Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's Note: I've said it a few times, but big thanks to silentclock. Not just for this chapter, but also for the better summary and his help on the rewrite of the second chapter.
Chapter Eight
Harry stumbled into the kitchen, bleary eyed and yawning. Sirius muttered something from the table. Harry could only find it in himself to groan in reply, before dropping into the chair and resting his forehead on the cool wooden surface.
The summer hadn't been kind to him. He'd had all sorts of plans running through his mind since returning home from Greece, determined to make the most of his free time. His plans had dissolved within days. Instead of sipping ice cold beers and admiring the effect the hot weather had on women and their attire, Sirius had decided the both of them needed to take the Weasley twins up on their offer.
Despite his initial reluctance, Harry had gone along with it, lying to himself that he would have been bored for weeks on end otherwise. He knew he would eventually reap the benefits. He just wished he'd realised beforehand what he was getting himself into.
In Harry's mind, there wasn't a thing he could have done to prepare.
At least, that's what he kept telling himself.
Fred and George were unrelenting taskmasters, pushing themselves and Harry to the very limit, despite the merciless, scorching sun beating down on their bare backs as they worked. The twins honed in on all of Harry's many weaknesses, giving him their full concentration, preparing him for the demanding life that lay ahead.
Harry relished the back-breaking work in many ways, having never been put through his paces in such a physical manner before. The closest parallel he could think of was the summer before his fifth year, when he'd worked his magic to its limits, and then kept pushing. While his body was being consistently tortured and hardly coping with the strain it was forced to endure, Harry was slowly getting used to the regimen.
It was pride that stopped him from giving up. It kept him going, even when he just wanted to stay in bed and call Miss Mayflower from Magical Masseuses.
Sirius shuffled out of his chair. He squinted at Harry, looking deep in thought.
"What's got you so concerned?" Harry asked, grabbing a slice of cold toast and nibbling the crust. "Don't need to see another Healer, do you?"
Sirius frowned. "No, no, nothing like that. Just out of interest, what time do you start training?"
"Um, nine?" Harry said. He noticed Sirius grinning at him ever so slightly. "What?"
"Check your watch, kid."
Harry glanced down at the hands of his watch, finding the numbers blurred for a moment. He winced reflexively when his eyes focused.
"Why didn't you bloody wake me?"
Sirius shrugged unapologetically. "I only just got out of bed. Ungodly hour if you ask me."
Harry clenched his teeth and jumped out of his chair. "This is just great, isn't it? My first day and I'm late."
"You'd better hurry up, then, hadn't you?" Sirius said blithely, making his way back out of the kitchen. "I'm going back to bed. Let me know how it went."
Harry scoffed, very much wanting to throw something at his Godfather's retreating back. Instead, he grabbed Sirius's leftover mug and gulped down the lukewarm coffee. Quickly checking he had his wand, and finding that he did, he Disapparated with a louder than normal crack.
For a split second he was walking in mid-air when he reappeared outside the gates leading into Puddlemere's training ground, which were opened wide. Finding he still had a piece of toast in his hand, he took a quick bite and threw it over the wall. He brushed the crumbs from his shirt before he stepped inside. Taking a quick look around but finding no one, he jogged over to the door leading into the corridor.
He glanced at his watch again, breaking into a run when he realised exactly what the time was.
Harry crashed through the door, sending it flying into the wall with a loud thud. He skidded to a stop in the middle of the room. Doubled over and panting, he held up a hand in apology as he tried to catch his breath. "Sorry I'm late!"
Puddlemere's squad gawked at him. Fred and George grinned, their eyes lighting up in delight. A shirtless Oliver Wood shook his head, his bare shoulders slouching in disappointment.
"Where the hell have you been, Potter?"
Harry jumped at the sudden noise, whirling around, his wand immediately finding its way into his hand.
Phil's eyebrows crawled up his crinkled forehead.
Harry swallowed heavily, hastily stuffing his wand away.
"You're late," Phil said.
Harry grinned a little guiltily. "Err, yeah. Sorry about that, Phil. I forgot to set my alarm. Stupid, I know, but the bloody Wireless has been blaring out the same damn songs all summer, and, well –"
"Don't let it happen again," Phil said, giving Harry a clear warning.
"I won't."
"Good. Now sit down." Phil turned to face the squad. "Now that Potter has decided to grace us with his presence, maybe we can finally begin."
Harry ignored the squad's laughter as he took a seat on the bench next to Ackerley. The older Seeker winked at him.
"And as chance would have it, Potter happens to be the first order of the day," Phil said. "Introduction time, Potter. Tell us about yourself."
Harry looked up warily from staring at the floor, noticing everyone else was looking much more jovial than him. "Um, what?"
