next »

[Inkwolf]

Chapter 1


Albus Severus Potter stared out the window of the Hogwarts Express, sucked a licorice wand, and restlessly kicked the seat across from him.  He barely jumped when the cold, clammy chocolate frog splatted onto his face.

“Sorry about that, it got away from me,” said Rose.  “Will you stop mooning?”

“I’m going to be in Slytherin, I just know it,” he said hollowly.  “I dreamed about it every night this week. It’s like a dismal fate hanging over my head.”

“Don’t be melodramatic, Al,” said Rose, examining the card that had come wrapped with the frog.  “Oooh, Alastor Moody!  Dismal fate, indeed.  Once and for all, there’s no way you’re going to be in—“ Rose’s face froze, her eyes locked onto something above Albus’s head.

“What?” he asked.

Rose suddenly turned toward the window and her voice took on the slightly higher pitch she habitually used when she was lying. “Of course you’re not fated to be in Slytherin, don’t be silly.”

“What IS it?” Albus demanded.  When she didn’t answer, he rose from his seat and looked where she had stared, at the shelf where his trunk was stored.

Something slithered.

“Snakes!” he said in horror.  A small, gold, venomous-looking reptile was embossed on the metal nameplate of his trunk, and twined contentedly among his initials. “There’s snakes on my luggage!  Why are there snakes on my luggage?”

“Relax, I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything,” Rose insisted, as Albus dropped down in the empty seat beside her, to continue staring in horror at his trunk. “I’m sure that the witch who monogrammed it just added that for fun.  Because of your initials, you know.”

The letters ASP gleamed from the nameplate of his trunk.  The little gold snake’s eyes glittered as it put out its tongue at Albus.

Albus moved back to the other side.  “I AM going to be in Slytherin!” he wailed.

“You are NOT—“ Rose was interrupted as a group of older students burst through the  door of the compartment, scuffling.  A dark-haired boy was struggling and shouting as three others shoved him to the wall.

“That’s right, hang on to him!  Get the window open, Larken!” shouted a tall, blonde boy with spiked hair. “Are you going to admit it or not?”

“---- off!” shouted the dark boy, using a word Albus had occasionally heard from his Uncle Ron.

“Defenestration, stage one!” sad the blond boy. 

With a heave, they shoved their victim out the train window.

Rose screamed.  Albus jumped up, his heart in his throat.  The boy hung by his knees from the window, nothing of him left inside the train but his feet, ankles and calves, which were being held tightly by his tormentors.

“Say it, Prince!” said the blond boy.

“Bite me!” shouted the boy outside the window.

“Don’t tempt me!” said the blond boy.  “Defenestration stage two!” He grabbed an ankle and pulled up, leaving the shouting boy hanging by one knee.  Albus desperately tried to think of a way to help, but any interference seemed likely to be more fatal than helpful.

“SAY IT!”

The boy outside shouted something.

“Say it like you MEAN it.  Defenestration…Stage Three!”  The blond boy seized the other foot and held it up.  Rose screamed again, as did the boy outside. All that kept the victim from falling beneath the train wheels now were the hands clutching his ankles.

“You really don’t want to see Defenestration Stage Four, old son…”

“The Bats will win everything this year!” the boy outside screamed.  “The Bats are the best! Ballycastle FOREVER!”

“Bring him in,” said the blond boy. With some difficulty, the other boy was pulled back in through the window and was dropped, panting, onto the floor of the train.  “There, Prince, was that so hard?  You could’ve said it right off, then we wouldn’t have had this ugly little incident.” The blond boy was backing away as he spoke, and when he was finished he ran, followed by his giggling cohorts.

“Are you all-“ Rose began

Ignoring her, the boy jumped to his feet, and shouted, “YOU TOSSERS!  YOU COULD HAVE FREAKING KILLED ME!” He charged out of the compartment, after his fleeing aggressors. “AND BALLYCASTLE SUCKS, D’YOU HEAR ME, SUUUUUUUCKS!”

The compartment was silent for a long time, as Albus’s pulse gradually returned to normal.

“There, you see?” Rose finally said.  THAT’S the sort of person who gets put in Slytherin.  You don’t have a worry in the world.”

“Were they Slytherin?” Albus asked.

“Honestly!” said Rose.  “They had Slytherin ties and Slytherin badges! Didn’t you notice anything? You are SO unobservant.”

“Am not!” said Albus.  “I noticed that boy’s shoes.  I memorized them.  I expect I’ll be seeing them in my nightmares.”

After a moment more, Albus stood up and shut the window.  And latched it.



“Ere yoo are, the firs’ years!” shouted the skinny, pock-marked man who had brought them to the castle.  “Coo, I’m wet through…”   

Albus shivered in his own damp cloak.

“Thank you, Mr. Shunpike,” said a tall, dark woman with a slow, drawling voice like silk.  She let her gaze slide slowly over the new students, as if she was seeking out someone among them. 

“Right stormy it was, crossing the lake,” continued Mr. Shunpike. 

“Yes, I’m sure it was.  Thank you Mr. Shunpike.”

“But I got ‘em through all right. And I fink the lightning frightened the squid, ‘cause—“

The woman made a sudden slash at the students with her magic wand. Albus gasped with surprise along with the others, before realizing that he was now dry. All the water had been wrenched from his cloak to splatter over—

“Coo!”

“Oh, I am sorry, Mr. Shunpike. You mustn’t stand here in the cold any longer, hurry along to the Great Hall and warm yourself by the fire.”

Mr. Shunpike mumbled something, sneezed, and wandered off, leaving a puddle in his wake.

The woman turned to the students with a mysterious smile.  “Welcome to Hogwarts.  I am Professor Sylvanus. I congratulate you. You are about to begin your lives as practicing wizards and witches, and you will begin by being sorted into your houses.  There are four houses at Hogwarts, each with its own fascinating history and venerable traditions. 

“You may find yourself in my house.  Slytherin, where dwell the subtle of strategy, the secret of purpose and the lofty of ambition.”  Albus shuddered as her gaze seemed to settle on him for a moment.  “Or yet you may join Gryffindor, that house of those who charge boldly in where the wise fear to tread.  Those of cerebral tastes and intellectual prowess may find a home in Ravenclaw, while those with more…practical natures settle in Hufflepuff.”

“When we arrive in the Great Hall, your names will be called out one by one.  You will proceed to the sorting hat and put it on.  Once you have been sorted, you will join your house table.  Are there any questions?  This way, then.”

”Oh, great, they’re going to call out my name in front of everyone,” Albus muttered.  Rose took his hand and gave it a nervous squeeze, which didn’t comfort him.

James had gotten the normal names.  James Arthur Potter.  Nothing wrong with that, now, was there?  So what had possessed his parents to name their second child ‘Albus Severus?’  What a clunker.  When he was of age, the first thing he’d do was change his name to Mike.

