2.

One year ago

Brock thumped his head against the dining table after pushing a pile of applications aside. "No more," he whined. "Please, no more."

Charlotte tsked at her husband without looking up from the form she was reading. "We haven't even started the season yet, honey," she reminded him. She tucked a loose bit of curly bronze hair behind her ear and adjusted her spectacles before making a small mark on the parchment. "How about this one?" She showed the application to Brock. "Hank Prow. Looks a bit mean, doesn't he? You want a mean guy this year, don't you?"

"Ugh." Brock's voice was muffled against his arms. Only his thick head of mousy blond hair could be seen. "Why did you marry me, Charlie? I'm a good-for-nothing. Can't even pick a team right. Can't think straight. I think I'm going to be ill…"

Charlotte smiled privately. "I've always loved a good underdog story," she remarked. "Anyway, I'm helping you, aren't I? Why aren't you happy about that?"

He peeked up at her, his deep brown eyes clouded with misery and a lot of love. "If it weren't for you," he sighed. He took her hand in his and kissed it. "You're the best."

"See?" Charlotte winked. "We're bonding already."

Brock laughed tiredly. "Now let's look at this Hank Prow, shall we?" He took the parchment from her hand.

Puddlemere United had fallen greatly in ranks over the past two decades. With the loss of team structure, a flurry of coaches that wouldn't stick around for longer than one season, a pressuring committee that wanted results, and a threat of shutting down the whole division, Brock Lightmead was in over his head. He had been a coach for years but he had coached the junior teams that played in countrywide championships. When he had received the offer to head the Puddlemere United three years ago, he had thought about all those times he had spent following this very team's triumphs and tribulations. He had said yes without a second thought.

He was having major second thoughts after two seasons…

He had to build a team from scratch. After the harsh blowout at the past few championship matches, Puddlemere United players had dropped like flies, moving to different teams instead of continuing to sink into a downward spiral. Men and women who did apply to the team were wannabes whose only experience was with minor league Quidditch. Playing in an international field was nothing like flying around the schoolyard. Brock, the forty-year-old coach from London, was at a loss. He had advertised for the team, put the word out, tried to excite the Quidditch community with just a glimmer of hope that the Puddlemere United could make through to the playoffs this year. Nothing. He was met with nothing.

How was he supposed to get paid if he didn't have a team who could play in a single match?

"Most of these are subs at best," he finally said. "They need a lot of training. That's time we don't have. The first match is in one month. Where will I get a team by then?"

The doorbell rang.

"Oh?" Charlotte arched a wicked brow as she slowly turned towards Brock. "Speak of the devil, why don't you?"

"I didn't do it," Brock said while getting up off his chair. He glanced at the clock. It was well past dinnertime. He hadn't been expecting anyone. He made the short walk to the foyer, his mind still on the problems before him.

He wasn't expecting to open the door to Harry Potter.

"Mr. Lightmead?"

"Uh, um, yes." He quickly pulled himself together. "H-how can I help you?"

"I'm Harry Potter."

Brock knew that. Who didn't know Harry Potter? He was akin to a god in these parts of the world. On top of his contribution to the end of the war, he was now gaining good standing in his post as an Auror for the British Ministry of Magic. He had gotten dozens of medals over the course of thirteen years, multiple commendations for his work for both the Muggle and the Wizarding world, many battle scars, and a name recognized worldwide for being one of the top law enforcement agents specializing in Dark Arts.

So what was he doing at the doorstep of a washed up Quidditch coach?

"How can I help you?" Brock asked again.

Harry took a deep breath in. "I want to join your team," he exhaled loudly.

Thinking that it was some sort of an elaborate joke, Brock started laughing. How absurd was this? Harry Potter coming up to him and asking for a position on the Puddlemere United… Whoever was trying to pull this off must be very confident.

Harry, misunderstanding the nervous laughter, rapidly said, "I've played Quidditch at school. I'm a pretty good Seeker. Youngest, in fact. A-and I was made captain… um… later on…" He trailed off when he saw the older man's expression fall all of a sudden.

