The sense of speed was staggering as the broomstick careened through the halls. Fortunately, the majority of the school's population was out at the Quidditch pitch for the tournament match, leaving the corridors mostly empty. The broomstick banked and dipped into the chasm of the stairwells. It swooped under and over the staircases as they swung and pivoted, barely missing them, forcing James to duck and hug the broomstick as closely as he could. Peeves was near the bottom of the staircases, apparently drawing mustaches on some of the statuary. James saw him out of the corner of his eye, then, amazingly, Peeves was sitting on the broomstick in front of James, facing him.
"Naughty trickery this is, Potter boy!" Peeves shouted gleefully as the broom shot into a narrow hall of classrooms. "Is we trying to create some friendly competition with dear ol' Peeves? Hee hee!"
Peeves grabbed a passing chandelier and swung around it, leaving James and the broom to plunge on after him. James tried to steer, but it was no use. The broomstick was following its own definite, if maniacal, course. It banked and dove down a flight of stone stairs into the elf kitchens. Unlike the rest of the school, the kitchens were crowded and bustling, filled with elves cleaning up after the evening meal. The broom darted between gigantic pots, forcing the elves to scramble like tenpins. There was a cacophony of crashing dishes and silverware, the noise of which fell away with horrible speed. The washrooms were next, stifling hot and noisy. The broom rocketed wildly through the machinery of the washers, diving through gigantic cogwheels and under the arms of enormous, chugging pistons. James was horrified to see that the broom, apparently having reached a dead end, was barreling straight toward the stone wall at the end of the room. He was about to throw himself off the broom, hoping to land in one of the copper vats of suds and water, when the broom ticked slightly to the left and angled up. There was a door set into the well, and James recognized that it was a laundry chute. He gritted his teeth and hugged the broomstick again. The broom shot into the chute, angling upwards so hard that James could barely keep his legs tucked in, and then there was only rushing darkness and pressure.
A pile of laundry met him halfway up the chute and James spluttered as the mass of cloth smothered him. He struggled to shake the clothes free, but couldn't risk letting go of the broomstick. The broom ducked again, and James could tell by the change in pressure and the coolness of the air that it had somehow taken him back outside again. All he could see through the mass of cloth was a faint pattern of flickering light as the broomstick banked and dove. James risked letting go with one hand. He flailed at the clothing wrapped around him, finally grabbing a handful and yanking it as hard as he could. The cloth came free, stunning him with a blurring tableau of light and wind. He had time only to recognize that somehow, incredibly, the broom was taking him back to the Quidditch pitch. The grandstands loomed ahead of him. At the base of the nearest one was a throng of people, many turning toward him, pointing and yelling. Then, with instant finality, the broomstick simply stopped moving. James shot off the end of the broom, and for what seemed like far too long a time, he simply hurtled through the air unsupported. Finally, the ground claimed him with a long, rolling thud. Something in James' left arm popped unpleasantly and when he finally came to a stop, he found himself staring up into a dozen random faces.
"Looks like he'll be all right," one of them said, looking from him to someone standing nearby.
"More than he deserves," another person said angrily, frowning down at him. "Trying to ruin the match by stealing the team captain's broomstick. I never would have thought it."
"It's quite all right, really," another voice said from further off. James moaned and pushed himself up on his left elbow. His right arm was throbbing horribly. Tabitha Corsica stood twenty feet away, surrounded by a crowd of awed spectators. Her broom hung motionless next to her, exactly where it had stopped. She had one hand on it, gripping it easily. "We can surely forgive this kind of first-year enthusiasm, although I myself am rather amazed at the lengths some will go to in the name of Quidditch. Really, James. It's just a game." She smiled at him, showing him all her teeth.
James flopped back into the grass, clutching his right arm next to him. The crowd began to break apart as Ridcully appeared, pushing his way through. The Headmistress and Professors Franklyn and Jackson were right behind him. James heard Tabitha Corsica talking loudly to her teammates as she headed back toward the pitch. "People think that because it's Muggle-made, it must be a lesser broom, you see. But the magic of this is stronger than anything you'd find in a standard Thunderstreak, even one with the ExtraGestural Enhancement option. This broom knows who its mistress is. All I had to do was summon it. Mr. Potter could hardly have known that, though. In a way, I feel sorry for him. He was just doing what he knew to do."
McGonagall squatted down next to James, her face grave and full of consternation. "Really, Potter. I just don't know quite what to say."
"Broken ulna, Madam," Franklyn said, peering at James' arm through a strange device comprised of different sized lenses and brass rings. He folded it neatly and slipped it into his inner robe pocket. "I'd suggest the hospital wing for now and questions later. We have much more to attend to at the moment."
"Quite right," the Headmistress agreed, not taking her gaze from James. "Especially since I expect that Miss Sacarhina and Mr. Recreant will be here within the next few hours. I must say, Potter, I am extremely surprised at you. To attempt something so puerile at such a time." She stood, brushing herself off. "Very well, then. Mr. Jackson, would you escort Mr. Potter to the hospital wing, please? And if you would be so kind as to instruct Madam Curio that Mr. Potter is to be kept there overnight," she fixed James with a steely stare as Jackson pulled him to his feet, "I want to know exactly where to find him when I wish to question him. And no visitors."
"Rest assured, Madam Headmistress," Jackson answered, leading James back toward the castle.
They walked the first five minutes in silence, then, when they entered the courtyard and the noise of the pitch died away, Jackson said, "I haven't quite pegged you yet, Potter."
The pain in James' arm had receded to a dull throb, though it was still rather distracting. "Excuse me, sir?"
"I mean that I haven't figured you out, yet," Jackson said in a conversational voice. "You obviously know far more than a boy your age should, and somehow, I don't think that is merely because you are the son of the Ministry's Head Auror. First, you attempt to steal my case, and then tonight, you orchestrate this preposterous charade to steal Miss Corsica's broom. And despite what everyone else might think, Potter," he glanced aside at James as they entered the main hall, his dark brows lowering, "I know that you did not steal it in order to give the Ravenclaws a better chance in the tournament."
James cleared his throat. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Jackson wasn't paying him any attention. "It doesn't matter, Potter. Whatever you think you know, whatever it is you are up to, after tonight, it won't matter one iota."
James' heart skipped a beat, and then began to pound hard in his chest. "Why?" he asked, his lips strangely numb. "What's tonight?"
Jackson ignored him. He opened one of the leaded glass doors into the hospital wing and held it for James. The room was long and high, lined with crisply made beds. Madam Curio, who for rather obvious reasons, was not a Quidditch fan, was seated at her desk in the rear corner listening to classical music on her wireless.