Harry Potter was no longer the Boy Who Lived. He was approaching his forty-fifth birthday, as a matter of fact. It seemed that in the last 20-plus years since he'd left Hogwarts he'd done everything that was supposedly important in a life; he'd married, had children, built a house, defeated Voldemort, and held various positions with the Ministry of Magic. To be sure, he hadn't written a book, but Hermione's series on his life was approaching its twelfth volume; that was surely good enough. Now his children, all three, were gone; the eldest had graduated, the younger two were still at Hogwarts. There really didn't seem much left for him to do.

Selene, his wife, must have sensed his mood. She came out to the backyard and sat in a chair near him. "Is anything wrong, dear?"

"Huh? Oh, no. Just thinking." He sighed.

"About what?" she pressed. "I know that expression. You're not happy about something."

"I'm thinking about Dumbledore," he lied.

"Honey, you have to let go of that," Selene said gently. "Dumbledore's been gone for decades now. You know that; you even named our youngest son after him." Harry didn't answer, because now he was really thinking about Dumbledore, and about his parents. Three of the most important people in his life, dead now, dead years and years, but he couldn't seem to get over it. Not completely.

"You know, I've been thinking," Selene said. "The kids are coming home next week. How about I take them to my mother's for a month or so and you take a break from the Ministry and go fishing with Ron or something? I think you could use the time alone."

"I don't know," Harry hesitated. "Weren't we going to go to France?"

"We can do that another time," Selene said firmly. "Go on. Have fun. See a Quidditch match."

"Quidditch. Ha!" Harry rolled his eyes. "There hasn't been a good game since they consolidated the teams. I liked having twelve teams in England with games every weekend, almost. Now we're lucky to get three a year in England, what with the world competitions."

"Yes, dear." Selene wasn't really listening, he knew. She'd heard his opinions many times before in the five years since the new Quidditch league took effect.

"I mean, kids aren't even really playing it these days. You've heard ours talk about how nobody but the faculty and the players' girlfriends go to matches at Hogwarts these days. There's really no future in it. Too many hopefuls and not enough spots." He sighed. "Dads aren't even taking their kids out to learn the game as soon as they can ride a broom any more."

"Good," Selene said. "That game's too dangerous for small children anyway, Harry. I know you feel passionately about it, but it's really such a medieval sport. We need something more modern anyway." The conversation went downhill from there.

A week later, Harry met Ron for lunch in Diagon Alley. "How's it going?" he asked Ron, who looked rather exhausted.

"About the same as always." Ron grinned. "Hermione's put off finishing her book until the kids are back at Hogwarts, thank goodness. And she says she'll have the overseas tour wrapped up before Christmas this year."

"Glad to hear it," Harry said.

"Harry, is there something wrong? You look a bit odd."

"Maybe." He looked at Ron. "Promise you won't tell Selene?"

"I won't even tell my own wife," Ron vowed. "What is it?"

"Well, first off all, I've been having these weird dreams for about a month now. I'm playing Quidditch, but I can't see the people in the stands at all, or the other players, and there's something I'm looking for – not the Snitch – and I can't find it. And then a Bludger comes out of nowhere and knocks me off the broom."

Ron grimaced. "Ouch," he said.

"That's not the part that really bothers me, though." Harry paused for a second. "Just before the Bludger hits, I hear this voice. It always says the same thing. 'Build it, and they will come'."

"Harry, I hate to say this, but it sounds like you're going nutters," Ron said. Harry laughed.

"Thanks, I knew you were going to say that."

"No, really. Hearing weird things in your dreams? Build what? And who's gonna come?"

"How should I know?" Harry shrugged. "But I think I'm going to find out."

"Wait a minute." Ron held up a hand. "You're going to try to figure out what this dream means? And then build the whatever?"

"I think so." Harry looked down at his plate. "Selene wants me to take some time off. You want to come with me while we figure it out?"

"Hermione won't be happy, but yeah." Ron looked at him. "I can't just let you wander off looking for who knows what. But listen, wait a week. I'll need that long to wind things up at the Ministry. And try to figure out what we're looking for, ok?"

"I know where to start now," Harry said when he and Ron met a week later. "The Quidditch pitch in my dream. It's not the one at Hogwarts."

"That's the only place you ever played Quidditch, Harry," Ron pointed out.

