The Cannons' Gamble: The Misfit Season
Chapter One
The League Reawakens
Somewhere between a cold slice of toast and a lukewarm cup of tea, Harry Potter decided he was done saving the world.
The war was over, but no one had told him what came next.
Yesterday, he'd walked into the Auror recruitment interview and walked out halfway through the first question. They hadn't even had time to ask if he preferred a wand holster on his wrist or waist. Harry had stared at the blank parchment on the table, looked at the Ministry badge they wanted to pin to his chest, and felt a great yawning boredom in his chest. Then he stood up, thanked them politely, and left without another word.
And strangely, no one had tried to stop him.
It wasn't a dramatic rejection. He hadn't made a scene. He just didn't want to do it.
He wasn't running from his past, but Voldemort was gone and the world no longer needed Harry to save it.
Now, sitting at the kitchen table of the Burrow, barefoot and still wearing yesterday's jumper, Harry felt like he was floating in place, adrift between battles.
The Burrow felt too quiet these days. Not the tense quiet of hiding, or the heavy hush of fresh grief, but the uncertain silence of normal life trying to grow back. It crept in slowly, like ivy over broken stone, and didn't quite know where to settle.
Harry tapped his mug once, silently reheating his tea.
Sunlight puddled on the kitchen floor like it had nowhere better to be. A gnome peeked in through the windowsill, decided breakfast hadn't started yet, and scurried off with what might have once been a spoon.
The world, meanwhile, was already putting itself back together. Hermione was elbow-deep in Ministry reforms and Muggle-born restitution, patching holes in the world one policy at a time. Ron didn't have a plan yet, unless you counted hovering near Hermione and looking vaguely helpful. Ginny hadn't spoken to Harry in days, unless you counted the occasional stiff nod or barely-there glance across the dinner table.
He didn't blame her. Or anyone, really. But he couldn't shake the feeling that everyone else had picked up their lives while he was still standing in the rubble.
A soft whoosh of owl wings broke his thoughts. The Daily Prophet flopped onto the table, scattering crumbs and splashing a bit of tea onto his sleeve. He didn't rush to grab it. News still wasn't good these days, bodies still being found and named, and he'd had enough of being in the headlines.
Still, habit had a way of winning.
He unfolded the front page with the sluggishness of someone checking exam results they already knew would ruin their day.
The front page was, for once, free of his face. But the headline hit him like a Bludger to the ribs. Across the top, in bold gold lettering, it read:
The Quidditch League Returns: War-Delayed Season to Begin, Teams to Hold Open Trials Today
That was when it hit him. Not quite like a lightning bolt, more like the brush of a Snitch against his fingertips. A flicker of instinct. A pull in the gut. Not duty. Not expectation. Just something quietly, stubbornly defiant.
He took a sip of tea. It was tepid again.
He hadn't even noticed Mrs Weasley bustling around him until she gently replaced his cold toast with a fresh, warm slice.
"You're barely eating, dear," she said softly, giving his shoulder a squeeze before moving to the sink. "And Arthur tells me you left the Auror office halfway through your interview."
Harry didn't look up from the paper. "Yeah. Felt like stepping into a fight I'd already finished."
Mrs Weasley said nothing to that, but her wand faltered in mid-air and the dishes hovered motionless in the sink. After a moment, she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, and the spell resumed with a gentle splash.
Harry looked back down at the newspaper. Below the headline was a moving photograph of a gleaming broomstick spinning lazily in the summer sun, the caption reading: The League is Back – Do You Have What It Takes?
He read on. Open trials. Every team in the league, desperate for talent after the chaos of the war, holding a joint recruitment weekend. No experience required. Just skill, nerve, and a broom.
Harry blinked. Then he blinked again.
He hadn't played since Hogwarts. Hadn't really thought about playing, not seriously. But the idea landed in his chest with a surprising weightlessness. There was something thrilling in the idea. Not the fame, or the spotlight. He'd had enough of that. But the wind in his face, the adrenaline of the chase, the sheer thrill of the game.
It stirred something inside him that had been dormant for too long.
