EIGHT
The morning started cold and bitter, a chill that crept through the ancient stones of Gryffindor Tower like an unwelcome guest. Harry lay in his four-poster bed, every muscle screaming in protest from yesterday's reckless flying. The familiar red and gold hangings above him seemed to mock his restlessness, while he tossed and turned in an uneasy laziness, trying to ignore the soreness all over his body.
"Oi! Up you get, mate!" Ron's voice pierced through his brooding. "Unless you fancy Ginny hexing us both into next week for being late."
Harry groaned, rolling over to bury his face in his pillow. "I'm right behind you, Ron," he called out, making no effort whatsoever to get up.
"Yeah, because that worked so well in fifth year." Ron's footsteps approached, followed by the sudden disappearance of Harry's warm blanket. "Come on, Ginny's already sent three separate people to yell up the stairs at you. Thank Merlin for those anti-girl enchantments, or she'd have dragged you out herself by now."
"Wouldn't put it past her to figure out a way around those," Harry muttered into his pillow. "Remember when she got that howler to follow Percy around for a week?"
"Don't give her ideas," Ron shuddered. "Besides, she's got the whole team waiting. And you know how Kirke gets when he misses breakfast."
Harry finally opened his eyes, squinting against the grey light filtering through the tower windows. A familiar anger simmered in his chest, not the hot rage of yesterday but something cooler, more bitter. He knew that the right thing to do would be to forgive Fleur, and to keep a cool head. But that was easier said that done, especially right now, when all he wanted to do was scream in annoyance at his muscles twitching in pain.
"I can hear you thinking from here," Ron said, tossing Harry's Quidditch robes at his head. "And whatever it is, it can wait until after we survive both my sister and the Slytherins, yeah?"
"She took my wand, Ron." The words came out sharper than he'd intended. "Like I was some first-year who needed managing. Like I couldn't be trusted to—"
"Mate," Ron cut in carefully, "I get it. Really. But right now we've got about thirty seconds before the team sends up a search party, and I'd rather not explain to McGonagall why the Quidditch captain is too busy brooding to actually captain."
"You're insufferable, you know?" Harry groaned, rolling over and throwing his shirt over his head, quickly changing into his Quidditch robes. Ron chuckled and went back down the stairs. Harry had half a mind to just get back in bed, but then decided that either way, he had to go outside eventually, might as well be now.
The walk down to the pitch was a silent affair, broken only by the crunch of frost beneath his boots and the occasional distant call of early-rising birds. The sky hung low and heavy, promising the kind of weather that made flyers question their life choices. Harry's thoughts churned like the clouds above, cycling between anger and hurt and a stubborn certainty that he wasn't wrong about any of it – not about Graves, and not about walking away yesterday. He'd heard a lot of good advice yesterday. But giving advice was one thing. Following it was another thing entirely.
The team was already airborne when Ron and him arrived, running basic formations that looked less coordinated than usual. Harry swallowed a tinge of guilt as he realized that these were the sort of errors he should have spotted yesterday during practice and ironed out. Ginny spotted them immediately, her red hair a bright flag against the grey sky as she dove toward them.
"Right," Harry called up to the others, his captain's voice cutting through the morning chill. "Full match drill sequence! Chasers, run the Porskoff Ploy variations. Beaters, I want moving targets this time – make them work for it. Ron—"
"Yeah, yeah, figure-eight blocking patterns," Ron mounted his broom with a grimace. "Try not to let my sister murder you, eh?"
Harry watched the team rise into their positions, trying to focus on their form instead of the weight of Ginny's glare as she landed beside him. The others were soon just dark shapes against the threatening sky, their shouts muffled by the strengthening wind.
"Walk with me, Potter?" Ginny's tone made it clear it wasn't really a question. She jerked her head toward the far end of the pitch, where the goalposts cast long shadows across the grass. Harry sighed, shoulders slumping slightly as he followed. The morning dew soaked through his boots, each step a cold reminder that this day was unlikely to improve anytime soon.
"Is this the part where you hex me?" he asked as they reached the edge of the pitch, far enough below the practice drills that they wouldn't be too loud. "Because I've got to tell you, the hospital wing excuse is starting to sound better by the minute."
Ginny's boots crunched against the frozen grass as she strode toward him, her Quidditch robes snapping in the bitter wind like an angry flag. Above them, Emma Dobbs was attempting to run a scoring drill, though Harry noticed her eyes kept darting toward them below.
"You missed practice yesterday," Ginny's voice cut through the morning chill. "The whole practice, Harry. Just flew off over the forest like some… some brooding hero in a cheap novel. We have Slytherin today!"
Harry's fingers tightened around his Firebolt, the smooth wood familiar against his calloused skin. "I heard you lot calling," he said flatly. "I wasn't interested in coming back."
"Wasn't interested?" Ginny's voice rose sharply. Above them, Thomas Wright sent a Bludger spinning wildly off course, too busy watching their confrontation to aim properly.
"Eyes on the bloody practice!" Ron shouted from the goal hoops. "Sarah, that formation's completely wrong – no, your OTHER left! Merlin's pants, we're going to get slaughtered-"
"You weren't interested," Ginny repeated, taking another step closer. The morning frost crackled under her feet like breaking glass. "The great Harry Potter, too important for team practice, too busy to even send word—"
"If you'd bothered asking instead of just yelling," Harry cut in, his voice sharp enough to make her blink, "maybe you'd know why."
The silence that followed was broken only by the distant thwack of Andrew Kirke hitting a Bludger with perhaps more force than strictly necessary.
"Well, I'm asking now," Ginny's voice had dropped dangerously low. "Though I have to say, this is new. Even when we were- when we were dating, you never pulled something like this. Not once."
The mention of their past relationship hit like a physical blow, making Harry's chest tighten. Above them, Emma attempted a complicated pass to Wright, who was so startled to be suddenly included in actual practice that he nearly fell off his broom.
"That's… that's not…" Harry ran a hand through his hair, feeling the anger that had sustained him since yesterday starting to crack, revealing something more vulnerable underneath. "Look, you have a point. About practice. I know that."
"Bloody right I do," but some of the fire had gone out of Ginny's voice. She studied his face with the kind of careful attention that reminded him why they'd managed to stay friends after everything. "What happened, Harry?"
He sighed, suddenly feeling every hour of missed sleep, every moment of yesterday's reckless flying. "Fleur, I mean, Professor Delacour," he said finally, the name tasting bitter on his tongue. "She… we had a disagreement."
"FOR THE LOVE OF MERLIN'S SAGGY LEFT—" Ron's bellow cut through the tension. "That's the fourth time you've nearly decapitated me, Wright! The Bludgers go THAT way! No, not— oh, brilliant, now Dobbs is upside down…"
"A disagreement," Ginny repeated carefully, ignoring the chaos above them. "Must have been some disagreement to have you acting like this."
Harry's jaw clenched. The memory of Fleur's office, of magic crackling between them like summer lightning, of words that couldn't be unsaid, rose up like bile in his throat. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Harry—"
"I said I don't want to talk about it!" The words came out harsher than he'd intended, making several nearby birds take startled flight.
Ron's distant voice: "No, no, NO! Collins, that's not what I— oh, brilliant, now the goal post is on fire…"
"I'm sorry," Harry said finally, his voice softer. The morning wind tugged at his robes, carrying with it the scent of frost and distant pine. "I shouldn't have snapped. It's just…" He trailed off, watching a wisp of smoke rise from the singed goalpost where Sarah Collins' wayward Bludger had struck. Ginny waited, her expression softening into something that reminded Harry why they'd been able to remain friends after everything.
"There are things going missing from the castle," Harry said finally, the words coming out in a rush. "Important things. And I think… I think Professor Graves is involved. But when I tried to tell Fleur…" He swallowed hard, the memory of yesterday's confrontation still raw. "She wouldn't listen. Or couldn't. And now everything's just…"
"Complicated?" Ginny supplied, a knowing look crossing her face that made Harry suspect she understood more than he was saying.
"Wright!" Ron's distant shout provided a momentary distraction. "That's a quaffle, not a bloody shot put! You're supposed to catch it, not duck!"
"Yeah," Harry managed a weak smile. "Complicated."
Ginny stepped forward, wrapping him in a fierce hug that caught him off guard. "You absolute idiot," she muttered into his shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? Of all people, did you think I wouldn't understand about not being believed?"
