A Game of Style and Brutality

By: BarneyXII

Fandom: harry potter

Summary: From Hogwarts' historic pitch to the famous stadiums of Europe, Harry fights to earn his place amongst the all-time greats. The stakes are high, and sheer talent is never enough. It's more than just a game. A Quidditch story.

Fic type: Books/Harry Potter

Pairings/Main char.: Harry P., Daphne G.

Published: 2012-01-05

Last updated: 2015-03-22

Words count: 118,478

Chapters count: 15

Converted using www.FF2EBOOK.com
Date: 2020-08-09

1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: A quick warning. This is OOC and AU from a certain point.

Chapter One

A flash of gold streaked across his vision, momentarily surprising him. It could have been the sun's reflection bouncing from someone's watch, but Harry Potter reacted on instinct, tilting the handle of his Firebolt towards the grass, and he was immediately chasing after the elusive Snitch. The familiar beat of his heart thumping against his ribcage accompanied him, urging him to go faster.

With his scarlet robes flapping wildly behind him, Harry spotted the Golden Snitch within moments. Brilliant green eyes filled with eager excitement, just as they always did when Harry was in his element. He simply loved being able to fly; there were very few feelings that came anywhere near. Harry loved the way he could move without restrictions; he thrived on the astonishing speeds the broomstick was capable of doing.

"Look! Potter's seen the Snitch!" Seamus Finnigan had badgered Professor McGonagall for years, and the Transfiguration Professor had finally relented, giving him the illustrious job of commentating. Seamus had taken the chance with both hands and a rather excited voice, which he usually used to advocate the virtues of Gryffindor, and harass any player not wearing red. "He's on to the little blighter, that's for sure! Look at him go! This is how you fly, people. Watch and learn, kids, Potter's showing you all up today. I know there are Managers and scouts in our lovely crowd today, so take some bloody notice, yeah? Sign him up! Sign him up!"

The Gryffindor section swelled, taking heart from Seamus's speech. The already-riled crowd roared, their excitement soaring, as they continued his chant. Their combined voices rang through the Hogwarts Quidditch Stadium and the surrounding forest.

"SIGN HIM UP! SIGN HIM UP! SIGN HIM UP!"

Harry could feel his ego inflating, although he felt slightly embarrassed by the attention he was receiving. He swung his broom around the Gryffindor goalposts, barely avoiding an oncoming Bludger that a Slytherin Beater had whacked towards him. Harry shot a glare towards his own Beaters, before forcing his attention back on the chase.

The supporters often thought that clear days meant perfect clarity in the search for the Snitch, but there was a downside. Any player unfortunate enough to be looking skywards was instantly blinded by the sun. The Snitch, with its never say die attitude, whistled straight for the heavens, giving Harry a problem. He often liked playing in dreary weather, because the gold of the Snitch was easier to spot against the backdrop of a grey sky.

It was because of the sun that Harry could barely keep his eyes open, let alone keep them on the Snitch. However, Harry wasn't hailed as a prodigy on a broom for nothing, and he refused to slow down. With half of his concentration on making sure he wasn't going to be blindsided by an opposing player or a rogue Bludger, he soon found himself high above the stadium.

Hogwarts was in the distance, silhouetted against the Scottish highlands like the beacon of pure hope that it was. Harry didn't care about that at present, though, as the Snitch arced over fifty meters in the air before rocketing back towards earth.

The scene made Harry think of a videogame Dudley liked to play, with the bird's-eye view and the tiny people. The thought was gone before Harry had time to digest it, as Draco Malfoy forced himself into the chase.

With a look of frustration that was ever-present on the youngest Malfoy's face, he locked hate-filled eyes on Harry. Immediately recognising Malfoy's intention, Harry refused to stray from his line. Making himself as small as he could on his broom, the Firebolt picked up extra speed.

Malfoy shot up beneath Harry, who simply dodged the poorly disguised attempt at taking him out of the air. As Malfoy swerved violently above him, Harry didn't spare him another glance.

"That didn't work out too well for Slytherin's captain!" Seamus bellowed, his delighted voice booming around the stadium. "Can anyone remember a time when Malfoy ever got the better of Potter? No, really, it's just not fair on the poor boy. Give it up already, Malfoy, we all know about your small dick syndrome!"

Inevitably, McGonagall's voice soon followed, muffled through the microphone and barely heard over the laughter and jeers of the students. Harry himself had to chuckle, never having heard Malfoy's provocative nature explained in such a way before.

The students chanted Harry's name, but he desperately tried blocking out the sound. The rest of the players had all stopped playing, apart from the Beaters. Harry was forced to dodge two Bludgers that were on course to knock him clean out. He swerved madly around the first and ducked the second, but it was enough time for the Snitch to regain its precious lead.

"Just what are our Beaters doing out there?" Seamus shouted furiously, taking the poor display from Gryffindor's Beaters as a personal insult. The cries from the Gryffindor students joined his voice, complaining wildly that Slytherin's Beaters had free reign against Harry. "I'm blaming this on you, Potter! I could do a better job than they're doing. In the words of Mandy Brocklehurst, why didn't you pick me? I could've been just what you needed!"

Harry covered up his snort of laughter. It wasn't too hard to accomplish; he was far too busy panting from the chase and the near misses. He continued on, his hands clenched around the handle of his Firebolt. The toes of his boots brushed the startlingly deep green grass, before Harry was forced to twist his back with a violent spin to avoid another Bludger, which roared past him, out of harm's way.

Harry swore to himself, damning his Beaters as much as everyone supporting Gryffindor were. He'd kill them himself if they messed up his chances today of all days.

"Gryffindor lead sixty to twenty, but I think everyone is in awe of Potter today," Seamus said, doing his best to put an awe-struck voice on. "He's flown like this all year! Come on, Harry, one more time for us all! Just think of the honour that'll be bestowed on you, and if that doesn't work, think of what the girls in the crowd will offer you tonight!"

Whether Professor McGonagall chided his Irish friend, Harry didn't know, but he felt a much-needed rush of adrenaline course through his veins. He charged onwards, silently amused by how Seamus's unique way of encouragement seemed to work.

Seamus yelped into the microphone as the Snitch zoomed inches from his ear. Harry barely managed to stop the tail of his Firebolt from clipping the Irish boy in the head, as he cut through the air in his quest to catch the small, walnut-sized, winged ball. A Bludger flew into Harry's flying space yet again, but with a quick shimmy, he dodged it with ease.

"And as Harry Potter nearly takes my head clean off my shoulders, he just proves just how good he really is," Seamus said, his laughter sounding a little nervous. "I was never worried, but enough about my problems, Potter's looking to close this game out, but he's taking his time over it, I have to say."

Harry was closing the gap between himself and the Snitch. It darted left, into open play out into the fray of players, Harry milliseconds behind.

Harry raced on, his eyes alert for any more bloody Bludgers. The number of fouls that had already been committed was staggering, but this match happened to be the last of the season. Whoever won this match won the Cup at the end, so it was all or nothing, but that scenario just made him want to taste victory even more. He just wished his damn Beaters felt the same way; it was as if they hadn't listened to a word he'd said for weeks.

There was no doubting that Malfoy would soon show his face again, giving Harry even more incentive to end the game long before that. He pressed himself lower onto his broom, only to swear as the Snitch reversed its flying line. It flew straight through Slytherin's left hoop and headed once more for the skies.

Harry growled as he forced his way after it, his teeth clenched as he burst forward with another bout of speed. The heavy Gryffindor robes only added to Harry's temperature; his underclothes were clinging to his skin. He was drenched in sweat and starting to regret not applying a Cooling Charm over himself. His eyes were starting to get puffy and clouded, and his cheeks were burning hot.

Malfoy showed up without a hint of flair or subtlety, as was his usual style, by barging into Harry's back. Harry lurched forward, roaring insults and swearing for all he was worth. Groans emerged from the Gryffindor section of the crowd, but others were booing, egged on by Seamus.

Harry's teeth clenched so hard it hurt; his whole body was tensed, his lower back aching from the collision. The hit must have been harder than he'd thought, but Harry was used to dealing with pain and attempted to put it to the back of his mind.

Malfoy wasn't too far ahead in the chase, but he wasn't paying attention to anything around him. Far too early and far too eagerly, Malfoy stretched out his arm, ready for the catch that was never going to happen.

Harry had already covered half the distance between him and the Slytherin Captain. His determination and downright fury giving him an extra surge, Harry shot forward. Malfoy readied for the catch, only to find a trailing fist smash into ribs. Madam Hooch missed the school-rules foul committed by Harry.

As Malfoy shouted instinctively from the pain and clutched at his side, Harry raced ahead of him, unable to keep the grin off his face. The thought of what this game could give him sobered Harry somewhat, and he gripped his broom tighter.

Then a Bludger came screaming out of nowhere and thudded straight into his ribs.

Stars filled his vision for a moment as he wobbled in mid-air, clutching his torso. It felt like his whole body was consumed with fire. He swallowed painfully, the vile taste of vomit in the back of his constricted throat. With tears stinging his eyes, Harry tore through the air, angrily giving chase to a gleeful-looking Malfoy.

Harry's chest flared in pain as he crouched low over his broom, but he ignored it as best he could. He was used to agony, to raw pain, and his anger was giving him a break.

Malfoy glanced over his shoulder, sensing the presence behind him, only to have Harry's fist smash into his nose. At least two fingers on Harry's left hand broke, he was sure of it, as more pain raced up his wrist and throughout his arm.

Malfoy cried out for a foul, holding his hands against his face as his blood poured through his clenched fingers.

A shrill whistle brought only a groan from Harry, but he didn't stop his course. Seekers didn't have to stop for fouls. The only reason Seekers usually stopped when a foul occurred was because the foul had been committed to stop someone catching the Snitch or stop the chase.

"A clear foul there from Potter, but who here can say, hand on heart, that they don't wish they could do the same?" Seamus said into his microphone. "Slytherin score, by the way, as if anyone here really gives a shit."

The rest of the players, who had been watching, transfixed, started up the play again.

With more pace than Malfoy, Harry soon caught up to the Slytherin Seeker and quickly developed a lead. The Snitch sensed its time was nearly up, but even Snitches made purely for amateur games were designed to never give in and make it easy. The Snitch stopped flying wildly and opted for pure speed, something professional grade Snitches probably wouldn't do quite so early.

Harry grinned in mild amusement as Malfoy rushed towards him, radiating rage and hell-bent on taking Harry out of the game full stop. It was always the same.

In a move that Harry's favourite player and friend used to great effect, Harry relinquished control over his broom entirely. It was a move that was difficult and dangerous. Not many people knew exactly how to do it, and those who did usually lacked the confidence to try.

With his hands still held tightly on the handle, the Firebolt plummeted immediately. Malfoy gaped and shot over Harry's head. Harry didn't hang around; instead, he reasserted control of the Firebolt and zipped away.

"Merlin's sweating sodding bollocks!" Seamus shouted. "Did you see that? Did you effing see that! He's crazy, I'm telling you! Potter, I know I said this is a do-or-die match, but don't take it literally, you idiot. At least catch the Snitch first."

Harry blocked out the sound, which was easier with the wind howling past his ears, and narrowed in on the Snitch. It flew in a straight line, only turning when the curves of the Hogwarts stadium forced a change of direction. Harry was agile, that much was certain, but he was also ferociously fast.

He gained ground, pushing his broomstick to the limit. The top speed of a Firebolt was ridiculous, yet Harry managed to maintain it. The broom was known for its staying power at top speed, which was why professional teams used them.

The Snitch completed a perfect vertical drop. Malfoy came screaming in from above at that very moment and completely misjudged the angle, barrelling wildly off course and missing the Snitch entirely. Malfoy had forgone tactics and was flying wildly, something that he usually resorted to doing when losing.

The Firebolt was already directed at the perfect angle to chase the Snitch, so Harry simply flew on, ignoring the roars of the crowd urging him on. He saw his shadow zooming along on the ground, and the Snitch flapping its wings furiously just underneath his feet.

The match had been Harry's hardest that year, no doubt about it. Even as his ribs burned, his back ached, and his muscles begged for a respite, the thrill of simply playing – of flying – was still ever present. He wanted the win more than anything, though, and here was his chance.

Harry shot after the Snitch, turning upside-down in the process, and flung out his arm blindly. The cold Golden Snitch stopped fluttering the instant his hand clenched around its wings. A smile forced its way onto his face, and he held up his hand triumphantly, holding the Snitch between his forefinger and thumb.

"Yes!" Harry shouted in sheer elation.

"Yes!" Seamus echoed, his magnified voice even louder than before. "Potter's caught the Snitch! Gryffindor win! We're now unbeaten in our last- Wait, what the hell's he doing?"

Harry frowned at the abrupt change in Seamus's commenting, but he realised what his friend was talking about a moment later. From nowhere, Harry was tackled in mid-air, sent flailing wildly off his broom.

Harry roared profanities at Malfoy, who he knew without doubt had been the one to barrel into him. Luckily for Harry, he hadn't been any more than a meter off the ground, so he only landed with a dull thud on the hard earth underneath. A bony shoulder smashed into Harry's ribs, eliciting a shout of pain, before Malfoy rolled off.

In a daze, Harry grimaced and clutched his ribs, attempting to sit up. A few feet away, Malfoy clambered to his feet, a look of rage plastered on his normally stoic features. His nose was still leaking blood, mixing in with his sweat and the old blood that had already dried and crusted. Whenever he was around Harry, Malfoy had never been one to reign in his emotions, which typically consisted of hate and pure rage.

The teachers rushed down to the pitch to break up the probable fight, with Dumbledore in front, leading his staff. The students called out suggestions on what curses to use, unaware that Harry had no wand. It was a sad state of affairs when everyone was used to the fighting between Malfoy and Harry, but it had been going on for seven years now. Madam Hooch knew better than to get involved after the last time, when she had ended up with a broken nose and was unable to use her legs for the rest of the day.

Malfoy remembered he was a wizard, and a second later he pulled out his wand from inside his Quidditch robes. He pointed his wand directly at Harry's head, but Harry flung his battered body out of the way of the incoming Cutter.

With a roar of frustration, Malfoy snapped his wand across his body, sending off a torrent of fire. With a rush of air, the magical fire raced its way across the grass, instantly blackening the ground in its path. Unfortunately for the Slytherin, Harry had faced much better wizards in fights. Without the use of his wand, which Harry really regretted leaving back in the changing rooms, he sidestepped the fiercely scorching flames and charged straight at Malfoy.

Without thinking, Harry pulled back his arm and threw all of his weight behind his fist, smashing it straight into Malfoy's pale and bloodied face. Harry didn't care where he aimed, as long as it connected. It did. Malfoy's jaw cracked under Harry's knuckles, breaking both Malfoy's jaw and even more of the bones in Harry's hand. Harry hissed, flinging his hand rapidly up and down in a useless attempt to block out the pain.

The flames from Malfoy's wand stopped immediately as he collapsed, but the magical fire still burned across the field, completely out of control.

The teachers arrived at pitch-side, desperately attempting to put out the now-raging fire. Most of the students had left as soon as the game had ended, but Gryffindor's pupils had waited to see the ceremony, which left them still in the stands. Their wands accompanied the teachers' wands, sending torrents of water to contain the fire, drenching everyone in the process. The water hissed as it connected with the fire, creating thick pillars of steam.

The fire licked the wooden stands where it was looking to spread, but a cannon-blast of water from Dumbledore stopped it before it could happen. Harry watched dispassionately as the flames thinned out around him. Drenched in ice-cold water – yet feeling the searing heat from magical fire – was a feeling Harry had experienced before. He dragged himself out of harm's way, where the pitch was still green and his eyes didn't sting from the smoke, but it wasn't far enough.

"Potter!" Snape snapped. It wasn't just Draco Malfoy who lost all sense of composure around Harry, but the Potions Master as well. "What is the meaning of this?"

Harry was sure that if he had his wand, Snape would have had a fight on his hands. Instead, Harry pointed to the mumbling Malfoy, who'd been levitated out of the way by Snape's wand. "Ask that little twat. He attacked me."

"Mr Potter, I had foolishly hoped you had grown out of such antics!" Professor McGonagall chided as soon as she stopped walking, giving him stern glare. "Have you completely forgotten what we spoke about at length a little over a year ago?"

Harry held up his hands. "Hey, I'm innocent in this! Didn't you see what happened? He came barging into me and took me out. I haven't even got my wand on me!"

Professor McGonagall frowned, her eyes narrowing in on Malfoy for a split second, before she was looking at Harry again. "Come with me," she instructed, leading him across the field and out of hearing range.

Harry stopped as McGonagall turned to him, her expression unreadable. He opened his mouth to begin his protests, but McGonagall held up her hand to stall him. Without another word, the Transfiguration Professor threw up a Silencing Charm around the two of them.

"Err, what's this about, Professor?" Harry asked, starting to get a little worried.

"Your blatant fouls during the match nearly cost not just Gryffindor our trophy, but the school its stadium," McGonagall said, keeping her voice low despite the Charm.

"You can't blame that on me!" Harry said quickly.

"I am not blaming it solely on you, Potter," McGonagall said sharply. "Try to see past the differences between yourself and Mr Malfoy for just a moment. Do you realise that he is constantly trying to better everything you do? He was already wound up today. Can you see how you purposefully enraging him during the match only served to push him over the edge?"

"That still doesn't make it my fault," Harry insisted. "Can you imagine if everyone did something that stupid when they got angry? I could've burned down the whole castle over the years with what's pissed me off, but I didn't. Malfoy just hasn't got any self-control, everyone knows that."

"Which is exactly why you should know better," McGonagall said.

Harry's rubbed his sweaty palms against his robes, clenching them into fists as he took a few deep breaths to calm himself. "Why should I be responsible for his actions?"

McGonagall closed her eyes for the briefest of moments. "You know that isn't what I mean, Potter. You must be responsible for your own actions, and today you didn't stop to think about anyone other than yourself."

"How was I supposed to know he'd do something like… well, like this?" Harry said, gesturing somewhere behind him. "It's Quidditch, Professor. Not only that, but it's Gryffindor versus Slytherin. There's a foul every other minute in these matches. Everything I did has been done a million times before."

McGonagall's features softened, and she looked at him with a hint of sympathy. "I'm aware that you're attempting to live as normal a life as possible, Harry, but there are certain things you cannot do. Your role in the war cemented a deep hatred of you within Mr Malfoy. You cannot escape that. I know how much Quidditch means to you, but you know better than most that there are far more important things in life. This game may have been important to you, but it pales in significance to what it meant for Mr Malfoy."

Harry swallowed thickly, refusing to let himself feel any semblance of sympathy for someone such as Malfoy. "While I feel little more than pity for Malfoy, I won't let him dictate my life in any way. If he doesn't like something I do, or he tries to outdo me at something and fails, well, that's his shortcoming, not mine."

Before Professor McGonagall could reply, the Headmaster decided that was the right moment to intervene.

"Are you in need of any medical treatment, Harry?" Dumbledore inquired, his concern for Harry's wellbeing written all over his face.

Harry shook his head, well aware that he was holding his ribs with his good hand. "I'll be okay for now, sir."

"If you're sure," Dumbledore said, waiting for a moment to give Harry the chance to reconsider. "May I ask why you did not bring your wand with you today?"

Harry's reasoning sounded quite childish now, even to his own ears, after seeing the damage that Malfoy had caused to the pitch, which was utterly ruined.

"Professional teams aren't allowed to take their wands out on to the pitch," Harry answered with a slight shrug. "That's why I didn't apply the usual Cooling Charm over myself before the match. I was hoping to get a trial and I thought it would be good practise for a professional game."

Dumbledore hummed into his beard, looking a little humoured, which was never a good sign. "Who do you wish to sign for, Harry?"

Professor McGonagall looked quite bemused by the current conversation, but it was just the way Harry and Dumbledore had always been, especially after Harry's fourth year.

"I was hoping to play for your favourite team," Harry said, unable to stop the slight grin at just the thought.

"Ah!" Dumbledore said joyfully. "You must forgive me, Harry. I tend to forget some things in my late age. Puddlemere United would be lucky to have somebody such as yourself."

Harry smiled at the kind words from the elderly wizard.

"I'd sign for a different team if I had to," Harry said, leaving a sour taste on his tongue. "I don't particularly fancy that, though."

"I should think not," Dumbledore said. Professor McGonagall coughed pointedly, diverting Dumbledore's attention. "Has the smoke clogged your airways, Minerva?"

McGonagall sniffed, looking a little put out. "Won't you do something about this, Albus? This rivalry of theirs has gotten out of hand."

Dumbledore followed Minerva's gesturing. The other Professors were now trying to clear the thick steam that had erupted when the water had touched the fire.

"I am afraid, Harry, that Minerva will be rather cross with me if I let you escape without punishment." He looked at McGonagall. "Do not mistake me, Harry, your method of incapacitating Mr Malfoy without a wand is commendable. I would be remiss, however, to do nothing about the most flagrant blatching penalty I have seen in many a year."

"I understand, sir," Harry said with a nod. He'd expected something like that. "But I'd like to point out that I wasn't the one who instigated anything, even in the game. Malfoy can't handle losing. He was trying to injure me."

"I promise you, the matter shall be looked into. Now, if you will excuse me, Harry," Dumbledore said, bowing his head slightly. He caught up with Professor Flitwick, lending his hand at clearing the field and attempting to construct the stage for the upcoming ceremony.

Harry turned to McGonagall more in hope than anything else, only to find her watching him with an unreadable expression. Harry smiled weakly, which did nothing but invite her to begin speaking.

"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?"

Harry had a hell of a lot of things he wanted to get off his chest, it was just figuring out where to start. He knew it probably wouldn't do him any good to wind her up today, and while his conversation with Dumbledore had left him feeling better, he was still frustrated with his Head of House.

"If I get punished that prat doesn't, I'll take it as a personal attack," Harry said, pointing at Malfoy, who was now being stretchered off the pitch to the jeers and laughter of the Gryffindor students, the only students still left in the stands.

Professor McGonagall opened to her mouth to reply when her brain caught up. "Don't be so childish, Potter!" she snapped at him, looking highly affronted at the mere suggestion that one of her students would be subjected to a personal attack.

"You know as well as I do that Snape won't do a bloody thing, and don't try to deny it," Harry said.

"The Headmaster will be dealing with both of you, I can assure you," Professor McGonagall said. "I'm sorely tempted to give you detention until the day you leave, so don't give me a reason to do so."

Harry merely smiled, although it was little too wide for Professor McGonagall. "Come on, Professor, cut me some slack. I did just win you the Cup, didn't I? For a third year in a row, no less. Four if you count my Third year when I wasn't Captain. Surely you can look past anything I do now until the end of term?"

McGonagall just shook her head wearily, her infamous stare penetrating Harry's skull. "Just when did you turn into your father, Harry?"

"Come now, Minerva," a new voice said, sounding highly amused. "It's simply the genes in him, that's all. Can you really blame the offspring?"

The stare turned from Harry and onto the new figure, who just happened to be Sirius Black, ex-con extraordinaire and Harry's Godfather. Sirius had turned up at the last four Quidditch games Harry had played, so it was no surprise to see him there.

"In case you've forgotten, the boy has Lily's genes as well, Sirius," Professor McGonagall said, then turned a critical eye on Harry. "They might be hidden deep down, but they're there somewhere."

Sirius laughed, looking utterly delighted as he made his way over to Harry, clapping him on the back in greeting. "You've seen his temper, Minerva. You know that's mostly Lily. Mind you, Lily never lost it quite so easily, unless it was directed towards James, of course. James was always laidback enough, although when he lost his temper it usually ended up in harsh pranks on whoever was stupid enough to piss him off." Sirius glanced at Harry. "Or it involved hexing anyone idiotic enough to try and hurt his family."

Harry frowned. "I don't lose my temper easily."

Sirius snorted. "Sure you do, Harry," he said. His forehead creased. "You're a bit more vicious than Lily was, though, and she could pack a punch."

McGonagall looked between the two of them and sighed. Without saying a word, she turned around and began helping the clean-up.

Sirius whistled through his teeth as he surveyed the pitch. "You know how to put on a show, kid, I'll give you that."

"You're not talking about the game, are you?" Harry asked, a small grin playing on his lips.

Sirius's grey eyes filled with mirth as they turned to Harry. "It was a good catch, but you could have caught it before you did. You should have caught it sooner."

Harry tipped his head in agreement. "I lost my temper up there."

A chuckle escaped Sirius. "You landed a couple of nice punches on that prick, didn't you?"

An irrational pride filled Harry. "You're damn right I did."

Sirius pulled out a small flask, with the word 'Padfoot' engraved on the side. Harry stared at it and Sirius stared at Harry.

"When did you get that?" Harry demanded.

Sirius lowered the flask that he'd just taken a drink from. "Your father made it," he said a touch wistfully. "He made one for all of us for Christmas in our fifth year. Of course, I called him a cheap prick for not actually buying it."

"You were an ungrateful bastard back then as well, eh?" Harry snorted, unsurprised. "And before you even think it, I don't want one for Christmas, but I'll take one any other time."

"Hey, I'm not as cheap as your father!" Sirius grumbled. "I bought you the Firebolt, didn't I? Doesn't that count for something?"

"What about all the other years of my life?" Harry asked. "You missed every Christmas, every birthday, Valentine's Day, Easter, and even-"

"I was in Azkaban!"

Harry shrugged, unconcerned. "If I had a flask like that, it'd go some way in helping my recovery of your abandonment."

"Your father actually made one for you," Sirius said with a faraway look in his eyes. "He made it for your first birthday."

Harry eyed his Godfather a bit worriedly. "My father made me a flask, which is usually meant to contain whiskey, for my first birthday?"

Sirius nodded as if nothing was wrong with that statement. "Well, yeah. Lily went mental when she found out, but Prongs explained that it was tradition."

"It's a tradition to make a flask for a one year old?" Harry asked dubiously.

"We made it a tradition," Sirius explained impatiently. "I don't know where it ended up, though. I'll have to have a look for it, but there aren't many of your parents' possessions left now."

As Sirius pondered the mystery of what had happened to Harry's baby flask, Harry was about to ponder on how his father's parenting skills would have worked on him. Before he could delve into the mess that would have been, Sirius turned to him.

"You would have loved the Quidditch games back when your father and I were here, you know." Sirius nodded, glancing up at the Gryffindor students. "We used to have a hell of time. Your dad was Captain as well, but I think you're a better player than he was, and Prongs really could play. Your mum used to say she hated watching him, but she never missed a game."

The thought of his parents in their Hogwarts days wasn't something Harry really thought about. There were a number of pictures he had of them in his possession, but he still couldn't imagine them roaming the same halls he'd walked for the last seven years.

"What's gotten you into such a soppy mood?" Harry asked, grinning as he nudged Sirius in the arm.

"Must be this place," Sirius said. "The best years of my life were spent here."

"Don't worry, you've got me now," Harry said, trying to sound serious but it came out in quite a mocking tone.

Sirius glared at him half-heartedly. "Prat."

Harry chuckled, but before he could respond, he received a tap on the shoulder.

"Nice flying, Potter!" Fred Weasley shouted, suddenly pulling Harry into an unwanted hug, which lifted him up off his feet. Considering he and the Weasley twins were roughly the same height, it was quite a feat. His ribs flared with pain again, apparently having the ability to cause his whole body to burn.

"Merlin, when did you get so strong?" Harry demanded with a groan. "You can put me down when you like, by the way. I think my ribs are broken and you're not doing anything to help."

Fred lowered him, only for his brother, George, to pull Harry into another hug.

"Oof!" Harry grunted, thankfully not being lifted up into the air this time. "Seriously guys, what's up with all the damn hugging?"

"To be fair, Harry, you did ask Fred when he got so strong," Sirius said happily. "George probably felt the need to prove his masculinity, isn't that right, George?"

Unlike George, who nodded at Sirius, Harry wasn't quite able to follow that line of thought, so he settled on keeping his mouth shut and sent a glare at his Godfather. Not that it did any good, as Sirius smirked and took another sip out his flask.

"I just figured you hadn't had a nice hug off our mum in a while," Fred said with a gleam in his eye. "Now that you mention it, though, I have been working out. Jealous, Potter?"

In fact, Harry was jealous, so he kept his mouth shut. Unsurprisingly, Sirius was the first to crack up laughing at the look on Harry's face.

"Hey, how come you complimented him and not me, Harry?" George whined.

"Are you really that strong?" Sirius asked, lifting George's sleeve up onto his shoulder to inspect his bicep. Sirius pulled back, lifting his own sleeve.

"Where do you train?" Sirius asked after noticing the less than impressed looks. "I reckon I could get back on track within a year with a body like yours."

Nobody had to ask what he meant by getting back on track. Sirius took it as a personal endeavour to sleep with as many women as possible. He'd had a fairly impressive record back in his school days, and not a bad tally out of Hogwarts. However, he hadn't had too much luck since his breakout, something he was eagerly looking to rectify. According to him, prostitutes didn't count, although that didn't stop him blowing his money on them. Harry idly wondered what his childhood would have been like with Sirius and his father around.

"At our training ground," Fred answered slowly. "You know, at Puddlemere's facilities, where we're usually stuck all week."

"It beats a normal job, though, so we can't complain." George shrugged.

"We train at home sometimes as well," Fred said. "The gaffer likes it when we keep up with our training during the summer, and it becomes a bit of a habit, I guess."

"You can come round and join us, unless you're afraid we'll show you up," George offered, raising his eyebrows challengingly to Sirius.

Sirius puffed out his chest. "You just give me a time and Harry and I will be there."

"Hey!" Harry objected. "Why're you dragging me into this?"

Sirius looked pointedly at Harry's arms. "You need it, Potter. I'm surprised you can lift your bloody broom with arms as scrawny as those."

Harry was the only one not to laugh. He surreptitiously glanced at his arms. They weren't that small, or at least he'd thought so until the Weasley twins had shown their faces. He knew he shouldn't compare, but he'd never felt so puny before, and he'd grown up with Dudley Dursley. Fred and George were no bodybuilders, but there was hardly an ounce of fat on them.

"How come you're here today, anyway?" Harry asked, deciding to try and ignore the feeling of inadequacy.

The twins glanced at each other in that secret way which only twins were capable of achieving. Sirius's forehead crinkled as he watched them.

"I'm afraid we shouldn't answer that at the moment," George said solemnly.

"We will anyway, though," Fred continued, his usual mischievous smile fully in place. "We're here with Phil. We were, anyway, he left a few minutes ago. Ollie's been banging on about how he reckons Phil should try and sign you up. Honestly, he's been talking about it ever since we reminded him you were in your last year in this place."

"Course, Phil hadn't seen you play before," George said. "We told him you were completely bonkers on a broom."

Harry's shoulders dropped a tad. "Damn it, I've probably blown it."

"Why?" Sirius asked, looking at Harry like he was mad.

"You saw what happened after I caught the Snitch." Harry seethed. "That prick started having a go, didn't he? I swear, I've got a good mind to go and wallop him again."

Fred chuckled and looked like he wouldn't mind doing the same thing. "I haven't got a clue why that happened in the match would blow your chances, Harry. Assaulting the little twat after the game probably wouldn't do you any favours, though."

Sirius nodded in complete agreement. "You've been to a few professional games with me. Remember last time, when these two started a brawl that lasted ten minutes?"

The twins looked distinctly proud at that.

"He's right, Harry," Fred said. "I think you'll get an offer of at least a trial after today. It wasn't bad for an amateur match, and I think you could handle it in the league if you trained hard enough."

"Honestly, Phil doesn't care too much about defending ourselves," George said. "He doesn't like it when we start a fight because that can be avoided. Everyone can see you have potential, though, just don't go signing for a rival team."

Hearing it said from the twins gave Harry a little confidence in his chances. "Well, here's to hoping, eh?"

Sirius lifted his flask to salute Harry.

"I'd best warn you now," Fred started. "If you don't take it seriously, or don't work hard enough, you won't go far in a professional team."

George nodded seriously. "We hated it at first. The constant training in the gym and the long days out on the pitch killed us. It was worse than the training Ollie used to put us through here. The trials are the easiest part, and they were harder than anything we had to do here. That's probably the main reason we keep up with our training in the summer. If we didn't, we'd be absolutely knackered in the first few weeks of a new season."

An unfamiliar feeling settled in Harry's gut, something that he couldn't quite place. "Well," he stated, "nothing has happened yet, so I'd best not get my hopes up too much."

Harry's hopes were already high, though, and he couldn't do a thing to bring his dreams back down to earth.

"Anyway," George said, grinning again. "We also wanted to come and see you lift the Cup, so get up there, Captain." George nodded behind Harry, who turned around to see the rest of his team waiting for him near the platform. Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore were on the actual platform, the Cup held between them, looking expectantly towards Harry.

Harry held up his hands apologetically. "Right, I'd best go and enjoy this. I'll see you two soon, hopefully."

"See you soon, Boy Wonder!" Fred said, he and George smiling a touch too brightly and waving over-enthusiastically.

"Enjoy your last few weeks as much as you can, whatever you do," Sirius said, giving Harry a one-armed hug, otherwise known as a manly greeting or goodbye. He slipped something in Harry's pocket before he pulled back. "Have a drink on me, okay?"

Harry grinned. "You bet I will," he said, nodding goodbye to the twins before turning tail and running to his team.

"Congratulations, Harry," Dumbledore said as Harry stepped onto the stage, handing the Cup over to him with a completely biased smile.

Harry glanced at his reflection in the trophy, noticing he looked a little more than simply roughed up. His hair was messier than usual, strands sticking to his forehead. There were smudges of dirt along his neck and covering his cheek and nose, and along his chin was a line of dried blood.

Complete elation filled him a moment later, as he realised what he'd achieved. It wasn't a big thing in the grand scheme of his life, but it was something he'd worked hard for. With a bright smile, Harry raised the Cup in the air for the third year in a row.

Amidst the wild cheering, Harry passed the Cup on to Ron, before he tapped his pocket, his eyes lighting up when he recognised what was inside. Sirius had slipped him some whiskey. It was going to be a hell of night in the Gryffindor common room.

2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter Two

Harry glared at his watch. Sirius had given it to him on his seventeenth birthday. He tapped the glass twice, swearing that it must have stopped working. It hadn't. He frowned and sat back in his seat, tugging the half-Windsor knot on his tie, before running a hand through his hair.

The shuffling of parchment broke the tense air momentarily. Harry inspected his fingernails and absently tried to thumb his fore and middle fingers clean of ink stains. It didn't work.

Harry stifled a yawn, before crossing his arms and looking to the heavens, exhaling loudly.

A quiet, covered up snort caught his attention. He glanced to his right and saw Megan Jones grinning at him. He thought it only polite to offer his best grin back.

Around the Great Hall, most of the students still had their heads down, furiously scribbling as the clock ticked down to the end of the test. Fingernails were being worn down by some, while others, like Gregory Goyle, had given up altogether.

In fact, Harry thought, peering at Goyle, the Slytherin looked like he was sleeping. His arms were crossed on his desk and he'd rested his forehead on his large hands.

Harry caught Megan's attention and nodded towards Goyle. She brushed aside her wavy auburn hair, quickly covering her mouth with a small hand as she stifled a laugh. She half-heartedly glared at Harry, her lively hazel eyes narrowed but shining, her shoulders shaking softly with mirth.

"Five minutes remaining," the examiner announced from the front of the hall. He was rewarded with a surge of noise, as quills were suddenly worked even faster.

Goyle didn't so much as twitch.

Harry turned in his seat to see how his friends were getting on, his thoughts on anything but the written exam he'd just finished. Two desks directly behind him, Ron was still writing, ink splashed over his arms and smudged across his cheek and the tip of his long nose.

Seamus wasn't fairing much better three seats to Ron's left, although he looked less frantic. Dean gave a thumbs-up from the other side of the hall when Harry caught his attention. He was sat back in his chair, arms crossed comfortably over his chest, looking as confident in himself as usual.

In the front row, Neville had finished before anyone, but he was checking his answers yet again. He was expected to excel in this exam, Herbology being his best subject. Not even Hermione had ever been able to get close to him, something which frustrated her to no end.

Deciding that there was nothing better to do, Harry fingered the pages of his own work, barely taking in his scrawled handwriting. There had been a time when Harry had hoped to achieve a perfect 'O' in every exam, just to live up to his name and prove himself, but that had changed over the years. He'd proven himself countless times and some things just weren't worth the hassle.

Harry's focus had always been more on the practical side of magic, which had always intrigued and excited him so much more. He knew better than many that it wasn't just about learning the incantation and movements and then doing it. You also had to understand what you were doing to really master a spell. Dumbledore had imparted that piece of wisdom.

None of that applied to Herbology, so Harry had never put much effort in to the theoretical aspect. He hadn't cared for plants and gardening ever since Petunia had made him prune her rose bushes, so he wasn't very keen on the practical side of Herbology either.

He'd mostly gotten by in the subject because there was one, rather large part of Herbology that really enthralled him. He'd had his first taste of dangerous magical plants when he was eleven, with Devil's Snare, and it was because some plants had the ability to murder in a number of ways that he'd stuck with the subject.

It was also the main reason he'd continued Potions. Because Harry was who he was, he simply couldn't take any chances.

He also didn't fancy his death being at the hands of a plant or a Potion, of all things.

"Time's up." The examiner's wand was already summoning the parchments to his desk before he'd finished speaking. They flew through the air, landing in three neat piles on the desk in front of him. "Thank you, that's the test concluded. You may leave."

Without pause, Harry grabbed his bag from under the desk and shot up from his chair. He was about to bolt from the Great Hall, when a small hand grabbed him by the crook of his elbow.

"Hold up a minute, will you, Harry?"

Harry shifted the bag onto his back as he turned around, his scowl already fading but turning into a genuine smile when he saw Megan looking up at him. He took a good look back at her. Her face was spotless, barely tanned from the recent good weather. Her cheeks were slightly rosy, as they always were during summer.

"What can I do for you?" Harry asked, leaning against the desk behind him and shoving his hands inside his deep pockets.

Megan wet her lips, drawing Harry's attention specifically to them. They appeared to be almost peach-coloured. "I was, um, just wondering…"

Harry reflexively leaned forward, slightly amused and more than a little curious to see Megan's already rosy cheeks turning a darker shade of red by the second.

Megan seemed to come to an internal decision, for she stared at him defiantly. "I was just wondering what happened after the match."

"Oh," Harry said, slightly taken back. "Well, I guess you've heard what happened between Malfoy and myself?"

"The whole school watched, Harry. I meant what happened after we left. Did McGonagall give you a month of detentions?"

"Not exactly," Harry said, motioning for Megan to walk out of the hall with him. "We were sent to Dumbledore's office. Not together, obviously. Malfoy's staying to complete the exams and then he's finished. He's probably already gone, come to think of it."

"Okay… but what happened to you?"

Harry paused momentarily as the cool breeze blowing through the Entrance Hall caught his neck. "Err, Dumbledore docked some points away for what I did during the match, and I've got detention Sunday night."

Megan turned to face him by the doors leading out into the grounds, looking mightily relieved by something. "Oh, that's good."

Harry's eyebrows lifted slowly. "Err, it is?"

"Well, not that you've got detention, obviously," Megan said quickly, blushing in such a way that made her quite adorable. "I just mean you won't miss the party tonight. That would've been just dreadfully unfair."

"Dreadfully unfair, indeed," Harry said with a small smile, spotting a familiar group over Megan's shoulder, waiting for him with suggestive grins. "I'm sorry, I'm on my way to Hogsmeade. Fancy coming along?"

Megan blinked, looking up at him under long eyelashes. "Oh," she said, as if she'd just figured something out and she was delighted with the outcome. Her lips parted, only for them to close quickly a second later. She swallowed. "You're, um, going with friends, are you?"

"Err, yeah. You're welcome to come, though."

Megan hummed, biting her lip. "Um," she said, for the umpteenth time, shaking her head. "No, I'd best not. I have to go and get ready for tonight."

"I'll see you tonight, then?"

"Yes, tonight," Megan said, and the smile was back in full force. "I'll see you at the party, Harry."

Harry nodded and half-turned, leaving with a parting comment, "We'll most likely be in the Three Broomsticks. Just in case you change your mind."

Scotland had been receiving more sun than it knew what to do with, and it beat down upon Harry as he walked out of the shade and towards his waiting group of friends. He was glad he'd had the insight to forego his robes.

"Took you long enough, Potter," Seamus called to him.

"I can find my own way to the village, you know," Harry said as he jogged the last few meters to catch up with them.

"Not without getting into some sort of trouble, you can't," Dean said.

Harry rolled his eyes as he twisted his shoulders to relieve his aching muscles. "I'm not as bad as people make out."

Neville turned to him, a look on his face that clearly stated he thought otherwise.

"Let's just go," Harry muttered, and the three of them fell into step with him.

"How was that for you, Potter?" Seamus asked. "I give up halfway through, myself. Should never have carried on with the subject."

"Well, Neville's got us beat, we know that," Harry said. "I tried for a while but just got bored."

Dean nodded in agreement, the toe of his shoe kicking up dirt. "Same here. I mean, whose bright idea was it to put the written Herbology exam last?"

"Well, I tried," Neville said casually, receiving three blank looks.

Seamus patted him on the shoulder. "We know you didn't really try, Longbottom. You didn't actually have to, did you?"

"You actually like bloody plants," Dean said in disgust.

Neville grinned, a hint of his natural shyness shining through. "Well, I thought I did okay."

Harry snorted. "Don't give me that bollocks. You can caress the vines of a Venomous Tentacula about as well as Seamus thinks he can caress a woman."

"Only with gloves," Neville assured them with a smile, then paused as Hogsmeade came into sight. "Where to first?"

"Three Broomsticks," Harry said. "We can stop off at the Hog's Head before we go back to the castle."

"Sounds good," Seamus said, leading the way.

"Oh, we're not going to be here for long, are we?" Neville groaned. "Can't you just, I don't know, wait until later to have a drink?"

"Nothing wrong with an early start, Nev," Dean said cheerfully.

Neville shook his head with a long, drawn out sigh. "You do what you want, I'm waiting until tonight."

The end-of-exams euphoria started to kick in as the group walked into the pub. A few other seventh years had travelled the well-beaten path into Hogsmeade, happier than they'd been in weeks as they relaxed in Madam Rosmerta's Three Broomsticks.

"Have you heard anything from Puddlemere yet?" Neville asked, resting his forearms on the bar.

Rosmerta currently had her hands full with another group, but signalled to them she wouldn't be long.

Before Harry could reply, Seamus instead said, "I have no idea why you want to play for them, Potter. I've said it before and I'll say it again, Kenmare is the way to go."

Harry ignored him, turning to Neville instead. "I haven't, but I have heard from other clubs."

"Oh, yeah?" Dean asked.

"Chudley offered me a place in the squad straight away, but I turned them down."

"Nice," Seamus said, tipping his head in agreement. "I'm sure Weasley will be thrilled with the news."

"Falmouth and Wigtown offered me trials," Harry said, pulling a face. "I've got a month to get back to them, but I'm waiting for Puddlemere to get in touch."

"And if you don't get an offer from Puddlemere?" Neville asked curiously.

"I don't really know what I'd do, Nev," Harry said honestly, trying not to think of such a thing happening. He pulled his moneybag out of his trouser pocket and dropped it on the bar, where the coins clattered and jangled inside. "I guess I'd try my luck with another team, but I haven't got a clue who."

"Kenmare," Seamus muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

"Same as usual, boys?" Madam Rosmerta called down the bar.

"Just the butterbeer for me, please," Neville said.

"Same as usual for the rest of us," Seamus added quickly.

"Cold?" Madam Rosmerta asked. Receiving four emphatic nods, she placed four glass tankards on the bar, before pulling out four chilled bottles of butterbeer. She popped them open and placed them next to the tankards. "Just the three glasses of Firewhiskey, then?"

"Two each, so six," Harry corrected.

Madam Rosmerta nodded and quickly got to work. Harry busied himself with pouring his butterbeer into his tankard while they waited.

"Have you heard from the twins since the match, Harry?" Neville asked, taking a small sip from his butterbeer and smacking his lips together in appreciation.

"Nope. It hasn't been long, and I doubt they'd find out before me anyway. The season's over."

"You could always ask them, I suppose," Neville said. "You never know, do you?"

"Or you could just sign for Kenmare," Seamus put in.

Harry chuckled, taking his time to take a long, large gulp of butterbeer. "Not that there's anything wrong with Ireland, Seamus, apart from the fact that there clearly is, but I don't want to go and live there."

Seamus just looked at him.

"I've lived in Scotland for the past seven years, I want to live in England for a while," Harry explained. "London, preferably. You know, Puddlemere isn't too far from London, at least not when you can Apparate, so it'll be handy if I do manage to get a contract."

"You could Apparate over the water easily enough," Seamus argued. "You've got the skill to Apparate long distances. Hell, you Apparated both of us over there last summer."

Madam Rosmerta stalled the conversation, placing six glasses of Firewhiskey on the bar. Harry was glad of the interruption.

"My round?" Harry asked, already taking a few coins from his moneybag.

"Thanks, Rosie," Seamus said, throwing a grin to the barmaid.

"Glasses in," Dean said, pouring the Firewhiskey from one of his glasses into his butterbeer.

"Two seconds," Seamus muttered, taking a quick drink from his butterbeer before copying Dean and Harry.

"Drink up," Dean said, holding out the second glass of Firewhiskey. Harry and Seamus clinked their glasses, before knocking them back in one.

It was three minutes before they'd stopped pulling faces and the urge to splutter and cough had died down.

"Table by the back, next to the window," Neville said, pointing it out. "Shall we?"

"Lead the way," Dean said.

"Why Puddlemere anyway, Potter?" Seamus asked, moving a chair from his path. "You never told me how you started supporting them."

"A number of reasons, really," Harry said. "Wood and Fred and George support them, and they were who I played Quidditch with every day. As much as Ron's always thought he'd be the next great coach, I played with people who could, err, play? You know what I mean."

"That's it?"

"Sirius supports them and my dad did," Harry said. "I was born near Puddlemere as well."

Seamus eyed him suspiciously. "There's a couple of teams down that way. You could've picked the Cannons. You didn't always know who Sirius and your dad supported."

Harry scoffed. "The Cannons? I don't care what anyone says, nobody decides to support the worst team in the league."

"Ron did," Dean called, and Harry realised he and Seamus had stopped walking and were stood in the middle of the pub.

"Actually, he didn't," Harry said, strolling over to the table, trying not to wince when he saw one of the other occupants. "Ron just liked the colour orange. All his other brothers support Puddlemere."

"Ginny doesn't support either of them," Susan Bones supplied, waving cheerily at Harry, despite him being all of a few feet away from her. "Hey, Harry."

"Finally caught him, then?" Harry said, nodding at Dean, and more specifically her hand resting on his thigh.

Susan blushed, beaming at Dean as she stroked his knee. "You bet I did."

"Sickening," Seamus said, pulling a face.

"Oh, let her have her fun," Hannah Abbott said, giggling around her hand.

Seamus grumbled to himself, pushing Harry into the booth and sliding in next to him. As luck would have it, Harry raised his head, and looked straight into the small, pale eyes of someone whose mere presence managed to irritate him.

"Potter," Zacharias Smith said, halting the casual conversation around the table.

Harry's fingers tapped an uneven beat on the old wooden table. Smith's eyes lowered to them, a small smirk playing on his lips a moment later.

The unsteady beat stopped. "Smith," Harry eventually said, lifting his glass as if to say cheers.

A tapping noise sounded, although it wasn't Harry making it this time. It was ignored. Smith finally looked away, and Harry let out a breath. He managed to gulp down half of his butterbeer a few seconds later, attempting to ignore the uncomfortable silence hanging over the table. The Firewhiskey, as potent as it was perfect, burned its way down Harry's throat, but he ignored that as well.

The tapping suddenly got louder, as if whoever was making it was agitated.

"Will someone open that bloody window before that owl manages to break it?" Seamus looked at Sally-Anne Perks pointedly.

Sally huffed, reluctantly turning around and stretching to open the window. Harry paid no attention to the owl trying to squeeze through the tiniest of openings, his focus on the shirt riding up Sally's back instead. Her skin was very tanned and looked very smooth.

Sally placed the barn owl on the table, where it glared at everyone for making it wait.

"It's for you, Harry," Sally said, holding out the letter to him.

"Typical." Smith snorted.

"Thanks," Harry muttered, taking the letter and ignoring Smith. He frowned as he read his name, which had been written in full.

Seamus raised his eyebrows. "Sounds a bit formal, doesn't it?"

Harry couldn't agree more. The only mail he ever received, apart from letters from friends, was usually fan mail, job offers, journalists asking for interviews, and proposals on the odd occasion. Proposals probably counted as fan mail, Harry conceded to himself.

"Smart owl to deliver that without an address," Seamus muttered.

"Oh, please." Smith scoffed, nearly spilling his drink down his pristine shirt. "I'm just surprised it wasn't hand delivered."

"What?" Hannah asked, looking completely bewildered, expressing what everyone was feeling.

"Oh, come on, we all know what Potter's fan girls are like," Smith said. "How many more times will we have to put up with girls running up to him in the middle of breakfast and handing him love letters?"

"Jealous, are we?" Seamus asked.

"Me? Jealous of Potter?" Smith scoffed again. "Who in their right mind would be jealous of him?"

"I could think of quite a few reasons why people would be," Sally said, jumping in to the conversation. "I'm not surprised so many people are jealous of him. How many people crave the attention that Harry has just by being who he is? People actually worship him for what he's done for us, and while I'm not saying that's right, I do think more people should be thankful. And if that's still not enough, just look at him. He's gorgeous."

There was a sudden pause as everyone looked at Sally, but she sniffed at them, refusing to look in Harry's direction. "What? He is! You can't deny it."

"You actually like him?" Smith asked furiously, flinging an arm in Harry's direction and nearly knocking over multiple empty glasses.

"That's not what I meant!"

"Then what the hell did you mean?"

"I think Sally means she'd choose Potter over scum like you any day of the week," Seamus said wryly.

"Is that true?" Smith asked, looking at Sally, disbelieving. "You'd pick him over me?"

"Who wouldn't?"

Smith's jaw dropped. "But he's a fucking criminal!"

Harry sat up and entered the argument for the first time. "I'm a what?"

"You heard me, Potter. The rest of the world may have forgotten, but I can still remember everything you've gotten away with over the years."

"What in Merlin's name are you ranting on about now?" Sally asked.

"Err, let's see…" Smith said sardonically. "Where shall we start? How about the countless temper tantrums he used to throw? Remember them, Potter? What about during the war? Let's discount the fact you disappeared for weeks and left everyone in the fucking dark, what happened? You-Know-Who shows up! And what did we do? You know, the people you left behind? We held him and his damn army out. Only then Saint Fucking Potter shows up with half the Ministry's fighting force and an illegal vigilante group behind him."

"I didn't hear you complaining too much about that when we did show up," Harry said, feeling the butterbeer bubbling in his gut. "In fact, I can't remember even seeing you there."

"That's because he fucked off and hid like a coward," Sally said, glaring so hard at Smith even Seamus leaned away from her.

"Where were you hiding for months, Potter?" Smith demanded, completely ignoring Sally. "What the hell could have been more important? You just showed up at the end and took all the glory. You don't deserve a bit of the credit."

"I'll tell you where he fucking was, shall I?" Seamus fumed, looking ready to strangle Smith with his bare hands. "He was with Dumbledore. He was holed up in a house, preparing to fight. I don't know half the story, and you can be sure that you'll never know it all either, but he was learning."

"Why don't we just fucking drop it, yeah?" Justin Finch-Fletchley said forcefully. He was usually one to keep out of arguments, so much so that Harry hadn't registered him being at the table.

"I'd like to fucking drop him," Seamus said, nearly growling.

"Been taking lessons from Potter on extreme violence to sort out your problems, have you?" Smith scoffed. "It's not unexpected. I don't expect Irish scum such as yourself to know proper etiquette in duelling."

Seamus launched himself across the table, sending half-empty glasses flying as the table flipped. Harry managed to rip him back by his shirt, tearing the sleeve clean off at the shoulder.

"Calm down." Harry growled, noticing Dean and Neville were ready to back him up, waiting to intervene. "You don't want to get barred, do you, mate?"

"I've had enough of that prick!" Seamus raged, struggling against Harry's grip pushing him back into the booth. "I say we finally put him in his place."

"Personally, I don't see what he's trying to do," Neville said, his words clearly directed at Smith. "He'd run a mile if Harry ever went after him again. You know he can't fight, he's too scared for that."

"Big speech for such a snivelling, worthless piece of shit such as yourself, Longbottom," Smith spat.

"Oh, fucking hell," Harry said, shaking his head in dismay. "You sound just like Malfoy."

Smith sneered in a way Purebloods must have been taught, clearly sensing an opportunity. "I heard he had a go on Patil after me, Potter. Do you think they laughed about you just as hard and she and I did?"

All eyes turned on Harry, suddenly wary of his reaction.

"Listen," Harry said, stopping Smith from continuing. "While I find myself quite fucking flattered that you and Malfoy couldn't please her without bringing my name into it, you really don't want to start this shit again. Not to sound arrogant, but you've pissed me off one too many times already. I don't know about you, but I don't fancy a round two. So do yourself a favour, before I actually do lose my temper."

Smith chewed the inside of his cheek. The girls fidgeted, Justin winced, and Seamus chuckled darkly.

"I'd say you've already lost your temper, Potter," Seamus muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

Harry glared at him, before turning back to Smith and waiting for a response.

"Come on, mate, let's just go," Justin said, turning Smith away from the table.

Smith allowed himself to be led out of the pub, not looking back once, and leaving behind a subdued atmosphere.

"What a prick," Sally said, summing it up perfectly in Harry's mind. She seemed to be more riled up than Harry was.

"Come on, let's clean this mess up," Susan said, clapping her hands together.

"Yeah, Rosie's glaring our way," Seamus muttered.

With a combined effort, the table was placed back the proper way, the glasses were fixed and taken back to the bar, and Madam Rosmerta somehow let them stay in her pub.

Harry was about to sit back down when he spotted the letter that had arrived before the argument. He turned it over to break the seal, when he suddenly stopped short.

"Another one from that old gal down in Liverpool?" Seamus asked with a suggestive grin.

Harry couldn't find it in himself to share Seamus's amusement. For the past year, the unnamed woman had been sending pictures of herself in provocative poses. She was nearly always stark bollock naked, and when she wasn't she wore costumes that Harry knew weren't designed for the activities the woman had in mind.

Harry was highly suspicious of the whole thing, even if his friends took great amusement from his situation. It could have been a big practical joke concocted by Sirius for all Harry knew, but his Godfather had denied any involvement, although he didn't help matters by cracking up whenever the issue was brought up.

"No," Harry said at last, finally looking away from the seal, still disbelieving. "No, it's from Puddlemere."

The group leaned in. The whole school knew of Harry's desire to join up with the Weasley twins and Oliver Wood at Puddlemere. With Seamus constantly mentioning it during his Quidditch commentary, it had been difficult for anyone not to hear.

The letter's seal was Puddlemere United's crest of two crossed bulrushes in front of a navy background. Harry only waited a handful of seconds before tearing into the letter, his earlier trepidation turning into nervous determination with every single word.

"Well, what do they have to say?" Seamus asked, looking utterly dejected.

"They're, uh, offering me a trial," Harry mumbled, well aware his hands were shaking. "Next Thursday."

"Damn it all to hell and back!" Seamus said, throwing Harry a smile despite his obvious disappointment. "Don't listen to them, Potter! Get yourself across the water. You'll have a grand old time."

"Oh, shut up, Seamus," Sally said, glaring at Seamus, before turning to Harry with a bright smile. "Well done, Harry. You deserve it."

Harry looked up and grinned a little nervously. "Thank you. Uh, yeah, wow."

"Congratulations," Neville and Dean echoed, their voices quickly joined by Susan and Hannah.

"Come on, let's start the celebrations," Seamus said. "Maybe I can convince you if you're sloshed enough. You usually agree to things when you've had a bit too much."

"Celebrations?" Harry asked dumbly. "I haven't done anything yet. They're only offering me trial. I have to actually get through that, you know. I haven't got a contract yet."

Seamus made a shooing motion and scoffed. "Don't worry about that. You'll walk it easily."

Harry stared at him. "You're barmy, mate. This isn't a school game."

"Well, start worrying about it in the morning," Seamus said simply. "Tonight, we'll celebrate."

"We'd better be off, actually," Susan said, getting to her feet. "The party starts at seven. We've got to go and start getting ready."

"I'll meet you in the Entrance Hall, yeah?" Dean asked.

Harry turned away from the couple. "Come on, Seamus, we've got to go and pick up the bottles from Abe."

"You're picking up the booze for tonight, then?" Sally asked curiously, although it sounded more like a statement.

"We are," Seamus said, draining the last of his second tankard of butterbeer.

The group walked out of the Three Broomsticks with an apology to Madam Rosmerta. Susan whispered something in Dean's ear, before she and her friends parted ways after exchanging goodbyes to the boys.

"I've got a feeling there's going to be some trouble off that prick tonight," Harry muttered.

"Ah, don't be so downbeat, Potter," Seamus said. "It can't be any worse than the fiasco that was the Yule Ball, can it?"

"I'll be surprised if Smith doesn't try something, and you know Malfoy will end up trying to sneak back in."

"What can either of them really do?" Dean asked. "I mean, Malfoy would get thrown out the minute he's seen. Smith won't start a fight."

"Eh, maybe," Harry muttered. "Doesn't mean I feel entirely comfortable, though."

The rest of the walk down to the Hog's Head was completed in silence. Despite Smith's tendency to back away from physical fights, Harry knew that after copious amounts of alcohol had been consumed, even the laidback Neville Longbottom could ruffle a few feathers.

Ruffling a few feathers, it turned out, was the last thing on Harry's mind later that evening. The Great Hall had undergone a makeover by the prefects and teachers, looking fit to host a Ministry Ball. Dumbledore had obviously worked on the decoration, as even Luna Lovegood looked surprised by the clashing of colours, from dark purple tablecloths covering the dozen round tables to the bright orange napkins.

A banquet had been prepared for the seventh years. The elves had really outdone themselves yet again, cooking a feast fit for a king. Harry would miss the food, if nothing else.

Harry had finished munching on his steak, drank the last remnants of red wine in his glass, and was currently waiting patiently for the speeches to finish up. Dumbledore had handed the stage to the Head Boy and Girl – Terry Boot and Hermione Granger, respectfully. Terry had thanked his fellow students, told a quick joke about his first night in Ravenclaw Tower, and let Hermione start speaking.

Which was mistake, in Harry's opinion.

The students had been rather comfortable after such a large meal, although looking forward to the after party. Hermione had started off from the very beginning. Literally. She told the story of her first experience with magic, when she hadn't known what it was, when she was seven. It had taken her half an hour for her to reach a conclusion, which had been something to do with her fretting over the exams. Most people had been in a slight slumber by that point, but they'd erupted into a cheer when Hermione stepped off the stage. Harry felt slightly sorry for her as she beamed at the response, offering her a small smile, which she returned.

Dumbledore smiled down at his students, a twinkle in his eye, his hands clasped in front of him. He winked at Harry, and Harry felt his stomach drop.

"I am aware you're all eager for the party to start in earnest," Dumbledore started, "but first, it would be my pleasure to welcome Mr Potter onto the stage."

All eyes turned to Harry, who had dropped his head onto the table with a loud thud.

"Get up there, Potter," Seamus whispered.

With a grimace, Harry lifted his head off the table and stood, shooting a half-hearted glare at Dumbledore, who only smiled serenely back at him. Harry walked to the stage, his head down and his shoulders drooped, as though he was walking to the gallows.

"If you would like to say a few words to your peers, Harry," Dumbledore said quietly, so only Harry could hear him.

"I have a few choice words in mind for you," Harry muttered, scowling as he turned to look out at the familiar faces. Most people were watching him in amusement, while others looked like they were decidedly less happy to see him on stage.

Harry cleared his throat. "Err, hi."

Without so much as word in warning, Dumbledore had completely thrown him to the wolves. Deciding that there was nothing else for it, Harry figured he's just go for it and serve Dumbledore right for not giving him any warning.

"So," Harry started, clicking his tongue and cringing. His foot started tapping the stage. "So, I guess Hogwarts is over for us now, isn't it? Oh, bugger it. You know what, I haven't got a bloody clue what to say."

"Just open your mouth, Potter, that usually lands you in trouble," Seamus called out, producing a few laughs.

"Thanks for the advice," Harry muttered. "Right, where was I? Um. Oh, I don't know. I can't really remember my life before Hogwarts, and I'm not sure what it's going to be like when I leave. It'll be different, there's no getting away from that. I'll miss this damned place more than I probably should do, especially when you consider the number of attempts on my life that have happened here."

The students laughed, nodding together.

"I'm serious!" Harry insisted. "If it's not a possessed teacher, it's a giant basilisk. If it isn't a deadly plant, then it's a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Sorry, Hagrid, but they were deadly!"

Hagrid's booming laughter could be heard over the student's chuckling.

"Fine." Harry hurriedly tried thinking of something else to say that didn't involve death. "I'll miss Albus Dumbledore's poetic yet decidedly backwards speeches."

Dumbledore and most of the students tittered at that. Harry vaguely wondered what a career in stand-up comedy would be like, but he had an idea that he was being laughed at, not with.

"I would say I'd miss Quidditch, but I'm hoping to play professionally, so let's hope I won't," Harry continued. "I'm looking forward to the higher class of opposition, truth be told."

The Quidditch players scowled something fierce as Harry blatantly looked in their direction with a grin.

"No offence to everyone I've faced on the pitch, of course," Harry said, holding his hand up in apology. "Right, let's see, what else? Oh, that's right. I won't be missing potions at all, but I think most of us can say that, can't we?"

Harry didn't need to look around to see that Snape would be would be scowling at him more harshly than usual

"I'm pretty sure that's all I've got to say, I'm not exactly one for the lovey-dovey bullshit that Albus likes to–"

"Thank you, Harry," Dumbledore intervened quickly as the students chuckled. "If you could please give a warm welcome to our first band of the night, The Biting Fairies."

The Biting Fairies began their new song, Deadlier Than Dragon Fire, just as Harry stepped off the stage. There was a surge of students that rushed towards the band, but Harry headed straight in the opposite direction, in desperate need of a strong drink.

Dumbledore had roped the four Heads of House in to serving drinks for the night. Three of them had welcomed the opportunity, glad to keep check on the quantity of alcohol being consumed. It was no surprise to anyone that Snape looked more furious than the other three Heads did.

"Firewhiskey, please," Harry said.

"Do try not to drink yourself into a stupor, Mr Potter," McGonagall said.

Harry held up his hands. "At least I'm of age if it does happen, right?"

Quickly picking up his Firewhiskey from McGonagall, who gave Harry a stern warning to be on his very best behaviour, Harry strolled back towards the crowd. The floor itself seemed to vibrate out of sync with the music, not that anyone inside the Great Hall really cared. Hyped up on all the last two years of nervous energy finally being released, along with the fact that nobody was quite yet ready to bid goodbye to Hogwarts, the seventh years were working themselves into a frenzy.

Seamus and Dean were right in the middle of the crowd.

"Hell of a speech, Potter," Seamus said, his voice barely heard over the powerful music.

Instead of bothering to shout back, Harry instead decided to pull out his bottle of Firewhiskey. Seamus and Dean held out their glasses expectantly for a top-up.

"I can't believe they're serving this," Dean said, lifting his glass to take a small sip.

"They don't have a lot here," Harry said. "Just don't forget to use the refilling charm before you run out."

The band continued to play their deafening set; the lyrics the lead singer belted out were indistinct for the most part, but Harry found himself enjoying the rhythm. Many a poster of the lead singer adorned teenage girls' bedroom walls, so it was no surprise that most of the girls had forced their way to the front.

Susan shoved her way back through the mass of girls, greeting Dean with a sloppy kiss. The distinct sound of an acoustic guitar suddenly had the girls cooing.

"I love this song!" Susan declared, pulling Dean with her to the front. Dean shrugged at Harry and Seamus, making no attempt to stop being tugged away from them.

"I need to learn to play the guitar," Seamus said with a nod.

Harry felt the urge to learn as well as he watched glazed eyes staring up at the lead singer.

"I'd fight for you like Potter fought for freedom."

Harry abruptly stopped listening, scowling as he drank straight from the bottle. Seamus seemed to find the whole thing amusing.

"Would you look at that, Potter, you're in a song," Seamus said gleefully, and it was only then Harry noticed Seamus was staring behind Harry's shoulder. "And you're not the only one who doesn't like it, it seems."

Harry turned around to see Smith looking downright furious. Parvati was next to him, arms crossed over her chest.

"Trouble in paradise, you reckon?" Seamus asked with a laugh.

"I thought Smith said she and Malfoy were going at it?"

Seamus shrugged. "Who knows? Oh, look, he's looking our way. Be polite, Potter."

Harry looked dubiously at Seamus as he started to wave, grinning smugly. Smith managed a glare, which intensified tenfold when he spotted Harry copying Seamus. He turned and stormed out, Parvati rushing after him.

There was a time when Harry would have gone after him as well, but he laughed the whole thing off as a lucky escape.

"She used to chase you like that, you know," Seamus said.

"I know. Smith's welcome to her. She drove me up the bloody wall."

"Selective memory, Potter," Seamus said.

"If you say so."

The stirrings of something were rumbling inside Harry's stomach, but he brushed them away easily enough. It wasn't jealousy. He'd been there once.

"Like I said, he's welcome to her, mate," Harry said, chugging the last of his drink. "Let me know if he wants another go, though, won't you?"

Seamus chuckled darkly. "I'd advise you to take your frustration out in a better way."

"I'm not frustrated," Harry muttered.

"Well, whatever it is, here's someone who'd probably be more than willing to give you a helping hand."

Harry's forehead creased as he tried to work that out, but his thoughts were interrupted.

"Harry!"

In a quiet room, Sally drunkenly screaming his name would have been deafening. In her defence, the new band on stage were playing as ferociously fast as the last one.

"You've had a few, darling," Seamus said, appraising the blonde with a lecherous grin, and making no attempt to hide that fact.

"You fancy some more?" Harry pulled out the half-empty bottle of Firewhisky, shaking it in front of her, where it sloshed against the glass.

"Why not?" Sally said, her already glazed eyes widening slightly. "It can't hurt."

Harry poured a generous amount into her glass, catching Seamus's eye and grinning.

Sally took a long drink, and Harry eyed her much like Seamus was still doing.

A thin layer of sweat had built up on her exposed shoulders, evidence of the amount of dancing – if it could be called that – she'd done. Her dark blonde hair had been curled for the evening, giving her a completely different look, although a few strands were sticking to her clammy forehead and neck. Parts of her make-up had smudged around her blue eyes, the same shade as her hip-hugging dress.

Harry had always thought she was pretty, and though he thought it made him sound shallow, she'd always bordered on the plain side. He was quite happy to be proven incorrect, though, and chided himself for not taking a better look before. Sally-Anne Perks wasn't one to flaunt what she had, but she certainly had the ability to turn heads when she wanted.

"I think I'll leave this one in your capable hands, Potter," Seamus muttered in Harry's ear, clapping him on the back before blending in with the crowd.

"I liked your speech," Sally said. She swayed in front of him. Whether it was from the alcohol or the music, Harry wasn't sure.

"Thanks," Harry said, wondering if she was lying.

"Enjoying the party, Harry?"

"It's not bad, I guess," Harry said. "I preferred The Biting Fairies to these, though. Until they put my name in a line, that is."

"Oh, that's one of my favourite songs!" Sally said, grinning lazily at him.

"Is it really?"

Sally nodded, seemingly unable to stop. "Do you mind if ask you a question, Harry?"

Harry only just heard her speak over the music. Sally spoke quietly at the best of times, which he had always found ironic considering the girl usually had enough to say when she really got going on a subject.

"Go for it."

Sally took a step forward, leaving barely enough room for the bottle of Firewhiskey to fit between their chests. "How do you it, Harry?"

"Do what?"

"Stay so bloody calm and in control! You never used to be; how are you now? Everyone could always read you like an open book, but you've changed. You don't suddenly lose your temper anymore. Do you even get angry anymore?"

