Chapter Text
September 16, 1995
As September carried on, Harry adjusted more to his new reality. The other students never stopped staring, Ron and Hermione never stopped trying to catch his eye across classrooms, and Umbridge continued her attempts to subtly - as subtle as a troll, that was - enrage him into an outburst she could punish him for.
His response to nearly all of it was to turn his cheek and ignore them all. He wasn’t as angry with Ron and Hermione as he had been, but the trust that had been there before summer had shattered. And without trust, what did friendship even mean?
Despite it all, Harry found himself adapting, both to the new and changed relationships with his classmates, and to the overabundance of work thanks to his class assignments and his own grueling self-study. After a few hours of effort, he’d figured out a way to disguise the books he was actually studying for Defense Against the Dark Arts into Umbridge’s stupid Slinkhard book. Since she was still filling all of her class periods with silent reading time, that was another couple hours a week he spent working on the material that would actually prove useful in the O.W.L. exam.
At one point, early on in the second week of classes, Marcus Flint cornered Harry after dinner and, proving Greengrass right, asked if he would join the Slytherin quidditch team.
Harry hemmed and hawed before eventually agreeing, as long as he could be excused from the majority of practices. It’s not like he needed much training, beyond just getting used to the Slytherin team’s way of interacting with each other in the air.
The resulting meltdown from Malfoy had been every bit as entertaining to watch as Greengrass had predicted, despite Flint telling Malfoy, in an exasperated tone, that he’d be better suited to a Chaser position anyway and the spot was his if he wanted it.
Greengrass, who had watched the whole thing with a smile, tossed Harry a chocolate frog afterwards in thanks.
What little free time he did have, whenever Harry needed a break from research, he used it to write to Madame Bones. The two had sent letters back and forth all week, with Madame Bones sharing everything she could remember about Harry’s parents and grandparents. She’d even promised to provide him memories he could use in a pensieve, if he could get his hands on one.
Harry had entertained the thought of marching up to Dumbledore and asking for the use of his for approximately thirty seconds before deciding to refrain. God forbid Dumbledore wanted to watch the memories with him. Or worse, said no.
So that offer was on hold, until Harry could either buy a pensieve or visit Madame Bones and use hers.
Harry hadn’t gone into detail about Umbridge’s quill yet. Harry hadn’t heard about the woman assigning any other detentions, although she certainly looked like she wanted to. If it came up again, then Harry would tell Madame Bones. For now…
For now he was too interested in the stories of his family to want to derail that with anything else. Perhaps it was selfish, or shortsighted, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to care all that much.
His other correspondent, Ms. Raynotte, had accepted his proposal to meet during the first Hogsmeade the fourth weekend of September, where they could review her contract. Harry fully intended to sign whatever she put before him. She had served him well over the summer, and obviously was good at her job if she was Madame Bones’ solicitor.
Harry had already started a mental list of items he was hoping she could tackle for him. Whatever she charged, if she could solve some of his problems and get them off his plate, she’d be worth every sickle.
When Harry took his seat in the Great Hall Saturday morning, and a nondescript brown owl landed on the table in front of him a few moments later, Harry assumed the letter was from the solicitor, perhaps with additional things he needed to review before their appointment.
Since he’d arrived early enough to breakfast that no one was seated nearby him yet (most of his new House still sleeping in on the weekend) Harry broke his usual policy of not opening his mail in public where curious eyes might be able to read it over his shoulders. He unrolled the tight scroll of parchment, glanced at the greeting, and stilled.
This letter wasn’t from Ms. Raynotte.
It was Sirius’s handwriting.
Harry glanced around again. He caught a few looks in his direction, including a smug look from Umbridge at the Head Table, but figured getting up and leaving so soon after sitting down would look suspicious.
And, if he was honest, he was too curious to wait.
Harry,
First Hogsmeade visit - 12:30. The shack.
Snuffles
Like he had with the brief letters he’d received over summer, Harry flipped the parchment over to check the back.
Nothing.
What the hell, Sirius?
Nothing all summer. Nothing after his farce of a trial. Nothing when he first returned to school. Nothing right after he was re-Sorted. But now, two weeks later, Sirius writes to ask - no, to demand - Harry meet him in Hogsmeade?
Fuck that.
Harry dug out a quill and ink from his bag and scrawled under Sirius’s writing, the nib pressing so hard it nearly tore the parchment.
