FOUR
"Ready, Harry?"
Harry took a deep breath. It was now or never.
"Yep. Ready as I'll ever be."
The morning air crackled with anticipation as he stood before his team in the Gryffindor changing rooms. Golden rays of sunlight filtered through the high windows, catching dust motes that danced in the air like tiny Snitches. The distant roar of the crowd outside rumbled through the stone walls – the kind of enthusiasm that only the first match of the season could generate.
The castle had been in a state of panic the past few weeks, but with the increased guards and several Aurors that had been posted for the time being, things were slowly heading back towards normalcy. Eva Chambers, the Ravenclaw who had been petrified, was doing better now, and all around the students and faculty had slowly settled back into a feeling of temporary ease.
Which had led to today. The first Quidditch match of the year.
"Right then," Harry began, his voice steady despite the flutter of anticipation in his stomach. "First match of the year. New season, new team, new—"
"New ways to get our arses handed to us?" Ron interrupted, fumbling with his Keeper's gloves.
"Speak for yourself, brother dear," Ginny shot back, looking up from where she sat cross-legged on one of the benches. "Some of us actually practiced over summer instead of snogging Hermione."
"Oi!" Ron's ears turned pink as scattered laughter filled the room. "I'll have you know I did both. Quite successfully, thank you very much."
"Too much information, mate," Thomas Wright, their junior, groaned, throwing a wadded-up sock at Ron's head. "I'm trying to focus here."
Harry couldn't help but grin, watching the familiar banter unfold. His eyes drifted to Emma Dobbs, their newest Chaser, who sat slightly apart from the others. Her fingers were wrapped so tightly around her replacement broom that her knuckles had turned white.
"Speaking of focus," Sarah Collins chimed in, swinging her Beater's bat in slow, measured arcs, "any word on who hexed Emma's broom during practice?"
The room fell silent. Emma's grip on her broom tightened visibly.
"Nothing concrete," Harry answered carefully. "But Professor McGonagall's personally checked all our equipment this morning. Multiple times."
"Still say it was those Ravenclaw gits," Andrew Kirke muttered, adjusting his arm guards. "They've been far too smug lately."
"We don't know that," Harry said firmly. "Could've been anyone trying to cause trouble. What matters is staying alert up there today."
Ginny stood up, stretching her arms above her head. "Well, whoever it was better hope I don't find out. I've been practicing some particularly nasty hexes…"
"No hexing anyone," Harry cut in quickly, though he appreciated the protective instinct behind her words. "We win this fairly and cleanly. Show them what Gryffindor's really made of."
"Food?" Ron suggested hopefully. "Because I'm starving."
"When aren't you?" Thomas laughed, dodging another thrown sock.
Harry took advantage of the renewed banter to move closer to Emma.
"First match nerves?" he asked quietly, crouching down beside her.
She nodded, managing a weak smile. "Is it that obvious?"
"You should've seen me before my first match," Harry confided. "Nearly threw up all over Wood's boots during his pep talk. And that was before someone actually tried to jinx my broom during the game."
"Really?" Emma's eyes widened. "What happened?"
"Survived, didn't I?" Harry grinned. "Just like you did during practice. You're ready for this, Emma. We all see it, even if you don't yet."
The changing room door suddenly burst open, making everyone jump. Professor McGonagall's voice rang out: "Ten minutes, Potter! The crowd's getting restless!"
"Thanks, Professor!" Harry called back, standing up. Through the briefly opened door, he could hear Lee Jordan's magically amplified voice: "—FIRST MATCH OF THE SEASON! GRYFFINDOR VERSUS RAVENCLAW! WHO'S READY FOR SOME QUIDDITCH?"
The answering roar made the windows rattle.
"Merlin's pants," Ron muttered, looking slightly green. "I'd forgotten how loud they were."
"Course they are," Andrew grinned, bouncing on his toes with nervous energy. "First match after everything that happened last year? Everyone's been dying for some normal school excitement."
Harry moved back to address the whole team. "Right, listen up! Whatever happens up there today – we fly together, we fight together, we win together. Watch each other's backs, stay alert, and remember the signals we practiced."
"And try not to get cursed!" Ron added helpfully.
"Yes, thank you, Ron," Harry rolled his eyes. "Any other helpful advice?"
"Don't die?" Ginny suggested with a cheeky grin.
"That's the spirit," Harry deadpanned, but he was fighting back a smile.
Another thunderous roar shook the walls. Harry could make out snippets of competing chants now – Gryffindor's lion roar battling with Ravenclaw's eagle cry
"Time to line up," he announced, reaching for his Firebolt. The team fell into formation behind him, a shuffle of scarlet robes and nervous energy. Through the door, he could hear the approaching footsteps that would signal their cue.
Emma moved into position, her chin held high despite her obvious nerves. "Harry?" she whispered as she passed. "Thanks."
He gave her a quick nod, then turned to face the door. The morning sun suddenly broke through the clouds outside, sending bright shafts of light streaming through the windows again. In that golden moment of anticipation, with his team at his back and the roar of the crowd ahead, Harry felt it – that electric tension that meant anything could happen.
A sharp knock sounded at the door. It was time.
The roar of the crowd hit them like a physical wave as they stepped onto the pitch. The morning sun painted the grounds in autumn gold, glinting off the goalposts that towered against the crisp blue sky. Dew still clung to the grass, creating tiny rainbows where the light struck.
"AND HERE COMES GRYFFINDOR!" Lee Jordan's voice boomed across the stadium. "Led by Captain Harry Potter – yes ladies, he's still single, though rumor has it—"
"Jordan!" Professor McGonagall's voice cut through the commentary.
"Sorry, Professor! Just providing information! Anyway, following Potter we've got Weasley and Weasley – the dynamic duo that puts other siblings to shame…"
Harry tuned out Lee's commentary, focusing instead on leading his team through their warm-up routine. The familiar exercises helped steady his nerves – stretch the shoulders, rotate the neck, loosen up the muscles that would soon be straining against the wind.
"Touch your toes," he called out, demonstrating the movement. "Hold for ten seconds."
Thomas grimaced as he attempted to reach his feet. "Remind me again why we can't just warm up on the brooms?"
"Because," Ginny answered, effortlessly bending double, "some of us don't want to pull a muscle mid-dive and plummet to our deaths."
"Always the optimist, aren't you?" Thomas chuckled.
Sarah and Andrew were already moving through their Beater-specific exercises, their movements synchronized from countless practice sessions. Emma watched them from the corner of her eye, trying to mask her nervousness by focusing on her own stretches.
"—AND LET'S NOT FORGET EMMA DOBBS, MAKING HER DEBUT AS CHASER!" Lee's voice rang out.
The opposing team was emerging from their changing rooms now, their blue robes catching the morning light. Harry could see their captain, Wilco Davies, leading them through their own warm-up routine on the other side of the pitch. Wilco Davies was Roger's younger brother, and Harry had to admit- the Davies family played great Quidditch.
