward confrontation afterward. Clean. Simple.
Except it did bother him.
Maybe because rejection was supposed to be something he'd left behind at Privet Drive. At Hogwarts, people actually seemed to like him. They smiled when he walked by. They wanted to sit with him at meals. They treated him like he mattered.
But Quirrell? Quirrell acted like Harry was something to be escaped from.
Stop thinking about it, Harry told himself firmly. You don't even like him. You don't like anyone. Especially not—
His thoughts derailed completely as Ron's arm settled around his waist.
"You alright, mate?" Ron asked, giving him a little squeeze. "You've been quiet."
Harry's brain short-circuited. The touch was casual—friendly, even—but it sent a jolt of warmth through his entire body. Ron had been doing this a lot lately. Touching him. Sitting close. They'd fallen asleep together practically every night this week, tangled up in Ron's bed because Harry kept having nightmares and Ron was too kind to send him back to his own.
It wasn't romantic. Obviously. Ron liked girls. Harry liked—well, Harry didn't know what Harry liked anymore, which was the entire problem.
"I'm fine," Harry mumbled, acutely aware of how warm Ron felt against his side.
Ron didn't look convinced but didn't push. Instead, he kept his arm where it was as they walked across the grounds toward the flat stretch of grass where Madam Hooch was already waiting with a neat line of broomsticks.
Harry's stomach twisted. Flying lessons. With the Slytherins.
With Malfoy.
He'd completely forgotten until this morning, and now the anxiety was crawling up his throat. What if he was terrible at it? What if he fell off? What if Malfoy spent the entire lesson mocking him in front of everyone?
He was so lost in his spiral of doom that he didn't notice the blonde menace approaching until a sneering voice cut through the air.
"Well, well. If it isn't the school's favorite slutter."
Harry's head snapped up. Draco Malfoy stood a few feet away, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, looking insufferably smug in his pristine robes. His pale eyes were fixed on Harry with an intensity that made Harry's skin prickle.
"Shove off, Malfoy," Ron said immediately, his arm tightening protectively around Harry's waist.
Draco's gaze flicked to Ron's arm, then back to Harry's face. Something unreadable flickered in his expression. "How sweet. The Weasel's learned to play guard dog."
"Better a guard dog than a—a—" Harry fumbled for a comeback, his brain still too scattered to form proper insults. "—a git."
Draco raised an eyebrow. "A git? That's the best you've got, Potter? I expected more from the Boy Who Lived."
"Yeah, well, I expected you to have better things to do than bother us," Harry shot back weakly.
"Oh, but bothering you is so entertaining." Draco's smile was sharp, predatory. "Besides, I haven't had the chance to speak with you properly since term started. We should develop our friendship, don't you think? After all, we'll be seeing each other quite a bit over the years."
The way he said friendship made it sound like a threat.
Ron stepped forward, physically putting himself between Harry and Draco. "Harry's got nothing to say to some half-baked Slytherin like you. Why don't you slither back to your common room?"
"Half-baked?" Draco's voice went dangerously quiet. "Rich coming from someone who smell like—"
"Don't," Ron interrupted, his face going red. "Don't even finish that sentence."
"—poverty," Draco finished with exaggerated innocence. "I was going to say poverty. What did you think I was going to say, Weasley?"
Harry bit back a snort despite himself. Ron looked like he wanted to punch something.
"At least I bathe," Ron snapped. "Which is more than I can say for you, considering—"
"I bathe every single day, actually," Draco said coolly. "Unlike some people who probably share bathwater with their six siblings."
"The stench of a terrible person doesn't wash off," Ron shot back. "Not even with sulfuric acid. You could scrub for hours and you'd still reek of—of—"
"Of what, exactly?"
"Of being awful!"
Draco's smile turned venomous. "The Weasleys certainly know all about reek, don't they? What with living in that hovel of yours, wearing moldy hand-me-downs passed down like heirlooms. Tell me, Weasley, does your family even know what new clothes look like?"
Ron's jaw clenched. "Those hand-me-downs are given with love. Something you've clearly never experienced, seeing as you're surrounded by ex-Death Eaters and a bunch of suck-ups who only want your money."
For a split second, Draco's mask slipped. Something raw flashed across his face before he schooled it back into a sneer. "My parents might be the worst people in the world, but they've always loved me. Always given me everything I could want. Which is more than I can say for yours, who can't even afford to give you anything useful."
He paused, his eyes glinting with malice. "Though I suppose your family does have one thing worth offering. Pity you're too blind to see it."
Ron blinked, confusion replacing anger. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Draco laughed—a short, sharp sound. "Exactly what I said. Blind."
