Happy Holidays, everyone! I hope by this point the stress of the end-of-semester is over or very close to over for you all, and that you're taking care of yourselves at the end of this very unfortunate year.

As something to try and spread a little holiday cheer, I'm going to offer to review your stories! Please feel free to private message me with your fic (just one, please!). I would prefer not to be fandom blind, but if it's a short story (around 5k words or less) I don't mind which fandom you write for. To make things easy, let me list all the fandoms I've written for here: Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, Captain America, Avengers, Pirates of the Caribbean, Mario, Dragon Age, Avatar: the Last Airbender, The Mortal Instruments, Sherlock. Feel free to send those at any time! *Disclaimer: it may take a while for me to read your stories, and I am promising a single review with concise sentences and praises* :)

With all of that out of the way, enjoy the chapter! Once again I thank you for your favorites/follows/reviews. Feel free to leave some as always!

Until Saturday~

The weather outside became chillier as November passed, and Hogwarts underwent a dramatic transformation. The leaves of the trees faded to orange, yellow, and red, and began creating unique collages as they fell to the ground. Students were now drinking lots of hot cocoa and apple cider before classes; I even saw a few mittens and earmuffs being worn by older students. It also became even windier than before, meaning I was forced to retrieve my warmer woolen cloak.

Not only was it the season for fall, however: it was the season for Quidditch, and this fact alone made spirits rise higher than ever before. Even I was becoming rather excited, despite my ever-present longing to participate myself.

There was one person, however, who wasn't anticipating the first match of the season: and that was Harry Potter.

Harry was becoming more anxious by the day, checking constantly on his Nimbus 2000 and practicing his flying on the Quidditch pitch every chance he got. I did my best to reassure him that he would perform perfectly fine, but my words seemed to do little to assure him.

At last, the day of the match came about, and Hermione, Ron, and I were all sitting in the Quidditch stands. We hardly spoke, but the energy between us was almost tangible.

Even as I watched the Gryffindor and Slytherin teams emerge, I couldn't help but feel so much joy watching the sport. I simply couldn't wait for the next year, when I could try out and be on that pitch myself.

As it was, for now, I would have to content myself with living vicariously through Harry.

It wasn't hard to spot our friend, either. He was easily the smallest person on our team, and his dark hair proved to be a recognizable beacon. The Weasley twins stood next to him, and Captain Oliver Wood stood at the front. The Chasers took the flank of the squad, and as one unit, they met the Slytherin team in the middle of the pitch.

Madam Hooch approached then, holding a whistle close to her mouth. Despite all the screaming and shouting around me, I could clearly hear her say, "Mount your brooms! All right, three, two, one—"

And the whistle was blown, beginning the game. Harry instantly flew above the chaos that erupted, squinting for the Snitch.

It wasn't long before I was laughing: the commentator was Lee Jordan, after all, and his humor was not lost on us students as he shouted, "And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor—what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive too—"

"JORDAN!" shouted Professor McGonagall.

"Sorry, Professor," Lee amended, though he didn't seem abashed in the slightest. "And she's really belting along up there, a neat pass to Alicia Spinnet, a good find of Oliver Wood's, last year a reserve—back to Johnson and—no, the Slytherins have taken the Quaffle, Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint gains the Quaffle and off he goes…"

I groaned and narrowed my eyes in the direction of the Slytherin Captain. He was pressing himself close to the handle of the broom, not allowing an easy shot for any of our Chasers. I couldn't help but find myself thinking of what I would do to regain the Quaffle were I the one out on the field…

"Flint is flying like an eagle up there, he's going to score—no, stopped by an excellent move by Gryffindor Keeper Wood and Gryffindors have taken the Quaffle! Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor has the Quaffle."

I found myself watching Oliver Wood as he scoured the playing field. He navigated the Quidditch hoops like a natural, and I couldn't help feeling incredibly impressed by the save he had managed. He could make a great career for himself with this sport, I was certain.

"Nice dive around Flint, off up the field and OUCH! That must've hurt, hit in the back of the head by a Bludger. Quaffle taken by the Slytherins, that's Adrian Pucey speeding off towards the goal posts, but he's blocked by a second Bludger sent his way by Fred or George Weasley, can't tell which, nice play by the Gryffindor Beater anyway, and Johnson back in possession of the Quaffle, a clear field ahead and off she goes!"

Quidditch was an incredibly fast-paced sport, one not for the faint of heart, and even simply watching it, I was in love. There was something so ecstatic about the organized chaos, the teamwork and the grandstanding.

