TWO
The last two weeks had been surprisingly uneventful. Besides, of course, the vanishing stairs prank and the annual food fight, Harry could have sworn that it almost felt like just another regular year. In fact, the pranks made it feel even more regular. While a part of him felt relieved at that, the other was anxious. It was always this way at Hogwarts- a few months were good, then suddenly everything went sideways.
An autumn breeze whistled through the castle corridors as Ron joined him on the way to Professor McGonagall's office. Fallen leaves skittered across the stone floor, a reminder that summer had well and truly departed.
Harry's thoughts wandered towards the subtle changes in Hogwarts since their return. For one, they didn't have these many leaves on the floor before. Not that he particularly minded, but it was an unpleasant reminder that Filch was getting old. He'd never admit it out loud, but a part of him was almost fond of the grumpy old caretaker who'd somehow managed to outlive most people plotting his death.
He trudged up the moving staircase, absently rubbing the lightning scar on his forehead - a habit he'd developed since the war. The castle corridors felt different now, somehow both familiar and strange at once. The restoration work had been meticulous, but if you knew where to look, you could still see the faint traces of battle damage beneath the repairs.
"Mental, isn't it?" Ron's voice broke through his reverie. "Having to worry about Quidditch schedules after… well, everything."
Harry nodded, understanding what he meant. Sometimes the normalcy of a school life felt almost jarring against his memories of the past year.
"Yeah, but that's why we came back, right? To have a proper go at being normal students."
"Normal?" Ron snorted. "Mate, you've never been normal a day in your life."
He pulled something from his pocket - a Chocolate Frog card with his own face on it. "Neither of us have, apparently."
"About that," Harry said, eager to change the subject, "have you written to Mrs. Weasley about Christmas yet? Hermione's been after me to ask you."
"Blimey, is she still on about that? It's only October!" Ron shook his head. "Though… might be nice, having everyone together this year."
The unspoken weight of Fred's absence hung between them. It hadn't been easy, and George was rather a mess for quite a few months. But Harry was relieved when Ron told him his older sibling was doing better and was even planning to open a second branch of Wheezes in Hogsmeade.
They turned a corner, passing the spot where a particularly nasty curse had once blown apart the wall. The stone was newer here, lighter than its surroundings. A group of second-years scurried past, their eyes widening at the sight of Harry and Ron. One of them dropped their books in excitement.
"Here," Harry said automatically, helping the young student gather her things. The girl stammered a thank you, face flushed with embarrassment.
"Still can't get used to that, can you?" Ron asked quietly after the students had hurried away. "The way they look at us now…"
"Don't think I ever will," Harry admitted.
"Harry! Ron! Wait up!"
Harry turned to see Ginny jogging up the stairs towards them, her Captain badge glinting on her robes. She'd taken to wearing her long red hair in a braid since becoming Captain of the Gryffindor team - something about keeping it out of her eyes during practice, though Harry suspected it was also to look more authoritative to the younger players.
"Cutting it a bit close, aren't you?" Ron commented as his sister fell into step beside them. "Thought you had a free period before this."
"I did, until Peeves decided to flood the sixth-floor corridor," Ginny replied, slightly out of breath. "So I had to take the long way around. Nearly got caught in that trick step too - you know, the one you're still pretending you didn't fall into last week, Ron."
"Oi!" Ron's ears turned pink. "I told you, I was distracted! Some third-year had just asked Harry if he'd sign her copy of his biography- which, by the way, mate, I still can't believe they published without your permission. Or even asking you. Smarmy gits, the lot."
Harry groaned, remembering the unauthorized biography that had somehow appeared in Flourish and Blotts last month. "Don't remind me. Hermione's still sending howlers to the publisher. Apparently he got her OWL scores wrong in it."
Ron snorted. "They also said you were a real playboy with summer romances with half the bloody population of this castle."
"They did?" Harry asked, raising a brow.
"Mate, did you not even read your own biography?"
"Why would I read it, Ron?"
The redhead paused for a minute, thinking. "Fair point. It was bollocks anyway. The way they wrote about me, you'd think I only think about food all the time."
"You do," Ginny pointed out.
"Yep," Harry agreed.
"Oh shut it, you lot," Ron threw his hands up, while Harry shared a laugh with the younger Weasley.
They turned onto the second-floor corridor, their footsteps echoing against the stone walls. A portrait of a medieval wizard drinking Tropicana raised his eyebrows at them as they passed.
"Speaking of Hermione," Ginny said, readjusting her bag on her shoulder, "how come she's not coming to this meeting? Isn't she still a prefect?"
"She said something about this being a sports-specific administrative discussion and that her time would be better spent planning her revision schedules," Ron replied. "Her words, not mine."
"Can't blame her there," Harry muttered, remembering some of the long-winded speeches at the last prefect meeting. They definitely could do with some time-saving options. Not that he'd use the extra time to study, but at least it was less time almost falling asleep in front of McGonagall. He paused as they reached another staircase, waiting for it to finish its slow swing into position.
"By the way, Gin, have you figured out who's replacing Dean as Chaser now that he's focusing on his NEWTs?"
"Got a few ideas," Ginny said, her expression turning serious. As one of the youngest captains in recent Hogwarts history, she took her responsibilities perhaps even more seriously than her schoolwork. Something Harry could relate to.
"There's this fourth-year, Emma Dobbs - she's got good instincts, just needs some confidence. ON that topic though-" She lowered her voice, almost as if she was sharing a secret. "Did you see the new Hufflepuff lineup? They've been practically living on the pitch, and they're still…"
"Terrible?" Harry supplied helpfully.
"I was going to say developing," Ginny corrected him primly, though her lips twitched. "Which is why this meeting's so important. We need to make sure the practice schedule is fair, but also-"
"Benefiting to us, yeah sis, agreed," Ron began, before he paused to fish something out of his pocket - another Chocolate Frog card. He groaned. "Merlin's beard, it's me again. These things are everywhere now. George keeps sending them to me just to take the mickey."
Harry couldn't help but laugh at Ron's expression of pure disgust as he stared at his own face winking back at him from the card.
"At least yours doesn't have 'The Chosen One' written under it in sparkly letters," Harry pointed out, ducking as Ron tried to swat him with the card.
"Hurry up, won't you both!" Ginny interrupted, though she was fighting back a smile. "We're going to be late, and you know how McGonagall gets about punctuality."
Harry nodded, as he joined Ron in hurrying up the stairs.
The corridor leading to McGonagall's office held a particular kind of chill, the kind that seemed to seep through the ancient stones of Hogwarts and settle in one's bones. It made Harry feel older than he actually was. Portraits lining the walls whispered among themselves as Harry, Ron, and Ginny approached the growing cluster of students and staff gathered outside the Headmistress's office.
"So I was thinking about our schedules…"
Ginny trailed off as they rounded the corner to McGonagall's office.
Harry felt his stomach do an odd little flip.
Fleur Delacour was standing near the window, the autumn sunlight turning her hair almost luminous. She was talking to Ethan Graves (of course she was), her light laugh carrying down the corridor.
"Oh," Ron said under his breath, with what Harry felt was completely unnecessary emphasis. "Oh."
"Shut up," Harry muttered.
"I didn't say anything!" Ron protested.
"You didn't have to," Ginny whispered, "Your eyebrows did all the talking."
"My eyebrows do not-"
"They really do, mate," Harry interrupted, grateful for the distraction from his own discomfort.
"Better than your subtle-as-a-Bludger staring," Ron retorted, then yelped as both Harry and Ginny elbowed him simultaneously.
She was standing slightly apart from the others, deep in conversation with the DADA Professor. Harry hadn't seen Fleur properly since the start-of-term feast, their paths rarely crossing in the vast castle. Seeing her here struck him as odd, for some reason. Watching her laugh at something Ethan had said, made him feel an inexplicable twinge of...something. He wasn't sure what it was, but it had been a while since Harry had felt this...protective?
