A/N: For those of you who have been following my story, I'm sorry that I havenb't updated in a while. Really, very sorry. I have a terrible tendency to do this. But, I'm NOT going to allow myself to drop this one entirely! I promise at least a chapter update every month from now on! Hopefully, I'll continue all 7 books, too.
Other note: Hagrid's dialogue, from here on out, will read normal. I can't pen his speech correctly. Therefore, you'll just have to imagine Hagrid's speech!

It was the first quidditch game of the season, and Harry Potter couldn't eat.

Harry was looking down at his toast and eggs as though they had said something terribly offensive to him before stabbing them with his fork and pushing the plate away. He looked pale and almost seasick.
The Slytherins were doing a good job of not maliciously ignoring him this morning. No one was acting kind toward him, exactly, but the chill that was normally aimed at him had warmed. Apparently the Slytherins were able to be slightly forgiving in favor of winning a Quidditch match.

Not all of them had warmed up, though. In truth, his friends were still acting very cold. They still seemed to feel alienated by Harry's sudden pseudo-acceptance by the rest of the house. The outsiders were offended by his congeniality.

Harry couldn't stand there standoffishness any longer. He rose from where he was seated between Olga and Flint and walked slowly, reluctantly towards the dungeon to change into his robes.
It was an early game, and the weather was looking prime. A few clouds to keep the sun out of their eyes, no wind to blow them off track. But the weather didn't reassure Harry. He still had terrible images in his head of getting struck by lightning or flung from his broom by a gale, even though he had never felt safer or more comfortable than when he was in the air.

Harry returned from his dorm room, fully dressed in his Quidditch robes.
He walked through the halls, out towards the locker rooms, and was aware of many eyes burning into him
"Harry!"

Harry turned to the call, not so much in response to his name as to the beautiful femininity of the way it was spoken.
It was Parvati. She was running up the corridor, wearing a stunning display of gold and red.
"I just wanted to tell you," she said as she reached him, cheeks flushed and slightly out of breath, "good luck."
Harry smiled, surprised. "Oh…um…thanks," he said, angry with his inability to be articulate. "I wasn't…um…quite expecting a 'good luck' from…well…anyone in gold today."

Parvati smiled. "Well, you know, I'm still cheering for Gryffindor. We're going to kick you butts." She tossed her hair rather effectively here, as though to take some sting off of the remark. "But, that doesn't mean you shouldn't do well. But Neal may give you a good run for the snitch."
Harry smiled. Neal. Neal was the Gryffindor seeker, new this year. From what he'd heard, Neal was a very last minute addition to the team.
"Oh!" said Parvati suddenly, looking over her shoulder, having heard someone call her name.
"It's Padma!" she said to Harry, apologetically. "Padma and Lavender. We're all sitting together. We have to go get seats!"
And with that, she turned and started to walk away. Harry did likewise.

"Harry!" called Parvati back again.
Harry turned.
"I just wanted to say," she said, her cheeks becoming pink, "that you look very good in your quidditch robes."
And then, she turned and ran towards her friends, smiling and waving.
Harry watched her go, acutely aware of the burning in his face.

Harry didn't really listen as Flint gave his pre-game pep talk. Really, it all equated to: "We've got better blood, so beat them or I'll beat you." He'd heard it all before.
It wasn't the pep talk Harry needed. He was feeling very conflicted inside. He'd spent about an hour waiting in the locker room alone, waiting for his teammates to join him before the game started. He'd done a lot of thinking in that time. He'd thought, mostly, about how the Gryffindors would feel if he won.
He was quite sure that they wouldn't be forgiving. He was afraid that they would forget everything he had done and all the bridges he had tried to build.
Ultimately, he was considering trying to throw the game.
"Let's go!" whooped Flint in a tone of finality that told Harry that it was time to take the field.
He rose with his other team mates, swallowed his heart soundly on top of the stone in his stomach, and walked out onto the field.
"On my whistle!" said Hooch, over the roar of the crowd and the announcer.
Harry couldn't help but notice that very little of the crowd was wearing green.
"Three, two, one—" and the whistle sounded.
Harry shot up into the air.
As soon as his feet were of the ground and he felt the wave of excitement caused by weightlessness, he knew. He couldn't throw the game. He had to play, and play hard.

What he really knew was that he had never planned on throwing the game. Winning was too important to him. It meant too much in proving himself to those who doubted him the least: his house mates.
And so he dove an d swooped through the air, looking everywhere for the hint of gold, and watching the Gryffindor seeker closely, when--
He went into a dive.
And pulled out sharply.
Neal had followed him, thinking Harry had seen the Snitch. He pulled up out of the dive with Harry, close beside him.
Harry suddenly jolted towards Neal, nearly knocking the older boy off of his broom.
"Boo--!" The crowd jeered at the apparent act of sabotage.
But it soon became apparent that Harry was attempting to unseat the opposing seeker. Harry was too busy trying to stay on his own broom.
It bucked beneath him, trying its best to throw him off.

"Whoa!" called Harry, attempting to soothe the broomstick.
But it was no use. No one could call a stop to the game. Technically, there was no call for it. It just appeared as though Harry had lost control.
But Harry knew it was something worse. He regained control of it at times, but as soon as he attempted to move it, it lurched in the opposite direction. The broom was…determined not to obey.
Then, Harry saw it.
Just out of the corner of his eye. A glint of gold.
And in that moment, as he was distracted, he lost focus on his broom— and it plummeted.
Harry was falling with his broom, towards the ground, is it twitched and jerked along the way.
As he felt himself falling, in one desperate act, he threw his arm out. And was caught.
"Hang on!" came a strained voice from above him, and he looked up to see Neal struggling to keep on his broom and hold the dangling first year.
He lowered Harry to the ground, were his broom was now waiting for him patiently and radiating innocence.
As he let Harry down, Harry felt his stomach drop with guilt. He hadn't thrown his arm out expecting help. He'd thrown it out to…
Harry opened his hand and showed Neal.
Neal looked, and his smile fell into confusion. "The...the snitch."
An odd hush swept through the stadium as everyone tried to grasp exactly what had happened.
Madame Hooch blew the whistle.
And Dean Thomas announced, lacking enthusiasm, just sounding stunned. "Potter…caught the Snitch!"
And then there were cheers.
Harry had been disappointed at the beginning of the game by the lack of green and silver in the crowd. He hadn't realized, though, just how loud they could be.
Over the sudden volume of the arena, Harry looked up at Neal, perplexed. Neal just nodded, sadly. It was all Harry needed. He ran to the middle of the field and held up his arm, holding the snitch firmly in triumph. It was the first time Harry had ever felt entirely sure of his own worth.
The first quidditch match.

Final score, Slytherin 170 Gryffindor 110.