Harry stiffened for a moment, then relaxed into the embrace, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "I didn't think—"
"Clearly," she pulled back, fixing him with a look that was both fond and exasperated. "Or did you forget about a certain diary and a year where everyone thought I was either mad or making things up?"
The memory hit like a physical thing – twelve-year-old Ginny, pale and desperate, trying to tell them something was wrong while everyone dismissed her concerns. Harry felt a flush of shame creep up his neck.
"That was different," he protested weakly.
"Was it?" Her eyebrow arched in a way that brooked no argument. In the background, Emma Dobbs executed a perfect spiral dive, completely unnoticed by the rest of the team who were still pretending not to eavesdrop. Harry ignored the urge to roll his eyes at them.
"Stop trying to shoulder everything alone," Ginny continued, softer now. "We've all been there, Harry. We've all had moments where we saw things others couldn't – or wouldn't – see."
Harry took a deep breath, the morning air sharp in his lungs. Something tight in his chest began to loosen, like a knot finally working itself free. "Right then," he said, straightening his shoulders and managing a genuine, if small, smile. "Should we rescue Ron before Wright actually manages to set the whole pitch on fire?"
Ginny laughed, the sound carrying on the wind like a promise of better things to come. "Probably for the best. Though I have to say, a flaming pitch might actually improve our chances against Slytherin – they'd never expect it."
As they mounted their brooms, Harry felt lighter than he had since leaving Fleur's office. The anger wasn't gone, not entirely, but it had transformed into something more manageable, tempered by the reminder that he wasn't as alone as he sometimes felt.
"Oi!" Ron called down, relief evident in his voice. "If you two are quite finished, some of us would like to win this match!"
The team filed out one by one, footsteps echoing against worn wooden boards as they left the changing room's sheltering shadows. Harry lingered behind, letting the familiar sounds of pre-match chaos wash over him – Jordan's voice rising and falling like a tide, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional shriek from the stands.
"Has anyone seen Hagrid's fire-breathing sheep?" Jordan's voice carried across the pitch. "Last seen near the Ravenclaw section, possibly attempting to eat their banner. No need for alarm, they're mostly harmless…"
"Mostly?" someone yelled in the crowd. A Ravenclaw, if Harry had to guess.
"Well, there was that one incident with the Astronomy tower… But I've been assured the scorch marks will fade eventually! Speaking of which, a quick announcement from our sponsors – and by sponsors, I mean whoever slipped these notes into my pocket during breakfast-"
Harry stepped out last, the sudden flood of winter sunlight hitting him without warning. The world seemed too bright, too loud, and too chaotic. Filled with an overwhelming symphony of color and sound that made his teeth ache. For a moment, the anger that had been simmering beneath his skin threatened to surface again. Why was everything so bloody loud?
"Breathe, mate," Ron's quiet voice came from somewhere to his left. "Just breathe."
Harry closed his eyes, letting the familiar scent of grass and leather and wood fill his lungs. This was Quidditch. Whatever else was happening, whatever storm was brewing between him and Fleur, this – this moment, this game, this feeling – this was his.
"Did Weasley just fall off his broom during warm-ups?" Jordan's commentary drifted down. "No, apparently that was an intentional tactical maneuver. Very innovative, Ron! Though perhaps next time with less falling?"
"Shut it, Jordan!" Ron shouted back good-naturedly, his ears turning slightly pink.
The team had gathered in a loose circle on the ground, stretching muscles that already protested the morning's brutal practice. Harry didn't stretch too much- most of his muscles were already lose and painful. Ginny's absence next to him felt like a missing tooth – noticeable but necessary. From the corner of his eye, Harry could see her robes billowing as she strode toward the center of the pitch, where the Slytherin captain waited.
"And it seems we're witnessing a slight deviation from tradition, folks!" Jordan's voice held a note of genuine interest. "Ginny Weasley taking the captain's meeting instead of Potter – though given Potter's historical pre-match encounters with Slytherin captains, this might be what the Muggles call 'preventative medicine'…"
Harry's hands moved automatically through the familiar stretches, muscle memory taking over while his mind wandered, purposefully ignoring his protesting back and legs. The thought of Fleur watching from the staff stands tried to surface, but he pushed it away with surprising ease. The anger was still there, a banked fire in his chest, but it felt… different now. Less consuming.
"Five Sickles says Flitwick's hat blows off before the first goal," Wright muttered, reaching for his toes.
"Ten says McGonagall confiscates Jordan's microphone before halftime," Collins countered, wincing as she rotated her shoulder.
"You're both wrong," Ron grunted, attempting to touch his palms to the ground. "Hagrid's already taking bets on whether his new 'perfectly harmless' pet gets loose during the game. Again."
A ripple of laughter passed through the team, and Harry found himself joining in despite everything. The sound seemed to lift something heavy from his shoulders, replacing it with the familiar pre-match flutter of anticipation.
"And now for some messages from our generous contributors!" Jordan's voice rolled across the pitch. "To the lovely Hufflepuff in the third row – yes, you with the yellow scarf – Marcus would like you to know that your smile lights up the common room brighter than a Lumos Maxima. Though personally, I'd have gone with something less likely to cause temporary blindness…"
The stretches complete, Harry finally mounted his Firebolt. The moment his feet left the ground, something in his stomach unknotted. The wood hummed beneath his fingers, familiar and right, like coming home after a long journey.
"Ready?" Ron asked, hovering nearby with the kind of nervous energy that always preceded a match.
Harry looked around at his team – at Ron's determined grin, at Wright's barely concealed anxiety, at Collins practicing her swing with fierce concentration. These were his people, his friends, his family in all the ways that mattered.
"Has anyone seen a lion wandering the grounds?" Jordan's voice cut through his thoughts. "Apparently someone's cat had an unfortunate encounter with an enlargement charm… Professor McGonagall assures me it's NOT her, though the timing seems suspiciously convenient-"
"JORDAN!"
The wind caught Harry's robes as he rose higher, carrying with it the mingled scents of a long-past autumn – dying leaves and damp earth; and the sharp, clean bite of the ever-present winter. Below, the pitch spread out like a canvas of green and gold, painted with long shadows and the moving dots of red and silver as both teams took their positions.
"You know," Ron called as he flew over the growing roar of the crowd, "you've got that look again."
"What look?"
"The one you get right before you do something brilliant." Ron's grin widened. "Or completely mental. Sometimes hard to tell the difference with you."
Harry felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward – the second real smile he'd managed since yesterday's confrontation with Fleur. Up here, with the wind in his hair and his team around him, even the memory of that argument seemed distant, like watching storm clouds gather on a far horizon.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Jordan's voice took on a more official tone, "please join me in welcoming our teams to the pitch!"
The whistle pierced the autumn air like a silver arrow, and for a heartbeat, everything was still – a moment suspended between breaths, between heartbeats, between the last echoes of Jordan's voice and the first surge of motion below. Harry felt it in his bones, that perfect instant of anticipation before chaos erupted.
Then the Quaffle was in the air, and the world exploded into motion.
The Slytherin Chasers moved like a single unit, their silver-trimmed robes catching the light as they wove through Gryffindor's initial defense. Harry watched from above as their center Chaser – Mueller, a sixth-year with arms like tree trunks – threaded the Quaffle through a gap that shouldn't have existed. The red ball sailed past Ron's outstretched fingers with devastating precision.
"Ten-nil to Slytherin," Jordan's voice carried across the pitch, stripped of its usual playfulness. "And I have to say, that was… rather impressive."
It was impressive, Harry had to admit, grudgingly. This Slytherin team was based on merit, not money, and he had to admit that they performed far better than last year.
The wind bit at Harry's cheeks as he climbed higher, eyes already scanning for the telltale glint of gold. Below him, Wright attempted to rally with a charging attack that the Slytherin defense absorbed like water into sand. Another precise pass, another perfectly timed shot, and suddenly it was twenty-nil.
"They've been practicing," Ron shouted as he retrieved the Quaffle, his voice carrying an unusual trace of admiration. "A lot."
The game unfolded like a wizard chess match played at devastating speed. Wright finally broke through with a feint that left the Slytherin Keeper grasping at empty air – twenty-ten – but the victory was short-lived. The Slytherin Chasers responded with mechanical efficiency, their formations tight and practiced. Harry rolled lazily to avoid a Bludger, keeping his movements casual despite the growing knot in his stomach. The score ticked upward: thirty-ten as Mueller executed another perfect shot. Then forty-ten as his wingman followed suit.
