A Star Is Born Chapter 13 (Patreon)

Chapter 13 Something A Little More Personal

“Mr. Potter, over here!”

“Mr. Potter, did you get Ryan Jackman fired?”

“Mr. Potter, what do you think about Jackman getting fired?”

“Who is going to be your backup?”

Harry could hardly process the questions as they flew toward him. He sat behind a long table beneath the Puddlemere United backdrop, almost exactly as he had on draft night.  Wood sat grimly to his right, Coach Deverell impassive to his left. The arrangement was familiar. The interrogation was not.

Before Harry could decide which question to answer, one familiar voice cut cleanly through the shouting.  Harry glanced down the row of reporters and found Susan Bones, red-haired and determined, calling his name. “Harry!”

Leaning towards the enchanted microphone sitting on the polished table, Harry effectively silenced the rest of the room by shifting his focus entirely to the young witch. “Ms. Bones, your question,” he prompted, his voice amplified throughout the press room.

After Harry’s voice pierced the room, the rest of the journalists began to settle, their competitive shouting dying down as they became poised with their quills, eager to write down every word of the exchange. Susan maintained a strictly professional posture, her eyes locked onto Harry’s as she posed her opening query. “First, Harry, congratulations on your second win. Moving to 2-0 so early in your rookie season is a significant achievement, and it is undoubtedly silencing a lot of your louder critics.”

“Not possible, Ms. Bones. My critics are always very… critical,” Harry responded at once with a dry wit that caused a ripple of genuine laughter to break the tension among the media.

Susan smiled briefly at the jest, though her expression quickly returned to one of journalistic intent as she leaned forward. “My question is simple, Harry,” she continued, the room falling silent in anticipation. “The fans and the league want to know the truth—what exactly happened with Jackman?”

Leaning back in his chair and talking to the witch like he normally would, Harry spoke calmly, “I can’t speak to the exact details, because I don’t know them, but what I can tell you is I found out after you lot did in the medical bay. That's the honest truth. I know Jackman is a well-respected veteran Seeker with a very different style of play to my own. From what Coach Deverell has told me, they wanted to find another Seeker with a similar play style to my own. Luckily, they had some promising, rookie prospects and took that route. I can’t say I know much about contracts or how players are paid in the league, but it sounds like this was a money decision.”

Terry Boot was further down the panel, and he voiced the next question loudly over the others, “Harry, can you tell us if there is any validity to rumors of hostilities between Jackman and yourself?”

Harry wanted to groan at his old friend's cut-throat question, but he understood why it was asked and decided to pacify the crowd with about 10% of the truth. “Listen, Jackman has a play style very similar to Micah Armstrong. He uses all aspects of the environment and situation to gain an advantage to catch the Snitch. From a spectator's standpoint, I can see how this would look hostile, but I assure all of you, I have nothing personal against Jackman.”

Except that he’s a git, and I might actually hex him if I catch him in an alleyway, Harry thought to himself. It’s not like he’s on the team anymore, anyway.

“Can you elaborate on this style of play, Mr. Potter?” another wizard asked in the front that Harry didn’t recognize.

“Go read any player's scouting report on Micah Armstrong, and I think you can all draw your own conclusions. I stand by my statement of having nothing against Jackman and that I had nothing to do with the decision to waive him,” Harry said stubbornly.

Wood finally chimed in at this point, leaning forward to address the sea of quills and flashing cameras. “It didn’t make sense to put Harry and Ryan up against each other every day in practice. Their styles of play are so fundamentally different that neither was making the other any better. Harry is quickly proving himself to be a very capable Seeker at this level—someone who relies on precision and agility, while Jackman has been in the league for nearly a decade and can’t boast the two wins Harry has. We need a hunger for victory on this squad and teammates who are interested in only making each other better to make the team better.”

The captain paused, glancing briefly at Harry before continuing. “I, along with Coach Deverell, reached the conclusion that it would be more beneficial to our development to put someone a little faster, more mobile, and specifically in Harry’s range of play against him during our training sessions. We need a competitive environment that elevates him to the challenges he will face across the league.”

