Not yet six ... not yet six, Harry implored silently, as he reached through the curtains for his pocket watch. But his prayer didn't work: the watch insisted it was ten minutes to seven, nearly time to get up.

After a brief inner debate about whether to sleep a little longer, he decided to shower instead. The previous night—or morning, rather—he'd performed the barest of hygiene charms before collapsing into bed, and it seemed rude not to wash off a few layers before breakfast. I should ask Daphne about traditional bathing frequency during an extended Quidditch match.

By the time he emerged from the bathroom with a towel around his waist, several of his teammates were up and about. 'Day three,' announced Janet, also wearing a towel. 'Do you reckon the Snitch will turn up?'

'I have no idea,' said Harry, starting to get dressed. The few remaining boundaries between the players had disappeared in their shared quarters, and even Janet didn't comment when he turned away and dropped his towel. 'I'm just taking things one shift at a time.'

This had become the team motto, and according to Phil it was the same for Puddlemere. Day and night no longer had meaning—all that mattered was whether they were flying or not.

'Did anyone else dream about flying?' asked Gary.

The answer was a universal yes. 'Yeah, but it wasn't a match,' said Darren. 'I was just going about my normal life, only on a broom. Which got complicated when we visited my Muggle cousins, and I had throw a tablecloth over it.'

'Didn't you have a book bag?' asked Suresh.

'No, that was another dream. God, I miss Luna!'

'And I miss Ron,' said Janet. 'Stupid ginger git.'

'Oi!' cried Harry. 'What did he do to deserve that?'

'He made me fall in love with him. Completely pathetic—I'm actually planning to ask for one of his shirts today, so I can make a pillow out of it.'

'Will you give him something in return? I'm sure he misses you too.'

'Good idea!' she said, reaching for her laundry bag. 'What do you think—socks or a sports bra?'

'Knickers,' said Darren. 'Right between you and the broom.'

'Ah, well done. Clearly you've met him,' she said, pulling out a pair. 'Snitchbottom, will you give Fiona some of your world-famous boxers? She can even auction them off for WORF afterwards.'

'Great Merlin, you're right,' said Renée. 'Harry, people would pay good money for your underwear from the match.'

'No, that's where I draw the line—orphans be damned.'

Harry was the first of the starters to step outside, earning cheers from the nearby fans. 'Did you get enough sleep?' asked a witch.

'Not particularly, but I doubt Routledge did either.'

His suspicion was right; when Harry joined Phil over the pitch, the other Seeker said, 'What sick bastard decided Sleep Potions weren't permitted during a match?'

'Fucked if I know. Should we try changing that rule as well?'

'Change all the bloody rules,' growled Phil. 'In fact, when you go to Chicago, bring a sack full of clocks and throw them at the Quidditch overlords whenever you see them.'

'You sound bitter,' said Harry. 'And the team owners will never agree to a maximum length.'

'I am bitter—we're flying our bollocks off, and those capitalist swine are reaping the profit.'

'Are you sure you want to fly for England? You're sounding like a better match for Russia.'

'You mean the Soviet Union,' said Phil. 'Which doesn't exist anymore. And yes, I want to fly for England—I'm just whinging because I'm not a morning person, as you've surely noticed.'

Harry had, in fact, noticed what a night owl Phil was. During their previous shift, Routledge had goaded him into flying outrageous stunts together. 'Come on, Potter—let's wake those buggers up. How bright can you go?'

'Good question. I'm usually indoors, which means I tone it down so I don't blind anyone.'

'Not a problem tonight,' said Phil. 'In fact, you need to make it extra bright, if you want people to see it over the stadium lights.'

'Should I start now?' asked Harry, reflexively expanding into awareness.

'No, it should be part of the act. Like, don't light up until we're about to crash into each other.'

'That sounds like a terrible idea, mainly because Gemma will kill me if I get injured—not to mention Tuttle.'

'Fine, no death-defying,' said Phil, and they devised a mad series of stunts. 'Can you glow at the apex, right after the double Macintyre?'

'No, it has to be when we separate, above the stands,' said Harry, gesturing. 'And then we flip under and crisscross all the way back.'

