A Star Is Born Chapter 12 (Patreon)

Chapter 12

Following his late-night rendezvous with Hannah, Harry awoke on Friday feeling a sense of tranquility he hadn't experienced in quite some time. This newfound peace served as a welcome shield against his pre-game anxiety. Adhering to his routine, he took a gentle morning jog to keep his muscles limber without pushing his limits. He dedicated the remainder of the morning to correspondence, writing letters to friends and tackling the mountain of fan mail he’d collected from Puddlemere’s front office. Although he spent several hours on the task, the sheer volume of mail remained overwhelming; nonetheless, he felt a quiet satisfaction in reaching out to his small circle of friends. This rare morning of stillness provided a quiet link to his life beyond the Quidditch pitch.

Harry spent the later half of the day immersed in the company of Ron and Hermione. As Hermione prepared a home-cooked dinner, the atmosphere in their modest home was filled with inviting aromas. Meanwhile, Harry and Ron remained occupied with professional preparations, hovering over a projector to analyze footage of Micah Armstrong, the Appleby Seeker. They scrutinized Armstrong's early-dive tendencies, hoping to identify any tactical advantage Harry could use during their upcoming match. However, Harry noted that Armstrong’s real strength seemed to be his verbal games; the man was a persistent talker who tried to provoke his opponents into making errors—a strategy Harry hadn't encountered since his school days facing Draco Malfoy.

"Armstrong has been in the league for six years now, but I would guess the first high pick Appleby gets in the draft they will axe the guy." Ron said, his eyes tracing the flickering light of the projector as it played back another grainy sequence of the Seeker's lackluster pursuit. "If Appleby didn't have some of the best beaters in the league they wouldn't win a single game. They carry him across the finish line every time."

"Conner and Jason will keep me safe from them…relatively," Harry said, wincing as he watched the footage of Micah Armstrong finally closing his hand around a Snitch. The catch was hardly impressive; Armstrong had been flying unopposed for nearly thirty minutes, circling the pitch with agonizing slowness while the opposing team was left completely without a Seeker. Both the starter and the reserve for the Falcons had already been carried off the field on stretchers, having been targeted and knocked unconscious by the relentless barrage of Bludgers from the Appleby beaters.

“Appleby finished fourth in the league last year.” Ron said with a shrug, “Last week you could’ve not even played, and there was a chance Puddlemere still would’ve won.  This week won’t be the case.  Appleby has Terrence Higgs, dudes a real standout.  He was good in our Hogwarts days as a Seeker, but by the time the Arrows got their hands on him they told him his future was with a quaffle in his hands.  They were right.  Could’ve been MVP last year.”

“Can Wood stop him?” Harry asked cautiously, wondering what they were really up against.

“Honestly?” Ron asked, glancing at Harry, “Maybe for the first half hour of the game.  After that it’s going to be a blood bath, it’s what Appleby is good at.  The teams that beat them, beat them in the first hour.  Ninety minutes in, almost no one wins.”

Harry watched as Armstrong caught another snitch against the Magpies, and the young man sighed, “There’s a good reminder that this is a team sport.”

“Dinner’s ready boys.” Hermione said, peeking her head into Ron’s makeshift office.

The two had been renting a small house in Ottery St. Catchpole, not far from the Burrow.  The two were waiting to get married before building their own home together, but for now they were happy sharing their own private place.

Ron offered Harry a pat on the shoulder as the two stood up to join Hermione in the kitchen, “You’re going to be fine mate.  Keep above the beaters like you did in the last game, and only swoop in when you think you have a chance at making the catch.”

“No more talk of Quidditch!” Hermione said as they stepped into the dining room, “It’s bad enough I have to hear the floo calls, see all the magazines, and then go to the games.  We will have a Quidditch free dinner, I need it since I will be going to 12 games instead of the usual 3 I endured at Hogwarts.”

“13!” Harry and Ron said together.

“When Harry goes to the championship.” Ron said, raising his wine glass towards Harry.

Harry clicked the glass against Ron's, the sharp ring echoing in the small dining room. Hermione thudded down into her chair with a theatrical sigh, her hands coming up to massage her temples. "Merlin help me," she groaned, though a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Please, let's talk about something else. Anything else. How is Susan, Harry?"