They reached the Great Hall, and the hat sang a song Albus was worrying too much to listen to.  Finally, Professor Sylvanus unrolled a scroll.  With a wry twist of her mouth, she called out the first name.

“Voldemortine Avery!”  A hunched-shouldered girl with what looked like a permanently apologetic expression etched onto her face scuttled forward and donned the sorting hat.  Suddenly Albus felt better about his own name.

“Hufflepuff!”

“Albus Basingstoke!” “Ravenclaw!”

That wasn’t so bad…he wasn’t even the only Albus.

The list of names went on and on. There were a few more Albuses and even a Severus or two.   “I hate waiting!” Albus Potter whispered fiercely to Rose. “I wish my last name started with an A!”

“I’m a W, so stop whining,” said Rose.  “Be glad you’re not an S, then you’d really have problems with your initials.”  Albus snorted with laughter, but stopped as Professor Sylvanus languidly fixed her eyes on him.   He turned his attention to the hat, which was sorting a boy named Scorpius Malfoy.

“Gryffindor!”

“WHAT?” the boy demanded, his mouth hanging open in an almost theatrical expression of incredulity.

“A balance must be maintained,” said the hat apologetically.  “Gryffindor!”  The Malfoy walked to the applauding Gryffindor table, his face still twisted in almost horrified bafflement.

Albus felt a slight qualm.  Didn’t his father say the hat took your preferences into account?  Not by the look on Scorpius Malfoy’s face. 

“ALBUS….SEVERUS….POTTER!”

Did she have to read his middle name as well, he wondered.  Some of the older teachers were watching him with particular interest.  Oh, of course, he thought—he was named after two headmasters.  No doubt that made him fascinating to teachers.

He picked up the ragged hat and lowered it over his head, chanting in his mind all the while, “Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor”

There was a moment of silence.  Then the hat’s voice seemed to speak in his head.  “Have you…considered the benefits of Slytherin?” It sounded nervous, somehow.

“Not Slytherin, not Slytherin, not Slytherin, not Slytherin, not Slytherin, not Slytherin, not Slytherin,” Albus concentrated.

“Um…you do have the ambition and resourcefulness a Slytherin requires,” said the hat hopefully.  “Perhaps you’d be willing to give it a chance? It would make things easier for me…”

“Gryffindor,” Albus thought.  “Gryffindorgryffindorgryffindorgryffindorgryffindorgryffindorgryffindorgryffindorgryffindorgryffindorgryffindor—“

The hat seemed to sigh.  “There’s only so far I can bend the rules, even as a favor.  One must do what’s right.  Very well, then, Gr--mmph!”

“SLYTHERIN!” a voice—not the hat’s voice—rang out.

Albus’s own horror seemed mirrored in the reaction of the teachers.  There were gasps of shock.  One old woman let a crystal goblet fall, to shatter on the stone floor.  The hall seemed to freeze.

Suddenly there was a ragged scream of triumph from the Slytherin table.  A boy jumped on to the tabletop and bellowed, “WE’VE GOT A POTTER!!”  He began singing, “We’ve gotta Potta!  We’ve gotta Potta!”  Soon the rest of the Slytherins were chanting along, beating time on the table.  The noise snapped the teachers out of their stunned trance, and they huddled together, whispering frantically.

“Go on, dear,” said Professor Sylvanus gently.  With shaking hands, Albus removed the hat from his head and shuffled toward the Slytherin table.  He dared a brief glance at the Gryffindors—long enough to see James’s stunned expression and Scorpius Malfoy’s jealous indignation—and hurried on.  The boy on the tabletop was dancing now, and—good lord—seemed to be removing his clothing.  He had already taken off his school robe and tossed it to the rowdy Slytherin mob, and was now undoing his tie.

Albus knew Slytherin was the house of dark wizards and thugs.  Nobody had told him about the lunatics.

The teachers seemed to suddenly notice the uproar in the hall.  A man—the Headmaster, Albus guessed—pounded on the table with his fist.

“Silence!” he roared.  “Silence this minute!  Mr. Prince, if you remove one more article of clothing, you will spend the month in detention!”  The boy on the table stopped, wide-eyed and hopping, in the middle of pulling off a sock.  Then he lost his balance and fell among the empty dishes with a horrific din.

“Let us all remember our manners,” the Headmaster went on.  “Retake your seats—all of you!  You, too, young Potter! On with the sorting.”

As the next student approached the sorting hat, Albus sat in the nearest empty chair at the Slytherin table.  He was between a pudgy boy who seemed half asleep and a pair of girls keeping up a whispered conversation over whether someone he didn’t know ought to dump someone else he didn’t know.

Albus sat, wretched and miserable, as the sorting continued.  He watched as Rose was sorted, and she gave him a sad smile as she went to join the cheering Gryffindors.

Finally the last of the new students was sorted. The Headmaster rose to speak, and there were quiet groans from the students.

“Welcome to Hogwarts, newcomers!  And for you returning students, welcome back!  I am Headmaster Cornelius Fudge.  I know you are all hungry, so I will be as brief as possible…”

Albus had thought he was wretched already, but as the Headmaster’s speech droned on and on about the joys of learning, he sank into a misery that knew no bounds.  He wanted nothing but to go back home.  But he wondered whether they would even want him back.

“You were named after two Hogwarts Headmasters” his father had said.  “One of them was in Slytherin, and was probably the bravest man I’ve ever known.”

On the other hand, his father had also claimed that the hat would take his choice into account.  What was it the hat had said about only being able to bend the rules so far?  Was he just not brave enough to be in Gryffindor?  He knew he wasn’t as brave as James.  He had always known it.

One time only, he had dared to confess it. It was the day James had sneaked out with Father’s broomstick, crashed into a tree, split his lip and scraped half the skin off his left cheek…and then tried again, and broke both his legs.  James had invited Albus to ride along, but he had refused, afraid of getting into trouble. He had felt almost guilty about James being the only one to get hurt.

That night he had whispered his shameful secret to his mother as she kissed him goodnight.  “I’m not as brave as James,” he had told her.

“You’re smarter than James,” his mother had answered as she turned off the light. But he knew that he had chickened out, whatever Mum said.

But even so…he frowned.  There had been something odd about the hat’s voice, and even the teachers had noticed. Albus looked toward the teacher’s table, and three of them who had been watching him hastily looked away.  Albus turned away, watching them through the corner of his eye.  Several of them kept sneaking peeks at him.  The rest kept sneaking peeks at their watches.

“In conclusion—“ said Headmaster Fudge, and the collective sigh of relief made the tapestries flap.

