People know he likes Quidditch; it's on his Chocolate Frog card, after all, just below the part about killing Voldemort. When he goes back to Hogwarts – determined to have at least one school year without the possibility of death – there's no trial for the position of Gryffindor Seeker. Harry Potter likes Quidditch, and that appears to be it as far as Seeker try-outs go.
He doesn't, though. Harry couldn't give a damn about Quidditch. It's a ridiculous game, by turns so complex and silly that he's amazed people play it. No, what Harry enjoys is the flying, the sharp stoop and the reckless chase. Plummeting through the air after Neville's Remembrall was the first time he felt at peace, too caught up in the moment to be frightened or worried. Oliver recruited him, and in his first Quidditch game Harry felt that moment of perfect serenity again. He soon learnt that the Snitch isn't necessary, and spent practice sessions 'working on' his dives and high-speed manoeuvres. He didn't tell anyone that practices are in a way more fun than the game itself; he knew Oliver wouldn't appreciate it.
In second year he flew even more ferociously, allowing the wind to carry away his frustration and fear. Almost no one in the school trusted him, but he was happiest when he was alone. The air asked for nothing.
In third year he flew on a hippogriff, and learnt that even the broom isn't required – just height and speed. Once Buckbeak got up to speed and Harry grew used to the up-and-down motion of the wings, he wished the experience would never end. Flying on a creature's back was more awkward than a broom, but the feeling of his knees gripping Buckbeak's powerful muscles made up for that. As he flew Buckbeak up to Sirius' window, that feeling drained away his nervousness and he knew that Sirius was going to be all right.
In fourth year he flew against a dragon. As soon as he leapt into the air, with dragonfire warming his toes, he knew that Moody had been right. It was his strength; his element. The dragon was powerful but clumsy, no match for a boy more at home in the air than on the ground. Harry teased the dragon away from its nest, feinting and twisting until he saw the opening. As he dived for the golden egg, Harry felt like a falcon.
In fifth year he was grounded, unable to enter that moment of blurring speed and weightlessness. It made him angry, a falcon chained to the ground. He snapped at his friends, took out his frustrations on others. He tried to learn from Snape, he did, but how could he explain? Snape would not have understood that Harry's mind was only clear while flying. The itch got worse, and when they had to get to London Harry seized the opportunity to fly. Not Floo, not get someone to Apparate them there, but fly. The thestrals were scaly and cool, muscles flexing like steel cables under their dark hide. For the duration of the flight, Harry wasn't scared or worried; he was flying, and that was enough for him.
In sixth year the whole thing got tangled up beyond belief. As captain, Harry had to actually run the team rather than indulge himself in hide-and-seek with the Snitch. He did as much as possible before each match, trying to prepare his players to solve their own problems rather than distracting him from his flying. It didn't work. His perfect calm was ripped apart every game, drowned out by tactical concerns, shouted instructions and fears of others being hurt.
In his seventh year, he was almost without release. Hagrid's motorbike was fun, but Harry was too distracted by the swarming Death Eaters to enjoy the ride. His first real chance to fly came in the most unlikely place imaginable. Staring up at the dragon's powerful bulk, he remembered Buckbeak and the thestrals; remembered flying against the Horntail. Any other time, Ron and Hermione would have told him he was insane. That time, survival trumped fear and Harry laughed with delight as the dragon threw itself into the air. Each beat of its wings brushed air against Harry's face, carrying away all thoughts of Voldemort and the war.
Now he's back at Hogwarts, taking the seventh year that he never got. He's not captain anymore; he's managed to pawn that off on Ron, this time around. At practices there's nothing to do but rise and dive and rise again; or weave around the goal posts so fast that they become one long, metal blur beside him. He thinks about doing this for the rest of his life, without Death Eaters or Voldemort or anyone to impinge on his perfect moment. It's a good thought.