"Wow, okay," Harry said, shaking his head. "Do you fancy having this conversation sitting down?"

"Oh, please," Sally said, pulling on his arm and directing him to the nearest free table. "Now, answer the question."

"Well, Dumbledore taught me a little technique," Harry said, and he wasn't going to explain what it actually was. "It helps to keep my emotions in check. Don't get me wrong, I get bloody furious sometimes, but I can control myself a bit better these days."

"Except when you're on a broom, right?" Sally grinned.

"I have been known to lose my cool."

From the corner of his eyes, Harry spotted Seamus making a complete fool out of himself. Harry was glad he'd sat down. He'd thought he'd had enough to drink to get away with a dance or two, but he probably had less rhythm than Seamus.

"With everything's that happened in your life, how come you never let it get to you?" Sally asked, cocking her head to one side. "I can remember you blowing your lid before."

The conversation was heading near Lord Voldemort territory, a subject Harry hardly liked to think about, let alone talk about. Speaking about it at a party felt even worse, somehow.

"I don't know," Harry lied.

"I thought you'd become an Auror after Hogwarts, you know," Sally said, placing her glass down on the table.

"Most people did," Harry said.

"Why didn't you? Was it just because you wanted to play professional Quidditch?"

"No." Harry shook his head. "That was only part of the reason. I didn't fancy catching petty criminals. I didn't fancy having to constantly be looking over my shoulder either. I'm never going to be completely safe as it is, and I didn't want to make things ten times worse for myself."

Sally frowned. "I thought you liked the danger, though? You used to say it was exciting."

"That probably wasn't the best way to explain it," Harry said reluctantly. "It's not the same sort excitement as flying a broom, for instance. It's more the adrenaline buzz that keeps you going."

"I can understand that," Sally said.

"Too many people in this room can."

"So, you and Smith still have problems, then?" Sally abruptly changed topics, welcomed greatly by Harry.

"You could say that," Harry said dryly.

"You know, I had a thing with Smith once," Sally said.

"Really?"

Sally nodded, her blue eyes surprisingly bright. "It ended a while back."

"Why's that?" Harry asked, filling Sally's glass with more Firewhiskey before filling up his own.

"He got jealous, I suppose."

"Of what?"

"Oh, it was silly really. It was just us girls constantly talking about you."

Harry paused. Sally was looking at him far too innocently for his liking. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks were flushed, and she couldn't stop fidgeting with the hem of her dress.

Harry sat forward. "You were talking about me?"

"We were."

"About what?"

"Well, you know, the usual stuff," Sally said, picking up her glass and taking another long drink, wincing when she realised it was pure Firewhiskey. "We used to talk about how brave you were. Things like that. Now I come to think of it, that war never really got started like we all expected, did it?"

"Nope," Harry said quickly. "That's beside the point. So, he got jealous because of me, eh? What could you have possibly said to make him break up with you?"

Sally missed Harry's grin. "Oh, well, it's a bit embarrassing really."

Harry's grin grew wider as he urged her to continue. "I won't judge you. I'm quite flattered, really."

"Well, we all said the same thing," Sally said, cringing. "The moment you arrived with help on that day, we hadn't really thought it at the time, but that was the topic of most of our discussions."

"It was?" Harry asked. He couldn't really remember too much of that day, and he didn't really have any real urge to suddenly recall any of it.

Sally blushed, acting completely different to what Harry had seen in the past, which admittedly hadn't been all that much. "It was that you just looked so… powerful. Everyone had always heard the stories, but that was the first time we'd really seen you in action. You were completely different. I think most girls had a crush on you after that. You were so irresistible. You were like the knight in shining armour that every girl had been told about before they went to sleep when they were little."

"It wasn't anything like that, though," Harry said, feeling a little confused. "Thank you for the compliment, of course, and I mean that, but there was nothing knight in shining armour about it. You saw what happened. I can't remember a lot, but it wasn't, err, very nice."

"No, it wasn't," Sally agreed. "That's probably why so many girls did fall for you, though. None of us really knew what was happening. We'd all had an idea of what war was like, and although it never actually got that far, the battle really hit home. We didn't really stand a chance and we knew that. None of us could do anything. Our spells just weren't coming out. We froze, we were terrified, and then you turned up looking like you'd just rolled out of bed."

"I'd actually been in the shower," Harry muttered.

"You gave us hope, Harry." Sally smiled. "You didn't look like any of us. You weren't too scared to try. You started casting like you'd been doing it for years, and I guess you had been."

"Um, yeah…" Harry said, finding himself way out of his depth. "So, why are you bringing this up now?"

Sally pointed to the doors. Harry looked up and wasn't at all surprised to see Dean leaving the hall, hand-in-hand with Susan, the couple barely restraining themselves until they could find someplace quiet.

"Oh, let's hope they don't forget like Seamus usually does." Harry groaned.

"What's that?"

"He keeps on forgetting to put a silencing charm around his bed," Harry said, earning a laugh from Sally.

"Well I think they have the right idea," Sally said.

"You do?" Harry asked. "Why? Do you realise how annoying it is?"

"No, not Seamus, I'm talking about Dean and Susan." Sally looked at him expectantly.

"Oh, I see. So– wait, what?" Harry eyes widened ever so slightly. "You don't mean…"

Sally nodded quickly, covering her smile.

"I hope I'm not being too forward," Harry said, his voice catching in his throat, "but do you want to–"

"Merlin, you've finally realised!" Sally suddenly said, jumping out of her chair and straight onto Harry's lap, her lips crashing in to his, nearly sending them both sprawling over the back of Harry's chair.

For a brief moment, Harry found himself stumped, but his brain completely shut off a moment later.

Sally pulled back slightly, keeping a tight grip on Harry's shirt. "Were you ever going to try and sleep with me?"

"I was planning on trying later," Harry said honestly. "Well, I was until you brought up the damn war."

Sally nodded, her eyes on his lips, and Harry had the distinct impression she wasn't listening to a word he was saying. "The subtle approach doesn't work at all on you, does it?"

Harry had to wonder how talking about Lord Voldemort could be interpreted as a come-on, but the thought was forcibly removed as Sally kissed him again. It started to get sloppy when it stopped again.

"Didn't the hints about you being all powerful give it away?" Sally asked, taking another break from Harry's lips.

"As soon as you mentioned jealousy, then yeah," Harry said, allowing himself to be led out of the hall. "To be honest, though, when you brought Voldemort into the conversation, sex was the last thing on my mind."

"I don't normally do something like this," Sally said seriously, and confirmed to Harry that she wasn't listening to a word he was saying. "I've wanted this for a few years, but what girl hasn't?"

Harry let the comment slide, feeling quite bewildered by the whole conversation. He wasn't a stranger to girls and their often confusing ways, but he'd never had a conversation quite like the one he'd just had.

As Sally led him out of the hall and Seamus threw him a thumbs-up, Harry could only wonder why the same type of thing hadn't happened on a more regular basis.

Harry soon took control of their path, leading them to Gryffindor tower. His earlier worry of impending doom seemed to be mistaken after all. Sometimes, alcohol didn't have to mean a bad night for all involved.

Harry stepped forward out of thin air, somehow managing to maintain his balance, although it wasn't at all graceful. Next to him, Albus Dumbledore looked out across the scenery, a small smile adorning his lips and a sparkle lighting his eyes.

Dumbledore sucked in a large breath, letting it out slowly. "I find there is nothing quite like the smell of fresh air on a summer's day. Don't you think so, Harry?"

Harry eyed his Headmaster's rosy cheeks with some amusement, still feeling far too giddy from the moment he'd received the letter and everything else that had come afterwards.

"It's wonderful."

"Shall we proceed?" Dumbledore asked, gesturing to the dirt path that cut through the grass.

Harry nodded and started walking with his Headmaster turned Mentor, and who he now considered a friend. Dumbledore seemed happy to admire the scenery surrounding them, which Harry admitted was somewhat striking.

As far as the eye could see, the landscape consisted of rolling valleys, with grass of seemingly all shades of green. Small patches of trees dotted the hills. With the sun shining high in the sky, the scene was perfectly picturesque. Despite the stunning beauty on show, Harry's attention was on his upcoming trial.

The path they were following led directly to the entrance to Puddlemere United's training facility.

Dumbledore had been standing outside the school gates when Harry made out his way out. Apparently, because Harry was still at Hogwarts, someone from the school or a guardian had to accompany him. Harry knew it was bullshit, as Dumbledore was just a big Puddlemere fan.

A short while later, Dumbledore stopped. Harry looked up. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but Puddlemere's ground wasn't what he'd had in mind.

An old manor house sat majestically in the middle of nowhere, with a high stone wall surrounding the property. Inside and outside the wall, tall trees stood like skyscrapers, creating large areas of shade. A gap in the wall gave way to wrought iron gates, which, due to a gap in the leaves, glistened in the sun. In the middle of the gates, the club emblem of two crisscrossed bulrushes against a blue background was proudly displayed.

Near the top of the gates, numbers had been woven into the iron. The gold numbers '1163' demanded attention.

"The year the club was founded," Dumbledore informed Harry, who already knew.

As if they sensed their presence, the gates clicked, opening away from Harry and Dumbledore. The emblem and numbers split directly in half, allowing way for the two visitors.

Harry followed Dumbledore inside, where the path had turned into a smooth, stone finish. On either side of them, flowers and herbs of all kinds blossomed brilliantly. At a guess, Harry thought they were used by the club's Healers so expenses could be cut.

"I think you'll find yourself having a splendid time here," Dumbledore said, obviously enjoying himself. He turned to Harry. "Lemon drop?"

"Please," Harry said, taking one of the sweets gratefully and popping it into his mouth.

The manor looked much taller now, now that he was closer. The old stone wouldn't find itself out of place at Hogwarts. It occurred to Harry that the two buildings were built around the same period, give or take a few years. Three steps led to a large oak door, nestled under a low archway.

Dumbledore took the initiative, knocking the door with an old, brass knocker. He took a step back and beamed proudly at Harry. Harry could only offer a weak grin. The lemon drop was all but gone already, and he could feel sweat building on the back of his neck, where his hair was sticking uncomfortably.

"Oh! Professor Dumbledore, sir!" A young woman smiled widely at them, showing perfectly white teeth. Dressed in smart, navy robes, which hugged her figure in the best way possible, Harry was aware he was ogling her.

"How are you, my dear?" Dumbledore said, stepping through the threshold with Harry following behind.

"Oh, I'm very happy, sir," the girl gushed, wringing her hands nervously.

Dumbledore smiled kindly. "Is Philbert Deverill here, by any chance?"

"He's in a meeting at the moment, sir," the girl said hurriedly. "I'll let him know you've arrived."

"Thank you, Miss Richards."

Miss Richards hurried away, giving Harry time to inspect the place. They were obviously standing inside a large entrance hall. Two chandeliers sparkled from the high ceilings. A large, velvet rug of the deepest red had been laid out in the middle of a marble floor.

"Miss Richards is an old student," Dumbledore explained at Harry's unasked question. "A very popular young woman."

Harry nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself. It wasn't hard to spot why Miss Richards had been popular at Hogwarts.

Directly opposite the doors, a desk had been placed near the back wall, with two doors on either side. Gold plaques were at eye-level, which read 'Pitch' on the door to the right and 'Inside Training Facilities' on the left.

Paintings, which were oddly quiet and unmoving, all seemed to be staring at the ceilings. On the right wall, the stone cut off, leading to a grandiose stairway where Miss Richards had ran off to. On the left wall, three doors were all shut, again with plaques on them, saying 'Press Room' on the one furthest left, 'Dining Room' on the middle door, and 'Portkey Travel' on the right.

A large, leather sofa was situated along the right wall, which was where Harry and Dumbledore chose to sit and wait.

"Do not judge on your first impression, Harry," Dumbledore warned, having spotted the frown marring Harry's features.

"I'd expect someone like Malfoy to live in a place like this," Harry said in disgust.

Dumbledore ignored the tone of Harry's voice. "Just imagine, Harry, what the press would say if they walked in and saw your type of decoration. I daresay they would be horrified!"

Harry took the insult against his style without batting an eyelash. "It's the press, though!"

"You may not care for the press, and I find myself agreeing with your views on them, but the club has its image to protect," Dumbledore explained. "Puddlemere United prides itself on style, passion, and above all else, modesty."

"This is what you call modest?" Harry asked dumbly, pointing to the chandeliers above.

"Of course not," Dumbledore said, looking aghast. "This is just a first impression, but first impressions are not always the truth."

"Then why make the club look so… posh?"

"Compared to the Malfoy home, Harry, this is living in squalor."

Harry nodded to himself, hardly understanding a word. The people within the club were supposed to be humble, but the club itself gave the impression of grandeur. Harry figured the press would be satisfied with how everything was presented, but Harry thought it was highly hypocritical.

"There is a rumour circulating that the Malfoys have peacocks," Dumbledore said quite suddenly, his moustache twitching.

"I'm not surprised," Harry muttered. Dumbledore, for all his quirks, bad habits, and mastery of magic, was quite the gossip when he wanted to be.

Thankfully, Harry and Dumbledore didn't have to wait very long before a man Harry instantly recognised, having seen him enough in the sports section of newspapers, greeted them. His name was Philbert Deverill, and he was the manager of Puddlemere.

He had short, black hair, and held himself with a purpose, his hands clasped behind his back and his head held high. With small, dark eyes, he looked between Harry and Dumbledore, before he smiled, extending a hand.

"It's nice to see you back at our club, Professor Dumbledore," he said, before he turned to Harry. "You must be Harry Potter?"

He surprised Harry with how soft spoken he was, but there was an authority behind his words that Harry fully expected. Harry discreetly attempted to wipe his sweaty hand on his jeans before he shook Philbert's hand.

"I am," Harry said. "It's nice to finally be here."

Philbert chuckled softly. "Welcome to Puddlemere United, Harry. Good luck today, I've heard nothing but good about you."

"Really?" Harry blurted out.

"In Quidditch terms, at least," Philbert amended. "Anyway, on to business. Shall we proceed outside?"

A delighted Dumbledore followed Philbert through the door with the sign that said 'Pitch', and after a deep breath, Harry walked in after them.

The simple corridor surprised Harry. He had expected the décor to be just the same as the entrance hall. Instead, candles lit the way, showing a well-worn floor. Doors were a few meters apart on both walls, every one of them shut tightly, giving no indication what lay behind. At a guess, Harry thought maybe they were store rooms, containing the kits, equipment, and whatever else was needed.

"Is Harry the only one taking part today?" Dumbledore asked up ahead.

"I'm afraid so," Phil said. "I've had scouts looking all over Europe for months, but not many players want to make the trip over to England. We're not the only team that can't get any foreigners just yet. We were hoping that would change now that English teams are in the European Cup every season instead of every four, but we've had no such luck."

It wasn't until they reached the very end of the corridor that Harry finally figured out the whole place had been magically expanded. There was simply no way for everything to fit otherwise. At the end of the corridor, glass doors were already wide open, where Harry caught his first glimpse of the pitch. Before they could continue outside, Philbert stopped.

"The twins and Wood have told me a fair amount about you, Harry; the player as well as the person," he said. "I expect you'd fit well within my team and around the club, so I wish you the very best of luck."

"Thank you," Harry said, smiling nervously.

"It's true that you support this club, correct?" At Harry nod, Philbert continued, his tone suddenly a bit more demanding. "Then I expect you to listen. If you make your way into my team, you must follow my orders. Question my tactics all you want, I like to see someone who can think for themselves, but you never refuse to play. Is that clear?"

Harry didn't care too much for rules, but he always found a way around that by getting friendly with whoever was in charge. He suspected it wouldn't be quite as simple as that with Phil.

Harry nodded, suddenly feeling like he was being tested.

"Speak up, if you would," Phil ordered.

"Yes, sir," Harry said automatically.

He felt like a first year all over again. Dumbledore looked like he was thoroughly enjoying watching Harry comply with rules.

"If you do make the team, you'll have to vocalise a lot better on the field, although I suppose I can forgive you for now," Phil said, looking like he wanted to write that down on a notepad and remind Harry every other day. "You are new, after all, I suppose I can let it go."

Harry stayed silent, not trusting his brain or his mouth. They usually got him in trouble, and there was no way he was going to mess this up before it had even begun.

"Professional Quidditch is a lot different than how it's played at Hogwarts," Phil said, a commanding tone in his voice that demanded Harry listen. Harry was used to that from certain members of the Order of the Phoenix, but if you didn't listen to orders there, it usually meant a horrible injury or death. It had been an incentive to listen and learn.

"You'll find even our training games are faster than what you're used to, so I don't expect you to keep up with our squad," Phil continued. "The Snitch is faster, more agile, and can best even the very good players. The Bludgers come at you with more power, with more speed, and if they hit you, you'd best learn to deal with the pain. You'll also find that the fouls you're used to being called will not be fouls here. However, I do want to see effort and composure today. I've watched you play, Harry, and you wouldn't be here if I didn't think you were good enough."

"I'll do my best," Harry said for lack of anything better to say.

"Don't worry too much about fitness levels today," Phil said. "If you're under the usual level that the squad are, which you will be, that can easily be worked on."

"I'm not unfit or anything," Harry said before he could stop himself.

"I never said you were," Phil said after a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. "My team just happen to be athletes, ones who work hard day in day out to get where they are."

Harry found himself nodding. "I've seen the difference in the twins. My apologies."

"To the changing rooms, then," Phil said, brushing off the apology. "Everything will be explained if you make it, but I much prefer getting the warnings off before we start."

The first thing Harry noticed was the smell. A mixture of sweat, mud, grass, and lemon assaulted his nose. The lemon smell he knew well from the Hospital Wing, as that was the odour that accompanied most cleaning and disinfectant charms.

The high arched windows bathed the room in sunlight. There were five rooms in one as far as Harry could tell. The first room had benches lining the walls, with robes hanging from hooks, and clothes scattered across the benches. It was during the off-season, so why there were still clothes hanging around, Harry didn't know.

"As you can tell, these are the changing rooms," Phil said dryly. "There are two rooms, one each for the witches and another for us lads. Showers are behind me, and in there is where you don't want to end up."

Harry glanced to where Phil pointed, grimacing slightly. The treatment room didn't look very inviting.

"Your training robes are already hanging up," Phil continued, pointing to the end of the bench. "Meet us outside when you're ready."

Harry nodded, darting towards his kit as soon as Dumbledore and Phil left the room. The robe was a dark blue with two yellow bulrushes across his chest, starting at his hips and ending at his shoulders. Harry started on the protective equipment first.

There seemed to be protective gear for his entire upper half, with his chest and forearms covered well. There was a bit more than what he was used to wearing, but the beauty of magic ensured his manoeuvrability wouldn't be compromised. In fact, everything seemed to melt into his skin; he could hardly tell he was wearing much. Harry had been told that as much protective kit as players wore, it didn't really do all that much protecting.

With his shin guards on, Harry pulled over the simple white t-shirt and trousers that all Quidditch teams wore under their robes.

As soon as his boots were tied, Harry looked at himself in the mirror on the back of the door. He was about to try to earn a contract for a professional Quidditch team. He couldn't quite believe it.

Harry hurried outside and his breath caught in his throat. He took everything in eagerly, spinning on the spot to look at as much as possible.

The oval pitch was bigger than the Hogwarts pitch, with small stands surrounding the outline of the field. Men and women were sat up in the seats, laughing at an unheard joke. Harry recognised one of the men as Phil's assistant, but the others were completely new to him.

Huge blackboards hung in the sky near to the actual building, currently wiped clean and not full of plays and tactics.

There were other pitches, too, although not all of them looked strictly like they were used for Quidditch. Some were completely free of anything to do with Quidditch. Harry suspected they were used for other training routines.

Phil looked up as Harry approached. "As I'm sure you know, we've just finished the season. As vice-captain, Wood offered to come in and help with your trial."

Harry glanced around, unable to spot his old captain.

"He'll be around the side, getting the equipment ready," Phil said.

"Oh, I brought my Firebolt," Harry said quickly, pulling out his shrunken broomstick.

Phil raised an eyebrow. "Very well, un-shrink that. The twins should be here any moment now. Merlin knows where they've got to."

"I'm not going up against another Seeker?"

"Ackerley's with Wood now," Phil said.

Harry's stomach dropped at the name. Stewart Ackerley was the starting Seeker for Puddlemere and considered one of the best in the league. He was also in his mid-twenties, an experienced player at the top his game.

"Huh," Harry said.

Dumbledore popped a lemon drop into his mouth, looking inordinately pleased.

"Albus," Harry said.

"Hm?"

"Could you un-shrink this, please? My wand's in the changing rooms."

"Certainly, Harry," Dumbledore said, un-shrinking the broom before Harry had time to blink. He hadn't even seen Dumbledore move his hand, let alone his wand.

"Thanks," Harry said gratefully.

"Coach!"

Harry stiffened at the shout, recognising it immediately as Fred Weasley, who pushed open the double doors theatrically. Harry was sure the door had been open when he'd walked out. George was by his side, grinning as widely as his twin. They shot Harry a thumbs-up.

"Weasley!" Phil barked, pointing at George.

"I haven't done a thing," George protested immediately.

Phil narrowed his eyes. "I don't mean that! Go and find what's taking Wood and Ackerley so long. They're in the broom shed."

George paused, as if unsure to go where everyone knew his mind had wandered off to. Never one to back down from anything, he went there.

"In the broom shed, gaffer?" George said suggestively. "I never knew they swung that way!"

Phil looked like McGonagall usually did when dealing with the twins and Harry; as if he was about to be struck by a severe migraine. "Just go and get them!"

"Aye, aye, sir!" George literally saluted, marching off to the right. Where he'd learnt of saluting or marching, Harry didn't have a clue, as the magical world didn't have any equivalent to Muggle soldiers.

Dumbledore's chuckling turned everyone's stares on him.

"I must say," he said to Fred, "it feels wonderful to watch you two when you're not under my authority."

Fred brightened even more than his twin, if that was at all possible. "Thank you, sir."

Phil growled. "How you never expelled them, I'll never know!"

"They amused him too much for that," Harry said.

Phil turned to him. "From what I've heard, you should've been expelled more times than them."

Harry gulped, thankfully saved by George sauntering back to them, returning with a confused looking Oliver Wood and Stewart Ackerley.

"Harry, it's good to see you again!" Oliver greeted, smiling brightly as soon as he saw Harry. He nearly crushed Harry's hand when he shook it, showing just how much training Oliver had gone through since he'd joined the club. He hadn't grown taller, but he now looked somewhat menacing with his broad shoulders.

Harry winced at the pressure Oliver had applied in the handshake. "You've been on the weights, I see."

Ollie just laughed, scratching the light stubble on his chin. "I look like a proper Keeper now, don't I?"

Harry pulled a face and flexed his fingers.

"Let me introduce you to Stewart Ackerley," Phil said. "Quickest catch of the Snitch last year, as well as capturing the little bugger over twenty times."

Harry didn't bother saying he already knew.

"Heard a lot about you, Potter, but who hasn't?" Ackerley said, looking delighted with himself. Despite being bigger built, his handshake was surprisingly gentle.

"So, you're the poster boy of Puddlemere," Harry said, eyeing the taller man up and down. "Can't see why, myself."

Ackerley looked momentarily taken aback, before he clapped Harry on the back, his blue eyes sparkling. "You'll fit right in here, Potter!"

There was a reason Stewart Ackerley was the poster boy of Puddlemere. With his arm slung over Harry's shoulders, Harry had a close-up view of what the ladies deemed to be the sexiest man in Quidditch. It wasn't hard to see why, really. The fact that women all over Britain would kill to be in his position right now. Not a strand of his blond hair looked out of place, and his natural good-looks and easy grin had made him an instant hit.

"I've got to get through this," Harry muttered. It was a matter of pride.

"HA!" Ackerley waved his hand as if to shoo Harry's worries away. "These trials are just formalities. You'll do fine, Potter."

With Ackerley's aftershave threatening to get Harry high before he'd even been in the air, he could only smile and breathe through his mouth.

"All right, enough flirting, you two," Phil called, earning a chuckle from the twins, but they never needed a reason to laugh. "Wood, I want you to act as Chaser today. Block him off like Bradley's so good at. Don't let him rest for a moment."

Oliver grinned at Harry, looking delighted at the prospect of going up against the younger man. Oliver Wood had always been an easy-going type of guy until he stepped over the white line. As soon as game time came around, it was like he was a completely different person.

"You two," Phil continued, nodding at the twins. "Make yourselves useful with the Bludgers. Give him hell."

Oliver's grin was matched by the twins. The three of them flew off to the main pitch, the chest clutched under Oliver's arm.

Ackerley still had his arm around Harry's shoulders as Phil turned to them. "Don't go easy on him," Phil warned. "I want you to test him to his very limit."

Ackerley nodded, sliding on to his broom. He patted Harry on the back, winked for good measure, and kicked off.

Harry's whole body seemed to tense up. He could feel his hands shaking and his eyes were wide, but his adrenaline was starting to kick in. His foot tapped a beat on the hard ground beneath him.

"I only want to see how you handle flying and basic tests today," Phil said. He smiled encouragingly at Harry. "If you get on the team, you'll have plenty of time to get up to speed on your fitness, you'd learn the drills, and you'd get better with hard work and playing time. Just try and keep up today, and enjoy yourself."

Bolstered by Phil's words, Harry swung his Firebolt around and jumped on. His hands were steady on the handle of his broom, which vibrated in anticipation. He knew he had it in him. He'd flown against Krum before. He may not have come anywhere close to beating him, but he'd done better than a lot of professional Seekers.

"Good luck, Harry," Dumbledore said.

Harry nodded in thanks, before he joined the others in the air, determination filling him. Harry felt decidedly out of place. He took a deep breath, forced a smile, his anticipation at its maximum. He had to enjoy today, otherwise he'd never get through the test.

"What's first, then?" Harry asked.

"Warm-up," Ollie said. "We'll show you our usual routine."

For the next five minutes, the five of them flew around the pitch, gradually picking up speed after each lap. Phil watched on from the stands, seated next to Dumbledore, who looked ready to join the players in his excitement. The rest of the Puddlemere staff were sat around them, their quills and parchment ready.

"Normally," Fred said after they'd stopped, "we run a few laps around the pitch, but you don't need to worry about that today."

"Just copy what we're doing, Harry," Ollie said, proceeding to lead in the team in different stretches involving their whole bodies.

Harry had a difficult time keeping up. One stretch involved grabbing his hands behind his back when one hand was over his shoulder and the other under his arm, which he thought was impossible until he managed to touch the tips of his fingers. After another few minutes of Ollie correcting him, Harry finally had his chance to prove himself.

"This is just a straight out race," Ackerley said. "You're obviously quite comfortable on a broom, but this is about speed and agility."

"This isn't around the pitch," George chimed in. "This is from the goalposts, straight line down the pitch, and turn at the other posts."

"You can use whichever part of your body you want to turn, but you need to do it fast," Ollie said. "After every two lengths, whoever's in last position drops out of the race."

Harry nodded in understanding, joining the four of them at the posts. The five of them lowered themselves to their broom, each of them using a different technique, apart from the twins, who did everything basically the same. Harry's grip was similar to Ackerley's. Both hands firmly gripped near the tip of the handle. It was known as the Seeker's Grip, an unimaginative name but one that was a starting point for any Seeker. You could loosen it at any time, and both hands were in prime position for the catch.

It was at that exact moment that Harry realised the people he was about to fly against were all members of the England National Squad. All of them were going to Greece in a few months to compete in the World Cup. Harry couldn't believe it. His trial was against the promising talent of England, the players that were quickly becoming stars and grabbing the sporting headlines.

Ollie led the countdown.

"3… 2… 1, GO!"

3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: A massive thanks to silentclock, who I asked to help beta this chapter after reading a segment of his upcoming one-shot. Keep a look out for his work; I think he could be something special. Huge thanks to Benevolent Abyss as well, who is currently my beta. Both of them caught some disappointing mistakes. And finally, I can't thank Nerox511 enough for his thoughts and help so far. I feel like half of the upcoming chapters could be credited to him. The best German I've ever spoken to!

Let me know what you think!

Chapter Three

"3… 2… 1, GO!"

Harry and Ackerley shot off into the lead. They were halfway down the pitch in less than five seconds.

At the last second, Harry chose to go over the posts and under, but it was a move that lost him the lead. Both the twins and Ackerley went through the hoops, using a leg to hook around the post and kick themselves back down the pitch. If you got the angle wrong when flying through the hoops, or didn't make yourself small enough to fit through them, it could potentially be highly dangerous, which was why it was strictly forbidden at Hogwarts.

Instead of moaning at his mistake, Harry tried pressing himself even further on to his Firebolt. Ollie turned at the post just as Harry picked up speed, leaving the Keeper behind. Harry hit the posts just as the twins turned back, but Ackerley had already passed Harry back up the field.

Using the method he had seen the twins and Ackerley use, Harry caught up to the tail-end of the twins' brooms. They were expert flyers; there was no doubt about that. It was as if the two flew with a sense of anger about them, bullying their brooms to do what they wanted. Due to Ollie being forced to drop out because of the two-lap rule, Harry knew he needed to make the next turn count.

He knew what he was about to do would be risky, but he also knew it had to be done.

Seeing Fred pick the middle hoop to fly through, Harry flipped his broom upside down as he came back around, allowing him to effectively block Fred's path.

"Shit!"

Harry had no time to celebrate his victory, and chose instead to race ahead of George, who must have wondered where his brother had gone. As Harry hit the halfway point of the pitch, Ackerley flew through the left hoop and arced back around through the right goal, a large grin on his face. As he passed, Harry noticed Ackerley wasn't using the Seeker's Grip that he had initially applied to control the broom. Both of his hands were held tightly near the tip of his handle.

With nothing to lose, Harry applied the same technique, but he wasn't prepared for his broom to suddenly lurch forward. The Firebolt took him past the posts, but it turned expertly as soon as Harry realised what had happened.

The last two laps were done out of a formality rather than anything else, but Harry was more than happy to see he'd beaten out the twins and Ollie. The new grip he'd applied had also done something he couldn't quite explain, but it was definitely something to look into.

"Nice flying, Potter!" Ackerley said, flying up to Harry and high-fiving him. "I watched you on that turn. You copied my grip, didn't you?"

Harry nodded, still buzzing from the race. "How is it possible? I mean, everyone has different grips, but I've never had that reaction before."

Fred and George, who had slowly flown over to Harry and Ackerley, looked on in interest.

Ackerley was the one to tackle Harry's question, though. "I think it's all to do with belief, really. Brooms have always been designed to have top speeds, good handling, and all the rest of it, but it always comes down to the person controlling the broom."

"I know my Firebolt has picked up speed in the last few years," Harry said. "I mean, when I first flew it, it was lightning fast. Now that I've got used to it, it seems almost easier to maintain that speed, and it's like it can go faster."

The three professionals nodded in unison.

"It's natural, Harry," George said. "The more you fly, the better you'll be."

"Not just that, but the faster the broom will go, and you'll have better handling," Ackerley said. "It's not exactly a secret, and players have different opinions on the matter, but that's why some players are so much better than others. They put more time in and they practise harder, it's as simple as that."

Taking that information on board, Harry adjusted his grip a few times on the handle of the Firebolt.

"So, does where you grip the broom really matter?"

"It depends on what position you play," Fred said. "George and I hold a bat, so we can only use one hand to control the broom. We have to adjust our grip throughout a match."

"It's the same with a Keeper," Ollie said, joining the group in the air. "We have to assert control with just our legs, but we don't have to race down the pitch and back."

"You know how to play Chaser, Harry, just think of it like that," George said. "They have to switch hands, sometimes they only hold with their legs, but they have to be good all around."

"Seekers, on the other hand," Ackerley said, "are considered to be the fastest and most agile players on the pitch. Use a grip you feel is the best, but experiment as well. You'll figure it out."

The trial had yet to start, but Harry had already found his complete flying skills questioned. Before he'd flown alongside Ackerley, he'd thought he was a skilled flyer, but there were so many different things he had never thought of. Harry was already planning on visiting Viktor Krum in the summer, if he got on the team that was.

"All right," Ollie said, taking charge. "Bludgers, if you let them, can be a big problem during a game."

"I know…" Harry said slowly, the stirrings of irritation already beginning to show. It wasn't enough that he was unsure if he was holding his broom correctly, but now basic knowledge of the game was being explained to him.

"Look, you don't understand, Harry," Ollie said irritably. "Professional Quidditch is a lot different to what you're used to. Trust me, I was in your position. I thought I knew it all, but I quickly learnt that it's fucking difficult with the big boys. If you don't start learning and adjusting, you won't make it."

Harry was well-aware of Oliver Wood's intensity on the Quidditch pitch, even if he was a nice guy off it, so he just nodded.

"Anyway, Bludgers are a lot faster than what you're used to," Ollie started again. "The players hit them harder, with more precision, and a head shot is not a foul against outfield players."

Harry knew the rules well. Deliberately aiming for the head in a Hogwarts match was an instant foul, but players had to be on a constant lookout in professional matches.

"I just want you to dodge for as long as you can, Harry," Ollie said. "Fred and George will be aiming for you. Like in a match, they won't be able to physically touch you; they'll just be trying to take your head off with the Bludgers. There won't be a Snitch, so all you have to do is avoid getting hit. Got it?"

Harry nodded, more determined than ever. As Fred and George flew down to the pitch to let loose the Bludgers, Ackerley slung his arm over Harry's shoulders again.

"Your best bet is to go for pure speed," Ackerley said. "You're faster than them. If you just try to dodge, they'll team up on you in an instant and you won't be able to get away. Fred and George can hit them as fast and as hard as just about anyone. Just fly as fast as you can for as long as possible. Keep your chin on the side of the wood. It'll keep your head down and your eyes forward. It's good for gaining speed quickly."

"Thanks," Harry muttered, unable to say much else.

Ackerley touched down on the side-line next to Ollie. The two weren't involved in this drill; it was just Harry versus the Weasley twins, a two on one situation that had Harry slightly worried.

"You ready, Harry?" George called from the ground. He was the one to let the Bludgers loose. Fred was already in the air, swinging his bat loosely around his hand, his eyes already narrowed in on the chest.

Harry gave the thumbs-up to George, adjusting his grip to a loose-hold, towards the tip of his handle. It served to keep his body flat against the broom, which would hopefully gain him more speed. He also followed Ackerley's advice, lowering his chin to the right of his broom, his eyes looking forward.

The twins weren't going to go easy on him, and Harry wouldn't have expected them to.

George clicked open the lock of the chest, before letting the Bludgers loose. They shot out with a bang, straight up in the air, where Fred diverted one towards Harry with ease.

"Shit, they're fast," Harry muttered, already on the move. He dodged the first shot, which only missed him by inches. The second clipped his ankle, sending a wave of pain shooting up his leg. He gritted his teeth in anger, pain, and mostly frustration, but stuck to his task.

Fred and George quickly worked on their own tactics, ones they were starting to gain a reputation for using. Bludgers never stopped moving, which meant they were hard to control, but Fred and George controlled them, hitting them back and forth to each other. They'd gotten the idea from twin Beaters who played in the late sixties, and the move was known as 'ping-pong'.

Harry didn't drop his speed as the twins came straight for him. Fred missed a shot, but George was on hand to smack it back towards Harry, who had to adjust quickly to stop the hit. Fred had anticipated where Harry was going, already sending a Bludger into Harry's downward path. Harry swerved out of the way, kicking on the pace to get as high as possible.

Fred and George were used to aiming for seven players, so focusing on one was easy for them. Harry felt like he was the prey and his predators were playing with him.

Fred whacked a Bludger straight at Harry's chest. Harry darted through the goal, hearing George's other Bludger ping off the outer ring. Harry had no time to breathe a sigh of relief, as the twins shot after their Bludgers.

In the middle of the pitch, Harry turned, his eyes widening when he saw the tactic the twins had employed. They were on either side of him. Two Bludgers rocketed towards Harry from both sides. Before he'd even thought what to do, Harry found himself heading for the skies, hearing the Bludgers smash into each other a second later.

A game of cat and mouse ensued, the Bludgers getting nearer to their target with every hit.

It was only a matter of time.

Harry was sure he hadn't been escaping the shots for very long, but he was already drenched in sweat and aching all over. His hair stuck to his forehead, his clothes were uncomfortable as they rubbed against his body, and he couldn't keep still for a minute. The sun only made it worse, the heat starting to burn his skin.

Beyond tired already, Harry turned straight into the path of a Bludger. With a grunt, Harry bent over double as the Bludger collided with his stomach. With his eyes watering heavily, Harry gasped for breath, only to feel another Bludger smack into his already-bad ribs with a crack.

Feeling pain like he hadn't felt in a long time, Harry clutched himself with one arm, keeping his other hand on the broom. His attempt to get away did him no good, as he saw Fred smile, which could only mean his brother was close. Harry felt the Bludger hit dead-centre on his back, sending another wave of sheer pain through him. His vision wavered slightly, and he swayed, gripping the handle of his broom for all it was worth.

"Fuck!" Harry roared from the sheer agony from that last shot.

"You okay, Harry?" Fred asked, sounding completely unapologetic.

Harry wheezed, shooting Fred a thumbs-up.

When the twins stopped trying to kill Harry, they hurried to put the Bludgers away. Ollie and Ackerley were by Harry's side in moments.

"You all right, Potter?" Ollie asked, wincing in sympathy, even if he looked fairly amused.

"I'll live," Harry said, although he wasn't sure if he would if he had to keep taking shots like he had been.

Harry refused to be cowed by pain, though. He held in another wince, removing his hand from him stomach, which felt empty all of a sudden. His ribs were surely broken yet again, and his back was heavily bruised from what he could feel.

"How long did I last?" Harry asked.

Ollie had been keeping an eye on the time. "Just under four minutes."

Harry grimaced. "Shit, I thought I'd do a bit better than that."

"Nah, don't worry about it, Harry," Fred said, coming up behind Harry. "You managed to keep us at bay for longer than most people would."

"You wouldn't have quite that much focus on just you in a match," George said.

"Unless you were going for the Snitch," Ackerley said.

"In which case, we would be on hand to stop anything getting close to you," Fred said with complete certainty.

Harry just nodded, having heard enough. "What's next, then?"

The three men looked at each other in slight surprise.

"All right, now that you're warmed up, you get to try and do what you do best." Oliver pulled a Snitch out from his pocket. "This is your average training Snitch, made to be re-used over and over again. It's exactly the same as a match-day Snitch, so you'll have to be sharp."

Harry eyed the Snitch like a cat eying up a toy ball.

"You and Ackerley can go Seeker crazy over it," Ollie informed him. "I'll be acting as a defensive Chaser, trying to block your path."

"And we'll do what we do best," George said, jerking his thumb towards his brother.

Harry rolled his shoulders, blocking out the aches and pains in his body. He knew what he had to do, what he was expected to do, and he was going to prove himself. They'd all given him advice, today and throughout his Hogwarts matches, and it was time to put it to good use in his biggest test yet.

"Let's go," was all Harry said.

Ollie let go of the Snitch. It tore out of his hands, flying faster than any other ball on the pitch. Harry followed it as it zoomed underneath him, but lost sight of it after seconds.

"Go and search," Ollie said.

Harry did just that. He pushed his broom to its limits around the pitch, following Ackerley and copying some of his movements. Ollie and the twins stayed close to him, the Bludgers being passed around with their bats as if they were Quaffles. They wouldn't intervene until Harry had spotted the Snitch.

Five minutes passed with no sign of the Snitch, with everyone slowed to a crawl and looking bored.

Another ten minutes slowed down everyone's concentration. With the sun lowering in the sky, and after a day in which Harry had been battered, the Snitch finally promised some relief. Like a bird of prey making its dive, Harry followed the Snitch in a vertical drop.

"Oh, no you don't," Ollie said, sticking out an elbow.

Harry felt his nose crush under the hard bone, spraying blood everywhere. Tears streamed down his face as he clutched his face, mixing in with the thick blood pouring over his lips and dripping off his chin.

Swaying in mid-air, Harry felt his whole body shaking. His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. Something inside of him ripped practical thoughts away entirely, as Harry opened his eyes.

Ollie was laughing with the others.

Harry lined him up.

Only a few meters away, Harry sent his broom forwards with full acceleration. Ollie turned, only for his head to snap back as Harry swung as hard as he could. The punch against Malfoy had been better, but Ollie still spun violently in the air, clutching his likely-broken jaw.

"You know," Fred said calmly, "that would probably be a foul for excessive use of force. Or violent conduct, if the ref doesn't want fighting."

"So would an elbow to the face," George said with a shrug.

Harry couldn't sit still. On top of the pain in his ribs, his back, and his broken nose, now his knuckles were already starting to bruise.

Ollie held up a hand. "All right, I get it," he said, hardly moving his jaw as he spoke. "You're prepared to fight back."

"You really should've known that already," George said, chuckling happily.

"Let's just get back on with it," Ollie grumbled, gently rubbing his cheek.

Maybe it was because he hadn't expected such a brutal retaliation, but Ollie stayed within the rules as they continued playing. Fred and George took a few shots, mostly to keep Harry lively.

Harry and Ackerley both knew what was happening far better than the other three. Ackerley was tempted to throw in a feint, but he knew Harry was waiting for it. Eventually, Harry threw caution to the wind, diverting straight back to the twins and splitting them as he flew down the middle of the pitch.

As luck would have it, the Snitch glinted at the far end of the pitch, just above the goalposts. Harry raced on, but out of nowhere, Ackerley was at his side, having the gall to turn and grin at him.

Flabbergasted at the pure skill Ackerley possessed, Harry never saw Fred and George attack. A Bludger cut into Harry's blindside, glancing off his lower back. Harry made the fatal mistake of turning around to look, only for Fred to take full advantage and smash another Bludger from his position on Ackerley's other side.

With his body twisted awkwardly, the Bludger collided with Harry's shoulder.

It was pain like Harry had never experienced on a Quidditch pitch before. Every other thought left Harry's brain and he screamed in raw agony. His right arm had been torn out of his socket, he knew for certain. He couldn't move it if he tried, and if he tried he felt like he was about to pass out.

"Can you go on?" Ollie asked unsympathetically.

Harry had never been more tempted to say no. Everything was going against him. He knew Ackerley was toying with him. He could have caught the Snitch at least three times by now, yet he stuck on Harry, practically goading him into making a mistake. Fred and George had been able to strike at will, knowing they'd find their target.

Harry's body was shaking, he felt sick and completely exhausted. He'd never felt so out of his depth before when it came to a game he genuinely loved. It was like Dudley going up against Mike Tyson, it would be a complete and utter mismatch.

In the end, Harry's pride won out. "I want to finish this."

"You're a tough little bastard, I'll give you that," Ackerley said, whistling through his teeth.

And so the game continued, this time at a much slower pace. Harry could hardly move, let alone fly. His right arm was out of commission, which meant he had to do everything with his wrong arm.

Never before had he felt so hopeless on a Quidditch pitch. He felt so… talentless compared to who he was up against.

If anyone thought Harry's trial would be easy because of old friends, Harry would personally tell them where to shove it. This wasn't training, this was an all-out attack. If Harry didn't know any better, he would've sworn they were trying to sabotage his chances.

"Pick up the pace, Potter," Ackerley demanded.

Harry felt like lamping him, but he couldn't have done so if he'd tried.

As if feeling sympathy for Harry, the Snitch showed up right in front of him. He snatched at it, his hand flailing wildly for the catch, when he sensed rather than saw what was coming. He tried to turn, but it was no use.

Fred took his opportunity. The crack of the bat reverberated around the stands as it smashed into the Bludger. Hit with such force, Harry never stood a chance of getting out of the way. It smacked into his chest with such power that Harry found himself looking up at the world above, unable to breath and gasping.

The blue skies blurred with the clouds as Harry simply lay there, his eyes half closed. He hadn't noticed before, but there was soft wind blowing. It swept over his face, inexplicably soothing him somehow.

Surprising even himself, Harry sat up shakily. Even though they were only doing their job, Harry would get his revenge on the twins another day, but for now they could wait. He was going after that Snitch until he physically couldn't move another muscle, which he personally thought wasn't too far away.

"Are you good to carry on?" Ollie asked.

He was ignored. Harry's eyes were darting around the pitch, this way and that, wide and unblinking. Ackerley shifted uneasily.

The Snitch darted straight over Harry's head. Harry and Ackerley turned in unison. Ackerley pulled ahead, which Harry had fully expected. His pain was put to the back of his mind for the moment. He held his worthless right arm close to his chest, his left arm steering him onwards at breakneck speed.

Harry didn't know how he was doing it, but the way he picked up speed was incredible. He refused to back down. He knew he needed a miracle, but he'd experienced enough of those in his life. With his head down, Harry followed the advice of the man he was currently chasing.

The wind hit his arm at unbearable speeds. Tunnel vision started to creep in. Fred, George, and Oliver were nowhere to be seen.

"Come on, come the fuck on," Harry muttered between clenched teeth, refusing to feel any joy as he gained ground on Ackerley.

Puddlemere's starting Seeker glanced back, a look of surprise on his face. Ackerley didn't look back again, instead following his own advice and keeping his body perfectly on the broom.

Harry could practically reach out an arm and touch the twigs on Ackerley's broom when another crack filled the air.

Harry didn't even have time to wince. Darkness filled his vision as he was sent careening through the air. His head felt like it was on fire as his jaw snapped. Harry didn't know how bad the damage was. He felt sick, the familiar taste of blood hitting his taste buds.

He felt someone pulling him through the air as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

"Ah," he said, followed by a deep groan of pain.

He couldn't talk. He could only listen to the people around him.

"Damn, Fred, you just about knocked the poor fucker out!" Ackerley exclaimed.

Harry didn't know if the man was impressed or not. "I okay," Harry said, unable to close his lips.

Someone patted his shoulder, eliciting another groan.

"Watch his fucking shoulder, Fred. You destroyed it," Oliver said heatedly.

Harry felt himself gently lowered to the floor.

"Poppy shall be ready, Harry," Dumbledore's said, his voice soothing. "I'll let you sleep for the journey."

Harry couldn't say a thing. His eyes were already closing of their own accord. Dumbledore stunned him to be on the safe-side, with the red beam of light the last thing Harry saw, before he finally lost consciousness.

"I'm sure you're already aware of Mr Potter and his exploits, girls," Madam Pomfrey said, her voice echoing around the walls of the infirmary. "I'm sure you know of his wish to die before his eighteenth birthday as well. The Headmaster brought him to me last night along with his usual list of injuries."

Harry opened his mouth to talk, but found he could only rub his tongue against the roof of his mouth, his throat completely dry. His head felt like it had been used as a Bludger, his entire upper body screamed in protest any time he so much as twitched, and for some reason, it felt as though a dozen bees were constantly stinging his hand.

"Who did this to him?"

Harry knew the voice from somewhere, but he couldn't quite place it.

"Who did this to him?" Madam Pomfrey snorted. "This, young lady, is from the Weasley twins."

"Why would they do this to him? Aren't they his friends? Isn't he best friends with their younger brother?"

"I'm afraid that's Quidditch for you," Madam Pomfrey said, practically spitting the word out as though it was dirty.

Harry groaned rather pathetically in protest and to show he was awake. A quiet chuckle and a snort of amusement assured Harry that he had been heard.

"How do you feel this morning, Potter?" Madam Pomfrey asked. Her voice was bland, as if she had grown bored of asking him the same question. To be fair to the Healer, she had asked him the same thing a number of times over the years.

Harry wet his lips, wondering how best to answer that question. He had often lied in his younger years, detesting any type of sympathy. Of course, as Harry grew older, hormones started to kick in, and Sirius had taught Harry a few things that a father would probably leave out of his birds and bees talk. Sympathy, Sirius had assured, wasn't always a bad thing, as long as you weren't a Nancy boy over your pain.

"I feel like shit, Poppy," Harry said through a strained a voice. He coughed a little, wetting his lips again.

"No surprise there," Madam Pomfrey muttered. "The Headmaster mentioned this was caused by a trial. Dare I ask, but why was it so brutal? You've never looked as bad coming from a match!"

Harry rubbed his eyes wearily with the palms of his hands, brushing his fringe from his forehead. "Professional Quidditch is brutal. If I couldn't hack it in a trial, how would I manage it in a real game?"

"The whole sport is barbaric!" Madam Pomfrey declared. "They should ban it at once."

"If you say so, Poppy," Harry said.

"As you can see, Mr Potter is far too used to being in my presence."

"Doesn't mean I like it," Harry grumbled. He pressed his thumbs against his temples, attempting to push back the pounding headache he had.

"Then stop trying to kill yourself, boy!" Madam Pomfrey clucked in annoyance.

Harry smiled at the familiar tone. "You love me really, Poppy. You'd be bored without me coming to see you so often." Harry chuckled at Madam Pomfrey's scoff. "Who do you keep talking to, anyway?"

"Why don't you open your eyes and see for yourself?"

Harry, who was still clutching his head in his hands, opened his eyes and looked through his fingers. "Oh," he said.

Two very amused-looking girls stared back at him, their faces lit up from the sun shining through the high windows. Madam Pomfrey wasted no time in treating Harry, immediately setting to work on his ribs, revealing Harry's bare chest for the world to see. Harry, though, was far too used to having himself on show – naked or otherwise – to let it bother him.

The two girls watched in interest as Madam Pomfrey removed the bandages from Harry's heavily bruised chest. As the girls watched her run her wand down the entire length of Harry's side, Harry looked back at the girls, easily recognising them.

Tracey Davis always reminded Harry of a sneakier version of Lavender Brown. The girl's dark eyes squinted as she watched Madam Pomfrey working, her full, deep red lips set in a pout. A lock of curly, brown hair fell into her face, which she easily brushed back into place like the perfectionist she was. From what Harry knew of Tracey, the girl wanted to be treated like a princess, wanted her own way in everything, but didn't have either.

In other words, she was too high maintenance for any guy.

Madam Pomfrey tapped her wand against the bruises, causing Harry to wince. He looked up in a bit of daze, straight into the amused eyes of Daphne.

Harry stopped short, his dizziness taken to new heights.

Daphne was a mystery to Harry, but one that he rather enjoyed trying to solve. Her eyes, which were a darker green than Harry's, stayed on his face for a few, fleeting moments, before lowering onto his ribs once more. She smiled in a satisfied way, crossing her arms on her stomach and pushing up her breasts. She glanced back to Harry's face, still smiling, and absently played with a piece of blonde hair around her finger, knowing exactly what reaction she had caused in Harry.

Harry shook his head, unable to keep his smile at bay.

"Hello again," Daphne said in a light voice. It shocked Harry greatly every time he heard her speak, simply because she sounded so… nice.

However, he'd gotten to know her just slightly over the years, and Daphne used that tone of voice in most situations. Harry had seen boys practically run a mile to do what she wanted. It was no different to quite a few of the girls in school. Harry would bet all of his gold that Miss Richards had been the same when she had been at Hogwarts.

"Still here, are you?" Harry scoffed.

"You excite me, Potter," Daphne said dryly as she nodded absently.

A cough suddenly erupted from Harry's chest, causing Madam Pomfrey to tut at him. "Keep still!"

With tears streaming down his face, Harry glared half-heartedly at the now brilliantly-smiling Daphne. Her eyes widened, giving her an almost innocent quality that Harry knew she far from possessed.

Despite what he did know about her, there was still a lot that Harry didn't know about the much-talked about Daphne, apart from what he had overhead guys saying. Guys talked about so many different girls, though, that it was hard to separate who was who after a while. However, he did know that the colour of her hair changed as fast her mood could. She wasn't a Metamorphmagus, and nor was she highly-strung, but she knew what she had and she often used it to her advantage.

"So, how are your apprentices, Poppy?" Harry asked, nodding at the two girls at the end of his bed. "Reckon they could become Healers?"

Madam Pomfrey locked eyes with Harry. "Oh, most definitely. I don't suppose you'd like to follow in such a noble career?"

Harry's eyes lit up, his chest puffing out, which only served to make him flinch. "I'm becoming a Quidditch player," he said with a pride.

Madam Pomfrey scoffed, Daphne snorted, and Tracey said, "You already are a Quidditch player, aren't you?"

As Harry and Madam Pomfrey glanced at each other, making sure they'd heard correctly, Daphne sighed. "What he means, Tracey, is that he's going to play professionally."

"Oh," Tracey said in dawning realisation.

"I'd hardly call that a noble profession, Harry," Madam Pomfrey scolded him, before turning to Daphne. "Could you get the Healing Salve from the cabinet? It's on the middle shelf."

Harry watched her hurry across the room, enjoying the fact she hadn't worn her robes today, before turning back to Madam Pomfrey. "What do you mean it's not noble? Quidditch has been played for centuries!"

"You could do so much more," Madam Pomfrey said with a small shake of her head.

The impending argument was interrupted by Daphne's return, holding out a small pot of Healing Salve.

"If you'd like to do the honours," Madam Pomfrey offered, taking a step away from Harry, allowing a large gap of space for Daphne to step into.

Daphne winced as she took in the state of Harry's ribs. "You really do manage to injure yourself far too often, don't you?"

"I'm glad you've brought it up, Miss Greengrass," Madam Pomfrey said, watching with a critical eye as her apprentice prepared the salve. "Mr Potter, your injuries."

Harry turned to the nurse. "Let me guess. I've been given Pain-Relieving potion and that's why I can talk without any pain. Unfortunately, because of my past addiction to the Potion, I can't be given more than one and that's why my shoulder, back, and ribs still feel fucked up?"

"I wouldn't have put it quite like that." Poppy sniffed. "You are, however, correct. I managed to fix your jaw and put your shoulder back into place, but they'll still feel tender for a while yet."

"Now comes the hardest part," Harry said with a dramatic sigh. "The road to recovery."

"Get on your back," Daphne ordered.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Do you really want to go there so soon?"

Just as Harry expected, Daphne bit her lip and gave him a significantly different look. Her eyes widened and she chewed her bottom lip. The effect was instantaneous. Harry knew that look well; he'd seen Daphne and countless other girls use a similar technique, but Merlin, it looked good on her.

Harry licked his lips. He doubted Daphne knew exactly what that did to him, although he was certain she had a good idea.

"You have to be on your back so I can rub this in," Daphne said simply. "It's to help you on your road to recovery."

Harry smiled at her tone and refrained from telling her that he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. After all, it was always better when it was rubbed in by someone else, and Harry wasn't going to complain about it being rubbed in by Daphne.

"You do know I'm already on my back, right?" Harry asked.

"What she meant was for you to stop sitting up and get flat on your back," Madam Pomfrey said tiredly, having had the same argument with Harry in the past.

Harry reluctantly allowed Daphne to move the pillows from behind him and did as instructed, staring up at the ceiling.

Daphne nodded and slipped her fingers into the pot, scooping out a large amount of the light green coloured salve. She gently placed it just under Harry's armpit, before rubbing slow circles into his skin. Harry was surprised to find the salve was at room temperature, allowing for a tingling sensation to appear as soon as it touched his skin.

"Keep an eye on him, girls. Make sure he doesn't escape, and give him another Potion in an hour." Poppy glared half-heartedly at him. "Keep doing what you're doing, Daphne," she added before retreating to her office.

Tracey pulled up a chair as soon as Madam Pomfrey had gone, leaving Daphne sitting on the bed to tend to Harry's injured chest. Harry glanced around the infirmary, noticing he was once again the only patient.

"So, any chance of breakfast? I'm starving."

Tracey snorted. "I suppose you've got to build your strength."

Harry's eyebrow rose. "Are you saying I'm not man enough, Davis?"

"Yes, I am."

"What she means, Harry," Daphne said, her hands now working over the most painful part of Harry's ribs, "is the paper."

Tracey picked up the paper on Harry's bedside table and handed it to him.

Potter To Sign For Puddlemere United?

Harry nearly did a double take at the headline.

"Have you actually signed up or is that just journalism at its best?" Daphne asked.

"I haven't signed a thing yet, the fucking liars," Harry said, deciding to read the article, something he usually refrained from doing. He was glad of the distraction, though. Between the pain in his entire body and Daphne's small hands rubbing into his skin, he was thoroughly conflicted.

As Harry read the article and wondered if the saying 'there's no pain without pleasure' referred to him, Daphne tugged on the blanket.

"Oh, shit," Daphne said. Due to her inexperience, she had not only grabbed the blankets but Harry's boxers as well.

Harry looked down in bemusement, wondering what the hell had just happened. Daphne again grasped his boxers, attempting to pull them back up.

"You know, I don't mind what you're doing one bit," Harry said dryly, thanking his lucky stars he was drugged up, "but you could've warned me."

Daphne raised her eyes to him, a noticeable blush across her neck. Her hands worked methodically across Harry's hip.

"What does the paper say, anyway?" Daphne asked quickly.

Harry allowed the change of conversation. "The usual. You know, 'our sources say' and the like. I'll just have to wait for a letter from the club."

"If you do get a contract, get better at flying," Daphne said seriously. "I don't fancy having to do this for you again."

Harry chuckled. "I don't fancy going through this pain again, but I could happily let you do that again."

Daphne rolled her eyes, fighting a grin. "Get on your stomach, Potter."

"Get on my stomach?" Harry repeated her words dubiously. "Why?

"You do realise I'm still here, right?" Tracey interrupted, her arms crossed over her stomach. Harry and Daphne glanced at each other and turned to the girl. "You know, just in case you've forgotten about me!"

"Oh, shut up," Daphne said airily. "Lean forward or something then, Potter, your back was bruised quite heavily. I need to put more of this on you."

Harry leant forward as requested, as the topic of conversation turned, inevitably, to Harry's trial.

"I'm quite surprised you're being so cocky after what just happened," Daphne said.

"Why's that?" Harry muttered.

"Well, I don't know what goes on in Quidditch trials, but I didn't think getting knocked out would be a good thing to happen," Daphne said dubiously.

Harry scoffed, even if Daphne was speaking aloud his inner thoughts. "It shows commitment."

"It shows something, but I'm not sure it's commitment," Daphne mumbled. "Get on your stomach, will you? It would be much easier."

Harry did as he was told without a fight, as the conversation switched to the N.E.W.T.s. It was unsurprising, as no seventh year could stop talking about it, hoping they'd done enough to pass.

"How do you think you've done, Potter?" Tracey asked curiously.

Harry nearly misheard her. Daphne's hands working at his back was causing him to drift off to sleep. A moment later, his eyes widened as a plate of food appeared in front of him, a full English no less.

Harry swallowed the egg he'd just stuffed into his mouth. "Uh, I passed Defence, I'm sure about that. Oh, and Charms, I passed that, too." Harry shrugged at the incredulous look the girls sent his way. "Transfiguration was a breeze as well."

"How the fuck do you know that?" Daphne demanded, now finished with applying the salve on Harry's back. She slumped into a chair next to Tracey, absently cleaning her hands with cleaning charms.

"I don't know for sure," Harry said, stretching his back as he sat back, "but come on, all I had to do for Charms was produce a Patronus." He kept his failed attempt at a Fidelius to himself.

"You're the best in the year at Defence as well," Tracey admitted, clearly not liking that fact.

Daphne glared at him for good measure.

"You should be jealous, I knew the examiner for Defence," Harry said.

"How?" Daphne demanded, crossing her arms.

"I'm surprised you didn't recognise him," Harry said. "It was Kingsley Shacklebolt, who's now the Head Auror. He fought alongside me during the war. Hard as nails, he is. Saved my arse more than once."

"Why is the Head Auror the examiner for Defence?" Daphne asked.

"Ministry's idea," Harry said. "They're hoping that students will actually earn their grade."

"Hang on," Tracey said, holding her hand out. "You had to duel with the Head of the Aurors?"

Harry nodded absently, biting into a piece of toast. "Yeah, but don't worry, he didn't go easy on me. In fact, he's still quite pissed at me for turning down his offer to join the Aurors."

"We didn't have to duel him, though! Why did you?" Tracey's eyes widened at just the thought.

Daphne hit her upside the head. "You do realise that Potter killed the Dark Lord, right?"

Tracey thought about it for a moment, a weak grin following a moment later. "Oh. Yeah."

"I didn't realise you had to duel him, though, Potter," Daphne said, still shooting dirty looks towards her best friend. "We only had to duel animated dummies."

Harry nodded. "So did I, but I offered Shack. He'd been waiting a while to have a go at me."

"Did you win?" Tracey asked in surprise.

"Draw," Harry said, pushing his plate away and leaning back, sighing in contentment.

"All right, you're a good dueller, we all know that. In Charms you showed off a charm you mastered in your third year, was it?" Daphne asked. Harry nodded. "What about Transfiguration?"

Harry tilted his head to the side. "You do realise Dumbledore has taught me personally since the end of fourth year, right?"

"He did?" Tracey asked, looking shocked.

"Of course," Daphne said in dawning realisation.

"Yeah," Harry nodded, completely straight-faced. "Good old Albus said there was very little he could teach me. He said I'd be teaching him in a few years!"

Daphne slapped his leg with the newspaper. "Arrogant bastard."

"Did he really say that?" Tracey asked in awe.

Harry glanced at Daphne, catching her eye, before he burst out laughing. "No, no. He just got me working my arse off, that's all. He didn't start showing me ancient or long-lost magic, he just got told me to master the basics, which I did. Everything else can come later, but you need the basics."

"You've always been a natural when it comes down to it," Daphne admitted.

Normally, Harry would have taken the opportunity to try and impress her, but the moment felt wrong somehow. "Actually, it hasn't always been natural. Not as much as you think anyway. I was always good with a wand…" Harry used the unintended double entendre and winked at the girls, which they completely ignored. "Well, yeah, I was good with a wand, but I wasn't exactly a prodigy child."

"Oh, come on," Daphne said. "Name one person who's better than you? I'm surprised you didn't beat Shacklebolt."

"Well, Snape, Flitwick, and McGonagall. Don't forget that Dumbledore is still the best wizard in the world," Harry said, counting them off his fingers.

"You're better than Snape and McGonagall, surely," Daphne said, completely confident.

"Flitwick would never beat you, would he?" Tracey said.

"I know we've had some bad Professors in our time here," Harry said, "but they've all been teaching for a long time for a very good reason. They know their subjects inside out, they all fought in the war, and Snape is more skilled than he's credited for. The bastard."

"What about out of the students, then?" Daphne continued.

Harry happily counted off his fingers again. "Well, there's Hermione-"

"Oh, please, now you're just blatantly lying." Tracey snorted.

"Fair point," Harry conceded. "Smart girl, yes. Deadly streak? Nasty with a wand? Hell no."

"See, you can't think of anyone, can you?" Daphne said triumphantly.

"What about Fred and George?" Harry said. "They're complete animals with a wand."

"In case you've forgotten, you destroyed them in a mock duel last year," Daphne said.

"Damn," Harry muttered. "Where did you hear about that?"

"The whole school watched," Tracey said.

"It was out in the grounds, remember?" Daphne added.

Harry nodded, the memory bringing a smile to his face. "Ah, yeah, good times." Harry's smile suddenly dropped. "That's probably why they were hell bent on beating the shit out of me. I'll have to get them back for that."

"If you're done talking to yourself," Daphne said, "I still think it was unfair how you beat them."

"Unfair?" Harry asked, perplexed. "I thought you were a Slytherin?"

"I am." Daphne huffed. "I just don't think it's right what you did."

Harry laughed. "I only threw them into the Whomping Willow, nothing wrong with that."

The girls weren't amused. "You nearly killed them!" Tracey said.

Harry shrugged. "They nearly killed me yesterday."

"I'd hate to be a boy," Daphne said, summing it up neatly.

"I'd hate it if you were a boy, too," Harry said, earning himself another glare. He took heart in the fact that it wasn't all that harsh.

As Harry lay back, bored out of his skull and giving serious thought to simply leaving the Hospital Wing, the doors opened.

In strolled Daphne. She looked at Harry and walked straight over to him.

"What're you doing back?" Harry asked, bemused and secretly glad of the company.

"There's been a huge fight in the Common Room," Daphne said, nodding to herself. "I thought I'd just sleep here tonight."

Harry raised an eyebrow at the girl. "You're always welcome to share my bed, Greengrass."

Daphne didn't bother to answer to that, instead sitting herself on the bed to the left of Harry.

"So, what's there to do in here?" Daphne asked, following Harry's example and sitting back, her hands behind her head.

"There's this really interesting game I like to play," Harry said. "What you do is watch the sun fall below the horizon, all the while planning your escape from this hell."

Daphne nodded. "Ever got away with it?"

"Once," Harry said forlornly. "I lasted until three in the morning."

"What happened?"

"I woke up in extreme pain and came back," Harry said.

"Oh." Daphne chuckled.

For the first time in Harry's memory, time in the Hospital Wing actually passed quite fast. Madam Pomfrey came in to inspect the conversation, but upon seeing Daphne in the middle of speaking, soon left them to it. Harry was glad one of Madam Pomfrey's apprentices had been the one to come back, because there was no way anyone else would have been allowed to stay. Even school Healers had a soft spot it seemed.

"School's over next week," Daphne said tiredly.

Harry hummed low in his throat. "I've got a busy summer ahead of me."

"A busy few years, you mean," Daphne said.

Eventually, Daphne Transfigured a simple pair of pyjamas and got under the covers. Harry watched with no shame.

"Do you think you'll miss this place?" Daphne asked as the candles suddenly flickered, flames shooting up and lighting the room.

Harry glanced over at her question, seeing her staring out of the window with a blank look on her face.

"I'll miss some parts," Harry said honestly. "I complain about this place enough, but I suppose it is handy when your name's Harry Potter."

Harry's words earned a quiet laugh. "There's a rumour going around about you, you know."

"Which one would that be?"

"Well, there's actually two right now," Daphne said. "The first one is that you fucked Sally-Ann."

Harry suddenly found himself wide-awake. "Damn, that's got out already?"

"Wait, it's true?" Daphne asked, slight surprise colouring her tone.

Harry nodded. "Yeah. You sound surprised."

"Didn't think anyone would get through her defences," Daphne said.

"Neither did I," Harry said. "She was drunk."

"That's just shameful, Potter," Daphne said, turning to him. "Tell me you didn't get the poor girl drunk?"

"NO!" Harry protested. "She was already drunk when she asked me. She came on to me!"

Daphne shook her head, keeping her eyes on him. "Do you care who you sleep with?"

"If they're pretty and they want it, not really," Harry said in complete honesty.

"So if I came over to you right now, undressed, and got in next to you, you'd fuck me?" Daphne asked.

Harry didn't have to think about it for very long. "You're damn right I would."

"How pissed off would you be if I got in next to you, naked, and refused to let you touch me?" Daphne asked, the amusement in her voice evident.

Arrogance didn't always work out, but sometimes it paid off, especially when the person you were being arrogant with knew you well enough. Either that, or they just didn't care.

"After ten minutes of being in bed with me, you'd be the one begging for it, Greengrass," Harry said with complete certainty.

The Hospital Wing was silent for a while, but with Daphne around, it never stayed that way for long.

"Well, it's always been a fantasy of mine to have sex in a Hospital bed."

"That's a fucked up fantasy, Daphne," Harry said easily. "Some would say more of a fetish, really."

"Don't tell me the thought of it isn't turning you on," Daphne said, her voice teasing.

Harry was actually feeling rather tired. They both knew what game had suddenly been playing between them. Harry decided to play his final hand. If it actually worked, he might just get a hell of a memory in the future. If it didn't, there wouldn't be any harm done.

"All right," Harry started, looking straight into Daphne's eyes. "Come here, undress, get in beside me, and we'll see what happens."

To Daphne's credit, the only surprise she let show came from her bottom lip, which parted from the top one, but only just. She stared right back at him, most likely judging if he was being serious or if it was just part of the game.

Whether she thought it was part of the game or not, her next action had Harry furiously working out his own next plan of action.

Daphne raised her wand, shutting the curtains around her bed, leaving the side facing Harry open. She quickly jumped out of bed, her small shorts and vest leaving very little of her body to Harry's imagination.

A million thoughts, plans, and everything else in-between shot through Harry's mind as Daphne came to stand next to his bed. The smile on her face was confident, as if she had planned it all along.

"What was the next part, Harry?"

Harry recovered quickly, unsure if what was happening would be happening for much longer.

"You're supposed to undress and get in next to me," Harry said quietly.