The dishes on the table magically filled, and the boy next to Albus suddenly woke up and started filling his plate with everything in reach.  Albus listlessly helped himself.  Hungry as he was, he still didn’t feel like eating.

Suddenly there was a rustle at his shoulder and something poked his neck.  Reaching up, he found a paper dart on his shoulder. He unfolded it.

It was a note.  It said, “Even if you’re an evil git, you’re still my brother.”

Across the Great Hall, James was grinning at him and giving him a thumbs-up.  Choking, Albus forced a smile, trying to hold back his tears, and returned the gesture.

“Push off, Simms, you’re in my spot.”  The boy next to Albus was dumped rudely to the floor, and someone else straddled the chair.  It was the tabletop stripper. He had his robe and tie slung over one shoulder, and his shoes still in his hand.

Simms swore at the boy and took his plate elsewhere.  The boy thumped Albus on the back in what was clearly meant to be a friendly way.  It hurt.  “Albus Severus Potter,” he said, with special emphasis on the second name.  “To think you’re the son of the man who actually saw him die!”

”Huh?” said Albus.

“I’m Albert Prince,” said the boy.  “Last scion of the Prince family, and last living relative of the late, great Severus Snape, whose noble name you bear.  We second Severuses need to stick together, don’t we?”

“Um,” said Albus.  He was totally lost, but this Prince boy seemed thrilled by their meeting.

“Here, hang on—let me look at you,” Prince demanded, seizing Albus by the chin. 

“Hey!” Albus protested angrily.  Prince held his gaze, staring with a fanatical gleam in his black eyes.  Then he released Albus’s chin and shook his head.

“Doesn’t do a thing for me,” he said.  “Still it’s all interesting.  Come on, you’ve got to see Hero.” 

“What?” said Albus, but Prince already had the back of his collar and was dragging him along down the table, only to park him in a chair next to a blond boy with spiked hair.

“Maaaster, I breeng you—POTTA!” said Prince in a squeaky rasp.  Then to Albus, normally, “This is Hieronymus Yorick, captain of the Quidditch team.  Bow down, lowly peon.”

The blond boy looked up, and Albus recognized him.  It was the bully from the train.  Suddenly he made a connection—he stared it the shoes in Prince’s hand.  They were also familiar.

“You’re the one they threw out the window!” he accused.  “On the train, in my compartment!”

“Oh, was that you?” said Prince. “That was just a bit of fun. “

“Just a bit of fun,” Yorick agreed.

“Fun?” said Albus.  “Fun?!”

“Here,” said Yorick, passing a sheet of folded paper to Albus.

“What’s this?”

“Quidditch practice schedule.  Starts tomorrow morning, and we expect you bright and early on the pitch—five most mornings, and maybe sometimes four if the other teams start doing early mornings—

“But I can’t play Quidditch!” Albus protested.  “I can’t even fly yet!”

“Course you can,” said Yorick.  “You’re Ginny Potter’s son, aren’t you?  Best seeker in England, when she played.  And your dad—youngest Hogwarts seeker in a hundred years.  You’ll beat that record.”

“I’ve never flown on my own!” Albus protested.  “And I’m afraid of heights.  And I get broom-sick, even when I’m a passenger!”

“Well get you over that,” said Yorick, with a shark’s grin.

Yeah,” said Prince.  “It’ll be fun.”

“It’ll be fun,” Yorick echoed.

“We’re fated to work together,” said Prince, smacking Albus on the shoulder.  “You know, Eileen Snape was the sister of—“

“My Dad still talks about the Cannons game where your mum—“ Yorick began at the same time.

“…grandfather on my father’s side—“

“…went into a dive, and Abbot—“

“…grew up reading about all his—“

“…two bludgers collided RIGHT in front of her—“

“…been practicing my Occlumency day and night—“

“…the most egregious foul ever committed in a tournament—“

“…quite a family resemblance, too, or so I’m told—“

At first Albus turned his head from side to side, trying to keep track of both baffling conversations.  He quickly gave up, and simply helped himself to some food.  He ate as the two older students chattered on in their own little worlds, apparently not concerned by his inattention in the least. 

Eventually, they began discussing the recent World Cup between themselves.  By the time a prefect came around to take the first years to the dormitory, Prince and Yorick had got past the discussion phase, through the sarcasm era, and were now beyond the name-calling stage and well into the insult-shouting event.  They barely paused to acknowledge Albus when he wished them a good night, and he left, more ready for sleep than any time he remembered in his life.

[Louisa]

Inkwolf, how can you possibly describe this as garbage?  Shame on you.

I love that you have Stan delivering first years, and that you leave him soaking wet when the students are dried off.

As for Fudge as headmaster - no wonder Snape could get away with what he did with the Sorting Hat. 

The descriptions of the houses are wonderful - why does Gryffindor sound like the reckless house rather than the brave one?   

James ARTHUR Potter - love it!   And Albus wants to change his name to Mike - classic   

Voldemortine Avery in Hufflepuff - poor poor girl.

“I’m a W, so stop whining,” said Rose.  “Be glad you’re not an S, then you’d really have problems with your initials.”

I never even thought of that.  Poor kid would have been really stuffed with that one.

Scorpius's reaction was great.  I can picture him refusing to move until the hat changed its mind. 

I love the Slytherins' reaction to Albus being sorted into their house.  Warrants a stripper does it?

Albus knew Slytherin was the house of dark wizards and thugs.  Nobody had told him about the lunatics.

I have tears running down my face at this point and am getting very odd looks from my family.

“Even if you’re an evil git, you’re still my brother.”

And why doesn't this surprise me? I get the impression that James is the type to be as thoughtless as Ron on occasions.

I can't wait to see what you do with the first quidditch practice...or is that a job you're going to be delivering to one of your minions helpers?

[Inkwolf]

Glad you're enjoying it--I'm havin fun with restaffing!  When JKR said there would be a new Headmaster, I couldn't imagine anyone it could be...I imagine Flitwick as older than McGonagall.  I figured I'd need new character. Then it hit me that Fudge was still at large, needed a job, and would love to step high in Dumbledore's shoes.  He was the perfect choice. :p

Stan Shunpike now has Filch's job and is Keeper (and frequent Loser) of the Keys.  Hagrid is off in France with Maxime, the centaurs do the gamekeeping, and Professor Sylvanus is the Care of Magical Creatures professor. She sort of shares Hagrid's fascination for dark and dangerous creatures, and for illegal breeding, I'm afraid. Though she goes more for insidious creepy things than roaring beasts who can bite your head off.

I can't wait to see what you do with the first quidditch practice...or is that a job you're going to be delivering to one of your minions helpers?

Weeeeeellll, I originally expected it to be it that way.  But now that I've actually written Prince and Yorick together, I'm not sure.  I feel they have this beautiful, horrible chemistry between them, that any task they undertake together is going to snowball into a mad disaster of epic proportions...and the two of them teaching lil Asp to fly seems rife with awful possibilities...