It worked, and even in the grey light of morning, a part of Harry hoped the match would drag on another night so they could outdo themselves. Because Tuttle was right: he was having the time of his life. Yes, he missed Fiona, and he longed for a proper night's sleep, but the match itself was wonderfully all-consuming.

And Phil was the perfect rival. He'd clearly been preparing for their rematch, and Harry was grateful to have practised so much against Gemma. The best part, however, was having an audience—not because he wanted attention, but because a crowd somehow inspired his best flying. Admittedly half the fans seemed to be socialising, but the other half was riveted by the match.

'So, you promised you'd start taunting today,' called Phil on his next approach. 'Give me your worst!'

'I said I'd consider it,' retorted Harry. 'And I've decided there's no point, since you're so far beneath me.'

'Ha! Well played, Snitchbottom.'

'Right, what's your team nickname? You didn't reveal it at Seekers night out.'

'It's "Rutter." I earned a bit of a reputation my first year on the team, and the name stuck.'

'Interesting—was this based on number of partners, or overall frequency?'

'Number of partners, which isn't actually that high by Muggle standards. But it doesn't take much to scandalise wizards, as you're well aware.'

Seeing an opportunity to disrupt the other flyers, Harry flew off, but when he returned he asked Phil for details. 'I'd just broken up with my girlfriend from school,' said Phil. 'You know—the one I was supposed to marry, like a proper young wizard. Only I felt like the walls were closing in on me, and my family thought I was mad for wanting to settle down at eighteen. And you know what? They were right!'

'How did she take it?'

'She wasn't thrilled, but it turned out one of my mates had a crush on her. They have two kids now.'

'That's wizards for you,' said Harry. 'Will you stick to the Muggle timetable, then?'

'You mean not marry until I'm thirty? No, I definitely want to start sprogging sooner than that. My parents were both past forty when I was born, and I decided early on I wanted to be the cool, young dad.'

'I was supposed to have one of those,' mused Harry. 'Do you have a partner in mind? Your date from the WORF auction, perhaps?'

'I'll have you know she looked fantastic close up,' said Phil. 'But no, we didn't have sex; she was married, if you can believe it. And a huge Puddlemere fan—I'm sure she's in the stands somewhere.'

A mad idea formed in Harry's mind. 'What would you say to a pure-blood princess?'

Phil turned towards Harry with interest. 'Lydia Travers?'

'No, she's taken. And considerably more experienced than the witch I have in mind.'

Phil's look of interest changed to horror. 'Not a virgin!'

'Oh yes. A determined one, in fact. She's waiting for true love.'

'No, thanks! And besides, she probably wouldn't come near the likes of me.'

'That's where you're wrong. Or at least I think so. I definitely talked her down to the wrong kind of half-blood, and she may be willing to go full Muggle-born. But there's a catch.'

'Oh no,' said Phil with mock disappointment. 'And here it sounded so promising. What's the catch?'

'You'd have to take her surname,' said Harry, grinning. 'She's heiress to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Greengrass.'

Phil let out a laugh. 'One of your classmates, I assume. Is she pretty?'

'Very. And clever as well.'

'And pure as the driven snow,' said Phil. 'But why would she want someone like me? Surely she's got heaps of suitors.'

'No, because of the surname problem. Wizards in her social class are generally too proud to take someone else's name.'

'But I wouldn't be?' said Phil dryly. 'Even though I've busted my arse making a name for myself?'

'That's right. Are you interested?'

Phil was silent for a moment, then flew away. I'll take that as a no, thought Harry. He was worried he'd caused serious offence, but Phil returned a few minutes later.

'Would I have to engage in traditional courtship?' he asked. 'Chaperones, and all that.'

'No. She's ready to broaden her horizons. You'd just have to be patient about the physical part.'

'Very patient, by the sound of things. And do you think we'd actually like each other, or is this just part of your grand scheme to make wizarding Britain more egalitarian?'

'I have no clue whether you'd like each other. But I think you'd enjoy the challenge, and I suspect she'd like being pursued by someone who knows what he's doing.'

'And why weren't you interested? Is it the surname thing?'

'In part. But I'd rather not marry a traditional pure-blood, given the choice.'