"What are you even—"
"We're going to be late," Harry interrupted, noticing that the rest of their year had already gathered around Madam Hooch. "Come on, Ron. Let's just go."
He tugged at Ron's sleeve, desperate to escape this increasingly bizarre conversation.
"Oh, I don't think so," Draco said smoothly, stepping into their path. "I'm not going anywhere until I speak with Harry. Privately."
"Absolutely not," Ron said flatly.
"I wasn't asking you, Weasley."
"And I'm not leaving Harry alone with some Death Eater in training."
"Death Eater—" Draco's voice went shrill with offense. "I am not—"
"I don't need a bodyguard, Ron," Harry cut in, surprised by the irritation in his own voice. "I'm perfectly capable of hexing Malfoy into next week if he tries anything."
Ron looked torn. "Harry—"
"I mean it. I can handle this." Harry shot Draco a glare. "Besides, he's not worth the energy."
Draco's expression shifted into something mockingly impressed. "Ooh, look at you. So brave. So nervous."
"Shut up," Harry snapped. "If you've got something to say, just say it already."
Before Draco could respond, Harry grabbed his wrist and dragged him toward one of the empty classrooms they'd passed on the way here. Draco made a small sound of protest but didn't actually resist.
Ron called after them, "Harry, if he tries anything—"
"I'll scream really loud," Harry called back. "You'll hear me."
He shoved open the classroom door, pulled Draco inside, and slammed it shut behind them. The room was dusty and clearly unused, desks piled haphazardly in the corners.
Harry turned to face Draco, crossing his arms. "Alright. We're alone. What do you want?"
Draco's smirk widened, and Harry felt his stomach drop.
"Do you know what they think of you?" Draco asked, his voice silky and dangerous.
Harry blinked. "What? No. What are you talking about?"
"How fascinating." Draco circled him slowly, like a predator sizing up prey. "The golden boy savior. The Boy Who Lived. Beloved by all. And yet you're completely oblivious."
"Oblivious to what?" Harry demanded, turning to keep Draco in his line of sight.
"To what they see when they look at you." Draco stopped directly in front of him, close enough that Harry could see the silver flecks in his grey eyes. "They see someone beautiful. Someone with a body made for—well. Let's just say your skin looks soft as silk, Potter. Your frame is slender. Delicate. Perfect for certain... activities."
Heat flooded Harry's face. "What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you saying this?"
"Because I want you to stop pretending." Draco's mask of civility cracked, revealing something sharp and venomous underneath. "I know exactly what you're doing, you little slut. Coming to this school, looking like that, throwing yourself at every boy who'll give you attention—"
"I am not—"
"Oh, please." Draco's laugh was harsh. "Don't insult my intelligence. You think I haven't noticed? The way you let them crowd around you? The way you press yourself against them at every opportunity? It's obvious you came here to give up that arse of yours."
Harry's mouth fell open. "That's—that's completely mental! They're the ones who—who pile onto me, not the other way around! I don't—the only person I even try to stay close to is Ron because he's my best friend!"
"Ron." Draco's expression turned absolutely gleeful. "Ron Weasley. Of all people. The most well-endowed boy in our entire year. Yes, definitely just a coincidence. Definitely not because you want him to—"
"Are you completely out of your mind?" Harry shouted. "What are you even talking about?"
"Don't play innocent with me, Potter." Draco stepped closer, eyes blazing. "Everyone knows about the Weasleys. Everyone. There's never been a single Weasley born who didn't have a cock heavy enough to—well. My father saw Arthur Weasley's up close during their Hogwarts days. Thicker than his forearm, he said. Longer too. The only remotely good thing about those blood traitors are their absolutely succulent genetics in that department."
Harry felt his brain short-circuit. "Wait, wait, wait. Your father told you about—about Mr. Weasley's—" He couldn't even finish the sentence. "What is wrong with your family?!"
"Don't try to change the subject—"
"I'm not changing anything! I'm just—" Harry threw his hands up. "First of all, why the hell are people calling me a slut? Second, is it my fault I was born—"
He stopped himself before he could say "hot."
"Born what, Potter?" Draco's smile was absolutely wicked. "Go on. Finish that sentence."
"Shut up." Harry's face was burning. "I had no idea about any of this Weasley nonsense, and I don't care. I've never even seen Ron in his underwear because I'm not some kind of pervert! And he likes girls, you idiot. He's never done anything with me. Do you have actual rubbish for brains?"
Draco stared at him for a long moment. Then he started laughing—a genuine, almost delighted sound that made Harry want to hex him.
