Despite Ron's best efforts, Harry had never paid much attention to league Quidditch before joining the Chudley Cannons. He'd never had the opportunity to attend a match growing up, other than the World Cup, and after the war he made excuses not to go. At the time they seemed legitimate; for example, during that first summer he was often tired from Auror training, and he didn't relish facing the public on his day off. And when Ginny returned to Hogwarts, he spent his leisure time with her.
But looking back, the reason was clear: he envied the players. Unburdened by prophecy, they were free to play Quidditch while he, Harry Potter, had to fight Dark wizards. He encouraged Ginny's Quidditch aspirations, but his own felt as remote as the fantasies he'd cherished as a small child about his parents turning up and rescuing him from the Dursleys.
He therefore had little experience of the frenzy around the annual League Cup. Ron had seldom mentioned it, since the Cannons were never in the running, but now Harry realised how all-consuming it was. This year's competition was especially fierce, since three different teams—Puddlemere, Montrose, and the Harpies—could all still win, and Saturday's match between Puddlemere and the Cannons would be decisive. Although if Harry caught the Snitch, the League Cup would go to a team with a Seeker he actively disliked.
'So, who are you rooting for—Hobbs or Gilstrap?' asked Gemma as they returned to the lockers before lunch on Thursday.
'Neither,' grumbled Harry. 'Why can't we just play Wigtown again? I could fancy a rematch with Ekantika Singh.'
'Too bad, Toffer. You're doomed to be in the spotlight, and this is no exception. But what better way to prove you should fly for England?'
'I told you, I don't want to play for the national team this year. In the future, yes. But it's not my turn yet.'
'Got your eye on 2002, then?' she asked, referring to the next Quidditch World Cup.
'Maybe,' he admitted. 'Does that make me shallow?'
'For wanting to fly for England when you'll have the biggest audience? Yeah, probably. But I feel the same way. Not that they'd pick me over you, of course.'
'Don't say that. You'll definitely be a starter by then, and probably a huge draw.'
'Fine, maybe I'll have a chance. But what'll you do if they offer you the spot now?'
'Turn it down, most likely. But hopefully they won't, since I don't want to insult them or look ungrateful.'
'Or doom your chances for 2002,' said Gemma slyly.
'That too. But I really need to focus on politics this winter, sad to say.'
To that end, he went to Pratt's after practice. He'd have preferred to see Fiona, but Matthew had a cold and she didn't want Harry getting sick before the match. When he signed in at the register, he saw heaps of familiar names. Some were friendly, like Terence Higgs, Brandon Nott, and Charles Selwyn, and others hostile, like Desmond Travers and Romulus Wynter. And nestled among them was Draco's name, in the elegant script Harry had come to recognise.
I should find a penmanship tutor, he thought as he walked towards the lounge. But Draco was with Lydia's father and Charles Selwyn, so Harry found Higgs and Nott instead. 'May I join you?' he asked.
'Please do,' said Nott, no longer radiating a gay vibe as he'd done at the Order of Volupta meeting. 'You know Higgs, of course.'
'I do,' said Harry, sitting down. Nott summoned an elf, and Harry asked for a cup of tea.
'Are you counting the seconds until the end of Quidditch season?' asked Higgs, indicating his drink.
'No,' he laughed. 'Although I look forward to getting my Friday nights back.'
'I can imagine. Are you ready to school Routledge this weekend?'
'I intend to catch the Snitch, but I'm not out to prove I'm better than he is.'
'So you claim, but defeating him twice would be rather convincing,' drawled Nott. 'Besides, what about the national team? Saturday's match is essentially an audition.'
'I know. But I'm still new to the league, and Routledge deserves a go.'
Higgs looked affronted. 'Potter, show some school pride! I realise you want to promote newcomers, but all Hogwarts wants you to fly for England. And speaking personally, I'll feel better about being defeated by a first year if you end up winning the World Cup,' said the former Slytherin Seeker.
'I'll keep that in mind, but the World Cup is years off,' said Harry with a shrug.
'Haven't you heard? Stebbins plans to keep the same players three years running. He says it's essential if we want to make the final.'
Harry choked on his tea. 'I'm sorry?' he coughed. 'When did he say that?'
'This morning, on the radio,' said Nott. 'He told Reg Stormholt that England will never be able to compete internationally if we keep swapping out players. After all, we got trounced in '94 by sodding Transylvania, and last year was even worse.'
England had nominally participated in the 1998 Quidditch World Cup, but the team was in disarray due to the war, and they were eliminated in the very first round. Longtime coach Jeremy Leitch was persuaded to retire, and his successor, Buzz Stebbins, wanted to prove that England, birthplace of Quidditch, was still relevant.
'What else did he say?' asked Harry, still reeling.
'Are you asking whether you came up?' asked a smirking Nott. 'Of course you did, and he says you're a strong contender. But he questions your commitment.'
As well he should, thought Harry. 'I assume he doesn't mean I plan to quit the Cannons and find some other career.'
'No, those rumours are on the wane. But he said you might be spread too thin, and that he expects national players to make it their top priority, after the league.'
Harry sighed heavily, and Higgs laughed. 'Sorry Potter, it's the price you pay for being head of two houses.'
'And an underwear model,' said Nott, attempting nonchalance but failing.
'He's right, I suppose,' said Harry. 'England deserves a team that's fully committed. But ... bugger.'
Nott raised his wineglass. 'Bugger indeed. What will you do?'
'I should probably get a sense of the time commitment before deciding anything. I love flying, after all.'
'Do it,' said Nott. 'The Wizengamot can wait.'
Harry didn't entirely trust Nott, who would one day be central to the Dark faction. But Higgs seemed to read his concern. 'You're in good hands with Marcus,' he said, referring to Harry's Wizengamot proxy. 'And flying for England will earn you considerable goodwill within these walls.'
'Right,' said Harry, genuinely torn. 'But I have other commitments as well.'
'"The stunning Miss Dunning,"' declared Nott. 'And whoever you have on the side.'
'Believe me, there's no one on the side. Unless you count my godson, who I was hoping to spend more time with once the season ends.'
'You have a godson?' asked Higgs, and Harry told them about Teddy.
'Professor Lupin's son!' exclaimed Nott. 'Is he a werewolf too?'
Annoyed, Harry explained that Teddy wasn't a werewolf, and Nott said, 'Potter, you have too many children. You're what, nineteen?' Harry nodded. 'Then act like it. Fly for England. Cheat on your girlfriend. Wait a decade before bothering with the Wizengamot—it's not going anywhere.'
Higgs sniffed and said, 'Don't be an arse, Nott. Potter can afford to fly for England, but he can't put off politics indefinitely.' Glancing at Draco, he added, 'There's your political rival. Or is he your ally? It's hard to keep up.'
Harry looked over at Draco, who was still talking with Charles Selwyn and Lydia's father. 'Good question. Any idea what they're talking about?'
'I'm sure you can guess—either politics or business. Probably the latter.'
'The former,' said Nott. 'Selwyn's been tasked with organising the younger generation, at least until Jacob Travers is old enough. The only question is who's in charge. Malfoy at least has a proxy vote, unlike Selwyn and Travers, who mightn't inherit for fifty years or more. But Malfoy's Dark Mark is an impediment—for now, anyway.'