'Then why are you trying to foist one on me?' said Phil irritably. 'And isn't your current girlfriend a pure-blood?'

'She is, but not like Daphne, who's exactly the kind of witch Walburga Black would want me to marry. And I don't want House Black reverting to form as soon as I'm gone. Not that Daphne's like that, but you get the point.'

'Right, and you've already seduced one pure-blood princess. Which looked like fun, actually. So yeah, count me in.'

'Er, I wasn't suggesting you seduce her. More like you get to know each other and see what happens.'

'Fear not, she'll be safe with me,' said Phil. 'Unless she doesn't want to be.'

They alternated flying aggressively that morning, and Harry kept renewing his intention to spot the Snitch. He actually found himself cultivating a relationship with it, even though it hadn't appeared once. 'I know you're out there,' he murmured, too quiet for anyone to hear. 'Those little wings, I can just feel them. Struggling desperately in my hand.' His flying slowed down, and he felt powerful energy rise from the base of his torso. 'Like eyelashes, or a darting tongue. And cold in my fingers, but then warm. And that feeling of knowing I've conquered you,' he said, with a wave of pleasure.

'Oh bugger!' he cried out. 'I'm horny for the Snitch!'

'The word is "snatch,"' called Janet, who was within earshot. 'And I'm sorry, but you'll just have to wait.'

He told Phil what had happened during their next parley. 'I get it,' said Phil, flexing his right hand. 'I can't remember the last time I've been on a broom this long without holding a Snitch.'

'That final moment in a chase,' said Harry. 'That last burst of speed.'

'Oh, I know. And it's even better on the Firebolt, when it kicks a little.' Phil moaned slightly, then said, 'Is this a gay thing?'

'Buggered if I know,' said Harry, and they both laughed. 'No, but it's a bit like Light magic. All the sensations get mixed up somehow. It's brilliant.'

'I'm scared to try Light magic, after what happened to Rees. The last thing I need is for my broom to stop working.'

'No, we need more Light wizards playing Quidditch—that way Spudmore has to address the problem. And besides, don't you want to learn the Patronus Charm?'

'You're right, I do. Will you teach us once the season's over?'

'It's on my list. After flying for England, of course,' he said, in a deliberate attempt to provoke.

Their attention was grabbed by a shriek, followed immediately by a whistle. 'Time out for a Puddlemere injury,' called a referee, and Phil rushed to the ground. Harry hung back, hoping no one was seriously hurt—not just for the obvious reason, but because an injury this early in the day could prove exhausting for the remaining players.

Tuttle had explained the rules on Friday. 'We can only have fourteen players on a given day, which means if one of you gets injured, your thirteen teammates need to cover all the shifts until midnight.' She showed them a timetable, in which blocks of colour showed how their shifts would overlap to make up for the missing player; instead of four hours on and four hours off, they'd be required to play six hours on with only a four-hour break.

The patterns varied depending on who was injured. For example, the Keepers would be unaffected if a Beater was injured, since the extra Beater would be drawn from the Chasers. And only at midnight could a new player be added to the roster, returning the shifts to normal.

Tuttle's instructions boiled down to 'For the love of fuck, don't get injured,' and 'If you have to hurt yourself, do it just before midnight.' They would draw extra players from the training staff—namely Bruce, Owen, and a trainer named Becky. But most injuries could be treated within twenty-four hours, if not sooner, so the idea was to bring back the original player as soon as possible.

On Saturday before the match, Ron had provided grisly tales of historic World Cups in which one or both teams was whittled almost to nothing. 'According to Charlie, during the 1954 final, Morocco lost twelve players in a single day, and Australia lost thirteen. Which meant for several hours, it was just two Beaters and a Chaser trying to keep things going until they could refresh the roster.'

Harry was still watching the knot of players on the pitch, along with a Healer and several trainers. 'Puddlemere Chaser Donna Pryce is out with a minor injury,' came the announcement. 'Gameplay resumes in one minute.'

Phil gave Harry the details. 'Broken collarbone, which means Skele-Gro. She won't be back until midnight tomorrow.'

'Ugh, sorry. Does that affect your shifts?' asked Harry.

'No, just the Chasers. Who are extremely keen for me to catch the Snitch, by the way.'