Itching for something to take his mind off things like feelings, Harry quickly adjusted the Captain's badge on his robes. The metal felt cool against his fingers, helping him stay clear headed. He looked around, trying to see if he could recognize everyone that had arrived.
The Hufflepuff delegation was already there - Hannah Abbott and Justin Finch-Fletchley as prefects, along with their new flying instructor, Madam Hooch's assistant. The Slytherin contingent stood slightly apart: two sixth-year prefects Harry didn't know well, though he recognized their new Head of House, Professor Slughorn, who was already holding court with a small group of students.
"Quite the turnout," Ron muttered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Didn't realize scheduling Quidditch practices needed a full bloomin' Wizengamot hearing."
"Everything's different this year," Ginny replied quietly, her eyes scanning the corridor. "Everyone wants a say in how things are run, even the little things."
Harry understood what she meant. After the war, even mundane school activities had taken on a larger significance - as if by carefully managing these normal, everyday concerns, they could somehow prove that life really was returning to normal.
The sound of footsteps drew their attention to the rest of the Ravenclaw delegation arriving - two people Harry recognized from Prefect meetings: Padma Patil and a quiet sixth-year named Marcus Belby. Apparently, he was a great chaser.
The gargoyle guarding McGonagall's office suddenly sprang to life, startling several first-years who'd been lingering nearby hoping to listen in on their conversations. Professor McGonagall emerged, her emerald robes catching the light from the high windows. Her face bore its usual stern expression, like she was about to give everyone a 500 page imposition.
"Good afternoon," she said, her voice carrying easily down the corridor. "Thank you all for being prompt. Please, come in."
Her office had been magically expanded to accommodate everyone, though it still felt crowded as Harry entered. The portraits of former headmasters watched with varying degrees of interest as students and staff arranged themselves around the room. Dumbledore's portrait, Harry noticed, appeared to be sleeping, though he could have sworn he saw one blue eye open slightly as he passed.
"Before we discuss Quidditch arrangements," McGonagall began, once everyone had settled, "there are a few administrative matters to address." She adjusted her spectacles, consulting a piece of parchment on her desk.
"As you know, we've maintained most prefect appointments from last year, in the interest of stability. However, the positions of Head Boy and Head Girl remain to be filled."
A murmur of interest rippled through the room. Harry caught Ron's eye - they both knew Hermione was likely to be considered for Head Girl, though she'd been surprisingly uncaring about the prospect when they'd discussed it.
"We will be announcing the appointments next week," McGonagall continued, "after careful consideration of all candidates. The selection process will take into account not only academic achievement but also demonstrated leadership qualities, particularly…" She paused, her gaze sweeping the room, "…particularly in light of recent events."
An unspoken weight seemed to settle over the room. Harry found himself absently touching his scar again. Around him, other students shifted uncomfortably in their seats, each carrying their own memories of that final battle. Harry had to remember that he wasn't the only one that had fought to protect Hogwarts. Everyone here had played a role in the battle.
"Now then," McGonagall's voice cut through the heavy silence, clipped and business like, "onto the matter of Quidditch schedules-"
She had barely finished her sentence when the room erupted. The sudden surge of sound, Harry noticed, sent several of the more delicate silver instruments on the shelves trembling, their soft whirring nearly lost in the chaos.
"The Gryffindor team needs at least three evening slots!" Ron's voice rose above the initial clamor, his prefect badge catching the afternoon light as he gestured emphatically. "We've got three new players to train-"
"Oh, and I suppose ze rest of us should practice at dawn?" Fleur's accent grew more pronounced with indignation. Harry found himself frowning. Now he realized what was odd: since when did Fleur like Quidditch so much?
"Actually," Slughorn interjected smoothly, "Slytherin has historically held the prime evening slots-"
"Historically?" Sprout scoffed from the Hufflepuff corner. "You mean when Snape was-"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees at the mention of their former professor. Even the portraits stilled their usual fidgeting, except for Phineas Nigellus Black, who let out a derisive snort.
"Oh, yes, by all means, let's talk about the dead," he drawled from his frame. "Perhaps we could also discuss the Great Goblin Rebellion of 1612 while we're at it? I'm sure that's equally relevant to your current squabbling."
Professor McGonagall's lips thinned to a dangerous line. "If you're quite finished, Phineas-"
But the portrait wasn't done. "In my day, students were grateful to practice at any hour. Now look at them - arguing like a bunch of pygmy puffs over a shiny trinket."
"Oi!" Ron protested. "We're not-"
"ENOUGH!"
The Headmistress of Hogwart's voice cut through the chaos like a well-aimed Severing Charm. The room fell silent, save for the soft snoring coming from Dumbledore's portrait (though Harry could have sworn he saw the painted fingers drum ever so slightly against the frame).
"We will," McGonagall continued, each word precisely measured, "discuss this matter in an orderly fashion. Mr. Potter, as Quidditch Captain, you may begin."
Harry stood, suddenly aware of every eye in the room on him. He cleared his throat, mind racing to organize his thoughts.
"Well," he began, "we've got three new players to train, as Ron mentioned. But more than that-" He paused, choosing his words carefully. He had to try to at least sound impartial, being Quidditch captain and all. "More than that, we need to think about safety. After everything that happened last year, we can't just throw new players into advanced drills without proper preparation. The evening slots offer better visibility, and with the shorter winter days coming…"
"A considerate point," came Dumbledore's voice suddenly, causing several people to jump. The portrait's eyes were now definitely open, twinkling with familiar warmth. "Safety first, as I always say. Though I must admit, some of my most memorable Quidditch moments occurred during rather questionable visibility conditions. There was this one match in 1832-"
"Albus," McGonagall interrupted, though Harry caught a hint of fondness in her exasperation, "perhaps we could save the historical anecdotes for another time?"
"Of course, of course," Dumbledore's portrait agreed cheerfully. "Though I do recommend checking the records about that particular match. Most illuminating. Quite literally, in fact, as several players accidentally set their brooms alight trying to improve visibility."
Fleur stood up next, drawing eyes towards her place.
"'Arry makes a good point about safety," she conceded, her blue eyes meeting his briefly. "But ze Ravenclaw team 'as similar concerns. We 'ave lost our best Seeker to graduation, and ze new candidate…" She hesitated, glancing at Ethan, who nodded encouragingly. "'E needs considerable training."
"Is that the third-year who flew into the Astronomy Tower last week?" Padma Patil asked.
"'E was… distracted," Fleur defended, though Harry noticed a slight flush creeping up her neck. "By ze setting sun. Which is precisely why we also need ze evening slots for proper training."
"Very well then," McGonagall began, conjuring a large scheduling chart in the air. "As you can see, this chart will hold information on the matter of Quidditch training schedules and resources for this term. Mr. Potter, being the Quidditch Captain, will be in charge of maintaining this schedule, of course. Now, about the practice sessions-"
"Ravenclaw 'as been at a severe disadvantage," Fleur spoke up immediately, her accent more pronounced with passion. "Ze previous arrangements gave priority to Gryffindor and Slytherin for ze prime training 'ours."
Of course, Harry felt compelled to defend his house.
"That was based on last year's rankings," he pointed out, meeting her gaze directly for the first time. "Gryffindor won the cup-"
"Last year was 'ardly a normal year," Fleur countered, a spark of challenge in her blue eyes. "Per'aps it is time for new arrangements."
"I agree with Professor Delacour," Ethan chimed in smoothly. "A fresh start would benefit everyone." He smiled at Fleur, who returned it warmly. Harry felt that same inexplicable twinge again.
"The current system is fair," he argued, surprising himself with the heat in his voice. "Teams that perform well earn better training slots. It motivates improvement."
"And 'ow are teams supposed to improve without proper training time?" Fleur challenged, leaning forward slightly. Her skin caught the afternoon light, creating an almost ethereal glow around her face. Harry forced himself to focus on her words rather than the way her eyes seemed to flash when she was passionate about something. What was going on? Why was he acting like an idiotic teenager all of a sudden?