“To that end,” Wood added with a more positive note in his voice, “I am very happy with the signing of Ms. Cho Chang. I sat in on her tryouts yesterday, and I think her familiarity with Harry from their school years, combined with their remarkably similar style of play, will create a synergy that will take both of them to new heights. This wasn't just about letting someone go; it was about bringing in the right person to help this team get to the next level.”

Harry’s eyes widened slightly as he stared at Wood for a long moment, the name echoing in the pressurized silence of the room. Did he say Cho Chang? The world seemed to tilt for a second; memories of ink-stained parchment and stolen glances in the Great Hall threatened to surge forward. A sharp, soft elbow caught him in the side, delivered with clinical precision by Coach Deverell, and Harry immediately schooled his features into a mask of professional neutrality. Had Deverell been testing his composure just then, watching for a crack in the "Chosen One’s" armor? He felt a flash of irritation—why wasn’t he told this before the press conference?

“Do you have any concerns playing with an old flame, Potter?” The question was like a bucket of ice water. It was a voice Harry recognized, though its sharp, predatory edge hadn't been heard since his sixth year. Glancing down the line of journalists, Harry spotted a smirking Tracey Davis, a Slytherin from his year. She sat with a posture that suggested she already had the headline written in her head. The little Witch Weekly pin on her robes glinted under the enchanted lights, telling him exactly which gossip-hungry column she worked for now.

Swallowing heavily, the dryness in his throat making speaking difficult, Harry quickly gathered his wits. He couldn't afford a stumble here. He met Tracey’s gaze and responded firmly, “I haven’t seen Cho in some time, and I will be very excited to play with her again. There is no reason to be concerned, because we are now, and always have been, friends. This is a really exciting opportunity for her, and as Captain Wood suggested, I will do everything I can to elevate her game, and I know she will do the same for me. The goal remains the same: bringing a championship to Puddlemere.”

Several more questions followed, mostly inane, about the team’s chemistry and their thoughts on how the first two games played out. Harry fielded a question from Penelope Clearwater, another former Hogwarts graduate. “Harry, every Quidditch player says they have their big welcome-to-the-league moment when they face off against a particularly good team or player. Would you say you had that moment tonight?”

“Appleby was a very good team today,” Harry agreed. “Their Beaters were vicious, and Terrence Higgs was phenomenal, but I am waiting to really be pushed by an opposing Seeker. As of now, I would say Tutshill's Seeker gave me a better matchup by position than Armstrong. I am really looking forward to the match next week. I believe we have the Magpies, and not only is my old friend and former teammate Angelina on that team, but Lennox Campbell is widely considered one of the best in the league, and I really look forward to trying my game against his. We will be ready.”

Take that, Armstrong, Harry thought triumphantly. The little shit had barely even played against him and relied on his teammates to do all the work. He would not give the man the respect of the press, but was happy to give it to the rest of Appleby, who really made his team work for the victory and certainly increased his stress levels.

The flashbulbs continued to pop, momentarily blinding him as the press conference began to wind down. Harry felt the weight of the day—the high-speed maneuvers, the vicious Bludgers, and the relentless mental strain of tracking the Snitch while dodging Higgs—finally settling into his bones. He caught Coach Deverell’s eye, receiving a subtle nod that indicated they were finished. Beside him, Wood was already rising to his feet, his face still etched with the weariness that had come from managing a victory marred by the sudden departure of a veteran like Jackman.

Coach Deverell dismissed the press conference and led Harry and Oliver out of the room with a wave of his hand, assuring people that no more questions would be answered that evening. When the trio were alone in the quiet, stone-walled corridor, the silence felt heavy after the relentless barrage of the media. Harry let out a long, weary sigh, his shoulders finally dropping from their defensive posture. “Well, that was annoying,” he muttered, rubbing his face with his hand. “It would’ve been a little less so if you had told me that you signed Cho Chang to the team.”