"Johnson dodges a speeding Bludger—the goal posts are ahead, come on now, Angelina! Keeper Bletchley dives… misses… GRYFFINDOR SCORES!"

The Gryffindor stands erupted into a fresh wave of applause and encouragement for Angelina Johnson and the rest of the team. I made sure to do my fair part too by whooping and pumping my fist in the air. Ron quickly followed my lead, but Hermione—who seemed a bit taken aback by each fresh turn of events—contented herself with a polite golf clap.

My eyes landed on Harry to see what his reaction was; I noted there was a large grin on his face—but a Bludger suddenly decided to come his way. Before anything could happen, Fred darted forward and knocked it aside.

"Slytherin now in possession," Lee Jordan continued to commentate. "Chaser Pucey ducks two Bludgers, two Weasleys, and Chaser Bell, and speeds towards the—wait a moment, was that the Snitch?"

The crowd feverishly scanned the air, as if attempting to see if Lee was right. Harry and the Slytherin Seeker were diving forward… the game seemed to stop entirely as everyone watched.

But suddenly, Marcus Flint blocked Harry's path, nearly throwing our friend off his broom.

Madam Hooch blew the whistle for a foul, allowing the Gryffindors a free shot at the goal posts.

The Gryffindor stands were no longer applauding—now they were booing, making sure the Slytherin Captain heard our great displeasure. Behind us, our classmate Dean Thomas was shouting, "Send him off, ref! Red card!"

Dumbfounded, Ron turned around to ask, "What are you talking about, Dean?"

"Red card!" Dean repeated, his face sour. "In football you get shown the red card and you're out of the game!"

"This isn't football, Dean," Ron answered exasperatedly.

While this little commotion was going on, Lee Jordan seemed to be having a bit of a battle with Professor McGonagall about his commentating: "So—after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating—"

"Jordan—"

"I mean, after that open and revolting foul…"

"Jordan, I'm warning you…"

"All right, all right! Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker, which could happen to anyone, I'm sure, so a penalty to Gryffindor, taken by Spinnet, who puts it away no trouble and we continue play, Gryffindor still in possession."

No sooner had Lee spoken these words, however, than a green blur darted towards Chaser Katie Bell and snatched the red ball away.

"Oops, no, Slytherin in possession now—Flint with the Quaffle, passes Spinnet, Bell—hit hard in the face by a Bludger, hope it broke his nose… only kidding, Professor… Slytherins score, oh no…"

This time, the raucous thunder emerged from the Slytherin stands. Our Keeper shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck—but then he simply stretched and cracked his knuckles, ready for the next bout.

I couldn't help but smile a little. A truly good Quidditch player wouldn't let himself be fazed by one slip-up. Instead, they'd get back in the game and continue to give it their all.

My eyes scanned the Slytherin stands, where immediately, two heads of silvery-blond hair stood out. Elizabeth Malfoy was jumping up and down, screaming at the Slytherin players—and Draco Malfoy looked utterly embarrassed by her behavior. I couldn't help but laugh at that one.

My attention turned back to Harry to see if he'd seen the Snitch. I grew confused when I saw he was rising higher and higher, away from the stands and away from the game.

As I continued watching, however, it became horribly clear what was happening.

The broomstick jerked and twisted underneath him, writing in vain to throw Harry off it. It rolled over and over, and I shrieked as Harry was nearly tossed into the air, maintaining grip on his Nimbus 2000 by only one hand.

Hermione whirled around and practically yanked Dean's binoculars from his hands, scanning across the crowd. Suddenly, she gasped and exclaimed, "I knew it! Snape—he's jinxing the broom!"

My gaze caught onto the professor in question, and I could see him with his eyes locked on Harry, mouthing something.

"What do we do?!" exclaimed Ron.

"Leave that to me," answered Hermione, darting off. I watched anxiously as Fred and George circled below Harry, hoping to catch him if he fell. Everyone in the stands was on their feet, waiting and watching for what the outcome of all this would be. Marcus Flint scored five times in all the commotion, but even Oliver Wood was hardly invested in the game anymore: his eyes were fixed on Harry, and he was shouting directions at his other Chasers to support him if he needed it.

Knowing that if Harry was bucked off, the Gryffindor Quidditch team had his back, my eyes turned to Hermione's progress. She was barreling through the crowd—she even knocked over poor Professor Quirrell in her desperation to reach Snape. She hid behind a large post and pointed her wand at his cloak: a spark flew, and his cape caught on fire.