Steak and potatoes was their dinner for the evening, a hearty meal that Hermione had spent the better part of the year perfecting. She had really nailed the seasoning recently, and it was quickly becoming their Friday night tradition—a small anchor of normalcy in their increasingly busy lives. Despite the comfortable atmosphere, Harry felt a familiar heat crawl up his neck, and he blushed slightly at the question. "Well, I haven't seen much of her lately," he admitted, pushing a piece of potato around his plate. "I think she is giving me some space."

Ron, who had managed to get a little bit of the truth out of Harry during their long strategy sessions over the projector earlier that day, didn't look convinced. He just smirked into his wine glass, while Hermione's brow furrowed in sympathy for the Quidditch star. "I'm sorry, Harry," she said softly, her critical look softening into genuine concern. "I know you were really enjoying your time together after everything that's happened."

"Oh, I think he is finding plenty to occupy his time, Hermione," Ron said with a short, knowing snort, his eyes dancing with mischief.

This comment made Hermione snap her head toward Harry, giving him a piercing, criticizing look as if she were trying to read his thoughts through his glasses. Harry sighed, realizing the vague answers weren't going to suffice anymore. He shook his head, a resigned look on his face. "Okay, I guess I better explain. It's a bit more complicated than I made it sound."

“Explain.” Hermione demanded.

“Here we go.” Ron said giddily.

Harry shot his oldest friend a filthy glare before taking a long sip of his wine, and answering Hermione, “Well, as you know Susan was not ready for a relationship, but she decided to push me in the direction of someone who was.”

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione groaned, “You didn’t. Hannah?  You are going to make your way through our entire old friend group.  Who is next Luna?”

Ron snorted at this, while Harry held his hands up in defense, “No obviously not, Hermione, honestly!”

Hermione shot him a withering look, and Harry said it again, “Honestly!  Look,” the teen said, glancing at his two oldest friends, “Hannah I went out in Puddlemere last night, and even hung out at the Cauldron a bit while she was working.  It was really great, she’s really great, you guys know that.  I like her, I want to see where it goes.”

“You probably liked her a lot after ending up in bed with her last night.” Ron said softly under his wine glass.

“Ronald Weasley!” Hermione said, but her lips quirked into a slight smirk, but then she turned a disapproving eye back on Harry.

“For the record.” Harry said, putting down his utensils, holding his hands up in a defensive position, “We didn’t end up in bed together last night, so can we please, just have dinner, and talk about Hermione.  Please, I want to hear about what she is doing in the department of control and regulation of magical creatures over this”

This made Ron cackle, and Hermione pursed her lips, but picked up her utensils, cutting into her steak, “Well I am glad you are not just becoming another gigolo Harry, and thank you for asking about work.  I’ll have you know that..”

Hermione went on for the better part of dinner about her fight for house-elf rights, her voice rising with a familiar, righteous passion as she detailed the bureaucratic hurdles she faced daily in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She spoke animatedly about her latest proposal: a legislative framework designed to grant goblins a path toward representation and eventual voting rights on the Wizengamot. Harry tuned most of it out, the technicalities of goblin-wizard relations blurring into a steady hum of background noise, and he could tell Ron did as well. They both nodded and offered supportive murmurs at the right times, a rhythmic performance they had perfected over years of friendship, but they would still exchange knowing, tired grins whenever Hermione became particularly emphatic.

Thankfully, the night didn’t stretch on indefinitely. As the savory scent of the steak and potatoes began to fade, the trio stood and exchanged warm farewells in the small dining room of the house in Ottery St. Catchpole. Ron gave Harry a final, encouraging clap on the shoulder, and Hermione softened her earlier disapproval of his dating life to wish him luck. They said their goodnights, leaving Harry to head home with their well-wishes for the Puddlemere game tomorrow ringing in his ears.

.o.

Flying through the air, Harry pursued the snitch like his life depended on it, with Micah Armstrong hot on his heels. The wind whipped past his ears, a frantic howling that drowned out the roar of the crowd, but he didn't need to hear to feel the danger he found himself. Never before had he been more grateful about watching footage with Ron, because he was right, these beaters were vicious. They didn't just aim for the players; they aimed for the psyche, sending Bludgers whistling inches from Harry's goggles with calculated cruelty. It was as if they intentionally missed by inches on some shots to leave him rattled.

