CHAPTER 30: THE GAME BEGINS
Harry stirred awake at the soft sound of a voice calling his name.
"Harry," came the sweet whisper again, barely cutting through his groggy haze. He blinked, disoriented, until he saw Hannah standing beside his bed, her head poking out from behind the curtains of her four-poster.
"Huh?" he mumbled, still half-asleep, as the morning chorus of birds and the bustle of the girls' dormitory reached his ears. Girls moving about, talking, and readying themselves for the day filled the room with the familiar hum of Hogwarts' mornings.
Hannah's eyes met his, and she gave him a quick, reassuring kiss. "Ready?"
"Not really," Harry confessed, his insides churning with unease. He wasn't sure if this plan was going to work—was making Susan angry really the best way forward? She was far too important to lose, and if things went wrong, he feared the damage might be irreparable.
Hannah grabbed his face firmly but gently, her sea-blue eyes locking onto his, imploring. "Trust me, okay?"
Harry hesitated for a moment, but the sincerity in her gaze softened him. "Okay," he finally agreed, though doubt still lingered in his gut.
Without further warning, Hannah dramatically whipped open the curtains, revealing their presence to the rest of the room. The sudden movement startled Susan, who had been in the middle of buttoning up her skirt. She froze, her eyes wide in shock, as she took in the sight before her.
Harry winced, feeling the weight of the awkward moment settle over them. "Morning, Sue," he said, trying to sound casual, but his voice came out strained.
Susan's face flushed a deep red, her temper rising quickly. "What the hell is going on?!"
Hannah, ever the actress, immediately put on a show. "Oh, shit!" she exclaimed, feigning surprise and covering her mouth in mock horror.
Susan's expression darkened as her eyes darted between Harry and the disheveled, half-naked Hannah, who looked every bit the part of someone just caught in a compromising position. Her voice cracked with fury. "What the fuck?!"
Harry scrambled to find the right words, but they seemed to slip from his grasp before he could form them. Meanwhile, Hannah, with her usual unapologetic flair, smirked and stretched out lazily on the bed.
"It's not what it looks like," Hannah started to say, though her mischievous grin told a different story. She glanced at Harry, who was struggling to suppress a laugh. He quickly waved his wand to spell his clothes back on, deciding it was probably best to get dressed before things escalated even more. He had no intention of being caught in the crossfire of what was sure to become a full-blown catfight.
Susan's eyes narrowed as they scanned over Hannah's bare skin and the telltale signs of a night shared. The bruises, the crumpled sheets—everything painted a picture she couldn't ignore. "You... you slut!"
Hannah's grin only widened at the insult, completely unphased. "Harry's slut," she said with a playful wink, making it abundantly clear she wasn't ashamed in the least.
"Wait, Susan, listen—" Harry began, desperate to defuse the situation before it spiraled further out of control.
But Susan wasn't having any of it. Her face was twisted with betrayal and fury. "Get the fuck out!" she screamed, her hand shaking as she reached for her wand, clearly on the verge of hexing someone.
Harry, wisely deciding not to test Susan's temper any longer, raised his hands in surrender and started to back away. "Alright, alright, I'm going," he said quickly. But just as he was about to slip past her, Hannah reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him in for one last kiss.
"Thanks, Harry," she purred, giving him a naughty smile that sent a shiver down his spine.
"Uh... thank you?" Harry replied, more confused than ever. Even with everything he had learned over the years—facing Voldemort, sorting through Tom's memories—he still didn't understand the complexities of women, especially when jealousy was involved.
As he backed out of the room, the shouting behind him erupted into full force. Susan's voice, furious and shrill, could be heard even as Harry hurried down the corridor. He cringed at the sound of spells being thrown, hoping none of them were too serious.
This plan to provoke Susan's jealousy was risky, but it was all they had. If Hannah could talk him up enough and get Susan to reflect on her feelings, maybe, just maybe, they could repair their friendship—and more importantly, secure their bond. Everything hinged on this working, but Harry couldn't help but wonder if they had gone too far.
Harry grinned to himself as the laughter at the table died down, but a part of him still felt unsettled. Quidditch used to be the one thing that could clear his head, an escape from all the chaos that came with being "The Boy Who Lived." Now, even the idea of soaring above the pitch and snatching the Snitch felt... small, compared to everything else he had faced. Voldemort's cold voice still echoed in his mind at the strangest moments, even when he was trying to focus on mundane things like catching a golden ball.