When Snape finally noticed the spell, Hermione was already long gone. Knowing that the peril was over, I shot my gaze back to Harry, who promptly regained control of his broom and mounted it again.

That, however, was when he dropped into a nose-dive, the Slytherin Seeker straight after him. They drew closer to the ground, closer and closer until they were no more than five feet from crashing into it—

The Slytherin Seeker bailed, but Harry fell off his broom and crashed into the ground. He didn't look hurt, at least… but he did look sick…

But then he coughed something small and golden into his palm, and he held it up to the crowd: "I've got the Snitch!"

The Gryffindor stands practically exploded, everyone was so astonished by what had just occurred. The noise didn't die down even when the teams retreated back to their team tents—somehow, in all the noise and celebration, Hermione, Ron, and I escaped and met with Harry just outside the pitch, where we immediately congratulated him and proceeded in the direction of Hagrid's hut.

Seeing how cold it was outside, the gamekeeper jumped on serving us strong cups of tea, pleasantly asking how the Quidditch game went as he did so; he blinked once or twice when Ron launched into the retelling of how Harry's broom had been jinxed.

"It was Snape," he explained furiously. "Hermione, Belle, and I saw him! He was cursing Harry's broomstick, muttering, his eyes weren't moving from Harry at all!"

"Rubbish," Hagrid dismissed. "Why would Snape do somethin' like tha'?"

"I found out something about him," Harry confessed with a shrug. "He was going towards the third-floor corridor… I'm certain of it. He went to go look at that three-headed dog."

CLANK

I yelped and whirled towards the sound: Hagrid had dropped his tea kettle. The burly man looked rather aghast as he stared Harry in the face and demanded, "How d'you know about Fluffy?"

"Fluffy?" Ron squeaked.

"He's mine! Bough' him off a Greek chap I met in a pub last year! I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the… well, never you mind," he finished hastily, as if remembering that we weren't supposed to even know about Fluffy's existence. "Now don' ask me anymore, that's top secret, that is."

"But Hagrid, whatever it is, Snape's trying to steal it!" exclaimed Harry.

"Rubbish," repeated our friend, this time with a scowl. "Snape's a Hogwarts teacher, he'd do nothin' of the sort."

After taking a cautious sip of my tea, I murmured, "Yes, well, a Hogwarts teacher wouldn't jinx a broom either, would they?"

"Exactly!" cried Hermione. Her face was livid; it was clear that whatever respect she had had for Professor Snape was now gone. "I know a jinx when I see one, Hagrid, I've read all about them! You've got to keep eye contact, and Snape wasn't blinking!"

This, however, seemed to be the last that Hagrid wanted to hear of the matter. Almost slamming the tea kettle back on the stove, he retorted obstinately, "I'm tellin' yeh, you're wrong. I don' know why Harry's broom acted like that, but Snape wouldn' try and kill a student! Now listen to me, all of yeh—you're meddling in things that don' concern you. It's dangerous. You forget that dog, and you forget what it's guarding, that's between Professor Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel—"

"Aha!" Harry cried triumphantly. "So there's someone named Nicolas Flamel involved, is there?"

Hagrid looked furious with himself—fortunately, he didn't seem mad at us, because he topped off our teacups… although he did keep muttering, "Shouldn't have said that. I should not have said tha'," for the remainder of our visit.

Once it was the middle of the afternoon, we said our farewells and moved to leave Hagrid's hut in favor of the roaring fires of our common room.

As we were passing the Quidditch pitch, I couldn't help but look at it again. Even though it was already November, September of next year would be a long way away… and I wasn't the most patient of people.

Once again, I felt my jealousy bubble up. Harry was so lucky… he could fly on his broomstick whenever he wanted, could receive the glory of being part of the Quidditch team, could compete in the greatest sport ever for our House's pride…

"You think there'll be a party for how well Gryffindor played today?" Ron was glancing up at Hogwarts, a wistful smile on his face.

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his thick hair. Looking almost as queasy as he did when he nearly swallowed the Snitch, he replied, "Hope not. I'm not sure choking on the Snitch makes for a good celebration…"

I barked out a short laugh—it had been a bloody good catch, he should've been proud—and smirked in his direction. "What's wrong, Potter, not ready to receive your laurels and accolades?"

Even as the words left my mouth, I realized they came out sharper than I had intended. Harry blinked and looked me sideways—I instantly looked away.