"The current system," he continued, trying to keep his voice level despite the frustration building in his chest, "ensures that teams have something to work towards. It's about more than just practice time – it's got dedication and results."
"Dedication?" Fleur's laugh held a sharp edge. "'Ow convenient zat you speak of dedication when your team already 'as ze best slots. Per'aps if other teams 'ad ze same advantages-"
"Advantages?" Ron interrupted, his ears reddening again. "We earned those slots! Every single one of them. Just because your new Seeker can't tell the difference between a Snitch and the bloody sun-"
"Ron," Ginny hissed, but her warning came too late.
"I seem to recall," Ethan interjected smoothly, placing a supportive hand on the back of Fleur's chair, "a certain Keeper who once scored against his own team. Glass houses, Mr. Weasley?"
The tips of Ron's ears went from pink to scarlet. "That was different! I was-"
"Hexed, yes, we remember," Padma cut in, rolling her eyes. "Though I doubt you needed much help with that particular performance."
"If we could return to the matter at hand," McGonagall's stern voice cut through the growing tension, though Harry could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips.
"The point is," Harry pressed on, "changing the system now, right before the season starts, wouldn't be fair to anyone."
"Fair?" Fleur's eyes flashed dangerously. "'Ow is it fair zat your team practices in perfect conditions while we dodge ze setting sun? Your new players need training? So do ours! Or per'aps you think Gryffindor deserves special treatment because of…" she gestured vaguely in his direction, "…everything?"
Harry felt his face grow hot. "That's not what I-"
"She has a point, Harry," Ginny said quietly, though her eyes held a mix of sympathy and amusement. "We've had it pretty good."
"Pretty good?" Ethan raised an eyebrow.
"The Gryffindor team practically owns the pitch between four and seven. Meanwhile, Ravenclaw's relegated to dawn practices or dodging the Whomping Willow's shadow."
"The Whomping Willow is nowhere near the pitch," Harry pointed out, perhaps more sharply than necessary.
"Figure of speech, Potter," Ethan replied with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Though I'm sure Professor Delacour would appreciate your attention to detail in matters concerning her house's training conditions."
Something in Ethan's tone made Harry's fingers tighten around his wand, though he couldn't quite explain why.
"Per'aps," Fleur suggested, her accent thickening slightly as she leaned backwards, "we should consider a rotating schedule? Each 'ouse gets equal access to ze prime hours throughout ze season?"
"That… actually makes sense," Padma nodded thoughtfully. "It would give everyone a fair chance to-"
"But what about weather conditions?" Ron protested. "You can't compare a morning practice in September to one in November! The whole rotation would be skewed by-"
"Oh, heaven forbid ze mighty Gryffindor team face a bit of morning dew," Fleur retorted.
"Morning dew?" Ron spluttered. "Have you seen Scotland in November? It's practically horizontal rain!"
"Which we've been practicing in for months," Ethan pointed out. "Funny how that hasn't factored into your concerns until now."
A portrait of a particularly ancient headmaster let out an appreciative whistle. "Now this is entertainment! Much better than that dreadful business with the basilisk. Though I must say, in my day, we simply enchanted our underwear-"
"Thank you, Fortescue," McGonagall cut in firmly. "I believe we can manage without."
"Look," said Harry, running a hand through his hair, "we can't just throw away a system that works-"
"Works for who?" Fleur's eyes flashed. "Your team?"
"For everyone!" But even as he said it, Harry knew he was fighting a losing battle. The Hufflepuffs were nodding. Ginny looked half convinced herself. Obviously the Slytherins would do anything to go against a Gryffindor, so Harry hadn't expected much from that direction anyway.
Ron jumped in. "We practice in the rain half the time anyway-"
"Oh, crying about ze weather again?" Fleur rolled her eyes.
"I'm not crying!" Ron's cheeks went pink. "I'm just saying-"
"You're always just saying something," Padma cut in. "Remember last week? When you said the giant squid was deliberately splashing your players?"
Several people laughed. Again, McGonagall's lips twitched.
"It was!" Ron insisted. "Tell them, Harry!"
But Harry found himself watching Ethan, who'd moved closer to Fleur's chair. Again. The bloke seemed to have a real talent for it.
"Perhaps," the Professor said smoothly, "Potter's just worried about losing his advantage. Can't blame him, really."
Harry's hand twitched toward his wand. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Gentlemen-" McGonagall warned.
Ginny caught Harry's eye and shook her head slightly. Right. Getting into it with Ethan wouldn't help anything. He was a teacher here, after all.
"Ze rotating schedule," Fleur said firmly. "It is fair. Simple."
"Simple?" Ron snorted. "Nothing's simple with this sodding weather-"
"Will you shut up about the weather?" Ginny groaned.
A crash from the back made everyone jump. Hannah Abbott stood frozen, a silver instrument spinning at her feet. It started puffing out little purple question marks.
"Sorry!" Hannah squeaked. "I was just trying to show-"
"Merlin's pants," Justin muttered, pulling out his wand. His attempt to vanish the smoke just turned the question marks pink.
"Well done, lad," drawled Phineas Nigellus from his frame. "Perhaps next you'll try juggling the Sorting Hat?"
McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. "Enough."
She waved her wand, and the glowing chart flipped twice in the air. House colors swirled and settled into neat time slots.
"This is the new schedule," she said. "It rotates monthly. All houses get equal time. No arguments."
The finality in her voice ended any further debate. People started gathering their things, muttering among themselves. Harry watched as Fleur stood up. Ethan was right there, helping her. They left together, heads bent close in conversation.
"Mr. Potter."
Harry turned. McGonagall was watching him over her spectacles.
"A moment, please."
The office emptied quickly after that. The portraits didn't even pretend not to be interested anymore, except for Phineas Nigellus who was asleep now. Behind McGonagall's desk, Dumbledore gave him an obvious wink.
Harry stood there, waiting. Whatever McGonagall wanted to discuss, he had a feeling it wasn't about Quidditch schedules.
"Potter," McGonagall began, and there was something in her voice that made Harry stand a little straighter. "I wanted to discuss the position of Head Boy."
The portraits went very still. Even the pink question marks from before seemed to hang motionless in the air.
"Oh," said Harry. Then: "Oh."
McGonagall's eyes had that particular gleam he'd seen before – the one that usually meant she was remembering something from long ago. Or someone.
"Your father," she said softly, "was Head Boy in his final year. And your mother…"
"Head Girl," Harry finished. The words felt heavy in his mouth.
Dumbledore's portrait smiled gently. The setting sun caught the painted edges of his half-moon spectacles, somehow. Harry had no idea how that worked.
"The position," McGonagall continued, "would typically go to someone with your… record of service to the school."
Harry looked down at his Quidditch Captain's badge, thumb brushing over its worn surface. The metal felt warm under his touch.
Becoming Head Boy would be a dream come true for quite a few witches and wizards, he knew. Especially considering his parents. Harry felt like reaching that position would mean something. That it would help remind them that their sacrifice wasn't in vain.
But then again, he wasn't the only one who'd sacrificed things in the last war. The victory wasn't his alone. There were a lot of other people with him. Who had stood by him when he couldn't stand alone. Who had helped him when he needed it the most. Hermione. Ginny. Sirius. Remus.
Ron.
Besides, he didn't really want any more attention than he was already getting.
"Professor," he said slowly, "I think… I think being Quidditch Captain is enough for me."
She didn't look surprised. If anything, that gleam in her eyes grew brighter.
"And," Harry added, heart beating a little faster, "I was thinking – well, you know – that you might consider Ron?"
Now she did raise an eyebrow.
"Mr. Weasley?"