"Forty-ten to Slytherin," Jordan announced, his voice carrying a note of genuine concern. "Though I'm sure Gryffindor's just lulling them into a false sense of security. Very strategic. Very… intentional."
The wind picked up, carrying with it the mingled scents of dying leaves and damp earth and the metallic taste of approaching lightning. Harry watched Collins dive between two Slytherin Chasers, her pass to Ginny somehow finding its mark despite the forest of arms and brooms between them. Forty-twenty.
Time seemed to stretch and compress like taffy, measured now in the crack of Bludgers against bats and the sharp whistle of bodies cutting through air. Ron's spectacular save – hanging upside down from his broom by his knees – drew gasps from the crowd, but Harry could see the strain beginning to show in his friend's movements. They couldn't keep this pace forever.
"Nice bit of weather we're having," Jordan commented as Wright scored again, bringing them to forty-thirty. "Though I do wish someone would tell that cloud it's blocking my view of – MERLIN'S PANTS, THAT WAS CLOSE!"
The Bludger had missed Harry's head by inches, close enough that he felt the wind of its passage ruffle his hair. The Slytherin Beaters were watching him now, their eyes calculating as they positioned themselves for another assault. Up here, among the bitter winds and threatening clouds, Harry felt oddly exposed.
Fifty-thirty as Slytherin's center Chaser threaded another shot through Ron's increasingly desperate defense. The crowd's roar swelled and ebbed like a tide, punctuated by the sharp crack of bat meeting ball and the occasional gasp as players wove through gaps that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Collins took possession, her form perfect as she accelerated toward the Slytherin goals. Harry saw it coming a split second before it happened – the Bludger's trajectory, Collins' blind spot as she focused on her shot, the way the wind caught her robes at exactly the wrong moment.
The impact echoed across the pitch like thunder.
For a moment, everything seemed to stop. The crowd fell silent, the wind held its breath, and Harry watched as Sarah Collins – indomitable, unstoppable Sarah Collins – slowly began to fall.
"Time out!" Ginny's voice cut through the silence like a knife. "TIME OUT!"
Harry pulled his broom underneath him, quickly grabbing Sarah before she could fall off her broom. The younger girl gave him a nod of thanks, before sitting back on her broom.
"Can you fly?" Harry asked, worried. A Bludger to the ribs was no joke.
Sarah nodded bravely. "I've taken worse."
"You've got spunk, I'll admit." Harry grinned. "Let's get back down, it's a time out."
They gathered in a tight circle on the frost-bitten grass, crimson robes billowing in the strengthening wind. Collins sat heavily, fishing a lemon from her pocket with trembling fingers. Her breathing was shallow, careful, but her eyes blazed with determination.
"Sarah?" Ginny knelt beside her, studying the way she favored her left side.
"Just knocked the wind out of me," she muttered around a mouthful of sour fruit. "I can still fly."
"You're sure?" her voice carried an edge of concern that Harry noted with pride. "Because if you need—"
"We can't afford to bench anyone," Collins straightened, though she winced at the effort. "Not with the way they're playing."
The whistle pierced the autumn air, calling them back to battle. Harry watched his team rise one by one – Collins first, her movements careful but determined, then Wright with his jaw set in grim focus, followed by the others until they formed a constellation of crimson against the threatening sky.
"Right then," Ron muttered as he mounted his broom beside Harry. "Fancy seeing how many more ways Slytherin can make us look like first-years on borrowed brooms?"
"Could be worse," Harry found himself saying, though the words tasted hollow. "Remember that match against Hufflepuff in the storm?"
"Yeah, well, at least then we couldn't see how badly we were losing."
The game resumed with the kind of precision that made Harry want to crawl back in bed. Slytherin's Chasers moved like they had one mind, their passes so quick they seemed to apparate the Quaffle between them. Seventy-thirty became eighty-thirty in the space of a breath.
"Slytherin scores again," Jordan's voice carried across the pitch, stripped of its usual playfulness. "And I have to say, they're showing remarkable coordination for a team that usually relies on… different strategies."
Harry drifted higher, letting the bitter wind clear his head as he searched for that elusive glint of gold. Below him, Collins attempted a charging attack that would have worked last year, when Katie and Angelina had been there to support it. Now it dissolved against Slytherin's defense like mist against stone. Ninety-thirty.
The Slytherin Seeker – MacNair, with his textbook turns and completely mechanical approach to flying – shadowed Harry's movements like an unwanted ghost. Every drift, every casual circle of the pitch was mirrored with the kind of precision that somehow missed the entire point of flying.
"Getting desperate, Potter?" MacNair called as they crossed paths, his voice carrying that familiar aristocratic drawl that set Harry's teeth on edge. Something hot and angry flickered in Harry's chest, a spark of defiance that had nothing to do with Quidditch and everything to do with the past twenty-four hours. Without conscious thought, he pitched into a dive that felt more like falling.
The wind screamed past his ears as the ground rushed up to meet him. He could feel MacNair following, could almost taste the other Seeker's certainty that this time, this dive, the Snitch must be real. The grass grew larger, more detailed, individual blades becoming visible as Harry plummeted toward them at speeds that made his eyes water.
Just a little longer. Just a little closer.
Time seemed to slow, each heartbeat stretching into eternity as Harry plummeted earthward. The world narrowed to a tunnel of green and gold, the roar of the crowd falling away until all he could hear was the wind's desperate song in his ears. Behind him, MacNair's presence felt like a shadow, growing heavier with each passing second.
"He's going to kill himself," Wright's distant voice carried a note of genuine panic. "Ginny, he's actually going to—"
The ground rushed up like an eager friend. Harry could feel the moment approaching – that critical point where pulling up would become impossible, where physics and magic would bow to gravity's inevitable victory. He stretched out his arms, jerking them to the right and the left as if he was chasing a snitch nearby.
"Potter!" MacNair's voice cracked slightly, the first sign that his textbook confidence might be wavering. "There's nothing there! You're going to—"
Now!
Harry jerked his Firebolt upward with every ounce of strength he possessed, feeling the strain in his shoulders as the broom fought against momentum's crushing embrace. The grass brushed against his boots, soft as a whisper, before he was soaring skyward again, carried on wings of pure adrenaline.
The sound of impact behind him was almost anticlimactic – a soft thud followed by a tangle of limbs and silver-trimmed robes tumbling across the frost-bitten pitch.
"Sweet Merlin's smoking sunday hat!" Jordan's voice cracked with excitement. "Ladies and gentlemen, what we've just witnessed is either the most spectacular Wronski Feint in Hogwarts history or Potter finally losing what's left of his mind!"
"Jordan!" McGonagall's warning held a note of breathless relief.
"Sorry, Professor! Though you have to admit, the way MacNair bounced was rather impressive… And it seems Slytherin is calling for a time out! Probably to scrape their Seeker off the pitch…"
Harry descended slowly, his heart still thundering against his ribs like a trapped bird seeking freedom. The team gathered around him in a loose circle, their expressions a mixed palette of awe and lingering terror.
"Bloody hell, mate," Ron's voice was barely above a whisper. "A bit of warning next time? My heart's not what it used to be."
Collins let out a shaky laugh, wincing slightly as it pulled at her bruised ribs. "Speak for yourself, Weasley. That was…" She trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the sky as if normal words couldn't quite capture what they'd witnessed.
"Completely mental?" Wright offered, his face still slightly pale. "Utterly bonkers? A cry for help?"
"Beautiful," Ginny's voice cut through their nervous chatter. She was watching Harry with an expression he couldn't quite read – something between pride and worry, with perhaps a touch of that old fire that had drawn them together in the first place. "It was beautiful. And exactly what we needed."
Across the pitch, the Slytherin team huddled around their fallen Seeker, who appeared to be attempting to convince Madam Pomfrey that the blood running down his face was "just a scratch." His replacement – a fourth-year with more enthusiasm than experience – was already mounting his broom with the kind of desperate eagerness that spoke of long hours spent watching from the reserves' bench.
"Right then," Ron cleared his throat, his captain's voice wavering slightly. "New plan. Try not to die, and maybe… maybe let Harry do his thing?"
"That's your brilliant strategy?" Wright's eyebrows threatened to disappear into his hairline. "Don't die?"
"Got a better one?" Collins challenged, sucking another lemon with grim determination. "Because I don't fancy testing whether my ribs can take another Bludger."
The whistle cut through their discussion like a silver arrow, calling them back to the battle above. Harry mounted his Firebolt, feeling the familiar hum of magic beneath his fingers. The wind had picked up, carrying with it the scent of approaching rain and the metallic taste of lightning.