Brock could feel color draining from his face. "W-wait. You're serious?" he croaked as his throat grew dry. "You seriously want to play?"

"Yes."

"Oh my God…"

Five minutes later, Harry was sitting at the dining table with a glass of juice in his hands and the Lightmeads peering at him from across the cramped room. He shifted in his seat while keeping his head down and taking small sips of lemonade. In his plain grey shirt and dark jeans, he hardly looked threatening. Charlotte and Brock hadn't been expecting the Harry Potter to be so tame.

She cleared her throat to break the long silence. "You want to join the Puddlemere United?" she asked just to make sure.

"I understand that I'm hardly qualified for this," Harry acknowledged without a trace of resentment. He set the glass on the table and locked his fingers around it. "I also understand that you're having a difficult time finding players." He looked up at Brock pointedly. "If you wouldn't mind mulling things over… I could be very valuable in the long run."

"Mulling things over?" Brock snorted before he could stop himself. "I'd be a fool to say 'no' to you."

He wasn't expecting the sharp look he received from his guest. He bit his tongue again. He didn't know why he kept blurting things out in front of a celebrity. Nerves, most likely. Harry Potter was inside his house. He never thought such a day would come. To say that he was star struck would be an understatement. In any case, he made sure to purse his lips tight so as not to say anything else upsetting.

Harry glanced away and picked up the glass again, taking another sip.

Charlotte was still trying to figure the strange man out. "Being on the team is going to be full-time job," she hesitated.

"I know that."

"You are going to quit your work at the Ministry?"

There was another strained silence that followed. This time Charlotte was the one who bit her tongue. She must have said something awful because Mr. Potter didn't look well at all.

He stared at the swirling juice in his cup for beat before answering. "I've already resigned."

The Lightmeads inhaled sharply.

"I know how this looks," he continued. "No, I haven't had a mental breakdown. No, I haven't done anything wrong. And no, I'm not pulling a stunt." By the frustrated way he said that, they knew that he had had to explain himself many times to many different people already. He sounded fed up and exhausted by the tenth degree questioning he had been subjected to for the past fortnight. "I just need to play Quidditch."

"But why us?" Brock wanted to know. "There has to be at least half a dozen teams that want you, Mr. Potter."

Harry shook his head firmly. "I want to play for this team."


Riley Varus came from a long line of Quidditch players. His parents, their parents, and their parents had played all around the world – so much so that the name 'Varus' conjured an image of a speeding broom in the minds of many ardent fans. He came from old money as well. So he had absolutely no qualms with playing for the Puddlemere United despite their poor pay. He was one of two players who had stuck around for the past seven years. Now twenty-five, the dark-haired, slender-built man was among the top in his area of expertise – Keeping. Always keeping a cool head about him, he was never without a ready smile and encouraging word. He lived and breathed Quidditch.

He was the first to arrive at the pitch just before seven in the morning on the frigid autumn day. He waved at his coach who was setting up orange pylons all around the field, readying the grass for ground warm-up. Riley loved tryout season. He liked to size himself up in comparison to the 'young ones', just to make sure he was still one of the best. Over the years, he had received many, many offers from other teams who wanted to recruit him. He had been promised furnished flats, increased salary, and a cushy life. However, his sense of loyalty made him stick with the limping Puddlemere United. His mother had played for this team until the day she retired. He couldn't abandon the sentiment, no matter how many awful defeats he faced. He was always so sure that they could win the next match. There was always hope, he said.

"Good break?" Brock shouted across the field at his favorite player.

"Incredible!" Riley shouted back. He had gone to Japan for a month with his family. He never knew a place could be both exotic and modern at the same time. However, he hadn't flown in weeks because of that trip. He was practically buzzing now that he was on the field. "Can I start?"

Brock could hear the desperation in the young man's voice and he smiled. "Go on."