'Why haven't they invited me?' asked Harry, batting his eyes.
'Because you're the enemy,' said Nott. 'But you knew that already.'
Higgs leaned back in his chair. 'I love being a younger son. So much less fraught.'
Draco stood up, giving Desmond Travers a respectful nod. Travers nodded in return, and for a moment Harry was struck by his resemblance to Lydia. Selwyn rose as well, and they walked over to join Harry, Higgs, and Nott.
'Elf!' said Selwyn without preamble, and he and Draco both ordered wine. Sinking languidly into a chair, Selwyn said, 'At least it was only Desmond—I'd need whisky if we'd been talking to Magnus. Potter, have I mentioned how lucky you are not to have in-laws?'
'Not specifically.'
'You are. So choose wisely when you marry. You too, Malfoy. Serving one master is bad enough, but two is simply horrid. And I'm not even counting Esme.'
'I've served enough masters, thank you very much,' said Draco, indicating his left sleeve, and the others laughed.
'Fortunately, my uncle was too fixated on Theo to bother with me,' said Nott. 'I couldn't have borne looking at that face. Could you at least hide your disgust behind the mask?'
'Sadly, no—we were so inner-circle that we were often maskless,' said Draco, sipping his wine. 'But it was good practise for my Occlumency.'
Voldemort was good for that, thought Harry, astonished to be witnessing such a conversation. Hoping to hear more, he attempted to fade into the background, but Draco turned to him and said, 'What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn't you be with Fiona?'
'Her son has a cold, so I've been exiled. I won't see her until after the match.'
'Don't you dare end the game quickly, just to get your hands on her,' warned Selwyn.
'Will you be there?'
'Of course—it's the highlight of the season. But my money's on Routledge.'
'Really? A Muggle-born?' said Harry.
'He's hungrier. And besides, I'm trying to broaden my horizons. It's all the rage, you know.'
'I'll be there too,' said Nott, addressing Harry. 'But I have dinner reservations at eight, so don't take too long.'
'Likewise,' said Draco, although Harry knew his commitment probably involved Vicki.
'Don't listen to them,' drawled Selwyn. 'It's the final match of the season, and I'm hoping it'll last weeks.'
'You're only saying that because you finally convinced Esme to let you buy that Quidditch satchel you've always wanted,' said Higgs.
'I don't need Esme's permission. But yes, and I'm dying to try it out.'
'What is it, exactly?' asked Harry, genuinely curious.
Selwyn's eyes lit up, and his cheeks flushed with something resembling desire. 'It's a work of art. From the outside it's a simple leather satchel, charmed feather-light, of course, and easy to fit under a stadium seat. Inside, however, is a chamber fit for a sultan. Silk wall-hangings, marble bath ... exquisite. And there's an enchanted mirror that shows the match, so we needn't miss a thing.'
Is the enchanted mirror in the loo? wondered Harry. 'I'm glad you'll be comfortable, but Merlin knows I don't want a match that long. None of the players do.'
'Earn your pay cheque,' scoffed Selwyn. 'You'll have all winter to recover.'
'Unless he plays for England,' said Higgs.
'No,' said Draco. 'Let Routledge have it.'
'Why? Would you miss me?' joked Harry, but Draco coloured slightly and looked away. Oh bugger, he would miss me, Harry realised.
'Get over yourself, Potter,' he sneered. 'No, we all need a break from you.'
Harry smarted from the venom in Draco's voice, along with the return to calling him 'Potter.' Affecting nonchalance, he said, 'That's Stebbins's decision, apparently. But you're stuck with me regardless, between one thing and another.'
'Story of my life,' said Draco irritably. 'But don't you have any politicking to do? I thought that was the whole reason you joined Pratt's.'
Hint taken, thought Harry, embarrassed. 'I wanted to get to know my fellow wizards better,' he said, setting down his teacup and rising. 'So if you'll excuse me, I'll do just that.'
He nodded to the group and chose a direction at random, hoping his mortification wasn't obvious. I should have known he'd be weird at Pratt's, thought Harry, and he found himself longing for Ron's easy company. But instead he nearly collided with Desmond Travers.
'Bugger!' exclaimed Harry, before swiftly correcting himself. 'I beg your pardon.'
'Potter,' said Travers, his eyes narrowing. 'Elf!'
Before Harry realised what was happening, Travers snapped his fingers and a house-elf appeared. 'Some wine, perhaps?' said Lydia's father.
'Er, yes please,' said Harry, who was still off-balance from the exchange with Draco. Travers ordered two glasses of wine and sat down in a nearby chair.
Harry sat opposite him, and when his drink arrived he resisted the urge to drain it. For nearly a minute, Travers sipped his wine and said nothing, and Harry was tempted to break the silence. But Daphne had taught him the nuances of awkward interactions, and he knew he should wait.
'Pratt's is extraordinary,' said Travers, surveying the lounge.
Harry followed his gaze, and more than one wizard registered surprise upon seeing them together. 'It is,' he replied, not knowing where Travers was going.
'You and Charles are getting on well. Or so I gather.'
'That's also my impression, although I don't know whether to trust it.'
'Of course you can trust it. You might be political rivals one day, but you're both wizards, certainly. And men of consequence.'
And we've each shagged one of your daughters, thought Harry, grateful for Occlumency. 'I seem to get on better with Slytherins than I used to,' he said. 'Probably because I am one now.'
'Indeed,' said Travers, and he fell silent again.
Harry had nearly finished his wine when Travers finally got to the point. 'You seem to have an outsized role in my family's destiny, and I'd like to discuss it.' With Harry's nod, he continued. 'When the Dark Lord Imperiused my father, in the last days of the war, we had no idea he'd done it. You've met my father, and I'd know in an instant if he weren't himself, but such was the Dark Lord's precision. A lesser wizard would have turned him into something resembling an Inferius—glassy-eyed and docile—but my father gave every impression of being himself. Which is why we never suspected he'd given my uncle his vault key.'
Which I prevented him from using, thought Harry, recalling how he'd Imperiused Lydia's great-uncle that fateful morning at Gringotts.
'The potential harm from my uncle was bad enough, but if the Dark Lord had maintained control over Father ...' He closed his eyes before continuing. 'He'd have ruined us all. Even if he'd defeated you, he wouldn't have been satisfied with just Britain. Surely he had his eye on the Continent, and that requires gold.'
You're all right with a pure-blood hellscape so long as you're still rich, thought Harry. Got it.
'It was only in the days after the Dark Lord's fall that I realised how close we came to ruin. My own fortune is independent, but Father had access to my vault, as well as his own, and the Dark Lord could have emptied it. In which case we'd have nothing but the roof over our heads and Isobel's wedding portion. My children don't know this, and the situation has been rectified, but it was a disastrous risk at the time.'
Travers finished his wine, and Harry took the opportunity to interrupt. 'Forgive me, but why did you support someone you consider capable of stealing your entire vault? Not to mention everything else he did?' Like killing my parents, Cedric Diggory, and hundreds of others, he added internally.