"Harry," Ginny caught his arm just before he could kick off. Her eyes held something fierce and understanding. She could always read him like a book. "Whatever you're looking for up there… just make sure you come back down in one piece, yeah?"
Harry nodded once, sharp and decisive, before pushing off from the mud. The game was waiting, and somewhere above, dancing through the threads of wind and shadow, a golden Snitch beckoned. This time, he couldn't- he wouldn't let it escape.
The game surged around Harry like a tide of crimson and silver, each play a desperate battle against mounting odds. The replacement Seeker – Pemberton, Harry dimly recalled – lacked MacNair's mechanical precision but made up for it with the kind of reckless enthusiasm that made him unpredictable.
"Watch your left!" Ron's warning cut through the wind. "They're setting up another—"
The Bludger whistled past Harry's ear, close enough that he felt the displacement of air ruffle his hair. Below, Mueller threaded another impossible shot through Wright's defense, drawing a groan from the Gryffindor stands.
"One hundred and ten to forty," Jordan's voice carried a note of barely concealed concern.
Harry banked hard to avoid another Bludger, his feet skimming the top of the Hufflepuff stands. The crowd's collective intake of breath was almost lost beneath the howl of wind, but he felt it like a physical thing – that moment of shared anticipation, of wondering whether this would be the time Harry Potter's luck finally ran out.
"Oi!" Collins' voice carried across the pitch. "A little help with the homicidal golf balls would be nice!"
"Trying!" Harry shouted back, deliberately weaving between the Slytherin Beaters. Their formation broke as they tracked his movement, creating a gap that Collins immediately exploited. One quick pass to Ginny, a feint that drew both defenders, and suddenly it was one hundred and ten to fifty.
"Better!" Ginny called as she spiraled past him. "Though next time maybe with less…"
She gestured vaguely at his latest near-miss with the stadium wall.
"Everyone's a critic," Harry muttered, though he couldn't quite suppress a grin. The familiar rush of adrenaline sang through his veins, making everything sharper, clearer. Up here, with the wind in his hair and danger at his heels, the world made a different kind of sense.
"You know," Pemberton drew up beside him, his voice carrying that mix of awe and determination that Harry remembered from his own first matches, "I always wondered what it would be like to fly against you."
"And?" Harry kept his tone casual as he scanned the pitch, watching the Slytherin Beaters reorganize.
"It's…" Pemberton hesitated, then grinned. "Terrifying, actually. But brilliant!"
Another Bludger forced them apart before Harry could respond. He watched Pemberton wheel away, noting how the younger Seeker's movements betrayed his inexperience – small tells that he knew he had to exploit.
"One hundred and twenty to fifty!" Jordan's announcement carried over the strengthening wind. "And it seems Slytherin's new strategy is to turn Potter into a splat on the wall. Not exactly a new strategy to be honest-"
"JORDAN! The game, if you please."
The game blurred into a symphony of near-misses and desperate maneuvers. Harry wove between players and Bludgers alike, creating opportunities for his team while keeping one eye on Pemberton's increasingly erratic movements. The score crept upward: one hundred and thirty to sixty, then one hundred and forty to seventy.
That was when he saw it.
The Snitch hovered just below the Slytherin section, its golden wings catching the last few slivers of light like a promise. And Pemberton, absorbed in watching Collins' latest scoring attempt, was floating barely ten feet away from it. A simple nudge of his broom, and the snitch would be in his hands, inexperienced as he was.
Harry's heart leaped into his throat. One direct approach and the game would be over – but Pemberton was too close, and the Slytherin Beaters were watching him like hawks. He needed something else, something unexpected…
"Ginny!" The word escaped before he'd fully formed the plan. She turned, red hair blazing against the grey sky, and Harry saw the moment understanding flickered across her face.
"You can't be serious," she called back, even as she began drifting toward him. "We're already down a Chaser with Sarah's ribs, and if you're thinking what I think you're thinking…"
"Trust me?" Harry's voice carried a note of plea that made her eyes narrow.
"The last time you said that, we ended up explaining to McGonagall why the Astronomy Tower was purple."
"This is different!" He gestured with his head toward the Snitch, still dancing near the oblivious Pemberton. "I just need…"
"Backup?" Ginny's expression softened slightly. "Because I distinctly remember promising Ron to keep you alive until at least dinner."
Harry felt a grin tugging at his mouth despite the tension thrumming through his body. "Only until dinner?"
"Well," she matched his grin with one of her own, "he didn't specify which dinner."
Above them, Wright attempted a solo scoring run that ended in a spectacular save by the Slytherin Keeper. The crowd's collective groan provided perfect cover as Harry leaned closer to Ginny, his voice dropping to barely more than a whisper.
"Follow my lead?" It came out as more of a question than he'd intended.
Ginny studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, with a sigh that somehow managed to convey both exasperation and affection: "On your mark, Captain."The decision crystallized in Harry's mind like frost on a window – beautiful, dangerous, and absolutely inevitable. He looked down at Pemberton's position, noting the younger Seeker's perfect angle on the snitch with a kind of detached admiration. No amount of speed or skill could overcome simple geometry – at least, not while staying on his broom.
Harry's fingers tightened on his Firebolt one last time, muscle memory trying to fight what his mind had already decided. The wind whispered promises of madness in his ears, and for a moment, he could have sworn he heard his father's voice among them – not warning him away, but laughing that wild, bright laugh he sometimes caught echoes of in his dreams.
That's my son! Do it, you crazy champ!
Harry rocketed upward, the wind tearing at his robes as he climbed higher and higher into the autumn sky. His heart hammered against his ribs – not from exertion, but from the wild, reckless plan taking shape in his mind.
"Potter's making another move!" Jordan's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Though I have to say, the vertical approach is a bit… unusual? Even for him?"
From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Pemberton take the bait, the younger Seeker's inexperience betraying him as he abandoned his perfect position to give chase. Somewhere in the stands, he could almost hear MacNair's groan of frustration.
"What in Merlin's name are you doing?" Pemberton called up, his voice whipped away by the wind. "There's nothing up here except—"
"Birds?" Harry shouted back, allowing himself a grim smile. "Clouds? The snitch?"
The air grew thinner as they climbed, each breath a sharp reminder of just how far they'd left the ground behind. Below, the pitch had become a patchwork of green and brown, the players mere dots of color against autumn's fading palette.
"Harry!" Ginny's voice carried a note of dawning horror. "Don't you dare—"
He didn't let her finish. Couldn't, really, because if he stopped to think about what he was about to do, he might actually listen to the voice of reason screaming in the back of his mind. Instead, he did the one thing no Seeker- no flyer, really- was ever supposed to do.
He let go.
For one eternal heartbeat, Harry hung suspended between earth and sky, his body remembering every other fall, every other moment of weightlessness before gravity remembered its job. Then the world tilted, and he was falling.
"SWEET MERLIN'S FLAMING—" Jordan's voice cracked with shock. "Ladies and gentlemen, Harry Potter has either completely lost his mind or—no, you know what? He's definitely lost it. Sorry, Professor, but you have to admit—"
The wind became a living thing, clawing at his robes and screaming in his ears as he plummeted toward the distant ground. His stomach lurched into his throat, adrenaline flooding his system with the kind of clarity that came only in moments of absolute madness. The world narrowed to a tunnel of green and gold, everything else blurring into meaningless shapes at the edges of his vision.
"Ginny!" He tried to shout, but the wind stole his words. Had she seen his signal? Was she in position? The questions battered against his mind like angry birds, but he couldn't spare the focus to look for her. The snitch was there, growing larger with each passing second, its wings still beating lazily in the autumn air.
Pemberton's shocked face appeared in his peripheral vision, the younger Seeker attempting to match his descent. But brooms weren't meant to drop straight down – they fought against it, their magic resistant to moves that went against the basic laws of flight. Harry, untethered from such constraints, fell like a stone.
"He's going to die," someone moaned from the stands. "He's actually going to—"
"Five Galleons says he makes it!" Another voice countered. "Anyone? No? Your loss…"
The snitch grew closer, its golden surface catching the light like a promise. Harry's lungs burned as he forced himself to keep his eyes open against the rushing wind, tears streaming from the corners as he reached out with desperate fingers. He could see every detail now – the delicate veins in its wings, the subtle patterns etched into its surface, the way it hung motionless in the air, as if waiting for him.
Come on, Ginny, he thought desperately. Where are you?