"Mount up!" Harry called to his team, swinging his leg over his Firebolt. "Standard formation, two laps to warm up, then breaking drills."
The familiar sensation of his broom responding to his touch helped calm the last of his pre-match jitters. They rose as one, the wind whipping their robes as they took to the sky.
"AND THEY'RE AIRBORNE! Look at that formation – smoother than a baby niffler's bottom!"
Harry led them around the pitch, feeling the air grow cooler as they gained altitude. Below, the crowd was a sea of red and blue, their banners snapping in the breeze. A massive lion puppet prowled along the Gryffindor stands, occasionally releasing thunderous roars that competed with the eagle screech from the Ravenclaw section.
"Break!" Harry called, and his team scattered into their practiced patterns. Ron shot toward the goals, warming up with quick moves between the posts. The Chasers – Ginny, Thomas, and Emma – began their weaving drill, passing the Quaffle with increasing speed.
"Watch your left, Emma!" Harry called out, noticing a slight hesitation in her turns. She adjusted immediately, her next catch smoother, more confident.
Sarah and Andrew were practicing their Bludger control, sending a practice ball back and forth like some kind of aerial tennis. The morning air carried the sharp crack of bat meeting ball, a sound that seemed to heighten the pre-match tension.
"—AND IF YOU'RE JUST JOINING US, YOU'RE IN TIME FOR WHAT PROMISES TO BE THE MOST EXCITING MATCH OF THE SEASON! Unless someone's secretly brewing Liquid Luck in the dungeons again—"
"That's quite enough, Jordan!"
Harry circled above his team, watching their movements with a critical eye. The nerves were still there. He could see them visible in the slightly too-tight grip Emma had on her broom, in the way Ron was blinking more rapidly than usual, in Thomas's occasional glance toward the crowd. But there was something else too – a readiness, a coiled energy that seemed to vibrate through the entire team.
Madam Hooch strode onto the pitch below, her silver whistle glinting in the morning sun. The sight sent a fresh surge of adrenaline through Harry's veins.
This was it.
All their practice. All the slimy socks and slipping brooms. The harsh rain and setting sun. It had all led to this.
"Teams!" her magically amplified voice carried clearly to the players. "Ground in two minutes!"
Harry signaled his team to complete their final warm-up moves. As they descended, he caught sight of Davies doing the same on the other side of the pitch. The Ravenclaw captain's face was set in determined lines, his team moving with precise, calculated motions.
The crowd's excitement seemed to build with every foot they dropped in altitude. The lion puppet let out another thunderous roar, and somewhere in the stands, a group of students had started a rhythmic chant that quickly spread through the Gryffindor section:
Lions, lions, hear our roar,
Watch the eagles hit the floor!
The grass approached, still sparkling with morning dew. Harry's heart thundered in his chest as they touched down, forming their line facing the Ravenclaws. He felt on edge- nervous and excited.
Madam Hooch stepped forward, her yellow eyes sweeping over both teams. The box containing the balls rattled at her feet, as if the Bludgers could sense the impending match.
"Captains," she called, and Harry stepped forward, meeting Davies in the center of the pitch. The roar of the crowd hit them like a physical wave as they stepped onto the pitch. Harry extended his hand to Davies, fighting back a grin as the Ravenclaw captain approached with his characteristic swagger.
"Lovely day for a thrashing, eh Potter?" Davies smirked.
"Absolutely," Harry replied, matching his tone. "Though I think you might be confused about who's thrashing whom."
"AND THE CAPTAINS MEET! Looking rather cozy down there – should we be expecting a pre-match hug? Maybe a friendly tea party?"
A chorus of EWWs carried clearly across the pitch.
Madam Hooch rolled her eyes at the commentary. "Clean game," she instructed, yellow eyes sharp as she looked between them. "From all players. Mount your brooms!"
The whistle's shrill cry pierced the morning air, and fourteen players shot skyward. Harry felt the familiar rush of exhilaration as the wind whipped through his hair, the ground falling away beneath him.
This – this was freedom.
"AND THEY'RE OFF! Weasley – that's Ginny Weasley – immediately takes possession of the Quaffle. Look at that girl fly! Speaking of flying, Professor, did you know that in ancient wizard mythology—"
"The match, Jordan!"
Harry circled high above the pitch, eyes scanning for the telltale glint of gold while keeping a watchful eye on his team below. Emma had settled into her role beautifully, weaving between the Ravenclaw Chasers with growing confidence.
"DOBBS TO WEASLEY TO DOBBS– NO RELATION, SADLY – AND BACK TO WEASLEY! These Gryffindor Chasers are moving like they've got a Wrackspurt up their – er, sorry Professor – SCORE! TEN-ZERO TO GRYFFINDOR!"
The red and gold section of the stands erupted. Harry allowed himself a moment of pride before returning to his search, though his wand hand stayed ready. After what happened to Emma's broom, he wasn't taking any chances.
He noticed Davies was employing similar tactics, keeping his height to search for the Snitch while occasionally barking directions to his team. The Ravenclaw formations were precise, almost mathematical in their execution. Davies knew his stuff, he had to give him that.
"Ravenclaw in possession – Bradley reverse passes to Chambers – oh, that's a nasty Bludger from Collins! Quaffle drops – recovered by Dobbs– no, intercepted by Bradley – SCORE! Ten-all!"
The game settled into a rhythm of rapid exchanges, each team matching the other goal for goal. Harry bit his lip. With a game this close, it would come down to who found the snitch first.
"ANOTHER SPECTACULAR SAVE BY WEASLEY! And may I just say, Professor, that the way he's guarding those hoops reminds me of a mother dragon protecting her—"
"Focus, Jordan!"
"Right you are! Gryffindor leads seventy-sixty, and – wait a minute – was that the Snitch?"
Harry had already seen it – a flicker of gold near the Ravenclaw goal posts. He flattened himself against his broom, accelerating smoothly, but Davies was closer. The crowd's roar seemed to fade into the background as Harry focused entirely on the pursuit.
The Snitch darted sideways, then plunged toward the ground. Harry followed, the wind whistling past his ears. He urged his Firebolt faster, slowly gaining on Davies.
"AND THE SEEKERS ARE NECK AND NECK! Come on, Harry! Er, I mean – this commentator remains completely unbiased, Professor!"
The Snitch pulled up sharply. Harry followed, his brooms' tails brushing the grass before shooting skyward. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of movement – someone in the stands raising what might have been a wand. Or maybe it was just his imagination.
"GRYFFINDOR SCORES AGAIN! Eighty-sixty! Meanwhile, our Seekers appear to be attempting to reach the moon – quite ambitious, really, though I hear the view is lovely this time of year—"
Harry split his attention between the rapidly disappearing Snitch and his team below, his right hand tight on his broom while his left stayed ready near his wand pocket. The tiny winged ball had flown straight headway against the wind and towards the sun, and both him and Davies had to take a breather. The lines for the Snitch right now were too vertical to attempt- Davies had already stepped back, and after a moment, he did too.
