CHAPTER FOUR
The Try-Outs
The crisp air of late morning carried the faint scent of pumpkin and nutmeg as the trio approached the Great Hall. Cecily bounded ahead, her energy undiminished despite the early hour. Her voice echoed back to them as she speculated about the lunchtime menu, her chatter light and insistent. She spoke of steak and kidney pie with a dreamy enthusiasm that made Moody smirk despite himself. Hagrid, ever the food enthusiast, responded with equal fervor, declaring pumpkin pasties the pinnacle of Hogwarts cuisine.
Moody trailed slightly behind, only half listening. Their playful banter barely registered over the steady hum of his own thoughts. The looming Quidditch tryouts had been circling in his mind all morning, a dull pressure that tightened with every step closer to the Hall. His hands, shoved deep into his robe pockets, were cold and clammy despite the brisk autumn air.
Inside the Great Hall, the familiar cacophony of clinking cutlery and lively conversation greeted them, but it did little to ease Moody's nerves. Cecily darted ahead, weaving through clusters of students with the practiced ease of someone unconcerned about anything beyond her next meal. She paused at the edge of the Gryffindor table, her grin flashing over her shoulder before she disappeared into the crowd. Hagrid and Moody followed more slowly, Moody's steps growing heavier as they neared their usual spot.
Sliding onto the bench beside Hagrid, Moody's stomach twisted further, a dull ache that no amount of food could remedy. Across the hall, the Ravenclaw table buzzed with laughter, drawing his gaze almost involuntarily. Gideon Prewett sat at its center, leaning back in his chair with a lazy confidence, his easy grin lighting up the group around him. Even from a distance, his charisma was undeniable, magnetic. Moody's eyes lingered on him longer than they should have, a prick of envy joining the nerves already pooling in his chest.
"Eat up, Alastor," Hagrid said, piling another pasty onto Moody's plate. "Starvin' yerself before tryouts? Bad plan."
Moody poked at a shepherd's pie but couldn't bring himself to eat. The thought of stepping onto the Quidditch pitch later sent a twist of unease through Moody. The memory of last year's failed tryout lingered, sharp and heavy—the jeering from the stands, the disappointed shake of Blythe's head. What if it happened again?
Cecily, ever perceptive, reached over and snagged a roll from his plate. "If you're not going to eat, I will," she said with mock seriousness, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You can't afford to faint during tryouts, you know. That'd be embarrassing for everyone."
Her teasing drew a faint smile, but it didn't break the knot in his chest. Across the hall, Gideon gestured animatedly, his voice indistinct but his ease palpable. Moody wondered if Gideon ever felt this crushing weight, this constant need to prove himself. Somehow, he doubted it.
By the time lunch ended and they parted ways, the weight of the afternoon pressed heavier on Moody's chest. The thought of the Quidditch tryouts loomed like a storm cloud, impossible to ignore. As he headed toward the Charms corridor, he realized his hands were trembling. Clenching them into fists, he took a deep, steadying breath. Fourth-year Moody might have buckled under the pressure, but this year had to be different. Fifth-year Moody couldn't afford to falter.
Charms with Professor Periwether provided a welcome, if fleeting, distraction. The young professor's hunched posture and squeaky voice gave an impression of frailty, but his sharp wit and quick humor painted a very different picture. He moved through the classroom with an energy that kept students on their toes, alternating between patient encouragement for struggling spellwork and wry remarks that rippled with laughter.
"Mr. Gudgeon," Periwether intoned, pinching the bridge of his nose as a burst of green sparks erupted from the end of a student's wand, "if your wand technique were any more inventive, we'd have to rewrite the curriculum. Let's aim for actual spellwork this time, shall we?"
Despite Periwether's efforts, Moody struggled to focus. His thoughts kept drifting to the afternoon ahead: Quidditch tryouts. The news that Gideon Prewett was vying for the Ravenclaw Seeker position had spread quickly, and Moody couldn't shake the thought of competing against him. The idea sat like a sharp hook in his chest—not painful, but impossible to ignore.
By dinner, Moody felt a small wave of relief as he stepped into the Great Hall. The atmosphere was far less hostile than he had feared. While there were still occasional glances his way, the murmurs and whispers that had followed him yesterday seemed to have faded; swallowed up by the excitement of the Quidditch try-outs. Moody let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and made his way to the Gryffindor table, where Hagrid and Cecily were already seated.