'I understand why you see it in black and white,' said Travers, as though conceding a point. 'Anyone would from your perspective. But I'll ask you to view it from ours. My family has been magical since before the founding of Hogwarts, and we've survived numerous threats to wizardkind. Goblin rebellions, civil wars, Muggle Inquisitions, and so forth.' Noting Harry's surprise at the mention of Muggles, he said, 'You probably slept through History of Magic, same as I did. But I grew up hearing stories from before the Statute of Secrecy, when Muggles allied with other magical races, hoping to wipe us out.'
Harry actually remembered those stories, not because he'd paid attention in class, but because Hermione had railed about how implausible they were. 'Can you really see Muggles and Centaurs colluding like that? And that bit about Merpeople and the Pope? Pure rubbish!'
'Grindelwald's War was bad enough on the wizarding side, but the Muggle side was appalling,' continued Travers. 'I'm sure you're familiar with it, having been raised by Muggles. They ended the war in Japan with a weapon that levelled an entire city. Not a wizarding village—an entire Muggle city. And worse yet, they learnt the effects of radioactivity on human DNA.'
For a moment Harry just gaped—he'd never met a pure-blood wizard so well-versed in Muggle science. But he remembered Lydia had told him the Traverses stayed current about Muggles, to better exploit them.
'And that was half a century ago,' said Travers. 'Muggle technology has advanced a thousandfold since then. With goblin assistance—or just a few blood-traitors—Muggles could surely devise a way to suppress our magic. And then with radiation they could eliminate it for good.'
Harry was having trouble reconciling Travers's paranoia with his elegant veneer. He was handsome, impeccably dressed, and spoke in the same plummy tones as his daughters. But deep down, Harry knew he was right. Muggles could be just as evil as wizards—they were all human, after all.
'I don't deny the potential threat,' said Harry. 'But how does this justify supporting Voldemort? If anything, Muggles would see him as proof that wizards need stamping out.'
'To be clear, I didn't support the Dark Lord. Neither my father nor I took the Mark, despite pressure from within the family—and without. Father is the same age as the older generation of Death Eaters, and I attended Hogwarts with much of the inner circle, including my Lestrange cousins. I was recruited, but I never joined.'
'So maybe you weren't a Death Eater, but clearly you supported their version of the Ministry.'
'I most certainly did,' said Travers unapologetically. 'And believe me, there are still plenty of wizards who agree that Magic is Might.'
Harry inhaled sharply, recalling the huge sculpture that had replaced the Fountain of Magical Brethren. It depicted a witch and wizard seated majestically atop a throne, crushing hundreds of Muggles. Carved on its base were the words, 'Magic is Might.'
'You look shocked, but can you really argue?' said Travers. Harry just stared, too horrified to speak. 'You can't, can you? We're undeniably superior.'
'Yes, magic is an advantage,' sputtered Harry. 'But that doesn't make us superior!'
'That's a matter of opinion,' said Travers. 'What's more, it's a self-fulfilling prophecy.'
Don't prophecy me, you bigoted git, thought Harry. 'How do you work that out?' he said insolently.
Travers wagged a finger and said, 'Come now, Potter—remember where we are. I think I'm being remarkably civil.'
'You're right,' said Harry, recalling the obnoxious letter he and Lydia had sent when they refused to marry. 'Go on.'
'You said wizards aren't superior to Muggles, and I called that a self-fulfilling prophecy. And it is, when we restrict our own power by rejecting so-called Dark magic.'
'Restrict our power? Something tells me you never saw Albus Dumbledore in a duel.'
Travers sniffed. 'A wizard like Albus Dumbledore comes along once a generation, if that. Such inborn power—and intellect—is vanishingly rare. But any reasonably-endowed witch or wizard can practise the Dark Arts and become nearly as powerful. Yet Dumbledore, in an act of supreme hypocrisy, urged us not to. If wizards were all as gifted as Dumbledore, we need never fear Muggles. But we aren't, and restricting our full potential makes us perilously vulnerable.'
Harry was alarmed to find himself empathising with Travers. 'I understand,' he said. 'Really, I do. But the cost of Dark magic is too great. Light magic, on the other hand–'
'Light magic!' scoffed Travers. 'You're better off playing with electrical cables! Yes, it's fine when it works, but otherwise it's far too chaotic. There's no such thing as accidental Dark magic, after all.'
My arse there isn't—it's how I got a bloody Horcrux in my forehead. 'That's not true,' said Harry, knowing he was on dangerous ground. 'Voldemort was a living embodiment of accidental Dark magic. I can't share the details, since they're classified, but why do you think he was so unstable? It was because he'd lost control.'
'The Dark Lord is an absurd example,' said Travers dismissively. 'Of course he went too far—he was monstrous. But the overwhelming majority of Dark Arts practitioners live long and productive lives. And we're better prepared to fight Muggles, whom you admit are a real threat.'
He's scared shitless, Harry realised. 'Again, at what cost?' he said. 'Leaving aside the relative merits of Light and Dark magic, which I doubt we'll agree on, you chose to ally yourself with people who'd systematically kill other wizards, or deprive them of their magic. Which can't possibly be compatible with your belief that Magic is Might.'
'Not all wizards understand the real threat,' said Travers. 'I'll allow that some Muggle-borns are prodigiously powerful, and half-bloods as well. I was prepared for you to marry my daughter, after all. But if they advocate restricting our own power for the sake of Muggle ideals, then they're a danger to wizardkind.'
Harry sighed. 'I think we've got off topic. You wanted to discuss my outsized role in your family's destiny.'
'I did, yes,' said Travers. 'But first, more wine?' Harry declined, but Travers ordered another glass, and Harry recalled Lydia's tales of booze-soaked meals with the Traverses.
Glass in hand, Travers continued. 'As you know, Lydia is involved with Marcus Waite. It's early days yet, but she seems as determined to marry him as she was resistant to marrying you. Needless to say, Isobel and I aren't thrilled, for all the reasons I've just outlined. But he has good qualities as well, and possibly a bright future at the Ministry.'
Harry had a hunch where this was going, but he didn't interrupt. 'I say "possibly" because he's burnt a lot of bridges, with his own family in particular,' said Travers. 'Which is unfortunate, since he'd have been a fine match otherwise. Not that Lydia will ever want for gold, but she also values status, as demonstrated by her attachment to you.'
I'm going to pretend there's a compliment in there, Harry thought, and Travers continued.
'Waite would never accept our help, and I'm not even sure we could help him. He testified against his former colleagues, after all.' Travers took another sip of wine, then said, 'Your patronage, however, is another story. He's accepted it willingly, and there's no limit to what you can do for him. I daresay your reach surpasses even our own.'
'I've been glad to help—he's an ideal proxy,' said Harry. 'Apparently Lydia thinks he could be Minister one day, and I don't disagree.'
'Neither do I,' said Travers warily. 'But there's more I'd like you to do. And I'll say upfront that my father thinks I'm foolish to ask.'
'Oh?'
Travers looked at Harry's robes for a moment, prompting Harry to wonder if he'd spilled something on them. But they were pristine as always, and Travers said, 'You don't seem to be repeating Dumbledore's mistakes. You joined Pratt's, for one thing, and you've proven tonight you're interested in finding common ground.'
'I am, where it's compatible with my convictions.' Was that too obvious a swipe at the Dark Arts?
'Indeed. What I'm asking is that you continue on that path, and include Waite. He could be a resource, even, since he was raised with traditional values. And I'm sure he hasn't rejected all of them.'