"Oh, Potter. Sweet, naive Potter." Draco wiped his eyes, still chuckling. "You're either the most brilliant liar I've ever met, or you're genuinely this thick. I honestly can't tell which."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Draco said, moving closer again, "that even if I were blind, deaf, and mute, I wouldn't fail to notice the way Weasley looks at you. Like he wants to devour you whole. And here you are, playing the innocent little Gryffindor, pretending you don't know exactly what you're doing to him."
"I'm not doing anything—"
"Please." Draco's voice dripped with mockery. "Being sly and cynical is a Slytherin trait, Potter. It doesn't suit the supposed face of Gryffindor to act like such a manipulative little tease."
Something hot and angry flared in Harry's chest. "I'm not lying. And I'm done wasting my time listening to you accuse me of—of seducing my best friend! This is ridiculous!"
"Is it?" Draco was close now, close enough that Harry could feel his breath. "Because I can see it in your eyes, Potter. That hunger. That desperate, greedy need to be devoured by someone stronger. To be stretched and used until you can't even remember your own name."
Harry's breath caught. The words sent a jolt of something through him—something he absolutely refused to name.
"I can see it," Draco continued, voice dropping to barely a whisper, "because I have the same look in my eyes."
Their noses were almost touching now.
"But here's the thing, Potter." Draco's expression shifted, something deadly creeping into his features. "There's only room for one of us at this school. Only one greedy little slut who gets to be filled and stretched and absolutely wrecked by every boy with a decent cock."
Harry's heart was pounding. "What are you—"
"That slut is going to be me." Draco's voice was ice. "So whatever little game you're playing? Whatever ridiculous plan you have to steal my spotlight? Give it up now. Because if you don't, Potter, I swear on my family's name—I will make your life a living hell."
For a moment, Harry just stared at him.
Then he laughed.
"You think I'm scared of you?" Harry pushed forward, closing the last inch between them until they were pressed together, nose to nose, chest to chest. "You think I care about your threats? I'll do whatever I bloody well want, Malfoy. And it won't be some spoiled Slytherin brat who stops me."
Draco's hands shot out, grabbing the front of Harry's robes. Harry immediately gripped Draco's in return, both of them locked in a tense, trembling standoff.
"Last warning, Potter," Draco hissed. "There's only room for one of us. And all those boys—all of them—are going to be making a cum milkshake in my guts. Not yours."
He leaned in even closer, eyes glittering with venom. "Even your precious Ron."
Harry's laugh was sharp, incredulous. "Ron wouldn't look twice at you. Not after what you said about his family. Not ever."
"That was self-defense," Draco shot back. "Those who have mouths to speak have ears to hear."
"Even if you were the last person on Earth," Harry said coldly, "Ron would never see you as anything more than a worm."
"Oh, look at that." Draco's smile was all teeth. "The golden boy has claws after all. How refreshing." He tilted his head. "But here's what you don't understand, Potter. Men like Weasley? They only think with one head. And it's not the one on their shoulders. That's why he's in Gryffindor. Because he's dumb and stupid like everyone else in that pathetic house."
"If that's the criteria," Harry said, voice dripping with mock sweetness, "then you must be the founder. After all, you just spent five minutes talking about nothing except how desperately you want to be filled with—what did you call it? A cum milkshake?"
Draco's face went red. "Being a slut is as valuable as any career, Potter. More valuable, actually. But I wouldn't expect your tiny brain to understand. Sex runs this world. You-Know-Who himself did everything he did out of pure, extreme sexual perversion. People go mad for their fetishes. I'm no different."
He leaned in one final time, voice dropping to something almost reverent.
"I will do anything to become the most desirable cumdump in the entire wizarding world. I'll step on anyone. Crush anyone. Destroy anyone who gets in my way."
His eyes locked onto Harry's. "And that includes you."
For a moment, they just stood there, gripping each other's robes, breathing hard.
Then Harry moved.
He pressed forward, closing the last millimeter of space between them, and kissed Draco.
It was barely a kiss—just a light press of lips, quick and defiant. But before Draco could react, Harry caught his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down. Not hard enough to hurt. Just hard enough to make a point.
When he pulled back, he was smiling. "You're going to have to do a lot more than crush me, Malfoy. Because I'm going to keep doing exactly what I want. And it won't be you—or anyone else—who stops me."
He released Draco's robes, stepped back, and straightened his own. "If you want to be my enemy? Fine. Be ready. Because I'm not afraid of people like you."
Harry turned and walked to the door. He paused with his hand on the handle, glancing back over his shoulder. "By the way, flying class is about to start. Wouldn't want to be late."
