"Harry!"

Harry glanced up from studying his map and saw a tall, gangly red-headed boy tumbling down the corridor. Harry nodded at him.

"Hullo, Weasley," he said politely.

"It's Flying class next," said Weasley. "Come on, this way." He led him down a long flight of shallow steps that Harry was not sure had been there the moment before, and pushed open a set of large double doors, which opened out onto the Hogwarts grounds. Across the green, a gaggle of first years stood or sprawled, laughing and talking in the sunlight.

Weasley was talking as they made their way toward the group—Harry had the distinct impression that Weasley was usually talking. "First years aren't allowed their own broomsticks," he said, "because technically we're not supposed to be able to fly yet, but Bill and Charlie and Fred and George used to loan me theirs when they came home for vacation, so I can usually stay on. One time I nearly hit a hang-glider; I got a whaling that time, I can tell you. Some of these people think being able to stay on a broomstick young is a sign of pure blood or something, but I say rubbish; my brother Percy's as pure-blooded as they come and he's got the balance of a tipsy elephant."

Harry nodded thoughtfully, putting his notes and his map in his bag. "What's the point of a broomstick?" he wanted to know. "I mean," he added, a little awkwardly, "can't wizards just pop in and out wherever they want?"

"Sure, of age wizards can. But it can be dangerous. If you're bad at apparating or if you're a kid it's better to use the Floo network. It's only two sickles a scoop and gets you nearly as many places."

"What's the Floo network?"

"It takes you to different fireplaces. You never used it?"

"I never knew there was such a thing as magic until a few months ago," Harry explained. "When I got my letter, you know."

"Cor!" said Weasley, looking astonished. "Never travelled by Floo!"

"But if you can travel by Floo, or apparate, then what's the point of broomsticks?" Harry asked again. "I mean, why are we learning to use it?"

"Well, Quidditch, of course!" said Weasley instantly, his blue eyes round. "You couldn't play Quidditch with Floo powder!"

"Kwidditch?" Harry asked, surprised. "What's that?"

Suddenly a shrill whistle sounded and the first years who were sitting down all jumped to their feet. The ones who were standing, like Harry and Weasley, looked around.

A tall, thin young man in flapping robes stood in front of them, hands on his hips. He couldn't have been more than thirty; he had untidy black hair that stuck up at the back and cheerful hazel eyes behind a pair of round glasses. The whistle dropped from his lips and he grinned at them all.

"Afternoon, class!" he shouted.

"Afternoon," the class shouted back.

"The name's Potter—Professor Potter, if you absolutely must, though I prefer 'Coach'. I'll be teaching you how to fly, I guess." He gestured to a pile of broomsticks behind him, and several people, Weasley included, moved toward them. Coach Potter held up his hands. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Not so fast, my friends! It's roll call first, isn't it? Right then. I'll call your names, and you come up to get your broom."

The man snapped his fingers and a list appeared in a cloud of purple smoke, floating a few inches from his face. He adjusted his glasses and began to call out names.

"Hannah Abbott!"

"Here!"

"One of the twenty-eight's Abbotts?" he asked, grinning. Harry didn't understand, but Weasley and Hannah both made faces. "No? Good for you. Here you are—beastly old hairbrush, really, but I'm waiting for the Firebolt to get new ones. Don't do anything to it until everyone's got one, all right? Next…Susan Bones! Oh, Bones! Any relation to Amelia Bones?"

"My aunt," said the girl, flushing a little.

"Good woman. Great woman. Here you are. This one jerks a bit to the left, watch out for that. Don't do anything 'til everyone's got one. Let's see now. Terry Boot!"

He went down the list, keeping up a chatty running commentary, greeting kids whose names he recognised, advising on the quirks of the individual brooms, cracking jokes. Most of the kids seemed to be enjoying it, including red-headed Weasley and the large-toothed girl they'd met on the train. Harry, on the other hand, began to find it rather irritating. In fact, he wasn't sure he liked the flying coach much at all.

"Sally Smith! Now there's an original name! Where are you, Sally? Oh, there you are. All right. Welcome. What lovely hair. This one's comparatively new—I'd say no more than eighty-three years old, maybe even eighty-two. Don't do anything until…well, you know. And Harry Sn…"

His loud, cheerful voice suddenly faltered. The buzz of students stopped almost as suddenly. Everyone looked at Coach Potter, who had gone pale. The man's eyes flickered over the lot behind his glasses, and came to rest finally on Harry. Harry noticed that they didn't proceed upwards to his scar, but remained steadily levelled at his eyes.

"My god, it really is you," he said.

"Sir?" Harry replied.

"You'll be Harry Snape, then?"

"Yes, sir."

The man swallowed and smiled faintly, shaking himself. "Went to school with your parents. Awfully sorry to hear about…what happened." But he didn't look sorry. He merely looked puzzled, and perhaps a little…disgusted?

"And, let me see. It'll be Dean Thomas next, won't it?"

"Sir," said Harry.

"Raise your hand if you want to talk, Snape," snapped Potter. Harry blinked and raised his hand.

"What is it?"

"You haven't given me a broom, sir," Harry pointed out. Coach Potter waved his hand and summoned the worst, dirtiest, rattiest broom in the pile.

"Here you are, then. Now, Dean Thomas."

"Sir," Harry said.

"I told you to raise your hand."

Harry raised his hand.

"Sir, are you entirely sure this is capable of flight?" he asked in his politest tones. Malfoy and one or two of the others sniggered. Potter looked furious, a strange sight on such a good-natured face.

"What house are you, Snape?"

"Slytherin," said Harry.

"Nice try. Got you on my list, haven't I? Ten points from Gryffindor for being fresh. If you want to exchange brooms, just say so. Though I warn you none of the others are much better."

His hand pointedly raised, Harry said, "I'd like to exchange brooms, sir, on the principle that I think I would be more likely to get airborne on my aunt's vacuum cleaner than on this."

"Don't push it, Harry," whispered an alarmed Weasley.

But Coach Potter suddenly looked rather ashamed of himself.

"Right, then. That one's a bit rubbish, isn't it? Here. This one's been patched together, but as long as you don't grip the handle too hard it should be…it should be fine. Now, if it's all the same to you, Mr Snape, I'd like to give the very patient Mr Thomas his broom."