But the Snitch did not appear that morning, and their shift ended at noon. Harry was thrilled to see Fiona in the skybenches, bundled in the scarf and coat she'd worn in Boston. 'How are you doing?' she asked, and for a moment he just stared.

'I miss you,' he said, longing to be alone with her. 'God, you're everything I want!'

She laughed. 'This again. Are you going to be lovesick for the entire match?'

'Most likely. But look, my teammates are the same way.' They were surrounded by the other Cannons, nearly all of whom were interacting with their partner just as Harry was. Janet had buried her head on Ron's shoulder and seemed disinclined to let go, and Ryan kept kissing Hermione on the forehead. Darren had somehow contrived to sit at Luna's feet, with his head in her lap, and she was tracing what looked like runes on his back.

'You're right,' said Fiona, 'and I'm glad to know that if you ever get tired of me, we should make you fly another long match.'

'I couldn't possibly get tired of you,' he said, nuzzling her neck. 'How long can you stay right now?'

She had to leave in less than an hour, so Harry performed hygiene charms rather than showering, to maximise their time together. They sat in a modified pair of seats as he devoured his lunch, and afterwards they reclined and watched the match. She insisted he not get up when she left, since he was terribly comfortable, and they probably scandalised onlookers with their supine kiss goodbye.

Janet took Fiona's place and wrapped an arm around him. 'Are you still with us, Snitchbottom?'

'Yeah,' he said, curling into her. 'And you?'

'I'm all right. This is very weird though—is this what Light magic feels like?'

'Can you be more specific?'

'Like a big confusing jumble. Not while I'm flying—everything makes sense then. But the rest of the time feels ... unreal somehow. Like I'm in limbo until the next shift starts.'

'No, that's not really how I'd describe Light magic. But you seem pretty affectionate, which rings true.'

Janet kissed him on the back of the head. 'That's because you're my Snitchbottom. You know I love you, right?'

'I do,' he said fondly. 'And I love you too, but you already knew that from my bouts of accidental Light magic.'

'It's still nice to hear. I sometimes worry you don't actually like me, and you're just being polite since we're stuck together.'

Harry turned around to face her. 'You don't really believe that, do you?'

She looked startled. 'Er, yeah, kind of. It all feels normal when we're together, but when I tell my other friends about our conversations, they say I'm too harsh.'

'Because you take the piss?'

'Yeah. And my nan says I shouldn't have pressured you to host those parties. She's afraid you'll think I'm a freeloader, and that I'm just using you.'

'No, that couldn't be farther from the truth,' said Harry, placing his hand on her arm. 'You have no idea how much I appreciate your friendship. I was so nervous when I joined the Cannons, because I'd had so few normal relationships. And I was afraid I wouldn't know how to act around everyone, and that you'd all dislike me for some reason.'

'Dislike you?' she exclaimed. 'You're the whole reason England is safe again!'

'It's only since after the war that most people like me. And for the first year I was all "Glare-y Potter," to the point where even the other Aurors gave me a wide berth. So when you and the other players immediately treated me just like any new recruit ...' He closed his eyes for a moment. 'It was probably the most normal I'd felt in my entire life.'

Janet looked as if she might cry. 'God, I just want to go back in time and hug you—repeatedly. In fact, if I ever get my hands on a long-range Time-Turner I might do just that. I probably can't actually fix anything, because rules, but if you wake up some morning and suddenly remember some tall weirdo hugging you on random occasions, you'll know it worked.'

Harry smiled as he remembered some of the 'weirdos' who'd fawned over him as a child, before he even knew he was magical. 'Cheers, I'll keep that in mind.'

'And I don't just like you because you saved the world,' she continued. 'You're also a sweetheart and unexpectedly clever, and there's just something about you that makes me want to sit you down and feed you homemade pastries, only I don't know how to cook or bake or whatever it's called with pastries.'

'Baking,' said Harry. 'But I don't know how to do that either—all I can cook is breakfast, as you'll discover once you start staying over.'

'Right, I'll be invading your house as well. Are you sure you don't mind? My mum is worried you'll think I'm taking advantage.'

'Taking advantage? The house is huge, and I have two house-elves to cook and clean up. And besides, don't you know how happy you've made Ron?'