"Tell us about yourself," Phil repeated, looking at him expectantly. "You're not the only celebrity in this room. We've all had bad press. We've all been in the papers before. In your own words, who are you?"
"Well, I'm Harry Potter." He scowled at the laughter his words triggered, no one laughing harder than Fred, George, and Wood. "What's so funny about that?"
"We need a bit more than that, Harry," Fred said.
"Why?" Harry asked. "You know me. Everyone else will get to know me as well. Why do I need to tell everyone my life story?"
"Merlin," Merton muttered. "You only need to tell us a bit about yourself. We don't need to know how many birds you've shagged or your darkest desires."
Harry flushed slightly. "Well, what's there to say?"
"Why did you decide to pursue a life in Quidditch?" Phil pressed.
"Why does anyone?" Harry asked. "I loved playing in Hogwarts. There was nothing else I wanted to do. I was on the same team as those three for years." Harry nodded at the twins and Wood. "When they all made it, I realised I wanted the same."
"I suppose that'll have to do," Phil said. He nodded to someone behind him, before addressing the players, "I'd like you all to listen to something."
The players glanced at each other in some surprise. Crackling filled the room for a moment, before a voice started to speak through the Wireless.
"What of Puddlemere United, then, Jim?"
"I have to admit it, John, I'm surprised Deverill hasn't brought in more players this summer. Now, far be it from me to tell a great manager like Deverill how to do his job, but I suspect he may come to regret his decision to go with youth over experience, despite the promise the youngsters have showed us thus far. I'm afraid it's not much more than that at the moment, though. They're very talented and highly motivated, but they still have to prove themselves."
"We'll start with Andrew Merton –"
A big cheer went up in the dressing room. Maddock ruffled Merton's long hair, and the younger man looked used to such treatment.
"He showed signs last year, and there's no questioning his ability. Whether he'll ever reach the levels set by Maddock and Bragge is another question. What we mustn't forget is Merton hasn't added composure to his game yet, but he's still very young. That should come with age. He played outstanding in the last few matches, and if it wasn't for those few games, we'd all be talking about the mistakes he made beforehand. When it mattered, he didn't produce. Now, I'm not saying it's his fault that Puddlemere didn't win the title, but he has to elevate his performance this season."
"How do you think he performed this summer, Jim? He didn't play in the final, but it was his first tournament with the national team."
A sigh was heard clearly through the small speakers, and a shuffling sound followed it, before Jim said, "He did okay. I don't want to be overly critical of anyone, especially not someone just starting out in the game and still with a lot to learn. I've seen potentially great players crumble from such things before, their confidence shattered by the weight of expectation. Merton will have to deal with that, and to be fair to him, he didn't look out of his depth. Nothing was really expected of him in the summer or last year, but all eyes will be on him now. If he can continue where's he's left off, I predict only good things for him in the future."
"What of Sawbridge's decision to drop Fred and George Weasley in the final, then, Jim?" John asked. "The fans obviously didn't agree. Did the twins really perform as well as people are making out?"
"I am one of the few that actually agrees with Sawbridge's decision not to play them in the final," Jim said.
The squad muttered amongst themselves.
"Don't misunderstand me, John," Jim said. "I think the twins are very exciting, and they will only get better, but the final would have been a step too far for them. They have a good all-around game, but they don't have the presence that others have, such as the Broadmoor twins. Fred and George are scintillating when they're on form, but the Broadmoor twins have vital experience. As we know, Krum was far too good on the night for Kevin and Karl. The Weasley twins wouldn't have gotten anywhere near him, and they might have lashed out, as they've shown in the past when things aren't going their way."
"To be fair, Jim, who has found a way to stop Krum?"
"Despite what I just said, I don't buy in to such nonsense. He's been stopped before. A hard task? Most definitely. Impossible? Nearly, but not quite."
"We come on to Stewart Ackerley, then, Jim. The I.A.Q has announced an investigation will be launched into what transpired during the game. Can Puddlemere manage without him?"
"It's difficult to say, John. He had an incredible season last year, and they haven't really got anyone to replace him. I expect we'll come on to the back-up Seekers in a moment."
"Any words on what you think the I.A.Q will have to say on the matter?" John inquired.
"I have no idea, but if Ackerley is found guilty, I can't see them going easy on him, and rightly so."
Ackerley shuffled his feet a little. He was gripping the bench. No one had very long to think on the matter, because John started speaking again.
"Oliver Wood had yet another good season. Over half of his passes out from goal resulted in the team scoring, and he saved over seventy per cent of the shots that came his way, which is remarkably high."
"I'll put my wand on the line and say he's the best Keeper this country has had in the last twenty years," Jim stated firmly.
Another cheer went up in the dressing room. The man in question looked distinctly proud.