Harry leaned back in his chair, one hand absently reaching for the butter knife as his eyes traced the list of teams attending and positions needed filling. The big names were there – Puddlemere, the Harpies, the Tornados. The ones who would already be plotting how to outbid one another for the best talent. All of them needed Seekers.
And then, at the very bottom of the page, in slightly crooked type:
Chudley Cannons to Attend
He snorted, almost choking on his tea. Of course they were. He glanced toward the stairs where Ron's room sat above, walls still plastered with orange Cannons posters.
If he wanted anonymity, or at least something close to it, there was no better hiding place than behind the worst team in league history.
One of the teacups let out a disgruntled croak and hopped away from the sink. Mrs Weasley caught it mid-leap without looking, like she did this sort of thing before breakfast every day, which she did.
By the time the tea had gone completely cold, Harry still hadn't made up his mind.
He was still staring at the paper when Ron shuffled in, hair a mess and pyjama bottoms tucked unevenly into mismatched socks.
"Morning," Ron mumbled, yawning so wide he nearly swallowed his own fist. He squinted at Harry's tea. "Is that fresh?"
Harry slid the pot over wordlessly.
Ron took one sip and made a face. "You know this tastes like boiled sock water, right?"
"I've had worse," said Harry, remembering Crabbe, Goyle, and a toilet cubicle full of Polyjuice fumes. "So have you, come to think of it."
Ron grunted in agreement, then flopped into the chair across from him. His gaze wandered to the Prophet headline still spread between them. "Oh yeah, saw that. League's back. About time, innit?"
Harry nodded slowly.
Ron leaned forward, suddenly interested. "You thinking of going?"
"Maybe." Harry shrugged, but it was the kind of shrug that had weight behind it. "Just the trials. See what it feels like."
Ron's eyebrows shot up. "You serious?"
"I turned down the Aurors."
Ron didn't look surprised. If anything, he looked relieved. "Good. I mean – not good, but... yeah, actually. Good."
Harry managed a small smile. "I thought I was supposed to help rebuild the world."
Ron snorted. "Mate, if anyone's earned a break from all that shit, it's you. And anyway, what's more uplifting than Quidditch? That's rebuilding morale."
Harry gave him a look. "Very noble of me."
"Tragically selfless." Ron's grin widened. "What team are you hoping for? Puddlemere? Falcons? Arrows?"
"Dunno." Harry's eyes drifted back to the paper. "Haven't thought that far ahead. I haven't passed yet."
"You will." Ron leaned back in his chair, eyeing Harry suspiciously. "You're not going to do anything mad like join the Cannons, are you?"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Thought you were their number one fan?"
"I am," Ron said quickly. "I love them. But I also like having a functioning heart. Watching them every week is stressful enough. If you were out there getting flattened every match, I'd lose my mind."
Before Harry could reply, Arthur Weasley entered the kitchen, humming as he adjusted his collar.
"Morning, boys!" he said brightly, then paused when he saw the Prophet. "Ah. The League. Feels like the war's really over now, doesn't it?"
Harry nodded, folding the paper closed and slid it across to Ron. It was an unspoken rule: the only time Ron willingly read the Prophet was when the Cannons were mentioned.
Arthur poured himself a mug of tea, tasted it, grimaced, and charmed it steaming again with a tap of his wand.
"You thinking of trying out, Harry?" he asked, with the kind of casual curiosity that made Harry feel oddly touched.
"Yeah," Harry said, surprising even himself with how easy the answer came. "I think I am."
Arthur smiled, eyes twinkling behind his glasses. "Good. Do something for yourself. Merlin knows, you've earned it."
Harry looked between the two of them; Ron, still grinning sleepily, and Arthur, nodding as if the decision made perfect sense.
As Arthur passed, he gave Harry's shoulder a firm, brief squeeze. No more words were needed.
For the first time in what felt like weeks, Harry felt the knot in his chest loosen.
"Wish I could come," Ron said, glancing at the paper. "But Dad lined up some interview. Still deciding if I'll go or fake dragon pox."
"You fancy trying out?"
"Nah." Ron pulled a face. "I've finally come to terms with my lack of talent. Just thought I'd show up to give you a bit of support."
