The wind whipped around the quidditch pitch as students clambered into the stands to watch one of the first games of the season, Gryffindor against Slytherin. The blood feud between the two houses was enough to get anyone mildly interested into the stadium, and the Boy who Lived seeking for one of the teams was a surefire way to keep their attention rapt.

Rory no longer found himself sitting on some shoddy bench in the dugout, now he sat on a different shoddy bend-much higher up in the woodworks of the stands than he'd ever been. Oliver stood by the exit door, peering out into the stadium with his typical unreadable expression.

There was a certain tremble in his frame, as he sat on the bench, and Rory could've sworn there was not a single muscle in his body that was not filled with the jittery nerves that were prompted by the thoughts in his brain.

Quidditch. _Real_ quidditch.

He looked down at his hands as his fingers laced themselves together in his lap. George was silent beside him, staring hard into the wooden beams across from them. Fred was chopping it up with Lee somewhere, and the girls walked laps up and down the hallway as they spoke quickly about anything that would keep their minds occupied.

Rory closed his eyes as an irritable sigh escaped his nose, replaying his and Maggie's conversation from earlier in the day.

The class periods had passed by entirely too slow, and he had stared at the clock hour after hour. It wasn't until the midday break that he had actually gotten to sit down with her and explain everything that's gone on-how overwhelmed he felt at the thought of what might be happening.

"Let's not get in a tizzy, now," Maggie had said, putting up her hands like she was calming an animal. "There's always an explanation for everything, alright? Let's not be scared of things that make sense."

She sat there for a few minutes, running one hand through her hair while her fingers tapped along her thigh.

"Did he say it in a particular way?" Maggie mumbled, putting both hands in her lap as her eyes met Rory's, "Like did he say it like he meant it some other way?"

"Well-" Rory sputtered, not sure why he was caught off guard by the question, "I guess so, he doesn't normally sound like that."

"Like what?" She prompted, "Say it like he said it."

Rory rolled his eyes, immediately feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over him.

"He said, like- Well, he said it like, 'You're a good chaser, Roland,' and that's when- God, this sounds so silly." He buried his face in his hands, shocked that his cheeks actually felt warm to the touch.

"It's not," Maggie insisted, reaching out and placing a hand on his shoulder. "It's really not, you know, I don't think it is."

"It _feels_ silly," he groaned. "I feel stupid."

"You're _not_," she fussed, "I can't help you if I don't know how he said it!"

"Fine, fine," he sighed, sitting back up and taking a deep breath in. "I said he should call me Rory, and then he said, 'You're a good chaser, Rory.' Just like that, with the little pause before my name. It felt..."

"It felt special, didn't it?" She almost whispered.

"Yeah," he breathed out, feeling his shoulders sink a little, "It did. _I_ did."

"Then that's what counts," she nodded, like they'd just had the most factual conversation. "If he spoke in a way he doesn't usually, and he _said_ something he wouldn't usually-then it's out of the ordinary. People don't just act out of the ordinary for no reason."

"But is it because- Well, is it for the reason I think?"

"What's the reason you think?" Maggie asked with the hint of a smile playing at her lips.

"Maggie," Rory groaned, "Please, I don't-"

"Okay, okay," she giggled, backing off, "I know what it is, it's fine."

"And?" He looked at her, almost desperately.

"And..." She shrugged slightly, looking away, "Obviously, I-"

"Can't say for certain," he sighed, "I know."

"But," she spoke excitedly, raising her eyebrows as she looked at him expectantly.

"But, it's promising," he finished her signature phrase, an involuntary smile popping up slowly on his face.

Between then and now, Rory hadn't really made up his mind on whether he had _wanted_ it to be promising or not.

Rory gazed at Oliver as he looked out into the stands, only the right half of his face visible at this angle. Maggie's excited glimmer of hope in her eyes replayed over and over in his head as he mulled over that conversation, staring at Oliver without really realizing it. It wasn't until a pair of brown eyes were looking down at him with a somewhat puzzled expression attached to them, that his brain finally caught up to his actions.