Then he left, closing the door firmly behind him.
Draco stood frozen for a long moment, staring at the closed door. His lips still tingled from where Harry had bitten him. His heart was racing.
Then the rage hit.
He whirled around and shoved the nearest desk with all his strength. It crashed to the floor with a deafening bang, scattering papers and quills everywhere.
"I will crush you, Harry Potter," he snarled to the empty room. "Just you wait."
Outside, Harry leaned against the corridor wall, heart pounding, hand pressed to his mouth.
Harry, Ron, and Draco arrived at the flat grassy lawn just as Madam Hooch was setting out the school broomsticks in two neat rows. They weren't technically late—but they were close enough that Hermione Granger immediately materialized beside them like some kind of rule-enforcing ghost.
"Where have you been?" she hissed, her bushy hair practically crackling with indignation. "Do you have any idea what could have happened if you'd been even thirty seconds later? Madam Hooch has a reputation for being absolutely brutal with tardiness! You could have gotten detention before you even got on a broom!"
Ron's jaw tightened. He was already in a foul mood after whatever bizarre confrontation had happened between Harry and Malfoy in that classroom, and the last thing he wanted on his first flying lesson—his first chance to actually ride a broomstick at Hogwarts—was a lecture from an insufferable know-it-all.
"We're here, aren't we?" Ron snapped. "What's your problem, Granger?"
Hermione's eyes flashed dangerously. "My problem is that you two seem determined to get yourselves expelled before we even finish our first month! Some of us actually care about our education—"
"Some of us aren't insufferable busybodies who can't mind their own business," Ron shot back.
"I'm trying to help you!" Hermione's voice rose slightly. "But clearly you're both too thick to appreciate it!"
"Help?" Ron let out a harsh laugh. "Is that what you call sticking your nose where it doesn't belong? Because from where I'm standing, it looks more like—"
"Granger," Harry interrupted, his tone less aggressive than Ron's but carrying an edge of exhaustion. "Seriously. Just focus on yourself, yeah? We're fine."
Hermione whirled on him, looking genuinely stung. "Oh, so now you're ganging up on me too? How mature, Potter."
"We're not ganging up on anyone," Harry said. "We're asking you to back off."
"Fine." Hermione's expression hardened into something coldly polite. "Do whatever you want. Fail your classes. Get expelled. See if I care."
"We won't get expelled just because we weren't thirty minutes early like some people," Ron muttered.
"No, you'll get expelled because you can't follow basic instructions!" Hermione's voice was sharp now, cutting. "But don't come crying to me when you're both kicked out before you ever get to play your precious Quidditch!"
She held Ron's gaze like she was trying to bore a hole through his skull, her eyes blazing with righteous fury.
Ron opened his mouth—some truly scathing retort clearly forming—but before he could get it out, a sharp voice cut across the lawn.
"Good afternoon, class!"
Madam Hooch stood at the front of the assembled broomsticks, her short grey hair gleaming in the sunlight, her hawk-like yellow eyes sweeping over the students with predatory focus. Everything about her screamed military precision and zero tolerance for nonsense.
"Well?" she barked. "What are you all standing around for? Everyone beside a broomstick! Move it!"
The students scrambled to obey. Harry found himself standing next to an old broom with twigs sticking out at odd angles. Beside him, Ron was practically vibrating with excitement despite his lingering irritation. Across from them, Draco stood with his arms crossed, looking supremely confident.
"Stick your right hand over your broom," Madam Hooch commanded from the front of the group, "and say 'Up!'"
"UP!" the class chorused.
Harry's broom jumped into his hand immediately, as if it had been waiting for him. The feeling sent a thrill through his chest—instinctive, natural, right.
He looked across at Draco and gave him the most obnoxiously smug smile he could manage.
Draco's broom had also jumped to his hand. He returned Harry's look with an equally bratty grin and a little mock bow.
Around them, other students were having less success. Hermione's broom rolled over pathetically. Neville's didn't move at all.
Ron was staring at Hermione with undisguised irritation. "Oh, look at that. The genius can't even get her broom up."
"At least I'm not struggling like—" Hermione started, but then her broom suddenly jerked upward into her hand. Her face lit up with triumph. "See? Perfectly fine."
Ron's expression soured. "Yeah, well, mine's coming any second—"
"UP!" he shouted, more aggressively this time.
His broom shot up like a rocket—and smacked him directly in the face.
Ron went down hard, flat on his back in the grass.
The entire class erupted into laughter. Even Neville let out a startled giggle before clapping his hands over his mouth.
"OI!" Ron sat up, face burning, glaring at Neville. "What are you laughing at? Your broom hasn't even twitched!"