"He'd be brilliant at it." The words tumbled out in a rush. "He's good with the younger students, and he understands what it's like to feel… overshadowed sometimes. And with Hermione as Head Girl-"
"Indeed." McGonagall's lips twitched. "I see news travels fast regarding Miss Granger's appointment."
Harry felt his face grow warm. "Er-"
"Though technically," she added, "I shouldn't confirm that information until next week."
A comfortable silence settled between them. Outside, the sunset painted the castle grounds in shades of gold and crimson – proper Gryffindor colors, Harry thought. It was a nice sign of peace, after everything being Slytherin-themed half the time last year.
"Harry." McGonagall's voice was gentler now. "Not everything that happened was your responsibility to bear."
Harry's throat felt tight. The portraits were suddenly very interested in their frames.
"I know," he said. But his hand drifted to his scar anyway.
"No," she said quietly, "I don't believe you do. Not yet."
She stood, and for a moment she looked less like his stern Headmistress and more like the woman who had once transfigured Malfoy into a ferret.
"But you will."
Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"Off you go then," she said, and there was warmth in her brisk tone. "I believe Mr. Weasley is waiting to complain about the weather again."
Harry laughed – a real laugh that seemed to chase away some of the shadows in the room. He turned to leave, then paused at the door.
"Professor?"
"Yes, Potter?"
"Thank you."
She smiled then, properly smiled, and Harry could have sworn he saw her eyes glisten in the fading light. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
And then Harry nearly walked right into her.
Fleur Delacour was leaning against the stone wall, her expression guarded. She straightened up when she saw him, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"'Arry Potter," she said. "Always in such a rush."
"Fleur?" He blinked. "What are you-"
"Waiting for you, of course." She fell into step beside him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her robes whispered against the flagstones. Harry was too confused to do anything but continue walking.
"Er, why?"
"Because," she said, "I 'ave not seen my friends in far too long. And you, 'Arry, are being particularly distant these days."
Harry snorted. "You seemed pretty well-occupied with Ethan earlier." The words came out before he could stop them. But Fleur just laughed – that silvery sound that made nearby portraits perk up in their frames.
"Oh? Are you jealous, 'Arry?"
"What? No! I just meant-" He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up worse than usual.
"You are terrible at lying," she informed him cheerfully. "But zen again, you always 'ave been."
They turned down the corridor, a cool breeze following them through the arched windows. Harry noticed a couple of fifth-year boys nearly walk into a suit of armor as they passed. But Fleur didn't seem to notice – or was used to it by now.
"To be fair," he argued, "I didn't know you were into Quidditch."
Fleur chuckled. "I am not. 'owever, I am rat'er…competitive"
Harry raised a brow. "Competitive? For Ravenclaw to win you mean?"
"Oui. It is in my nature, as a veela, you see. We always win." She said, winking.
Harry nodded. "Best of luck then," he offered. "You're going to need it."
"You would do well do keep it with yourself, 'Arry," Fleur laughed. "Ze students here are no…what is ze word…pushing overs?"
"Pushovers," Harry corrected smiling. "Speaking of which, how're you finding it teaching here?"
"Interesting." She smiled. "Very different from Beauxbatons. Though ze students are…" She paused, searching for the word.
"Accident-prone?" Harry suggested, thinking of the smoking question marks in McGonagall's office.
"Enthusiastic," she decided diplomatically. Then added, "Though some are more… affected by my presence zan others."
Harry knew what she meant. He'd seen enough students walk into walls this term. The benefits of being immune to Veela charm included actually being able to hold a proper conversation with Fleur.
"At least I don't have zat problem with you," she said, as if reading his thoughts. "It makes a nice change, 'aving someone who can string together more zan two words in my presence."
"Ethan seems to manage just fine," Harry muttered.
Fleur's laugh echoed off the castle walls. "Are you sure you are not jealous, 'Arry?"
"I'm sure I'm hungry," he deflected. "Missed lunch arguing about Quidditch schedules."
"Ah yes, ze great scheduling crisis." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Per'aps if you 'ad not been so stubborn-"
"Me? Stubborn?" Harry tried to look offended, but found himself smiling instead. "You're the one who practically started a rebellion over practice times!"
"Someone 'ad to stand up to ze mighty Gryffindor Captain." She nudged his shoulder playfully. "Your 'ead was getting too big for zat messy hair of yours."
They passed a window overlooking the lake, where the giant squid was lazily waving its tentacles in the dying light. Harry caught their reflection in the glass. It felt… normal. Nice.
Of course, that was when Peeves zoomed past, cackling and singing something that made Fleur's ears turn pink.
"PEEVES!" barked a familiar voice. The Fat Friar came charging through a wall, looking unusually flustered. "Show some respect to the faculty!"
Fleur looked at him for a moment, then burst out laughing.
All of a sudden, a thought hit Harry suddenly, like a cold breeze on a warm summer.
Fleur wasn't just his friend anymore- if he could even call her that. She was Professor Delacour. Faculty, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
"Something wrong, 'Arry?" Fleur's eyes danced with amusement.
"Just remembered you're staff now." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Probably shouldn't be wandering the corridors with you."
Her laugh echoed through the empty hallway. "Oh, you sweet little boy." Before he could protest, her hand was in his hair, ruffling it even messier than usual. "Still so proper after everything."
"I'm not-" He ducked away from her hand, indignant. "And I'm not a little boy. You're barely what, two and a half years older than me?"
"Is zat so?" She stepped back, regarding him with that familiar challenging look – the same one she'd worn during the Triwizard Tournament. But something was different now. The setting sun painted her silver-gold hair in shades of fire, and her eyes held a spark that made his breath catch.
"Actually," Harry found himself saying, moving closer, "I'm quite a bit taller than you now. Remember when we first met?" His voice dropped lower. "Had to crane my neck just to look at you."
"And now?" The word was barely a whisper.
He was close enough now to see the faint freckles across her nose – had those always been there? The corridor suddenly felt very quiet, very still. Even the portraits seemed to be holding their breath.
Then Harry realized exactly how close they were standing. Heat rushed to his face as he took a quick step back, nearly tripping over his own feet. Fleur looked away just as quickly, a flush creeping up her neck. The silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken things.
A distant clock chimed, making them both jump.
"I should-" Harry began.
"Per'aps we-" Fleur said at the same time.
They caught each other's eyes and looked away again, embarrassed laughter breaking the tension.
"Potter!"
Harry turned quickly, almost grateful for the excuse.
Daphne Greengrass stood at the end of the corridor, her hair gleaming in the dying light. Something about her stance reminded Harry of a cat about to pounce.
"I've been looking everywhere for you," she called, voice carrying a musical lilt that seemed almost practiced. "That Defence theory work you promised to help with?"
Harry hadn't promised any such thing, but before he could say so, Daphne had crossed the space between them in a whisper of expensive robes. Her hand found his arm with casual confidence.
"Professor Delacour," she nodded, all perfect courtesy. Then to him: "Come on, the library's about to close."
Harry caught one last glimpse of Fleur as Daphne pulled him away. Something flashed in those blue eyes – something that looked remarkably like jealousy, of all things. The sight made his stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with missing lunch. He gave her a quick smile. She smiled back.
Daphne's grip was gentle but firm as she led him down the torch-lit corridor. Her fingers were cool against his arm, like snowflakes on warm skin.
"Funny," Harry said once they'd turned the corner, "I don't remember promising to help with any theory work."
Daphne's laugh was nothing like Fleur's silver bells. It was lower, darker, like honey dripping into black coffee.
"Consider it a favor then, Potter. Besides," her green eyes caught the torchlight, "I did have questions. Real ones."
They found an empty classroom. Dust motes danced in the last rays of sunset streaming through high windows. Daphne perched on a desk, looking down at him. Harry focused on not staring.
First year me would probably be having a field day right now, he thought. There was no doubting it. Daphne was beautiful. You had to be blind to disagree.
"You were saying?" he prompted, uncomfortable with the silent way said beautiful person was staring at him.