"Nerves getting to you, Thomas?"

Rory felt a pang of hurt in his chest when he realized Oliver was back to calling him by his last name, then embarrassment as he realized he was beginning to let himself be affected by the tiniest of things that Oliver said. Obviously he wouldn't call him Rory, not in front of- Wait, hm? Well, why wouldn't he call him Rory? That's his name. It's not like- Well, you know. It's not like it's...secret, or something.

"A little," he replied quickly, averting his eyes to the sliver of the outside he could see from his position, "That's a lot of people, y'know."

"Yeah," Oliver almost seemed to let out a scoffed chuckle, "I know."

Flames of fury ignited on Rory's cheeks as he realized that he'd just said that to the longtime keeper of the Gryffindor quidditch team, who'd played dozens of official games at this point-on this very pitch to be exact. In other words...Rory continued to amaze himself at how daft he could be.

"Does it feel like it?" He looked back up at Oliver as he asked, "Like there's tons of people watching you?"

"Yeah," he nodded slightly, "But it's alright, you get used to it. You get into the game."

"Mm," Rory hummed in response.

"Plus, you're a good player," Oliver continued.

Rory's eyes snapped up, looking up at Oliver through his lashes, as he recognized the tone of voice-recognized the phrase. It was that same lilted softness he'd listened to as Oliver said his name for the first time. He felt George stiffen beside him, but he didn't dare be the one who looked away from his and Oliver's shared gaze first. He stared into Oliver's irises, his pupils-the two blending together without the sunlight to separate them. Rory was searching for a definitive answer, wanting to find words that would tell him exactly what was going on here.

"Does it really look that packed?" George asked gruffly, causing Oliver to turn away.

"It's a good turnout," he shrugged, eyes scanning the stands once more, "Most of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw showed, I'm hoping our stands look similar."

"Mmph," George humphed.

"Slytherin's dumb if they haven't run with their tails between their legs," Fred chimed in as he rounded the corner at the end of the short hallway.

"Don't get cocky now," Oliver warned. "But..."

"Ah, that's what I'm talking about," George jeered lightly, "No more Switzerland, Mr. Team Captain."

Oliver didn't play into it any more than he already had, a slight smile on his face as he watched the twins rag on Slytherin just a bit more. Rory couldn't help but sport one of his own, either-it was easy to let go of his worries for just a second. But, soon, the sound of the crowd was deafening, and Lee's voice energetically rang out overhead. A lighter, airier female voice accompanied him, eliciting laughter from the stands.

"Okay men," Oliver called out as everyone gathered by the door.

"And women," Angelina chimed in, pursing her lips.

"And women," he quickly corrected, hand tightening around his broom. "This is it. The one we've all been waiting for. This is the best team Gryffindor's had in years. We're going to win."

Oliver took a brief breath in, eyes darting to Rory's for maybe a split second.

"I know it."

Something absolutely panic-inducing must have just happened to Rory for him to be experiencing such acute heart palpitations, he was certain that he was about to pass out and force everyone to forfeit the match. No, it was just eye contact with some cute boy. What a wuss.

"Right," he cleared his throat, "It's time. Good luck, all of you."

Everyone stepped into formation, feet on either side of their broom handles as the Hogwarts band kicked into high gear-and Lee began announcing the teams to enter the pitch.

Rory felt every ounce of blood in his veins as he heard it rush in his ears. His legs shook and his fingers trembled as they clutched his broom. Yes, this was it. _This_ was that adrenaline high he'd been waiting for.

He couldn't feel his feet and that was _perfect_.

Every second that passed felt simultaneously too long and too short, like he was going too fast down a never-ending hallway. He watched as his teammates in front of him lifted off the edge of the hidden cubby in the stands where they'd been waiting, feet pushing off as they began to fly on the pitch. He couldn't hear anything, he couldn't really _feel_ anything either-but the wind ran its fingers through his hair regardless and nipped at his cheeks unrelentingly as his eyes struggled to adjust to the sunlight that covered the pitch.