'I'm sure he hasn't,' said Harry. 'He's with Lydia, after all. I know you see her as a rebel, but she's still very traditional.'
A tender expression crossed Travers's face. 'That's what I tell Isobel. She wanted me to cut her off, to the extent possible, but that would only have driven her farther from the fold.'
'You know she'll never practise the Dark Arts, right?'
Travers sighed heavily. 'Yes, I know. She made that clear to us at sixteen—I only hope she'll remain safe.'
Harry was tempted to mention Lydia's Light magic, but he didn't want to get her into trouble. 'She's simultaneously the bravest and most cunning witch I've ever met,' he said sincerely. 'I suspect she'll be fine.'
'I'm pleased you recognise her worth,' said Travers. 'And at least you spared her a cad like Draco Malfoy. That's who Isobel wanted her to marry—Dark Mark be damned.'
Harry understood from his tone that the conversation was ending, and that he'd agreed to continue working closely with Marcus. Fine by me, he thought, and he was astonished their conversation had gone so well.
'Pratt's is extraordinary,' he said, echoing Travers's earlier statement.
'It is,' replied Travers, and Harry took his leave. He spotted Romulus Wynter but decided not to press his luck. Instead, Draco approached him, obviously curious about his conversation with Travers.
'What was that all about?' asked Draco.
'Finding common ground. But don't worry—not in the Wizengamot.'
'That's fortunate. Although I can't see you usurping the Dark faction on top of everything else.'
'Cheers,' said Harry. 'Are you hungry?'
Draco was, and they went to the dining room. After raising a privacy ward, Draco pressed Harry for details on his meeting with Travers, which Harry didn't provide. But he mollified Draco by asking his opinion on Saturday's match.
'If Routledge wins, it'll be a career highlight,' said Draco, with the assurance of a seasoned commentator. 'Beating you, winning the Cup, and securing the national spot all in one go—not to mention he'll be a folk hero for knocking you off your pedestal.'
'I thought Gilderoy Lockhart already did that.'
'That was a glancing blow. Routledge needs to finish the job.'
Looking up from the menu, Harry said, 'And here you were afraid you couldn't keep rooting against me once we became friends.'
'Good point, Potter. You've proven me wrong.'
'Er, why are you calling me "Potter" again? Am I in trouble?'
'We're at Pratt's—surnames are the custom here. And yes, you're in trouble.'
'What now?' asked Harry, perusing the menu again.
'You asked Pansy for etiquette lessons.'
'No, I didn't. I asked Daphne, and Pansy insisted on helping.'
Draco summoned an elf to take their order, then said, 'You should have asked me.'
'For etiquette lessons?' said Harry, astounded.
'Yes. You taught me how to interact with Muggles, so it's only fair I teach you how to interact with wizards.'
Harry blinked. 'You realise I've been interacting with wizards since I was eleven, right?'
'And look how poorly it's gone,' said Draco coolly.
'This is why I'm better off with Daphne,' said Harry, rolling his eyes. 'You probably won't believe this, but apparently overt snobbery is considered a breech of etiquette. Can you imagine?'
'Who told you that?'
'Daphne did. Are you saying she's wrong?'
'No, but that's ordinary etiquette. You're the head of a noble house, which means different rules apply. And that's why you need my help.'
'Learning how to insult people?'
'Learning how to rise above what's common. Look at all the trouble Mother is going to, ensuring you properly represent House Black. What use is it if you're still following rules from a book?'
'Apparently I'm to learn the rules, then discard them as I see fit. Daphne doesn't want me breaking rules out of ignorance.'
'Fine,' said Draco. 'You can study with her as well. But you'll come to me for polish.'
Harry had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. 'Why would you even want me to act like you? Wouldn't I just look like a social climber?'
'You already do. Besides, Daphne and Pansy are witches, and you'll need a male role model.'
'Nice try, Malfoy, but Theo and Blaise were there.'
'They're not heads of houses. And before you bring up Theo again, you should know he was raised by servants and not his own father.'
Harry affected an awestruck expression. 'So you're saying you'll teach me what Lucius taught you?'
'Exactly,' said Draco. 'You can criticise his judgment, but his manners were impeccable.'
'I hate to break it to you, Malfoy, but your father held everyone in contempt and mostly treated us like shit.'
'Not everyone. He had the Ministry in the palm of his hand before the Dark Lord came back. And if you and I are expected to work together on this goblin thing, you'll need to follow my lead.'
'Is that why you were talking with Desmond Travers?'
'Nice try, Potter, but you wouldn't tell me about your conversation with him. So why should I tell you about mine?'
'Because we're at Pratt's, where all wizards are brothers,' said Harry, widening his eyes innocently.
Draco surprised him with an innocent look of his own. 'Then tell me what you talked about, brother dear.'
Their starters arrived, and Harry used the opportunity to change the subject. 'I assume you're seeing Vicki after the match?'
'I see what you did there,' said Draco. 'And yes.'
'How are things going? Have you annihilated the Statute of Secrecy yet?'
'That all depends. Do faeries have one?'
Harry chuckled. 'I'll take that as a no. Has she asked a lot more questions?'
'She did at first, but I said "pass" so often that she gave up. Fortunately, she likes answering my questions, which means I probably know more about Muggle university life than you do.'
'That may be true,' said Harry. 'Have you fallen in love with her yet?'
'No, Potter, I'm not you. But I do like waking up with her—you were right about that. In fact, I should thank you for suggesting the whole thing, since it's far less frustrating than courtship is.'
Harry affected shock. 'I'm sorry, did you just thank me?'
'Don't be an arse. It's unbecoming.'
'You're right, this is a much better etiquette lesson than Daphne provided. Should I use that line on Magnus Travers, or save it for Romulus Wynter?'
Draco just glared at him, and for a while they simply ate. 'What did you tell Mother about Vicki?' asked Draco. 'She's stopped prying, so I assume you intervened.'
'Oh, right. I said there was no risk you'd marry, or get her pregnant, and that I thought she was a step in the right direction. But for Merlin's sake, don't let her find out the truth—we don't need anyone turning up and cursing the poor girl.'
'Mother won't find out,' said Draco firmly.
'Does Nitta know?'
'No, I've only told Cronk. He's a Malfoy elf, so he's more loyal to me than to Mother.'
Harry's heart started racing. 'Please don't tell me he still answers to your father!'
'He does in theory, since Father's still head of house. But Azkaban blocks house-elves, so they can't communicate.'
'Are you sure? I have a telepathic bond with Kreacher.'
'Yes, and you're a Light wizard who shits rainbows,' retorted Draco. But his expression turned serious. 'Which, come to think of it, describes Father to a tee. Oh my god, poor Vicki! She's doomed!'
'I'm serious, Malfoy—it would be a disaster if your father found out. Have you ordered Cronk not to tell anyone?'
'No, because I'm completely daft,' said Draco. 'Of course I did! He won't breathe a word.'
Harry's tension eased. 'Sorry—Hermione got me nervous when I told her about it. Carry on.'
This time Draco was upset. 'You told Granger! And you're worried I'm untrustworthy?'
'She won't tell anyone,' said Harry, but he realised that mightn't be true. 'Er, except maybe Ryan. But that'll be the end of it.'