"Bradley Bragge is a player who always seems to get overlooked, Jim?"
"I can't understand why," Jim said. "He runs that Puddlemere team. He might not be the captain, but he certainly dictates play. He's got it all. He can score, he can defend – what more do you want from one of your Chasers?"
"How about the old man of the team?"
"Maddock is getting on a bit, but he's still got something left to give. He's taken a step back in recent years, to let the likes of Bragge come in and start running the show. He can break up play and pass the Quaffle out as good as anyone, though. I expect a good, strong season from him, because it may well be his last."
"Not much can be said yet about our last player."
"No, I'll reserve judgement on Potter, but if he has any chance of making his mark on this team, he'd better be as good on a broom as he is with a wand. Better, even."
"Final prediction, then," John said. "Where do you think Puddlemere will finish come the end of the season?"
"If Ackerley manages to worm his way out of a suspension, I suspect they'll finish near the top. They haven't got enough experience yet, in my opinion, so I'm going to say a respectable third place."
The changing room was quiet when Phil turned to them. "As you can see, no one expects anything from us this year. We're being questioned."
The players were nodding, listening intently as Phil spoke.
"I didn't go out and splash the Galleons on players for a reason," Phil said. "I believe you're all good enough. Our first game is against Wigtown. We'll be working on our tactics and setting out a game plan closer to the match, but as you all know, they won't be pushovers. They may have finished second from bottom last season, but they're a tough team to play. We'll need to be sharp. We'll need to be tough, and we're going to have to face up to them."
"Got a nasty scar on my shin from when we played them last year," George said, lifting his trouser leg up to show everyone. A ragged, white line ran down from just below his knee to his ankle, hardly noticeable against his pale complexion. "I'd like to get my own back."
"I don't want you instigating another fight this season," Phil warned, rounding on the twins. "In fact, you'll be getting a hefty fine coming your way if you do. Manage a whole season without initiating a brawl and you'll receive a nice bonus."
Fred and George rubbed their hands at the prospect.
"Does that mean we can rile them up and force them to throw the first punch?" George asked lightly.
Phil threw them a wicked grin. "That's the aim of the game, isn't it, boys? Can't play if they lose their heads, can they?"
"What about accidentally leaving a trailing bat in the face of someone, gaffer?" Fred asked innocently.
"Accidents will happen. There's nothing that can be done about that," Phil said, straight-faced.
"Just don't get caught, right?" George asked.
"Obviously," Phil said. It wasn't hard to tell Phil was an ex-Beater. "Anyway, we'll take it light out there today. Let's just get back into the swing of things. We'll start with some exercises, throw in a bit of flying, and finish up with a quick game. How does that sound, lads?"
The squad jumped up in approval.
"Chop-chop, then." Phil clapped his hands twice in time with his words. "Potter, you stay behind for a moment."
The team hurried out after waiting for a few of the players to finish pulling on their training kits. Phil's assistant and staff followed them out, leaving Harry alone with his manager.
"Is there a problem?" Harry asked.
Phil shook his head and took a seat next to his newest signing. "Nope, just wanted to have a quick word with you. I know how daunting it can be walking into a room full of Quidditch players. I was in your position once."
"I know most of them," Harry said.
"And they all know you," Phil said wryly. "If you do have any questions or problems, don't hesitate to come to me. You'll get to know everyone around the place before long, I'm sure."
"Thanks," Harry said, wondering where the kind persona had sprung from. "What about schedules?"
"I'll let everyone know what the plans are a day in advance," Phil explained. "If the team needs a break, you'll get one. I usually have everyone come in daily in the build up to a game. We always start at nine on the dot, so don't be late again. We always break for lunch at twelve, but other than that, things are quite relaxed around here."
"What do we do after lunch?"
"Day's usually over," Phil said. "Players usually stay for an hour or so, just to use the gym or get any needed treatment. Like I said, it's very relaxed. You can make use of whatever you want around here. I might ask you to work on something now and again, but other than that, it's entirely your call."
"I guess each day is different, then?" Harry asked, starting to get an idea of what he should expect.
"That's correct," Phil confirmed. "I decide what the plan of action is, but expect to work on a lot of drills. In the week before a game, we'll usually concentrate on who we're playing, so some things get altered slightly. Don't forget, though, we like to maintain our own way of playing."
"A game of style and brutality," Harry said.
Phil chuckled softly. "Puddlemere through and through, I see."
"You can count on that."
"Anything else you want to know before we head out?" Phil asked, getting to his feet.
Harry chewed on his lip. "Um, yeah, there is. I know I can't expect to suddenly start playing every game or anything, but I was wondering about my chances. Have you got any plans for me yet?"