Full, it was entirely full. Gryffindor went mad as their team swung by them and Slytherin wasted no time in letting out a courageous round of booing as they circled the pitch. Rory found himself looking for Dean despite the fact there was no plausible way for him to pick his brother out of the blurry, screeching crowd. The Gryffindor quidditch team curled around the outside of the Hufflepuff stands and Rory felt his eyes stray from the team to see if he could pick out an obnoxious pair of bright red cat-eyed frames, his eyes darting all over every single head of long, brown hair.

Lee was saying something, probably something important, over the speakers that blared across the pitch-but there was no way for Rory to hear it. He felt his legs tingle and his hands grow sore from the intense, tight grip he had on his broom handle. What if he slipped? What if _he_ was the idiot that fell off his broom during his first game? Slytherin would _never_ let that one go. He'd have to move to Mexico, change his name, start a new-

"Let the game begin!" Lee screamed overhead, and Rory looked down to see Madam Hooch on the freshly trimmed grass with a locked box of quidditch balls open beside her.

She held up the quaffle above her, arm outstretched as far as she could manage. Rory saw a glint of sunlight shine across her silver whistle, before hearing it shriek loudly-the sound ringing around the stadium.

"Fuck," he whispered, looking up in what felt like slow motion as he felt the brush of wind from Angelina and Katie whizzing downward immediately.

He sat there for what must've been just a few seconds, but it felt earth-shatteringly long-long enough that he'd already lost them the game. His limbs jump started without his brain, leaving any faltering thoughts he'd struggled to bring to fruition up in the air to float languidly around the pitch. Rory's broom was pointing downward and his eyes were already teary from the wind tearing into them-but he could see Angelina and Katie tailing after the Slytherin chaser that must have snatched up the quaffle.

Oliver's diagrams and flight patterns raced through his head; in all their long, dreadful practices there must've been methods for separating the quaffle from the enemy-Rory just had to remember them. Ink on parchment nearly blinded him as he looped through the field, swooping underneath Fred and George as they battered the bludger away from Harry and the rest of the team.

He could hear them overhead, whooping and hollering to each other as the sound of bludger leather coming into contact with their bats. Their cruel smiles could almost be heard in the tone of their voices, in the severity of their swings. Rory could only imagine they looked breathtaking.

But he didn't have time to bask in the twins' glory, there was a green robed player nearing their hoops. Oliver's quidditch robes rustled in the wind as he stood guard in front of the scoring hoops, watching from his position with disdain as he surveyed the Slytherin chaser get closer and closer.

Rory cursed under his breath and felt his lip catch between his teeth as he struggled to figure out how to derail them, get them to drop the ball. If he and the girls got to the hoops, banking on Oliver to deflect the quaffle in a way they could gain control of, they'd have lost too much time.

"Roland!" Angelina called out from ahead of him, taking the dangerous chance of glancing back over her shoulder to look at him. "You've gotta tackle him!"

"I've gotta _what_?" He shouted back in disbelief, "Do you have any idea how fast we're going?"

"Fast enough," Katie chimed in, her voice almost lost to the wind. "You've got this!"

They were right, Rory could remember the drills Oliver had run them through to make sure they all knew how to tackle-well, kind of. They'd never practiced it so...high up. Nevermind going this fast.

"Roland," Angelina was beside him now, a bit more force in her voice, "You've gotta go _now_."

Rory was never one for peer pressure. However, he was one for winning his first ever official quidditch match. So, what was he to do? Well, obviously, he was to go ram himself into the right side of a Slytherin chaser, who, really, was just trying to do the exact same thing Rory was doing. It didn't hurt, not at first, and with the painful crunch of his shoulder, Rory imagined it wouldn't hurt at all. At least for the next few hours. At least while he still felt this adrenaline rush.

He felt a spark of remorse blossom in his chest as he heard the Slytherin yelp, as he watched the quaffle fall from his arms and land right in the snickering hands of Katie Bell. He shrunk a little when the nastiest glare he'd had the misfortune of bearing was turned his way, before the Slytherin, well, slithered off toward Katie and Angelina-who were making quick work of the pitch itself.