I’m busy.
HJP
The owl, who had been nibbling at some of Harry’s toast, perked up as he rerolled the parchment. He handed it back and said quietly, “Back to sender, please,” then leaned back to avoid its beating wings as the owl took off.
He watched as the owl soared to the top of the Great Hall and exited through the giant open window the post owls used each day. As his gaze dropped back down, Harry froze.
Umbridge was watching the owl too.
*
As if the day was destined to be filled with adults trying to piss him off, Snape chose that morning as the day to stop by the Slytherin table and antagonize him.
The potions professor swooped up to the table where Harry sat, now with Nott and Zabini seated across from him, and loomed with an ugly glare.
“Mr. Potter. Explain to me why you have not yet scheduled your medical assessment with the hospital matron?”
Because I don’t bloody feel like it, you dungeon bat.
”Apologies, sir. I’ve been busy readjusting to being at school, and keeping up with the heavier workload assigned to fifth years.” Harry replied, with a blankly innocent face.
“The expectation is that you’ll complete it by the end of the month. Are you planning to waltz in on September 30th and ask Madame Pomfrey to set aside her other tasks just for you?”
That was pretty much exactly what Harry had planned on doing.
Before Harry can think of an appropriate reply, Snape cut him off.
“You will schedule your assessment, Potter. Today.” And then he stormed off, black robes swirling dramatically behind him.
He must practice walking like that, there’s no way it’s natural.
Zabini whistled, “Damn, Potter. Did you piss in his oatmeal this morning?”
Harry shot him an irritated look, but before he could reply, Nott interjected. “Think it’s because of this, actually.” He held up a copy of The Daily Prophet he’d been reading.
MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATIONAL REFORM
DOLORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED FIRST EVER “HIGH INQUISITOR”
“High Inquisitor,” Harry read aloud. “The hell is that?”
”No idea,” Nott said with a shrug, “I’ve never heard of it before…I’m guessing it’s something she and Fudge cooked up and pushed through the Wiz.”
Zabini, who had quickly skimmed the article, said, “Apparently she can ‘evaluate’ professors at Hogwarts and recommend changes to their employment or curriculum.”
“A woman in her first year of teaching is supposed to evaluate how other teachers do their job?” Harry asked skeptically, then snorted, “Merlin, I can’t wait to watch her evaluate McGonagall and Snape. They’ll both tear her apart.”
Zabini mockingly gasped, “Is Harry Potter saying something complimentary about Professor Snape? This has to be a first! A historical moment that we need to commemorate.”
Harry had to laugh, “He’s a bastard, but when it’s aimed at people I don’t like, I suppose I can deal with it. ‘Enemy of my enemy’ and all that.”
Nott sent him a searching look. “Do you consider Umbridge your enemy, Potter? I’d have thought you’d be more concerned with…others.”
From someone else - like Malfoy - the question might have sounded mocking. But Nott’s tone held only genuine curiosity, so Harry didn’t bristle.
He shrugged. “It’s not like she’s my top priority. Not even close. But she seems dangerous in a different way. Smiling-while-she-guts-you kind of dangerous - and then afterwards tells you that you should thank her for it.”
A beat passed. Then, with a quirked mouth that was almost a smile, Harry added, “Besides, I’d never limit myself to just one enemy, Nott. What a boring way to go through life.”
*
After breakfast, Harry disappears off to the Room of Requirement before Nott or Zabini can invite him to a game of exploding snap, or a walk around the grounds, or whatever it is they get up to when he leaves them.
He’s been practicing the bone breaking curse and has nearly perfected it, but he wants to get it down. It’s not likely to be on either the O.W.L. or N.E.W.T., but after reading about it, he thought it had sounded like something he wanted in his arsenal. A break in someone’s wand arm and they’re better than disarmed. A disarmed person might get their wand back, but someone with a broken wrist won’t be able to even hold their wand, let alone grip and aim it effectively enough to cast a spell.
After a few hours practice, chest heaving, Harry let himself slump into one of the squashy chairs the room had set up near the fireplace and let his head drop back to stare at the ceiling far above him until he caught his breath.
Glancing at his class books he’d stacked on a low table, he knows he could (should) get some homework done, but is unenthused. He’s got assignments for Potions, History of Magic, and Defense Against the Dark Arts due early next week, and he’s dreading all of them.