Harry sent the accusation straight at his coach, sharp and unfiltered. While Harry might have been a rookie in the league, he was no stranger to high-stakes scrutiny, and he did not appreciate being blindsided by such personal news in front of a pack of hungry journalists like Tracey Davis. Coach Deverell, however, didn’t seem the least bit bothered; he just laughed it off, the sound echoing slightly in the hallway. “Don’t worry, lad. I was just trying to see how you would react,” he explained with a twinkle of calculated mischief in his eyes. “You may not have experienced your first loss yet, but everyone does at some point, and the press can be vicious on those days. I wanted to see how you would handle something a little more personal under that kind of pressure. You did fine; you kept your head.”

Deverell’s expression then shifted to one of genuine concern as he glanced down at Harry’s bandaged leg. “Now, I just want you to worry about recovering from that ankle injury. I don’t want to hear about any crazy nights at the Puddle Jumper tonight—keep your weight off it. Go have a nice, quiet night with your friends, celebrate the win. Monday you will get to be reacquainted with our new reserve Seeker, and afterwards we are going to have dinner with the owner. Bring some nice dress robes to change into and be prepared. We are going to discuss the future of the franchise with Captain Wood here and some other matters of importance.”

Deverell offered a hand to Harry, and the teen sighed, shaking the man’s hand while Oliver thumped him on the shoulder. “Great game, Harry, and good job handling the press. I know you are experienced, but you are representing more than yourself now. You did great. If you are worried about Cho at all, don’t be. She looked great in the tryouts yesterday, and she earned her place. She is excited to play with you again, and everything is going to be better from here.”

Harry just nodded, wished both men a goodnight, and moved toward the exit of the facility.  Even without Coach Deverell's warnings ringing in his ears, Harry had no intention of celebrating his hard-fought victory at the Puddle Jumper that evening. He was practically bone-tired from the match and looked forward to greeting his family before departing to something much more laid-back for the evening.

It wasn't long before he found Ron, Hermione, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who greeted him with warm congratulations on his spectacular performance. After the intensity of the press conference, the sight of friendly, familiar faces was a relief, and Harry was particularly pleased to see that even Hermione had been impressed by his poise during the game. He gave his oldest friend a wide grin, vowing that he would turn her into a genuine Quidditch fan before the season concluded, earning a skeptical laugh from the witch.

As heartening as the reunion was, Harry suddenly found himself longing for somewhere quieter and more intimate.  After informing everyone of his medical orders to rest his injury, Harry said his goodbyes, his thoughts already turning toward the Leaky Cauldron. He pushed through a final crowd of autograph hunters and journalists, noticing the time was nearly 9:00 PM as he approached the apparition point with a sense of anxious anticipation.

Harry had already taken a moment in the locker room to adjust his robes and check his reflection, wondering how busy Hannah's shift at the pub had been. He pictured her working behind the bar, imagining the bright smile she would give him despite the fatigue of a long day. He hoped the evening crowd had thinned out, giving them the chance to share a hot meal in a quiet corner where they could just be themselves, far from the pressure of the team and the roar of the fans.

With an easy twist, Harry apparated to Diagon Alley, hoping for a quiet, relaxing evening.

.o.

Entering the Leaky Cauldron was still a jarringly different experience than it had been during his years growing up around the Alley. The once-shabby pub was revitalized; the place was much better lit, with enchanted lanterns casting a warm, golden glow that reached even the furthest corners. The smell, too, was a welcome change—the lingering scent of stale ale and dust had been replaced by the comforting aroma of hearty stews and fresh bread. It seemed, however, that if he was hoping for a quiet Saturday evening, he had come to the wrong place. The Cauldron was humming with activity, far busier than he had anticipated or experienced during his more subdued visit on Thursday night.

The air was thick with the low roar of conversation and the rhythmic clinking of glasses. Despite the crowd, luck was on his side as he spotted a single vacant stool at the far end of the polished wood bar. Harry navigated through small pockets of the boisterous crowd, nodding politely to a few patrons who offered him fleeting looks of recognition. He claimed the seat, sinking onto it with a weary sigh as he glanced toward the service area. A blonde witch in a low-cut dirndl was expertly pouring pints and fielding orders with a practiced smile. This was definitely not Hannah, but the witch was familiar to him—Sally-Anne, a peer from his school days whose long blonde hair and sharp wit made her a clear hit with the wizards gathered at the bar.