[Louisa]

Hehehe.  Sounds like you don't want to let this baby go - can't delegate now that you've started it. 

Anyway, looking forward to seeing more. 

[ignisia]

Poor Voldemortine...

I love how you've written Albert and Yorick. It's.....creepy.

Now I want to know what happened with the hat. Maybe it was Sev yelling really loudly from his portrait. Speaking of which....any chance little Alby will be visiting Headmaster Fudge's office anytime soon? I NEEDS ME MY SNARK!!!

[Sstar]

Inky, I found it utterly enthralling... and I usually don't bother with forum fics.   
I truly love everything about it. 

One thing though--well, actually, two:
1.  Where did Prince's father (Snape's uncle and contemporary, I assume) go that we didn't hear of him earlier?  Couldn't have been Hogwarts...   Or are you just wielding that old familiar power of authorial creative license to make family members spring out of nowhere?   
2.  Is there supposed to be some weird and deeper connection with Professor Sylvanus?  I smell something *fishy* about her, though completely benign. 

anywho, keep up the good work

[Inkwolf]

Glad you;re enjoying it! :p

1.  Where did Prince's father (Snape's uncle and contemporary, I assume) go that we didn't hear of him earlier?  Couldn't have been Hogwarts...   Or are you just wielding that old familiar power of authorial creative license to make family members spring out of nowhere?   

Prince's grandfather was Snape's cousin. (His great-grandfather was Snape's uncle.) He was older than Snape, didn't really know him in school, and didn't get involved with the Death Eaters.  Still, the pureblood Princes had no use for their halfblood relation back then.[/quote]

And yeah, I'm making it appear out of the blue. :p  For all we know the Princes are extinct, or all over the place like bunnies.
 

2.  Is there supposed to be some weird and deeper connection with Professor Sylvanus?  I smell something *fishy* about her, though completely benign. 

She's the SDlytherin house head.  I don;t have any mahor plans for her, but we'll see wher the story leads.  The oddest things sometimes happen...

I'm working on Chapter 2 now...shouldn;t be wasting my weekend this way, but I'm having fun.   In Chapter Three, Albus will have to touch base with Rose and James, and I'm not sure what's going to happen there, so there might be a long break after #2.

Snark is on the way, Iggy!
Posted on: August 12, 2007, 01:07:50 PMThe Asp at Hogwarts

Chapter 2

Albus dreamed he was in a land of chilling mist.  As he walked, struggling to find some landmark he recognized, his feet grew colder and colder.  Finally he looked down to see what he was walking on.

It was a mass of snakes.  White snakes, formed of snow, with eyes and fangs of crystal ice.  Albus gasped, and tried to leap back, but there was no snake-free place to leap to. His foot slipped from under him and he fell, slowly, to land in the cold, coiled masses.

Albus leaped out of bed with a shout.  He hopped from one foot to another, feeling pins and needles as the circulation came back.  His feet were nearly frozen!

“I wondered how long it would take to wake you,” a voice sounded in the darkness.  “I think there must be some sloth in your family bloodline, Potter.”

Albus looked around hastily.  All the other Slytherin first years seemed to be sleeping soundly.  And the voice had been a man’s voice, in any case.

“Who’s there?” Albus demanded.

“Open your eyes, Potter,” The voice was heavy with disdain.  Albus looked around the room again, but saw nobody.  Something moved suddenly out of the moonlight toward him.  Albus yelped and leaped back, and the figure stopped.

“You’re a ghost,” Albus gasped.  The figure of a man crossed its arms across its chest and looked down at him with a faint sneer.  The ghost was black-clad, with black hair hanging in lank curtains to nearly cover its face.  In the darkness, only its hands and face shone silver, a faint glow around its outline being all that distinguished the rest of its form from the night.

“How long are you going to stand there cowering like a frightened rat?” the ghost asked.

“I’m not cowering!” Albus protested, wishing his voice hadn’t squeaked on the high note.  “I’m not afraid of ghosts!” It was a lie.  The ghost smirked.

“No?”

“No!” said Albus firmly.  “Ghosts are just souls that didn’t have the guts to move on!”

“Souls with guts.  What a lovely picture you paint,” said the ghost.  “Where did you pick up that little gem of wisdom?”

“My father told me,” said Albus defiantly.

“And of course, your father is ALWAYS right, is he not?”

Albus remembered the sorting hat and bit his lip.  Then his eyes widened.  “YOU!” he shouted. “It was YOU who put me in Slytherin!  That was YOUR voice!”

The ghost smirked again.

With a shout of rage, Albus hurled his pillow at the spirit.  It went right through, leaving the ghost unruffled.

“If you wish to wake the entire dormitory, by all means carry on shouting,” said the ghost.  “It will only make your task more difficult.”

“What task?” Albus growled.  “You put me in Slytherin, you…you…FEWMET!”

“There is one task that must be performed before I can be completely at peace,” said the ghost.  “You are the one who will carry it out.”

“Fat chance,” said Albus.  “You can roll over in your grave for eternity, for all I’m going to help you.”

“Come here,” said the ghost sharply.  “Look at me.”  It was an order, clearly not to be disobeyed.  Though Albus felt its authority, he resisted, reluctant to make eye contact.  The ghost touched his face, and Albus flinched away from the cold.  His gaze met that of the ghost, and he was transfixed, the dark holes boring into his eyes and seeming to penetrate his mind and soul.  Albus stood paralyzed in the force of that stare.

The ghost looked away and Albus broke free, falling to the floor and gasping for breath. He felt a coldness inside him, as if the gaze had been a physical touch.

“You are the one,” the ghost said in a tightly controlled voice, continuing to look away.  “This is your task to complete and you must be the one to do it.  You are, in a sense…the chosen one”

“This is…this is ridiculous,” Albus complained.  “What task?”  The sooner he knew what it was, the sooner he could start getting out of it.

The ghost’s distant gaze focused on him again.  “Are you hungry?” it asked suddenly.

“Am I--what?  No!”

“You’re lying,” said the ghost.  “Boys your age are always hungry.  Go to the kitchen and get yourself a snack.”

“A snack?”  Albus was completely baffled now.  “This is the task you need me to do before you can rest?  Me getting a snack?”

“Think of it as a training exercise and do as you’re told,” said the ghost.

“Forget it,” said Albus.  “It’s probably against the rules.  I know it’s against the rules to be out of the dormitory at night, anyway.”

“Against the rules?”  Another smirk seemed to be tugging at the ghost’s lip.  “Are you…entirely sure you’re not adopted?”

“And I have no idea where the kitchen is, anyway!”