"I'll let you off this time," said Harry. "And don't sell yourself so short. I'm sure you'd be the Cannons best player."
"I'll have you know the Cannons have this mad new owner who's promised to turn things around!" Ron said hotly. "He's already signed a new pair of Beaters, and he's upgrading the stadium for the first time in over a century."
Harry couldn't pass up a chance like that.
"Okay, then," he said. "You'd be their second-best player, somewhere between the new Beaters."
Ron stared at him. "I'm going to pretend that was a really terrible compliment and you're just being a good mate."
"You'd best support me, even if I'm up against the Cannons," said Harry.
"You're having a laugh," said Ron, shaking his head as he drowned his bacon sandwich in ketchup. "Every other game, though!"
"I'll take it." Harry laughed, pushing back from the table. "Guess I should find my broom, then."
Ron straightened. "You're really doing it?"
"Reckon I am."
Ron gave a long-suffering sigh. "Just... not the Cannons, yeah?"
Harry didn't answer.
"I'm serious, Harry," Ron called after him. "I can't have you slagging us off so much if you're on the bloody team!"
Upstairs, Harry dug through his old school trunk until he found what he was looking for. His Firebolt lay at the bottom, wrapped in a faded Gryffindor jersey that still smelled faintly of grass and sweat, invoking memories from what felt like a lifetime ago.
He dressed without much thought, throwing on worn jeans ripped at the knees, a stretched-out T-shirt that hung off him, and the same scuffed boots he'd worn the night Voldemort fell, still stained in ways he didn't care to inspect too closely. The leather creaked as he pulled them on, grounding him with their weight.
He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, inspecting the Firebolt, and felt the familiar twist of doubt settle low in his stomach.
What if he'd lost it? The instinct, the sharpness, the ease of it all. What if he got up there and made a prat of himself in front of a hundred strangers – and worse, a dozen or so scouts?
Downstairs, Mrs Weasley pressed a brown paper bag full of sandwiches into his hands.
"Just in case you get hungry, dear. Trials can be long. You'll need something in you, to keep your strength up."
Harry accepted it with a small smile and a quiet thank you.
"Sure you don't want to come?" Harry asked.
"Nah," Ron said with a grimace. "Takes real personal growth to admit you've got no talent."
Outside, the sun had climbed higher, casting long slashes of light across the garden. Harry paused at the edge of the step, the familiar twinge of nerves flaring in his chest. He wasn't entirely sure what he was walking into, but for the first time in ages, it wasn't something he had to survive. Just something he had to try.
He took a breath that felt like the first real one all morning, then Disapparated.
He landed on a cliffside overlooking the sea, where a sprawling, makeshift pitch had been conjured into existence. Magical boundaries shimmered faintly in the morning sun, enclosing stands that looked one strong breeze away from collapsing. The wind carried the scent of damp grass and sea air, cut through with Firewhisky and the sharp, metallic tang of burnt ozone, a sure sign of fresh protective enchantments.
The faint hum of magical amplifiers hovered above the crowd, broken occasionally by the whine of an overpowered broomstick.
Someone had done their best to make it look official. Banners from every team in the British and Irish League flapped noisily from the makeshift stands, their emblems enchanted to shimmer, roar, sing, or belch smoke, depending on team preference.
Harry stood at the edge of the crowd queuing for the registration desk, Firebolt dangling loosely at his side, doing his best not to make eye contact. He'd come early, hoping to slip in unnoticed. Instead, he'd found a queue that was already snaking across the field, full of chattering hopefuls and overconfident show-offs.
Although he wasn't trying to draw attention, people noticed him anyway. They always did. The ripple started small: a sideways glance, a murmur, the discreet nudge of an elbow. Most kept their distance. A handful of witches gave him wide-eyed stares, and a wizard in Wimbourne Wasps robes fumbled his broom mid-polish. A few offered respectful nods or gave him more space than was strictly necessary.
Not everyone was as respectful, though. A gangly boy with a streak of blue in his hair pointed openly. "That's him," he whispered loudly, elbowing his friend. "That's really him."
Harry shifted his weight and studied the grass until, eventually, the line spat him out at the front.
"Harry Potter."