There would be another chance. Harry just had to wait.
The game continued to unfold beneath them: Emma scoring another goal, Ron deflecting a tricky shot from Bradley, Sarah sending a perfectly aimed Bludger to break up a Ravenclaw formation.
"NINETY-SIXTY TO GRYFFINDOR! And I must say, Dobb's playing like she's been hit with a Confundus charm – in a good way! Is that allowed to say, Professor? No? Right then…"
The morning sun had risen higher now, its glare making it even harder to spot the Snitch. Harry squinted against the light, maintaining his height as he searched. Davies mirrored his movements on the other side of the pitch. He knew as well as Harry that winning or losing was probably in their hands.
The tension in the stadium was palpable. Every save, every goal, every near-miss was met with collective gasps and cheers, all adding to a steady thrumming of noise in the background. The lion puppet in the Gryffindor stands let out another mighty roar, momentarily drowning out Lee's commentary.
"—AND ANOTHER SAVE BY WEASLEY!"
But Harry was only half-listening now.
The crowd's roar had suddenly shifted pitch – they'd spotted something. Harry's heart leaped as he caught a glimmer of gold hovering near the commentary box, and he quickly sped up, urging his Firebolt there.
The glimmer near the commentary box turned out to be someone's omnioculars catching the sun, and Harry bit back a curse of frustration. Every false alarm set his nerves more on edge, like a bowstring pulled too tight.
"—AND WHILE WE WAIT FOR OUR SEEKERS TO DO THEIR JOB," Lee's voice boomed across the pitch, "a word from our sponsors! Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes presents their new line of Quidditch-themed Skiving Snackboxes – now you too can get out of class to watch every match! Warning: side effects may include temporary transformation into various Quidditch equipment. Terms and conditions apply."
"Jordan!" McGonagall's voice cracked like a whip.
"Just keeping our listeners informed, Professor! Speaking of information – Jenny Abbott, Marcus Brown thinks you're prettier than a Veela and wants to know if you'll go to Hogsmeade with him next weekend! That's five Sickles well spent, mate—"
Harry tuned out the commentary, focusing instead on Davies' movements. The Ravenclaw Seeker was weaving in and out of the goal posts, occasionally making sharp dives that sent ripples of excitement through the crowd. Show-off moves, Harry knew, designed to distract and confuse.
Two could play at that game.
He pulled his Firebolt into a steep climb, shooting straight up until the players below looked like toys on a child's pitch. Then, without warning, he went into a spiraling dive that had the crowd gasping.
"POTTER'S SEEN THE SNITCH! OR POSSIBLY LOST HIS MIND – HARD TO TELL FROM THIS ANGLE! And while we're on the subject of losing minds, Stephanie Williams would like Timothy Parker to know that his new haircut makes him look like a shocked Puffskein—"
"JORDAN, I WARN YOU—"
"Right! Back to the match! Where were we? Ah yes, Potter possibly plummeting to his DOOM…"
Harry pulled out of the dive meters from the ground, satisfaction warming his chest as he heard Davies cursing behind him. The Ravenclaw Seeker had fallen for the feint, abandoning his own search to follow Harry's lead.
"THAT'S ANOTHER GOAL FOR GRYFFINDOR! One hundred and ten to ninety! And may I say, Ginny Weasley's flying like she's got Felix Felicis in her pumpkin juice this morning – not that anyone's suggesting anything untoward, Professor! Though if anyone's interested in some totally legitimate performance enhancement potions, my good friend in Hufflepuff—"
"ONE MORE WORD, JORDAN—"
A flash of blue in his peripheral vision made Harry tense. Davies was climbing again, his movements too purposeful to be another feint. Harry's heart leaped into his throat as he banked hard, scanning the air where Davies was heading.
"Ladies and gentlemen, while our Seekers engage in their aerial ballet – lovely pirouette, Potter! – I've been asked to announce that someone's lost their toad in the Hufflepuff stands. If found, please return to… wait, is this the same toad from first year? Trevor, is that you, old chap?"
It was a false alarm, and Harry avoided following Davies.
He caught a glimpse of something golden – but no, it was just a Gryffindor banner catching the light. His muscles were starting to ache from tension, every nerve ending hyper-aware of Davies' position relative to his own. One mistake, one moment of distraction could cost them the match.
A Bludger whistled past his ear, close enough that he felt the wind of its passage. Sarah's apologetic shout carried up to him: "Sorry, Harry! Meant to aim that at Davies!"
"AND A SPECTACULAR NEAR-MISS WITH THE BLUDGER! Speaking of spectacular, Emily Thompson wants Jason MacDougal to know that her heart soars higher than a Golden Snitch when she sees him in Potions class – mate, that'll be seven Sickles for the poetry upgrade—"
The game had been going for over an hour now, and Harry could see the strain beginning to show in his teammates. Emma's turns were a fraction slower, Ron's saves a bit more desperate. Even the crowd's energy had taken on a more anxious edge, as if they could sense that something had to give soon.
He had to act fast. While his team was good, they were still relatively inexperienced as compared to the Ravenclaws. With fatigue a factor now, his team would probably be more prone to mistakes. It was up to Harry now.
The sun ducked behind a cloud, temporarily dimming the pitch, and in that moment Harry saw it – a genuine flash of gold, hovering near the Slytherin stands. His heart began to race, but he forced himself to remain calm, to keep his movements casual.
Davies was still watching him, waiting for any sign that would give away the Snitch's location. Harry maintained his altitude, pretending to scan the opposite end of the pitch while keeping the Snitch in his peripheral vision.
"—AND ANOTHER GOAL FOR RAVENCLAW! That's one hundred and ten to one hundred!"
The Snitch was moving now, drifting lower, and Harry's muscles coiled with anticipation. One chance. That's all he would get. The question was: when to take it?
The world narrowed to a singular point of gold, darting and weaving through the autumn air. Harry's consciousness compressed until there was nothing but the rush of wind, the vibration of his Firebolt, and the frantic flutter of the Snitch's wings.
Down he plunged, the ground rushing up to meet him. The crowd's roar faded to a distant hum, as meaningless as the wind itself. Lee's commentary became mere background static, words losing their shape and meaning in the vacuum of Harry's focus.
The Snitch cut left – he followed. Right – he turned. Up – he climbed. Each movement was instinct now, pure reaction without thought. Harry could feel Davies matching him move for move, their shoulders nearly touching as they wove between the goalposts.
Time stretched like pulled taffy, simultaneously crawling and racing. Harry's world contracted further until he could swear he saw each individual beat of the Snitch's delicate wings, could count the golden segments of its tiny body. His hands ached from gripping the broom, but he barely noticed.