“How sad it is when generations fail,” said the ghost. “His parents can find a tiny snitch in acres of sky.  His father found the horcruxes cleverly hidden by the most fiendish dark wizard in history.  And yet the son claims to be incapable of finding a kitchen large enough to feed a thousand students within a single building.  Are you really content to be the weak link in a famous family forever?” 

With another shout of rage, Albus hurled a shoe through the smirking ghost. 

“Good. I know a way for you to prove once and for all that you’re not to be underestimated. Go, now. You have your mission.”

“Fine,” Albus shouted.  “It’s stupid, BUT WHY NOT?” he stomped to the dormitory exit.  Then he stopped and looked back. “Who are you, anyway?” he demanded.

There was no answer.  The ghost was gone.

Albus considered going back to bed, but he was too angry to sleep now, anyway..  He slipped through the common room, the moonlight sending an eerie, rippling glow through the lake waters, and into the corridor.

“Right,” thought Albus..  “The kitchen is probably on the main floor or the lowest level.  And it’s likely that it’s right near the Great Hall, so let’s start there….”  He slipped back the way he had come from the feast, the slapping of his bare feet on the flagstones echoing in the empty halls. At one point he heard tuneless whistling, and had to hide behind a suit of armor while Mr. Shunpike cheerfully swept the corridor with a utility broom.

As he neared the great hall, Albus could hear voices in heated discussion.  They grew suddenly louder, and he barely had time to dodge behind a statue before the door burst open and the headmaster charged out.  The old woman who had dropped the goblet was with him, and they were followed by a tiny professor with white hair sticking up in all directions.

“—have no time for these sort of ridiculous fancies, Minerva,” Headmaster Fudge was saying.  “We are all surprised that the boy was put in Slytherin, but bad apples can come from the best of trees.”

“But I KNOW his voice!” the old woman insisted.  “Cornelius, for heaven’s sake, I worked with him for nearly seventeen years!  I am not imagining things!  Just let me speak with the portrait—“

“Yes!” gasped the tiny man, who was struggling too hard to keep up with the Headmaster’s swift stride to contribute more.

The headmaster stopped and barked with laughter.  “Speak with it?” he said.  “You’re welcome to try, my dear.  He’s almost never in it.  So much for dedication to the school.  He’s got another portrait somewhere, and I can guess who’s got it.”  Fudge leaned forward.  “Potter!” he shouted, and Albus jumped.

“Cornelius, what are you--”

“Potter insisted that portrait be hung!  Potter paid to have it painted and donated it!  It was Potter’s wish all along that it hang with the other old headmasters.  And why?” He gestured dramatically.  “To have a spy in the Headmaster’s office, that’s why!”

“That’s ludicrous!” gasped the little man, who had finally caught his breath enough to speak. 

“Ludicrous, is it?” Fudge marched furiously down the corridor again, the teachers in his wake.  “It’s not like he never spied for Potter before! I tell you, Potter’s getting too old to run around after Dark wizards, and he wants to retire to a cushy desk job.  Well, if he thinks for a moment that he’s going to step into MINE—“

Albus stared after the Headmaster, trying to make sense of what he had heard. He had the infuriating feeling that he had all the pieces of the puzzle in his head, but it remained a messy, unsolved jigsaw and he had no clue how to put it together.

He heard more teachers’ voices approaching, and he ran. Turning a corner suddenly, he tumbled down a flight of stairs, and picked himself up painfully at the bottom.  He was about to head back to the Slytherin dormitory when the aroma of food hit his nostrils.  He followed the odors of roasted meats and steaming porridge to the place where it seemed the strongest.  There was no door, but a painting hung on the wall. 

“That’s odd,” Albus thought as he looked at it.  It took him a while to realize why it struck him as odd, though.

Every painting he had seen in the castle that night was a portrait of some sort or other.  Painted witches and wizards, balls and hunts and battles—all contained peacefully sleeping people or creatures. This painting was nothing but a bowl of fruit.

Albus poked at it.  To his surprise, the pear made an ‘eep’ of surprise and wiggled.  He poked it several times more and the pear chortled and shook—then suddenly a door opened.  With a rush of pleased satisfaction, Albus found himself gazing into a huge kitchen.  Vast cauldrons of porridge bubbled over an enormous fire, and surprised house elves turned to look at him.

“I’m feeling a bit peckish,” Albus announced.





It was a pleasanter dream than the last one.  Albus dreamed that he was lying in bed, half a sticky bun still clutched in his fist, when the bed suddenly rose and hovered.

“I’m floating!” he thought happily in his dream.

Then there was a jarring crash as he hit the stone floor and woke up.  The battered four-poster bed lay around him, where it had been tossed on its side. Sleepy first-years rubbed their eyes and looked on.

“Wakey wakey, moppet!” Prince called cheerfully.  “Did you forget Quidditch practice?

“Best get your petticoats on fast, Nellie, or we’ll make you fly starkers,” said Yorick. 

As Albus hastily dressed, Prince scooped up the remains of the bun.  “Someone’s been to the kitchens,” he observed.  “No breakkffft tll aftfter practiff,” he added with his mouth full.  Yorick clouted him on the back of the head.  And ate the rest of the bun.

A pack of annoyed-looking Slytherins were standing on the pitch. 

“I could have slept for fifteen more minutes,” grumbled a stocky girl.

“Lord knows you need your beauty rest, Goyle,” said Prince. “Soooo badly.”

“Right, that’s enough,” said Yorick, stepping between the two.  “You know the drills. You could have started without us.  Prince and I are going to be training the new Seeker anyway, so get your lazy brooms up there and work!”

Yorick turned to Albus as the other Slytherins kicked off the ground.  “Goyle is our keeper, Lanister and I are beaters, and Prince, Larken and Nott are our chasers. You know the rules of Quidditch?”

“Yeah,” said Albus.

“Rules? There are rules?” said Prince in a panicky voice.

“First rule around here is to ignore Prince when he’s being a colossal prat.  That’s nearly always.”

“I’m wounded, Hero.”

“Mortally, I hope.  You have a broom, Potter?”

“First years aren’t—

“At home, I mean.  One you can send for.”  Albus shook his head.  “Well, get on your parents and ask them to buy you one.  Tell them you’ve been made seeker.  I’m sure they’ll be pleased.”

Albus had a sudden urge to laugh. “I’m not sure they’ll do anything to help Slytherin win at Quidditch,” he said.

“Well, try,” said Yorick.  “And if all else fails…steal your brother’s broom.  For today you’ll be on Prince’s Kestrel.  I’d lend you mine, but it’s a Thundershock.  You’d be a grease spot on a tree in the Forbidden Forest before you figured out how to stop.”


Albus’s stomach twisted into a knot as he remembered he was expected to fly.  He hadn’t been kidding about his fear of heights and broom-sickness.  Prince returned with a highly polished broomstick and handed it to Albus. 

