In Good Condition, Slightly Dead

The moment the bell rang to end Charms class, Hermione swept over to Harry like a whirlwind, her brown curls trembling slightly with excitement.

A short distance behind her, Ron looked as though he had burned himself out and turned to white ash. Draco, meanwhile, looked alive but slightly dead.

"What's wrong with him?" Harry asked.

Hermione glanced back at Ron, whom Harry was pointing at, and shrugged. "Nothing. Just an upset stomach."

Harry gave Hermione a skeptical look, and Hermione reluctantly gave her a brief account of what had happened.

Ron had been dealt a blow when Hermione succeeded at the Levitation Charm on her first try.

After Professor Flitwick demonstrated the Levitation Charm and let them try it themselves, Hermione couldn't stand watching Ron point his wand at a feather and try to make it work through brute force, so she corrected him. Ron refused to listen to her, so she tried it herself.

"I didn't expect him to take it so hard," Hermione said, a little helplessly.

Harry nodded in agreement.

Professor Quirrell would let the Troll into Hogwarts that night, and he remembered what had happened that day vividly.

Before, Ron had only spoken badly of Hermione on the way, without saying what had happened in class. Now the mystery was finally solved.

"Let's go this way." Harry decisively pulled Hermione into another corridor, neatly avoiding the awkward scene that might have unfolded.

She knew Ron too well. If he didn't get a group of people together to badmouth Hermione later, then he and Harry would have been brothers all those years for nothing.

As for Draco...

He was fine too. He had only lost to her once, and it wasn't as though that had happened only once or twice before. One more time made no difference.

Afternoon sunlight streamed through the stained glass in Professor McGonagall's office, casting colorful patterns across the floor. Harry stood on the square carpet, listening as Madam Hooch excitedly described the talent she had shown in class.

"Miss Potter's flying form was simply astonishing, Minerva! That instinctive sense of balance, that natural talent! You should have her try out for Gryffindor's Quidditch team this year, although she may be a little young."

The praise was a little embarrassing. It would have been one thing in her last life... but in this life, she didn't seem to have done anything at all.

Oh, and Malfoy had pulled her down from the sky.

Harry felt a little embarrassed.

Professor McGonagall adjusted her glasses. It wasn't that she didn't understand what Madam Hooch meant, but Harry had only just entered the wizarding world and didn't yet know what Quidditch was.

Although most students loved the sport, there were always exceptions. "Quidditch is quite a violent sport. A fair number of players are seriously injured or go missing during matches. Do you really want to take part?"

Harry's eyes lit up at once, her green eyes shining with eagerness. "I'm absolutely certain, Professor!"

Judging by her reaction, she seemed to know what kind of sport Quidditch was already.

Professor McGonagall was reassured. Her lips curved upward, and her eyes behind her glasses held three parts affection, three parts encouragement, and four parts admiration. "Very well. I'll have Wood arrange a tryout for you."

She looked down and wrote something on some stationery, had an owl deliver one sheet, and gave the other to Harry. "I hope you pass, Miss Potter."

As Harry stepped out of the office, she nearly ran into Hermione, who was waiting outside.

When she learned that Harry had been summoned about Quidditch, the brown-haired girl's eyes went wide. "I knew it! I knew that was what it would be!"

She threw her arms around Harry and hugged her tightly, her little face flushed with excitement. "Your father was a legendary Gryffindor Chaser! You'll be just as brilliant as he was!"

The sudden hug left Harry a little dazed, but she quickly hugged Hermione back.

"Thank you, Hermione." Harry was just as happy.

Hermione let go, her cheeks still flushed. "We have to celebrate! How about we go to the Great Hall and find something to eat? There should be some little desserts at this hour!"

"What are you doing?"

A cold voice suddenly interrupted her.

Snape glided out of the shadows like an enormous bat. Harry noticed that he was no longer wearing those ridiculous pajamas and had changed back into his black robes.

"Miss Granger, please explain why you are embracing someone in the corridor."

