A Star Is Born Chapter 10 (Patreon)

(A/N) Gonna be busy tomorrow, so enjoy an early update!

Chapter 10

Practices for the remainder of the week had been grating on Harry’s nerves with the persistence of a dull saw. Despite his decision not to throw Jackman under the bus—effectively shielding the man from the full brunt of Deverell’s legendary wrath—the prat still carried himself with a surly air, acting as though Harry had somehow committed a personal grievance against him.

Every morning as the mist clung to the Quidditch pitch, the two would line up for seeker drills. Harry, attempting to maintain some semblance of professional courtesy, would offer to alternate turns at catching the snitch. His offers were invariably met with a low, non-committal grunt or a stony silence that bordered on combative. Instead of a cooperative rotation, Jackman proceeded to play with a reckless, super-aggressive edge, diving for shadows and cutting off Harry’s flight paths with a desperation that bordered on dangerous. It was a futile display of bravado; despite his frantic energy, Jackman found himself soundly beaten to the snitch nine out of ten times, leaving him even more embittered by the time they touched back down on the dew-covered grass.

The atmosphere at the Quidditch pitch had grown toxic, a far cry from the usual camaraderie that defined the team. The two had nearly come to blows each day at practice, their shouting matches echoing off the stands and drawing the frustrated gazes of their teammates. It was clear to Harry that the rest of the team, even the reserves who usually lived for the drama, were getting pretty tired of the constant disruption. Harry had voiced his concerns to Wood, hoping for a firm intervention, but the Captain had merely assured him that he had the issue in hand, dismissing Jackman as a "prick set in his ways" who simply needed to blow off steam.

While the teen trusted his Captain's leadership, the reality on the pitch suggested otherwise. Things were not getting better; if anything, the tension was escalating, making each drill feel like a battlefield. The constant drama was grating on Harry, wearing down his focus and dampening his love for the game. Beyond the personal frustration, a cold sense of isolation began to settle over him. He felt like he was being ostracized by the rest of his teammates, as if his inability to resolve the conflict with Jackman was a mark of failure that made him a liability to the team's unity.

By Thursday evening, the psychological toll of the week had reached its zenith, leaving Harry utterly drained and desperate for a reprieve from the hostile atmosphere of the pitch. The relentless friction with Jackman had transformed every practice into a grueling exercise in patience, making the prospect of a break not just welcome, but necessary. Coach Deverell had officially called off Friday's practice, citing the need for the team to rest before their first away game on Saturday afternoon against the Arrows. It was a strategic pause, but for Harry, it felt more like a lifeline.

Harry had all but stormed off the pitch that evening, and once home, he sought to wash away the literal and figurative grime of the week. He spent a long time in the shower, letting the hot water soothe his aching muscles and quiet the lingering echoes of Jackman's taunts and Wood's ineffective reassurances. After getting cleaned up and dressing in fresh clothes, the silence of his home began to feel less like a sanctuary and more like an extension of the isolation he felt at practice. He realized he needed more than just rest; he needed a change of scenery and the warmth of genuine, uncomplicated company. With a sharp crack of Apparition, he left his frustrations behind and sought the bustling, familiar comfort of Diagon Alley.

He wasn’t sure if it was his brain, his heart or…something else that led him to the Leaky Cauldron that evening, but when he arrived, he took in the atmosphere with surprise. The familiar brick wall had yielded to the tap of his wand, but the threshold he crossed felt entirely new. It was still a pub, a poorly lit restaurant, but undoubtedly a modern touch had been added. The dim, smoky haze that used to hang perpetually over the patrons had vanished, replaced by a clarity that sharpened every detail of the room.

The tables were no longer rickety and old, no longer scarred by decades of spilled ale and carved initials. In their place stood sturdy, polished oak that gleamed under the soft glow of floating candles. Perhaps most striking was the olfactory shift; the smell was no longer a combination of something foul, and a decent meal that was promised to be ahead. The damp, earthy scent of the old stone walls and the lingering musk of wet cloaks were gone. The place was squeaky clean, and the aroma of a delicious meal was the only scent he could gather now.

Harry lingered by the entrance, his eyes adjusting to the lack of grime. Even the brass fixtures on the bar had been buffed to a high shine, reflecting the flickering hearth fire. It was as if the pub had finally caught up with the world outside, shedding its tattered history for a refined, inviting present that offered the exact kind of uncomplicated comfort he had been seeking after a grueling week.

