Disclaimer: these characters do not belong to me, unless my name change claim actually goes through. The plot was inspired by ttchaku's amazing Harry Potter: Boy Tennis Star.
This story is not recommended towards anybody under the age of 14. It WILL be emotional, and yes, this is a Non-Magic, Non-Slash story. No pairings are currently present
Thank you!
Seyeada
Chapter 1: The Great Fatalities of Kinetic Energies
He powdered his hands, rubbing them together before wiping them off on his shorts. He ignored the customary glare from one of his trainers, a older woman with fierce eyes and Scottish accent. Harry looked up, and grinned at the more dour of his trainers, and reached for his black pole; leaning against the metal benchers.
"Starter?" called out McGonagall from the tall structure that he stood obscured by.
"Seventy!" Harry called back, doing a few stretches, rolling his ankles once and pulling his elbows behind his head. He smiled at the familiarity of the day, the tsking coming from McGonagall and the condescending glare he was getting from Snape.
"Harry," started the petit woman, her voice lilting his name oddly, "we've been through this before-"
"Stop sweet talking him, Minerva, we both now the boy is too cocky to even act as if-"
Thump. Harry grinned at them, his body flattened in the perfect landing, and his hair messier than the usual disorganized mop. Snape's nostrils flared, and McGonagall hid the twitching of her lips with the stern crease in her forehead.
"Harry! What have we told you about jumping unsupervised! Do you know what could have happened?"
Snape entered the age-old lecture with his customary acerbic comments, "Idiot boy! And your stretching is abysmal! You should have learned by now! What if you had torn your muscles? Does that even penetrate your thick skull?"
Harry rolled his eyes, and was on the track before they had even issued his standard five laps.
By the time he had finished, Coach Snape had gotten his temper in his control, though there was still a suspicious vain throbbing on his neck. McGonagall, however, was sorting through a sheaf of papers. Finally, she pulled out a printed sheet and flourished it at Harry with an impatient flick. Harry grabbed it before she whacked it with him and stared at the mess of numbers with wide eyes. What did this have to do with anything?
As if reading his mind Coach McGonagall cleared her through, running a hand through her short grey hair, "Me and Severus have both decided that you learning the maths behind pole vaulting could be nothing but beneficial. So here you have the basic equation.
Ten minutes later Harry was as confused as before, if not more. He stared at them, ignoring the urge inside of his mind to throw the papers at his cruel, cruel coaches.
"And this means?"
Snape rolled his dark eyes, disconcerting Harry for a moment as he watched tunnels swirl, he blinked dizzily. "In terms better suited for your intellect, Potter, the faster you run (he made a twitchy-running like motion with his index and middle fingers) the more kinetic energy (here he shook his hands) you get. When you bend your pole (a mime of holding the fiberglass cylinder) you trade this for potential energy. The trick is to actually use this energy, Potter."
Harry nodded, his brain still not grasping onto how something so simple could get so complicated.
"So lets try an example, stand here, yes, at the white line, and start your run Harry."
Harry nodded to McGonagall, and tried to concentrate on his kisthatic--kittensic—kissantic energy turning to the real stuff. He fell, hard, feeling the pole slip through his fingers and landing roughly on the rubber-gravel. The green-eyed boy groaned, reaching for his ankle, absently rubbing his neck with the other. Snape rushed over and prodded at the injured ankle, his demeanor gruff and irritated, though his hands weren't as harsh as his tirade.
"Of all the imbecilic, moronic acts of stupidity! How many years have you been doing this for, Potter? Of course, the second we introduce the real stuff you fall. I knew you were getting arrogant, just like your father, you are."
Harry interrupted him, the throbbing pulse of his Achilles tendon temporarily forgotten. "Father?" he half demanded, half questioned.
Snape shot him another glare, his obsidian eyes framing his hooked-hawk nose.
"Let's get you to the nurse," bustled McGonagall, conveniently changed the subject as she pulled Harry's right arm over her shoulders, and with strength unusual for someone her age helped her to the sterile room Harry hated with a passion.
Harry limped out of the ward gladly, entering the main halls and subsequently the traffic of Hogwarts. Battling to his locker, and being shoved more than once, he slumped against the cool metal and dialed in his combination with practiced ease.
A large, rough hand hit his shoulder and Harry whirled around, hitting his head on the locker door next to him. "What do you want Ron?"
Ron rolled his eyes and Harry growled, why was everybody doing that to him today? "I'm waiting to go to Drama with you; you know how much I hate it!"
Hermione appeared out of this air, as if the name of her most hated subject summoned her. "That old class? You should have just taken Literature with me!"
"Or music like me!" mimicked Harry. Hermione rolled her eyes, knowing that Harry's immaturity had to do with the bandage around his right ankle.
Ron and Hermione slid through the halls, keeping their conversation up even when people broke between them. However, this resulted in a rather disjointed monologue.
"If you would just learn Ronald"
"I'm sorry, but it's not my fault that Trewlany is"
"Sometimes all you need is some effort and"
"And I swear she is trying to make my life"
Harry cut through the conversation with a smirk. "Ron, Hermione, your classes are on the west wing." The two pairs of eyes flashed with the same glint of worry, though Hermione's was for being late to a class and Ron's was for having to crawl through the disgusting, dank, west wing.
Harry smiled to himself, thoroughly satisfied, and threaded his way to his music classroom, picking up his oboe and sitting in the black plastic chair, his large green backpack shoved between mettle feet.
Mr. Lupin strode in, his worn shoes lifting easily over Draco Malfoy's propped leg, set to trip the kindly teacher. Lupin gave him a condescending look, as if to ask what prodded such immaturity and leaned forward on his podium, eyes set on every single on of them. "Okay Class, who's not here?"
A half-hearted "Me!" came from the back of the classroom and the class chuckled appreciatively of the old joke. Lupin grinned good-naturedly.
"Now does anybody know where Mr. Longbottom is?"
A wave of shrugs ran through the room and the teacher sighed, his red pen checking the roll-paper.
"Okay class, now can anyone play for me the pattern the crescendos form on page fourteen of our packets?"
Harry grinned to himself, wetting his lips and letting out a puff of breath, settling easily into the class.
It was just another year at Hogwarts.