Hermione immediately stepped back. "Sorry, Professor. I was just so happy that Harry might be chosen for the Quidditch team that I got a little carried away."

...A Quidditch player?

As expected of Potter's daughter.

Snape's expression twisted. His gaze lingered on Harry's face for a few seconds, but in the end, he couldn't bring himself to say anything venomous to a face that looked so much like Lily's.

"...Congratulations." The word sounded as though it had been forced out of him. "Now, please stop this inappropriate behavior."

Watching Snape walk away, Hermione looked somewhat surprised. "He actually didn't take any points today? It's a miracle."

Harry was a little puzzled too.

The fire in the Slytherin Common Room glowed an eerie green, making Draco's pale face look even more changeable.

He drummed his fingers irritably against the leather of an armchair, then got up after a while and paced around, clicking his tongue all the while.

"Crabbe, Goyle," Draco said, "I have a friend who wants to be friends with a girl who's better than him. What do you think he should do?"

Crabbe, who had been busy gnawing on a chicken leg, looked up with grease still on the corners of his mouth, his small eyes full of confusion.

Goyle simply choked and had to pound his chest hard before he could swallow his mouthful of cake.

"Er... give her a present?" Crabbe suggested tentatively, his voice muffled. "My dad says girls all like jewelry."

Draco grew even more irritated and paced back and forth across the dark green carpet. He moved faster and faster until Goyle's eyes grew dizzy watching him, and he grabbed the nearby rubbish bin and began to vomit.

A sour, foul smell spread through the air. Draco turned down his mouth and waved a hand with an exaggerated expression, trying to keep the smell away. "That won't work. My friend says that girl would rather be friends with poor boys and Mudbloods. My dad says girls like that can't be bought with jewelry."

A snicker suddenly came from the corner.

Pansy Parkinson put down the Daily Prophet in her hands, a smile curving her lips.

"Do you have any brilliant ideas, Parkinson?" Draco narrowed his eyes.

Pansy shrugged and slowly folded the newspaper. "Nothing. I just think what certain people are worrying about is rather boring." She stood up, her short black hair gleaming strangely in the green light. "If you ask me, why not just tell her you want to be friends?"

Draco looked as though someone had stuffed a Sherbet Lemon into his mouth. "You!"

But Pansy had already sauntered off toward the girls' dormitory.

"What did she mean?" Draco turned to his two lackeys, his gray-blue eyes full of confusion.

Crabbe and Goyle looked at each other and shook their heads at the same time, the fat on their faces wobbling.

Draco dropped heavily back into the armchair. His fingers rubbed his chin unconsciously as he continued to ponder what Pansy had meant.

Tell her directly?

Draco scoffed inwardly.

Only those brainless Gryffindor lions would do something like that. He was a Slytherin, a noble Pure-blood wizard. He had already shown Potter his goodwill; now it was her turn to show goodwill to him!

But another voice whispered a rebuttal in his heart.

She barely pays you any attention. Why would she show goodwill to you?

Oh, Godfather said Potter is going to play Quidditch...

The fire suddenly crackled, jolting Draco out of his thoughts.

He sprang to his feet, startling his two lackeys so badly that they nearly rolled off the sofa.

"I'm going to write to Father," Draco announced suddenly, determination in his voice, "and ask him to sponsor a batch of new brooms for the house team."

Crabbe blinked his little eyes. "But doesn't Quidditch not take first-years?"

"Idiot. The Quidditch team not taking first-years is only a rule." Draco gave a snort of laughter. "Rules are dead; people are alive."

"There's nothing a Malfoy can't do, as long as that Malfoy wants to do it."

With that, Draco immediately returned to his bedroom to write to Lucius. Left behind, Crabbe and Goyle exchanged a glance and saw the same confusion in each other's eyes.

Draco had been talking about his friend, so why had he suddenly switched to talking about himself playing Quidditch?

Could it be that Draco was actually a genius? Was that why they couldn't keep up with his thinking?