As the game continued on Harry was starting to believe the snitch itself wanted to see, and taste violence, it made several early appearances, shimmering tantalizingly close to the chaos. It was a siren's call, tempting Harry to dip down into the field of play, and he nearly lost his head each time he did so against the opposing beaters, who seemed to treat the Seeker's skull as an amusing prize. Every time he pulled out of a dive, he could feel the displaced air of a passing iron ball, a cold reminder of Ron's warning that Appleby wins when they break the opposing team.

Already forty five minutes of the match had gone by, and true to Ron’s words, Oliver was starting to lose steam. The relentless assault from the Appleby chasers was beginning to take its toll, forcing Wood to move with a desperation that lacked his usual fluid grace. He was still catching a good number of quaffles, true to his endurance training he had done with Harry, but the precision was fraying. Far more had slipped past him today than in the first game, the scarlet quaffles blurring into streaks of red that he just couldn't quite reach in time.

The Puddlemere chasers were finding it equally difficult to find any rhythm. Every time they gathered speed, a whistling Bludger would force them into a frantic roll or a steep dive, breaking their formation before they could even threaten the hoops. They were hardly making a scratch on the opposing Keeper with how much pressure was on them, their shots becoming hurried and predictable under the shadow of the Appleby beaters. High above the fray, Harry watched Oliver's shoulders heave as he reset for the next volley, realizing that Ron's ninety-minute warning was looming closer with every goal conceded.

Most of those goals were forced down by Terrence Higgs, the former Slytherin Seeker who Harry had first encountered during his debut Quidditch match at Hogwarts. Back then, Higgs had been the starting Seeker for Slytherin, a seventh-year who had nearly unseated Harry by attempting to unbalance him during a high-speed dive for the Snitch. Harry had only played against him one time before Higgs graduated, and at the time, Higgs had been red with embarrassment after Harry beat him to the catch. Now, however, the transformation was undeniable. Ron had been right: Higgs had clearly missed his true calling at Hogwarts. While the Falcons had eventually convinced him his future was with a Quaffle in his hands, Appleby was now reaping the rewards of that transition. The man was a revelation as a Chaser, possessing a standout athleticism that had made him a top MVP contender for the coming year. He played with a ruthless efficiency that decimated Puddlemere's defense, and by the forty-five-minute mark, he had already knocked down seven goals, personalizing the "blood bath" Ron had warned would occur if the match became too long.  The other two chasers had combined for only five goals.

In the first half hour of the game Puddlemere had put up six goals, but since then they remained scoreless.  Harry desperately whirled out of the way of a bludger, and nearly caught the other in the face, but his last second duck allowed him to keep his head.  Luckily this led to a goal by Puddlemere, but the joy was short lived as Harry lost sight of the snitch, took to the sky and watched as Terrance Higgs single handedly scored two more times in a span of a few minutes.

Armstrong flew level with him high above the crowds, calling out to him, “Tutshill was a cute welcome to the league, Potter, but now you better catch that snitch soon, or you are going to end up with your first loss sooner than most of the league thought.”

“Cute.” Harry called back, “Coming from a guy who has to have both other seekers knocked out to win.”

Armstrong shrugged, “You have to find what you are good at in this league.”

An opposing chaser scored another goal off an assist from Higgs, and Armstrong laughed, “Mine is distracting the opposing Seeker, and watching the other team get rocked from high above.”

Harry scoffed at this and feinted into a dive, with the pitch of Armstrong’s laughter being left behind.  Clearly the man wasn’t falling for it, and Harry cursed himself as he had rolled past a bludger, and heard the announcer call out that Charlotte Dubois had been pulled for the rest of the game due to an injury.

As he ascended back above the pitch, Harry could see with grim clarity that the score was spiraling out of control. Puddlemere trailed with a mere 70 points, while Appleby was dancing ahead with a commanding 180. The gap was widening with every relentless volley led by Terrence Higgs, whose precision was systematically dismantling Wood's defenses. Harry’s eyes scoured the pitch for his teammates and saw that Puddlemere's first-line reserve Chaser, Malcolm Brogdon, who had only just replaced the injured Dubois, had already been struck by a vicious bludger and was nursing his arm only minutes into his appearance.