"Is this not undressed enough for you?" Daphne asked, gesturing at her body.

"Not really," Harry muttered.

Instead of saying anything more, Daphne pulled off her vest, revealing a plain black bra.

"You're lucky, you know," Daphne said, making no move to remove any other clothing. "I wouldn't have gone this far with many people."

Harry smiled. "Game over?"

With a heavy sigh, Daphne sat down on his bed, pulling her vest back over her shoulders.

"Game over, Harry." Daphne's blinked, her dark lashes oddly captivating.

"Why did you come up here?" Harry asked curiously. "Was there really a fight?"

"Nah," Daphne admitted. "It's just boring down in the dungeons. Most of the students in our year are boring enough as it is, and the younger years are too scared of the oldest students to make a fuss."

Harry nodded. Daphne hadn't answered his first question and he wasn't going to press her for an answer.

"I came back up to see you," Daphne said. "You make life interesting, that's for sure."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Harry said.

Daphne smiled as she got up from his bed and got back into her own. "You do that. It's a pity I didn't get to know you before I did. Goodnight, Harry."

The bizarre thought that he'd finally missed the sun dropping below the horizon for once entered Harry's head, but it was accompanied by too many others to stick around for long.

"Yeah," Harry said softly. "Goodnight, Daphne."

4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Once again, big thanks to silentclock for looking over this, and to Nerox for continuing to help out with the story.

Chapter Four

Harry woke to the sound of the rain hammering against the Hospital Wing's windows. With a tired groan and a half-hearted glare at the grey skies, Harry sat up, wincing at the pain in his body.

"It's good to see you're finally awake," Daphne said.

Harry looked over to see the she was also still in bed, her blonde hair a mess and her vest crinkled. His eyes stayed glued to the vest for longer than was polite, if at all polite in the first place.

"What time is it?" Harry asked with a loud yawn, his head smacking back down on to his pillow a second later, the image of the vest burnt forever into his brain.

"Time for breakfast," Daphne said dryly. "You'll need to be checked out as well."

Harry chuckled to himself. "You can check me out whenever you want, Daphne."

"I had a good eyeful yesterday," Daphne hit back immediately.

"You loved it," Harry said with complete confidence. He finally sat back up as Madam Pomfrey poked her head around her door, looking wide-awake.

"Oh, good, I forgot you were here," Madam Pomfrey said. "If you could check up on Harry, Miss Greengrass?"

Harry grinned fiercely.

"She must have heard us talking," Daphne grumbled as she pushed the covers off her legs.

Harry stared, watching as Daphne's bare feet hit the floor. She grabbed her wand off the bedside table and sauntered over to him, well-aware he was staring at her legs.

Harry's eyes finally drifted back up Daphne's body, settling on the small grin playing on her lips.

"Lay back, Potter," she said.

Harry did as he was told. Daphne closed the curtains around the bed with a flick of her wand.

"Any reason for the privacy?" Harry asked.

"There is, actually," Daphne said. "For exactly that reason. Privacy."

"Err, there's no-one else here," Harry said slowly.

Daphne ignored him and checked outside the curtains for a few seconds, before she turned to Harry. She didn't say anything; instead she simply sat on the edge of the bed.

"What's first, then?" Harry asked.

"Your ribs," Daphne said, gently pulling the covers from Harry's chest.

Harry looked down and winced. His entire left side was blackened and bruised.

"I'll have to put more salve on that," Daphne said as she ran her wand down the length of Harry's side. "How's your jaw today? Madam Pomfrey managed to fix you up properly, but you're starting to bruise."

Harry gingerly ran a hand across his jaw line, wincing at the pain even his light touch caused. "I'm surprised I can speak without it hurting."

Daphne nodded. "You'll need another Pain-Reliever for that, then. I'll look at your back in a second, but how's your ankle? Poppy said it was only sprained, so it should be better today."

Harry had forgotten all about the hit he'd taken to the ankle, and so he shrugged. "I have no idea, I can't feel anything. I don't know how it'll be to walk on, though."

Daphne manoeuvred her way down the bed, pulling back the covers off Harry's legs. She gently touched his ankle, causing Harry to feel only a dull pain.

"Maybe some more of that magic salve?" Harry suggested.

Daphne nodded. "All right, get on your stomach."

"You really need to work on your bedside manner," Harry said as he turned over on to his stomach.

Daphne shook her head. "You're not funny, Potter."

Before Harry could answer back to that, Daphne climbed on the bed, seating herself at the very top of Harry's legs.

"I'm not sure this is the correct way for a Healer to inspect patients either," Harry said, groaning as Daphne shifted on top of him. "Do you do this with all your patients?"

"Only for the lucky ones," Daphne muttered absently. "The swelling seems to have reduced, but I'll put some more salve on you."

Harry nodded. "Thank you," he said, his voice muffled through the pillow.

Harry heard Daphne reach over to the bedside table and pick up the Healing Salve. Like the day before, she gently rubbed a small amount in to his lower back, spreading it out with her small hands. Harry could only groan in contentment, enjoying the massage even through the dull pain that was slowly being reduced.

"Why do you do this to yourself?" Daphne asked, interrupting Harry's bliss.

Harry thought about it for a moment. "The catered meals. They say the pro teams get a buffet-style set-" Harry cringed as she applied the salve less gently than before.

Daphne looked at him expectantly.

"Fine, fine," Harry said. "If you really want to know, it's all about the women. They can't resist a finely-tuned athlete who can take a hit or-" Harry's own groan of pain cut him off mid-sentence, the cause being Daphne actively applying pressure to a painful bruise.

Harry didn't need another look for him to joke again.

"It's the thrill of it, I guess. The speed, the competition, the flying, it's just ... I can't really put it into words, you know?" He paused, smiling. "Besides, winning is worth all the bumps and bruises in the world."

Daphne gently pushed her fingers into Harry's flesh. "The problem is, Potter, you don't get bumps and bruises. That's what children get when they fall down. You get broken bones, muscle tears and dislocated limbs."

"Makes it worth it, like I said," Harry said with a simple shrug.

"A bit like how people say working for something makes it all the more special?"

"I guess, yeah," Harry said.

"You know you're going to be injured more often in Quidditch than you would have been if you'd been an Auror, right?" Daphne said.

Harry could only hum low in his throat, enjoying the massage far too much to reply.

"Right, that's your back done," Daphne said, slipping off Harry's legs much too soon for his liking.

Harry sighed as he turned back around, the pain in his back marginally reduced. "Thank you, some people pay a lot of money for a job not nearly as good as that."

"If you ever want another one, I'm willing to hear your price," Daphne said with a small smile.

Daphne continued her work, this time applying the salve on Harry's ribs. They were in a worse state than Harry's back. Luckily, Madam Pomfrey had quickly mended them the day before, but the bruising would take a few days to disappear.

"I'm not sure if winning a Quidditch match is worth the damage," Daphne said critically.

Harry chuckled. "Okay, imagine it a different way. You can have the best sex of your life, with multiple orgasms that just blow your mind, yeah?"

Daphne nodded uncertainly.

"You can only achieve that, though, if you're willing to go through a lot of disappointment and pain," Harry said, urging her to understand.

"Are you really comparing sex to winning a match?" Daphne asked critically. "Not just sex, either, but sadomasochism."

Harry frowned. "Okay, that may have been a bad example. Put it this way. To achieve the ultimate feeling, in this case your mind-blowing orgasms, you need to have a lot of disappointment first."

Daphne stared him, a perplexed look on her face. "I still can't believe you're comparing sex to winning a game."

"Not just a match, but the league," Harry said, his voice full of passion. "Or the European Cup. The World Cup would be the ultimate prize. I can't begin to understand the pure elation you'd feel if you won it."

"Do you think you'll achieve any of that?" Daphne asked.

The question took Harry by surprise. He didn't even know if Puddlemere wanted him yet, but the things he had mentioned were definitely things he wanted to win.

"Yeah." Harry nodded. "What's the point in doing something that takes so much work, so much pain and commitment, if you don't want to win everything there is to win?"

Daphne looked to be contemplating that as her hands absently massaged the salve into Harry's ribs. "Most players never make it big, right? How do you know you won't end up like all the other nobodies?"

Harry sat up as much as his ribs would allow him to. "Every player's different, that's obvious to anyone. It's the players who never allow themselves to feel they haven't got any more to give that are special. Some players haven't got the talent, or the skill, even if they have got the work ethic. Other players have got all that, and they've got the sheer desire to keep on winning."

"You have the talent, that's obvious even to me," Daphne said slowly, her hand paused on Harry's stomach. "Do you have the desire, though? Like you said, if you ever think there's nothing else to achieve, you might as well quit."

"Think of Viktor Krum," Harry said. "He's won the Bulgarian League four years in a row, he's won the European Cup twice, he's won the European Championship once, and he's got countless personal awards. He's been voted the best player in the world for the fourth year in a row, which is a new record. Nobody has ever done that before. He's the youngest person to ever achieve that honour in the first place. Why do you think he still plays?"

"He hasn't won the World Cup," Daphne said, not pausing for a second. It was well-known to even the Quidditch haters that Krum had yet to win the ultimate prize.

"That's only one reason, though," Harry said. "He'll win the World Cup one day, and it might even be in a few months, but it will happen. Even if he has to do it himself, he'll win it, but that's not the only reason he keeps on playing. He wants to leave a legacy. He wants to win everything he's already won again, and he wants to keep winning it."

"I can understand that," Daphne said, continuing to rub in the cream. "Do you think you'll ever be as good as Krum?"

"I highly doubt it," Harry said honestly, causing Daphne to look up at him in surprise. "He's a phenomenon, he really is. He caught the Snitch in a World Cup final at the age of seventeen. Yeah, they didn't win, but he still caught it. He's only three years older than me, but at my age he'd already won countless trophies, and he was the best player in the world then."

"You have a lot of respect for him, don't you?" Daphne said as she finished Harry's ribs.

Harry nodded. "He's a good guy, and I want to learn everything I can from him."

Daphne absently nodded, taking hold of Harry's sprained ankle and applying yet more cream. "You'll need a crutch to help you walk for a while," she said. "You won't be able to apply too much pressure on this foot."

Harry pulled a face. "Really? Damn it."

"At least you can whack people with it," Daphne said, amused.

Before Harry could think too much on using his walking stick to smack Smith over the head, Dumbledore poked his head around the door.

"Ah, Harry. How are you today?"

"Not feeling the best," Harry admitted. "I have to use a walking stick."

Dumbledore smiled as he strode over to the bed, bringing with him Hedwig, who sat regally upon his shoulder. "Give me a few years more, Harry, and I'll be relying on one of those myself."

"Anyone else your age would've needed one at least fifty years ago," Harry said.

Dumbledore chuckled good naturedly. "The wonders of magic, Harry. Now, you know Hedwig isn't strictly allowed to enter this part of the castle."

Harry nodded, smiling up at his owl. At Harry's call, she bounced her way down Dumbledore's outstretched arm, coming to a stop on Harry's lap.

"Sorry, sir, you were saying?" Harry said, idly scratching Hedwig's neck as she nuzzled into his palm.

"Yes, Hedwig delivered your letter to me," Dumbledore said, rooting around in his pocket.

"At least she's better behaved than you," Daphne muttered, finishing up on Harry's leg. "I'll go and get your stick."

"Here we are," Dumbledore said, pulling out a letter. "I haven't taken the liberty of reading it, but I can guess who it's from."

"I can see who it's from," Harry muttered, his stomach suddenly plummeting as he spotted the crest of Puddlemere. He refrained from tearing into the letter, and instead took a deep breath.

"I find it is better to do it quickly, Harry, rather than delay and ultimately prolong your disquiet," Dumbledore said gently.

Daphne arrived from the store room holding a wooden walking stick, refraining from speaking as she made her way over to them.

Harry took Dumbledore's advice and tore open the letter, his eyes racing over the words, barely taking them in.

"Well?" Daphne asked.

"They want a meeting later today," Harry said, his tone unbelieving. "I was sure I messed up."

"On the contrary, Harry, Phil was very impressed with your tenacity," Dumbledore said, sporting a large grin. "He was delighted with your work ethic and your ability to continue under extreme pressure."

Harry's lips erupted in a smile, matching Dumbledore's. "I can't believe it."

"What time do we have to go, Harry?" Dumbledore asked.

Harry looked back down at the letter, a deep feeling of satisfaction overcoming him. "Half past twelve." Harry continued reading. "I'm advised to bring with me a representative, or if I haven't got one, the club would provide me with one. Fancy a new title, Professor?"

"Of course," Dumbledore said, his tone suggesting it would be an offense to turn it down.

"Thank you," Harry said, looking through the letter again to make sure he had read correctly.

"Congratulations, Harry," Daphne said, smiling sincerely at him. "I expect Poppy will want you back here tonight."

Harry nodded happily, lifting Hedwig and kissing her right on the beak. The surprised owl could only flap her wings in agitation.

Harry and Dumbledore were once again outside the front gates of Puddlemere United. The gates opened, allowing the two men access to the old building. They jogged towards the front door to get out of the cold and wet, which only served to increase the pain in Harry's ankle. Dumbledore had actually supplied the necessary charms to keep the violent weather at bay, but it was as though Harry could still feel the rain battering against his body.

Just like the last time they were at Puddlemere's training ground, Dumbledore knocked three times on the brass knocker. This time, though, the two men stayed under the arch, where the floor was relatively dry compared to the larger puddles out in the open.

Miss Richard's face appeared as the door was flung open. "It's good to see you again, Headmaster!" she gushed, ushering them inside. "Hello, Harry."

Harry barely refrained from leering. Unlike last time, Miss Richards was not wearing a robe, but tight-fighting Muggle attire.

"Hi, Miss Richards," Harry said, glad to be inside again and out of the rain.

"Call me Emma, Harry," Emma said, smiling brilliantly at him. "Mr Deverill is waiting for you in his office. If you'd like to follow me."

Harry and Dumbledore followed Emma up the staircase. The décor still didn't sit well with Harry, but he could ignore the feeling in his excitement. Emma's arse was exactly at eye-level as she walked up the stairs in front of Harry, giving him something finer to look at than any chandelier.

"You're certainly given a lot to look at while you're here, aren't you?" Harry said appreciatively.

Emma looked over her shoulder to the innocent-looking Harry. Dumbledore smiled to himself, appearing to be highly interested in a sixteenth century painting of the then Seeker and Captain.

"Don't you like what's on show?" Emma asked in slight surprise. "Most people love to look around when they come here."

"Oh, some things aren't to my personal taste," Harry said easily. "I'd certainly like to have a much closer view at other things, though."

Emma simply smiled and led them the rest of the way up stairs, all the while with Dumbledore sending half-amused and half-warning glances at Harry. The corridor they walked down had a few doors on either side, ranging from the Director's office to the store room. Framed pictures and artwork covered the walls, showing various individual and team photos from the past to the present day.

"How long have you been working here, Emma?" Harry asked, managing to slide up next to the woman.

"Oh, about three years now," Emma said, glancing at Harry out of the corner of her eye as he hobbled alongside her.

"Do you like it?" Harry asked.

"It's okay," Emma said with a nod. "I get to meet some really interesting players, and I love the pay."

Harry slyly glanced at Emma. She was giving him nothing, simply answering his questions and nothing more. Her smile stayed in place, although it looked quite strained. That's when Harry noticed the diamond ring adorning the ring on her left hand.

"Who's the lucky guy?" Harry asked.

Harry had the conversation he was looking for. Emma's forced smile became real in the blink of an eye, her pale blue eyes suddenly sparkling.

"Oh! That would be Andrew," Emma said, going on to gush over her fiancé. "He plays on the team, you know? He's been here for two years, so that's where I met him. Everyone's saying he's the next star Chaser, you know?"

Harry rubbed his head wearily for the rest of way to Phil's office, wishing he'd never asked. Dumbledore's smug grin told Harry that the elder wizard had noticed the ring, and he had probably noticed the first time they'd been there.

Emma wasn't lying about her fiancé's skills on a broom either. Andrew Merton had signed up at the same time as Fred and George, and he had joined the twins in becoming star players in such a short length of time. Critics and fans alike all called him the next big thing.

Emma was still smiling as she knocked on a door, where a gold plaque said: Manager's Office, Philbert Deverill.

"Come in."

Emma pushed the door open. "Harry Potter and Professor Dumbledore to see you, sir."

"Come on in," Phil said jovially, getting out of his chair as Harry and Dumbledore walked into the office.

The office was ordinary, with even more framed pictures covering bland, white walls. A large desk sat in front of a high window, where Phil had been sat a moment ago. On the other side of the desk, an old man turned in his chair, smiling widely at the visitors.

"That will be all," Phil said to Emma with a smile, quietly closing the door behind her before turning back to Harry and Dumbledore. "Would you like any refreshments before we get started?"

"No thanks," Harry said as Dumbledore also declined.

Phil gestured to the old man in the chair, who as of yet hadn't spoken. "I'd like to introduce you to the Chairman of Puddlemere United, Timothy Blenkinsop."

Timothy stood up and extended a hand, a kind smile on his wrinkled face, lighting up his brown eyes. "Please, call me Tim," he said, shaking Harry's hand in a firm grip, before greeting Dumbledore like an old friend.

"Right, on to business," Phil said, seating himself behind his desk.

Harry and Dumbledore took the two chairs opposite Phil, with Tim pulling out a stack of parchment.

"I know it's boring, but we hope we can achieve a deal that is in both of our best interests," Phil said. "Now, our offer to you is the same as we offer every player starting his first season. A one-year contract, with four-hundred Galleons a week."

Harry's jaw dropped slightly. "Four-hundred a week?"

"Being a Seeker, you also get an added bonus for every Snitch you catch," Tim said.

Harry was sure he misheard. He knew there was a lot of money being put into the game, but that seemed like an obscene amount of money for playing a sport.

"Everything appears to be in order," Dumbledore announced, placing down the parchment.

"Now, we'll assess your progress halfway through the season," Phil said. "If we're happy with what you've done up until that point, we may offer you an extension. If not, we'll wait until the season is over before deciding."

"Before we actually get to your signature, there is something we have to take into account," Tim said, pulling out another piece of parchment. He handed it to Dumbledore as he explained what he meant to Harry. "While we do have Healers working at the club, there is still a law within the game that states players need to have a personal Healer."

"A personal Healer?" Harry frowned. "Why have you got Healers at the club, then?"

"You grew up in the Muggle world, didn't you?" Phil said.

Harry nodded uncertainly.

"Think of the club Healers as paramedics, I think that's what they're called," Phil said. "The club's Healers treat the immediate injury any player picks up, but for your recovery, you need a personal Healer."

Harry frowned again. "Isn't that a bit stupid?"

"It comes from a time when Purebloods didn't trust anyone with their health," Tim explained. "They were usually wealthy men and women, and they usually had a family Healer already. There is a loophole in the law that allows you to use one of our Healers to treat you personally, but they would have to work for you. It's entirely your decision."

"Poppy would be happy to help you, Harry," Dumbledore suggested.

"Won't it be too much work for her?"

"I'll talk it over with her, I'm sure we'll come to a decision," Dumbledore said.

"If it's any consolation, there are people trying to get rid of that ridiculous law," Tim said.

"I think I'd prefer someone I trust," Harry admitted. "I trust Poppy with my life. I have trusted her with my life."

"If that's sorted?" Phil said, receiving nods all around. "Very well. On to your signature, Harry."

Harry felt a jolt run through his body at simply hearing those words being said, and the bright smile on his face refused to dim.

"If you're happy with everything, sign here," Tim said, placing his finger underneath a dotted line.

Harry dipped the offered quill into the inkpot with slightly shaking hands, scribbling his name on to the parchment.

"Please sign here as well," Tim said. Harry signed. "And here." Harry signed again. "And finally if you'd sign here."

Harry signed the last page with a flourish, his elation filling him, doubled with a sense of pride.

"We're happy to have you at Puddlemere, Harry," Tim said, shaking Harry's hand with a childlike enthusiasm.

"I'm afraid the day isn't over just yet," Phil said, getting to his feet. "The press are waiting for an official announcement. Now, we don't normally do this unless it's a big signing, but as it's you…"

"I understand," Harry said. He wasn't too pleased about having to speak to the very people who could spin a story on him on a rumour, but it was now a part of his job.

The four men continued out of the office and back across the hallway.

"First of all, Harry, you'll need to have a few pictures taken, but that shouldn't take more than five minutes," Phil said. "Then you'll have to speak to the press, but don't worry too much on that. I'll be next to you, as will be Tim. If you don't want to answer a question, I'm sure you know you don't have to, but be polite at all times."

Harry nodded at Phil's words as they made their way down the staircase, where a few voices could distinctly be heard from the press room. Harry didn't think they'd been there when he and Dumbledore had first arrived.

Dumbledore turned to Harry as they reached the bottom step. "I think that's my job done now, unless there's anything else?"

Phil shook his head. "Thank you, Albus, but the paperwork is all finished."

"Thank you for helping," Harry said, unable to hide the antsy feeling creeping up inside of him. He'd much prefer going head to head with Fred and George again than meeting the assembled press.

"Your father would be proud of you, Harry," Dumbledore said. "As would your mum, but your father was the Quidditch enthusiast."

With those parting words, Dumbledore left, taking with him a feeling of safety. Harry shook his head, clearing those thoughts away. He was no longer a school boy, discounting the fact that he didn't finish Hogwarts for another day. He wasn't a child anymore, he didn't need Dumbledore's protection any longer. He was a man now.

"Are you ready?" Phil asked, eyeing Harry carefully.

Harry held his head high. "Yeah. Let's do this."

Phil led the way into the press room. It was a large room, filled with journalists from what looked like all over the world. Cameras flashed immediately upon the door opening, as Phil led the way to the front of the room, where a long table had been set up. Three sets of glasses sat glistening side by side with three jugs full of sparkling water. Three microphones floated in mid-air, waiting to be used.

Harry took the middle chair in-between his new Manager and Chairman, his stomach knotted and his fingers clenched into his palm. The assembled journalists were already scribbling in their notepads.

"We'll do the photographs after this, Harry," Phil muttered.

A dark-haired man stood up. "Is everything all ready to begin?"

Phil looked to Harry, who shrugged. Phil nodded at the man who stood up.

"Crispin Cronk, Daily Prophet," Crispin said. "When did you first realise you wanted a career in the sport, Harry?"

"It's been a few years," Harry said as he filled his glass with water. He had told Crispin the truth, but thought it best to leave out that it had been just after Voldemort's death he had decided to concentrate on Quidditch.

"Would that happen to be around the time of You-Know-Who's death?" Crispin asked, his quill at the ready.

Harry sighed. "Yes, when Voldemort died it felt like the right course of action to pursue a career in Quidditch."

Most of the audience winced at Voldemort's name being said, causing Harry to roll his eyes. Phil sent him a warning look, which Harry suspected wasn't because he'd said the name, but because of the reason he'd said it.

A chubby woman stood up, her hair tied back in a ponytail and glasses pressed up against her eyes. "Sue Perkins, Witch Weekly."

Harry could only internally wince at what he expected to come. The fact that an average-looking woman was giving her readers weight-loss tips and beauty and fashion advice made Harry's day.

"Many of our readers are your age, Harry," Sue said. "Is there anyone special in your life? Or are you looking for your soul mate?"

Harry snorted loudly, quickly covering it up with a cough. He took a sip of water before he could answer.

"No," Harry said. "There isn't anyone special in my life. And really, a soul mate? Next you'll be asking me if I have soul bond with someone. I'm not looking for anyone either, my Godfather would never speak to me again if I got married as young as my father did."

Sue looked rather put out by Harry's answer, quickly sitting back down and scribbling furiously. A few of the journalists chuckled to themselves, giving Harry hope that they weren't all out for his blood.

"Soul bond?" Phil asked, his forehead creased in confusion.

"Don't worry about it," Harry said, waving his hand as if to shoo the matter away. "It's in a load of novels aimed at gullible teenage girls."

Crispin stood up again. "What do you hope to achieve in the upcoming season, Phil?"

Phil leaned forward with a hunger in his eye. "I hope to see my players grow, I want to see dedication and hard work, and above all else, I want to win the title."

"Do you think that will be possible? You have a good squad of players, but it's also a young squad."

"Everything's possible in sport, so yes, I do think it's a realistic goal," Phil said. "Yes, we have a young squad, but they played without fear last year. We have England internationals, and they're still young. They're only going to get better with time."

A large, bald-headed man stood up.

"Graham Hunter, pleased to meet you," Graham said with a diminished Scottish accent, as if he had been living in England for many years. He had a friendly, easy smile. "You're probably not aware, but I write for a few different magazines and newspapers. This is for the Puddlemere United Gazette. What are you hoping to achieve this year, Harry? As I'm sure you know, a lot is expected of you because of who you are, even if that is unfair. Do you think you can live up to the high expectations of the Puddlemere fans?"

Harry nodded at the friendly journalist. "I'm a Puddlemere fan myself, so I know all about the expectations at the club. I think the true fans will see that when I get my chance, I'll do my best to win and I'll always give everything. I think if I'm given a chance, then yes, I will eventually live up to the high expectations. For this first season, I hope to play as many games as possible. I hope I can help the club win as many trophies as possible for as long as I'm able."

"There are rumours that you're prone to losing your temper," Rita Skeeter said. "Is there any truth to that? Did you lose your temper in the match you played for Gryffindor against Slytherin?"

Harry's eyebrows slowly rose. "Err, that's not quite the full story. The Slytherin Seeker attempted to start a fight after I caught the Snitch and I retaliated."

"Why did Draco Malfoy attempt to start a fight?" Rita asked. "Was he jealous of losing? Angry?"

"You'll have to ask him about that," Harry said, itching to get off the topic of Malfoy and on to anyone other than Rita.

"Richard Bundy, Which Broomstick. Some people are saying you only got on the team because of your fame," Richard said. "Knowing Phil as I do, I can assure them that isn't the case, but that won't stop people from believing it. Will you be able to handle the abuse from certain fans of other teams?"

Harry nodded with full certainty. "I've dealt with many things in my life, I'm sure I can handle it."

"What brooms have you flown, Harry?" Richard asked eagerly. "Would you mind giving a one-to-one interview sometime? I'm sure our readers would like to know your opinions on different brooms."

"Sure," Harry said. "Just owl me and I'll be happy to. I think we'll leave the question until then, shall we?"

"Looking forward to it, Harry," Richard said, smiling brightly as he sat back down.

Graham Hunter stood up again. "You're joining a team that's already full of growing stars and promising talent. Three of them actually played alongside you with Gryffindor. How does it feel to be back with them? Do you think that will make it easier to settle in?"

Harry took a sip of water. "It feels great to be here anyway, and being back with the guys just makes it that much better. Yes, I know their games and I know how hard they work in training, and they're good friends. They'll help me to settle in faster, there's no doubt about that."

"Stewart Ackerley has been the centre of attention this past year," Graham said. "In my humble opinion, he's the best Seeker playing in England today. What do you think your chances are of getting on to the team ahead of him? How highly do you rate your new teammate?"

"I think Stewart is one of the best Seekers in the world," Harry said. "It certainly won't be easy, but that's up to the manager. If he wants me to play me ahead of Stewart, I'll have to make sure he's made the right choice."

Sue Perkins cut in ahead of Graham's next question. "Stewart is regularly voted the sexiest Quidditch player in England. Will there be any tension between the two of you on that issue? Do you think he deserves the attention he gets from women?"

Harry shared a bemused look with Graham. Phil shifted uneasily in his seat.

"I honestly don't think Stewart cares about that issue, and neither do I," Harry said. "Stewart is a good-looking bloke, so I can see why any woman would want to be with him. I'm not sure why there would be any tension between us, and I'm not exactly sure why you brought it up."

"You're Harry Potter," Sue said. "Every woman is going to want a piece of you, can't you see that? Won't Stewart feel a little left out?"

Harry rubbed his forehead wearily. "No, there won't be any problems between us, and I wish you'd stop trying to create them before I've even had my first training session. I'm not sure what you mean about every women wanting a piece of me either. In my opinion, you're offending every female in the country by saying something like that."

"Offending women!" Sue said, red in the face. "I'm not sure you understood my question-"

"No, I understood what you meant perfectly," Harry said, holding a hand up to shut her up. Phil and Tim gave him warning glances. "Just- just… No, there won't be a problem between Stewart and I, and that's the end of the matter. Let's just leave it at that."

Sue sat back down in a huff, once again furiously writing in her notepad.

"Would it be okay for a one-on-one interview before the season starts?" Graham asked. "I'm sure you'd like the fans to get to know you a little better."

Harry nodded. "That's fine. I'd like to keep my private life just that, but I'm happy to talk all things Puddlemere."

"Harry!" Rita practically shouted, jumping in before anyone else could ask a question. "You've made a lot of enemies and rivals over the years. Do you think that tradition will continue into your career?"

"I don't fancy any more enemies, but a healthy rivalry is always good to improve at what you do," Harry answered.

"George Butler, Quality Quidditch," George said. "Viktor Krum recently said he was pleased to hear about you going into Quidditch. What do you make of the rumours about him moving to the English league?"

"Viktor could play in any team in the world," Harry said with a shrug. "I haven't spoken to him recently, so I wouldn't know if he wants to play in England or not."

Crispin Cronk stood up again. "Mr Blenkinsop, why did you choose Harry? Puddlemere now have three Seekers."

Tim leant forward. "I trust Phil to make the signings he feels are necessary. You'll have to ask him that question."

"If you'd answer that question, Phil," Crispin said.

"I watched Harry play for Gryffindor and I was impressed," Phil said. "He came for a trial and I thought he could be something special. Only time will tell, but I think it's far better to have him with us than with anyone else."

Harry slumped in his seat as the questions continued. Some questions were useless, such as what Harry's favourite colour was. The question had been for a child's magazine, but it had surprised him. Other questions were nothing to with Harry at all, but what he thought of matters within the Ministry.

It was another hour before the journalists were happy with what they'd got from him, and Harry couldn't wait to get out of there.

"We need photos first, Harry," Phil said, still looking as calm and as composed as ever.

Harry just nodded, following Phil's example and getting out of his chair.

With the press lined up with their cameras at the ready, Harry was presented with a Puddlemere shirt. It wasn't a game-robe, but a jersey with his name written across the back.

"You get to keep that," Phil said, holding one arm of the shirt between himself and Harry.

Harry held on to the arm of the thin fabric. "I'll be sure to frame it."

"Big smile now, Harry," Phil said as a hundred flashes blinded them.

It was another five minutes before Harry could leave, in which time he'd had to shake Phil's hand, shake Tim's hand, have a photo on his own holding the shirt, and the last photo with all three of them.

"You'll receive a letter to notify you when training begins," Phil said, shaking Harry's hand once more. "Do try to rest up, we don't want you tired before the season starts."

Harry nodded in thanks. "I'll see you in a few weeks."

It was in a conflicted state of mind that Harry arrived back outside the gates of Hogwarts. Most of the press conference had gone well; better than he'd thought it would have gone when it had been sprung on him. Of course, Harry realised it hadn't all been a good conversation about Quidditch; his face was surely going to make the next issue of Witch Weekly, courtesy of Sue Perkins.

The sun hung low over the mountains as Harry limped up the well-trodden path to the castle. The morning rain had disappeared sometime during his trip, leaving the air fresh. The glow from millions of candles shone from every window of Hogwarts, still giving him a sense of belonging. He spotted three figures walking towards him against the light flooding from the open doors, their faces blurred in the low light.

Harry recognised who they were a second later, having heard their laughter for the last seven years. Dean was chuckling at a bad joke Seamus had just told, Neville was shaking his head with a grin, and Seamus was laughing at himself.

"Oi oi!" Seamus called euphorically.

"Hasn't dinner started yet?" Harry asked in disappointment. "I haven't eaten all day."

"Where have you been, Potter?" Seamus asked, completely ignoring Harry's question. "You went for that trial and never came back! Everyone was talking about it after the Prophet said you'd been offered a contract. Where have you been?"

"He was injured," Neville said before Harry could respond. "He's got a walking stick."

"I was, actually," Harry said with a nod, holding up the wooden stick for the boys to inspect.

"Damn, that's a nasty bruise," Dean said, squinting as he took in the sight of Harry's jaw.

Harry rubbed his cheek. "It's not as bad as it looks."

"Come on," Seamus said, slinging his arm over Harry's neck and walking them towards the Black Lake. "I want to hear all about this trial."

"Do we have to?" Harry groaned, his walking stick taking most of his weight. "I can hardly walk any longer with this foot, and I have to get back to the Hospital Wing."

Seamus staggered to a stop barely ten yards from where they'd started walking. Dean frowned and Neville simply looked curious.

"What?" Harry asked defensively.

"You, of all people, want to go back to the Hospital Wing?" Neville asked dubiously.

Harry glanced at each of their disbelieving faces in turn.

"I'm in pain," Harry said slowly.

"Harry," Dean said with a worried chuckle. "This isn't right. You refused to go to the Hospital Wing after Voldemort held you under the Cruciatus Curse. The only way we could get you there after Voldemort was killed was because you'd passed out."

Harry stared, having no clue what they meant.

"You can't be in any more pain now than you were then," Neville said reasonably. "You were only fourteen then as well."

"You're used to Quidditch injuries anyway," Seamus said.

"Come on," Harry said, limping his way back towards the doors of the castle. "I only want to go back there for some Pain-Reliever and some salve, that's all."

Harry led the way back to the castle, all the while under the suspicious looks from the three other boys. The story of the Quidditch trial was told, and it was a story that didn't need to be embellished. They winced in all the right places, although the chuckles when he finished his tale weren't expected.

"See," Seamus said as they rounded the corner to the Hospital Wing, "only maniacs at Puddlemere would knock you out in a trial."

"To be fair," Neville said, "it was Fred. He and George probably felt like a bit of revenge was in order."

"They just couldn't handle my performance," Harry lied with a straight-face, pushing open the doors to the Hospital Wing.

"I'm sure," Dean said dryly, following Harry inside.

The Hospital was much busier than when Harry had left it. Two first year girls were sat up in their beds, giggling at a whispered joke. A boy Harry couldn't quite place scowled, pulling on his Ravenclaw tie. Another boy, who Harry recognised as a Gryffindor, blushed under Tracy's scrutiny as he mumbled his answers to her.

"Poppy!" Harry called, spotting the woman treating a girl a year younger than Harry.

"Daphne or Tracey will have to treat you, Mr Potter," Poppy said without turning around. "I'm up to my neck! Students think they can just go wild at the end of the year!"

Tracey barely glanced over her shoulder. "Daphne's in the store room getting some Sleeping Potion. She'll get to you soon."

Harry shrugged to himself and took the nearest bed, releasing a loud sigh as the weight was taken off his foot. Dean sank into the nearest chair, Neville took the bed next to Harry's, and Seamus dropped on to Harry's bed.

"That reminds me," Seamus said in a low voice. "What have we got planned for tonight and tomorrow?"

"How do you mean?" Neville asked.

"Well, we can't just leave here without doing something," Seamus said. "How about a prank?"

"A prank?" Harry repeated doubtfully. "You've met Sirius. Anything we'll do, he could top with a prank he pulled off in his first year."

"Don't be so downbeat, Potter," Seamus scolded.

"How about something embarrassing, then?" Neville said. "We could do something for just a bit of fun, it doesn't have to be a prank."

"Like what?" Dean asked. "Before you say anything, don't come up with something like making people's clothes disappear or changing the colour of their hair."

"No, Sirius would never let me live that one down," Harry said, mentally wincing.

"When did that even start?" Seamus asked. "It feels like everyone has pulled that prank at least once."

"It's probably happened with every generation," Neville said reasonably.

"What can we do, then?" Seamus asked eagerly.

Before any type of plan could be formed, Daphne returned from the store room holding a Sleeping Potion.

"You did come back, then," Daphne said, smiling over at Harry as she handed Tracey the potion.

"I'm in agony," Harry said, shrugging his shoulders as if to say 'what can you do?'.

Daphne chuckled as she made her way over to him. "What's hurting now?"

"I could do with another of those massages if you're offering," Harry said, ignoring the suspicious looks Dean, Neville, and Seamus were giving him. "My ankle is giving me more pain, though."

Daphne's eyes sparkled in amusement. "How much are you offering?"

"For you, all the gold in Gringotts," Harry said immediately.

Daphne stifled her laughter. "I'm not sure if that's enough, Potter. What else have you got to offer?"

"Have you ever heard of the phrase I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine?" Harry asked, more amused than he'd been all day.

"I do have a certain itch," Daphne said, lowering her voice. "You nearly got rid of it last night, but it's getting worse."

"I'm sorry," Seamus said, sounding slightly more baffled than usual, "but am I missing something here?"

"No," Harry said in unison with Daphne.

"Pain-Relieving Potion and Healing Salve?" Daphne asked a moment later, avoiding Harry's eyes.

Harry had the impression she was trying to stop herself from giggling. "That'd be great, thanks."

Daphne spun around and made her way to the shelf where the potion and salve were usually stocked.

Harry finally looked at the suspicious faces of his friends, only to find all of them now looked extremely amused.

"No wonder you haven't complained about being stuck here," Seamus said. He released a deep breath, obviously faked, and shook his head. "I can't say I blame you, Potter."

"I'm sorry, but what?" Harry asked, his forehead creased.

"He isn't oblivious, he's just confused," Dean said critically, tittering to himself.

Harry had the impression he was being mocked. "No, seriously, what do you mean?"

"Put it this way, Harry," Neville said with a large grin. "You could be the healthiest person in the world, but you'd still find something to worry about just to get sent here."

"Now why would I do something like that?"

"This place has good service, maybe?" Seamus said.

"Have you lot been smoking something?" Harry asked with narrowed eyes. "You're being bloody weird today."

"Who's been smoking what?" Daphne asked, her reappearance startling the four boys.

"I think you should check these three for something," Harry said, giving his friends dirty looks. "There's something wrong with them."

"Maybe your influence has rubbed off on them?" Daphne suggested.

"Very funny," Harry muttered.

"Drink this," Daphne said, holding out a purple potion that most people in the magical world recognised as a Pain-Relief Potion.

"Down in one, Potter," Seamus said.

Harry did just that, enjoying the sweet taste that held just a hint of syrup.

"You girls can go on down for dinner," Madam Pomfrey called from across the room. "I can handle it here for the time being. If Potter's fit enough to go down, keep an eye on him for me, would you?"

"Go on down if you want," Harry said. "I won't be long. I'll just get this salve on."

"We'll save you a seat, Potter," Seamus said, leading Dean and Neville out of the Hospital Wing.

"How did it go, then?" Daphne asked, waving the salve in Harry's face. "You can put this on yourself if you want."

"No, you're the Healer, it'll be good practise for you." Harry kicked off his shoe. "I'm now officially a professional Quidditch player. Keep a look out for any articles over the next few days; you'll get a kick out of it."

"What did you do?" Daphne groaned, pulling Harry's sock off with her forefinger and thumb, looking a little disgusted.

"I didn't do anything," Harry said without conviction.

Daphne looked at him suspiciously. "I'm sure you didn't."

"Come on, let's just get to dinner," Harry said. "I'm starving."

"You're the one complaining about your ankle!" Daphne said, holding her salve-covered hand up. "It'll rub in properly in a second; you don't have to wait long."

A few seconds turned into three minutes before Harry was finally allowed to put his sock and shoe back on.

"Where's Tracey?" Daphne asked, looking around the Hospital Wing.

"She's gone down to dinner," Madam Pomfrey said. "You'd best follow her down."

Daphne walked at much slower pace to accommodate Harry's limp on the way down through the castle.

"What are you doing after tomorrow, then?" Harry asked as they neared the Great Hall a few minutes later, after navigating through short-cuts.

"Enjoying the summer," Daphne said.

"Are you going to St. Mungo's?" Harry asked. "To become an intern, I mean."

Daphne shook her head. "I asked Poppy if I could continue working here. I'd prefer learning one-on-one."

Harry grinned. "You'll be seeing a lot more of me, then."

"What do you mean?" Daphne asked, coming to a stop in the middle of the corridor.

"Poppy's becoming my personal Healer," Harry said with a grin.

Daphne shook her head and continued walking. "So, you've got your future all planned out?"

Harry shrugged, idly scratching his healing ribs. "I've got the next year sorted. After that it's anyone's guess."

"My guess is that you'll either kill yourself doing something insanely stupid," Daphne started.

"Or…?" Harry pressed.

"Or you'll get away with doing something unbelievably reckless, impressing everyone along the way," Daphne finished.

"Don't worry," Harry said with a smile, "I promise to visit you as often as possible. I can't guarantee I'll be conscious, but you won't have to miss me for too long."

Daphne shook her head, keeping her silence, and walked towards her table, but not before Harry caught the small grin she was unable to hide.

"It's a shame to see her go, really," Harry said forlornly.

Neville nodded in agreement from the side of his bed. "Remember the time she got covered in that goo?"

The five boys in the dormitory nodded in unison, each of them with a sad smile on their face.

"You never could control that bloody thing of yours, Longbottom," Seamus grumbled, finally closing his trunk after finding the last of his socks and throwing them on top of his robes.

"It's not my fault it was sensitive!" Neville protested.

"It took me all morning to get her cleaned back up," Seamus said. "She wouldn't do anything for weeks in the mood she was in!"

"We still haven't managed to find a better poster, have we?" Dean said, shaking his head. "Will you finally tell us where you found her, Seamus?"

"I told you before, I can't remember," Seamus said. He carefully undid the charms holding the poster to the wall, the picture of the woman allowing them a final look before she was covered. The only reason it was so special to them was because it was the dirtiest poster any of them had yet to find, and they'd searched hard. Being magical, posters were like films that happened to constantly change, and the woman usually liked to put on a show for the teenage boys. She even took suggestions.

"So, is that everything?" Harry asked, double-checking his own bed for any forgotten belongings.

Receiving only murmured agreements in reply, Harry levitated his trunk. The four other boys took his example.

"That's that, then," Neville said, nodding to himself.

"We still have the train journey, eh?" Dean said.

"Stop being such pussies," Seamus muttered, pushing the door open and stepping through.

The five of them took their time through the common room, finding it scarce for the first time since the year had begun.

"Hey, Potter," Seamus said, dropping back to Harry and slowing their pace, allowing the others to lead them down through the not-so-secret passages.

"What?"

"Have you done it?"

Harry nodded, a smile forming. "Yeah. Keep your eyes open on the train, he'll probably try to retaliate."

"Yeah, okay," Seamus murmured. He inspected his left hand for a few moments, for no noticeable reason, before apparently coming to a decision. "Been a mad few years, hasn't it?"

"That's one way to describe it," Harry said, rolling up his sleeves and undoing another button on his shirt, breathing a sigh of relief as the gentle breeze running through the castle tickled his chest.

"I don't think there have been many people who've lost their virginity the same day they defeated a Dark Lord," Seamus said, grinning toothily.

"No, probably not," Harry said.

They reached the deserted Entrance Hall and continued on to the grounds, where a few students could be seen heading towards the Hogwarts Express, the school's own steam locomotive. Why it produced steam was a mystery to many, as the train didn't run on steam at all, but charms and runes, and was updated twice a year.

"Remind me," Neville called over his shoulder. "Why in Merlin's name did we ever camp in the forest?"

Ron overdramatically shivered, running a hand over his sweaty forehead, brushing aside his ginger hair in the process. "That wasn't one of our best ideas, was it?"

"It was character building," Harry defended his decision. "It made us closer, didn't it?"

Seamus glanced at Harry with a look of disgust, much like how many people looked at a flobberworm for the first time. "How can you be such a brave little bastard but say something so gay?"

"Just because you shit yourself when you thought you were going to be raped by a unicorn, don't blame me," Harry said haughtily.

"Let's just get on the feckin' train," Seamus said, daring them to say something about the exaggerated accent he put on.

To no-one's surprise, Harry cleared his throat and said, "Feck me, Finnigan, are ye Irish? We'd never have guessed!"

Seamus jaw quivered, as if he was holding in his laughter, although it probably wouldn't have been noticed by those who didn't know him. "Never try and put on an accent again, Potter. That sounded awful."

"Only as bad as yours, Seamus," Harry said pompously.

Seamus's pace picked up, leaving Harry to jog to catch up with the rest of the group. The four of them watched Seamus angrily stomping off, waiting for the inevitable to come.

Just as they were about to board the train, the inevitable did come when Seamus turned around and said, in a worried tone, "My accent hasn't gone completely, has it?"

"Will you shut up about your damned heritage," Dean said in a huff, pushing the Irish boy on to the train and stepping in after him. "We all know you're only worried because your charm wouldn't work on women if it wasn't for the accent."

"Fine," Seamus said in a huff. "Let's just get a carriage. I swear to Merlin, if there isn't one left for all of us, I'm going to start kicking people out."

"The match is starting in twenty, so hurry it up," Harry said, navigating his way through the last few students still hanging around in the corridor.

"Watch out, Potter, your friend's on her way up here," Seamus called.

Harry contemplating smacking the boy, before he looked over and saw Daphne with her back to them, talking to someone he couldn't quite see.

"So, you and her?" Ron said, trying to make his voice sound suggestive, but it only managed to make anyone in hearing range think he would need to use the lavatory sometime soon.

"Don't even go there," Harry said.

"You should go there, Potter," Seamus said casually, peering through the window to a compartment, his nose squashed against the glass. "Have you seen the arse on the girl?"

Harry shook his head. "If she's got such a lovely arse, why don't you go and try your luck?"

"He did," Neville said, chortling like a cat choking on a dead bee.

"She turned him down," Dean explained to the confused looks as they settled into the empty compartment.

"Enough about her arse," Ron grumbled, sounding distinctly agitated. "Just get the Wireless out, they'll be announcing the teams soon."

Seamus complied with Ron's request, digging through his trunk, most likely about to lose the socks he had spent half an hour trying to locate.

Three loud knocks disturbed the five boys out of their meaningless chatter, but at least it meant they were free from waiting less than patiently for Seamus to get the Wireless working.

An irate Justin Finch-Fletchley opened the door, his large, crooked nose looming into the compartment. "I've been looking for you lot. What have you done to our common room?"

"What makes you think we did anything?" Harry asked calmly, keeping one eye on Seamus gradually getting redder and redder as he twisted the knobs on the side of the Wireless.

"Oh, come off it, Potter," Justin said. "Everyone knows it was you."

"What did he do this time?" Daphne appeared next to Justin, throwing Harry a quick smile.

"He put a charm on the entrance to our common room," Justin said, glaring at the five Gryffindor students, who completely ignored it. "We had to answer stupid riddles and childish questions just to get out."

"Hallelujah!" Seamus cried joyfully, throwing his arms in the air as the Wireless screeched and turned itself on. "Oh, and welcome to life in Ravenclaw," he added to Justin.

"I'm not in Ravenclaw," Justin said through gritted teeth.

"Lucky you, then," Daphne said. "Can you imagine having to answer a question just to have your breakfast? What if it was an unanswerable question?"

"Yeah," Harry chimed in. "What if someone got seriously ill in the night? I mean, it'd be different for us Gryffs, we can handle pain. You should count yourself lucky, Justin, we know how sensitive you 'Puffs can be."

"Oh, stuff the lot of you." Justin huffed, seeing that everyone's attention was now clearly on the Wireless, and he probably wanted to listen himself.

"Was there something you wanted, or do you just like to blame us for everything?" Neville asked, blatantly staring at Justin's nose.

Justin looked for a moment like he was about to pull out his wand and commit the worst disaster Hogwarts students had seen in at least five months. Instead, he turned around and stomped away down the corridor, without uttering another word.

"Well, that was interesting," Daphne said into the silence.

"Listen," Seamus said, and Harry suspected he was about to say something he probably wouldn't regret. "I know you've got a lovely arse, but if you want to stay here, keep your voice down."

Daphne barely frowned as she shut the door and took the empty space next to Harry.

"Sure likes to make a noise, doesn't he?"

Harry nodded, although his attention on the commentator's voice barely wavered.

"It isn't much of a surprise that the line-up hasn't been changed from the last game. England played incredibly well against France, and the players need to continue that run of form against Japan in the lead-up to the World Cup…"

"This is how you're going to spend your last trip on the Express?" Daphne asked, looking at each of the boys in turn.

"Pretty much," Harry admitted. "What else are we going to do?"

Daphne stared at him, slowly shaking her head. "Er, I don't know, maybe reminisce about the last seven years?"

"Sounds a bit gay to me," Seamus said, scoffing at the mere suggestion. He turned the volume up slightly.

"The last seven years have been life-changing, and that's all you can think to say?" Daphne asked.

"Are you going to be reminiscing?" Harry asked.

"Probably," Daphne said. "You know how Tracey gets. She's been talking about our first year since the first day of our second."

"Well," Harry said, struggling for something to say that would be meaningful. "It's been a blast?"

"It sure has," Seamus said. "Quite a wild ride, I'll admit."

Daphne looked pointedly at Neville, Dean, and Ron.

"It's been enlightening," Dean said.

"Oh, I know, life-changing!" Ron said, looking relieved to have thought of something.

"She already said that," Seamus muttered.

"It's been fun watching Harry trying to kill himself at least four times a week," Neville said, earning a chuckle from everyone but Harry.

"Summed it up perfectly, boys," Seamus said.

"I suppose it'll have to do," Daphne said with a deep sigh.

"Yes, it will," Seamus said. "Now, the match is starting, so you can stay and have a drink with us, but do be a darling-"

"And shut up, I know," Daphne said, and instead of running from the compartment like everyone thought she would do, she settled back into the seat.

"Do you even like Quidditch?" Harry asked, giving up on listening to the commentator speak – he was actually starting to irritate him.

"Not really," Daphne said with a shake of her head.

"Then what are you doing?"

"Trying to kick me out, Potter?"

"Look," Seamus said, far louder than necessary, but he never got to finish his sentence.

"Why are you even so concerned?" Daphne asked. "Ireland isn't even playing."

"He wants to laugh at us if we lose," Dean said with a shrug, having seen it so many times before.

Seamus didn't even to attempt to deny the accusation.

The train left Hogsmeade and turned onto the winding track which cut through the Scottish countryside, giving anyone who cared to look a view of sheer beauty.

"So, what are everyone's plans for the summer?" Daphne asked brightly.

Harry gave up completely on listening to the match commentary; Seamus didn't bother with subtlety, turning the volume up on the Wireless again, and Dean handed two bottles of Butterbeer to Harry.

"It's a World Cup year," Neville explained, noticing nobody had answered the question.

"Ah," Daphne said with a nod. "Are you all going, then? Where is it this year anyway?"

"Greece," Harry said, passing a bottle to Daphne and opening his own. "I'll probably be able to get us all some tickets, and Ron will be able to get them from the twins."

"Why don't you make a trip out of it?" Daphne suggested. "I've always wanted to go to Greece."

"I went as a toddler," Seamus said, sipping his own drink. "I had heatstroke on the third day and all I can remember is being in bed."

"Why didn't your parents put charms over you?" Ron asked in confusion. "My mum always put them over us in the summer."

Everyone in the compartment knew all about Seamus's background, and how his father hadn't known about magic for a few years after Seamus was born, which was why they all shook their heads in exasperation.

"What?" Ron asked defensively.

"Oh, this is going to be a long summer." Harry groaned.

5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Thanks to Nerox and silentclock for looking over the story, offering their suggestions and pointing out my mistakes. I suggest you go and read silentclock's oneshot – Outside These Walls, after you read this. It's brilliant. One of the best oneshots I've read in a while.

This is more of a set-up chapter. It wasn't meant to be, but it got way too long and I had to split it up. Anyway, hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think, good or bad.

Chapter Five

"To everyone who tuned their Wireless last night for our on-the-hour wake-up call, a very good morning to you!"

Harry's eyes shot open, breathing heavily after being forced awake by the chirpy voice blaring out of his Wireless.

"It's hot, it's bright, and summer is still here!" The man's voice had the unique quality of causing anyone who heard it to want to smack him right on the nose. "And now something that'll take all of us oldies back to our youth, this'll rekindle old memories of those special summer romances for you. It's Love Me Gently, by The Unicorns."

Harry smacked the off button far harder than he meant to. The sudden jolt of pain that ran through his little finger had him staring wide-eyed into space, his teeth clenching, and his heart still pounding from the wake-up call.

To top it all off, he had a hangover.

To make a bad start to the morning even worse, Sirius's voice could be heard drifting down the stairs "… Love me gently, baby, our summertime has come."

Harry wearily rubbed his forehead, glaring daggers at his door. He trudged off to the shower a few minutes later, absent-mindedly humming Love Me Gently, much to his disgust.

It had been two months since Harry had finished Hogwarts, and he'd suddenly found he had a lot of time on his hands. He hadn't quite realised how much work he'd been doing beforehand, and he knew that come the end of August he'd be back to hard work of a completely different nature. The Quidditch season lasted for months with hardly any days off in-between games.

Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang, bringing Harry out of his thoughts. He paused under the running water. Barely twenty seconds later, the doorbell rang three times in quick succession, echoing around the house.

Harry barely sighed as he switched off the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist.

Four loud knocks came after another two minutes, in which time Harry had managed to throw some jeans on and make it to the landing.

"Oi! Hurry up and answer the door, will you!"

Harry hurried down the two flights of stairs and skidded to a stop on the newly-laid wooden flooring. He pulled the door open, greeted by a face that usually made him smile.

"Finally!" Tonks said, pushing past Harry and throwing her suitcase off to the side of the hallway.

Harry quietly shut the door behind her, noticing her hair was a dark red. "You're a bit early, aren't you?"

Tonks frowned. "I thought we had to meet here at eleven?"

Harry groaned as he led the way down to the kitchen, draping the towel over his neck. "It's barely nine, Tonks. Not even Remus is awake yet."

"Oh," Tonks said with a hint of surprise in her voice. "Sorry, I've been working the early shifts all week. I was asleep by eight last night."

"What time did you set your bloody alarm?" Harry asked, filling a pot with water.

"Six," Tonks said simply, pulling out a chair.

"Why?" Harry asked, aghast, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. "Do you want a coffee?"

"I'd love one, and because I needed a few hours to get ready," Tonks said.

Harry shook his head, feeling his headache throb a little harder. "Tonks," he said slowly, "you don't need to take a couple of hours to get ready. All you have to do is look in the mirror, perform your little magic trick, and you're instantly beautiful."

Tonks' forehead creased as she sipped the cup of coffee Harry handed her. "I suppose, but it feels a little like cheating."

"You're only using what you have," Harry said reasonably, once again reminded of the fact that her one talent was something most people would pay enormous amounts to attain. It would certainly help in a Quidditch match, where size could determine the outcome of a number of scenarios.

"Are you trying to say I'm not pretty enough without using my abilities?" Tonks asked, narrowing her eyes as she waited for an answer.

"Everyone has different tastes," Harry said delicately, deflecting the question like any intelligent man would do. "You don't have to apply anything. It's all there for you, ready to be used."

Tonks hummed into her coffee. "Remind me to show you what else I can do sometime, Potter."

"I'm looking forward to it."

Remus stumbled through the door minutes later, holding his head. His hair was sticking up at all angles and his shirt was creased. He muttered something under his breath as he crossed the room, before he dropped into a chair next to Harry.

"What the hell did you guys get up to you last night?" Tonks asked, staring at Remus, her nose crinkled at the smell of stale beer he was emitting.

"Don't ask," Remus said with a groan.

"We had a bit of a late one," Harry admitted, filling a cup for Remus and sliding it over the table, leaving a wet trail on the wooden surface.

Remus grunted his thanks.

"Who else was here?" Tonks asked.

"The guys," Harry said simply.

Tonks nodded, looking a little frustrated. "I gathered that. What persuaded you to get into such a state?"

"I can't really remember," Harry said, trying to cast his mind back to the night before. "I think it was Seamus who brought the poker chips with him."

"So you guys played poker and got blitzed?" Tonks asked for clarification.

"Pretty much." Harry shrugged.

"Idiots, the lot of you." Tonks rolled her eyes, turning to look as the kitchen door was opened again.

Seamus paused on his way into the room, raising an eyebrow under Tonks' scrutiny. "What?"

"How come you don't look like him?" Tonks said, nodding towards Remus.

"Because even if I had your talent, he's not someone I'd model myself after?" Seamus said slowly.

Harry couldn't help chuckling. "Bad joke, Finnigan. I'll be surprised if you manage to top that one today."

Seamus smiled as took a seat, leaning back and interlocking his fingers behind his head. "I'm surprised you don't look as bad as he does, Potter."

"I explain this every time I get drunk," Remus said, sipping his coffee. "Something about my condition gives me the worst hangovers imaginable."

"Bugger off," Seamus said with a slight cackle. "You just can't handle it anymore, old man."

"Listen, you little shit, just because I wasn't brought up on whiskey instead of milk-"

"Really, Mooney?" Tonks said critically. "Bringing out the bad Irish jokes?"

Harry snorted. "The only way you know he's Irish is because his name's Seamus. When he talks he sure as hell doesn't sound it."

Seamus scowled.

"What is your secret?" Tonks asked pointedly, nudging Seamus in the ribs with her elbow.

"I'm Irish," Seamus said simply.

"You're not one to talk anyway, Tonks," Harry said. "Didn't you get suspended a few years ago for turning up to work stinking of booze?"

Tonks blushed faintly. "I don't care about you lot having a piss-up, but you knew we were travelling today."

Harry hummed in reply, shrugging it away, mostly because she was right.

"Your sun-kissed skin had me dreaming of long nights under the stars…"

Everyone in the kitchen looked up at the ceiling, to where the song was being played through someone's Wireless.

"Hey, I recognise that song," Tonks said.

"So you should," Remus said, nodding into his mug of coffee, which he was cuddling. "The Unicorns released it in the summer before our fifth year, and they've been playing it on the Wireless every summer since. What sun-kissed skin has to do with long nights under the stars is anyone's guess."

The song abruptly stopped.

"It was played earlier as well," Harry said. The floorboards creaked above as someone stomped across the room. "Sirius was singing it in the shower."

"Where the hell is he, anyway?" Seamus asked.

"You won't see him for a while," Remus said. "He won't come out of his room until his hair's done and he looks pretty enough. He's been the same ever since I've known him."

"Speaking of getting ready, you should do the same," Tonks said. "You stink of beer."

Remus raised his arm and sniffed his armpit, grimacing. He left a few moments later, whistling the song that had been irritating people for roughly twenty years.

A quick conversation could be heard outside the door, and Neville arrived in the kitchen moments later. Much like Harry's, his hair was still damp.

"Remus looks rough, doesn't he?" Neville said as he held a clean glass under the running tap.

"How come you don't?" Seamus asked suspiciously, still leaning back in his chair. "You're normally the worst after a night out."

"Err, I took a hangover potion…" Neville said slowly, looking unsure with himself as he tentatively took a sip of water.

Three winces greeted him, much to his alarm. "What?" he asked quickly.

"Don't you know you're not supposed to drink any potions before Portkey travel?" Tonks asked, sounding like she was on the job.

Neville's eyes widened alarmingly. "I can't believe I forgot!"

"Unlucky, mate," Harry said somewhat sympathetically, having been there once – and only once – before.

"Silly bastard." Seamus chuckled good-naturedly.

Tonks threw him a dirty look and whacked him on the arm for good measure. Seamus cringed, looking like he had half a mind to whack her back. He settled on rubbing his bicep instead.

"It's going to hurt, isn't it?" Neville said, grim determination setting in already.

"Yes," Harry said.

"At least it's not illegal," Tonks said, trying to sound cheery and comforting, but it did little to help.

Harry eventually returned to his room to finish getting dressed. Unlike Tonks, he was only taking a bag for the trip, although thanks to magic it would take a few hundred items of clothing before it would fill to its capacity.

Throwing the bag next to Tonks' suitcase, Harry arrived back in the kitchen to find Remus had returned and Dean was making breakfast, the unmistakable smell of burning bacon filling the kitchen.

"Mornin'," Dean said, his voice gravelly.

"Morning," Harry said, peering into the frying pan. "Wouldn't mind adding a few rashers for me, would you?"

"Fine, fine," Dean grumbled. "You really need to get Dobby to help you out."

"Dobby?" Harry snorted. "No thanks, he'd probably kill us all in our sleep. Accidently, of course."

Dean chuckled as the frying pan spat oil at him. "Fair point. Mad little thing, isn't he?"

"Mad?" Seamus laughed. "He has a dress-sense that rivals our dear old headmaster."

"You can't argue with that," Neville concluded.

They ate their breakfast slowly at first, until Tonks happened to glance down at Harry's watch. She shot out of her chair half a second later. "We have to be Cornwall in twenty bloody minutes!"

"Oh, fuck," Seamus said, stuffing the last of the bacon into his mouth.

"I thought you were supposed to keep us on track!" Tonks looked accusingly at Remus. "Where's the Portkey? Someone get Sirius down here!"

"Merlin, calm down," Remus said, holding his hands up. "I've got the Portkey. We'll get there on time."

The group in the kitchen crowded into the hallway, clustered around the few bags and one lone suitcase at the bottom of the stairs.

"Will you hurry the fuck up, Sirius!" an irate Tonks bellowed up the stairs, startling them all. "I was ready five bloody hours ago!"

The group winced at the noise and Harry massaged his temples.

"I'm coming!" Sirius shouted back, appearing at the top of the stairs, grinning from ear to ear. "You know, not all of us have special talents that can make us look beautiful at will. Some of us have to work at it."

"Did he just call me beautiful?" Tonks asked. She looked genuinely touched.

"What?" Harry demanded. "I said virtually the exact same thing to you earlier!"

Tonks waved him away. "Yeah, but you don't count, you're a teenager. You'll say anything to get into my knickers."

"I'm sorry, but you think Sirius wouldn't?" Harry said furiously.

Tonks, and everyone else, frowned.

"You know they're family, right, Harry?" Neville murmured.

Harry fought back a blush, shrugging. "When has that ever stopped the Blacks?"

"Ouch," Sirius said, still at the top of the stairs. "Pity I agree with you there, Harry."

Every head swung in Sirius's direction, who looked much like Harry had a moment ago.

"What I mean is," Sirius hurriedly backtracked, "nothing about the rest of this family would surprise me anymore."

"I'm sorry, but there's a more pressing issue here," Tonks said, shaking her head.

"Yeah," Remus said. "Like did Sirius really admit he wasn't naturally beautiful? I thought you were God's gift to all woman-kind, Padfoot?"

Sirius smiled as he joined the group at the bottom of the stairs. "Now, now, Mooney, there's no need to be jealous."

"I don't think anyone could ever be jealous of you in those shorts," Harry said, trying not to snicker.

Sirius looked down at his purple and pink shorts, which were covered in white flowers. From the bottom of the shorts emerged Sirius' hairy knees, giving way to pasty shins.

"What's wrong with them?" Sirius asked, brushing his hair out of his eyes, a move he had practiced and perfected as a teenager.

"There's no time for that!" Tonks interjected. "We have to go! Pick up your bags, get the Portkey ready."

Harry hoisted his bag onto his back to secure it for the journey ahead. Remus pulled out a length of black rope, the usual colour given by the Portkey Company for in-country travel. Neville was taking deep breaths, readying himself for what was going to be a dizzying, painful journey.

Sirius turned to Harry as the group held on tightly to the rope. "You don't think I should change, do-"

He didn't finish his sentence; the Portkey whisked them away before he could. Harry forced himself to keep his eyes clenched shut, even as his body smashed back and forth into Sirius and Tonks. His headache pounded harder, his stomach rumbled unpleasantly, and just as he thought he was about to be violently sick, it was over.

Harry's feet hit the ground with a thud. Tonks wobbled dangerously, clutching Harry to maintain her balance.

"How the hell you ever came to be an Auror, I'll never know," Harry muttered, steadying her.

Tonks glared at him. "You try changing the length and weight of your legs. See how long your balance holds out."

Harry smiled. "Now, now, Tonks, you don't suddenly start toppling over when your tits swell up to the size of a pair of Quaffles, do you?"

Tonks was about to reply when Seamus started chuckling.

Neville groaned from the floor, where his legs had given way, the result of the earlier potion playing out. He accepted Dean's hand, unsteadily getting to his feet.

Neville opened his mouth to talk when he suddenly slammed his jaws shut, his face reddening and his eyes suddenly watering. He scrambled at the unfamiliar jeans he was wearing.

"He's about to be sick," Sirius supplied helpfully.

"Someone get a bloody bucket or something!" Dean shouted.

"Do you spit or swallow, Longbottom?" Seamus asked.

Harry felt the urge slap them all around the head. He stepped forward with a sigh, flourishing his wand. Before he could, though, Neville had already flicked his wand, but it was too late. His cheeks puffed out, reminiscent of his puppy fat days, and he let loose a torrent of dark blue potion all over Seamus' trainers.

A second later, a bucket appeared in front of Neville and he shoved his head inside. Seamus, looking murderous, was about to shout something when the vomit disappeared after a flick of Harry's wand.

It was at that exact moment Harry realised the Portkey terminal was packed full of people, each and every one of them staring at the scene they'd just witnessed, some in disgust and others in bemusement. The people closest to them edged away, their noses twitching even after the vomit had been cleared.

Tonks cleared her throat. "I think we'd best go check-in."

"Yeah," Neville murmured, unsteadily getting to his feet, refusing to meet Seamus's stare.

The group walked two meters before they were stopped by the check-in queues. They joined the shortest line, coming to a stop behind two young parents. The mother held a baby close to her chest, the young child's big blue eyes staring over her shoulder, unblinking as he took in the sight. The father looked to be only half-listening to his son, who was chatting excitedly about the game.

Harry had to marvel at the sheer amount of confidence the young boy had. There was no worry in his voice, and there was no hope either – He knew England was going to win the match, the notion of losing not existing even as a possibility in his mind.

"Hey, Harry," Sirius said, bumping Harry with his shoulder.

Harry stopped staring at the family in front of him and turned to his Godfather. "What?"

"You don't think people are staring at me because of my shorts, do you?" Sirius whispered, casting his eyes around the terminal, glaring at anyone who happened to be looking in their direction.

Harry shook his head exasperatedly. "Believe it or not, you look more like a Muggle than most people here."

Sirius smirked as if he hadn't been at all worried. "Yeah, I thought so."

The line to the check-in desk moved a meter forward. Harry wasn't sure why people were dressing up as Muggles in the first place, as they didn't need to where they were going. He put it down to a strange tradition - wizards and witches were a rather conflicted bunch at the best of times.

Harry removed the small piece of parchment from his pocket, unfolding it. It didn't look like much, with only his name and destination printed in bold letters, but it was exceedingly hard to tamper with, replicate, or fake.

"Oi, Potter," Seamus said irritably. "Can't you put your damn fame to some good use and get us through quicker?"

Harry looked over his shoulder. "I could, but that would mean taking down the notice-me-not charm."

"There's no point anyway," Remus cut in. "Everyone's on the same Portkey, it won't leave until we're all holding on."

Seamus grumbled just because he could. He dropped his bag at Harry's feet. "Say, have you spoken to Greengrass recently?"

"Nope," Harry said, shaking his head.

"Why not?" Seamus asked curiously. "I thought you and her might have had something going."

"We don't."

"You're definitely in with a chance though, Potter," Seamus said. "You'd be a bit of an eejit to let that one go."

"If you say so," Harry said, ending the conversation.

It took another half an hour for the line to get shorter and the family of four to go through to the Departure Lounge. The man behind the desk looked up, pushing his thick-rimmed glasses up his nose. He called them over with a wave of his hand.

"Portkey tickets, please."

The group did as instructed. The man looked up sharply when he read Harry's name, his large eyes narrowing.

"You are aware security is in the next room, sir?" he said, looking at Harry. "There is not a concealment charm or potion in existence that cannot be detected."

Harry nodded, doubting that claim very much. "I'm sure the charm I'm using will dispel when I'm checked, mate."

The man stared at him for moment. "Go on through," he said slowly.

Harry stuffed his ticket back into his pocket and slung his bag over his shoulder. He made his way around the check-in desk, leading the group up the stairs, where they came across a dozen guards, dressed in official-looking robes. They were all standing in front of what looked like wall made of water. It shimmered and sloshed, as though the very stone was bending and twisting.

"Hands where we can see them, please, and walk through one at a time."