At this time on a Thursday evening, the crowd was light, but there were still several tables filled, and the bar stools near the front were occupied mostly by gruff-looking wizards, all of whom appeared to be admiring a woman behind the counter. When Harry’s eyes fell upon the witch, he immediately understood why. Hannah was dressed in a white and brown dirndl that may have covered her from chest to toes, but it was the provocative nature of the upper half of her outfit—tightly tailored and cut to accentuate her athletic form—that likely held all the wizards' attention. Her blonde hair was tied up neatly in a high pony-tail, exposing the smooth slim line of her neck, while her blue eyes were only in competition with a radiant smile that seemed to make light of that entire side of the pub, casting a warm, inviting feeling throughout the bar.

Harry approached the bar-top, weaving through the small clusters of patrons until he found the only seat available. He settled onto the stool, waiting for a moment to be recognized, but the witch behind the counter was clearly engrossed in a lively conversation with a group of wizards that appeared to be regulars. As her head drifted down the length of the bar, Harry caught her eye and made his presence known with a weary smile, "A glass of your best firewhiskey, luv. It’s been a long week".

At the sound of his voice, several of the surrounding wizards shifted their gaze toward him, their eyes darting with curiosity. Hannah’s face, however, lit up with genuine excitement at the sight of him in her establishment. With a graceful step, she wandered down the bar toward him, offering a light, knowing smile. "Why, sir, you should know I have quite the extensive collection of Firewhiskey for any beyond the casual drinker, it might just cost you a fair share of galleons." she teased, her blue eyes dancing with mirth.

“I am good for it, my lady,” Harry promised, his own smile broadening as he felt the heavy weight of the past few days begin to lift. “One for me, and one for you; I hate to drink a lady out of her liquor without sharing". 

“Two glasses coming right up then…Mr. Potter.” Hannah said with a teasing tone.  At his name several of the wizards at the bar now exchanged gruff whispers, and each looked reverently in his direction.  Harry ignored the stares however as he admired the witch who reached for a bottle on the top shelf, pulling it down with ease, and coming towards Harry. The provocative cut of her white and brown dirndl accentuated her form, but it was her radiant, welcoming smile that truly commanded the room and Harry’s appreciation.

The grating tension of the week's work seemed to evaporate. Away from the toxic atmosphere of the Quidditch pitch and the relentless hostility from Jackman, Harry finally felt at ease in the presence of his old friend. The Leaky Cauldron, now buffed to a high shine and smelling of a delicious, clean meal, provided the perfect sanctuary for his much-needed reprieve.

As Hannah poured the two glasses she offered a generous pour for each of them, and then pushed Harry’s glass forward with a bump of her elbow, causing it to slide perfectly into his waiting hand.  The witch raised her glass towards him, “What are we drinking to?  A victory at Applebee this weekend?”

Scoffing, Harry suggested something else, “How about to the most beautiful pub owner in Diagon Alley?  You really have done an amazing job with this place.”

Hannah blushed at his words, and spoke in a dry tone, “I think I am the only female pub owner in Diagon Alley, Harry.”

“That means you have them all beat!” Harry said with enthusiasm and a laugh, clicking his glass to hers, and taking a long sip of the firewhiskey, careful not to consume the rare liquid all at once.  The alcohol seemed to instantly assist in tempering Harry’s agitation, and he felt much lighter than he had just a few minutes before.

“The place looks great.” Harry complimented.

“It’s been everything I wanted.” Hannah admitted, and even glanced down the line of patrons that were all eyeballing her in surprise, clearly not expecting to see her chat with someone as famous as Harry Potter so casually, “I even have a few faithful regulars.”

Harry nodded seeing how many glances they were receiving, “Well I feel bad for stealing all your attention from your regulars.”

Glancing down the line Harry grinned at the group raising his glass, “Next round is on me lads.  Sorry for stealing my old friend's attention, but I needed a friendly face.”

The men all cheered, and Hannah rolled her eyes, as she turned to the man closest to him, “Bennet, you will not take advantage of Harry, I will get you another cask strength butter-beer, but that’s it.  Come on lads, you can’t say everyday that a future Quidditch Superstar offers to buy you drinks, let’s get to it..”

Leaving her drink with Harry, Hannah quickly moved down the line, and began serving her patrons at the bar with easy flicks of her wand.  Luckily the witch also had staff working in the restaurant area, and this left her with the chance to return to Harry when the drinks had been served, shaking her head, “You’re going to cause a riot in here if you pop up and buy my regulars drinks like this.”

“I didn’t mean to cause you trouble.” Harry defended with a laugh.

“No, it’s really nice of you.” Hannah promised returning the laugh, “Your legend grows in the alley after today. Though, you better have brought your galleons, because I am skinning you for making me work like that!”

