3.
A shrill alarm woke Riley up at the break of dawn, making him start in fright. He had been blissfully without the wretched clock for many, many weeks and he had forgotten how miserable that awful clanging made him. He rolled over onto his stomach and tried to burrow into his pillows and blankets, but the alarm had been charmed so that it would only stop once he was in the bathroom, washing his face.
After putting up a good fight for three minutes, he managed to wriggle out of bed. Waking up was the worst part of his day. He stumbled to his bathroom and ran the tap so he could splash some warm water against his tired eyes. Long night. The alarm stopped much to his relief. He brushed his teeth and had a quick shower before making his way downstairs. He had a quaint little two-bedroom house in the middle of one of London's richest Wizarding communities. He enjoyed living in the lap of luxury, evidenced by the house-elves who brought him his juice and toast the moment he had stepped into the airy living room.
"Morning," he said as he bent down to press a light kiss on the gorgeous blonde who was sitting on the grand chaise, reading the paper. "Didn't hear you get up." He sat beside her, tucking one leg under the other to get comfortable. "Found everything alright?"
"Hmm," she murmured absentmindedly, her attention quite obviously on the Daily Prophet. "Harry Potter's quit."
"I'm sorry?"
"He's up and quit."
"So?"
Jessica widened her pretty brown eyes and looked up at Riley who was sipping on his orange juice to hide his amusement. "What do you mean 'so'? He was supposed to be the Head Auror." With a disappointed shake of her head, she glanced at the article again. "What do you think is wrong?"
"What are you so worried about him for?" Riley laughed. "He's already had enough expectations shoved down his throat."
"Oh, is that so?" She folded up the paper and set it aside. "Pray tell."
"I think he deserves to take a break, that's all."
"But this is what he does best. He's the best at catching these criminals. If he just quits, what's going to happen? Worst yet, what does that teach all those children who look up to him? That it's alright to quit if you can't handle these so-called 'expectations being shoved down you throat'?"
"I'm quite certain that's not what he's thinking…"
"Oh, how would you know?" She tsked to herself as she stole half a toast from the plate on the table. "Imagine if I just up and left in the middle of surgery."
"Ah…" Riley slid an arm around Jessica's slender waist and pulled her back. "You're a surgeon, hmm?" He nuzzled her neck.
"I knew you were too drunk to hear me," she grumbled.
"Explains your… dexterous fingers."
"Oh, shut up." Their lips melded together in an easy kiss.
That morning, he was the first player on the field again. He hoped that he would get to play this time around. As fun as it was to be a part of the selection process, he had been itching to play for much too long.
Day two of tryouts started the same way – ground exercises followed by a command for everyone to get on their brooms.
The players were split once again into groups corresponding to their desired positions. Brock took the Seekers, Hector rounded up the Beaters, and that left Riley with the Chasers and Keepers. They were going to run individual practice sessions.
Before now, Harry hadn't played with world-class players. They were a lot tougher than what he was used to. But he was in great shape from his training at the Ministry. He had stamina and strength, more than he had had back in school. He was faster and sharper than before. He had perfected many tactics for high-speed chases. He was much more comfortable in the air now. All that conditioning came in handy when Brock released a Snitch without saying a word. The three Seekers took off after it, bumping and nudging each other out of the way as they twisted into the air to get to the flighty golden ball.
Over the course of an hour, each player's speed, accuracy, and flying techniques were analyzed. In this part of the tryouts, they had to show their examiners why they were better than the others competing for the same position.
Brock watched Harry most carefully. The man had undeniable skill. From his fearless flying technique, the coach could tell that he would perform the most remarkable stunts to get his hands on the Snitch. Persistence was key while Seeking. He was also good at handling his broom, adjusting his flight according to wind speeds and braking at the right moments.
After skills were tested, a match was set up like the day before with seven to a team and players being tagged in as needed. However, each candidate was given a different position than the one they were trying out for – some of the Seekers were Chasers, the Beaters were Keepers, and so on. For obvious reasons, this game was a bit more trying.
Riley only needed to plead with Brock a little bit before he was allowed to join in on the fun. He was a Chaser the first round. It had been a while since he played this position. His shirt was charmed to black and he swooped down to his team who floated by the hoops on the south end. The other two Chasers were the Seeker in red and the Keeper in black from the day before. He was very pleased by how unfazed the two of them seemed to be. "Man, you two are cool under pressure," he remarked.
The Keeper responded with a faint nod and said, "Brent. Keeper."
"I remember," Riley told him. "Good game yesterday." Then he glanced at the Seeker. "I never caught your name."
"Harry."
"Well, Harry, I guess we'll see how good you actually are, hmm?"
Harry smiled even though his insides were twisting up. He had only played Chaser a handful of times, and that too during practice with his Gryffindor team. He couldn't even remember how a Quaffle felt between his hands. He really hoped he wouldn't make a fool of himself. He adjusted his gloves and dug his feet into the bipod to expel some of his nervous energy.
"Just remember to pass, alright?" Riley advised them. "There's nothing that confuses a Keeper more than a disappearing Quaffle."
