The Three Brothers - Chapter 9

12th September 1991

“Relax, Nev. It’s going to be alright,” said Mark, trying to reassure his nervous friend. “Plenty of people have never flown on a broom before they come at Hogwarts. I’m one of them too.”

“Oh please,” retorted Neville, bȧrėly slowing down as he walked towards the Great Hall. “I’ll bet six sickles you’ll be flying around fine. It’s like you’re naturally talented or something.”

“I beg to differ —”

“Then beg,” interrupted Neville.

Mark snorted. His friend had really started showing his sense of humour lately. Deciding not to back down, he tried to seem unfazed.

“As I was saying,” he continued, “I’m not naturally talented. I’m shit at Herbology, and you know it.” Mark started counting on his fingers but got stuck when he couldn’t think of anything else at the moment. Looking at the sole digit on Mark’s hand, Neville chuckled.

“Exactly,” he said. “You even managed to turn your matchstick into a needle at the first attempt.”

“Not so loudly,” hissed Mark, “I don’t want Hermione to hear that.”

Neville gave him a confused look as he shook his head. Slumping onto an empty seat at the Gryffindor table, he turned sideways at Mark.

“I still don’t understand why you want her to take the credit for it and gloat around.”

Mark bit his tongue. It was so bloody difficult to explain his actions to other people. Especially when it was based on knowledge that was not openly available. He decided to take a different approach—after all, the best lies were the ones wrapped in truth.

“Because if she finds out, she won’t leave me alone. She’ll keep on pestering me, wanting to know what I did differently in the class. You know how dogged she is.” Mark began piling on the eggs and bacon, having remembered something.

“And to counter your earlier point,” said Mark. “I’m not what one would call athletic,” he finished pointing the fork in his hand towards his gut. Neville snorted and pointed towards Mark’s plate.

“And you’re not going to be anytime soon if you eat like that.”

As he reached for the pitcher of water—the pumpkin juice was just too sweet—the morning mail arrived, delivered by hundreds of swooping owls. A large barn owl landed near them; a brown-paper-wrapped parcel tied to its feet.

“It’s from my Gran,” said Neville, untying the leather strap off the regal-looking bird. Mark watched as Neville offered it a piece of bacon from his plate. “Here Harold.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a Remembrall,” said Neville holding up a glass ball. The size of a large marble, Mark noticed that it was filled with white swirling smoke inside. Down the table, he could feel Hermione Granger’s eyes rise up from the book she had been reading—Quidditch through the Ages—and locking onto the magical object in Neville’s hand, obviously eager to learn about any new thing she could.

“The smoke’s supposed to turn red if you forget something,” began Neville, immediately stopping as an odd look in appeared in Mark’s eyes—he had sensed someone coming up behind them. Mark watched as a pale hand tried to swipe the Remembrall off Neville’s hand, missing just by a bȧrė inch.

They both turned around to see Draco Malfoy standing behind them, flanked on either side by his loyal compatriots Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. He got a dirty look on his face—like a rat being denied his share of the thrash, ready to bȧrė his teeth in a fight. Harry and Ron—sitting a few places away from them—shot up immediately, a tad too eager to get in a fight.

Mark couldn’t exactly blame them; from what he had heard, the blond Slytherin had pretty much made enemies of them on the Express itself, insulting them and their families. Even once the classes had begun, he had taken every opportunity to goad and insult the both of them. Before a fight could begin, however, Mark saw Professor McGonagall approach the table.

“What’s going on here?”

The stern voice of the Transfiguration professor had its effect; Draco paled slightly, retreating back into his usual cool façade. Ron and Harry, on the other hand, just stood their ground—the former now having a wide smirk on his face.

“I see,” said Professor McGonagall, before turning towards the three Slytherins. “Mr Malfoy, is there a reason for you to come to the Gryffindor table and inspect the belongings of your classmates?”

Mark watched Draco attempt to keep himself in check. As a first-year at Hogwarts, one quickly learned that Professor McGonagall wasn’t someone to trifle with.

“No, Professor,” Draco drawled with false sincerity. “I apologise for my actions. I was merely being curious.” He gave the professor a curt nod, then left without a word, his bodyguards following suit.

Once Professor McGonagall had left as well, Mark saw both Harry and Ron relax considerably, returning to their half-eaten breakfast. He couldn’t blame them; these first few days had been quite stressful.

The classes had been certainly interesting, both in the variety of teachers and the subjects that they taught. Nothing that he hadn’t expected; except for History of Magic and Defence Against the Dark Arts—both of these were being taught by poor teachers.