"Sure, but that's not the important thing. The pitch, it's the one where we saw the World Cup match."

"Harry, that place was built specially for the game! It was taken down again immediately – we don't need to leave a thing like that out where Muggles can find it, after all. There's nothing there now."

"Maybe not, but that's where we're going to start. Tomorrow should be the right day."

"Why/" Then Ron caught on. "Oh. Right. The World Cup's being held in Russia tomorrow. Why don't we go watch that instead? We can probably get tickets."

"To see Egypt pummel Canada? I don't think we need to." Harry grinned. "Besides, we're going to be camping out on the old campground tonight. I already got a spot reserved."

"Wonderful," Ron said, but he Apparated after Harry anyway.

The tent was standard-model – for a wizard; it was about as well equipped as most small houses and there was a working bathroom. All in all, they were not roughing it that night.

The next morning they hiked out to the place where the pitch had once been. It was a gray day, dull and dreary, with a slight drizzle of rain wetting them on their walk. Neither Harry nor Ron said anything as they walked through the woods, which one night long ago had been full of people and screams, the Dark Mark, and a frightened house-elf. Harry tried not to dwell on those thoughts but to remember instead the day of the World Cup match, when he and Ron and Hermione had been so young, so excited, so unaware of the future that would wear them down, wear them out. His reverie was interrupted when they came out of the trees and saw the empty land where the pitch had once been.

"So," said Ron after they'd stood there a while. "Any new ideas? Or should we call this off and go home?"

"What's that?" Harry asked, pointing through the mist at two dim figures a way off. "There's people here."

"Probably just Muggles out for a camping trip," Ron shrugged. "Let's leave them alone."

"No," said Harry, starting toward them. "I think they're part of this." Ron silently followed through the damp grass.

The figures resolved themselves into a man and a woman, both wearing wizard garb and facing away from Harry and Ron. When the two were no more than ten feet away, the woman touched the man's arm and he turned around.

"Wood!" exclaimed Ron as he saw the other's face. "What are you doing here?"

It was Oliver Wood, all right, but changed far beyond the last time Harry had seen him, some eight years ago, and further still from the boy he'd been at Hogwarts.

"Hullo Harry, Ron," he said slowly. His hair was flecked with gray, his eyes shone only dully, and he seemed lethargic. Now his woman companion turned around. There could not have been a more striking contrast; she was beautiful and young and alive.

"Introduce me to your friends, Oliver," she said lightly. He nodded.

"This is Harry Potter, and he's Ron Weasley." He pointed them out in turn. "Harry, Ron, this is Aletheia, a friend of mine."

"Pleased to meet you," Ron said. Harry nodded.

"So why are you out here, anyway?" he asked Oliver.

"Memories, same as you." Oliver sighed. "There hasn't been a World Cup like that one in all the years since," he said.

"I should think not," Ron put in, grinning. "Between Krum, and the Irish Chasers, and the after-game Death Eaters' party, how could you even hope to match it?"

"No." Oliver smiled. It looked as if he hadn't done that in a while.

"So, what have you been doing lately?" Harry asked to keep the conversation alive.

"Nothing," Oliver answered. "Ever since the teams were folded, that is. I wasn't the best Keeper in England after all, and so I didn't get a spot on the national team. Ever since I've been trying to make money working for the Ministry, but Quidditch was really my strength. I'm not a quill-pusher at all." The look of depression was back on his face. "And I miss the game."

"So do I," said Harry slowly.

"I miss watching, too," Ron agreed. "The national teams jus don't play the same way."

"Well, why are you talking about it, then?" The men turned, startled, to see Aletheia. Her hands were on her hips. "Talking won't do any good."

"It's not like we can actually do anything," Oliver said. "What are we supposed to do, anyway?"

"Wait," said Ron. "I know there are a lot of people who miss the old Quidditch, too. If we could convince them to bring it back…."

"Won't work," Oliver said. "There's no money for it. The only pitch left in England is the one at Hogwarts; that's where the national team practices."

"So what?" she asked. "Oliver, you whine about it being gone all the time, about wanting, just once more, to play. So play, just once more." Somehow she sounded oddly familiar to Harry.

"Yes," Harry mused, catching the idea. "An exhibition game, to remind all the old fans and show children what the game's supposed to be. It could work!"