'By Salazar, you're an idiot! How on earth did you manage to win the war?'
'By trusting Hermione, you git. So just relax, and make sure your mum doesn't find out.'
They resumed eating, and Draco said, 'Bellamy's a sure thing for the national team, which would make him the first Cannon in decades.'
'Brilliant—good for Ryan,' said Harry. 'Did you hear what Stebbins said this morning, about choosing the World Cup team now?'
'Yes, and I agree entirely—we haven't a prayer otherwise. In other countries they train year-round, you know.'
'Blimey!'
'What's more, they train for World Cup scenarios, which gives them an edge for the real thing.'
'World Cup scenarios? Such as?'
'Multi-day matches. They're rare in league Quidditch, but there's always one or two during the World Cup.'
'Why is that?' asked Harry. 'Obviously it's a deep mystery why the Snitch is invisible for long stretches, but several days? That almost sounds like faulty charms.'
'I know, but it's not. Regulation Snitches are carefully inspected, same as Bludgers. The only explanation I've heard that makes sense is that Snitches are sensitive to observational magic, which can cause them to misbehave.'
'Misbehave! How is that not a defect?'
'Because they've used the same charms for centuries,' said Draco. 'Anything that old is sacrosanct.'
'Bloody wizards,' grumbled Harry. 'We'll never get the rules changed, will we?'
'No, you won't. But observational magic is really quite fascinating—I read a treatise about it last year. The theory is that the Snitch somehow knows how many people are thinking about it, and that too much attention makes it skittish.'
With a growing sense of dread, Harry said, 'Just how well-established is this theory?'
'They analysed centuries of data,' said Draco. 'Obviously it's inconsistent, or else more people would have spotted the trend. But when they compared school and professional matches, the average length of professional matches was longer, even though you'd expect the opposite, given the ability of the Seekers. And it's even more pronounced in international competition.'
'Because more people are watching,' noted Harry. 'Is it dependent on stadium size? The Cannons sell out every week, so this weekend's crowd won't be any bigger than normal.'
'There's limited data about crowd size, since that wasn't often recorded in the archives,' said Draco, oblivious to Harry's unease. 'But there's anecdotal evidence that a physical crowd isn't required. For example, during the Dragon Pox epidemic of 1868 no one actually attended the World Cup, other than the players, and radio wasn't invented yet. But the gameplay was transcribed onto a charmed parchment, and people read the dispatches obsessively, since most of them were trapped at home due to the contagion. And that year's final lasted six solid weeks.'
'Six weeks!' rasped Harry. 'Those poor players!'
'Yes, it was brutal. Sweden defeated Bolivia, and they celebrated by dropping out of international Quidditch entirely. Which is why there's no Swedish national team,' said Draco, as if Harry had long been wondering.
'So Saturday's match against Puddlemere ...' began Harry, reluctant to finish the thought.
'I hadn't considered it, since it's just a league match. But yes, it could go long. Not only is the Cup riding on the outcome, but so is the national team, since it's between you and Routledge.' Realisation flashed across Draco's face. 'And you! The whole world is wondering whether you'll fly for England.' He started laughing. 'You are completely fucked!'
Harry's throat went dry. 'They pushed the game to four o'clock so all Britain can listen,' he said weakly. 'Oh my god, I should go to sleep now. And eat more—will I get meal breaks?'
'The game keeps going regardless, except when there's an injury or penalty. But they'll swap in Rees as needed, and you'll get a chance to sleep.'
'What about potions?' asked Harry, grasping at straws. 'Are those allowed?'
'Not bloody likely!' Still laughing, Draco leaned back in his chair. 'Thank Salazar I bought tickets, even though the price was ruinous. I'm seeing Vicki at eight, and we'll spend the night together, but it sounds like I should just return to the stadium. And I already have one of those satchels Selwyn was talking about.'
Harry shared Draco's theory with his teammates the next day, to general horror. 'I knew there had to be a catch!' cried Janet.
'What do you mean?'
'The curse! It just disappeared when you turned up, as if it never existed. But this is the catch!'
The other players were nodding. 'It makes sense,' said Suresh.
'No, it doesn't,' said Ryan. 'I mean yes, the bit about observational magic sounds valid, assuming the data are correct. But this isn't the curse—it's just a bit of bad luck. And it's not consistent, right?'
Everyone looked at Harry. 'No—Draco said if it were consistent, everyone would have noticed by now.'
'Shouldn't we be home sleeping then?' said Janet, with an edge of panic. 'Someone needs to tell Tuttle.'
'I owled her last night,' said Harry, and moments later she arrived.
'It looks like Potter broke the news,' she said, noting their stricken expressions. 'Lara's going to track down that article, and in the meantime we'll practise as usual. Well, maybe not as usual—you'll run five laps, not ten, and I'll go easy during the drills. But it's not like you can store up energy for tomorrow by having a lie-in today.'
The Snitch appeared early that afternoon, in what felt like a preemptive act of mercy, and Harry went straight home. He and Simon had been planning to go to a jazz club, but they stayed at the house instead. Harry also owled the friends he'd invited to the match, warning them to bring a blanket at the very least, and he instructed Ron not to come over on Saturday until he sent word.
'You unlucky bastard,' said Ron the next morning. 'Janet's right—this is definitely the curse. And I didn't even believe in the curse.'
'I know,' said Harry, pacing furiously. 'And yes, I realise I should be resting, but I've done that all morning and it's just making me antsy.'
'Relax, mate. It could all be for nothing. That article warned against using the data to make predictions.'
'I saw that, but this is me we're talking about, and we both know this is the kind of bollocks I'm always dealing with.'
'Angry seers,' said Ron sagely. 'And the underwear adverts—I reckon even Americans are interested in today's match.'
'Those bloody adverts! Gemma likes to joke that the photo session took so little time that my pay should be calculated in dowries per hour. But if we add in a six-week Quidditch match ...'
'It won't be six weeks,' Ron assured him.
'You don't know that! And god, my teammates ... I can't believe I'm doing this to them.'
'Harry, calm down—this isn't your fault. Do you need tea or something?'
'Yeah, good idea,' said Harry, heading for the kettle. 'Now's the time, after all—before the loo rationing starts.'
'Right, Janet mentioned that. Has it been a problem before?'
'Oddly, no. Our longest match was against the Kestrels, and for some reason I didn't have to go. Darren claims there's a Bladder-Voiding Charm on racing brooms, but I'm normally just someone who can hold it in.' Harry didn't add that he'd gained that particular skill during his years with the Dursleys, when they'd locked him in his cupboard overnight.
'So you'll have to bring in Gemma every time you need to go?'
'I can probably wait until they swap her in—we're planning on four-hour shifts. But a few of my teammates are prepared to do it mid-air, since our robes will dry off in no time.'
'Is that what you're planning?'
'Merlin, no! I don't fancy flying around in wet trousers, smelling vaguely of piss—or worse.'
'"Harry Potty-Splat,"' quipped Ron, referring to hostile banners they'd seen in the stands. 'What's more, people with Omnioculars might notice you'd done it, which would definitely hurt your underwear sales.' Ron smirked and added, 'I don't know if your adverts are on posters anywhere, but people might start drawing on them.'
'Ugh, you're right. I'll just have to take breaks and hope the announcer doesn't make a big deal out of it.'