The Snitch dove again, this time skimming the grass. Harry followed, his robes brushing the dew-dampened pitch. A Bludger screamed past overhead, but it might as well have been in another universe. Nothing existed except the chase, the burning in his lungs, the trembling of his muscles as he urged the Firebolt faster, faster…
The Snitch suddenly shot upward. Harry reacted a fraction of a second before Davies, that tiny moment making all the difference. He felt rather than saw Davies falling behind as they both climbed nearly vertical, the golden ball just inches from his outstretched fingers.
Then – contact. The cool metal of the Snitch pressed against his palm, its wings beating frantically against his fingers like a captured hummingbird's heart. The singular focus that had possessed him shattered, and the world came rushing back in a tsunami of sound and sensation.
"POTTER'S CAUGHT THE SNITCH! GRYFFINDOR WINS TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTY TO ONE HUNDRED AND TEN! AND IF THAT WASN'T THE MOST SPECTACULAR PIECE OF SEEKING I'VE EVER – YES, YES, PROFESSOR, I'M REMAINING PROFESSIONAL!"
The roar of the crowd hit him like a physical force. Colors flooded back into his vision – the vivid blue of the sky, the rich green of the pitch, the scarlet of his teammates' robes as they converged on him from all directions. The lion puppet in the stands let out a triumphant roar.
Davies pulled up alongside him, face flushed with exertion and disappointment. "Good game, Potter," he managed, extending his hand. "Though I still say you got lucky with that last turn."
"Luck had nothing to do with it," Harry grinned, clasping the offered hand. "But you flew brilliantly. Had me worried there for a bit."
"WHAT A DISPLAY OF SPORTSMANSHIP! And speaking of displays, Amanda Price would like everyone to know that she's sorry about the incident with the Transfigured flamingo in the Great Hall this morning—"
"JORDAN, I WILL CONFISCATE THAT MICROPHONE!"
Harry's teammates reached him then, enveloping him in a mass of scarlet robes and victorious shouts. Emma was crying happy tears, Ron was shouting something incomprehensible, and Ginny was performing victory loops around them all.
They turned as one toward the Gryffindor stands, where their housemates were creating a wall of sound that seemed to make the air itself vibrate. The team flew past slowly, hands extended to meet the forest of raised arms. High-fives and back-slaps rained down as they passed, along with scattered handfuls of red and gold confetti that someone had charmed to float upward instead of down.
"That's my best mate!" Ron was yelling proudly to anyone within earshot. "Knew he'd catch it! Never doubted him for a second!"
"Liar!" Ginny called back. "You were hiding behind your hands for the last dive!"
They made another pass of the stands, drinking in the celebration. Harry caught glimpses of familiar faces: Neville jumping up and down while somehow still clutching his precious toad, Luna wearing what appeared to be a life-sized lion hat that was actually roaring, Seamus and Dean holding up a banner that shot red and gold sparks into the air.
The team finally landed, their boots squelching slightly in the dew-damp grass. They were immediately surrounded by a tide of celebrating Gryffindors who had poured onto the pitch. Harry felt himself lifted onto several shoulders, the Snitch still fluttering in his grip, as the crowd began to chant:
"Potter! Potter! Potter!"
Above them, Lee's voice cut through the chaos one final time: "AND THAT'S THE MATCH, FOLKS! Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe Professor McGonagall is about to confiscate this microphone – worth every Sickle, though! Every single one! And Jenny, Marcus is still waiting for an answer about Hogsmeade—"
The microphone cut off with a squeal, but nobody seemed to notice or care. The celebration was just beginning, and from the looks on his teammates' faces, it was going to be a very long and very happy day indeed.
Harry grinned.
It was good to be back.
The changing room door burst open with such force that it rebounded off the stone wall, the bang lost in the cacophony of victorious cheers. Harry looked around as the team tumbled in. Steam rose from their rain-dampened uniforms in the warm air, creating a misty halo around the celebrating players.
"Did you see that save?" Ron was practically bouncing off the walls, demonstrating his upside-down maneuver for anyone who would look. "Thought I was done for, but then – BAM! Right off the toe of my boot!"
"We saw it, Ron," Ginny rolled her eyes, but her grin was just as wide as her brother's. "The whole school saw it. I'm pretty sure they saw it in Hogsmeade too."
Emma sat down heavily on one of the benches, still clutching her broom like a lifeline. Her eyes were wide with disbelief, as if she couldn't quite process what had just happened. Harry noticed and made his way over, still holding the caught Snitch in his palm.
"Alright there, Emma?" he asked, dropping onto the bench beside her.
She turned to him, her face flushed with excitement and exertion. "That was… that was…"
"Brilliant?" Harry suggested. "Because it was. Three goals in your first match? Even Katie Bell didn't manage that in her debut."
"Really?" Emma's voice was barely a whisper.
"Really," Harry confirmed, then raised his voice to address the whole team. "Everyone was brilliant today. Sarah, Andrew – those Bludgers were perfectly aimed. Thomas, your diving catch in the third quarter saved us at least two goals. Ron, well…" He gestured at his still-demonstrating friend. "I think Ron's telling everyone exactly how brilliant he was."
"Oi!" Ron called out, pausing mid-reenactment. "I mean, thanks, I guess."
The changing room erupted in laughter, even Ron joining in after a moment of mock indignation. The victory had left them all in that magical state where everything seemed funny, where the world was painted in brighter colors.
"Party in the common room!" Andrew announced, emerging from the shower area with his hair still dripping. "The house-elves have outdone themselves – there's enough food to feed even Ron!"
"Oi, what is this, Pick On Ron Day?" Ron demanded, but his eyes lit up at the mention of food. "Though now that you mention it, I am rather peckish…"
"You're always peckish," Ginny pointed out, expertly braiding her wet hair. "But he's right about the party. I saw Neville sneaking off toward the kitchens with Dean and Seamus right after the match. They had that look."
"What look?" Emma asked, finally releasing her death grip on her broom.
"The we're definitely not planning anything Professor McGonagall look," Harry explained, grinning. "Usually means something spectacular is about to happen."
"Speaking of spectacular," Sarah chimed in, "Emma, that barrel roll you did to avoid Bradley's tackle? Where did that come from? I thought you said you were nervous!"
Emma blushed furiously. "I was! I am! I just… sort of… did it? It was like my body knew what to do before my brain could panic about it."
"That's the mark of a natural flyer," Harry said firmly. "Trust your instincts – they clearly know what they're doing."
The door burst open again, admitting another wave of excited Gryffindors led by Hermione, who made a beeline for Ron. "That was amazing!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around him. "All of you were incredible!"
"The party's already starting upstairs," Dennis informed them, still beaming. "McGonagall's pretending not to notice the Butterbeer, though she did confiscate something that looked like Firewhisky from a seventh-year."
"Right then," Harry stood up, addressing his team one final time. "Quick showers, everyone. Can't keep our adoring public waiting, can we?"
As the team dispersed to the shower stalls, still chattering excitedly about various moments from the match, Harry caught Emma lingering behind. She was carefully placing her broom in the storage lockers, her hands trembling slightly.