The first game of the day started off after a shrill whistle from the coach. Riley, ever the aggressor, was the first to get at the Quaffle with a triumphant hoot. He easily evaded the red Chasers and zoomed towards the north hoops, scoring ten points before the other players could figure out what had happened.
"PICK UP THE SPEED," Brock shouted from below. That prompted everyone else to get into position just as the red Keeper threw the Quaffle back to his team.
Riley flew past his teammates, cheekily commenting, "Try and keep up, will you?"
In most team sports, versatility was incredibly important. A player needs to be able to both attack and defend as the situation calls for it. However, in Quidditch, this was not the case. Each player is highly specialized and has perfected their role over years of training. So being asked to suddenly switch positions made many of them stumble and falter through this match. Brock had expected to see stumbles, especially when Seekers were suddenly made Beaters or Keepers had to now chase after the Quaffle. He wanted to see how each person adapted to their new situation.
Right off the bat, one man stood out. West Lee, the Chaser who had played quite well the day before, was taking to Beating like a fish to water. His accuracy was incredible and, while he lacked immensely in power and tired easily after a good whack, he had a good eye for judging the Bludger's path. Being a Chaser by trade, he knew to look out for those bloody awful balls of doom. He seemed to take pleasure in bashing the hell out of them for once.
Harry ducked as a Bludger flew past his head. That had been a little too close for comfort. He whipped around to bark at West who wasn't even trying to hide his elation. "I'm on your team!"
"Sorry, sorry," West laughed while spinning the bat in his hand. "I knew you'd duck."
Before Harry could retort, Riley directed a whistle at him. "Move it." The Quaffle was under his arm and he was weaving random patterns as he zoomed by the two squabbling men. Harry took off after him, quickly blocking the red Chasers from getting at the Quaffle that was quickly making its was towards the hoops.
Parker Topton was the Keeper for the red team. He had already let through four Quaffles, which meant forty points for the black team. He was a Chaser in reality and was getting rather frustrated by this goalkeeper position. His usual pinched expression turned sourer when he saw Riley hurtling towards him. He floated a few meters in front of the three hoops, arms outstretched and ready to fly to either corner at the slightest sign.
Riley faked a throw to the left, then another one to the right. That threw Parker off, sending him flying to the left before he could stop himself. It was an easy throw for the Chaser now since two of the three hoops were left unchecked. He didn't even slow down as he lobbed the Quaffle in for another ten points. Parker let out a loud swear, which was uncharacteristic of him. He really wasn't cut out to be a Keeper.
The Seekers were having a bad time as well. It was one thing to actually find the Snitch. It was another thing entirely to grab at it. Tammy Warshaw, a Keeper, was the Seeker for the black team and Hank Prow, a Beater, played for the red team. If possible, the heavyset man looked even more irate than usual. He had to squint to see past the players since he was so used to Bludgers that blundered towards him. He had let the Tammy get past him twice. Then he had threatened to punch the living daylights out of her next time she chased after the Snitch. Hector had had to intervene at that point.
Harry hadn't even tried to get his hands on the Quaffle. He was fine with defending Brent and Riley by blocking the other players from getting close to them. Those two men were rather good at Chasing considering their original positions. Perhaps being fellow Keepers, they could work out what to do without talking much. They passed often, used shields effectively, and were quick to employ defensive maneuvers when required. By the end of a half-hour, the score was seventy-forty for the black team.
Then Brock called for a switch in players and positions.
Four matches were played this way, each lasting half-hour each. Each player got to play at least three times so that they could try out all positions. Many failed miserably, but a few did shine over the course of the exercise. Mallory, the Chaser from the day before, had a good eye for Keeping. If she were a bit taller and quicker, she could have made a decent Keeper. Brent had shocked everyone by how versatile he could be. He didn't let up easily and evidently enjoyed playing the matches despite the position. He wasn't great at any one aspect of the game, but he was good at all of them. Brock was quick to make a note of that. Harry played a fair Beater himself except for the fact that he always hesitated before beating the Bludger into a player.
By the time the players touched the ground again, they were tired as all hell. It was also past lunchtime. So Brock called it a day, postponing the more technical exercises for the third practice.
Harry was sitting on the grass and stretching his legs out when Riley approached him. He looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand and saying, "Tough day."
Riley thought so. He collected the pylons nearby and set them by the other equipment before plopping down on the wooden bench. "Bloody hot too." He wiped the sweat off his neck. "Didn't get hit by a Bludger today, did you?"
Harry guffawed and shook his head. "No one needed saving."
"So, what other teams have you played for?" Riley asked conversationally.
"I haven't played in the league before. Just school."
"Really?" He was surprised. "You wouldn't think that. When did you graduate?"
Harry didn't say anything at first. He gripped his shoe with his hand and pulled his toes towards his shin, feeling his calf relax from the cramped position it had been in for hours. How long had it been? Seemed like a lifetime ago. He hadn't played Quidditch since Sixth Year. "About fifteen years?" he finally said with a weak shrug.
Riley's jaw dropped. "F-fifteen years? You played fifteen years ago? Holy crap!" He bent down to peer at Harry's face.