He supposes he could swing by the hospital wing. Get Snape off his back about that issue at least and it would allow him to continue putting off the homework.
Giving himself another thirty seconds to stare at nothing in particular, Harry eventually heaves himself to his feet and leaves the Room - and his homework - behind him.
*
The hospital ward was quiet when Harry pushed one of the heavy doors open just wide enough to slip inside. With Quidditch just starting and it being much too early in the term for students to begin truly acting out, the ward was empty save for Harry.
Following the sounds of quiet music and the rustle of paper, Harry made his way to the back of the hall where Madame Pomfrey’s office was tucked away and rapped on the door.
“Come in.”
Pushing the door open the rest of the way, Harry met the matron’s stern look with a smile.
“You again, Mr. Potter? What have you done this time?”
With the amount of time he spent here, he couldn’t blame her for the assumption, so he grinned and said, “Nothing yet! Professor Snape sent me to get an official checkup. Said there isn’t one in my file and I need to check that box, or whatever.”
“Hmm.” Pomfrey seemed unconvinced, scanning him as if checking for injuries he might be unaware of. “I did get his note that you’d be joining his usual first-year checkups. Very well then, come on out to a bed, Mr. Potter. It’ll be a painless procedure, if a bit dull for you.”
“Oh! You want to do it now? Snape said something about scheduling it.”
“You’re welcome to schedule it for another day, Mr. Potter, but I’m free now, and I can’t imagine you’ve gotten yourself overly booked or behind on homework so early in the term.”
Ha! Harry thought. Snape was, as always, full of it. He totally could have “waltzed in here on September 30th” and done the assessment then.
Harry followed Madam Pomfrey to one of the beds and climbed onto it at her gesture.
“Lie down flat, Mr. Potter, and try to stay mostly still. I’ll spend the next thirty minutes or so completing different scans. You shouldn’t experience much sensation, although you might feel the spells pass over you. You’re welcome to nap if you like, but I do need to focus, so don’t expect conversation. When I’m finished, we’ll discuss the results before I prepare a report for your file.”
It sounded easy enough, and he was happy to take a quick nap in the quiet, sunlit hospital wing.
As Pomfrey lifted her wand and began casting, Harry let his eyes drift shut. He could feel the scans passing over him, nothing more than gentle, all-over tingles or a slight cooling wave from his head to his toes. Nothing unpleasant, but just enough sensation to keep him from actually drifting off.
Instead, he mentally walked through the spells he had mastered and envisioned a duel with a faceless enemy. He’d been primarily focusing on offense, but he should probably switch to defense at this point. Strengthen his shields. Maybe research counter-curses to the most commonly cast spells in duels. And at some point, he’d need to focus on the theory of it all.
Eventually, he realized he’d been lying there for what felt like much longer than thirty minutes—and Madame Pomfrey’s casting had stopped.
Harry opened his eyes and glanced around, only to find the healer standing a few feet away, staring intently at a roll of parchment. He watched her for a few moments, waiting to see if she’d say anything, but she just kept staring, occasionally shaking her head.
“Madame Pomfrey?”
She jumped. “Oh! Mr. Potter.” Rolling the parchment up tightly, she tucked it into her apron pocket. “Yes, well. Your medical assessment is completed, and you’re in good shape…although you could stand to gain a few pounds. However…”
She drifted off, glancing away from him, her brows furrowing in what looked like confusion.
“…However?” he prompted.
Looking back at him, she hesitated. “…However, there were a few inconsistencies that I’m…not familiar with. I will need to seek a second opinion.”
Harry sat up. “‘Inconsistencies’…what does that mean?”
Her lips pursed, and her hand rose to hover briefly over the parchment she had tucked away. “Just some test results that are unusual. As I said, I’d like to get a second opinion before I speculate. I’ll send word when I would like to speak with you about it. For now, however…”
She gave him a surveying glance that held more outright concern than she usually showed. “Continue on as you have been. No limitations or restrictions. Just…be well, Mr. Potter. I’ll let your Head of House know you’ve completed the assessment.”
With that, she bustled off to her office, the door shutting firmly behind her.
“Well, all right then,” Harry muttered as he slid off the bed. “Just leave me in suspense as to whether I’ve got some incurable disease or something.”
Leaving the hospital ward behind him, Harry paused at one of the windows in the corridor outside. What the hell had Madame Pomfrey seen in his assessment?