The ground was rushing up to meet him, faster and faster, the individual blades of grass becoming visible as he hurtled earthward. His heart pounded in his ears, a frantic drumbeat of terror and exhilaration. This was madness. This was brilliance. This was possibly the last stupid thing he'd ever do, and somehow that made it even more perfect.
Just a few more meters.
The snitch finally sensed him coming – too late, too close – its wings beating faster as it tried to dart away. But Harry was falling faster than it could fly, his body cutting through the air like an arrow loosed from a bow. His fingers stretched out, reaching, grasping…
Contact.
His fingers closed around the snitch, its wings fluttering against his palm like a captured heartbeat, and for one glorious moment, triumph drowned out terror. The ground still rushed up – an emerald promise of pain – but Harry couldn't stop grinning, couldn't quite believe he'd actually—
"Gotcha!"
Arms caught him mid-plummet, familiar and strong, accompanied by a stream of creative cursing that would have made Mrs. Weasley reach for her wand. Ginny's hair whipped across his face as they spun, the scent of wind and leather and that flowery shampoo she'd never given up bringing back a flood of memories.
"Of all the stupid—" Ginny's voice cut off as their combined momentum overwhelmed her broom's stability. "Harry, if we die, I'm killing you!"
"That doesn't make any sense!" He laughed, the sound wild and free as they plummeted together.
"Neither does jumping off your bloody broom!"
The ground rushed up to meet them with devastating enthusiasm. Harry instinctively wrapped his arms around Ginny as they hit, muscle memory from years of protecting others taking over as they rolled through frost-bitten grass and autumn leaves. Colors blurred – green and gold and crimson all bleeding together until finally, mercifully, they stopped.
Pain bloomed across Harry's consciousness like ink drops in water. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, his back screaming protests, and his toes… actually, he couldn't feel his toes at all, which was probably something he should worry about. Later. Much later.
"I think," he managed through wheezing breaths, "I might have miscalculated slightly."
"Slightly?" Ginny pushed herself up on her elbows, still sprawled across his chest, her face flushed with exertion and building rage. "SLIGHTLY? Harry James Potter, I swear to Merlin's saggy left—"
"Is that the kind of language a professor's assistant should be using?" He couldn't help grinning up at her, even as his ribs protested the movement.
"Don't you dare try to charm your way out of this!" But her lips twitched, betraying the anger she was trying to maintain. "You jumped off your broom! In the middle of a match! Without even checking if I was—"
"You were there, though." He lifted the snitch between them, its wings still fluttering weakly. "You're always there."
Something soft and complicated flickered across Ginny's face. "That's not the point and you know it. I could have been blocked, or hit, or—"
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" Jordan's voice cut through their bubble of private chaos. "IN ALL MY YEARS OF COMMENTARY – which, admittedly, isn't that many, but still – I HAVE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING QUITE SO SPECTACULARLY INSANE! Potter literally JUMPED OFF HIS BROOM! JUMPED! OFF!"
The crowd's roar hit them like a physical wave, pressing against Harry's skin, filling his lungs with electric joy. Somewhere above, he could hear Ron's distinctive victory whoop mixing with Collins' delighted laughter.
"Harry Potter, ladies and gentlemen!" Jordan continued, his voice cracking with excitement. "The Boy Who Lived To Give Us All Heart Attacks! The Chosen One Who Chose Gravity As A Best Friend! The—"
"Mr. Jordan!" McGonagall's voice carried both exasperation and poorly hidden pride. "Perhaps we should ensure Mr. Potter is actually conscious before composing his obituary?"
"He won't be conscious for long," Ginny muttered, but her eyes sparkled with something that wasn't quite anger anymore. "What possessed you to pull a stunt like that? And don't say winning – we both know that look you had. This was about something else."
Harry let his head fall back against the frost-hardened earth, feeling every bruise and ache beginning to make themselves known through the fading adrenaline. Above them, the team was descending in a crimson spiral, their shouts of victory mixing with what sounded suspiciously like betting settlements being resolved in the stands.
"Maybe," he admitted, still grinning despite the pain, "I needed to remind myself I could still do impossible things."
"As if you've ever done anything else." Ginny made no move to get up, her weight familiar but different now – comfortable in a way it couldn't have been a year ago. "Though most people just have a butterbeer when they're feeling down, you know. Maybe go for a walk. Write some poetry."
"Poetry?" Harry snorted, then immediately regretted it as his ribs protested. "Can you imagine?"
"'There once was a Seeker named Potter,'" Ginny intoned solemnly, "'Who thought gravity's laws didn't matter—'"
"If you finish that limerick, I'm telling your mother about the incident with the garden gnomes and Fred's old fireworks."
"You wouldn't dare!"
"Try me, Weasley."
Their laughter mixed with the crowd's continuing cheers, rising into the autumn air like a promise of better days ahead. Harry could hear the team landing around them now, their boots crunching against frost-covered grass, but he couldn't bring himself to move just yet.
"You know," Ginny remarked, her voice softer now, meant just for him, "normal people just ask their friends for help without the whole near-death experience bit."
"Since when have I ever been normal?" His smile held a touch of something wistful now, remembering all the times that word had been wielded like a weapon.
"Fair point." She finally rolled off him, landing in the grass with a quiet 'oof.' "Though I notice you're not denying needing help."
Before Harry could respond, Ron's face appeared above them, his expression caught between pride and exasperation. "Mate, that was either the most brilliant thing I've ever seen, or the stupidest. Haven't quite decided yet."
"Why not both?" Collins called from somewhere behind him, still slightly breathless from landing. "It can definitely be both."
Getting to his feet proved to be an adventure in itself, each movement sending fresh waves of protest through Harry's battered body. The world tilted alarmingly as Ron hauled him up, forcing him to grab his friend's shoulder for support.
"Steady there, mate," Ron's grip tightened. "Though I've got to say, as far as victory poses go, sprawled in the grass with my sister isn't your most dignified."
"Git," Harry muttered, but he couldn't stop grinning, even as his ribs screamed at the effort. The snitch's wings still fluttered weakly against his palm, its cool surface a reminder that this wasn't just another mad dream. The pitch had erupted into organized chaos, a sea of red and gold surging toward them like a tide. Harry could hear Jordan's voice rising above the din.
"—AND THERE HE IS, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE MAN WHO LOOKED DEATH IN THE EYE AND SAID 'NOT TODAY, THANKS, I'VE GOT A SNITCH TO CATCH'—"
"Mr. Jordan, please—"
Wright reached them first, his face still pale beneath his freckles. "That was… that was…"
"Mental?" Collins supplied, limping up behind him. "Insane? The kind of thing that makes me question why I ever joined this team?"
"Brilliant," Wright finished, his voice filled with the kind of awe that made Harry want to sink back into the grass. "Absolutely brilliant."
The crowd pressed closer, a wall of faces and voices all blending together. Harry felt hands patting his aching back, heard congratulations mixing with excited retellings of his descent. His chest ached with each breath, but beneath the pain was something lighter, brighter – a fierce joy that made every twinge worth it.
"Harry! Harry Potter!" A group of younger students he vaguely recognized from Hufflepuff pushed forward, their eyes wide with excitement. "Can you sign my—"
"HARRY JAMES POTTER!"
The crowd parted like the Red Sea as Hermione's voice cut through the chaos. She stormed across the frost-bitten grass, her hair crackling with the kind of energy that usually preceded extremely thorough lectures about responsibility and the basic laws of physics.
"Now you've done it," Ron muttered, not quite hiding his grin. "Want me to tell Mum you died heroically?"
"Before 'Mione gets to him?" Ginny snorted, still hovering protectively near Harry's elbow. "Not likely."
Hermione reached them in a whirlwind of fury and badly hidden concern. "Of all the reckless, irresponsible, absolutely INSANE things you've ever done—"
"Hullo, 'Mione," Harry cut in, still grinning despite the growing certainty that every bone in his body was filing formal complaints. "Lovely weather we're having."
"Don't you dare try to charm your way out of this!" But her hands were gentle as they checked him for fractures, her eyes bright with what might have been tears. "You jumped off your broom! In mid-air! Do you have any idea—"
"To be fair," he winced as she found a particularly tender spot, "I did catch the snitch."
"The snitch!" She threw her hands up in exasperation. "Oh, well, that makes it all perfectly reasonable then! Never mind the laws of gravity, or basic safety, or the fact that you nearly gave me a heart attack—"
"Only nearly?" Ron grinned. "Must be losing your touch, mate."
