Harry Potter: But Where is Harry?

Chapter 10

The chill of the Scottish morning had burned off by midday, giving way to a clear and crisp afternoon. The lingering scent of garlic from Defense Against the Dark Arts still clung faintly to Thomas's robes as he stepped into the corridor beside Hermione. Students milled about, some chatting excitedly about the lesson, others laughing or stretching on the way to lunch. But Thomas's mind remained focused.

"What did you think about Quirrell?" he asked Hermione quietly as they walked.

Hermione glanced at him with a slight frown. "What do you mean?"

"Just… did he seem off to you? Like dangerous?"

She gave a scoff and waved a hand. "Dangerous? He could barely hold a sentence without stammering. I mean, yes, his lesson was informative, but he hardly strikes fear into the hearts of students."

Thomas kept his thoughts to himself. He didn't expect her to feel it—whatever it was. That uneasy hum in the back of his mind every time Quirrell looked their way. The stammer, the garlic, the twitchiness—it was all too familiar. Voldemort had to be involved somehow. But he wasn't ready to say that out loud.

As they descended the marble staircase, Ron brushed past with Seamus and Dean, throwing a look over his shoulder. "Oi, maybe next time you two'll take notes with sparkles and ribbons, yeah? Bet Ravenclaw's got room if Gryffindor's not your fit."

The other boys chuckled, but Thomas noticed Hermione tense beside him. She didn't respond, but the slight downturn of her mouth and the way she suddenly stared ahead said enough.

"Don't mind them," Thomas muttered. "We've got more important things to do than waste time trying to impress people who'd rather laugh than learn."

Hermione glanced at him, then gave a small nod, though she still looked downcast. "It's just… I don't know what I did wrong."

"Nothing," Thomas replied firmly. "They're just loud. Doesn't make them right."

She exhaled, then shook herself a little. "Flying lesson's next, right?"

"Yeah. First one."

Out on the school grounds, the wide open courtyard field had been freshly mowed and flattened for the lesson. Twenty-some brooms lay in neat rows on the grass, casting long shadows in the sun. A few Gryffindor and Slytherin students were already gathered when Thomas and Hermione arrived, and Madam Hooch stood at the center, waiting with her arms folded.

"Everyone stand by a broomstick," she called out sharply as the class assembled. "Come on now! Chop chop!"

Thomas moved next to Hermione. On his other side stood Ron, who barely acknowledged him. Neville hovered near the end, looking nervously down at his broom as if it might sprout fangs.

"Stick your right hand over the broom and say 'Up!'" Madam Hooch ordered.

"Up!" the class echoed.

Thomas's broom leapt immediately into his hand with a snap. He allowed himself a small grin. Hermione's took a few tries but eventually floated upward. Ron got his after a delayed beat. Neville's didn't budge.

"Come on," Neville mumbled to his broom, red in the face.

Madam Hooch stalked down the line correcting grips. "No, Mr. Finnigan, that's not a hammer you're holding. Yes, Miss Brown, both feet firm on the ground. Steady—"

When she reached Neville, she gave him a once-over and sighed. "You'll be fine. Just do what I say."

After demonstrating the takeoff and hover, Madam Hooch gave the signal. "On my whistle, three, two, one—"

Neville shot straight into the air like a cork from a bottle.

"Come back down!" Madam Hooch cried, but Neville couldn't control it. His broom zigzagged, tilted, then began to plummet. He shrieked as he fell, crashing to the ground with a dull thud.

A sickening silence fell over the class. Thomas winced.

Madam Hooch rushed over. "Broken wrist," she muttered. "Come on, boy. We'll get you to the hospital wing. And no one is to touch a broom while I'm gone, you hear me? Not one of you."

With that, she led Neville away, leaving the class in a tense standstill.

The silence didn't last long.

Draco Malfoy had stooped down and picked something up near where Neville had fallen. He grinned. "Look what he dropped. A Remembrall."

Thomas frowned. He remembered the Remembrall from the original story—Neville had received it from his grandmother, and it glowed red when he forgot something. That part hadn't changed.

"Give it back, Malfoy," said Thomas evenly.

Draco turned to him, smirking. "Or what? Gonna duel me with your wand tucked behind your ears like a good little Muggle-born?"

A few Slytherins snickered. Ron looked like he wanted to speak but didn't.

Draco mounted his broom. "Come and get it, if you can."

He kicked off the ground and soared into the air.

Thomas's jaw clenched. He'd told himself to keep his head down, to avoid standing out too much. But then again, letting Neville be mocked was hardly keeping a low profile.

He swung a leg over his broom.

"Thomas, don't!" Hermione whispered.

But he was already in the air.

The moment his broom lifted, he felt it—wind rushing past, the field dropping away. Flying felt natural. He leaned forward, angled toward Malfoy, who hovered above smugly with the Remembrall in hand.

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Didn't think you had the guts."

"Give it," Thomas called.

"Catch it then."

Draco hurled the Remembrall high into the air.

Without thinking, Thomas surged upward, gripping the broom handle tighter. He pushed himself into a dive and reached out—

His fingers closed around the ball just before it hit the ground.

The class erupted in gasps and cheers.

Thomas touched down lightly, Remembrall in hand. Before he could enjoy the relief, a voice cut through the noise like a whip.

"Mr. Greene!. Mr. Malfoy!."

Madam Hooch had returned. Her eyes flashed with fury.

"I told you no one was to fly while I was gone. Twenty-five points from Gryffindor, Mr. Greene. And twenty-five from Slytherin, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco looked stunned. The Slytherins behind him groaned. Thomas blinked.

"Consider yourselves lucky I'm not giving you detention," she snapped. "Inside. Now."

The mood shifted instantly. As they trudged back into the castle, Thomas caught sight of Ron glaring at him.

He knew what was coming.

—

The Gryffindor common room was unusually cold that evening—or maybe it just felt that way.

"Great job, Greene," Ron muttered from across the table. "First you chat up Slytherins. Then you lose us points. What's next, inviting Malfoy to tea?"

Thomas didn't respond at first. He was staring at his open Transfiguration book, but not reading. Dean and Seamus exchanged awkward glances nearby.

"I was just trying to stop Malfoy from bullying Neville," Thomas said calmly.

"Yeah? And how many points did we lose for it?" Ron shot back. "Face it, you don't care about the House."

"I care about what's right."

Ron shook his head. "Could've fooled me."

Thomas stood slowly, his chair scraping the floor. "I'm going to the library."

He left before Ron could answer.

—

Hermione was already seated in a quiet corner of the library, parchment spread around her like a nest. She looked up in surprise.

"Everything alright?"

"Just tired of people who think loyalty means turning a blind eye to idiots," Thomas muttered.

Hermione gave a sympathetic smile. "Well… it wasn't the smartest move, but you did look amazing flying."

Thomas blinked, then laughed. "Thanks."

They returned to studying in companionable silence. Thomas knew the year was just beginning, but the lines were already being drawn. Ron, Draco, and the rest… they weren't the only ones watching.