The rest of the squad wasn't faring much better under the Appleby beaters' brutal assault. Adrian Pucey was hanging tough, showing the grit that had kept him in the league, but Harry could tell the man was dealing with a significant injury or was in a fair bit of agony by the way he over-reacted to every bludger or quaffle sent his way, his usual fluid movements replaced by jagged, pained hitches. As for Garrett Chandler, he looked like a man fighting for his life just to stay conscious; his eyes were glazed, and he wobbled precariously on his broom from the accumulated toll of the stray hits he had taken. The "blood bath" Ron had predicted was unfolding in real-time, and Harry realized that unless he found the Snitch immediately, Puddlemere would surely lose the game.

Returning to the skies, Armstrong flew in beside him, “Did you really think I would fall for that?  Desperate seems to be a harsh word, but it’s all I am coming up with here.”

Harry clenched his jaw so tightly it ached, forcing back a stinging retort. He knew Armstrong was only trying to draw him into a verbal spat to further distract him from the possibility of a Snitch appearance, and with Puddlemere's defensive line in tatters, he couldn't afford even a second of lost focus. Wood was performing miracles between the hoops, fueled by a desperate second wind that saw him twisting and diving to make three heart-stopping saves in rapid succession. Despite Oliver's heroics, the scoreboards glowed a grim reality: Appleby had climbed to 190 points, and the Puddlemere chasers were too battered to mount a meaningful counter-offensive. There were no clever words left for Harry to use; the lead was too great, and the situation too dire.

Just as a heavy sense of resignation began to settle over him, a glint of brilliant gold flickered near Oliver's goal posts, cutting through the shadows of the hoops. It was the Snitch, hovering momentarily in the eye of the violent storm below. Harry didn't hesitate, kicking his broom into a punishing acceleration that made his vision blur. He leaned so low over the handle that his chest pressed against the wood, feeling the power of the broom surge beneath him. However, Armstrong was no longer lounging in the clouds; the Appleby Seeker had reacted instantly, tucking into a tight dive and tailing Harry by a mere broom length.

A bludger screamed toward his ribs, and Harry saw it far too late to dodge. Just as the iron weight was about to end his game, Jason Milroe appeared like a guardian angel, the crack of his bat echoing through the stadium as he redirected the ball toward the Appleby Keeper. In the periphery, the crowd roared; Higgs had scored again, pushing the lead to 130 points, but Harry blocked it out. There was only the golden blur. Jason stayed on Harry's left wing, his bat a rhythmic shield against the relentless barrage from the Appleby beaters, while the stadium announcer’s voice grew frantic over the din. Harry leaned into the wind, his hand outstretched until his fingers brushed the cold, vibrating metal of the Snitch. Armstrong lunged from his right, his shoulder slamming into Harry in a desperate attempt to foul him, but Harry’s fingers curled tight. The Snitch was caught. The whistle blew, but the momentum was too great; Harry’s broom, clipped by Armstrong’s desperate maneuver, spun out of control, and he went spiraling toward the dirt in a tangle of limbs and robes.

The impact with the ground was a jarring thud that knocked the wind out of him, leaving him gasping in a cloud of kicked-up turf. For a moment, the world was silent, save for the ringing in his ears and the frantic thudding of his heart. Then, the roar of Puddlemeres' few supporters in the crowd broke through as did the approval of his teammates. He felt hands on him, pulling him upright, and as his vision cleared, he saw the scoreboard glowing through the dust: Puddlemere 220, Appleby 210. They had stolen victory by a single goal.

Wood was the first one to arrive at Harry’s side, looking more like a madman than a captain. His robes were torn and his face was smeared with blood and sweat, but he was laughing with a manic intensity. "You did it, Harry!" Oliver bellowed, nearly choking him with a one-armed embrace while still clutching his broom. "Ten points! We took 'em by ten points! I thought I was going to collapse up there, but we held on!"

Harry tried to stand, but his legs felt like jelly, and a sharp pain in his ankle made him hiss. Before he could protest, Jason and Conner landed on the ground near him, and hoisted him just barely off the ground to avoid aggravating the apparent injury.