At least the History classes provided him with an opportunity to take some naps—the long-dead ghost of Professor Binns who taught the class bȧrėly diverted from the textbook, which Mark had already read twice. That wasn’t the case in Defence, as the nervous stuttering of the turban-wearing Professor Quirrell interrupted any attempts to doze off.

Astronomy was certainly fun, and the magical telescopes they had used in the class were surprisingly powerful. He certainly hadn’t expected to be able to make out the storm patterns on Jupiter from a handheld device.

Herbology—After three classes of the subject, Mark was thankful for having met Neville. Even though Professor Sprout was a decent teacher, it just wasn’t his cup of tea. Neville shined at it, however, and was quickly becoming the teachers favourite.

Transfiguration was challenging—there was much that Professor McGonagall explained in the class that wasn’t mentioned at all in the pitifully thin textbook. Mark began taking notes in the class—extensive ones, his first since coming to Hogwarts—when he realised Professor McGonagall had much more on her mind that she wasn’t able to say along with all that she was. Mark enjoyed turning the matchstick into a needle once he picked up subtle tricks for the proper visualisation—required for efficiently performing the transfiguration—from the Professor’s mind. Along with everything that Professor McGonagall hinted at during the beginning of the lecture, the magical theory that transfiguration depended on was quickly making this his favourite subject.

Potions, on the other hand, had been entirely different—interesting. The content was a surreal mix of advanced chemistry and art class; something Mark both enjoyed and found fascinating. Professor Snape, however, was another matter entirely.

Obviously, the man was dedicated to his subject—the way he spoke of it called upon a certain amount of concentration and intelligent effort from his students. His instructions were succinct, allowing more of learning opportunities than just following the standard textbooks like some off-the-shelf cookbook. It was his attitude towards the students that was entirely lacking.

He was obviously biased towards his own House—Professor Snape was the Head of House for Slytherin—and he freely gave them House points while ȧssuming a bitter reluctance when being forced to give Gryffindor any. His brooding bat-like prowling in the class made everyone wary and nervous. Neville, who had been beside Mark during the first class, had been affected so much that Mark had to physically block him from adding the porcupine quills to the potion before taking it off the heat—a mistake that would have resulted in a boil making potion instead of a boil curing one.

All this was quite tame compared to Professor Snape’s attitude towards Harry. The moment they had entered into the classroom, the man had taken every opportunity to make some offhanded remark about Harry—how he was some spoilt kid, the new celebrity—something that hadn’t taken Mark too long to know to be untrue. Questions had been asked; difficult, nuanced questions that weren’t possible to answer unless you had read the complete text. But they hadn’t been directed at the class in general—only asked directly of Harry, his ignorance of the answers being taken as a sign of his arrogance and lack of talent. Obviously, Mark found this all odd—why was Professor Snape so clearly hell-bent on making Harry miserable?

His curiosity piqued, Mark tried to glean the greasy-haired potions master. But he was blocked. Not only that, but Professor Snape had somehow detected the intrusion on his mind, shifting immediately into a defensive stance and searching the class suspiciously. Mark had feigned ignorance and continued with the work he was supposed to do, yet he was still further confused. Professor Snape obviously did not have his ability, but there was something similar that he did have—something that was even different from what Harry had.

Mark needed to know more about his ability; the magical world and its inhabitants had complexities that he needed to be aware of. He decided it was time he listened to Elijah’s advice and head into the library for a longer visit.

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“Did you see his face, the great lump?”

Malfoy laughed, turning towards his bodyguards who, ironically, resembled two dumb lumps of lard. Harry was about to step forward and give the ponce a piece of his mind when he heard an unexpected voice do it for him.

It was Mark. Harry was slightly surprised. His initial ȧssessment of the boy had suggested that Mark was from a sophisticated sort of family—the kind that Malfoy himself likely belonged to. Certainly not someone who—as his Aunt Petunia would likely put it—used such ‘crude language’.

Harry watched Malfoy’s face turn red at Mark’s comment, cold anger building up beneath the surface. The Slytherin stomped towards where the Gryffindors were standing, Crabbe and Goyle forgotten behind in anger.

“How dare you speak to me that way, you filthy Mudblood!”

Harry had never heard that word before, but it definitely didn’t take him long to figure out that it was bad. Really bad. All the students gasped, scandalously covering their mouths at the utterance. Mark’s face, however, showed no sign of acknowledgment.

“Is that the best you can do?” scoffed Mark, leaning coolly over the upright broom in his hand—they were all out here this afternoon for their flying lessons. “Is that the best insult you have? Clearly, you’ve never visited East End.”