Phil offered him a smile. "Don't worry, you'll get your chance. I don't expect you to catch every Snitch, nor do I expect you to be brilliant all of the time. I won't lie to you, though, you won't get as many games as you'd probably like, at least not yet. But when you do get a game, I want you to give it your all. That's all I can ask of you."
Harry's fears were relieved a little. "I can understand that. I wasn't expecting to have too much game time."
"Just make sure you enjoy yourself, all right?" Phil said. "It's your first day and you might think all of this will last forever, but I can assure you that it doesn't. Savour every second of it, Harry, because you can't get it back when it's gone, and I'm afraid it's over far too quickly."
Harry stood, suddenly itching to get out there with the rest of his team. Phil's words made him think of Hogwarts. He missed the old castle, and knew he probably always would. "Thank you, Phil."
Phil handed Harry his training kit. It was a simple short-sleeved jersey and a pair of shorts.
"It can get a bit hot out there," Phil explained upon noticing Harry's surprise. "We usually start wearing our training robes in the week before a game. It doesn't take long to adjust to them, but the difference isn't enough to force us to wear them every session."
Harry stored that information. He expected the dress code would change when winter rolled around and the biting winds and the cold really set in.
"Just one more thing, Harry," Phil said. He picked up one of the brooms off a shelf on the wall. "Do try and take good care of it, I know what Seekers are like. You manage to break them more than the rest of the team combined."
Harry eagerly took the state of the art Firebolt. His surname was engraved into the handle in flourishing gold letters. It somehow made him feel like he really did belong in the Quidditch world, like he really was a professional player. Something so simple, yet it made it feel all the more real. "I'll try to hold onto it for as long as possible. I've managed to keep my own Firebolt for a fair few years."
"I hope you do, I always had an affinity for my brooms," Phil said, holding open the door. "Some players don't mind breaking them so much when the money doesn't come from their own vaults."
Phil led the way to the pitches, already jotting something in his notebook with a self-inking quill. It reminded Harry of the notes he'd taken during the World Cup final. He'd have to go over them again.
"Oh, and Harry?" Phil said. "Stay back after lunch. You need to be looked over so we can work out your personal fitness regimen. It's standard for every player. You'll have to go through it at the start of every season and after you come back from the winter break."
"Right," Harry said slowly. "Will I need my own Healer for that?"
Phil shook his head. "No, you'll only ever need your own Healer for when you're recovering from any injuries. You can, of course, use the Healers here for any minor treatment, but your own Healer will be the one to set you on course back to full fitness."
Harry still didn't understand the law behind that.
"Here he comes!" Fred catcalled.
Harry winced, hardly daring to look up. The whole squad had gathered around Phil's staff on the second pitch, and Harry was fully aware that all eyes were on him.
"I've seen bigger calves on women, Potter," Ollie called to him, smiling as he welcomed Harry into the fold, slinging an arm around his shoulder.
"Now, now, Ollie," George chided. "You're not one to talk about such delicate matters, are you?"
"What was her name again, Ollie?" Merton called.
"Don't you mean what was his name?" Fred said.
Ollie blushed furiously, ignoring the laughter and jeers as best he could.
"Something I need to hear?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow. He realised they'd started to jog. How he hadn't noticed was a wonder.
"No, it's not," Ollie said.
"Mind you, Potter," Fred said, waiting a beat for the laughter to die down. He made a point of turning around and staring at Harry's knobby knees. "Have you ever actually used those things you call legs before? Or do you make it a point to fly everywhere?"
"He's right." George laughed. "Little Gin-Gin has bigger legs than you!"
"Nah, she doesn't," Harry said, throwing a sly wink at Ollie. "And I should know, shouldn't I? They've been draped over my shoulders often enough."
Ollie snorted, loudly. Merton guffawed, and Fred and George suddenly stopped, nearly tripping over their own feet and forcing the rest of the team to come to stop.
"You and Ginny?" Fred asked, looking a little dazed.
As soon as Ollie's shoulders started shaking in repressed laughter, Harry couldn't help it, soon joining in with his old captain.
"What's so funny?" Fred asked, looking around a bit bewildered as the team sniggered at him and his twin.
"I think we've been had," George muttered.
Fred appraised Harry, as if he was looking at him in a new light, although he still looked a little fearful. "Just to clear it up, you haven't actually slept with our sister, right?"
Harry shook his head, still chuckling.
The twins sagged in relief.
"I have, though," Oliver said.
The twins stiffened, staring at Ollie in horror. Ollie couldn't take it, and started cracking up.
"Merlin, what's gotten into the pair of you?" Merton asked.
"I don't know," Fred said forlornly, starting the jog again.
Harry just shook his head at the antics, trying to shake off the burning starting up in his legs.
He needn't have worried, though, as the team took him through their usual stretches after they'd finished the simple jog.