“I really think I should wait until I’ve had broomstick riding lessons,” he said.

“Rubbish, you don’t need lessons.  We’ll teach you,” said Yorick.  He scratched his head.  “How did we begin, do you remember, Prince?”

“Trying to get the broom to come up into your hand, wasn’t it?” said Prince.  He lay the broomstick on the ground.  “Right, now stick out your hand and call the broomstick up into it.”

“Up!” ordered Albus, willing with all his heart for the broom to stay on the grass.

The broom didn’t move.

“Mmf,” said Yorick.

“Hum,” said Prince.  “Try again.”

More confidently this time, Albus called, “UP!”  The broom stayed just where he wanted it.  Repeated trials continued to provide the same excellent result.

“I guess I’m just not ready to fly,” Albus said, his heart light.

“I think…” said Yorick slowly, “what you need is a little head start to get you going.  Prince, hold that broom for him.”  Prince held out his hand, and the Kestrel leaped into it as if it had only been waiting for the chance.  “Now, hold it in a hover there, while Potter gets on it.”

“It won’t work,” Albus muttered nervously as he mounted the floating broom.  He hovered, too, his feet inches off the ground.  Slowly, Prince moved the broom to shoulder height.

“Are you ready?” asked Yorick. 

“No!” Albus answered.

“Hang on!” said Yorick.

“Think flighty thoughts!” said Prince.

“Ready?  Go!”  Prince released the broom, and Albus dropped like a stone the short distance to the ground.

“Mmf,” said Yorick.

“Hum,” said Prince. “You’re not a closet squib or something, are you?”

“No!”

“Maybe a little impetus will help,” said Yorick.

“What, you mean run with him a bit?”

“Exactly.” 

Soon they had Albus on the hovering broomstick again.  “Now this time we’re going to run with you a way before letting go,” said Yorick.  “You try to keep it going, okay?”

“That’s all right guys, I really—“ said Albus, but they were already thundering across the pitch like a runaway coach.  Then there was a sickening sense of weightlessness as Yorick and Prince stopped, hurling him forward like a huge paper dart.

For a moment the momentum kept him moving.  Then his feet hit the ground and his head followed suit, Yorick and Prince stood panting behind him as he brushed divots off his body.

“Nice furrow you made,” said Yorick.  “I think you almost had it that time.  Let’s try it again.”

They tried four more times, and four more times Albus plowed the pitch with his face.

“Maybe we’re not going fast enough?” Yorick suggested.

“Ooh!  Get your Thundershock,” suggested Prince.   Above his protests, Albus soon found himself seated on the broomstick once more.  Beside him, holding his broom in the air, Yorick was mounted on his own broom.  It was a sleek, black thing with purple lightning bolts crackling across its smooth finish.

“Are you ready?” Yorick said.  Albus didn’t even bother to say no this time, he just fixed a white-knuckled grip on the Kestrel.

Yorick started, slowly around the pitch.  It reminded Albus of a muggle carnival ride he had enjoyed when he was younger.  Gradually, Yorick increased the speed until they were moving at a terrifying rate, the wind whistling in his ears. 

Albus couldn’t hear, but he saw Yorick shouting something.  He thought it was a warning that Yorick was going to let go.  Then he realized that Yorick had already let go.

He was flying!

Albus had never been so terrified in his life, but he WAS flying!  The nose of the broom dipped lightly, and Albus willed it back up—he had no desire to hit the turf at this speed.  In the center of the pitch, he saw Prince jumping and cheering.

At the far end of the pitch, he saw the stands approaching at dizzying speed.

Albus tried to will the broom to turn.  He tried leaning to the side, and it turned, but not enough.  He leaned further—and the broom flipped over, leaving him hanging from its underside.

His head hit first, snapping his neck back and wrenching his arms and legs free of the broomstick.  He bounced and tumbled helplessly end over end until he hit the stands with a sickening crunch.

Yorick landed beside him as Albus struggled to his feet, collapsed to his knees, and vomited everything that was in his stomach.

“That’s why we don’t eat breakfast before practice,” said Yorick helpfully.  All right, Potter?”

“I flew,” Albus croaked.

“You did that all right.”

“Is he still in one piece?” Prince came running up.

“Yeah,” said Yorick.  “I’m not sure whether to quit now or do the getting back on the horse thing.”

“Well, using the Thundershock is a bit much after all, I think,” said Prince.  “Next time he might not be so clever about stopping in time.  High speeds are maybe a little too…”  He waggled his hand in the air.

Yorick nodded.  “Let’s pack it in for the day, then.” 

They were passing the stairs to the observation stands when Prince froze and clutched his head.  “Here!” he shouted.  “I know what we’ve been doing wrong!  Come on!”  He charged up the steps.  Albus and Yorick followed.  “It’s like swimming!” Prince was shouting.  “You throw them in at the deep end!  Because if their feet can touch, they’ll never swim!  Right?”

“What?” said Yorick.

“I didn’t learn to swim like that!” said Albus, horrified at the idea and even more at the implication.  “Did you learn to swim like that?”

Prince stopped on the stairs and spun to face him.  “No,” he said.  There was a tension in his face, as if his intellect was fighting a terrible war with his enthusiasm.  It cleared up suddenly.

“Eagles!” he shouted, and charged back up the steps.

“Eagles!” Yorick repeated excitedly.  Apparently he had caught on.
Albus followed them up the stair, baffled, until they reached the stands.

“Eagles don’t get taken down to the ground and kicked back up,” Prince was shouting.  “Their mum kicks them off a cliff or a tree branch, the higher the better!  You see?  Speed’s not the answer.  We didn’t start high enough!”

“You’re cracked,” said Albus.  He looked over the edge to the ground below. Far below

“Come on, come on!” Prince’s face was agonized.  “I KNOW it will work, moppet!  You flew, you really flew!  You’ll fly again! This is the breakthrough!”

“We won’t make you do it if you’re not willing,” said Yorick, but Albus could see his face burning with the same excitement as Prince’s.”

Albus Potter took a firm grip on  Prince’s broomstick, stepped up the the edge of the stands, swallowed, and said, “All right, then.”

Once more, Prince held the broom in a hovering pattern as Albus sat on it.  “I flew,” he thought.  “I can fly again!”  His body was tense with real excitement, buried beneath the sheer terror.

“Are you ready?” Yorick asked again.

For the first time, Albus squeaked, “I’m ready!”

“All right, then.  One…two…THREE!”  Prince and Yorick hurled the broomstick into space.

Albus Potter dropped like a rock.