"I suppose…" Oliver thought. "Ron, are your brothers still around?"

"Fred and George? They're making money hand over fist with Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, and they talk about Quidditch lots. Are you thinking of asking them to play?"

"If it gets that far, maybe. What do you think, Harry?" Now Oliver was aflame, his old drive on again. "Yes! If we could get the whole team from Hogwarts, we'd have one side. Surely we could scrounge up seven more players who'd do it?"

"I think so," Harry agreed. "We still need somewhere to go, though."

"Right here!" Oliver waved his arms expansively. "Put the pitch in right here. Remind everyone of the Ireland-Bulgaria matchup. It could work!"

"We'd need thousands of Galleons, at least," Ron said. "Even if we got a lot of volunteer work."

"I'll help out," Harry promised. "Ron, you organize a publicity drive and get money. Oliver, you contact players. I'll get the stands and pitch up."

"Harry, you're a hero." Oliver seized his hand and pumped it up and down. "Aletheia, let's go. We've got lots of work to do!" And he vanished. Aletheia sighed.

"Nice meeting you," she said. "I haven't seen Oliver this excited in ages." She vanished too.

"Harry," Ron said as soon as she'd gone. "You don't think – your dream - ?"

"I have no idea," Harry said truthfully. "Let's get back, though. We've got a lot of work to do."

"Harry! Great to see you again!" Ron grinned as Harry sat down at their table in the Leaky Cauldron. "It's been weeks."

"I know." Harry pushed his hair out of his eyes. "I've been terribly busy. Once we got the field built, Oliver's been making us come up most nights and every weekend to practice. Selene's threatening to make me sleep on the porch if I'm not home more."

"Ouch." Ron winced. "Hermione's been great about all this, really great."

"I've noticed." It was Harry's turn to grin now. "Republishing Quidditch Through the Ages was a stroke of genius, Ron. How'd you manage to do that?"

"Eh, Hermione had a word with the publishers, revised it a bit, and they've been selling like hotcakes." Ron shrugged. "The Daily Prophet can't get enough of this scheme, you know."

"I've noticed. Whenever I am home, they've got a reporter knocking on the door." Harry shook his head. "You're doing a brilliant job."

"A lot of it's Hermione," Ron admitted. "And people really want more Quidditch, you know? Even Ernie Macmillan can't find anything to be paranoid about."

"Really? I thought The Howler had a problem with everything."

"Not Quidditch, though I admit Ernie has turned out to be a complete loon. Or rather, has always been one. Remember how he thought you were the Heir of Slytherin?"

"How could I forget?" There was a moment's silence, then Ron said,

"I was rather surprised when I heard Draco Malfoy was going to be Seeker for the other team next month."

"Oh, I suppose even Malfoy can get excited – sort of – about Quidditch," Harry said lightly. "I haven't got a problem with that; the referees will be watching closely, so he won't be able to use any illegal spells. We actually managed to get the entire Slytherin team – the one we beat third year at Hogwarts – to agree to play against us. Lee Jordan's even going to announce; it'll be a real nostalgia trip for a good many people."

"Excellent." Ron nodded. "No need to worry about Dementors this game, I hope?"

"Not at all." Harry winked. "I made the Minister promise not to bring any."

"Heh. Well, you've saved box seats for us, right?"

"The best ones, right up next to Lee. You'll be able to see everything, including the advertisements. Fred and George managed to rig up a spell that will have the words floating in midair; they've got about half the spots, too. And the official license to sell Mischief-Making Material, as they call it, at the game."

"This'll be great, Harry, just great."

"That it will be." There was another lull in the conversation. "Ron, does Hermione still have access to the classified files at the Ministry?"

"Most of them. Why?"

"Oliver's – friend. You know, Aletheia."

"Sure, what about her?"

"She's very strange, Ron. I mean, there have been several trouble spots in the project. The Department of Magical Games didn't want to give us permission for more than five hundred people to show up at our game, but after she talked to her they let us have anything we wanted. You said that you were surprised that Draco agreed to play; I wasn't, not after she talked to him."

"Is that all? Maybe she's got a gift for persuasion."

"That's not it at all, Ron. I've noticed her suggesting things several times that later seem to be vital. She's kept everything on track, she – I don't know. I think I sound like Ernie now."