"You know," he said quietly, "the second match is always easier. The nerves never quite go away – trust me on that – but they get… friendlier, somehow. More like excitement than fear."
Emma nodded, her fingers tracing the grain of the wood one last time before closing the locker. "Thanks, Harry. For believing in me, I mean. When my old broom got hexed, I thought… I thought maybe I wasn't meant for this."
"Whoever hexed your broom," Harry's voice hardened slightly, "only proved that they were afraid of how good you are. Remember that."
A small smile tugged at Emma's lips. "I will." She hesitated, then added, "Though I might need reminding before the next match."
"That's what captains are for," Harry grinned. "Now go on – get cleaned up. I hear there's treacle tart upstairs, and if we don't hurry, Ron will have eaten it all."
"I heard that!" Ron's voice echoed from the shower area.
Harry laughed, taking a moment to put his own equipment away, his robes still damp and sweaty, clinging to his skin.
"You're not coming up yet?" Hermione asked, lingering by the changing room door while the excited chatter of their teammates faded up the corridor. The late afternoon light slanted through the high windows, casting long shadows across the stone floor.
Harry shook his head, running a hand through his still-damp hair. "Need a minute. You know how I get after matches."
"Mm." Hermione leaned against the doorframe, a knowing smile playing at her lips. "The famous Potter post-match ritual. Ron thinks you're mental, you know."
"Ron thinks anyone who isn't heading straight for the food is mental," Harry grinned, sitting down to lace up his trainers.
"He's not wrong about the spread this time," Hermione said. "I saw at least three Cauldron Cakes. Your favorite."
"Trying to tempt me?"
"Maybe." She crossed her arms, studying him with that familiar look of fond exasperation. "You were brilliant today, Harry. That final dive…"
"Pure instinct," Harry shrugged, but couldn't hide his smile. "Though I thought Ron was going to faint when I pulled up."
"We all did!" Hermione smacked his arm. "Sometimes I think you enjoy scaring us."
"Me? Never." Harry stood, stretching. "Save me some tart?"
"I'll try, but no promises." She hesitated, then added more softly, "It's good to see you like this, you know. Happy. Flying. It's… it's like having the old Harry back."
Harry felt warmth bloom in his chest. "Thanks, 'Mione."
She gave him a quick hug.
"You smell," she pointed out, as she turned to leave. "You better shower after you're done brooding out on the pitch."
"I don't brood!" he called after her retreating form. Her laughter echoed back down the corridor. Harry rolled his eyes and headed back out on the pitch. A walk always helped calm his nerves.
The pitch was a welcome quiet when Harry emerged.
Red and gold streamers fluttered in the evening breeze, tangling with discarded programs and abandoned banners. The stands now stood silent and empty, though evidence of the celebration remained everywhere – forgotten scarves, scattered confetti, a lone omnioculars hanging forgotten over a railing.
Harry breathed deeply, letting the familiar scent of grass and wood polish wash over him. This was his favorite part of match days – the aftermath, when the excitement had died down but the victory still hummed in his veins. When they won, at least.
"Savoring ze moment, 'Arry?"
He spun around to find Fleur standing at the edge of the pitch, her silver-blonde hair caught in the dying sunlight. She was still wearing her professor's robes, though she'd added a Ravenclaw scarf against the evening chill.
"Professor Delacour," he grinned, unable to resist. "Come to congratulate the victors?"
He heard the words come out of his mouth before he thought about it. Something about winning made him throw caution to the winds- probably the adrenaline. Definitely not the fact the Fleur looked absolutely stunning right now.
She raised an elegant eyebrow. "Don't get too comfortable with zat title. Ravenclaw will not make ze same mistakes twice."
"Mistakes? Is that what we're calling my superior seeking skills now?"
"Your diving was… adequate," she allowed, though her eyes sparkled with amusement. "Though perhaps a bit… 'ow do you say… show-offy?"
"Show-offy?" Harry clutched his chest in mock offense. "I'm wounded, Professor. Truly wounded. I thought I had some skill as a seeker."
"Skills?" Fleur scoffed, but her lips twitched. "Is zat what you call nearly crashing into ze stands?"
"I had it completely under control!"
"Of course you did." She shook her head, but there was warmth in her voice. "Still, it was… not entirely terrible flying."
"High praise indeed," Harry laughed. "I'll treasure this moment forever. The great Fleur Delacour, admitting a Gryffindor did something 'not entirely terrible.'"
A slight red colored her cheeks. "Don't let it go to your 'ead. We will be ready next time."
Harry smirked. "And I'll be better next time. My dive-"
"That last dive was quite dangerous, 'Arry." Fleur pointed out, her voice strained.
"Come to critique my flying technique?"
She shook her head, though the corners of her mouth twitched slightly. "Someone should. Ze way you plummeted toward ze ground… it was most concerning."
The victory-induced confidence that still coursed through his veins made him bolder than usual, though not entirely reckless. "Were you worried about me, Fleur?"
Another subtle flush crossed her face, though Harry could barely notice it in the golden evening light. "As your professor, I 'ave a responsibility to ensure student safety, even during Quidditch matches."
"Of course," Harry nodded, his smile widening just slightly. "Though I did have it under control."
"Did you?" She raised an elegant eyebrow. "From where I sat, it looked rather… 'ow do you say… heart-stopping."
Something in her voice made his own heart skip a beat, but he carefully maintained a respectful distance. "I'll try to be less dramatic next time," he offered, though they both knew it was probably a lie.
"See that you do." Her tone was stern, but there was a warmth in her eyes that hadn't been there before. "I would prefer not to 'ave to explain to Madame Pomfrey why our star Seeker needed reconstructing."
"Star Seeker?" Harry grinned. "That's high praise from a Ravenclaw."
"As I have said, don't let it go to your 'ead," she warned, though her lips curved into a small smile. "It is already grand enough."
A distant cheer from Gryffindor Tower floated down to them on the evening breeze, reminding Harry of the celebration waiting above. The sound seemed to break whatever subtle spell had fallen over the quiet pitch.
"I should go," he said, gesturing vaguely toward the castle. "The team will be wondering where I've got to."
"Oui," she nodded, smoothing her robes in an unconscious gesture. "Enjoy your celebration, 'Arry. You earned it today, even if your methods were… unnecessarily dramatic."
"Thank you, Professor." He started to turn, then paused. "I appreciate the concern, by the way. Even if it wasn't necessary."
Something flickered in her eyes – surprise, maybe, Harry couldn't tell – but she merely inclined her head.
"Bonne nuit, 'Arry."
"Goodnight, Fleur."
He could feel her eyes on him as he walked away, and it took all his willpower not to look back. The sound of celebration drifted down from Gryffindor Tower, growing louder with each step, calling him back to his friends and his triumph. But for just a moment, he let himself remember the way the sunset had caught in Fleur's hair, the spark in her eyes as she'd teased him.
Then he squared his shoulders and picked up his pace. After all, there was treacle tart waiting, and he had a victory to celebrate.