Scoffing, but keeping his smile on his face, understanding the good natured joke, Harry tossed a small sack of galleons on the bar top, “Keep it up, and I will buy you out of your liquor and turn this into a Thursday night you will have to call the Aurors to stop.”

“Tip me good, and I will forgive you.” Hannah joked, making Harry laugh, as he sipped at his firewhiskey a little more, “Or if it gets too out of hand I will call Wood, and see what he does with you!”

“The betrayal.” Harry said in mock horror, making the young woman laugh.  Smiling at Hannah he put his glass down, and leaned forward across the bar top whispering, “What time do you get off?”

Hannah glanced over her shoulder towards the glass shelves that held most of the liquor, and Harry saw a normal muggle clock resting on the wall, reading that it was just after 8pm.  The witch sighed, “My night staff takes over at 10, it’s pretty minimal this time of week, but they keep an eye on the place, and keep the people fed if there are any late night customers.  The bar closes when I leave though.  Unless Sally-Anne is here then food is the only thing we serve after 10 on the weekdays.”

Nodding, Harry asked, “Sally-Anne Perkins? From our year?”

“She’s a good friend of mine,” Hannah said, pushing her hair gently out of her face and leaning over the polished oak to put them nearly nose to nose as she spoke in a quiet tone. “She’s muggleborn, I am sure you remember. She had a tough time finding work after the war—lots of places were still narrow-minded about blood status—so she pulls tons of shifts here to make ends meet. She even managed the whole place last weekend while I went to your game. She's a life-saver, honestly; I don't know what I'd do without her help around here.”

Harry sipped his firewhiskey, the warmth of the liquid matching the burgeoning comfort of the pub. “I’m glad she found a place with you. It’s a shame about the work situation, I’d offer to help, but it sounds like she is really helping you out.”

“She’s making great money with me too.” Hannah defended, but offered him a sly smile, “She’s quite popular with the wizards in here.  Her outfit is more revealing than mine.”

“Sounds fun.” Harry said with a raised eyebrow, before setting his glass down with a soft thud, “Can I keep you and the lads company until your shift ends at 10? Maybe I could interest you in some dessert in Puddlemere tonight? I don’t think I can pass on your cooking for two hours if I sit here sipping on your firewhiskey, and I’d love to hear more about how you turned this place around.”

Offering the man a radiant smile that reached her blue eyes, Hannah gripped his right hand in her own with a slight squeeze and a playful grin. "Dessert would be lovely, Harry." She lingered for a moment, her thumb tracing a small, lingering circle over his knuckles, the contact sending a spark of genuine connection through him before she reluctantly pulled away. A sudden splashing sound from a spilled drink further down the bar broke the moment, and she turned with a feigned sternness. “Gustavson, if you broke my glass, you might get hexed again tonight! I just had the elves buff those floors!”

The warmth of her touch remained, even after she stormed off to the other side of the bar to help clean a patrons mess.  “You’re a powerful man, Potter,” the man Hannah had addressed as Bennet earlier said. Bennet appeared to be in his late 20s with a well-developed, well-kept black beard. The man had a pasty skin tone that made Harry think he didn’t get a lot of sun, but he was likely a popular man with the other witches given the roguish twinkle in his eye.

Harry raised an eyebrow at the man, who just shook his head with a grin. “I’ve been trying to get this witch to have dinner with me for weeks, and she’s always just the right amount of flirty to keep me coming back. I guess I just have to be a Quidditch Star.” He leaned back, his stool creaking under the movement as he took a slow, appreciative pull from his mug. "Or maybe I just need the lightning bolt scar. Does that come with the celebrity status, or do I have to find a Dark Lord to help me out with the branding?"

Harry chuckled, in the past this type of self-deprecating humor might’ve annoyed him, but after the fall of Voldemort, things were a little easier to laugh at and he took it in the good nature he believed it was intended. "Trust me, pal, the scar is more trouble than it's worth. But the Quidditch? That part isn't so bad."

Another man, a dark skinned wizard that could’ve been Kingsley’s son judging by his size and deep voice said, “Forget the Dark Lords and Quidditch, you have a gift with the witches Potter.  I have seen the articles with you and Sue Bones, and now you come in here stealing the witch us mere mortals dream of.”

“Come on, Potter, let me take you to Holyhead, drinks on me, and see if we can’t attract Gwenog Jones and her teammates to our table. I want to see how legendary this talent really is!” a wizard a few seats over called out, leaning forward over his half-empty mug with a mischievous grin.