Harry glanced at the man who had spoken. He sounded utterly bored with his job, not that anyone could blame him. Who wanted to watch people Portkey all over the world when you were stuck doing your day job?

"Really, I don't know why they go to all this trouble," Seamus said, far louder than necessary. "It's not like anyone would come through here if they were up to no good."

The men in official robes tensed, most-likely looking for an excuse to relieve the boredom of the shift they were working.

Harry barely rolled his eyes as he walked straight at the wall, reminded of what was essentially the same procedure used to get into Platform nine-and-three-quarters. As soon as his foot hit the wall, his whole body was encased. It suffocated, blinded, and disorientated him for barely a second, when he was suddenly facing an entirely different room.

Harry showed just how ineffective the security measures were by re-applying the notice-me-not charm, finishing just as Neville stumbled out of a solid-looking wall, wiping his brow and looking a little green around the edges.

"You know you can buy some pain-relief potions, right?" Harry said helpfully. "I'm sure they sell them here somewhere. You won't be able to use them until we get there, though, but it's better than nothing."

Before Neville could answer, Seamus appeared, grimacing as he pulled at the sleeves of his jacket. As soon as he looked up his eyes widened, his lips parting slightly. "Whoa…"

The Departure Lounge was strange because it looked nothing like the ancient stone and wood the magical world had been using for centuries. The top of the walls gave way to glass, where it spread to the ceiling to arc over the entire building, where it created a dome.

The interior was filled with shops that at first glance wouldn't have looked out of place in the Muggle world – but only at first glance. There were restaurants, jewellers, book shops, Quidditch shops, an apothecary, clothes shops, and even a few bars that weren't held in a pub, but out in the open. A few tables were placed conveniently around said bars, where men practically cuddled their pints while their wives and girlfriends did their last-minute shopping.

By the time Harry, Neville, and Seamus had finished gawking, the rest of the group had joined up with them. By an unspoken agreement, Neville shot off to the apothecary; Tonks dragged Sirius to the shops because there was no other woman there and he'd have to do; Remus wandered towards the book shop, and Harry, Dean, and Seamus headed straight to the bar.

Harry took a long sip from his pint and sank back into his chair. He'd never been out of Britain before. The experience was completely foreign to him.

"How long have we got, anyway?" Seamus asked, staring at his ticket. "It says here that the Portkey leaves at one. What's the time now?"

"We've got half an hour, calm down," Dean said, copying Harry and sinking back in his chair. "This reminds me of airports, you know. A bunch of useless shops selling people a bunch of useless shit they'd only ever buy while they're bored."

Neville, looking far more awake and with colour in his cheeks, strolled over to them. "Here," he said, passing a blue potion to Harry and one to Dean.

"You know we can't take these," Dean said.

Neville shook his head. "For when we get there."

"Where's mine?" Seamus demanded, glaring at Neville.

"You always tell us you're Irish and you can handle your drink," Neville replied calmly. "I didn't think you'd need one."

Seamus sniffed, obviously conflicted.

Harry just sipped his drink.

Ten minutes later, Remus joined them. "I don't know why I bloody bothered," he said. "Books aimed at children and sports fans. Don't get me wrong, it's good for kids to want to learn, but what about men my age?"

"Dreadfully unfair," Seamus muttered dryly.

Sirius and Tonks appeared at their table sporting identical grins. Harry spotted the Puddlemere United Quidditch jersey's the pair had bought and were now wearing.

"You want to see the best bit?" Sirius laughed, turning his back to them. Tonks did the same.

'Potter' was written across the shoulders of both jerseys in bold white letters, and underneath were the numbers 'seven'.

Harry groaned. "Really? Come on, I haven't played a game yet! I haven't even had a training session."

"Don't be a spoilsport, Harry." Sirius continued to grin as he turned back around.

"I didn't even know they were selling shirts with your name on them yet," Dean said curiously. "Then again, your name alone will probably earn them a fair bit."

"Give them here, I'll burn the damn things," Seamus said with a glint in his eye, ever the fanatic.

Harry sipped his pint again as Sirius started talking about Puddlemere, mostly to annoy Seamus. Tonks dropped into a chair and nicked Harry's pint, smiling as she did so.

"I can't say the same for that git," Harry said, "but damn, Tonks, you should wear Quidditch jerseys more often."

Tonks grinned at the compliment, pushing out her chest and stretching the jersey across her breasts. Harry nodded to himself, well aware he was staring. The jersey had been tight before, and he was sure Tonks had worked her magic to make it even tighter.

"Teenage boys!" Tonks laughed. "So easy to please, the lot of you."

Judging by the looks on the teenagers' faces, she was correct. Even Remus couldn't resist taking a sly glance, his eyebrow quirking in appreciation.

"Stop staring you pervert!" Sirius said, whacking his oldest friend in the arm.

Remus barely batted an eyelash. "At least she's not family."

"You're old enough to be her father!"

"I'm sorry, but have you forgotten the last girl you bragged about?" Remus asked. "How old was she? Younger than Tonks, if I remember."

Sirius rolled his eyes, his retort held back by someone clearing their throat over the speakers, with obvious use of the Sonorus charm.

"The Portkey to Chrysi, Greece, will be departing in twenty minutes. Would all passengers please go through to room six. I repeat, would all passengers please go through to room six."

Quickly finishing their drinks, the group followed their instructions.

"Be still my beating heart," Sirius said overdramatically, clutching his chest. "Would you look at that?"

"Where?" Seamus asked eagerly, frantically looking around.

"In front of us, you idiot," Harry said, his eyes having found the object of Sirius's attention.

The young woman looked no older than Harry, at least from what he could see of her. She swayed her hips in a way attractive women were somehow able to do without realising they were doing it. Her tanned legs demanded Harry's attention; he gazed in wonder and disappointment as they met the hem of her sundress far too quickly.

"The quicker we get there the better," Seamus muttered.

"You don't think I'm too old for her, do you?" Sirius asked as they entered room six.

"Yeah, I do," Harry said with a nod.

"Damn, I'd happily reunite with the Dementors for a night with her," Sirius said, whistling through his teeth in appreciation.

Remus wasn't the only to frown, but he was the only one to answer. "You're a perverted old man, Padfoot. Not only that, but you're a hypocrite as well."

"It doesn't matter what he is," Harry said, stalling a floundering Sirius, "'cause she's mine."

"Like fuck, Potter," Seamus said with a grin.

"Game on."

Room six was a large, mostly empty room. It contained a long, white rope – the largest the company used for international travel – and one man wearing a hat. Everyone there looked like they'd taken a Portkey before and they chose their spot.

Harry tightened the strap on his bag, checked he had everything, and grabbed on. Unlike normal Portkeys, which only held you to the object for the journey, International Portkeys grabbed you the moment you touched them and wouldn't release their grip until you'd landed.

"You know why they do this, don't you?" Sirius said as he flicked his hand up and down, gazing at the rope that stayed glued to his palm.

"Why?"

"There was a myth when I was kid that a small girl lost her grip and fell into the Atlantic," Sirius said.

"It was never proved, of course," Remus spoke up, looking unsure. "You never know though, do you?"

Harry's left hand joined his right hand on the rope, and he pointedly ignored the chuckles aimed his way.

The man with the hat picked up the rope and shook it. The rope instantly stopped drooping and swinging, turning hard in an instant.

Harry raised his eyebrows. "There's a joke in there about-"

"Excuse me," a man said, clearing his throat. He pointed down and to the side of him, where his young daughter was looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

Harry half-smiled, dropping his earlier thought process.

The man with the hat tapped the rope with his wand and looked up. "Everyone ready?"

Neville groaned, kids clutched at their parents' free hands, a few people muttered in reply, and Harry closed his eyes. He could feel his body being compressed and stretched, squeezed and twisted, and lights flew past his clenched eyes like fireworks on a clear night. His body didn't collide with anyone this time and his stomach only grumbled twice. It felt like he was swaying on rough waves. He was giddy and his throat closed as he tried to breathe … and just like the last time, the feeling disappeared altogether in the blink of an eye.

The first thing Harry noticed was the sheer heat trapped inside the room they'd landed in. The Portkey room was similar in size and appearance to the one they'd just left, but it was just as bland.

"Thank Merlin for small mercies," Neville said, downing the potion he'd bought to ward off the nausea that another Portkey journey had caused.

The slightly groggy group followed the crowd through a plain corridor and up three sets of stairs. They walked down a ramp, where a man was smiling at every woman who crossed his path, before they finally stepped out of the front doors.

"Merlin, it's boiling!" Seamus exclaimed.

Sirius smiled all the more smugly. "Why do you think I'm wearing shorts?"

Harry looked up and blew his fringe out of his eyes, slightly startled as the heat unexpectedly smacked into him. They were standing just a little ways off a long beach, the golden sand and the startlingly blue sea already having claimed the attention of hundreds of witches and wizards. It was only then he noticed the noise – he figured silencing charms had been placed around the building. The waters were full of bobbing heads and people flying their brooms inches above the tantalising Mediterranean Sea.

Adults relaxed in the searing heat, while their children had built sandcastles taller than their own heights. Many had built replicas of famous Quidditch stadiums and landmarks, and Harry was sure he spotted Hogwarts in the process of being built by a group of young men. A group of teenagers were throwing Quaffles between themselves, either not noticing the aggravated looks sent their way or not caring.

Harry turned back to the crowd he'd arrived with and was slightly startled when the building he'd exited wasn't what he'd expected at all. It was a small, wooden hut. Huts of the same structure had been set up, lining the edge of the beach and for what looked like miles inland. Side by side and creating streets in the sand, there must have been hundreds of them, all used solely for the World Cup.

"Come on," Remus said, a smile on his lips. "We're in Hut 294."

The small group travelled along the beach in a daze, keeping their eyes peeled for the hut they'd be staying in. Along the way they spotted numerous restaurants and bars, and shops selling Quidditch trinkets and paraphernalia. Harry pointedly ignored the laughter when they saw a Harry Potter figurine on display in one window.

Despite being on the coast of the beautiful island, the heat was clearly getting to the group. Harry desperately wished he'd had Sirius's foresight to wear shorts. His clothes were starting to stick to his skin and his hands were clammy.

Sirius was smiling brightly as he practically basked in the sun and jealous glances coming his way.

After five minutes of walking and sweating profusely, they finally spotted their hut. Remus fumbled with the key for a moment, before the lock clicked and he pushed open the door.

Harry had seen a number of spectacular sights in his time in the magical world, but magic still had a few surprises up its sleeve. The organisers had obviously taken a lot of pride in their work.

The group walked in slowly across a marble floor, which had replaced the sand. It gleamed in the sun, which shone through a large window, through which they could see the shimmering waves. The large room, which had been expanded, held a number of sofas and chairs, all of which looked incredibly soft and comfortable. A small coffee table sat in the middle of the room.

Sirius opened a varnished door. "Whoa," he said, looking back over his shoulder. "We've got an built-in swimming pool!"

Tonks opened another door, to Sirius's left. She turned around with a scowl. "Kitchen," she said distastefully.

"Wouldn't mind making me a sandwich, would you?" Seamus asked cockily, immediately ducking to miss the purple spell shot from Tonks' wand. The spell hit the wall, leaving a small scorch mark on the wood.

The group drifted up to the staircase, where a number of doors were lined around the circular walls. Harry opened a door that led to a large bathroom.

"Wizards have no sense of scale, do they?" Harry said, looking at the large bath which easily rivalled the one in the Prefects bathroom back at Hogwarts.

Harry took the bedroom two doors to the right of the bathroom, nodding to himself as soon as he stepped inside. It had a window overlooking the sea, and the large bed looked oddly tantalising. Pulling his bag off his shoulder and onto the bed, he pulled out a potion, uncorking it with his thumb.

It was the hangover potion Neville had handed to him back in England.

It was always a rather weird sensation, no matter how many times you drank it. At first, all that could be felt was a chilling sensation, and you really could feel it as it snaked its way down your throat. When it settled, remarkably quickly, in your stomach, the strong sensation stayed for a matter of seconds before gradually fading.

Depending on the quantity of alcohol consumed, it could take anywhere from ten minutes to two hours for your hangover to recede. When it did disappear though, you'd swear you'd never touched a drop of alcohol in your life.

Harry had a feeling he'd need a few more over the course of the weekend.

Harry liberally applied a few charms to freshen himself up and changed into a pair of shorts and a thin t-shirt. After taking out some money, he threw his bag into the wardrobe. He opened his door and headed back downstairs. He could hear voices, and had to stifle his laughter.

"…a nude beach on the north."

"Really?" Sirius sounded gleeful. "Let's go up there!"

"Don't get your hopes up, Padfoot," Remus said. "Only the Muggles use it."

"So?" Sirius said. "I have nothing against Muggles."

"Haven't you been reading the papers for the last few months?" Tonks asked exasperatedly. "It's been a political nightmare for the Greek Ministry."

Harry zoned out as he arrived downstairs, already knowing the story. Chrysi was a remarkable island for more reasons than one, but perhaps what made it extraordinary was that it was governed by the Greek parliament and the Greek Ministry alike. Harry had covered the history of magical Europe in his seventh year, proving that Professor Binns didn't just drone on about Goblin Wars and Rebellions.

Harry hadn't paid too much attention on the subject, although it hadn't been from lack of interest. Binns had a unique talent to make even the exciting aspects of the past dreadfully dull, and so Harry could only remember odd facts about great historic events.

For months leading up to the World Cup, the front pages were dominated by news of the Greek Ministry's struggle to use the island and block access to the Muggles. They'd had to give in to a few demands from the Greek Parliament, but the Greek Ministry had got their wish, and Chrysi was an all-magical island for the whole of July.

"Come on, then," Harry said, stepping into the room. "Shall we go and explore this island?"

Instead of exploring the island, they found themselves stepping out of a restaurant two hours later, stuffed full of exotic foods they'd never seen before, let alone actually eaten. The group collectively decided not to explore the island, and headed straight for the beach instead.

Sirius found a spot and immediately started ogling some of the beauties on show, Seamus headed to the nearest bar, and everyone else collapsed on conjured loungers.

Harry liberally applied charms to ward off the sun's violent effects, and watched Tonks start stripping. He didn't know what had been enhanced and what was natural, but he didn't particularly care.

"I told you, didn't I, Tonks?" Harry said gleefully, happily accepting a bottle of cold beer from Seamus. "If you've got it, flaunt it!"

Tonks barely batted an eyelash as she stood there in a skimpy, white bikini. Every inch of skin was smooth, and she was already tanned. "Don't get any funny ideas," she warned. "I can't stop you looking, but no touching."

"Don't worry, I think half of the people here are looking at me," Seamus said, pulling off his shirt, revealing a pale Irish complexion. He completely ignored the snorts and the incredulous looks sent his way, appearing to be completely serious.

Harry had just about managed to get Tonks' figure out of his head a few hours later, after they'd changed and headed for the bars along the beach. The sun had lowered in the sky and the heat had dropped considerably, but it was by no means chilly.

Sitting around a table outside, it wasn't long before the conversation turned, inevitably, to Quidditch. The bar's Wireless had been turned on, ready for the match, but the volume was low until kick-off.

"Have you actually heard from any of the guys?" Sirius asked, struggling to get at his luminescent orange cocktail around the pink umbrella.

Harry shook his head. "Ollie and the twins have been holed up in the England camp. I heard from Krum a couple of weeks ago, though. He said we'd have to catch up if he had the time."

"Speaking of Krum…" Sirius said, pulling a face, as though the cocktail he was drinking held more lime than alcohol.

"What about him?"

"Is he actually as good as everyone's making him out to be?" Sirius looked thoroughly conflicted, receiving some perplexed stares from those that heard him.

"Put it this way," Seamus said, leaning forward and always wanting to get one over on England. "Ackerley could play the game of his life tomorrow and England would still lose."

"Pah!" Sirius dismissed Seamus with a scoff. "I don't care what they say; everyone can have an off day."

"You've never seen him play, have you?" Harry asked, chuckling humourlessly. "Trust me, Sirius, he could play the worst game of his career and he'd still be the best player on the field."

Sirius shook his head, his long hair bouncing wildly around his head. "You had a trial against Ackerley, Harry. You said he was brilliant."

"He is," Harry said honestly, getting tired of the argument. "I've flown against Krum as well, though, and Ackerley just isn't in his league."

"Ackerley played outstanding in the semis though, you have to hand it to him," Dean said reasonably. "He hasn't really played a bad match either, and he's helped the Chasers out."

"Yeah!" Sirius said quickly. "He's caught every Snitch so far in this tournament as well, that's got to count for something."

"So has Krum," Tonks pointed out, quickly going back to sipping her own drink, a bottle of beer, when Sirius glared at her.

"And all of that makes no difference against Krum," Harry said, exasperated.

Seeing that he was clearly losing his argument, Sirius sulked. "I think you should back your country more." He sniffed. "Not to mention you should support your friends."

Harry chuckled and leaned back in his chair. He would have said Krum was also his friend, but he doubted that would do him any favours. "I have no doubt that England will play well, but I've just got that feeling, you know? Krum should have won the World Cup four years ago-"

"Hey!" Seamus said indignantly.

"Well, come on," Harry said. "Don't get me wrong, I don't want him to beat us, but nobody can argue that he doesn't deserve to win. It would be a shame if he never won the World Cup."

"If you're so enamoured with him, just go and tell him how you feel already," Sirius said petulantly.

Harry just laughed. The whole conversation reminded of a particular day in the infirmary not that long ago.

"You know what I don't understand?" Tonks said. "How come only one stadium is being used for all of the games? It's lucky that none of the games have gone on too long."

Harry shrugged, idly watching a group of girls approach the bar. He was sure he recognised one of them from somewhere, though he couldn't see her properly with the crowd around her.

"Games aren't as long as they used to be, are they?" Neville said.

"The brooms are faster now, and the players are better," Sirius said.

As the volume on the bar's Wireless was turned up a few notches, the conversation turned to Ireland's third place play-off game against Germany. Most people said the consolation game was pointless, but many fans had stuck around on the island. Different bars had been built for seemingly every nation and every language, and many of them were full.

Half an hour later, the game kicked off, with Ireland taking initiative early on, taking three shots but only scoring one penalty. Germany hit back on the counter-attack, and the score was tied when the first real excitement came.

"Lynch appears to have seen the Snitch… No! Sorry folks, he's tried to fool the whole stadium, and I dare say many of us fell for it. Not bad, Aidan Lynch, not bad at all."

"Well, we all know who the commentator's rooting for," Tonks said dryly.

Seamus snorted, already on the edge of his seat. "Even the English want us to win. Does this mean I have to support you tomorrow?"

"No," Harry said. "We just can't stand the idea of Germany winning anything, even if we've already gone further than them."

"I'm sure the feeling's mutual," Seamus muttered.

Harry hummed in agreement as every Irishman around them suddenly leapt out of their seats, cheering wildly as their team scored. Harry ignored them all. His eyes sought out the girl he'd seen earlier, now sat around a table with her friends further down the beach, closer to the waves. They looked to be around his age, and they were ignoring the boisterous fans, who had started singing about a famous Irishman from not so long ago.

Sirius caught Harry's eye, a small grin breaking out. He urged him on, and Harry felt he couldn't refuse.

Harry slipped out of his chair, grabbed his bottle of beer, and took a stroll towards the familiar girl. The horizon was coloured in shades of orange and reds as the sun set, leaving enough light for Harry to get a clear picture of her. She wore a light, thin dress, which had slipped up her thigh. He knew where he recognised her from.

He approached the group and had to wonder when his confidence had skyrocketed. Maybe it was Sirius's influence. It could have been the experience he was gaining as he grew up. It probably had more to do with the beer, though.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Harry said, stopping a few yards from their table. "I'm Harry Potter. Pleased to meet you."

The girls had barely glanced at him at first, much like everyone else on the island had been doing all day. When the notice-me-not charm broke, however, they stared at him in shock.

Harry smiled, a touch nervously. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

There was mad dash as the girls tried to get him to sit next to them. Harry quickly grabbed a chair and took a seat. He made sure she was next to him.

"What's your name?"

The girl who'd walked in front of him at the Portkey terminal smiled a pretty, dainty smile. A faint blush rose from her chest to neck, hardly prominent on her tanned skin.

"Anna," she said softly, biting the tip of her straw.

Harry gave her his best smile and took a sip of beer to calm his jitters. He extended his smile to her friends, remembering a bit of advice Sirius had given him. Never ignore her friends, Sirius had said, because they can determine the course of your night in the blink of an eye.

It was at that exact moment Harry found himself stuck, and he desperately wished he'd thought of something to say before he'd let himself walk over to them like he was some suave lothario. He'd never been overly shy, although he had never looked for attention per say, but sometimes you just had to put yourself out there. How else were you ever going to achieve anything?

Thankfully, Anna saved him any embarrassment. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said, hurrying to introduce him to her friends.

Harry kept up his smile, nodding his head towards the three other girls in turn. "A pleasure to meet you all."

"Is it true you've gone professional?" Anna asked, allowing her friends no time to strike up a conversation. She brushed her brown hair over shoulder, placing her elbow on the table as she leant forward.

Harry nodded, more to himself than to the question. He was on familiar ground. "Yes, it is. I probably shouldn't be drinking, but what the boss doesn't know and all that, eh?"

"You've got to have fun, haven't you?" Anna said. "What's the point in coming all this way if you couldn't have a good time?"

"Exactly," Harry said. "And never let it be said that I live a boring life."

"Oh, no, no-one would ever think that about you," Anna said quickly.

One of Anna's friends leant forward with what barely passed as a sly smile. "Anna's always had a thing for Quidditch players, Harry."

"Has she really?" Harry murmured, idly noticing Anna's blue eyes reflected the setting sun as they locked on his. She nodded imperceptibly, as if she didn't realise she was doing it.

"I'd love to see you in action someday," Anna said, her voice taking on a seductive tone that had Harry's heart beating a little faster.

"I'm sure we can work something out," Harry said, unintentionally leaning closer. A hint of perfume drifted over him, mixed with the unmistakable scent of a strong cocktail, nearly overwhelming his senses. Around them, small, contained fires were being lit along the beach. Each table had a candle in the middle, and all of them suddenly burst into life.

Anna wet her strawberry red lips as she intentionally brushed her bare foot along Harry's exposed calf. She was much closer to him now. So close, in fact, that if he moved he was sure there would be no backing out.

Harry was sure his heart could be heard hammering against his ribcage. At times, being who he was could be such a burden. As Anna brushed her lips against his, he couldn't help but think that sometimes, being Harry Potter was undoubtedly the best thing in the world.

6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Okay, first off, apologies for the long wait between updates. Life simply got in the way. Also, I've re-written the first chapter. In terms of what happens it's mostly the same, but I've cleaned it up a bit, removed some things that made me cringe, and added bits I felt were needed. And lastly, a huge thanks to silentclock for all his help on not only this chapter, but the first chapter as well.

Chapter Six

The next day found Harry lounging in the chair, his feet up on the coffee table, crossed at the ankles. He smiled as his eager audience of three looked at him expectantly, clearly getting frustrated.

"Well?" Sirius demanded from the edge of his chair, blowing his hair away from his cheek.

"Well what?" Harry asked, feigning confusion as he sipped his water.

"You know damn well what I mean!"

Harry chuckled softly to himself.

Before Sirius could try his hand at murder once again, the sound of footsteps coming from above made them all pause. Harry simply raised his eyebrow at the questioning looks sent his way from Seamus and Tonks. Sirius craned his neck towards the stairs in a futile and ultimately worthless attempt to catch the first glimpse of who he hoped to see.

Seconds later, bare feet touched the stairs. A pair of tanned legs came into view, followed by the hem of a crinkled dress that had been immaculate the night before. Anna smiled a touch nervously when she noticed the stares, brushing her messy hair over her shoulder. A pair of heels swung by her side as she hurried over to Harry, her eyes purposefully set on him as she vainly attempted to ignore the knowing smiles.

"Here," Anna said, stuffing a small, folded piece of parchment into Harry's hand. She kissed him soundly on the lips, hard enough that it hurt for a moment, before she pulled back. "Don't be a stranger, Harry. Keep in touch, won't you?"

"You can count on it," Harry replied with a firm nod.

Anna released a grateful, perhaps even a relieved, sigh and planted another forceful kiss on Harry's lips.

She pulled back again, barely an inch from his face. "Thank you."

Harry nodded silently.

"I'd, err, best be going," Anna said after a moment, quickly standing upright. She reached the door, opened it, and was halfway outside when she paused and looked back over her shoulder. "It was- err… it was nice to meet you all."

When the door clicked shut, Harry sat back with a satisfied grin on his lips.

"I'm impressed, I have to admit," Tonks said, breaking the silence. She looked at Harry, chewing on her bottom lip as she studied him, as if she was trying to work out why anyone would ever go anywhere near him.

"How'd you manage it, Potter?" Seamus asked with narrowed eyes.

Harry shrugged. "My natural charm?"

Seamus snorted mockingly. "I reckon some kind of charm was involved."

"You dropped the notice-me-not charm, didn't you?" Sirius asked, his questioning look turning to delight when Harry shrugged a tad guiltily.

"That's just blatantly cheating," Seamus grumbled.

"I wasn't aware it was a game," Harry said haughtily.

"Tell me what you would've – or could have – done," Tonks said bluntly. "Harry's very name gets him a girl like that, I doubt you would've stood a chance."

"That's why it's just cheating when he pulls the name card," Seamus protested.

"And you wouldn't?" Harry asked, highly amused with Seamus's antics.

Seamus paused in thought. "Well, some of us don't need to be famous in the first place, so I doubt I'd need it anyway."

"From your jealousy, I take it I've done well?"

"Couldn't have done much better," Seamus muttered.

Sirius sniffed, winking at Harry and appearing to be quite proud. "Well done, kid."

"Err… thanks," Harry muttered as he lifted himself off the chair. "Anyway, what's the plan for today? As much I'd love to see Seamus sulk all morning, how about checking out this pool?"

"I do not sulk." Seamus sulked.

Tonks was the only one to decline the offer, instead heading out to meet Remus for an early lunch. The others hurried upstairs when she left. Seamus started banging on the doors to wake Neville and Dean, and Harry quietly slipped into his room.

Behind his door, Harry unfolded the parchment and took in the looped letters and neat handwriting. He was sure his eyes started to sparkle when he read the address underneath Anna's name.

Just as the sun started to set, thousands of wizards and witches emerged, all of them starting to make their way towards the stadium. Hundreds of people were still Apparating or Portkeying to the island, many with tickets, some hoping for tickets, and a fair few there just for the carnival atmosphere.

In other words, there was a party tonight and no one wanted to miss it.

It wasn't long before Harry spotted the colossal building looming in the distance. Many believed it to be the finest arena in Europe, if not the world. It stood as tall as many Muggle skyscrapers, as beautiful as any architectural feat ever produced, and it boasted a history spanning centuries.

The stadium was special; there was no other word for it. The walls were made of ancient stone and marble, and its smooth curves sparkled beautifully from all angles.

"More than one ego has taken a dent here," Sirius said reverently, eyeing the stadium up and down. "Jimmy Spencer said you could feel the history when you stepped onto the pitch. He retired after playing here, saying he didn't deserve to be in the company of greats. Weird man, now I come to think of it."

Dean nudged Harry. "What's with the looks of awe and all the whispering?"

"The history," Remus answered promptly. "This is probably the most historic stadium in the world, at least in terms of Quidditch."

"Yeah, doesn't that just mean it's going to fall apart any day now?" Dean asked.

Remus glared at the teenager. "If you discount the fact that this stadium was built with the best charms and runes of its day, yes. Not to mention the constant maintenance."

Judging by the distasteful look on his face, Dean wasn't won over. "Are there even seats inside? Or are we expected to sit on rocks?"

"Seats were put in sometime in the seventeen hundreds," Harry answered.

"They've changed with the times, don't worry," Sirius assured Dean, although he was looking a little worryingly at Remus. "When have you become so concerned with Quidditch stadiums, Moony? Finally fallen in love with the game?"

Remus rubbed his temples lightly. "As you know, I've never hated Quidditch. Never been a fanatic, like some, but I'm able to enjoy it from time to time."

"That still doesn't explain why you're acting like it's your time of the month," Seamus muttered.

Harry and Sirius glanced at each other a little uncomfortably, although more than a little amused. Remus went slightly wide-eyed.

"You know, a new herb was found a few years back," Neville spoke up.

"Merlin!" Sirius jumped and whipped his head in Neville's direction. "You scared the shit out of me! Why are you so bloody quiet?"

"Blame my Grandmother," Neville said dryly. "As I was saying, experiments have been taking place recently. They reckon they're close to a potion that will soothe, err, that type of pain."

"In my experience, don't girls usually take Pain-Rel-"

"Really, Sirius?" Harry asked, a little bemused. "I've heard enough girls complain about that potion to know it's next to worthless."

"Well," Sirius said with a shrug, "I don't tend to stick around during that particular time. I like them feisty, but your mother used to get downright vicious."

Harry closed his eyes at the image. "That's my mother, Sirius!"

Sirius nodded. "Yep. Prongs used to say-"

"No," Harry said, holding out a hand to stop Sirius. "No, I don't want to know."

"Suit yourself." Sirius shrugged, and everyone else seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

The group moved closer to the stadium, each of them oddly silent.

"What was I talking about?" Remus asked after a few minutes.

"Your sudden and unexpected love for all things Quidditch," Sirius offered.

"Oh, yes." Remus glanced at Dean. "It's more a love for architectural design than the Quidditch, but mostly it's my affection for history. You'll be filled with a sense of awe if you stare long enough into the past, but you'll be completely horrified at what has always lurked beneath the surface. Thankfully, this stadium has no such mysterious deaths hanging over it."

"Simply fascinating," Dean said slowly. "Tell me, are you married?"

"No…"

"You really need to find yourself a girl, mate," Dean said.

Sirius snorted. "I've been telling him that since I broke out. You'll be surprised to know he didn't actually do too badly back in the day. You used to hold your own, didn't you, Moony?"

"Yes, well," Remus muttered, fiddling with the ticket in his hand as he tried and failed to hide a grin. "I've tried my hand over the years, but no one's stuck around."

"Maybe you should ask Tonks," Neville suggested innocently, already moving towards Harry before he'd finished the sentence.

"Are you mad?" Sirius demanded, whirling around to where Neville had been a moment ago. He soon caught sight of Neville again, standing next to Harry. "Maybe if he was ten years younger! He's old enough to be her father. It's just wrong."

"Not exactly…" Harry said, working out the age difference in his head. "Well, unless he was a young bloomer."

"By the time your father and Sirius were thirteen, they'd had one or two girlfriends, so it isn't impossible," Remus muttered. "Of course, they never lasted more than a week, and I don't think it ever went any further than kissing behind Hagrid's hut."

Harry wondered, not for the first time, just what the Marauders had actually been like back in the day. The way people talked about his dad and Sirius together was something that intrigued him. Little revelations seemed to sneak up on him from time to time, some that he'd expected, and some that completely surprised him.

"Where is Tonks, anyway?" Seamus asked, turning around in a full circle to look for her.

The group seemed to frown as one as they looked through the sea of thousands of nameless faces.

"There she- oh. Oh…" Dean chuckled to himself. "Looks like you've lost out, Remus. Tonks appears to be doing just fine without you."

Harry looked to where Dean had pointed, soon spotting Tonks' red hair as it fell onto the back of her white England shirt. She was talking to a tall, dark-haired man. His features couldn't quite be made out, but Harry never figured Tonks would go for someone so generic.

"Someone go and get her," Sirius said as they moved within a hundred yards of the gates.

"My pleasure," Seamus said, and he was pushing his way through the crowd a second later, earning his fair share of disgruntled looks.

Harry watched the situation play out, fairly amused by Tonks' reaction when she realised Seamus was behind her. The two arrived back just in time. After showing the officials their tickets, they made their way inside and climbed the hundreds of steps towards their seats. The stadium had five tiers, and with a glance at the tickets, Harry realised they were in the third.

"Front row. Nice," Seamus said. He slid his hand along the gold railings as the group took their seats. "Can't thank you enough for these tickets, Potter."

"Not a problem," Harry said, and he couldn't agree more with Seamus's assessment of the stadium.

They were sat in the middle, at eye-level with the rings, which meant they'd get one of the best views and see where most of the action was likely to take place. Continuing to look around the stadium, Harry noticed it was slowly starting to fill up.

Directly opposite to where Harry was sat, the Bulgarians were setting up their stall. A giant piece of cloth was being unfurled from the top tier. Harry watched as it unravelled, stopping at the very bottom of the first tier, and he wasn't at all surprised to be greeted with the scowling face of Viktor Krum.

"That boy really has got some bushy brows," Sirius said. "He looks like a grumpy bastard as well."

"Just look at Harry," Tonks said lightly. "It just goes to show you don't need good looks if you've got fame."

"At least I don't have to hide behind fake appearances," Harry hit back.

"Ah, but you can't deny you'd love it if you could," Tonks said.

"Is he really ugly?" Neville asked, looking taken aback. "Harry, I mean."

Remus's earlier mention of egos taking a knock came to mind.

"Well, Prongs was always called handsome and never had a problem, and Harry looks just like him, so…" Sirius shrugged. "Prongs was taller, though."

Harry completely ignored the conversation involving his looks, turning to Dean and Seamus instead. "Well, what do you think?"

"It's pretty impressive," Dean admitted sourly.

"Still think Muggles build the better stadiums?" Harry asked.

Dean grunted. He'd argued that his beloved Upton Park, home to the 'mighty' West Ham, despite being significantly smaller than a lot of other football stadiums, was something to be admired. For the atmosphere, he'd insisted, and something to do with forever blowing bubbles. Harry may have been brought up in the Muggle world, and he may have lived in the same dorm with Dean for seven years, but he was still clueless. The only thing he knew about blowing bubbles was an old song he'd learnt in school, but he very much doubted that hard-core football fans would sing that during a game.

"What the hell are these?" Sirius asked, holding up a small object between his forefinger and thumb. The fleshy-looking item was about the size of a peanut and had a piece of string extending from one end.

"Hang on," Tonks said as she flicked open a booklet. "They're… earpieces, apparently."

After reaching under his seat, Harry, like many inside the stadium, immediately started to fiddle with the new toy. It felt almost like flesh under his fingers, but more slippery.

"Have you seen how many settings these have?" Sirius asked, waving his own earpiece in Harry's face. "They must have every language in the world!"

"You're right," Remus said, also playing with his earpiece. "After the last World Cup, people complained because they couldn't understand a thing that was being shouted at them. Can you imagine watching this match with Greek commentary?"

"How do you change the settings?" Harry asked.

"Squeeze it and say what language you want." Remus demonstrated, pushing the earpiece into his ear and pulling a face as it slipped inside.

Harry and Sirius quickly adjusted their earpiece settings to English. Harry remembered when Vernon and Dudley had watched a football match in a foreign language. They'd complained through the entire thing, as the commentator shouted with deafening speed through the TV. Why they hadn't turned the volume down was anyone's guess, but Harry figured watching a game without any sound made the game ten times less interesting.

"Just don't go messing about with it or you'll end up missing the whole match," Tonks said distractedly, too engrossed in her booklet to look up. At further inspection, Harry realised it was the programme for the final.

"Where the hell did you get that?" Seamus asked, having noticed as well.

"Hmm?" Tonks muttered. "Oh, they were selling them hours ago. Remus and I bought one when you lot decided to try out the swimming pool."

"We'll grab some later," Sirius said to Harry. "The programme for the last final England appeared in went to auction last year. It sold for thousands."

The stadium continued to fill up over the next half an hour. Thousands of people had made the journey from all four corners of the world, many just to watch the one match. Hundreds of flags, English and Bulgarian alike, were waved enthusiastically. Banners were held high with pride, slogans and encouragements charmed to flash and stand out. Sirius had been to the toilet twice, but he'd also been to the bar and brought a tray of drinks back with him each time.

Harry glanced at his watch as the sheer anticipation hit him for the first time, along with the nerves and excitement. It was a little over seven, which meant it was just under half an hour until the game would get underway.

Up on the forth tier, the commentator for those inside the stadium had started to speak, his words sounding very fast and meaningless to Harry.

Harry stuffed the earpiece back in his ear, and the translation to English came through a few seconds later. Along Harry's row, most people were doing the same. It was almost like sitting around a Wireless, and Harry wished once again the magical world could project matches and events like the Muggle world was able to do.

"…since the last World Cup. The Bulgarians have spotted the weaknesses in their team and built upon them, making a formidable Chaser line-up. The English have the edge when it comes to Keepers, though, with Oliver Wood's record-breaking season giving him the status as world's best Keeper. A remarkable achievement for one so young.

"We all know that a final is usually won by Seekers, and we have two very impressive men lining up out there. Stewart Ackerley continues to get better, but will it be enough tonight? We all know who the other Seeker is. He's the world's best player, and many critics are saying this game is Krum's to win or lose. England will be trying to do what Ireland did four years ago, which was simply score one-hundred-and-sixty points before Krum gets the Snitch, but it won't be easy."

"Fifty Galleons that England will win after Ackerley makes the catch," Sirius said immediately, holding out his hand for any takers.

"Make it a hundred and I'm in," Seamus said. "Krum to end the match, giving Bulgaria the win."

"Deal." Sirius looked at Harry challengingly. "What about you? You in?"

Harry snorted cynically. "I might not think we're going to win, but I'm not exactly going to bet against us."

"Anyone else?" Sirius asked the group at large, looking hopeful.

Remus tittered from next to him. "I'll bet a Galleon that Padfoot loses."

Tonks and Harry immediately agreed with him. After a moment, Neville did as well.

Sirius frowned. "If you're betting on me to lose, and I'm betting that England will win, doesn't that mean you're betting on England losing?"

"No," Harry said, dismissing Sirius's correct reasoning.

Sirius huffed and grumbled something, muttering to Neville. For his part, Neville didn't seem to mind, although he had a perpetual look of bemusement on his face.

A few minutes later, Harry wasn't at all surprised in which direction the conversation had gone.

"…ultimate team?" Seamus scoffed. "That's easy. You can't look past Troy, Mullet, and Moran for the Chaser line. They work together better than anyone."

"It was a shock they didn't make it to the finals, and I suppose they've steamrolled most teams in the last few years," Sirius conceded. "What about Seeker, then? Would you pick Krum over Wronski?"

"Oh, Sirius," Harry said, shaking his head in disappointment.

"What?" Sirius asked defensively.

"As good as Wronski was, and trust me, I'm not denying he was brilliant, he wasn't as consistent as Krum is," Harry said. More than one person looked at Harry like he was crazy. "Honestly, just look over his stats and records, or actually read the reports on his games. He was mad, and I mean bat-shit crazy."

Remus nodded in agreement. "He's right. I once read an article on Wronski. Most of his games ended with a trip to the Healer."

"See?" Harry said smugly. "Wronski didn't seem to care about his safety. It was all or nothing."

The group stared at Harry, all of them looking faintly amused.

"What?" Harry asked warily.

"Does that remind you of anyone?" Tonks asked slowly.

"Not really…" Harry said, more confused than anything. "You'd be hard pressed to find another player as good and as nuts as he was."

Harry noticed as the minutes ticked by that the air had cooled considerably inside the stadium. The sun had yet to disappear from the sky, as it was far too early for nightfall, but it had disappeared behind the towering walls of the stadium.

The stadium was now packed to the rafters. The English fans were singing a song about Ackerley, although Harry didn't recognise it. He briefly wondered if his name would ever be sung by the fans with such gusto, and then wondered if it was arrogant of him to even think about such things.

The commentator was still building up the atmosphere, but Harry had taken his earpiece out and didn't understand a word. He didn't need to understand Greek to know what was about to happen, though.

The Bulgarians had brought along a treat, it seemed.

Harry could vividly remember the Veela that had descended upon England in the last World Cup final. If anything, the Veela parading along the pitch seemed to be far more beautiful than the ones he could remember. Harry gazed at them as they almost glided along the grass, wearing next to nothing. Tonks' bikini had been revealing on the beach, but she'd practically been wearing robes in comparison. Every inch of Veela skin, which always looked so delicate, so unblemished and perfect, was very nearly all on display.

Harry forcefully shook his head to clear those thoughts, suddenly finding that his legs were tensed and his hands were gripping his seat.

"Very nice control there, Potter," Tonks said, highly amused.

"I wasn't expecting that," Harry muttered, his mouth dry.

The Veela paraded across the pitch to the joy of thousands of men, but it was over before it had really got going. The Bulgarians had clearly learnt their lesson from the last time, when the Veela had nearly started a riot with the leprechauns. Loud groans accompanied the Veela off the pitch, and Harry wasn't embarrassed to say his voice joined in with the others.

"Whoever sorted out the entertainment is a pervert," Tonks declared, although she didn't appear to be at all insulted. If anything, she seemed to find the whole show amusing.

Then, a guttural growl seemed to shake the very foundations of the stadium. Harry's first thought was that the commentator had been a bit too enthusiastic over the Veela. He was proved to be mistaken a few seconds later, when a huge creature sauntered across the pitch, tearing the perfect grass to shreds and kicking up dirt without abandon.

"What is that?" Neville asked, peering down.

"That's an Alphyn," Remus breathed in awe.

"A what?" Seamus asked.

"An Alphyn paraded the pitch in the last final England appeared in," Sirius said. "And we all know how long ago that was."

"Ninety-eight years," Harry answered, his voice joined by more than one other. "It's ruining the bloody pitch, though."

"We have wands, Harry," Sirius stated.

"Yeah, what's your point?"

"They can fix this is in flash, don't worry."

The Alphyn didn't care one iota that it was making Harry cringe with every footstep it took. It strutted along, continuing to dig up the pitch with its sharp talons. Its forefeet looked like they'd come straight from an eagle, Harry noticed as he looked through his Omnioculars, except they were considerably larger.

"Take a picture and send it to Hagrid," Harry said. "He'll love one of these."

Tonks nodded, raising her camera to her eyes.

Harry couldn't deny the Alphyn had a certain majesty about it. Every few seconds it would raise its large, wolf-like head and roar its approval, before ripping into the chunks of meat being thrown at it from its handlers. Its thick mane was grey with hints of red and gold, and also reminiscent of a lion were its tail and hind legs. Its body seemed to be a mixture of a wolf and, as odd as it seemed, a dragon. It had thick coat of fur, but its underbelly looked incredibly scaly.

"Why does it roar?" Seamus asked, after the Alphyn had let loose a sound so loud it had managed to drown out the entire stadium.

"Nobody knows," Remus answered. "It can also breathe fire, although it isn't as hot or as deadly as dragon fire. Did you know its name comes from the Germanic word for chaser, or wolf?"

Harry hadn't even heard of the creature before. The Alphyn was thrown another chunk of meat. It was devoured in seconds. Nobody could argue with the sheer ferocity the animal showed. It tucked into and finished its meal with the use of a row of sharp teeth, but what also appeared to be a pointy tongue.

"Trust the English to ruin the light entertainment with a monstrous, man-eating beast," Seamus said. "One minute I'm thinking about asking that girl two rows behind if she fancies a drink later on, and the next minute I'm worried-"

"Oh, will you shut up," Harry said. "Did you hear me complaining when your Leprechauns started pelting me in the head with money?"

"It was money!" Seamus protested.

"It was fake money."

"Then you should've spent it when you had the chance," Seamus said stubbornly.

"You know," Tonks said, "I have to wonder if any of you actually get along. Have you ever actually complimented each other on anything?"

"Sure," Harry said, glancing at Seamus for confirmation. "Err, I taught you that spell to turn water into rum, didn't I? I complimented you when you perfected it, even if it is the only spell you've ever really nailed."

"See what I mean?" Tonks said. "You can't say anything nice without adding an insult."

"All right," Dean said. "What about when Harry used to win us the Quidditch Cup, we congratulated him then."

Tonks opened her mouth to reply, realised she couldn't argue that point, and went back to reading her programme, ignoring the jeers.

The sudden roar made Harry jump. He turned to the pitch, only to notice the Alphyn was leaving. He'd forgotten all about the creature. With the entertainment over, the crowd sensed the start of the game was near. The Bulgarian section of the stadium was getting noisier. Krum's enormous head was still scowling – Harry realised the cloth must have been charmed, otherwise most of the fans in that section would effectively be blind.

Harry glanced at his watch in anticipation, before reaching into the pocket of his jeans. His arm continued inside, going so far as his bicep, before he found what he was looking for. A moment later, he pulled out a notebook that Hermione had bought him one Christmas, along with a Self-Inking quill he had left over from school.

Seamus lifted an eyebrow in question.

"Taking notes," Harry muttered.

"Why?"

Harry shrugged. "I need to learn. You might be watching me in a final one day, you know."

"You wish."

"I do."

"I thought you hated taking notes, Harry," Sirius said.

Harry sighed, wondering why it was such a big deal. "Well, it might not even work. I don't even know what to write, but I need something. I got destroyed in my trial."

"You work better off instinct and practise," Sirius said matter-of-factly. "You can't learn Quidditch from a book."

"I did," Remus pointed out.

"Yeah, but you can't play for shit," Sirius said derisively.

Remus didn't attempt to argue that point – he really did look like new-born bird trying to fly whenever he was forced on a broom.

The commentator cleared his throat over the microphone. "Welcome, one and all, to what is surely going to be a final that will live up to the expectations. After four years leading up to this, and five weeks to decide our finalists, we're finally at the hour. The teams have been announced, everyone's been talking about this for days, so get your drinks in, get ready, and good luck.

"If you would please welcome our referee for this final, from Portugal, Eligius Andrade."

"Dirty, corrupt bastard," Seamus said with a growl.

"It's not his fault the Irish were outplayed," Sirius said.

"We weren't outplayed," Seamus said stubbornly. "If you remember, Krum caught the Snitch before we could get over the one-fifty mark. Our Chasers were in complete control for the entire game."

The referee appeared to polite applause. He was wearing fine gold robes, carrying a Firebolt under one arm, and under his other arm was the crate containing the Quaffle, Bludgers, and the Snitch. He stopped in the middle of the pitch and placed the crate onto the ground, before slowly turning in a circle to inspect the quality of the grass.

"Always amazes me," Sirius muttered. "The grass is never used, why does he need to do that?"

"At least it's been fixed," Harry said.

Andrade was obviously pleased, and nodded in the direction from where he'd appeared.

"Here we go, ladies and gentlemen," the commentator said in a low voice.

The stadium waited.

"We have Zograf!" the commentator suddenly bellowed and the Bulgarian section of the crowd seemed to swell as one, suddenly roaring their support.

Zograf's scarlet robes were a blur as he bulleted from the entrance below.

"And he's followed by Chernozemski, Slovensky and Levski! And here come the Beaters, Volkov and Vulchanov! And here he is – Viktor Krum!"

Krum was the only one who wasn't flying at breakneck speed. He eased his broom into the air, ignoring what his team were doing; they looked like they were trying to get rid of some last minute nerves with death-defying stunts. The roar for the team had been deafening already, but it simply increased when Krum stepped out. Even Englishmen stood up to applaud him.

"Now that's respect, isn't it?" Seamus said.

Krum picked up speed as he circled the pitch, rising to each tier on every pass, as though he was trying to feel his way around every inch of the stadium.

Harry watched the superstar Seeker through his Omnioculars. Krum's face was emotionless. He wasn't looking at the crowd – Harry doubted his old friend even noticed his own face staring down at him from the large banner.

Harry opened his notebook and penned a quick few words.

By the time Krum's teammates had landed next to the referee, Krum was still flying, and now he was pushing the Firebolt a little more. Even through his Omnioculars, Harry was struggling to keep up. Krum's broom seemed to react to his thoughts, his flying was seamless and looked incredibly easy. When he finally landed, he immediately called his team around him. He was the captain, an honour which he took seriously.

"And here come the English," the commentator said, and Harry watched with a feeling of pride. "Wood! Maddock! Bragge! Watkins!"

Harry watched his old Captain bolt into the air, leading the Chasers in a criss-cross formation around the stadium. Sirius was cheering, and Harry rose to his feet as well. Maddock, England's Captain and Harry's Captain at Puddlemere, was already starting to let his opinions be heard.

"And here come- wait, what's happened?" the commentator stumbled over his words as England's Beaters emerged, only the familiar red hair Harry expected to see wasn't to be found. "Karl and Kevin Broadmoor!"

"What?" Harry demanded, incensed. "Fred and George were picked. You can't just drop them!"

Sirius fervently agreed. "Just what the fuck does Sawbridge think he's playing at? Sack the bastard in the morning!"

"Calm down," Remus said, although he looked a little peeved that the Weasley twins weren't playing. "The Broadmoor twins have proven themselves before."

"They're not as good, Moony!" Sirius raged, and the crowd joined him, directing their disapproval and anger towards Sawbridge, the England Manager.

Harry missed Ackerley's arrival, but he turned around in time to watch the teams take their positions in the air. He couldn't escape the feeling that Fred and George had been cheated out of an opportunity they may never get again. Since their childhood, it had been a dream of theirs to play for their country in a World Cup final. It was one of the reasons they'd thrown themselves into Quidditch and not pursued their other dream of making a living from pranks and practical jokes. The pair had started every other game in the World Cup. They would be sat with the other players somewhere inside the stadium. Some of their family had made the trip.

Doing his best to keep his anger under control, Harry directed his Omnioculars at the players he knew. Krum wasn't letting any emotion show. Oliver Wood's face was set in grim determination, but he couldn't stop fidgeting from in front of his goalposts. He was looking around a little wide-eyed, as if he couldn't believe where he was and how far he'd come in such a short space of time.

"They look nervous out there," Remus observed.

"You can feel it, can't you?" Harry said in disgust. "What kind of idiot changes the team selection in a final?"

The referee released the Snitch; a moment later the Bludgers were free, and all hell broke loose half a second after the Quaffle had left Andrade's hands. The three Chasers from both sides dived in for the Quaffle, and before anyone could work out what was going on, Levski emerged from the mess in possession of the Quaffle.

"Get him!" Sirius demanded, his cries echoed by thousands of other Englishmen.

Levski roared down the pitch, dodging two Bludgers, only to find he was one-on-one with Oliver Wood. Harry's hands gripped the railings just as Levski shot to the right. Wood went the right way, his fingertips clawing at the Quaffle, but Bulgaria's fans were suddenly celebrating.

"What happened?" Sirius demanded, looking at Harry. "Rewind the Omnioculars."

Luckily, Harry had watched the start of the match through them, and quickly watched what had happened, this time with time slowed down to a crawl. Krum had started to advance as soon as the Snitch was released, and when the Quaffle had been thrown, he'd darted into Watkins path. Bragge and Maddock had attempted to stop Levski, but they'd only clutched harmlessly at scarlet robes.

Sirius only pulled a face of disgust when he heard, but Harry wrote another line down in his notebook.

"Where was Ackerley? Why did no-one pick up Krum?" Dean asked furiously. "This is basic defending!"

The game continued despite the number of cries from the crowd, and Harry turned back to watch the game. England's Chasers were throwing the Quaffle back and forth, attempting to feel their way into the game.

"Bragge! Watkins, and back to Bragge, and-" the commentator suddenly paused. "Chernozemski steals it! Slovensky – Chernozemski-" Harry couldn't help but notice the commentator was forced to start speaking faster, "-Levski! Chernozemski! Levski, to Slovensky, and back to Chernozemski again!"

Harry watched in fascination as England forced Bulgaria to pass backwards, but the play was becoming faster. Bulgaria didn't appear to be sticking to one formation – they were mixing it up, completely at random, or so it seemed. England's defence was solid – Maddock was playing slightly behind Bragge and Watkins, and they were pressing the Bulgarians into a mistake.

Then Krum screamed something to his team, and every player in the air seemed to react. The Bulgarian Chasers suddenly grouped together. Volkov and Vulchanov – their Beaters – appeared on either side of their Chasers, and Krum hovered above them, urging his team forward.

Maddock bellowed something, and Harry thought he must have ordered a retreat, because England suddenly found themselves on the back foot, desperately trying to maintain their shape. The Broadmoor twins were waiting for a Bludger attack, but none were forthcoming.

Ackerley rocketed down, coming from nowhere, in an attempt to disrupt the play. He nearly collided with Levski, but the Bulgarian Chaser expertly swerved around England's Seeker, only to find he was facing Bragge. Volkov finally swung at a Bludger, and his aim was precise as Bragge had to duck to avoid having his head taken off. Levski had already let go of the Quaffle by the time Bragge looked up.

The Quaffle was picked up by Chernozemski, who thought he was in luck. Maddock had other ideas, and gripped the neck of Chernozemski's robes, nearly ripping the Bulgarian Chaser off his broom and out of his clothes.

The shrill whistle from the referee came a moment later.

"Oh, come on!" Sirius bellowed his anger at the referee. He turned to Harry in shocked outrage. "How can you be allowed to smash people, get away with punching them now and then, but you get penalised for pulling a robe?"

"Rules are rules," Remus answered.

"LEVSKI SCORES!" the commentator bellowed.

As long as neither team had pulled too far in front, Harry was more concerned with the Seekers. Ever since his trial, he'd been looking forward to seeing just how Ackerley would go about handling Krum. There would be a game plan in place to stop him, which would've been reworked and re-thought numerous times over, but it was one thing to come up a plan and something else entirely to pull it off.

Ackerley had yet to come within a few meters of his rival Seeker, though. Instead, he was weaving in-between his Chasers, trying to help them set up attacks as well as prevent Bulgaria from attacking.

Krum's plan appeared to be something different. The most exciting player on the pitch was above most of the action, and he was directing his Chasers, calling out plays to them. Harry knew, from being Captain for Gryffindor, just how difficult it was when all of your concentration wasn't on doing your main job. It was the main argument against Seekers being Captain.

Five minutes passed and the score hadn't changed – Bulgaria still led by twenty.

Krum suddenly moved faster than he had all game, and the excitement level inside the stadium rose with him. Ackerley bolted from his Chasers, desperately trying to catch up. The Broadmoor twins tried to follow, but knew they weren't fast enough, and sent two Bludgers instead – they missed their target.

"Oh! What a diversion by Krum!" Seamus declared.

Harry tore his gaze away from the Seekers, only to see Bulgaria's Chasers advancing on Wood. England's Chasers had been left behind. Wood spread his arms and legs, coming out to meet the oncoming Chaser, but Levski buried his – and Bulgaria's – third shot.

Sirius glanced over at Harry, eyebrows raised and lips parted slightly. Harry just shrugged in reply, somehow conveying that he wasn't at all surprised.

He wrote again in his notebook.

England finally seemed to realise they were in a match – a match that they were losing, no less – after Bulgaria scored once again. The Broadmoor twins were flexing their muscles, attempting to bring control to England with a show of strength, but their Bludgers were missing their targets. The Bulgarian Chasers were too fast. They passed the Quaffle with speed nearing the bar set by the Irish Chasers, and they were frustrating England's Beaters.

Egos were beginning to flare. If England didn't do something soon, they'd be playing for pride and they knew it.

The score suddenly flashed high in the sky, spelling out the words: BULGARIA 40 – 0 ENGLAND.

"We're getting humiliated," Neville stated, earning a rather stern glare from Sirius, which the younger man pointedly ignored.

Nobody was quite sure how it happened, but Bragge suddenly found himself with more space around him than he'd had all match, and the Quaffle was tucked under his arm. He headed straight for the goalposts, only to leave the Quaffle behind him as he flew over the Bulgarian Keeper's head. Watkins was on the same wavelength, and her shot pierced the left ring.

Harry was cheering as hard as any other English fan. Zograf, as well as his team, looked quite bewildered at the unexpected turn of events.

England's resurgence didn't stop there. Bulgaria immediately tried to counter, but Wood stopped the powerful shot from Slovensky and threw the Quaffle; it arced high over the heads of most of the players. Watkins was on the end of the sublime pass, and she made no mistake in turning straight towards Bulgaria's goalposts. Karl Broadmoor pummelled a Quaffle into Chernozemski's path, and Watkins was one-on-one–

"YES!" Sirius bellowed.

The scoreboard flashed again: BULGARIA 40 – 20 ENGLAND.

Five minutes passed and England had scored three more times, and they suddenly looked the better team. Nobody could quite believe what was happening. Watkins and Bragge were refusing to lose possession of the Quaffle, and Ackerley was making darts and dives, although Krum was having none of it so far.

Watkins sped towards Zograf yet again–

"ENGLAND SCORE! They've scored again, and it's now sixty-forty in their favour! And Krum calls for a time-out," the commentator announced quickly, his excitement rising as well.

Harry scribbled another sentence down in his notebook, noticing his hand was slightly shaking.

Krum's face was more animated than Harry had ever seen, especially on a Quidditch pitch. His eyes were bulging out and his hands were gesturing wildly as he demanded something, and a few moments later the team had re-joined the English in the air.

"And play is underway again, and- WAIT!" The commentator had everyone inside the stadium looking straight towards the Seekers, and everyone inside the stadium was right to look their way.

Krum looked like he was beckoning for Ackerley to follow him – it almost looked too obvious. Ackerley hesitated, surely noticing that Krum wasn't rushing for the catch.

"What's he playing at?" Sirius laughed. "Best player in the world, eh? Hah! What a load of-"

"I don't believe it!" The commentator almost couldn't contain his exhilaration. "Krum's seen the Snitch! He's after it, and Ackerley now tries to catch up."

Harry watched with baited breath as Krum whizzed past his position in the stands, scarlet robes a blur. Krum turned on his side, dropping straight towards the ground – Ackerley followed seconds later, and it was surely going to be over any minute now.

The Bulgarian fans were cheering louder and stamping their feet as one, urging Krum on. Ackerley caught a lucky break as Krum was forced into a sharp turn, and the two Seekers suddenly found themselves side by side. Harry winced before it happened - Krum led with his elbow, swinging it as he barged into Ackerley's smaller frame.

"Credit where it's due!" Seamus shouted over the deafening noise.

Harry couldn't agree more. Ackerley had been forced behind, but he hadn't pulled up. The omnioculars were jammed against Harry's eyes, and he watched Krum's eyes almost cross, the Snitch barely a meter away from his crooked nose.

Krum released one hand from his broom, when the Broadmoor twins suddenly appeared in front of him. With a look of utter determination, Karl hit and hoped, and the Bludger travelled the few yards from his bat to Krum's jaw. Harry flinched as Krum was upended, but the Broadmoor twins weren't done with their assault. Kevin rushed in, lunging at Krum. He led with his elbow, much like Krum had done minutes before on Ackerley. They both lost control of their brooms, and they appeared to stay in the air for ages, before finally landing with two loud thuds on the hard earth beneath them.

In the ensuing chaos, the Snitch had escaped, but no one cared; everyone was far too busy watching as Kevin Broadmoor and Viktor Krum rolled across the grass. There was a flurry of elbows and fists. Andrade was blowing into his whistle as hard as he could; players from either side were rushing in to break up the fight – or to get involved, it was hard to tell – and the crowd couldn't get enough.

"This is fucking brutal!" Sirius laughed.

Maddock ripped Kevin off of Krum with a large hand, almost pulling him to his feet in one movement by the scruff of his neck. Alasdair Maddock thumped his Beater on the back for good measure. Krum stood back up, looking a little shaky and spitting blood from his mouth. His jaw was at an odd angle, but he nodded at Kevin Broadmoor, before letting the fidgeting mediwizards treat him.

"And that's a penalty to Bulgaria, which will be taken when Krum returns to play," the commentator said, sounding a little hoarse.

Krum re-joined his team and Levski scored the penalty, meaning Bulgaria only needed to score once more to equal the game.

England had other ideas, though. Watkins continued her charge, notching up another three shots in the space of a few minutes, two of which sailed through the hoops to give England a thirty point lead.

"Bulgaria's getting restless," Remus said.

"I can't say I blame them after what happened in their last final," Harry said.

Remus was right. Watkins assisted Bragge to give England a forty point lead, and Krum was furious. He bellowed his disapproval to his team. Harry glanced at the scoreboard: BULGARIA 50 – 90 ENGLAND.

"And it's Levski again, who looks like he's trying to fly the length of the pitch on his own, and- oh! Maddock collides with him. Andrade doesn't blow for a foul, and Bragge is rushing towards Slovensky-"

Mutterings suddenly rippled around the stadium, and Harry spotted why just as the cheering started back up. Ackerley was going into a steep dive. Krum had noticed before anyone in the crowd, but he was all the way over the other side of the stadium.

Ackerley's broom was almost shaking as he cut through the air. He pulled up, barely escaping a crash, his speed hardly decreasing. Krum was suddenly right behind him. Karl Broadmoor sent a Bludger towards Krum, who dodged without even looking. Ackerley had to readjust his grip, but he managed to maintain his lead.

Not to be left out, Vulchanov decided to get in on the action. He tried to cut across the Seekers flying line, but Ackerley flew over him and Krum went under. Krum attempted to barge his opposing Seeker, but Ackerley was having none of it – he kicked out, his foot hitting Krum squarely in the forehead.

Krum lurched, yet somehow he was level with Ackerley. The two Seekers raced neck and neck down the length of the pitch – the Beaters had given up trying to get close to them – and headed straight for Oliver Wood. The Keeper watched with wide eyes, trying to scramble out of the way.

Ackerley flung out his arm for the catch, the Snitch within touching distance. Krum grabbed a hold of Ackerley's robes, but he couldn't grip properly, and suddenly Ackerley closed his hand around the Snitch and launched himself straight into Wood's arms. Wood was completely bemused for a split second, before he was suddenly cheering his head off. Ackerley was holding his hand aloft, his prize there for all to see.

"ENGLAND WIN! I don't believe it, Stewart Ackerley catches the Snitch! And Viktor Krum can only watch on in despair as the English clamber over each other."

Sirius was suddenly screaming in Harry's ear, hugging him for all he was worth. "We've won, Harry! We've done it!"

Harry couldn't believe it. Sirius was refusing to let go of him, and they were both screaming unintelligible words in each other's faces, completely elated. The sudden noise in the stadium was louder than anything he'd ever heard before. Sirius pulled away to lift Remus off his feet, but Remus was smiling as well.

"Come here, Potter!" Tonks pulled Harry into a hug, her smile bright and beaming.

Harry's cheeks were hurting as he turned to watch the team celebrating. Maddock was carrying Ackerley on his shoulders, despite still being at least fifty feet in the air. The Weasley twins were on the pitch, cheering wildly along with Wood. Bragge was so euphoric he was kissing Watkins for all he was worth, despite her having a boyfriend.

Viktor Krum touched down, hurling his broom to the floor. His head was in his hands. Harry could practically feel his frustration, but he was far too elated to care at the moment.

"Wait a minute," Seamus said, but he was mostly ignored. He was looking through the Omnioculars, rewinding them.

"Let me watch after you!" Sirius shouted.

Seamus pushed the Omnioculars into Harry's hands with a frown. "Just keep your eye on the Snitch."

Harry rolled his eyes, but he looked through the lenses anyway. He watched Ackerley suddenly turn and dive straight at the ground, all the way up the point where he jumped into Wood's arms.

"Well?" Seamus asked impatiently.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked, but he noticed the referee also had a pair of Omnioculars in his hands, and he was surrounded by officials.

Harry didn't hear Seamus's reply, instead looking into the Omnioculars again. He watched Ackerley chasing the Snitch again, with time slowed down as much as possible. "Err. I'm not sure what's wrong with it."

"Just wait," Seamus said, jerking his thumb towards the pitch.

Every player was now on the ground, demanding the officials to tell them what was happening. Andrade held the Snitch in his hands, and at least five people were inspecting it closely. Ackerley was protesting, most of the English team right there alongside him, but they were ushered away.

Harry sat down after a minute had gone by. The noise levels dropped considerably as everyone waited.

"I'm not sure what's happening, but I'm sure we'll be informed soon enough," the commentator said, sounding as confused as everyone else felt.

The officials and the referee all nodded, seemingly coming to a unanimous agreement. They hurried off the pitch, and Andrade was surrounded by the players again. He blew his whistle, and the commentator cleared his throat into the microphone.

"I can't quite believe what I'm told, ladies and gentlemen," he said. "It appears Stewart Ackerley didn't catch the game's Snitch. You heard that right. The Snitch that has been caught is a fake. The game will be continued, with the scores as they were – ninety to fifty."

"What?" Sirius asked dumbly. "Whoever heard of a fake Snitch? This is bloody bullshit!"

"I told you," Seamus muttered to Harry.

The English team didn't know how to react. They were forced back into the air, but they seemed to drag themselves back onto their brooms. They looked utterly deflated, whereas the Bulgarians looked like they had a new lease of life. Maddock was trying his best to encourage his team, but it didn't seem to be working.

"And here we go again," the commentator said. "Andrade blows his whistle and we're off once again. You can't help but feel a little sorry for the English. To think you've just won the greatest prize in the sport, only to have it snatched away minutes later must be horrible."

Levski snatched the Quaffle from the air.

"Just hope that Krum doesn't see the Snitch anytime soon," Seamus said. "He won't let Ackerley anywhere near it."

Seamus's words seemed to reverberate in Harry's brain, and he couldn't get them out as he watched the Bulgarian Chasers.

"Chernozemski – Levski - Chernozemski – Bragge!" The commentator whistled into the microphone, as Bragge practically tried to hug the Bulgarian Chaser. "Andrade blows – foul. Penalty to Bulgaria."

Wood dived completely the wrong way, and Bulgaria closed the gap to thirty.

It was obvious the life had been sucked out of the English. In two minutes, Wood had faced three shots, completely missing them all.

"Bulgaria pull level," the commentator said. "We have a game on our hands now!"

Just as everyone was expecting – and the English were dreading – Krum pulled his broom into a dive. Harry could only sit with his elbows perched on the railings, his chin in his hands.

"Wronski!" Sirius yelled. Unluckily, Ackerley couldn't hear him, as England's Seeker pulled into a dive with Krum. The English were screaming at him to pull away, knowing the usual outcome.

The two Seekers were vertical to the ground, picking up speed. Harry sighed to himself. Krum effortlessly pulled out at the last second, but Ackerley wasn't so lucky. He smashed into the ground with a massive thump. A unanimous groan went around the stadium.

The mediwizards rushed onto the pitch, crowding around Ackerley. Harry couldn't find it in himself to feel bad for his soon-to-be teammate; not many others could either. There was a strange sense of inevitability in the air. It was as though the English thought they'd been robbed of glory. One minute they were celebrating, and all of a sudden they had to psych themselves back up for the biggest match of their careers. There was nothing that could have been done to prepare for what had happened.

"Has there ever been a case of a fake Snitch before?" Sirius asked, looking like he'd just been told he was about to be carted off back to Azkaban.

"Not that I can recall," Remus said slowly.

"Surely someone must have thought of it before, though?" Dean said. "It seems so obvious, doesn't it? Why weren't there wards or charms in place to stop it happening?"

Remus shrugged helplessly, but it was Harry who answered. "No one has thought of it, maybe? Even if it has happened before, it's so rare there isn't really any point. The warding would be too intricate for something as small as blocking a fake Snitch."

Ackerley managed to get back to his feet, although how he did was a bit of a mystery. He stumbled as he tried to swing his leg over his broom, and swayed as he tried to get back into the air.

"Come on!" Sirius suddenly shouted, pumping his fist in the air. "Get back up! You've beaten him once!"

Harry kept his dubious thoughts to himself – he highly doubted Ackerley could see a Bludger coming towards him, let alone a Snitch.

Bulgaria continued exactly where they'd left off, and sadly, so did England.

"This is just a waiting game now," Dean said, watching as Levski scored again, giving Bulgaria the lead.

Ackerley was flying as close as he possibly could to Krum, but it wasn't nearly close enough for the plan to work. Krum made a dash, as if he'd seen the Snitch, and Ackerley nearly rolled off his broom trying to keep up. He looked like he didn't have a clue where he was.

"It's over," Harry stated.

"Have hope, Harry!" Sirius said, although his words weren't quite as passionate as he'd probably hoped.

Vulchanov and Volkov started sending Bludgers Ackerley's way, forcing the Broadmoor twins to protect England's Seeker. Krum was free to look for the Snitch. England's Chasers could hardly get a hold of the Quaffle, but even when they did, they could keep possession for very long.