"Flying lines," Phil announced, to general approval.
Phil's assistant waved his wand, and suddenly hoops appeared, suspended in mid-air. Some were high in the air, while one was touching the ground.
"Your times will be going up on the blackboards," Phil said. "Potter, in case you're wondering, this is for your speed, agility, and reaction time. As you can see, the hoops range in size, but there's a clear line for you to follow. Right, form a line."
Harry found himself behind Wood and in front of Bragge. His nerves were a little on edge, despite the relative ease he expected from the training drill. Those thoughts were dashed a moment later.
"It's not as easy as it looks," Bragge said.
Harry looked over his shoulder, in time to see Bragge brushing his wavy hair across his forehead – Harry noticed his hair was the same shade of brown as his eyes. "Got any tips?"
"Fly too fast and you won't make the next hoop. They can get pretty damn close when you're flying at speed."
"Thanks," Harry said, turning back in time to see Phil with a whistle between his teeth. He blew it.
Ackerley started proceedings. His name appeared on the blackboard. His time was next to his name, written in white chalk, but the numbers were constantly changing. It was odd to see magic applied in such a way.
Ackerley's toes were nearly touching the ground upon entering the first hoop, and he had to shoot up to make the second. Harry watched in something akin to awe, as Ackerley manoeuvred expertly, hitting the hoops just in time, before he came to the final one, which was turned on its side. He took it perfectly, swooping up to miss the ground, the tail of his broom brushing the blades of grass.
Stewart Ackerley – 00:41:96.
"Forty one point nine, that'll be tough to be beat," Bragge said, whistling appreciatively.
"Yes!" Ackerley pumped his fist in the air at seeing his time.
"He's never taken longer than forty three seconds," Bragge explained to the unasked question.
Merton went next, kicking up off the ground to shoot through the hoop with some extra speed. He wobbled on his way out, but kept control.
"He's going for it, all right," Bragge said with a grin, framing his eyes from the sun with his hand as he watched Merton fly.
Andrew Merton – 00:44:73.
Fred went next, hitting a time of just over forty six, while George just beat his twin.
"Always knew I was the better of us," George said, raising his arms in victory.
Wood went next, and Harry suddenly realised he was coming up. He'd been watching the others so intently that he hadn't worked out a plan of his own. Wood landed far too early for Harry's liking, and Harry didn't bother to look at the time he set.
Phil blew the whistle.
It usually went one of two ways when Harry rushed head on into something without even the hint of a plan. It either worked out better than expected or it resulted in complete disaster.
Maybe it was a good thing he had no time to worry about a plan and get himself worked up. Harry decided to just go hell for leather. He flew through the first hoop with his head down, and pulled the broom up as soon as he was through. The Firebolt reacted instantly, sending him into the skies. He took the second and third, building his speed, and suddenly wrenched the handle to his right, barely managing to make it through the fourth. He dived, getting through the fifth – he turned sharply, knowing the course would take him up again.
The sixth and seventh hoops were at a slight angle. He got them, and twisted sharply to his left to make the eighth. The ninth through twelfth hoops were on the other side of the field. He let the speed build. He knew everyone had been around the thirty-second mark at this point. It seemed faster when you were flying it.
Four rings provided a half-circle to bring him back around. Harry squeezed through the first three, but his foot caught on the fourth. It slowed his speed by half. He quickly shook it off, urging his new broom on.
The thirteenth hoop was high, at an angle to get into perfect position to perform what was basically a Wronski Feint. It was the last two hoops that slowed people down the most. Harry dived through, to hell with the consequences, and eyed up the last hoop. It came at him faster than he'd been expecting – he could feel his brain forcing him to right his broom a second before he reached the hoop.
The tail of the broom thudded against the ground, but Harry held it somehow, and immediately sought out his time.
Harry Potter – 00:45:15.
Four seconds was the difference between himself and Ackerley. It didn't look like much, but in Quidditch terms it was momentous. Harry didn't let his head drop – at least not too much. He forced himself to remember that he had years to better himself.
"Hell of a time, Potter!" Phil shouted encouragingly. "You're not far off the Chasers."
"He's right," Wood said, as soon as Harry landed behind him. "Give it a few months and you should shave a few seconds off that."
Bolstered by Phil's words and Wood's encouragement, Harry flew his second and final turn. He didn't beat his time, but he was only half a second away.
"Not bad, lads, not bad at all," Phil said, nodding at them with a pleased smile.
"Hey, what about us?" Matilda Smethley said, motioning to herself and Veronica Hookum. "Do we look like one of the lads to you?"
"Well…" Fred said, grinning.
"You'll get your chance to hit out for that, if you can just wait a few minutes," Phil said, looking very much like he wanted to roll his eyes. "Seekers, take the bottom field with Benjy."