"After the war," she began, her voice softer now, "things changed. For everyone, but especially for families like mine." She traced a pattern on the ancient wood. "Neutral isn't good enough anymore. People want to know where you stand."
Harry leaned back against a wall, sitting on the floor watching her. "And where do you stand, Daphne?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out." She looked up at him through dark lashes. "You fought them. Really fought them. The things you can do with defensive magic…" She shook her head. "How did you get so good?"
"Necessity," Harry said quietly. Memories flashed through his mind – the graveyard, the Department of Mysteries, that final battle. "When it's fight or die, you learn fast."
"Just necessity?" Her voice held a challenge. "Nothing else? No natural talent, no special training?"
Harry studied her carefully. Daphne Greengrass had always been a mystery, even during their school years. Beautiful, brilliant, and always watching from the sidelines. Never quite taking a stand, until it benefited her.
"See," he rolled his eyes, "I know the stupid papers say I'm some sort of prodigy or whatever, but you've been in enough classes with me to know that that's rubbish."
"Is it, though?" Daphne asked quietly. "I mean, you're definitely not the smartest at Runes and Arithmancy, granted. But Defense-"
"Why the sudden interest in defensive magic, Daphne?"
She smiled like a cat that had caught a canary. "Can't a girl want to protect herself?"
"From what?"
The question hung in the air between them like smoke. Outside, the sun finally slipped below the horizon, leaving them in the grey twilight of almost-night.
"The war might be over, Potter," she said at last, "but that doesn't mean all the monsters are gone."
The words sent a chill down Harry's spine, though he couldn't say exactly why.
The silence stretched between them like a living thing, broken only by the soft whisper of wind through the ancient castle walls. Harry studied Daphne's face in the deepening twilight, noting how the shadows played across her features, how her carefully maintained composure seemed to waver just slightly at the edges.
"What monsters?" he asked quietly, though part of him already knew. Some monsters wore familiar faces, after all. Some lived in memories that woke you in the dead of night, gasping and reaching for a wand that was already in your hand.
Daphne slid off the desk with fluid grace, her movements deliberately casual, but Harry noticed how her fingers traced the outline of her wand through her robes.
"You know," she said, voice barely above a whisper, "I used to watch you. During those last months before… everything. The way you carried yourself, like you were ready for anything. Like you knew something was coming." Her green eyes met his, searching. "I envied that certainty."
Harry almost laughed, but the sound caught in his throat. "Certainty? I was terrified most of the time."
"But you knew what you were fighting for," she pressed. "Who you were fighting against." Her fingers drummed a restless pattern against her thigh. "Some of us… some of us didn't have that luxury."
Harry remembered the Battle of Hogwarts, remembered seeing Slytherin students torn between family loyalties and what they knew was right. Remembered how some had stayed to fight, while others…
"Why are you really here, Daphne?"
She smiled then – not the practiced, perfect smile she wore in the corridors, but something smaller, more genuine. "Because someone wanted to meet you. Away from…" she gestured vaguely, "prying Gryffindor eyes."
As if on cue, the classroom door creaked open.
Harry's wand was in his hand before he had consciously decided to draw it. But the figure that stepped through the doorway was familiar – almost painfully, comically familiar.
Draco Malfoy stood framed in the doorway, his pale hair nearly luminous in the gathering darkness. He looked… different, somehow. The sharp edges that had defined him throughout their school years seemed softened, though whether by time or circumstance, Harry couldn't tell.
"Potter," Draco said, and even his voice was different – lacking its usual drawl, almost uncertain. Weird.
Harry's wand remained steady, though he didn't raise it.
"Malfoy."
Daphne moved between them putting her hands up. "Play nice, boys," she murmured, though her tone held more weariness than amusement.
Draco stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him with deliberate care. The click of the latch seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet space.
A two on one, it seemed. He'd faced worse odds- though Harry noticed that Malfoy's hands were empty, held slightly away from his body – a deliberate show of peaceful intent that spoke volumes about how much things had changed.
"I…" Draco began, then stopped. Cleared his throat. Started again. "This isn't… easy."
"What isn't?" Harry asked, though he kept his tone neutral.
The last time he'd seen the Slytherin outside Hogwarts had been at the trials, when Harry's testimony had helped keep the Malfoy family out of Azkaban. They hadn't spoken then – hadn't even made eye contact across the courtroom.
Draco's face twisted into something that might have been a grimace or might have been an attempt at a smile. Probably both.
"Being in your debt, Potter. It's bloody uncomfortable."
A surprised laugh escaped Harry before he could stop it. The sound seemed to break some of the tension in the room. Even Daphne's shoulders relaxed slightly.
"Is that what this is about?" Harry asked, finally lowering his wand completely and bringing it back to his holster. "The trials?"
"The trials. The Room of Requirement. The…" Draco's voice caught slightly. "The whole bloody war, really." He ran a hand through his hair – a gesture so uncharacteristically vulnerable that Harry found himself staring. "My family… we got off lightly. We both know that. And we both know why."
The unspoken words hung in the air: because of his testimony. Because he'd told the Wizengamot about Narcissa's lie in the forest, about Draco's hesitation in identifying him at the Manor. Small moments of mercy that had ultimately tipped the scales. And in a war like this, they had made all the difference. And now...Draco felt he owed him?
"You don't owe me anything," Harry said quietly.
"Don't I?" Draco's laugh was sharp, brittle. "Mother disagrees. Father… well." He shrugged, a careful, measured movement. "Father's not in much position to disagree with anything these days."
Harry thought of Lucius Malfoy, stripped of his wand and confined to the Manor. House arrest was a far cry from Azkaban, but for a man like Lucius, it might have been an equally effective punishment.
"Look," Draco continued, and Harry could almost see the effort it took him to force the words out, "what I'm trying to say – badly, apparently – is thank you." The words seemed to physically pain him. "And perhaps… perhaps we got off on the wrong foot. First year."
Harry couldn't help it – he snorted. "Wrong foot? You were a right git."
"Yes, well." A shadow of Draco's old smirk flickered across his face. "You were an insufferable, self-righteous prat. Still are, probably."
"Probably," Harry agreed, and was surprised to find himself almost smiling.
"So," Draco said after a moment, "I thought… perhaps… we could be acquaintances." He said the word carefully, like he was trying it out for the first time. "Not friends," he added quickly. "Let's not get carried away. But…"
"But maybe not enemies anymore?" Harry finished.
Draco nodded, a sharp, decisive movement. "Precisely."
Harry considered the boy – no, the young man – standing before him. Thought about all the years of antagonism, of petty rivalries that had seemed so important at the time. Thought about how young they'd been, really, when it all started. How young they still were, trying to navigate this strange post-war world where old certainties no longer applied.
Everyone deserved second chances. Ron. Snape. Dumbledore. Even Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I think I can manage that."
Something like relief flickered across Draco's face, though he quickly schooled his features back to careful neutrality. He gave a short nod, then turned to leave, pausing only briefly at the door.
"Potter?"
"Yeah?"
"If you tell anyone about this conversation, I'll hex you into next week."
Harry grinned. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Draco left with his usual dramatic flair, robes swishing behind him. But Daphne lingered, though he had no idea why.
"That went better than expected," she murmured, moving closer. Her perfume – something subtle and expensive – teased Harry's senses.
"Did you orchestrate this whole thing?"
"Orchestrate is such a strong word." Her smile was cat-like in the shadows. "I merely… facilitated."
Before Harry could respond, she leaned in and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his cheek. Her lips were cool against his skin, gone almost before he registered the sensation. Heat rushed to his face, spreading down his neck.
A familiar snicker from the doorway made him jump. Draco had apparently doubled back just in time to witness his embarrassment.
"Smooth, Potter," he drawled, and for a moment he sounded exactly like his old self. "Really smooth."
Daphne's laugh echoed Draco's as she glided toward the door, pausing only to throw a glance over her shoulder. "See you around, Harry."