If he’d shown up right at the start of term, he could have understood red flags - the malnutrition, the bruises, anything left over from a summer with the Dursleys. But the last few weeks had been…different. Better. He’d gained weight faster than usual. Any lingering injuries - even that rib he’d thought might have been fractured - had faded.
So what had given her pause?
He exhaled sharply, frustration curling low in his chest. At himself. At the Dursleys. At Madame Pomfrey for not explaining. At Snape for pushing the issue. At all of it.
Harry let his head dip forward, resting his forehead against the cool windowpane. It was nice outside. One of the few good days they’d get in northern Scotland before the weather turned and the cold settled in for good.
Deciding to put his homework off a bit longer, and to avoid thinking any further about supposed “inconsistencies” in his medical report, Harry pushed away from the window and headed for the dungeons to grab his broom, intent on spending the afternoon flying lazily over the grounds.
*
That evening, Harry felt like avoiding the crowds at dinner and wandered down to the kitchens instead. After greeting Dobby and asking for a simple meal, he sat with a blank sheet of parchment and a ballpoint pen. A week remained until the Hogsmeade visit, and he wanted to be clear on what needed to be discussed with Ms. Raynotte.
First on his list was The Daily Prophet. Could anything they wrote actually be considered libel? He wasn’t opposed to suing them into the ground if it would get them to leave him alone. Or at least threatening it.
Maybe he could also arrange some sort of interview. Set the record straight. About a lot of things, really. He’s never addressed so much of his history with anyone besides his friends and Dumbledore. The dementor attack in July. The graveyard in June. Pettigrew, alive and well, and responsible for his parents’ deaths.
The thought of that rat still walking free, still being hailed as a hero, Order of Merlin, First Class, sent a familiar surge of anger through him.
Ms. Raynotte could at least make sure his words weren’t twisted. Some sort of contract with a journalist, maybe. Something to raise in their meeting.
Next, though the thought of explaining why he needed her to deal with this made his stomach tighten, was his guardianship. If everything went to plan, he could be considered an adult in a year. But if he didn’t manage the O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. required, perhaps she could get him away from the Dursleys early.
And even if his plan did work, he would need somewhere to live. No one selling a house would willingly deal with a teenager, so he would need her as an intermediary.
And then there was his mail. His account manager had mentioned irregularities. Missing letters. Maybe a solicitor could look into that.
List and dinner finished, Harry pushed his plate aside and left the kitchens, heading back toward the Room of Requirement for a few more hours of studying.
As he made his way through the darkening corridors of Hogwarts, his thoughts drifted, inevitably, back to Pomfrey.
What could she have seen in those scans? Had the strange things he had been experiencing lately somehow showed up? Would the lightning, whatever it was, appear as magic? Or something else entirely?
And what about that other sensation, the one that sat heavy in his chest, not quite separate from him, but not entirely his either?
He had spent hours over the last two weeks searching for answers. Reading, cross-referencing, testing theories. Nothing matched. Nothing fit.
There had to be something he was missing. Something overlooked. Something hidden.
And now Pomfrey was looking too.
The thought tightened something in his chest. He was running out of time. Racing a trained mediwitch with far more resources than he had.
He needed to find it first, whatever it was.
Before he knew it, he was standing in front of the Room of Requirement.
Harry blinked, faintly disoriented. He did not remember the last stretch of corridor at all.
He turned, paced once, twice, three times, though he was not sure what he was asking for anymore, and pushed the door open.
His steps faltered.
This was not the room he usually received.
Although, to be fair to the Room, his thoughts hadn’t been clear. He had not even consciously realized he was asking for anything, so lost in the restless loop of his own mind.
Instead of the familiar, functional study space, the room stretched out before him in a vast, uneven expanse. Towers of objects rose toward the ceiling, stacked so high they disappeared into shadow.
Harry stepped further inside.
There was no order to it. No system. Just accumulation.
Broken furniture leaned at precarious angles. Tarnished suits of armor slumped beside cracked cabinets. Stacks of warped books spilled across dented cauldrons. A chandelier, half-melted and blackened, hung tangled in a heap of rusted chains.
In one corner, a bundle of snapped wands had been tied together with fraying cord. Nearby, jars filled with cloudy, unidentifiable substances sat half-buried beneath a collapsed shelf.