But Ron, sitting across from him, seemed to be feeling everything Harry no longer did—excitement, nerves, and a bit of fear all bundled into one. His best mate's face was pale as he picked at his food, though he was putting on a brave front.
"I'm fine, Hermione," Ron muttered as Hermione continued fussing over him, her brows knitted in concern.
"You haven't eaten a thing, Ronald! How are you going to play if you don't have any energy?" she scolded, pushing a plate of eggs toward him.
Ron rolled his eyes. "I'm not that hungry," he said, though Harry could tell he was trying to suppress the urge to throw up. Quidditch meant a lot to Ron—too much, sometimes.
"She's right, mate," Harry chimed in, his tone lighter than he felt. "You're going to need your strength if you plan on blocking any of Slytherin's shots today."
Ron gulped and forced himself to take a bite, but it didn't seem to calm his nerves. "I'm going to be sick before we even get on the pitch," he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for Harry to hear.
"You'll be fine," Harry reassured him. "Remember the last time you played against Slytherin? You made some brilliant saves."
Ron gave a shaky grin but didn't look convinced. Hermione, still eyeing him with concern, didn't push the issue any further. Instead, she leaned over and whispered to Harry, "You really should keep an eye on him out there."
"Like I've ever let anything happen to him," Harry muttered back, though the weight of those words hung between them for a moment longer than he expected. He always tried to protect Ron, sometimes too much.
His thoughts were interrupted by the Great Hall doors slamming open. Susan Bones stormed in, her face flushed with fury, her gaze sweeping over the tables until it landed on him. He groaned inwardly.
"Here we go," Ron whispered, watching as Susan marched toward their table. "That looks like trouble."
"Why's she looking at you like you killed her cat?" Seamus asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Don't know," Harry replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe it's because of that lovely, peaceful morning I just had in her dormitory."
Ron snorted, but Hermione's lips pursed as she eyed him sharply. "What did you do?"
"Nothing," Harry replied quickly, a little too quickly for Hermione's liking.
Susan reached the Gryffindor table, stopping just in front of him. For a moment, she looked like she might hex him then and there.
"You—" she began, her voice low and dangerous, but before she could get another word out, Fred and George came up behind Harry and cut her off.
"Susan! Always a pleasure to see you," Fred said with a cheeky grin.
"Are you here to wish Harry good luck in the match?" George added, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Or maybe to settle a score?"
Susan glared at both of them but didn't respond. Instead, she shot Harry one more venomous look before turning on her heel and storming off toward the Hufflepuff table.
"What did you do to her?" Hermione asked, suspicion all over her face.
Harry raised his hands in surrender. "Nothing she didn't deserve."
"Nothing you'll admit to," Hermione corrected, narrowing her eyes at him as if trying to peel back the layers of whatever trouble he was clearly in.
"Don't worry about it," Harry said, trying to shift the conversation away from the Susan situation before it blew up. "We've got more important things to focus on—like wiping the floor with Malfoy."
Hermione rolled her eyes but didn't push the matter further. "Just… don't get into more trouble than you already are."
As the team stood to head down to the locker rooms, Angelina shot Harry a sideways glance, her lips curling into a smirk. "You heard what I said earlier, Potter. Beat Malfoy, and maybe I'll reconsider my options."
Fred clapped Harry on the back with a wide grin. "Hear that? Incentive to catch the Snitch and get laid in one go! You've got it made!"
Harry shoved him lightly, his cheeks turning a faint pink. "Oh, shut up."
The banter continued as the team made their way to the Quidditch pitch, the mood lightened slightly by the humor, though Harry could feel the weight of the upcoming game pressing down on him. Quidditch might not have the same spark it once did, but today, for Ron's sake, for Gryffindor's sake, and maybe just to spite Malfoy, he was ready to give it everything he had.
Professor McGonagall intercepted them before they reached the changing rooms, her stern face softening only slightly as she wished them good luck. "I trust you'll be playing your best today, Potter?"
"Of course, Professor," Harry replied, flashing her a confident grin.
McGonagall nodded curtly, though her gaze lingered on Harry a moment longer than usual. "Don't let me down."
As they filed into the locker rooms, Hermione gave Harry and Ron a quick kiss on the cheek for luck. "Try not to get yourselves killed out there."