'I think so, although he's another one Nan says I'm too hard on.'

'No offence, Janet, but your nan is talking bollocks. I mean yeah, you give him a hard time, and that Italian accent thing was a bit much. But he always thinks it's hilarious afterwards, and you're nice to him in all the ways that matter.'

'Yeah, he's a big softie,' she said tenderly. 'We even take turns spooning each other at night—Merlin, I miss him!'

She gently manoeuvred Harry back into spooning position, and they lay there for several minutes until Tuttle suggested everyone go to bed. 'Get your winks while you can,' she ordered. 'You'll appreciate it later.'

They went inside, and Harry removed his team robes and climbed into bed. He quickly sank into a deep slumber, protected by the thick curtains, which made it all the more jarring when Owen pulled them open.

'Gemma's been injured, and we need you to play.'

Harry was disorientated but sat up in an instant. 'What happened? Will she be all right?'

'I don't know yet—I rushed in to get you. Quick, get your kit on.'

A quick dash to the loo, and Harry pulled on his team robes. 'What time is it?'

'Quarter to two, which means you'll be flying for more than six hours. Were you at least able to sleep?'

'Yeah, I'm good,' said Harry, using his wand to lace his boots. They rushed outside, and Harry quickly ate an energy bar and downed some water while a referee checked him for illegal charms.

Tuttle arrived on her broom and said, 'Broken pelvis, same as you. Christ, at this rate she'll start shagging C-squareds and flogging underwear!'

'Does this mean Owen has to fly tomorrow?'

'Yes, or Bruce,' said Tuttle. 'But Owen's the better spotter by far.' After providing a few instructions, she clasped Harry on the shoulder and said, 'Go on, get out there, and show them what a world-class Seeker looks like.'

Harry flew out and a whistle blew, signalling the match was restarting. He set a strong intention to catch the Snitch, partly to spare Owen the risk of injury, but also because the Cannons' chance of victory would plummet when his teammate Elspeth took over. She was an excellent Chaser but had no Seeker training, and if the Snitch appeared during her shift they'd be at a huge disadvantage.

After several minutes of circling, Harry approached the other Seeker. 'Aaron Goodall, I presume?'

'That's right,' said Goodall. 'And who might you be?'

'I'm Gemma's reserve. My name's Harry.'

Goodall laughed. 'So it is. Shall I call you that, or do I need to stumble over "Potter-Black" for the next few hours?'

'Whatever you prefer.'

'Actually, I'll go with Potter, if that's all right. You've come up quite a lot during my chats with Rees, and I'd rather not lose momentum. Will she be all right?'

'I think so. Broken pelvis, which means they're probably dosing her with Skele-Gro as we speak. She'll be back after midnight tomorrow, assuming the match is still going.'

'Give her my best when you see her,' said Goodall. 'She was great fun to taunt, and she gives as good as she gets.'

'Too right. Will you insist on taunting me, or can we just bypass that stage?'

'Nice try, Potter, but I can't let the opportunity pass. By the way, obligatory preamble about how I owe you a lifelong debt of gratitude for services rendered, even though you cost me my starting position.'

Recalling that Routledge hadn't been allowed to play during the final year of the war, Harry said, 'Are you actually upset about that?'

'No, Phil's a good friend, and it was no fun being forced to play for Death Eaters. But I can't not taunt you, particularly after everything I put Rees through. Poor thing—I tortured her for hours about her hopeless crush on you. No wonder she let a Bludger find her.'

Keeping his expression neutral, Harry said, 'How'd she take it?'

'Like an ace, most of the time. Though she didn't like the bit where I said Quidditch was the only setting where you and she might be equals. She flipped me the bird and terrorised the Chasers after that, and then she got Bludgered. So I didn't get to point out that none of us are your equal—not even Phil.'

'Bollocks!' began Harry, but Goodall cut him off.

'Phil's as good a Seeker as you are, and Rees is right up there, but Quidditch is hardly your sole claim to fame. And unlike the rest of us, you don't have a sell-by date.'