Lost things. Forgotten things. Hidden away.
Harry wandered toward the nearest pile and crouched, pulling free the first book he could dislodge.
Hogwarts: A History.
“Figures,” Harry muttered with a snort. Although this copy looked far older than the one Hermione had carried around like it was sacred in their first year.
He set it aside and paused.
Something glinted faintly beneath it.
Harry reached down, brushing aside dust and debris until his fingers closed around it.
His eyebrows rose slightly. A sneakoscope. Still polished and humming slightly, as if to say “You’re not in danger, but not not in danger either.”
Not all junk, then.
He straightened slowly and scanned the room again, or at least as much of it as he could see from where he stood.
It would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. But there had to be more useful things like this buried here.
Things no one else had found.
He slipped the sneakoscope into his pocket.
A thought flickered, brief and half-formed. He could come back. Spend time here. Sort through it all. Find things.
But he forced the thought away.
Harry stepped back out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. When he turned back and asked for his usual study room, the door shifted easily beneath his hand.
A task for another day, he told himself.
For now, he had a bone-breaking curse to perfect.
*
September 20, 1995
That Wednesday was Harry’s first Slytherin Quidditch practice.
Well, the third overall, but the first he was attending. He and Flint had agreed he would come to every third practice until the week before a match, when he would attend every session Flint scheduled.
As he walked onto the pitch, Firebolt slung over his shoulder, he caught Malfoy’s eye. The former Seeker was glaring so hard Harry thought, if it were possible, he might have burst into flames.
Harry allowed the smallest crack in his neutral expression, just enough of an upturn of his lips to suggest a smirk.
Oh, look at that. Malfoy had never turned quite so red before. There was practically steam coming out of his ears. He could have been an advert for Pepperup Potion.
“Potter. Glad you could make it.”
Flint, broad-shouldered and already wind-roughed despite not yet taking to the air, looked unusually pleased to see him. There was a sharp glint in his eye, as though he could already picture himself holding the Quidditch Cup at the end of the year.
Harry nodded. “Thanks.”
He didn’t say he was glad to be there. He was, in truth, thrilled to be playing again, but he could do without the green and silver on his uniform.
At least it gave him a chance to use the professional-grade Seeker gear he’d bought in Diagon Alley. It would have gone to waste otherwise.
“Right. Since you missed tryouts, here’s the team.” Flint gestured as he spoke. “Malfoy, Montague, and I are Chasers. Goyle and Crabbe are Beaters. Bletchley’s our Keeper. And Potter, of course, you’ll be our Seeker.”
Harry nodded to each player in turn. Montague and Bletchley returned the gesture. Malfoy and his cronies did not.
Flint continued, “We’ve got reserves for each position. Warrington and Zabini for Chasers, Pucey as a Beater, and Malfoy will fill in as Seeker if something happens to you, Potter. The reserves won’t practice with us all the time, but I’ll bring them out now and then to keep them sharp and used to working with the team.”
“Now let’s stop wasting time. Bletchley, stick to the north side of the stadium. Malfoy, Montague, two on one against me. Crabbe, Goyle, aim most of the bludgers their way as a handicap, but send the occasional one toward me and Potter. Potter…” Flint’s gaze flicked to him, assessing. “You know the drill. I’ll release a Snitch. While you’re searching, disrupt the Chasers where you can. Alternate sides.”
The team nodded. Malfoy still looked mutinous.
A moment later, they were airborne. The snitch shot free, bludgers followed, and the quaffle was already flying between the Chasers.
Harry gave the snitch a minute’s head start and watched his new team instead.
Flint had been right. Malfoy was well-suited to the Chaser position. His passes to Montague were clean, and he didn’t seem to struggle gaining control of the quaffle from Flint.
Without another team to provoke them, the Slytherin play was better. Still aggressive, but controlled.
Usually they burned themselves out through penalties or injuries. That likely explained the reserves, something Gryffindor had never needed.
The next hour went well. Harry caught the snitch twice and released it both times, disrupted Chaser play four times, and even forced Malfoy to fumble the quaffle when no teammate was close enough to recover.
That, admittedly, had been satisfying.
They were losing light quickly now, and Harry expected Flint to call the end of practice soon. Still, he wanted one more catch.
He turned away from the Chasers and focused on the search.
