The Other Potter: Book One

Chapter Seven: Not Quite a Punishment.

[Chapter Seven: Not Quite a Punishment. Edited.]

I walked along with Professor McGonagall and Harry – well, Harry and I sort of jogged after her. She was walking awfully fast, and we were eleven, with tiny little legs. We looked at each other, the fear on his face mirroring mine. He didn't want to be expelled. I didn't know what I wanted – but that didn't matter, anyway. What I wanted never mattered.

Up the front steps, up the marble staircase inside, and still Professor McGonagall didn't say a word to us. She wrenched open doors and marched along corridors with us trotting miserably behind her. Professor McGonagall stopped outside a classroom, opened the door, and poked her head inside.

"Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood for a moment?"

Wood, a burly older boy, came out of Flitwick's class looking confused.

'Follow me, you three,' said Professor McGonagall, and we marched on up the corridor, Wood looking curiously at Harry and me.

Yes, hello reasonably attractive male, I punched my brother in the face and Harry flew around the grounds illegally, nice to make your acquaintance.

"In here." Professor McGonagall pointed us into a classroom which was empty except for Peeves, who was busy writing rude words on the blackboard. "Out, Peeves!" she barked. Peeves threw the chalk into a bin, which clanged loudly, and swooped out cursing. Professor McGonagall slammed the door behind him and turned to face the two boys. "Potter, this is Oliver Wood. Wood – I've found you a Seeker."

Wood's expression changed from puzzlement to delight.

"Are you serious, Professor?"

"Absolutely," said Professor McGonagall crisply. "The boy's a natural. I've never seen anything like it. Was that your first time on a broomstick, Potter?"

Harry nodded silently.

Why am I here? Harry's getting not-expelled and good news, and I haven't been addressed yet.

It's not all about you, you self-centred cow.

"He caught that thing in his hand after a fifty-foot dive," Professor McGonagall told Wood. "Didn't even scratch himself. Charlie Weasley couldn't have done it," Wood was now looking as though all his dreams had come true at once.

"Ever seen a game of Quidditch, Potter?" he asked excitedly.

"Wood's captain of the Gryffindor team," Professor McGonagall explained.

"He's just the build for a Seeker, too," said Wood, now walking around Harry and staring at him. "Light – speedy – we'll have to get him a decent broom, Professor – a Nimbus Two Thousand or a Cleansweep Seven, I'd say."

"I shall speak to Professor Dumbledore and see if we can bend the first-year rule. Heaven knows, we need a better team than last year. Flattened in that last match by Slytherin, I couldn't look Severus Snape in the face for weeks ..." Professor McGonagall peered sternly over her glasses at Harry. "I want to hear you're training hard, Potter, or I may change my mind about punishing you." Then she suddenly smiled. "Your father would have been proud," she said.

Would have? Not will be? I didn't know Harry didn't have a father.

"He was an excellent Quidditch player himself."

Harry beamed, although he looked wholeheartedly confused. McGonagall sent him and Wood away, to discuss Quidditch and finally turned to me. I had no real idea of what Quidditch was, myself. I knew it involved brooms and flying, but that was it.