Maddock chased the Quaffle, looking desperate; he knew it was his last chance to win the World Cup. The Bulgarian Chasers were toying with him, though. Levski waited until Maddock was close to him, before lobbing it over his shoulder to Chernozemski. Maddock turned, chasing Chernozemski, who simply threw it back to Levski, who didn't hang around, lobbing the Quaffle over Bragge's head.

Slovensky caught it, turned and shot, and the Quaffle was past Wood before he could ready himself for the save.

"One hundred and ten to ninety, and Bulgaria will surely go on to lift the trophy before long," the commentator said.

If it wasn't for the Bulgarian fans, the stadium would've been silent. While they were stamping their feet and singing Krum's praises, Harry and the English fans just wanted to be put out of their misery.

And finally, Krum put on a burst of speed.

"He's seen it!" The commentator didn't need to elaborate. Everyone knew what he was talking about. "He's getting closer, and the whole of Bulgaria will be singing this man's name for years to come. He's already a national hero, and nobody can say he doesn't deserve this. He avoids clashing with Bragge, and Krum's inches away from glory, and-"

Harry closed his eyes.

"YES! KRUM'S DONE IT! BULGARIA WIN!"

A giant roar, of relief and euphoria, erupted from every fan that didn't hail from from English shores. It was as though someone had just turned the noise to full blast – Harry could feel his body vibrating as his ears were assaulted.

Harry felt utterly empty. He pressed his palms into his eyes, hearing Krum's name being chanted. He couldn't watch the Bulgarian's celebrating.

Harry sometimes despised Quidditch.

7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Once again, I can't thank silentclock enough for his help.

Chapter Seven

Harry brushed his damp fringe out of his bleary and bloodshot eyes as he stepped out of the hut, revelling in the morning breeze soothing his exposed skin. It was early. The sun had barely begun to warm the island, and the sea looked even more inviting after such a stifling, uncomfortable night.

Chrysi was silent, a stark contrast to the pandemonium that had erupted a mere handful of hours earlier. Many had headed straight home after the match, yet their departure had hardly dented the crowd, who had partied into the night and well into the early hours.

The English had taken to drowning their sorrows, which hadn't been a surprise. Confusion seemed to override most people's anger, and it had been no different for Harry. He'd joined many in wondering who had made the decision to restart the game so quickly, and just how there had yet to be any official word on what had happened.

Despite the silence of the morning, Chrysi was by no means deserted. The oppressive presence of hundreds of Aurors and Hit-Wizards was unavoidable, as they continued to patrol the island. Harry could feel the trained eyes watching his every move as he strolled down the street. They'd come from far and wide to give a helping hand in controlling the crowds. He even spotted a few vaguely familiar faces donning the forest green robes of the British Auror Force.

"Potter," said one of the Aurors with a thick Scottish accent, tipping his head as strode past.

Harry paused for a second, wondering how his notice-me-not charm had been breached, before continuing on towards the stadium with a little more vigour in his step. He was sure he must have forgotten to re-apply the charm, but he didn't dare re-cast it – he was already surrounded by a bunch of men and women who were suffering from lack of sleep. It would be in his best interests not to do anything that caught their attention. They'd surely be onto him within moments. Maybe he was being paranoid, but Harry had been around enough Aurors to know how they dealt with situations.

The crunching of glass underfoot bore witness to the aftermath of the match. Harry spotted scorch marks dotting a number of huts, and numerous windows were shattered, the shards of glass nestled in the sand. It hadn't been a battle. It would probably be best described as a scuffle more than a full-scale riot, although not for lack of trying from a small section of the English fans. Fuelled by alcohol and driven by embarrassment, something had triggered their anger. Or maybe they'd started it all by themselves, but Harry couldn't be sure.

The brawl hadn't lasted too long with the amount of Aurors on hand, ready and waiting to break up any fights. Harry had watched the whole thing from afar, even as Tonks had rushed in to help her colleagues. For once he had watched as an outsider, rather than being the person stuck in the very middle of it all.

Harry continued on around the stadium, treading over old tickets that had been discarded in the sand, littering the beach. Two teams of wizards and witches had already begun the clean-up job, Vanishing the scattered rubbish with sweeps and flicks of their combined wands.

It wasn't long before Bulgaria's training camp came into view. A two-storey stone building was situated in the middle of a wide, fenced-off area. Smaller buildings, mostly made of wood, were placed strategically around the main structure. Harry could feel the powerful wards washing over him as he neared, sending him a clear warning.

A number of gruff-looking guards patrolled the fence surrounding the camp. As brutish as they all looked, they appeared to be torn between smiling and trying their very best to look intimidating. The result wasn't pretty.

Harry put it down to Bulgaria's win, because he'd never seen a guard looking so delighted.

As Harry approached the main gate, the two guards stiffened. They may have been ecstatic, but there was a reason they'd been hired to protect Viktor Krum and the rest of the Bulgarian national team.

The closest guard looked down at Harry, his dark eyes narrowing a fraction. Harry looked back in interest. The man resembled a bulldog with his large body and squashed face. Harry wondered how he could stand being dressed in thick, deep red robes. He loomed over Harry, his wide neck and broad shoulders tensed. He barked something in Bulgarian, revealing two rows of jagged teeth.

Harry shrugged uselessly, not understanding a single word that had just been said. The guard looked over to his partner, who had been looking on intently.

Harry cleared his throat, making sure to raise his voice a fraction and carefully enunciate every syllable of each word, as if it would make the slightest bit of difference. "I am here to see Viktor Krum."

"Potter?" The man pointed at Harry's forehead with a large finger, a thoughtful look appearing on his face. At least that answered the most pressing question of the day so far, Harry thought. He had forgotten to re-cast the notice-me-not charm.

Harry nodded swiftly. "That's me, mate."

The guard's demeanour shifted, although he still looked a little wary. The same couldn't be said of his colleague, who was still watching them with an almost calculating expression.

The guard opened his mouth to speak, but Harry held up a finger to stall his words, fumbling in his pocket to find the earpiece he'd used at the game. He pulled it out a moment later and stuffed it into his ear.

"Monsieur Potter?"

"Ah," Harry muttered, holding a finger up again. He pulled the earpiece out and switched the language from French to English, having no idea why he'd changed the settings in the first place.

"Can you prove you are Harry Potter?"

Harry lifted his fringe from his forehead, giving the guard a closer look. He peered at Harry's forehead with interest, now with a much better view of the cursed scar that had managed to dominate Harry's life.

"Aha! It truly is you! A pleasure to meet you, Mr Potter." The guard took Harry's hand, shaking it vigorously.

Harry smiled politely, silently relieved even as he tried not to wince. His fingers were being crushed. The reaction from the guard surprised him somewhat – surely someone used to dealing with a team of Quidditch players, not to mention Krum, would have gotten used to being in the presence of well-known people.

"Could you get Viktor Krum for me?" Harry said, gesturing towards the gate and what lay inside.

"Mr Krum?" The guard looked unsure. "He is inside."

"Yeah, I know that. Can you go and get him?"

"You want to see Mr Krum?" The guard asked slowly, shifting his feet and looking decidedly uncomfortable.

There was no denying that the earpieces were a genius idea, but it was a real pain when you only had one of them on hand.

"Yeah, I do," Harry said, nodding quickly.

The guard must have trusted him, because he turned to his partner and said, "Inform Mr Krum that he has a visitor. Harry Potter is here to see him."

The other guard strolled inside without so much as a nod.

Harry watched him go, ignoring the rumbling in his stomach as best he could. He just hoped he could get some breakfast soon. He needed something to soak up the alcohol and the shops had yet to open, so all thoughts of replenishing his stock of the wonderful Hangover Potion had been dashed the moment he'd staggered out of bed.

"Could I have an autograph, Mr Potter?"

Harry looked up in some surprise. The now fidgeting guard looked hopeful. Why he looked so nervous was a mystery to Harry.

"Got a quill?" Harry asked, using one hand to mimic writing and using the palm of his other hand as parchment.

The guard seemed to understood as he took to rummaging through his robes in search of the writing materials. Wizards really did keep too many objects on their person.

Harry had been asked for his autograph a few times in the past, but it always surprised him when it happened. It wasn't that he disliked doing it – in truth, he hadn't given that many – but he struggled to understand why people even wanted them. In his mind, it was just a scribbled name on a spare piece of parchment, and the signature was often indecipherable anyway.

Idolising someone for great feats and sheer brilliance was something he understood, and for all his bravado, Harry knew better than anyone that he wasn't quite in such esteemed company.

The guard cleared his throat. Harry looked up, blinking as he noticed the crumpled parchment and half a quill.

"Right," Harry muttered, quickly signing his name.

"You are signing autograph's now, Harry? I thought you hated having to do those."

Harry grinned as he heard Viktor's voice.

"What language did you say that in?" Harry asked, turning around in time to watch Krum's rare smile drop a fraction.

"English. You do not speak Bulgarian. Do you?"

"Thank you, Mr Potter," the guard quickly said, neatly folding the parchment and placing it into his robes.

"No problem," Harry muttered and wandered over to Krum. "I don't speak Bulgarian, no. You can, though. I've still got the translator earpiece from the game."

"Thank you, but I wish to continue with my practise of your language," Krum said, pushing open the gate and gesturing for Harry to go through.

Harry refrained from wincing. "Right. You do that, mate."

Krum looked at him with an odd expression. "It is better than it was?"

"Err…" Harry wavered.

"I have been having lessons to improve," Krum said.

"Really?"

"I did not know so many rules could exist for such a language," Krum admitted. "Maybe I have just not noticed them in my own language."

"Maybe," Harry said. "Any reason you're practising? Haven't got some bird waiting for you in jolly old England, have you?"

Krum frowned, and Harry could almost see him trying to work out what the hell Harry had just said. "I do not understand. Why would I have a bird waiting for me?"

"Never mind," Harry said, chuckling lightly. "So, shall we?"

Krum followed Harry's gesture and nodded, leading the way down a clear pathway.

"I see you received my letter, Harry," Krum said. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

"Not a problem, Vicky. Although your timing couldn't have been much worse." Harry winced. "I was surrounded by Englishmen at the time. I think a second round of rioting would've broken out had they seen who'd written to me."

"I did notice the fighting," Krum said.

"Hmm, bit hard to miss, really," Harry said. "Couldn't get some breakfast in this place, by any chance?"

"I will call an elf for us," Krum said.

"It's the least you could do, really."

"Oh," Krum said, turning to look at Harry. "Why is that?"

"You did break my heart last night, you know. Worse than that, though, Sirius is going to complain for weeks on end about this."

"What did I do to upset you and Sirius?" Krum asked, looking genuinely baffled as he stopped at the door of a hut.

"Err, you beat us? You know, in the final…"

Krum's lips hinted at a smile, and his dark eyes lowered. "Yes, I would apologise for that…"

"I don't expect you to," Harry said, stepping into a large dining hall. "Congratulations, by the way. I didn't want you to win, but it wasn't like anyone was all that surprised. Apart from Sirius, that is."

"Thank you." Krum's eyebrows knotted. "I think."

Krum took a seat at a simple wooden table with two chairs on either side. Harry took the one opposite him. The dining room was a long, modest room, with simple tables set up in rows. It had also been designed to allow in the maximum amount of light.

Krum looked down at the table. "Water, please."

A glass of water popped out of nowhere, nearly spilling as it wobbled, before Krum quickly grabbed it.

"I'll never get why wizards feel the need to do that," Harry said with a frown. "What if you were speaking about food and it suddenly appeared?"

Krum blinked as he worked out what Harry had just said. "It's about intention, is it not?"

"Who knows?" Harry shrugged, although he did know. Two-way Charms were placed on the table and the kitchen, and keywords usually triggered the action. "Anyway, I'll take four slices of toast, browned and buttered. Two eggs, two rashers of bacon, and two sausages. Oh, and beans. Lots of beans. A cup of coffee as well, please. Black."

Krum raised a dark, bushy eyebrow. "Do you usually eat this much in the morning?"

"Err." Harry looked down as his plate appeared before him, the smell already assaulting his nostrils. A cup of coffee joined the plate a moment later. "Yeah."

Krum's shoulders shook with silent chuckles. "You have not changed, Harry."

"I'll have to soon, I suppose," Harry muttered, chancing a sip of his coffee. It was, unsurprisingly, very good. "I'm just trying to eat as much as possible before I'm legally obliged to stop doing so."

Krum glanced at the overflowing plate. "I can see that."

"So, tell me," Harry said, waving his fork at Krum. "What do I need to do to get into proper shape? I fear I had a rather humbling experience with Fred and George not so long ago. And yes, I know they're Beaters, so they're usually the strongest players in the air, but what about me?"

Krum's dark eyebrow raised an inch. "You are strong at magic, yes?"

"Well, um, yeah," Harry said, narrowing his eyes. "Are you suggesting I cheat? 'Cause I could, you know. I reckon I'd get away with it, too."

"No!" Krum said quickly, nearly jumping out his chair in alarm. "No, I simply meant to ask if you are willing to duplicate your earpiece."

"Oh," Harry said, chuckling at Krum's reaction, and pulling out his earpiece. "You do know it only duplicates the objects appearance and not the magic, right?"

"You are powerful enough, Harry," Krum said with a firm nod. "I have seen wizards do such things before. And I have seen you perform advanced magic as well, I have every confidence in your abilities."

"I guess I could give it a try."

Krum waited patiently. Harry guessed the Bulgarian had gotten a little too irritated with trying to keep up. He'd been all right at the English language, for the most part, when he'd been at Hogwarts.

"Aha!"

"I do not see anything," Krum said, looking around frantically for the other earpiece.

"What?" Harry shook his head. "No, I haven't tried yet. I was just thinking about your English. Immersing yourself into the culture and all that, right? That's how you picked it up. I guess you've lost some it over the last few years."

"It is possible. It can be quite a challenge if no one else can speak English."

"You know," Harry said, pointing at the earpiece he'd placed on the table, "the makers of these little things probably put some sort of block on these. I'll be surprised if they can be duplicated."

"It does not need to work for long, Harry."

Harry grumbled to himself, nudging the earpiece with the tip of his wand. He cleared his throat. "Well, here goes nothing. Geminio!"

Nothing happened.

"That is unlucky," Krum said.

Harry glared at the earpiece. He'd forgotten what it was like to cast a spell and have nothing happen.

"Damn you, Vicky," Harry said. "I could feel something building, but it just refused to work."

"More power," Krum advised.

"Good thinking," Harry said with a nod. "That's what I always say. Geminio!"

The earpiece shot off like a rocket. Krum snatched it out of the air, completely taken by surprise. He winced slightly, flexing his hand.

"Nice reflexes," Harry muttered, trying not to sound too jealous.

Krum nodded slowly, placing the earpiece back on the table, before shuffling his chair around the table and out of the firing line.

"And you call yourself a Seeker." Harry snorted, eyeing the small earpiece with disapproval. "Geminio!"

A pop, a whistle, a small bang, and all of a sudden a hundred or more earpieces suddenly appeared out of thin air, clattering onto the table. Harry blinked and slid his chair back automatically.

"That," Krum said, "is why I moved."

"And that wasn't supposed to happen," Harry muttered. "Anyway, take your pick and see if it works."

Krum plucked a random earpiece off the table, inspected it, and shoved it into his ear. Harry pressed one into his ear as well, regardless of the fact it probably wasn't the original.

"Does it work?" Krum asked, moving his chair back around the table.

"Are you speaking Bulgarian?"

"I am."

"Then it works," Harry confirmed. He munched contentedly on a particularly crisp piece of bacon, when it occurred to him that Krum had yet to answer. "Well?"

"What do you mean?" Krum asked. He'd been busy gathering the earpieces and piling them on the other end of the table.

"How do I turn myself from complete novice to a relatively decent player?"

"Many people have asked me similar questions in the past, and I've told them all the same thing," Krum said slowly, an indecipherable expression on his face. "You have to practise."

"Well, yeah, that's a given," Harry said, placing his knife and fork onto his empty plate and pushing it away. "Anyone can train, though. What's so different about you? It can't just be your talent, surely? I know you're a prodigy and all, but there's got to be something more to it than that and training. What's the secret ingredient? What pushes you further into legend status while everyone else plays catch up?"

"I worked hard," Krum said seriously, and a tad defensively. "No one can simply be the best at what they do if they don't hone their skill."

"I guess it's a bit easier if you're already ridiculously skilful, isn't it?"

"You're a natural, are you not, Harry?" Krum said. "I remember you telling me the story. The first time you picked up a broom, you knew what to do."

"I'm not denying that I've got some natural talent, but I'm nowhere near your level," Harry said. "Hell, I'm nowhere near as good as you were when you were my age."

"I was coached from a young age." Krum dismissed Harry's argument. "While it is true, yes, that my ability was quickly discovered, I was still very young, and that only took me so far. My father taught me until he could no longer do so, and then I was coached by professionals. There is not a day of my childhood that I can remember where I was not in the air."

"Come off it," Harry said, chuckling a little incredulously. "Thousands of people have been coached, but nobody else is as good as you. You know as well as I do that you'd still be better than everyone else without the training."

"A matter of opinion," Krum said indifferently.

"Are you really going to sit there and tell me you don't think so?" Harry asked, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. "You're being called the best player to ever play. I don't care how much coaching you had, no one gets called that unless they're seriously bloody talented."

"It is impossible for me to compare myself with the greats," Krum said. "I have never seen them play. Maybe I'm as good as I am because of talent and hard work, but I'm sure I can't stop working."

"There isn't an easy option, is there?"

"No," Krum said quickly. "You will quickly discover that Quidditch will start ruling your life if you let it. Make sure you do not let that happen, or you will quickly become disillusioned with the game, and you will quickly find you haven't the heart to continue. When you are not training, stay away from even the sight of a broom. Spend time with your friends, relax, do what you want, but do not try and constantly think about the next game. No one can concentrate to their fullest all of the time."

"I'll be sure to do that," Harry said, nodding to himself as he thought of ways to relax. "Maybe I'll ask Tonks or Sirius to practise duelling with me. Or the twins, they're usually creative enough, and they always keep me on my toes."

Krum looked worriedly at him for a moment, before shrugging. "That is not what I would do to rest, but it is up to you."

"What do you do, then?"

"I spend most of my time with Mila."

"Mila?"

"My girlfriend." Krum smiled.

"Oh, yeah, I remember reading something about that." Harry thought maybe Hermione had mentioned it way back when. "What do you two get up to, then?"

"Oh, you know," Krum said blithely, his smile yet to disappear.

"It's like that, is it, Vicky?" Harry waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"You will have to meet her one day," Krum said, completely ignoring Harry suggestive tone.

"Looking forward to it."

The plate and empty mug of coffee unexpectedly blinked out of existence.

"Come on, we've been putting it off for too long," Harry said.

Krum sighed, getting to his feet. "Yes, I suppose we have."

Krum led the way out of the canteen and out into the grounds, which were still deserted. The hut Harry stepped into was much larger than the one he'd been staying in.

"Have a seat," Krum said, sitting in one of the two armchairs and gesturing to the other.

Harry took the other chair, but his eyes were on the coffee table separating himself and Krum. Or more specifically, the artefact on show.

"Beautiful, is it not?" Krum said proudly.

The World Cup trophy was enormous. He could see a few noticeable smudges on the polished silver. Bulgaria was the newest nation to be engraved into the side.

"How come you've got it?" Harry asked curiously.

"I am the captain."

Harry nodded. It made sense. "I want to win it."

"You have a long way to go," Krum said. "Maybe one day you will get your wish."

Visions of himself holding the trophy aloft sprang to Harry's mind. He could hear the crowd singing his name at the top of their lungs. Last night's match had instilled a desire within him that he didn't know he had.

Krum seemed unfazed by everything that came his way, from absolute adoration to bone-breaking fouls. He simply took it all in his stride, knowing that was the price he had to pay.

"Congratulations again, by the way," Harry said, turning to look at the Bulgarian. "I've flown with a few of the players who played last night. You made it look ridiculously easy."

"Thank you," Krum said. "I can assure you it was not as easy as you think, though. I can only wish you good luck for your first season. Stewart Ackerley was very fast last night."

"And so the unmentionable gets mentioned." Harry sighed. "Go on then, what's your take on last's night's main talking point?"

Krum twisted in his seat, reaching down the side of his chair. "Do you want champagne, Harry?"

"What?" Harry asked at the non-sequitur.

Krum picked up a bucket and set it on the table, next to the trophy. The neck of a champagne bottle bobbed in the sloshing water, which Harry guessed was the result of the ice melting overnight. "We were given champagne last night. Do you want some?"

"Err, go on, then." Harry waited patiently for the glass to be passed over. He took a small sip and grimaced.

"As to your question, everything is still unclear at this moment," Krum said.

"Yeah, I thought it would be." Harry nodded. "It happened so fast last night. One minute I thought we'd won and the next we were playing again. A fake Snitch, though? I've never heard of that happening before. The commentator didn't really say much about it last night, but I figured that was because no one really knew much at that point."

"It will likely be taken to the courts, Harry," Krum said. "The I.A.Q will not like what happened last night. They will want answers soon, and the public will be demanding them."

The I.A.Q – International Association of Quidditch – was the governing body in charge of international Quidditch teams, rules, and tournaments, and they wouldn't take too kindly to something happening in the final of the World Cup. Harry grimaced at just the thought.

"I just hope Ackerley doesn't take the brunt of their anger," Harry said.

"How do you know it wasn't his plan? He could have cheated."

"It isn't likely, but possible?" Harry shrugged. "Do you think he cheated?"

"No, I do not," Krum said, shaking his head. "I do not know Ackerley very well, but I do not think there are many players who would try something like that."

"It was a massive game, though. Can you imagine if he'd got away with it?"

"That is why I fear the I.A.Q will punish him."

Harry feared that as well. Players who had been found guilty of cheating in the past had rarely gotten off lightly, with punishments ranging from four-game suspensions all the way to lifetime bans.

"It is unlikely there will be any evidence," Krum said. "People are each given Omnioculars to record each individual player, so they will be inspected. Ackerley should know that."

"I think most people agree it was thrown in from a fan," Harry said. He wondered who could be stupid enough to do such a thing.

"I agree."

"What did you think about Fred and George not playing last night, anyway?" Harry asked. There really wasn't much to say about last night's antics, mostly because there wasn't all that much known about it.

"It was a surprise they didn't play, but only because they'd played every other game in the tournament," Krum said. "I heard the anger from the crowd as well, but I think Sawbridge made the correct choice."

"You do?" Harry asked in some surprise. "Don't let Fred and George hear you say that."

"Yes, they can sometimes let their emotions get the better of them, which would be disastrous in a final. They are very good players, and I think they will get better."

"Huh," Harry said, storing that information.

"They are very fast and not easy to escape, they can also hit the Bludgers quickly and powerfully."

"Tell me about it." Harry grimaced. "Those two were in my trial. I can't remember all that much of it, but I woke up in hospital the next morning."

Krum nodded, as if he'd expected nothing less. "I see. I must admit, it surprised when they turned professional."

"Not many people saw it coming," Harry agreed. "They were planning on opening their own shop for years, but they never had the money to make it happen."

"The joke shop, yes?" Krum asked unsurely.

"Yeah, that's the one," Harry said. "I offered them the money, but they turned it down. I think you inspired them."

"I inspired them?"

"Well, yeah," Harry said. "The stories you used to come out with inspired me as well. Professional Quidditch, travelling all over the world to play Quidditch – what's not to love?"

Krum appeared to be genuinely surprised by the news. Harry could remember when Krum would have everyone captivated with his tales, though. He would usually tell them after he'd soundly trashed Harry, Fred, George, and Cedric in Hogwarts stadium. If the weather had been bad, the group had found an abandoned or hidden room, or they'd simply taken to the stands if the weather had help up.

"Do you remember how that all started?" Harry asked. "When we met, I mean."

Krum frowned. "It was in the Great Hall, yes?"

"I'm not talking about that," Harry said, waving his empty glass wildly. "I'm talking about when you showed up and had a go on my Firebolt, and thoroughly embarrassed me in the process."

Krum chuckled softly, something which had seemed strange the first time he'd done so in front of Harry. The usual surly attitude and demeanour had dropped when Krum had gotten to know everyone and felt comfortable.

"I remember, Harry. I could not wait to meet you after I saw you flying against the dragon in the first task. I wished I had thought of it."

"You said the same thing back then." Harry laughed. "Cedric said he wished he'd thought of it as well."

"His death was such a shame," Krum said. "He was a good friend, and very talented on a broom."

Harry nodded, the memories of not so long ago coming back to him. "The best year of school for me, but probably also the worst in many ways."

It was hard not to remember Cedric without thinking of his death, but Harry could remember the person he'd actually been. Everyone knew him as the quintessential good guy, but what people didn't know was he had been as hard as nails as well.

Harry chuckled. "Did I ever tell you how I got to know Cedric?"

"No, you did not." Krum shook his head. "I've always wondered. Hogwarts always seemed to pride itself on House loyalty."

"Ah, that's just the stuck-up fools and the gits who can't make friends," Harry said with a scoff. "Cedric was as tough as they come, I tell you. It was us against Hufflepuff in my third year. It was pouring down with rain. Dementors were around the school at that time, and you know they came straight onto the pitch? You know my history. I had a bit of a hissy fit, but Cedric? He played on and caught the Snitch while everyone else was scared shitless. Cedric didn't even realise Dementors were on the pitch!"

"That sounds like Cedric," Krum said, his laughter joining with Harry's. "I would bet all of my fortune that he apologised?"

"He went one better," Harry said with a grin. "He offered me a re-match."

"Did you take it?"

"No." Harry shook his head. "I wasn't happy that I'd lost, but Cedric won fair and square. He wasn't happy with the way he'd won, though – thought he'd had it too easy. He came to me a few days later and said he'd thought of the next best thing – a one-on-one race for the catch."

"Is that how it started?" Krum asked curiously.

"Yeah," Harry said. "After that first time, we just sort of kept going. We set up some rules the first time, so we were both on equal footing. I couldn't use my Firebolt, for instance, so we just used the school brooms."

"Who won the first time?"

"Cedric. He just beat me," Harry admitted. "That's how it all started, though. It was a friendly rivalry, I suppose, but he became quite a good friend after that. Fred and George started joining in as well. We were their targets."

"And then I joined in for a year," Krum said.

"And neither Cedric or I caught a Snitch for a whole year," Harry grumbled

Krum raised an eyebrow. "Cedric got closer than you ever did."

"Only because the rest of us ganged up on you," Harry said frankly.

"He still got closer than you ever did, Harry."

"Yes, well…"

"In memory of Cedric, then," Krum said, raising his glass.

Harry returned it. "For Cedric."

"All of you always told me I would win this tournament."

A memory flashed across Harry's mind, and he couldn't control his snickers. "Oh, that's some irony for you."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you remember the night Fred and George made a bet with you?"

Krum shook his head.

"They bet that you'd win the World Cup, and you accepted," Harry said, grinning from ear to ear. "You knew you were going to win it one day, didn't you? I'll let them know they owe you when I see them."

Krum frowned. "I do not think it would be very nice of me to ask for their money."

"Up to you." Harry shrugged. "I'd take it, though. They bet me that you'd never pluck up the courage to ask Hermione to the Yule Ball."

"Oh," Krum said, his eyebrows creasing a fraction. "Is that why you introduced us?"

"Not really, I was going to introduce you anyway."

"Do you still speak with her?" Krum asked.

Harry looked away. "Err, no, not really. I haven't spoken to her all summer, actually."

"Why not?"

"We kind of just… drifted apart, I guess."

"What happened?" Krum asked.

Harry cast his mind back to fourth year. It had been his breakthrough year in terms of friends and relationships and everything in-between, and it had certainly opened his eyes to both the very best and the very worst things in the world.

"Funny that you, of all people, should ask that," Harry said. At Krum's questioning glance, Harry continued. "You know Ron Weasley, right?"

"He is the ginger boy, yes? Fred and George's little brother?"

Harry didn't think Ron would take too kindly to being described quite like that. "That's the one. Anyway, he had a bit of a thing for Hermione, so when he found out I'd introduced you to her, he blew his top."

Krum frowned. "Blew his top?"

"He got a bit angry," Harry explained.

Krum nodded in understanding. "Is that why you and Hermione don't speak?"

"That was just the start of it," Harry said. "After fourth year, everything seemed to change. You were there, you know what I mean."

At the start of the year, when Harry's name had flown out of that damned Cup, there had been uproar at Hogwarts. Just as the whole school seemed to turn on Harry, Cedric had announced he was delighted with the outcome, and he let just about everyone know he was happy with the new competitor. Cedric had believed Harry, and with Cedric's backing, most of the school had simply gone along with him.

Ron hadn't accepted it, though, and it had finally spilled over when he accused Harry of betraying him. Ron had refused to speak to Harry, and Harry ended up benefitting from the situation. He'd taken to spending more time with Cedric, Krum, and Ron's twin brothers. They'd convinced him to ask Parvati to the Yule Ball, they'd forced him to dance, and he'd surprised himself by thoroughly enjoying himself. Harry's first relationship was born that night, and with everything that was happening, he hardly noticed when the months passed without Ron uttering a single word to him.

"He did not like me, did he?" Krum said.

"You can say that again." Harry chuckled. "Don't worry, he wasn't too fond of me, either. He didn't speak to me all year, although I didn't attempt to talk to him, to be fair."

"That still does not explain why you and Hermione do not speak."

"Calm down, I'm getting to it," Harry said. "So, after everything that happened, Ron was a bit different when we went back for our fifth year. He wasn't happy that Hermione was staying in contact with you, so he concocted a plan to get his own back. It didn't work, of course, but Parvati got so annoyed with him hanging around me all the time, she set him up with Lavender. Merlin knows why."

"Who is Lavender?"

Harry had to smile. He still couldn't believe his ex-girlfriend had been so stupid. "Parvati's best friend."

"Wait," Krum said, holding up his hand. "Parvati tried to set Ronald up with her best friend, even though she did not like him?"

"Oh yeah," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "The girl could retain beauty charms with ease, but she could be as dumb Goyle sometimes."

"Who?"

"Never mind," Harry muttered.

Krum shifted in his chair. "Hermione did not mention any of this to me. She just spoke about how scared she was for you. She also said she was frustrated. She did not think you were including her in anything."

Harry winced. "Yeah, fifth year got off to a good start for me, or at least I thought it did. Dumbledore had been teaching me all summer-"

"That must have been fascinating."

"Yeah, it was…" Harry said. "Voldemort was back, of course, so I was only focused on him. I'd been busy all summer with Dumbledore. He was teaching me as much as he could and forcing me to practise every day. I didn't see or hear from many people that summer. I was shut inside, so when I actually did go back to Hogwarts, I don't think I realised what people thought about me."

"Hermione did mention this," Krum said.

Harry briefly wondered how much Hermione had told Krum, but continued on with his story. "That was the beginning of the end for mine and Parvati's relationship as well. Ironically enough, she's the reason Hermione and I aren't as close any more."

"It is Parvati's fault that you and Hermione-"

"It wasn't her fault," Harry said quickly. "Oh, no, it was my fault. Parvati's just the reason. See, Ron was with Lavender. He spent every waking minute with her, and Parvati wanted the same with me. I took the easier option of spending most of my time with her, so I didn't see much of Hermione. She and Ron could hardly stand to share a room for five minutes, and I was spending a lot of time on damn double dates."

Krum nodded and drained his drink. "Carry on, Harry."

Harry had the vague impression Krum was mocking him, but he did carry on. "I left Hogwarts for about six weeks. It might have been longer, it's all a bit of a blur to me. It was Dumbledore's idea. Voldemort was planning something, and let me tell you, you learn and practise a hell of a lot more when he's trying to kill you. Anyway, I returned to school after Voldemort was gone, and Parvati split up with me then and there. But what was I supposed to do? Drop everything, which would have meant letting Voldemort kill me, basically, just to spend time with my girlfriend? I don't think so."

"I agree," Krum said.

"I felt a bit guilty about not spending much time with Hermione, and whenever I spent time with her after that it just wasn't the same. Ron was still doing his best to glue himself to Lavender, so I starting hanging around with Fred, George, and Lee. So, yeah, that's how Hermione and I drifted apart."

"I do not speak with her anymore," Krum admitted.

"I still do, and I still talk to Ron as well, but I spend most of my time with the guys these days," Harry said.

"The guys?" Krum asked.

"Seamus, Dean, and Neville," Harry said.

How that group had formed was another story altogether. Sirius and Harry had gone to a Quidditch match in the summer before sixth year, and Seamus and Dean were there supporting Kenmare Kestrels, and there hadn't been a moment's peace for the rest of summer.

They'd bumped into each other again on the Hogwarts Express, and Harry had never laughed so much on his way to school before. Fred and George had left Hogwarts by that time, so Harry had spent nearly all of his time with Seamus and Dean, and Neville had started hanging around with them soon after.

The door opening jolted them from their conversation.

"Oh, Viktor, you must try the- oh!" A tanned woman stopped short when she spotted Harry, staring at him for a moment before turning to Krum. "Viktor?"

Krum stood up. "Harry, this is Mila," he said, pulling Mila into a brief hug and kissing her softly on the cheek. "Mila, this is Harry, a good friend of mine."

"Harry Potter? The one you've told me stories about?" Mila asked, tilting her head as she looked Harry over with dark, tempting eyes.

Harry wasn't ashamed to say he stared right back. Mila looked like she'd been enjoying her time in Greece – her healthy tan was evidence of that. Her full lips seemed like they would be incapable of frowning. Waves of dark hair trailed over her one shoulder, and Harry's respect for Krum went up a notch.

"Nice to meet you," Harry said.

Mila frowned and looked to Krum. "What did he say?"

Krum repeated Harry's words.

"It's very nice to finally meet you after hearing so much," Mila said, kissing Harry once on each cheek.

"It's just a pity I can't stay longer," Harry said.

"You're leaving, Harry?" Krum asked.

"Yeah, got the Portkey home soon," Harry said, shaking Krum's hand firmly and pulling him into a one-armed hug. "We'll have to catch up again some time."

"If I am ever in England, I will be sure to see you," Krum said.

"I'll look forward to it," Harry said, pulling open the door. "It was lovely to meet you, Mila. Nice going, Vicky. She's a lot different to Hermione, I'll give you that much. Not as pasty. Ta-ta."

"Yes. Goodbye, Harry," Krum said, purposely ignoring Mila's questioning look.

Harry whistled to himself as he made his way out of Bulgaria's camp. He had a few weeks left until the official start of his career, and in the meantime he'd be spending time with Fred and George, trying to get into a bit of a routine with his training before the real thing.

"Thank you for the autograph!" The guard waved cheerily, generating some odd looks from his co-workers.

Harry conceded to himself he'd have to get used to a hell of a lot of work, and he'd likely be signing more of those damned autographs as well.

8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: I've said it a few times, but big thanks to silentclock. Not just for this chapter, but also for the better summary and his help on the rewrite of the second chapter.

Chapter Eight

Harry stumbled into the kitchen, bleary eyed and yawning. Sirius muttered something from the table. Harry could only find it in himself to groan in reply, before dropping into the chair and resting his forehead on the cool wooden surface.

The summer hadn't been kind to him. He'd had all sorts of plans running through his mind since returning home from Greece, determined to make the most of his free time. His plans had dissolved within days. Instead of sipping ice cold beers and admiring the effect the hot weather had on women and their attire, Sirius had decided the both of them needed to take the Weasley twins up on their offer.

Despite his initial reluctance, Harry had gone along with it, lying to himself that he would have been bored for weeks on end otherwise. He knew he would eventually reap the benefits. He just wished he'd realised beforehand what he was getting himself into.

In Harry's mind, there wasn't a thing he could have done to prepare.

At least, that's what he kept telling himself.

Fred and George were unrelenting taskmasters, pushing themselves and Harry to the very limit, despite the merciless, scorching sun beating down on their bare backs as they worked. The twins honed in on all of Harry's many weaknesses, giving him their full concentration, preparing him for the demanding life that lay ahead.

Harry relished the back-breaking work in many ways, having never been put through his paces in such a physical manner before. The closest parallel he could think of was the summer before his fifth year, when he'd worked his magic to its limits, and then kept pushing. While his body was being consistently tortured and hardly coping with the strain it was forced to endure, Harry was slowly getting used to the regimen.

It was pride that stopped him from giving up. It kept him going, even when he just wanted to stay in bed and call Miss Mayflower from Magical Masseuses.

Sirius shuffled out of his chair. He squinted at Harry, looking deep in thought.

"What's got you so concerned?" Harry asked, grabbing a slice of cold toast and nibbling the crust. "Don't need to see another Healer, do you?"

Sirius frowned. "No, no, nothing like that. Just out of interest, what time do you start training?"

"Um, nine?" Harry said. He noticed Sirius grinning at him ever so slightly. "What?"

"Check your watch, kid."

Harry glanced down at the hands of his watch, finding the numbers blurred for a moment. He winced reflexively when his eyes focused.

"Why didn't you bloody wake me?"

Sirius shrugged unapologetically. "I only just got out of bed. Ungodly hour if you ask me."

Harry clenched his teeth and jumped out of his chair. "This is just great, isn't it? My first day and I'm late."

"You'd better hurry up, then, hadn't you?" Sirius said blithely, making his way back out of the kitchen. "I'm going back to bed. Let me know how it went."

Harry scoffed, very much wanting to throw something at his Godfather's retreating back. Instead, he grabbed Sirius's leftover mug and gulped down the lukewarm coffee. Quickly checking he had his wand, and finding that he did, he Disapparated with a louder than normal crack.

For a split second he was walking in mid-air when he reappeared outside the gates leading into Puddlemere's training ground, which were opened wide. Finding he still had a piece of toast in his hand, he took a quick bite and threw it over the wall. He brushed the crumbs from his shirt before he stepped inside. Taking a quick look around but finding no one, he jogged over to the door leading into the corridor.

He glanced at his watch again, breaking into a run when he realised exactly what the time was.

Harry crashed through the door, sending it flying into the wall with a loud thud. He skidded to a stop in the middle of the room. Doubled over and panting, he held up a hand in apology as he tried to catch his breath. "Sorry I'm late!"

Puddlemere's squad gawked at him. Fred and George grinned, their eyes lighting up in delight. A shirtless Oliver Wood shook his head, his bare shoulders slouching in disappointment.

"Where the hell have you been, Potter?"

Harry jumped at the sudden noise, whirling around, his wand immediately finding its way into his hand.

Phil's eyebrows crawled up his crinkled forehead.

Harry swallowed heavily, hastily stuffing his wand away.

"You're late," Phil said.

Harry grinned a little guiltily. "Err, yeah. Sorry about that, Phil. I forgot to set my alarm. Stupid, I know, but the bloody Wireless has been blaring out the same damn songs all summer, and, well –"

"Don't let it happen again," Phil said, giving Harry a clear warning.

"I won't."

"Good. Now sit down." Phil turned to face the squad. "Now that Potter has decided to grace us with his presence, maybe we can finally begin."

Harry ignored the squad's laughter as he took a seat on the bench next to Ackerley. The older Seeker winked at him.

"And as chance would have it, Potter happens to be the first order of the day," Phil said. "Introduction time, Potter. Tell us about yourself."

Harry looked up warily from staring at the floor, noticing everyone else was looking much more jovial than him. "Um, what?"

"Tell us about yourself," Phil repeated, looking at him expectantly. "You're not the only celebrity in this room. We've all had bad press. We've all been in the papers before. In your own words, who are you?"

"Well, I'm Harry Potter." He scowled at the laughter his words triggered, no one laughing harder than Fred, George, and Wood. "What's so funny about that?"

"We need a bit more than that, Harry," Fred said.

"Why?" Harry asked. "You know me. Everyone else will get to know me as well. Why do I need to tell everyone my life story?"

"Merlin," Merton muttered. "You only need to tell us a bit about yourself. We don't need to know how many birds you've shagged or your darkest desires."

Harry flushed slightly. "Well, what's there to say?"

"Why did you decide to pursue a life in Quidditch?" Phil pressed.

"Why does anyone?" Harry asked. "I loved playing in Hogwarts. There was nothing else I wanted to do. I was on the same team as those three for years." Harry nodded at the twins and Wood. "When they all made it, I realised I wanted the same."

"I suppose that'll have to do," Phil said. He nodded to someone behind him, before addressing the players, "I'd like you all to listen to something."

The players glanced at each other in some surprise. Crackling filled the room for a moment, before a voice started to speak through the Wireless.

"What of Puddlemere United, then, Jim?"

"I have to admit it, John, I'm surprised Deverill hasn't brought in more players this summer. Now, far be it from me to tell a great manager like Deverill how to do his job, but I suspect he may come to regret his decision to go with youth over experience, despite the promise the youngsters have showed us thus far. I'm afraid it's not much more than that at the moment, though. They're very talented and highly motivated, but they still have to prove themselves."

"We'll start with Andrew Merton –"

A big cheer went up in the dressing room. Maddock ruffled Merton's long hair, and the younger man looked used to such treatment.

"He showed signs last year, and there's no questioning his ability. Whether he'll ever reach the levels set by Maddock and Bragge is another question. What we mustn't forget is Merton hasn't added composure to his game yet, but he's still very young. That should come with age. He played outstanding in the last few matches, and if it wasn't for those few games, we'd all be talking about the mistakes he made beforehand. When it mattered, he didn't produce. Now, I'm not saying it's his fault that Puddlemere didn't win the title, but he has to elevate his performance this season."

"How do you think he performed this summer, Jim? He didn't play in the final, but it was his first tournament with the national team."

A sigh was heard clearly through the small speakers, and a shuffling sound followed it, before Jim said, "He did okay. I don't want to be overly critical of anyone, especially not someone just starting out in the game and still with a lot to learn. I've seen potentially great players crumble from such things before, their confidence shattered by the weight of expectation. Merton will have to deal with that, and to be fair to him, he didn't look out of his depth. Nothing was really expected of him in the summer or last year, but all eyes will be on him now. If he can continue where's he's left off, I predict only good things for him in the future."

"What of Sawbridge's decision to drop Fred and George Weasley in the final, then, Jim?" John asked. "The fans obviously didn't agree. Did the twins really perform as well as people are making out?"

"I am one of the few that actually agrees with Sawbridge's decision not to play them in the final," Jim said.

The squad muttered amongst themselves.

"Don't misunderstand me, John," Jim said. "I think the twins are very exciting, and they will only get better, but the final would have been a step too far for them. They have a good all-around game, but they don't have the presence that others have, such as the Broadmoor twins. Fred and George are scintillating when they're on form, but the Broadmoor twins have vital experience. As we know, Krum was far too good on the night for Kevin and Karl. The Weasley twins wouldn't have gotten anywhere near him, and they might have lashed out, as they've shown in the past when things aren't going their way."

"To be fair, Jim, who has found a way to stop Krum?"

"Despite what I just said, I don't buy in to such nonsense. He's been stopped before. A hard task? Most definitely. Impossible? Nearly, but not quite."

"We come on to Stewart Ackerley, then, Jim. The I.A.Q has announced an investigation will be launched into what transpired during the game. Can Puddlemere manage without him?"

"It's difficult to say, John. He had an incredible season last year, and they haven't really got anyone to replace him. I expect we'll come on to the back-up Seekers in a moment."

"Any words on what you think the I.A.Q will have to say on the matter?" John inquired.

"I have no idea, but if Ackerley is found guilty, I can't see them going easy on him, and rightly so."

Ackerley shuffled his feet a little. He was gripping the bench. No one had very long to think on the matter, because John started speaking again.

"Oliver Wood had yet another good season. Over half of his passes out from goal resulted in the team scoring, and he saved over seventy per cent of the shots that came his way, which is remarkably high."

"I'll put my wand on the line and say he's the best Keeper this country has had in the last twenty years," Jim stated firmly.

Another cheer went up in the dressing room. The man in question looked distinctly proud.

"Bradley Bragge is a player who always seems to get overlooked, Jim?"

"I can't understand why," Jim said. "He runs that Puddlemere team. He might not be the captain, but he certainly dictates play. He's got it all. He can score, he can defend – what more do you want from one of your Chasers?"

"How about the old man of the team?"

"Maddock is getting on a bit, but he's still got something left to give. He's taken a step back in recent years, to let the likes of Bragge come in and start running the show. He can break up play and pass the Quaffle out as good as anyone, though. I expect a good, strong season from him, because it may well be his last."

"Not much can be said yet about our last player."

"No, I'll reserve judgement on Potter, but if he has any chance of making his mark on this team, he'd better be as good on a broom as he is with a wand. Better, even."

"Final prediction, then," John said. "Where do you think Puddlemere will finish come the end of the season?"

"If Ackerley manages to worm his way out of a suspension, I suspect they'll finish near the top. They haven't got enough experience yet, in my opinion, so I'm going to say a respectable third place."

The changing room was quiet when Phil turned to them. "As you can see, no one expects anything from us this year. We're being questioned."

The players were nodding, listening intently as Phil spoke.

"I didn't go out and splash the Galleons on players for a reason," Phil said. "I believe you're all good enough. Our first game is against Wigtown. We'll be working on our tactics and setting out a game plan closer to the match, but as you all know, they won't be pushovers. They may have finished second from bottom last season, but they're a tough team to play. We'll need to be sharp. We'll need to be tough, and we're going to have to face up to them."

"Got a nasty scar on my shin from when we played them last year," George said, lifting his trouser leg up to show everyone. A ragged, white line ran down from just below his knee to his ankle, hardly noticeable against his pale complexion. "I'd like to get my own back."

"I don't want you instigating another fight this season," Phil warned, rounding on the twins. "In fact, you'll be getting a hefty fine coming your way if you do. Manage a whole season without initiating a brawl and you'll receive a nice bonus."

Fred and George rubbed their hands at the prospect.

"Does that mean we can rile them up and force them to throw the first punch?" George asked lightly.

Phil threw them a wicked grin. "That's the aim of the game, isn't it, boys? Can't play if they lose their heads, can they?"

"What about accidentally leaving a trailing bat in the face of someone, gaffer?" Fred asked innocently.

"Accidents will happen. There's nothing that can be done about that," Phil said, straight-faced.

"Just don't get caught, right?" George asked.

"Obviously," Phil said. It wasn't hard to tell Phil was an ex-Beater. "Anyway, we'll take it light out there today. Let's just get back into the swing of things. We'll start with some exercises, throw in a bit of flying, and finish up with a quick game. How does that sound, lads?"

The squad jumped up in approval.

"Chop-chop, then." Phil clapped his hands twice in time with his words. "Potter, you stay behind for a moment."

The team hurried out after waiting for a few of the players to finish pulling on their training kits. Phil's assistant and staff followed them out, leaving Harry alone with his manager.

"Is there a problem?" Harry asked.

Phil shook his head and took a seat next to his newest signing. "Nope, just wanted to have a quick word with you. I know how daunting it can be walking into a room full of Quidditch players. I was in your position once."

"I know most of them," Harry said.

"And they all know you," Phil said wryly. "If you do have any questions or problems, don't hesitate to come to me. You'll get to know everyone around the place before long, I'm sure."

"Thanks," Harry said, wondering where the kind persona had sprung from. "What about schedules?"

"I'll let everyone know what the plans are a day in advance," Phil explained. "If the team needs a break, you'll get one. I usually have everyone come in daily in the build up to a game. We always start at nine on the dot, so don't be late again. We always break for lunch at twelve, but other than that, things are quite relaxed around here."

"What do we do after lunch?"

"Day's usually over," Phil said. "Players usually stay for an hour or so, just to use the gym or get any needed treatment. Like I said, it's very relaxed. You can make use of whatever you want around here. I might ask you to work on something now and again, but other than that, it's entirely your call."

"I guess each day is different, then?" Harry asked, starting to get an idea of what he should expect.

"That's correct," Phil confirmed. "I decide what the plan of action is, but expect to work on a lot of drills. In the week before a game, we'll usually concentrate on who we're playing, so some things get altered slightly. Don't forget, though, we like to maintain our own way of playing."

"A game of style and brutality," Harry said.

Phil chuckled softly. "Puddlemere through and through, I see."

"You can count on that."

"Anything else you want to know before we head out?" Phil asked, getting to his feet.

Harry chewed on his lip. "Um, yeah, there is. I know I can't expect to suddenly start playing every game or anything, but I was wondering about my chances. Have you got any plans for me yet?"

Phil offered him a smile. "Don't worry, you'll get your chance. I don't expect you to catch every Snitch, nor do I expect you to be brilliant all of the time. I won't lie to you, though, you won't get as many games as you'd probably like, at least not yet. But when you do get a game, I want you to give it your all. That's all I can ask of you."

Harry's fears were relieved a little. "I can understand that. I wasn't expecting to have too much game time."

"Just make sure you enjoy yourself, all right?" Phil said. "It's your first day and you might think all of this will last forever, but I can assure you that it doesn't. Savour every second of it, Harry, because you can't get it back when it's gone, and I'm afraid it's over far too quickly."

Harry stood, suddenly itching to get out there with the rest of his team. Phil's words made him think of Hogwarts. He missed the old castle, and knew he probably always would. "Thank you, Phil."

Phil handed Harry his training kit. It was a simple short-sleeved jersey and a pair of shorts.

"It can get a bit hot out there," Phil explained upon noticing Harry's surprise. "We usually start wearing our training robes in the week before a game. It doesn't take long to adjust to them, but the difference isn't enough to force us to wear them every session."

Harry stored that information. He expected the dress code would change when winter rolled around and the biting winds and the cold really set in.

"Just one more thing, Harry," Phil said. He picked up one of the brooms off a shelf on the wall. "Do try and take good care of it, I know what Seekers are like. You manage to break them more than the rest of the team combined."

Harry eagerly took the state of the art Firebolt. His surname was engraved into the handle in flourishing gold letters. It somehow made him feel like he really did belong in the Quidditch world, like he really was a professional player. Something so simple, yet it made it feel all the more real. "I'll try to hold onto it for as long as possible. I've managed to keep my own Firebolt for a fair few years."

"I hope you do, I always had an affinity for my brooms," Phil said, holding open the door. "Some players don't mind breaking them so much when the money doesn't come from their own vaults."

Phil led the way to the pitches, already jotting something in his notebook with a self-inking quill. It reminded Harry of the notes he'd taken during the World Cup final. He'd have to go over them again.

"Oh, and Harry?" Phil said. "Stay back after lunch. You need to be looked over so we can work out your personal fitness regimen. It's standard for every player. You'll have to go through it at the start of every season and after you come back from the winter break."

"Right," Harry said slowly. "Will I need my own Healer for that?"

Phil shook his head. "No, you'll only ever need your own Healer for when you're recovering from any injuries. You can, of course, use the Healers here for any minor treatment, but your own Healer will be the one to set you on course back to full fitness."

Harry still didn't understand the law behind that.

"Here he comes!" Fred catcalled.

Harry winced, hardly daring to look up. The whole squad had gathered around Phil's staff on the second pitch, and Harry was fully aware that all eyes were on him.

"I've seen bigger calves on women, Potter," Ollie called to him, smiling as he welcomed Harry into the fold, slinging an arm around his shoulder.

"Now, now, Ollie," George chided. "You're not one to talk about such delicate matters, are you?"

"What was her name again, Ollie?" Merton called.

"Don't you mean what was his name?" Fred said.

Ollie blushed furiously, ignoring the laughter and jeers as best he could.

"Something I need to hear?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow. He realised they'd started to jog. How he hadn't noticed was a wonder.

"No, it's not," Ollie said.

"Mind you, Potter," Fred said, waiting a beat for the laughter to die down. He made a point of turning around and staring at Harry's knobby knees. "Have you ever actually used those things you call legs before? Or do you make it a point to fly everywhere?"

"He's right." George laughed. "Little Gin-Gin has bigger legs than you!"

"Nah, she doesn't," Harry said, throwing a sly wink at Ollie. "And I should know, shouldn't I? They've been draped over my shoulders often enough."

Ollie snorted, loudly. Merton guffawed, and Fred and George suddenly stopped, nearly tripping over their own feet and forcing the rest of the team to come to stop.

"You and Ginny?" Fred asked, looking a little dazed.

As soon as Ollie's shoulders started shaking in repressed laughter, Harry couldn't help it, soon joining in with his old captain.

"What's so funny?" Fred asked, looking around a bit bewildered as the team sniggered at him and his twin.

"I think we've been had," George muttered.

Fred appraised Harry, as if he was looking at him in a new light, although he still looked a little fearful. "Just to clear it up, you haven't actually slept with our sister, right?"

Harry shook his head, still chuckling.

The twins sagged in relief.

"I have, though," Oliver said.

The twins stiffened, staring at Ollie in horror. Ollie couldn't take it, and started cracking up.

"Merlin, what's gotten into the pair of you?" Merton asked.

"I don't know," Fred said forlornly, starting the jog again.

Harry just shook his head at the antics, trying to shake off the burning starting up in his legs.

He needn't have worried, though, as the team took him through their usual stretches after they'd finished the simple jog.

"Flying lines," Phil announced, to general approval.

Phil's assistant waved his wand, and suddenly hoops appeared, suspended in mid-air. Some were high in the air, while one was touching the ground.

"Your times will be going up on the blackboards," Phil said. "Potter, in case you're wondering, this is for your speed, agility, and reaction time. As you can see, the hoops range in size, but there's a clear line for you to follow. Right, form a line."

Harry found himself behind Wood and in front of Bragge. His nerves were a little on edge, despite the relative ease he expected from the training drill. Those thoughts were dashed a moment later.

"It's not as easy as it looks," Bragge said.

Harry looked over his shoulder, in time to see Bragge brushing his wavy hair across his forehead – Harry noticed his hair was the same shade of brown as his eyes. "Got any tips?"

"Fly too fast and you won't make the next hoop. They can get pretty damn close when you're flying at speed."

"Thanks," Harry said, turning back in time to see Phil with a whistle between his teeth. He blew it.

Ackerley started proceedings. His name appeared on the blackboard. His time was next to his name, written in white chalk, but the numbers were constantly changing. It was odd to see magic applied in such a way.

Ackerley's toes were nearly touching the ground upon entering the first hoop, and he had to shoot up to make the second. Harry watched in something akin to awe, as Ackerley manoeuvred expertly, hitting the hoops just in time, before he came to the final one, which was turned on its side. He took it perfectly, swooping up to miss the ground, the tail of his broom brushing the blades of grass.

Stewart Ackerley – 00:41:96.

"Forty one point nine, that'll be tough to be beat," Bragge said, whistling appreciatively.

"Yes!" Ackerley pumped his fist in the air at seeing his time.

"He's never taken longer than forty three seconds," Bragge explained to the unasked question.

Merton went next, kicking up off the ground to shoot through the hoop with some extra speed. He wobbled on his way out, but kept control.

"He's going for it, all right," Bragge said with a grin, framing his eyes from the sun with his hand as he watched Merton fly.

Andrew Merton – 00:44:73.

Fred went next, hitting a time of just over forty six, while George just beat his twin.

"Always knew I was the better of us," George said, raising his arms in victory.

Wood went next, and Harry suddenly realised he was coming up. He'd been watching the others so intently that he hadn't worked out a plan of his own. Wood landed far too early for Harry's liking, and Harry didn't bother to look at the time he set.

Phil blew the whistle.

It usually went one of two ways when Harry rushed head on into something without even the hint of a plan. It either worked out better than expected or it resulted in complete disaster.

Maybe it was a good thing he had no time to worry about a plan and get himself worked up. Harry decided to just go hell for leather. He flew through the first hoop with his head down, and pulled the broom up as soon as he was through. The Firebolt reacted instantly, sending him into the skies. He took the second and third, building his speed, and suddenly wrenched the handle to his right, barely managing to make it through the fourth. He dived, getting through the fifth – he turned sharply, knowing the course would take him up again.

The sixth and seventh hoops were at a slight angle. He got them, and twisted sharply to his left to make the eighth. The ninth through twelfth hoops were on the other side of the field. He let the speed build. He knew everyone had been around the thirty-second mark at this point. It seemed faster when you were flying it.

Four rings provided a half-circle to bring him back around. Harry squeezed through the first three, but his foot caught on the fourth. It slowed his speed by half. He quickly shook it off, urging his new broom on.

The thirteenth hoop was high, at an angle to get into perfect position to perform what was basically a Wronski Feint. It was the last two hoops that slowed people down the most. Harry dived through, to hell with the consequences, and eyed up the last hoop. It came at him faster than he'd been expecting – he could feel his brain forcing him to right his broom a second before he reached the hoop.

The tail of the broom thudded against the ground, but Harry held it somehow, and immediately sought out his time.

Harry Potter – 00:45:15.

Four seconds was the difference between himself and Ackerley. It didn't look like much, but in Quidditch terms it was momentous. Harry didn't let his head drop – at least not too much. He forced himself to remember that he had years to better himself.

"Hell of a time, Potter!" Phil shouted encouragingly. "You're not far off the Chasers."

"He's right," Wood said, as soon as Harry landed behind him. "Give it a few months and you should shave a few seconds off that."

Bolstered by Phil's words and Wood's encouragement, Harry flew his second and final turn. He didn't beat his time, but he was only half a second away.

"Not bad, lads, not bad at all," Phil said, nodding at them with a pleased smile.

"Hey, what about us?" Matilda Smethley said, motioning to herself and Veronica Hookum. "Do we look like one of the lads to you?"

"Well…" Fred said, grinning.

"You'll get your chance to hit out for that, if you can just wait a few minutes," Phil said, looking very much like he wanted to roll his eyes. "Seekers, take the bottom field with Benjy."

Harry scrambled to follow his fellow Seekers down to the bottom pitch. Ackerley was the main Seeker these days, but before him had been Benjy Williams. It had surprised no one when Phil had hired him as the Seeker coach. Benjy looked just about as old as Phil as well, with flecks of grey in his mass of dirty blonde hair. He had a sense of gracefulness about him, and he'd been known as a very composed player under pressure.

Harry turned to the other Seeker. Her brunette hair was tied back, and her jersey was tight across her chest, loosening as it reached her midriff. Her shorts were tiny, showing off long, shapely legs. Harry simply stared for a few seconds, before focusing on her lips as they moved.

"Are you ready?" she asked in melodic Irish accent, bouncing on the ball of her feet as she and Harry landed. She smiled widely, and it lit up her eyes. Harry had never seen someone who looked like they used their whole body to smile before. The small dimples in her cheeks looked like they'd never disappear. "I'm Alanna, Harry, but call me Murphy. Everyone else does."

"Nice to meet you," Harry said. She was very bubbly, reminding him slightly of Tonks.

"Show the kid what to expect, Stewart," Benjy said, mounting his broom and taking to one end of the pitch.

Harry followed Murphy and Ackerley to the other end.

"It's mainly tracking the balls he sends our way," Ackerley said. "Murph, you go first. Show him how it's done."

Benjy was sat atop his broom, holding his wand towards the Seekers. A small, black ball, about the size of a Snitch, shot from his wand and straight into the air. Murphy was off, soaring through the clear sky, her jersey riding up the small of her back.

"How long do we usually keep this up?" Harry asked, watching Murphy make a clean catch before shooting off for the next.

"Until you miss one," Ackerley said with an easy grin. "Then someone else goes, and so on. I doubt we'll do much today. It's all been easy so far, but it usually is on the first day. I expect Phil will call for a quick game soon."

"How will that work with three Seekers, then?" Harry asked curiously.

"We'll just play with a two on one." Ackerley pointed towards Benjy. "You fancy giving it a go yet?"

"Sure. How many did Murphy catch?"

"Oi, Murph, what did you get to?"

Murphy flew back to them, a few strands of hair falling into her face. "Managed twenty three. Nowhere near my record."

"There you go, Potter, try and get close to that," Ackerley encouraged.

"Ready, Potter?" Benjy shouted.

Harry got into position, gave the thumbs up to Benjy, and waited. It felt like an age before Benjy finally released the first ball. It was a simple enough catch – Harry nabbed it before gravity took hold, before he dropped to comfortably grab the second. Benjy varied his next few shots. Harry swore the coach was just flinging his wand in random directions.

Benjy started adding two balls into the mix. One went high, while the other went spinning off to the left. Harry managed to keep up, but he was twisting and turning all ways. Benjy lowered his wand, so the balls had less distance to fall. Harry swooped down on the far left of the pitch, grabbing the ball before it hit the ground. He looked up to see the next ball being sent to the bottom of the pitch – he chased it, despite knowing how unlikely it was that he'd get there.

"Sixteen, Potter!" Ackerley shouted.

Murphy applauded enthusiastically. "Better than my first attempt, Harry. I slammed straight into the ground."

It was an abysmal start, in Harry's opinion, although he smiled in thanks to Murphy and Ackerley. It felt like his nerves were holding him back, even though he'd never struggled with them before. He almost felt sluggish on the broom, the Firebolt not building its speed like he was used to. He wasn't sure whether to put it down to himself or the broom.

He brought the issue up with Ackerley.

"A player never blames his broom, Potter," Ackerley admonished.

"What if something is wrong with the broom?"

Ackerley didn't help matters by catching over fifty balls. The only reason he stopped was because Benjy got bored and accidentally lowered his wand too far, pointing it straight towards the ground.

"What's his record?" Harry turned to Murphy.

"You don't want to know," Murphy said, and Harry completely agreed with her.

Before Harry knew it, the morning had flown by. Benjy had continued with the same drill, and Harry soon found that chasing the balls over and over again was far too repetitive for his liking, not to mention rather tedious. He consoled himself with the fact that his catch-count was rising. Slowly and steadily, admittedly, but rising nonetheless.

"I thought training would be a little more, um…" Harry trailed off, shrugging uselessly as the Seekers walked back up to the main pitch.

"Exciting?" Ackerley asked, receiving a nod. "It might be boring, but you get used to it after a while. Just think of it from a competitive point of view. That's what gets me through it. Try and catch up to me or just try and consistently better your count."

"It's still a bit monotonous, isn't it?"

"Oh yeah," Murphy said, nodding furiously.

"Not what you were expecting then, Potter?" Benjy asked.

Harry shrugged apologetically. "No, not after my trial."

For some reason, Ackerley and Benjy sniggered at that.

"What am I missing?" Murphy asked, grinning a little in confusion.

"You should have seen it, Murph." Ackerley chortled, clapping Harry on the back. "Just wait until we start getting into the team training or you go up against him. He's mad."

"I watched from the stands," Benjy said, nodding approvingly. "Couldn't believe you lasted as long as you did. You're a tough nut, Potter, no doubt about it."

Harry took the comments as compliments. "So, will training become more like my trial?"

"Oh, don't get too eager just yet," Benjy said, chuckling. "Your trial was a good indication of what you can expect. There are a number of scenarios you'll be working at. You'll train in a team. You'll work with the Chasers on attacking and defending formations."

"And the Beaters?" Harry asked, spotting Fred and George landing by Phil.

"The good news is you'll learn the calls and signals to get the Beaters to help you during the match," Ackerley said.

"The bad news is, you'll also have to get used to Beaters ganging up on you," Benjy said with a grin. "Always my favourite part of training."

Harry quietly thought Benjy was a little nuts, but was at least bolstered by the news that training would soon pick up.

They reached the main pitch and joined up with the rest of the squad, who were all waiting on the Seekers.

Phil glanced down at his watch. "All right, we'll break early for lunch today."

The lunchroom was spacious, with a long table pressed up against the back wall. Sandwiches were spread across the table, a range of fillings to pick and choose from, such as lean ham, chicken or tuna. Mixed salads and a variety of fruit was piled up.

Harry picked bits of everything, piling it all on his plate. There were two other tables in the room, one for the players, the other for staff. Harry quickly took a seat next to Fred. He took a bite out of his sandwich, eagerly scoffing it down.

Wood placed his plate on the table, smiling at Harry as he sat down. "How's your first day been so far, Harry?"

Fred leant in. "Ah, we all know how boring the first day back can be, don't we? I should have stayed in bed."

"Already told him as much," Ackerley spoke up, breaking his sandwich into two large chunks. "Enjoy it as much as you can, Harry – it won't be long before we get into the real stuff."

"Trust me, he can handle himself," George said. "Youngest Seeker in a century, you know."

Ackerley looked fairly impressed. "I remember hearing about that from Charlie. We used to have some cracking matches. He had some offers as well. Shame he never took one, he could have easily made it."

"I remember the last game we had against you," Fred said.

"You flattened us," George said, looking like it still hurt him to admit. "Last game Charlie ever played. Pity he went off injured so early."

"Wait," Harry said, "you were in Slytherin?"

Ackerley frowned. "Er, yeah?"

"Huh."

"How did you get onto the team as firstie, anyway?" Merton asked, looking on curiously. "I thought I was going to fail my first year because I was trying so hard to get on the team."

"Pure accident and natural talent," Wood said proudly.

"Well, I thought McGonagall was about to expel me, but she took me to see Ollie," Harry said. He could remember that morning very clearly. "I didn't even know how to play Quidditch back then."

"Your first flying lesson, wasn't it?" Ackerley asked.

Harry nodded. "First and only time I ever had to use those bloody school brooms."

Ackerley laughed heartily. "Oh, they were awful, weren't they?"

Harry looked up and spotted Emma Richards walking through the door. His gut suddenly dropped.

"Are you all right?" Ackerley asked.

Harry nodded, avoiding Merton's eyes as the Chaser got up to greet his fiancé. The memory of meeting the woman flashed through Harry's mind.

"Come and meet our new signing," Merton said, gesturing to Harry. "He's a chatty little bugger. Told us all about how he got onto the team in his first year."

Harry frowned – he'd only answered questions put to him.

"Oh, I've already met him," Emma said, throwing Harry a sly smile.

Harry winced, drinking his water as an excuse to keep himself from talking.

"You have?" Merton asked, looking between Emma and Harry, his eyebrows furrowed. "When was this?"

"His trial," Emma explained.

Fred inevitably noticed Harry's silence. "What's the story, then?"

"Nothing!" Harry said quickly.

"Uh-oh!" George grinned. "Did you try something untoward, Harry?"

"Of course not," Harry said, but the rising heat in his cheeks stated otherwise. He glanced at Merton worriedly, but the man seemed more amused than annoyed.

"Don't worry, he's done this before," Fred assured Merton, laughing. "Our sister actually fancied him back in the day, but young Harry knows which lines shouldn't be crossed."

"I did turn her down," Harry said quickly, nodding furiously.

"Not that we would have minded, of course," George said airily.

"What? You bribed me with Firewhiskey!"

"Should I be thinking about buying you a bottle as well, Potter?" Merton asked.

"Hang on," Emma cut in. "What's wrong with him being with your sister? He's Harry Potter – I would've thought you'd like him joining your family?

"Ah, but you see, that's the problem," Fred said, sniffing pompously, looking remarkably like Percy. "He was already like family. If he and Ginny had ever got together, well, it would just be incestuous, wouldn't it?"

"Oh, come on," Emma said, casting a critical eye over Harry. "He doesn't seem all that bad. You agree with me, don't you, Andy?"

Merton held up his hands. "I hardly know the kid."

"That doesn't matter," Emma said. "You wouldn't warn him off your sister, would you?"

"Well, actually…"

"If you can't trust Harry bleeding Potter, who can you trust?"

"It's nothing against him, per se, it's teenager boys in general, you know?" Merton looked to the team for help.

Fred nodded solemnly. "Harry's a good kid, really, but boys will be boys, won't they?"

"Well," Emma said, staring defiantly at her fiancé but directing her words at Harry, "I'd love Harry to meet my sister. I think he'd be completely noble and a perfect gentleman."

Most of the males sitting at the table snorted incredulously at that.

Harry was rather glad when Phil called time on lunch.

"Stay behind again, Potter." Phil waited patiently for the room to clear. He looked at Harry as if to judge how best to say what was on his mind. "I don't think you should partake in the rest of training."

"What?" Harry asked dumbly.

"It's your first day. I don't want to throw you to the wolves just yet."

"I can handle myself," Harry said stubbornly.

Phil chuckled heartily. "Oh, I'm aware of your high pain threshold. But all the same, I think it's best you have a week or two of training under your belt first."

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. Phil was watching him, gauging his reaction. "Okay. What do you want me to do in the meantime?"

"Go and see Healer Byrne. Sort everything out," Phil said. "Then you're free to leave for the day."

Harry stared for a moment. "That's my day over with? Already?"