They left him standing there in the empty classroom, cheek still tingling where her lips had touched, mind spinning. Outside, night had finally fallen completely, and the first stars were beginning to peek through the windows.
Harry touched his cheek absently.
"Ron was right," he muttered. "I don't understand women."
Dawn crept across Hogwarts with hesitant fingers, as if uncertain whether to fully commit to the day ahead. Harry stood at his dormitory window, watching the first grey light paint subtle distinctions between shadow and form across the grounds. His Firebolt leaned against the wall beside him, urging to be let lose. He dressed up almost automatically. It was easy for him now- spending years getting in and out of his gear.
Everything around him carried its own memories - the guards Wood had helped him adjust in his first year, the gloves Sirius had sent him one Christmas, the robes that still bore a nearly invisible scorch mark from the final battle. The socks Peeves had stolen before. He ran his fingers over each item. Each of them was a story on its own.
Ron's steady snoring from the next bed over suddenly hitched, followed by a groan that spoke volumes about his opinion of early morning practices. Harry had to agree though- waking up this early was something he had to get used to. On the bright side, he was getting much better sleep these days. Nightmares were becoming more and more a past memory.
"Time's it?" the redhead mumbled into his pillow.
"Late enough," Harry replied, unable to suppress a slight smile. "Come on then. Your sister will have both our heads if we're late."
"Bloody rotating schedule," Ron muttered, but he was already fumbling for his clothes. "Whose brilliant idea was that again?"
Harry quieted the slight tinge of annoyance he felt at the question. "Pretty sure you've asked that every practice this week."
"And I'll keep asking until someone gives me a better answer." Ron attempted to pull on his boots, missed, and nearly toppled over. "Though I suppose Professor Flitwick would say it builds character or something equally stupid and philosophical."
The common room was empty save for the dying embers in the fireplace when they descended, their footsteps echoing in the pre-dawn quiet. A forgotten textbook lay open on one of the tables, its pages ruffling slightly in a draft Harry couldn't quite feel. The castle always felt different at this hour - more itself somehow, as if the absence of students allowed it to settle into its own skin. Dawn was certainly the magic hour.
Ginny was already waiting by the portrait hole, her Captain's badge catching what little light there was from the lanterns nearby. Her red hair was pulled back in its now-characteristic strict braid, though a few strands had escaped to frame her face. "Cutting it close, aren't you?"
"Blame Ron," Harry said automatically, even as Ron protested, "Blame Harry."
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Sometimes I wonder if either of you would make it to practice without me."
The walk down to the pitch was quiet, broken only by the sound of their footsteps and Ron's occasional yawning. Morning mist clung to the grounds in patches, creating islands of clarity in a sea of soft grey. The grass was heavy with dew, each step releasing tiny explosions of moisture that slowly seeped into their boots. Socks usually protected ones feet, but now they just kept getting wet and Harry had to keep casting drying charms at intervals. He couldn't wait to be up in the air and finally rid of that dreadful feeling, like someone had put some mashed potatoes around his toes.
Emma Dobbs was already at the pitch when they arrived, her small figure almost lost in the morning fog. She jumped slightly at their approach, nearly dropping the broom she'd been examining with intense concentration.
"Sorry!" she squeaked. "I just- I wanted to get some extra practice in, and I thought maybe if I came early…"
"No need to apologize," Harry said gently, recognizing the nervous energy that seemed to radiate from her. "That's exactly the kind of initiative we need."
The rest of the team arrived in stages - Thomas Wright and Sarah Collins appearing together, deep in discussion about some new formation they'd been developing, followed by Andrew Kirke, who was busy adjusting the grip on his Beater's bat.
"Right then," Harry began, but the words were barely out of his mouth when the first drops of rain began to fall, soft but insistent.
"Don't," Ginny warned as Ron opened his mouth. "Not one word about the weather, Ronald Weasley."
"I wasn't going to say anything!" Ron protested. "Just that maybe if someone hadn't been so quick to agree to this rotating schedule-"
"The schedule's fair," Harry cut in, perhaps more firmly than intended. "We all agreed to it."
"Some of us more enthusiastically than others," Thomas muttered, though he quickly found something fascinating to study in the distance when both Harry and Ginny turned to him.
Harry ran a hand through his increasingly damp hair, gathering his thoughts. The team was new. Too green- they'd need a lot more practice to get good. But he had hopes. He didn't mean to be arrogant, but there wasn't really a seeker who could match him in Hogwarts.
"Listen," he said finally, "I know it's not ideal. But this is what we've got to work with, and honestly? It's not the worst thing." He caught Emma's eye, saw how she was trying to stand taller despite her obvious anxiety. "We play in all conditions anyway. Might as well practice in them too."
Sarah raised her hand tentatively. "Even horizontal rain?"
"Especially horizontal rain," Ginny answered with a grin that was pure Fred and George. "Now, let's see those formation drills we worked on last time. Emma, you're with me and Thomas. Harry, can you work with Andrew on those new Bludger patterns?"
As the team kicked off into the gradually lightening sky, Harry lingered for a moment, watching them rise. The rain was falling steadily now, creating a curtain of silver that seemed to separate this moment from the rest of the world. Great, as if his socks were wet enough already.
"Oi, Harry!" Ron called from above. "Are you coming up or are you waiting for someone to come critique our flying styles?"
Harry felt heat rise in his cheeks despite the cool morning air.
"Shut up, Ron," he muttered, but kicked off hard from the ground, letting the familiar rush of flight wash away everything else.
The practice unfolded quickly, each player finding their rhythm in the rain-soaked morning. Heating charms were their real helpers here.
Harry paused for a moment after running a few laps on the broom to take a look around him.
Emma's turns were getting tighter, her confidence growing with each successful maneuver. Thomas and Sarah had developed an almost intuitive understanding of each other's movements, weaving through the air like they'd been flying together for years instead of weeks. Not close to Fred and George yet- but they'd get there, one day.
"Harry!" Ginny's voice cut through his reverie. She was hovering nearby, raindrops creating constellations in her hair. "We need you to demonstrate that diving feint for Emma. She's got the basic move down, but the timing's still off."
He nodded, adjusting his grip on the Firebolt. The familiar wood felt alive beneath his fingers, responding to the slightest pressure like an extension of his own thoughts. The rain fell in gentle sheets now, creating a silvery curtain that transformed the familiar pitch into something almost ethereal. Harry guided his Firebolt into position, hovering about fifty feet above the ground as he watched Emma attempt another formation drill with Ginny and Thomas.
"Keep your elbow in on the turns!" Ginny called out, her voice carrying clearly despite the weather. "That's it- no, don't look down! Trust your instincts!"
Emma's face was almost constipated as she executed a tight spiral, her knuckles white against her broomhandle. Her head turned red from the moments she'd spent upside down, but she pulled off the spiral pretty well. She was getting better, Harry noticed. The raw talent was there; she just needed confidence.
"Better!" Thomas shouted encouragingly as Emma completed the maneuver. "Much better than yesterday!"
"She's not half bad," Ron commented, pulling up beside Harry. Water dripped steadily from his nose, but his eyes were keen as he tracked the younger player's movements. "Bit like Katie Bell in her early days, wouldn't you say?"
Harry nodded, remembering his first years on the team. "Katie was nervous at first too. Look how that turned out."
Below them, Sarah and Andrew were running their own drill, practicing a complex weaving pattern that required precise timing between Chaser and Beater. A Bludger whistled past, skillfully redirected by Andrew's bat to pass through the exact space Sarah had occupied seconds before.
"Good control, Andrew!" Harry called down. "Sarah, try cutting left a bit earlier next time - gives you more room to accelerate through the turn."
"Right," Sarah replied, pushing her rain-soaked hair from her face. "Though I'd feel better about it if the Beater wasn't quite so…"
"Murderous?" Andrew suggested with a grin.