The frazzled-looking wizard sitting behind the registration desk did a double take and dropped his quill.
"Of course, in you go," he said, patting his forehead dry with a handkerchief. "Best of luck."
Inside, chaos reigned.
On the pitch, the trials were already underway.
Applicants were everywhere – hundreds of them, scattered across the uneven field like a disorganised army. Some were already airborne, showing off with sharp dives and flashy turns; others lingered on the ground, stretching awkwardly or fiddling with their gloves. State-of-the-art broomsticks gleamed in the sun, jostling for space beside ancient Cleansweeps and wobbly old Comets that looked like they'd fall apart if you so much as looked at them funny.
There were fresh-faced school-leavers in their old House colours; middle-aged Ministry clerks who looked like they hadn't flown competitively since the seventies; war veterans with cobbled-together kit and distant stares. One witch in full dragonhide gear paced like she was waiting to be released into a ring with a Manticore. Nearby, a bloke was red in the face, pleading with his broom to cooperate.
Harry sidestepped just in time as two players – one in Wigtown Wanderers red, the other in Harpies green – zoomed past mid-race, nearly colliding with a frazzled Ministry official who was vainly waving his wand at a stack of floating clipboards that refused to line up properly.
If this was organized recruitment, Harry didn't want to see what a disaster looked like.
And yet he found himself unable to keep the grin off his face. For the first time in months, he felt like he'd stumbled into something that wasn't about duty or destiny.
It was a mess. But it was alive.
Someone's broom exploded on launch. A live peacock flapped by with no handler in sight. A small explosion erupted near the southern goalposts, where a trio of Beaters had formed an impromptu pick-up game and were exchanging swings that looked more like an advertisement for hospital visits than professional sport.
The war hadn't just shaken the Ministry, it had gutted the League. Nearly a quarter of its players were dead or missing, and the scramble to fill rosters had turned brutal. Competition among the hopefuls was fierce, but it was nothing compared to the cutthroat rivalry between the teams, all fourteen desperate to sign the best talent before the season began.
Coaches watched with hawk-like focus, while scouts from a dozen teams stormed the field like their lives depended on it, scribbling furiously on floating notepads. One wiry wizard in Tornados colours nearly fainted with joy when a mountain of a man agreed to join as their new starting Keeper. Across the pitch, Gwendolyn Morgan, manager of the Harpies, could be heard yelling at the team's owner, "I don't care if she's got a criminal record; she caught the bloody Snitch blindfolded. Sign her!"
Harry sidestepped all of it like someone navigating a battlefield, which, in fairness, wasn't far off. There were people here who clearly belonged; lean, sharp-eyed athletes with expensive gloves and confident smirks. And there were others who looked like they'd wandered in from the Leaky Cauldron still smelling of last night's regrets.
And then there was him.
No one stopped him, and for the first time since arriving, no one seemed to be looking. The crush of hopefuls and the general chaos of the try-outs offered enough cover to disappear for a little while. He let his feet take him across the uneven ground, weaving between huddled groups and aimless flyers overhead, a low thrum of ambient magic clinging to the breeze like smoke. For all its disarray, it felt more alive than anything he'd seen in months.
"Harry?"
He ducked as a rogue Bludger went sailing overhead, then straightened only to find himself facing someone looking at him like he was a surprise guest who'd finally shown up, fashionably late and entirely unexpected.
"Katie?"
Katie Bell stood a few paces away, arms crossed and eyes dancing. Her face lit up as she strode over, closing the distance before he could do more than blink. She wrapped him in a quick, familiar hug.
"Merlin, it is you," she laughed, pulling back with a grin that was all warmth and history, the kind forged from years of shouting across pitches sharing victory hugs in the pouring rain. "I thought you'd be off playing war hero somewhere, not mingling with the rest of us sorry lot."
There was something about her that caught him off guard, a warmth that hit him unexpectedly. Maybe it was the easy confidence in her stance, or the way her smile tugged at the edge of something long forgotten. Her hair was pulled into a messy braid that looked like it had been redone in a hurry, and a faded Harpies pin clung stubbornly to the collar of her jersey. A battered Cleansweep rested casually on one shoulder, and there was a smear of dirt across one cheek, like she'd already been in a scuffle and thoroughly enjoyed it.