Riley was in the air in a matter of seconds. How he missed the earthy smell of a Quidditch pitch. He zoomed from one end to the next, grazing his fingers against the hoops as he passed by them. He wasn't particularly fast on the broom, but his reflexes were phenomenal. He could tell the trajectory of the Quaffle and prepare himself for a save in the blink of an eye. He was great at sprinting. He had trained his broom over the years to follow his slightest touch. The Nimbus was worn, had chips and cracks on the staff, and broken brushes at the back, but it was a part of his body. Having a broom in his hands had always comforted him ever since he was a child.

He made a few lazy loops around the end zone, his eyes drawing towards the gate where a lone figure lumbered down the path. He could tell who it was without having to look twice. He zoomed down at Hector O'Reilly with a loud whoop. "Hey, Heck," he cheered as he came to a stop beside the large, red-bearded man. "What's up?" He hovered by Hector's shoulder, which meant that he was still about six feet off the ground.

Big Heck grunted. Man of few words, this one. His scraggly rusty hair was tied at the back and he wore his Quidditch uniform, as always. Weighing twenty stones, a person of his size should not be able to get on a broom and take off, but he defied gravity when he flew. He was lethal with his bat. Unfortunately, his aim while hitting a Bludger away left something to be desired. He had taken out his own team members more than once with his wild swinging. But he was an excellent source of intimidation on the field. His sharp, angled face was always stony and his voice was choppy when he spoke. He wasn't used to words. He would rather say his piece on the field.

Hector and Riley went way back. They had started on the team at the same time. Despite the fact that Big Heck showed no attachment to anything at all, the two of them almost always stuck together before and after matches. Riley was the one who kept instigating conversations and Hector never showed any irritation. He was one patient Irishman.

"You won't believe the things I have to tell you!" Riley said excitedly. "I've taken photos too. I'll show you after."

"Hmm."

"We stayed at this awesome resort. Very traditional. We had to sleep on mats. Had to figure that situation out pretty quickly. Once you get used to the food, it's amazing. We visited so many monasteries."

Over the course of ten minutes, the pitch was filling up with players in various stages of preparation, some of them taping up their hands, others flying circles around the field, and a few wiping down their brooms with wax. Brock surveyed the small turnout. Twenty men and women. He would be lucky if ten of them knew anything about this game.

He tried not to stare at Harry Potter who was sitting on the damp grass, stretching his legs. For some reason, none of the other players seemed to recognize him. They were too preoccupied with their own nerves. Brock figured that was for the best.

When fifteen past seven struck, he blew his whistle to gather the players together by the sidelines. "Morning," he said loudly. "Thanks for coming out today. These are preliminary tryouts. You will be evaluated by me and these two veterans." He gestured at Riley and Hector with a short wave on an arm. "Impress us."

The practice started off with a few laps around the field, which was easy enough to do. It helped them get their blood pumping. Afterwards, the twenty candidates were sent off to one end of the field by the hoops.

"When I sound my whistle," Brock instructed, "sprint to the first set of pylons. Drop down into five push-ups. Then sprint to the next set. Five sit-ups. Next set. Tag the line. Then sprint back. Three reps." He blew the whistle.

The exercise helped him decide who had endurance versus speed versus muscle. The lightest players sped through the course without many problems. While they struggled with stamina, they finished in record time. The heavier players weren't as flighty, especially at the last repetition. But most of them were able to make it through without faltering. When he blew the whistle again to mark the end of the course, the players sank to the ground panting hard and wiping sweat off their eyes.

Brock wasn't about to let them rest. "Brooms!"

With some muted grumbling, the players got up to their aching feet and trudged to the benches where their brooms awaited them. Before long they were in the air, taking the moment to breathe deep and get rid of some of their pent-up energy. Brock joined them, hovering in the middle of the loose circle centerfield. He asked the players to split themselves up depending on which position they wanted to play. Out of the twenty of them, eight were trying out to be Chasers, five as Beaters, three Seekers, and four Keepers. That worked well. He split fourteen of them up into teams, enchanting their shirts to either red or black. There were seven players per team. When required, he would ask one of the players to switch with one of the players floating by the sidelines. This way he could watch one single game progress and note down how each player affected the match.