The Fat Lady was singing when Harry reached the portrait hole, her operatic voice striking Harry as somewhere between triumphant and terrible as she belted out…a song? A dirge? He couldn't exactly tell.
She barely paused her performance to swing open at the password, though Harry caught her winking at him as he climbed through.
The common room had transformed into a festival of scarlet and gold. Enchanted streamers danced through the air, occasionally forming themselves into miniature lions that prowled across the ceiling before dissolving back into spiraling bands of color. Someone had charmed the windows to display a continuous replay of match highlights, and Harry watched his own figure dive and weave across the magical glass. He had to admit- some of his dives did seem a bit risky. It was all a lot less scary in person, with a broom beneath him and adrenaline rushing through his veins.
"There's our conquering hero!" Seamus's voice boomed across the room, and a cheer went up from the assembled crowd. "Where've you been hiding, then?"
"Clearing my head," Harry called back, grinning as he made his way through the press of bodies. The air was thick with the scent of butter beer and victory, warm with the press of celebration.
He found Hermione perched on the arm of Ron's favorite chair. "Clearing your head, were you?" she asked quietly as he dropped into the chair beside them. "For nearly an hour?"
"Leave him be," Ron interrupted, surprising them both. He was teaching a group of wide-eyed first years how to properly execute a Keeper's starfish defense, using cushions as makeshift goal posts. "Man's allowed some quiet after a match like that. Though you missed Neville's victory dance – absolute classic, mate."
As if summoned by his name, Neville appeared through the crowd, his face flushed with excitement and what might have been a touch too much butter beer. Harry gave the boy a nod as he disappeared back into the crowd.
"Is that Cho's sister?" Hermione murmured, nodding toward where a small group of Ravenclaws huddled near the fireplace, trying their best to look inconspicuous in their blue-trimmed robes.
"Davies'll have kittens if he finds out," Ron chuckled, abandoning his demonstration to join their conversation. "Half his team fraternizing with the enemy."
"They're hardly the enemy," Ginny called over, appearing with a tray of something that sparkled suspiciously. "Some of us happen to find Ravenclaws quite charming."
A ripple of laughter went through their corner of the room. Harry watched as Emma spoke to some of his classmates. The nervousness that had gripped her before the match had melted away, replaced by the kind of confidence that only comes from proving yourself in front of the whole school. He knew how that felt- like you were on top of the world.
"I still can't believe that barrel roll she pulled off," Ron said admiringly, following Harry's gaze. "Reminded me of Charlie in his prime. Speaking of which…" He pulled out a crumpled letter from his pocket. "Got this from him this morning. Says he's got a new dragon breed he's working with – wants to know if we fancy visiting over the holiday."
"A new dragon breed?" Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "That sounds…"
"Absolutely wicked?" Ron suggested hopefully.
"I was going to say 'terrifying,' but I suppose that works too."
The party swirled around them. Near the portrait hole, Dennis Creevey was regaling anyone who would listen with his blow-by-blow account of the match, complete with sound effects.
"Oh, look," Luna said dreamily, pointing to where Thomas Wright was attempting to teach his younger sister a victory dance. "The Wrackspurts are having quite a party of their own up there."
Harry leaned back in his chair, letting the warmth of the moment wash over him. His mind briefly flickered to the quiet conversation by the pitch, but he pushed it aside. This was where he belonged.
"Earth to Harry," Hermione's voice cut through his thoughts. She was studying his face with that particular look that always made him feel like she could read his mind. "You seem rather far away for someone who's just won such a spectacular match."
"Just happy," he replied, and it wasn't entirely a lie. The victory high was still there, but it had mellowed into something deeper, more contemplative. It had been a while since he'd felt this whole.
"Well, you should be," Ron declared, throwing an arm around both their shoulders. "That last dive was absolutely mental. Brilliant, mind you, but mental."
Something in Harry's expression must have flickered at the mention of the dive, because Hermione's eyes narrowed slightly. But before she could say anything, a massive cheer went up from the other side of the room.
"THE SNITCH! THE SNITCH!" several voices shouted at once.
The golden ball had apparently escaped from someone's pocket and was now zooming around the common room, causing general chaos as people dove to catch it. Harry watched, laughing, as it led them on a merry chase, occasionally pausing to hover tantalizingly just out of reach before darting away again.
"Shouldn't you go catch that?" Hermione asked, dodging as a particularly enthusiastic second-year nearly toppled into their corner.
Harry shook his head, grinning. "Think I've done enough showing off for one day."
"Who are you and what have you done with Harry Potter?" Ron demanded.
Harry simply shrugged.
The night stretched on, golden and infinite. Even Professor McGonagall's brief appearance – ostensibly to ensure things weren't getting out of hand – couldn't dampen the spirits, especially when Harry caught her humming along to one of the victory marches.
"Alright everyone!" Seamus's voice boomed again, magically amplified this time. "Special treat courtesy of George Weasley himself! Remember to check out the new branch of Weasley's at Hogsmeade for more!" He pulled out what looked suspiciously like miniature fireworks from his robes.
"Finnigan, if you blow up the common room again-" Hermione started, half-rising from her perch.
"Relax, 'Mione," Ron tugged her back down. "George tested these himself. Mostly."
"Mostly?"
But Seamus had already lit the first one. Instead of exploding, it transformed into a perfect miniature replay of Harry's winning dive, rendered in sparkling gold and scarlet lights. The tiny Harry-figure swooped and soared through the common room, drawing gasps and cheers from the crowd.
"Brilliant!" Dean exclaimed. "Do the barrel roll next!"
Soon the air was filled with shimmering recreations of the match's best moments. Harry smiled as he saw Emma Dobb's face turn pink with pleasure when Seamus set off one showing her spectacular goal.
"I wasn't that graceful," she protested, but her eyes shone with pride.
"You absolutely were," Ginny, who was sitting next to him, assured her. "Though next time, try feinting left before you swing right - keeps the Keeper guessing."
"Speaking of Keepers," Ron puffed up importantly, "did anyone notice my triple save in the second quarter? Pure tactical genius, that was."
"Yes, Ron," Hermione patted his arm indulgently. "Though I'm quite sure at least one of those was an accident."
"It was a tactical risk!"
"You nearly fell off your broom," Harry pointed out.
"Tactically," Ron insisted. "You're not one to point fingers, Harry!"
"Fair point."
Near the fireplace, Neville had somehow ended up teaching a group of first-years a sneezing charm for some reason.
"That's not a real tradition," Luna observed dreamily. "Though it does seem to be keeping the Nargles entertained."
"Neville!" Hannah Abbott called from across the room. "Show them the move you did after the Quidditch Cup last year!"
Neville's face went scarlet. "That was different! I'd been hit by a Cheering Charm!"
"Three Cheering Charms," Ginny corrected with a wicked grin. "And a Babbling Beverage. Go on, Nev, give us an encore!"