Harry could see Malfoy flare his nostrils as he fumed in anger. Not wanting to be back out, his eyes scanned their surroundings. Evidently, they found something in the grass, for Malfoy darted forward to grab it.

“Look! It’s the stupid thing Longbottom’s Gran sent him,” said Malfoy, brandishing the Remembrall that Neville had received in his mail in the morning—the boy must have dropped it when he lost control of his broom and fell.

“Give that back, Malfoy,” a cold voice spoke, and Harry realised that it had been his own.

“I don’t think I will,” said Malfoy, smiling nastily as he quickly mounted the broom near him. “I think I’ll leave it up that tree for Longbottom to find,” he taunted before taking off in the air.

As the fresh air rushed through his messy hair and blasted his face, Harry suddenly felt a rush of adrenaline surge through him. A fierce joy welled, unbridled freedom to soar, a sense of belonging—he was in his element; in his heaven. Harry zoomed towards Malfoy, the gasps and shrieks of amazement from below bȧrėly registering as he took a sharp turn to face his adversary.

“Hand it over now,” Harry called out, “or I’ll knock you off that broom!”

“Oh yeah?” said Malfoy, his earlier confidence slipping off his face.

“Oh yeah,” said Mark, now positioned behind Malfoy. His longer black hair and solid frame made him look like a large bird eyeing its prey. “No bodyguards up here to save you, Draco,” he said with a predatory smile. “Once you fall to the ground, we’ll see whose blood is mud.”

Malfoy must have come to the same realisation himself; unable to find another way, he played his last card.

“Catch it then, if you can!” he shouted, throwing the Remembrall high into the air.

It felt as if time slowed down. Harry’s bespectacled eyes watched the glass ball slowly rise into the air as his body automatically leaned forward on the broom. His stare fixed on his target, Harry zoomed towards the point where he would intercept its trajectory, quickly gathering speed as he dived. As the ball neared, Harry stretched out his hand—the cold glass ball landed safely inside his palm as he pulled back on the broom. Harry’s toes brushed the freshly-mowed grass—he realised he was bȧrėly a foot above the ground before toppling gently onto it.

“HARRY POTTER”

Harry turned towards the voice and the triumphant smile that had appeared melted away. Professor McGonagall was running towards them, her face speechless with shock.

“It wasn’t his fault Professor —” Parvati Patil tried to interject.

“No, the fault was mine,” said Mark, silencing the girl as well as everyone else around her. Professor McGonagall turned to look at him, her expression a mix of tempered anger and surprise.

“Explain,” she said, her jaw clenching slightly. Harry watched Mark hold onto his upright broom again, his face calm—unlike earlier, his demeanour was now respectful and attentive.

“I encouraged Harry to follow Draco in the air,” said Mark, his tone matter-of-factly. “I apologise for that. I was provoked by an insult earlier, and thus was not thinking straight.”

Harry wanted to object to this statement but found himself keeping quiet. A small fear of being expelled loomed inside of him, especially when Madam Hooch had warned them earlier to not fly without her supervision.

“And what was this insult, Mr Smith, that you found you could not handle?” asked Professor McGonagall. Mark’s eyes took on a reluctant look, and Ron stepped in.

“Malfoy called Mark a—a Mudblood, Professor,” said Ron. “And he stole Neville’s Remembrall, threatening to break it,” he finished, pointing at the glass ball in Harry’s clutched fingers.

A brief silence followed, and Harry noticed Professor McGonagall flare in anger—this time directed at Malfoy. The blond Slytherin was standing to the side, his usually impeccable robes and hair ruffled up—most likely in a fist fight with the physically stronger Mark.

“I see,” Professor McGonagall finally said. “Mr Malfoy—twenty points from Slytherin and detention with Mr Filch for use of such—foul language,” she spat out the last words. She then turned back towards them.

“Potter, Smith. Follow me,” she said before walking back towards the castle. Harry quickly handed the broom in his hand to Ron and followed her, his heart thumping wildly in his ċhėst. Malfoy got his punishment back there on the field itself. Why did they have to go inside the castle? Was the punishment so bad? Was he going to be expelled?

His thoughts flying wildly as they walked, Harry glanced sideways to look at Mark. Unlike him, Mark was showing no sign of worry on his face. Harry felt a pang of guilt rise within; also unlike him, Mark had stepped up to take the blame of the incident, and would likely now be facing the harsher punishment. Maybe the sorting hat was right—maybe Harry did indeed belong in Slytherin.