"Finally," Cecily said as he sat down. "How was Charms? Did you blow anything up?"
"Not today," Moody replied, sliding into the seat beside Hagrid. "Though Gudgeon nearly did."
"Typical," Cecily said, piling mashed potatoes onto her plate. "You should have made it more exciting. Periwether might've fainted."
"Charms'll never be as fun as Transfiguration," Hagrid chimed in, reaching for a roll.
Moody smirked faintly but didn't reply. His thoughts were already drifting to the afternoon ahead, the looming Quidditch tryouts tugging at his mind like a persistent knot. The noise of the Great Hall, usually comforting, felt oppressive, and the savory aroma of shepherd's pie turned his stomach rather than tempting his appetite.
He pushed his plate aside, much to Hagrid's dismay. "You'll need your strength, yeh know," Hagrid said, his voice full of good-natured concern as he gestured at the half-finished meal.
"I'm fine," Moody muttered, rising from the bench. "I just need some air."
He ignored Hagrid's calls to sit back down and made his way out of the hall. The crisp autumn breeze greeted him the moment he stepped outside, carrying the faint scent of damp leaves and woodsmoke. It was a welcome relief from the warmth and chaos inside, but the knot in his chest remained.
He wandered toward the courtyard, where the carved stone walls offered a familiar sense of stability. His fingers trailed along the cool surface, and he closed his eyes, inhaling deeply to steady himself. This year has to be different, he thought. His memories of last year's tryouts surfaced unbidden—the jeering from the stands, Blythe's disappointed look, the sting of failure that had followed him for weeks.
The faint buzz of voices broke through his thoughts. A group of second-years passed by, their arms laden with books, chatting animatedly about the upcoming Gryffindor tryouts. Their excitement was infectious, and Moody couldn't help but feel a spark of hope. Maybe this year could be different.
He glanced at his watch—just enough time to grab his broom and head to the pitch. Taking another deep breath, he made his way back to the Gryffindor common room. The dormitory was quiet when he entered, his broom resting against his trunk like an old friend waiting for him. Running his hand along the handle, he felt a flicker of confidence. Fly steady, fly true, his father's voice echoed in his mind. It wasn't just a mantra—it was a promise he intended to keep.
By the time he reached the pitch, the weight in his chest had settled into a determined focus.
The crisp autumn air bit at Moody's cheeks as he strode onto the Quidditch pitch, his broomstick slung over his shoulder. Blythe, the team captain, stood in the center of the field, her sharp eyes scanning the small group of hopefuls gathered around her. The Gryffindor banners flapped against the golden sky, and the distant cheers of Hufflepuffs watching their team's practice filled the air.
Moody adjusted his gloves, his stomach twisting with nervous energy. Fourth-year Moody might have hesitated—might have let the pressure and the whispers in the stands paralyze him. But not this time. He'd spent the summer practicing until his hands blistered and his arms ached. Today, he wasn't going to give Blythe any reason to doubt him.
"Alright, everyone," Blythe barked, clapping her hands for attention. "We're keeping it simple. I need a new Beater pair, and if you're not ready to get hit, you're wasting my time. Kemp and Tuttle, start us off."
Moody watched as the two sixth-years mounted their brooms and shot into the air. Kemp, a seasoned Beater, demonstrated his skill with casual ease, sending Bludgers hurtling toward Tuttle, who met them with sharp, precise swings. The rhythm of their movements was mesmerizing, almost like a dance, but Moody wasn't here to watch. He tightened his grip on his broomstick, his pulse quickening.
When Blythe called his name, Moody shot into the air, his heart pounding in time with the rush of wind. The familiar weight of his Comet 180 steadied his nerves, a small comfort against the whirlwind of anticipation. His dad had been so proud to buy him this broom, calling it "solid, reliable—just like a Spitfire." That pride carried expectations that hovered in the back of Moody's mind, both crushing and invigorating. As he gripped the broom's handle, his father's words echoed: "Fly steady, fly true."
The drills began simply: returning Bludgers and directing them toward specific targets. But Moody's start was shaky. When he swung at the first Bludger, he missed, the wind from its passing rattling his nerves as it veered off course. His grip tightened, frustration building in his chest.
"Come on, Moody!" Blythe barked, her sharp tone cutting through the tension.