Harry scrambled to follow his fellow Seekers down to the bottom pitch. Ackerley was the main Seeker these days, but before him had been Benjy Williams. It had surprised no one when Phil had hired him as the Seeker coach. Benjy looked just about as old as Phil as well, with flecks of grey in his mass of dirty blonde hair. He had a sense of gracefulness about him, and he'd been known as a very composed player under pressure.
Harry turned to the other Seeker. Her brunette hair was tied back, and her jersey was tight across her chest, loosening as it reached her midriff. Her shorts were tiny, showing off long, shapely legs. Harry simply stared for a few seconds, before focusing on her lips as they moved.
"Are you ready?" she asked in melodic Irish accent, bouncing on the ball of her feet as she and Harry landed. She smiled widely, and it lit up her eyes. Harry had never seen someone who looked like they used their whole body to smile before. The small dimples in her cheeks looked like they'd never disappear. "I'm Alanna, Harry, but call me Murphy. Everyone else does."
"Nice to meet you," Harry said. She was very bubbly, reminding him slightly of Tonks.
"Show the kid what to expect, Stewart," Benjy said, mounting his broom and taking to one end of the pitch.
Harry followed Murphy and Ackerley to the other end.
"It's mainly tracking the balls he sends our way," Ackerley said. "Murph, you go first. Show him how it's done."
Benjy was sat atop his broom, holding his wand towards the Seekers. A small, black ball, about the size of a Snitch, shot from his wand and straight into the air. Murphy was off, soaring through the clear sky, her jersey riding up the small of her back.
"How long do we usually keep this up?" Harry asked, watching Murphy make a clean catch before shooting off for the next.
"Until you miss one," Ackerley said with an easy grin. "Then someone else goes, and so on. I doubt we'll do much today. It's all been easy so far, but it usually is on the first day. I expect Phil will call for a quick game soon."
"How will that work with three Seekers, then?" Harry asked curiously.
"We'll just play with a two on one." Ackerley pointed towards Benjy. "You fancy giving it a go yet?"
"Sure. How many did Murphy catch?"
"Oi, Murph, what did you get to?"
Murphy flew back to them, a few strands of hair falling into her face. "Managed twenty three. Nowhere near my record."
"There you go, Potter, try and get close to that," Ackerley encouraged.
"Ready, Potter?" Benjy shouted.
Harry got into position, gave the thumbs up to Benjy, and waited. It felt like an age before Benjy finally released the first ball. It was a simple enough catch – Harry nabbed it before gravity took hold, before he dropped to comfortably grab the second. Benjy varied his next few shots. Harry swore the coach was just flinging his wand in random directions.
Benjy started adding two balls into the mix. One went high, while the other went spinning off to the left. Harry managed to keep up, but he was twisting and turning all ways. Benjy lowered his wand, so the balls had less distance to fall. Harry swooped down on the far left of the pitch, grabbing the ball before it hit the ground. He looked up to see the next ball being sent to the bottom of the pitch – he chased it, despite knowing how unlikely it was that he'd get there.
"Sixteen, Potter!" Ackerley shouted.
Murphy applauded enthusiastically. "Better than my first attempt, Harry. I slammed straight into the ground."
It was an abysmal start, in Harry's opinion, although he smiled in thanks to Murphy and Ackerley. It felt like his nerves were holding him back, even though he'd never struggled with them before. He almost felt sluggish on the broom, the Firebolt not building its speed like he was used to. He wasn't sure whether to put it down to himself or the broom.
He brought the issue up with Ackerley.
"A player never blames his broom, Potter," Ackerley admonished.
"What if something is wrong with the broom?"
Ackerley didn't help matters by catching over fifty balls. The only reason he stopped was because Benjy got bored and accidentally lowered his wand too far, pointing it straight towards the ground.
"What's his record?" Harry turned to Murphy.
"You don't want to know," Murphy said, and Harry completely agreed with her.
Before Harry knew it, the morning had flown by. Benjy had continued with the same drill, and Harry soon found that chasing the balls over and over again was far too repetitive for his liking, not to mention rather tedious. He consoled himself with the fact that his catch-count was rising. Slowly and steadily, admittedly, but rising nonetheless.
"I thought training would be a little more, um…" Harry trailed off, shrugging uselessly as the Seekers walked back up to the main pitch.
"Exciting?" Ackerley asked, receiving a nod. "It might be boring, but you get used to it after a while. Just think of it from a competitive point of view. That's what gets me through it. Try and catch up to me or just try and consistently better your count."
"It's still a bit monotonous, isn't it?"
"Oh yeah," Murphy said, nodding furiously.
"Not what you were expecting then, Potter?" Benjy asked.