Brock had been watching and cringing at the whole conversation, figuring that now would be a good time to intervene. He pressed a hand to Riley's shoulder, silently making him back off. "Good game today," he told Harry. "I just need to borrow Riley for a second."
"Of course."
The moment they were out of earshot, Riley whipped towards Brock with a fierce scowl. "What's going on here?" he hissed. "Who is he? He hasn't played Quidditch in ages!"
"Sorry. I'm sorry." Brock held his hands out in appeasement. "I told you he was a secret weapon, didn't I? Don't worry about it. He just wants to tryout in peace. Once everything is done, I'll explain. Will you leave him alone until then?"
"No way am I going to do that! Tell me!"
Brock shrugged weakly.
Riley blew out a gush of air from his nose and planted his hands on his hips. "Man, no one tells me anything." Then he stormed off to help Hector with the rest of the pylons.
That evening, Brock was back at his kitchen table with Charlotte, leafing through the notes he had taken over the course of two days. He was allowed as many players as budget allowed him. Unfortunately, due to the poor performance of Puddlemere United over the past four decades, that budget had dwindled to almost the bare minimum. That meant he had money for about ten players.
"Riley and Hector take two spots," Charlotte jotted down on a piece of parchment. "So we have one Keeper and one Beater. Then Harry Potter makes three."
"Mallory," Brock murmured. "Fresh eyes. She's not very flexible regarding the positions she can play, but she's a damn good Chaser. Not too pricey."
Charlotte wrote down the second Chaser's name. "Alright. Beater?"
"Hank Prow."
"I told you so."
"Yeah, yeah." Brock lobbed a balled up parchment at his wife's gloating face. "So we have all the Beaters." He then looked through the files. "I really like Topton and Lee. Quick Chasers, not looking for any fights. They work very well with a team. And this Brent Quibley… Got to keep an eye on him. Maybe as a substitute?"
"This budget is going to kill us, huh?"
Meanwhile, Harry was laid up on the couch nursing his sore joints and cramped muscles. Every small movement he made was accompanied with a quiet moan of dismay as his body argued with him for all that vigorous workout it had had to endure over a short span of two days. He was just about to fall asleep when the doorbell rang, much to his chagrin. It took him a good while to sit up and then a little bit longer to actually stand up. Once he was able to move his limbs, he shuffled over to the front door, opening the door to his best friends who were staring at him expectantly. "Well?" Ron and Hermione asked in unison.
"I'm dying," Harry bemoaned. "I'm way too old for this…"
"Pfft," Ron scoffed as he barged into the house. He was carrying a casserole dish from dinner that evening. Hermione had a couple containers in her arms as well. The couple walked through the dark house to the kitchen, placing the warm food on the countertop. Then they turned to Harry again. "Tell us."
"There's nothing to tell," Harry grumbled. He opened the glass dish, smiling faintly when he smelt the delicious stir-fry. "Thanks, guys."
"Figured you weren't in much of a mood to cook," Hermione beamed. "You're having fun, aren't you? I can tell."
"Hmm." He didn't elaborate. He pulled cutlery out of the cupboard instead.
Ron sat on the counter and extended a hand for a plate and fork. "Bet Riley Varus is a hoot, eh?" He spooned some food onto the plate and set about attacking it despite having eaten less than an hour ago. He didn't pay any heed to Hermione's disappointed head shaking. He was more interested in Harry's Quidditch stories. "Is he the same as he is in interviews?"
"The same," Harry told him. "Very honest. He doesn't take things too seriously. He's really good…"
"And how's Lightmead?"
"Fine." After going through rigorous training at the Ministry, Coach Lightmead was a piece of cake to handle. There was no yelling or demeaning in Quidditch. It was a player-friendly sport, after all. Harry could handle Brock with no problems at all. "Nice man. Takes care of his players."
"So?" Hermione drew out pointedly. "How did you do?"
Harry wasn't one to toot his own horn, so he just smiled modestly and that was enough to get Ron excited. "I knew it!" the redhead crowed. "You better turn this team around, Harry. I'll be very disappointed if you don't."
"They haven't announced the team yet. Don't get too ahead of yourself."
Back at his home, Riley was lounging on the sofa with his well-read copy of the Quidditch Weekly. That long soak in the tub after the tryout had helped his body calm down. He knew he had to take it easy, so he was planning on staying home. However, he had no company over, which meant he was done his magazine in an hour. "Hmm," he sighed when he finished his cold draught of beer and set the mug on the table. As he slid his hand over the sofa cushion beside him absently, he remembered Jessica the surgeon. He smiled to himself. Interesting woman.
He looked up and towards the kitchen, asking, "Can I get a copy of the Prophet?"
His house-elf appeared almost at once with the paper. Riley grabbed a handful of crisps before settling down on the couch again, the Daily Prophet in hand.
"Oh…"
He froze with a chip near his mouth and his jaw open.
"No way…"
He scrambled to sit up and practically threw the crisps back in the bowl before hurrying to unfold the newspaper over the coffee table.
"Oh. No fucking way," he breathed in amazement.