"ENOUGH!"
The laughter cut off instantly. Madam Hooch's wand was raised, and the air seemed to vibrate with the force of her silencing charm. Her face was thunderous, eyes blazing with barely restrained fury.
"Mockery," she said coldly, each word crisp and deliberate as she swept her hawk-like gaze across the class, "will not be tolerated in my lessons. Not from anyone. Not for any reason." She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in. "The next person who laughs at another student's expense will spend the rest of the afternoon scrubbing the Quidditch pitch with a toothbrush. And if I hear so much as a snicker after that, you'll be doing it again tomorrow. And the day after. Am I perfectly understood?"
A chorus of nervous "Yes, Madam Hooch" rippled through the group.
"Good." She lowered her wand slowly, still watching them with those predatory eyes. "Now. Mount your brooms. And if I see anyone fooling around, you'll wish the toothbrush was your only punishment."
Harry swung his leg over his broom, settling into position. It felt oddly comfortable, like he'd done this a hundred times before.
A quiet, trembling voice beside him made him turn.
"Harry?" Neville was standing there, broom still on the ground, looking absolutely miserable. His face was pale, hands shaking slightly as he fidgeted with his robes. "I—I can't get it to work. I've tried five times and it won't move and Malfoy keeps—"
He glanced across the lawn where Draco was whispering something to Goyle, both of them smirking in Neville's direction. Draco caught Neville looking and made an exaggerated "oops" expression, covering his mouth in mock concern.
Harry felt a hot spike of anger surge through him. He looked at Draco—at that smug, superior smile, at the way he was so casually cruel—and something fierce and protective flared in his chest.
"Switch with me," Harry said immediately.
"What?"
"Switch places. I'll get your broom up."
They traded spots quickly. Harry stood over Neville's broom, placed his hand above it, and focused. Not on the words, but on the feeling—that instinctive pull, that certainty.
"Up," he said quietly.
The broom snapped into his hand.
But as it did, something strange happened—a warmth bloomed in Harry's palm, spreading up his arm. Not unpleasant, exactly, but wrong somehow. Like heat that didn't belong there. Like touching something that was burning without actually feeling pain. It pulsed once, twice, then faded into a dull ember buried somewhere deep in his bones.
Harry frowned, flexing his fingers, but the sensation was already gone. Just a weird moment. Probably nothing.
He pushed the feeling aside and turned to Neville, explaining the motion, the grip, the confidence you needed to project. "You can't be afraid of it. The broom can tell if you're scared. You need to show it you're in charge."
"But I am scared," Neville admitted quietly.
"Then fake it," Harry said. "Fake it until it works."
Neville nodded uncertainly.
"And if Malfoy keeps mocking you," Harry added, his voice harder than he intended, dropping low enough that only Neville could hear, "just take this broom and hammer him with it until it breaks on his back."
Neville's eyes went wide with shock. "I—I could never hurt anyone! That's—I'm not—"
"I'm joking," Harry said quickly, though part of him absolutely wasn't. He forced a lighter tone, clapping Neville on the shoulder. "But seriously, Neville. Don't let people push you around. One day you might have to defend yourself. And there's nothing wrong with that."
Neville looked down, fidgeting with his robes. "It's easier for someone to hurt me than for me to hurt them. That's just—that's how it's always been."
"That's not true." Harry squeezed his shoulder. "You're stronger than you think. You just need to believe it. Even if it's just for a second. Even if you're faking. Eventually, the fake becomes real."
Neville gave him a small, uncertain smile that didn't quite reach his eyes but was genuine nonetheless.
Harry handed the broom back—
—and Neville flinched violently, nearly dropping it. His whole body jerked like he'd been shocked.
"What's wrong?" Harry asked, alarmed. "Did it hurt you?"
"Nothing!" Neville said quickly, laughing nervously and far too loud. "It just—it felt weird for a second. Like static or something. You know how that happens sometimes when it's dry out? I'm fine. Completely fine."
He was talking too fast, his smile too bright. But before Harry could press, Neville placed the broom on the ground and called out, "Up!"
It rose into his hand smoothly, no hesitation.
Neville's face split into a genuine, delighted grin. He looked at Harry with something like wonder, like he'd just performed actual magic for the first time. "I did it! Harry, I actually did it!"
"See? Told you." Harry grinned back, and for a moment, the chaos of the lesson faded. The nervousness, the pressure, the weight of everyone's expectations—all of it disappeared. Just two kids, happy about a small victory. Just a friend helping a friend.