Phil sighed, joining Harry on the bench. "I can't allow you to go straight into the action, Harry. I know you're eager to show what you can do, but chances are you'll injure yourself in the first few minutes."

Harry nodded slowly. He didn't like what he was hearing, but he didn't have to like it – Phil's word was law. There wasn't much he could do but follow it.

"I know you train like it's real, but isn't the team a bit rusty?" Harry said hopefully. "Won't it be a bit slower today?"

"It will be slower, but that simply means more mistakes," Phil said.

Harry figured he'd somehow talked himself further out of it. "Are we back in tomorrow?"

"Same time, and –"

"Don't be late, I know." Harry grumbled.

"Glad to hear it," Phil said. "Now, pop into Healer Byrne's office. It shouldn't take you long."

Harry nodded and left, heading into the changing rooms and ignoring the excited chatter coming from the squad outside. He changed out of his kit, feeling thoroughly deflated after his earlier anticipation. He stepped into the medical room. It consisted of six beds, two sets of three pushed up against opposite walls. He walked past them, straight at the door at the far end of the room. He knocked twice and waited.

"Come in." The Healer looked up at Harry's entrance, and Harry could only stare back. The man wore a lab coat, much like Muggle doctor, but he'd somehow fashioned it into a robe. At Harry's look, Healer Byrne explained, "Dad was a doctor. Thought I'd honour his memory."

"Right," Harry said.

Healer Byrne scratched his thick beard. "Here for your medical, I assume?"

"I am, yeah."

Healer Byrne flatted out a piece of parchment on his desk. He picked up a quill and placed it over the parchment, where it stayed upright, ready to start scribbling. "There's three potions." He pointed to the end of his desk without looking up. "Drink them."

Harry glanced warily at the potions on the end of the desk, but grabbed the first and drank it anyway. The quill started moving. Harry grabbed the second and third, drinking them quickly, the vile taste of the second countered by the honey flavoured third.

Healer Byrne picked up his wand. "If you'd sit down, please."

Harry took the spare chair. Healer Byrne squinted for a moment, muttering a few spells under his breath, as though he was bored of the ordeal. Harry focused on the quill, trying to make out what it was writing.

"And we're done," Healer Byrne said suddenly, brushing aside the quill and rolling up the parchment. He handed it to Harry. "Do you have a house elf, by any chance?"

"Just got one recently," Harry said. Sirius had been wary after only ever really knowing Kreacher, but had relented after countless charcoal meals.

"Then I suggest you tell it to follow these instructions," Healer Byrne said. "I'll give my assessment to Phil. He'll let you know what he wants from you."

"Right," Harry mumbled.

"Have a good day, Potter."

Harry nodded and let himself out. He couldn't help but feel the day hadn't gone quite as he'd expected. He wasn't getting any special treatment because of his fame. He hadn't expected to, not really, but maybe he'd become a little too used to his name granting him certain privileges.

9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Apologies for the long wait. Life decided to bend me over and show me who was boss. What can you do? Big thanks to Silentclock, as always.

Chapter Nine

Harry tripped over his own feet as he landed awkwardly, stepping straight in a murky puddle and promptly falling face first into the sludge. He immediately stumbled to his feet, scowling something fierce and shivering furiously, his face caked with mud. Looking up to the heavens in silent despair, droplets of rain pelted his exposed skin.

Harry stomped across the uneven ground until he passed the gates, where the mud turned to stone. He pulled out his wand, drying his clothes in an instant, and vanished the thick, gooey muck from his body. The foul smelling mud had even managed to get inside his ears and up his nostrils.

Now relatively clean, Harry stepped through the door. The Heating Charm instantly washed over his frigid skin, reminding him of days relaxing around the fireplace in Gryffindor's common room, sipping butterbeer on winter nights.

"You couldn't spare me a moment, could you, Harry?"

Harry closed the door and turned around to see Emma sitting behind her desk. He offered her a smile and tried to ignore the way his shoes squelched with every step he took towards her, trying not to think of his previous behaviour towards Merton's fiancé.

He stopped in front of her desk and tried to ignore the niggling feeling in his brain telling him to be wary. "What's the problem?"

Emma leant forward on her elbows, showing off a healthy amount of cleavage. "There's no problem. Just letting you know that you've got press commitments after lunch. You remember Graham Hunter and Phil Bundy, don't you? You promised them interviews."

Harry tried his best not to look too put out or lower his eyes. "Yeah, I remember them." That much was true, but he'd forgotten all about his promise. "Bundy's from Which Broomstick, isn't he?"

Emma glanced down at the sheet of parchment on her desk. "He is, and Hunter's a freelance journalist, if you're wondering. Both of them have been here a couple of times since I started and they seem nice enough."

"Thanks," Harry said, shuffling his feet and trying not to look at his watch. "Was there anything else?"

"Now you mention it," Emma said, her smile turning coy. "Do you fancy a date?"

"What?"

"My sister's been single for a while," Emma hurriedly explained. "She's looking for someone and I think you'd be perfect for her."

"This is about yesterday, isn't it?" Harry asked, suspicious.

"Yes," Emma admitted, without a trace of shame. "I wouldn't let you anywhere near her if I didn't think you could be a perfect gentleman, though."

"Naturally."

"So will you?" Emma asked, her eyes glimmering in hope. "Please?"

Harry pretended to mull it over for a few moments, but he already knew his answer. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't usually turn it down, but I don't even know what she looks like. I can't imagine she'd be ugly as sin, of course, not with you for a sister."

Emma barely batted an eyelash at his comment. "See, you're a little charmer. You'd be perfect for her!"

"No, I can't," Harry said decisively, wondering if he'd ever end up regretting his decision.

"Let me know if you change your mind, won't you?"

Giving Emma his best apologetic smile, he turned and continued on down the corridor leading to the changing rooms. He came to a stop outside the door and looked at his watch, breathing a sigh of relief to see he was ten minutes early.

A jaunty tune playing from the Wireless caught Harry's attention as he walked inside. His eyes scanned the room to see that only a handful of the squad had arrived. They muttered their greetings to him, before continuing to mull around partially dressed and still half asleep. Harry shrugged out of his overcoat, hanging it on the hook above the bench, and took a seat next to Ollie.

"Where did you go yesterday?" Ollie was wide awake and already dressed in his full gear, which wasn't at all surprising.

"Phil sent me home early." Harry scowled, not bothering to hide his disappointment. "He wants me to get used to the basics before I get fully involved."

Ollie looked like he'd expected as much. "It's probably for the best. It happens to most young players. I was thrown straight in, but it's a different story when you're a Keeper. I really tried to perform well, to show I could handle it, but it was still the worst session I've ever had."

Harry kept silent. He could just about understand Phil's reasoning, but if he was keeping him from partaking fully, what would he be like when it came to giving him a chance at actually playing?

"When is our first game, anyway?" Harry asked, purely to change topics.

"In three weeks," Ollie answered instantly, eyeing him critically. "Haven't you seen the fixtures list yet? They were announced last week."

"I took a quick glance at them," Harry assured the probable future captain of the club. "I didn't really have enough time to properly examine them, though."

Ollie looked like he didn't quite believe him. "We have two weeks off after that. The first week because it's our turn to miss a game and the second week because of international duties." Ollie reflexively tensed up, as he always did when he remembered what had happened the last time he'd played for England. "After that, we won't have another break until Christmas."

Harry opened his mouth to respond, only to find himself gagged by a bundle of feathers, as high pitched, agitated squawking filled his ears. He jerked backwards, cracking his head against the wall as he reflexively swatted at the attacking owl. It landed on Ollie's outstretched arm and stared straight into Harry's eyes.

A round of chuckles spread around the changing room, but the mad little bird didn't flinch at the sound. It simply kept staring at Harry, almost like it was testing him.

"Another crackpot old bird trying to get in your knickers, Potter?" Fred cracked up at his own joke as he strolled in to the room with George by his side, as always.

Harry gingerly rubbed the sore spot at the back of his skull. "Wouldn't surprise me, mate," he muttered sourly, eyeing the letter clutched in the owl's talons.

It obviously hadn't flown very far if the letter wasn't tied around the bird of prey's leg, which meant who ever owned the owl lived quite close by. Harry made a grab for the letter, managing to get it out of the bird's grasp, and felt a knife-sharp talon catch the back of his hand and drag down to the knuckle of his middle finger. Harry pulled his hand back sharply, swearing loudly, but the owl's talon had instantly drawn blood.

The owl eyed Harry smugly and made off the open window, obviously not expecting a reply.

"You really do have some bad luck, don't you?" Ollie said, transfixed on the blood dripping through the gaps in Harry's fingers.

Harry exhaled loudly. "Can't agree with you more." He touched the tip of his wand to the back of his hand and watched the gash close, the skin knitting perfectly back into place. He vanished the blood, leaving a one inch scar in its place to add to his collection, although it would probably disappear after a few weeks.

Harry unsealed the envelope and flipped open the parchment. He didn't recognise the handwriting, but a quick glance at the name at the bottom told him who it belonged to. Reading through the letter with some satisfaction, he grinned as he finished, before stuffing it inside one of the deep pockets of his overcoat.

"Well?" Fred leaned forward expectantly. "Another misguided one?"

"Nah, just a friend," Harry said easily.

"Your grin tells a different story, Potter," Merton said suddenly, arriving with Bragge and Ackerley.

"We'll get it out of him in training, don't worry," George said, tapping the bench with his Beater's bat.

"That's if Phil actually lets us train properly," Bragge grumbled, shrugging out of his robe. "I'm bloody itching to get the kid gloves off and get back into some proper action."

Ackerley scoffed. "What're you talking about, Bragge? We haven't had a break in over a year."

"Why don't we just ask him, then?" George said, as Phil walked inside the changing rooms. "Hey, Phil! What's the plan for today?"

Phil turned from his assistant and looked over at his players. "If you'd stop gossiping like a bunch of housewives and get changed, I'll tell you."

"Good plan, sir!"

By the time the squad had finished changing into their training kits, the letter was forgotten.

"All right," Phil started, raising his hand for silence. "We'll step it up today before getting back in the gym tomorrow for a light session. On Thursday morning we'll be reviewing last season and go over the plans for this year, and you're off Friday and back in next Monday."

The weather wasn't letting up as the team stepped outside, and not even Harry's best Impervius Charm would do much to stop the rain soaking his robe through to his skin. He didn't mind it so much, though, having lived in Scotland for the best part of his teenage years. He was used to playing in blizzards and intense storms, so a little downpour was nothing to fret about.

Phil didn't allow them to think about the storm for very long, anyway. After a quick warm-up session, he called them back. "Come on, I want to get this moving faster today. Prepare yourself as soon as the person in front of you hits the halfway mark." Phil motioned to his assistant and the hoops appeared in the sky. "On my whistle, boys and girls."

Harry pulled his robe tighter around his chest, but it did little to block the cold seeping into his skin. He found himself standing behind Murphy and in front of Ackerley. It seemed no one could wait to get training over and done with, so they could go home and sink into a hot bath, and maybe go back to bed. The sound of Phil's whistle was nearly drowned out by the ferocious wind.

With her robes already flapping wildly, Murphy launched off her toes and nearly missed the first hoop. Harry watched her fight her way through the course, when Phil suddenly blew his whistle again.

Harry decided in a split second to use a Sloth Grip Roll through the first hoop. It was awkward, but it worked, propelling him through the second ring. He eased himself through the third, not trusting the wind at all, which was fighting him for control of the Firebolt.

Despite the deafening gale, Harry somehow managed to hear Phil's whistle, although it still sounded distant. He took the four closely bunched hoops slower than he had in his first two runs and accelerated out of them. He reached the second-to-last hoop just as Ackerley started the long run down the pitch.

Harry completed his lap with a Wronski Feint, just like the day before. He looked to the board hopefully.

Harry Potter – 00:45:36

He pulled a face, having not beaten his record. Ackerley landed and was also down on his time, which slightly consoled Harry. The trend continued with the rest of the squad, as nobody managed to better the previous day's results, let alone get close to personal bests.

Team training once again turned to individual work, with Benjy leading the Seekers down to the furthest pitch.

On the way, Ackerley sidled up to Harry. He glanced up to check Benjy wouldn't notice them, and said quietly, "Fifty Galleons that you can't catch more than twenty in this weather."

Harry kept his face neutral and, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, said, "You're on."

Their voices must have carried in the wind, because Murphy turned to them with her arms crossed over her chest. She walked backwards in time with them. "Oh, so you're leaving me out of this?"

Ackerley shrugged indifferently. "Make your own bet with him if you want," he said, and gestured to Benjy for the session to begin.

Harry watched in silence, feeling Murphy's eyes on him. "What's up, Murphy?"

"Fancy it, Potter?"

Harry turned to her. "Fancy what, exactly?"

"You know what I mean," she said with a slight roll of her eyes.

"Twenty catches?"

"Good luck." Murphy sang the words, which irritated him.

While the bets had been placed, it took a fair while for Harry to even attempt to win the money. Despite catching over sixty balls, Ackerley didn't look particularly pleased when he flew back to the other end of the pitch and landed.

Harry didn't bother to look his way. Instead, he mounted his Firebolt and signalled to Benjy that he was ready. Catching the first few balls with relative ease built Harry's confidence, but the next six proved to be step up in difficulty, but still within his capability. Sensing that, Benjy applied the same tactics as the previous day, sending out a second ball seconds after the first.

Grunting with the effort it took to keep up with increased speed, Harry threw himself around to catch the ninth through twelfth balls. Always just a second too late for the catch to be comfortable, Harry simply didn't have the burst of acceleration or the speed of thought and awareness that Ackerley possessed. But that was what the drill was all about – to better his skills and improve his overall performance. It was repetitive and boring as hell, but it did what it was supposed to do.

The next flurry of balls that came at Harry forced him to twist and stretch like he couldn't remember ever doing before on a broom.

He raced across the pitch, focusing on the speck that was the sixteenth ball. It fell rapidly, forced by the wind. Harry quickly adjusted his angle and just managed to scoop it up before it touched the ground. He got lucky with the next ball. Benjy powered it straight at him, making it a relatively easy catch. The eighteenth flew straight at the clouds. By the time he managed to get to it, Benjy forced him into a dive by sending the nineteenth. Harry shot after it, pulling his broom up sharply before he crashed. His jerky movement had him flailing for the ball, but it didn't matter. It was safely within his grasp.

The twentieth ball spun madly, caught in a crosswind. Harry made his chase, ignoring his hair whipping painfully into his eyes. He was aware of the twenty-first ball being sent, but he ignored it, knowing that he wouldn't reach it in time. Ackerley and Murphy scattered at Harry's approach, and he reached out desperately.

Relief flooded through him as his hand closed around the ball.

"That's better, Potter!" Benjy shouted encouragingly.

Out of breath, Harry could only collapse on the waterlogged pitch, completely exhausted.

Ackerley loomed over him, grinning madly. "Pay up, Potter."

"What? I caught twenty."

"Ah, but if you recall correctly, I said if you catch more than twenty," Ackerley said smugly, holding out his hand, as if expecting Harry to hand him the money then and there.

"Are you serious? I thought you meant twenty or more."

"Don't blame me if you didn't listen to the rules properly." Ackerley shrugged, pulling Harry to his feet. "You can pay me tomorrow."

"Or you can just get Murphy to pay you."

Ackerley watched Murphy flying with a frown on his face. "Didn't you make the same bet with her?"

Harry smiled just a little bit smugly. "Nope."

The same process was repeated twice more, with Ackerley getting closer to the hundred mark on each try and Harry nailing three twenties in a row, before Phil called them back to the main pitch.

The team formed a half circle around the manager, who was grinning mischievously back at them. "How about some Divide and Conquer?"

"It'll be just like your trial, Harry!" George laughed, joining the others Beaters at the bottom of the pitch.

Divide and Conquer was basically target practise for Beaters, in Harry's opinion. The Beaters had to try and divide the Chasers and Seekers and pick them off with Bludgers, and the last person left had a countdown of five minutes to outrun the Beaters. If caught, the Beaters conquered.

Harry had played the game numerous times before, using the game in his training sessions when he'd been captain of the Gryffindor team. He'd never been caught, of course, although he still wasn't sure if that was because of his skill or his Beaters' lack of ability. Nevertheless, this was entirely different.

The Chasers grouped together, so Harry positioned himself above and behind them, and he was joined by Ackerley and Murphy. Harry couldn't deny that his excitement levels were raised a few notches. He'd been itching to test himself against Fred and George ever since his trial. Their ability and skill had taken giant leaps forward since the days when they used to chase him around the Hogwarts pitch, which Harry had found out the hard way. But this wasn't his trial. He knew what to expect, and he wouldn't be outnumbered. Unless he miraculously managed to beat out everyone else, that was.

Phil flicked his wand at the chest, releasing the Bludgers from their prison. The reaction was immediate. The Chasers split into two groups of three, Murphy and Ackerley went in opposite directions, and Harry was instantly vulnerable. All four Beaters bore down on him, passing the four Bludgers between. Harry didn't waste another second. He put his head down and followed Ackerley, flying in the experienced Seekers' slipstream.

George slapped a Bludger towards him, forcing Harry wide.

Realising there was little point in trying to catch up after missing their initial target, the Beaters split up into their usual pairs. George swung with practised precision, the Bludger bouncing sweetly off his bat straight at Herbert Burke. The young Chaser froze for a split second, which was all it took. The Bludger punched his rubs and Burke cried out, doubled over in pain, clutching his midriff and wheezing for oxygen.

Divide and Conquer wasn't a game for the lazy. It forced players to constantly look over their shoulders and never stay in one place for more than a second. Stay motionless for even that long and it was easy to find yourself waking up in hospital feeling like you'd been trampled by a herd of hippogriffs.

The Beaters usually went straight for the slowest players, and it was no different for Puddlemere's Beaters. They joined forces and focused entirely on the Chasers, sending a steady stream of shots towards them, causing the group to break. Edgar Dobbs soon found himself straying further behind the relative safety of the pack, his efforts to join back up to them futile. He was caught with a glancing hit to his ankle.

Continuing to use the same tactics, Fred and George hit two Bludgers towards Rupert Clogg, the youngest Chaser in the squad. He ducked under the first Bludger, only to lift his head straight into the path of the second, snapping his head back. To his credit, Clogg hardly made a sound as he shakily made his way to the side of the pitch, clutching his dislocated jaw.

Fred and George quickly calculated the best course of action. Only six players remained – three Chasers and three Seekers. Harry and Murphy, though, were the only players not in the first team, and the twins turned their attention to them.

Murphy was already flying as high as she could, having anticipated what would come. The twins let her go, heading straight for Harry instead. Ackerley was shadowing him, using Harry as a shield.

Fred and George swung their bats in unison, with backhand and forehand swings, and hit a Bludger simultaneously. It was a move known as the Dopplebeater Defence, and the twins pulled it off absolutely perfectly, sending the Bludger in Harry's direction with double the speed and power.

On pure instinct, Harry ducked. The Bludger zoomed inches above his head and glanced off Ackerley's shoulder, who could only stare dumbfounded as Phil called out his name. The whole squad seemed to pause, as if they'd misheard their manager.

In the resulting confusion, Fred and George turned towards the Chasers, and Harry took a moment to catch his breath.

Andrew Merton spiralled through the wind, but found himself isolated between four Beaters. He shot up out of the way of one Bludger, but the second was just that little bit faster, brushing the underside of the broom and bouncing off his calf.

Realising he'd been idle for too long, Harry attempted to apply some speed, only to find none forthcoming. He looked back, about to curse violently about shoddy craftsmanship, and found Murphy's pale blue eyes narrowed in determination. She was gripping the tail of his Firebolt with both hands for all she was worth.

The bitch was blagging!

Harry kicked out with all his force, wrestling to free himself of her grip. Unbelievably, she maintained her firm grip, simply refusing to let go. Harry snarled upon realising it was every man and woman for themselves. Playing by them rules suited Harry just fine, or it would have done had Fred, with his back turned, not just raised his bat and swung mightily at a passing Bludger.

Harry rocked the Firebolt back and forth frantically, trying to propel himself out of harm's way and force Murphy to intercept the Bludger. He suddenly found himself free, just as the Bludger thumped into his shoulder, spinning him in a full circle. He hardly felt the pain in his anger. It felt like a faint sting, one that would begin to bruise and ache later.

Murphy guffawed at the glare Harry sent her way, easily ducking a Bludger that Smethley sent towards her.

Harry dearly wished he could wipe the grin off her lips, but settled to wait until the next training session. He hit the ground far harder than he'd meant to, but refused to storm across the pitch like a petulant child.

"Don't let it get to you, Potter," Phil called out calmly, without taking his eyes off the players still in the game. "This is why you train day after day, so you won't be unprepared when it really matters."

Harry nodded stiffly and trudged off the field, heading straight for the showers. He hoped the hot water would somehow smooth his anger. Whether it was Fred and George, Ackerley, or now Murphy, he was always allowing someone to get the better of him and he detested the feeling it left in his gut. He was still making amateur mistakes, which irked him more than he cared to admit. What he could admit to himself, however, was that he'd greatly underestimated Murphy. She was competitive and determined and he wouldn't make the same mistake again.

A few minutes later, Harry stepped out of the changing rooms. Foregoing getting a bite to eat, he headed straight for Emma's desk, shaking off his irritation as best he could before greeting her.

"They're waiting for you inside," Emma said, gesturing towards the Press Room. Otherwise known as the Viper's Pit, according to Fred and George.

Taking a deep breath and wishing he'd never agreed to do the bloody interviews in the first place, Harry pushed open the door. The two journalists were chatting happily, sat around a small round table, situated just off to the side of the multiple rows of forward-facing chairs.

"Ah, Harry!" Graham stood up and greeted him enthusiastically, shaking his hand firmly. "I'll let Rich have first crack at you, if that's all right with you?"

"That's fine by me," Harry said, turning to Richard, who also shook his hand.

"It's great of you to do this," Richard said, chuckling heartily. "Your dislike of my profession is well documented."

Harry grinned wryly. "It's got more to do with the people within your profession than the profession itself."

"You are not alone in your thinking, I assure you." Richard tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. "Anyway, shall we begin, Harry? May I call you Harry?"

"I've been called a lot worse." Harry sat down and watched Richard pull out a roll of blank parchment, another roll filled with questions, and a Quick-Quotes Quill.

Richard cleared his throat. "First things first, Harry. Have you ever read our magazine before?"

"I subscribed to it a couple of years back," Harry said. "I find it really interesting."

"In what way?"

"The weekly snippets on players are always motivating; it's good to hear their tips," Harry said, a number of articles coming to mind. "And I really like the fact that you provide information that's useful to players at all levels of the game. I think even a seasoned professional could learn a thing or two just by reading what other players have to say, and of course every beginner should subscribe."

Richard leaned forward, smiling encouragingly. "And what have you personally found helpful?"

"A few things," Harry said, running a hand through his hair as he tried to think up a suitable answer. "The first thing I've always done is read up on the tactics, moves and manoeuvres. A library book just doesn't explain things very well, whereas you demonstrate how things are done and explain when they're most effective during a game. I've tried my hand at most of them, although everyone's different in the actual execution of the moves, aren't they?"

Richard nodded slowly. "I guess they are. Care to share a few examples?"

Harry thought back to the manoeuvre he'd done earlier in training. "Take the classic Sloth Grip Roll. I use it in a number of situations, even though it was invented as a way for players to avoid Bludgers."

"Do tell," Richard pressed.

"Well," Harry said, sitting up a bit eagerly. "It's generally said that you roll the opposite way to your dominant side. So if you're right-handed, you roll to the left because you basically roll into the grip using the palm of your hand. But I've found it's better to learn to roll both ways, so you won't be limited."

"A little trick you picked up from watching Mr Ackerley, I assume?"

"Actually, I learned it in my fourth year at Hogwarts," Harry said. "I realised that everyone can and does roll out of the way of a Bludger, but so many people panic when they roll the way they're not used to. And they never bother to practise it, which seems a bit daft to me."

"Yes, it does seem rather strange, doesn't it?"

Harry snorted at the understatement. He was about to continue speaking, when he suddenly realised if he did he'd be letting any advantages he had go to waste. Then again, it wasn't like Harry was the only one who'd ever thought of rolling both ways. He'd thought for a few, glorious minutes that he'd invented a new move when he'd first done it, only for Krum to then strut his stuff.

"And what is your favourite broom to perform these manoeuvres on?"

"A Firebolt," Harry said immediately.

"They are phenomenal, aren't they?" Richard said. "I was the first person in Britain to review it when it came on the market, you know. I daresay it shall be a while before another broom will truly be able to rival the Firebolt. There's simply not enough money in the lesser known companies anymore, and Nimbus have been promising fans a new broom for years, but there's been no word. Although I'm sure it will be worth the wait."

"I'll probably read your opinion on it, when it does come out," Harry said. As much as he loved his two Firebolts and still thought fondly of his Nimbus 2000, he didn't know all that much about broom makers. It was something he'd have to look into.

"Would you ever consider swapping your Firebolt for a newer, better model? When it comes on to the market, of course."

"Of course," Harry said. "I'd also love to ride the Nimbus 2000 again, although not professionally. I'm thinking about buying one."

"Ah, first broom syndrome, I assume?"

Harry smiled a little wistfully and nodded.

The quill hung in mid-air, poised to start writing again. Richard glanced at what had already been written, before lifting his eyes to Harry. "I have more than enough, but one more question can't hurt, can it?" The quill seemed to quiver, as if it knew it was about to be called into action at any moment. "One for our younger readers, perhaps. Who is your favourite player to watch, Harry?"

"That's a good question, mate." Harry frowned. "I suppose the obvious answer is Krum, isn't it?"

"Why don't you pick a player from each position, then," Richard suggested.

"Oh, that's easy enough. I'd have to go with Ollie for Keeper and Fred and George for Beaters. Maybe it's because I've played alongside them for so long, but I've always felt protected by the twins. And the whole team relied on Ollie to keep us in the game if we weren't on form."

"And the Chasers?"

"I'd have to go with the Irish Chasers of the '94 World Cup. They completely blew me away when I watched that final," Harry said. "But I think our Chasers are good to watch. Bragge just oozes style, doesn't he? And Merton's not far behind, and everyone knows what Maddock still brings to the table. He's been so consistent for so long."

Richard chuckled. "Perhaps I should simply put down the whole Puddlemere team, plus extras."

Harry joined in with his laughter. "What can I say? I'm still a fan."

Richard reached over the table and shook Harry's hand with vigour. "I can't thank you enough for this, Harry. Maybe you'd be willing to put yourself through it again sometime?"

"Send me an owl," Harry said.

"I will." Richard gathered his belongings quickly. "Thanks again, Harry."

Richard hurried out of the door, and Graham took his place at the table. He cleared his throat and gazed at Harry with quite a serious look in his eyes.

Harry looked back impassively. "Is something wrong?"

Graham cleared his throat. "I feel I should warn you, Harry."

"Warn me?"

Graham tipped his head. "Sue Perkins didn't appreciate your lack of respect towards her during your press conference. Neither did her superiors, for that matter. I'd watch who you speak to and what you say. I'd say it would be best to keep your lips shut tight, lest you let anything slip."

There was another person out for his blood, then. Harry could imagine the headlines already. "If she's so angry with me, how come this is the first I've heard of it? That conference was months ago. Surely they would've printed the story already?"

"That's just the problem," Graham said, his bulbous nose twitching. "The public perception of you is remarkably high. Witch Weekly's target audience, teenage girls, have never been more enamoured with you. They simply can't risk losing their core audience."

Harry nodded slowly. It made sense. "So they're waiting for the opportune moment to strike, then?

"And they're getting desperate. They've refused to publish a single story about you, good or bad, since the conference. You can imagine how that's gone down with your fans."

"And we all know what journalists do when they're desperate," Harry grumbled.

Graham probably could have taken that as an insult, but he nodded in agreement. "Just be careful." He cleared his throat again, a smile blossoming. It showed off his chipped and yellow teeth. "Let's begin, then. To start off, how are you handling the adjustment from amateur to professional level Quidditch? Is it what you thought it would be or completely different?"

Harry could already tell this would be a different type of interview than his earlier one with Richard. "It's gone pretty much how I thought it would. Having said that, we haven't done all that much yet, but I can already see the difference in the workload. It might take me a few weeks to get up to speed and settle in, but I'm confident I can handle it."

Unlike Richard, Graham didn't use a Quick-Quotes Quill. He favoured a normal quill instead, penning Harry's answer by hand. It felt more formal, somehow. More serious.

"You started every game while you were at Hogwarts. Can you accept your role as a backup?"

Graham's questions weren't half bad, and Harry was surprised to find that answering them wasn't a chore. "I knew before I signed the contract that I wouldn't be playing as much as I'd like. But that gives me something to work towards, doesn't it?"

"Some people believe that you were only given a contract because of your name. How do you respond to those accusations?"

Harry very nearly rolled his eyes. People would always judge, even if they'd never seen him play. "I'd say those people have clearly never met Phil. Five minutes in his company would completely dissuade them of that notion."

Graham chuckled good-naturedly before moving on to the next question. "This club has a history of community involvement. Are you planning to purchase a home in the area?"

Harry couldn't say he'd really thought about it before. "I'm happy enough where I'm living for now, but I'll get my own place one day. It probably won't be for a while yet though."

Graham jotted down Harry's answer and looked to his next question. He paused and looked up, his brow slightly furrowed. "You know Fred and George Weasley as well as anyone from your Hogwarts days. Do you feel that the decision to bench them for the World Cup final was justified?"

Harry nearly blurted out that he didn't agree, but stopped himself when a warning bell went off in his head. There was a chance that maybe, just maybe, he would play for England in the future. It wasn't entirely inconceivable. Disagreeing with a decision made by the manager of England would never be a good idea.

Harry chose his words carefully. "I'm afraid I can't answer that question impartially," he said slowly, receiving a grin from Graham. "Fred and George are very good friends of mine, so naturally I was disappointed that they didn't play."

Graham placed his quill on the table and looked pointedly at Harry. "Speaking off the record, just for a moment. Sawbridge is stepping down from his position, if the rumour mill is to be believed…"

Harry eyed the journalist with the smallest amount of suspicion. "Well, Sawbridge did a great job in getting England to the final. He's done what many others have failed to achieve."

"Moving on," Graham said swiftly, a small grin playing on his lips. "Actually, while we're on the subject – do you have any plans on becoming a manager once your playing days are over?"

"I can honestly say the thought has never crossed my mind," Harry said, chuckling lightly. "My retirement is hopefully a long way off, so ask me again in about fifteen years."

"I'll be sure to do that," Graham said with a grin, moving on to his next question. "Stewart Ackerley is considered one of the finest Seekers in Europe. Do you believe his reputation is deserved? Do you think he was responsible for the bogus Snitch in the final?"

"He might be considered one of the finest, but I still don't think Ackerley gets the credit he deserves," Harry said. "I don't think it's anyone's fault. It's just bad timing. When you have Krum on the scene, he's going to overshadow everyone else."

"And the ongoing investigation?" Graham pressed.

"I don't believe he cheated."

"And that's it, Harry," Graham said suddenly, neatly rolling up his parchment.

"It is? Already?"

Graham got to his feet. "You don't want to continue, do you?"

"No, no, that's enough for today," Harry said quickly, walking with the journalist out of the room.

Graham pulled open the door and paused, turning to Harry. "Make sure you remember what I said, Harry. One wrong word on your part and your reputation is on the line."

Harry grinned weakly at the journalist, unsure if he should start worrying. "I'm sure I'll be fine."

Graham didn't look all that confident. "Be on your guard, Harry. I know how ruthless the people in my line of work can be."

With those parting words, Graham disapparated. Harry bit his lip and, after a moment, he too left for the day.

The pub was old, but not decrepit. It sat in the middle of a small village, near Puddlemere's training ground. The bar, along with every stool, chair, and booth was hand-crafted from rosewood, the same type used for the beams that ran parallel along the low ceiling. The regulars from the village arrived in twos and threes, greeting lifelong friends upon arrival, creating a tranquil atmosphere.

Harry had arrived early and managed to nab a table. He ordered a beer and sat down to wait, his eyes captured by the candle in the middle of the table, its dancing flame entrancing him.

With the amount of work and exercise he'd done in his first week and half of training, his muscles were in a constant state of duress. Training had only become tougher every day, so Harry used every minute of his spare time to simply relax.

"Hey, Harry…"

A small hand was placed on his shoulder and Harry blinked rapidly, his eyes refocusing. "Anna!" He smiled reflexively and gestured towards the other side of the table.

Anna giggled, although Harry didn't have the faintest clue why, and shrugged out of her jacket. She revealed a casual knee length dress which drew Harry's eyes to her tanned legs for just a moment, before they flickered up to the faint smile on her lips.

"I didn't keep you waiting for long, did I?" Anna asked apologetically, sitting down opposite him.

"Not at all," Harry said. In truth, he'd lost track of time since he'd been lost in thought. Judging by his empty pint glass though, he'd been waiting a fair while. "Looks like I'm empty," he said, picking up his glass. "What do you fancy?"

"Why don't you pick one for us, Harry?"

For us. The meaning wasn't lost on him.

Harry returned from the bar a few minutes later and placed a bottle of Spanish red wine on the table, with two glasses.

"Aren't you supposed to test the wine to see if it's corked or some such nonsense?" Harry asked. Fleur had tried to teach him once, before leaving the room in a huff when he declared he preferred beer.

"So I've heard," Anna said, scrunching up her nose. "But I'm not a connoisseur. I just like to drink the stuff."

She proceeded to pour the deep red wine, filling her glass halfway before doing the same for Harry.

Picking up his glass by the stem, Harry swirled the wine carefully. He felt like a bit of an arse, but he'd seen Percy Weasley do this once, and that's who he was copying. Harry placed his nose in the glass and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as though overcome with deep emotion. When he opened them a moment later, he found Anna staring at him like he'd just suggested they run away and get married.

Harry took a small sip and noisily swirled the liquid around his mouth. He swallowed and smacked his lips together. "It tastes," he said reverently, "like wine."

Anna groaned, shaking her head but unable to hide her smile. "Did you really just do all that for such a bad joke?"

Harry had the grace to duck his head, as Anna's light laughter floated in the air between them. It broke the ice, somewhat, which was what he'd been going for.

Anna pushed her glass to the side and leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. The candlelight reflected in her already sparkling eyes. It reminded Harry of when he'd first spoken to her on the beach, under the setting sun in Greece.

"So," Anna said softly, her thumb playing with a silver ring on her middle finger, "what made you owl me last week?"

Harry wasn't entirely sure how to answer her question. He didn't want to give any old answer, but nothing resembling meaningful came to mind. He'd found the small piece of parchment she'd given him when he'd gone through his notepad, and he'd remembered how nervous she'd been when she'd asked him to get in touch.

"I'm sorry I didn't earlier, I've just been unbelievably busy since I got back from Greece," Harry said. "But I wanted to see you again."

Anna extended her arms to the side. "Here I am." She dropped her arms, her fingers finding a napkin, which she picked at. "I am glad you wrote, though," she said, her voice suggesting a hint of relief. "I was starting to wonder… Well, I guess that doesn't matter now, does it?"

"I promised I'd get in touch."

"A lot of people never follow through on their promises."

Harry tried his best not to squirm, his conscience suddenly feeling guilty. "I make it a point to back up any promise I make."

The waitress arrived at the table to take their order. She played with the tips of her bottle-blonde hair, looking thoroughly bored through the whole ordeal. Harry didn't help matters by taking his time on deciding what to order, but it wasn't as though he and Anna were given much time to look through the menu.

Their food arrived twenty minutes later. Harry probably shouldn't have been indulging himself quite so much, but the steak was something he was actually allowed to eat. The plateful of chips, stacked high, would have to be worked off in the gym. The red wine he was consuming only worsened matters, but at least he had a day off to try and recover. One night of indulgence couldn't possibly hurt.

Harry made sure to savour each and every bite. He took a sip of his wine, hoping that it wasn't staining his teeth. "You know, I still don't know what you do for a living."

"Oh." Anna seemed slightly taken aback. "I recently started working in the Museum of Quidditch. You know, in London. It's not quite as exciting as what you do, but I like it."

"I take it you're a big fan of Quidditch, then?"

"Of course," Anna said. "It's fascinating to research the origins of the game. My family has played it for centuries." She looked a little uncomfortable at the revelation, but Harry couldn't fathom why. "I wasn't good enough to go professional or anything, but I enjoyed playing pickup games at Hogwarts."

"You went to Hogwarts?" Harry blurted out.

Anna laughed. "I did," she said. "I was in the year above you."

"Then I can only apologise for never getting to know you before now." Harry thought he'd gotten to know most of the students in his year and the ones directly above and below, but apparently not. He was astonished that he'd never noticed her before. "What House were you in?"

"Take a guess," Anna challenged.

"Ravenclaw," Harry said immediately.

Anna laughed again, openly. It carried deliciously around the small room, gathering a few curious looks from the regulars. "Why do you think that?"

"You research history," Harry said confidently, not put off in the slightest by her laughter.

"You should stop stereotyping, Harry. I was in Slytherin."

"I'm so sorry," Harry said mournfully. "No one should have to know such horrors."

"Hey!" Anna threw her scrunched up napkin at him. "It's not as bad as everyone makes it out to be."

"If you say so…" For some reason, Harry thought of Daphne Greengrass. Thankfully, he hadn't seen her in a while, having managed to keep himself free from any serious injuries in his first week and a bit of training.

Anna slid her empty plate to the end of the table. "You know, I think I watched every game you ever played at Hogwarts. Apart from your last year, obviously."

"You never played for Slytherin, I know," Harry said. "I would've remembered you if you had."

"I was never good enough, no," Anna admitted, pulling a face. It was something of a sore point, obviously. "It's probably for the best, anyway. I wouldn't have been able to fit it in with the amount of homework we had in the last few years."

Harry sat back, inordinately full. "I know what you mean. I'm not sure I needed to put myself through it, now that I'm playing professionally."

"You always have something to fall back on, just in case."

"Are you saying I'm not good enough to cut it?" Harry grinned.

"Well, I haven't seen you play professionally yet, so I'll have to reserve judgement."

The waitress returned to clear up their empty plates. "Did you enjoy your meal?"

"I think I'll have to come here again."

Anna grinned coyly as the waitress left. "Is that an offer for a second date?"

"Er, yeah, I suppose it is," Harry said slowly, offering her a small smile. He couldn't help but think he'd been tricked into that. "Do you fancy dessert? That bloke over there has some treacle tart. I haven't had it in months."

10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Once again, thanks to silentclock. I also have a new story posted. It's a bit different to this one. Check it out!

Chapter Ten

"Mornin', Potter. Fancy a lodger?" Seamus was standing on the doorstep, grinning like a fool, with a rucksack slung over his shoulder. A suitcase, along with his old dilapidated school trunk, lay at his feet.

Harry eyed his Irish friend uncertainly, repressing a sigh. "What have you done this time, mate?"

"How about we grab a late breakfast in Diagon and I regale you with my fascinating tale?"

"I guess I could do with some food," Harry agreed, stepping aside and holding the door open.

"I'll just drop these off then." Seamus grabbed the handles of his suitcase and trunk and dragged them into hallway. He shrugged off his rucksack and dropped it on top of his trunk.

Harry pulled some money from his cloak and deposited the coins in jeans pocket. He pushed Seamus through the front door. They apparated directly into Diagon Alley, which was packed full of Hogwarts students, shopping for the new school year.

The midday heat beat down on their necks, momentarily stopping them in their tracks. Harry rapidly cast two Cooling Charms, eliciting gasps from them both. It felt like two buckets of freezing cold water had just been dumped over their heads.

After righting themselves, Harry led the way down the alley, sidestepping his way around over-excited kids, before he stopped at his favourite café. A dozen tables were set up outside the small shop, half of them under the shade of a bright canopy.

Thinking it a waste not to make the most of the weather while they had the chance, they found an empty table under the sun. A waitress spotted them before they'd even sat down, and immediately headed over to them.

"Hi, what can I get you to- Oh…"

"Sally!" Harry said, loudly, startling a few customers on the surrounding tables. He shifted uncomfortably and Sally blushed spectacularly. "Sorry!"

The back of his neck prickled uncomfortably, and it seemed his Cooling Charm had worn off in the time it had taken him to walk from the alley to the café. In fact, all the heat inside Diagon seemed to centre directly over him.

Sally-Anne didn't look much better. Her usually pale face was now blotchy, like she'd been hit with a Sun Tanning Charm that had gone wrong. She swallowed her embarrassment and, to her credit, attempted to smile through it.

"Hi, Harry."

Seamus looked between them, his eyes lit up like fairy lights, his lips twitching in an unsuccessful attempt to contain his laughter. "Oh, boy, this is great."

Sally clenched her eyes shut in an obvious attempt to compose herself, before looking at Harry in resignation. "What can I get you?"

Seamus snorted noisily and leant back in his chair, sniggering to himself. "I think you already gave him what he wanted. You perked him right up, shall we say?"

Harry winced at the awful pun and aimed a kick at Seamus under the table, earning a loud yelp from the Irishman.

"A bacon sandwich and an orange juice for me, please," Harry said, his voice strained.

"I'll have a full English, with toast and coffee," Seamus said, furiously rubbing his shin under the table.

Sally jotted down their order on a notepad. She glanced up at Harry, and their eyes met for a split second, before she quickly rushed away.

Harry let out a breath when she disappeared in the crowd. "Well that was unexpected."

"You think she'll give us a discount?" Seamus asked, highly amused.

Harry ignored him, having spotted the day's edition of the Daily Prophet on a spare seat. He unfolded the newspaper, and the headline instantly caught his eye.

Stewart Ackerley: A Cheat?

By Graham Hunter

Another long season of Quidditch began with a bang last weekend and, as expected, Stewart Ackerley had a point to prove. It took the famed Seeker only eighty-two minutes to catch the Snitch, giving Puddlemere United a two-hundred and ninety to sixty win.

Since breaking onto the Quidditch scene six years ago, Ackerley has proved his mettle time and time again, but make no mistake about it, this season will be his toughest yet. Everyone is asking the same question: Did Stewart cheat during the now-infamous World Cup Final? A definitive answer on the matter simply isn't forthcoming. Officially, the I.A.Q (The International Association of Quidditch) says they are looking into it, but they've gone silent in recent weeks. A trial is the likely outcome of this whole affair, but when that will arrive is anyone's guess.

There has been support for Ackerley, perhaps most notably from Viktor Krum, Ackerley's opponent in that final, who went on to lift the trophy. There is also Harry Potter, the newest teammate of Ackerley's, who recently stated he did not believe Stewart cheated.

We don't know much as of yet, but what we do know is this: if this saga continues for much longer, it's sure to have a detrimental effect on not just Stewart Ackerley, but Puddlemere United as well.

Harry folded the newspaper and placed it on the table, watching the replay of Ackerley's last catch play in a loop.

"Anything interesting happening?" Seamus asked, as he surveyed the alley.

Harry shook his head, his thoughts elsewhere. "Not really. Just some stuff on Ackerley."

Sally arrived at their table, levitating their breakfast on a tray in front of her. She placed it on the table. "Enjoy," she said, before rushing off again.

"So tell me," Harry said, taking his glass of orange juice and taking a refreshing gulp, "what's this big story?"

Seamus shifted in his seat, a flash of embarrassment appearing in his demeanour, before it was replaced with a cocky grin. "Did I mention I joined the Obliviator's Training Programme?"

"No, you didn't," Harry said, slightly concerned at the thought. "When was this? And why, might I ask? I didn't think that would be your type of work."

"It was a spur of the moment type thing. You know how it is," Seamus said, taking a large bite of his fried sausage. "I was in the Irish Ministry a few weeks ago, sorting out our Floo maintenance for ma, when I saw a pamphlet for the course. Figured it might be interesting, so I signed up for it."

"How's it going so far?"

"It isn't," Seamus said. "I started on Monday morning and I was gone by lunchtime."

"What the hell did you do?"

Seamus winced and tapped his wand against his mug to cool down the coffee. "When I walked in, I saw this girl. You know the type, blonde hair, blue eyes, long legs…" He sipped his drink, staring reverently at a point over Harry's shoulder.

Harry had a pretty good clue where the story was headed, but felt he needed to ask. "You tried your luck, I take it?"

"You know what I always say, Potter. If you don't try your luck, you don't get a fuck," Seamus said crudely.

"I'm surprised you don't get Hexed more often," Harry muttered, licking a drop of bacon grease from his thumb.

"It's because I'm more charming than you," Seamus said dismissively, taking an eager mouthful of beans. He wiped his mouth with the back of his and said, "Hey, isn't that Greengrass?"

Harry looked around and spotted her, strolling up the alley.

"Hey, Greengrass," Seamus hollered, waving his arms above his head to catch her attention and earning disdainful looks from the other customers. "Over here!"

Daphne looked up with a slight frown on her face, immediately spotting Seamus. It was bit hard to miss him with the scene he was making.

When she arrived at their table, Harry pushed a chair out with his foot. "Have a seat if you want."

"Thanks." Daphne straightened out her sundress and took the offered seat. "Haven't you got a match you should be at today?"

"It's our weekend off," Harry said.

Daphne looked at him, her brow furrowed. "What do you mean? I know there's Quidditch being played today. Tom was playing the Wireless in the Cauldron."

"It's Puddlemere's turn to go without a game," Harry explained further, but only received a blank look. "You know, because there's an uneven amount of teams in the league."

Daphne shrugged uselessly, looking completely lost. "Sorry, Quidditch has never really been my thing. I know you play for Puddlemere, but not too much else. How are you doing, anyway?"

"Not bad," Harry said, highly amused at her lack of knowledge. "We're at the top of the table right now, but that's probably going to change by the time all the weekend's games have been played."

Seamus was shaking his head and muttering to himself. "You did grow up in this world, didn't you, Greengrass?"

"Yeah, but I've never been interested," Daphne admitted, cringing. "I guess it only makes it worse when you know my dad's a broom maker, doesn't it?"

"What are we going to do with you, Daphne?" Harry sighed deeply.

"You're worse than Granger, you know that?" Seamus said.

Daphne sat back, sulking. "It's not my fault."

"Consider this your first lesson," Harry said, deciding it was his duty to educate her on all matters Quidditch. "The British and Irish league consists of thirteen teams, and they all play each other twice over the course of a season. However, because the number of teams competing is uneven, every team has two weekends off. It's our turn to go without a game this week."

"Oh, I see," Daphne said.

"Anyway," Harry said, deciding to direct the conversation away from Quidditch. "What are you doing today?"

"Madam Pomfrey sent me to the Apothecary to stock up on supplies," Daphne said, brimming with amusement. "I expect most of them will be used to treat you, won't they?"

"Hey!" Harry pouted, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'll have you know I haven't been injured in weeks."

"It's true." Seamus chortled. "I'm starting to get worried."

"Wow, you've gone a month without maiming yourself," Daphne said dryly. "I'm impressed."

"Don't be shy, Daphne," Harry said, unable to keep his smile at bay. "You can admit it."

"Admit what?"

"That you've missed me."

Daphne snorted loudly, quickly covering her laughter with a hand. "You did promise that you'd come and see me, Harry." She pouted, drawing Harry's eyes to her lips. "I simply haven't been able to function properly without you around to brighten up my day."

"I can't apologise enough," Harry said, sounding quite sincere. "I stubbed my toe getting out of the shower this morning, you know. Does that warrant a full-body examination?"

Laughter bubbled up in Daphne's chest and she was unable to control it, her eyes sparkling. "Oh, I really have missed you, Potter."

"Then you should seek me out sometime," Harry said. "I always come to you, it's only fair you come to me now and then."

Daphne nodded along at his words, her lips twitching and the tips of her blonde hair dancing off her tanned shoulders. "I'll take you up on your offer one of these days."

Seamus leaned in, interjecting himself into the conversation. "I'm sure Tom's got a few spare rooms going. How about you go and get one?"

"Speaking of renting out rooms," Harry said, looking at Seamus pointedly. "You can stay with us for a while, but you'll need to start paying your way sooner or later. What happened, anyway?"

"Wait," Daphne said, "have you been kicked out?"

Seamus scowled at her. "Yes. Yes, I have." He turned to Harry. "Thanks. I think I'll be able to start paying you soon, if things go to plan. And my ma told me to leave after I was thrown off the course. Hadn't even emptied my trunk when I got home from Hogwarts and she was on my back, telling me to get a job, so when I was fired before I even started…"

"Our place has a lot of rooms going unused," Harry said lightly, but meaningfully.

Seamus nodded gratefully in understanding.

"Anyone fancy a beer?" Daphne asked suddenly, flipping a few coins on to the table. "My treat."

"I think I love you," Seamus said.

"I'll take that as a yes, shall I?"

"Thanks, Daphne," Harry said, tipping his head to her.

Daphne quickly left to get their drinks, and Harry leaned back in his seat, propping his feet up on the last unused chair. Daphne returned a minute later, levitating three pints of cold lager, and placed them on the centre of the table.

"You should start coming out with us more often," Seamus said, taking an almighty gulp of his lager. He sighed heavily and sat back, unaware of the foam moustache on his top lip.

"You'll never guess who I just ran into," Daphne said, looking pointedly at Harry.

Harry just groaned.

"I take it you didn't speak to her after your night of passion?" Daphne said, gripping her glass with both hands. For some reason, she was lightly blowing on the froth, as if it were coffee and she needed to cool it down.

"I'm not a complete bastard," Harry said disdainfully. "In fact, when I woke up the next morning, she was gone. No note, no nothing. I figured she was happy enough to leave it as it was. Plus, she was the one who initiated the whole thing."

"Maybe it's something else," Daphne suggested, shrugging her lightly-tanned shoulders.

"Yeah," Seamus said with a smirk. "Maybe you weren't very good in the sack."

Harry choked on his own tongue, prompting mocking laughter to be directed his way. "No, that's rubbish," he said, sounding unsure. "It can't be that. I mean, she seemed to be, you know, enjoying it."

Daphne and Seamus looked at each other, and at the same time said, "She was faking."

Harry frowned into his beer, ignoring the quiet snickering coming from his friends as best he could.

"Don't be so daft, Potter," Daphne admonished with a role of her eyes. "Obviously she didn't want to take the walk of shame when everyone would see her, so she left before they could. I know, I've done it."

"You have?" Seamus asked, looking at her in a new light. "With who?"

Daphne raised an eyebrow, squinting slightly in the sun. "A bit personal, don't you think?"

Seamus smirked at her. "Someone's embarrassed."

"No I'm not," Daphne mumbled, a distinct blush crawling up her neck.

"Who is he?" Seamus laughed, delighted. "Do we know him?"

"Oh please," Harry said. "If we knew the guy, he probably would've been bragging to us."

"How do you even know it's a he?" Daphne asked, and sat back as Seamus's eyes bulged out. She scoffed. "You're too easy, Finnigan."

"So you're not a lesbian?" Seamus asked bluntly.

"No, I can safely say I'm as straight as Harry is."

Harry cleared his throat. "Thanks." He shook his head. "Anyway, what I want to know is how you're going to be paying rent, Seamus. What have you got lined up?"

"A job," Seamus said smugly.

Daphne groaned and looked at Harry in disappointment. "You walked right in to that one."

"Come on, let's hear it, Seamus."

"Lee Jordan offered me a job," Seamus said.

"Isn't that the guy who used to commentate on the Quidditch matches in school?" Daphne asked, looking to Harry for confirmation.

"Wow, you actually know something about Quidditch," Harry said. "But yeah, that's him. He's got his own radio show now. He does talk shows and interviews. Pretty sure Fred and George helped him out, seeing as he's at every Puddlemere game."

"Does he commentate now?" Daphne asked.

"He does alternative commentary, and he's gaining a bit of a following."

"And he's asked me to help him out," Seamus said proudly.

"You do realise that means you'll be watching Puddlemere all the time, don't you?" Harry said.

Seamus's jaw slackened. "Oh shit, I hadn't thought of that."

Harry chuckled to himself. "You should be happy. You might learn something."

"Let's just wait until we play you, then we'll see who's laughing," Seamus hit back.

Daphne nudged Harry's shin with her toe. "Fancy another?" She asked, waving her empty glass.

"I'll get 'em in," Seamus said, getting to his feet. "Same again?"

Two nods and Seamus went to get the second round of beers.

"So what have you got planned for the rest of the day?" Harry asked.

"Nothing," Daphne said, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, revealing a silver earring. She grinned at him playfully. "I'm all yours. You can have me for as long as you want."

Harry shook his head, laughing under his breath. "One of these days, Daphne. One of these days."

"Don't get my hopes up, Harry."

Autumn arrived a few weeks later, although the weather could easily be mistaken for winter. Harry was fifty metres up in the air on a drizzly Monday morning, his gloved hands balled up into fists. Torrential rain pelted down on Puddlemere's training ground, leaving every member of the squad drenched.

Stewart Ackerley hovered next to him, his cheeks pink. "Regret signing up for this yet?" He asked forlornly.

Harry's teeth chattered, but he managed to laugh. "I could think of a few things I'd rather be doing at the moment."

Ackerley snorted at the understatement. "It's all this waiting around, doing fuck all," he said bitterly, shooting a scathing look towards the main field, presumably at Phil. "Every season, it's the same damn thing. I'm sick of it."

They were waiting for Murphy to finish her drill, but she had no plans on stopping any time soon. It was annoying Ackerley, it seemed, but the man did have a lot to think about these days.

"Whose bright idea was it to have the season in the middle of winter?" Ackerley fumed, his cheeks puffing out. "I swear, one of these days I'm going to get a Portkey to Australia. I'm sure one of their teams will offer me a place."

Truth be told, Harry was only half-heartedly listening. "I hear it's lovely this time of year."

"If we could just use Warming Charms," Ackerley continued longingly.

Harry cleared his throat to catch the older Seeker's attention. When Ackerley did look up, Harry jerked his thumb towards the pitch. "Murphy's just broken your record for the season."

Ackerley's head whipped around, and he was greeted with an infuriatingly smug Murphy.

"And the student becomes the master!"

Ackerley's face fell and he mouthed wordlessly to himself. Obviously his record had never been broken before. His hands gripped tighter around his broom and he sped off towards the main pitch without a word.

Harry followed after him at more sedate pace, quite amused at Ackerley trying to reign in his temper. Murphy flew alongside him, nearly dancing on her broom.

"You'll know how this feels one day," Murphy said giddily. "You wouldn't believe how good it is to wipe that silly grin off his pretty face."

She put on a burst of speed to join up with the rest of the squad, and Harry watched her go. Either Murphy was getting better or Ackerley was distracted. Maybe it was both.

The players formed a half circle around Phil, and Harry joined them. He'd been training long enough to know what was coming.

"Chudley Cannons," Phil said simply, wasting no time with pleasantries. "We all know how they'll play on Saturday. They'll defend. They'll try to frustrate us. They'll foul if they have to. They know, we know, and everyone else knows this. They aren't as good as us with the Quaffle in hand, so they'll try to stop us playing our game. So that means this week we'll be working out the best way we can attack that defence."

Excited muttering erupted in the squad. Phil had just told them exactly what they'd wanted to hear: they would be going all-out attack. They always did, whoever they played, but training sessions usually meant attacking with specific intent in mind. It involved attacking the other team's biggest weakness and defending against their most potent threat. Phil had just told them they would be attacking freely, something that didn't usually happen for fear of being picked off on the counter attack.

"Before we get to it, I have an announcement," Phil said, raising his hand to silence the squad.

Harry looked up sharply and met Phil's gaze. Something stirred within him and he knew what was coming next.

"You're making your debut, Potter," Phil said.

Harry knew why he was getting his first professional start against Chudley. Despite what their fans may say, the Cannons were the worst team in the league. Other teams had been known to let their young players make the professional debuts against Chudley. Particularly for Seekers, it was the easiest way to get them adjusted to the professional game.

Harry didn't care one bit about any of that. He was finally going to play, and that was the only thing that mattered.

After Phil's announcement on Monday, Harry was filled with confidence. It showed in everything he did on the Quidditch pitch. He was suddenly flying with a new sense of freedom, as if nothing could go wrong.

For instance, when faced with a Bludger from the Weasley twins in the past, Harry would have anxiously tried to get out of the way. He would have exerted himself needlessly, but it was suddenly different, and it didn't seem so lethal anymore.

Harry knew it was coming before George had even swung his bat, so he simply waited. A second later, the Bludger was smacked his way. He simply leant back on his broom and let it harmlessly pass him by.

"I've seen Molly hit with better accuracy!" Harry laughed, pointing at the Bludger whizzing away.

George scowled and raced after his wrecking ball, completely ignoring Harry's taunts.

"Why are you riling them up?" Ackerley asked, more curious than worried. "You do know they'll just try harder."

Harry shrugged, unbothered, as if he wasn't having solid steel balls whacked towards his head. "They'll lose their concentration soon, if they haven't already."

Ackerley looked at him and simply shook his head. "Those two nearly played in a World Cup final. You know that, right? You're making them look like amateurs."

"Obviously I've caught them by surprise," Harry said. "Watch out."

"What? Shit!" Ackerley twisted sharply, as a Bludger narrowly missed him. "What the fuck, Potter? When the hell's happened to you?"

"I've been hiding my abilities," Harry said dryly. He wasn't sure why it felt like he was suddenly a second ahead of everyone else, but he wasn't complaining. Filled with as much confidence as he was, it simply came naturally to him.

"Well, whatever it is, stop it," Ackerley said, although he was smiling. "You're making me look bad."

"You can't blame that on me," Harry said, snickering as yet another Bludger forced Ackerley to nearly jump off his broom with a yelp. "That's all your own doing, Ackerley."

When Phil blew the whistle, a Bludger hadn't even grazed Harry. While Fred, George, and Ackerley trudged off the pitch with their heads bowed, Harry was nearly skipping. Phil was eying him suspiciously, due to the sudden brilliance he'd displayed, but Harry was far too happy to care.

He decided to skip dinner with the team, heading home instead. It was the first time he'd stepped off the training pitch feeling like he couldn't have done something better, and he only wanted to get back out there. He knew that most players went home and practised on their own Quidditch pitches. It wasn't something he could do, though, at least not yet. For one thing, he didn't have the money, despite what the Daily Prophet reported. While Grimmauld Place did have a back yard, it was exactly that: a back yard, not a garden. So even if did have enough money to get constructors in, there wouldn't be anywhere to build it.

Harry arrived home to the sound of muted laughter drifting throughout the old house. He found the source of the noise in the kitchen, emanating from Sirius and Seamus. They were sitting at the kitchen table, half-dressed and giggling like school girls, whilst stuffing their faces with hearty breakfasts. The sight wasn't unusual to Harry. In fact, he'd arrived home to a similar scene more times than he could remember.

"You two are lazy bastards," Harry said, hiding his amusement as he announced himself. "I've been up since half six!"

Sirius looked up with a frown. "Should've set your alarm for later, then."

"What, and risk the wrath of Phil?" Harry snorted derisively.

"How was training?" Sirius asked, happily smothering a piece of toast with strawberry jam, before stuffing nearly half of it into his mouth.

Harry eyed him in slight disgust. "Best day I've had so far, actually," he said proudly, whipping off his jacket and draping it over a seat, which he immediately sat on. "Oh, that reminds me!" He dug deep in his pocket and pulled out a bunch of tickets, which he slapped down on the table, spilling some of Seamus's coffee. "I've just been assigned my own personal box seats. My allocated tickets arrived this morning."

Sirius looked down at the tickets with a frown, swallowing the last of his toast. "I'm a season ticket holder already, Harry. Hell, I've been to every game this season."

"I know that, but these are far better seats," Harry said, flustered at the refusal. "The best seats in every stadium we'll play in, actually."

Sirius picked up one of the tickets and inspected it carefully. "I don't want to sound like an ungrateful son of a bitch, Harry, but I'm not going to lie." He looked Harry in the eye, like the whole matter was of the utmost importance. "I do not want to sit with stuffy old pillocks and posh sorts. They could suck the fun out of a weeklong orgy with every Veela in France. I'll stick with the real fans, thanks."

"This is my private box, Sirius," Harry said. "That means the only people there will be who I invite, so no stuffy old pillocks and certainly no posh sorts. And while I can't get you an orgy, I could invite Fleur."

"Do you think she'd have me?" Sirius asked eagerly.

"No, not even slightly," Harry said immediately. "But there will be free booze on offer, and you can drink as much of it as you want."

Sirius perked up at that. "Oh yeah?" He immediately narrowed his eyes. "It won't be champagne on ice, will it? I hate champagne."

"Of course not," Harry said, slightly insulted. "Every box has its own bar, stocked full before every match. While there might be champagne there, it won't be on ice."

"Oh, okay," Sirius said. "It's free?"

"All paid for by the club," Harry assured him.

Sirius whistled under his breath, his breakfast forgotten. "This is sounding better by the minute."

"What about you, Seamus?" Harry asked, sliding a ticket across the table.

"I'll be there," Seamus said. He sat up straighter and eagerly explained, "I came up with a brilliant idea for Lee and he agreed to it. We're going to do a special for your first match, where we'll interview all your friends before, during, and after the match."

"Can I be the first person you interview?" Sirius asked in excitement.

"Sure," Seamus said.

Harry glared at Seamus suspiciously, pointing a sausage at him viciously, which he'd stolen from Sirius's plate. "You don't want to interview me, do you?"

"Nope," Seamus said innocently.

"Good," Harry said, leaning his chair back against the wall. He took a bite of the spicy sausage. "Will you two be home tonight?"

"Hopefully with some extra company," Sirius said.

"We're off to the pub later," Seamus explained.

"Coming?" Sirius asked hopefully. "You haven't been out since… Well, I can't even remember the last time you were out."

"Afraid not." Harry did his best to avoid Sirius's disappointed eyes. "I'm meeting Anna soon. She's going to show me around the museum, and then we're going out for dinner."

"Anna?" Seamus asked incredulously. "The girl you met in Greece? You're still seeing her? What, are you actually together now or something?"

"Um…" Harry was stumped. He had only seen Anna twice since Greece, and he didn't have the slightest clue what was happening between them.

"Are you sleeping with her?" Sirius asked bluntly.

"Well, there was that one time in Greece…"

Seamus seemed to find it hilarious that Harry hadn't been getting any, judging by the loud guffaw that burst forth from his lips.

"What do you want from her?" Sirius asked.

Harry could only shrug. He simply didn't know. The idea of a relationship terrified him, and for good reason. His one and only relationship hadn't been all that bad, at least in the beginning. Parvati had been exciting in many ways, even if they'd never really worked on the same level. But they'd been young then, still at school. Harry didn't want the emotional baggage now. He wanted the easy life, where he could go to work and do the thing he loved, with no worries.

"Look," Sirius said calmly, looking Harry dead in the eye much like he'd done earlier. "I have no idea why you even wrote to her. You don't want anything other than sex, do you?"

"I felt guilty, okay?" Harry said glumly. "I found her note and I couldn't get her out of my head."

"Sarah Clark," Sirius said, nodding his shaggy head.

"What?"

"Same thing happened to me," Sirius said. "I met this girl – Sarah – and I suddenly felt really guilty that I hadn't got in touch. It'd never bothered me before and it hasn't since, but it did with her. Anyway, we had a few dates, got together, and it was okay for a while. But then, after a while, I just got bored. I know it sounds callous, but if it's not what you want, tell her. Don't drag it out, because before you know it you'll be married with kids."

"That why you never got hitched, huh?" Seamus asked, looking at Sirius in a new light.

"I was in Azkaban, you idiot," Sirius said. "I've already got rid of the chains once, I don't want them back."

Harry got up from his seat and poured himself a glass of water, his mind whirring. It was times like these that he was glad Sirius was around. He'd go and see Anna, act normal, and see what happened. That was the best plan he could come up with.

"What museum does she work at, Harry?" Sirius asked.

Harry paused in the doorway of the kitchen. "Museum of Quidditch, here in London. I can't believe I've never been there."

"You have," Sirius said pointedly. "It was one of your first family outings. All of us went."

"Oh," Harry said, digesting that bit of information. He wondered, not for the first time, how much of his own life he still didn't know about. "Thanks, Padfoot."

"We're going to the pub later," Sirius called out, obviously trying to lighten the mood. "If Anna doesn't jump your bones in an ancient broom shed, feel free to join us."

Harry chuckled to himself, but his heart wasn't really in it. To think the day had started so well, and now here he was, moping. He took a shower and got over it as best he could, before leaving to meet Anna.

She didn't jump his bones, as Sirius had so eloquently phrased it. Instead, she gave him a personal tour of the museum, and showed him all number of artefacts and treasures. There was the first recorded design of a broomstick, along with the oldest broomstick ever found. Then there were kits from all number of teams around Britain, including the very first kit Puddlemere United players had worn. It was dark brown and Harry was very thankful it had been changed.

Later that evening, Anna took him to her favourite restaurant. It was in North London and specialised in Mediterranean food. Harry had to wonder if she'd picked it because of the connection to Greece they shared.

Harry's nerves were tingling wildly right up until he finished a bottle of white wine.

Anna was on her fifth or sixth glass by the time she asked, "Have you got training in the morning?"

"I haven't," Harry said, his voice a little too loud and his eyes a little too wide as he stared across the table at her. His vision was slightly out of focus. "I'm off tomorrow and back in on Thursday."

"Oh," was all Anna said, though her eyes were sparkling over the rim of her glass.

"Do you want to come to my match?" Harry asked, his smile turning rather fixed. He didn't know what he was doing. "I have tickets back at my place. You can have one, if you want?"

The smile that lit up her face probably should have unsettled him. "Are you just trying to get me back to yours, Harry?"

"Wouldn't dream of doing such a thing," Harry said, trying and failing to ease the nervousness that suddenly rammed back into his gut.

Anna drained her wine, stood up and grabbed his arm. "Come on, let's go now."

"Yeah, okay."

A chaste kiss on his dry lips woke Harry, instantly putting him on high alert. It was the type of kiss he'd only ever received from one girl.

"Sorry, Harry, but I have to be in work soon," Anna said softly, stroking one finger over the stubble on his jawline.

"Okay," Harry muttered, blinking rapidly and opening his eyes to see Anna sitting next to him, fully clothed.

"Thanks for last night, Harry," Anna said, and kissed him again. "I'll see you after the match, okay?"

The instant the door closed, Harry sat up sharply, his heart pounding against his ribcage. His head hurt and he felt cold all over. He pressed his hands over his eyes and moaned pitifully.

Falling back onto the warm sheets, he lay there for a while, berating himself. He turned over and the smell of perfume, which he'd become intimately familiar with last night, washed over him. Bile instantly hit the back of his throat, forcing him to sit up again.

Deciding that what he really needed was to clear his head, Harry hobbled to the bathroom and pulled a Hangover Potion from the cabinet. He gulped it down in one swift motion and sighed with relief.

After a quick shower, Harry made his way downstairs and stopped when he saw Sirius at the kitchen table, reading the Daily Prophet and sipping a cup of tea.

"What are you doing up so early?" Harry asked him, setting about making himself a cup of strong coffee.

"I couldn't help but notice we had a guest last night," Sirius said mildly, barely looking up from the newspaper.

Harry winced into his coffee, taking solace in the strong aroma. "Uh, yeah. Don't really know what happened there."

"I take it you're not breaking ties with her, then?" Sirius asked casually.

Harry fell into his chair with a deep sigh. "We'll see what happens."

In the last few days leading up the match, Harry surprisingly managed to give all his tickets away. Neville accepted, and sent a letter back saying he had some big news. Dean also took a ticket, as did his girlfriend, Susan Bones. Hermione sent him a letter back, saying she missed him and of course she'd come. Ron didn't need any, because the twins had tickets for the whole family. Remus wished him good luck, and Professor Dumbledore seemed more excited than any of Harry's friends.

Harry slept surprisingly well the night before the match, still confident from his displays in training. When he awoke on the morning of the match, however, it was a completely different story.

"I'm about to play my first game of professional Quidditch," Harry said to his bathroom mirror. His eyes were slightly wider than normal.

"I hope you fall and break your neck," the mirror replied disdainfully.

The mirrors in Grimmauld Place were one of the only things that Sirius hadn't gotten rid of. He found them funny.

"You know I could smash you into tiny little bits, don't you?" Harry glared at the mirror, but felt a little foolish doing so, as it looked like he was glaring at himself.