Harry had heard that sort of thing before, and it always made him uncomfortable. His teammates routinely speculated about their dismal post-Quidditch careers, and even Harry made jokes about driving the Knight Bus. But unlike his teammates, he didn't need to worry about how he'd support a family once he was too old—or too injured—to play.

'I have a sell-by date for underwear modelling,' he said dryly.

'Oh right. I stand corrected—you're exactly like the rest of us.'

'I told you so,' said Harry, flying off. But instead of feinting he played it safe, as Tuttle had instructed. 'Goodall's no Routledge,' she'd said during his hasty preparation to fly, 'and you're better off staying in one piece. If we start falling seriously behind, go ahead and fuck with their Chasers, but otherwise take it easy.'

He automatically expanded into awareness, and even though he was hyper-vigilant, the experience was relaxing. The choice to avoid Goodall meant he had to dodge Bludgers, but the Puddlemere Beaters aimed mainly for the Cannons Chasers, and vice versa.

The score remained close, so Harry was able to continue in the same vein for the next hour. He sensed disappointment from the crowd, who'd grown accustomed to wild Seeker exploits, but he knew even Draco would support the decision. And if he complained, Harry could point out that only a Gryffindor would be stupid enough to fly recklessly without a proper reserve.

Harry passed the time by imagining which of his dead mates were in the stands. Mad-Eye Moody, he decided. The grizzled ex-Auror would surely be ready for an attack, since it was the perfect chance for a disgruntled Death Eater to take down the Boy Who Lived. Moody certainly wouldn't use a satchel—not after months in a trunk—but also because he wouldn't take his magical eye off the crowd for even a second. Harry imagined him tucked under blankets, his normal eye closed, while his magical eye spun in a never-ending search for threats.

Harry also decided Hedwig was flying behind him, just out of view. Maybe that'll be my next tattoo, he thought, picturing her on his back somewhere. He laughed, imagining a neighbouring tattoo of a bat-like Severus Snape, flying through the Great Hall window. Talk about a tribute!

In a weird flight of fancy, he pictured Rob Dunning in the stands, along with his wife and child. As close friends of Owen, they'd probably have met Harry at one of his parties, but otherwise they'd be near-strangers. Harry might have noticed Fiona was pretty, same as Fleur or any of the other married young women he knew, but he'd have no inkling of the closeness they could have shared.

His feelings for her were nearly as strong as what he'd felt for Ekantika Singh. He and Fiona were intertwined at nearly every level, and even a shared look was enough to overwhelm him. They both still carried grief, but somehow it merged into a single pool, where they comforted one another. Maybe the Dunnings are right about water, he thought, yearning for a long soak in their bath.

He eventually realised that thinking about ponds and babbling brooks was a bad idea. Five hours to go, he thought, looking at the clock, and he wondered whether he'd need a loo break. Tuttle had told him Elspeth could swap in for a few minutes if necessary, once her Chaser shift ended, and he could have a quick bite as well. She'd be unlikely to catch the Snitch, but at least the Cannons wouldn't be one player short.

Goodall found him once more before leaving the match. 'Do we have time for another round of taunts? This might be my last chance.'

'Sure, why not,' said Harry. 'Which version do you want? Arrogant wanker or elitist snob?'

'What's the difference?'

'Arrogant wanker says stuff like, "I slew a Basilisk when I was twelve." Elitist snob is more of an impersonation of people I knew at Hogwarts, although I've probably internalised some of it by now.'

'Let's have elitist snob,' said Goodall. 'You're a lord, after all.'

'Good point. And I can practise my new accent.' In his best Malfoy drawl, he said, 'So, where did you attend school anyway? Beauxbatons, or somewhere in North America?'

'Canterworth, in Surrey. Not far from where you grew up, actually.'

'What are you talking about?' said Harry with contempt. 'I was raised in a castle by immortal warlocks. I've never even been to Surrey—those were spurious rumours planted by my rivals.'

'Sorry, my mistake. What was the castle like?'

'There's no point describing it—you'd only be jealous. But tell me about your little school.'

'It's small, with only about twenty students per year. But the classrooms were mixed-age, with lots of self-study, and we were encouraged to cultivate our strengths.'

Harry sniffed in derision. 'How tiresome. Did any of your professors try to kill you?'