Once the two teams were ready, Brock sent the signal to Riley to open the old chest that sat on the ground. Then he threw the Quaffle in the air, moving out the way just in time. Bludgers were set loose and it hurtled from the ground up in search of people to knock off broomsticks. Riley set the Snitch free at the end, watching it flit out of sight the moment he had let go of it.

Harry floated above the mad scramble, keeping an eye on his rival Seeker while scanning the sky for the golden ball. He struggled to keep his emotions contained. His fingers were gripping his broom hard, almost painfully.

He hadn't felt this euphoric in a while…

He carefully rolled his shoulders once to try and get rid of the tightness in his back. He had to concentrate now. No messing about. He had to remember how it had felt all those years ago at Hogwarts when he had last been in this position.

Brock touched down and dismounted beside Riley. He knew Hector kept the score. The man was sitting on the bench with a clipboard, avidly watching the play above him. If he was given a task, he would do it to his full capacity. Brock relied on that data. In the meantime, he pulled Riley aside for just a moment. "See him up there?" he said quietly while pointing at the farthest speck in the sky.

Riley shielded his eyes and nodded. "Mhm. What about him?"

"He's done quite well, hasn't he?"

"Sure."

"Watch him for me."

Riley glanced at Brock. "Yeah? Why?" He looked down at the chart in his hand. "I don't think I have his name down here. What is it?"

"Doesn't matter," Brock glazed over the question. "Secret weapon. You can go on up. Watch how he does."

"Okay." Riley shrugged and mounted his broom. That was interesting.

He hovered by the hoops to watch the Keepers and sporadically glanced above him to keep an eye on this mystery Seeker Brock was so excited about.

The black team was clearly superior in chasing the Quaffle towards the hoops. The two of the three Chasers played well together, going through various formations around the befuddled red team who was trying ever so hard to stop them. Riley looked down at his chart. The woman was one Ms. Mallory Fink, age twenty-one. The other was West Lee, age twenty-five. Riley placed a mark beside their names. The two of them had scored thirty points in three minutes. The red Keeper wasn't prepared for this level of playing and she was getting incredibly flustered. Meanwhile, all of the Beaters were well matched, but three out of four of them played poorly in that they weren't nearly aggressive enough. Perhaps the nature of this match made them a bit soft. Riley shook his head and sighed. It didn't matter whether the game was practice or real; every player must play their hardest. That's what he thought, in any case. How could you get better unless you tried to beat your own teammates first, right?

He was impressed by the Keeper from the black team. He was hovering by the hoops on that end, watching the dark man sweep the field with his eyes that moved with precision. He had hardly let the Quaffle through, only getting distracted when he dodged the Bludger because he didn't trust the Beaters to keep it away from him. Riley knew the trust would build eventually, so he overlooked the fumble.

He couldn't overlook the sudden glimmer by the corner of his eye though.

He whipped his head to the side in amazement, staring breathlessly at the Snitch buzzing by his ear. That had never happened before…

He looked up at the Seekers.

The Seeker in black didn't even seem to notice. But the one in red, the man Brock had asked Riley to keep an eye on, was staring right at him.

He gulped.

Harry flicked his eyes at his opponent, noting that the slight man's attention had been disturbed by the game going on below them. So he started inching towards the hoops, taking care not to make any sudden movements. In Quidditch, once both Seekers saw the Snitch, a mad scramble would ensue, almost always leading to the Snitch disappearing on them again. Harry gently leaned to the left while descending a few feet. The other Seeker hadn't even noticed.

That was all the lead he needed.

He shot off like a speeding bullet, cutting right through the middle of the game. This was the fastest way to the Snitch. He swerved past the Chasers. He knew there was no chance the other Seeker could get to the hoops before him, not unless he risked collisions. Now all he had to worry about was the Snitch. If it disappeared on him, he would be very disappointed.

Riley was frozen on the spot as he watched the Seeker in red rush at him at breakneck speed. They were both going to die. He just knew it. But he was too young to die.

He flinched away just a strong gust of air brushed by his side, knocking him slightly off balance.