So there Rory was, for the second time that same quarter, just sitting on his broom and staring like it was his salaried job. His eyes trailed after the girls as they zipped and zooped and, dare he say, _swooped_, their way into the first quaffle goal of the match. Lee said something over the intercom along the lines of Angelina being perfect and amazing and- Oh, Katie scored? Well she's pretty alright, too.

The game kept going on like that; a bludger out for blood here, a quaffle goal there-it was exciting and not exciting at the same time. Rory spent his time being the dedicated tackler as he watched Angelina and Katie be the poster children of the chaser role. He had been right, he didn't exactly fit in with them at all. They _were_ more agile and suited for what chaser called for.

"Rory!" Katie shouted from behind him, "Six o'clock!"

He followed her directions, seeing that same bloke from before attempting to scoot himself and the quaffle underneath Rory to, assumedly, avoid a knocking and a tumbling. And Rory is not one for peer pressure, not at all, but he is one for instructions. No matter if they're from a peer or not. So, one knocking and one tumbling later, the quaffle was safely tucked underneath Rory's elbow. Huh?

"Go for it," Angelina encouraged, spinning upside down briefly to avoid a tumbling herself.

And, yeah, it was invigorating. It felt electrifying, getting that close and personal with some of the uglier sides of Slytherin. Seeing the opposing team's scoring hoops and lining up his shot. The wind, it was back; and it was threading itself through the locks of hair on his head and whispering in his ear about how this was _it_, this was what he'd slogged through rain and mud for. _This was quidditch_.

But he missed.

The quaffle slammed itself into the rim of the hoop and fell off toward the ground like a bird that'd just had an untimely meeting with a window.

"What the fuck," he breathed out, eyebrows knitting in confusion. "What the _fuck_?"

That wasn't how that was supposed to go at _all_. Not even in the slightest.

"Get moving, half-blood," some snotty blond called after him, sneering at him overhead as the Slytherin team once again gained control of the quaffle. Wow, way to toss some salt in his wound.

Disappointment crushed him, sadness ripped through his chest and made him feel like he'd just died, and now he was stuck mourning the loss of his own life. His hands gripped the broom handle tightly again, his gloves squeaking against the lacquer of the wood. Despite all the churning and twisting in his chest, Rory bit his bottom lip and turned to the side, watching Katie gain control back of the quaffle. That was right. This wasn't the time to get all up in arms about his failure, the game was progressing quickly, and and it'd be over in another quarter. Clearly, now was a time for Rory to sit and stare again.

Some rain clouds had rolled in from behind the Ravenclaw stands, and threatened to dampen the entire pitch prematurely. Mist could be felt in the air,air and every single player looked like they were desperate to beat each other up in the only way that was acceptable right now, with points. George was absolutely sodden with sweat, chest heaving and bat at the ready as his eyes scanned the horizon for the bludger to come zooming back in with beady eyes on Harry.

Who, now that he thought about it, hadn't done much for a quidditch prodigy. Rory found the speccy first year off to the side, eyes squinted behind his spectacles as he searched for, what Rory guessed, was the snitch. How he was supposed to find a tiny golden ball in the open air of the pitch was well beyond Rory, but that was outside his job description anyhow. In fact, Rory was just in the middle of thinking to himself how the seeker position was just a _wee_ bit stupid, when Harry jolted forward.

Something glinted in the somber light of the fading sun and Rory's eyes widened. Of course as soon as he started complaining under his breath, the snitch would be seen. That just makes the most amount of sense, doesn't it?

Rory pushed his broom a bit further, preparing himself for another round of tackling beefy Slytherin kids to the side. Harry just looked so small on his broom, practically swamped in fabric since there were no quidditch robes made for his size. It was too easy to miss the boy entirely, his pale face shrouded in darkness-like some dementor.

"Harry, you see it?" Rory called out, well aware that he could be taking the boy's focus, but wanting to have some part to play.