"Mr. Potter! Mr. Longbottom! Are you quite finished with your little chat?" Madam Hooch's sharp voice cut through the moment like a knife.
"Yes, ma'am!" they chorused, scrambling back to their positions.
"Now," Madam Hooch continued, pacing before them like a general inspecting troops, "when I blow my whistle, you will kick off from the ground—hard. Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, then lean forward slightly to descend. On my whistle. Three—two—"
But Neville, panicked and already mounted, his nerves getting the better of him, kicked off early.
His broom shot upward like a cork from a bottle, fast and completely out of control.
"Come back, boy!" Madam Hooch shouted, but Neville was already six feet up, then ten, then fifteen, his face white with absolute terror, hands gripping the handle so hard his knuckles had gone bloodless.
And then something changed.
The broom stopped rising. It hovered there, perfectly still, like it was waiting. Like it was listening.
From across the lawn, Draco's voice rang out—not quite loud enough for Madam Hooch to hear clearly over the general commotion, but perfectly audible to everyone else.
"Oi, Longbottom! Try not to fall off and break your other hand! Though honestly, it might improve your face!"
Crabbe and Goyle snickered loudly.
The broom moved.
It spun in midair with violent precision, locked onto Draco like a missile targeting system, and charged.
"What—NO—STOP—" Neville screamed, clinging to the handle with everything he had as the broom shot across the lawn at impossible speed.
Draco's laughter cut off abruptly. His face went from smug to confused to terrified in the span of a heartbeat. "What the—"
WHACK.
The bristle end of the broom slammed into Draco's side, sending him stumbling backward. Before he could recover, it came around for another pass, smacking him hard across the shoulder with enough force to spin him halfway around.
"OW! STOP IT! LONGBOTTOM, CONTROL YOUR STUPID—"
WHACK. Right across the face.
"AHHH!" Draco broke into a full sprint, wand out, firing hexes wildly in every direction. "Flipendo! I SAID GET AWAY FROM ME!"
The broom dodged with unnatural grace, weaving through the air like it was alive, and came down on Draco's head like a club. Then it hit him again. And again. Relentless, methodical, like it had a personal grudge.
The Gryffindors were in absolute hysterics. Harry was bent double, tears streaming down his face from laughing so hard. Ron was on the ground, pounding the grass with his fist, gasping for air. Even Hermione had a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking despite her clear attempt to maintain some dignity.
"STOP! EVERYONE STOP THIS INSTANT!" Madam Hooch was sprinting after them, robes billowing dramatically behind her. "LONGBOTTOM, DISMOUNT IMMEDIATELY!"
"I CAN'T!" Neville wailed, still clinging on for dear life as the broom chased Draco in tightening circles, landing hit after punishing hit. "IT WON'T LISTEN TO ME!"
Draco's face was covered in angry red scratches, his perfectly styled hair a complete disaster, his expensive robes torn and grass-stained. "I'LL KILL YOU, LONGBOTTOM! I SWEAR ON MY FAMILY'S NAME I'LL—OW—I'LL MAKE YOU PAY FOR—"
Madam Hooch finally got close enough to grab the broom's handle with both hands.
The broom ripped itself from her grasp like it had been personally offended and shot straight up into the sky, taking Neville with it.
"MERLIN'S BEARD!" Madam Hooch cursed, which would have been funny under any other circumstances.
The broom went wild.
It dove toward the ground at a sickening speed, pulled up at the absolute last second with a violent jerk that made Neville scream, then scraped along the grass hard enough to kick up dirt. It shot sideways without warning and slammed Neville's shoulder into the stone wall of the castle, then immediately reversed direction and did it again on the other side.
Neville was screaming continuously now, a raw, terrified sound that cut through everything else, barely holding on as the broom bucked and twisted like it was trying to throw him off.
Harry's laughter died instantly, ice flooding his veins. "Neville!"
He started running without thinking. Ron and Hermione were right behind him, along with Madam Hooch who was shouting instructions nobody could hear over the chaos.
"Stupid broom!" Harry shouted at the sky, fury and fear mixing into something desperate. "Stupid, broken, piece of rubbish! STOP!"
The broom froze mid-air.
Just—stopped. Complete and instant stillness, like someone had hit pause on the entire world.
Harry skidded to a halt, staring up in shock. The broom was hovering about fifteen feet up, not moving, not even swaying. Completely motionless except for Neville, who was swaying dangerously, dazed and dizzy and barely conscious, his grip weakening with each passing second—
He fell.
"NO!"
Harry lunged forward, arms outstretched uselessly, but he was too far away. There was nothing he could do. Nothing anyone could do.