"I was going to say enthusiastic."
"Focus, you two!" Ginny swooped down to join their practice, her braid leaving a trail of water droplets in her wake. "Emma, come watch this - see how Sarah positions herself? That's what we're aiming for with the new formation."
Emma flew up towards them carefully. The rain had plastered her practice robes to her shoulders, making her look even younger than her fourteen years. Harry cast a quick warming charm towards her, and the younger girl smiled at him in return.
"I just…" she began hesitantly, "I keep thinking about all the ways it could go wrong. What if I mess up during a real match? What if I let everyone down?"
"Then you let everyone down," Ron said bluntly, earning himself a sharp look from Ginny. "What? It's Quidditch."
Surprisingly, Emma laughed - a small, startled sound that seemed to surprise even her. "I suppose that's true."
"Besides," Harry added, "everyone messes up sometimes. Ask Ron about his first match sometime."
"Come on!" Ron's indignant protest was drowned out by a crack of thunder in the distance. "Will you ever stop bring that up? I was hexed!"
"You weren't hexed when you scored against your own team," Thomas, who'd now joined them, pointed out helpfully.
"That was also different! There were extenuating circumstances!"
"There are always extenuating circumstances with you, mate," Harry grinned, then turned back to Emma. "The point is, mistakes happen. What matters is how you handle them. Now, let's see that diving turn again - but this time, don't think about getting it perfect. Just feel it."
Emma nodded, determination replacing some of the anxiety in her expression. She pulled her broom up, preparing for another attempt at the maneuver.
"Actually," Ginny interrupted, "let's make this interesting." She pulled a golf ball from her pocket - one of many training tools they'd adopted from Harry's early practice sessions.
"Harry, fancy showing us how it's done? Give Emma something to aim for?"
Harry felt a familiar thrill of excitement. This was his element.
"Ready when you are, Captain," he said, unable to keep the eagerness from his voice.
Ginny's throw was perfect - a high, arcing path that sent the small white ball streaking through the rain. Harry didn't think; he simply moved, his Firebolt responding to the slightest shift of his weight. The wind rushed past his ears, carrying away all thoughts of anything except the thrill of flying. For a moment, he was eleven years old again, chasing his first Snitch, discovering the pure freedom of flight for the first time.
"Now that," Harry heard Ron's voice carry across the pitch as he pulled out of the dive, golf ball clutched triumphantly in his hand, "is what we're talking about. See how he didn't overthink it, Emma? Just trusted his instincts?"
Emma was watching with wide eyes, her earlier nervousness temporarily forgotten. "That was amazing! But I could never-"
"Never say never," Sarah cut in, quietly. "First day I tried out, I could barely stay on my broom. Now look." She demonstrated with a quick, precise barrel roll that would have made Madam Hooch proud.
"Show-off," Andrew called good-naturedly, sending a gentle Bludger in her direction which she dodged with practiced ease.
The practice continued as the morning light strengthened, each player finding their rhythm in the steady rain. Harry was content to watch for a bit, taking a few drills here and there but not pushing himself too much. There would be time for that later.
"Not bad," Ginny said finally, as they gathered for a final huddle. "Not bad at all. Emma, those last few runs were solid. Keep practicing that diving turn - you're getting the hang of it."
"Thanks," Emma mumbled, though she couldn't quite hide her pleased smile. "It's easier when I don't think about it too much."
"That's the secret to most things in life," Ron said sagely, then ruined the effect by sneezing violently. The sky had lightened considerably during their practice, the rain finally beginning to ease.
As the team descended, discussing breakfast plans and comparing notes on the morning's drills, Harry lingered for a moment in the air. A little above him, Emma was animatedly describing her last successful turn to Sarah, her earlier shyness forgotten in the excitement of improvement. Thomas and Andrew were already heading for the changing rooms, arguing about Bludger trajectories. Ron and Ginny were talking in hushed tones on the far side of the pitch.
Harry couldn't help but smile, remembering other practices, other teams. Wood's passionate speeches, Fred and George's jokes, Katie and Angelina and Alicia's perfectly synchronized plays. Different time, different players, but the same spirit. Gryffindor spirit.
A movement in the stands caught his eye - something like a blue cloak and dark hair, but by the time Harry reached the stands it was gone. He felt his heart rate pick up suddenly, and his hand crept towards his wand. What was going on? Was someone spying on them?
"Oi, Harry! Are you coming down or are you planning to become one with the rain?"
"Coming," Harry called back, taking one last look at the empty stands before pointing his Firebolt earthward. Probably nothing, he hoped. At least-
"EMMA!"
Ginny's shout cut through the gentle patter of rain, sharp with alarm. Harry turned so quickly he almost fell off his Firebolt.
Emma had stayed up for a little longer to practice a dive, though Harry had no idea what was going on right now. The younger girl's broom was jerking violently, each movement more erratic than the last. Emma clung desperately to the handle, her knuckles white against the dark wood, face pale with fear. The broom shot upward, then plunged into a steep dive that had nothing of practice or precision about it.
Harry didn't think - again his body was moving before his mind could catch up, the Firebolt responding to his urgency with an almost sentient understanding. The wind whistled past his ears, carrying fragments of shouted warnings and someone cursing, but he didn't pay it any mind. Everything narrowed to a single point of focus: Emma's small form, growing smaller as her broom carried her higher into the grey morning sky.
"Hold on!" he called, though the words felt inadequate against the growing panic in her eyes. The broom gave another violent shake, and Emma's grip slipped slightly. Fifty feet up now, sixty, seventy…
Harry pushed the Firebolt harder. Emma's broom suddenly changed direction again, this time with a sickening spiral that nearly dislodged its rider completely. She let out a small, frightened sound that cut straight through Harry's heart.
"ACHOO!" Ron's explosive sneeze somewhere below. "Bloody rain- EMMA, LEFT! LEAN LEFT!"
But Emma was beyond hearing advice now, her eyes squeezed shut as the broom continued its possessed dance through the morning air. Harry saw the moment her fingers began to slip - saw the flash of absolute terror cross her face as gravity began to claim her.
He didn't hesitate. The Firebolt responded to his slightest touch, carrying him into a dive. The wind roared in his ears, rain stinging his face, but none of it mattered. Emma was falling, her practice robes billowing around her like broken wings, and all Harry could think was: Not again. Not another one.
Time seemed to slow, then speed up, then slow again. Harry's hand found Emma's arm just as her fingers lost their last desperate grip on the cursed broom. The force of catching her nearly pulled them both off course, but his years of Quidditch training took over. He pulled up hard, cradling Emma against him as the Firebolt leveled out in a steady arc.
"I've got you," he murmured as Emma trembled against him, her face buried in his practice robes.
"You're safe. I've got you."
They descended slowly, the rest of the team converging around them like worried satellites. Harry kept an eye out for Emma's abandoned broom, which continued its wild trajectory for a few more seconds before suddenly dropping like a stone, all animation gone as if someone had cut invisible strings. Ron cast a quick Levitation charm and steadied its fall, before letting it drop on the grass.
"Emma!" Ginny was first to reach them as they touched down, her face white beneath her freckles. "Are you hurt? What happened?"
Emma shook her head mutely, still clinging to his robes.
"Someone cursed that broom." Ron's voice was tight with fury as he landed beside them, pausing only to sneeze again - which somehow managed to sound angry. "That wasn't any malfunction - that was deliberate."
Sarah touched down next, Andrew and Thomas right behind her, all wearing identical expressions of concern and outrage. The rain continued its gentle fall, indifferent to the drama it witnessed.
"We need to tell McGonagall," Ron continued, running a hand through his wet hair in agitation. "First the scheduling mess, now this? Someone's trying to sabotage us, and I want to know who-"
"No!" Ginny's sharp interjection surprised everyone. She lowered her voice, glancing around as if the very rain might be eavesdropping. "Think about it. If McGonagall finds out someone's cursing equipment, she might suspend all Quidditch activities until they find the culprit. She'll think it's too early to risk another serious incident at school."