Harry shrugged apologetically. "No, not after my trial."
For some reason, Ackerley and Benjy sniggered at that.
"What am I missing?" Murphy asked, grinning a little in confusion.
"You should have seen it, Murph." Ackerley chortled, clapping Harry on the back. "Just wait until we start getting into the team training or you go up against him. He's mad."
"I watched from the stands," Benjy said, nodding approvingly. "Couldn't believe you lasted as long as you did. You're a tough nut, Potter, no doubt about it."
Harry took the comments as compliments. "So, will training become more like my trial?"
"Oh, don't get too eager just yet," Benjy said, chuckling. "Your trial was a good indication of what you can expect. There are a number of scenarios you'll be working at. You'll train in a team. You'll work with the Chasers on attacking and defending formations."
"And the Beaters?" Harry asked, spotting Fred and George landing by Phil.
"The good news is you'll learn the calls and signals to get the Beaters to help you during the match," Ackerley said.
"The bad news is, you'll also have to get used to Beaters ganging up on you," Benjy said with a grin. "Always my favourite part of training."
Harry quietly thought Benjy was a little nuts, but was at least bolstered by the news that training would soon pick up.
They reached the main pitch and joined up with the rest of the squad, who were all waiting on the Seekers.
Phil glanced down at his watch. "All right, we'll break early for lunch today."
The lunchroom was spacious, with a long table pressed up against the back wall. Sandwiches were spread across the table, a range of fillings to pick and choose from, such as lean ham, chicken or tuna. Mixed salads and a variety of fruit was piled up.
Harry picked bits of everything, piling it all on his plate. There were two other tables in the room, one for the players, the other for staff. Harry quickly took a seat next to Fred. He took a bite out of his sandwich, eagerly scoffing it down.
Wood placed his plate on the table, smiling at Harry as he sat down. "How's your first day been so far, Harry?"
Fred leant in. "Ah, we all know how boring the first day back can be, don't we? I should have stayed in bed."
"Already told him as much," Ackerley spoke up, breaking his sandwich into two large chunks. "Enjoy it as much as you can, Harry – it won't be long before we get into the real stuff."
"Trust me, he can handle himself," George said. "Youngest Seeker in a century, you know."
Ackerley looked fairly impressed. "I remember hearing about that from Charlie. We used to have some cracking matches. He had some offers as well. Shame he never took one, he could have easily made it."
"I remember the last game we had against you," Fred said.
"You flattened us," George said, looking like it still hurt him to admit. "Last game Charlie ever played. Pity he went off injured so early."
"Wait," Harry said, "you were in Slytherin?"
Ackerley frowned. "Er, yeah?"
"Huh."
"How did you get onto the team as firstie, anyway?" Merton asked, looking on curiously. "I thought I was going to fail my first year because I was trying so hard to get on the team."
"Pure accident and natural talent," Wood said proudly.
"Well, I thought McGonagall was about to expel me, but she took me to see Ollie," Harry said. He could remember that morning very clearly. "I didn't even know how to play Quidditch back then."
"Your first flying lesson, wasn't it?" Ackerley asked.
Harry nodded. "First and only time I ever had to use those bloody school brooms."
Ackerley laughed heartily. "Oh, they were awful, weren't they?"
Harry looked up and spotted Emma Richards walking through the door. His gut suddenly dropped.
"Are you all right?" Ackerley asked.
Harry nodded, avoiding Merton's eyes as the Chaser got up to greet his fiancé. The memory of meeting the woman flashed through Harry's mind.
"Come and meet our new signing," Merton said, gesturing to Harry. "He's a chatty little bugger. Told us all about how he got onto the team in his first year."
Harry frowned – he'd only answered questions put to him.
"Oh, I've already met him," Emma said, throwing Harry a sly smile.
Harry winced, drinking his water as an excuse to keep himself from talking.
"You have?" Merton asked, looking between Emma and Harry, his eyebrows furrowed. "When was this?"
"His trial," Emma explained.
Fred inevitably noticed Harry's silence. "What's the story, then?"
"Nothing!" Harry said quickly.
"Uh-oh!" George grinned. "Did you try something untoward, Harry?"
"Of course not," Harry said, but the rising heat in his cheeks stated otherwise. He glanced at Merton worriedly, but the man seemed more amused than annoyed.
"Don't worry, he's done this before," Fred assured Merton, laughing. "Our sister actually fancied him back in the day, but young Harry knows which lines shouldn't be crossed."
"I did turn her down," Harry said quickly, nodding furiously.
"Not that we would have minded, of course," George said airily.
"What? You bribed me with Firewhiskey!"
"Should I be thinking about buying you a bottle as well, Potter?" Merton asked.