Ron put on a Quidditch announcer voice and said, 'It looks like Potter-Black is signalling to Tuttle that he's leaving the match. And the question on everyone's mind: number one or number two?"' Harry laughed, and Ron continued. 'Bookmakers take note: Potter-Black returned after only a minute, which suggests his pre-match pasty is still in the pipes.'
'Pre-match Hippogriff, more like. Tuttle promised to keep warmups light and mostly line us with food. Not enough to weigh us down, but a steady source of energy, like someone running a marathon might need.'
'What will you eat during breaks?'
'That's up to Tuttle. She's played a few long matches in her day, so she knows what's best.'
Ron sniggered again. 'Can you summon Kreacher?'
'Up to my broom, you mean?'
'Yeah—have him pop up and bring you a sandwich or something. On a tray, with flowers.'
'I'm actually worried about Kreacher,' admitted Harry. 'He gets antsy when he can't take care of me, and if I'm playing a match for who knows how long, he might do something drastic.'
'Can you give him a task?'
'Hm, good idea. Maybe he can look after our friends in the stands. And you, of course.'
'Sounds nice,' said Ron, smiling. 'Camping out in the stadium, home-cooked meals, a Cushioning Charm or two. It's a shame Janet won't be there.'
'No, she'll be in the team quarters underneath the skybenches, same as me. Easy access in case there's an injury and someone needs to start flying straight away.'
'Do you have to sleep in your team robes?'
'Pretty much. And it'll be four hours on, four hours off, so I won't even get a proper night's sleep. For weeks, maybe,' said Harry, shaking his head in dismay.
They took their tea to the sitting room, but Harry didn't bother responding to fan mail, as he usually did before a match. Instead he lounged on the sofa, savouring his last hours of relaxation. Ron did a good job distracting him, and Harry was in tolerable spirits when he reported to practice.
The mood at the training grounds was a bit giddy. Everyone was edgy about the impending match, and the reserves were excited to play. 'I only have four tickets, but my friends are coming in shifts,' said Gemma. 'After the first shift, everyone will get two hours of Harry and two hours of me. Except for Miles, who's a Quidditch die-hard and wants to stay the entire time.'
'What about his job?' asked Harry.
'He's already asked for Sunday and Monday off, and after that we'll see. Although he won't have anything but a sleeping bag—apparently there's been a run on entry-level Quidditch satchels.'
'My fault,' said Harry. 'I didn't stop Draco from sharing his theory, mostly because it seemed unfair to Puddlemere, to say nothing of the fans.'
'At this point, I think people will be disappointed if the match doesn't run long. But blimey, it's weird to think I might not see you for days, or even weeks—except in passing.'
'Merlin, you're right! And we might have to miss Seekers' night out on Monday.'
'They'll raise a glass to us, if nothing else,' she said flatly.
As promised, Tuttle went easy on them that afternoon, and during the meal she called 'second lunch' they listened to the other matches. Half the players listened to the Harpies against the Caerphilly Catapults, and the others listened to the Magpies playing the Tutshill Tornadoes.
'Come on, Wainwright, don't let me down,' said Harry, leaning close to the radio.
'I thought you and Gilstrap reached a truce,' said Darren.
'We did, but he's still a wanker. And I'm sure he'd say the same about me.'
'But that just leaves Allie Hobbs. And surely you don't like her any better.'
'"Like" is a strong word, but I don't mind her as much. And I'll be happy for Ginny and Wendy if the Harpies win.'
But the Harpies lost, and people gathered around the other radio, to see if Montrose would follow suit. A Magpies loss would essentially hand the Cup to Puddlemere, as long as the Cannons didn't completely humiliate them, which was unlikely. Furthermore, the match would become less decisive, which might persuade the Snitch to appear more quickly.
Or so Harry hoped. But Janet, who was listening to another broadcast, said, 'Sorry, Snitchbottom, we're still fucked. Not only are people still interested in our match, but now they're fascinated by observational magic and whether it's real.'
An hour later the Magpies match was still going strong, and it was time to leave for the stadium. 'Stop thinking about the League Cup,' ordered Tuttle. 'You'll play to win no matter what.'
When they were dressed and ready to fly out, she delivered her final pep talk. 'When I flew for England in '84, we had a five-day match against Poland. Five fucking days, nonstop. Fourteen players, same as you. And don't even ask about conjugal visits—until the bleeding Snitch turns up, the only kicks you'll get are on a broom.'
She got a faraway look. 'After twenty-four hours, you'll scarcely remember a time you weren't living in four-hour chunks. And the only people who'll matter are the other players. Not just your teammates—your opponents as well. Ours couldn't even speak English, and we sure as fuck didn't speak Polish, but we were like family up there, 'cause we were all in the same boat.
'You'll be praying for it to end, but here's the twist: you'll miss it afterwards. Not straight away—you'll be thrilled to have your life back. But the adrenaline, the sense of purpose ... I suspect only Potter's felt anything like it,' she said, with a glance at Harry. 'And looking back, you'll realise it was one of the high points of your life.'
Harry felt himself nodding. Merlin knew he didn't miss the war, but the sense of purpose had been overwhelming. And he realised he loved that about Quidditch, along with flying and all the rest.
'I reckon there's a reason this only happens to world-class teams, and not just because of observational bollocks,' continued Tuttle. 'It's because you were born to do this. Quidditch is your destiny. What's more, you've trained for it—why do you think I work you so hard? And I know it feels like you're walking to your death out there, but you aren't.'
This feels almost nothing like walking to my death, thought Harry. He was surrounded by mates—by family—and they were all in the same boat. So what if I'm knackered? We'll all be knackered together.
'I'm almost glad we're not in contention for the Cup,' said Tuttle, 'because you'll show everyone what makes the Cannons great: We fucking love Quidditch. That's why people watch us, and why we're the best team in the league—bugger the rankings. The fans have always known it, and now the world will. So go out there and give them a match they won't forget.'
Everyone cheered, and there were hugs all around. When Harry hugged Gemma, he said, 'See you on the other side, Rees. And don't be shy about catching the Snitch!'
'Knock 'em dead, Toffer,' she said fondly. 'And glow your arse off.'
As usual he was the last player announced, and he flew into the twilit stadium. It was hard to read the banners in the fading light, but the roaring applause drew him into broad awareness. He set his intentions for the match—pace yourself, help the Chasers, find the Snitch—and the balls were launched.
Phil Routledge soon approached him. 'It's a grand night for Quidditch, don't you think?'
'I'll be thrilled if it's just a night. How are you doing?'
'Bladder freshly emptied, thanks. And you?'
'Same. Are you also on four-hour shifts?'
'We are. Although I'll be really fucking annoyed if the Snitch turns up at the four-and-a-half hour mark,' said Phil as they slowly circled. 'So, do we have ground rules?'
'I don't taunt anymore, if that's what you're asking.'
'That's disappointing. You're a great rival, and it's almost insulting if you don't slag me back.'
'My taunts were more egotistical, actually. "I slew a Basilisk"—that sort of thing.'
'And you're not willing, for old times' sake?'
'Not just yet,' said Harry, 'but ask me again on Monday.'