"We'll do our best," Ron muttered, though the way he looked, Harry wasn't sure if it was the Slytherins or his nerves that were more likely to kill him today.
But as Harry turned to head inside, Hermione leaned in close, sniffing his shirt subtly before stepping back. Her brow furrowed.
"What?" Harry asked, confused.
She shook her head, though the suspicious look on her face didn't fade. "Nothing. Just… good luck."
Harry watched her go, a sinking feeling settling in his stomach. He had a sneaking suspicion that Hermione wasn't going to let this morning's incident go anytime soon. Detective Granger was on the case, and Harry wasn't sure he could keep his secrets hidden for long.
Harry's heart pounded with adrenaline as he rose into the air, high above the Quidditch pitch. The gray, overcast sky hung low over the stadium, threatening rain, but the roaring crowd was far from discouraged. The cheers from the Gryffindor stands echoed around him, but he barely registered them, his focus locked on one thing: the Snitch. Well, that and Draco Malfoy's pale, sneering face.
He smirked as he caught Draco's eye. The Slytherin Seeker looked tense, his jaw clenched, clearly ready for a grudge match. Harry couldn't resist the temptation to throw him off before the game even started.
"I need to tell you something, Malfoy," Harry called out, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the crowd.
Malfoy glared at him, suspicion flashing in his eyes. "What now, Potter? Trying to throw me off my game? You'll have to do better than that."
Harry's grin widened, mischief sparking in his green eyes. "No, really. It's important. It's about your family."
Draco's expression faltered for a moment, genuine curiosity creeping in despite himself. "What are you talking about?"
With an innocent smile, Harry delivered the punchline. "I fucked your mother."
Malfoy's face twisted with outrage, his fists tightening on his broom. "You—you—"
Before he could even finish sputtering, the whistle blew, signaling the start of the game. Harry dived immediately, cutting off Malfoy's reaction, and shot across the pitch like a comet, leaving Draco seething behind him.
Within seconds, the match was chaos. Montague, Slytherin's Captain, wasted no time in launching a brutal offensive, hurling the Quaffle to Pucey with lightning speed. But as Pucey surged forward, Harry was already on him, subtly holding onto his broomstick to slow him down, his fingers tightening around the wood just enough to go unnoticed by most. Pucey fought to break free, cursing under his breath.
"That's it, Potter, cheat your way to a win!" Pucey spat, but his voice was drowned out by the piercing sound of Madam Hooch's whistle.
"Broom-holding! Penalty to Slytherin!" Madam Hooch called out sternly.
Harry didn't even flinch. He watched as the Slytherins lined up for their penalty shot. Warrington took it, aiming with precision, and Ron, despite his best efforts, couldn't save it. The ball sailed through the hoop.
"Ten points to Slytherin!" boomed the enchanted voice of Lee Jordan, echoing across the pitch.
Ron groaned in frustration from across the field, but Harry gave him a reassuring nod. He had a plan.
As the game resumed, Harry stayed close to Pucey, his fingers itching for another chance to throw him off. This time, as Pucey caught the Quaffle and tried to speed off, Harry darted alongside him, reaching out just long enough to grip the tail of his broom for a few seconds before releasing it. Pucey stumbled in the air, missing his teammate's pass by inches.
Katie Bell swooped in out of nowhere, stealing the Quaffle from right under Pucey's nose and shooting off toward the Slytherin goalposts. Bletchley, Slytherin's Keeper, was helpless as she scored with ease.
"Take that, you slimy git," Katie muttered under her breath as she flew past Pucey, her voice filled with satisfaction.
The crowd erupted in cheers, and Harry shot a smirk in Pucey's direction. "Oops," he said innocently, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.
"Fuck off, Potter!" Pucey growled, his face contorted with frustration.
Harry only shrugged. "What? I didn't do anything."
Madam Hooch's whistle pierced the air again, drawing their attention back to her. This time, she wasn't just blowing it at Harry. Pucey had lost his temper and swung his elbow directly into Harry's face, catching him on the side of his head. Harry saw stars for a brief second, but his satisfaction outweighed the sting.
"Broom-holding! Penalty to Slytherin!" Madam Hooch shouted. "Violent conduct! Pucey is suspended for two minutes!"
The crowd buzzed with excitement and confusion, a mix of boos and cheers filling the air. From the Slytherin stands, shouts of protest erupted, led by Montague and Malfoy.