“I’ll throw some galleons in there to keep your glass full, Potter! Anything to catch the attention of any of the Harpies for a night,” the dark-skinned wizard offered, his deep voice booming with a hearty laugh that seemed to vibrate the polished oak of the bar.

This led to a fresh wave of guffaws from the wizards gathered at the bar. Hannah, hearing the ruckus, just glanced over from where she was polishing a glass, her smile wide and indulgent as she gave a small shake of her head at their antics. Harry caught her eye and offered a playful wink before turning back to address his boisterous new companions. “That’s a tempting offer,” he admitted with a chuckle. “I haven’t actually made it out to Holyhead yet. I think they aren’t on our schedule until mid-season, so I haven’t had the excuse.”

“Well, we certainly can’t have that!” an Irish wizard cried from a nearby seat, punctuating his statement by slamming his hand down in mock outrage. “We need to get you down there immediately to scout the competition. It’s our solemn duty as Puddlemere fans; Coach Deverell will probably be so impressed he’ll send us a thank-you basket for giving you a head start on the scouting report!”

The suggestion of the stern Coach Deverell sending fruit baskets led to even louder roars of laughter. Harry shook his head, asking incredulously, “Wait, you’re all Puddlemere fans?”

“Sure,” Bennet said, leaning back as his stool creaked. He gestured to the group with his drink, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You bought us the round, didn’t you? Until your ass leaves this pub tonight, Potter, you’re looking at Puddlemere’s most faithful and devoted supporters.”

Harry laughed. “I’ll have to remember that. Loyalty in the wizarding world is apparently priced at one butterbeer.”

“It was cask-strength butter-beer!” Bennet defended.

“You should see what you get when you buy us two!” The Irish wizard added to the delight of the wizards around the pub leading to more roars of laughter.

“I’ll start at the local pubs next time I need some wands in a fight.” Harry said dryly, just causing more delight among the dozen wizards.

Bennet scoffed at the dry remark, his roguish grin fading into something far more solemn. "You killed that snake-faced bastard, Potter, just under a year ago" he said, his voice dropping an octave, cutting through the ambient noise of the pub like a sharpened blade.

The surrounding wizards, who had been boisterous only moments before, grew quiet as the gravity of the statement settled over them. The man took on a more serious tone at this, his gaze steady and respectful for the first time. He raised his glass slightly towards Harry in a salute. "The country failed you that night at Hogwarts," Bennet continued, his expression reflecting a collective guilt that seemed to mirror the thoughts of many in the room. "We all should've been there to fight with you, standing on that bridge or in those halls. We let a teenager carry the weight of the world while we sat behind our wards."

He put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, never breaking eye contact with the young man. "The next fight you’re in though, you can bet we will all answer the call," he promised, and several grunts of agreements and slaps on the table followed his words. "You won't be standing alone again, Potter. Not if we have anything to say about it."

"To Harry Fooking Potter!" The Irish wizard cried out, his voice cracking with a raw, booze-fueled fervor. The sentiment was caught up instantly by the rest of the bar, a ragged but enthusiastic chorus of "Potter!" and "The Chosen One!" rang out against the polished oak and brass. Even Hannah, who had reclaimed her glass of rare, amber firewhiskey, raised it toward him with a wink that held both pride and a touch of mischief.

Harry felt a swell of genuine gratitude toward the slightly inebriated wizards. He took the toast humbly, a flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with the alcohol. "Well," he said, his voice projecting easily over the subsiding roar, "I’m sure you lads know, but I wasn’t truly alone that night.  I had a lot of brave witches and wizards beside me, including the lovely Ms. Abbott here.  Without her, my friends, and the fallen 50, maybe none of us would be here today.  It’s to them we should raise our glasses too.”

“Don’t be humble Potter, we can only kiss so many asses at once.” A wizard with a thick northern accent said, causing an eruption of laughter.

Harry held his hands up in surrender, and the laughter continued, “In that case, after a toast like that, I don't see how I can't buy you lads one last round."

This pronouncement triggered the loudest cheer of the night, a cacophony of whistling and table-thumping that made the floating candles flicker. Hannah, however, was quick to play the part of the stern matron. She immediately leveled a finger at one of the more disheveled wizards. "Not you, Gustavson! You already broke one of my favorite crystal glasses earlier, and I've half a mind to bar you for the week. You're lucky if I don't have my friend here hex you into the middle of next Tuesday!"