Harry felt the tension in his shoulders ease, almost without noticing. "Didn't realise you were trying out too. Gunning for a Harpies spot?"
Katie gave a short laugh. "I wish. No openings for Chasers, and I'm not one for sitting on the bench and looking pretty. So here I am, tossing my broom in the mix and hoping someone's daft enough to take a chance." She nudged him with her shoulder, grinning. "What about you? Thought you'd retired from fame and glory."
Harry scratched the back of his neck. "Turns out catching dark wizards in an official capacity involves more quills than wands. Thought I'd try something with fewer memos and more bruises." He glanced at her. "You've got a better shot than most, anyway. Anyone with sense would want you on their team."
There was a flicker of something in her smile – pleased, maybe, or just amused – but it lingered a beat longer than expected.
Katie gave him a sideways glance as they started walking. "So, what's the plan then? Impress them with some heroic mid-air stunt, or just dazzle them by existing?"
Harry shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I was decent once. Haven't flown properly in ages, though. Probably should've done more than dig my broom out of a trunk this morning."
Just then, a yell drew their attention – Cormac McLaggen had managed to drop his broom midair and was now clinging to the tail end of it upside-down, flailing like a windmill and shouting something about a faulty grip charm.
Katie snorted. "Short of knocking yourself out with your own broom, you'll look brilliant by comparison."
A sudden ripple of motion caught Harry's eye, drawing his gaze across the pitch. A young woman had just stepped onto the field, broom slung lazily over one shoulder, moving with the kind of grace that made it look unintentional. She wasn't flashy – no glittering kit, no house colours or national stripes – but there was something about the way she walked, all coiled energy and calm confidence, that made people instinctively get out of her way.
Katie followed his line of sight and let out a low whistle. "Laia Serrat," she said, with the weary respect of someone who'd once had to mark her in a match. "Used to be the next big thing in Spain. Fast, skilful, clever as hell."
Harry tilted his head, watching Laia stretch out her arm and launch a Quaffle with practiced ease. "Used to be?"
Katie gave a noncommittal shrug. "Depends on who you ask. There was a rumour she slept with her coach to get a starting spot. She swore it was total rubbish, probably something a jealous reserve made up. I believe her. She's good enough without that sort of thing, but rumour got there first, and the League dropped her like cursed cargo. Bit of a reputation now; no one's quite sure if she's a genius or a walking disaster. She's still furious about it, from what I hear."
"I don't blame her," said Harry, glancing back toward the pitch, where Laia had mounted her broom with a casual grace that didn't quite match the tension around her. As she kicked off, a swell moved through the crowd; not recognition, exactly, but something closer to awe. She climbed fast, cutting tight curves through the air. She moved like she belonged up there, more at home in the air than on solid earth, which was saying something, because she'd turned plenty of heads just walking in.
The scouts, who had up until then either looked half-asleep watching a particularly talentless group or distracted by clipboard squabbles, were suddenly paying close attention. A few stood. More than one scout leaned forward to follow her dive, one with such enthusiasm he had to pretend he was tying his shoe to cover nearly falling off his chair.
"Blimey," Harry said under his breath, watching as Laia looped effortlessly out of a barrel roll and flicked the Quaffle through a floating hoop like it was nothing. "She's good."
Katie tilted her head, eyes tracking Laia's movement with casual familiarity. "Yeah. Don't tell her, though. She already knows."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The wind ruffled their hair, a soft reprieve from the mid-morning sun.
Harry watched the sky and followed Laia as she disappeared into a blur of red and gold, something shifting quietly in his chest. It was light and familiar, old and hopeful. His feet were still planted on solid ground, but every part of him ached to be in the air. He hadn't realised how much he'd missed this.
It was freedom.
"You've got that look, Potter," said Katie, with a sideways grin. "Bet your Firebolt's buzzing just thinking about it."
Harry opened his mouth to reply, but the whistle of a Bludger and a barked instruction cut through the air.
Katie glanced toward the growing cluster of Chasers being herded toward the far end of the pitch. "That's me," she said, already adjusting her grip on the Cleansweep.