Pucey, red-faced and livid, was in no mood to go quietly. "He's done it three times, that's three strikes!" he whined, pointing furiously at Harry.
Hooch shot him a warning glare. "The only thing you're accomplishing right now, Pucey, is earning yourself more time on the bench."
Harry couldn't help but laugh quietly to himself as Pucey was forced to fly off the field, a defeated look on his face. Slytherin was down a player, and Gryffindor had the momentum.
Fred and George zipped past him, both grinning wickedly.
"Brilliant, Harry!" Fred shouted as he swung his bat at an incoming Bludger, sending it careening toward Warrington.
"Keep it up, and we'll have this in the bag before halftime!" George added, joining his twin in a celebratory loop-the-loop.
With a smirk, Harry nodded and rose higher into the air, his eyes scanning the pitch for the Snitch. This was far from over, and he knew Slytherin wouldn't go down without a fight. But with Pucey off the pitch, their rhythm was off, and Gryffindor was on the attack.
"Come on, Malfoy," Harry muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. "Let's see what you've got."
Malfoy was hovering near the Slytherin goalposts, clearly trying to keep his cool, but Harry could tell his earlier comment had rattled him. Good. An angry Malfoy was a distracted Malfoy. And in Quidditch, distractions were deadly.
The clouds overhead darkened even more, the threat of rain now becoming a near certainty. The air grew heavy, and Harry's grip tightened on his broomstick as he scanned the horizon for any glimmer of gold.
Victory was within reach. He could feel it.
As Harry returned to the game after his suspension, he shot back into the air with a fresh burst of energy. The two-minute break hadn't been wasted—it had given him the chance to strategize and watch the crumbling Slytherin defense from below. Pucey was still being tended to on the sidelines, his face bloodied and swollen. His substitute, Vaisey, had barely managed to stay upright, much less contribute anything meaningful to the Slytherin effort.
"All right," Harry muttered to himself, gripping his broom tighter. "Time to finish this."
He quickly assessed the situation. Gryffindor was still in the lead, but Slytherin was getting more aggressive, especially Malfoy. Draco was diving and swerving, doing everything in his power to make Harry lose focus on finding the Snitch. But Harry could tell it was desperate. Malfoy wasn't hunting for the Snitch anymore—he was hunting for Harry.
"Not today, Malfoy," Harry said under his breath.
Fred and George were still hammering Bludgers at Vaisey and Malfoy, splitting their focus. Gryffindor's Chasers, meanwhile, were working beautifully together, weaving in and out of Slytherin's clumsy defense, scoring goals with ease. The score had ballooned to 90-30 in Gryffindor's favor.
But Harry knew the game wasn't over until he caught the Snitch.
He hovered high above the pitch, his eyes scanning the horizon. The dark clouds continued to roll in, casting a gloomy shadow over the field. The tension in the air was thick as the players zipped back and forth beneath him, oblivious to the building storm. Harry tuned out the noise of the crowd, the harsh whistle of the wind, and the distant roars of Lee Jordan's commentary.
There—just for a second—he saw a glint of gold.
The Snitch.
It was hovering near the Gryffindor goalposts, almost hidden in the thickening mist. Harry's heart leaped, and without wasting another moment, he dived.
Malfoy saw him move and shot after him, but Harry had the advantage. His Firebolt, sleek and fast, responded immediately to his touch, cutting through the air like a knife. Malfoy's Nimbus 2001 was fast, but no match for Harry's broom.
The Snitch flitted away, darting toward the opposite end of the pitch. Harry followed its every twist and turn, his body leaning into the wind, his focus unbreakable. He could feel Malfoy closing in behind him, but it didn't matter. The Snitch was so close now, gleaming like a beacon in the mist.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw something—a flash of silver. It was a Bludger, hurtling straight toward him, sent his way by Crabbe, one of Slytherin's Beaters. Instinct kicked in. Harry yanked his broom to the side, narrowly avoiding the Bludger, but it cost him precious seconds. He glanced back and saw Malfoy gaining on him, his face set with determination.
Harry gritted his teeth and pushed his broom harder, the handle vibrating under the strain. The Snitch was almost within reach now, its wings beating rapidly as it zigzagged across the field. His hand stretched out, fingertips just inches away from the tiny golden ball.
Then, without warning, Malfoy slammed into him from the side, his shoulder crashing into Harry's ribs. The impact sent Harry spiraling, but he managed to stay on his broom. Malfoy's dirty play didn't surprise him—this was exactly the kind of move he'd expected.