Consistently less far below than it was the moment before, the ground swelled up to engulf him, and with a panicked burst of will, Albus managed to pull the broomstick into a climb, his toes scraping on the grass.  Yelling, he headed straight into the sun, and into the midst of the practicing Quidditch team.  He bounced off a chaser, tumbled over a beater, and met a bludger head-on.  After that, the events took on a slow, dreamlike quality.  His hands had released their grip at the impact, and he saw them clawing desperately at the air for the Kestrel, finally catching hold of something.  He saw a broomstick spinning away below him.  He saw his hand slip from its grip on the goal ring just as Yorick flew up to snatch at his robes.  He saw his sleeve tear away and Yorick’s shout of horror.  And he saw the ground silently rushing up to smack him in the face.



“We oughtn’t to move him.”
“We already moved him.  We rolled him over.”

Albus was in a strange, bright, blurry place.  Dark shapes bent over him.

“His eyes opened.  I think he’s alive.”  A finger poked Albus in the ribs.  “Are you alive, moppet?”
“Ouch,” Albus managed to say.
“He’s alive, see?”
“For now.  Hey, Potter, can you walk, d’you think?”
“We ought to get someone.”
“Yeah, right. Do you have any idea how much trouble we’d be in?”
“It was your idea.”
“Won’t stop them from suspending the whole team.”
“Here, Potter—where’s it hurt?”
“Everywhere.”
“We should get a teacher.”
“Nah, he’ll be fine.  Just got the wind knocked out of ‘im.”

With an effort, Albus sat up.  It felt terrible. He retched, but he had nothing left to come up. “I’ve got to stop letting people talk me into things,” was the first conscious thought he had, apart from “Ouch.”

“There, you see?  He’s fine.  Looking bright as a button.”
“We should get a teacher.”

“No,” Albus croaked.  “I’m okay.” He staggered to his feet and swayed dizzily.

“Right.  Prince, you get him to the hospital wing.”
Prince gently took his arm.  “Come along, then.  Let’s take a little walk for our health, eh?”

Albus shuffled slowly, trying to identify any body parts that didn’t hurt.  When they were out of earshot of the others, Prince bent over him and said, “There’s a thing I’ve got to say …just between us, now…”

“S’all right,” Albus mumbled.

“No, no, hear me out.  Now, I know you’re in Slytherin and are therefore an ambitious rascal.  And I know how hard it is to be patient when you’re young.  But Hero and I have discussed this at length, and we are in full agreement.”

Prince looked down his nose sternly at Albus.  “I’m sorry, Potter, but we must insist that you take flying lessons before we can allow you to play with the Quidditch team again.

[mimble wimble]

“Think flighty thoughts!” said Prince.

“I’m sorry, Potter, but we must insist that you take flying lessons before we can allow you to play with the Quidditch team again.

Inky! I love it, especially the new staff you've added to Hogwarts, and Snape's long lost relative. 

And poor Voldemortine Avery!  You really are evil. 

[Inkwolf]

Hee, hee...thanks!

To post something I added to the CoS feedback thread:

The Quidditch practice is dedicated to Ricky Allen and Randy (name unknown) two boys who tried to teach me to ride a two-wheeler bike in my extreme youth. By about the same methods as Prince and Yorick use. And with as much success. I got off without broken bones, though.

[Louisa]

That was great Inky.  I love that McGonagall twigged on right away to who the voice was coming from and I that Fudge is as suspicious and paranoid as ever. 

And the Quidditch practice was a riot, especially the very last two paragraphs - nice to know they twig on eventually. 

[The Black Adder]

Inkwolf, this is so charming!  I can't wait to read more.  The broom flying lesson was hilarious.  So true to life, as apparantly it was, somewhat.  Boys, boys, boys...  I love Prince and Yorick.  

I love knowing there was at least one family who told their kids the story of Severus Snape.  (Considering ASP was 11 years old and hadn't a clue who he was named after!!!)

I love Sevvie as a ghost.  Can't wait to learn what he has "chosen" ASP to do.

And Fudge as the headmaster...     Was he even mentioned in DH?  I remember wondering what happened to him when Scrimgeour was killed.  

[Inkwolf]

(Heh, I re-read the epilog, and it turns out Hagrid IS still at Hogwarts.   Still, a man of his age couldn't be expected to go out in the rain and ferry students, right?  Guess I'll give the poor guy rheumatism...)

Chapter 3

“Come on.  Wake up, now, ducks…”

 Albus opened his eyes and rubbed them sleepily.  Then he sat up.  He was still in the hospital wing.  “How long was I asleep?”

“All day and all night, poor thing.” said Nurse Bannock. “You must have been exhausted!  It’s tomorrow, and if you don’t get a wiggle on, you’ll miss breakfast.”

“And don’t let those louts bully you into doing anything ELSE daft!” she shouted after him as Albus hurried toward the Great Hall.

Albus felt wonderful.  He didn’t seem to have so much as a scratch or bruise from yesterday’s horrific injuries, and his sleep had been thankfully untroubled by ghosts or early-rising Quidditch captains.  His recurring nightmares about falling from an enormous height had changed—instead of waking in terror just before the impact, he had slept on through an exhilarating swoop and climb…and though he frequently found himself hurtling toward walls at breakneck speed, he had a wonderful new sense of control in his dream, and managed every time to veer away from danger.  It was as if his actual fall had destroyed his life-long fear of falling.

He arrived at the Great Hall and was just turning toward the Slytherin table when a hand seized his shoulder.

“THERE you are!” James said.  “I was just coming down to the hospital wing again—we’ve been worried sick!”  He pushed Albus along toward the Gryffindor table.  “We all came to see you when we heard, but that Nurse Bannock said you were asleep and needed the rest.”

“Oh, Albus!” Rose jumped up from the table and threw her arms around his neck.  “Are you all right?”

“They wouldn’t even tell us what happened,” Victoire complained.  “They only said it was an accident! Merde!” She kissed Albus on the forehead. “I’ve got to finish a paper before class, but I’m so glad you’re all right! Don’t you dare do…whatever it was again!” Albus watched her hurry away.

“Anyway, I’ve got good news and bad news,” said James, sitting down after Albus.  “The bad news is, I tried to get you out of flying lessons, bur Professor Trilby wouldn’t hear of it. I even told him that you’re afraid of heights and said that you throw up if you even have to stand on a chair—“

“You didn’t!” Albus objected with horror.

“But the GOOD news is this—“ James looked around, then whispered, “Professor McGonagall thinks the sorting hat was tampered with!  She thinks that somehow, you got swapped for that Malfoy tick.”

“Scorpius isn’t so bad,” Rose objected, turning pink.

“He is.  But the point is, she may manage to get you swapped back,” James continued. “So don’t work too hard at making friends out of THAT lot.”

The part of Albus that he had been for the last eleven years heaved a sigh of relief.