"But we can't just-" Ron began, before another sneeze interrupted his protest. "Bloody hell! Can't even be properly angry with this- ACHOO!"
"Common room," Harry decided, still keeping a supportive arm around Emma, who had finally stopped trembling but seemed reluctant to let go of his robes. "We need to talk about this somewhere dry. And private."
While he personally agreed with Ron, a part of him wanted to just ignore what had happened and go on with his life. He was tired of seeing shadows everywhere. Maybe it was just an obnoxious student playing a dangerous game. Which was very possible, to be honest.
Which just meant his mind was getting more and more conflicted each second.
The team gathered their equipment in tense silence. Harry noticed how they automatically formed a protective circle around Emma as they walked back to the castle, eyes scanning the grounds for any sign of movement.
The morning sun was trying to break through the clouds as they reached the castle doors, but somehow its warm light felt like cold comfort against the shadow that had fallen over their practice. Someone had tried to hurt one of their own, and as Harry helped Emma up the steps, still feeling her slight trembles, he felt something hard and cold settle in his chest.
Prank or not- this wasn't over. They had to be more careful.
The common room fire had been freshly stoked, its warmth reaching out with gentle fingers to chase away the lingering damp from their rain-soaked practice. Harry could still feel the phantom sensation of Emma's trembling against his robes, could still see the terror in her eyes as she fell.
"She'll be fine," Ginny said firmly, walking in. "Sarah and Thomas will make sure she gets to Madam Pomfrey, and Andrew's got enough protective instincts for the whole team combined."
Ron sneezed violently into his sleeve, earning a disapproving look from Hermione, who had appeared moments after their return with an expression that suggested she'd known something was wrong before they'd even opened their mouths. She now sat perched on the arm of Ron's chair, absently casting drying charms that seemed to have little effect on his persistent sniffling.
"Someone was watching us," Harry said into the worried silence, the words carrying the weight of certainty. "In the stands. I saw… I thought I saw dark hair, just for a moment, before…"
"Ethan?" Ron's voice was thick with both accusation and congestion.
"Professor Graves," Hermoine corrected automatically.
"Whatever," Ron scowled. "Probably. Always skulking about during practices, isn't he? Acting like he's just there to 'observe flying techniques' or whatever rubbish excuse he's using these days."
"We don't know that for certain," Hermione interjected, though her brow was furrowed in that way that suggested she was already cataloging evidence in her methodical mind. "Professor Graves is a qualified Defense instructor, and McGonagall wouldn't have hired him without thorough vetting."
Ginny's snort of derision carried the skepticism Harry himself felt.
"Right, because our track record with Defense professors is so stellar. Let's see - we've had what? One possessed by Voldemort, one fraud, one werewolf - though Lupin was brilliant, actually - one Death Eater in disguise, one Ministry puppet, and one actual Death Eater. I'm probably missing someone, but you get the point."
"Plus," Ron added, pausing to sneeze again, "he's always hanging around Fleur, isn't he? Practically follows her like a lost crup. No offense, Harry."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry demanded, heat rising in his cheeks.
"The point is," Hermione cut in quickly, "we need evidence before we start accusing staff members of attacking students. Even if some of us are… distracted by certain professors."
Harry seized gratefully on the change of subject. "Right. Evidence. We should start by examining Emma's broom, see if we can trace the curse. And maybe set up some detection spells around the pitch-"
"And keep an eye on Ethan," Ron added stubbornly, then immediately sneezed three times in rapid succession.
"For Merlin's sake, Ronald," Hermione sighed, pulling a small vial from her robes. "Just take the Pepperup Potion already. You're not proving anything by suffering dramatically."
The common room fell into a thoughtful silence, broken only by the gentle crackle of the fire and the distant sound of late risers making their way down to breakfast. Harry found his eyes drawn to the window, where the rain had finally begun to ease, leaving behind a world washed clean and somehow more vivid than before. He hadn't thought about it before, but seeing how Ron and Hermione were here right now, he figured it was probably a good time to bring it up.
"There's something I haven't told you," he began, the words feeling strangely heavy on his tongue. "About a conversation I had last week. With Malfoy, actually. And Daphne Greengrass."
Ron's sneeze broke the dramatic tension of the moment. "Sorry," he muttered, accepting the handkerchief Hermione wordlessly passed him. "Did you say Malfoy? As in ferret-faced git Malfoy?"
"He's… different now." Harry ran a hand over his face, searching for the right words. "It was strange, actually. Daphne sort of… arranged it. Pulled me into an empty classroom just before sunset."
Ginny's eyebrows shot up.
"Daphne Greengrass? The ice queen of Slytherin?" A slow grin spread across her face. "Well, well."
"It wasn't like that," Harry protested, though he could feel heat creeping up his neck. "She was just… facilitating."
"Facilitating?" Hermione's tone was carefully neutral, but her eyes held that sharp gleam that suggested she was putting pieces together faster than Harry would like. "And what exactly needed facilitating?"
Harry described the encounter. He found himself watching the shadows again as he spoke, finding it easier somehow than meeting his friends' eyes.
"He actually said thank you?" Ron's voice was thick with both skepticism and congestion. "Malfoy? Are we sure he wasn't under Imperio?"
"Ron," Hermione chided, but her expression was thoughtful. "It makes sense, actually. The Malfoys' position is… precarious now. And gratitude, even reluctant gratitude, can be a powerful motivator for change."
"Still," Ginny mused, "Daphne Greengrass getting involved… that's interesting." She fixed Harry with a knowing look that made him distinctly uncomfortable.
"And was that all that happened in this empty classroom?"
Harry's hand moved unconsciously toward his cheek before he could stop himself.
"Harry James Potter! What aren't you telling us?"
"Nothing! It's just…"
Harry sighed, knowing resistance was futile. "She might have… kissed me. On the cheek!" he added quickly as Ron's eyes widened comically. "It wasn't… I mean, it didn't…"
"Daphne Greengrass kissed you?" Ron's voice cracked slightly on the last word, setting off another round of sneezing. "Bloody hell, mate. That's like… like getting kissed by a glacier. A really pretty glacier, mind, but still."
"It wasn't like that," Harry protested weakly, though he wasn't entirely sure what it had been like. "You know how girls are…confusing!"
"Of course it wasn't," Hermione said. "Daphne's always been calculating. Every move has a purpose."
"You think she's up to something?" Ginny asked, leaning forward with interest.
"I think," Hermione said carefully, "that we're all trying to figure out our places in this new world. Even the Slytherins. Maybe especially the Slytherins."
The common room fell quiet for a moment, broken only by the fire's gentle commentary and Ron's occasional sniffling.
"Well," Ron said finally, "at least we know one thing for certain." He paused for dramatic effect, though the impact was somewhat diminished by his red nose. "Harry's got terrible taste in women. First Cho with all the crying, then my sister - no offense, Gin - and now the Ice Queen of Slytherin?"
"Oi!" Harry grabbed a nearby cushion and threw it at his best friend's head. "I do not have terrible taste! And anyway, it wasn't like that with Daphne. It was just… complicated."
"Everything's complicated with you, mate," Ron rolled his eyes, dodging the cushion with surprising agility for someone suffering from a cold. "But at least it keeps things interesting."
"Come on, you two," Hermione interjected, "shouldn't we be focusing on who might have cursed Emma's broom? Unless you think Daphne or Malfoy might know something about that?"
Harry shook his head, grateful for the change of subject. "No, this was before all that. And anyway, it's not really their style. If Malfoy was going to do something, he'd want you to know it was him."
"True," Ginny nodded. "This feels different. More… calculated."
Outside the windows, the rain had finally stopped completely, leaving behind a world that seemed somehow cleaner, clearer. But clarity didn't always bring answers. Sometimes it just made the questions more interesting.