"Yeah, I-"

Harry's voice abruptly cut, and suddenly he was zooming forward. Almost as if the two boys were sewn together with a neat bit of thread, Rory chased after him, glaring at the air ahead of them to see if he could spot the snitch himself. Harry reached forward, they must've been in the middle of the pitch, and Rory could only imagine how cool he looked to the students in the stands. Stark middle of the pitch, closer to Heaven than the ground, the end of the game mere inches from his fingertips. God, Rory wished he had a scar.

"Ah!" Harry yelped, his broom jerking to the side.

"Get a hold of it!" Rory screamed, feeling the adrenaline in his chest filling his lungs and beginning to drown him out. "You've gotta get it!"

"My broom," a yelled reply came, "My broom, it's-"

Panic filled Rory's chest alongside the adrenaline high, coursing through his veins quickly-Harry's broom began to dance a jig quite ferociously. It swung wildly from side to side, as if a wild animal caught in a net. That broom was fighting for its life to get Harry off it, and damn it, it was working.

"Hang on," Rory flew closer, the realization that the snitch was most likely gone dawning on him. Harry's broom probably got pissy with the way he handled it or something, first years aren't meant to have brooms for a reason, y'know, and-

"Roland!" Harry's voice had a warning tone in it, like he was terrified of what was to come, in between screaming, of course.

"Give me your-"

Rory watched what he was sure to be the first quidditch death of the year as Harry was wriggled off to the side, hanging onto his broom with one gloved hand.

"Jesus, Harry, grab the broom!"

"What do you think I'm-"

It happened so fast, too fast for Rory to really understand what had happened until he struggled to drag his eyes to look down. Harry was going absolutely crazy, his screams going silent as he got too far for Rory to really hear him anymore. God, how far were they off the ground? Seven, eight, maybe fifteen stories? A dull thud of panic shot through Rory's chest, and once again he found himself reacting much too slowly to something much too concerning. He had no idea if Harry even had a grip on his broom anymore, or if he was just free falling-would he be okay? What if Harry...well what if Harry died or something? What if Rory stood right beside the Boy Who Lived as he died?

He tumbled as he hit the ground, rolling a bit until he sat up in a dazed way. Rory's feet stumbled and faltered as he brushed against the ground in a not-so-elegant landing. Was this against the rules? Was Rory about to cost them the game?

"Hey," he breathed out, sliding in front of Harry and bracing both hands against the boy's shoulders, "You alright? Are you good?"

"Is Potter out of commission?" Madam Hooch was rushing over, and Rory found himself thinking that it was odd to see a wizard running, of all things, "Is anything broken, Potter?"

She, too, crouched down and got on Harry's level. The poor bloke looked like he was damn near about to be sick, all over both himself and Rory. When his eyes finally met Rory's, the most brief, inappropriate realization that he had green eyes flitted through Rory's head.

Then he threw up.

"Oh, God," Rory immediately recoiled, feeling a little bad for doing so, until he looked down to assess the damage.

Instead of the typical vomit Rory had expected, clearly the Chosen One was a little too good for that. He'd thrown-up gold and silver, clearly, nothing less than for the Boy Who Lived himself.

"What the fuck?" Rory sputtered, before watching Harry look back up at him excitedly. "Is that the *fucking snitch*?"

"Language, Mister Thomas," Madam Hooch sternly spoke before dragging Harry up to his feet.

For the millionth time that singular game, Rory stared in absolute shock at what was happening before him. He felt like he was getting dragged through someone else's story with the amount of crazy shit he kept experiencing, and he felt no different as he watched Madam Hooch hold up the golden snitch in her left hand, while her right kept a tight grip on Harry's shoulder.

"Harry Potter has caught the golden snitch! Gryffindor has won the game!" Lee announced overhead, and Rory swore he was about to pass out.

Was this just some normal occurrence? Was he supposed to be prepared to watch some eleven year old nosedive toward the ground, only for it to be celebrated, like, five minutes later?

Wizards were weird, he remembered, and he decided to never forget that ever again.