Harry didn't bother feinting, since the light was low and every instinct told him the Snitch wasn't visible. Furthermore, Tuttle had told him to help the Chasers, since long matches were seldom decided by the Snitch. 'But for fuck's sake, watch your arse and don't get injured,' she said. 'Gemma can't do this alone.'
Both Harry and Phil spent the next hour interfering with Chasers, which was remarkably fun. 'If I have to be stuck up here for days, I'm glad it's with you,' said Harry during a circling break.
'I feel the same way,' said Phil. 'I'd die of boredom against some of the other Seekers. Or maybe pit myself against a Beater or two.'
'Have you always been this insane?'
'Yeah. It's probably fortunate I didn't go to Hogwarts, because you'd surely have recruited me into your suicide army.'
'I reckon you're right,' said Harry, feeling no sting from Phil's comment. 'Although I mightn't have played Seeker if you'd been there, since you're clearly a Gryffindor.'
'Oliver says the same thing.'
Harry glanced towards the rings, where his former team captain was hovering. 'He's doing a good job tonight.'
'Same with Lindhurst,' said Phil, indicating Janet. 'It's a damn shame the Cannons aren't in contention.'
'Next year, mate. We'll be coming after you.'
'Better you than Gilstrap. Half the reason I want to win is so he won't.'
They were still waiting to hear whether the Magpies won, and the news came half an hour later. 'This just in,' said the stadium announcer, 'the Montrose Magpies defeated the Tutshill Tornados, 330-150.' The announcement was followed by a roar from the crowd—frustration from Puddlemere fans, anxious to clinch the Cup, and excitement from those who wanted a close competition.
The Puddlemere flyers expressed their annoyance in colourful terms, and Harry had the pleasure of being within earshot of Oliver Wood. 'Fuck me in the buggering fuckhole!' he cried, and he followed it with a primal scream. 'Those shite-eating Montrose bastards!'
'Save your strength, Wood. We still have five more weeks of this!' Harry called back.
'Potter, don't you fucking dare catch the Snitch! That Cup is ours!'
'Whatever you say,' laughed Harry, launching into the Chasers again.
When eight o'clock rolled around, Harry was ready for a break in every respect. One by one, the reserves replaced the starters, and Gemma gave him a thumbs-up as she entered. 'You have a surprise waiting for you,' she said, grinning.
Harry's eyes found the skybenches, and his heart soared when he saw who was there. 'Fiona!' he cried, landing beside her. He was sweaty from hours of aggressive flying, but she embraced him enthusiastically. 'How did you get in? I didn't give you a ticket.'
'Owen pulled some strings,' she said, and he kissed her hungrily as cameras flashed around them.
'God bless Owen. How long can you stay?'
'Half an hour—my mum's watching Matthew. And Owen warned me not to tempt you, so I won't go into the team quarters with you.' She indicated a door next to the skybenches, leading to the room where he'd sleep.
'Not with all these photographers around, surely.' Harry dashed inside to wash up and use the loo, then rejoined her in the stands. 'Sorry about our date tonight, or lack thereof.'
'What are you talking about?' said Fiona. 'We're out here under the stars at the sporting event of the season. And you look terribly dashing in your team robes.'
'You'd best get used to them, since that's all you'll see me wearing until probably Yule.'
'I'm sure it won't be that long!'
'Merlin, I hope not. God, I'll miss you!' He started eating the box meal he'd been given, and it was a pleasure just to be near her, and no longer on a broom. One of the trainers gave him a league-approved potion to ease muscle fatigue, and he felt better about the long days ahead.
Her half-hour ended, and she promised to visit on Sunday. Harry was sad to see her go, but he and his teammates had fun watching the match, until Tuttle ordered them into the quarters to get some sleep. 'I know it's only nine o'clock, but you need rest.'
The starters filed inside, and Harry plopped onto a four-poster bed. 'Three cheers for whoever decided against Cannons orange,' said Janet, admiring the rich brown curtains. She closed hers, then opened them a few seconds later. 'Could you hear that?' she asked.
'No, not a peep,' said Renée, and soon they were all in bed.
Harry couldn't sleep right away, but he welcomed the silence. This is my life now, he thought, and he felt oddly cozy in a room with his teammates. The bed was absurdly small compared to his own, but he was pleasantly reminded of the dormitory in Gryffindor Tower.
A tap on his shoulder awakened him. 'Once more unto the breach,' said Owen.
'Huh?' was Harry's groggy reply.
'You're at Chudley Stadium. It's half past eleven, and you need something to eat before flying again.'
Harry rubbed his eyes. 'Oh, right. We're playing a match. I gather no one caught the Snitch?'
'That is correct.'
'What's the score?'
'140-all. Now get your arse moving.'
A quick trip to the bathroom, and Harry returned to the skybenches. 'How are the fans holding up?' he asked Owen.
'Look around ... it's like a big sleepover.'
Harry saw numerous fans tucked under blankets, some of which were midnight blue with an orange lightning bolt. And a smattering of seats had a satchel on top, with a sort of periscope sticking out. Perhaps they're in the loo, he thought, recalling Charles Selwyn.
After an inspection from the referee, Harry reentered the match and found Routledge. 'Did you sleep well?' he asked.
'I did. And thanks—it's a lovely stadium you have here.'
They chatted a bit longer before resuming their aggressive flying, which Harry had never done so late at night. It was wonderfully surreal to play Quidditch under magical lights and the waxing moon, in a packed stadium. He found it easy to expand into awareness, and he knew he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
But he grew tired as time passed, and the clock—newly added to the scoreboard—moved maddeningly slowly. This is worse than those celibacy timers, he thought sourly. It was only two-fifteen, and his next break wasn't until four.
'I'm bored,' said Routledge. 'This is all your fault.'
'How'd you work that out?'
'You're the one who's world-famous. And before you joined the Cannons, this would have been an easy win.'
'Right, but we're not the ones trying to clinch the Cup.'
'True, but you're the international underwear model. Admit it, this is your fault.'
'Would it be wrong to remind you that if it weren't for me, Voldemort would be running England and you'd be hiding in a trunk right now?'
'A wizarding trunk? Would it have a bed?'
'It would,' said Harry, feeling magnanimous.
'Then I'll take it. Although you'd probably be dead, which seems unfair.'
'Thank you. I was reluctant to point that out.'
Four o'clock finally arrived, and Harry went to bed without eating. He slept like a log and was awakened at seven by a bouncing Janet. 'It's day two! Do you reckon we should carve tick marks in the wall somewhere?'
'What?' said Harry, who at least knew where he was this time.
'Come on! I had coffee already and you should have some too.'
'No, it's a laxative,' said Ryan. 'If you want coffee, drink it well before flying.'
The Boy Who Shat, thought Harry, getting out of bed. 'Tea is fine, thanks.'
It was still dark out when he emerged, and he was greeted by Kreacher. 'Good morning, Master!' said the elf, holding a shaving kit.
Bugger! thought Harry. 'Er, I don't have time for a shave,' he said, shying away.
Kreacher's ears drooped. 'But Master is the head of House Black,' he said forlornly, drawing laughter from nearby spectators and Harry's teammates.
'I know, but I need to eat first, then prepare for the match.'
'With a shave?'
'No, with my teammates. I'm sure Coach Tuttle will have new instructions.' Kreacher still looked glum, and Harry said, 'Maybe at noon, before lunch?'
