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

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

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

Harry was becoming more anxious by the day, checking constantly on his Nimbus 2000 and practicing his flying on the Quidditch pitch every chance he got. His practices were all he could talk about, seeing as the first game of the year was coming up: Gryffindor versus Slytherin. I did my best to be a supportive presence because I knew that was what he needed, but even so… that little voice in my head wouldn't shut up—why didn't you get praised for flying? Your form was better than his, but you're left in the dust because he's Harry Potter.

That stupid voice sounded remarkably like Draco Malfoy. Each time it spoke, I grit my teeth and demanded that it go away. What kind of a friend would I be, to be so jealous of Harry's success after he'd literally saved my life on Halloween?

A bad one, that was for sure.

After another couple of weeks, the day of the match came about, and Hermione, Ron, and I were all sitting in the Quidditch stands. We didn't say much—not that we would've been able to, considering how loud the stands were—but the energy between us was almost tangible.

Still, that swirling in the bottom of my stomach persisted. It was the literal game day, where everyone else in the school seemed so happy and excited; people were yelling, cheering, waving flags of scarlet or emerald green… and while I joined in on this activity, it wasn't without that bit of envy that had been festering ever since our first week of school.

But there was no changing what had happened. For now, I would have to content myself with living vicariously through Harry.

It wasn't hard to spot him: he was easily the smallest person on our team, and his black hair was a recognizable sign. The Weasley twins stood next to him, and Captain Oliver Wood stood tall at his place in the front. The Chasers took the flank of the squad; as one unit, they seven met the Slytherin team in the middle of the pitch.

Madam Hooch approached the fourteen players, holding a whistle close to her mouth. Despite all the screaming and shouting from our classmates, her piercing voice still carried over the field. "Mount your brooms! All right, three, two, one—"

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

Despite the sour undertones to the day, it wasn't long before I was laughing: the commentator was Lee Jordan, a well-known class clown. His humor was not lost on us students as he shouted, "And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor! What an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive too—"

"JORDAN!" shouted Professor McGonagall.

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

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

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

Even though the action was elsewhere, I found myself watching Oliver Wood as he scoured the playing field. He navigated the Quidditch hoops like a natural, and the save he had managed was an impressive one. He could make a career for himself thanks to his natural talent, I was certain.

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

Quidditch was a fast-paced sport, one not for the faint of heart, and even simply watching it, I was entranced. There was something so enticing about the organized chaos, the teamwork and the grandstanding. It all just made sense to me, like wizard's chess did for Ron, or schoolwork did for Hermione.

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

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

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

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

The crowd feverishly scanned the air, attempting to see what Lee had seen. Harry and the Slytherin Seeker were diving forward… the game all but stopped as everyone watched.

And then Marcus Flint blocked Harry's path, nearly throwing him off his broom.

Madam Hooch blew the whistle for a foul, allowing the Gryffindors a free shot at the goal posts, but that wasn't enough to placate my fellow house-mates. They were no longer applauding—now they were booing, making sure the Slytherin Captain heard our great displeasure. Behind us, our classmate Dean Thomas was shouting, "Send him off, ref! Red card!"

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

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

"This isn't football, Dean," Ron sighed.

Lee Jordan seemed to be having a battle with Professor McGonagall about his commentating, too. "So after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating—"

"Jordan—"

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

"Jordan, I'm warning you…"

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

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

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

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

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

My eyes moved towards the Slytherin stands, wher two heads of silver-blond hair stood out. Elizabeth Malfoy was jumping up and down, screaming at the Slytherin players, while Draco Malfoy looked utterly embarrassed by her behavior. I couldn't help but laugh at that.

But when I turned back to Harry to see if he'd seen the Snitch, my amusement morphed to confusion. Harry was rising higher and higher, away from the stands and away from the game.

Before I could even ask Ron or Hermione what was happening, it became painfully obvious. The broomstick jerked and twisted underneath him, writing in vain to buck him off it. It rolled over and over; Harry was nearly tossed into the air, and he was maintaining grip on his Nimbus 2000 by only one hand.