Neville hit the ground with a sickening crunch that echoed across the entire lawn. The sound of bone breaking. The sound of something going horribly, irreversibly wrong.
For a moment, nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
Then—
"Neville!" Ron reached him first, dropping to his knees hard enough to bruise. Hermione was right behind, her face chalk-white, hands hovering uselessly over Neville's crumpled form like she wanted to help but didn't know how.
"Back! All of you, back now!" Madam Hooch shoved past them with more force than necessary, kneeling beside Neville. Her wand moved in quick, practiced motions as she muttered diagnostic spells under her breath, each one glowing briefly before fading.
"We can't just stand here and do nothing," Ron said urgently, his voice cracking. "We need to help him—we need to—"
"You need to give me space," Madam Hooch snapped without looking up.
"But he's our friend!" Harry protested, his chest tight, hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"And I'm the trained professional with fifteen years of experience dealing with Quidditch injuries!" She finally looked up, her expression fierce. "So unless you've suddenly developed medical expertise in the last thirty seconds, step back and let me work!"
"But—"
"Harry." Hermione grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. Then she grabbed Ron's too, physically pulling them both backward several steps. "She's right. We need to let her help him."
"Don't tell us what to do, Granger," Ron said hotly, trying to shake her off.
"I'm not telling you anything, I'm trying to—"
"We don't need your input right now," Harry cut in, his voice harsher than intended.
Hermione's eyes flashed. "Oh, so you'd rather stand here arguing with me while Neville is lying there hurt? Is that what you want? To waste time fighting instead of—"
"We're not the ones who started—"
"Oh, grow up, both of you!" Hermione's voice cracked slightly. "Just—just stop for five seconds and think about someone other than yourselves!"
"Broken wrist," Madam Hooch announced suddenly, standing up and brushing dirt from her knees. Her expression was grim. "Possibly fractured ribs as well. I need to get him to the hospital wing immediately. Madam Pomfrey will need to—"
She looked at the three of them, still standing there.
"No one," she said, her voice dropping into something dangerous and absolute, "leaves this lawn. No one touches a broom. No one so much as thinks about flying. If I come back and find that anyone—and I mean anyone—has disobeyed me, you will be expelled before you can say Quidditch. Do I make myself crystal clear?"
Silent nods all around. Even Draco, still nursing his scratches, looked genuinely cowed.
Madam Hooch helped Neville to his feet—he was crying openly now, cradling his wrist, making small wounded sounds—and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, guiding him toward the castle with surprising gentleness.
The moment they disappeared through the doors, Hermione whirled on Harry and Ron.
"This is exactly what I was trying to warn you about," she started, her voice tight with stress and something that might have been fear. "If you'd just—"
"Not now, Hermione," Harry said tiredly, rubbing his face.
"Yes, now!" Her voice rose. "This is important! If you two had just listened to me earlier, maybe we wouldn't be—"
"Oh, brilliant," Ron interrupted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "So Neville getting hurt is somehow our fault? Is that what you're saying?"
"I'm saying that maybe if you took school seriously for five seconds—"
"We take it seriously!" Harry snapped. "We just don't need you breathing down our necks every single—"
"THAT STUPID, PATHETIC, COWARD!"
Everyone turned.
Draco was stalking across the lawn, his face still covered in scratches that were bleeding slightly, his hair completely ruined, absolutely seething with rage. His grey eyes were wild, his hands shaking—though whether from anger or shock was hard to tell.
"I'm going to kill him!" Draco snarled, his voice cracking. "I'm going to find him in that hospital wing and I'm going to strangle that worthless, clumsy, incompetent—"
"Oh, shut it, Malfoy," Harry said flatly, exhaustion and irritation mixing into something sharp. "You got exactly what you deserved."
Draco's head snapped toward him, eyes blazing. "What did you just say to me?"
"You heard me." Harry stepped forward, closing the distance between them. "Maybe if you weren't such a git to people, Neville's broom wouldn't have tried to beat some sense into you. Ever think about that?"
"That broom was cursed—"
"Or maybe," Harry continued, his voice dropping into something dangerously mocking, "you just really like getting hit with long, hard sticks. I mean, you seemed pretty enthusiastic about it. Should I be worried? Is there something you're not telling us?"
Ron choked on a badly suppressed laugh.
Draco's face went from pale to bright red in an instant. "You—how dare you—I'll hex you into next week, Potter! I'll make you pay for that—"
"Try it," Harry said flatly, his green eyes hard. "Go ahead. I'm right here."
"Both of you are complete idiots," Draco spat, his voice shaking with fury. "Especially you, Potter. Walking around playing the hero, acting like you're so much better than everyone else, like you're some kind of—"
"Better than you?" Harry interrupted. "Yeah. Definitely."