The mirror rippled and huffed.

Harry snorted. "That's what I thought."

The house was abuzz with excitement. Sirius was walking around the house with a skip in his step, loudly telling Harry to 'go get 'em' in between bursts of off-key renditions of Puddlemere's songs.

Harry made himself some toast, covered both pieces in butter and strawberry jam, but could only nibble at the corners. Every crumb seemed to stick in the back of throat, making it hard to swallow, even with the mugs of water he drank to wash it down.

"You look as green as a goblin, Potter," Seamus said, walking into the kitchen and sitting down at the table.

The Daily Prophet arrived, but Harry didn't so much as dare glance at the newspaper. It was sure to be filled with articles about him.

With one last 'go get 'em, kid' from Sirius ringing in his ears, Harry apparated to Puddlemere's training ground. He came face to face with a sea of reporters, who instantly swarmed around him, shouting over each other to get their questions heard.

"Are you nervous, Harry?"

"How does it feel to be playing your first professional match?"

"How does this compare with defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

Harry simply shook his head at the last question and tried his best to ignore the rest. He pushed his way through the crowd, nearly getting blinded by the flashes going off from a hundred cameras. As soon as the gates were in his sight, he made a beeline for them. The reporters didn't have access to the interior and were left outside to fling their questions at him.

The squad were just sat around the changing room, checking over their brooms and equipment. Harry pulled out his own Firebolt, inspecting it for bent twigs and finding none.

Phil arrived and immediately led them to the Portkey Room, and they all shuffled around a length of rope.

"Here we go," Harry muttered to himself, closing his eyes and bracing himself.

11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Thanks to silentclock again. I can only apologise for taking so long to update this, but I hope you enjoy it. Let me know.

Chapter Eleven

Puddlemere United's four-tiered stadium towered into the sky. It was covered in Muggle-Repelling and other security charms, and only England's national stadium surpassed it in size. The club's ticket sales were usually amongst the highest in the league, but sales had soared for today's match. There wasn't a spare ticket to be snatched at the last minute, although that hadn't deterred witches and wizards from all over Britain flocking to south-west England, hoping against all hope.

It was Harry Potter's first game, after all, an occasion that could not be missed.

Puddlemere enjoyed a loyal fan base. Over the years the club's success had brought in big crowds. The season ticket holders enjoyed the entire fourth tier to themselves, and all of them had turned up for this match. The noise was deafening, with the crowd stomping their feet and applauding as they bellowed their chants and songs.

The home team's dressing room was on the east side of the stadium. An excited buzz had been building all morning, and with the racket the fans were making, it was now impossible to be heard without shouting.

Harry was sitting on a wooden bench pressed against the back wall, leaning forward with his head in his hands. His heart thumped against his ribs. Sweat trickled down his naked back. He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up in all directions, messier than ever. His ears rang with the sound of expectant voices, his legs refused to stop shaking, and his tongue remained dry no matter how much water he tipped down his throat.

Just ten minutes remained until he would be out there doing exactly what he loved to do. Only he wasn't feeling enamoured with Quidditch at the moment. It had seemed all too easy when it had just been a dream. The hours spent talking about it all those years ago, sitting inside an abandoned classroom with four friends, felt like a lifetime ago.

Krum had already been a star, being hailed in the same breath as Wronski and the other legends of the game. Fred and George were well on their way to becoming top professionals, possibly the best Beaters playing in Britain. Harry was sure Cedric would have taken Britain by storm.

Now it was Harry's turn to prove himself. As Oliver Wood and the Weasley twins approached him in their navy Puddlemere robes, he was reminded that he wouldn't be alone out there.

"All right there, Harry?" Fred said, grinning broadly as he gave Harry a fleshy slap on the shoulder. He made a show of inspecting him. "You look as pale as Sir Nicholas!"

"I've lost my tan," Harry said dryly. He stood up, swallowing the urge to vomit, refusing to show his nerves.

Ollie was watching him carefully. "Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Harry said with a stiff nod.

Puddlemere's newest player put on his pristine uniform for the first time. His feet fit perfectly inside a pair of dragon-hide boots. A protective guard rested lightly on his shoulders, protecting his torso; his forearms, groin, and shins were equally guarded, all concealed beneath a navy robe. The club's crest was woven into the fabric over his heart. A pair of black fingerless gloves fit snugly over his hands; he stretched his fingers to test them. They were a simple design, with only his name written in silver lettering over the strap on the back of his wrist. There were some Seekers who liked to show off with fanciful designs, but that wasn't Harry's style.

Phil stood at the door and shook every player's hand as they walked past him. Maddock led out the team, stopping just before the tunnel's exit. Harry took his place at the back of the line. His legs still felt wobbly, as if they'd give up and buckle beneath him at a moment's notice, but he was ready.

Chudley's players appeared in the tunnel, their garish orange robes shining horribly in the low light. Galvin Gudgeon came to a stop next to Harry. He was their Seeker, infamous for going an entire season without catching a Snitch. It was the first time Harry had seen the man up close. He didn't hold his height well, as though a growth spurt in his teens had taken him by surprise and he'd never grown comfortable in his skin. His was face too long, his teeth were crooked, and his ears stuck out at an unusual angle.

Harry couldn't help but feel slightly sorry for the man. He was the source of amusement in every pub, the joke everyone laughed at.

The referee strutted to the front of the line, clutching the chest of balls and his broomstick. His name was Richard Vaughn. He was well known for being overly strict on fouls, at least the ones he saw. He was a bit of an idiot in Harry's opinion, often favouring the defending side over those attacking. Richard checked both teams were ready, mounted his broom, and flew out of the tunnel to a smattering of lukewarm applause. Referees and fans didn't tend to get along all that well.

Harry remembered reading about an incident involving a referee and the home crowd in the late eighteen hundreds. It had been the semi-final of the European Cup, between Valencia and Montrose. The game had gone on for over two hours, with Montrose leading by one hundred and forty points, when Valencia made an obvious foul to stop Montrose from scoring. A second later, Márquez caught the Snitch and sent Valencia through to the final, winning by just ten points. The referee was lynched on his way out of the stadium, beaten to death by enraged fans of Montrose. From then on, apparition points were set up in every stadium so referees could leave safely.

From high up in the stands, the commentator turned on his microphone and cleared his throat. "Welcome, one and all, to today's match between Puddlemere and Chudley."

If Harry remembered correctly, his name was Joe Davies. He spoke warmly and, more often than not, became as excited as the fans.

"And here come the players!"

Chudley flew out to taunts and jeers from the home crowd, which quickly turned to an eruption of applause as Joe called out Puddlemere.

Harry kicked off hard from the ground and soared out into the muggy sky and spraying rain. Cameras flashed all around him and his ears were assaulted by a cacophony of noise that suddenly swept around the stadium. His heartbeat pounded in his ears and he tried to take it all in, from the smell of the freshly cut grass to the flags and banners swaying in the crowd.

He flew around the stadium faster than he normally would, attempting to rid his body of nerves and get his mind under control. His personal box was on the third tier. He tried to catch a glimpse inside despite the speed he was flying, and was sure he caught a flash of Dumbledore's silver beard.

The teams took their positions on opposing sides of the oval pitch and the captains shook hands.

"Here's a little statistic for you today, my Quidditch hungry fanatics," Joe said, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. "Chudley Cannons haven't managed to beat Puddlemere United in over seventy years. It's going to be one hell of a test for the Cannons today, but stranger things have happened in the past, haven't they?"

The referee blew on his whistle and tossed the Quaffle high into the sky. Harry's first professional game had started. A tingle spread throughout his bones and a grin spread across his face. This was a day he would never forget, and though he knew it was arrogant to think, it was also a day that would go down in history.

"Here we go, then," Joe said. "Bragge easily gets to the Quaffle first and swats it back to Maddock. The old timer darts to his left but throws the Quaffle over his shoulder. The no-look pass has pin-point accuracy, which shows how well this Chaser line-up know each other. Bragge has it again, tucked safely under his arm, and he rips straight through Chudley's defence as though they aren't there! And he scores! What a start for Bragge, who puts Puddlemere's first points on the board in the first minute of the match. He made Chudley's defence look silly there. If this is a sign of things to come, this could get very ugly."

It dawned on Harry that he was playing alongside some of the very best players in the world; the realisation hit him with a bang and filled him with confidence. He was not here by chance or by luck, but by his own merit.

Play resumed immediately, but Harry stuck to the plan he and Phil had worked on for the past week. For the first few minutes of the match he floated high above the action, simply taking in the occasion. Phil had told him to feel his way into the match, to familiarise himself with everything that went into a professional game. He could feel the thousands of eyes watching his every move, but his own eyes were narrowed in search of a flash of gold. There weren't any convoluted tactics he had to abide by today; he didn't have to wait for a large lead before ending the game.

This was the reason he loved flying. It was just him and his Firebolt, soaring at unnatural speeds. He'd forgotten just how much he loved the thrill. The added pressure of being Gryffindor's captain had lessened the exhilaration and forced him to worry about what the rest of his teammates were doing.

"And Bragge steals the Quaffle again!" Joe chortled into the microphone. "I must say he's playing superbly so far. He slips the Quaffle to Merton, who races downfield, draws in the two defenders and lobs the Quaffle into Bragge's waiting hands. There's nobody close to him, and he scores again! Oho, that was silky by Merton and Bragge. They've built an understanding and it's resulting in victories. This game looks like it will end the same way."

Bradley Bragge and Andrew Merton continued to perplex Chudley over the next forty minutes, their elusiveness and skill far too much for them handle. Their performances resulted in eighty points, Bragge scoring five goals and Merton taking the rest.

Harry watched with a building sense of awe as they passed the Quaffle between them at lightning fast speeds, steadily building up another attack. It was a thing of beauty to behold as Chudley furiously but fruitlessly tried to regain possession. Puddlemere's passes were thrown hard, always into the space one of the three Chasers occupied, and effortlessly on target.

"Chudley have yet to score," Joe said, starting to sound breathless. "Oliver Wood hasn't had a shot to save. Amazing!"

Harry looked down at his old Gryffindor captain. As expected, Ollie was watching the play intensely, refusing to let his concentration waver despite the lack of action coming his way.

A spark to Harry's left had his heart racing. He swung his broom around, ready to dash after the Snitch, but he was mistaken. It was an old man in the crowd, only a few meters away, lighting a thick cigar.

It wasn't the first time Harry had been fooled in a match. In his very first game for Gryffindor, the sunlight reflecting off someone's wristwatch had caught him out.

Timing and decision-making were vital in Quidditch, but it was arguably most difficult for a Seeker. The best could differentiate the flash from someone's wristwatch and the glint of the Golden Snitch in milliseconds, and it made all the difference in the world. Instinct couldn't be trained – you either had it or you didn't.

"And Jenkins speeds down field with the Quaffle firmly tucked under his arm," Joe said, his excitement obvious. Harry imagined him jumping up and down in his seat. "Fred and George both send Bludgers, but Jenkins just shrugs them off! This is brilliant from the Beater-turned-Chaser!"

Harry was the last line of defence, but he was a good ten metres above Jenkins and his flying path. The memory of his last match for Gryffindor fleetingly entered his head and he relinquished control of his Firebolt, plummeting straight into the path of the oncoming Chaser. Jenkins' hazel eyes widened in alarm and to avoid contact he violently swerved to his left, straight into the path of a Bludger which Fred had viciously thumped. It caught him square in the ribs, leaving him doubled over, wheezing and gasping for air as he clutched his stomach.

The Quaffle fell out his grasp and was swiftly picked up by Merton.

"Nice to see you're still a nutcase, Potter!" Ollie shouted over the roar of the crowd.

Joe also had something to say on what had just happened. "Potter perfectly executed a Krum specialty to stop a clear shot at goal. I don't recommend anyone attempting to copy him. It's mad to even try it in training, let alone during a match!"

Their words put a large grin on Harry's face. A huge weight had suddenly disappeared from his shoulders. The crowd had gone wild for him!

"Now it's Maddock with possession. He hands it straight to Bragge and who can blame him? Bragge is on fire! Duncan flails hopelessly as he tries to intercept, but fails, and it leaves Puddlemere's fastest Chaser in the clear once again. Will he score? Of course he scores! I never doubted him, not for a second! Bradley Bragge, what a player you're turning out to be."

Harry caught his breath, ruthlessly pushing away his building excitement. His first contribution had resulted in another goal, but the job wasn't finished. He swung his broom around and continued his search. Gudgeon was close by, his frog-like eyes firmly fixed on Harry.

"We've just reached the hour mark, ladies and gentlemen," Joe said. "Puddlemere's lead of one hundred and eighty to zilch gives Potter some breathing room. I can't imagine Chudley outscoring United's Chasers today, so it's all about the Seekers now." He seemed disappointed at the thought of the match ending. "Potter will want this game over and done with so he can get that precious first catch on his record. It's always the hardest to get. If he catches it now he puts his team straight back to the top of the table, but the lead will be slender. I won't be surprised if Maddock orders his team to score as many goals as they can, while giving Potter free reign to catch the Snitch at the first opportunity."

As it happened, that was exactly the plan. As eccentric as Joe was, there was no questioning his knowledge of the game. His passion was enthralling and inviting, and Harry thought he was probably the best commentator working in Britain. There were some real idiots, so he was grateful he didn't have to put up with them.

Chudley was not the best of teams. Even the most die-hard fan would admit it. But nobody could deny their work ethic. They continued to try even when they knew defeat was close. When they finally did manage to get the Quaffle away from Puddlemere and actually got a few shots away, they found a fierce last line of defence in Oliver Wood. Six shots – no goals. In the same time, Bragge and Merton had orchestrated a dozen chances, converting nine of them.

Then Chudley lost their patience. They were so frustrated and knew there wasn't a chance of winning, so they almost stopped attacking altogether. They formed a five-man line of defence – three Chasers, two Beaters – and flew the line on what was legal.

George swung his bat, sending a Bludger into Duncan, and swivelled around to face Harry. "Eyes in the back of your head, Harry!" He grinned. "This is about to get ugly."

Harry nodded, but George had already flown away.

He kept one eye on what was happening, but stayed far away from the main action. Bragge and Merton kept finding the weaknesses in Chudley's defence, managing to score more goals. Fred and George delighted in trading blows with their opposing Beaters. They loved a scrap, and they were getting one.

Then he saw it. The Snitch. It coasted over Ollie's goalposts, a speck of gold against the blue crowd. Gudgeon was all the way over the other side of the stadium, distracted by the foul-fest.

Harry steadied himself and drifted as casually as possible towards his target. The Snitch wasn't flying erratically yet, and he slowly picked up his speed. Nobody was paying him any attention. He kept his eyes trained on the tiny golden ball, feeling his heart thumping faster yet again. Then, as though it sensed it had been found, the Snitch zoomed off.

Harry whipped his broom around and accelerated as hard as possible, cursing his luck. His turn of speed didn't go unnoticed.

"I think Potter's spotted the little blighter!" Joe declared. The already raucous crowd stood as one, roaring their approval. "Gudgeon is after him, but there's no way he'll get there! Potter's just metres away!"

The Snitch turned this way and that, made sharp turns and steep dives, but Harry was getting closer. He was so close he could see the transparent wings beating furiously. Every move he made, a slight adjustment or a sharp turn, felt elegant and easy, as though the broom was attached to the Snitch and he was simply along for the ride. He was flying by instinct, as he had always done.

"We haven't seen very much of him yet, but Potter can certainly get some speed out of that Firebolt," Joe said.

Harry stretched out his arm, the tips of his fingers only inches away. Suddenly, as though he'd apparated, Jenkins was there. Harry instinctively yanked up his broom with all his might, but it was useless, and he crashed straight into the Cannons Chaser.

There was an almighty crack as Harry's momentum pushed him on, and Jenkins dropped from the sky as though his broom had vanished from beneath him. When Harry looked he realised he wasn't entirely incorrect; two broken bits of broomstick plummeted to the ground alongside the curly haired Chaser.

"He's falling!" Joe sounded far too ecstatic. "Jenkins, who must have been trying to get some revenge from earlier in the game, flew straight into Potter and wiped himself out!"

In a second the referee had his wand out and levitated Jenkins safely down the last few feet. He blew sharply on his whistle to stop play and flew down to the pitch to check on the unconscious wizard. Healers had already reached him and were getting to work.

Harry turned away in disgust. The Snitch had escaped.

"Aha! I think we all thought it was game over there, didn't we?" Joe said to the audience at home and inside the stadium. "But this game isn't over yet. The chase hadn't been going long and Potter was just about to grab the Snitch, when bang! Just like that the chase is over. Potter seems to be okay from the collision. Far better than Jenkins does at least."

Harry flew to the side of the pitch, where the team had huddled together. George welcomed him in with an apologetic pat on the shoulder.

"Sorry about that." George glared at the team in orange. "As soon as you see the Snitch again, we'll give a you clear chase."

Harry didn't doubt George's word for a second, and nor did he blame him. It had been his own fault. He had simply not been aware of his surrounding, too caught up in his excitement, thinking the game was over before it was. It was an amateur error.

Maddock hovered in the middle of the huddle of broomsticks. He had a large grin on his face, partially hidden behind his thick beard. It was a strange sight. Harry had only ever seen him scowling.

"They're scared of us!" Maddock guffawed, gesturing passionately with hands the side of bear paws. "They've run out of options and they can't even foul us properly! Bragge, you're one of the biggest targets, so goad them into following you. Keep the Quaffle and take them out wide. Let's open up the gaps." Maddock turned his attention to Harry. "Should have spotted Jenkins, but at least you've learnt your lesson. How he managed to knock himself out and leave you without a scratch, I don't know. George, keep one eye on him. As soon as he goes, you protect him as though he's your own damn flesh and blood!"

George nodded sharply, although he couldn't stay too serious for long. He winked at Harry and said, "Who would've thought it? Me, George Weasley, looking after the boy who lived! Madness!"

"This isn't the time for your jokes," Maddock growled. He was working himself into something of a frenzy as he directed the team. "Fred! I want Bludgers and I want them fast and hard. Keep hitting until you think your arm's about to fall off!"

"What if my arm actually does fall off?" Fred asked, appearing genuinely curious.

Maddock glared at him, thumped them all on the back, and the huddle split. Harry shook his head as he flew off. It wasn't difficult to see why people referred to Maddock as the team's unofficial coach.

The referee gestured for the captains. "Foul – Blatching. Penalty to Chudley."

Maddock's nostrils flared. "Are you fucking blind? Potter was going after the Snitch! Why the hell would he fly into someone?"

Some referees might have reversed the decision, but Vaughn didn't back down. He narrowed his eyes and blew his whistle again.

"An extra penalty to Chudley – foul and abusive language."

Maddock muttered something under his breath and glared venomously at the referee, his fingers flexing as though he wanted to strangle him. Boos rang down from the stands as Joe relayed Vaughn's words.

Perry was Chudley's ginger, weedy looking Chaser. He lined up his first penalty. Oliver Wood smiled confidently as he guarded the goal rings. The volume of the crowd increased, the taunts aimed at Perry becoming more aggressive.

Penalties were fifty percent luck, thirty percent instinct, and twenty percent skill.

Harry watched with rapt attention, willing Ollie to make the save. He saw a streak of orange out of the corner of his eye just as Perry launched forwards, holding the Quaffle aloft. He threw it with all his might, going for power over placement. It was the default tactic for nervous players who weren't sure what to do. Ollie dived to his right hand side and swatted the Quaffle away.

A huge roar erupted around the stadium.

"Potter!" Maddock thundered, his deep voice reverberating in Harry's ears. "Gudgeon's seen the Snitch! That's why they're making such a racket. Get after him, you berk!"

Harry whirled around, swearing madly. Gudgeon was at least fifty metres above him, entering into a vertical dive. A plan started to form in Harry's mind and he looked around for the nearest Weasley.

"Oi, George! I need some cover!"

George's eyes darted from Harry to Gudgeon and he nodded.

Dread started swirling in the pit of Harry's stomach but there was no time to dwell on the feeling. He gripped the Firebolt's handle, waiting for the exact moment to go. A second too soon or too late would leave Gudgeon in the clear, unimpeded in his chase of the Snitch.

"Now!" George yelled, just as Harry hunched his shoulders and accelerated into a dive.

The Firebolt had never felt faster, sleeker, but Gudgeon had already been flying at top speed and caught up within a second. They were neck and neck, jostling for the better position as they hurtled towards the ground, only an arm-length away from the Snitch. At such speeds the wind was a constant droning roar, drowning out the crowd's fervour.

"Perry scores on his second attempt, but every single eye now turns to the second chase of the match," Joe said, sounding far away, like he was just a distant voice in the back of Harry's mind. "Both Seekers pull out of the dive but it's Potter who has the edge! Yes, look at him, he's starting to pull away!"

Harry prided himself on his ability to take brooms past their top speeds, whether they were state-of-the-art Firebolts or old Shooting Stars. He flew them faster than should have been possible, faster than they'd been designed to go. The Firebolt he was using was responding to him like no other broom had ever done, as though it could sense his excitement and was using it to fly even faster. He didn't have to fight for control, it did exactly what he wanted it to do.

He chanced a quick glance over his shoulder. The wind was contorting Gudgeon's peculiar features ever so slightly as he desperately tried to keep up, but Harry was pulling away.

The sky lit up in a brilliant sudden flash, accompanied by a rumble of thunder just a few seconds later that shook the stadium. And then the rain came, no longer a light drizzle, now a downpour. It didn't slow Harry down.

The Snitch took both Seekers towards the murky clouds, around the stadium, and into another steep dive. Gudgeon somehow managed to gain ground through all the tight turns and sharp twists, and he was now on Harry's tail as they raced towards the ground. The Snitch skimmed the blades of grass, and both Seekers pulled sharply out of the dive.

With a snarl, Gudgeon flung out his elbow, hitting Harry across his nose. He heard the crack and instantly stars filled his vision, but he hardly paused in his pursuit. He'd been hit on the nose so many times in his life, mostly from Dudley, that he was used to it by now. He shook his head, flinging specks of blood onto his robes, and growled as he pushed on.

Gudgeon had edged ahead. Harry grabbed a handful of his robes and yanked him back. Chudley's Seeker cried out in surprise and lashed out, but Harry ducked the flailing punch and sped away. The Snitch was still in sight, no more than ten metres away.

"C'mon, Potter," he muttered angrily. Against better opposition he would have lost a long time ago, he was sure.

The crowd seemed to 'ooh' as one, responding to something Harry hadn't seen.

"Gudgeon is taken completely by surprise! George Weasley sent a Bludger straight into the back of his head. This has to be it!" Joe sounded completely out of breath, his voice starting to sound gravelly. "Potter is now completely free, with his opposing Seeker out of it and no time for a replacement. He will not be denied in his first game at this level! And yes, he's nearly there, he's stretching for it…"

Harry's eyes focused in on the little golden ball that he spent so much time chasing. He held his breath, unable to contain his excitement, and the world seemed to pause as he lunged.

"He's done it! Potter catches the Snitch in his first game!"

The crowd erupted in a roar. Incomprehensible noise filled Harry's head. He unclenched his fingers and stared at the little golden ball fluttering in his gloved hand. He'd done it. He'd made a bit of a mess of it, but his first game was over and he'd won. It was hard to believe. He looked at the referee for confirmation and saw the man was spelling the Bludgers back into their box, their job now done, never to be used again.

The team descended on him, slapping him and each other on the back in congratulations, revelling in their victory.

"Brilliant, Harry!" George slung his arm around Harry's shoulders and grinned at him. "C'mon, smile for the cameras. You'll be on the front page in the morning."

Harry joined the team in a number of victory laps around the stadium, waving at the cheering fans and applauding their support. Cameras flashed all around them. The fans refused to let the pouring rain dampen their spirits, and Harry didn't care one bit either. He smiled wide and toothy, hurting his cheeks.

On another lap, they came towards his personal box. He saw Sirius smiling brightly, applauding. Harry swung his leg over his broom and hovered in front of his godfather, matching his smile.

"Well?"

Sirius laughed uproariously. "I was never in doubt!"

"Neither was I," Harry lied. Sirius saw straight through it.

The moment he slid off his broom and turned away from Sirius, Hermione jumped at him, engulfing him in a hug, the like of which she hadn't given him in years.

"Oh, Harry," she whispered in his ear. She squeezed him tight and pulled back, holding him at arm's length. Her eyes were watery. "I'm so happy for you."

"Thank you," Harry said. "I'll see you later, okay?"

Hermione let him go and he was treated to a hearty handshake from Remus, pats on the back from Dean and Neville, and Dumbledore looked at him with pride.

Tonks hugged him and whispered in his ear. "Thank Merlin you won, Harry. I put ten Galleons on you."

Harry's grin faltered for a second. The thought of people betting on him made him slightly queasy. "I hope you had good odds."

Then he turned to Ron, who looked mightily conflicted.

Harry's grin didn't falter this time. "Sorry, mate," he said, completely insincerely.

"I came over from the twins' box to say congratulations," Ron said. It looked like it pained him to say it. He waggled a finger in Harry's face. "But you are buying my drinks tonight. I need to drown my sorrows."

"I hope you don't do that every time the Cannons lose," Hermione said, smiling faintly. "You'd be an alcoholic if you did."

Ron gaped at her as everyone else burst out laughing. "Hermione," he whined, his lips twitching in amusement.

Anna suddenly pounced, catching Harry off guard as she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly. It was so unexpected that it took him a good few seconds to respond. He did have to wonder why girls either cried or kissed him every time he stepped off a Quidditch pitch. It seemed they wanted to severely hurt him with their affection.

"What was that for?" Harry gasped as they parted.

"I forgot what it's like watching you fly," Anna said, her cheeks reddening as she noticed the crowd watching on.

Hermione coughed none too politely. "Now you know how I felt watching him for seven years."

Harry rolled his eyes at the same old stories. What was it with people thinking he had a death wish?

Ron noticed his look and snorted. "Sorry, mate, but you are kind of nuts." At Harry's raised eyebrow, he quickly added, "When you're in the air!"

"Oi, Potter," Seamus said. He was sitting next to Lee Jordan, holding a microphone out in front of him.

"No interviews," Harry said firmly.

"Spoilsport," Seamus said. His eyes flickered over to Anna. "Your nose is broken, by the way."

"Nothing an Episkey can't fix."

Seamus grinned mischievously. "So no tender loving care from Pomfrey and her delightful apprentice today, then?"

Anna peered at his nose and poked it.

"Geroff," Harry said, swiping her hand away.

"Maybe you should go and see your healer. It looks quite bad."

Harry touched his nose and tried not to wince. "I'll be fine once Byrne gets a look at me."

Anna looked dubious but didn't say anything. Harry swung his leg over his broom and said goodbye. He flew back out into the emptying stadium, where the rain pelted him again. He waved to the few fans who still loitered on their seats, resulting in another cheer, before he joined his teammates in the changing rooms. Most of them were already in the shower, but Harry turned to the treatment room.

Healer Byrne was sitting with his feet propped up on the desk when Harry walked in. He raised an eyebrow. "What can I do for you, Potter?"

"My nose is broken," Harry said, giving it a little prod.

Byrne sighed. "Haven't you ever heard of Episkey?"

"Well, you're the healer, I figured I'd let you earn your money."

Byrne heaved himself out of his chair with exaggerated effort. "Maybe if I was better paid," he muttered as he touched his wand to Harry's nose and silently cast Episkey.

Harry left the room, shedding his soggy robes, and entered the showers. He'd won. Now, he just had to wait for another opportunity. He hoped it would come sooner rather than later, but for now he was happy to celebrate his first game. Everything else could wait.

12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: I really need to start updating faster. Thanks to silentclock for helping me make this chapter look a bit better.

Chapter Twelve

A strong breeze whipped at Harry's cloak as he stepped on to Hogsmeade's main street. He tugged at the collar of his shirt and jogged along the dirt path towards the Three Broomsticks. It was the only pub in the village still open. A month ago, Aberforth Dumbledore had suddenly decided to retire. He hadn't opened the doors to the Hog's Head since, and was now trying to sell the pub.

The low buzz of conversation steadily became louder as Harry approached Madam Rosmerta's pub, yet the noise still made him pause in the doorway. It was hot, filled with pipe smoke, and the crowd was rowdy. The Wireless was playing a show called Quidditch Today, but it could hardly be heard over the guffaws and boisterous conversations.

As overcrowded as it was, it was a wonder he could see the bar through the throng of bodies. In an effort to get there, Harry squeezed his way through the smallest of openings, pushed aside a drunk teen, and stepped on an old man's foot, until there wasn't a gap left for him to fit through.

Harry stood on his toes and craned his neck to look over a wizard's pointed hat, surveying the room, but it was simply too busy to spot a familiar face. He stepped past a dawdling middle-aged man, getting another foot closer to the bar. He wasn't too far away now. Rosmerta had hired help for the day, as she always did when it was sure to be crammed full of customers. But even with her young niece and the gangly teenaged boy providing extra hands, the line didn't seem to be moving.

Then he saw her. Daphne was sitting at the bar, sipping a bottle of lager. She'd changed the colour of her hair to a chestnut-brown, the sleeves of her green jumper were rolled back to her elbows, and she was laughing at him. He pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring the protests. The barstool she was sitting on put them at eye level.

"You're hilarious when you think no one's watching you," Daphne said with a wide smile. "Especially when you start getting agitated and pull faces."

"I don't pull faces," Harry said, desperately trying to keep his expression neutral.

"You do when you're annoyed." Daphne swirled the bottle of lager and tipped it back, draining the last few drops. "See," she said, pointing the bottle at him, "you're frowning now. You just can't help it."

"Yes, well, at least I hide my emotions better than I used to," Harry said, unsure what to think when Daphne burst out laughing, so he ignored her and rooted around inside his pocket. He finally picked out a Galleon, which he passed to her. "I'll have whatever you're having."

Daphne took the coin and swivelled on her stool. She leaned over the bar, instantly capturing the gangly boy's attention. He dashed over to her, completely ignoring the other waiting customers, who looked murderous. He fidgeted with his tie when Daphne spoke to him, and rushed away to collect her order. He was back within thirty seconds, placing drinks on the bar and waving away her attempts to pay.

"I work here," he said, puffing out his chest. "These are on me."

Daphne hesitated for a moment, before shrugging. "Yeah, okay. Thanks, um, Stephen, is it?"

"You can call me Steve," Stephen said, before sliding down the bar to serve another woman.

It was too much for Harry to take – he laughed uproariously. As famous as he was, he'd never been served that fast in his life.

Daphne spun back around and handed Harry a bottle. "What's got you so tickled?"

Harry chortled into his beer. "I think you've found yourself an admirer in Stephen."

Daphne's lips twitched. "Do you really want to go down that road, Harry?" she said pointedly, and Harry soon shut up. "That's what I thought."

Harry grumbled, which only made her laugh harder.

"Anyway," she said. "I hear congratulations are in order, aren't they?"

Harry raised a challenging eyebrow. "If you can tell me what the score was, I'll forget all about my money you just pocketed." His words caused a hint of embarrassment to colour Daphne's cheeks. "In fact," he said, full of confidence, "I'll even buy your drinks for the rest of the night. Unless Stephen continues buying, of course."

Harry found it was impossible to avert his eyes when Daphne bit her bottom lip. He'd forgotten she liked to do that. It made his jaw ache and his muscles reflexively tense.

"At least tell me you listened?"

"I didn't have much choice," Daphne muttered. "Madam Pomfrey put the Wireless on. It was the only way to get the kids to shut up." She scowled and explained, "Ellie Jenkins managed to blow up another potion, so the whole fourth year class was sent to us. I swear she's worse than Longbottom ever was. They weren't too happy they were missing the Quidditch party, so we had to let them listen in the infirmary." Daphne grinned slyly. "Ellie is quite a fan of yours. She and her friends couldn't stop talking about your dreamy eyes. Poppy stepped in when they started talking about how well you handled your broomstick."

Harry grimaced. It was flattering when attractive women complimented him, but downright creepy when young girls said such things.

"Did you really have to tell me that?" Harry asked, ruefully shaking his head. Daphne shrugged and popped the end of a liquorice wand in her mouth. She offered the pack to Harry and he took one. "Maybe we should turn our hands to matchmaking," he said, and gestured to Stephen. "I'm sure they'd make quite the couple."

"I'm not sure I could unleash her on the poor sod," Daphne said, grimacing. "She giggles more than Lavender Brown ever did and she's twice as loud."

Their bottles of lager were soon empty, prompting Daphne to order pints instead. At breakneck speed, Stephen was pouring the drinks. It was only then he noticed Harry, and he gave him a filthy look.

"Thanks for the free drink," Harry said.

Oddly enough, this time Stephen didn't offer to pay.

The barstool next to Daphne was vacated by an old man, who leaned heavily on a walking stick as he hobbled away. Harry shrugged out of his coat and scarf, plonked down on the seat, and took a large gulp of the refreshing pint of beer.

"So tell me," he said. "What made you decide to become a healer? The way you talk about it, you sound like you can't stand it."

Daphne paused mid-sip, swallowed, and placed her drink on the bar. "Well, my mum was a healer. She retired the day she found out she was pregnant with me. She taught Astoria and me the basics a few years ago, and I've never thought of doing anything else. I suppose I'm better at healing people than anything else. I have a knack for the magic involved."

Harry thought back to his days in school. "If I remember correctly, you were always one of the best in Potions and Charms. Better than me in Potions, but that's not saying much. I was bloody crap at it."

"It's very hard to be bad in Potions when you're in Slytherin." Daphne shrugged dismissively. "Only Crabbe and Goyle failed."

"I haven't got a clue how I managed to pass," Harry admitted, still feeling quite bewildered all these months later. "Snape still thinks I cheated."

"Well, you're Harry Potter." Daphne smiled teasingly. "Aren't you supposed to be the next coming of Merlin, capable of smiting your enemies with a single glance? A silly little potion is nothing for you."

Harry laughed, somewhat embarrassed that some people actually believed that about him. "Try to keep it a secret, won't you? I don't want everyone to know."

"You are good at magic though, whereas I'm … not as good." She scrunched up her nose. "I was downright awful at Transfiguration. How I managed to get an E in my N.E.W.T.s, I'll never know." She looked as confused as Harry did when he thought about his Potions exam. "I did get one O, though," she said brightly. "Charms was always my favourite."

"Aha, my second favourite subject," Harry said.

"Let me guess – your favourite was Defence?"

"How could it not be?"

The volume on the Wireless was raised and a new song by the Biting Fairies blasted out. From what Harry could gather, the song was about a tsunami and water nymphs.

Harry leaned towards Daphne and raised his voice. "Are you staying at Hogwarts after this year?"

Daphne shook her head, sending a few stray strands of hair away from her eyes. "Poppy can only teach me so much, so I'll be going to St. Mungo's in August."

"So you won't be treating me next season." The thought made Harry feel uneasy. Being stuck in a hospital bed was infinitely more tolerable when Daphne treated him. He was sure the current Hogwarts students thought the same. The girls had someone around their own age to confide in, and the boys had a pretty healer to gawk at.

"Give me two years and you can hire me as your personal Healer," Daphne said with a grin. "Although I imagine my hands would be full trying to keep you alive."

"At least you'd be well paid," Harry said. "Speaking of injuries..." He tapped the side of his nose. "I broke this today."

Daphne leant forward to examine him. "Poppy was convinced she'd be looking after you tonight, but I told her you'd be able handle Chudley." She prodded his nose with the tip of her finger, producing a wince from him. "Even I know they're the worst team in the world, yet you still managed to hurt yourself."

"I still caught this though, didn't I?" Harry said triumphantly. He scooped up the Snitch from his pocket and held it up at eye-level.

"That doesn't explain how your nose was broken." Daphne placed her hand on the Snitch and lowered Harry's hand. "And you'd best put that away before someone correctly assumes you're showing off."

Harry shoved the Snitch back in his pocket and tried not to scowl. "Gudgeon, their Seeker, elbowed me when he knew he was about to lose. So it really wasn't my fault this time, see? He's just a sore loser and he took it out on my poor snout."

Daphne's lips twitched. "You're such an idiot, Harry."

"Yes, well, I'm the idiot who's buying you another drink, so get them in," Harry said, and he dug deeper into his pockets to find more change.

Daphne turned her head towards Stephen and only raised her hand in a slight wave, but it was enough to attract his attention. She lifted up the empty glasses and shook them from side to side, indicating she wanted the same again.

She looked back at Harry while she waited for the drinks to arrive. "You really should try to look after yourself, or you'll end up doing some serious damage one day."

"When that day comes, I know you'll be there to fix me up." Harry handed over another Galleon and took his new pint of beer.

"I'm serious, Harry!"

Harry laughed at her indignant tone. "It's not like I go out to injure myself. It just happens."

"I always hated watching you fly," Daphne admitted. "You always look like you're on the verge of crashing."

"But the point is I never actually crash."

"Bullshit."

"It's not," Harry said adamantly. "It's the players on the other team that injure me." He jabbed his thumb into his chest. "I've never crashed."

From the corner of his eye, Harry spotted a table full of glasses being upturned. The sound of shattering glass brought the pub to silence – apart from the furious music on the Wireless – and everyone turned to watch the ensuing ruckus. Two men, unaware of their audience, were fighting furiously. At least that was what Harry assumed, because otherwise they were sharing a passionate kiss.

Madam Rosmerta was around the other side of the bar in an instant, wand out and at the ready. A bang erupted, making everyone flinch, and the two men leapt apart. They sported split lips, black eyes, and rosy cheeks, which only got rosier as they noticed their audience.

"You know the rules, boys," Madam Rosmerta said calmly. She gestured towards the door with her wand. "Out now, and don't come back for six months."

The two men sheepishly stumbled out of the front door with their tails between their legs. With the action over, everyone turned back to what they were doing. New conversations sprang to life all around the pub, with things going back to normal within moments.

"Well that was entertaining," Harry said. He'd forgotten what they'd been talking about. "Anyway, how come you're here all by your lonesome? Or are you waiting for someone to show up? A boyfriend, perhaps?"

Daphne looked at him curiously. "I could ask you the same question."

"And I'll answer honestly," Harry said. "No, I don't have a boyfriend."

Daphne snorted. "Aw, don't lose all hope. I'm sure the right guy is out there somewhere." She chortled at the look on his face. "You never know, he might be heading your way at this very moment."

Harry's complexion turned green. "That's not very funny."

"And here he is now," Daphne muttered.

"Who might be heading your way?" Seamus asked, grinning for ear to ear as he clapped Harry on the back, nearly knocking him off the stool.

"We were just talking about Harry's love life," Daphne said.

Harry shrugged at the look Seamus gave him. "She hasn't admitted it, but I think her boyfriend's stood her up."

Daphne sighed. "He hasn't stood me up because I'm not meeting him tonight."

"Don't tell me you're sick of him already?" Harry asked.

"It's only been a month, Harry."

"He's sick of you already, then? Are you that bad of a girlfriend?"

Daphne narrowed her eyes at him. "If you weren't famous, you'd never get a girl into bed."

"Sure I would. I'd have you."

She gave him a curious look. "Oh really? And how would you go about getting me?"

"I'd offer to buy you another beer for a start."

"Get me drunk and hope I'd agree to go home with you?"

"Something like that," Harry agreed with a laugh.

Seamus looked back and forth between them and shook his head. "Unbelievable," he muttered.

Harry ignored him and took out his wand, placing the tip on the beermat. It jumped up onto its side and started to spin, rapidly picking up speed.

"What are you doing?" Daphne asked.

Seamus shook his head again, groaning. "He's being a smarmy twat."

"Just watch," Harry said, grinning. "Seamus is just jealous because he's always been crap at transfiguration."

The beermat was a blur as it spun in mid-air, slowly morphing into a ball as its colour changed from black to red. Harry thought he'd built the suspense long enough. He gave his wand a jaunty flick and the beermat successfully transfigured into a long-stemmed red rose.

He picked it up and handed it to Daphne. "If you still wouldn't go home with me, even if you were drunk, I'd do something really cheesy like that. I'd smile like this," he said, smiling wide, "and ask if a girl like you would go out with a boy like me."

Seamus was staring at him, his face a picture of disgust, as though Harry had just confessed his undying love for Draco Malfoy. "I need another beer, and you'd better never do that seriously or I swear, I'll never speak to you again."

Daphne stared at the rose, then at Harry, and then laughed hysterically. "Oh, Harry, that's awful," she said, wiping tears from her eyes. She picked up the rose, inspecting it. "Although it is very nice, I'd definitely decline your offer if you did that."

"The worst part is, he's done it before," Seamus said. His lip curled. "Bastard got the girl, too."

"Ask Seamus to try it," Harry said smugly. "Watch as it blows up in his face. It's always fun to see him get slapped."

Daphne was about to ask him, but Seamus loudly talked over her. "So this is where you've been while we've been waiting for you? Chatting up Greengrass while your girlfriend won't stop complaining to us."

"Tone it down a bit, mate." Harry rolled his eyes. "I lost track of time, and she's not my girlfriend."

"Well, girlfriend, friend with benefits, or whatever she is, she's been nagging my ear off asking where you are," Seamus said. He waved his hand to attract Rosmerta's attention, but she completely ignored him. "She's been doing my head in, Potter. Just get over there so she shuts up."

"All right. Grab me a beer and I'll come over with you," Harry said. He turned to Daphne. "Fancy tagging along with us?"

Daphne eyed her drink and grimaced. "I think I'll call it a night. I only came in here for one, but then you started buying my drinks."

"Lightweight," Seamus muttered.

"Alcoholic," Daphne immediately shot back. She put her glass on the bar, stood up, and put on her cloak.

"Do you live near here, then?" Harry asked curiously.

"Right here in Hogsmeade," Daphne said. She buttoned up her coat and put on a fluffy green hat. "My parents own a cottage and gave it to me while I'm working at the school."

"I'll walk you home," Harry offered, and he put on his own cloak. "I fancy some fresh air. I'll have that beer when I'm back, Seamus."

"You'd best hurry up, then," Seamus said. He reached out and pulled Harry back. "What the hell's going on with you two?" he muttered.

"Nothing," Harry said. "We're friends."

Seamus huffed and turned back to the bar, finally getting served.

The temperature had continued to drop as night had fallen. Harry covered himself and Daphne with a warming charm, and the cold wind turned into a warm breeze. As they walked past Zonko's joke shop, Daphne mentioned her father.

"Did I ever tell you dad was a broom maker?"

"Not in detail."

"He started out as a test flyer for Comet when he was seventeen, but made brooms for most of his career," Daphne said. "He eventually ended up as a designer. The last broom he helped create was the Nimbus 2000. It was the most popular broom at the time and he retired afterwards."

"Don't blame him," Harry said. The man must have earned his fair share of Galleons. The Nimbus 2000 had remained the most popular broom in production, even when the 2001 model came out, until the Firebolt had stolen everyone's imagination.

"I have a feeling you'll get along if you ever meet him," Daphne said dryly.

She led the way into an alley he'd never been down before. It opened out into a circle patch of grass and flowers, with white marble statues placed in the centre. Six cottages surrounded it, all packed quite close together, yet still separated by tall hedgerows.

"The Hogwarts Founders," Daphne said upon spotting Harry's curious gaze on the statues.

"I reckon the one with the gormless look on his face is Salazar, don't you?"

"Remember who you're talking to," Daphne said, indignant. "I am a member of his House."

"Don't worry," Harry said, frowning. "Godric looks two Knuts short of a Sickle as well."

They walked around the circle and eventually stopped opposite the alley they'd come from. Daphne placed a hand on a wooden gate. The roof of the cottage was thatched, and the front door was blue.

"I'd best let you go in," Harry said. "I'm freezing my nuts off out here, even with this warming charm."

Daphne snorted. "Eloquent as ever, Harry."

They said their goodbyes and Harry made his way back to The Three Broomsticks. He made a mental note to meet Daphne's father one day, as he'd often wondered about the process involved in creating broomsticks. Graham Hunter, the journalist who had interviewed Harry, had mentioned something about it. Now that Harry was playing professionally, there was a high chance he would be asked to take part in testing brooms. Ackerley, as well a number of other professionals, often offered their expertise to help companies. Krum had been one of the first professionals to fly the Firebolt before it was available to the public.

When Harry arrived at the pub, he found Fred and George huddled together outside, speaking in low voices. He hesitated for only a moment before walking up to them.

"What's wrong with you two?"

The twins whirled around, eyes wide and lips already forming an excuse. As soon as they realised who it was their eyes lit up.

"Thank Merlin you're here," Fred said. He grabbed Harry by the elbow and strode into the alleyway beside the pub.

"What's going on?" Harry hissed, freeing himself from Fred's strong grip.

Fred shushed him. "Oi, George, put up a charm," he ordered, and his twin silenced the area around all three of them. Fred turned back to Harry and started to chuckle. "Oh, Harry. You're such an idiot."

Harry raised his eyebrows. He hadn't expected that, but he'd been called far worse. "Why's that?"

"We just met your girlfriend," Fred said, his laughter subsiding to his usual grin.

"And that's funny and makes me an idiot because…?" Harry asked, not getting the joke. "She's not my girlfriend, by the way."

Fred looked at him like he thought he was stupid. "You're sleeping with her, aren't you?"

"Well, yeah." Now that Harry thought about it, they hadn't done much else.

"And you haven't got a clue who she is?" Fred asked.

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but at George's snort he shut up. He really didn't know her that well.

"I haven't known her very long," Harry said, feeling the need to defend himself, but he wasn't quite sure what it was he was defending. "Hell, I've only seen her a few times."

"Why don't I enlighten you, Harry?" Fred said. He looked smug, which wasn't a good sign. "The girl who you've got to play with your little pecker also happens to be Andrew Merton's little sister."

"Bullshit," Harry said immediately. He shook his head resolutely. "Her name's Clark, not Merton. Stop fucking with me."

An eruption of laughter wasn't what Harry expected. It worried him. Fred and George usually didn't laugh when they were pranking someone; they tried to keep straight faces for as long as possible, even when it was obvious they'd been caught out and the jig was up.

"You hear that, George?" Fred said. "He doesn't believe us." He turned back to Harry. "Now, before you start cracking me up again, listen while I attempt to be serious. The girl you're fucking is the sister of our teammate. You've already tried to get into his fiancé's knickers, and you've now succeeded at getting into his sister's. Merton might not make a big deal out of it. He's a decent chap, as you know, but this might be a bit too much for him to take."

Fred might as well have punched Harry right in the gut.

"But her name's Clark…"

"She's his half-sister, you nitwit," Fred said, looking like he wanted to give Harry a good shaking.

George made a high-pitched whistle. "Oi, we've got company." He walked out of their hiding spot with his arms wide in greeting. "Anna! How lovely to see you out here."

Harry stood rooted to the spot. He felt like a first year all over again, with no clue how to talk to girls. He hadn't gotten all that good at it since. He'd only ever had one serious girlfriend, and she was the one who had ended their relationship.

When Anna walked around the corner, Harry decided then and there that he wouldn't be getting into another relationship any time soon. He couldn't even remember getting into one with Anna, but judging by her stormy expression, his denials had been in vain. Maybe this was what Hermione had meant when she said that using his fame would come back to haunt him

Anna came to a stop in front of him, crossing her arms over her midsection. "Where have you been?"

Her tone was quiet but accusatory.

"I just took a friend home," Harry said.

Fred, who was still standing next to him, gave an exaggerated wince and strolled away.

"Who is she?" Anna asked.

"Her name's Daphne," Harry said. Perhaps spending all night with another girl wasn't the best of ideas. "She was a year below you, in Slytherin."

Anna closed her eyes. "Yeah, I know who she is," she said, her voice catching in her throat.

Harry hesitated. "Are you okay?"

It was the wrong thing to say. Anna's lips thinned and her jaw set. She opened her eyes and looked at him like it was the first time she'd truly seen him.

"Are you sleeping with her?"

"Nope," Harry said.

"But she's trying to sleep with you," Anna said.

"She's not," Harry denied. Despite all the flirting that passed between them, stupid or not, it had always been harmless. It was never going anywhere or leading to anything. "Besides, she's got a boyfriend. She told me earlier."

"And you believe her?" Anna asked incredulously, gaining more confidence. "You're not going to apologise, are you?"

"Um… for what?" Harry knew he wasn't the brightest bloke around, but he wasn't about to apologise for cheating when he hadn't actually cheated. "I am sorry for ignoring you all night, although I didn't mean to." By the look on Anna's face, she was either going to slap him or give him a swift kick in the balls. "What I mean is, Daphne's just a friend I haven't seen in a few months. When I came in I saw her at the bar. We got chatting and I lost track of time."

"Oh, of course." Anna shook her head. "That's fine, then. I don't mind you leaving me to talk to a girl, completely forgetting all about me."

"I forgot everyone else as well," Harry mumbled. He'd never seen her get so worked up or so angry at anyone.

"Do you like her?" Anna demanded. "Can you honestly say you would turn her down if she came on to you?"

Harry couldn't be bothered to deny it, but there was no point in being hurtful. "No, I can't, unless I had a girlfriend." He wondered when he'd grown up, even if it hadn't been by much. He never would have added the last part before.

Anna sighed and dropped her head into her hands. "You know what, Harry? I can't be bothered with this anymore. You obviously don't care about me."

Without waiting for him to say anything, Anna walked away with her head held high. Harry watched her leave. Perhaps she expected him to call after her, to try and persuade her that he wanted her, but he didn't. He let her go. After a minute of staring at the spot where she'd stood, he decided he needed to get horrendously drunk. He strode back into the pub and sought out his friends. The crowd had dispersed somewhat, but it was still crowded. Nevertheless, he found his friends and immediately gulped down half a pint. Perhaps it wasn't the best way to deal with it, but he was here now, and when in Rome…

Seamus shook his head and grabbed his pint back. "At least you've learnt a valuable lesson from all of this, Potter."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

Seamus smirked. "You should've left her to me."

Harry heartily agreed. The rest of the evening passed in a blur of raucous laughter. Halfway through the night, Seamus had left to use the toilet and he'd never come back. Sirius had done exactly the same an hour later.

By the time Rosmerta ordered everyone to leave, Harry was the last of his group left. Dean had just stumbled through the fireplace, muttering something about how Susan was going to kill him. What had started as a celebration had left him moping in the back of the pub, horribly drunk.

Harry gripped the table as he stood up on wobbly legs, but he managed to make his way outside. Frost was starting to form on the ground. He didn't know whether it was because he was drunk or because he was still protected by the warming charm, but he could hardly feel the cold.

Just as he was about to apparate home, his stomach grumbled in protest. Harry listened to what his body was telling him. He wasn't sure he'd make it home without leaving his legs behind. He briefly thought of calling the Knight Bus, until he remembered how violently it was driven. He could hardly keep his balance while standing on the spot.

Harry looked left, then right, and left again. The alleyway he'd walked down earlier in the night caught his eye and, without really thinking, he starting walking in that direction again. He laughed loudly at the statue of Salazar Slytherin as he made his way around the circle. He eyed the colour of the doors until he found the one that was blue. He pushed open the gate, which creaked, and didn't hesitate until his fist was raised, ready to knock on the door. He looked at his watch but it was too dark to make out the time. He reasoned with himself that it couldn't be too late, so he knocked.

There was no answer, so he knocked again, harder this time. He waited for an answer, and was about to leave, when the door opened.

Daphne was standing there in a vest and a pair of shorts, holding a candle and gaping at him. "What the hell are you doing here? Do you know what time it is?"

"I'm sorry if I woke you." Harry was suddenly aware of the state he was in. He was leaning on the doorframe so he wouldn't fall over. "I, uh, need somewhere to stay. Can't apparate."

Daphne stared at him for a long moment, before she stepped back and let him stumble inside. She guided him to the sofa, which he nearly collapsed onto. She flicked her wand at the fire, which roared to life, and then she blew out the candle and sat beside him. The sudden light made Harry grimace. It showed off his red-rimmed eyes and five o'clock shadow.

"So, are you going to explain what you're doing at my house in the middle of the night?" Daphne asked. She didn't seem angry, but worried.

"Drank too much and I don't think I can get home," Harry said.

"Well, if you're happy sleeping where you are, you're welcome to," Daphne said. "I'm afraid I've only got the one bedroom. This place isn't very big."

"I'm more than happy, thanks," Harry said. He shrugged off his jacket and kicked off his shoes, and sighed into the back of the cushions. "Sorry to be so rude."

Daphne waved away his apology. "Is everything all right? Apart from being stupidly drunk I mean."

Harry was determined to say he was fine, but he didn't. Maybe it was because Daphne grabbed his hand and was looking at him with green eyes full of worry, or maybe it was because he was drunk, but he started speaking and found he couldn't stop.

"I think I'm about to lose one of the best things that's ever happened to me, all because I slept with Anna, who isn't my girlfriend." The words spewed out of his mouth. "She broke things off tonight because I ignored her and she thinks I cheated on her with you. I found out she's Merton's sister, so he'll try to kill me, which means… Oh, I sound really fucking stupid and whiny right now."

Daphne nodded heartily. "Yeah, you do," she said. "But you're very drunk and probably won't remember this in the morning."

Harry started to nod uncontrollably and his eyes started to close with the steady rhythm. "Maybe. This couch is really comfortable."

"I'm glad you like it," Daphne said.

"Me too. I'm the one who's sleeping on it."

"Well, why don't you do that and we'll have this conversation in the morning?"

Daphne's suggestion sounded rather good to Harry. He unbuttoned his shirt and took off his socks, and sighed again. "Thanks again for letting me stay."

"I'm sure you'd do the same for me, Harry." Daphne waved her wand and summoned a blanket, which flew down the stairs. Two pillows followed, which she placed against the arm of the couch. "There. If you need anything, help yourself. Bathroom is up the stairs on the right, and the kitchen is right behind you. Please don't try cooking anything and burn the place down."

"Don't worry, I'm not a maniac," Harry said, and failed to stifle a yawn. "I'm too tired to eat."

Harry watched her walk up the stairs, but pause on the last step, and she turned to look at him.

"I'll see you in the morning, Harry. Sleep well."

"Good night."

13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: I said I needed to update faster, so here it is. Again, big thanks to silentclock. If you haven't already, go and read his newest story: Harry Potter and the Mage's Epoch.

Chapter Thirteen

Harry woke up in a pile of tangled blankets, feeling pleasantly warm. A roaring log fire dispelled the morning's bitter cold. The first thing he saw was a portrait above the fireplace of a family of four. It showed Daphne and her sister sitting down, with their parents standing behind them.

The peaceful silence was disturbed by the unmistakable sound of bacon sizzling in the frying pan. Harry licked his lips as the smell reached him, but he didn't move. The sofa on which he had fallen asleep was remarkably comfortable, especially with the piles of blankets and pillows he was buried beneath. He found himself wanting to stay in exactly the same position for the foreseeable future.

Daphne came into view as she ambled over to him barefoot, wearing only a pair of shorts and a white vest. "You're finally awake then," she said as she handed him a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich. "I thought you'd be hungry." She sat on the coffee table and crossed her legs beneath her, holding a mug of tea in both hands.

"I'll eat anything if someone else is cooking." Harry sat up and shivered as the cooler air touched his bare chest. "Thanks," he said, and didn't waste another second before biting into the sandwich, barely leaving enough time to relish the taste of the grease hitting his taste buds.

"Don't hold back because of me," Daphne said with a little grin, watching him over the top of her mug. She blew her tea and took a tentative sip, and asked, "How's your head this morning? I was starting to wonder if you were ever going to wake up."

"Believe it or not, I'm fine. A bit groggy, but nothing bacon can't fix." He licked the tips of his fingers, his sandwich demolished, and sat back with a small sigh. "Just don't ask me to move anytime soon. Why? Are you okay?"

"I've been awake for hours," she said. "I'm all sorted."

Harry looked at her closely. She was a little paler than usual, but then he hadn't seen her since the summer, so that probably explained why. Her eyes, which were usually wide and engaging, were half closed and dimmed. Her hair hung messily and wavy, as though it had been recently washed and left to dry naturally.

"What is your natural hair colour?" Harry asked, curious. His eyes flickered over Daphne's shoulders, to the portrait. Her dad was balding and grey and was wearing a cheesy wide smile. Harry had expected him to be younger. Her sister, Astoria, was blonde, but her mother was a brunette and had kind hazel eyes. Harry imagined her male patients had adored her at St Mungo's.

"This is somewhat close to natural," Daphne said.

"So you take after your mother in looks as well as her career."

"I don't have her eyes."

"I have my mother's eyes," Harry said. His tea suddenly felt very warm in his chest. "Although everything else is my dad's."

Daphne set down her mug of tea and smiled at him. "Your mum was very beautiful. I saw a picture of her a few years ago."

"My dad certainly thought so."

"He wasn't so bad, either."

Harry grinned at the unintended compliment. "Thanks."

She looked at him in a way that made him think it wasn't so unintentional after all, but he didn't dwell on it.

"I'm sorry for barging in on you last night," Harry said, feeling his cheeks start to burn. "I acted like a bit of an arse."

Daphne shrugged it off. "I'm glad to have the company, Harry. After having roommates for so long I find it can get a bit … quiet here."

There was a tapping on the window and they saw a brown owl cock his head to the side, watching them.

"That's the Prophet," Daphne said. As she walked past him to retrieve the newspaper, the smell of honeysuckle washed over him. "I think you might want to see this, Harry." She bit her bottom lip and handed him the newspaper. "I'm sorry," she said, sitting on the other end of the couch.

Harry's eyebrows drew together and he hesitated to unfurl the paper. He unfolded it and, as he'd expected, his face dominated the back page. That was the sports section. Daphne was watching him carefully, almost wincing as he flipped the paper over to the front page.

"Oh, bugger me sideways." He grimaced as he saw the picture. It took up nearly the whole page, showing him and Anna locked in a fairly passionate kiss, with his scar prominently displayed. He thought for a moment her identity would be hidden, but magical pictures liked to move. Anna had also been named, somehow. He felt numb and more than a bit disgusted as he continued to stare at himself. "Merlin, is that really how I kiss? That's not a pretty sight." He turned the paper in Daphne's direction and she leant across to get a better look.

"To be fair, it doesn't look like you're putting in much effort." Daphne glanced at the picture again. "Makes me wonder how I look when I kiss."

"I'd bet my vault it's better than how I do."

After a few moments of staring at the picture, Daphne nudged him. "Are you okay? You know, about you and her breaking things off?"

"Huh?" Harry said. "Oh, yeah. I'm fine about that. It's everything else I'm worried about. Just look at the headline."

It read: Potter Catches More Than Just The Snitch!

"It sounds like I caught a disease or something!" Harry huffed.

Daphne snorted and hastily covered her mouth. It wasn't enough to stop the giggles. "Do you want me to check you, just in case? I am a healer." She only laughed harder at the glare she received. "Oh, come on, Potter. It's not that bad. What's the worst that can happen? Her brother's on the same team, big deal. What's he going to do? Threaten you?"

"Probably…" Harry folded the paper and threw it onto the coffee table in disgust. "But it's not him I'm worried about. If Phil thinks this will cause a problem, I'm done for."

"Don't be silly." Daphne rolled his eyes. It looked much like a parent would when their child said something only a child could. "Can you imagine the uproar that would cause? He'd be mad to fire you."

Harry met her eyes and wondered how pathetic he looked. He was only half-joking when he asked, "Can I stay here and hide?"

"Only if you promise to do all the housework," Daphne said teasingly.

"I won't even use magic."

"Is it really that bad?" Daphne asked. "You're used to being famous. The press might be a bit worse than usual, but it'll die down after a while."

Harry dropped his head in to his hands. "There'll be a media frenzy. I wouldn't be surprised if they're waiting outside my front door. Anna's probably being bombarded with questions as we speak. Oh, Merlin, what if she speaks to them?"

"You're really upset by this?" Daphne asked, taken aback. She moved so she was sitting by his side and put her arm around his back. "Come on, you've had far worse than this. I remember Rita Skeeter's articles."

"She never really bothered me that much. In a way it couldn't really affect me, but this can. What will I do if I'm kicked out? Other clubs might refuse to sign me, and I don't even want to play for another club." Harry swiped his forehead in frustration. "How the hell did they even get the picture? I was in my personal box."

Daphne placed a hand under his chin and forced him to look at her. She looked more serious than he'd ever seen her. "Calm down, Harry. You won't be fired for this. You're more popular than ever at the moment. The fans love you right now. Look at the sports pages and you'll see. If Phil tries to get rid of you he'll have a riot on his hands." She offered him a comforting smile, which he returned. "I promise you, this will be fine."

Harry stayed quiet for a long moment. Daphne was right, of course. This didn't mean he'd be losing his job. Merton might not even care all that much. He was just being paranoid, although he felt he had good reason to feel that way. He didn't know what he'd do if he couldn't play Quidditch.

"Now, are you done acting like a little bitch?" Daphne asked, grinning widely.

"Yeah, yeah. I feel stupid now," Harry admitted.

"And so you should." Daphne sat back on her heals and tilted her head. "Stick around for a while. You can help me make dinner."

Harry raised his eyebrows at that. He couldn't cook, as the Dursley's knew very well. Vernon had once accused him of trying to poison them all.

"What are you making?"

"It's Sunday," Daphne said as she hopped off his legs. "Take a wild guess."

"A Sunday roast, then," Harry muttered. "Have you ever cooked it before?"

"Nope," Daphne said, but that didn't stop her beaming at him. "But there's a first for everything, isn't there? Now get off your arse and come and help me."

Harry pushed away the covers and stretched as he stood up. "You know this will go wrong, don't you?"

Daphne waggled her finger at him. "Only with that attitude."

"Just don't blame me when this all goes tits up."

He took a good look around as he put his shirt on. He'd been too drunk last night and it had been too dark to see much of anything. Daphne was in the kitchen, walking around the table placed in the middle of the room, banging pots and pans. The only other room in the cottage was the living room, where Harry had woken up. The cream walls were bare apart from the portrait over the fireplace. An oak staircase started in the corner of the room, and Harry could just make out a door at the top of the stairs.

"I'll just go wash up," Harry said.

From behind the chicken she was now holding at eye-level, Daphne grunted something, which he assumed meant to go ahead. When he came back downstairs, he found her sitting at the table, cookbook in hand. She looked puzzled.

"Fire," Harry said.

"What?" Daphne asked without looking up.

"If in doubt, use fire."

Daphne looked at him like he was crazy. She shook her head after a moment. "No, you can get started on peeling the potatoes and chopping up the veg."

Harry plucked his wand from his pocket. He pointed it at the potatoes and vegetables and with a few charms they were soon chopping and peeling themselves.

"I could call my elf if you want," Harry offered, but received a glare in return.

Daphne lowered the book. "Do you know how to do this?" She gestured to the chicken on the table between them.

"I know the right spells, but I'm not very good at them." Harry shrugged apologetically. "Like I said, I've got an elf."

There was tapping on the window for the second time that morning. Hedwig was perched on the windowsill, a letter tied to her leg. Harry heaved himself off the chair and opened the window. Snow had fallen overnight, covering the cottage rooftops. Hedwig swooped in to the kitchen and landed on the table. She eyed the chicken, which Daphne swiftly moved from the owl's reach.

The letter was from Sirius.

"Where the hell are you?" Harry read aloud. He penned a quick reply and tied it around Hedwig's leg, before sending her back to London.

"I've got it," Daphne said.

Harry knew it was going to go wrong, and he was correct. It took two hours before they eventually sat down to eat the dinner, in which time he'd used a substantial number of spells to stop the kitchen burning down. They'd eventually charmed the chicken to roast, while Daphne cooked everything else on her own.

"It looks…" Harry eyed the food on his plate. "Well, I'm hungry enough to eat anything."

Daphne poked at a carrot. "I don't suppose you've got a spare elf?"

The gravy was too watery, the potatoes turned out too soft and were made into mash, and the chicken was edible, but barely.

Daphne put down her knife and fork on her empty plate. "I suppose it wasn't too horrendous for a first attempt."

Harry managed a weak grin. "I've had worse."

Snow started to fall as dessert was served. The treacle tart was only slightly burnt, but it washed down well enough with a glass of white wine. Before they could finish the bottle, Madam Pomfrey called through the fireplace.

Daphne set down her glass on the table, grabbed some floo powder, and stuck her head in the flames. Harry couldn't help staring at her barely covered arse.

Seamus wasn't often right, but he was right about Daphne.

Daphne pulled her head out of the fire, groaning. "Ellie Jenkins has had another accident."

"How?" Harry asked. "It's a Sunday. Not even I manage to injure myself on Sundays."

Daphne managed a weak chuckle. "Apparently she tried to brew a beauty potion and blew up her dorm room. I've got to go and help."

Harry stood up, glancing around the cottage. "Of course. Do you know where I left my jacket?"

"It's behind the sofa." Daphne picked up her wine and finished what remained in the glass. "Sorry to kick you out, Harry. How about we do this again sometime?"

Harry straightened out his sleeves. "Which bit? Me knocking on your door in the middle of the night or cooking Sunday lunch?"

"I'd prefer the cooking lunch part," Daphne said, grinning. "But you know where to come if you don't fancy apparating home or taking the floo the next time you drink yourself stupid."

They stood there, awkwardly looking at each other for a minute, until a log popped on the fire.

"Right. I'll see you next Sunday." Harry wondered if he would, but he was certain of one thing: he wouldn't be coming back for the food.

When Monday morning rolled around, Harry felt his chances of making it through the day unscathed were better than he'd initially thought. He'd had visions of a riot starting outside his house. He'd apparated straight into the back garden when he'd come home from Daphne's house, wary of using the front door. He needn't have worried, as only a handful of reporters had been mingling around in the square. Once night had fallen, they'd realised no answers were forthcoming and left.

However, he knew that wouldn't be the case at Puddlemere. He fully expected a mob of reporters lying in wait outside the gates, which was why he wasn't apparating to work. He was taking the floo to training instead.

Despite feeling a whole lot better that one problem was going to be avoided, his nerves were still on edge. He was expecting a showdown with Merton and Phil the moment he entered the building, and he hoped he wasn't being too naïve when he hoped it wouldn't come to anything more than raised voices.

Harry pushed his bowl of porridge away and stood. There was little point in trying to eat, so he squared his shoulders and ignored the churning in the pit of his stomach. It was best to just get the ordeal over with as quickly as possible. He hesitated only for a moment as he stepped into the fire and hurtled through the flames.

He was spewed out of the fireplace in Puddlemere's player's entrance, which was a small room with a window overlooking the training pitches. He brushed the soot off his robes and made for the door, when it flew open. Merton stormed in to the room, his mouth twisted in a snarl.

Before Harry had a chance to speak, Merton strode straight at him. Harry backpedalled, hitting the wall with a thump. He grunted, but kept calm.

"What the hell are you playing at, Potter?" Merton demanded, his breath scorching against Harry's nostrils. "First my fiancé, and now my sister? Have you got some personal vendetta against me or something?"

Harry struggled for something to say. Merton's nose was millimetres from his own. He'd tried all night to think of a convincing answer, but every reason he came up with sounded shallow to his own ears.

"I didn't know you were related," Harry said. His wand was nestled in his pocket, pressing against his hip, almost burning his skin. He wouldn't use it. "It doesn't even matter anymore. We broke up. She called things off."

"I know," Merton growled. "She said you were cheating on her."

"She's wrong," Harry said. "I can explain it all."

Merton's eyes narrowed. "Then explain. Anna wouldn't lie about this."

"I never said she would," Harry said. "But that's doesn't mean she's right. I met a friend in the pub and walked her home. Anna thought there was more to it."

"Is there?"

"She's just a friend," Harry said.

The fire in Merton's eyes dimmed and he stepped back.

"We had a few dates, but that was it," Harry said. "I wouldn't have even done that if I'd known who she was."

"How could you not know, anyway?" Merton asked suspiciously. "It's not as though it's some big secret. Didn't you ever talk to each other? Actually." He grimaced, shaking his head. "I don't even want to know."

Harry could agree with that. He and Anna hadn't done all that much talking, but it wasn't something you told her older brother.

"You know why she never told me," Harry said. "She knew I'd stop it before it went any further."

Merton nodded slowly, half-heartedly. "You're right. Probably." His shoulders sagged and he sat down heavily on the table. "Do you think she was trying to get back at me?"