But Harry was ready for it.
Instead of trying to shake Malfoy off, he used the momentum of the collision to spin into a roll, putting himself directly in Malfoy's path. It disoriented the Slytherin Seeker just long enough for Harry to regain his position.
The Snitch was right there—he could feel the wind from its wings against his fingertips.
With a final surge of speed, Harry reached out, his hand closing around the cold, fluttering ball.
The roar from the Gryffindor stands was deafening.
Harry held the Snitch high above his head, grinning triumphantly as Madam Hooch blew her whistle to signal the end of the match.
"Gryffindor wins!" Lee Jordan shouted, his voice echoing across the pitch. "Harry Potter catches the Snitch, 240 to 30! What a game!"
The Gryffindor team swarmed him, their cheers mixing with the noise of the crowd. Fred and George clapped him on the back, Angelina and Alicia hugged him tightly, and Ron gave him a thumbs-up from the goalposts.
Harry, still catching his breath, looked across the pitch at Malfoy. The Slytherin Seeker was fuming, his face pale with fury and frustration.
"Better luck next time, Malfoy," Harry called out, unable to resist one last jab.
Malfoy didn't respond. He turned on his heel and stormed off the pitch, his pride wounded as badly as his chances at the Quidditch Cup.
As Harry floated down to the ground, surrounded by his jubilant teammates, he couldn't help but feel a surge of satisfaction. The game had been rough, chaotic, and full of dirty tactics—but in the end, Gryffindor had come out on top.
Harry laughed as he was swept into the whirlwind of celebration. His teammates were ecstatic, their victory not just a win but a complete dismantling of Slytherin's hopes. Fred and George were still buzzing, their excitement infectious as they continued to jabber about how he'd outsmarted Malfoy.
"That was brilliant, mate!" George crowed, nearly lifting Harry off his feet. "Never seen anyone play mind games like that!"
"Could've been a career in acting if this whole Chosen One thing didn't work out," Fred added with a wide grin.
Harry just shook his head, unable to stop smiling. He hadn't intended to turn the match into a spectacle, but as the adrenaline of the win wore off, he realized just how satisfying it was. Not only had they won, but they'd done it in a way that made the entire Slytherin team look foolish.
Katie, Angelina, and Alicia were all hugging and congratulating each other, laughing at how well everything had worked out. Even Ron, who had been shaky in goal at the start, was beaming now, having blocked several last-minute shots to keep Slytherin's score low.
"You had me worried there for a second," Ron said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. "But then Malfoy... Oh, that was priceless!"
Harry grinned back. "Thanks, Ron. You did great up there too."
"Yeah, yeah," Ron said, a faint flush creeping into his ears, but his smile didn't falter. "But I think Malfoy's gonna be hearing about this for the rest of the year."
As the team made their way to the locker room, Gryffindor fans flooded the pitch, cheering and chanting Harry's name. He waved, enjoying the moment but eager to get out of the spotlight and into some quiet. As much as he loved the thrill of Quidditch, the constant attention was exhausting.
"I'll never get tired of this," Fred said as they walked off the pitch, waving dramatically to the crowd. "We'll be talking about this game for weeks."
"Months, more like," George corrected, grinning. "Poor Malfoy. Think we'll send him a get-well card?"
Harry chuckled, feeling lighter than he had in ages. He was about to respond when Hermione appeared at the entrance to the locker room, hands on her hips.
"Well done, Harry," she said, but there was a familiar hint of disapproval in her voice. "Though I'm not sure leading Malfoy into his own teammate was entirely necessary…"
Harry shrugged. "They're fine. Dumbledore saved them before they hit the ground."
Hermione's expression softened slightly, though she still looked torn between pride and worry. "Just be careful, alright? You've got nothing to prove to Malfoy."
"I know," Harry said, nodding. "But it felt good."
She gave him a small smile. "I suppose I can't argue with that."
As they entered the locker room, Harry allowed himself one last glance back at the pitch, now being cleared by the crowd. It was a hard-fought game, full of clever tricks and heart-stopping moments, and it felt like everything had clicked into place just when they needed it most.
For now, the Quidditch Cup was as good as theirs, and Harry couldn't wait to see how the rest of the season unfolded.
As they made their way back to the common room, the anticipation for the party buzzed in the air. Gryffindor Tower was sure to be packed with excited students, and the adrenaline from the match still coursed through Harry's veins. He couldn't stop grinning.
