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."