Scariest... the scariest thing.. hooded black figures... cold... screaming.

Harry's eyes snapped open. He was lying in the hospital wing. The Gryffinder Quidditch team, spattered in mud from head to foot, was gathered around his bed. Ron and Hermione were also there, looking like they'd just climbed out of a swimming pool. Harry couldn't move an inch. He was wrapped all over in bandages and plaster, with only a thin slit for his eyes.

"What happened?" he croaked.

"You fell off," said Fred. "Must've been -- what -- fifty feet?"

"We thought you'd died," said Alicia, who was shaking.

Together they filled in the details. They described the dementors invading the Quidditch pitch during the match, causing Harry to slip off his broom. Dumbledore had scared them away with some silver stuff from his wand but not before Harry had made a nasty landing.

"Madam Pomfrey says you broke every bone in your body," Ron said.

"Sure feels like it," Harry winced. "Did someone get my Nimbus?"

Ron and Hermione looked quickly at each other. "Well...when you fell off, it got blown away," said Hermione hesitantly. "And it hit -- it hit -- oh, Harry -- it hit the Whomping Willow." Slowly, she reached down for a bag at her feet, turned it upside down, and tipped a dozen bits of splintered wood and twig - as shattered as his skeleton - onto the bed, the only remains of Harry's faithful, finally beaten broomstick. Harry's stomach lurched.

Wood patted his arm reassuringly, making him wince. "Don't worry, Harry. We're not out of the tournament yet. You can use one of the school brooms - I hear they've a Shooting Star going spare."

"I won't be riding anything from a hospital bed," Harry pointed out.

Wood and Hermione exchanged a meaningful look, as if they'd already discussed this. "Aah we might be able to help with that too..."

The Swapping Charm had worked, fittingly, like a charm. Just an hour later, Harry was back to swooping above the Quidditch Pitch. The Shooting Star wedged between his plump thighs handled like a shopping trolley, but the body piloting it more than made up for it. They said he was gifted at Quidditch but he suspected Hermione might have surpassed him even at that if she ever got on a broom.

Even if it was Hermione's idea, he still felt bad for her every time he saw the hospital wing in the distance, knowing she was lying there in his broken body. And for who knew how long? The next Quidditch match? Perhaps even the entire year.

A whole year as Hermione... A whole year not being 'The Boy Who Lived'. The thought had an appeal to it... Harry gripped the thick shaft of wood between his legs and guided the broom upwards, focusing on the training. Her body was responsive, her movements smooth. It was like his thoughts were clearer too - thinking with her lightning fast brain, he could see tactical opportunities he never would have as Harry.

Angelina Johnson left her position of Chaser and flew up to his level, hovering alongside him. "Remember to keep your skirt between her knees when you're flying, Harry. You're a girl now, remember. You don't want to be giving the boys a show." She nodded down. Twenty feet below Harry, the male members of the Quidditch team were staring up in wonder. Harry blushed. "Boys, eh?" said Angelina, rolling her eyes.

"Looking good, Harry," Fred crowed.

"I can see you're a natural, Harry," joined in George. "A natural brunette I mean, not a Seeker."

"Watch out, Harry, sounds like George is flirting with you. We don't want you slipping off your broom again," Fred grinned.

Angelina peered at Harry. "You alright there? You're looking a little flushed."

"Um. I'm fine," Harry stammered. A strange feeling grew in his chest as the twin began squabbling... fighting over him... "So... when we shower after training... do I use the boys' showers or the girls'?"