The common room was already alive with cheering and laughter by the time they arrived. Banners were draped over the walls, and someone had already conjured a table filled with food and Butterbeer. Fred and George were handing out bottles, promising everyone they'd sneak in something stronger later on.
"Gryffindor party rules," Fred declared, "no homework, no worrying about tomorrow, and definitely no Malfoy talk allowed."
The room erupted in agreement.
Ron had already disappeared into the crowd, probably looking for Seamus and Dean to retell the highlights of the game for the hundredth time. Meanwhile, Harry caught Katie's eye across the room. She was talking with Alicia and Angelina, but when their gazes met, she gave him that same mischievous smile from earlier.
He made his way through the crowd toward her, feeling a flutter of excitement. He had no idea what the night would bring, but for now, he was ready to let go of the worries that usually weighed on him. No Voldemort, no dark plots, no burdens. Tonight, he was just Harry, Gryffindor's Seeker and a kid enjoying a well-earned victory.
As the music started, someone pulled Harry into a group dance, and he let himself get lost in the whirlwind of movement, laughter, and light-hearted chaos. Tonight was about celebrating—and for the first time in a long time, Harry allowed himself to enjoy every moment of it.
The party in Gryffindor Tower continued to grow, the atmosphere electric with excitement and celebration. The warmth from the fire and the buzz from the Butterbeer only added to the energy. Laughter echoed off the walls, and the common room felt more alive than ever.
Harry found himself surrounded by friends—Neville congratulating him on the catch, Seamus already tipsy from a bottle Fred had sneaked him, and Hermione trying (and failing) to lecture them about moderation. Even she couldn't help smiling, though, clearly pleased by the victory.
"You were amazing out there, Harry," she said, giving him a sincere grin.
"Thanks, Hermione." He returned the smile, glad that for once she wasn't scolding him about Quidditch being too dangerous. "I think Ron was pretty great too, right?"
She nodded. "He really was! You all were." Her eyes drifted toward Ron, who was laughing loudly with Dean. "I'm so glad we won."
Harry chuckled. "Me too. I wasn't sure how it'd go with Malfoy trying his usual dirty tricks."
"You handled him perfectly, though," she said, rolling her eyes at the thought of Malfoy. "Especially that last move."
Harry smirked. "Yeah, I'm pretty proud of that one."
Suddenly, a loud bang echoed across the room. Fred and George had set off some enchanted fireworks, sending bright red and gold sparks spiraling into the air. The crowd cheered, and the twins took exaggerated bows as if they were performers on a stage.
"Never a dull moment with those two," Hermione said, shaking her head but unable to suppress her smile.
Harry was about to reply when Katie appeared beside him, a playful glint in her eye.
"Having fun, Potter?" she asked, leaning in closer so she could be heard over the noise.
"Yeah, this party's turning out to be pretty epic," Harry said, feeling his pulse quicken slightly as he looked at her. "What about you?"
Katie grinned. "Definitely. You're the hero of the night, after all."
Harry laughed. "It's a team effort, you know that."
"Sure, sure," she teased, nudging him lightly. "But I saw that catch. Malfoy didn't stand a chance."
They stood there for a moment, the party swirling around them, but Katie's presence felt grounding. Harry couldn't help but remember her earlier comment—growing up fast, Potter. There was something different about tonight, something that made him feel more aware of everything and everyone around him.
Before he could say anything else, Fred called out from across the room. "Oi, Harry! Come over here—we're about to start the butterbeer pong tournament!"
Katie gave him a sly look. "You better go, hero. Your public awaits."
Harry chuckled. "You playing?"
"Maybe later. I'll be watching though." She winked at him before heading off to join Angelina and Alicia.
Feeling a bit lighter, Harry headed toward Fred and George, who were already setting up cups and drawing a crowd. As he got closer, Ron threw an arm around his shoulder.
"Ready to show them who's boss?" Ron grinned, holding up his own cup of Butterbeer.
"Absolutely." Harry grinned back.
As the night wore on, the party became a blur of laughter, games, and celebration. The Gryffindors let loose like they hadn't in months, the weight of the world forgotten, if only for a while. For Harry, the stress of everything—school, Quidditch, the lingering memories of the war—faded into the background. For one night, he was just a teenager surrounded by friends, living in the moment.
And for tonight, that was all he needed.
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