A fresh wave of admirers pressed forward – mostly younger students clutching everything from quills to chocolate frog cards, their eyes shining with the kind of hero-worship that still made Harry deeply uncomfortable. A group of girls he didn't recognize giggled and waved from the edge of the crowd, their faces flushed with excitement.
"That was amazing, Harry!"
"Will you teach us that move?"
"Can you sign my—"
"Right then," Ginny's voice cut through the chaos with practiced authority. "Everyone back up a bit. Our heroic Captain needs to actually make it to the locker room before Madam Pomfrey adds to his injuries."
"I'm fine," Harry protested automatically, then immediately regretted it as his leg chose that moment to remind him that it was, in fact, very much not fine. "Just a bit sore."
"A bit sore," Hermione repeated flatly. "Harry, you fell from the height of the astronomy tower!"
"Technically," he couldn't quite help himself, "I jumped."
"NOT HELPING!"
But there was fondness beneath her exasperation now, the kind of weary acceptance that came from years of watching him do impossible things. The crowd continued to press around them as they made their slow way across the pitch, voices rising and falling like waves against a shore.
"—absolutely mental, but brilliant—"
"—did you see Pemberton's face when—"
"—swear he was smiling the whole way down—"
Harry let the voices wash over him, each step sending fresh jolts of pain through his abused muscles. But beneath the pain was something else – a fierce, wild joy that made him feel more alive than he had in days. Up in the staff stands, he caught a flash of silver-blonde hair, but he forced himself not to look, not to wonder what Fleur thought of his latest act of calculated recklessness.
"You know," Ron mused as they approached the edge of the pitch, still supporting most of Harry's weight, "I reckon this might actually beat the dragon incident. Though maybe not the thing with the basilisk."
"The what?" Wright's voice cracked slightly.
"Story for another time," Ginny cut in smoothly. "Preferably after we've got him properly patched up and I've had time to compose a proper lecture about the difference between bravery and whatever that was up there."
"Winning?" Harry suggested innocently.
The look she gave him promised pain, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Every breath hurt, his leg threatened to give out with each step, and tomorrow would probably bring a whole new symphony of aches – but right now, surrounded by friends and well-wishers, the snitch still clutched triumphantly in his hand, Harry felt invincible.
The crowd's roar faded to a distant hum as the team made their way back to the changing rooms, their boots leaving trails in the frost-bitten grass.
"I still can't believe we almost lost to Slytherin," Wright muttered, shaking his head as he pushed open the weathered door. "I mean, when did they get so… coordinated?"
"When they stopped relying on just being bigger than everyone else," Collins replied, easing herself onto one of the worn benches. Her hand strayed to her bruised ribs, but her eyes sparkled with residual adrenaline. "Though I have to say, watching MacNair bounce was worth every hit I took."
"Speaking of hits," Ron glanced at Harry, who had claimed his own bench with perhaps more care than strictly necessary, "how many bones did you actually break this time?"
"None," Harry protested, then reconsidered as his ribs made their opinion known. "Probably none. Maybe one or two. Small ones."
"Right," Ginny rolled her eyes, but there was fondness in the gesture. "Because that makes it so much better."
The changing room filled with the familiar sounds of post-match routine – boots being unlaced, protective gear being shed, the subtle crackling of cooling muscles finally allowed to rest. Afternoon light filtered through high windows, painting everything in shades of amber and gold.
"Party in the common room!" Wright announced, already heading for the showers. "Sarah's got a stash of butterbeer hidden somewhere, and I heard George sent Ron something special-"
"Oi!" Ron's shouted. "That was supposed to be a surprise!"
"Everything's a surprise with George," Collins laughed, then winced. "Though maybe warn us if it's likely to explode this time?"
The others drifted toward the showers, their voices carrying fragments of excited chatter and victory plans. Harry remained on his bench, letting the familiar post-match aches settle into his bones like old friends coming home.
"Knut for your thoughts?" Ginny's voice was soft as she sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
"That's inflation for you," Harry managed a small smile. "Used to be just a penny."
"Prat." But her hand found his, squeezing gently. "You know, most people just say 'thank you for catching me' after someone saves their life."
"Thank you," he turned to face her, letting sincerity creep into his voice. "For always being there. Not just today, but-"
"But always," she finished, and something old and warm passed between them – not the fierce fire of what they'd been, but something steadier, like embers banking themselves for a long night. "Though I have to say, you really know how to keep a girl on her toes."
"Only you," Harry admitted, his voice dropping to barely more than a whisper. "I wouldn't have tried that with anyone else up there. I knew – I knew – you'd catch me."
"Because you're mental," but her eyes softened. "And because we've been catching each other for years, haven't we?"
Before Harry could respond, Ron's voice carried from the doorway: "You lot! Some of us would like to actually celebrate before McGonagall remembers to give us detention!"
"Your timing is still rubbish," Ginny called back, but she was smiling as she stood. "Don't stay out here brooding too long, yeah? And Harry?" She paused at the door, her expression serious for a moment. "We may not be… what we were, but I'm still here. Still your friend. Always will be."
"I know," Harry's voice was rough with something that wasn't quite sadness. "Go on – save me some butterbeer?"
"No promises!" She disappeared into the golden afternoon light, leaving Harry alone with the familiar scents of leather and wood polish and victory.
Ron lingered in the doorway, his expression caught between concern and understanding. "You're going back out there, aren't you?"
"Just for a bit," Harry nodded toward the pitch, visible through the high windows. "Need to clear my head."
"Some things never change," Ron's voice held a warmth that made Harry's chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with his recent fall. "Just… don't stay out too long? The party won't be the same without its stupidly brave captain."
"Stupidly brave?" Harry raised an eyebrow. "That's almost poetic coming from you."
"Hermione's been making me read," Ron shuddered dramatically. "A poet or something. Some stupid name- Kates or something-"
"Keats?"
"Yeah, that," Ron snorted, waving his hand. Harry didn't know a lot about muggle poetry, but he was pretty sure this Keats person was one of the most famous poets of all time.
"Harry."
"Yes."
"I've gotta go. Headboy, gotta ensure decorum and all that."
"Go on," Harry nodded toward the castle, where distant cheers suggested the celebration was already beginning. "I'll be there soon."
Ron studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Just remember – whatever's going on in that head of yours, whatever's got you pulling stunts like today's… you don't have to figure it all out alone."
He left before Harry could respond, his footsteps fading into the gathering dusk. Through the windows, Harry could see the pitch waiting – a canvas of green and gold, painted with long shadows and the promise of solitude. He'd head out there soon, let the evening wind clear his thoughts like it always did after a match. But for now, he sat in the familiar quiet of the changing room, letting memories of the past years in the same spot wash over him like waves against a shore.
"Alright then, Potter," he said to himself as he slowly stood up, his body protesting at the movement. "A quick walk to clear your head."
The pitch lay before him like an old friend offering comfort, its expanse of green and gold painted with lengthening shadows. Harry's boots left shallow impressions in the dirt as he walked, each step a quiet surrender to the familiar post-match ritual that had become as much a part of him as flying itself. His muscles ached in that particular way that only came after pushing magic and body to their absolute limits, a combination of protests that would definitely earn him a lecture from Madam Pomfrey later. The adrenaline was finally beginning to ebb, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness that made even breathing feel like an exercise in determination.
"Worth it, though," he muttered to no one in particular, his free hand absently rubbing at a spot just below his ribs that was definitely going to bruise spectacularly. The snitch's wings had finally stilled in his pocket, but he could still feel its presence – a small, warm reminder of victory snatched quite literally from the jaws of defeat. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the faint echoes of celebration drifting from Gryffindor Tower, but here, in the gathering dusk, everything felt somehow separate from that world of noise and triumph.
His thoughts drifted, inevitable as tide, to Fleur's office and the words that couldn't be unsaid. Had she watched his dive? Had her heart stopped like everyone else's, or had she been too busy discussing charms with Professor Graves? The bitterness of that thought surprised him with its intensity.
"She said she loved me," he whispered to the evening shadows, testing the words like touching a bruise to see if it still hurt. It did. Of course it did. Because somehow that made everything worse – the dismissal of his concerns, the way she'd looked at him like he was still that fourteen-year-old boy who needed protecting…
"'Arry!"
The voice hit him like a physical thing, sending his heart into a stumbling rhythm that had nothing to do with his recent fall. He turned slowly, every ache forgotten in the sudden rush of… what? Fear? Hope? Anger? All of them at once, perhaps.