Sally-Anne was currently occupied, leaning over to laugh at a joke from a group of older wizards, but Harry barely registered the appreciative looks she was receiving. He had come here with a specific goal in mind, one that had nothing to do with the lively atmosphere of the pub or the charms of the current barmaid. He ignored the distractions of the bustling room, his gaze instead sweeping the length of the bar and the doorways leading to the kitchen and the private rooms upstairs. He was searching for a specific face—his favorite barmaid—hoping to catch sight of Hannah amidst the Saturday night rush.

An arm slipped around his torso, and Harry nearly leaped out of his seat, but Hannah's soft voice stilled him. "I was starting to think you weren't coming!"

Harry turned to face her and found them suddenly nose to nose. He nearly closed the remaining distance and kissed her, but instead said coolly, "Sorry, long press conference after the game was over. It's been a long day."

Hannah made no move to pull away. Instead, she spoke just loud enough for him to hear. "Well, congratulations on the win. We will celebrate soon. Sally-Anne is going to take over at 10. In the meantime, I brought you some firewhiskey from my family stores as promised. Hang tight. I will bring it over, and some of tonight's special. You will love it."

Hannah placed a quick, soft kiss on his cheek and began making her way back through the lounge. Harry watched her weave through the crowd with an effortless grace that seemed to part the sea of boisterous wizards. The weight of the day—the grueling match against Appleby and the relentless questioning from journalists like Tracey Davis—began to lift as he sat in the warm, golden glow of the revitalized Leaky Cauldron. He looked toward the bar where Sally-Anne was still busy with a group of older wizards, but his focus remained on the door where Hannah had disappeared. Despite the exhaustion settling into his bones and the dull ache in his bandaged ankle, a small, genuine smile finally touched his lips as he waited for her return.

Another familiar voice echoed in his ear, cutting through the ambient noise of the pub, just as a man clapped his shoulder with a heavy, jarring force. The impact sent a jolt through Harry's tired frame, and he watched as the man clunked down into a seat next to him that had only just been vacated by a departing patron. Bennet, the bearded cursebreaker Harry had met Thursday night, dropped onto the newly vacated stool looking remarkably pleased with himself.

“Great game tonight, Potter!” Bennet boomed, his voice carrying over the rhythmic clinking of glasses and the low roar of the Saturday night crowd. He leaned in, the scent of cedar and old parchment clinging to his heavy robes. “We were listening on the Wireless earlier—the commentary was practically breathless during that final dive. You should really use your influence to get them to put up a Puddlemere United poster here. It was a bit of a struggle earlier; some of the regulars were nearly shouting because they wanted the dial turned up to listen to the Magpies throttle the Cannons, but I told them that the real show brought us drinks earlier in the week, and we were invested in his win!”

Harry chuckled at this. “I’ll see what I can get the front office to swing. Maybe it will drum some business up for Hannah.”

“It definitely will!” Bennet said with a laugh.

Before they could continue, Hannah returned with a half-full glass and set it in front of Harry. Bennet immediately looked offended. “Where’s mine?”

Hannah looked the man up and down with a mock-critical eye, her lips twitching into a playful smirk. She stepped closer to the bar and draped a proprietary arm over Harry’s shoulder, leaning in as if sharing a secret with the entire pub. She spoke in a teasing, melodic lilt, “Hmmm, let’s see... no lightning-bolt scar, no professional Quidditch reputation, and I don't recall you catching a Snitch against Appleby two hours ago.” She tapped a finger against her chin thoughtfully before adding, “Maybe you should keep your drunken debauchery to yourself next Thursday.”

Harry and Bennet both erupted into laughter at the woman’s sharp wit, the sound cutting through the ambient hum of the Leaky Cauldron. Harry felt a flush of warmth that had nothing to do with the firewhiskey as Hannah gave his shoulder a final, lingering squeeze. With a graceful turn that made her dirndl swirl, she moved away from the duo to attend to a group of rowdy wizards clamoring for service at a table directly behind them. Bennet watched her go, shaking his head in a mixture of disbelief and genuine respect. He turned back to Harry, eyes wide, and breathed out, “That’s some woman, Potter. You’re a lucky man if you can keep up with a firecracker like that.”