When he looked to his right, there he was, the Seeker holding the Snitch in his gloved hand, marveling it. He heard the man exhale shakily. What an anti-climactic catch that was…

Harry couldn't remember the last few seconds of his chase. All of a sudden the Snitch was in his hand. He examined it in wonder. This felt so right. He let out the air he had been holding. This rush, the energy of the game, the lightheadedness… Everything felt right. He had missed Quidditch more than he had imagined.

He glanced at Riley while letting out a breathless chuckle. "I caught it." He held the fluttering Snitch up. "Did you see me?"

Riley groped for the whistle around his neck.

Harry's gaze slipped past Riley's shoulder. For a second he couldn't comprehend what was coming towards them because he was still gushing from the quick win. But his honed instincts kicked in with a sharp jolt a blink later.

He grabbed Riley and spun him out the way, bracing himself as the speeding Bludger rammed into his side instead of Riley's back. "Oof," he grunted when the air got knocked out of him. He fumbled to latch onto his Firebolt before he could fall off. "Shit." Dull pain radiated into his arm and chest. So maybe he had forgotten just how brutal a Bludger could be.

Riley rapidly came to his senses and reached out to keep Harry steady. "Are you okay?" he rushed.

"Yeah," Harry coughed. "It's fine." He rubbed his ribs while wincing.

"What did you do that for?"

He paused to frown at Riley. "Because I'm a masochist," he drawled with dripping sarcasm.

"I didn't mean it in a bad way," Riley mumbled. "I was just asking."

"Hmm."

"Thanks."

"So I won, right?" Harry pressed on.

Riley looked down. "Where's the Snitch?" He saw that the Seeker was holding the broom with both hands. The Snitch was nowhere to be found.

Harry gaped at him. "You saw it! I just… That's-You can't possibly… You saw it!"

"No Snitch, no game."

"Argh!" he snarled while gnashing his teeth at the brat in front of him. "Seriously?"

Riley shrugged. "I don't make the rules."

Harry whipped around without another word and zoomed off because he knew that staying there a bit longer would mean bad things for the young man he had just saved from a flying Bludger. He rubbed his sore side. Stupid.

Riley smiled after the Seeker in red. He had a very cute frown.

The scrimmage lasted for an hour and half with players being subbed in and out to make different combinations of plays. The Snitch was caught four times. Both teams ended up with about the same number of points. A few players did stick out at the end – Mallory Fink (the pretty blonde Chaser from Wales) Parker Topton (a nervous looking chap who looked a little too young to be trying out for a position as Chaser), Hank Prow (a Beater with a perpetual glower on his face), West Lee (the rambunctious Chaser with a mountain of curly brown hair on his head), Brent Quibley (Keeper for the black team), and the Seeker in red who had caught two of the four Snitches.

Harry was packing up his things when he heard a quiet cough behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, only to find Riley standing there grinning down at him. "Hello again. Are you still pissed off?" He plopped down next to Harry. "I know that was totally unfair of me, especially since you had saved my life and all."

Harry went back to loading his gear, a smile flickering against his lips. "I did, didn't I?" he murmured to humor him. "You're Riley Varus?"

"Yup."

"You're quite good."

"As are you."

Harry was amused by his glibness. "You think so?"

"Of course. You know you're good. You aren't fooling me with your innocent business." He then tried to peek inside the open duffle bag. "You're a natural on that broom of yours. Firebolt. Is that your favorite?"

"Mhm."

"I personally prefer a good Nimbus myself. Much more reliable. Doesn't take me for a ride, if you know what I mean."

Harry did know, in fact. "Yes, Firebolts can be a bit… temperamental at the best of times," he figured. "But it's great for Seeking. At least for me." It was also amazing during chases, as he had experienced first hand after all those years in the Auror business. But he kept that tidbit to himself.

"Can you play other positions?"

He couldn't be sure. "You could try me," he suggested.

Riley was smitten. He was incredibly partial to athletes. "I'd love to."

Harry stood up and shouldered his bag. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow?"

"I'll be here." He watched the Seeker in red walk away. He had a good feeling about this one.