'Sadly, no. I suppose that's the price I pay for not having any prophecies about me.'

'That's a pity—prophecies are brilliant. Except for the dead parents, of course.'

'Are you saying that if I eliminated my parents somehow, I'd get a prophecy of my very own?'

'I never thought of it that way, but it's worth a try. After all, dead parents mean you inherit sooner.'

Goodall laughed. 'I can just see tomorrow's headline: Harry Potter says "Kill your parents!"'

'That would definitely draw the ire of Mothers Against Harry Potter,' he noted. Renewing his drawl, he said, 'Talking of mothers, what's your Blood Status? Obviously you were good enough to fly during the war, but the bar was awfully low, don't you think?'

'Low enough for me. Shame my father couldn't attend, though.'

'I agree—immersion in wizarding culture is really the only hope for people like that.'

'Is that what they're saying now?' asked Goodall.

'Not in so many words, but yeah,' said Harry, speaking normally again. 'Apparently I've been promoted from half-blood to blood traitor, and they're trying to win me over with elf-made wine.'

'Is it working?'

'A bit. Obviously I'll never practice the Dark Arts or hold anyone's Blood Status against them, but magic itself is brilliant. In fact, I'm trying to convince them that's what really unites us, but it's an uphill battle.'

'Then keep climbing,' said Goodall approvingly. 'Or bring a broom.'

The shift change arrived, but several players from both sides stayed put, due to the day's injuries. Harry saluted his fellow long-haulers, who saluted back, and he was buoyed by their camaraderie. We'll always have this in common, he thought with satisfaction.

Phil flew to meet him. 'I see someone had a rude awakening this afternoon.'

'Yes, literally. But I'm sure I'll sleep well tonight.'

'For what, three hours? You're doomed.'

'Do I need to tell you about the Battle of Hogwarts again?'

'No, I remember. You went twenty-four hours without sleep, killed Voldemort, then shagged your girlfriend six times. Well done.'

Merlin, I can really laugh at anything, thought Harry, recalling the heart-wrenching aftermath of the final battle. 'That's right. So don't get any ideas you'll beat me on account of fatigue.'

'Of course not. I'll beat you because all England is crying for someone other than you to represent us. And the gods themselves are rooting against the Magpies.'

'Ugh, the last thing we need is more eyes on the match. You'd think these people attending satchel parties and ignoring us would make the Snitch more inclined to appear.'

'I blame the periscopes,' said Phil. 'And the Cannons' foreign broadcasts—do they really air your matches in Japan?'

'Oh, right ... yeah. Some other countries as well.'

'God help us when the broadcasts reach other galaxies. The Snitch will probably disappear—retroactively—and we'll be pulled from our graves to keep flying.'

'I don't know,' said Harry. 'Maybe tonight's the night. After all, I'd hate to miss Seeker's night out.'

'I'm counting on missing it,' said Phil. 'Either I'll still be playing, or we'll be at the Puddlemere Arms celebrating.'

'You at least have to make an appearance, if only to lord it over Gilstrap and Hobbs.'

'Good point—I should bring the League Cup, so they can have a closer look.'

Harry did, in fact, have a feeling the Snitch might turn up. It might have been wishful thinking, but somehow he saw himself sleeping properly that night. Part of him hoped he was wrong—he was enjoying the weird energy of the match—but he also yearned for a return to normal life. I'll be a hero at Pratt's no matter what, he thought, and he wondered whether he might use the match to attract an ally or two.

Phil was the first to feint that afternoon, and Harry followed him. He knew Phil hadn't spotted the Snitch, but it was another opportunity to gauge how they'd do in a chase, which might come down to a contest between the Firebolt's acceleration and the Silver Arrow's handling.

'Bloody Light magic,' grumbled Harry when he caught up with Phil. 'I might have a chance with turns, but I'm fucked in a straight race.'

'Too bad, glow-boy. All's fair above the pitch.'

'You know full well that refers to taunting, not brooms.'

'Oh, shall I taunt you as well?' asked Phil. 'My teammates gave me a few more ideas during the break.'