The room erupted in encouraging cheers. Harry watched, grinning, as Neville was practically pushed into the center of a hastily-formed circle. The wireless in the background, as if sensing the moment, switched to a particularly bouncy victory march.
"I'll need backup dancers," Neville announced, his embarrassment apparently forgotten. "Harry! Ron! Get over here!"
"Not a chance, mate," Harry laughed, but Ron was already being dragged up by an enthusiastic Seamus.
"Come on, Harry!" Dennis Creevey urged. "The Boy Who Lived To Dance!"
"Oh god, please don't make that a thing-"
But it was too late. The chant had already started: "Dance! Dance! Dance!"
Hermione was practically crying with laughter. "Go on, Harry. Show us those moves that made you such a hit at the Yule Ball."
"That was four years ago!" Harry protested. "I've gotten… worse since then, somehow."
Nevertheless, he found himself pulled into the circle. Ron was already attempting some sort of spinning move that looked more like he was being attacked by pixies, while Neville had launched into what might have been a jig, if jigs typically involved that much hopping.
"This is definitely going in the Prophet," Ginny declared, conjuring a camera from somewhere. "Famous Auror-in-Training Can't Dance, News at Eleven."
"You wouldn't dare-"
"Try me, Potter!"
The next few minutes were a blur of laughter and increasingly ridiculous dance moves that Harry couldn't seem to distinguish. Even some of the young years joined in. All non-Gryffindors had been kicked out at this point. This was just pure, unadulterated Gryffindor energy around him right now. and Harry took it in gladly.
After what seemed like forever, the dancing finally slowed down. A large enough cue for him.
"Right," he finally gasped, collapsing back into his chair. "That's enough showing off for one day."
"Showing off?" Ron grinned, his face flushed from dancing. "That was art, mate. Pure art."
Hermione scrunched her nose as Harry laughed.
"Art to a blind bat, maybe."
The party continued well into the night. Someone had enchanted the ceiling to show a continuous replay of sunrise. The wireless cycled through every victory song ever written, including a particularly memorable rendition of Weasley Is Our King. which had originally been written for Fred and George but now, Harry noticed, had Ron simultaneously preening and blushing.
"You know," he mused, watching as Dennis Creevey attempted to teach another even younger brother the proper way to do a victory lap on a borrowed broomstick (despite Hermione's protests about indoor flying), "I think I'm going to miss this next year."
"Miss what?" Ron asked, his mouth full of chocolate frog. "The dives or the dancing?"
"All of it," Harry gestured vaguely at the room. "This. Us. Hogwarts."
"Getting sentimental in your old age, Potter?" Ginny teased, but her eyes were soft with understanding.
"Maybe," he admitted. "Though don't tell anyone."
"Too late," Hermione laughed. "We all saw those dance moves."
The laughter that followed was warm and familiar, wrapping around him like a well-worn blanket. Outside, the real night had deepened to velvet darkness, stars twinkling through the enchanted windows. But in here, in this moment, it felt like a distant dream.
Tuesday night found the library almost empty, with only the occasional rustle of pages and scratch of quills breaking the dusty silence. Harry stared at his half-finished Charms essay until the words began swimming before his eyes. The parchment was more crossed-out lines than actual content at this point.
"Bloody hell," Ron whispered from across the table, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "What's Flitwick playing at, setting us this much work? It's mental, that's what it is!"
Hermione didn't even look up from her own scroll, which was already nearly three feet long. Harry had no idea how that witch wrote so much.
"It's NEWT level, Ronald. What did you expect?"
"Not this torture, that's for sure." Ron squinted at his textbook. "Harry, mate, what'd you put for the bit about emotional amplification in Cheering Charms? Mine's rubbish."
Harry just shook his head, pushing his glasses up to rub his eyes. The candlelight was starting to give him a headache. "Haven't got there yet. Still stuck on the theory behind mood-altering spells."
"But you're brilliant at Cheering Charms," Hermione said, finally glancing up. "You got an Outstanding on your OWL practical."
"Yeah, well, doing them is different from explaining how they work, isn't it?" Harry couldn't keep the frustration from his voice. "And everyone keeps going on about how my mum was some sort of Charms genius, so Flitwick expects…" He trailed off, stabbing his quill into the inkwell with perhaps more force than necessary.
"Mate." Ron's voice was uncharacteristically gentle. "You don't have to be your parents, y'know?"
"I know that," Harry snapped, then immediately felt guilty. "Sorry. I just… need some air. Clear my head a bit. Too many letters."
Hermione checked her watch. "It's nearly curfew-"
"Just a quick walk," Harry promised, already pushing back his chair. "Won't be long."
The corridors were silent at this hour, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls. Most students would be in their common rooms by now, though the occasional prefect might still be making rounds. Harry walked without any real destination in mind, letting his feet carry him where they would while his thoughts churned.
It wasn't just the essay. It was everything - the pressure of NEWTs, the weight of other's expectations, the strange tension that still lingered in the castle's halls even a year after the war. It had been a great few days post the first Quidditch match, but the incidents that had happened before that were an uncomfortable reminder that there was still some evil at loose in Hogwarts. Perhaps not as major, but still ever-present.
Harry found himself near one of the tower windows, moonlight streaming through the ancient glass. The grounds stretched out below, silvered and strange in the darkness. The lake was a mirror of black glass, reflecting stars like scattered diamonds. And there, at the edge of the Forbidden Forest…
Harry froze.
A shadow moved where no shadow should be, too deliberate to be a trick of the light. He watched as it detached itself from the treeline, moving further into the forest. Too short and thin to be Hagrid- and he knew no couples went as far as the Forbidden Forest for a snog.
His heart began to race, instincts kicking in. Before he could think better of it, he was already sprinting back toward Gryffindor Tower, taking the stairs two at a time. He needed his Invisibility Cloak.
Ten minutes later, he was slipping through the castle's heavy doors, the familiar silk of the Cloak settling around his shoulders like a second skin. The grass was damp with evening dew, soaking through his trainers as he moved carefully across the grounds. Every shadow seemed to hold potential threats, every rustle of leaves making him tense.
The figure he'd spotted was gone, but he could see clear tracks in the wet grass - someone had definitely been here. They led toward the forest, disappearing into the darkness between the trees. Harry hesitated at the edge of the woods, his wand in his hand. The reasonable thing would be to go back, alert the teachers, let them handle whatever was happening.
Oh bollocks. There wasn't time for that.
A twig snapped somewhere in the darkness ahead. Harry held his breath, straining to hear more. The forest seemed to press in around him, full of watching eyes and held breath. Another snap, closer this time. He raised his wand, ready for anything.
Well, almost.
His breath caught in his throat as he edged along the forest's boundary. The moonlight played tricks with his vision, turning familiar shapes strange and threatening.
Constant vigilance, Moody's voice echoed in his head.
A branch cracked beneath his foot. Harry froze, heart hammering against his ribs.
Nothing.