As they neared the castle door, Harry saw Mark trying to adjust his robes and smarten himself up. Following suit, Harry too began to pat his ruffled robes. His hand found a thick twig stuck near his backside—one of the twigs from the old school broom he had ridden, likely broken off during his tumbled landing.

Walking up the marble staircase, they reached a classroom and stopped outside. Professor McGonagall politely interrupted the ongoing class and requested Professor Flitwick to borrow Wood—Harry momentarily thought she was asking for a cane to beat them with. As it turned out, Wood was a boy—a burly fifth-year Gryffindor.

“Follow me,” Professor McGonagall said to the three of them, now heading towards an empty classroom down the hall. Once they were inside, she gestured Wood to close the door, who locked them shut.

“Harry,” said Professor McGonagall, gesturing at the burly boy now standing beside her, “this is Oliver Wood, the Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Wood—I’ve found you a Seeker.”

If Harry hadn’t been under such tension, he would have found the manner in which Wood’s face lit-up to be quite comical—like a small dog bouncing in disbelief at being handed a large stick to play with.

“Are you serious, Professor?”

“Absolutely,” Professor McGonagall smirked, a hint of pride in her voice. “He’s a natural. I haven’t seen anything like it. He caught that with one hand,” she said pointing towards the Remembrall—still clutched in Harry’s hand— “after a fifty-foot dive.”

Fifty feet? Harry hadn’t realised that he had been that high. Actually, Harry was just bȧrėly realising that he might actually not be in any trouble at all.

“Harry,” said Professor McGonagall, drawing his attention back towards her. “That was your first time on a broom wasn’t it?”

Unable to form any coherent words, Harry just nodded dumbly in reply. He was still trying to make sense of the implications of Professor McGonagall’s words. Was she really putting him on the Quidditch Team? Ron had told him that since first-years didn’t have their own brooms, they never made the team. Hell, making the team before your fourth-year itself was a big achievement. They wouldn’t put him—a broom-less first-year with no experience—on the team, would they?

Harry looked at Mark, who hadn’t spoken anything since they left the flying grounds. The long-haired boy—now leaning on one of the desks—was beaming at him with sincere admiration, and even gave him a thumbs up. Feeling more confident, Harry turned to look at Wood, who was now circling him and studying Harry’s physique.

“He’s just the right build too —” muttered Wood, his face looking like all his prayers had been answered, “—probably a Cleansweep Seven.”

“You should consider setting up a reserve team this year, Wood,” said Professor McGonagall, breaking the burly Gryffindor captain from his musings. Looking at Mark now, she continued, “Smith here could be a solid chaser once you train him up a bit.”

Wood looked like Christmas had come early, while Mark looked like lunch was cancelled.

“Chaser?” Mark finally spluttered out, and Harry saw Professor McGonagall nod.

“I’ll see what I can do Professor,” said Wood his mind busy making calculations. “I can hold reserve try-outs with the regular ones. I can’t promise anything—but if he’s as good as you say, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I can’t play Quidditch, professor,” interrupted Mark, his voice holding in a slight panic.

“And why’s that?” Professor McGonagall asked, her eyes narrowing over her square glasses.

“I—I’m not fi—I’m not athletic, Professor,” he finally said, clearly embarrassed. Harry saw Professor McGonagall relax slightly, a shrewd expression on her face instead.

“You could be if you play,” she said. “I want you to try out for the reserve team, Smith. Or I just might change my mind about punishing you.”

“I’ll take it,” said Mark quickly, “serve detention with you or something?” Seeing the look of incredulity on Professor McGonagall’s face, he reluctantly gave in. “Or not.”

“Good,” Professor McGonagall said, now turning back to Wood. “I shall have to see if we can bend the first-year rule. I’ll have to speak with Professor Dumbledore about this. Merlin knows we need a better team this year. Severus has been gloating ever since that last match.”

Harry almost jumped back in surprise when she turned towards him again, peering with a slightly threatening expression.

“I want to hear that you’re training hard, Potter,” she said. The or else wasn’t even required. Her face then softened a bit and she smiled.

“Your father would have been proud, you know. He was an excellent Quidditch player himself.” She seemed as if she wanted to add something more, but decided not to. Turning towards Wood, she motioned them to leave. Wood unlocked the door, and Harry quietly headed for it—his mind trying to hold on to the snippet of information about his father that he hadn’t known before.

As they were about to cross the doorway, Professor McGonagall called out for Mark.

“And Mr Smith,” she said, prompting Mark to turn around and look at her. “Since you have so kindly offered, you will be serving detention with me after dinner tomorrow.”

“Oh, come on”

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