"What?" Harry asked, nonplussed. "Get back at you for what?"

"When Anna was young, her dream was to play for England one day," Merton said. His eyes lowered to the ground and he swiped his hair from his forehead. "She wasn't good enough to make the House team at Hogwarts, let alone a professional team."

"That's something you'll have to ask her," Harry said delicately, but he didn't think it was entirely true. "Maybe she's a bit peeved that you made it and she never even got started, but you're still her brother. She's got to be happy for you."

"Yeah, maybe." Merton heaved himself to his feet with a sigh. "Listen, maybe I'm thinking too much about this. You've got a bit of a reputation and I thought you were messing her around."

Harry shrugged it off. "I was expecting a confrontation."

"We've cleared the air. That's the end of it, yeah?"

It was more than Harry could have hoped for.

"I think that's the only way I'll get to keep my job."

"We can't let something like this escalate," Merton said. "It will affect the whole team's performance otherwise."

"And the press?" Harry asked.

"We'll see how long they run the story, but Phil doesn't even want to acknowledge it yet."

"I expect he wants to see us?"

"Yeah," Merton said, and he led the way out of the room. He smiled at his fiancé on the way towards the stairs and turned back to Harry. "How come you didn't retaliate?"

"I can retaliate now if you want," Harry offered, smiling.

Merton chuckled, slapping a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Just promise me there are no other incidences involving my family I should know about."

Harry snorted. "Not that I know of, no."

"Try to keep it that way, yeah?" Merton paused. "I've spoken to Phil. I said I'd sort things out and that would be the end of it."

Phil was sitting behind his desk when they walked into his office. He studied them as they stood there, like two schoolboys in front of their headmaster.

He regarded Merton. "Is everything sorted out now?"

"It was just a misunderstanding."

Phil was silent for a few seconds, staring at them. "Okay. Off you go, then."

They left the office, and Harry tried not to think of the unease that had settled in him. He and Merton greeted the team as usual, but received some suspicious looks.

The morning's training session started out as usual, but steadily got worse as the morning progressed. Everyone knew the reason behind it, but no one said anything. Even Maddock was silent, which was so unlike him. Harry didn't think their captain would stay quiet for long, but suspected he was giving Harry and Merton the chance to explain.

Eventually, after one sloppy mistake too many, Phil stopped the session. He wasn't a stupid man – he knew the reason behind the lacklustre session.

"Harry," Phil said. The team had been trudging off the field, but turned around to see what the coach had to say. "You're playing on Saturday."

A murmur spread through the team. Harry followed them back into the changing room, a frown marring his face.

Phil was testing him.

Harry strolled in to Puddlemere's Portkey Room on Saturday morning, unable to keep the wide smile off his face. He greeted Merton with a nod. They had gathered the team together Tuesday afternoon, after another disappointing training session, and explained the whole ordeal. Things had turned around after that.

Harry took a seat next to Anna's older brother.

"Nervous, Potter?" Merton asked. He was waving his wand in a circle over his face, silently casting a charm to keep his long hair out of his eyes.

"Not today," Harry said. He couldn't wait to get out there and play. A fair bit had been written about him in the last week, speculation about a riff with Merton had been debated, and it was time to prove them wrong.

Phil stepped in to the room and looked at them all, making sure there was no one missing. Satisfied, he picked up the Portkey.

"Off we go, then," he said.

Merton and Harry stood, hoisting their rucksacks onto their shoulders and placing their hands on the rope. The rest of the team followed suit and the Portkey took them to the Yorkshire Moors, to a stadium called Kneen Park.

They arrived in a small room and were greeted by a stern-looking woman. She led them through a number of corridors, which twisted and turned, and up a flight of stairs until they walked into the away team's dressing room. Harry wondered if she'd led them the long way around in an attempt to fatigue them before the game started.

"Be ready to go in five," Phil said, glancing at his watch. "We're warming up on the south side."

Harry pulled out his training kit and changed, and picked up his Firebolt. He stepped outside a minute later, the breeze gently ruffling his hair as he familiarised himself with Appleby's two-tiered stadium. Even though the sun was peeking through fluffy white clouds, it was bitterly cold.

Appleby's fans had already gathered in their seats, holding aloft pale blue banners and flags, looking like a wave that rippled around the stadium. The last gate opened, allowing Puddlemere's fans to swarm inside. They streamed in, navy clashing with Appleby's light blue, like the Caribbean Sea meeting the Atlantic.

Appleby's players warmed up on one half of the pitch, while Puddlemere used the other half. It took only a few minutes to complete the needed stretches, and then Harry was in the sky, easing his Firebolt through the air, altering his speed as he went.

After a few laps, the players landed and made their way back to the changing rooms. The game was nearly upon them.

George fell into step with Harry and nudged the younger man. "Ready, Harry?"

"You bet I am."

Fred walked on Harry's other side. "Nervous?"

"Nah," Harry said, shaking his head. "It sure as hell beats working for the Ministry, doesn't it?"

It was oddly quiet in the dressing room as they discarded their training gear for the match kit.

Harry's hands were steady as he strapped on his gloves. The players left the room and lined up in the tunnel. Harry looked straight ahead, intensely focusing on the plan he needed to follow. He was so caught up in visualising just what he needed to do during the game that he nearly missed his name being called.

He flew out and instantly the home fans started to jeer, their voices a roar in his head. His lungs filled with fresh air and he exhaled slowly, refusing to cower to the taunts the fans threw at him.

He was still smiling as he completed a lap of the stadium, and he waved to his supporters in the away section. They responded with an almighty cheer and an enthusiastic round of applause, which filled him with belief.

"The crowd are letting Potter know what they think of him, that's for sure." Joe was commentating again and his voice rang around the stadium. "It will be interesting to see how he reacts. This is only his second professional game, and his first was at home, so this will be a real test."

A hush spread around the stadium as the referee released the Bludgers and the Snitch, and then an explosion of noise erupted as he released the Quaffle and the Chasers scrambled for possession.

"We're off, and it's Bragge who gets a hold of the Quaffle, and he spins away," Joe shouted. "He completely dismantled Chudley's defence last week and he'll want to keep that form going."

Harry's heart started to beat a little faster, thudding in his ears as he watched the ferocious start to the game.

For the first few minutes he was content to drift around the stadium to assess the action from a high vantage point. All eyes were on the action below him, apart from Lennox Campbell's, Appleby's black, muscular Seeker.

He was only interested in Harry. His style of play was to follow the opposing Seeker, so Harry had been expecting it. He and Phil had known that and had formed a plan to counteract it.

Lennox was unnaturally strong, but he didn't have the stamina for long races. He preferred sticking as close as possible to his opponent and acting quickly with short bursts of speed, which then allowed him to outmuscle the other Seeker to get the catch.

It meant he always followed, which Harry hoped to use to his advantage. His main strength was his raw pace, and he was confident of beating most players in an all-out race. If Lennox couldn't keep up, he couldn't overpower him.

Somehow, neither team managed to score in the first few minutes.

"From the furiously paced start, this game has slowed down," Joe said. "After last week's performance, I expected Puddlemere to keep that level up, but they aren't playing Chudley today. Appleby's Chasers won't roll over and let Merton and Bragge dictate the play."

Both teams were too good to stay quiet, though, so the pace of the game steadily built and the scoreboard wasn't bare for very long. Bragge took Puddlemere to fifty points within half an hour, but Appleby clawed their way back to forty.

Harry had yet to see the Snitch. It was starting to make him antsy and, with Campbell a constant presence, he was becoming more irritated by the minute. He needed something to happen, a distraction of some kind so he could create some excitement.

"And Merton breaks free with the Quaffle," Joe said.

It was the opportunity Harry wanted and he reacted instantly. He dived sharply, corkscrewing at top speed straight at Appleby's Chasers. They split apart, breaking formation and leaving a gaping hole in their defence. It gave Merton a clear path down the field, and he took complete advantage of the confusion to score.

True to form, Campbell attempted to follow, but got caught up in the mess. It left Harry free for a few seconds, and he used the time to look for the Snitch, but it was refusing to co-operate. Lennox was back on his tail again, so Harry doubled back and flew towards the Chasers. He kept his speed going and flew high, hoping to be followed.

"Has Potter seen the Snitch?" Joe asked, excited. "I think he has, you know. Look at the way he's flying."

It was exactly what Harry wanted everyone to think. He waited until Campbell was close, before suddenly executing a perfect vertical dive. They torpedoed straight for the grass and Harry pulled up at the last second, but Campbell had already stopped. He looked down at Harry, smiled, and shook his head.

"Oho!" Joe said. "Potter tries a cheeky Wronski Feint there, and I daresay we all fell for it. He's unbelievably fast on a broom. However, Campbell spotted the deception just in time."

The last few minutes hadn't resulted in the Snitch's capture, but Harry felt he'd gained the upper hand. It was surprising how much faster he actually was to Lennox, and they both knew it. As a result, it only meant Campbell stuck even closer to him, much to Harry's dismay.

"And Merton scores another goal to put Puddlemere ahead by sixty to forty," Joe said. "It's not just Potter who has a point to prove today. The press have been running the story of Potter and Merton's sister for a week, but as of yet, it doesn't seem to have distracted them."

The intensity increased over the next half an hour, resulting in five penalties apiece. Bragge took them for Puddlemere, converting four from five, but Angus Campbell – Lennox's younger brother – scored all five for Appleby. He then scored another goal seconds later.

With over an hour played the game was level.

"This game surely comes down to the Seeker chase now," Joe said reverently. "Potter's moment in the spotlight, at least in Quidditch terms, has arrived."

Harry steadied his hands on the Firebolt, trying to block out Joe's voice and the noise of the crowd. He surveyed the whole stadium, spinning in a circle to do so, hoping to see a flash of gold. Everywhere he turned, Lennox was there, half a metre away and ready to pounce. It was starting to irritate. Harry ground his teeth and suddenly let loose a burst of speed and signalled George for his help.

The Weasley twins had been preoccupied for most of the game with the Chasers, but now the second stage of the plan was in motion. Give Lennox Campbell hell, Phil had said to George, and he was making good on his promise to do just that.

Campbell deftly avoided the first Bludger George sent, but was forced to turn sharply to avoid the next.

"Potter's got acres of space now," Joe cried. "And his teammates are on the attack again, after scoring two quick goals."

Harry's head swivelled around, frantically searching for the Snitch. Bragge and Merton wouldn't be able to score enough to give him the one hundred and fifty point margin, not without conceding goals.

The Snitch hadn't shown itself once all game. He just needed it to come out now and the game would surely be his to win. Lennox was desperately trying to get close, but George's assault was keeping the aggravated Seeker at bay.

Harry sped across the stadium as Appleby scored a goal, nearly missing Joe's words over the roar of the crowd.

"… spots it! Potter's gone the wrong way at completely the wrong time. No, he's now racing back, but I don't think he'll get there in time."

Harry tore through the air, furiously berating himself. Ollie was frantically gesturing something. Harry spotted the Bludger just in time, and he tipped the handle up, avoiding it by a millisecond. Fred was suddenly there, hitting the Bludger back.

"Potter nearly gets his head knocked off," Joe said, chortling. "Oho, you can't help but get excited, can you?"

Harry squeezed his body lower to the broom, reminding himself to breath as he caught up to Appleby's Seeker. His fingers were starting to cramp, but he didn't dare lessen his grip. Campbell was only twenty metres ahead … eighteen metres … fifteen … and he was starting to slow down. Harry was so close now, and he realised while Lennox might have been slowing down, but he was only getting faster.

Spurred on by that knowledge, the Firebolt seemed to respond, launching him to Campbell's side. They were neck and neck as a Bludger cut through the air between their brooms and thudded into the wooden barrier.

"And they both stretch out their arms, flexing their fingers as far as they'll go," Joe cried.

Campbell made a lung and Harry launched himself halfway off his broom, his fingernails scratching the back of Lennox's fingers, which curled around the Snitch. The last ditch attempt had failed.

"He's done it! Campbell has done it and this day will go down in history," Joe shouted over the sudden manic atmosphere. He sounded like an over-excited child to Harry. "He's the first person to beat Harry Potter, probably in years, but certainly in his professional career. This will be a question in quizzes for centuries to come; it will be talked about for years to come, too, but Lennox Campbell won't care about any of that right now. This win takes Appleby to fourth in the table, while Puddlemere drop to third, and they're clinging to that position by just thirty points."

It sounded far too over-the-top to Harry's ears. He landed near the centre of the pitch, breathing heavily. Campbell was swarmed by his teammates. Harry turned away, refusing to watch. George landed and slapped a hand on his back, but it was far from comforting.

Campbell glided down to Harry. His smile looked very white against his dark skin. He held out a hand, which Harry shook.

"Hard luck, Potter," Campbell said. "But Merlin, you're fast. I haven't got a clue how you managed to catch me. Any longer and I reckon I was done for."

The consolation words did nothing to sooth the raw feeling of loss, but Harry accepted them nonetheless.

"Maybe." Harry forced himself to smile. He could be bad loser when he was out of the glare of the spotlight. "Congratulations, mate. I'll get you next time."

Campbell chuckled heartily as he flew back towards his team. "Looking forward to it, Harry," he said over his shoulder.

Harry hadn't tasted defeat in years, but he hadn't forgotten how much it stung. A weight settled in his stomach, his muscles tightly clenched. He flew back to the tunnel to the sound of sarcastic applause from Appleby's supporters and entered the changing rooms, allowing his head to drop for the first time.

It had been silent before the match, but it seemed even quieter now. The other players were sitting with heads in hands, all their hard work coming to nothing. They had built the foundations for a win, but Harry hadn't been able to finish the job.

Campbell's style of play wasn't revolutionary. A number of Seekers employed the same tactics. Harry had made just one mistake in the entire match, but it was what cost Puddlemere the game. More than anything, that was the difference at professional level.

People said Seekers took all the glory while every other member of the team was forgotten, and they were mostly right. What they didn't mention was that when it went wrong, Seekers took all of the blame, too, whether they were at fault for a loss or not.

Harry didn't even have that to fall back on. There were no two ways about it, it was his fault. He reasoned with himself that it was just a part of Quidditch, of sport in general, and that was just the way it went sometimes. He accepted it, but it didn't stop him from wanting revenge.

He didn't say anything, but headed straight for the showers. The cool spray did nothing to soothe him.

14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note: Sorry for the long delay. OK, quick recap: Harry's just lost his first professional game of Quidditch.

Chapter Fourteen

A sliver of light penetrated the gap in the curtains, partially illuminating a framed jersey on the wall. Harry's surname was woven into the fabric in bright white letters; underneath was the number seven. Signatures were scrawled over the back of the jersey in black ink, courtesy of the Puddlemere squad. It was tradition for a player's debut game. A navy and white striped scarf was draped over the frame, with Harry's first professional Golden Snitch nestled on top, its wings now motionless.

A clap of thunder jolted Harry from his trance. The storm raging across England had woken him from an uneasy night's sleep some time ago, but he had yet to move from his bed. He was content to stay beneath the magically heated duvet and listen to the rain beating against his bedroom window. Monstrous winds rattled the structure of the ancient house, creating noises reminiscent of the ghoul's nightly jaunts in the Weasley's attic, but it didn't distract Harry from his traitorous thoughts.

The space in the bed next to him was cold. He felt hollow, desperately wanting someone there, next to him, who would listen to his worries and put things into perspective. Then again, he knew he probably wouldn't say a thing even if he did have company. After fearing for his life for so long, his latest doubts felt juvenile in comparison.

He had lost a match. He'd been beaten. Losing was a part of the game that every player experienced, no matter who you were. Harry knew that all too well, but he couldn't stop the questions forming in his mind. Was he good enough? Would he ever be good enough? Should he just pack it in now, before he was truly embarrassed by the game's elite?

As he lay there, his own subconscious taunted him. He could smell the dry grass and the sweat that permeated the changing room, as clearly as if he were there. Every time he closed his eyes his memory replayed the agonising moment he'd realised his mistake, and when Lennox Campbell had capitalised on the chance Harry had gifted him.

Harry was only just finding out how much he truly detested losing a game of Quidditch. The last time he'd lost had been in his third year at Hogwarts, against Cedric. Since then, he'd become so used to winning he'd almost forgotten that losing was even an option.

At least when it came to Quidditch, that was; when it came to other games, it was a different matter. Ron had always thoroughly defeated him in chess, and Seamus had always trounced him when they played Gobstones. But none of that mattered because it never really meant anything. Quidditch was different altogether. It wasn't just a game he played as a pastime anymore. It was now his job.

Sometime later, Harry forced himself to get out of bed and throw open the burgundy drapes. It was a gloomy day. Black clouds lay like a blanket low in the sky, pouring rain on London. The street in front of Number Twelve now looked as much like a river as a road. The drains overflowed, unable to cope with the sudden onslaught of water. Harry spotted a neighbour's rubbish bin floating on its side, and watched until it got lodged in another neighbour's half-closed front gate.

He turned away from the window and caught site of the framed jersey. His second match might have ended in defeat, but his first match had been a good one. It had been against the weakest opposition in the league, but at least he'd won.

Harry shuffled into his private bathroom. On the top shelf in the cabinet on the wall, a multitude of potions lay haphazardly, which he rummaged through. He pushed aside a Pepper-Up Potion and a Sleeping Draught, and eventually found a hangover remedy.

"Do you know the best cure for a hangover?" The mirror on the wall seemed to ripple in laughter. "Stay sober the night before!"

Harry had learned to ignore the damned thing, but he couldn't help agreeing with its words. A few strong drinks had chased away the sting of defeat, but it was now the morning after. According to Stewart Ackerley, the morning after was the worst part of losing, but Harry was determined to stop moping around like someone had died. Seamus wouldn't let him get away with it; the git hadn't stopped laughing all night.

The house was quiet as Harry made his way to the kitchen, excluding his footsteps on the creaking stairs and timeworn floorboards. He entered the kitchen and made himself a breakfast of toast and orange juice. A brown owl carrying the Daily Prophet arrived halfway through his first slice of toast, but he refused to read the newspaper. He caught a glimpse of himself on the front page, which was enough for him to consider throwing it straight out.

After his breakfast was cleared away, he pondered on the benefits of going back to bed. It was sure to be a miserable Sunday, but he knew it would just invite Seamus's special brand of mocking. Daphne's offer of a roast dinner popped into his head. It wasn't Daphne's cooking that was all that appealing, and it wasn't the reason he decided to take her up on the offer.

Feeling a little better, Harry left the kitchen with a spring in his step and an idea forming in his mind. He apparated to Hogsmeade a few minutes later, where the weather was even worse than it was in London. Instead of a downpour of rain, it was swirling wind and sleet. It drenched Harry within seconds, and he broke out into a run, slipping and sliding on the sopping grass, cursing all the way to Daphne cottage.

"Oh, hello," Daphne said, after she had opened the door. Dressed in only a crumpled vest and a pair of shorts, with her hair in a loose ponytail, she looked as though she hadn't long gotten out of bed. A sudden gust of wind made her gasp, and she hastily pulled Harry inside, slamming the door behind him.

"Sorry if I woke you," said Harry, shrugging out of his cloak.

"I was just being lazy," said Daphne, waving off his apology. She gestured for Harry to follow her into the lounge. "I just got out of the bath, actually. I wasn't expecting visitors."

Harry sank into the sofa's downy cushions. Next to him, Daphne curled her legs up beneath her. Harry noticed her exposed skin, from her toes to her shoulders, looked rather rosy. Her cheeks soon took on the same colour, once she'd noticed Harry's lingering gaze.

"A bit hot, was it?"

Any shyness Daphne felt soon disappeared. Her eyes narrowed slightly, although she was smiling in a teasing sort of way, and she gave her wand a small flick.

"That's for your impure thoughts," she explained.

Harry felt his tongue affix itself to the roof of his mouth, and was forced to retrieve his own wand to counter the Langlock Jinx.

"I never knew you were a Legilimens."

"I'm not," said Daphne, tucking her wand in the waistband of her shorts. "It was your eyes, Harry. They said it all."

There was a grandfather clock pressed up against the back wall, which hadn't been present the last time Harry was here. Chipped in various places and in need of a coat of varnish, it looked ancient and out of place in the relatively modern cottage. Maybe that was just Daphne's style, Harry thought. She'd only been living here for a few months and the place still looked bare.

"I really wasn't expecting you today," said Daphne, flicking her wand again, this time to summon two bottles of butterbeer from the kitchen. "I was thinking about popping over to Rosmerta's for some lunch, actually."

"I have an idea," said Harry. "Sirius has been nagging me for weeks to go this pub near our place. It does the best Sunday roast he's has ever tasted, apparently. Fancy it?"

"Sure," said Daphne, untangling her legs from beneath her. "In that case, I'd best get dressed."

"You'd hear no complaints from me if you went dressed like that," Harry said, making a show of looking at her bare legs, which no longer looked sunburned.

Daphne gave him a curious look. "You're very chipper this morning. I figured you'd be in hiding."

"Yeah … well." Harry shrugged. "It's a bit difficult to be stay miserable when you're dressed like that."

"Tell me the truth," said Daphne, laughing. "How depressed were you when you woke up?"

Harry grimaced. "My thoughts may have been a bit … overdramatic."

"Well, if you're ever in need of someone to cheer you up, you're welcome to use me anytime," said Daphne, a spark of something appearing in her eyes.

"You know," said Harry, failing to hide a wide smile, "I could take that completely the wrong way."

"How do you know which way I meant it?"

Harry faltered, his mouth having gone dry all of a sudden. His reaction prompted Daphne to start laughing.

"Now, stay here while get dressed," she said. She reached the middle of the staircase when she paused, turned around and added, "Oh, by the way – I think I won this round, don't you?"

For the second time in as many minutes, Harry floundered, his brain struggling to think up a response. He watched Daphne's legs disappear from view at the top of the stairs, feeling like a fourteen year-old again, blushing every time a pretty girl so much as smiled at him. It was a disconcerting feeling.

In Harry's experience, it could feel like a lifetime when waiting for a girl to get ready. For the next few minutes, as he settled in for a long wait, he willed himself to appear calm and collected. His heart was still beating twice as fast as normal, and before he could put the mask in place, the floorboards creaked.

Daphne reappeared on the top stair, her boots coming into view first. Harry recognised the forest green pullover, which Daphne had opted to wear under a leather jacket. Her hair was now loose and wavy, which Harry knew had been styled with a charm.

Harry apparated them both to number twelve's doorstep, leading Daphne inside and through to the kitchen. They were greeted by the smell of bacon, which Sirius had cooked and was eating at the table.

"Daphne – meet the infamous Sirius Black, my godfather," said Harry, pulling a chair out for Daphne and another for himself.

Daphne's lips twitched. Sirius was only wearing a pair of shorts, showing off his pale, hairy chest, although he didn't look in the least bit concerned or embarrassed.

"Lovely to meet you," he said, and turned to Harry, looking impressed. "Merlin, you don't hang about, do you? It's not even midday yet."

Harry stared at him for a moment, bemused. "Do you really think I just picked up a girl on a Sunday morning?"

"Well, how should I know?" Sirius said, spearing his sausage with a fork. "You're Harry Potter – heroic destroyer of Voldemort and world-famous Seeker. If you're not getting some action from that, you're doing something wrong, and I'm not doing my godfather duties like I should be."

Harry frowned. "Are you still drunk?"

"Probably," said Sirius.

Daphne leaned forward, grinning slyly, and whispered conspiratorially, "He transfigured a rose for me once."

"You're shitting me," Sirius said, turning to gaze disbelievingly at Harry. "You don't strike me as the type."

"That's because I did it as joke," Harry said, sighing as he poured himself a strong cup of coffee from the pot Sirius had made. "I was trying to prove a point, that's all."

"After that, you'll never guess what he told me," Daphne said to Sirius, who was failing to hide his amusement. "He said he wanted to get me drunk and take me home."

"Harry, Harry, Harry," Sirius said, shaking his head and sounding remarkably similar to Gilderoy Lockhart. "I think you and I need to have a little chat. You don't just tell a girl you want to get her drunk and sleep with her. It's bad form."

"She's twisting my words," Harry said.

Daphne patted him on the arm. "You keep telling yourself that," she said. She looked back to Sirius, her expression suddenly thoughtful. "You know, now that I think of it, he did end up in my house later on that night."

"Oh?" Sirius said, his fork hovering halfway between the plate and his mouth. "How did he manage that?"

"He said he couldn't get home," Daphne said, and she and Sirius scoffed in unison. "Can you believe he went to all that trouble? He didn't even try anything!"

"Anything?" Sirius echoed, glancing fearfully at Harry. "Not even a kiss?"

"Nothing," Daphne confirmed.

"You make it sound like we'd met that very night," Harry said, and looked pointedly at Sirius. "We're friends, and no, not with benefits."

"Could've fooled me," Sirius muttered, going back to his breakfast.

Harry topped up his coffee and handed the pot to Daphne. Just then, the fireplace suddenly came to life. Red hair appeared in the green flames, and Ron Weasley's blue eyes blinked rapidly.

"Er – hello."

"Everything all right, Ron?"

Ron's eyes focused on Harry. "Yeah, mate. I just wondered if you fancied coming to watch the Cannons this afternoon. They've got next week off, so it's our last game before the Christmas break."

Harry tried not to grimace. Most stadiums used the Impervius Charm, but Chudley was one of the few that didn't. The only way to stay dry was by sitting in private box seats.

"Have you seen the weather today? We'd get soaked, mate."

"Aw, c'mon, Harry," Ron whined. "You know we can get the good seats."

"That's the only reason you're asking me, isn't it?"

Ron furiously shook his head. "Nah, mate. Honestly," he said, sounding sincere. "You're not the only famous bloke I know anymore. Fred and George can get the seats just as easy."

Harry looked around the table, eyebrow raised in question. Daphne shrugged and continued to sip her coffee, and Sirius nodded as he spooned baked beans into his mouth.

"All right, Ron," said Harry.

"Great!" Ron grinned broadly. "We're leaving at half one."

With those parting words, Ron pulled back and the fire disappeared in flash of green.

"Well, I guess I'm going to my first professional Quidditch match," said Daphne, earning a stunned look from Sirius.

Harry stepped out of the fireplace into the Burrow an hour later, just as an explosion of laughter shook the very foundations of the house. The Weasleys were crammed into the kitchen, Percy and Ginny the only members of the family not in attendance. Molly looked to be in her element as host, supplying butterbeer and biscuits. Apart from the sea of red hair, there was also an abundance of Chudley's eye-watering shade of orange jerseys on display.

Daphne was in the middle of a conversation with Hermione, just apart from the group. It was Hermione who spotted Harry first, and she engulfed him in a hug.

"Tell me," said Harry, accepting the butterbeer Molly shoved into his hands as she patrolled the kitchen. "Why are they all wearing Chudley jerseys? Ron's the only one who supports them."

"They all went to the pub last night," said Hermione, shaking her head in what looked like exasperation. "A Muggle pub, might I add, where they ended up hosting a darts tournament. Ron won, and somehow this is happening."

Bill announced it was time to leave, and they all gathered around the Portkey. Harry was forced to close his eyes as they were yanked out of the kitchen, as the blur of Chudley orange made him quite queasy. Daphne and Hermione were on either side of him, hips bumping against his, and then, mercifully, the journey was over.

They landed on unsteady feet. It took a moment for Harry to get his bearings, and when he did he realised they were in a waterlogged field. His shoes were already soaked through and caked in mud. They started moving their way across the field, manoeuvring around the throng of supporters, all of whom seemed wholly upbeat despite Chudley's horrendous record.

A few minutes later, they arrived at a wooden hut. There were four doors, one on each side, all of which were manned by security guards. Harry, being the most famous and thus the most likely to acquire the best seats, was pushed forward. He came face to face with a shaven-headed security guard, who had an inscrutable look on his face.

"Harry Potter," he said, after a moment. "Got yer ticket, lad?"

"Ah – I was hoping to get them now," said Harry.

The guard beckoned Harry closer, and in a low voice said, "What's three Puddlemere boys doing at a Chudley game?"

"A friend of mine is a fan," said Harry, equally as quietly.

"It's a bloody good job I'm a big fan of Puddlemere then, innit?" said the guard, his upper lip twitching. "Let's 'ave a look at what I can give yer." He looked down at his clipboard, flipping through the pages until he landed on the one he was looking for. "Ah, 'ere we are. There's a couple of private VIP seats going. 'Ere, show this to the guard at the gates."

"Perfect," said Harry, putting the ticket in his inside pocket. He pulled out a bag of coins, but the security guard waved him away.

"No need for tha'," he said. "Jus', while I've you lads 'ere … any chance of an autograph?" He dug around inside his robes, eventually producing a crumpled piece of parchment and a self-inking quill.

Harry, Fred and George signed the parchment, thanked the delighted security guard, and made their way into the hut. The group shuffled inside, making it quite cramped. The guard gave them a toothy smile and shut the door behind Charlie, leaving them in pure darkness.

"What's happening?" asked Daphne.

"This is a new security measure put in place after the war," Hermione answered immediately. "It's now mandatory for every team in Britain, if I remember correctly."

"You do," said Harry. "Trying to bypass the security charms would take you hours, by which time you'd be found. Not that it's stopped people from trying to sneak into games, of course."

The magical darkness only lasted a few more seconds, until the door clicked open and allowed light to enter the hut once again. They stepped out, not on to a field, but a long, cobbled street. There was a distinctive smell of greasy food polluting the air, emanating from the legion of fast food stalls. Restaurants, bars, pubs and shops lined both sides of the street. Fred and George stopped in a grubby little shop selling Chudley paraphernalia, returning a minute later wearing matching jester hats.

There was another security guard at the gates to the stadium, who directed them to the second tier. Because they were VIP guests, he allowed them to keep their wands. A third guard was standing outside a door at the top of the first flight of stairs, and behind the door the stone floor gave way to a carpeted hallway.

The private room was spacious and sparsely decorated, but it did have a fully stocked bar, which instantly caught Sirius's attention. Sliding double doors led to a balcony overlooking the centre of the pitch. Unlike the cheap, plastic seats that filled most of the stadium, the balcony was furnished with leather recliners.

Harry took his seat, listening to the commentator reading out the official line-ups. Falmouth Falcons, Chudley's opponents today, would be coming to Puddlemere next week, so Harry thought he'd take the opportunity to do some reconnaissance. He retrieved his notebook, the same one he had used in the World Cup Final, and jotted down: Falmouth – infamous for their hard brand of play.

It was Falmouth who entered first, their iron grey robes flapping in the wind as they flew a lap of the pitch. They were the most hated team in the league. Chudley's supporters didn't hold back their jeers.

"The Broadmoor twins," Fred muttered darkly. He had a pair of omnioculars pressed firmly against his eyes.

"Fred and George played every game in the World Cup, but were dropped for the final in favour of the Broadmoor's," Harry explained to a clueless Daphne. "It wasn't a popular decision."

Charlie stepped on to the balcony carrying a tray overladen with beers.

"Is Reitch playing, Harry? I heard he took a fall a few weeks ago."

"He's playing, all right," said Harry, taking a pint of beer. "Nothing short of unconsciousness keeps him out."

"I've heard a lot about the bloke, but never watched him play before," said Charlie, dropping into the recliner next to Harry's.

"If you're picked, watch out for him," said Fred, lowering his omnioculars to give Harry an unusually serious look. "He's a master at making fouls look like accidents."

"He cracked Ackerley's broom last season," said George. "Flew straight into him. Lucky we were on hand to catch him."

"The ref missed it, of course," said Fred. "Still, as much as Reitch gets away with, he does get caught sometimes. He conceded more fouls than any other Seeker last season."

"And the season before that," said George.

Harry wrote it all down in his notebook. Seekers wanting to knock his head off wasn't a novel concept – Malfoy had tried it during every game they'd played each other at Hogwarts. Reitch was a far better player than Malfoy, but Harry highly doubted he'd have quite the same amount of venom.

Chudley flew out to thunderous applause, and all around the stadium fans stood up to sing the club's unofficial anthem. Ron, arguably the loudest of them all, bellowed along.

Chudley is the name, orange is the colour,

We haven't won a game since 1964

Our glory days are long since over,

And now we struggle just to score!

We'll always wear the badge with pride,

Because we're Chudley 'til we die!

Cannons! Cannons! Cannons!

The last line of the chorus was accompanied by a thousand people stamping their feet in unison, making it sound as if there really was a cannon firing. Harry could only imagine what it had used to sound like back in the days when wands were permitted inside the stadium.

"It hasn't really been that long since they last won a game, has it?" Daphne asked, as the fans started singing another verse.

"No," said Harry. "That's just the year the song was written, but it's updated all the time."

Gudgeon is his name, orange is his colour,

He hasn't caught the Snitch since 1994

But we love him 'cause he's one of us,

So hear us now as we all roar!

We'll always wear the badge with pride,

Because we're Chudley 'til we die!

Cannons! Cannons! Cannons!

Even as the game started and Falmouth took an early lead, the home crowd continued their relentless singing. Ron was on the edge of his seat, living every moment of the game. He cried out for what he perceived as fouls the referee didn't notice, groaned every time Chudley came close but ultimately missed a scoring opportunity – whooped when they actually did score – and swore loudly at Reitch when the Seeker flew close to their balcony.

Twenty minutes into the game, Harry noticed a pattern. Falmouth's Beaters would efficiently break through Chudley's shaky defence, but the Falcon's Chasers weren't capitalising. It allowed Chudley to counter-attack, but they, like Falmouth, weren't making the most of the other team's mistakes.

"This game's coming down to the Seekers," said Charlie, swigging the dregs of his beer. "I swear my old Gryffindor team could give this lot a run for their money. I've never seen such awful play from professional Chasers."

"Reitch will win it," said Harry confidently.

"Probably." Charlie's eyes were glued to the game. "It'd be nice to see Chudley win, though. I can't stand Falmouth."

Ron leapt to his feet as Chudley went through on goal, cheering as the Quaffle bounced off the inside of the ring and went in. The game was now all tied at fifty apiece. Immediately after the game restarted, Reitch made a silly foul and gave away a penalty, and suddenly Chudley was winning by ten.

"This just got interesting," Charlie muttered.

Falmouth continued to make needless fouls, and three successful penalties from five later, Chudley looked the better team. They scored again, and then there was an intake of breath around the stadium. Harry spotted why: Gudgeon had spotted the Snitch. Chudley's Seeker was an orange blur as he sped past the balcony, but Harry looked towards the other Seeker. Reitch's teeth were bared in a snarl as he gave chase, his straggly black hair whipping along behind him.

Charlie whistled through his teeth. "He might be a prick, Harry, but he's a fast one."

"He also has weaknesses," said Harry. "When his anger gets the best of him, his spatial awareness is shit. Look!"

Charlie winced as Reitch collided with Perry, Chudley's ginger Chaser. By the time Reitch managed to untangle his limbs from Perry, Gudgeon was all the way across the other side of the stadium, a thousand voices roaring him on.

"He's done it!" cried Ron.

The moment Gudgeon touched down, his teammates were all over him, engulfing him in a seven-man hug. Harry watched for a moment, oddly pleased for the bloke. On the other side of the pitch, Reitch was tearing his hair out. His broom was snapped in half, after he had stamped on it, and he was now hurling insults at the referee.

"What a prat," said a delighted Ron.

The partying started the moment everyone left the stadium. There was very little room to move on the street, as fans crowded inside every restaurant and bar, but there was one pub, at the very end of the street, that wasn't yet wholly jam-packed. Inside, diehard fans singing club songs made for a lively atmosphere. The walls couldn't be seen through a myriad of signed posters, flags, scarves, and countless other bits and pieces of memorabilia.

As soon as Harry had taken his seat, the table expanding to fit them all, a waitress with a name tag reading 'Felicity' bounced up to them. Her hair was bright Chudley orange, and her smile looked unnaturally wide, as though her lips had been cursed that way.

"Welcome to Gudgeon's!"

"Gudgeon's?" asked Harry, nonplussed.

"Yep!" Felicity nodded vigorously, her orange bob bouncing to the beat of the music playing over the speakers. "We rename this place every time the team gets a new Seeker."

"Oh," said Harry, turning to Fred and George. "Maybe we should think about starting the same tradition at Puddlemere."

"Why do that when you can just sign for us instead?" said Ron.

"Wait," said the waitress, now gazing in awe at Harry. "Are you saying that you're Harry Potter?"

"Yeah …" said Harry, pointedly ignoring the sniggering from around the table.

"Oh my …" Felicity started fanning herself with her hand, appearing to be on the verge of a panic attack. This, of course, turned everyone's sniggers into full-blown laughter. It took Harry a lot of patience and a discreet charm before Felicity calmed down enough to take their order. When she returned, levitating a dozen pints of ale and lager, Harry was pleased to see his charm seemed to have worked.

"Thank you, Felicity," said Harry, holding out the money, but she refused to take it.

"Oh no," she said, in a horrified sort of way, as though Harry had just offered to kill her pet cat. "These are on the house. Boss's orders."

"Jesus, Potter," said Seamus, the moment Felicity had left. "When's the last time you paid for anything?"

Harry hated to think of himself as a celebrity, but there were advantages that came with being famous, even though it was often a little embarrassing. Despite not being overly averse to taking advantage of his fame when it suited him, he decided he would leave some money on the table before they left.

Felicity brought out baskets of hot and spicy chicken wings, hot dogs slathered in mustard and ketchup, burgers bursting out of their buns, and curly fries smothered in melted cheese. There was a lull in the conversation as the food was devoured, although Harry, Fred and George refrained from eating anything, wary of having to burn it all off in training the next week. Harry already felt a bit guilty for drinking alcohol two nights in a row.

"I still can't believe Gudgeon caught the Snitch," said Ron.

"Nor can I," Harry muttered, rubbing his nose, which Gudgeon had broken a few weeks ago.

"There's no need to be jealous," said Daphne, her eyes sparkling. "Just because he has a pub named after him …"

Even as the late afternoon drifted into evening, the topic of conversation stayed on Chudley's surprise win. Despite her relationship with Ron, Hermione looked a bit bored by it all. At least this time she had Daphne to keep her company.

"Chudley are everyone's second team," Harry tried explaining to them. Hermione had been surrounded by Quidditch fanatics long enough, so it was more for Daphne's benefit. "They'll never be a threat to us, so we always want them to beat our rivals."

"They average about two wins a season," said Sirius, who was always up for educating newcomers to the game. "I remember, back in seventy-eight, Puddlemere and Montrose were neck and neck going into the last game of the season. Everyone thought Montrose would win the title, because they had Chudley, while Puddlemere had Ballycastle. But Chudley pulled off the impossible and Puddlemere won the league. It inspired us to go on and win the Quidditch Cup in our last year at Hogwarts."

"I'm sure it was all down to your superb Chasing skills," said Harry.

"No – your father was more talented than me," said Sirius, smiling fondly. "He scored twelve goals in forty minutes."

Harry was momentarily lost for words. Sirius had a knack of coming out with bits of information that Harry had never known about his parents.

"It's a pity our Seeker was so shit, to be honest," Sirius continued. "Still, with James and me in the team, we built up enough of a lead so it didn't matter."

Harry steadily became quite drunk as the hours flew by. When last call was announced, to the general displeasure of everyone, Seamus bought another round for everyone. They were all stumbling as they left Gudgeon's pub, laughing at another of Sirius's awful jokes, and stopped in the middle of the street. The cobbles were covered in a thin layer of snow.

"We should do this again sometime," said Ron.

Fred and George, who were leaning on each other for support, nodded in unison.

"Next time we're off, count us in," said George.

After a round of hugs from Hermione, and dodging Charlie, who was trying to give everyone a kiss, Hermione and the Weasleys disapparated.

"I'll take Daphne home," Harry said to Sirius, and left without waiting to hear what Seamus was about to say.

Daphne's grip on Harry's elbow tightened as they stumbled on landing. The snow was much thicker this far north, and it crunched underfoot as they walked up the path to Daphne's cottage.

"So, you can apparate when you're drunk?" Daphne laughed.

"I was far worse last week," said Harry.

Daphne fumbled with the lock a few times. The moment they were inside, she shrugged off her jacket, kicked off her boots, and aimed her wand in the direction of the hearth. A fire started crackling, bathing the lounge in a warm orange glow.

"So …" said Harry, standing awkwardly between the sofa and the door. "I'd best be getting home."

"You can stay," said Daphne, looking at Harry intently. "If you want."

Harry swallowed, his mouth having gone dry for the second time that day, and said, "I can stay."

A wide smile split Daphne's face. Then, before Harry really knew what was happening, Daphne's body was pressed up against his, trapping him against the wall, and she was kissing him furiously. In his drunken haze, it took a second for Harry's brain to spring into life.

"Wait – wait!" he gasped.

"What's wrong?"

"Is this … should we be doing this?"

"Can you think of any reason why we shouldn't be?"

"Not at this very moment."

They were kissing again the moment Harry's sentence left his lips. Daphne's fingers were very nimble, he soon discovered, after she had stripped him of his cloak and shirt. They made it to the bottom of the stairs, but rather than attempt to climb them, Harry decided it was simply easier to pick Daphne up and deposit her on the sofa.

There weren't many things in the world better than Quidditch, Harry thought as Daphne's bra was thrown across the lounge, but this was certainly one of them.

15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's note: I know my update schedule has been erratic, to put it kindly, but this is just a quick note to say not to expect another update until at least the end of May. Life will be pretty hectic for me until then.

As always, thanks to silentclock.

Chapter Fifteen

Harry's eyes shot open as the grandfather clock chimed. The sudden noise had startled him awake and now reverberated around inside his skull. He was sure this is how it would feel should Fred and George ever decide to use his head for target practise. Harry had taken enough Bludgers to the head to know the aftermath wasn't too dissimilar a feeling to a hangover-induced headache.

Mercifully, the clock soon stopped its infernal chiming.

There was a weight on Harry's chest, which turned out to be Daphne; her body was trapping one of his arms as she slept soundly, snoring into the side of his neck. A thick quilt covered them, but despite the warmth it and Daphne provided, the tip of Harry's nose and his toes were cold. To rectify this, he reached out with his free arm, blindly searching for his wand on the floor. After finding his shoes and socks, and Daphne's lace knickers, he gave up his search. His wand, he suspected, had rolled beneath the coffee table.

Harry's stomach roiled from his movements, the sensation similar to seasickness, and he didn't move again for quite some time. As long as he stayed still, he found his nausea was kept at bay. He was quite content to stay where he was, flat on his back, and watch the world pass by. From his position he could see the top half of the window over the back of the sofa, and just make out the grey clouds in the sky. Snowflakes were falling thick and fast, brushing up against the pane of glass and sticking to one side of its frame. On the other side of the lounge the dying embers of the fire burned a dull orange, barely keeping the chill outside the cottage walls.

Harry's attention was drawn back to Daphne, who had mumbled in her sleep. Although he had never spoken of it, he had often imagined himself falling into bed with her. He was glad she hadn't yet woken up; he didn't have a clue what to say to her. There was something about her, but he wasn't sure if it was just her pretty face or if there was something more meaningful there, something real. She was flirty and fun and she had a knack of making him feel giddy with just her presence – but how long would that last?

A sharp few taps on the window disturbed the still room. Daphne's eyes popped open, but only for the briefest of moments, and then she was asleep again.

"Um – Daphne? There's an owl at your window," said Harry, gently shaking her shoulder.

"Tell it to bugger off," Daphne mumbled, burrowing deep into the gap between Harry's chest and bicep. "It's too early."

"It's not too early, it's only … hang on …" Harry looked at the grandfather clock and froze when he saw the time. "Shit – I'm late."

"Hmm?"

"I'm supposed to be training," said Harry, struggling to free himself from the tangle of limbs. "Come on – haven't you got work? Shit – shit – Phil's probably planning my murder as we speak."

With a lengthy groan, Daphne pushed herself off Harry and sat back on her knees. The action caused her to remove the thick quilt, exposing their naked bodies to the chilly air. Harry watched in fascination as goose bumps erupted over Daphne's skin. The muscles in his stomach clenched and his throat closed, making it slightly difficult to breath. As he became aware of Daphne's now wide, alert eyes on him, he had never felt more exposed.

"I didn't realise …" murmured Daphne, reaching out a hand to run a finger down his ribs, tracing the jagged white line of an old scar.

"You've seen them before," Harry said quietly, placing his hand over hers. The urge to cover up was almost overwhelming. You had to get used to being naked when you shared a changing room, but professional Quidditch players tended to have their fair share of scars, so nobody looked twice at the collection Harry had built up over the years. Compared to Daphne's pale unblemished skin, Harry felt as disfigured as Mad-Eye Moody.

"I was focused more on the fresh injuries you had when I helped treat you; I didn't pay much attention to these." Daphne traced another scar with the tip of her finger, which ended at Harry's collarbone, and she met his gaze. Harry saw a whole array of emotions in her eyes, none of which he wanted to contemplate right now.

"There's a story behind each of them," he said, moving her hand away from his chest. "Maybe I'll tell you them all one day, but this is not the time."

"Tell me the funny ones first," said Daphne as she bent over to retrieve her wand, and Harry looked away – it suddenly didn't feel right to stare at her, the moment long since gone.

"I have a few of them," said Harry, smiling as he pointed at his shoulder. "This one, for example, is when I flew straight into a tree. You would've thought I'd have learned my lesson after the start of second year, when I barely escaped my first encounter with the Whomping Willow …"

Puddlemere's training ground had been transformed into a winter wonderland over the weekend. Wreaths of holly had been affixed to every oak door, while colourful tinsel was now draped over every doorframe and portrait; two had been interwoven around the staircase banister leading to the upper floors. The stone floor of the entrance hall was covered in a thick layer of conjured snow, with a path neatly bisecting it from the doorway to Emma's desk.

"You're late," said Emma, scolding Harry the moment he walked through the front door.

"I know," said Harry, who couldn't keep the silly grin off his face.

"Why are you so happy this morning?" Emma's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Phil wants to see you in his office immediately."

Harry's grin faded somewhat, and he turned from the path and to the staircase. His footsteps created indents in the snow, which were filled in the moment he raised his foot. He didn't pause to enjoy the small wonders of magic, his thoughts instead turning to the upcoming conversation. Squaring his shoulders outside Phil's office, Harry knocked twice on the heavy wooden door.

"Come in, Potter."

Phil was sitting behind his desk, his brow creased as he scribbled on a roll of parchment. Harry sat down and waited. After a few minutes the stiflingly hot office became quite unbearable, forcing Harry to undo his top button and roll up his sleeves. Phil's office always had a roaring log fire, even in the summer, and Phil always wore thick woollen robes. It was a running joke amongst the team that Phil must have messed up a Cooling Concoction in his youth, and had since been stuck with the body temperature of a reptile.

"Right then," said Phil abruptly, clapping his hands together and resting them palms down on his desk. "I think it's time we got down to business."

Harry's expression was one of polite curiosity. He'd been expecting a harsh reprimand, for either his unpunctuality or his excessive drinking over the weekend. It hadn't been in the press, but Phil seemed to have eyes and ears everywhere. Fred and George had found that out in their first year on the team, after hosting a Halloween party that got out of hand.

"We're at the halfway point of your one-year contract," Phil explained. "It's also around this time of year I assess the players and review performances from the first half of the season."

Harry tried to keep his concern from showing. Evidently, he didn't pull it off, because Phil raised a grey eyebrow and said, "Don't look so worried, Potter. It's normal procedure. This will only be a quick chat, just to see how things are progressing so far. How do you think you've done over the past few months?"

"Er …" Harry wished he'd had time to prepare an answer. He was used to thinking on his feet when it came to fighting or Quidditch, but not always when it came to using his words. "I've done all right, I think. Obviously I wish I'd played more games, but I understand why I haven't."

Phil looked somewhat sympathetic. "Yes, unfortunately for you, blooding rookie Seekers is always difficult."

Harry was well aware of that. More often than not, a Seeker decided the game, so it would always be a risk. It was much easier for managers to experiment with other positions. The usual preference with a young Chaser, for example, was to play them alongside two old hands and hope the veterans' experience would see the young kid through the game. It was a tried and trusted method the world over, but the best way to blood an inexperienced Seeker was still up for debate. Like all rookie Seekers, Harry thought the best way was for him to play as much as possible. Naturally, most managers tended not to agree with his way of thinking.

"You have a way to go before you fully realise your potential, Harry. You've improved considerably in the past few months," said Phil. "Provided you continue to work as hard as you have been, I see no reason why you won't be awarded a new contract come the end of the season."

A quiet sort of satisfaction filled Harry. He knew he hadn't yet achieved anything in the game, and there was the possibility of Phil changing his mind in six months' time, but Harry was determined not to let that happen. He was halfway out of the office, grin firmly back in place, when Phil stopped him.

"One last thing, Potter." Phil was smiling in a grim sort of way underneath his salt and pepper moustache. "You'll be fined a day's wages for turning up late this morning. I'd rather hoped you would come clean."

"Ah – sorry about that," Harry said, internally wincing.

"Would you care to provide an explanation for your tardiness?" Phil's expression turned stony, strongly reminding Harry of Professor McGonagall on a bad day. A lot of rather useless excuses popped into Harry's head, although he didn't dare voice any of them. As had always been the case with McGonagall, it would be useless to try and pull the wool over Phil's eyes.

"I've been in this game a long time, Harry," said Phil, his tone almost wistful. "You wouldn't believe some of the extraordinary talent I've seen go to waste. I would hate to see you go down the same route as so many before you have travelled. You could become great, and I can help you along the way, but only you can make it happen. But if you haven't got the dedication …" Phil shrugged, an action that looked unnatural for the middle-aged man. "Well, without dedication, why are you even playing the game?"

Sufficiently scolded, Harry left Phil's office feeling as though things could have gone far worse, all things considered. Six months ago, he probably would have been fuming at the dressing down. It would have felt excessive for being thirty minutes late. Now, he understood. There were many tales of players who should have went on to join the greats, only to fade into obscurity, and Harry didn't want his name to join that list.

Whether they had won or lost a game, every player dreaded a Monday, and for good reason. The morning was dedicated entirely to analysing the team's performance, which, while undoubtedly useful, was also mind-numbingly boring. Even the room where Phil held the meeting was utterly bland, with rows of hardback chairs all facing a whiteboard, with no portraits or pictures, just off-colour white walls and a window that overlooked the pitches. Its official name, written on the plaque on the door, read: Analysis and Review Room. The players preferred to call it by its nickname: the torture chamber.

Harry settled in for a long few hours. Phil arrived a few minutes after him, and proceeded to drone on about which tactics had worked best in the game, which ones would need tweaking for the future, and which ones would be discarded entirely.

Harry found his attention wavering around the half hour mark, as Phil and Maddock become embroiled in a furious discussion about the captain's positioning when starting up counter-attacks. This was a regular occurrence between Phil and Maddock. The first time Harry had seen it, he had half expected fists to start flying. He'd just been about ready to jump into the fray, to stop a fight escalating out of control, when he noticed the rest of the team hadn't reacted in the slightest. After that, he'd become used to the men's heated tempers.

Eventually, Phil and Maddock agreed to work on a new plan. Another hour dragged on as Phil focused on Fred and George; even they lacked their usual gusto in the torture chamber, speaking to Phil in monotonous voices.

"Potter," Phil said at last, gesturing at him with his wand. "You'll be working on your spatial awareness and multi-tasking this week. Neither is up to scratch. You lose sight of everything else around you when you become fixated on something. I lost count of how many times you nearly had your head knocked off by a Bludger on Saturday. You'll also be flying a few drills with the Chasers and playing a practise game with them. The better your understanding of their position, the better you'll be at knowing when to help them and when to stay away."

Harry couldn't hide his grimace. The next week would consist of dodging the hellhounds that were Fred and George. With those two, it felt less like a training routine and more like an all-out battle. Judging by the way the twins brightened up at hearing the news, they were looking forward to the fight.

The Three Broomsticks was busy on Thursday evening, full of locals and wizards and witches from far and wide, all enjoying Rosmerta's home cooked food and warm ale. Harry sought out Daphne, and found her sitting in the back of the pub, enclosed within a booth next to the fireplace. They hadn't had a chance to speak in person since Monday morning. As Daphne had been working late and Harry had been training, they'd been forced to correspond only through letters.

Harry's stomach churned with nerves at the sight of her, and he busied himself with removing his scarf and gloves as he joined her in the booth. Daphne had bought two tankards of butterbeer, one of which was awaiting Harry on the table; the other one, which she was holding in two hands, was half empty.

"Sorry I'm late, Phil kept us for extra training," said Harry.

Daphne waved off his apology, instead looking at him with concern. "That looks awfully painful," she said, gesturing to the black eye Harry was sporting.

"It's not too bad." Harry prodded the sensitive, swollen skin. "I've put some bruise-healing paste on it, so it should be gone by morning."

"How, exactly, did you manage to get such a nice shiner?"

"A Bludger from George," Harry muttered, struggling to keep his blush from spreading to his cheeks. He hadn't been paying attention towards the end of the training routine, his mind having drifted to spending the evening with Daphne, when he got whacked in the face by a Bludger.

The corner of Daphne's lips twitched as she failed to hide her amusement. "What did you say in your last letter? I seem to remember you bragging about Fred and George failing to land a direct hit on you all week."

"Yes, well …" Harry picked up the menu and stared intently at the list of mouth-watering food Rosmerta was serving tonight. "I think I'll have the beef casserole."

"So will I," said Daphne, and waited a beat before adding, "I just hope the beef is as tender as your eye looks."

Daphne snorted at her own appalling joke, and Harry couldn't resist laughing along. He hadn't found the jokes from his teammates quite as funny when he had first taken the Bludger to the face.

"So, will you be coming to watch me on Saturday?"

"You're playing?"

"Did I forget to mention it in my letter?" Harry asked, feigning confusion. "It must have slipped my mind."

"Prat," said Daphne, her insult softened by her wide smile. "Of course I'll be there!"

Harry pressed the tip of his wand twice against the menu, directly over beef casserole. Their table number would appear on a blackboard in the kitchen, along with their order. Harry wasn't sure if Rosmerta employed house-elves or humans, but whoever the chefs were, they produced the food extraordinary quickly. Hardly a minute after the order was placed, the table flashed to signal the food's imminent arrival, and then two dishes of steaming casserole appeared.

Harry rolled up his shirt sleeves, picked up his cutlery, and got stuck in. Conversation was limited as the food was devoured. Harry's hunger had steadily increased throughout the day until his stomach ached painfully, so naturally, he finished eating long before Daphne.

"The last time I was here I could hardly hear myself think," said Harry, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "It's not quite the same when there's no Quidditch."

"It's certainly quieter," said Daphne, glancing around at the tables filled with a lot of middle-aged and elderly couples. "We look out of place tonight, don't we?"

"We could always go to Madam Puddifoot's, if you'd prefer."

Daphne threw her scrunched up napkin across the table, hitting Harry square in the forehead. "The last guy I dated tried taking me there, so don't you dare think of doing the …" She stopped abruptly, suddenly looking unsure of herself. "It just occurred to me that this feels like a date."

"Er – I guess it does," said Harry. "It didn't cross my mind, in all honesty."

"Is there any chance you can forget I said that?"

"Obliviate," said Harry, pressing his finger against his temple. "Sorry," he added, putting on a confused look, "what were we talking about?"

Daphne laughed. "Oh, Merlin, that was bad."

"Excuse me, but I think you had the worst joke of the night. Hope it's as tender as your eye looks…"

"It was awful, wasn't it?"

"No doubt about it."

"Okay," said Daphne, flattening her palms on the table. "Okay, let's try to be serious for a moment. Where do we go from here? I think it's plainly obvious that we're attracted to each other. Don't feel pressured into asking me out, because that's not what I'm asking. I'm perfectly happy to see where this goes without forcing it."

"We haven't exactly forced it these past few months, have we?" said Harry, who had found himself nodding along to Daphne's words. "I just have one question: does this mean I have to buy you a Christmas present?"

Daphne forehead wrinkled in thought, until she realised Harry was joking. "Hey, I thought we were having a serious conversation!"

"Sorry, I couldn't help it," said Harry, chuckling. "If you want to see where this goes, I'm more than happy to do so, but I do have another question."

Daphne eyed him with suspicion. "Will it be another joke?"

"No …"

"Really?"

"All I want to know is if this isn't a date, does that mean we're sharing the bill?"

Daphne tried hard to hide it behind her hand, but she was definitely smiling. "You're such an arse, Potter. I'll pay for dinner tonight, and you can pay for the bottle of wine we're taking back to mine."

"You're inviting me back?" Harry squeaked. He immediately cleared his throat and added, in a deeper than normal voice, "I mean, yeah, of course."

"Harry Potter!"

Harry flew out of the tunnel and in to a wall of noise. The pre-game anxiety he had been feeling all morning was left behind as he put the Firebolt through its paces, corkscrewing at top speed and following it up with a perfectly executed vertical dive. He pulled up at the last second and decreased his pace, starting a lap of the stadium.

As it was near to Christmas, there were a lot of children attending the game. It made for a festive atmosphere. Harry's private seats were full, but Harry's eyes landed on Daphne, who winked at him. Sirius gave Harry a thumbs-up from beside her. The two were sitting beside each other so Sirius could explain the finer points of the game. Behind them, Seamus and Ron were gesticulating furiously back and forth, no doubt arguing over their respective teams.

Harry took his position above Puddlemere's Chasers. For the first time he focused on Reitch, Falmouth's Seeker. The thirty-two year-old man had a flat face reminiscent of Crookshanks, an unnaturally wide nose, and always seemed to have a perpetual scowl on his unshaven face. He was staring at Harry intently with black, hollow eyes.

The noise of the crowd grew louder as the start of the game neared. Harry refused to break eye contact with Reitch. As the referee blew the whistle, Harry saw what was going to happen before it actually did. Reitch hurtled straight for Harry, his intent clear, but Harry had already relinquished control of his broom. He dropped straight out of Reitch's path, much to the man's surprise.

As luck would have it, Harry's momentary free fall took him straight into the path of Horton. The Falcons' Chaser was forced to turn violently to avoid a collision, dropping in the Quaffle in the process. Andrew Merton zipped in and took advantage, taking possession of the Quaffle and starting Puddlemere's first attack of the game.

"Three things happened at once there, which we'll get back to in just a moment because Merton's completely in the clear … and he scores! He slots the Quaffle past Turner to give Puddlemere the early lead!" Joe, the commentator, was as excitable as usual as he shouted over the cheering crowd. "Replays show exactly what happened in the first ten seconds. It appears Bragge took a hit from Karl Broadmoor's Bludger, which gave Horton the Quaffle. Reitch had blatantly attempted to take Potter out of the sky, but Potter was too fast and disrupted Horton. That was some move from Potter – a Krum speciality! I daresay he learned it from the man himself, being such good friends."

Puddlemere's intricate passing could be hypnotic at times, brilliant and dizzying and almost impossible for opponents to defend against. It was unbelievably fast, the Quaffle changing hands in the blink of an eye. Falmouth's Chasers were backtracking frantically, shouting orders to each other to stay in their practised defensive formation. It didn't work; Puddlemere's Chasers were too good, the second goal coming from Bragge.

Harry had no time to celebrate. Reitch was coming in at a steep angle from above, forcing Harry to lean hard to his left. Reitch whizzed past, missing Harry by millimetres. That had been too close. Harry mentally shook himself.

It became blatantly obvious over the next half hour that Reitch had one intention in mind: to take Harry out of the game. There was no subtlety about the man's approach today, but Harry had encountered such a tactic before. Draco Malfoy had picked his moments – but Reitch was a constant presence, and a far better player.

There was no time to dawdle, Reitch's tactics forcing Harry to keep his concentration. He was just thankful that Reitch hadn't yet called the Broadmoor twins in as reinforcement. Falmouth's Beaters currently had their hands full, desperately trying to put an end to Puddlemere's dominance. Fred and George were gleefully defending their Chasers; they had been waiting for the chance to play Kevin and Karl since the World Cup final.

"It's Bragge who scores again, taking Puddlemere's tally to sixty," said Joe. "Falmouth just hasn't had an answer to the onslaught. They're yet to register a shot on target."

Reitch descended on his Chasers, berating them for their performance. It gave Harry a momentary respite. He breathed in the cold winter air and stretched out his cramping legs. There was no way Reitch could keep up this level of intensity the longer the game wore on, Harry knew. He just hoped the Snitch stayed hidden until Reitch finally tired.

"It's Merton with possession of the Quaffle, and he hands it off to Bragge – back to Merton – who gives to it to Maddock, and a timely Bludger puts a hole in Falmouth's defence! Maddock might not be as fast as he once was, but he's still got the vision. His pass finds Bragge, who adds another ten points to the scoreboard. That's seventy unanswered points now, folks. Just listen to this crowd!"

Harry swung his Firebolt around the goalposts, ignoring Josephine Turner's glare. The Falcon's Keeper had steadily grown more and more irate as the goals continued to fly past her. Her temperament was commonly known. Some players performed better the angrier they got, but Josephine wasn't one of them. Harry couldn't resist flying directly across her line of sight.

"Go fuck yourself, Potter!"

Harry doubled back and didn't hang around to hear her insults. He flew high and paused once more, surveying the action below. Reitch had turned his attention to the Broadmoor twins, gesticulating furiously at them. Harry used to the time to search for the Snitch, but it proved fruitless.

The game wore on, Puddlemere's Chasers refusing to relinquish control of the match. Falmouth's defence had all but fallen apart by the brutal offensive play from Merton, Bragge, and Maddock. They were arguing amongst themselves, putting the blame on everyone else. The gulf in class was too great for them to mount a comeback, which they knew, and it brought out the worst in them.

Karl and Kevin Broadmoor teamed up to land an eye-watering blow to Oliver Wood's kneecap, only for Horton to miss the open goal. His shot hit the metal ring and bounced straight into Maddock's large, grateful hands. This, of course, only riled up Falmouth even more. As Puddlemere counter-attacked, Robinson nearly jumped off his broom to stop Merton breaking clear. It proved to be a useless foul from the veteran Chaser, as Merton scored the resulting penalty.

"Looks like it's coming down to us, Potter," called Reitch. He had a rough, guttural voice, reminiscent of Grawp, Hagrid's half-brother.

Harry glanced over Reitch's head, to the scoreboard. Puddlemere now had a commanding lead, one-hundred and ten to zero. If they could score five more goals without conceding, they wouldn't lose should Reitch catch the Snitch. It would mean ten points added to the league total, instead of three-hundred and ten.

"Giving up on your team so easily?" Harry asked, hearing a distant crack from behind him. He'd been familiar with that noise for years now, but due to the training he'd done this past week, it produced an almost visceral response in him. He held his nerve and stayed his ground, watching Reitch's smile grow wider. The whistle was faint at first, growing louder by the second. Just as Reitch's smile widened in glee, Harry rolled upside-down and watched the Bludger skim the handle of his broom and clip Reitch's boot.

Reitch howled like a madman, hurling abuse at Harry's retreating back. The part of the crowd that saw what had happened stood up to both cheer and laugh.

"I'm not sure what just happened between the Seekers, folks, we'll have to consult the Omnioculars. That'll have to wait because look, Merton's high, arcing pass finds Bragge. Wouldn't you know it, he's scored again! This could be embarrassing if Potter catches the Snitch. Even if he doesn't, questions will surely be asked after this dreadful performance."

Harry was aware of the dangerous line he was walking. If that Bludger had been coming at a different angle… Phil was probably pulling his hair out. It had been worth the risk, in Harry's opinion. The red mist descended over Reitch, a reaction that usually followed when he had been humiliated. If he had looked hell bent on knocking Harry's head off before, it was nothing compared to how he looked now. He was snarling like a nesting dragon, something Harry had first-hand experience with, and it was now that he called in reinforcement.

There weren't many things that made Harry run away instead of standing his ground. The sight of two heavyset Beaters and an enraged lunatic in the form of Reitch advancing, wanting nothing more than to beat the snot out of him, was one such thing. Harry flew fast, evasive lines, all the while frantically signalling to the Weasley twins. Much to his dismay, Fred and George were too far away.

Harry was forced to duck and dodge, spin and weave, in a desperate attempt to evade the wave of Bludgers that came at him. Worryingly, they seemed to be getting closer to hitting their mark. Harry yanked his broom up just in time, the Bludger flying harmlessly past.

The evasive manoeuvres could only last for so long, Harry decided, and he decided to switch to flat out speed. He flattened his body as close to the Firebolt as possible and positioned the broom to point straight at the heavens. Just as he thought he'd escaped from trouble, a Bludger finally hit him. It caught him in the ankle and sent him spinning wildly, wrestling for control of his broom.

Harry managed to right himself, but was breathing heavily now. The Bludger had certainly done its intended damage. He rested his ankle gingerly on the footrest, wincing as a throbbing pain shot up his calf. It felt broken, as fresh injuries tended to do.

Fred and George had come to Harry's rescue. They were returning the attack in kind, peppering the Broadmoor twins with Bludgers. Reitch wasn't there. Harry spun in a full circle, his heart stopping as he realised Falmouth's Seeker was entering into a dive. For a moment, he was paralysed, memories of his last defeat flashing to the forefront of his mind. He shook it off and gave chase, the commentator's words ringing in his ears.

"Reitch is looking to end the game now. If he makes the catch, he'll bring Falmouth back from the jaws of defeat!"

The pain in Harry's ankle increased tenfold, but as he flew past his private seats he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Sirius leaning over the railing and roaring his support. Harry was filled with emotion. He used it to force the pain to the back of his mind, and he burst forward with more speed.

"Reitch is so close he can practically taste the Snitch, and he reaches – Potter's there! Where did he come from?" Joe's voice cracked, but he continued anyway. "They're neck and neck now, and look – Potter's gone past Reitch! How fast is this boy? It's Potter's turn to reach – Oh!"

Harry spun violently again. This time, it wasn't a Bludger that did it.

"Reitch makes a desperate grab for the tail of Potter's Firebolt, sending him flailing, and now it's Falmouth's Seeker who looks favourite. The referee has called for a penalty for the foul – the other players have stopped to watch – and Merton will have to hurry to take it. Puddlemere lead by one-forty – not enough for the win. Reitch is closing in now – what a hit! It's Fred Weasley who saves the day. He's surely stopped his side from losing. Merton's missed the penalty, would you believe?"

It was impossible to hear a thing with the level of noise around the stadium, although Harry saw Oliver Wood frantically waving his arms to get his attention. It was obvious why: the Snitch was fluttering just above the goalposts. Harry wasted no time in giving chase. He was there in a second, grasping the golden ball.

For a moment, there was confusion from everyone. Puddlemere's players weren't celebrating because Falmouth had surrounded the referee. Reitch was at the side of the pitch, getting treated for his injury. His eyebrow was split open and pumping blood.

"Falmouth appears to be arguing that with their Seeker being treated, the game should have stopped," Joe informed the fans and Harry. "The referee blows his whistle now, signalling the end of the game and a win for Puddlemere. This will be controversial!"

A resounding cheer went up around the stadium. Puddlemere's players were calmer. They had expected to win and had; there was no need to get excited. Puddlemere had climbed the table thanks to this result, although still trailed the leaders, Montrose Magpies, by ninety points.

It was a different story for Falmouth. They now lingered second from bottom. Their players were furious and still surrounded the referee, who was now being escorted off the pitch by security guards.

Harry ignored them and flew to his private seats, where Sirius looked to be on the verge of dancing with joy. Seamus was shaking his head.

"You're a fucking lunatic, Potter," he said. "What the hell possessed you to barrel-roll to avoid a Bludger? Reitch's face was priceless!"

"That's precisely why I did it."

"I swear, Harry, you take a year off my life every time I watch you play," said Hermione, whose complexion had turned very pale. She leaned over the railing to give him a brief hug. She pulled back and added, "When will you stop being so reckless?"

Harry just laughed at her.

"You're a bloody idiot, Harry," said Daphne.

"I know."

"I bet Poppy's going spare if she's heard what you did!"

"I hope not," said Harry. "I think I've broken my ankle. I don't fancy being lectured tonight."

Daphne leaned forward and lowered her voice, so only Harry would hear. "I could be your personal healer for the night, if you'd like?"

"Will you wear your uniform?"

"No," said Daphne, smirking at Harry's pout. "How about I wear nothing instead?"