I knew that it wasn't his fault he was on the team and I wasn't. It's not like he intentionally made me feel bad about it every day. He was incredibly skilled and had had the right person watching him catch the Remembrall that day… but I still couldn't help but feel the slightest bit bitter, wondering if I had been the one to dive forward, to catch that damned Remembrall… would things have been different?

"That reminds me actually—Belle, I wanted to ask you about something Quidditch related. Mind if I pull you into the pitch for a moment?"

I looked back at Harry and forced a smile onto my face, nodding as I did so. Harry waved Hermione and Ron onward, leaving just us standing right by the pitch.

Once our friends were gone, he waved me forward.

"Come on," he said, the slightest of smiles on his face.

I allowed myself to breathe out. Was it possible he had overlooked the envy that I'd thought was so blatantly in my tone?

I closed the gate behind me and turned back to Harry, only to see his Nimbus 2000 extended in my direction.

My eyebrows furrowed together in confusion as I stared at the broomstick. For a moment, I was certain he was trying to mock me, to rub it in that he had this privilege and I did not—

"You want a go at it?"

All those spiteful feelings vanished, making way for guilt. My composed expression melted into shock upon hearing the offer… before today, Harry had barely let anyone even touch the broomstick, much less ride it…

I swallowed a large lump in my throat and stared, dumbstruck, at my friend. Seeing that I was at a loss for words, he revealed a sheepish smile and added, "You've said before that you grew up riding broomsticks with your brother and your cousin, and that it was one of your favorite things. I just thought… it must be hard, not being able to have that. I wanted to help, if I could."

"Are you sure?" I whispered.

Harry nodded, the smile still on his face.

With shaking hands, I reached out to take the handle of the Nimbus 2000. It was a beautiful broom… sleek and elegant in its design, and I already knew it had the speed and functionality to match.

Not waiting any longer, I kicked myself up from the ground and zoomed into the air. There it was again, that feeling: the one I loved so much, the feeling of being in the air and unrestrained and free.

Flying the Nimbus was an absolute dream. It heeded the slightest of my commands and supported me better than any other broom—other than my own—that I'd ever ridden. Everything Viktor told me about the Nimbus brand was true, and it was incredible.

I couldn't help laughing like a maniac as I weaved through the goal posts and the now-empty Quidditch stands. It felt perfect, being up here—and there was a possibility that in less than a year, I could be up there again, officially, for real…

Not wishing to keep Harry waiting for longer than necessary, I touched my feet back to the ground. It was done a little reluctantly, perhaps, but I was still so grateful that my friend had provided me the opportunity to fly again.

Before I could say anything, a voice exclaimed, "Not bad, not bad at all."

I whirled around to see none other than Oliver Wood emerging from the Gryffindor Quidditch tent, a grin on his face. He looked me up and down for a moment before tapping a finger to his chin and asking, "Are you a first-year?"

Unable to speak, I nodded.

"Damn shame they have that rule in place," lamented the Quidditch Captain, crossing his arms. "You would've been a good addition to the team, too. What's your name?"

"Belle," I answered, finally finding my voice. Oliver Wood was telling me I had a shot at making the Quidditch team. "Belle Skylar."

Oliver nodded and stepped forward, his grin not abating. "Well I'll be sure to remember your name for next year's tryouts. You'd be a hell of a Chaser." Cocking his head sideways, he asked, almost as an afterthought, "You are going to audition, right?"

I nodded enthusiastically: "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Good!" he laughed—then he leaned forward and added as a mumble, "Because between you and me, Skylar, it took a lot of convincing to get Alicia Spinnet to join the team this year, and even after she accepted, she made it clear she only wanted to play one year."

With that, Oliver Wood winked and sauntered away, whistling as he did so.

Alone with Harry once again, I turned to my friend—who had the biggest grin on his face—and promptly burst into tears.

Harry's eyes grew wide as I threw my arms around him. He didn't seem to know what to do as I gasped, "Harry, I'm so sorry I was jealous—but I want you to know that I'm so proud of you making the team, you're my best friend and you've done excellent so far, and with you offering me this, hearing what Oliver said, I just… thank you so much."

With this last sentence, I felt his arms wrap around me too, holding me tight as he replied, "'Course, Belle. You're my best friend, too."

For a moment we stayed like this so I could regain my composure—and when my tears finally dried, we began to walk back to the castle. Halfway there, however, Harry punched my shoulder and strongly said, "You're going to make the team next year, Belle, I just know it."

My friend's faith was all I needed to know it, too.