'No, that's quite all right. See you around,' said Harry, flying off. The next few hours passed slowly, but Harry was reluctant to break the tedium with stunts or conversation, since every instinct told him the Snitch was coming. Maybe I'm sensitive to observational magic too, he mused. Merlin knows I've been observed enough.

He thought back to how invisible he'd been as a child, which had suited him at the time, since attention meant scolding. His oversized clothes only attracted scorn, and Dudley's gang had stalked him like prey. Really, it was no wonder he shunned attention at Hogwarts, having learnt to associate it with harm.

The sole exception was Quidditch. Harry's relationship with the wizarding world was anything but normal, but playing Quidditch was a glimpse of what his life might have been like had his parents lived. And the stakes were both high and insignificant; compared to war, it hardly mattered who won a match. He certainly hoped to win the cup someday, but the Cannons fans would be happy regardless. I couldn't have picked a better team, he thought affectionately.

Five hours into his shift, Harry finally needed a break. Using a prearranged signal, he flew to the skybenches, where he quickly used the loo, drank some water, and scarfed down a sandwich. Elspeth took his place in the air, and to his relief the Snitch didn't appear while he was away.

But he spotted it half an hour later, and just as in their prior match, it was closer to Routledge. Last time Harry had raced towards his rival, drawing him from the Snitch, and Phil had fallen for it. But he knew it wouldn't work—Phil had warned him multiple times he was ready for Harry's tricks, and that the League Cup had his name on it.

He continued to circle lazily, hoping the Snitch wouldn't match their progress. Unfortunately it zigged even closer to Routledge, further narrowing Harry's options. In an act of desperation, he flew into a tangle of Chasers, hoping to draw Phil into the melee. Phil took the bait—and so did the Beaters, seeing an opportunity to wreak havoc. The Snitched zagged again, but this time Phil saw it, and the chase began.

Harry couldn't predict who would win. His Silver Arrow handled like a dream, weaving flawlessly through the flurry of brooms. But Phil took the long way around—a decided gamble—and the Firebolt Ultra delivered. In the aftermath, Quidditch observers debated whether Potter could have pulled it off, but most agreed he had too many disadvantages. They commended his effort and his undeniably superior spotting, but it was Routledge who made the catch.

'Puddlemere wins, 970-830!' called the announcer. 'Three cheers to Puddlemere United, winners of the 1999 League Cup!'

In what the Prophet later called 'classic Chudley sportsmanship,' the entire stadium cheered wildly for the new league champions. 'Hip, hip, hooray!' cried Harry, tears streaming down his cheeks, and he and the other Cannons landed to get out of the way. They dismounted and hugged, same as if they'd won, and shot bright orange sparks from their wands.

'We can hardly shoot navy blue sparks,' argued Janet, in reference to the Puddlemere colours. 'And besides, they couldn't have won without us.'

After taking multiple victory laps, the Puddlemere players swooped down to the pitch and urged the Cannons to take a lap. The fans not already on their feet stood and cheered, and the stands fluttered with pennants for both teams. Harry had never taken a lap after losing, but this didn't feel like defeat—they'd played their hearts out, and he was proud of the Cannons' performance.

Down on the pitch, both teams celebrated together. 'Potter, you brilliant bastard,' said an overwrought Oliver Wood. 'I have never been so happy to see you not catch the Snitch.' He was drenched in champagne and crushed Harry in an enormous hug. The other players followed suit, and everyone drank from the bottles that circulated, overjoyed the match was finally over.

After a long round of questions from reporters, invited guests flooded the pitch, and Harry was thrilled to see Fiona. 'I lost!' he cried triumphantly.

'So I hear! I can't stay long—I need to put Matthew to bed—but do you want to come over later?'

'Can I use your bathtub? I kept thinking about it during the match.'

'I wouldn't dream of coming between you and a bathtub right now,' she said, laughing.

The players and their guests celebrated a while longer, then Harry flew up to the team quarters to shower and change. He would have liked to visit Gemma at St Mungo's, but Owen said to wait until morning, and they delayed the ceremonial cannon blast as well. Tuttle would deliver her notes later that week, which meant Harry was free to go.

Free to go, he thought, reminded of the odd lightness he'd felt after the Battle of Hogwarts. Only this time, thank Merlin, there wasn't a hint of grief.