'Yes, Master! And now, a proper breakfast, which only Kreacher can provide!'
Harry looked at Bruce, who was the coach on duty. 'Is that all right?'
'Yes, go ahead. As long as it's what you're used to eating.'
A tray of food appeared, with flowers and the Daily Prophet. 'It's pewter, not silver!' said Harry, anticipating his teammates' derision.
'Sign me up,' said Darren. 'Kreacher, do you have any more of that?'
More food was produced, but no flowers, and the players began eating. 'Anything good in the Prophet?' asked Ryan.
'Apparently there's a hideously long Quidditch match going on,' said Suresh, perusing the sport news. 'And look, they quoted Draco Malfoy.'
'Really?' said Harry, looking over his shoulder.
'Yeah, he's analysing our strategy.'
'Does he approve?'
'Mostly. Though he thinks you should feint more and let the Chasers fend for themselves.'
'What reason does he give?'
'Let's see,' said Suresh, scanning the article. 'Oi! He says it would open up the playing field and allow the Beaters to do their job,' he growled. 'Bloody spectator needs to mind his own business.'
'That's Draco for you. What does he say Routledge should do?'
'The same. He says last night's gameplay was a good opening gambit, but it's time to step things up.'
'Step things up?' scoffed Harry. 'Remind me to ring him at three in the morning and tell him to start flying like a maniac.'
'Ring him? Does he have a telephone?'
'Er, Muggle upbringing strikes again,' said Harry sheepishly, hoping no one in the stands overheard him.
Tuttle arrived and cast a privacy charm to go over strategy. 'Your Death Eater mate is right—you should start feinting. It's no longer implausible the Snitch would turn up, and it'll infuse some energy into the match. Not to mention the fans'll love it.'
She reviewed the details, then allowed them a few minutes to socialise. Hermione, who'd joined Ryan for breakfast, found Harry and asked how he was doing. 'I'm fine,' he said. 'A little disorientated, maybe, but so far it's been fun. And how are you? Where did you sleep?'
'Ryan's parents loaned me a satchel, and I shared it with Annie and her boyfriend. It was a bit cramped, but better than sleeping in a chair.'
'Where are Ryan's parents? Aren't they watching?'
'They went home for the night—Lucinda's dog needs walking—but they'll be back around ten.'
'Did Kreacher bring you food?'
'Yes, and thanks. That'll definitely make things easier—I can't just eat snack foods all week.'
'All week? Are you really going to stick it out?'
She looked slightly offended. 'Of course I am! Between you and Ryan, I wouldn't miss it.'
'But what about our lesson tonight? I told Davina I probably wouldn't make it, but you should go. You could have a private session.'
'I don't need another one. She's supervising my mastery, remember?'
'Oh, right. But what about your job at the Ministry?'
'I can do research from the stadium, in the satchel.'
'Brilliant!' said Harry. 'By the way, did you see they quoted Draco in the Prophet?'
'Did they? I'm not surprised—he was talking to a reporter for nearly an hour.'
'Did you see him, then?'
'Only from a distance.' Looking sheepish, she said, 'Omnioculars also work for people-watching.'
'Right,' said Harry, noticing Tuttle was trying to get his attention. 'I need to go—duty calls.'
Hermione hugged him goodbye, and a referee checked him thoroughly. 'Are you also sleeping in shifts?' asked Harry, concealing his ring again.
'No, we're all available now that the season's over. So we're working in shifts, but I'm not scheduled to return until Wednesday.'
'Nothing personal, but I hope I don't see you again this season,' said Harry, smiling.
'For your sake, same,' said the referee, moving on to the next player.
Harry mounted his broom and flew over the pitch, relieving a weary Gemma. 'Time for bed!' he said cheerfully.
'Catch the bleeding Snitch!' she scowled. 'Preferably during the next four hours.'
He was wearing a warmth amulet, so the air felt refreshingly cool, and he cleared his head with a lap around the pitch. Day two, he told himself. Catch the bleeding Snitch.
Routledge approached him. 'Good morning, Potter-Black!'
'Good morning, Routledge. How are you today? And thanks for getting my name right.'
'I'm well, thanks. Looking forward to winning the match, the Cup, and the slot on the national team.'
'Do you still want it, now that you know what it entails?'
'Of course I want it. Don't you?'
Harry had considered the question overnight. 'I do,' he said sincerely. 'I love Quidditch, and this has been fun so far.'
'We're not even twenty-four hours in,' scoffed Phil. 'I'm sure you'll miss your girlfriend. I know you survived a two-week celibacy vow, but do you really want to repeat it?'
'Not particularly, but at least I won't have to audition lingerie models again.'
Phil snorted. 'You're too busy to fly for England. Or are you afraid of not being in the spotlight for once?'
I see the taunting has started, thought Harry. 'It's been pointed out that I'll have a better chance advancing the Light agenda in the Wizengamot if I'm on the national team. Traditional wizards love that sort of thing, after all, and I need to win them over.'
'Impressive rationale,' said Phil. 'Although it would really be something to have a Muggle-born starting Seeker.'
'Surely there's been one already!'
'There has been, but not recently. And what a statement, if England of all places puts a Muggle-born front and centre, so soon after the war. Not to mention your teammate Bellamy.'
Harry felt torn. Do I really need the national slot? I'm already a league Seeker, and it's not as if I require more fame. 'We'll see what Stebbins decides,' he said. 'And who knows—maybe he'll pick Gilstrap. He won his match, after all.'
'That he did. Although heaven help anyone who has to fly against him for days on end.'
Not wanting to continue the conversation, Harry launched into a solo Seeking pattern, and eventually Phil shot into a feint. Harry zoomed after him, as a matter of course, and the crowd responded accordingly. But naturally the Snitch wasn't there, which was fortunate, since Harry never caught up.
'Nice acceleration,' said Harry, noting Phil's Firebolt Ultra.
'It is. I'm sorry you can't use it—I don't like having an unfair advantage.'
Smirking, Harry said, 'You could switch to the Silver Arrow. Just ask your coach—I'm sure they could round one up for you.'
'Not bloody likely,' said Phil, laughing. 'And clearly I do like unfair advantages.'
The skies were darkening, in spite of the rising sun, and needles of rain pierced the air. The two Seekers parted, and Harry felt the weight of the match upon him. Nothing but Quidditch until further notice, he thought grimly, circling the stadium. He imagined Gemma, snug in a four-poster bed, and feebly hoped he'd surprise her by catching the Snitch.
A banner he'd previously overlooked caught his eye. 'Potter never stops,' it said simply, and he wasn't sure what it meant. A border of flowers indicated it was friendly, but otherwise Harry was at a loss. It could be a sex thing, he mused. Or a reference to his unending stream of scandals. Or his Quidditch style: feinting again and again, until finally making the catch.
He thought of the final day of the war, starting before dawn at Shell Cottage and ending more than twenty-four hours later, in the ruins of Hogwarts' Great Hall. And I didn't stop there, he noted, recalling the months that followed: his disappointing Auror career, his doomed relationship with Ginny, and his unanticipated new life as a Seeker. And Merlin only knows what next.
'Once more unto the breach,' he said with a smile, raising his hood against the driving rain.