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

My gaze caught onto the professor in question. Sure enough, his eyes were locked on Harry, and his mouth was moving, perhaps forming an incantation or jinx.

"What do we do?" Ron exclaimed.

"Leave that to me," said Hermione, and then she darted off.

I split my attention between Hermione, who was dashing in between stands and pews, and the game. Fred and George had started circling below Harry, hoping to catch him if he fell; everyone in the stands was on their feet, waiting and watching for what the outcome would be. Marcus Flint scored five times in all the commotion, but even Oliver Wood was hardly invested in the game anymore: his eyes were fixed on Harry, and he was shouting directions at his other Chasers to support him if he needed it.

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

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

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

The Slytherin Seeker bailed, but Harry fell off his broom and crashed into the ground. He didn't look hurt, but he did look sick… and then he coughed something small and golden into his palm, and he held it up to the crowd with the shout, "I've got the Snitch!"

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

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

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

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

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

CLANK

Hagrid had dropped his tea kettle and was looking rather aghast upon demanding, "How d'you know about Fluffy?"

"Fluffy?" Ron squeaked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Aha!" Harry exclaimed with a triumphant grin. "So there's someone named Nicolas Flamel involved, is there?"

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

Once it was the middle of the afternoon, we said our farewells and moved to leave Hagrid's hut in favor of the roaring fires of our common room. As we were passing the Quidditch pitch, I couldn't help but stare at it in longing. Even though it was already November, September of next year would be a long way away… and I wasn't the most patient of people.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Draco obviously thought it was possible. Or… did he?

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

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

Once our friends were gone, he waved me forward.

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

I allowed myself to breathe out, praying that he had overlooked the envy that I'd thought was so blatantly in my tone. Once inside the pitch, I closed the gate behind me and turned back to Harry only to see his Nimbus 2000 extended in my direction.

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

"You want a go at it?"

All those spiteful feelings vanished, making way for guilt. Before today, Harry had barely let anyone even touch the broomstick, much less ride it…

I swallowed a large lump in my throat and stared at him, dumbstruck. Taking advantage of my speechlessness, Harry smiled sheepishly and added, "You've said before that you grew up riding broomsticks with your brother and your cousin, and that it was one of your favorite things. I just thought… it must be hard, not being able to have that. I wanted to help if I could."

"Are you sure?" I whispered.

Harry nodded and further stretched the broomstick towards me.

With shaking hands, I grasped the handle of the Nimbus 2000. It was a beautiful broom… sleek and elegant in design, with the speed and functionality to match.

Not wanting to wait any longer, I kicked myself up from the ground and flew into the air. There it was again, that feeling: the one I loved so much, the feeling of being utterly unrestrained.

Flying the Nimbus was an absolute dream. It heeded the slightest of my commands and supported me better than any other broom—other than my own—I'd ever ridden. I couldn't help laughing like a maniac as I weaved through the goal posts and the now-empty Quidditch stands. It felt perfect, being up here, and there was a possibility that in less than a year, I could be up there again, officially…

I didn't know how much time I spent in the air, but I didn't want to keep Harry waiting for too long. After a little while, I touched my feet back down to the ground. It was done a little reluctantly, perhaps, but I was still grateful to have had the experience.

Before I could even begin to thank Harry for his offer and kindness, a voice exclaimed, "Not bad, not bad at all."

Gryffindor Captain Oliver Wood was emerging from the Quidditch tent, a grin on his face. He looked me up and down before tapping a finger to his chin. "Are you a first-year?"

Unable to speak, I nodded.

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

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

Oliver nodded and stepped forward. "Well I'll be sure to remember your name for next year's tryouts. You'd be a hell of a Chaser." Cocking his head sideways, he asked, "You are going to audition, right?"

I nodded, maybe a little too quickly. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Hi, everyone! Thank you so much for reading my story! I just wanted to say that you're awesome. :)

Also, to anyone who is reading this as a completed story, or has just been binging: this is a mandatory rest stop. Please feel free to take a walk, get something to eat, or get some sleep! I'll likely put other checkpoints here since I know this story is super long, and I'll do my best to try and separate big arcs so y'all know when you're free to stop reading for a time.