Adjusting his grip, Moody swung again as the next Bludger came in low and fast, but his timing was still off. The bat only grazed the ball, sending it spinning weakly to the side. His palms, damp with sweat, slipped slightly on the bat, forcing him to adjust his hold mid-swing. He felt the weight of eyes on him—Blythe, Kemp, and the other hopefuls—and it wrapped around his chest like a vice.
The memory of last year's tryouts surfaced, sharp and unwelcome: missed swings, the jeers, Blythe's disappointed shake of the head. His hands tightened on the bat, but the slickness made his grip falter. A voice hissed in the back of his mind: You're failing again. Proving you don't belong here.
A third Bludger barreled toward him. This time, Moody swung harder, but frustration made the movement sloppy. The bat jarred in his hands, and the Bludger soared wide. He heard the faint murmurs of the other players, the sound like needles pricking his ears.
"Focus, Moody!" Blythe's voice cut through the rising panic.
His pulse thundered as he hovered in the air, gripping the broom tightly. Panic clawed at him, but then Madame Idrisu's words surfaced in his mind: "Trust yourself." He exhaled slowly, loosening his grip on the bat. Steady hands, steadier heart, he thought. When the next Bludger came hurtling toward him, he swung with more control, the satisfying crack of impact rippling through his arms.
He took another breath, repeating the mantra. His shoulders, which had been hunched with tension, eased slightly. The next Bludger approached fast, but this time, he let instinct guide him. With a swift, clean swing, the bat connected solidly. The satisfying crack echoed, and the Bludger shot toward its target.
"That's better!" Blythe called, her tone approving.
The drill continued, and with each swing, Moody felt the tension in his chest lift. The rhythm of the game began to take over, his movements growing smoother and more natural. The bat felt like an extension of himself. A grin tugged at his mouth—small at first, then wider as he landed hit after hit. He wasn't just surviving the drill anymore; he was enjoying it.
The turning point came when Kemp, testing him, sent a Bludger at an awkward angle. Its trajectory was unpredictable, and Moody had mere seconds to react. The old doubts surged, but this time, they didn't win. Trust yourself. He leaned into the movement, his instincts sharp and deliberate. The bat connected with a powerful crack, sending the Bludger soaring across the pitch.
"Nice one, Moody!" Kemp called, nodding in approval.
Relief and triumph surged through him, a kind of exhilaration he hadn't felt in ages. He wasn't thinking about Blythe's judgment or the whispers from the stands anymore. He was flying, swinging, hitting—living in the moment.
When Blythe finally blew her whistle to end the drill, Moody's muscles ached, and his robes clung to him with sweat, but his spirits were high. He touched down on the grass, broom in hand, as Blythe gathered the players.
"Great work, everyone," she said, her tone firm but approving. "Wood, Keeper's still yours—don't get comfortable. Kemp, Moody—you're the Beater pair this season. Tuttle, you've earned a Chaser spot—congratulations."
Moody turned to Kemp, who gave him a nod and a half-smile. "Guess we're in this together," Kemp said, holding out his hand.
Moody hesitated, then shook it firmly. "Yeah. Let's make it count."
As the announcement sank in, the Gryffindor spectators—who had been sitting tensely—erupted into cheers. At first, it was just a few voices calling out his name, hesitant but growing bolder. Then, the clapping and shouts spread, rippling across the stands.
"Way to go, Moody!" someone yelled, their voice cutting through the noise.
"That last hit was brilliant!" another added, clapping enthusiastically. Even the usually aloof prefects joined in, nodding approvingly as they watched Moody stand with the team.
Moody froze for a moment, stunned by the applause. These weren't just polite cheers for Gryffindor's success—they were for him. The warmth of the crowd's approval washed over him, loosening some of the tension that had gripped his chest all afternoon. His name rang out across the pitch, louder and more confident with every repetition.
From the over half of the pitch, Gideon Prewett cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "That's how it's done, Moody!" A grin spread across his face as he raised a fist in solidarity. Even Cecily, beaming beside him, led a chant of "Moody! Moody!" until the whole section joined in.
As Moody trudged off the pitch, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, he couldn't shake the memory of Blythe's approving nod. He'd stumbled, yes, but he'd fought through it. And for the first time in a long while, he felt like he'd earned his place.