"You do." Ron grinned at his friend. "Look, I'll have Hermione see if she can find anything on Aletheia. Do you know her last name?"

"No." Harry frowned. "She's never once mentioned it. Oliver hasn't either. I'll ask him if he knows it next time we meet."

"Good, because it's hard to find anyone without a last name."

"Thanks, Ron."

"Don't thank me, thank Hermione – if she gets the information."

"Right." Harry stood. Then he sat back down suddenly.

"I just realized," he said in a low voice. "You remember about my dream?"

"The one that started this whole thing? Sure."

"The voice in my dream was Aletheia." They stared at each other, not saying anything.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first ever British Quidditch Exhibition game! I'm Lee Jordan, and I'll be your announcer today."

A large colorful display floated in midair over the stadium, proclaiming the virtues of Canary Creams. It was a gorgeous day, rare for that part of the world, and the result of some very careful meddling. Three thousand people from all over Europe gathered in the stands. Referees were flying up and down the field, inspecting it. Banners for each of the teams – the Basilisks' a green and silver snake, the Gryffins' a red and gold lion – flew at either end of the pitch.

"This is the first Quidditch match not played by international teams in several years. Many of us have missed the old Quidditch matches, and the organizers of this event hope to bring the sport back. Today's teams are composed of mostly amateur players, though the captain of the Gryffins, Oliver Wood, did play Keeper professionally for several years. Draco Malfoy captains – and incidentally sponsored – the Basilisks. They'll all be flying Firebolt Threes, purchased by Malfoy. The Gryffins are flying a variety of brooms; Harry Potter, the Gryffins' Seeker, has perhaps the least advanced model, a Firebolt that's been in his possession since his Hogwarts days.

"Malfoy is playing Seeker for the Basilisks. Marcus Flint, the oldest of the Basilisks, is Keeper, with Timothy Mullet, Zephyr Moon, and Nero Zabini play Chasers for that team. Wilfred Zanc and Alburtis Troph round out that team as Beaters.

"For the Gryffins, Oliver Wood plays Keeper, with Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet, and Katie Bell as Chasers. Fred and George Weasley will be playing Beater, and Harry Potter, as I mentioned before, is playing Seeker.

"This game is brought to you in part by Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, purveyors of aids to Magical Mischief Makers for nearly twenty five years. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes have shops in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade and are proud to supply over fifty items forbidden at Hogwarts by school authorities.

"And now, it's just about time to start the game. The two teams are coming out now. They'll be lining up on either side of the field while the captains perform the ceremonial handshake and the balls are released."

Harry felt a surge of excitement as he waited for the game to start. He glanced at his teammates; all seemed as eager and nervous as he. Then the head referee's whistle blew and they were off. Harry soared to the highest altitude allowed by the rules of the game before circling, watching the game intently for any sign of the Snitch. He saw Draco a short way off; his opposite number noticed and began to do dives and loops, clearly showing off his superior broom. Harry had considered purchasing another, but was too fond of his own.

The Gryffindor – no, Gryffin, Harry reminded himself – Chasers were doing a superb job. In five minutes they scored thirty points. Then the Basilisks got serious, one of the burly Beaters knocking the ball away from Alicia and Mullet grabbing it quickly. He raced upfield with the Quaffle, Beaters at his side knocking away two Bludgers hit with otherwise deadly accuracy by the Weasley twins. Harry grinned. None of his old teammates had lost any of their skill. The point of this game, he reminded himself, was not to win but to remind the watchers how much Quidditch mattered.

A minute later all such noble thoughts disappeared from his head as he dove for the flash of golden light he'd just seen. Draco Malfoy plummeted after him, but neither caught the Snitch. It vanished among a tangle of Chasers who'd been watching Seekers rather than Bludgers.

"You've actually improved a bit, Potter," Malfoy called when they'd resumed their lofty posts. "Maybe you won't have to swallow it this time."

"Do you have idea how ridiculous you look, Malfoy?" Harry asked. "At least I'm not losing my hair."

"Well you're the one who's gained twenty pounds," Malfoy shot back.

"Yeah? Well, let me tell you – leather pants do not suit you at all, Malfoy."

"You're just jealous."

Harry laughed. "We'll see who's jealous when I've caught the Snitch," he said.

"Care to place a bet on that?"

"Certainly. How does fifty galleons sound?"

"Fifty? Pocket change. Make it five hundred."