He spotted the Snitch within five minutes, hovering near the stands usually occupied by teachers and visiting parents. Flattening himself along his broom, Harry accelerated. The Snitch darted left, and he followed, adjusting without hesitation.
It skimmed the wooden barrier encircling the pitch, fast. Nearly as fast as the brand-new Snitches used in official matches. Flint must have purchased it recently. The enchantments hadn’t begun to degrade yet.
Harry stretched out his hand.
Something rushed toward him from the side. Likely a bludger. He didn’t look. He was too close to lose concentration.
His fingers closed around the Snitch, wings fluttering wildly against his palm.
Then he jerked upward, out of the path of the bludger.
Only it wasn’t a bludger.
A body slammed into him, driving him hard into the wooden enclosure. The upper edge struck his ribs and something cracked as the force folded him over it.
His broom dropped away beneath him. He barely managed to catch himself, arm locking as he hauled himself over the barrier and into the stands beyond.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Malfoy?” Flint’s voice boomed across the pitch.
Harry dragged himself fully over the wall and collapsed onto the wooden bench, staring up at a deepening blue sky where the first stars were beginning to show. His breath came sharp and uneven.
His rib was broken. Maybe more than one.
The pain flared with every inhale, sharp and bright enough to make his vision swim. His fingers clenched reflexively, tightening around the Snitch still trapped in his palm.
“Just thought I’d give Potter a real Seeker’s practice,” Malfoy replied, smug. “Can’t be much use without an opposing Seeker.”
Harry turned his head. The team hovered nearby, watching. Flint looked like he was about to knock Malfoy off his broom.
“That’s not the practice I was running,” Flint snapped. “And Potter didn’t agree to full-contact Seeker drills. You don’t get to change the rules mid-flight when he’s not prepared for it.”
His eyes narrowed. “And if you damage my brand-new star Seeker before he wins us a single damn match, I can guarantee you won’t be taking his place. I’ll put a fucking second year in before I keep someone who can’t follow a simple order. Get off the pitch. You’re done for the day.”
Wow. Flint had a bit of a potty-mouth.
Malfoy flew off, shooting one last smug look toward Harry.
“That goes for the rest of you,” Flint called. “We’re done. Pack it in.”
As the team descended, Flint angled toward the stands and dismounted a few rows above Harry.
“Are you injured, Potter?”
Harry pushed himself upright, bracing for pain—
There was none.
He stilled.
Just moments ago, every breath had burned. Now…nothing. Not even an ache.
He twisted slightly, testing. Still nothing.
“Er…no,” Harry said slowly. “I think I’m fine. Just had the wind knocked out of me.”
Flint studied him once, then again.
“Good. Sorry about that. I can’t promise Malfoy won’t try again. He’s a little shite. But he’ll face consequences if he does. He’s a good player when he wants to be, but you’re better. More consistent. And if he starts causing problems on my team, he’s out.”
Harry blinked. “Right. I…appreciate that.”
His Firebolt hovered nearby, having drifted slightly from where he’d lost it.
“It’s my last year,” Flint added with a shrug. “I want a shot at the professional league. That means winning matches to get scouted, not dealing with rubbish drama.”
He retrieved Harry’s broom with a short flight, and handed it over.
“So if I have to bench Malfoy to keep you, I will.” Flint looked faintly pleased by the idea. “I’ll run him ragged next few practices. Might take the edge off.”
Harry huffed a quiet laugh.
“Did you catch the Snitch before he hit you?”
“Oh. Yeah.” Harry opened his hand.
The Snitch lay still in his palm.
Completely still.
The wings that had been beating frantically moments before now hung limp, as though whatever magic had animated it had simply…ceased.
Flint took it, frowning as he turned it over.
“That’s odd. It’s brand new. Should’ve lasted several practices before slowing down, let alone burning out completely.”
He shook his head, dismissing it. “I’ll write to Quality Quidditch. Must have gotten a dud.”
Flint glanced back at him. “Let’s head in.”
“Actually, I think I’ll stay a bit longer. Take a couple laps.”
Flint shrugged. “Suit yourself. See you later.”
He kicked off and flew toward the castle.
Harry sat back down, his hand drifting to his ribs.
There should have been pain. There should have been something.
Instead, there was nothing.
He lifted his shirt and checked. No bruising. Not even a mark.
Harry let the fabric fall and stared out over the pitch, the last light fading across the grass.
How the hell had he healed himself?