Fleur stood at the edge of the pitch, the setting sun turning her hair to liquid fire. She was beautiful – she was always beautiful – but there was something different now, something wild and barely contained that made the air around her seem to shimmer with barely suppressed energy.
"Fleur." Her name came out rougher than he'd intended, catching on emotions he couldn't quite swallow back. "I was just…"
He gestured vaguely at the pitch, suddenly aware of how inadequate any explanation would sound.
She moved toward him with that inherent grace that always made his mouth go dry, but there was nothing gentle in her expression. Tiny feathers had begun to sprout along her arms, catching the evening light like scattered diamonds, and the air around her seemed to pulse with waves of heat that made the grass steam slightly where she stepped.
Harry took an involuntary step backward, his seeker's instincts screaming warnings he couldn't quite process. He'd seen Fleur angry before, seen hints of her Veela heritage peek through in moments of stress or passion, but this… this was different. This was contained fury given form, and it was aimed directly at him.
"I should…" he started, gesturing vaguely toward the castle. "It's been a long day, and I'm rather tired—"
The slap caught him completely off guard.
The sound cracked across the evening air like apparition, sharp and final. Heat bloomed across his cheek, but it was nothing compared to the fire in Fleur's eyes as she stood there, hand still raised, those beautiful features transformed by an emotion he couldn't quite name.
"How DARE you!" Harry's voice cracked with sudden fury, his cheek still burning. "First you dismiss everything I say, then you take my wand like I'm some first-year who can't be trusted, and now—"
The rest of his words were lost as Fleur crashed into him, arms wrapping around his torso with desperate strength. The impact sent fresh waves of pain through his battered body, drawing a sharp hiss through his teeth.
"Fleur! OW! My ribs- that actually- that really hurts-"
Her grip immediately loosened, but she didn't let go. Harry stood frozen, acutely aware of her trembling against him. The feathers along her arms were slowly receding, but he could still feel waves of heat radiating from her skin.
"What in Merlin's name is going on?" he managed, his voice rough with confusion and lingering anger. He didn't know what to say. How to think. His thoughts were a muddle mess of anger and confusion.
Fleur pulled back sharply, her eyes bright with something that might have been tears. "What is going on? You 'ave ze nerve to ask zat after what you did? Jumping from your broom like some… some…"
"Like what?" Harry felt his lips curl into a bitter smile. "A reckless idiot trying to catch a snitch? Is that all you think it was? Why should you care anyway? You made it quite clear where your loyalties lie."
"Arrêtez!" Fleur took a deep breath, and Harry watched in fascination as she seemed to gather herself, pulling that familiar mask of composure back into place. But there were cracks in it now, fractures that let something raw and honest shine through.
"I…" she paused, and Harry had never seen her struggle for words before. "I am not often wrong, 'Arry. I pride myself on being… what is ze word? Composed. Rational. I do not let emotions cloud my judgment."
She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze directly. "But zis time, I was wrong."
The admission hung in the autumn air between them, delicate as frost.
"I was afraid," she continued, her accent thickening with emotion. "Afraid of what others would zink if I spent too much time with you. Afraid zat you were still living in ze shadows of war, seeing threats where zere were none. And…" she laughed, but there was no humor in it, "I was afraid of what it would mean for my teaching career if zere was… a… scandal."
Harry felt something twist in his chest, hope and hurt tangling together like vines. "Yeah, well, you agreed with that before. What changed?"
The evening wind caught at her robes, carrying with it the lingering scents of frost and victory and something else – something that made his heart stumble in its rhythm. As much as he wanted to be angry- wished to. even begged himself to- Harry found that a part of him just preferred to be at peace. He couldn't bring himself to hate Fleur. Especially as she stood now, haloed by the setting sun, more beautiful and more vulnerable than he'd ever seen her.
Harry suddenly wasn't sure if he was ready for her answer.
"When I saw you let go of zat broom…" Fleur's voice caught, a tremor running through her like autumn wind through dying leaves. She took a step back, though her hands remained light on his arms, as if afraid he might disappear if she let go completely. "Mon Dieu, 'Arry. My 'eart… it stopped. For one moment, everything stopped."
The last rays of sunlight painted her features in shades of gold and shadow, catching in her eyes like captured starlight. Harry watched as something vulnerable flickered across her face – an emotion too raw and honest to hide behind her usual careful composure.
"I realized zen," she continued, her accent thickening with each word, "what I stood to lose. Not just… not just your friendship, though zat alone would be…" She trailed off, a flush creeping up her neck that had nothing to do with the evening chill. "I do not even know what to call it. What we 'ave. What we could…"
Her blush deepened, and Harry felt something warm and unexpected bloom in his chest, pushing against the lingering embers of his anger like spring flowers through winter frost. He waited, letting the silence stretch between them like a bridge waiting to be crossed. The distant sounds of celebration from the castle seemed to fade, leaving them in a pocket of twilight that felt somehow separate from the rest of the world.
Fleur seemed to gather herself, drawing a breath that shook slightly at the edges. "You are… remarkable, 'Arry. Ze way you carry yourself, ze way you treat others – from ze smallest first-year to ze oldest professor. You 'ave every right to be… what is ze word? Arrogant? With all you 'ave done, all ze fame…"
She gestured expressively, her hands painting shapes in the gathering dusk. "But you remain just… 'Arry. As if saving ze world was something anyone might do before breakfast, if only zey 'ad thought to try."
A bitter laugh escaped her, sharp enough to make Harry wince. "And ze worst part? Ze most terrible irony? I told you – I promised you – zat with me, you could always be yourself. Zat we understood each other, zat we both knew what it was to wear masks for others…"
Her voice cracked on the last words, and Harry watched as tears began to gather in those impossible blue eyes. "But when you came to me, when you trusted me with your concerns… I became everything I 'ad promised not to be. I treated you like… like…"
"Like everyone else does," Harry finished quietly, feeling the truth of it settle in his bones like an old ache. "Like I'm still that boy who needs protecting from his own imagination."
Fleur made a sound that might have been a sob, pressing one delicate hand to her mouth as if to hold back more words that threatened to spill out. In the fading light, her tears caught the last rays of sun like diamonds, and Harry felt something in his chest crack open at the sight.
He couldn't stay angry at her. He just couldn't.
"I am so sorry, 'Arry," she managed, the words coming out choked and desperate. "Can you… is zere any way you could…"
The rest of her question was lost in another sob, but Harry understood. He had always understood her, even when the rest of the world saw only the perfect, composed Professor Delacour. Just as she had once seen past his carefully constructed walls, past the legend of The Boy Who Lived, to the person beneath. Almost without conscious thought, he stepped forward and drew her into a gentle embrace, mindful of his bruised ribs but needing the contact almost as much as she seemed to. She fit against him perfectly, her head tucking under his chin as if they had been designed as matching pieces of some greater whole.
"You know," he said softly, feeling her trembling gradually still as he spoke, "people have always told me it's one of my more stupid traits. Inherited from both sides, apparently."
He could feel her curiosity in the way she shifted slightly, though she didn't pull away. "What is?" Her voice was muffled against his chest, but he could hear the genuine question in it.
Harry smiled into her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her – something floral and exotic that reminded him of summer storms and wild magic. "Forgiveness."
Fleur's laughter was watery but genuine, vibrating against his chest in a way that made his heart skip. "You make it sound so simple."
"Nothing about you has ever been simple," Harry murmured into her hair, letting his fingers trace absent patterns against her back. The evening wind carried hints of winter, but here, wrapped in each other's warmth, the long forgotten autumn seemed to linger like a jealous friend. "That's part of what I…" He trailed off, suddenly uncertain of where that sentence had been heading.
She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her eyes still bright with unshed tears but holding something else now – something warm and questioning that made his breath catch. "Part of what, 'Arry?"
Harry found himself studying the subtle shifts of color, the way the fading light seemed to dance across her skin like whispered promises. Words formed and dissolved on his tongue, none of them quite adequate for the moment.
"Part of what makes you… you," he finished lamely, then winced at his own inadequacy. "I mean-"
"Shh," she pressed a finger to his lips, the gesture so unexpected that Harry felt his heart stumble in its rhythm. "I think I understand. Just as I understand now that I… that I 'ave been foolish in more ways zan one."
Her hand moved from his lips to cup his cheek, fingers cool against his skin where her earlier slap had left its mark. "I should not 'ave… that was unforgivable."