"Done." Harry didn't hesitate.

"Excellent. It's already mine." Malfoy dove toward the field, Harry hurtling after him. He didn't see the Snitch, but Malfoy continued to accelerate. Harry realized only seconds before Malfoy pulled up what this was – a Wronski Feint. He managed to avoid hitting the ground, but decided not to go quite so high this time.

The afternoon wore on. The teams both scored numerous points but neither gained a definite advantage. Harry began to think they should have chosen some backup players when, as the Basilisks led by thirty points, he spotted the Snitch. Malfoy didn't seem to have seen it. Harry tried to make it look as if he were simply moving to a new vantage point, then sped through the air. Malfoy was on his heels instantly. They were nearly neck and neck – a testament to Malfoy's broom – when a Bludger knocked Malfoy neatly head-over-heels. Harry sped up just a tiny bit, reached out, and grabbed the Snitch.

At first he thought the pitch had exploded; then he realized that the roar was from the fans, all standing on their feet and screaming at the top of their lungs. The referees were sending up red and gold sparks to show the Gryffin victory. The team landed and was swarmed by cheering fans.

"Well done, Harry!" Ron yelled, and Harry glimpsed many of his other old friends off in the crowds, shouting and screaming. Hagrid was there, tears streaming openly down his huge face, and Remus and Sirius beaming with pride. Most of it was a blur, though, as the team marched down the field to be congratulated by the Minister of Magic – Percy Weasley.

"Well done, Harry," Percy said. "I'm going to recommend that we reinstate these matches immediately."

"Excellent," Fred said. "Let's do this again next month, Oliver." But Oliver Wood was sobbing.

"That was a good game," Ron said much later. He and Harry were sitting together in the dark, empty stands, sipping butterbeer.

"Yes, it was." Harry stared across the fields. "Ron, did you ever find anything out about Aletheia?"

"Nope." Ron drained his bottle and put it down. "Sorry, but Hermione can't find anything about her, not so much as a birth certificate."

"Strange." They were silent for a while. Then Ron stood up.

"We're expected at your place, Harry."

"I know." Harry just sat there. "Go ahead, I'll be along." Ron nodded and Disapparated.

After a while Harry stood up and wandered over to the announcer's box.

"I hoped you'd be here," he said. Aletheia looked at him smiling a rather odd smile. "You've been behind this all, haven't you?"

"What do you mean, Harry?" she asked.

"I don't know." He waved a hand. "You orchestrated all of this. You arranged for Oliver and I to meet that day, for everything to go right – for all I know, for me to win today."
"No, that was all you." She looked at the field. "And what if I did do the others?"

"Why?" Harry asked. "Why?"

"Because I like Quidditch?" It was a question, not a statement. Harry shook his head.

"You're not human, are you?"

"How narrow is you view of human?" Aletheia asked. "Perhaps I'm not your species, but I am human, if by human you mean thinking and feeling and living."

"But why?"

"Do you know how long eternity is?"

"What sort of question is that?"

"A valid one. My kind – there aren't many of us, but we are truly immortal. We've been around as long as the universe, and will be here at least that much longer. Do you know how dull eternity gets?"

Harry laughed, a short sharp laugh. "So you meddle with us for fun?"

"Not quite." She sighed. "You're not unhappy with the result, are you?"

"No," he admitted. "Still, how did you get me to dream what you wanted?"

"I shan't give out all my secrets," she said coyly. "I'll let you figure that out yourself."

"Fine." He turned his back and glanced out at the field. Then he turned around to ask another question. But she was gone. Somehow he knew she wouldn't be back.

Harry glanced at the field once more, then he too vanished, leaving only, perhaps, the ghosts of players to haunt the pitch. But this time, he'd be back.

Admittedly not my usual sort of piece. And if you think the beginning is a bit corny – the idea for this story started on a lonely night drive home with me suddenly having this idea of Harry having a mid life crisis, and then the movie Field of Dreams came into my head. If you haven't seen it, it's about a guy who builds a baseball field in his corn. Yeah. Anyway, that's where the 'build it and they will come' thing came from. The rest is out of my head.

Anyway it was fun and different. The hardest part was figuring out Aletheia, incidentally. Her name comes from the Greek word for truth.

You know the bit about JK Rowling. Don't sue me, please.`