“I’m going to do my best,” Harry said with a laugh.

The two returned to their conversation from Thursday, delving back into the world of curse-breaking, and Harry found himself genuinely interested. As Bennet described the intricate layers of protection placed around ancient Egyptian tombs—wards that could age a person fifty years in a heartbeat or turn their blood to lead—Harry found himself captivated by the sheer complexity of the magic. If he wasn’t so invested in playing Seeker for Puddlemere United, he might have seriously considered curse-breaking as a career. However, Hannah kept popping up between her service rounds, leaning over the bar to remind Harry just how dangerous such a life was, especially given his legendary track record for bad luck. She teasingly pointed out that a man who managed to attract a Dark Lord before he could walk probably shouldn't make a living poking at ancient, volatile curses.

Sally-Anne eventually noticed Harry, her eyes widening with recognition as she realized her old classmate, now the famous Rookie Phenom, was sitting at her bar. With a bright, practiced laugh, she navigated around the service counter to hug Harry tightly, exclaiming how happy she was to see a familiar face from Hogwarts. She attempted to flirt with Harry briefly, leaning in close and making little effort to hide the view down the front of her dress as she asked about his game-winning catch. Harry, however, found his attention constantly drifting. Hannah would return periodically, moving with a proprietary grace as she placed her hands more boldly on Harry’s midsection or reached up to touch his face as if to lay claim on him in front of her fellow barmaid. Her touch was warm and lingering, a stark contrast to Sally-Anne's more performative charms. Eventually, seeing the way Harry’s gaze instinctively followed Hannah every time she walked away, Sally-Anne seemed to realize he wasn’t interested and retreated back to her station with a graceful, albeit slightly disappointed, shrug.

The clock chimed 10:00 PM far sooner than Harry had anticipated, its sound resonating through the bustling Leaky Cauldron. He had long since drained his initial glass of firewhiskey, the potent liquid providing a much-needed warmth that helped dull the mental fatigue from the day's earlier events. Eager to extend the camaraderie and keep the looming memories of the grueling press conference at bay, Harry had purchased a few more rounds for himself and Bennet to enjoy.

Engrossed in their conversation, Harry found solace in Bennet’s stories of magic and curse-breaking, finding it a welcome distraction. By the time Hannah navigated back through the Saturday night crowd, she carried a fresh bottle in her hand, her expression bright as she caught Harry's eye. She offered him a knowing grin, her voice cutting through the ambient noise of the pub. “Ready to go?”

Harry returned the smile, the exhaustion in his bones momentarily forgotten as he turned to his companion. He patted Bennet on the arm with a friendly grin. “Duty calls, lad. Catch you here sometime next week?” The two men exchanged a firm handshake, a comfortable acknowledgment of the camaraderie they'd found over stories and pints.

“Count on it,” Bennet said with a raise of his glass. “Congrats on the win again, Potter. The lads will be pissed they missed celebrating with you.”

“Next time!” Harry promised, but before he could say more, Hannah took Harry’s hand, interlaced her fingers with his, and began to lead him out. 

The witch led him away from the boisterous crowd at the bar, navigating with ease through the sea of patrons and the thick, warm air of the pub. Instead of heading for the front door and the cool night air of Diagon Alley, she directed him toward the back of the establishment, and as they left the main bar behind, the noise softened to a dull hum.

Harry watched with growing curiosity as she dragged him through a narrow corridor he recognized from his younger years. Memories of the summer before his third year at Hogwarts resurfaced as they approached a set of creaking wooden stairs he had marched up and down the last few weeks of his favorite summer. With a playful glance over her shoulder, Hannah began to ascend, dragging Harry with her, her boots thudding softly on the antiquated wood. Harry followed close behind, leaving the roar of the Saturday night rush below as they climbed toward the quiet sanctuary of the rooms above.