"Already forgiven," Harry caught her hand in his, holding it against his face for a moment longer before letting their joined hands fall between them. "Though maybe we could stick to words next time? My ribs have enough complaints already."
Her expression clouded with fresh concern. "Mon Dieu, your injuries! I should not 'ave – you need ze 'ospital wing, not standing 'ere in ze cold while I…"
"Fleur." He squeezed her hand gently, cutting off what promised to be a spiral of French-tinged worry. "I'm exactly where I want to be."
The words hung in the gathering dusk between them, heavier with meaning than he'd intended. She swayed slightly closer, as if drawn by some invisible tide.
"You cannot just… say things like zat," she whispered, though she made no move to pull away. "Not when you look at me with zose eyes, like you can see right through every wall I try to build…"
"Then stop building them." The words came out rougher than he'd intended, carrying echoes of yesterday's hurt and today's wild triumph. "At least with me. Please."
A shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with the evening chill. Harry watched in fascination as tiny feathers began to shimmer along her arms again – not in anger this time, but something else entirely. The air around them seemed to pulse with barely contained magic, making the frost-covered grass at their feet steam slightly.
"You make everything so… complicated," she murmured, her free hand coming up to rest against his chest, just over his thundering heart. "And so simple at ze same time. 'Ow do you do zat?"
Harry felt a smile tug at his lips despite the ache in his ribs and the bone-deep weariness that threatened to claim him. "Natural talent? Or maybe just years of making things unnecessarily dramatic. You did see my landing technique earlier."
Her laugh was startled and genuine, though it caught on something that might have been another sob. "Do not remind me! My 'eart cannot take another display like zat. Promise me you will not-" Fleur trailed off, seemingly realizing what she was asking. Harry watched as a blush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks with color that had nothing to do with the evening chill. "I… I 'ave no right to ask such things. After what I said yesterday…"
"You have every right," Harry interrupted softly, letting his thumb trace patterns against her palm where their hands remained joined. "Just as I had every right to come to you with my concerns. We both… we both got it wrong, didn't we?"
The wind picked up, carrying with it the distant sounds of celebration from the castle. A strand of silver-blonde hair escaped its careful arrangement, dancing across Fleur's face like a caress. Without thinking, Harry reached up to tuck it behind her ear, his fingers lingering perhaps longer than strictly necessary against her skin.
"Together," she whispered, leaning almost imperceptibly into his touch. "We got it wrong together. Just as we will… what is ze phrase? Figure it out together?"
"Together," Harry agreed, the word feeling like a promise in his mouth. He was suddenly, achingly aware of how close they were standing, of the way the gathering darkness seemed to create a world that existed only for them. "Though maybe we should start with getting out of the cold? Unless you're planning to keep me out here until I actually need the hospital wing?"
Fleur made a sound that was half laugh, half exasperation. "Always with ze jokes, even when you can barely stand. You are impossible, 'Arry Potter."
"So I've been told." He grinned down at her, feeling lighter despite his various aches and pains. "Usually right before something explodes."
She muttered something in French that sounded decidedly uncomplimentary, but her eyes sparkled with barely suppressed amusement. "Come, zen. Let us get you inside before you decide to try some other death-defying stunt. Though…" She hesitated, something uncertain flickering across her face. "Though perhaps we could… talk more? Later?"
"I'd like that." Harry said after a moment, letting his thumb brush across her knuckles one last time before reluctantly releasing her hand. "Though maybe somewhere warmer?"
"Zat can be arranged." Her smile was small but genuine, holding promises that made his breath catch. "Though I make no guarantees about interruptions. You do 'ave quite ze talent for attracting chaos."
"Says the woman who just slapped The Boy Who Lived in full view of anyone who might have been watching." But he was grinning as he said it, unable to keep the warmth from his voice.
"Ah, but zat is different," she sniffed, though her eyes danced with mischief. "Zat was… what do you call it? Preventative medicine?"
Harry laughed despite his protesting ribs, the sound carrying across the darkening pitch like a spell of its own. "I think I prefer your kind of medicine to Madam Pomfrey's, even with the slapping."
The blush that crept up Fleur's neck was definitely visible now, even in the gathering darkness. She muttered something else in French – something that made Harry very glad he'd been paying attention in their private lessons – before gesturing imperiously toward the castle.
"Inside. Now. Before I forget myself entirely and…" She trailed off, that lovely flush deepening as she seemed to realize what she'd been about to say.
Harry felt his own cheeks warm, but he couldn't quite suppress his grin as they began making their way across the frost-covered grass. Each step sent fresh waves of protest through his abused muscles, but somehow, with Fleur's arm linked through his for "support," the pain seemed less important.
The evening stars were just beginning to emerge, painting the sky in shades of deepening blue and silver. From the castle, the sounds of celebration continued to drift across the grounds, a distant reminder of triumph and fellowship waiting to welcome him back. But Harry found himself walking deliberately slowly, savoring each step. The first stars were beginning to peek through the darkening sky as they made their way across the grounds, their breath forming delicate clouds in the cooling air. He winced with each step, though he tried to hide it behind what he hoped was a casual expression.
"I am sorry," Fleur said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. "'Arry, I truly am—"
"If you apologize one more time," Harry rolled his eyes, though he couldn't quite suppress his smile, "I might have to do something drastic. Like jump off another broom."
"Zat is not funny!" But her lips twitched traitorously. "I just… I wish zere was something I could do to make it up to you."
Harry's steps faltered, not entirely due to his protesting muscles. The grounds were quiet now, everyone else having retreated to the warmth of the castle. In the distance, the last rays of sun painted the forbidden forest in hues of gold and shadow.
"Well," he started, then had to clear his throat when his voice came out rougher than intended. "You could… I mean, if you wanted to…erm, Hogsmeade? Next week?"
He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, and suddenly the ground below his feet seemed fascinatingly interesting. Beside him, Fleur's breath caught in a way that made his heart stumble in its rhythm.
"Are you…" she paused, and Harry risked a glance to find her cheeks stained with a delicate flush. "'Arry, are you asking me to-"
"Yes?" It came out more like a question than he'd intended. "I mean, only if you want to. We could just—"
"Oui," she cut him off, her accent thickening with what might have been nervousness. "I would… I would like zat very much."
Before Harry could properly process the warmth blooming in his chest at her words, his leg decided it had had quite enough of supporting his weight. He stumbled, a sharp cry of pain escaping before he could bite it back.
"'Arry!" Fleur caught him with surprising strength, shifting to pull his arm across her shoulders. "Let me—"
"No, it's fine," he protested weakly, acutely aware of how his Quidditch robes were still damp with sweat. "Really, I can walk it off. You don't have to—"
"Let me take care of you," she said softly, the words carrying more weight than their simple meaning should allow. "Please? Just… just a little?"
Something in her tone made Harry's protests die in his throat. He looked down at her– and found himself nodding.
"I should probably shower after Pomfrey's done with me," he muttered, suddenly self-conscious. "I must smell terrible."
"Mmm," Fleur's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Like grass and leather and… what is ze word? Victory?"
"Fleur!"
"Though perhaps also a little like someone 'oo decided gravity was optional," she continued thoughtfully. "But do you know something, 'Arry Potter?"
"What?" He couldn't quite look away from the way twilight painted shadows across her features.
"I would rather be 'ere, with you, than anywhere else in ze castle right now." Her voice softened to barely more than a whisper. "Even if you do smell like a Quidditch changing room."
Their laughter mingled in the evening air, rising toward the first stars like a promise of better days ahead. Harry allowed himself a smile, as he remembered Hagrid's words.
"You are thinking 'ard, non?" came the inquisitive voice nearby.
Harry nodded.
"Yeah. Up until now I was…wondering. If I could forgive you. If I could just…look over what happened yesterday," he admitted, looking down into Fleur's eyes that gazed back at his with a certain sense of weakness he'd never seen before.
"And now?"
"I realized that I wanted to," Harry simply said, smiling. "Because holding grudges, being all arrogant about someone being wrong…that's just…not who I am."
"And what are you zen, 'Arry?" Fleur asked, as she nestled closer to his side, Harry pulling her closer and feeling her familiar warmth.
"I don't know, completely, Fleur," Harry said, looking up at the castle entrance as they passed it. "But at least I know who I'm not."
A/N: I've gotten back to work, so updates will be more delayed, but still working on the story!
I will first, however, be rereading the previous chapters and making necessary improvements including fixing the gaps that somehow appeared when I copied the work from my doc to the site.