The cheers of his housemates rose around him, a triumphant roar that momentarily drowned out everything else. Among the crowd, Audrey Potter's sharp gaze still bore into him, her expression unreadable. The "Keep Hogwarts Pure" badge on her robes gleamed defiantly in the fading sunlight, but in this moment, it felt insignificant. For once, her judgment couldn't touch him.
Moody could feel the weight of support behind him—his house, his team, his friends. The sting of past failures felt distant, replaced by a cautious but growing confidence. This wasn't just a victory for the team—it was a victory for him, a moment where doubt took a backseat to determination.
Cecily and Hagrid broke through the gathering crowd on the pitch. Cecily threw her arms around him, her braid bouncing as she laughed. "You did it! And you didn't even embarrass yourself—much. Honestly, I'm a little impressed," she teased, though her eyes shone with pride.
Hagrid clapped him on the back so hard Moody nearly stumbled. "Yeh were brilliant, Moody. Looked like the Bludgers were winnin' fer a bit, but yeh pulled through in the end. That's what matters."
Other Gryffindors spilled onto the pitch, slapping him on the back or grinning as they passed. Kemp gave him another nod, his easy smirk softening into something more genuine. "Good game," he said simply, his approval clear.
As they walked back toward the castle, the setting sun cast long shadows across the pitch. Moody glanced back at the stands, now nearly empty, but he could still hear echoes of the cheers in his ears. He'd made the team, earned his place, and for the first time in a long while, he felt like he belonged.
Still, doubt lingered at the edges of his thoughts. Would they cheer so loudly if they knew who he really was? If they knew what Audrey thought—or worse, if they agreed?
Gripping his broom tighter, he thought of his father's steady voice: "Fly steady, fly true." And Madame Idrisu's: "Trust yourself." He straightened his shoulders, a small smile tugging at his lips. Maybe it wasn't about perfection. Maybe it was about showing up, trying again, and swinging with everything he had.
By the time they reached Gryffindor Tower, the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the castle shrouded in a warm, golden glow. Cecily nudged Moody with her elbow as they passed through the portrait hole. "You're in for it now," she said with a grin. "I told everyone you'd make the team."
"You what?" Moody groaned, but before he could protest further, the roar of the common room drowned him out.
The warmth of the Gryffindor common room enveloped Moody as he stepped inside, Cecily and Hagrid flanking him. The fire roared in the hearth, casting flickering shadows over the tapestries and mismatched furniture. The room buzzed with energy, the Gryffindor team seated in the center, flanked by a cheering crowd of housemates.
"You made it, Moody!" Blythe called, standing from her spot on the couch with a Butterbeer in hand. She raised it high, her sharp grin gleaming in the firelight. "To our new Beater pair—Moody and Kemp!"
A chorus of cheers erupted. Kemp smirked from where he sat, raising his mug in acknowledgment, but Moody hesitated, caught off guard by the overwhelming attention. Cecily nudged him forward, her grin unrelenting.
"Go on," she whispered. "You earned it."
As Moody moved toward the center of the room, hands clapped him on the back and someone shoved a Butterbeer into his hand. He raised it tentatively, his voice barely rising over the din. "To the team," he managed, his words clumsy but heartfelt.
"To the team!" the room echoed, and the cheering swelled again. The noise was almost too much, but Moody couldn't deny the warmth spreading in his chest—a rare, genuine sense of belonging.
From the corner of his eye, he caught Audrey Potter standing apart from the others. Her arms were crossed, her badge gleaming on her robes as she watched the celebration with a scowl that deepened each time someone congratulated him. Her jaw tightened as Blythe clapped Moody on the back and declared him the backbone of the team's defense.
"Potter doesn't look too happy," Cecily murmured beside him, her tone laced with mischief. "Wonder why that is?"
Hagrid chuckled, his massive frame shaking. "Jealous, I reckon. Yeh've got her riled up good, Alastor."
Moody glanced at Audrey, the weight of her glare pressing against him like a physical force. But instead of shrinking under her scrutiny, he took another sip of Butterbeer and smiled faintly. For once, he wouldn't let her shadow ruin the light.
As the evening wore on, the cheers and laughter filled the common room, the tensions of the day fading into the warm haze of camaraderie. Moody leaned back in his chair, watching his housemates' grins and hearing their easy banter, and let himself believe—if only for tonight—that he was exactly where he was meant to be.