Just the wind in the trees, the distant hoot of an owl. He let out a slow breath, already turning back toward the castle. This was mad, really. He should be in his dormitory, wrestling with that damn Charms essay, not prowling around the grounds like—
"—must be ready by the full moon."
The voice drifted from somewhere ahead, barely more than a whisper. Harry pressed himself against a thick oak trunk, straining to hear more.
"The artifacts are nearly all located." A second voice, too low to identify. "Though the wards are proving… resistant."
"We cannot afford delays." The first voice again, sharp with irritation. "The ritual requires precise timing."
Harry inched closer, careful to keep the Cloak wrapped tight. The speakers were just ahead, their faces hidden in shadow.
SNAP!
The twig beneath his foot might as well have been a gunshot in the quiet night. Both figures whirled toward the sound.
"Lumos Maxima!"
Harry was already running, abandoning stealth for speed. A jet of red light sizzled past his ear, close enough that he felt its heat. Another spell shattered the trunk of a tree just ahead, showering him with splinters. If he wasn't wearing his cloak- he'd probably have been dead by now.
He zigzagged as he ran, tripping over the odd branch. His lungs burned, feet slipping on the dew-wet grass. Behind him, he heard rapid footsteps and urgent whispers, but he didn't dare look back.
The castle doors loomed ahead, his salvation. Harry slipped through them like a ghost, pressing himself against the cool stone wall of the entrance hall. His heart thundered so loudly he was sure it would give him away.
Minutes stretched like hours as he waited, listening for pursuit.
Nothing but the usual nighttime sounds of the castle – the distant creak of moving staircases, the soft snoring of portraits.
He waited for a few minutes longer, just in case.
Nothing.
He was just about to head back to Gryffindor Tower when the door creaked open again.
Professor Graves stepped into the entrance hall, closing the door quietly behind him. His usually immaculate robes were slightly disheveled, and – Harry's eyes narrowed – his boots were caked with fresh mud.
"Scourgify," Ethan muttered, cleaning his boots with a quick flick of his wand. He glanced around the empty hall, then started toward the staff quarters.
Before Harry could think better of it, he was following, keeping a careful distance. The Cloak barely whispered against the stone floor as he moved.
Ethan's footsteps echoed in the empty corridors, steady and unhurried. Nothing in his manner suggested he'd just been involved in a midnight chase by the forest. But those boots…
They were approaching the staff wing when another set of footsteps joined them – lighter, quicker.
"Professor Graves?"
Fleur's voice.
Brilliant. Just. Blooming. Brilliant.
Harry focused on avoiding a groan as he pressed himself against a wall. She was in between him and the corridor back to the tower.
"Ah, Professor Delacour." Ethan's smile was warm, practiced. "You're up late."
"Oui, ze fifth-year essays…" She gestured vaguely toward the stack of parchments in her arms. "But you as well? It is quite late for a walk."
"Couldn't sleep." Ethan shrugged elegantly. "Thought some fresh air might help. Though I didn't expect to find such charming company at this hour."
"Fresh air does wonders for ze mind," Fleur agreed, shifting the stack of parchments in her arms. The torchlight caught the delicate angles of her face, casting subtle shadows. Even exhausted from grading papers, she carried herself with that distinctive poise that made her seem to float rather than walk. "Though ze grounds can be… 'ow do you say… treacherous at night."
"Indeed." Ethan's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "One never knows what might be lurking in the shadows. Speaking of which, I've been meaning to ask you about the protective charms you've implemented in your classroom. Most impressive work."
Harry pressed himself flatter against the wall, hardly daring to breathe. Under the Cloak, his fingers tightened around his wand.
"Ah, zank you." A slight furrow appeared between Fleur's brows, her crystalline eyes sharpening with professional interest. "It is a modified version of ze shield charms we used at Beauxbatons. Though I 'ave added some personal… adjustments."
"Fascinating." Ethan took a step closer, his voice dropping slightly. Something in his posture reminded Harry uncomfortably of a cat preparing to pounce. "I've always found historical magical theory particularly elegant, especially when it comes to layered protection spells. The way they interact with existing wards…"
"You seem quite knowledgeable about older charm magic, Professor Graves." There was something careful in Fleur's tone now, a subtle shift that made her accent more pronounced. Harry had noticed she did that sometimes when she was suspicious or uncomfortable – retreated slightly behind the formality of her French mannerisms.
"I try to stay well-informed." Ethan's laugh was smooth as silk. "Like I said, I'd love to hear more about those adjustments you mentioned."
Harry's jaw clenched involuntarily. He told himself it was purely professional concern – after all, why was the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor so interested in protective charms?
"Per'aps," Fleur replied noncommittally. Her fingers drummed a subtle rhythm against the stack of parchments she held, a gesture Harry recognized as one of her tells when she was thinking carefully about her next words. "Though at ze moment, I must return to zese essays. My fifth-years are quite… enthusiastic in zeir writing."
"Of course, of course." Ethan stepped back, giving her space to pass. "Another time, then. Though I do hope you'll consider sharing some of your expertise. We could all benefit from a bit of additional protection these days."
Something in his tone made the hair on the back of Harry's neck stand up, though he couldn't say exactly why. Fleur seemed to feel it too – her movements became more measured, more precise, like a duelist gauging their opponent. Harry remembered that Fleur was one of the best duelists of her class.
"Another day zen, I am afraid. Bonne nuit, Professor Graves."
"Good night, Professor Delacour. Pleasant dreams."
Harry watched as Fleur disappeared around the corner, her footsteps nearly silent against the stone floor – another habit he'd noticed, the way she could move almost soundlessly when she chose. Ethan remained where he was for a long moment, staring after her with an expression Harry couldn't quite read. Then he too turned and continued down the corridor, his boots clicking against the stone floor with deliberate heaviness.
For a brief moment, Harry considered following him further. But the events by the forest still churned in his mind, demanding attention. Besides, his legs were starting to cramp from holding so still, and he honestly just wanted to go have a nap.
The conversation about charms protection kept nagging at him on his way back, however.
Why would a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor be so interested in protective charms? Especially older ones?
It seemed… strange somehow.
Though maybe, Harry thought blithely, he was just being paranoid. Maybe Ethan really was just making friendly conversation with a colleague. Maybe those muddy boots had a perfectly innocent explanation.
Yeah, right. And maybe Snape had secretly been a unicorn in disguise.
Carefully, moving as quietly as he could, Harry began making his way back toward Gryffindor Tower. His thoughts raced ahead of him, trying to piece together everything he'd witnessed. The figures in the forest, talking about artifacts and rituals. The full moon. Ethan's sudden interest in Fleur's protective charms. There was a pattern here somewhere, if he could just see it clearly.
But his head was starting to throb from the tension of the evening, and he still had that bloody Charms essay to finish. He'd have to sort through it all tomorrow, preferably with Ron and Hermione's help. They'd always been better at seeing the bigger picture, at finding the connections he missed.
For now, he just wanted to get back to the common room without running into anyone else.