The wizards around the bar, led by the boisterous Irish wizard, all began to goad and jeer the flustered Gustavson. The man turned a shade of purple that rivaled a ripening plum, mumbling apologies into his beard, while Harry just laughed at the poor man's misfortune. It was exactly the kind of rowdy, harmless friction he had been craving. Bennet, leaning comfortably on his stool, waited for the noise to die down before continuing their casual conversation. He seemed intent on keeping the mood light but grounded. "So," he asked, swirling the remains of his drink, "after your first big win, how do you feel about your chances in Appleby this weekend? Those Arrows fans are a vicious lot; they won't be singing your praises in that stadium."

"I'm used to being among hostile crowds," Harry promised placatingly, thinking of the Slytherin section's more creative chants. "Armstrong is a decent seeker from what I am told—solid fundamentals and a good eye, I’ve even heard he is quite the trash talker - and I won't discount a pro with years of experience, but I like what the team is doing right now. The synergy is there, even if practice has been... spirited."

Harry knew he was laying it on a little thick, painting a picture of professional unity that didn't quite exist under Deverell's watch, but he was cautious. The last thing he wanted was for one of these well-meaning wizards to wake up with a hangover and go straight to the Daily Prophet with a direct quote about team instability. The Irish wizard, who was addressed as Connor, slurred out a follow-up question, leaning so far forward he nearly lost his balance. "Feeling good enough to convince me to drop a few galleons on you, then? I've got a feeling about the odds the prophet is offering."

Before Harry could formulate a diplomatic non-answer, Hannah stepped in, swatting at Connor's arm with a bar rag. "Don't you dare gamble your drinking money, Connor! If you lose that, I'm not running you a tab.  Your wife would be here flinging curses Sunday morning."

The Irish man took the rebuke with a laugh and a hearty nod of acknowledgement, and none of the remaining wizards pushed Harry further for his opinion on gambling. One by one over the next hour, the wizards slowly began to dissipate into the night, their departures marked by the low hum of the Diagon Alley entrance opening and closing. The conversation stayed mostly on Quidditch—debating broom models and team rosters—occasionally drifting to the merits of a particularly beautiful player in the league, but it remained completely lighthearted and jovial. Each wizard Harry had bought a drink for made a point of stopping by his stool before they left; they either shook hands with him with firm, calloused grips or offered him a smart, appreciative pats on the back as they departed for the evening. This left Harry with a genuine, warm feeling of acceptance that he hadn't felt all week. He even took a moment to sign an autograph for Connor, the Irish man’s son, whose name, maybe coincidentally, was also Connor.

The very last to leave the pub was Bennet. The dark-bearded man was clearly holding his liquor well, showing no signs of the slurred speech or unsteady footing that had claimed some of his companions, and he continued to talk with Harry enthusiastically about the finer points of defensive magic  when it was just the two of them. As they spoke, Harry found out that Bennet was a highly skilled curse breaker employed by Gringotts. He spoke with a respectful familiarity of Bill Weasley, revealing that he had actually been the older wizard's professional partner on several high-stakes excavations in Egypt earlier in his career.

By the time 10pm came around, the lively energy of the Leaky Cauldron had finally settled into a peaceful, expectant stillness. Hannah reached over the polished oak to shut off the primary light behind the bar, casting the room into a softer, amber glow from around the tables placed out across the pub. She wiped her hands on her towel and stepped around the counter, her movements fluid and purposeful, before coming to loop her arm comfortably through Harry’s. The subtle weight of her touch was a silent signal that her professional duties had concluded for the evening.

Bennet, who had been deep in the middle of explaining a particularly complex ward-shattering technique he'd encountered in the Valley of the Kings, seemed to take the hint immediately. A look of brief, genuine disappointment flickered across his features, though it was quickly masked by a polite smile. He had clearly enjoyed the rare opportunity to talk shop with someone who understood the practical applications of defensive magic, but he respected the boundary Hannah had just drawn.

The curse breaker stood up, his stool giving a final, weary creak against the buffed floors, and reached out to shake the younger wizard's hand with a firm, respectful grip. "It's been a pleasure, Harry Potter. Don't be a stranger; Gringotts could always use a consultant with your... hands-on experience," he joked, offering a final nod to Hannah before adjusting his cloak. With a final wave to the pair, he turned and departed for the night, leaving the two friends alone in the quiet, rejuvenated sanctuary of the pub.

“Shall we?” Hannah asked softly, her voice barely a whisper against the soft ambiance of the empty pub.

“I can apparate us if we go out back?” Harry suggested, offering his arm. The witch nodded in agreement, her blue eyes shimmering with anticipation

In no time at all, the pair had exited through the rear door into the cool night air of the alley. With a sharp crack that echoed briefly against the brick walls, they were whisked away from London and reappeared in the heart of the Wizarding district of Puddlemere.