As Harry was carried off the pitch toward the medical tent, he held his hand high, the golden wings of the Snitch still fluttering weakly against his palm. He was battered, bruised, and exhausted, but as he looked back at the stunned Appleby team, he knew he had just had his first welcome to the league moment.

.o.

The medical tent had been a short affair. Inside, the air smelled of sharp antiseptic and dried herbs, a sterile environment away from the mud and sweat of the pitch. Harry watched as a brisk Mediwitch muttered a succinct incantation, the tip of her wand glowing a soft blue as she tapped his swollen ankle. The bone knitted back together with a series of muffled, painless pops that felt more like a strange tickle than anything else. The witch hardly graced him with a dismissal as she moved onto her next patient, leaving Harry to watch as she began working on some of his other teammates who were sporting varying injuries while the rest of the team was greeting fans who had traveled to Appleby for the game.

As she moved on to her next patient, Harry leaned back, feeling the frantic adrenaline finally begin to drain from his limbs, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep ache. He uncurled his hand slightly, examining the golden Snitch that had delivered the win. He realized he had been holding it so tightly he could feel the faint whir of its tiny wings against his palm. This was only his second Snitch as a professional, and as he looked at the fragile, fluttering metal, he knew instantly who it belonged to. He would save this one for Hannah. It was a tangible memory of the game, and a fitting memento of the comfortable feeling she had given him the week leading up the match.

He was just beginning to catch his breath when the arrival of Coach Deverell, and his even expression, tempered any thoughts of a celebration. "Good win, Potter," his voice flat, devoid of the excitement expected after a last-second victory. He leaned against the bed, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixing on Harry's freshly healed ankle. "Ten points. A nasty piece of work that Appleby team was, but we handled it. Just barely.  I wouldn’t be surprised to see them again in the Championship."

Harry, sitting on the medical cot, just nodded, before saying, “They were way better than Tutshill that's for sure.”

"Indeed, and I would love to leave you to your rest and celebrations, but, we have business to discuss," Deverell continued, his gaze hardening. "As of the end of the match, Ryan Jackman has been waived. Effective immediately."

Harry blinked. Ryan Jackman, the backup Seeker who had been the bane of his existence for the last several weeks, was gone?

 "Waived, Coach? I don’t—"

“He’s had it coming for weeks.” Deverell cut in sharply, his voice slicing through the sterile quiet of the medical tent. “When we first signed you, Jackman had it in his head that you would be his backup for a while, and that he would get a chance to be a starter for Puddlemere. This was something we were all prepared for in case you needed some time to adjust to the Professional level, but you outworked him and everyone else except Wood by a mile to be ready, and we went ahead with you in the first game of the season. Ever since then he has been claiming that you stole his spot, and that Wood only chose you because of your friendship and your fame. Then there was that stunt he pulled at practice earlier in the week that was the last straw. We love rivalry in this club but we do not tolerate physical aggression against a teammate, especially not towards one of the keys to our offense."

The man sighed, a weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of the entire front office, before running a hand through his hair. “Wood tried to get the bastard to apologize, but he refused, and stayed on the favoritism train. We weren’t blind to how he has been acting towards you all week, and how he has been running his mouth to the rest of the team. The real reason we didn’t have a practice yesterday was because I was interviewing two potential candidates for reserve seeker. We signed a contract this morning, and I informed Mr. Jackman he was waived when the match was done. He will be paid the remainder of his contract, and can try his luck in free agency.”

Deverell paused, letting the implication hang heavy in the air, his eyes glancing down towards Harry’s injury before saying. "The official statement is 'budgetary restructuring,' but there is already talk, and the league seems to know what happened, after he ran his mouth to the media in the post game areas the journalists smell blood in the water. This is going to be messy, and some on the team may think you had a hand in this even though we both know you didn’t. We need to go sit down in front of the media, discuss our win tonight, and talk about the future of the Franchise.  This is just one of those obligations I need you to get used to. I know you didn’t like the bloke, but I am counting on you to be a professional Potter, can I rely on you?”

“Always, Coach.” Harry promised without hesitation.

The man nodded, looking satisfied by his decisiveness, “Good, then let's get started.”