"Hang on," Emma cut in. "What's wrong with him being with your sister? He's Harry Potter – I would've thought you'd like him joining your family?
"Ah, but you see, that's the problem," Fred said, sniffing pompously, looking remarkably like Percy. "He was already like family. If he and Ginny had ever got together, well, it would just be incestuous, wouldn't it?"
"Oh, come on," Emma said, casting a critical eye over Harry. "He doesn't seem all that bad. You agree with me, don't you, Andy?"
Merton held up his hands. "I hardly know the kid."
"That doesn't matter," Emma said. "You wouldn't warn him off your sister, would you?"
"Well, actually…"
"If you can't trust Harry bleeding Potter, who can you trust?"
"It's nothing against him, per se, it's teenager boys in general, you know?" Merton looked to the team for help.
Fred nodded solemnly. "Harry's a good kid, really, but boys will be boys, won't they?"
"Well," Emma said, staring defiantly at her fiancé but directing her words at Harry, "I'd love Harry to meet my sister. I think he'd be completely noble and a perfect gentleman."
Most of the males sitting at the table snorted incredulously at that.
Harry was rather glad when Phil called time on lunch.
"Stay behind again, Potter." Phil waited patiently for the room to clear. He looked at Harry as if to judge how best to say what was on his mind. "I don't think you should partake in the rest of training."
"What?" Harry asked dumbly.
"It's your first day. I don't want to throw you to the wolves just yet."
"I can handle myself," Harry said stubbornly.
Phil chuckled heartily. "Oh, I'm aware of your high pain threshold. But all the same, I think it's best you have a week or two of training under your belt first."
Harry bit the inside of his cheek. Phil was watching him, gauging his reaction. "Okay. What do you want me to do in the meantime?"
"Go and see Healer Byrne. Sort everything out," Phil said. "Then you're free to leave for the day."
Harry stared for a moment. "That's my day over with? Already?"
Phil sighed, joining Harry on the bench. "I can't allow you to go straight into the action, Harry. I know you're eager to show what you can do, but chances are you'll injure yourself in the first few minutes."
Harry nodded slowly. He didn't like what he was hearing, but he didn't have to like it – Phil's word was law. There wasn't much he could do but follow it.
"I know you train like it's real, but isn't the team a bit rusty?" Harry said hopefully. "Won't it be a bit slower today?"
"It will be slower, but that simply means more mistakes," Phil said.
Harry figured he'd somehow talked himself further out of it. "Are we back in tomorrow?"
"Same time, and –"
"Don't be late, I know." Harry grumbled.
"Glad to hear it," Phil said. "Now, pop into Healer Byrne's office. It shouldn't take you long."
Harry nodded and left, heading into the changing rooms and ignoring the excited chatter coming from the squad outside. He changed out of his kit, feeling thoroughly deflated after his earlier anticipation. He stepped into the medical room. It consisted of six beds, two sets of three pushed up against opposite walls. He walked past them, straight at the door at the far end of the room. He knocked twice and waited.
"Come in." The Healer looked up at Harry's entrance, and Harry could only stare back. The man wore a lab coat, much like Muggle doctor, but he'd somehow fashioned it into a robe. At Harry's look, Healer Byrne explained, "Dad was a doctor. Thought I'd honour his memory."
"Right," Harry said.
Healer Byrne scratched his thick beard. "Here for your medical, I assume?"
"I am, yeah."
Healer Byrne flatted out a piece of parchment on his desk. He picked up a quill and placed it over the parchment, where it stayed upright, ready to start scribbling. "There's three potions." He pointed to the end of his desk without looking up. "Drink them."
Harry glanced warily at the potions on the end of the desk, but grabbed the first and drank it anyway. The quill started moving. Harry grabbed the second and third, drinking them quickly, the vile taste of the second countered by the honey flavoured third.
Healer Byrne picked up his wand. "If you'd sit down, please."
Harry took the spare chair. Healer Byrne squinted for a moment, muttering a few spells under his breath, as though he was bored of the ordeal. Harry focused on the quill, trying to make out what it was writing.
"And we're done," Healer Byrne said suddenly, brushing aside the quill and rolling up the parchment. He handed it to Harry. "Do you have a house elf, by any chance?"
"Just got one recently," Harry said. Sirius had been wary after only ever really knowing Kreacher, but had relented after countless charcoal meals.
"Then I suggest you tell it to follow these instructions," Healer Byrne said. "I'll give my assessment to Phil. He'll let you know what he wants from you."
"Right," Harry mumbled.
"Have a good day, Potter."
Harry nodded and let himself out. He couldn't help but feel the day hadn't gone quite as he'd expected. He wasn't getting any special treatment because of his fame. He hadn't expected to, not really, but maybe he'd become a little too used to his name granting him certain privileges.