The two-day-old part of him which had been the center of attention for mysterious ghosts and Quidditch players, who had been called the Chosen One, and who had flown, TWICE, didn’t care much for James’s tone.

“I’ve already GOT friends,” he said shortly.

“Already?” said James, looking surprised.  “You? Wow. I’m impressed that you’ve even spoken to anyone yet, mousy-pants. Good for you! So, who are your friends?  That ugly mug with the twitching eye?  That girl with the hair like a weed patch? The Slytherin first-years look like such a jolly bunch.” He grinned.

“Hero Yorick, the Quidditch captain, and Albert Prince,” said Albus.  “Do you know them?”

“Know them?” James said with horror.  “KNOW them?  EVERYBODY knows them! Hieronymus Yorick would do ANYTHING to win a Quidditch game! And that Prince bloke would just…just do ANYTHING.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Albus said hotly.

“It’s—listen, you have no idea the sort of stuff he gets up to.  And gets away with, too,” James said bitterly.  “Just because he’s supposed to be so clever and tutors the first-years, and sucks up to the teachers so hard it’s disgusting to watch—“

“He does not!” Albus protested, wondering if it were true.

“Let me tell you what he did last year,” James said.  “There was a group of—“

“My ears are burning, is someone talking about me?” Albert Prince dropped into Victoire’s empty chair. “Hallo, Potter-the-eldest. Studied your charms over the summer, or will we be struggling to stop you failing again this year?”

James scowled, “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to warn my little brother about bad influences,” he said.

“Too late, we’ve met,” Prince grinned. “How d’you think he wound up in hospital?  Your brother’s going to be Slytherin’s new Seeker.  He flies with a wonderful wild abandon.  And unfortunately lands that way, too.”

“So there,” Albus muttered at James’s disbelieving stare.

“Will you be trying out for the Gryffindor team again this year, Potter-the-eldest?” Prince asked, filching a sausage off James’s plate.  “Because I overheard Oldham commenting on your form, and I’m afraid it wasn’t at all flattering…”

James stood, and with a dark look at Albus, wordlessly left the table.  Albus squirmed unhappily as Prince turned to Rose. “Will you introduce me to your girlfriend, Potter?  Looks like someone beat her with a freckle stick.”

Rose turned red and picked up her plate. “Talk to you later, Albus,” she said.  When your FRIEND isn’t around.”

“Rose--,” he called, but she was already moving down the table to sit next to Scorpius Malfoy, who was gazing in horror at a large, red envelope.  Owls were beginning to drift into the hall, delivering the morning mail.

“You oughtn’t to have said that,” said Albus.  “She’s sensitive about her freckles.”

“Evidently,” Prince chuckled.  “By the way, it’s good to see that the Royal Gryffindors get fed the same slop as the rest of us.  I do believe old Fudge has been embezzling more of the cafeteria funds every year since—“

A man’s loud voice echoed through the hall.

“Gryffindor?” Scorpius Malfoy and everyone near him clapped their hands over their ears as the voice continued repeating the single word, ever louder.  “Gryffindor?!  Gryffindor??!! GRYFFINDOR?!!!! G-R-Y-F-F-Y-N-D-O-R-?”  The envelope exploded with a final roar of rage.

“That reminds me,” said Prince. “Have you written home yet?”

“Yesterday, from the hospital wing,” Albus said nervously.

There was a thump as a large package hit the table in front of him.

“That was quick,” said Prince.  “It’s broom-shaped, too.  Time to see how much your parents love you.”

As Prince unwrapped the parcel, Albus read the attached letter.

Dear Albus,

Congratulations on your sorting!  I’m sure you will be a credit to Slytherin, and we’re glad you don’t find it as bad as you feared, and that you are making new friends.

I hope you will not look on this as a hand-me-down.  We are delighted that you are finally flying, and your father would be honored if you were to use this broom in your Quidditch games.

We love you, Albus, and are sure you will continue to make us proud and try to do the right thing.

Love,

Mum and Dad

“Heavens to Elizabeth,” said Prince.  “It’s a vintage Firebolt!  From back in the days when they were actually good!  You can’t use this for Quidditch.”

“Why not?” Abus demanded.  The familiar gleaming broomstick which had been mounted in the case over the living room couch for as long as he could remember was now resting in Prince’s hands.

“Because I’ve seen the way you fly,” said Prince.  “You’ll scratch it or break it or something.  You can’t have any idea how immensely valuable this is.  Especially if it happens to be the same model year as the one Harry Potter used to—“ Prince’s eyes widened suddenly.  “Oh,” he said.

“My father wants me to fly on THAT broomstick.,” said Albus.

“On your head be it,” said Prince.  “Try not to break it into TOO many bits. Is that Scorpius Malfoy?  I need to talk to him, too.  Shame he wasn’t in Slytherin.  You know, his grandfather was a friend of—“

“Can I have my broomstick, please?” said Albus.

“Oh,” said Prince.  “I remember what I came to say. Your old Uncle Albert has a bit of advice for you, my boy.  You spent all of the opening feast and the morning after swanking about with the Quidditch team—“

“Swanking?!”

“—and the day and night after malingering in hospital—“

“But—“

“—and no sooner do you return than you make a beeline to sit with the Gryffindors.”

“They’re my family!” said Albus angrily.

“And you have my very deepest sympathy,” said Prince.  “But my point is, you haven’t spoken a word to the other Slytherin first-years yet.  They’re likely to start thinking you’re a little too good for them if this goes on, if you catch my meaning.  You need to spend some time bonding with your littermates, moppet.”

Prince had a point.  Albus looked over at the Slytherin table.  The first-years were huddled together, talking.  A couple of them looked in his direction with curious, not-entirely-friendly expressions.

“Right,” sad Albus He stood up and took hold of the Firebolt.  Prince did not release it.

“No brooms for first-years, remember?” he said.  “After the start you’ve made, you don’t dare wave THIS under their noses.  I’ll put it somewhere safe until you need it.  Off with you, then.”

Reluctantly, Albus walked to the Slytherin table and sat down, spilling someone’s pumpkin juice all over himself as Prince sat beside Malfoy and started a conversation.

Hello, sorry,” he said nervously.  “I’m Albus Potter.”

[Louisa]

I don't know whether I feel sorrier for Albus or Scorpius.  A howler for being in Gryffindor - I can just imagine Draco on hearing the horrid and shameful news. 

And will poor little Albus see that Firebolt again?

Great as always.  More soon, pleeeeeeeze!!!!

[ignisia]

MORE!!!!!!!!

BTW, wasn't Harry's Firebolt lost on the move from #4?

[Inkwolf]

BTW, wasn't Harry's Firebolt lost on the move from #4?

AACK!!!  Was it?  Holy plotholes, Batman!  That's what I get for not rereading...