Harry nodded, not quite ready for the moment to end. "Reckon you'll terrify them into hiring you."
She flashed him a wicked grin. "Please. I'm planning to play nice until they do – then show them what a mistake that was."
He laughed, and for the first time all morning, it felt easy. She bumped her shoulder against his one last time.
"Good luck, Potter."
"Same to you, Katie."
They split off in opposite directions, brooms in hand, the buzz of the trials rising around them like static before a storm. Overhead, a cluster of Nimbus 3000s tore past, their sleek handles glinting like quicksilver in the morning sun.
Harry fished the small badge from his pocket, its charmed surface flickering with the letter S and the number 3. Seeker, group three. He fastened it to his chest, took a steadying breath, and crossed the pitch towards the eastern cluster of flyers being ushered into position by a harried-looking official.
The Seeker group was smaller than most – only twelve people – but they stood further apart, instinctively sizing each other up. It was an odd bunch. Some were lean and sharp-eyed, their expressions focused and unreadable; others ranged from gangly to stout, pacing, fidgeting with broomsticks or the badges pinned to their robes.
A few looked barely out of school, though Harry didn't recognise them. Others had the taut, weathered look of weekend league veterans. One woman crouched low, knuckles white around the handle of a gleaming prototype broom Harry couldn't place. Nearby, another bloke rolled his shoulders with the methodical precision of someone who'd spent a year training like his life depended on it.
Harry rolled his own shoulders once, loose and unbothered, the Firebolt familiar in his grip. He didn't look at the others, but he felt them clock him – the glance, the double-take, the faint whispers. Not just Harry Potter, but that's Harry Potter… and he's flying against us.
A whistle cut through the buzz of conversation, sharp and commanding. A tall wizard in slate-grey robes stepped onto the grass before them, clipboard in hand and wand tucked behind one ear. He looked like he hadn't slept properly in days.
"All right, group three," he barked, scanning the badges with a quick flick of his wand. "I'm Trainer Wilkes. We'll start light. Single-flyer time trial – speed, reflexes, and how well you lot can follow instructions without knocking yourselves out. If you can't manage this, don't bother staying for round two."
He waved his wand again, and a floating course shimmered into view in the air above them: glowing rings suspended at sharp angles, sudden vertical drops, tight spirals, and a final dive through a narrow hoop just inches off the ground.
Wilkes gave them a tight-lipped smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Mount up. First flyer, on my mark."
Harry stood behind the starting line, eyes tracking the first flyer as they wove through the opening rings. The course wasn't long, but it twisted tightly – sharp dives, abrupt climbs, nasty hairpin turns through hoops of decreasing size. It wasn't about speed so much as precision. A Seeker's trial, through and through. One bad angle, and you'd clip a ring or overshoot the arc entirely.
The first flyer did exactly that, favouring speed over control and missing the second-to-last hoop completely. A gangly wizard shot off second and nearly collided with the third ring. It panicked him enough that, instead of easing up, he picked up speed and clipped the fourth. Another overshot the steepest dive, barely pulling up in time. Rather than slamming into the ground, she rolled sideways into the turf.
The Firebolt itched in Harry's grip.
With every flyer that faltered, his nerves ebbed away. The dejected faces, the muttered swearing; it was all oddly reassuring. He'd flown tougher courses at Hogwarts, courtesy of Oliver Wood's warped mind and borderline sadism.
Somewhere to his left, someone muttered, "Reckon he gets a free pass, being Harry bloody Potter?"
"Bet they don't even make him finish the course."
Harry didn't look over.
"Potter!" barked the trainer.
Harry stepped forward, feeling all eyes on him. There was a sudden hush around the whole ground. He swung a leg over his broom and the world narrowed. Hoops ahead, Firebolt purring in his hands, the midday sun beating down on the back of his neck.
A sudden thought caught him off guard: if only Sirius could see him now. He would have loved the fact that Harry had chosen it for himself. Chosen something fun. Something selfish.
Harry leaned forward, fingers flexing on the handle.
The whistle blew.
He kicked off the ground, and the world dropped away.