"I'll show you better!" Draco looked around wildly, and his eyes landed on something half-buried in the grass. His expression shifted instantly into vicious, vindictive triumph.
He bent down and picked up a small, clear glass sphere that caught the sunlight—Neville's Remembrall, dropped in all the chaos.
"Well, well," Draco said slowly, turning it over in his hand like it was some kind of prize. "Look what dear Longbottom left behind. How careless of him."
"Give it here, Malfoy," Harry said immediately, his voice sharp.
"I don't think so." Draco tossed the Remembrall up and caught it casually. "Maybe I'll leave it somewhere safe for him to find later. Like... oh, I don't know... the top of a very tall tree? Or maybe I'll just keep it. Finders keepers, after all."
"I'm not asking again. Give. It. Back."
"Make me." Draco mounted his broom in one smooth, practiced motion and kicked off hard. He rose twenty feet, then thirty, the Remembrall gleaming in the afternoon sun like a tiny captured star. He hovered there, smirking down at them. "Come get it, Potter! Oh wait—I forgot. You're a rule-follower now! Wouldn't want to get in trouble, would you?"
"Harry, don't," Hermione said urgently, grabbing his sleeve. "Madam Hooch said anyone who flies will be—"
"Granger," Harry said, his voice cold and flat as he pulled his arm free, "shut up."
Hermione's face went slack with shock.
Harry grabbed his broom, mounted it, and kicked off hard without another word.
The moment he was in the air, everything else fell away.
The anger. The fear. The chaos. All of it dissolved into nothing as wind rushed past his face and the ground dropped away beneath him. It felt—god, it felt incredible. Like he'd been made for this. Like his entire body had been waiting his whole life for this exact moment. The broom responded to his slightest movement, an extension of his will, and he soared higher with confidence surging through him with every passing second.
This was freedom. This was right.
"Alright, Malfoy!" Harry shouted as he pulled level, stopping about ten feet away. "Hand it over and we can both get back down before anyone notices!"
Draco's confident expression faltered. His eyes widened slightly as he watched Harry hover there, completely steady, like he'd been flying for years. He glanced down at Crabbe and Goyle—too far below to help, useless as always—and something like genuine worry crossed his face.
"You're—you're actually pretty good at this," Draco said, almost grudgingly, like the admission physically pained him.
"I know." Harry moved closer. "Now give me the Remembrall before this gets worse."
"Or what?" But Draco's voice lacked its usual venom. He sounded uncertain now, off-balance.
"Or I'll make you swallow it." Harry's voice was perfectly calm, perfectly serious. "And trust me, Malfoy, I'll enjoy watching you choke."
Draco's eyes narrowed, but Harry could see the calculation happening behind them. The realization that he was alone up here. That his usual backup wasn't coming. That Harry was better at this than he'd expected.
"You think you're so special, don't you?" Draco's voice took on a desperate edge. "Just because you can fly? Just because everyone thinks you're some kind of—"
"This isn't about me," Harry interrupted. "This is about you being a bully and a coward. Now give me the Remembrall or I swear I'll—"
"Fine!" Draco's face twisted with rage and humiliation. "You want it so badly? Here!"
He drew his arm back and hurled the Remembrall as hard as he could, sending it spinning through the air in a high, deadly arc.
Then he dove for the ground, clearly done with this confrontation.
Harry didn't hesitate. Didn't think. Didn't calculate angles or trajectories or any of the things a normal person would consider.
He just moved.
He leaned forward, pointed his broom straight down, and dove.
The world became a blur of speed and wind and pure, crystalline instinct. Everything sharpened—the feeling of air resistance against his skin, the slight tremor in the broom handle, the Remembrall spinning end over end as it fell. He stretched his hand out, fingers reaching, the ground rushing up to meet him with terrifying speed—
Fifty feet.
Thirty.
Twenty.
His fist closed around the Remembrall.
He pulled up hard, muscles screaming with the effort, and leveled out barely three feet from the grass. His feet actually dragged across the ground for a second before he gained altitude again and touched down properly, smooth and controlled.
For a long moment, there was absolute silence.
Then the Gryffindors erupted into deafening cheers, jumping and screaming and pumping their fists in the air.
"That was BRILLIANT!"
"Did you see that dive?!"
"HARRY POTTER!"
The cheering stopped like someone had cut the sound.
Professor McGonagall stood at the edge of the lawn, her expression absolutely thunderous, her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. Her eyes were locked on Harry with the kind of fury that could melt steel.